01-16-2020, 03:56 PM
take my soul & make it undone
be the one, be the one to take me home and show me the sun. i know, i know you can bring the fire, i can bring the bones. i know, i know you'll make the fire, my bones will make it grow.
There had been times when they had experienced Longclaw’s internal torture together. Her childhood memories are bursting at the seams with gutsy, definitely-not-Wound-approved missions to distract Wolfbane (and herself, if she’s being honest) from his father’s erratic, hurtful decline. While the adventures were also for the purpose of Wishbone’s own reckless pleasure, she can remember almost boiling herself in lava or jumping too high off a rock or swimming too far out just so the darkness clouding her friend’s olive eyes would hide for a few lifesaving moments. There were times when Longclaw’s effect would be too much to cover with dangerous antics… When the pair of them would curl close to each other beneath a low-hanging frond and feel the quickness of their fearful breaths and the pounding of their rapid heartbeats as Longclaw raged somewhere in the tropics. When a father would whisper loving advice to his son in one breath and then shout unforeseen criticism in the next.
Longclaw hadn’t told them of the voices in his head, but Wishbone can remember seeing signs of something deeper and darker brimming behind his eyes. As Wolfbane’s gaze roams across her gold-painted face, she can imagine he is experiencing much of the same things. She wonders if there are seething voices whispering for him to hurt her or destroy that or say this. Most of all, she wonders if he recognizes the darkness in himself. She wonders if the true Wolfbane is still there; if his calls for help are muffled beneath the control of a predatory ancestral curse.
Wishbone continues to move closer to him as he studies her new features. The wandering eyes of strangers linger on the pair, but she has learned to both feel and ignore the weight of outside curiosity. When he speaks again, they are close enough to touch. The obsidian can feel the warmth of his breath drive away the bitterness of winter, even as a breeze picks up to whisk strands of her dark mane against her cheeks.
Wishbone produces a similar noise to the one he had made almost moments ago, low in the back of her throat. “Hmm.” She knows he is smart. He is smart, too. She might prod subtly at his striking differences since their last meeting, but the underlying message that she knows he will pick up is brutally obvious. Wishbone wants to tell him that she sees him, that she has caught him in the act of a game extending through generations of his bloodline. She wants to tell him that she will try her damn hardest to drag him away from that game, even if it means he comes away kicking and screaming.
One of her dark eyebrows raises at his sweet-and-sour comment. If Wishbone hadn’t already experienced the effects of the familial curse, she might have been offended. She might’ve scoffed at him and come back with a verbal attack that could have smoldered against his confidence. For a sincere moment, grief and pity swell in union against the walls of her chest. She keeps the emotions hidden there, revealing none of the softness that might provide another target for his arrows.
Yet Wishbone cannot deny this dangerous Wolfbane appeals to her reckless side. He taunts her with his harshness and the skin along her shoulders ripples with a sudden desire for dangerous abandonment of all things mannerly and domesticated. While she’s been able to harness self-control in specific diplomatic situations, Wishbone has always been a poor master of that skill. And so she steps even closer, even while she sees the familiar glint of his primal canines emerging. Her dark mouth slowly finds a spot on his jaw to touch, every second of her movement calculated and patient. Wishbone has just been released from the arms of Death and yet she cannot help but dance with It once again.
“Quite the opposite,” she murmurs against his golden skin. Another small step brings her chest flush with his (and the rolling waves of her side and back lies spread out for him like an ocean beneath a cat-claw sliver of a moon) before Wishbone wraps her neck across his withers. They stand like yin and yang — gold and black. The way her body feels on fire, each muscle and nerve and blood vessel anticipating his next move, makes Wishbone feel more alive than she has since before the twins. “You know how I feel about you, Bane.”
Longclaw hadn’t told them of the voices in his head, but Wishbone can remember seeing signs of something deeper and darker brimming behind his eyes. As Wolfbane’s gaze roams across her gold-painted face, she can imagine he is experiencing much of the same things. She wonders if there are seething voices whispering for him to hurt her or destroy that or say this. Most of all, she wonders if he recognizes the darkness in himself. She wonders if the true Wolfbane is still there; if his calls for help are muffled beneath the control of a predatory ancestral curse.
Wishbone continues to move closer to him as he studies her new features. The wandering eyes of strangers linger on the pair, but she has learned to both feel and ignore the weight of outside curiosity. When he speaks again, they are close enough to touch. The obsidian can feel the warmth of his breath drive away the bitterness of winter, even as a breeze picks up to whisk strands of her dark mane against her cheeks.
Wishbone produces a similar noise to the one he had made almost moments ago, low in the back of her throat. “Hmm.” She knows he is smart. He is smart, too. She might prod subtly at his striking differences since their last meeting, but the underlying message that she knows he will pick up is brutally obvious. Wishbone wants to tell him that she sees him, that she has caught him in the act of a game extending through generations of his bloodline. She wants to tell him that she will try her damn hardest to drag him away from that game, even if it means he comes away kicking and screaming.
One of her dark eyebrows raises at his sweet-and-sour comment. If Wishbone hadn’t already experienced the effects of the familial curse, she might have been offended. She might’ve scoffed at him and come back with a verbal attack that could have smoldered against his confidence. For a sincere moment, grief and pity swell in union against the walls of her chest. She keeps the emotions hidden there, revealing none of the softness that might provide another target for his arrows.
Yet Wishbone cannot deny this dangerous Wolfbane appeals to her reckless side. He taunts her with his harshness and the skin along her shoulders ripples with a sudden desire for dangerous abandonment of all things mannerly and domesticated. While she’s been able to harness self-control in specific diplomatic situations, Wishbone has always been a poor master of that skill. And so she steps even closer, even while she sees the familiar glint of his primal canines emerging. Her dark mouth slowly finds a spot on his jaw to touch, every second of her movement calculated and patient. Wishbone has just been released from the arms of Death and yet she cannot help but dance with It once again.
“Quite the opposite,” she murmurs against his golden skin. Another small step brings her chest flush with his (and the rolling waves of her side and back lies spread out for him like an ocean beneath a cat-claw sliver of a moon) before Wishbone wraps her neck across his withers. They stand like yin and yang — gold and black. The way her body feels on fire, each muscle and nerve and blood vessel anticipating his next move, makes Wishbone feel more alive than she has since before the twins. “You know how I feel about you, Bane.”
@[Wolfbane]