06-10-2018, 04:02 PM
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
Wishbone should’ve known better. When they flock to her young sides with unnerving, malice-tinted eyes and begin to lick along her cheeks, she should’ve known better. When they smile with roughly-fringed mouths and high, shadowy cheekbones, she should’ve known better. But she is young, swept away in the riptide of adventure and it is pulling her out to sea.
Wishbone does know that she’s fucked up. The thought pushes through her mind with such startling clarity it feels like those first moments she had leapt into Nerine’s bitter northern waves (seawater swallowing her mind and drowning her in the sensations of prickled wakefulness) and she grunts from the sensation. All these thoughts happen in quick succession — “You should’ve known better” and “You’ve fucked up” — as she is forcefully pinned against the tree.
Their bodies are warm, sliding around her like boa constrictors, and she feels her muscles grow taut under their pressure. She’s lithe, cradled between them with sinewy muscle finely-crafted along her curves, and their touches only further pull attention to the graceful slopes of her body. Wishbone’s honey-whiskey voice speaks again in Jackel’s direction, husky with the force of her words. “I’ll never tell either of you anything about Nerine.” Their questions are prodding — as hers had been only moments before — and it forces a barrier brutally closed where it had been open.
The golden mare’s tongue moves to slide against Wishbone’s cheek. But the mahogany girl is twisting her neck, snapping her teeth within inches of Jackel’s nose. She isn’t looking to harm or even touch; her actions, though bold, are more meant as a warning. Despite the situation she’s in, Wishbone feels the electrifying vibrations of feverish exhilaration in her pulse, pressing against the fibers of her blood vessels.
Her pulse increases evermore at the sound of Svedka’s voice. Ah, dear brother. He’d come to her rescue. The questions of why or how don’t flood her mind at this point, though Wishbone is sure she will be asking them when they get out of this situation (there’s no doubt they will in her mind). “Oh, you guys are fucked now.” She should really shut up, but the victory of her brother’s arrival brings forth a vibrant laugh from her sable mouth.
When her older brother’s mouth moves at Jackel’s golden body, Wishbone’s own mouth mirrors to nip at Abra’s delicate ears. Provided her distraction works, the mahogany girl attempts to slip away from her predicament against the tree and move in the opposite direction of Jackel. “You couldn’t let me have just a bit of fun without stealing some of it, huh, brother?” There’s a laugh on her mouth, even as they untangle themselves from the slippery, shadowy fingers of the Sylvans.
Wishbone does know that she’s fucked up. The thought pushes through her mind with such startling clarity it feels like those first moments she had leapt into Nerine’s bitter northern waves (seawater swallowing her mind and drowning her in the sensations of prickled wakefulness) and she grunts from the sensation. All these thoughts happen in quick succession — “You should’ve known better” and “You’ve fucked up” — as she is forcefully pinned against the tree.
Their bodies are warm, sliding around her like boa constrictors, and she feels her muscles grow taut under their pressure. She’s lithe, cradled between them with sinewy muscle finely-crafted along her curves, and their touches only further pull attention to the graceful slopes of her body. Wishbone’s honey-whiskey voice speaks again in Jackel’s direction, husky with the force of her words. “I’ll never tell either of you anything about Nerine.” Their questions are prodding — as hers had been only moments before — and it forces a barrier brutally closed where it had been open.
The golden mare’s tongue moves to slide against Wishbone’s cheek. But the mahogany girl is twisting her neck, snapping her teeth within inches of Jackel’s nose. She isn’t looking to harm or even touch; her actions, though bold, are more meant as a warning. Despite the situation she’s in, Wishbone feels the electrifying vibrations of feverish exhilaration in her pulse, pressing against the fibers of her blood vessels.
Her pulse increases evermore at the sound of Svedka’s voice. Ah, dear brother. He’d come to her rescue. The questions of why or how don’t flood her mind at this point, though Wishbone is sure she will be asking them when they get out of this situation (there’s no doubt they will in her mind). “Oh, you guys are fucked now.” She should really shut up, but the victory of her brother’s arrival brings forth a vibrant laugh from her sable mouth.
When her older brother’s mouth moves at Jackel’s golden body, Wishbone’s own mouth mirrors to nip at Abra’s delicate ears. Provided her distraction works, the mahogany girl attempts to slip away from her predicament against the tree and move in the opposite direction of Jackel. “You couldn’t let me have just a bit of fun without stealing some of it, huh, brother?” There’s a laugh on her mouth, even as they untangle themselves from the slippery, shadowy fingers of the Sylvans.
@[Abra] / @[Jackel] / @[Svedka]