Phoenix Maplewood bad moon rising

he was a blight, an ugly scar that tore through the otherwise beautiful forest. bloodied moonlight filtered through layers of tangled canopy and cut the birches at a queer, diagonal angle; cast shadows elongated in tandem with his long, sweeping stride.

above him, an eclipse in full. already it had passed for an hour, perhaps more; it loomed overhead in the same foreshadowing, haunting way that he did as his bleached sides shifted like the light through the birch. his vibrant yellow eyes — not gold, not copper, but a venomous and deliberate yellow — were alert as one tattered ear flicked behind him.

the coarse, wiry hair between his shoulders stood on end as he pointed his muzzle now in the same direction. he could have sworn he had heard something.

She left the party back at Bracken Sanctuary, wandering down the taiga with no great purpose in mind. The blood moon disturbed her in ways she couldn't quite explain, and her paws itched; if she didn't run now, she'd forever be frozen in place. The crimson light set smouldering fire to her dark pelt, and lent even more brightness to her eyes, two vibrant orbs in the darkness.

Even the river that had nearly taken her life gave her less fear than the omen in the sky, and she found a shallow place to ford it, padding into the maplewood. The trees were lush and vibrant, and gave her some cover--scant as it was--from the disturbing moonlight. Lily weaved through the brush, gaze flickering nervously back and forth. There was not much to see, save for trees, trees, and more--

Wait. She was not alone.

A dark figure stood, gazing ahead. At first, she thought it was Freddie, and lurched forward in excitement, heart caught in her throat. Then the light caught his pale sides, and she stopped abruptly, disappointment squishing her like a bug underfoot. Tentatively, she gave a chuff, half-hidden in the shadows, with nothing but her eyes and the greeting she offered to give her away.

He is not a believer in fate, and he does not believe that everything happens for a reason, but he cannot help but be intrigued by the woman that emerges from the bloodbaked shadows like an insidious fable.  Her pelt is black as blood.  He meets her gilded gaze as she seems to eagerly come to him, and he holds it as she falters back.

Woman, he says with a voice like shards of moonlight, deep and alluring and dangerous, come closer.  His words are not demanding, but they are direct and he blinks, runs his tongue over the tooth that hangs a little too long as he waits as patiently as he can muster.

He looked at her, bright yellow gaze turning her blood to sudden ice (or was it fire?). She shivered as he spoke, and one paw moved, then another, without her volition, responding to his command. Her brain took control once more, however, after a moment, and she shook her head an infinitesimal degree, running her tongue along her jowls, a sudden pink against ebony.

"Lily," she murmured, just loudly enough to be heard over the hum of summer insects. Her stomach clenched, like it had with Dirge, with Vilkas, and she glanced down, suddenly abashed. "My name is Lily. Not. . .not 'woman.'"

But was she not a woman? It was her birthright. She took this opportunity to look over his face, focusing on the imperfections there. The shredded ear, the snaggle-tooth. It was not like Vilkas's visage, so broadly handsome, despite the scars. No, this man looked like a twisted creature of the night, something dragged from the depths of the earth.

He scared her. Why wasn't she running away?

Perhaps she does not run because he does not intend to hurt her.  He has emerged to her like a shifting demon from the pits of the earth, cloaked in shadow and bargain in hand.  She seems ashamed of her sex and his expression shifts in a way that is subtle and indecipherable, yet different from the apparent intrigue he wore before.

Lily.  He runs over each syllable of her name deliberately slow and watches as she shrinks back, her liquid gold eyes raking over his asymmetries.  I will not hurt you.  One of his long, rawboned legs sweeps forward as he lowers his head, taking a step towards her while feigning some kind of emasculate fragility.

"I don't. . .believe you."

The answer made sense. How else would you answer a promise like that, made by a man of shadows, an ink-stained wretch with eerie eyes? What could not be explained was the coy smile that tugged at the corners of her lips, nor the tone with which she spoke--daring, teasing. Nor, still, the steps she took toward him, sinuously weaving through the darkness. She held his gaze the whole way, 'til she stood just two tail-lengths away, her own banner bristled out in fear.

"Who. . .are you?" she asked, the first word drawn out like an owl; her speech was slow, but healing, the stutter all but gone. She thought of adding several more hooos on for good measure, and grinned silently at the thought, but remained quiet, waiting for his response. It would likely be a lie, she knew. Would the truth ever come from a man like that?

And while he does not believe in fate and fables he cannot escape the symbolism presented before him — lilies, the chaste flower of innocence, the bud of eroticism; a woman with the same name standing in front of him who is both toying with him yet ashamed of her sex!  

It is a shame that holding this power over her does not bring him sensual pleasure.  If he were a truly evil man he could easily take her now, but the thought does not cross his mind.  Instead he darts towards her with a quick snap of his jaws to tease the air at her hocks, and he comes too-close behind her, the length of his body against her fear bristled tail.  He chooses to ignore her inquiry.

