Macaque less guides or tugs Miyuni through the portal than suggests it with a subtle collection of movements, a shift of weight, his hand sliding to the nape of her neck (beneath that glorious mane, his fingers are desperate to bury themselves in it), his expression turning suggestive in a way that's ingratiating rather than something more insistent. He doesn't want to demand anything of this woman, she's doing quite fine driving without his help.
Beyond the portal, if she should bring him through it, is the room that his children designed for him. A large nest of silks rests in the middle, the walls dotted with artwork and pictures of his loved ones, some of whom Miyuni will recognize. There is a set of glass doors leading to a balcony and the aforementioned mango tree, and to another end there is the bathroom where a waterfall can be heard. There are also some seating areas, but the nest seems the best place to get comfortable.
"I hope this will suit," he says, his smile warming by quick degrees. "But I suspect, for my part, anywhere with you would be comfortable."
Macaque's hand moves off the back of her neck and his fingertips trace the shell of her ear, rounding over the tip, as requested. Emboldened by her invitation, he kisses her again (this is less taking initiative than doing as requested), a little less restrained, a little less tidy, a lot more heat.
[ Macaque's subtle suggestions are followed by an equally subtle segue into a dance in minor key: that is how Miyuni chooses to bring the two of them through the portal. It's an ebb and flow of easy, graceful footwork and shifting hands, because why waste time with simple, boring walking when they could have this instead?
Under almost any other circumstances she'd be all over this room, curious to the point of being a nosy menace. Right now she'd rather be all over him. So she sways another dance step, and another and another, and somewhere along the way — slowly, with the same inexorable draw as gravity — Macaque will find himself lifted like he weighs nothing.
He could wrap his legs around her. She hopes he will. ]
It's got you in it, and a — ooh, that is a fantastic nest. [ She hasn't looked away from him. Doesn't plan to anytime soon, and the way her lashes flutter at his renewed attention to her ear does not count. ] More than suiting, s'far as I'm concerned.
[ Her twinkling grin melts against his lips. She hums her approval, happy to take, to claim, and escalate. Kiss after kiss, still unhurried even as it blossoms in intensity. A little more teeth, a lot more spice … and the softness of silk as she presses him down into his nest. ]
He glides along, following the lead of her dance steps, perfectly in time, exactly where she wants him. A pleased hum bubbles up amidst the constant purring, something a little louder for her, just in tune with the song they're making. And then his feet lift off the floor, and he does indeed wrap around her with his legs and tail, even if not for instincts being at play there he would have done so. Anything to touch her more, please her more.
"Thank you," he says, his voice airy from breathing that is already growing just the slightest hint short, "Now to meet your approval in other matters." Which is a quest he begins immediately, with his deft fingers grooming through her hair, starting with his claws on her scalp and then moving through her abundant, stunning tresses as far as he can reach before beginning again by skimming beneath, around, and then up the shell of her ear, all the way to the tip. Monkey's grooming instinct is instructive here, and should feel very good.
The rest of himself he molds to her lead, kissing her with reciprocal enthusiasm, letting his craving for her shine through as his fangs are bared against her lips, but always in response to her. Reciprocating, never driving. The purring in his chest gives way to something louder, fuller, but short of a moan.
"Hello." To those exceptionally talented hands running through her hair! Or — no, wait. No. He isn't just doing anything. This isn't idle petting. Nope. This is grooming on another level. … Grooming like she's never experienced before. Ever. It's not long before she's melting. It'd be hard not to … and, frankly? Why would she try? He deserves to feel good. He deserves to know how good he's making her feel. "That," she (quite literally) purrs between ravishing kisses and sharp, lingering nips, "feels incredible. Keep doing it."
She presses closer, sinking into him. Letting him feel her weight as she nestles herself comfortably within the cradle of his thighs. And bit by bit, little by little, she lets him feel her presence again too; that raw, primal power, pressure that sparks and buzzes against his fur and skin until it rides the razor edge of just right. It's electric and wild, harmless only because right here, right now, she chooses to be so.
"Wanna try something." Her kisses stray, blazing a lazy, wildfire path along his jaw. "With your hearing. May I? Wouldn't be loud. Would be intense."
He cant help a wide smile, just a hint of earnest pride like a sun peeking through a jungle canopy to dapple the ground. Compliments from Miyuni might or might not be commonplace, he can't claim to know yet, but he's going to hard them like rare and precious jewels regardless. And his hands keep moving, clever fingers ghosting up her ear, along her scalp, claws-first, and through hair that he would gladly sit and brush with the slow, even manner of one absolutely in the midst of worship.
His tail, having no need to coil around her to keep her close, busies itself by seeking out her tail again, winding around it with eager affection. He'd like to map out the rest of her, memorize her silhouette, find which spots give her pleasure and which make her giggle. And then he feels her again, in an entirely different and yet very much not different way than his body feels her--
He shivers hard. Macaque never did mind a little danger.
