The forest swallowed Rory Blackfang whole, its dense canopy a choking void that snuffed out the bonfire's distant roar, leaving only the sibilant hiss of leaves and the owl's mournful wail to shred the silence. He lurched into a secluded glade, moonlight slashing through the pines like jagged knives, splintering shadows across the mossy earth. His breath was a serrated blade, each exhale a plume of mist in the frigid air, his chest heaving as if it could purge the inferno within. Red, the sentient scarlet beast fused to his inner wolf, throbbed with malevolent life, a veiny leviathan straining against his jeans, its crimson surface slick with precum that drenched the denim, turning every step into a slick, excruciating betrayal. The musky stench of his arousal surged in choking waves, fusing with the glade's primal reek—caustic pine sap, sodden soil, pulverized needles—a noxious brew that seared his lungs, vertiginous and inescapable.
He crashed to his knees on the moss, its clammy, spongy texture a fleeting balm against his scalding shins, but no match for the maelstrom within. His hands quaked, fingers scraping the worn leather of his belt, its coarse grain biting his calloused skin, the buckle's icy metal a shock that jolted his fevered flesh. Red snarled, a guttural quake rippling through his pelvis, a primal edict that obliterated reason: *Touch. Claim. Release.* His fingers wrestled the buckle, the metallic clank a gunshot in the glade's oppressive hush, and he tore his jeans down, the denim flaying his thighs like razors, igniting a savage spark—agony laced with profane ecstasy—that ripped a raw gasp from his throat. His cock erupted free, a flushed, crimson monolith gleaming in the moonlight, its veiny surface pulsating with molten fury, each ridge and bulge a taut cartography of feral need. The shaft was impossibly rigid, its scarlet hue blazing like a furnace, slick with precum that oozed in languid, viscous rivulets, shimmering like molten glass on its hypersensitive skin, every droplet a taunt of his unraveling control.
Rory's fingers grazed the shaft, and a cataclysm of heat detonated in his groin, a coiled viper of tension uncoiling with exquisite, torturous rapture. He teased himself, his touch a spectral whisper, tracing the throbbing veins that writhed along the crimson rod, each one a pulsing artery synced to his hammering heart. The precum's slick warmth coated his fingers, silken and scalding, and he smeared it over his foreskin, the sensation a velvet lash that sent electric torrents scorching up his spine, his hips jerking with a will of their own. The forest's pulse invaded his delirium—leaves hissing like conspiratorial murmurs, the owl's hoot a dirge, the stream's silvery gurgle a cruel echo of Red's relentless throbbing. He gripped himself, his hand deliberate, agonizingly slow, savoring the molten weight, the shaft so unyielding it seemed hewn from obsidian, its surface a hypersensitive labyrinth of torment and bliss. Each stroke was a calculated flaying, his thumb orbiting the swollen glans, spreading precum in languorous spirals, the slick friction sparking tremors that threatened to shatter his bones. The musky reek of his arousal thickened, a miasma entwining with the glade's earthen stench—pine sap's acrid bite, moss's damp rot, the stream's mineral tang—until his senses drowned, his skull a whirlpool of primal chaos.
The pleasure metastasized, a molten deluge that seared his veins, but it curdled into a merciless scourge that gnawed his marrow. His strokes turned frenzied, his grip a vise, fingers slick with precum that dripped onto the moss, each bead a glistening wound in the moonlight. Red's erection was a scarlet despot, its veiny surface so taut it pulsed with sentience, defying release with a sadistic will that flirted with agony. His pelvic muscles convulsed, each spasm a bolt of frustration that magnified the urgency, the hypersensitive skin igniting electric shocks that flayed his nerves, radiating from his cock to his spine, his ribs, his quaking thighs. His heart thundered, blood surging to the throbbing shaft, its crimson pulse a deafening war drum that fused with his ragged breaths. His cheeks blazed, a feverish flush crawling down his throat, sweat cascading from his brow, carving rivulets that plastered his dark hair to his scalding scalp. Clammy sweat lacquered his nape, his palms, his fingers slipping on the slick rod, his hands fumbling in their desperation. Each inhale was a jagged gulp, tasting of pine and musk, each exhale a feral plea that reverberated in the glade. Involuntary spasms—a hip thrust, a muscle seizure—threatened to obliterate him, his body a traitor teetering on a razor's edge.
*Relief,* he begged, the word a talisman, a scream, a shard of glass in his mind. His strokes accelerated, his grip brutal, the slick heat of his cock a molten spear that scorched his palm, each vein a pulsing ridge that shrieked under his touch. The pleasure was a guillotine, its edge honed to flay his soul. A faint relief flickered—a tremulous, saccharine promise as the tension coiled tighter, his balls clenching, a molten surge pooling in his groin, teetering on the brink of release. He chased it, his hand a frenzied blur, the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin a profane chant that fused with the stream's babble, the owl's distant keening. His hips bucked, a guttural roar ripping from his throat, raw and bestial, the sound a seismic quake through the glade. The relief swelled, a cresting wave, his cock throbbing so violently it felt like it might rupture, its veiny surface a scarlet inferno, the slick precum a molten flood that promised salvation. But the wave crashed into despair, the climax evaporating like ash, Red's erection unyielding, its throbbing a crimson dirge that mocked his flailing efforts. The hypersensitive skin screamed with each stroke, every touch a voltaic lash of agony-laced ecstasy that hurled him to the precipice without release, his body a crucible of unquenched fire. His pelvic muscles locked, a desperate, spasmodic rhythm that unleashed torrents of Hawkins, a white-hot spike that seared his veins, scorching his insides. Red roared *MINE!*, the redwood straining with such ferocity he feared it'd shred his jeans, its crimson pulse a war cry, a slick trickle of precum sending a jolt of panic through him, his thighs trembling as he fought to stay upright, the musky scent of his arousal rising in waves, humiliating and inescapable.
Why am I cursed? Rory's internal monologue was a bleeding gash, raw and festering. The mate legend swore a bond, a harmony—not this wretched betrayal. The pack's myths of destined mates haunted him, a vow of primal unity, but Sage's human blood was a fissure in that sanctity. Hybrids are frail, worthless. His chest caved, guilt and lust a strangling vine. Was he damning his pack by yearning for Sage? Was Red's relentless torment a retribution for his rebellion, a feral wolf shredding his civilized husk? I'm meant to be a leader, a bastion, he thought, his nails gouging his free palm, the sharp sting a frail tether against Red's howl. But I'm fracturing, enslaved to this… abomination. His amber eyes, feral with desperation, scoured the glade, half-expecting Luna's possessive glare or Talon's smug leer to materialize, their scorn a mirror to his own loathing.
He decided for a new approach.