Porcupine Ridge The hills of Hollywood on fire

Diane could feel herself bracing for the unknown. Trepidation and excitement intermingled, bringing forth a small shiver that peeled along her spine as the male drew his tongue across her wound. Pain and comfort followed, eliciting a soothed whine from between clenched teeth. Her body relaxed under the gentle repetition of his tending. Her skin pleasantly warmed as the initial shock against her injury ebbed, and the desire to suddenly curl up and sleep was almost overwhelming. 

It was a while before Diane's eyes stopped rolling around in the back of her head, having remembered that her compatriot did not come out of his own tussle unscathed. Groaning as she relieved herself of his allaying touch, the gold and grey seawolf peered up at him, imploringly. The fur on the side of his head was plastered with his own blood, appearing to be an ultimately small wound, but it was a significant bleeder nonetheless. 

She tucked her muzzle beneath his, licking his throat and chin appreciatively before nudging him with a little more insistence and tasting the bloodied spot just beneath his wound, testing how willing he was to let her be the caretaker now. His blood had a harsh tang to it but was not intolerable; she couldn't remember tasting another wolf's blood before. "Here, let me." Her murmur was quiet, knowing he wouldn't understand her anyway. "You won't be able to get it yourself. I'll be careful," she further (needlessly) explained.