Blackfeather Woods [m] Gonna raise some sand in the dead o' night

“Hold still.”

He Lunges.

To take up her collar in his mouth. A crest adorned with his bite. Velvety fur and malleable skin taut under his strike. Her body reacting beneath the force of his sway, splintering vulnerable flesh. He wraps himself over her, leg to leg, arch of spine beneath fervently pulsating chest. Cradling. Venerating. Fragmenting.