His head cants to give her all the access to his jaw and neck that she could want. "Yes," he breathes, well on his way to panting if she keeps all that up.
Cute. Oh, that is cute. He is cute. … Mm, no, maybe enticing is the word. Or both? Yeah, both. Both and so, so many more besides. If he'll hoard her compliments, she'll hoard his smiles.
Her tail swishes to meet his, equal and opposite and delightful in all their differences, winding together into a snug two-strand braid. "You're so good to me."
She winds her fingers into his hair and pulls, guiding him to exactly where she wants him. A bite over his pulse is his first reward, firm enough ache, sharp enough to sting, blood beading in her wake. Another bite follows, and another and another; each lingering, soothed with kisses, trailing higher until she presses the last just beneath his ear.
There, she gentles. There, biting kisses fade to infinitely soft teases of her lips, close enough to tantalise and nothing more as she drifts higher. Against his ear, she whispers, "Feel free to sing along."
And then she begins a familiar new song, quiet as breath, humming with power. Moonlight and gravity, the sway of the tides, the dance — he knows these, but this time he'll feel them, intertwined as they are with a song of pleasure. It's a symphony woven for him and him alone, with him at its heart, as its heart. Layer by layer it builds, dreamlike, liminal, undeniable. Silken sensation surrounds him, seeps into him, slow-rolling wave after wave, rocking deeper, pushing higher: the press of bodies, the thrill of music, a pulsing molten core and tumbling water pressure just right everywhere he needs it, rising and falling, rising and falling.
Grinning and resisting just a touch when she pulls on his hair, inviting her to tug a little harder to reach what she's after. And then he gives in, in more than one sense of the word, his head falling back and his pulse thundering as his fingers clutch at her hair near the scalp as he's rendered still by her first bite. Gasping at the feeling of being claimed, and claimed by such a woman as his dreams could hardly imagine.
His hands remember what they're doing in between bites, carding through her hair in a meager attempt to give as good as he's getting, knowing that's impossible. He can feel every part of her mouth moving toward his ears, her breath washing over his skin, the slight shift of her grip in his hair, and his skin practically tingles with anticipation, breath catching before a hard exhale. Then her lips brush his ear and he shudders hard, his tail closing down around hers.
And then the music. The music.
At first there's a flicker of recognition, and then that sensual pleasure curls around him and sets him aching so sweetly. This time when he gasps, it's followed closely by short-winded panting. The music flows to every part of him and how can he help but react in his hands, in his heart, in his hips, that perfect winding of tension that he only feels when he's submitting to someone's will.
He can't keep still, his body sliding against hers, overwarm and pleading, shameless. He's only distantly aware of that, his mind centered on the world she's weaving for him that curls through his mind, demanding his full attention. He either couldn't or doesn't wish to do anything but react, moaning long and low, in tune with the song as much as he can be (his voice warbles a bit, in rhythm with those little surges), clinging to her for grounding, legs squeezing her hips. He has seldom had so much fun while still fully dressed.
He's helpless to say it, but his body makes perfectly clear that in his moment, the only thing he desires in the world is more of her.
A little defiance, as a treat. There's an almost laughing trill to her purr, warm with approval … at least until she feels the way he surrenders under her. To her, clinging so tight and sweet, so desperate. The rumble in her chest dips into a low growl of satisfaction. That, too, she weaves into their song, threaded alongside every panting breath, every gasp, every moan. She presses herself closer to him. Claiming, anchoring; a star sweeping the moon into its embrace. Gravity shifts, giving way, and reality is one step to the left of following. He's pinned in his nest, and he's pinned at the very edge of freefall.
Lips against his ears, one and both. Butterfly kisses and slow strokes, and the softest tease of teeth. Teeth against his throat — a tender clamp that says, you're right where I want you; I'm exactly where I want to be; stay — and a wet, silken heat enveloping his cock, swallowing down to the hilt.
He's certainly pinned somewhere, he honestly could not name his location under threat of his life as focused as he is on her exclusively. Compared with how she feels against him, her soft hair between his fingers, her teeth on his skin, where they are seems like an insignificant detail. By contrast, he could carve a lifesized statue of her that's accurate to the smallest detail, and compose a thousand stanzas on her beauty and ten times that on her singing. Priorities.
