Marx was the first to break. He'd been the most vocal in his contempt for beastman politics, but also the youngest and least in control of his new beast body. His ears cocked forward with every gasp, arms folded over his knees, but this time the movement underneath him was unmistakable a slow rutting grind as he pressed himself into his own thigh, lip curled up against his canines.
"Hell," he muttered, not even pretending to hide it now. "Can't they keep it down for five damn minutes?"
"They're not trying to keep it down, kid," murmured Pope, who was pretending to oil his sidearm but stared at nothing, hands shaking just a little as he worked. "That's the whole point."
But he nevertheless angled his body away from the others, working the slide in time with the rhythm of Felicity's rising cries.
