The Sunspire Death Is A War[M] Blanket

The world turns.

One moment he's high on triumph, standing over his prey. And next he's shoved to the ground, back making contact with the wet surface and rocks digging into his spine. It doesn't hurt—more like uncomfortable. But it doesn't compare to what happens next.

He feels the other's tongue on him again. Swiping his fur in the opposite direction of which it grows and causing his nerves to misfire. What is happening? What is going on? He continues to glare at Donovan, watching him descend. What is he doing? Why is he going DOWN? Clay doesn't understand, he's never had this type of encounter in the two—now three times he's found himself laying with another.

But he doesn't hate it.
He's just anxious.

Raising a paw again, he pats the middle of Donovan's forehead. Pushing lightly into his skull in hopes to get his attention. "What are you doing?" he questions. "That's not—that's not how fucking works. You don't use your mouth, idiot. Are you new at this? Are you stupid?" He genuinely wonders if this is the man's first time.

"Get up here. Now." He commands, voice dropping to an icy octave. If the man were to come closer, to listen to him, Clay would attempt to swipe at him, to slap him across the face in an effort to knock sense into him.