Totoka River made flesh [m]

the libido rising off this mongrel was palpable and it sent a chill down bartok's spine. you know, the nauseous chill that preluded projectile vomit and stuck to your skin and fretted every hair on the nape of your neck. he poofed his feathers and trembled his skull squeamishly – the casketblack fowl would never understand puppy love, nor the games it involved, and as such he was unlikely to ever make for an efficient wingman.

the labor of romance in the birdiverse (a world in which this wolf would be an affectionately designated "whistle punk") called almost entirely for lumberjack inspired chores – collecting sticks, cool ass twigs, handsome trinkets, the like, to impress the old ball and chain. pacing back and forth upon her doorstep didn't seem like a proportionate output of effort for lovins, to him.

"expppperience twice, soon now, soon, soon," he jawed vaguely, popping off the ground with a gritty cackle.

bartok landed on a log a short distance from fabio, and began to comb through his breast feathers. the bird paused in his preening momentarily, looked up and squinted with a hmmmm, then noted: "forecast look ok so far," unsure himself if the walking switchblade would make an appearance.