Fox's Glade [M] my end and my beginning

Mature Content Warning

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: violent and sexual themes

for @Luke ! i'm gonna keep vague where this fits into sheo's timeline since i'm not sure which thread will be the most impactful ^^;

Sheogorath's journey towards Phoenix Maplewood had carried him to the northwest of Blackfeather Woods and the dark brotherhood. He was scouting the area for traces of Kove's daughters, for he intended to bring as many of them home as he could — if not all of them. Sheogorath did not do it for the appreciation or for helping a pack mate; he did not really care much for Kove at all, much less his daughters. If anything, Sheogorath was both bored, unsatisfied, and longing to prove himself. Perhaps Cicero did not care much for making a name for himself and only followed his tease of a brother's tail around everywhere, but Sheogorath wanted more out of his life than that. This was a chance to prove his worth and build on his skills of manipulation and spying — things Cicero was good at but ultimately did too little with, for Sheogorath's liking.

This carried Sheogorath to a glade that reminded him of the time that he had killed those foxes for Damien. It felt so long ago, but perhaps that was because after that, he had been forced to sit on the back seat watching Cicero drive his relationship with his brother off a cliff. Now he was free, however, and under a well moonlit sky Sheogorath followed a narrow creek that traced through the glade, exploring the territory.

He did not know how long he ran, nor how far, nor in what direction he had fled his home. The absolute horror of what he had done, of what he was about to do, struck him so sick and sudden that he had ran on the power of it alone. Somewhere along his wild run the anger returned as a companion to his terror, and he hollered after the cat, called for it to come out of the shadows, to meet him again. But his raucous challenges went answered, and he was left wanting of breath. His ribs heaved, his tongue lolled, and he staggered onward. He did not know what he wished for more in that moment: the death of the cat, or the death of himself.

His paws did not find rest until he hit the creek in the glade, and collapsed on its bank. His muzzle reached out so that he could lap at the cold water that seeped around broken ice, unaware of the wolf that was coming toward him.

Fear lingered in the air, and it fed Sheogorath, made him feel more whole — more himself, and less Cicero. It made him long and lust for things that were beyond his grasp, for it seemed unlikely that Damien would ever give him what he lusted for (even though Sheogorath was painfully aware of Cicero's belief that it did not matter, of Cicero's foolish mannerisms that would cause him to follow Damien for the rest of his life, even if it meant his lusts would never be fulfilled). Perhaps if Sheogorath did not have a mission that he wished to complete, he would have made a point of seeking out Damien and forcing him into some sort of action, even if it was violent.

With dark thoughts clouding his mind, an eerie grin on his face, Sheogorath stumbled into a wolf lapping at the creek's water while he laid down. Sheogorath could not help but wonder if this was the wolf that caused him to feel as tense as he did — the wolf with the fear, with the feelings. The moon partially lit up Sheogorath's face and grin as he approached. "What are you doing out here, all alone?" he said with a playful tune to his voice, and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

He had slaked his thirst long before he ceased his absent lapping; in fact his tongue did not stop flicking at the cold water until another wolf spoke to him. Luke snapped his head around to look at the male and he bristled. He bared his fangs as he rose to his paws and squared his shoulders toward this stranger... except, it was not a stranger. He recognized this wolf, but his recollection was dim. He could not put a name to the unique coat, nor could he place the pack-scent that drifted off it.

Familiar or not, nothing about the other wolf's presence, the tone of his words, or his moonlit smile, comforted the upset beta. He growled his unease and clicked his teeth, promising blood if the other drew too near.

"None of your business," he hissed.

Was there any space, Sheogorath would surely have circled the stranger in the anticipation of what drew nearer. What sort of encounter it would be, Sheogorath did not know, but he knew that it would be full of energy nevertheless. Tail whipped tensely a single time as the stranger spoke, and as the outlines of his nose were lit by the moonlight, Sheogorath noted a familiar hint of blue. "Don't worry," Sheogorath said in a lowered, secretive voice as he continued to draw nearer, "I won't hurt you..." What was his name? Cicero had met this wolf before — Sheogorath knew that the name was somewhere out there, on the tip of his tongue.

