Albrecht

It comes as a slight surprise when the pegasus refuses his secondary offer, swiveling away from the reach of his tongue even as wordless, guttural notes of encouragement continue to rise on the ends of each laboring breath. There’s a moment of confusion, annoyance even as a new possibility of rejection occurs to him - had he done something wrong? - and at the sudden chill that settles across his dampened hide when the humid, pleasantly engulfing heat of the other stallions body disappears from his side, but as quickly as the emotions surge they're driven away, assuaged by the pressure of the winged stallions chest pressing insistently against his hindquarters.

The blacks ears flick back, cupping toward the larger stallion. He swallows, uncertain of this reversal of roles, but the blood pounding in his head and loins holds him steady beneath the urgent reaching, scrabbling, and eventual gripping of the other stallions forelegs as he rises up and over the protruding knobs of his pelvis, settling with wings spread wide like a protective canopy above them. He eyes the softer creams and browns of the feathers inner surfaces, enamored both with the limbs themselves and with the emotional lines they portray on the equine body, a small comfort in this moment of uncertainty, of fear - because he's never been the receiver before and what if he doesn't like it? - but the winged stallion leaves room for no such allowances and though there's a moment of tensing anticipation, a slight flinch and readjustment as one becomes two, the elder soon relaxes, free of his baseless worries to grunt and grind and buck his way to the release they both so desperately crave.

---

When the weight finally slips from his back the black staggers, weak and battered. Several places across his crest and withers are swollen, bitten. He shakes himself, head hanging and legs splayed, but there's no resentment in the gaze he turns to the other stallion. On the contrary, he smiles lazily. "Didn't seem too rubbish to me." He teases, only now remembering - with the assistance of something warm, viscous, and distinctly wet sliding down his right horn and onto his brow - that there's a second consciousness attached to him and everything that he does. A grimace flickers across his features, but with all the other bodily fluids drying between his thighs, across his ass, clumping in the hair of his beard, it'd be a little absurd to bemoan the python his own pleasures, even if they do tend occur on his face.

"I'm Albrecht." He rumbles quietly, dismissing the unknown words as blatant praise, obviously. "Maybe you should come here more often." A deep sigh escapes his narrow chest, leaving the interpretation of 'here' as in the Steppe, or 'here' as in himself up to the newly beloved Gaal.



"Alby talks" 'Strom talks'
OOC // @Graasvoel <3