Whitebark Stream put your ring back on honey-tits, you haven't had enough porridge this morning (mtr.)

”No." Her denial was faint and insistent, compared to the baritone that tumbled through her; and rather than look to where she’d most certainly been in distress,  she pressed her scarred face further into the periwinkle ruff. ”I-I was fine, I could have shown you that... that I had everything under control.” With an inward curve of slight shoulders, Aure stubbornly nestled into her old friend, pouting the whole while.

His once-protected seemed intent, too, find a temporary respite from all weariness of travel and her recent fatigue in the curve of his neck, his chest. That was, until his nonchalant gesture caught her eye —

Without another word, she withdrew, pupils blown and surging for his paw through an urge that had consumed her during childhood. Her breath skipped towards his paw, and then her tongue and teeth and scarred lips followed as she locked all upon his ankle. Eyes gleamed like stars, brimming with delight as an appallingly smug, girlish, self-assured giggle quivered from her.

In her conquest of his ankle, which she now began to — ever so gently — gnaw on, it had left the pale curve of her neck and shoulders exposed to the tundrian. ”Ith this distreth enoufs for yous?” came the mischievous purl. Should he decide to exact whatever he thought proper upon her impish (oblivious) self, well... she wasn’t exactly going here, when she’d finally caught something.