He's helpless and absolutely fine with that, less stroking her hair now than holding on for dear life as he moans and whines and moves, to the extent he can, along with her song. Her lips and then teeth find his ears and he shudders hard, hips bucking up. He's certain that she knew exactly how sensitive those are when she went for them. And she bites his neck once more, and he can feel the insinuation and almost laughs, he wouldn't move for anything. And then--
He often thinks of violin strings and piano wires in moments like this, overtuned and half a turn from snapping. It's apt enough, except that comparing her to anything less than perfectly in tune is a complete mismatch. Suffice it to say that his back arches off the silks and his claws scrape her scalp as he barely remembers to breathe between a sharp cry and the moans that follow. He wishes whether he knew if she likes having someone cry her name, she more than merits the honor if so, and if not it's far too gauche and if he offended her he might actually die.
She is everywhere all at once — or so it seems, and so it is.
Still singing soft and sweet into his ear, lips never quite touching, drinking in the full sensory experience of his pleasure. He's desperate and gorgeous and utterly, ridiculously intoxicating, and her blood burns with how much she wants. She spins her own desire, her approval, her craving for and delight in him, back into their song, sharing herself with him, letting him feel -
The gentle glide of her fingertips tracing each of his ears in concert. Ruthlessly delicate hints of claw, of teeth; and all the while she has him by the throat, relishing the thrum of his pulse under her tongue; and all the while she lavishes his chest with biting kisses.
"Just like that," she purrs, moulding herself against him. Hip to hip, gentle and utterly immovable, granting him just enough room that he'll wish he had more. All that … and the same purr vibrating around him from root to tip, steadily ramping up in intensity the louder he sings for her.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
+ Miyuni - NSFW probably
Macaque less guides or tugs Miyuni through the portal than suggests it with a subtle collection of movements, a shift of weight, his hand sliding to the nape of her neck (beneath that glorious mane, his fingers are desperate to bury themselves in it), his expression turning suggestive in a way that's ingratiating rather than something more insistent. He doesn't want to demand anything of this woman, she's doing quite fine driving without his help.
Beyond the portal, if she should bring him through it, is the room that his children designed for him. A large nest of silks rests in the middle, the walls dotted with artwork and pictures of his loved ones, some of whom Miyuni will recognize. There is a set of glass doors leading to a balcony and the aforementioned mango tree, and to another end there is the bathroom where a waterfall can be heard. There are also some seating areas, but the nest seems the best place to get comfortable.
"I hope this will suit," he says, his smile warming by quick degrees. "But I suspect, for my part, anywhere with you would be comfortable."
Macaque's hand moves off the back of her neck and his fingertips trace the shell of her ear, rounding over the tip, as requested. Emboldened by her invitation, he kisses her again (this is less taking initiative than doing as requested), a little less restrained, a little less tidy, a lot more heat.
Re: + Miyuni - NSFW probably
Under almost any other circumstances she'd be all over this room, curious to the point of being a nosy menace. Right now she'd rather be all over him. So she sways another dance step, and another and another, and somewhere along the way — slowly, with the same inexorable draw as gravity — Macaque will find himself lifted like he weighs nothing.
He could wrap his legs around her. She hopes he will. ]
It's got you in it, and a — ooh, that is a fantastic nest. [ She hasn't looked away from him. Doesn't plan to anytime soon, and the way her lashes flutter at his renewed attention to her ear does not count. ] More than suiting, s'far as I'm concerned.
[ Her twinkling grin melts against his lips. She hums her approval, happy to take, to claim, and escalate. Kiss after kiss, still unhurried even as it blossoms in intensity. A little more teeth, a lot more spice … and the softness of silk as she presses him down into his nest. ]
Re: + Miyuni - NSFW probably
"Thank you," he says, his voice airy from breathing that is already growing just the slightest hint short, "Now to meet your approval in other matters." Which is a quest he begins immediately, with his deft fingers grooming through her hair, starting with his claws on her scalp and then moving through her abundant, stunning tresses as far as he can reach before beginning again by skimming beneath, around, and then up the shell of her ear, all the way to the tip. Monkey's grooming instinct is instructive here, and should feel very good.
The rest of himself he molds to her lead, kissing her with reciprocal enthusiasm, letting his craving for her shine through as his fangs are bared against her lips, but always in response to her. Reciprocating, never driving. The purring in his chest gives way to something louder, fuller, but short of a moan.
Re: + Miyuni - NSFW probably
She presses closer, sinking into him. Letting him feel her weight as she nestles herself comfortably within the cradle of his thighs. And bit by bit, little by little, she lets him feel her presence again too; that raw, primal power, pressure that sparks and buzzes against his fur and skin until it rides the razor edge of just right. It's electric and wild, harmless only because right here, right now, she chooses to be so.
"Wanna try something." Her kisses stray, blazing a lazy, wildfire path along his jaw. "With your hearing. May I? Wouldn't be loud. Would be intense."
Re: + Miyuni - NSFW probably
His tail, having no need to coil around her to keep her close, busies itself by seeking out her tail again, winding around it with eager affection. He'd like to map out the rest of her, memorize her silhouette, find which spots give her pleasure and which make her giggle. And then he feels her again, in an entirely different and yet very much not different way than his body feels her--
He shivers hard. Macaque never did mind a little danger.
