sweet morphine touch; pteron

[Pteron]

finger trips across my cheek----------------
----------------kiss me until i can't speak

Pteron’s own comfort with physical affection comes with the knowledge of reading those who are not, and so after his brief greeting, Pteron draws back, settling for a smile when he might have offered a hug. He takes no pleasure in making other uncomfortable, especially not those with abilities as powerful as Catcher, but his embarrassment at pressing her boundaries soon becomes nothing to what he watches Catcher struggle through.

Pteron grins despite himself, perfectly aware of what she had meant the first time, and the expression only widens as the overo mare digs deeper and deeper into her frustration and flustering.

‘I’m the ass’, she says, and the tobiano stallion nods knowingly without successfully hiding his grin, and tells her with every awareness of the innuendo: “But a very nice ass.”

The change in topic comes as no surprise (though he does watch from beneath a hank of blue forelock for her reaction to what he had said), and the dun pegasus shakes his own head as though clearing away the memory. What he does remember is the likely reason that she has never physically been in Taiga. That is why he has recognized her so easily, after all; she is not someone he could easily forget. Pteron’s manifestations of Beqanna’s magic are such small things compared to her power. Asleep in her presence, he had been able to come nearly close, shaping the sleeping world as easily as she had. The power had been enthralling, and he recalls it with a slightly racing heart as she stands in front of him.

“I came with my parents,” he answers easily. “I guess serving in the Loessian army just wasn’t enough for me, and I wanted to check Taiga’s off my list as well.” Pteron is not (especially) vain, but just as he notices the changes in Catcher, some part of him hopes that she has noticed those in him as well. He’d been nearly grown at their first – and last – meeting of course, but he has added muscle now, and the crest of his pale neck nearly rivals his father’s. His wings shuffle just slightly at the thought, pulling at the muscle of his chest and shoulder in a way that often draws an admiring eye.

But she has not come here just to admire him, and Pteron wants more than just that anyway.

“So tell me,” he says, taking a step away to sweep one white wing out into the fog. “Is it better or worse than in your dreams?”

@[Catcher]

-- pteron --