Blackfeather Woods [m] They’re looking for it

Time passes and so does their pleasure. With bodies spent and muscles aching and sore, the men lie beneath the blotchy light of the moon. Their bodies are close, with shared heat in between and no shame to be found (surprisingly enough). And although it seems the hellhound is spent physically, his mind is another story. The enigma that has his deteriorating thoughts in its grasp picks and tears at what little coherency that remains. He is tired, yet his brain refuses to slow — another side effect of his illness it seems. So he has little to distract himself with than the lithe coyote pressed to his side.

The beast lies on his ribs and hips with large, powerful legs kicked out in a relaxed manner before him. With a single elbow to prop himself up, Alduin peers down a short, thick muzzle to the subtle movements and touch of Sayf where he grooms him with tongue and teeth. Bloody pools for eyes are half-lidded and tired, hazy, yet he keeps them open despite the soft breeze that dries them out every so often. They are content, yet fiery, but that fire never dies and now is an example of such. 

And even though Alduin believes he is the most intimidating thing to walk this earth, the way he dips his chin closer to his neck causes rolls of both fluff and thick, loose skin puff out around his cheeks and muscled shoulders. He simply watches as a soft, pink tongue glides over the fur of his chest just over the white diamond painted over his pelt in a sea of harsh ebony.

For a moment, he has the wild urge to do the same, but he does not want to allow himself such pleasantries. He is not meant for niceties like this — he is not meant to be soft — for he is the reaper. He is meant to bring death. And yet, here he is, lying beside this man who whimpered and moaned for him only moments before. A man of all things. He wonders why he came all the way back out here, but he’s found his answer, but it hardly helps him. Especially as he simply looks over the coy. He feels heat grow in his loins once more at his possibly disheveled appearance. He moves from his tail, up his hips, over the soft hump of his ribs. Next he follows the line of his neck which leads him to large, soft, teeth bitten ears and lastly a handsome face.

His mind races.

So, with a desire for both Sayf and the need to keep his mind quiet, he finally moves. It’s subtle, but he bravely shifts forward and allows his intrusive thoughts to win. Dipping his head, his dangerous muzzle finds the male’s neck where teeth and tongue meet it neck. He’s rougher  than the other, but it’s the thought that counts, even as he smooths over the bites with a tongue in a grooming like manner. Something he hasn’t done in a very long time. 

It’s silent. Crimson eyes burn and he finally blinks again as his gaze drifts down the line of the other’s body from his position at his neck. 

A thought strikes him when all this obsessive and, what the hellhound believes to be, useless tenderness between the two.

“Are you afraid?” He asks again, but there is no haunting touch to it. This time it is merely a question despite the way his smokey voice forces it to come out just as rough and intimidating as the first.