Content Warning: this is a dark femdom story that contains dub-con/non-con, reluctant sex, fear, violence within sex, hunting, and sensory overload.
***
You know what night it is tonight, sisters? Fireworks night. Blaze-in-the-darkness night. Bangs-that-split-your-ears night. The night where everything outside is so loud and wild that it rattles in your body. When noise is pain and light is blindness and time can't keep up with the shot-shot-shot. Rapid-fire rockets rend the night and leave it in ecstatic rags.
Tonight will echo in their bodies and they won't be able to control the shift. Tonight they are confused and frightened and frustrated.
Perfect for the chase.
Perfect for the snare.
Tonight's the night, sisters. Hunting season.
Get ready.
*
He's running. It's a run he isn't used to. Predators run straight, predators run like arrows. They are pointed. They are aimed. They go teeth-first; their feet are almost inconsequential. Their hunger propels them, and it makes them fly. It's not like this. This is prey running, rabbit running, panicked, skittish. His feet feel too big. They skid in the dirt. Little grey-brown clouds burst over his black sneakers and ruin them. He feels gangly, his arms wheel and his legs flail. He keeps changing direction, batted about by the force from the explosions in the night.
Red.
Pink.
Violet.
The colours fizz and flash in his wolf eyes, a brief glimpse of stunning shattered gemstone before it gets too bright, too harsh, and his vision is pure white, and he's stumbling. He staggers against a tree. Its gnarled branches clatter in a rush of wind, stark against glaring, elixir-green. They're engulfed in smoke that prickles his wolf nose. He sneezes. He howls. The howl turns into a retching cough, and he's a man and he's cold, and his pulse is hammering fit to break his bones.
He keeps running.
The noise is inside him. Every explosion in the distance happens in the pit of his stomach. He feels like a valley containing a minefield, each detonated bomb setting off the next and the next in a domino that threatens to knock him off his feet and fling him into the sky. His wolf ears are ringing so loud, it's as if his skull is the clapper of a great bell. The autumn air on his human skin is cold like a river.
The woodland around him is a spinning zoetrope; black shapes flitting and stuttering and whirling in the sudden rainbow flares. Second by second, the trees stretch forever, illuminated into an endless interlace of silhouettes, then extinguish and leave him in an oblivion of darkness, the bloodstains of bright lights on his retinas. His wolf eyes flicker yellow. He stares desperately into monochrome details that only tangle as his human eyes blink blue. The air is thick and acrid. His human nose smells burned paper and gunpowder. His wolf tongue tastes sweat. His wolf heart is beating too hard for his human chest.
A speedy stream of bangs in an erratic rhythm. They drum up his back and bounce on the hard ground, like hailstones. He yelps, jumping like the roots are vipers biting his toes. He pelts.
He can hear laughter.
At first, he thinks it's just the echo of the rockets. But as the shots fade from his humming ears, the laughter rises clearer, cutting through the air and creeping over his neck. A chorus of gleeful cackling, like matches being struck, like champagne corks popping, like silver bullets clicking into cylinders. He stops running. He stops mid-shift, wolf claws bloodying human hands, wolf fangs curling human lips. He catches his jagged breath. Mist gusts from his mouth, blurring with the lingering, silver smoke. He strains to listen, but his ears are human. His strains to see, but a shower of electric blue douses his wolf's vision.
Another bang restarts his heart, like a lightning strike.
"This way, sisters!" A voice like a blade gliding along a whetstone. It slithers up his core.
He runs again, and as he runs, he hears them closing in. Boots and bikes. Revving engines and singing bells. Heavy boots snapping dry twigs. Rough wheels ripping the earth. Laughing. Laughing like no wolf can - that effervescent, caution-to-the-wind, Bacchanal laughter that only humans have, only on nights like this. It wars with the echo of the fireworks in his body, bubbling up in his blood. It skips under his heels and throws him forward. He runs faster.
Faster.
Faster.
Faster.
A blinding flash.
He howls and spins and runs again.
Scattergun popping and a surge of smoke.
He snarls and spins and runs again.
A spray of colour. A spray of soil from the wheel of a bike. The revving is so close that it grates his skin. He leaps away from it. Branches crack. Boots stomp.
He cries and spins and runs again.
"Now!"