In lack of name, the sentence's suspension was instead finished with a more mysterious set of words. "Don't you remember me? We met before under similar circumstances." Sheogorath smiled and he halted then, not far from the stranger that Cicero had met only once prior to tonight, but far enough so that the stranger would have to reach out and lunge at him if he intended to use those bared teeth of his.

The white wolf's growl rose in pitch as the demi-stranger promised not to hurt him, reinforcing his own oath to inflict harm if he felt it was needed. The male did dare closer, and the wolf did feign a snap toward him, but at last those gray-toed paws stopped. Close, almost too close, but not across the imaginary threshold that would provoke him. Luke stiffly held his ground with a lash of his tail, his growl ebbing but ever-present.

"What do you want?"

He was poor company, and made it clear that even if he did remember this wolf he was not keen to engage with him this night.

The low growl continued, but it elicited no more than a playful grin from Sheogorath. He stared at the wolf and his toothy grin broadened as the blue-nosed wolf asked him what he wanted. There was only one answer to his question. His tone was even and calm as he answered, the playfulness in his expression and eyes echoed in no way in the way that he spoke, to show that he meant it.

"Relief."

Sheogorath's mismatched eyes searched for the blue-nosed's wolf. There were reasons why he was so on edge, and Sheogorath could not help but wonder if they were searching for similar things, in the end, even if they both approached the subject in completely different manners. Sheogorath was keen to take what he wanted, one way or another; but the only thing that kept him from engaging in the relief he sought so badly — whether it was a cure to his lust or a physical fight — was the fact that he knew the blue-nosed wolf would likely win, perhaps to the death, if it came to a fight.

Relief.

He had sought relief, and was still seeking it. Relief from his loss of control. Relief from the assault on his body, his mind, his spirit. He had sought relief from rejection, and from his own mistakes. Now, out here, he sought relief from the consequences of seeking relief at all. He had found none, no where, each step he took had lead him further into darkness and caused his heart to tear further. It caused his anger to seat more permanently within him, not as an occasional sentiment, but as the dominant one, as it had been meant to be from the beginning. He thought he had conquered his temper in his stint as a lone wolf, but no, he had only quieted it for a short while.

His growl ceased as he stared long and hard at this strange, strange wolf. His thoughts were perverted, dangerous. He saw not a wolf at all but a medium, a thing, a means to an end. He saw his own relief waiting to be taken. His anger, unchained as it was now, roared to life within his breast and rampaged against his ribs, demanding release. He snarled loudly, and his nails tore deep gouges into the ice as he lunged suddenly for Cicero.  

He sought to seize the boy's muzzle, and his teeth did not seek to do so gently. Wicked, unfettered force was behind them.

There was a pleasure to seeing one single word create such a large reaction in another wolf. The blue nosed wolf calmed down, if only for a moment, but his eyes betrayed the madness that lady beyond. Sheogorath smirked, amused, for a short moment before the blue nosed wolf's attack. The only thing that Sheogorath did not know was what form of relief it was that the blue nosed wolf sought; but at the same time, Sheogorath savoured not knowing.

A swirl of excitement and adrenaline rushed through Sheogorath's body as his muzzle was forcefully grabbed. Laughter erupted from the wicked jester's mouth as pain strung hard at his muzzle. To feel was to be alive, and pain was not only Cicero's favourite emotion, but Sheogorath's as well.

The thirst for blood and emotion was stilled for the moment, but the night was yet young. Sheogorath managed to keep his balance even as the blue nosed wolf's teeth drew blood from his muzzle, and tried to wrap his nearest leg round the wolf's neck, in hopes (though were it the other way around, Sheogorath would hardly complain) of being the one to end up on top at the end of the night.

His tongue tasted blood but his mind tasted power. This and the maniacal laugh that hit his ears made him all the wilder, and he was immediately thrust into a rage-fueled frenzy that would not be broken as it had when he stood over his black companion in the hollow.

