[mature] bottom of the deep blue sea; ivar

[Ivar]

I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take “Alright.” He says against her mane, the word sighed in defeat despite his lack of protest. He expects her to continue forward, to lead the way to whatever cave she shelters in, where he will stand guard. That is what their previous interactions have told him that she will do. She is, for some undeniably frustrating reason, resistant to his charms. When she does not, but rather draws nearer, runs her nose along his jaw, he remains still. His scaled skin quivers beneath her touch, but he does not react otherwise, not until he leans forward and presses his scaled mouth to her throat. The pulse of her heartbeat is hammering against his tongue like bird beating its wings against a cage. It would be easy – it would not be the first time – but there is, inexplicably, more value in keeping her whole. The inconsistency, her inability to fit neatly into his two classifications of other is maddening. She tastes like prey in his mouth, but the ravenous hunger that constantly drives him is curiously subdued. He wants her beneath the water, he realizes, but he does not want to leave her there, empty-eyed and lifeless as he has always left the others. “Isobell,” he says quietly into her neck, drawing away only to better run his jaw against the smooth ridge of her crest, “What are you doing?” He could accept disinterest – perhaps she preferred women or bays – but the way she run hot and cold and in circles around him is inexplicable. She wants him, he knows she does, and yet she alternates between keeping him at a distance and taunting him the way she does now. His weariness and the doubt in his control as a result of the nearby water has him irritable even as he runs his muzzle ever so gently down the slope of her shoulder. She is irritating too, with her refusal to submit when they both know she should, that she wants to, that he could make her happy. Another gust of wind bears down on the pair, a reminder of the coming winter. They are past the season of procreation (Ivar would know, having taken a fair number of chances at fatherhood), but the last vestiges of autumn remain in the fading pheromones of her skin and the lustful light in Ivar’s eye as he presses his teeth down painlessly on her withers, gripping her firmly as though to remind her of exactly what she is toying with. kelpie mimicry | dragon scales | tactile hypnosis