Lost Creek Hollow the black hills, the colly

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: some innuendo

 

Hesitantly at first, but surely, Wren follows. The shock of cold brings a shudder that eases into a feeling of calm. Her wandering eye is subtle, tracing over the shape of Silvertongue's hips, the way she moves as she wades deeper into the wellspring. 
She is entranced. 
She tries to hide it with a flick of her tongue and a quick aversion of her gaze that now focuses intently on a nearby aspen. 
Sounds like the opposite of Swiftcurrent, she comments, a flare to her nostrils as air is blown out in the shape of a laugh. pack of assholes. But hey, it's home, huh? We always think the grass is greener on the other side. 
Her tail hovers just above the surface, a low hum cast in the sharpfang's direction. Another solemn gaze, this time, one that lasts, landing on the curve of Silvertongue's cheek; the storm gray that fans into off-white, the curl of her eyelashes, the shape of her ears. The nerves start to bring a sickly feeling, a churn to her gut that metaphorically slams her to the riverbed. 
There are so many things. Wren found herself wanting to know her, find out what makes her tick; what she does first thing in the morning, what makes her laugh, where she came from. She longed to know the taste of her lips, the feeling of arms around hips and what pleasure sounded like when it came from her. 
But for now, the thoughts are put to rest with the cut of a dull knife. Crowfeather. Ash Paw. What if—
She found herself growing weak. What was wrong with her? 
I think, uhm, she shakes off one forepaw that hoists her up onto the bank. t-thank you, for welcoming me, but I think maybe I should head, uh, home. I've been-- away, for over a week. They might be getting worried.