Totoka River baby, when I whisper, can you hear?

Stockholm responds to her every ministration in a positive way, and small shocks of pleasure quicken the pace of her blood until it fairly leaps through her veins. Her heart is hummingbird-swift and jackknifes into hyperspeed with every rumbling murmur, every stuttered breath. The reflexive twitch of his leg is answered with a spasmodic flicker of her tail, eloquently suggestive, and as their eyes meet she shudders beneath the weight of this new, precious knowledge and offers him a pleading whine. Oh, take this from me! Oh, give me, give me, she begs inwardly as he rises to his feet, her Neptune eyes roving appreciatively over the sturdy crest of his shoulders, the thick fur and steely muscle that on some primordial level reassure her that their puppies will be stronger and greater than her, thus ensuring their survival and the continuation of their married bloodline.

It is perhaps a fortunate thing that she has no voice with which to cry his name, lest the other seawolves be alerted to their joining — they are, after all, in the middle of the sandbar and in plain view of both the mainland and the island. She fears Komodo and Aditya’s scrutiny most of all, but abruptly everything stops mattering except the hot press of Stockholm’s body against hers. She arches her neck exaggeratedly and reflexively preens at her own décolletage as his nose finds purchase in her inkdark ruff, and when his muzzle burrows between her shoulder blades and moves with singleminded purpose down the sleek curve of her haunch, her feathered plume sweeps low and to the side, and stays that way. She is eager for his claim of her to be made physical and firms her limbs like a little black sawhorse, soon adopting a stance akin to a playful bow.

Her spine curves impossibly as she peeks coquettishly over her shoulder at him — but there is no time for coyness soon, for he tenderly covers her, and his sweet invasion consumes her wholly. She is startled into a standing position as she fits her body to his, savoring the feel of his teeth against her nape and his forelimbs hooked in front of her hips. At this point, she’s pretty sure she can taste music and hear colors — it’s that amazing. All the agitation and heartache of the past week dissolve as Stockholm leads her in the most ancient of dances, and when it hits its crescendo she very nearly sings, a euphoric cry upon her lips and her tongue wrapped around his name.

---

Some moments later, the sheepdog stirs and awakens; she is spooned against the Gampr’s undercarriage and his heavy paw is thrown across her rib cage. From the sound of it, he too is asleep, a soft, rhythmic snoring stirring the fur of her nape. She feels bruised, but in the nicest of ways, and she shifts gingerly to bathe his face in kisses. They ought to go the rest of the way home, she figures, and reassure Moorhen — who is probably tired of babysitting her supposed guardians.

The Gampr, coaxed awake by his mate’s ministrations, murmurs a soft sound of contentment as he rolls to his feet beside her and helps her up with a tender push of his scarred muzzle. It is the first of many days like these, languid and rife with loving, and he makes no protest as they cross their beloved sandbar and flock to Moorhen’s side, curling around her to form a crude triskelion.