Swiftcurrent Creek [m] you know i'll be seeking if you run and hide

for whenever u have time <3 backdated ambiguously for the end of august!

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@Silvertongue would come to Wren, and so she waited.
The drama of their last meeting left the gamma unmistakably crestfallen and with thoughts that scattered and swirled. The more she thought of it, the more she realized how few times they had met where there was no pain, no anguish, nothing in the way; and all she seemed to know of the sharpfang was what ailed her, and the same could have been said for what she knew of Wren.
There was desire there, a desire to know what absent thought made that glittering grin touch her cheeks, a desire to know what meal she loved and only sought on special evenings. A desire to dry the tears and quiet the sobs that rocked her figure that day. There did not need to be so much hurt between them or around them. There could not be more of it, or else she feared one of the two would shatter and fall from the brink of no return.
And she had waited. Waited; a few days, perhaps, while the lava broiled to obsidian. Until she felt it to be right. And when it was, she spun her signal; new, fresh flowers at her feet in a bundle. A necessary do-over.

what would become? silvertongue decided she would not see akavir again, she would quit her time with arric, she would — grow into herself, a burl of wood enclosing a deep rot. unless crowfeather ordered her to leave riverclan, she would stay, and simply give up the ghost of her words. it was the creek which drew her out, empty-pawed; this time she did not cross over the border, but stood staring at it and finally called out for wren, her voice devoid of its usual flirtatious confidence, sundered as if it were stone beneath persistent water; exhausted, silvertongue found herself, and was unsure if she wished to depart slumber once her dreams began.

The voice reaches her before Wren can fully recognize it, and yet she answers it all the same. She brings forth her sprig of blooms — this time, among them were cone flowers, columbines, a trillium; not that she knew what they were, but she felt, at least, that they were much more pleasing to the eye.
Understandably so, when the pretty face of Silvertongue comes into view, the light behind her eyes has all but vanished. First comes the relief at seeing her again, the classic flutter of her heart; and then the confusion, and then the dreaded recollection of what had transpired.
The scraggly bouquet is dropped neatly at the feet of the riverwoman with a chaste peck to her cheek and a lopsided, hopeful grin. Hopeful, yes, that's what it was. I wanted to, um, bring you new ones, and for some reason, the gamma cannot quite meet the turquoise eyes, even as she melts beneath them. to try and cheer you up, I guess.

new ones. the hues held her hurting pupils for a long moment; silvertongue slowly gathered them to her chest, breathing the summertime fragrance that melted into the warm air. wren could not look at her, and she felt the same roil of rage and regret toss through her stomach, fear that all was ruined. that wren would see her as ruined, for it was what she was. she would go home. she would be a mother to the children, and a companion to crowfeather; she could make that her life, could she not? but a glance upward into the other's eyes tensed her mouth with grief, and no matter what she wanted to say, the words would not make themselves known.

I am still here.
Wren wanted to say it; to let it be known that she was here, through grief and memory and misgivings. And part of her wondered why she still was.
She was not, nor would she ever be Crowfeather; nor Akavir, nor Arric, nor any other men whose names had been wrought from the riverwoman's lips like hymns of worship. She could not be Crowfeather, could never be more than what she was in all her brine and pinesap, her vicious tongue and unbecoming arms. She could not compare.
She didn't need to.
What was done was done; the seed had been sown, and while the face of the child swept beneath the rug haunted her, now was not the time to bring up such a thing. Wren had come here with intention.
Do you wanna take a walk with me? I am here and I am trying. We could go down by the lake, get some dinner, maybe.

Let me in.

leaping, running; a cascade of want to flee, an image of bolting for the creek borders, never to be seen again. wren was not to blame, but the humiliation of that day was seared into her brain, a willow-tree choked by creeping vines. to run, to stay, to leave, to die. "all right," the sharpfang whispered, her voice a soft glissade of wind in canopy. "maybe — outside the creek." the idea of seeing akavir here, let alone eshe, tormented her. not in jealousy, not in denial of what he pursued with another, but to know she had been set down after the true wanting of her past was revealed. fuck you, germanicus. hijo de puta.

