You pump the blood so I can breathe, Don't let me go don't ever leave
They would think of something. And if they didn’t, or, worse, if they were denied then they’d manage. Having any place where he could indulge in warm tingling sensation was better than having nowhere to, even if it’s nothing but inconvenient.
Feathers shift again beneath his cheek, bringing a tickle that has Nate twitching, made better only marginally as the feathers are replaced with a dark and luxuriant fur. The ascended presses in closer, burying his face on the softness with a content rumble. Not for the last time, he’s glad for the ring, for the silent bond between them. The open flow of warm adoring feelings are all Nate can manage, words utterly failing him.
There’s no resistance at all as Nate’s hand is grabbed, guided to a plethora of different feelings that are all still immediately recognizable as Sunjata. The smooth skin of the orca, defying all expectations by still being warm to the touch. The warm down of the panthers fur, where his face is still buried happily. The coarse brush of the nyala, Nate’s fingers following the mohawk up, to the base of the horns, perhaps his favourite of the partial shifts his husband uses regularly.
Without dislodging himself too much, Nate shifts, one leg thrown over Sunjata in slow motion. All at once, the ascended is straddling the attuned, trying to press closer, though there’s no space left to fill between them. Are you trying to rip me off darlin’? Without the restriction of his mouth, Nate’s accent is thick, and made worse by the sheer force of emotion carried in the words. Come on, let me fée all of them. While it’s not asked for directly, the sense of warm safety that usually accompanies the tent of dragons wings drifts across the bond.
Feathers shift again beneath his cheek, bringing a tickle that has Nate twitching, made better only marginally as the feathers are replaced with a dark and luxuriant fur. The ascended presses in closer, burying his face on the softness with a content rumble. Not for the last time, he’s glad for the ring, for the silent bond between them. The open flow of warm adoring feelings are all Nate can manage, words utterly failing him.
There’s no resistance at all as Nate’s hand is grabbed, guided to a plethora of different feelings that are all still immediately recognizable as Sunjata. The smooth skin of the orca, defying all expectations by still being warm to the touch. The warm down of the panthers fur, where his face is still buried happily. The coarse brush of the nyala, Nate’s fingers following the mohawk up, to the base of the horns, perhaps his favourite of the partial shifts his husband uses regularly.
Without dislodging himself too much, Nate shifts, one leg thrown over Sunjata in slow motion. All at once, the ascended is straddling the attuned, trying to press closer, though there’s no space left to fill between them. Are you trying to rip me off darlin’? Without the restriction of his mouth, Nate’s accent is thick, and made worse by the sheer force of emotion carried in the words. Come on, let me fée all of them. While it’s not asked for directly, the sense of warm safety that usually accompanies the tent of dragons wings drifts across the bond.
NATE