His head cants to give her all the access to his jaw and neck that she could want. "Yes," he breathes, well on his way to panting if she keeps all that up.
Re: + Miyuni - NSFW probably
Her tail swishes to meet his, equal and opposite and delightful in all their differences, winding together into a snug two-strand braid. "You're so good to me."
She winds her fingers into his hair and pulls, guiding him to exactly where she wants him. A bite over his pulse is his first reward, firm enough ache, sharp enough to sting, blood beading in her wake. Another bite follows, and another and another; each lingering, soothed with kisses, trailing higher until she presses the last just beneath his ear.
There, she gentles. There, biting kisses fade to infinitely soft teases of her lips, close enough to tantalise and nothing more as she drifts higher. Against his ear, she whispers, "Feel free to sing along."
And then she begins a familiar new song, quiet as breath, humming with power. Moonlight and gravity, the sway of the tides, the dance — he knows these, but this time he'll feel them, intertwined as they are with a song of pleasure. It's a symphony woven for him and him alone, with him at its heart, as its heart. Layer by layer it builds, dreamlike, liminal, undeniable. Silken sensation surrounds him, seeps into him, slow-rolling wave after wave, rocking deeper, pushing higher: the press of bodies, the thrill of music, a pulsing molten core and tumbling water pressure just right everywhere he needs it, rising and falling, rising and falling.
Re: + Miyuni - NSFW probably
His hands remember what they're doing in between bites, carding through her hair in a meager attempt to give as good as he's getting, knowing that's impossible. He can feel every part of her mouth moving toward his ears, her breath washing over his skin, the slight shift of her grip in his hair, and his skin practically tingles with anticipation, breath catching before a hard exhale. Then her lips brush his ear and he shudders hard, his tail closing down around hers.
And then the music. The music.
At first there's a flicker of recognition, and then that sensual pleasure curls around him and sets him aching so sweetly. This time when he gasps, it's followed closely by short-winded panting. The music flows to every part of him and how can he help but react in his hands, in his heart, in his hips, that perfect winding of tension that he only feels when he's submitting to someone's will.
He can't keep still, his body sliding against hers, overwarm and pleading, shameless. He's only distantly aware of that, his mind centered on the world she's weaving for him that curls through his mind, demanding his full attention. He either couldn't or doesn't wish to do anything but react, moaning long and low, in tune with the song as much as he can be (his voice warbles a bit, in rhythm with those little surges), clinging to her for grounding, legs squeezing her hips. He has seldom had so much fun while still fully dressed.
He's helpless to say it, but his body makes perfectly clear that in his moment, the only thing he desires in the world is more of her.
Re: + Miyuni - NSFW probably
Lips against his ears, one and both. Butterfly kisses and slow strokes, and the softest tease of teeth. Teeth against his throat — a tender clamp that says, you're right where I want you; I'm exactly where I want to be; stay — and a wet, silken heat enveloping his cock, swallowing down to the hilt.
Re: + Miyuni - NSFW probably
He's helpless and absolutely fine with that, less stroking her hair now than holding on for dear life as he moans and whines and moves, to the extent he can, along with her song. Her lips and then teeth find his ears and he shudders hard, hips bucking up. He's certain that she knew exactly how sensitive those are when she went for them. And she bites his neck once more, and he can feel the insinuation and almost laughs, he wouldn't move for anything. And then--
He often thinks of violin strings and piano wires in moments like this, overtuned and half a turn from snapping. It's apt enough, except that comparing her to anything less than perfectly in tune is a complete mismatch. Suffice it to say that his back arches off the silks and his claws scrape her scalp as he barely remembers to breathe between a sharp cry and the moans that follow. He wishes whether he knew if she likes having someone cry her name, she more than merits the honor if so, and if not it's far too gauche and if he offended her he might actually die.
Re: + Miyuni - NSFW probably
Still singing soft and sweet into his ear, lips never quite touching, drinking in the full sensory experience of his pleasure. He's desperate and gorgeous and utterly, ridiculously intoxicating, and her blood burns with how much she wants. She spins her own desire, her approval, her craving for and delight in him, back into their song, sharing herself with him, letting him feel -
The gentle glide of her fingertips tracing each of his ears in concert. Ruthlessly delicate hints of claw, of teeth; and all the while she has him by the throat, relishing the thrum of his pulse under her tongue; and all the while she lavishes his chest with biting kisses.
"Just like that," she purrs, moulding herself against him. Hip to hip, gentle and utterly immovable, granting him just enough room that he'll wish he had more. All that … and the same purr vibrating around him from root to tip, steadily ramping up in intensity the louder he sings for her.