LONGCLAW

-I close my eyes, ignore the smoke-

Ah, if he had known. (If he only had a fresh pelt for every time he’s thought that) If it were anyone but Femur.

If, if, if.

He should’ve slept in. Guard duty be damned, he should’ve slept in and spent the morning comforting her, (his spirit girl had shivered in her sleep, even murmured wordless pleas in her dreams) but instead he had adhered to the life they’d both come to see as normal. He, early to rise and head off for his duty, had found that these days, wearing the wolfskin and patrolling the shores only reminded him of the warm, golden mate he’d left behind. It was becoming increasingly harder for Longclaw to not hurry along the edge of Tephra only to skitter back to Femur and this day proves much the same.

Still, the sun is broiling and the humidity of the land is rising steadily when he deems his work finished. Fast as he might like to be and crafty as he might have become in speeding even that process along, (ah, the fire was as good as second sight for him) he still manages to miss her leaving by the time he returns to their cozy grove. “It’s enough to make a sane animal rabid.” Claw mutters aloud, filtering the stale perfume of her wanton body through converted nostrils. “What was that she-devil up to now?”

He can only imagine. It’s fuel enough for him to occupy himself in other matters; He hunts, for the first time in quite a while, and satiates an ancient hunger with healthy red meat. Wild pigs have mastered the art of swimming and some have ended up here over time. Longclaw considers it a personal obligation to keep their population in check. “Not to mention they’re delicious.” He mulls with a wicked grin, pink tongue rolling over bloodied whiskers.

Half the morning spent and belly full, his attention flickers back to Femur and, with an irritated shake of his head, Claw rises on paws to pad through the forest and down to the beach for a swim. He trades appearances, eases slowly into the warm currents, lets the salt and the brine clean all traces of mess or fat from his coat and then, wades back to shore with the intention of hunting her down.

But something stops him. The closer he edges to the woodland of his favorite little island the more her scent begins to wash over him. Tipping fanged lips up, Longclaw flares his nostrils and jerks aside to make tracks for where she’s hiding. Common paths get him there the fastest, (how many times have their hooves passed over these hills and valleys?) and yet he finds himself breathless at the sight of her disguised by low-hanging branches; a playful nymph who always keeps him on his toes. “Feeemuuurrrrr” Claw calls, the sound somwhere between a lustful purr and a playful song.

It takes him only a moment to be at her side, to be upon her, plush lips hungrily roaming her silken fur for any scratch or hint of stranger. “Stranger,” He thinks again as his mouth roves down to the arch of her belly.

His head snaps up, vibrant green eyes narrowing in suspicion as his own form becomes suddenly motionless. “Where have you been?”

LONGCLAW

-I close my eyes, ignore the smoke-

She reminds him quickly why she’s his mate. The flash of her perfect teeth in response to his mistrust warrants a similar reaction, but his is made with a hiss of unspoken forgiveness. Longclaw would never question her again. It was the irritation of his not knowing that grated against his attitude, left him squirming with festering boredom and stoked the fires of action in his belly. He would die, maim, kill for her and sometimes, Claw feels as if he wants an opportunity to prove this.

Men.

I was out. His dame toys, and the curious flick of his brow smooths the wrinkles of a snarl off his lips. He can hardly protest with her reasoning, (she’s always right, anyways) and besides, Femur is engaged in soothing his tempestuous nature in a manner he quite frankly approves of. The soft glide of her angelic lips over the curve of his proud ear bends his neck low; a guttural croon tickles his throat and for a moment, he forgets about the odd smell she’d brought along with her. His thoughts are drifting elsewhere, to things children shouldn’t be privy to.

Come out child. His she-wraith beckons, the cold absence of her touch startling him into sudden awareness. As stoic and motionless as he’d been before, now Longclaw is truly carved from stone and, breathless, he watches the emergence of a finely-made colt. For a second, his black heart thuds darkly with hot rage - the blinding fury that she would bring some thing here like a pet, it - well it … well ….

But the babe’s eyes have glanced up now; they connect with their father’s matching ones and silently the two regard one another.

His first thoughts go something like this: He’s got no idea who the mother is. Urge and the simplicity of the action had been the source of this boy’s creation. The only mare in Longclaw’s life worth anything is standing right beside him, with her impossibly seductive mouth curved into a sour pout. This is, however, his son. Color and looks ran strong through the male lines of his family, he’d be a fool to deny it.