Do you know how the lily got its pistil?

At his sudden lunge, her lips pulled upwards to bare her teeth, and she whipped her head around to glare at him, so close--too close--to her. Yet something in her allowed her to take a step back, pressing her hindquarters the slightest bit against his side. Her eyes blazed fire, her fangs suggested punishment, her body suggested conquest. Everything was at odds, now.

"Your. Name," Lily demanded, each syllable sharp, ignoring his question as he had ignored hers. A glint of humor entered her gaze. "Or I'll. . .give you one myself. Won't be pretty."

On the contrary, it might be beautiful, though hellishly so. Names of demons rolled through her brain, captivating her mind as he captivated her flesh. Still, she would prefer his own name, even if he made one up on the fly. His name would give her something to hold onto, a twisted talisman of sorts.

In this strange moment, Bracken Sanctuary was forgotten. Alarian was forgotten. Vilkas. . .forgotten, too.

The alabaster of her fangs was bright against the blueblood moonlight.  In this moment she was sharp, with wild eyes (like his) and wild fur (like his) and wild, wild wayward desires (like his).  He felt the roll of her hips against the bony curve of his ribcage, and in slow motion the wiry fur on his back rippled and rose.

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they toil not, neither do they spin: even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.  He touches the angle of her hip with the cold tip of his nose, and pulls away in the same instant.

I am called many things.  Sometimes ugly things.  A short gust of wind interrupts him, frigid and biting.  You may call me Barracuda.

A shiver ran through her as he touched her, raising every hair on her pelt. She swallowed, watching his every move, though her neck had began to ache, from its twisted position. His words made no sense to her, and neither did the name, a savage moniker that seemed to hold secrets in each syllable.

"Barracuda," Lily repeated slowly, her posh accent flipping the r, the last vowel trailing off and barely audible. There was beauty in it, perhaps, but not in him; he was all darkness, and not the lovely kind, that drew you in. A summer's night, or the depths of the sea. No, more like volcanic rock; Sleeping Dragon came suddenly to mind.

And those eyes! They cut through her like claws, ripping past her flesh to her core. Yet she was able to look straight into them, and not be damned. Her father had spun tales of basilisks, creatures that turned wolves to stone simply by staring. But she was not stone, but flesh and blood, the fire in her belly growing with every breath of his scent she took.

"Tell me more about the lilies," she whispered, taking another step into him. Her tail moved the slightest bit to one side, leaving her vulnerable to his whims.

She is fine-boned, delicate.  Her nose scarcely reaches the hollow of his throat.  He could break her.  He imagines that she is so small that his teeth would not have to find purchase as he — . . .  But he does not want her flesh, and more than that he knows in the rolling pit of his bile-black stomach that she does not want him.  Softness shines in those liquid yellow eyes as he pulls himself away from the temptation of her womanhood, hips thrusting once into the cool night air against his will.

When Venus rose bare from the froth and seafoam, she saw in the darkness a lily.  She grew envious of its pristine beauty, and saw it as a rival to her own.  She bent and touched it, and caused a monstrous pistil to spring from its snow-white center.

Finally, he breaks his gaze from hers and cast it at the ground.  You do not have a monstrous pistil.

She smirked as she saw the bucking of his hips, eyes wandering to his abdomen, then lower, the swelling there. His words caressed her ears like fine silk, and she drifted away on each sentence, few in number as they were. His last remark took her aback, and she blinked at him for a long moment, having returned her gaze to his face.

"Flatterer," Lily said finally, a chuckle in her throat. He was looking at the ground, not her, and this displeased her; she turned to pad toward him once more, an inexorable force of nature headed his way.

Not caring, honestly, whether he snapped at her or not, she ran her muzzle over his chest and shoulder, enjoying the way his pelt tickled her lips. Her tongue left her mouth to draw a long trail over his ribs, savoring the feel of each springy arch. . .thunk, thunk, thunk, against the sensitive tip of her tongue.

Nothing could have explained to Lily what came over her. The blood moon, perhaps, or something more. Something in the way he was, in the way he looked at her. She wanted to taste him, and she wanted him to taste her, too. She wanted--she lusted.

She is not the Lily that is chaste and pure, but she is the Lily of lustful ardor.  Perhaps she has misread his cryptic tales as something akin to desire (which is why he does not care for tales); he offers her a snap of his teeth as she is brazen enough to reach out and touch him, that she may trace the thin scars beneath his thin fur.  There is no love there in the curl of his lip, the sharpness of his too-yellow eyes.

He knows he is ugly.  He knows he is inkdark and undesirable.  He would taste her, but not in the way she wanted.  She makes it to the hollow between the end of his ribcage and the notch of his thigh before he grabs her muzzle — not gently but not rough enough to draw blood — and makes to push her away.

