You lean against him and purr as he fusses over you, warming slowly. There's no pail business to attend to, you already made a terrible mess of yourself and don't care. "Kadros," you assure him, sliding your hands across his arms, shoulders, his ears. You know who he is, you want who he is, fussy incomprehensible bastard that he is. "Bel, yes, I know. Yes." But the pleasure in straining yourself that a pitch romp induces is starting to fade, and you're increasingly, unhappily sore. The pulsing ache of your marks is starting to reassert itself, and mixing headache pills and vodka was possibly not the most clever idea in the world. When Bel glances a kiss off one of your horns you hiss a little, ducking away. You haven't strained yourself to the extent of some past dream jaunts, but the cores of your horns are pulsing with a bitter, insistent soreness. "Sorry," you say, patting him with one hand, rubbing the hornbase with the other. "Mmm. Overdid it a little."