[ Halfway through a kiss that has his spine melting and his claws rasping down Molly's back, he exhales unsteadily and tips his head back because damn, his head is starting to spin and it's getting difficult to think, gasping down air. He should say something, shouldn't he? But what is language anymore? All Fjord processes is the warmth of Molly in his arms and how eagerly he's responding, scooped up and willing.
It takes a mental overhaul of legend for him to figure out how words work long enough to say, ]
no subject
It takes a mental overhaul of legend for him to figure out how words work long enough to say, ]
Shall we sit down?
[ Chairs exist, somewhere. Maybe. ]