Silver Moraine I only deal in absolutes

Ishara. Phoenix swallowed thickly and steadied himself as the curvesome dark lady pressed her body to his. He could feel how athletic she was beneath her fur, and it was instinct that charged him with the task of impressing her. He didn't know it yet, but Ishara was the kind of she-wolf that males should compete for: solid, capable, and spirited. Slim, delicate features were all aesthetics to him; not his type. This one was his kind of beautiful—without a dainty angle to speak of—and he was naturally, instantly, irrevocably attracted.

Like a wall at her side, the red-earred boy tried to make sense of the electricity coursing through him that made his legs feel a little stiffer as he walked. What was this? His breaths came out thoughtfully—evened out to a tempo so slow and steady it couldn't be natural. Phoenix could be as brave and honest as the best of them, but he didn't know what this was, what he was experiencing, so he chose instead to ignore it entirely. "Tell me something about yourself," he said after noticing one or two of her winces—"or you can ask me stuff, y'know, instead."—trying to fill the silence; trying to take her mind off the pain.