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 After enough time, the others fail him. It is something that he has come to expect, and it no longer stings the way it once did. He was young then, and wanted too much from so many. Isobell, though, she’s never lied to him. Frustrated him, certainly, disappointed and enraged him. But she is always unapologetically herself, and as he stretches nudges her chin so that she’ll meet his gaze, he admits to himself that that is why she is so much better than the others. His forelegs hold her tightly against his chest, and the claws of his rear fins grip her hips relentlessly despite the frenzy of their motion. He gives to her exactly what she wanted, heeding the commands from her body. Thrust and rhythm and intensity just as she craves them. Ivar is also a little defiant, playful in his own way in spite of his instincts. Sometimes he doesn’t give exactly what she wants, he teases hers – holds that small bit of power over her. He makes her fight against him, to take it herself, only to suddenly provide what she needs again, his satisfaction hidden in a smile pressed to her shoulder. Only when he feels her moan against him does he truly lose himself, pressing gentle kisses and possessive nips down the tender column of her throat until he stiffens and spill himself within her. There is nothing but silence around them, and Ivar holds her to him for moment longer before releasing her from his embrace. He sinks down into the darker water only to slip back up again, nudging her up to where the early morning sheds light on their hours of lovemaking. “You are my favorite, you know,” he tells her as their heads breach, where the dawn tints the surface of the water with a soft pink light. Below, the saltwater is equally pink, the red of a dozen shallow wounds coloring the warm water. An expected twinge brings Ivar attention to his chest, where a few of his own scales are sore from the friction of their coupling. The kelpie touches them gingerly, but is soon distracted by the way the water laps at Isobell’s dark neck a few inches away. His previous compliment was as true as any he could utter, and he presses his shoulder to hers to see if simple nearness to her might rouse him again. It does. Ivar lifts a foreleg, intending to draw her nearer, below him again. king of loess minimal smoky grullo tobiano | equus kelpus