The golden one twists, rolling them over to mount the dark one. Riding the great beast. He leans in, planting passionate hungry kisses and stroking the strong stems of the dark one's horns.

Wingtips red with blood and heat bury themselves in the horned god's shoulder, just below the collarbone. Sharing heat and sensation like a closed loop, growing with the sharing.

There will be a point of ignition. A point when they melt and meld utterly. When sensation becomes too much.

The golden one lunges forward with each thrust, wrists and arm pierced on branches of the dark one's horns.