come down

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Åshe lingered beneath the coming víkingur for the entirety of the evening. It wasn't like she could've slipped away easily, his heavy, titanic weight above her had kept her still. But she hadn't even given the thought of escape any fruition. No, she was perfectly comfortable here, the weight of another on her back gave her a sense of duty. Of purpose.

Even in her dreams could smell him. It surrounded her, warmed her like an open flame; she, only a mere moth. Her cheek had been mushed between her paws, her head laying to the side while the rest of her body had been swamped by Bartel. It was the best night of sleep she had gotten in moons, one where she didn't need to be sleeping alone in an empty hole.

She was torn from her sleep by his hazy movements; paws, and the rigid shapes of his teeth raking across her skin. Åshe would lurch, surprised, and only grumble. Her neck turned backward to lay sleepy eyes on him, blurred from the passion of sleep. She still looked to him with the same mirrored adoration she had from the previous day— would he, too, hold the same?

 

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Åshe listened to his voice, the purr of his voice vibrated against the ridges of her spine. Her ears would flicker, twitching at his cadence. Not wake you. So it had been an accident, then? How had he managed that to be nothing more than an attempt to wake her?

Had he thought she left?

Åshe only hummed in response to his question. A long, drawled-out yawn left her, revealing her teeth. "Morrow." She'd utter lowly, still shaking off what she had left of sleep. "Move." Åshe would wish, her voice firm as she wiggled beneath him. Her nose came to jut against his cheek, a gesture that would make up for the firmness of her tone.

She had not meant to come off stern, but at this point, should could barely feel the lower half of her body.
 

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Åshe was glad that he obeyed her command. He had taunted her with a display of his teeth, a curl of his lip. She took as displeasure from having to move from their position, and for that she found a morsel to gloat upon.

When he stood, she would mimic that. It took her a moment to stand, to become steady back on her legs once more. Her back legs shook steadily as the feeling washed back into her. The betweens of her thighs ached, her pelvis scorching with a rawness that she did, oddly, missed. The feeling of being wanted left just as physically as it did mentally.

She turned to him then, hearing his words. Her neck came to wrap around his own, going slightly limp against his form. "Yes," she would utter, hushed against the thickness of his fur against his neck.

"Hurts." Is what came next, a tempered whimpering tone that exacerbated the soreness she felt after their night spent together. Åshe could not hunt in this condition, and she only hoped that he would understand that.
 

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Their scent muddled together had her brain frenzied. Undeniably. When he returned her gesture, wrapping his neck around her own, a deep sigh left the cavern of her chest. Relief, maybe.

He offered to help her. Åshe pulled her head away from the crook of his neck, ticked off by the way the cold air quickly absorbed her. She shivered once, and shook her head when he offered to help. "You," her nose brushed against his lip. "Hunt."

It wasn't like she gave him much of a choice, her words just as firm as they always had been. But this time, it was something she rather preferred. For him to hunt for her was much more enticing than letting him tend her pain. She knew the herbs she needed— she just needed to find a hidden cache amongst the roots. "Strong veiðimaður."

Åshe raised her head to look at him. His eyes were mesmerizing. She wasn't sure if he looked at her with such consideration, or if she was staring back at her own reflection against him.
 

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The hint of humor in his voice had her eyes rolling, a light smile playing on her face. He was playful then, wasn't he? The mocking of the word bairin in her tongue, was poorly pronounced, but still there nonetheless.

"No," she would chuckle. "You still bairin."

She'd allow his touch, one that reflected her own. She never realized how much interpersonal touch meant to her, but after feeling him along every corner of her body, how could she not crave such a thing? Åshe almost felt bad, devious, by seeking out his touch again, as he was not really a full viking yet.

He had not earned his name just yet. Until then, she could only keep him at this length. Friendly, but also full of adoration. He would not get to know her until the mountain accepted him first. She preferred it that way. If he were to stay, his devotion needed to be towards Hrafnsvaktin— learning her culture, her ways.

"Be well," she would wish before she turned on her heel to find her herb cache against a root of a tree. She could only hope that Bartel would come back with a full catch, something impressive. Something to woo her.

 

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When he left her side she quickly fell reminiscent of his warmth beside her. She missed it suddenly, a missing place where his feet were drawing her forward to step where he was. To mirror his stance for just a moment, but was quickly drawn back to reality with the sore muscles of her abdomen.

Fuck, she'd hiss, disappearing into the treeline before any further notice. Or before Bartel would change his mind and come hither to smother her with herbs, to comfort her. She couldn't have that yet. Åshe did not deserve such care, such chivalrous actions. She would become far too attached, desperate to feel his love once she got just the smallest taste.

The cache she found had been one she filled herself. There was no lingering scent of Aarkron— fuck, what about him? She would be daft to ignore the way they looked at one another, stealing glances as they toured the mountain. The way that she showed him her den, rather inviting him to share it with her.

She rummaged through the herbs. She found Comfrey. Used to be applied as a poultice, she took the herb out from the cache. It was rather dried, and aged, so there was no need for her to go to great lengths to chew it up. She'd take it in her jaws, settling on her stomach, wincing at the pain. She'd think to Aarkron then, once more, would he have treated her the same? Would he go to lengths to hold her, console her, desire to comfort her? She shouldn't compare them, really, they hadn't had much in common...no, that's not true. They're more alike than she'd choose to admit.

Both healers, grœðari, who much prefer medicinal gardens than the blood on the battle field. Much more so, they looked as if they belonged on the field. Would they look different, more damning for the eyes if they had been rugged, covered with blood, saying her name on their lips? Fuck.

