I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.

I do still love them so. And this fandom.

Into the Wild

To The Nightwork


The work, the life, the struggle will continue outside their small, round dwelling.

It must.

A union of souls, a bonding, does not stop that cycle.

Life must move on, continue.

That is simply the way of life within the village.

Within the wild world itself.

But just for a short time, the merest handful of days, they may . . .

"Uncas-"

. . . let the world tend to itself.

As they . . .

"Alice-"

. . . tend to each other.


Now that he has learned it, Uncas the Mohican seems to have become quite enamored of kissing her.

As if he revels in the practice, the feel of her skin.

The taste of her.

He is a hunter, after all.

A trapper.

Explorer.

He certainly spends uncounted time exploring her.

"Mmm, that tickles . . ."

Stroking, caressing her bare flesh with just the tips of his fingers.

"Does it?"

Warm hands gliding along the arch of her back, the flat of her belly.

"Mmm . . . it does . . ."

The mounds of her modest breasts.

And from the tips of her toes to foot to ankle to knee and thigh.

"Well then, perhaps I should use something else instead."

And . . .

"Ohhh . . ."

. . . further.

Strong, gentle, tickling fingers.

Touching, caressing, stroking.

All over her body.

And his mouth, his tongue.

He explores her. Avidly.

And she . . .

"Uncas . . ."

. . . lets him.


And it really is so deliciously difficult not to scream.

She wants to.

It flows throughout her entire body, the sensations, to the very ends of her fingers and toes.

She bites her lips, tries to make the cries of pleasure catch there in her throat.

And she mostly . . .

"Mmm . . ."

. . . succeeds.

Some sound escapes her.

Soft gasps, breathless moans.

But she does not scream, no.

She does not wish to alert the village with her ecstasy.

Make them aware of her glowing delights.

As much . . .

"Ohhh . . ."

. . . as she can manage it.


And sometimes . .

"Mmm, that feels good."

. . . he does not seek to tantalize her so.

"I am glad."

But simply reside.

"I like to use my nails on you."

Her lover chuckles at this coyly suggestive statement of hers and she with him.

She had been rubbing his back.

Hands, fingers, aimlessly wandering circles, loops, lines on the broad expanse of his back.

Gathering his long, dark hair, laying it carefully over one shoulder, wishing not to pull.

And he had stilled his work, the building up of the fire.

Pulled back his shoulders, rotating them together.

Arching his neck, stretching it until the bones cracked and popped.

And Alice had begun, a little at a time, to scratch.

More nails, medium pressure.

And he had seemed . . .

"Mmm. Lower."

"Here?"

"Mmm . . ."

. . . to appreciate it.

She had stilled, after the span of scratching.

Her Mohican sighing in contentment.

Alice, still close, now moved to . . .

"Kèku hàch ki sitakòna hìtami? Tàkòk hwìkahsha?"

How did you ever manage before me? Did you use another's fingers?

. . . teasingly question him.

Uncas, glancing back in fond amusement.

"Nshuwsi nëpxkòn apahchixin hòkè."

I rubbed my back against a tree.

And Alice giggles.

"Apahchixin hòkè?"

Against a tree?

Arms comfortably about his shoulders.

"Màxkw?"

As a bear?

Chin perched on smooth shoulder.

And he shifts then.

Turning, settling into a half-crouch.

Facing her.

"Osòmi, . . ."

Yes. . .

Teasing smile matching hers.

". . . màxkw."

. . . as a bear.

A sudden lunge.

"Grrr . . ."

And she is under him, flat atop the furs.

"Ahhh-"

Body weight comfortable and welcome as she wraps her arms delightedly around him.

"Grrr . . ."

And he nuzzles playfully into the succulent flesh of her neck.

"Uncas . . ."

Hands, lips, tongue . . .

"Alice."

. . . wandering about the delight of her and . . .

"Ktaholël."

. . . her oh so receptive . . .

"Uncas."

. . . body and spirit . .

'Ktaholël."

. . . that calls to his.


Between them, it is not Uncas the only one fond now of kissing.

Alice also.

Her lover, her Mohican, her Nëwitaemàk's mouth, his lips, are of particular hunger to her.

As well as the rest of the entirety of his fine physical form.

The warm caramel flesh that prickles with goosebumps as she runs her mouth and hands and fingers along it.

The body of the man. The scars of the warrior.

Those parts of him wounded in battle, in war.

In conflict.

The scar etched into his brow.

The one his brother spoke of so long ago.

That was the first one she had kissed

That one, followed by the others.

The line under his rib, thin and almost perfectly horizontal.

The line that could have been, was meant to be, so much deeper.

So much deadlier.

Sometimes she shivers to touch it.

And then she feels a great swell of love and gratitude and relief that it is but a thin line for her to kiss, to touch.

Her Uncas is a great warrior, quick and efficient when called upon to act.

His body does not carry a multitude of scars.

Yet there are a few.

A dark, jagged line upon his arm.

A raised, shiny oval upon his shin.

The circular mystery upon his shoulderblade.

Relatively few there are.

But she gently and tenderly and lovingly kisses each one.

Because they are a part of him . . .

"Alice-"

. . . and his journey.


When she had first known him, she had thought his torso smooth and without hair, save for that under his arms.

Now, having spent more time with him, having cast her attentions upon him as oft as she is able, now having the gift of time . . .

"Alice-"

. . . to study his body at leisure . . .

"Do wish me to stop?"

. . . she has realized this is not quite so.

". . ."

His upper torso is quite hairless, it is true.

". . . no . . ."

Mohican skin smooth and warm to her touch.

"That is good."

But there is a . . . trail of sorts.

Beginning just under his navel and running down to disappear under his loincloth.

"I will, if you wish, of course "

Amd she enjoys to muse upon her hunter who follows trails to his reward.

That he has a trail of his own.

That she may also follow.

And discover what she may find . . .

"Though I do not wish to stop."

. . . at the end.


The hunger is pervasive, the desire.

All consuming.

The hunger for sustenance after a long, enjoyable bout of nightwork, daywork, morningwork, afternoonwork.

The hunger for sleep after such as well.

The hunger for fresh air, for the warming light of day.

The hunger for . . .

"Uncas-"

"Alice-"

. . . the same . . .

"Alice-"

. . . over again.


The hide is turned in, fur warm and soft to their bodies.

Keeping the warmth in and the chill . . .

"Alice . . ."

. . . out.

The one he loves lies underneath.

Asleep, resting.

And he loves to see her so.

Relaxed.

Uninhibited.

She is the match he did not know was in the world.

She is the other part of his heart, his spirit.

And he loves her so.

In trial. In disagreement.

In war. In peace.

And he loves her now.

And wants her once again . . .

"Alice . . ."

. . . if she . . .

"Ktaholël."

. . . will have him.

Uncas the Mohican smiles down upon the one he loves.

Slips a gentle, seeking hand under the covering.

Seeking that which he may find . . .

"Mmm . . ."

. . . that is secret . . .

"Alice . . ."

. . . and delicious and . . .

"Uncas . . ."

. . . so very receptive to his touch.


I would laughingly say 'bunnies'. But I'd say they've definitely earned some 'bunny time', don't you think? ;)

Thanks to DinahRay, blanparbe, BlueSaffire, BrynnaRaven, Socially Distant (yes, you are right! That was a reference to 'The Hero Always Peeks'!), AsterLaurel, and ELY72 for so kindly reviewing!

Okay, who's ready for more?