she’s got jumper cable lips
she’s got sunset on her breath. now i inhaled just a little bit, now i’ve got no fear of death
For the most part, Loess is unlike any place Wishbone has traveled. Each of the kingdoms are unique in their own ways — Sylva with its eternal autumn, Ischia with its scattering of islands, Tephra with its volcano, Hyaline with its mountains, Nerine with its cliffs — and Loess fits smoothly into the picture. The backdrop of Hyaline’s mountains are a comforting presence among the foothills and even Loess itself holds a hazy place in Wishbone’s childhood memories.
She finds it is easy to wind along the embankments of the hills, where the grass dips and rises, just as it is easy to laugh at Wolfbane’s words. The hoarseness of her laughter follows his words while her amber eyes find the spark that lingers in his. Wishbone might laugh at nearly anything that is amusing, but the gold-and-blue stallion brings out the most from her. The cheerfulness of the sun and the feel of his muscled shoulder only inches away only further allows her fingers to loosen from the scepter and crown.
“When the traveling bug strikes, I don’t deny it.” There’s light in her words, and also truth. Wishbone has always been the type to follow where her heart guides her. Most days it guides her straight into the jaws of death — nearly breaking herself against the face of the volcano, nearly drowning herself with a fall from terrible heights into the ocean — but today it has brought into the delightful presence of Wolfbane. She doesn’t complain.
His next words bring about surprise in her sunset eyes. Wishbone stops in her tracks, long sable legs brushing against breeze-whispering blades of emerald grass, and tosses her slender mahogany head once. The tangled, dark locks of her mane dance for a moment before settling again, much like the rhythm of her heartbeat. “You’re King of Loess now?” Either he’s teasing her or the world has a sense of humor.
“That’s entirely ironic and I’m tempted to not believe you.” There’s a smirk on her mouth before she glances around their surroundings, feeling the breeze shift against her skin and the smell of the sun ride on his pale wings. “You’re shitting me, Wolfbane.” The Khaleesi laughs once, low and thoughtful, before putting her amber eyes deep into his gaze. She finds truth there, plain as day, and delight pulls disbelief away with a force that warms her chest.
“Well damn, Bane! Now how am I supposed to love you when you’re ruling the enemy to my kingdom?” It’s half of a joke, but there’s a mild level of truth in her words. Nonetheless, Wishbone is moving herself closer to his golden-skinned body, womanly curves silky gliding against him. It could be an act of selfishness — a direct insult to the Loessian women aforementioned — but mostly she just wants to be close to him. Their touching brings about another level of heat to her skin, one that isn’t from the sun, and it reminds her of Ivar and the beach not so long ago.
An ache blossoms, fierce and reckless.
Wishbone presses her mouth against the slope of his chest now and it’s a tender yet fiery movement. She could ask him a hundred questions — what he plans to do with Loess, what his motives will be against Sylva, if he plans on joining the Allied — but they don’t leave her mind. “No wonder you look so tempting. You’re finally in my league.”
wishbone
@[Wolfbane]