Swiftcurrent Creek seguir [m]

when germanicus returned to riverclan, the sharpfang gave him a sharp look but otherwise did not keep him from crowfeather's children. in fact, when she saw her much-beloved shadow stir to rise, silvertongue took her leave, and fled through the shadows and over. she did not cease until she came to the no-wolf's-land between they and the creek; here she put herself in order, preening until she shimmered, and arrived glossy and blushed at the borders, calling for @Akavir. wren's appearance had unsettled her, and now she saw fit to know she was favoured in the eyes of those she had engaged at swiftcurrent.

He remained restless. The cloying scents that had blanketed the pack as female after female reached their season was beginning to fade—a reprieve, perhaps. 

But Mae had been sullen the past while. The fierce stubbornness she had held before had dwindled to fatigue and she remained withdrawn from him—avoiding him. 

At night, he lie awake, watching her as she slept. The rise and fall of her chest reassured him—but in the break of daylight each day, she would wake, and rather the spitfire girl emerge from the den, instead he was met with a girl who remained listless… lethargic. 

He stalked the borders this one day. The glinting sun cast itself upon Silvertongue, and he felt a surge of something—he could not place it. He began to near her, gaze intent, studying her with a partial smile that did not truly meet his eyes.

women, a thousand women, a dozen of them a day; silvertongue did not think it was unheard of for so many to find their way into the creek, where two strong men reigned. but she saw the tiredness of akavir's handsome face; she saw the set of his lips and how his eyes did not alight. and she came to him, swiftly, with quick hot flickers of her tongue and her small lithe figure seeking the hardness of his own, as if to convey that there was satisfaction to be had between them, familiar and distracting, and with no urgency of heat or potential for pregnancy. but it was something the sharpfang so needed, to feel beautiful, wanted; to feel as though she had more to offer than a halfway motherhood and a lover who would never see her heart the way she craved his.

She sensed something in him—reading his mood without a word to be spoken, and then she was in his arms, melding them together as she swiftly knocked all thought from his mind that did not involve the lissome woman in his embrace.

He could not dwell on just how right she felt there, against him—how she smelled… Her heart was unavailable, that much had been made clear.

She had laid their terms out quite plainly in their first interlude—it would do him no good to linger on possibilities of anything further. But that did not mean he would not enjoy these stolen moments, and as she seared him with kisses, eager for him, he found the rumble of his chest a more feral sound, his own kisses returned with a need for release of it all.


He shifted. His teeth trailing heated kisses to her collarbone--murmuring to her words of endearment in whatever language came to mind at the time--gaelic, french, english... No word in any dialect could truly describe how he felt in that moment.

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akavir rose eagerly beneath silvertongue's own want; he was iron and velvet beneath the press of her mouth, the sound of his desire vibrating through her own figure until she felt vicarious, bound, transfixed. breathless; tasting his exhales even as she gave her own air, even as she listened to his words shift from common to the tongue he used for himself, for her; "hasta que estés demasiado débil para pararte," silvertongue, belen, tracing the edge of one dark ear with her mouth and whispering into the whorl there these words she knew akavir would understand even if he did not. sated, by how he arrived for her; desperate for how he would arrive again.

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Her words returned to him—her tongue foreign and yet the touch of her with a promise he understood well. He couldn’t get close enough to her—she was a treasure to be ravished, and he would do so, as many times as she would let him. “Need you,” he rasped, and from there he would position her roughly, exploring her intimately and to the edge of their dance, only to stop before the implosion of it all—allowing it to fade before he would begin another onslaught. All of it to forget for the moment, and to hear his name sing from her lips.

His name. Only his name.

give it, in song; in worship; in wildest rapture; in the loss of ego and self falling away at the joining of his brumous figure to her own, in the hoarseness of his complete control and the assured way akavir embraced the moment, these moments, her spiraling voice. and there she knew she was his in this way, and he hers, in no sense of possession but only of knowing, understanding the deepest wellspring of answering hurt in him and he in her, and to burn beneath him, around him, until the conflagration swallowed them both in this impassioned unity.