the laughing hour

Damn near euphoric now, Valentine was slapping sticks across the hole like a frenzied beaver. Oh ho, this was just too good, too good indeed! Lefty had been a pain in his ass for year snow. Fuck, how old was his youngest litter? She hadn't been with him more than a season before Cascade gave the kids to him and the musky little weasel had the nerve to nestle them in their little bed like a broody hen. Almost three years, then. Three years he'd chased and fought and threatened the little beast all the while she'd laughed and cuddled him, and fouled the air with her nonstop, inane chatter. Well, no more! Now he'd have his den all to himself if he wanted it that way and when he didn't, well, there would be no striped pest to complain.

There was suddenly a stick shoved under his nose and Valentine grabbed it without hesitation; he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. This was Christmas. He wove the stick between some of the others already there until there wasn't any wiggle left in it. Once his mouth was clear he began to speak. "The vilest creature known to wolves. A small, raging hemorrhoid of an animal, who has made a life of cock blocking, harassing and extorting." He glanced at who he was talking to long enough to note the stranger was fucking gorgeous. Fucking. Christmas.

Valentine gave the stranger a significant look. If she was going to willingly join in then he was going to put her to work. She was young. Those lovely legs were good for more than looking at. "Keep those sticks coming, gorgeous, this pit isn't going to seal itself." He grabbed another and worked it in. "We have a fiend to bury."