#((yeah...))

He's able to manipulate the spines, somewhat, to lay them a bit flatter, but it still feels like coarse sandpaper being scraped against your skin.

In the mornings you wake up to his generous grooming, licking your face and neck thoroughly to clean every bit of dirt and grime off of you, making sure not to leave anywhere untouched, unmarked.

In the afternoons, after a successful hunt, he beelines to you with the singular intent to give you his affectionate greeting-licks—you fight him each time, hollering things like please kindly wash your mouth of that bison's blood before you do that—and the abrasions leave you feeling rather tenderised.