Blackfoot Forest i'll be just fine pretending i'm not

tag for reference only

stupid — snap. fucking — snap. bitch. snap. he tastes blood, and for a moment he's satisfied. the boy steps back to survey his work, exhaling softly through his nose as his gaze passes over scattered fragments of fallen branches, broken into the smallest pieces possible in his fit of rage. looking at it only reminds him of why he did it. he cringes a little, skin crawling as he recalls the way @Heavenly had pressed up to his side without a single word of warning, and white-hot anger bubbles in his chest again. his tail flicks, and he goes still for a beat. then — snap.
snap.
snap.

Coming back here is… stupid. He ran away again; tucked tail, bolted, and decided to Ignore everything he ought to have faced. Yet, here he is. Maybe to face things, maybe to dance around the edge of it, again.

Snap! Alas, the blond doesn’t expect the rude interrupting when he’s trying to doze off. Light rain falls in the forest, and he’d taken cover in a small shelter hours ago. It barely fits the leggy boy.

Snap! Grumpy and groggy from lack of sleep, Jean-Pierre finally gives up. He gets out of the little shelter, and it doesn’t take him long to see Mr. Hothead snapping branches. Not a murder scene. Disappointing.

“Mhmm… you show them branches who’s boss,” he comments, jaws parting midway through with a yawn. Red eyes glaring at the offending bush killer and his victims.

the rude interruption startles him, and he flinches as he drops his latest victim. a short, breathy growl slips from him as he glances up with ears folded. you gettin' off on it or somethin'? his attempt at sounding casual fails, and the words come out a bit more hostile than he'd intended. he opens his mouth again, an apology sitting on the tip of his tongue — but it seems to stick there, so he only closes his mouth and glares back at the red-eyed male.

Wow, feisty, too.

Jean-Pierre doesn’t have much of a backbone, but when he’s been trying to sleep for hours, he’s rightfully a little stupid. Head lifts, and he dares to puff his chest out a bit; ‘Bring it.’

Of course, bush killer ends up taking him by surprise. Mr. Hothead—emphasis on hot, I guess—snaps back in away Jean-Pierre doesn’t quite expect. His eyebrows lift momentarily, before they ease down and a smirk curves across his lips.

“Takes more than that to get me off,” the small blond bites back, and continues to glare.

he'd expected more fire from the pale wolf, considering his glare and posturing, so the response catches him off-guard — but only for the barest fraction of a second. i can find a bigger stick, he offers without missing a beat, expression flat. his tail flicks once, but otherwise he remains completely motionless, eyes fixed on the man's face.

“Amazing,” Jean-Pierre deadpans, rolling his eyes. His smirk leaves him almost as quickly as it appeared. Irritation flares because Jean-Pierre really needs his beauty sleep. “Don’t you have… anything better to do than mess around with ‘sticks’?” Like, I dunno, pose emo-ly in the rain or sweep some chick off her feet. Something Jean-Pierre would do.

he shrugs, unaffected by the other's apparent bad mood, and offers a grin. well, you're here, he says, taking a single step away from the mess he'd made and taking a seat. he doesn't expect this particular stranger to be amused by his antics, but he's been surprised before. either way, valentine is enjoying himself.

Oh, what's this? Taking Jean-Pierre's poor advice into consideration? He is no chick, but it's quite easy to sweep him off his feet if you're so inclined.

Alas, the beige prince likes to play hard to get, especially since his nap was so rudely interrupted. And yet, you aren't 'doing' me. Jean-Pierre narrows his eyes. Tail curled naturally over his hips. His gaze shifts to stare at the cracked branches on the ground. Poor taste in sticks.

the response isn't quite what he expected — but he certainly isn't about to complain. is that an invitation? he asks, rising and daring a step toward the pale stranger. he resists the urge to respond to the sticks comment, though, knowing his own ridiculousness could very well kill his chances — and he really needs to blow off some steam right now.

His flopped ear twitches; paws itching to meet Mr. Hothead halfway, and yet Jean-Pierre remains ever still. Posed, a model to paint in the perfect lighting.

Is it? He teases back with an arched brow. Alas, he is interested, so he takes a single step forward to show that, yes, maybe it is.

after a moment of indecision, val decides to stop being a dweeb and get some dick.

gay interlude

he runs his nose through the other's fur when they part, combing his teeth through pale fur with an air of satisfaction about him. what's your name? he murmurs as he pulls away slightly to look the man over, a contented smirk tugging at his lips.

Satisfaction leaves the beige prince in a daze. Moments linger until he shifts, though he, too, does not stray far. The combing touch of teeth in silken fur and the afterglow enough to lull Jean-Pierre into a peaceful bliss. Much different from sleep deprived Jean-Pierre.

Jean-Pierre. His French accent ever noticeable on the pronunciation. The beige prince tucks close, resting his chin over his lover's scruff. And you, mon cher?