A yes! A yes, and Wren could have skipped around gleeful like a buck-toothed adolescent in that moment. Instead, her smile widens; bashful, gentle, before she offers a paw forward as if to lead her. We'll go over by duck lake, kinda. It's not too far.
Her stride is light and calm — staggering, still, for she fears her limp may never truly go away — tail a gentle dance above her hips. We've never really been on, like, she pauses, lips scrunched; we've never spent time just talking. Again do her eyes catch hold of the gemstone ones of the sharpfang, and dazzled and warm all over is she. Something in her longs to see that glittering smile once more. You and I both need to have some fun, eh?

fun. fun. what fun was there to discover when wren knew all things? when germanicus had all but regaled she and akavir, according to silvertongue's assumptions? akavir had come to tell her he knew, and now there was a coldness between them. wren pursued with flowers, and the sharpfang felt an irrational anger seize her; groveling for the stunted affections of a former pleasure object. oh, a shameful thought; a mean, horrible thought; silvertongue flung it out of her mind and tried to bring some warmth into her eyes. "when is the last time you hunted ducks?" she asked of wren, falling into step as the two, thankfully, departed the creekland.

hmmmm how can i make the events of ratero MORE heartbreaking

It's been a while, Wren admits shyly, a flick of an ash-tipped ear given in her little lover's direction. I'm a pretty shitty bird hunter, I gotta say. Maybe you'll have to show me a thing or two.
The lowlight dances across the pointed features of Silvertongue and even with the tired redness to her eyes, Wren finds that she is as enthralling as ever. A weakness, a horrifying weakness; but she has become more and more okay with it. Her lips, for ever a fleeting time, find the sharpfang's starlit temple in a lapse of speed along their path. A quiet assurance; I am me, you are you, and we are here. Are you, um, are you cold?

CRYING

it was so clear that wren wished to take care of her, and for one moment of blinding beauty, silvertongue wondered at it. a life in cool green shadows, a denmouth draped in wisteria and two women on the threshold they shared, kissing one another as summertime droned on in its drench of honeyed light. an image too lovely for her to possess, silver decided, though she tucked the golden taste beneath her tongue and felt the sensation intensity as wren kissed her softly; "not cold," heated, even, and willing to surrender everything to the goodness of their bodies if it meant wren would be assured and silvertongue did not have to — think.

Not cold. Perhaps if she had come here on a worse day she would have taken this as a slight; but instead, instead, it feels as though it is an invitation. Ah, well, fuck it. Overheating is worth it, right? a quiet snicker, breathless and stuck somewhere in her throat. C'mere, you.
It had been too long, much too long, since mindless passion had sparked between them. Some part of Wren was afraid of it; afraid of Silvertongue thinking she sought only her body and not the rest of her, afraid that she would be seen with the sharp eyes and languid, filthy smile of man.
She is shy, at first, as such; eyes soft and preening, a kiss pressed gingerly to pulsepoint, arms stretched out in a welcoming embrace. And she searches, sifting, prying the layers — what was she thinking right now, really? Do you, um--?

but there were no men here. silvertongue pressed her tongue to the hot thrum of blood just beneath the hot surface of wren's skin. here she let out her breath in a wavering sigh; the next she tangled their limbs together and slowly insinuated herself below the creekwolf with little rotations of her hips; "now," the sharpfang whispered, eyes darkened with pleasure, true delight, as she gazed up toward her lover, "show me." a dare, a dance; tw women linking arms and mouths in defiant love.

Mature Content Warning

This thread has been marked as mature. By reading and/or participating in this thread, you acknowledge that you are of age or have permission from your parents to do so.

The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: horny ass useless lesbians smfh

It came as not a question, but a command, and Wren did not need to be told so twice. The gyration of hips is met with the firm sweep of heavy arms, of blown pupils and soft lips and the release of so much that coils deep and waits patiently, oh so patiently, for an unraveling. Fierce, but sweet; never too rough, the nip of teeth always chased with the slow roil of tongue; never with only her own needs in mind.
There were no men here. No, not at all.

***

Labored breaths, the taste of her still heavy and rich on the gamma's tongue, limbs not yet untangled from the other's, and a new title slips from love-drunk lips while the gentle preenings of aftercare fall into motion. Cara mia.
For now, it felt as if Wren had forgotten the weight and heat of the stars as they fell around them.

"mi amante," whispered for them, only them. men could not do for wren and for silvertongue. men took. they gave, and in the giving, they found themselves. she felt as though she could lay here an eternity, in the taste and mingled scent of she and the creekwolf, their limbs wound as if they were vines of morning-glory. for a time she surrendered the sun, the moon, the shadows; for a time she belonged in wholeness to wren, her smile glinting to kisses, her eyes so close to those of the other she felt she could see the root of memories taking hold. hers. theirs.

<3333333

Mi amante.
What was she thinking? How was she feeling?
Maybe no questions needed to be asked. Maybe this was not the time; maybe there never would be one. Or maybe Wren was simply afraid of the answer.
Her muzzle finds a space between rounded ears and for a time she allows herself to forget her own name, who she is, where they have been and where they would be come tomorrow. There is only now, only now. Silvertongue is given a soft squeeze, the fur of her nape smoothed in one soft motion; Wren's head moves back to count the flecks of ocean green in her irises; the trill of crickets while summer comes to an end around them.
Cara mia. Hers. Theirs.
Wren wonders if there would ever be another, and she silently hopes that there never will be.
Maybe they'll finish that walk in the morning.