He hurtles headlong into a net. It bursts wide and the weights at its rim plummet past him, like cannon balls. He hits the web hard. The ropes cut into his muscle and scratch his face. He roars. He tumbles to the ground, pain shocking his side as another explosion overhead shocks his skull.
Amber headlights flood the clearing, the grass around him ablaze. He struggles and writhes and claws at the ropes, his half-claws fraying them and tugging at his cuticles. He looks frantically about for an escape for when he's torn free, but all around him is a wall of light.
The engines growl and spit, like circling hyenas.
They silence.
"Well done, sweethearts! Let's see what we've caught." That voice again, metallic and musical, the last breath of it lost in a bombshell whistle. He freezes in fear and curls on his side, knowing the bang will come any second. When it does, it rocks his senses. The dark, heady scent of leather steals through the grass. He holds himself ready to spring, trying not to notice that the net is keeping him down. Boots tramp along the sideways ground and stop at his face. Pink spirals in the sky reflect in the steel buckles. A thick pair of legs bend. A gloved hand moves. A blade flashes, sparks mirrored in its surface. The net snaps apart, along with his t-shirt; a thread-fine, stinging line down his torso from the tip of the knife. He bows backwards and gasps. The cold air washes his chest. His nipples prick. His pupils swell in the darkness.
The boot kicks his shoulder, like a battering ram. He rolls onto his back. The boot crushes his chest, aggravating the knife scratch.
A sharp pop pummels his ears. Scarlet fire sparkles behind the branches and rains down on the figure towering over him. She looks as tall as the trees, her thighs strong boughs and her fists blunt rocks, a red sheen on the leather jacket she wears over her broad frame. Her black hair is short and slicked back like jackdaw feathers. Her eyes shine lilac.
She leans heavily on his chest, compressing his pounding heart. "You were a tricky one, Pup. Almost gave us the slip. Got our blood pumping, coming after you."
He tries to speak. He has a wolf's tongue. He snarls, his lips peeling back over sharp teeth. Her teeth are sharper. She smiles wide and cold, like the moon. He feels a sudden tidal pull. He snaps his jaws and jerks his body. He lifts his paw to swipe at her leg. Another boot kicks his wrist and grinds his hand into the dirt. It hurts. His eyes dart above him. Another face is sneering down at him, a lip ring glinting. He wants to suck it and taste blood. He wrenches his hand uselessly. The lilac-eyed woman presses the air from his torso, the etched soles of her boots denting his skin. She tuts and wags her finger. "Ah-ah-ah. Naughty pup. You're not the Big Bad Wolf tonight."
He growls. He wriggles, straining where they've pinned him. A shooting shriek and an eddy of whisking gold erupts in the sky and startles him still. His lungs pump like bellows. He's trembling. She grinds her boot on his chest and crushes him into the earth. More faces melt out of the glare in his yellow eyes. Smiles, so many smiles. Fanged smiles. Hungry smiles. The ground rumbles with their circling steps. The vibrations go through him and tickle his abdomen and the insides of his thighs. He tenses. A wave of anticipation ripples up his body. He shivers.
They descend on him.
He struggles wildly. It's no use. The weight on him is iron. It feels as if the roots are creeping from the undergrowth and binding his body. He scrambles in the grime. He huffs steam around his face. An amethyst storm turns his vision checkerboard. Noise rams into him. It thuds in his groin. He arches his back and pushes into the boot. He whines.
He's a wolf and he's cornered.
He's a man and he's hard.
He gulps and breaks into a sweat, the new sensation jarring against his terror and making him feel disjointed.
More laughter. Jackal laughter. Cat laughter. Hurricane laughter.
Lilac-Eyes looks like pure sinew in another ray of scarlet. Her mean grin is the last thing he sees before he's kicked again. He slams onto his front as an explosion slams in his ears. There's dirt in his mouth. The cantering fear of the fireworks skids into the flowing fear of the hunters. The chase trickles out of his muscles and leaves them weak and quivering. There is an inevitability to this. Rockets shoot and flare and leap, dozens upon dozens of shocks building into a wasp's nest in his brain. The capture is different. It is slow. It's worse because it stops him running. It drains his adrenaline, his numbing agent. Whatever happens next, he'll feel it.
He feels it.
Rough hands wrench his clothes away with screams of delight. He plunges into cold. He chokes and heaves and stares wide-eyed up at the crowding hands and faces, hewn jade in another whirl of sparks.
