Dragoncrest Cliffs [m] salt plying

He could taste her like this for hours, let their tongues play against each other. Nothing about it sounded appealing. But the feel of her  warm breath grazing past the short fur on his cheeks made the fur on his back stand on end.  The nearly pleasant sensation of her sharpened white teeth on his tongue was not erotic in nature, but the old wolf found it so. 

He broke away from her, already panting heavily. His eyes never left her face. 

”If.. it’s somethin’ you’d want to try.. I like bein’ rough. More than last time. Scratches, bitin’, all that.” 

He sort of shrunk down, offering her a nervous grin. 

He felt a little bad for roping her into his weird fantasies last time without asking. But she didn’t shy away. And she did say she liked him for his experience. One of the only things the wolf enjoyed about getting old was having plenty of time to fine-tune exactly what he liked. Seasoned would be his word of choice. For him, that happened to mean exploring a predator and prey dynamic. Something or another about one’s sacrifice for another’s gain. 

He had inklings of an idea of where it originated from. Pepper wasn’t always a hunter. As a pup, in fact, he wanted nothing to do with it. He’d been devastated to learn that wolves should kill to survive. It was his father that ensured he learned to love hunting. Forcing him to deliver killing wounds on anything the pack brought down. Wounding him if he refused. Eventually Pepper learned that he did value his own well-being over his food’s, but those repressed feelings of grief toward killing turned into fascination. An unhealthy fascination, and one that he felt shame for. 

”But we ain’t got to. ‘N I know how to stop if you ain’t about it.”