So, that would make him Father. “A father. A dad.” He thinks, the two words he’d been forbidden to use when addressing Wyrm. Instantly he feels the pressure of a dark fate; this boy would end up as he did, and his father before him - wasted. The succession of Longclaw’s sire’s had all been terrible with their spawn. Fear seizes him and his gaze tears away from the boy to fixate on Femur. “Don’t ask this of me …” He wants to say, but there’s no room for error this time. He can see it clearly in the gem-like cut of her dark eyes.

He’d nearly taken her life, but she’d given it to him freely after the encounter anyways. It was his turn to sacrifice everything within him that screamed otherwise. “You are not your father.”

Inside of him, something breaks free.

“What should we call him?” Longclaw says at last, expelling a breath he’d been unaware was waiting in his lungs.

LONGCLAW

-I close my eyes, ignore the smoke-

The bites she gives only serve to continuously shock him further into awareness. Longclaw feels … asleep. Or, somewhere between asleep and awake. He can’t put his finger on it.

He’s a father now, whether he likes it or not and (Gods love her) Femur is the only creature privy to his moments of weakness. For the second time she holds him together and for the second time, she reminds him of who he is. Longclaw, made of flame and built to eat flesh. The greatest tracker in his line. A hunter, a killer, son of two powerful animals that made a game of treading Beqanna soil and her inhabitants beneath their hooves. Twin to a sister who could pluck the strings of your mind like it was nothing.

Femur needs him now. Wildling needs him now, (as Femur has so aptly named him) and so when his lover’s pale fangs strike down once more only to draw blood, he snaps his head aside with viper-like speed to return the action forcefully. “Stop that.” He growls, blinking away the last bits of fog from his mind. Quickly, the flash of his bright tongue glides across the dark stain of his lips and then he collects himself before continuing.

“Wildling suits him. He suits us. You did well to bring him here and if you find any others,” He pauses, unaware that his little ghost is already one step ahead of him, “bring them too.” The stallion confirms. With the tilt of his body Longclaw slopes his crested neck to offer flared nostrils for his son to inspect. This boy, and any other Femur chooses to mark as her own, will never have to fear his wrath.

The guard of Tephra grows tired of pointless things and right now, everything aside from their budding family is pointless.

When the colt tires of inspection, Claw turns his attention back to the mother with only a single question in mind. “You didn’t want one of your own?”

He's happy to oblige, of course.

LONGCLAW

-I close my eyes, ignore the smoke-

Thank you, She says, even if it should be Longclaw that presses those words into her own thoughts. Femur knows, though. Between them there’s an understanding without the need for words - so raw and real it leaves him to consider the likes of their love without possible equal. The animals in this country fight and fuck, kill and give new life, but none (he knows) will ever love or adore her the way he so clearly does.

There should never be a question in her mind and though he cannot stifle what rages so darkly and sickly inside of him (the idea of monogamy is withheld as long as the stolen flames burn brightly inside of him) she should never wonder about her place in his world. He lives for Femur and nothing else.

Though, he begins to think as he watches Wildling withdraw to test out new legs, “it wouldn’t hurt to add more reasons to that list, especially if they exist as a direct result of her…”

Longclaw has already forgotten that this son is not Femur’s. So quick and natural it comes - erasing all thoughts of a nameless, shapeless mare to replace her likeness with his Ghost-girl - and when her eyes fly to meet his own the stallion is seized with a fresh renewal of desire. Of course I want one. She tells him, the idea sparking a mad hunger in his gut. Beneath himself, he can feel the arousal harden into pure craving. Do you, is the question?

The pied mare need not creep; Claw is already there to meet her, flesh against flesh and with a parted mouth pressing rakishly into her golden skin. How could he, in turn, explain that his apprehension had sprouted from disgust at himself? If it had been her beneath him then and her to carry the babe he would’ve never second-guessed his abilities. It was … different with her. Everything was different with her. “I want one for every star in the sky.” He demands, the intent in his voice unmistakeable even as it sprouts in the form of a guttural snarl, “I want one for every grain of sand on the beach, for every leaf sprouting free of a limb,” He breathes, rooted to the spot with the urge of controlling himself - Wildling already becoming the hint of a thought on his periphery.

“And you’ll give them to me.” He finalizes, nodding briefly against her as his lungs fight for air.

