Totoka River ready for love

STOCKHOLM IS TOO PRECIOUS FOR THIS WORLD.

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Well, in that case.

The moment Stockholm lifted his bearlike paw and drew her close, Coelacanth switched modes from “Aggressive Alarm Clock” to “Probably a Plush Toy” — she shivered with delight as his nose buried into the inkdark fur at the nape of her neck and began a soft, kittenish purring. Although she had been the one to spearhead the “wake up, soldier! time’s a-wastin’!” initiative, she now found herself too comfortable to follow through with it. Because she adored the sound of his voice — adored him — she mimicked him: “Serrry,” she agreed in a breathlike whisper, her cheeks heating. She shimmied her tiny body so that the delicate curve of her spine molded against the soft swell of his belly, basking in his warmth and his scent. He was so kind to her — and he smelled so nice!

After a prolonged moment, she turned in his embrace; still clasped to his body, she adopted a more sternal position, which regrettably removed his nose from the sensitized zone at the nape of her neck, but allowed her to preen through the thick fur of his chest. Bright, ocean-blue eyes reached eagerly for burnished gold, but her lashes dipped shyly when their gazes tangled and caught hold. “S-Stockholm,” she chirped to him. It was one of the few words she’d held on to after Komodo had stopped his lessons. Most names were still accessible in her muscle memory, but Stockholm had really difficult ones. She’d practiced until they were nearly perfect, probably driving her poor companion crazy. “Toba — ” That was a false start. “Tofarisssch Stockholm Folkodaff.”

I did say nearly perfect.

Her fangs combed delicately through the fur of his chest, followed by long, deliberate sweeps of her tongue, until at last she reached the hollow of his throat. There, she tucked her nose and breathed him in with a blissful sigh, being careful not to impale herself on the thorncollar he wore. She wanted to tell him so many things! She knew now that she possessed the physical capacity, but the actual execution of verbal communication was — well, it was truly an execution whenever Seelie attempted it. A mass murder, in fact. And while those she still chose to speak aloud to never commented on her butchering of the spoken language, she had a fine ear for music and languages and easy identified — and loathed — her own shortcomings. A soft, longing whine was lost in the thick fur of Stockholm’s throat. Why couldn’t she just be perfect at it from the get-go?

Recalling a word from his Hunter’s Moon story, “Ara? Arare — raress?” she attempted.