haze like a fever
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
She smiles when his mouth finds her poll. All of Wishbone’s previous worries — becoming queen, his reaction, the quickness of their maturity — melt away when he touches her and she is grateful for it. Where before their actions had been awkward and surprising (the newness of his muscle and the curve of her body had become unfamiliar aliens on a used-to-be-familiar world), there is only ease and comfort now.
It is simple and it is perfect.
It is Wishbone and Wolfbane.
She isn’t thinking of her other suitors, like he might be; her thoughts are twisted and knotted within the aura he carries with him. He captures her like a dainty butterfly and pins her to a collector’s wall with that olive stare, only to release her back into the wild with the slide of his mouth against her mahogany skin. Wishbone revels under it for a moment, thriving in the familiarity he carries with him. He is her security amid the danger. Nerine and her future queenship might be unfamiliar, but Wolfbane provides the comfort she longs for in the chill of the night.
Her face pulls into a frown at his words. “I think it would be a good idea if you did. At least visit your mom, Wolfbane.” Femur has always been kind to her children, Wishbone included, and the girl is certain the fanged mare could grow lonely with all her children racing away from their father. Wolfbane has never had the type of father Warrick is. Although the girl rarely admits it aloud, she is thankful for the character her father is — she is, at the very least, glad her father is not Longclaw. While Wishbone had grown up alongside the blue warg and his family, when the edge of a blade sharpened his tongue or the threat of darkness swarmed his pupils the girl was able to run home to her mother or along some unexplored beachfront. The gold and blue boy hadn’t been able to run so easily from his own father, especially when Tephra offered little places to run to.
It reminds her of what Wolfbane had said when they first reunited (“I’ve been a little bit of everywhere lately — especially Loess”) and an infiltrating thread of concern floats among the rose of her contentment. The concern is lost as his lips drift from her poll to her throat, where her pulse beats. The rhythm of her heart is quicker now, as he nudges against the soft and vulnerable pieces of her, but Wishbone does nothing to stop it. She doesn’t want it to stop.
The mahogany almost wants to tease him for his words, but there’s an ache in his voice that silences the amusement before true words even formulate in her mind. They’ve always cared for each other in their youth — there had been several nights toward the end where they had slept wrapped against one another while Longclaw raged into the darkness — but the way Wolfbane says it now brings a different light. A light she is willing to step into.
She grows unnaturally still under him, though it isn’t with fright. His fangs could reach and tear her esophagus from her throat but Wishbone feels no danger in his presence. In fact, she leans into his touch while her response flows out. “I believe I have a good understanding.” Dammit, she can’t even keep just that little bit of good-natured teasing out of her voice. Wishbone thinks she understands what he’s saying, but the whirlwind of their reunion and everything that follows leaves her partially guessing.
There had been a look in the olive of his eyes the first time they had entered the cave — a look she will be dreaming about for days to come — that helps guide her.
“Bane, I don’t know what I would do without you.” She’s tender now, moving her face away from his shoulder and toward his own blue-lined one. Her sable lips press a soft, lingering kiss against the plane of his cheekbone. “If you got hurt…” There’s a bitter chill in her stomach at thought, one that tingles against her skin in a way she hates. Wishbone’s rarely experienced fear before, but this is certainly it. “... I’d have to come and kill you.”
She presses her face against the strength of his neck, expecting some sort of sassy retort. Wishbone is melting into him, a feeling that isn’t her normal state of mind but she is moving with it regardless. It isn’t a bad feeling, falling into a tender mess at Wolfbane’s feet, and a breath of a smile finds her mouth as she touches another kiss (this one perhaps slightly more heated?) into his skin.
It is simple and it is perfect.
It is Wishbone and Wolfbane.
She isn’t thinking of her other suitors, like he might be; her thoughts are twisted and knotted within the aura he carries with him. He captures her like a dainty butterfly and pins her to a collector’s wall with that olive stare, only to release her back into the wild with the slide of his mouth against her mahogany skin. Wishbone revels under it for a moment, thriving in the familiarity he carries with him. He is her security amid the danger. Nerine and her future queenship might be unfamiliar, but Wolfbane provides the comfort she longs for in the chill of the night.
Her face pulls into a frown at his words. “I think it would be a good idea if you did. At least visit your mom, Wolfbane.” Femur has always been kind to her children, Wishbone included, and the girl is certain the fanged mare could grow lonely with all her children racing away from their father. Wolfbane has never had the type of father Warrick is. Although the girl rarely admits it aloud, she is thankful for the character her father is — she is, at the very least, glad her father is not Longclaw. While Wishbone had grown up alongside the blue warg and his family, when the edge of a blade sharpened his tongue or the threat of darkness swarmed his pupils the girl was able to run home to her mother or along some unexplored beachfront. The gold and blue boy hadn’t been able to run so easily from his own father, especially when Tephra offered little places to run to.
It reminds her of what Wolfbane had said when they first reunited (“I’ve been a little bit of everywhere lately — especially Loess”) and an infiltrating thread of concern floats among the rose of her contentment. The concern is lost as his lips drift from her poll to her throat, where her pulse beats. The rhythm of her heart is quicker now, as he nudges against the soft and vulnerable pieces of her, but Wishbone does nothing to stop it. She doesn’t want it to stop.
The mahogany almost wants to tease him for his words, but there’s an ache in his voice that silences the amusement before true words even formulate in her mind. They’ve always cared for each other in their youth — there had been several nights toward the end where they had slept wrapped against one another while Longclaw raged into the darkness — but the way Wolfbane says it now brings a different light. A light she is willing to step into.
She grows unnaturally still under him, though it isn’t with fright. His fangs could reach and tear her esophagus from her throat but Wishbone feels no danger in his presence. In fact, she leans into his touch while her response flows out. “I believe I have a good understanding.” Dammit, she can’t even keep just that little bit of good-natured teasing out of her voice. Wishbone thinks she understands what he’s saying, but the whirlwind of their reunion and everything that follows leaves her partially guessing.
There had been a look in the olive of his eyes the first time they had entered the cave — a look she will be dreaming about for days to come — that helps guide her.
“Bane, I don’t know what I would do without you.” She’s tender now, moving her face away from his shoulder and toward his own blue-lined one. Her sable lips press a soft, lingering kiss against the plane of his cheekbone. “If you got hurt…” There’s a bitter chill in her stomach at thought, one that tingles against her skin in a way she hates. Wishbone’s rarely experienced fear before, but this is certainly it. “... I’d have to come and kill you.”
She presses her face against the strength of his neck, expecting some sort of sassy retort. Wishbone is melting into him, a feeling that isn’t her normal state of mind but she is moving with it regardless. It isn’t a bad feeling, falling into a tender mess at Wolfbane’s feet, and a breath of a smile finds her mouth as she touches another kiss (this one perhaps slightly more heated?) into his skin.
@[Wolfbane] this post is titled: wishbone becomes a sap