His teeth ground across the wolf's muzzle before his fangs snapped at a delicate ear and fleshy cheek, anything within reach as an inky foreleg grappled at his neck; and all the while his furious snarl thundered. Control was to be his, and reached for it by reaching with his leg to mirror the move the other made. He would not go down, determined that he was that he would gain purchase on the other wolf and take him down first.

The feeling of the blue nosed wolf's growing desire and anger was empowering to Sheogorath; somewhere deep down beat the heart of Cicero, who longed for the physical touch, for to feel again, but whose feelings extended to a fear and caution that Sheogorath could not comprehend. Sheogorath's lips curled from his teeth to display his own set of sharp tools, but unfortunately his move did not find purchase and therefore, neither did his teeth.

The blue nosed wolf was taller than he, and so Sheogorath's leg was suppressed, his own tactic used against him. He thrashed, but under the blue nosed wolf's grasp Sheogorath's teeth found little purchase; though he continued to try and grab what he could with his teeth. The pain made him feel alive, but more than the pain Sheogorath savoured the danger and the feeling of not knowing what would be next. He hoped it'd be good.

No idea what I am doing. lulz. If this is not okay shoot me a PM! ;)

He had been born with a temper, but never had he learned to fight the way other wolves had, and he had proven that when he had failed to protect himself against the cat. Even now, he fought blindly, letting a savage instinct and furious desire guide him toward the end he sought. It was luck that the other wolf was smaller, that he stood taller and that this was advantageous to his malintent.

He scarcely noticed the reaching grasp of Cicero, teeth against his flesh. He was too drunk on his own power, however fleeting it may be. His leg around the other wolf's neck now he shifted to be less square on and more abreast. His slavering jaws made to bury his fangs into the wolf's scruff as his foreleg moved downward, positioning him to shift quickly and attempt to seize Cicero about the hips.

all fine! i mature'd this thread for us considering the direction it's taking :o

The anticipation of what was to come was what drove Sheogorath. Most would consider his present situation one of helplessness and would find it a frightening experience (much like Cicero himself would've, had he been in the driver's seat). Sheogorath, however, considered himself the ultimate puppet master and this show one of his own making. Without his instigations, this moment would not have come to be, the wolf in front of him unaware of his own desires and needs. As the blue nosed wolf's teeth latched around his scruff and foreleg hinging over his back, Sheogorath knew that it would be worth the ride.

The struggles weren't even sincere anymore, even though he continued to work against the blue nosed wolf's every move, if not only because he liked it rough and savoured the pain. While riding along on the back seat and watching Cicero chase after Damien's tail, a longing had built up inside of Sheogorath. It looked like the culmination of his lust was finally there, if he interpreted the signals right.

Sheogorath continued to struggle, teeth snapping left and right but, considering the blue nosed wolf's position, grasping little more than air.

ahaha yeah, Luke is a little rapey these days... lol... weird crude post inc!

Not knowing that the other wolf wanted this, despite the cues to suggest it to him, Luke simply thought himself in control and strong, the other wolf too weak to shake him. He was wrong, but it did not matter. He was going to take from this wolf what he wanted. In a single merciless thrust, he buried himself within Cicero, snarling as he hauled on the other wolf's scruff, driving his hips forward roughly as sought as much depth as were physically possible.

His jaws unlatched from the boy's scruff only so that his fangs could bite at Cicero's shoulders and ears as he chased relief at a ruthless, tearing pace. He only needed a minute; and dismounted to break into the snow with a groan, less he be ensnared. Barely a breath later, he swaggered down the creek, his tail thrust into the air as his engorged weapon swung between his legs. He was done, but it took sometime before his rage ebbed into an eerie calm and his dripping vengeance hid itself away.

that Luke :o This post is kind of messed up too, huehue >:)

Sheogorath's bi-toned eyes widened as it did not take long for him to receive what he was waiting for. He groaned with intense pleasure, a feral growl rolling from his throat as he was penetrated, however shortly. "Is that - all you - got?" he growled through gritted teeth in an attempt to provoke further, jaw clenched with a pleasure he could not hide. He had finally found what he was looking for -- relief -- though it was obvious from the intensity and speed that it would soon end.

