Cricket Creek Bog comme un boomerang

If he's the moon—pale, colorless—she is the sun. She draws his attention from the moment her vibrant pelage emerges in the muck—how could she not? He finds his breath after a moment and sucks it in, then smiles, feeling his low jaw sag slightly. Saliva pools in his mouth;

control yourself, animal!

At least for now, while all is still well and calm.

Donatien cuts short his thoughts of rat snacks and saunters toward her, bony hips swinging to-and-fro. Bienvenue, mademoiselle, to my swamp. How do you find it here? he asks, voice low and vibrating with a hint of laughter. 

His violet eyes, meanwhile, unapologetically find the lines of her, the curves, the edges. The scars and plush fur and everything in between. She is unspeakably luscious, a much better treat than the rodent ever could have been. A sight for sore eyes.