Haunted Wood Suck Shit and Try to Die

He was still trembling, shaking in the sea of fur pressed to him.

But at least Valour was there.

He savored the warmth that permeated off his king, nuzzling into it deeper only to draw back and take a shaky breath before resuming. Leaning away, leaning in, leaning away, leaning in. He supposed it looked a bit silly—doing something so outwardly childish. But he didn't care.

For the first time, the easthollian prince did not care.

Gone were the incessant tings in his brain telling him how to act, how to carry himself, how to speak, how to be. He was Clay. Clay Apaata of Easthollow.

He grunted as Valour claimed it was dramatic, swiveling his ears and reaching a paw up to half-hazard swipe playfully at the nightwalker's leg as if to say shut it. "It's not," he claimed, puffing his cheeks and curling his nose back in a pout akin to that to a whelp. He remembers doing it so often when he was under the ruling of Vengeance.

"And yes. You may have a taste—a small one. You haven't worked nearly as hard in my standards in order to earn the right to mark me." He proclaimed snobbishly, turning his head and angling it downwards as to look at the ground and give the warlord room. In all honestly, he wanted to male to do it, to mark him and claim him just as he did. He wanted to parade it around, to show that he finally had someone that was his.

He wanted it.

But once more he was chained to the societal norms of his pack, his culture. It would be indecent to go sleeping allowing whoever wanted a piece of him to have their pick.

Clay also liked to tease Valour and was interested in seeing how far he would go.