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Are you lesbian yet, rolf?
One of these days he would follow through when he decided to swear off alcohol. At least that was what he would tell himself in the morning. And every other morning he woke up from one of his terrible decisions. How was it he always ran into the bloody fox every time he decided to drink? He was too greedy a wolf to say no to the alcohol. He always was. He always would be. In all the thousands of years he had still never learned to stop. That was how he ended up in positions like this.
Positions like having his nose buried against the fox's soft throat without his teeth sharply buried in the warm flesh and the tang of blood in his mouth. In his hazy state, the thought occurred to him, but still he didn't bite. He huffed irritably and hotly against the skin, a low half-whined growl in his throat, and wondered how long their drunk text messages had gone on before they had ended up collapsed in a pile on the floor. A messy tangle of alcohol laden bodies, and muddled up emotions of obsession, anger, hatred, and that deeper underlying need to make sure the damn fox was okay, because it was his job to kill and torture Reynard, and everyone else could get the hell behind him in line.
That torture, maim, kill instinct always seemed to morph into something else halfway through the alcohol. By the end it was an entirely differently twisted obsession of animal instinct that caught up in his mind. And now he had a human-shaped fox sprawled across his body and a nose full of Reynard with the obsessive growl of mineminemine in his head.
Damn bloody alcohol.
He was never touching it again.
"Gerofme, Fox."
Positions like having his nose buried against the fox's soft throat without his teeth sharply buried in the warm flesh and the tang of blood in his mouth. In his hazy state, the thought occurred to him, but still he didn't bite. He huffed irritably and hotly against the skin, a low half-whined growl in his throat, and wondered how long their drunk text messages had gone on before they had ended up collapsed in a pile on the floor. A messy tangle of alcohol laden bodies, and muddled up emotions of obsession, anger, hatred, and that deeper underlying need to make sure the damn fox was okay, because it was his job to kill and torture Reynard, and everyone else could get the hell behind him in line.
That torture, maim, kill instinct always seemed to morph into something else halfway through the alcohol. By the end it was an entirely differently twisted obsession of animal instinct that caught up in his mind. And now he had a human-shaped fox sprawled across his body and a nose full of Reynard with the obsessive growl of mineminemine in his head.
Damn bloody alcohol.
He was never touching it again.
"Gerofme, Fox."