Swiftcurrent Creek Under the kitchen lights, you still look like dynamite

A more disciplined wolf might have succeeded where Wylla was destined to fail, and fail she did. It was a slow but nonetheless spectacular unfolding of her wits, beginning with an unbidden twitch of her brow. There, upon the inky sweep of her mask, settled a curious wasp. She could feel its feet and imagined it was a spider, a thought that made her want to cringe, but she fought the urge for a little while.

It wasn't possible to fight it when Tiercel's tongue began to probe the inner folds of her ear; she resisted for approximately two seconds before she screwed up her entire face and flicked her ear. At the same time, the wasp became bunched in the creasing of her brow and, exasperated, delivered a sweet stinger's kiss right to her eyebrow that made her eyes fly open.

"Ow, fuck!" screeched a very much alive Wylla as she tore herself up from the furrowed ground, dislodging her intrusive tongue waggling pup in the process, and snapped at the wasp while it buzzed away. "Fuu-huh-huck," she lamented, prancing in place as pain blossomed from the site of the sting, which was sure to swell rapidly. She turned her scowl upon her impatient daughter, who had most definitely caused this by not getting the point of the lesson, and bellowed, "this is your fault!"