[size=x-small]AW, especially doggies, and i would love
@bartok if u are available.
marked M for thinly veiled allusions to anatomy and secks.
[/size]
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he had been warned away from the sound, but taltos was a persistent lot, for lovely scents flowed thickly upon the wind of his home, and drove him mad. blue willow was the first object of his desire, but childbirth had decommissioned her ability to engage in physical pleasures with him, and so he set his eyes to the elusive high priestess.
she knew what she did, the vixen; she had turned her back to him at the last meeting, and and the curved shape of her rump had been revealed, with the softly veiled mouth of her sex visible in his mind's eye, and he could well imagine the pinkly ruckled flowerbud tucked above. oh she knew these things, surely! and taltos both loved and resented her for capitalizing upon his weakness, and resented too the turgid leap of his traitorous body at the sight of her in such a vision, or the mental conceptualization of her rubicund nipples.
and so he paced along the beach, not so near as to risk her wrath, but near enough to scent the briny fragrance of her pack, and lasher sought the invisible trail of her personal aroma, hoping fervently she had come into season, and would therefore not dissuade him from his pursuit.
ohay ˏ₍•ɞ•₎ˎ
oily-winged opportunist, bartok, ever watchful of his henhouse, kept the wolf presently fluxing back and forth down the strand with distinctly
male frustration, well moored within his sights. if not for the fact that the matron rarely allowed for exceptions of company kept by the male persuasion, then for the fact that this brun stranger was releasing a spastic energy that left the bird wired with feelings of stress and unease.
snapping his bill, the carrion delivered a gravally, signaling call unto the wolf, warning him first without the need for words of the somber occasion erelong to follow his constancy. his large, black form thumped to the sands, several stride-lengths away from the beta whose back currently turned to him.
"self-preservation not strong suit," there was a smirk writ into his dialect – a seriousness dressed to the nines. gravely once more he said, voice creaking like an old rocking chair:
"dog ever see tree rip from ground in hurricane?"
(still he could not disdain the male for his efforts – it was a hard season to be possessed of testes. it was just the difference made between dangling them above pile of feathers, and dangling them above a sprung-ready bear trap. and when you're in bear country, the statistics aren't
great.)
haii
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taltos was to be given no reprieve, he noticed; no sooner had he turned his back upon the surf than a mad-hatter's cackle assaulted his ears. laying a desultory look upon the large jet avian who wheeled not far from him, the man brought his ears forward to express the mite of interest sparked within him.
once,
he rasped in a voice made hoarse by unfulfilled desire. arousal thrummed through him; the scent of heady wine was in his nostrils, and the beta suddenly found annoyance beading itself in straight lines upon furrows in his brow. what was this thing, this bird, that spoke thus to him? lasher's intrigue waned, and he lifted his muzzle to taste the air for caiaphas' allure.
the libido rising off this mongrel was palpable and it sent a chill down bartok's spine. you know, the nauseous chill that preluded projectile vomit and stuck to your skin and fretted every hair on the nape of your neck. he poofed his feathers and trembled his skull squeamishly – the casketblack fowl would never understand puppy love, nor the games it involved, and as such he was unlikely to ever make for an efficient wingman.
the labor of romance in the birdiverse (a world in which this wolf would be an affectionately designated "whistle punk") called almost entirely for lumberjack inspired chores – collecting sticks, cool ass twigs, handsome trinkets, the like, to impress the old ball and chain. pacing back and forth upon her doorstep didn't seem like a proportionate output of effort for lovins, to him.
"expppperience twice, soon now, soon, soon," he jawed vaguely, popping off the ground with a gritty cackle.
bartok landed on a log a short distance from fabio, and began to comb through his breast feathers. the bird paused in his preening momentarily, looked up and squinted with a hmmmm, then noted: "forecast look ok so far," unsure himself if the walking switchblade would make an appearance.
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the pennate climatologist was given a glance gravid with a rare annoyance; lasher no longer wished to be harried by the gravelly voice of the odd corvid, and nares flared with appropriate ire. go and seek out the storm, then, if you have such an interest in it,
the beast scowled with verve stamped upon his voice.
falling silent, he himself took to pacing the strand with a great deal more desperation; he envisioned the salacious body of the wench in his desire. as capacious with dislike as the priestess had been, the season was equal in its maddening affect, and taltos lustfully hoped she had succumbed to its lash the same as any other lupine.
head oblique and with a speculative glint in his gaze, bartok minded the wolf before him with self-preservation directing his conduct. he had enough victims (and thus, victories) under his belt to know indignation when he spied it – here, there was blatant irritation dwelling. nothing unexpected; #diebird was totally a trending tag on this bird's twitter.
he could only presume that he knew what creature this muss-furred brute sought to abide him. this was the threshold to her domicile and the raven had witnessed her spurn countless others like him; spurn their claims over her; spurn their quenchless thirst and provide further aridity in their lecherous throats. no milder climate would befall him – what set this interloper apart from the other profligates crowding the siren queen's seaweed garnished tower?
quoth the raven furthermore, his possessiveness over the soot-crowned coywolf would not allow lasher easy access. to have positive attention stolen from him? they would pry it from his scaly, cold, dead, rigor mortis-set talons.
"more interest from you than me, dog," his voice creaked with deliberate modulation, the wolf's aggravation striking the flint of cruel humor ignited upon his expression. "but if he insists–" bartok took to a nearby treelimb, prepared to relieve him if this wolf was so resolved to his deathless venereal frustrations that he would send away his only connection to the female. "bartok will re-direct storm path, away from dog, away she goes, faar faaaar away." he taunted.
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damn it all! lasher lifted his muzzle as if to croon his desires into the infernal wind, with wonderment at the possibility of it carrying o'ertop the briny squall into the unwilling ears of the mottled enchantress. perhaps with her throng of misandrist amazons would she answer his call, with an order that the miserable throbbing worm beneath his belly be stretched and quartered without delay.
he felt he would love her despite this masochism; taltos was a disconsolate sadist where the pythoness was concerned. but he did not beckon to her through the crash of the waves; the sound trembled in his throat, its notes barren and plinking silver into a long whine the alar hunchback could hear with cocked head.
prudently lasher heeded the squawked monotone and for the first time since their ill meet the black avian commanded the focus of his fruitless intentions. he realized that the stormcloud to which the bird referred in his ugly croakings was not a harbinger of lightning and thunder, but the woman herself.
yet he was suddenly ruffled, uncomposed, unwilling to debase himself before something easily slaughtered with the click of his niveous knives. but the servant knew that if this troll were beneath the bridge to his fair maiden, he would do well to heap praise upon the orcish little head with its knowing and beady eyes.
i would not send you away. you know what it is i wish.
the beta sighed into the salted air, scarcely recognizing himself. name your price.
