A Nervous Looking Owl...

There rests the unknown owl, huddled in a tight crouch, obviously hoping to avoid the attention of the one who was gaining on your limp form. Relief that you’ve not been abandoned washes over you though it is tempered somewhat by the last resounding *Tock!* of those hard-shell hinds stomping the bark inches from your paralyzed legs. It’s all you can do to weakly face the feral, her purple eyes gleaming deviously in the midnight gloom, as she inspects her helpless meal. You can feel her appraising you, deciding where to start and how to maximize her enjoyment through your torment. Knowing you’ve no other option, you struggle to shoot a look to the man, hoping that he catches its meaning.

The shaky nod you receive in turn is heartening, despite the numbed sensation of your ankle being grasped in a vice-like claw. The Moth, now kneeling and apparently deciding that she’d like you to watch her enjoy her snack, gives your leg a rough tug to drag you to your fate. Your limb arms dangle uselessly over the sides of the branch with your fingers scrambling to find purchase of the bark. The wasted effort seems to entertain the woman as you pick up a rhythmic series of hisses and clicks, sounding like laughter to your flattened ears. Any annoyance at the mockery you might have had is replaced with an icy chill that runs the length of your back as you can barely make out the slimy caress of tongue upon your exposed arch.

Time was running out and so was your composure. Again, you look to your new friend with more worry than hope to see him fumbling with the vine that makes up the bowstring of his built in weapon. He appears to have nocked an arrow and has taken aim at the threat to your rear, though for some reason he does not draw. Confusion, steeped in the slowly creeping dread brought on by having your toes being shoved inside the snug bug maw, plagues your mind. Admittedly, you don’t understand the finer points of archery and you’ve always been a hands on kinda cat, but the cause for the owls **** to take the shot eludes you. You almost want to call out, begging him to fire upon the woman, though you fear giving his position away would be disastrous. With a fraction of the strength and grace they normally have, your hands attempt to motion toward yourself, imploring the bird to take the shot. He seems to catch the gesture though his response, a short shake of the head, is not what you were hoping to see.

“No”..? What does he mean “No”?!

Your furrowed brow and obvious bewilderment are not unnoticed by the man. Though annoyed at having to explain himself instead of focusing on his charge, you watch as holds up the quill, running his free hand along the barb until it reaches the sharpened point before balling his feathery fist about the head before quickly expanding his fingers outward from the arrow. The show has a deeper meaning, you are certain, though what it is you cannot grasp. What you DO understand is that both of your ankles have just slipped into a toasty maw, a devilish tongue enjoying your flavor despite the lack of pleasurable struggles.

Damn your riddles, you stupid bird!

The thought rings through your head and your cheeks flush with a burst of anger. Again, you beckon with your hands, the desperation in your heart adding a little vigor to the otherwise sloppy wave. Frustratingly, the ranger again denies your request, a much firmer shake of the head now colored by his own look of irritation. Deep in the logical part of your weary mind, you know that he is working on something to free you both of the vile woman. Unfortunately, logic is in short supply as the new tightness pressing against your calves saps what's left of your nerve. Not even daring to look at the progress the feral has made on your lower body, your resolve breaks.

“She’s not stopping..! You need to do some NOW..!!” The blatant terror in your voice should be indication enough as to where your head is right now. Your hands decide to put a finer point on it, though, as they scratch pathetically at the wood in a hopeless attempt at resisting the inevitable. In your blind panic, subtlety is the next casualty as you reach with a limp hand toward the Ranger in a pitiable plea for salvation. The look of shock on the man's face forces a small amount of reason to drip back into your brain as you realize what you’ve done. Casting a distressed glance to the infected pokemon confirms your fears that she was just made aware of the ploy, her violet regard following your outstretched arm to stare directly at the ranger. Your heart sinks as you watch the feral halt her tasting of your limbs as she puts it all together.

If these infected creatures operate solely on basic instinct alone, the Venomoth shows the extent of her own as within the span of a single blink, she regurgitates your legs and is rolling off the branch into a steep dive. While it's comforting that you’ve been granted a stay of execution, knowing what is come makes the relief ring hollow. Your ally struggles to aim his arrow at the fast moving target, but she’s gone in a flash of dark green before he can even draw. Having lost sight of his mark, he instead focuses his fury on you.

