The Love we Hide (Gay Furry Romance/Thriller story) MA15+

C3P12 - ... and hit the skimmer.

Vincent flicked the tendril in a whip-like motion, spraying red amongst the snow the formed a rough semi-circle around the wounded fox.

He lowered himself to the ground, feeling something new inside of him. That warm glow of something unused in nearly a decade. "Hm." He smirked, "This feels... nostalgic." He closed his eyes, feeling all that red in his eye-lids swirl around into the back of him. "This feels..." He wasn't even noticing that he was raising his head to the sky.

The fox tried feeling the wound on its head, assessing for damage. It was bad enough that he could've even touch the areas around it, and it gushed a dark blood that flooded either side of his muzzle. He whimpered. A quiet, animal whimper.

Vincent could feel the animals pain. Deep behind his eyes, there was this red, like a blotch of blood, stuck in his lungs. He could feel it in his breath; no, he was breathing it. He shuddered. "Good..."

The fox's eyes widened when he noticed the blood creeping towards him, like a possessed, crimson rope. Growing in length from the red stains in the snow that surrounded him. They were stretching, slithering along the snow.

"good..."

One tapped the fox's ankle and he shrieked. A wet, wrapping sensation. He tried to back away but stumbled into the other bloody ropes behind him, which slowly coiled around his wrists. He gave a pull... and although his right arm snapped away from the blood, his left was being held tightly in place. It seemed to reduce its slack with each of his desperate attempts to struggle.

In a few slow seconds of shrieking, the fox was completely pinned, limb by limb against the snowy flatness of the park ground. His back felt numb with this cold. His head felt like a big, throbbing drum. A cracked drum, splintered in its wood. And the blood gushing from his head... well, it had a life of its own now... and in that life it pinned Rev's head into the ground just the same as the rest of him.

The wolf, black as night in the midst of the blizzard, gave an aroused shudder. "Ah," He chuckled, and opened his eyes. "Haven't done that in ages... oh. Heh," He wheezed a laugh, a real wheeze, a classic smoker's howl. "silly me. Almost forgot something..."

The fox watched - from the very bottom of its eyes - in horror as Vincent's eyes rolled back into his skull, and glowing red blood began to drip from them like the tear's of glow sticks. But the didn't drip down; in fact, they refused to acknowledge gravity at all. For the tear's, the fox was their gravity. They ran a crimson course along the wolf's muzzle, a raceway of pure evil, a trek of pure demonic fun.

It was when the blood pulled away from the muzzle that the fox realised just how fucked he was. It branched away and held an otherwise solid shape, like a Timelapse of red tree-branches that grew away from the devil's face, instead of leaves they sprouted terror. And the wolf opened his mouth: a mouthful of blood that poured out into the thickest branches of them all... and just like that there was a sudden, ominous structure that was growing its way towards him.

The fox struggled, but the drumming pain was holding him down more than the bloody ropes were. Da-dum... da-dum... each heartbeat was a beat on that drum of pain, and every member of the marching band was banging it with their sticks.

But even that didn't seem to be the height of his problems: Vincent was making such a guttural, low-pitched snarl that the fox was sure he wasn't even aware of it. No living thing could consciously crack its jaw open to such a horrific angle and let out that noise (most furs would've stopped a conversation at a voice crack), let alone spew a face-full of blood that now stood only inches away from Rev's face.

Rev closed his eyes, feeling the blood caress the side's of fur, almost playing with his burnt fur. Pulling themselves along the length of his face... sliding their cold, leathery forms against his eyelids. He gritted his teeth, trying not to squirm... trying not to panic. But then, in a jolt of synchronised movement, they dug into his skin like fishhooks.