No more toying. He needed - wanted - only one thing and she had the power to give it over. His simmering gaze tilts once towards Wildling and then races back to hers, the unspoken enthusiasm to move somewhere more private as clear as if he’d spoken it aloud.

A few more minutes of this and Wildling be damned; he’d take her right here, right now - the rest could drift away.

LONGCLAW

-I close my eyes, ignore the smoke-

The command of Den and Nap is all the confirmation he needs.

Longclaw! She calls, the rasp of a word flying from golden lips in impassioned heat and, for a brief moment, he turns animalistic with desire for her. The rough cut of his dark chest pushes against her forcefully, he wants her alone and he wants her now. His teeth rake possessively where they can; he’s practically stumbling over her but it’s all the brute can manage - thoughts of her braced against the rough trunk of a tree, taking the brunt of his sex; they all suddenly jump to the forefront of his thoughts and he snaps cold teeth together with a hiss of indignant agitation at their pace.

“Patience, calm and collected now …” He reminds himself, blinking softly with each labored, guttural snarl that echoes against the treetops shrouding them. Hazy daylight filters through the woven canopy, settling over Femur’s seraphic body and she seems illuminated by the glow of new motherhood. A woman grown, teats full and straining in their effort to give life to those forgotten children she gathered. Had she ever been more beautiful, more tempting? “Stand. Wait.” The warg growls, once he’s pleased with their situation.

He steps away.

Their first time had been paltry and almost sweet compared to the ideas he’d thought up afterwards. That wasn’t to say it hadn’t been incredible (There are heights only she can take him to) but it had sparked something deeper, something more dangerous and wanton than anything he’s considered before and he’s had months worth of mulling it over to set him up for this very moment.

The shifter has plans for her, “So many plans,” but he’d like to begin with a general inspection.

For now he’s situated parallel to her, their shoulders cleaved from another but still uniform. Longclaw is faced in the direction she’s looking, his shimmering blue head tilted aside so that his eyes can rush over Femur in waves of appreciation. This is as much for her as it is for him - he wants her more than once, today (as many times as she’ll have him) - but for his own sake he won’t rush it. No … Femur needs to know, needs to hear it. “The moment I laid eyes on you I knew I couldn’t live a life without you in it.” He murmurs, the slow jerk of his forelegs sparking flashes of light over his iridescent coat as he glides forward to begin circling her.

“If you weren’t going to be mine, I wouldn’t have allowed you to take another breath.” He laughs throatily, but she knows this already. From the simple lines of her neck to the undulating curves of her breast, Longclaw loses himself entirely to his feelings and to the flame. Its hunger consumes him fully, alighting beneath his feet as he continues to pace longingly around her. He’ll burn crescents into the soil of the earth, even go as far as having the flames lick up his legs before he comes to a pleasant halt at her rump.

“Now I can’t breathe without you.” He whispers, the admission brushing against her unmarred skin in the form of a sweltering breath.

His flame falls quiet; snuffs out clean. Claw longs to touch her and so he does, pulling the arch of his mouth open wide to expose the thick curve of his matching fangs. Down they come, swiftly and without warning. They’ll take to her flesh and probably snag, (he wants to see inside of her, wants to mingle their blood) but there’s always the case of them simply falling short - coming down without much force behind the action because, in the same span of a second that he chooses to claim her, his forelegs spread apart and he swings the rolling muscles of his hindquarters sideways so that he can trap her from behind.

No escaping now, though he doubts she even wants to.

His mouth clamps together, a shuddering heave of lust tormenting him as the sapphire creature rubs the planes of his glimmering face over and against the dips and rises of her croup. “Femur,” He moans through a thick haze, shoving the flat of his muscular chest flush against her gold-dipped ass, crushing the luxurious, silky gauze of her full tail between them. “Spread yourself for me.”

Any movement of hers beneath the curve of his possessive neck sends him reeling, rising, and the demon lifts himself to curl just-so over her hind. He hopes she can feel the tight coil of his stomach, how he thrusts himself with promise against her but withholds from taking that final step. Longclaw clamores to be inside of her, to take what has always been his but finesse and debauchary are his signature moves: she’ll thank him in the end. “Tell me what you desire most.” He teases, hungry and slavering for her response.

The phantom quiver of his engorged cock strokes the soft part of her thighs; it leaves trails of fire in its wake.