“What the hell were you doing?!” He yells from afar, chest heaving with each heated breath. He continues his tirade over your stuttering response. “I was waiting for her to present a clean shot!” Holding up one of his quills in a shaking fist, he presses on, “These are not simple barbs, rather they explode when they hit flesh! If I had fired with you so close it would hav-!!”

He is unable to finish the terse explanation as the feral, silent as the grave, took advantage of his distracted screaming to bolt up from underneath the owl to land a vicious kick across his fluffy back. The argument between the two of you is bookended with a startled *AAWCK?!* as the flustered marksman is driven face first into the truck of the tree he had clung too. The wince inducing CRACK of skull on bark causes a wave of guilt to rush over you, forcing home the knowledge that, in your own cowardice, you’d outted the man and left him exposed to the aerial ace of a feral. To make things worse, the woman now landed upon the same branch and stalking up to the obviously stunned avian, would cast a smug look to you as if to pay thanks for the opening.

If you thought you couldn’t feel any worse, you are quickly proven wrong as the unresponsive bird was quickly set upon by the moth who wastes no time stuffing his lolling face into her gullet. Barely able to drag a leg along the branch, you are **** to behold the man’s slow consumption. With a deep swallow, his hooded bust sinks from view to form a vulgar bulge in the moth's formerly slender throat. Moans of gluttonous delight reach your ears as the woman's thin tongue flicks at her meal's fluffy mantle, obviously enjoying her treat. Fear and shame wrestle for control of your heart as the morbid ritual continues.

A few quick gulps and the ranger is lost to his feathery hips. Her carnal pleasures knowing no bounds, the Venomoth again slows her feast to slather her tongue across the owls nethers, teasing at his hidden (and likely still bruised) nut sack. This bold decision finally seems to rouse the archer from the daze he’d be suffering, as his legs twitch initially before beginning to thrash with wild abandon. Taking this as a cue to finish the process, more to enjoy his last few struggles rather than any real fear of reprisal, the feral bug forces those downy covered limbs into her maw. One final swallow and the bird is removed from your quivering view.

Please… Please move…!

Whether your cries for deliverance are vocalized or just another terrified thought running through your wavering mind, you’ll never know. Breath catches in your throat, and ice grips at your chest when those pale, insectoid eyes focus upon you once more. The Venomoth, originally slim as the top most twigs that adorn your perch, now rubs her plated hands across a bulbous, bird encompassing belly that stretches tight to accommodate its guest. All notions of guilt for the nameless warrior or hopes for escape fall away as, despite the generous bulk added to her frame, the infected moth rises into the air as easily as if she didn’t have a sloshing stomach bouncing before her. As she wings over to your helpless form, now free of distractions or delays, you shut your eyes to the cruel world around you, unable to even flinch as you feel the branch dip under her considerable weight…

The evening had proven quite fruitful for the Venomoth. Most of the early evening hunt had produced naught but growing frustration and a woefully empty belly. She’d begun to consider the possibility of leaving these woods for more plentiful prospects when a lone Sneasel had caught her watchful eye. She would tail the morsel for a while, as his kind were known to travel in packs, though when he at last reclined within the nook of an ancient elm, the Venomoth knew her hunt was at an end~

As such, it was more than a little irritating when the Decidueye had swooped in unannounced to jump her rightful meal. One small tree cat would prove a negligible challenge to the superior feral, though this avians kind was known to the woman. Dodging charged projectiles as well as sharpened claws sat ill in the moths growling stomach. It was a pleasing change of fortunes, however, when the two had come to blows with the cat wounding the owl, making the odds shift back into her favor.

Now, that same foolish feline served as her throne while that troublesome bird bubbled away in her sweltering gut. Deciding not to strain her already overtaxed belly with an additional dessert, the Venomoth had instead applied an extra layer of numbing spores to the defeated cat before flipping him over and claiming his fearful face as her saddle. Unable to resist even the gentle midnight breeze, the cat's mouth was **** open and tasked with warming its mistress’s glassy mound. The groans of discomfort, likely derived from the immense weight of the half digested Decidueye pressing down upon him, had the desired effect on the feral woman. Moans of wanton lust would begin to pour from the Venomoths maw as her juices began to flow onto her unwilling Sneasel seat. She hadn’t decided what role the feline had yet to play, be it a second course or a new life birthed from her corruption laced cum, but one thing was certain…

It would be entertaining to find out~