11-09-2019, 03:16 PM
The sympathy Pteron hears in Aquaria’s soft exhales softens the lines of his face, pressed against the side of her neck and curling in a smile she can’t yet see. The nereid’s remarkable ability to say – or not say – exactly what he needs to hear is one of her qualities he holds the most dear. He thinks of that, and of her other qualities as she speaks.
No pressure from her parents, she says, and Pteron wonders what they might be like. She has a sister too, it sounds like, who has made Aquaria an aunt several times over. Do they all live in the sea, he wonders? Would Aquaria’s children be as aquatic as she? The image of a fish he had once seen, hovering over a divot in the sand that Pteron’s father explained was a nest, flashes across the young stallion’s mind. Would there be hundreds? Or are nereids like horses, as her mention of a single sibling might suggest, and tend toward one at a time?
The humorous image of Aquaria hovering over an underwater nest was still tugging at the corner of his mouth when she’d asked about his neck.
After, he thinks only of the present.
She is gentle and cautious, the chill of her lips a vivid contrast to her warm breath. Pteron, for whom kisses are no stranger than hugs, exchanged in some level with most everyone, finds it utterly darling. The uncertainty, the tentative way she meets his gaze with her mouth against his. ‘Don’t fall in love with me,’ she warns, and his laugh shakes even the wing he has wrapped against her.
“I will do my best,” he tells her, pulling away with another kiss, this one quick but no less gentle, along her brow. She teases, but Pteron realizes would be easy to play along, easy to fall writhing into pleasure and only find out after how dreadfully they had knotted their friendship. That is not worth losing, even if it means sacrificing the steamy future he’d seen playing out when Aquaria had pressed her lips to his.
“I will do my best to not fall in love with you,” is punctuated with another kiss, this one lower – on the bridge of her news. “And you remember I’ve no intentions of settling down.” (oh, if only he knew what was being planned in a shadowy corner of the woods). This kiss lands on her lips, and though he remains attentive to her reaction to his words, his attention is also on the line of kisses that he marches across her cheek and then against her jaw. She tastes of salt, even this far from the sea, salt and that strange sweet fruit she’d shown him on one of his visits to Ischia.
He holds back to desire to add teeth to his kisses, cognizant of the endearing hesitance of their first embrace. Pressed against him, looking up, she seems somehow delicate. The desire to keep her safe rises for the first time, twining in a strange way with the heat that rushes through him at their nearness. “We should get out of the meadow,” he says finally against her throat, his voice unexpectedly ragged. Yet he is smiling when he meets her amethyst gaze. “I might get carried away, and surely you came here to see Taiga?” He does his best to make the last a question, reminding himself just as much as asking.
Aquaria hadn’t come here for what he is thinking of doing to her. He repeats this, yet is perpetually optimistic in the way that young men are. She hadn’t, but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t.
@[Aquaria]
No pressure from her parents, she says, and Pteron wonders what they might be like. She has a sister too, it sounds like, who has made Aquaria an aunt several times over. Do they all live in the sea, he wonders? Would Aquaria’s children be as aquatic as she? The image of a fish he had once seen, hovering over a divot in the sand that Pteron’s father explained was a nest, flashes across the young stallion’s mind. Would there be hundreds? Or are nereids like horses, as her mention of a single sibling might suggest, and tend toward one at a time?
The humorous image of Aquaria hovering over an underwater nest was still tugging at the corner of his mouth when she’d asked about his neck.
After, he thinks only of the present.
She is gentle and cautious, the chill of her lips a vivid contrast to her warm breath. Pteron, for whom kisses are no stranger than hugs, exchanged in some level with most everyone, finds it utterly darling. The uncertainty, the tentative way she meets his gaze with her mouth against his. ‘Don’t fall in love with me,’ she warns, and his laugh shakes even the wing he has wrapped against her.
“I will do my best,” he tells her, pulling away with another kiss, this one quick but no less gentle, along her brow. She teases, but Pteron realizes would be easy to play along, easy to fall writhing into pleasure and only find out after how dreadfully they had knotted their friendship. That is not worth losing, even if it means sacrificing the steamy future he’d seen playing out when Aquaria had pressed her lips to his.
“I will do my best to not fall in love with you,” is punctuated with another kiss, this one lower – on the bridge of her news. “And you remember I’ve no intentions of settling down.” (oh, if only he knew what was being planned in a shadowy corner of the woods). This kiss lands on her lips, and though he remains attentive to her reaction to his words, his attention is also on the line of kisses that he marches across her cheek and then against her jaw. She tastes of salt, even this far from the sea, salt and that strange sweet fruit she’d shown him on one of his visits to Ischia.
He holds back to desire to add teeth to his kisses, cognizant of the endearing hesitance of their first embrace. Pressed against him, looking up, she seems somehow delicate. The desire to keep her safe rises for the first time, twining in a strange way with the heat that rushes through him at their nearness. “We should get out of the meadow,” he says finally against her throat, his voice unexpectedly ragged. Yet he is smiling when he meets her amethyst gaze. “I might get carried away, and surely you came here to see Taiga?” He does his best to make the last a question, reminding himself just as much as asking.
Aquaria hadn’t come here for what he is thinking of doing to her. He repeats this, yet is perpetually optimistic in the way that young men are. She hadn’t, but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t.
@[Aquaria]
-- pteron --