The way the beast whined at Lucifer leaning him back and taking the reins was something Alastor, once out of the hormone haze, would be heinously embarrassed of. But the beast obeyed, hands still firmly grasping Lucifer's hips as he followed the pace his doe led him on.

This sight was... pretty... the ruffled feathers spread out in the atmosphere of the bog, lit by fireflies and ambient haze in an eerie, primal way. Alastor shifted his hips and legs, giving himself the leverage to thrust up and match Lucifer eagerly, unable to take the gesture to rest - or at least, unwilling.