Åshe let her saliva drip onto the Comfrey. She took the herb in her jaws, letting it dampen. The matriarch would twist her neck to her underbelly, raising her hind leg, and applied the herb gently. It would take hours before she could find true relief, but this was the best solution. She'd turn back, expression softening once she saw Bartel emerge from the treeline, prey in tow.

 

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mentions : @Aarkron

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The matriarch would watch him. Stare. Gawk at him in plain sight. She had no shame as she stared at him, fawn dangling from his jaws. She expected something different— a smaller prey. A vole, groundhog, anything. But her tail visibly swayed side to side, amused, blemishing with pride that she had let someone get so close to her with such skill.

She waited patiently for him to approach her, even if there had been a roar in her belly that tempted her otherwise. He looked so domineering this way— a look that she realized suited him. Caring. Worthy of her attention. Of her love, perhaps. Of children. She wouldn't be surprised by such a thing. But the thought left her quickly, too infatuated by the way that he plopped the fawn down at her feet.

Her body had been outstretched, her belly exposed with the drying herbs. He spoke a word that she didn't know, but he had said it with such a soft cadence that her lashes batted at him indirectly. She pushed herself forward, careful to not ruin the work she had done for her aching muscles. She'd groan at the shift but made no more of a fuss to take heavy bites from the fresh corpse.

She took her fill, blood covering her maw that she cleaned eagerly. She didn't even watch Bartel as she ate but didn't feel the need to grow possessive over the carcass— a good sign. He didn't take too much and didn't eat at all.

But when she was done, she'd take a moment to look at him then. Really look at him. He and his rugged, sharp-featured face. The scar that breached the entirety of his face. She grew curious to ask him about it but restrained herself from such thoughts.

If he had looked at her too, she'd imagine his face covered in blood. Sheepishly, her ears went back against her head. Against the ground, she'd wiggle across the snow-scape, nudging his lip with her nose, tongue coming to swipe, too. "I clean?"

 

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Bartel's attention had been drawn away from the carcass, freshly torn apart, left for scrap. He had looked at her with a mischievous, taunting look. Mocked the term bairin once again. She thought it funny that it appeared he had grown attached to the name. Of her calling him a baby. It was the most irony that could be mustered. Him, chiseled from stone, being called a baby.

Åshe made a sound in the back of her throat. "Make mess," she would say, voice hushed like a mother's. "Mess like child. Bairin."

She didn't say more to him as her tongue came to clean the blood across his face. Her sandpaper, rough muscle smoothed back the rugged fur of his face. He had tasted similar to the way he smelled— deeply of the forest, of wood. She had no qualms about it. But now, this way, he would smell even more of her with her saliva dripping down his neck. Such pride emanated from her, content in her actions.

But she was no fool. She would take her time with him. Moving his face with the pressure of her nose, lifting his head skyward to she could get the bouts beneath his chin. The savory taste of the iron liquid sullied her tongue, but it was easily remedied by the morality of what she was doing. Cleaning him, making an effort to take care of him the same way that he had with the fawn laying beside them.

When she was sure there had been no blood left, her tongue swipes turned to feather-kisses. Her target had been drifting upwards. The sides of his cheeks, the temples on either side of his head. His brows. The tufts of fur behind his ears that had always been wild. She was not cleaning him any longer, no. She was grooming him all together.

Åshe would shift closer to him unbeknownst to her. Her forelegs slotted between his, her neck extending to even reach the fur behind his ears. When she was satisified with the state of his face, she pulled back to look at him. "Clean."

 

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To hear the grumble that came from his chest was only a signal to Åshe that whatever she had been doing was right. The kisses she had laid against the curves of his face meant a great deal to her. He had let her get close enough in the first place to award him with such pleasures.

He would pull her closer once she had been satisfied with her cleaning job. Puzzled, her head would turn to the side, lopsided eyes meeting his own. And when his teeth met the skin of her shoulder and tickled the edges of her neck, she understood. Had he wished to return the favor? Åshe would be a fool to not oblige. She didn't know what the transpiration of grooming meant to him, but to her it was something out of respect. Cordial, and perhaps almost motherly. She wished to care for him just as he did for her— the baby fawn carcass spoke volumes that he could provide. She only wished to show him the ways that she could, too.

But she didn't move. She wished to feel his tongue against her neck. Enjoyed the heat the radiated from his muscled body. It was addicting. This euphoric feeling. It was addicting. Åshe could easily imagine herself craving him over and over again, an itch that could never be fully scratched. Her ears flattened against her head, neck lifting upward to allow him full access to the column of her throat.

Go ahead, her body language read. She would go akin to limp against the ground. Relaxed in his arms, she'd be more than obliged to let him work at the thick fur of her bust. There was plenty of it— considering the low temperatures and rising winters.

Åshe had no where else she wanted to be at this moment. Only here with Bartel, finding herself lolling to sleep against the passage of his tongue. How exhausting it was...being in the arms of such a strong viking— soon to be,— groomed by him, fed by him. Åshe truly had such hard life right now, didn't she?
 

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No words could be caught on the tip of Åshe's tongue. She had been far too busy, occupied, transpired into a different world with the raking of Bartel's tongue against the course furs of her growing winter coat. Encapsulated by his thick, muscular form, she felt safe. Safe. She had spoken to the pale viking only moons ago about how she felt anything but. That this mountain was too sharp, too unpopulated for the possibility of a flourishing future.

But it was different now. And it started with the dark-hued viking that held her tightly against him. It was curious to see him in this position— domestic. Grooming a woman. She wondered if he had done this often. By the way his tongue worked, she wouldn't be surprised, but maybe she hasn't been groomed all that often.

With his heart beating against her chest, she could easily find a rhythm to lay her head down to. Her head would come to rest on his shoulder, her eyes being lulled to a soft sleep.
 

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