Everything is still.  The wind seemed to stop its rustle, the birds no longer crowed.  And he asks, Why do you want from me? with something akin to hurt in his voice.

She mistook the snap of teeth as something playful, but his jaws closing around her muzzle, pushing her away, left no doubt. Hurt shining clear in her eyes, Lily took one, two, steps back, brow furrowing as he spoke. Why do you want from me? His voice was pained; she was not the only one feeling that emotion, here.

"I. . .I don't know," she stammered, shrugging as she blinked apologetically at the man. "I mean. . .I want you. I saw you and you spoke and. . ."

It sounded stupid. She sounded stupid. Shifting her paws awkwardly, Lily warded off hot tears pooling in the corners of her eyes, feeling unbearably foolish. "Sorry," she muttered, wishing very much she could turn and run without looking like the world's biggest idiot.

And yet, she did not want to leave him. She was a fly, caught in his web. A fly that wanted to crawl straight inside the spider's mouth, enjoying every second of being devoured. Her breath hitched in her throat, and she kept her gaze on the ground, unable to look at him.

The tears are not something he can comprehend.  He had not intended to hurt her; at least, not like that.  His spine arched and coiled as his stance widened, predatory, before he drew close to the corner of her eye.  He licked at the saltsoaked tears that threatened there as he hooked a thin forepaw around her to pull her to his chest.

His hips threatened to buck again against her thigh but he kept himself in check as his muzzle found its way to the crook of her ear where he allowed himself to breathe out, softer than a creature as black and sharp as he should be able to.

I will give you what you want, he offers finally, if you let me hold you after.

To her utter surprise, he drew close once more, cleaning the tears from her face. She blinked, stupefied, but was entranced by his touch, giving no resistance as he pulled her toward him. Indeed, she let out a shuddering breath, her heart racing as he spoke into her ear, ruffling the delicate airs that lined the black shell.

"Yes," she answered, her voice barely a whisper. "Yes. . .of course." She was scared to touch him again, not knowing how he would react, though she so badly wanted to. He was warm for one so scrawny, and his weight against her was an odd comfort. This was different than anything she had ever experienced, a maiden voyage into macabre sensuality.

he's so gross i'm sorry

He lingers near the paper-moon cusp of her ear.  Although he is a rangy and gnarled husk of a man, there is some kind of creeping strength in him still and it bears itself here as without hesitation he forces his way inside her to find her already slick.  He is not unkind but neither is he gentle, and the act of their unholy copulation is accentuated with low, undulating whines and feral snaps of his teeth.  

It lasts as long (or as short) as his nightly companion desires, and once he fills her he does not dismount.  Tenderly, he grooms the top of her crown, strokes the sides of her ribs with his paws.

She wasn't supposed to want this. She had found everything she was looking for in Vilkas; she loved the mercenary, or so she had thought. Now, locked in the spider's embrace, Lily wasn't sure. The dark man had cast everything into sudden doubt, her desires and dreams shattered to pieces in the light of the crimson moon.

Everything had changed.

She pushed back against him, letting herself cry out. Took him blow by blow, claws gritted into the earth, eyes closed, lips parted. She was a woman transformed, no longer Lily but more, less. . .different. This was simply different. Her tryst with Dirge had been desire fulfilled, and with Vilkas, it was an expression of trust.

Here, in the night, with Barracuda? She knew not what their coupling meant. Only that, at least in this moment, it felt right.

He is predictable. He has a type and she fits it quite well — small, young, likely virgins.  Vocal.  His elbows sit comfortably at the crook of her waist and it is there he feels like he could break her beneath him.  His tongue works over her body after they have both been spent.  He touches the crook of her jaw, lingers in the cotton-candy strands of fur at the back of her ears.

As his swelling decreases and he exits her finally, he maintains his firm grip on her and gently he lowers them both to the ground, where he continues to encompass her with his spiderlike legs and touch his nose to her that he might take in her scent.

She should have felt lower than the dirt she rested on, but she did not. There was no shame, no sense of losing a grip on everything she had gained. Instead, Lily was dizzily adrift in his embrace, anchored yet flying, the pulsing within her slowing gradually until all that was left were tiny ripples, creeping across her skin. She shivered, and cuddled closer, tucking her head under his chin.

"That was nice," she remarked quietly, a murmur in the night. Her eyes strayed to the moon, orbs made even more fiery by the blood-tint above. Was that why the guilt was absent? Was the red moon ruler of all that was depraved--and under its reign, anything went?

Lily sighed, eyes fluttering closed once more. "Barracuda," she whispered, breath hot in the warm evening air. "Where. . .do you live?" So that she may find him again, god willing. Dirge she had not seen since their coupling, and Vilkas. . . She pays her sort-of mate no mind, now. All she cares about is the ability to find the man of shadows again.