Scar cries out at the bite, arching back into him, writhing in Brighella’s arms. The teeth on his horn, the hand on his cock, it’s all so good. His mind is hazy with pleasure and the bitter ache of each thrust jarring the broken arm trapped between their bodies. He wants, he wants, he needs— and Brighella’s thrusts hit him just right, and that and the hand on his cock send him over the edge, jerking in the other man’s arms, head thrown back, his come splattering onto the stone floor to join his blood and ichor.