Stavanger Bay Stranger Things

are we... do we make out now?

Furiosa could feel her pulse where the tender fay threatened to touch. Time slowed palpably, and in anticipation her skin blazed and quivered, shuddering beneath a slovenly coat of a thousand tales; a canvas where blood had been ceaselessly spilled, and where foreign teeth had left their brushstrokes like brands across her flesh. She watched, her lost and engorged pupils missing nothing as the two of them touched. Her neck arched carefully, tongue lashing out to taste the delicate spot behind the large, drooping ear of her mistress, as a hushed sigh steamed from between barred jaws. Greedily, her tongue darted once more, grazing the thin curtain of fur clinging to her lobe before they separated.

Only several seconds had passed.

Fire blossomed against her chest where she had been touched, and her tail was wagging back and forth so heartily it was a wonder the wiry appendage didn't fly off into the atmosphere. The degenerative pale shrew pressed her ears forward in eagerness to receive the seawolf's words— a tremor traveling the length of her spine as she considered her exact desire for what was offered. Love. And war. Though Furiosa was not typically so easily commanded, there seemed to be very little she wouldn't do for the young mother-to-be with the eyes filled of saffon. What do I call you?

"Lover?" she mused, hushed in the dappled sunlight that sought them from the grey clouds. "Sister? Mother? Daughter..." Anything— it hardly mattered! "Yours." The feral woman hissed in naked admiration, meeting her yellow eyes possessively. "Furiosa," she answered finally.