[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 He wants to hear that squeal again, to feel it against his tongue as he tugs her beneath the water. There is some primal thrill in the action, an electricity that races through him. That instant her eyes blink shut is better than all the others, and she opens them again only to blind him with her smile. Ivar releases his toothsome grip around her throat but does not pull away from her. The dark water around them seems more frigid than before, and he is loathe to lose her warmth (or that pleasant friction against her thigh). Their nap has replenished him, it seems, but he pulls away with only the gentlest of nips at her scarred shoulder. The red haze has passed, that wild frenzy of reproduction and hormones. Yet she is still the loveliest thing he’s seen above or below the water, and the idea of leaving her for anything – for land, loess, or love of another – seems unfathomable. Anywhere, she tells him. There is a hiss of air exhaled between sharp teeth between her words, and the scaled creature slides inside her gracelessly as she repeats it. She is Ivar’s undoing even without touch, the same intangible bond that kept her at the beach sealed between them now. “I love you,” he commands, and it seems an odd thing to do until he follows with a: “know that I love you.” The kelpie punctuates it with a bite to her neck, a bite that he drinks from with gentle kisses even as he fills her with thrusts that are more instinctive than pleasure seeking. “Do you have more goodbyes to make this time?” He asks when their heads are above water and the moon is a sliver in the deep maroon sky. He is not thinking of the last time he’d said this, of when he’d lingered in Nerine only to find that her goodbyes would not end. He is only thinking of the future, of what wonders they might find beyond the edge of the horizon. “I hear there is a land of ice that never melts, and deserts so hot that it never rains.” Ivar lingers over the words, drawing them out as he draws his muzzle down the line of Isobell’s spine. “I think I’ll avoid the latter, but I’ve always fancied exploring a good glacier.” king of loess minimal smoky grullo tobiano | equus kelpus