[Wash cranes his neck downward, pecking the base of Tucker's horns, the little semicircles where the hard keratin meets his skin. Finding out just how much Tucker likes his horns and wings played with had been a good night. Wash could probably stand to tease him a little less, but... it's hard when his horns are right there.
His hand means business, at least. He runs the pads of his fingers through Tucker's slit, slow, with intent.]
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His hand means business, at least. He runs the pads of his fingers through Tucker's slit, slow, with intent.]