Phoenix Maplewood bad moon rising

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.