But not before Sheogorath grew dizzy. He knew what was happening, knew that he fought a losing battle against Cicero, fervently shook his head while the blue nosed wolf continued to thrust, now nearly at culmination. But he stood no chance against his body's host. Especially now that his primal desires had been sated.

"Damien," Cicero purred with a note of confusion in his voice when he came back to consciousness, the conversation with Burke last on his memory. But the feelings were good, they were real, and his lover could only be one wolf. The wolf he loved more than life itself. The roughness was reminiscent of his brother, and even though this was too real to be a dream, Cicero did not question it. The pain put a grimace on his face, but such was a life alongside Damien, littered with roughness. This felt like only Damien could be. Tough love. "Cicero - loves you - Damien - brother," Cicero panted, and as his lover, presumably Damien, withdrew Cicero collapsed in a heap on the ground, feeling sated and happy despite the shortness of their love-making. His heart fluttered at the thought that Damien must've come to terms with their love, and that they had finally allowed their love to come to culmination, after waiting so long.

As he glanced to the side, his body aching, Cicero's heart froze as he watched a white wolf walk away. He opened his mouth to speak, but found only dusgust that clogged his ability to do anything at all at the absence of Damien's black coat. Cicero's lower lip trembled; he did not remember feeling this broken, ever. But the realisation that the wolf that had taken his virginity, however it had come to be, was not the man he loved, not Damien, was enough to crush Cicero deeper than even the death of his mother.

"Wait," Cicero hoarsely called after the wolf that had taken him moments prior -- that had, presumably, taken Sheogorath, rather -- and he hoped for something, at least a glance, a name, an identity, a conversation. Anything. Or perhaps he hoped that the white wolf would not look back at all, so that he could try and forget what had happened today altogether, his assailant forever a shadow without a name.

haha Poor Cicero! last post just to wrap up :)

His ears had been deaf to what the wolf was saying, too busy was he mounting his assault on the boy's tender flesh, too busy was he relishing in his own taste of control and power. More than he had ever known in his life. He liked, no, loved it... even if later he would succumb to dizzying confusion and a lack of understanding about this turn in his life.

He did not look back when called. He moved on, disappearing in the distance.

my last too, i'll archive. thanks for this unexpected turn, it was an interesting thread!

His mouth was dry, and Cicero swallowed before he tried again, a bit louder this time. "Wait!" he called with a quavering voice that betrayed his vulnerability. In instinctive submission his tongue lapped at his nose, which was pointed down, duo-toned eyes rolled upwards to look after the disappearing white wolf. He wanted to know the circumstances of their love-making, but the fact that the white wolf did not even look round to see his face told Cicero more than he wanted to know.

Breath came out in ragged gasps as he suddenly felt cornered. He was not used to such vulnerability. Usually, he was the one asking the questions, causing the vulnerability. He was the one in control. This wolf had taken that from him. Sheogorath had taken that from him. The monster had reared its ugly head and Cicero wondered to himself if anything was really to blame on either of the wolves that he blamed. Was Sheogorath not simply him, did he not simply black out Sheogorath's thoughts because he feared him? If Sheogorath had provoked the white wolf, had wanted... this, then was Cicero not the one to blame?

Cicero was Sheogorath, after all, however different he felt.

For what felt like eternity Cicero remained crouched on the ground in the same place, feeling dirty while he was left alone with his deepest, darkest thoughts. He would have liked to tell himself that he was philosophising, but the tragic truth of the matter was that Cicero was hiding, waiting; like a frightened piece of prey.

Only when light started to show itself and his weary face was illuminated, Cicero slowly came into motion. He picked himself up from the ground and every fibre of his body ached to lay beside Damien; as though it was really Damien that he had made love to, and they had fallen asleep side by side after, both of them sated, happy, loved. His tail slid between his hind legs, tucked not only to hide the pain, but the shame of what had transpired the night before, too.

Upon shaky legs the young philosopher leaned down to lap at the narrow creek that wound through the lands. The ice was already broken to reveal a safe place to drink and he leaned down on his rump, tail tightly tucked in a false sense of security, to lap at the cold water to lubricate his dry, sore throat. Little did Cicero know that was how it had all begun the night before.