Fairspell Meadow saffron's curse [m]

It was a weakness of sorts, that he could be so ensnared by this want - no, need - to touch and be touched, that sensible thoughts were so easily discarded as though they had no place at all in his mind. For there was a flicker of a thought, that perhaps he should not, but it died as quickly as it had begun like the the ember that had no breath and no tinder.

Lasher turned and pressed his mouth to his ankle. It was such a small touch, and yet it warmed the white wolf's frozen form, startled tension leaving him noticeably more relaxed as he softly expelled the breath he had been holding. Momentarily, his eyes closed, and when they reopened he found himself searching his companion's murkwater eyes.

He bent his head, nosing Lasher's ear before his muzzle brushed his cheek, pressing into it. He stayed here, breathing softly as his thinking mind tried to win out over his impulsive nature.