#moonscreams

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love is supposed to burn, ivypool thinks. she's heard the tales spun by storytellers; the hushed confessions at gatherings; even the murmurings around camp. love is something small and sacred but also hot and fierce, and it eats at you. it singes the hairs on your pelt and licks at your whiskers and makes its home inside you. it is supposed to hurt. the hurt is what makes it romantic.

love is supposed to burn, so that means ivypool is doing it right. the sharp flare in her chest when fernsong creeps into the warrior's den to fall asleep at her side is a reassurance. it purrs in her ear that this is correct. that the feeling is good. ivypool stays awake for hours, her fur warm against his, her heart pounding like the small animals she kills, because she loves him. that knowledge makes her secure. it means that starting a life with him was worth it.

love is supposed to burn, but ivypool is starting to wonder if it should sting this badly. her ears and tail have caught fire. fernsong doesn't seem to share this problem. fernsong wants more kits. when he smiles it doesn't look like it strains every muscle in his face. he sounds wistful, or nostalgic. he says he misses coming by the nursery. ivypool's paws catch fire too.

fernsong wants more kits. ivypool can do that for him. it's the least she could do. and she doesn't hate being a mother. she doesn't. when she thinks about carrying life inside her again, it burns, and she is grateful for it.

ivypool is on fire. it doesn't spread to the greenery or the dens, so no cat seems to notice. sometimes when fernsong is sleeping, his head pressed up under her chin, ivypool grinds her face down so they're even closer. none of the sparks leaping from her pelt touch his, and she wants to scream.

ivypool's fangs are red-hot now, and send clouds of steam billowing from her mouth. it is night. she sets her teeth to the soft, warm fur on fernsong's neck and it soothes the ache. he is soft and sleeping. ivypool trembles from the heat inside her, and it means she loves him, and water rises to the corners of her eyes but dissolves into smoky trails soon after.

her fangs meet skin and it feels like plunging them into a lake. she closes her eyes and wonders if fernsong's insides are ice. she feels colder than she has in a long, long time.

he stirs. she lets him go. he settles. she licks her teeth and knows she has not drawn blood. she is feverish.