01-06-2019, 12:54 AM
living for the past
because the future's gone. praying in the dark that you won't go home. i should've said it better, i should've set fire to a letter. but i could run to your apartment, hope i get it started better than before; and i could write it in a poem, pretend i used to know you better than before.
Wishbone won’t deny that Nerine is a rugged place only few can love. Her heart fell for the northern kingdom easily, but it might’ve only been due to her birth-home being its own extreme landscape. Her first year was spent among lava streams and sulfur, while the following years were spent with harsh rock and stormy gray seas. She’s always known of Ivar’s dislike of the kingdom, whether he announced it to her or not. Wishbone cannot help but laugh whenever she thinks of the irony of it; the handsome bachelor who woos all the ladies tossing his head at the thought of the brave windswept kingdom all the aforementioned ladies call home.
Yet Ivar had traveled to visit her; to leave his warm, clear oceans and swim along the shore to reach her bitter gray shores. So she travels to him; dragging herself away from the reunion of her Nerinian home to reach his Caribbean beachfront.
His touch ignites a fire upon her skin, one that seems to whisper a primal song against their sea-soaked knees. Wishbone’s smile glows from the last pieces of the dying sun at his whisper and at the way his head nestles against her throat (a blue-gold-white dipped ear pressing against the pinprick scar from his teeth in her youth). “I feel like there is no more world to discover,” she admits aloud. It’s quite honestly terrifying to think about for the wanderlust mare: a world in which each corner has been explored to its furthest point and she is forced to settle in a place that is too familiar.
Wishbone could expand upon all that she’d seen in her travels, but she merely leans into Ivar’s embrace instead. There are too many stories, and she doesn’t want to waste his night by telling them. A shiver trickles down her spine at his last question (a flashback to her days as Khaleesi, when his mouth on her neck and his forelegs around her shoulders brought her relief from both lust and responsibility) and Wishbone steps back to find his gaze with her own amber eyes. The shadow of the nighttime has found the curves of Ivar’s face in an appealing way — just as the glow of the slender moon illuminates the angles of her high cheekbones and the way her spine melts into her hips and her hips melt into the smooth slope of her legs.
“I might still return to Nerine.” Her commitment to the kingdom, and to the Leviathans who dwell within it, would make her father proud. “It seems like you have a large enough harem to care for already. I don’t want to… distract you.” A teasing smirk crosses Wishbone’s daring face and she laughs into the nighttime like the sound of a wild northern wave crashing against the face of a stone outcropping. “But I’m here now, Ivar.” She drags his name out with that unique accent of hers (the ’a’ held perhaps a touch longer than the rest of the letters, caressed in the fire and honey of her voice) as she always does. “Unless you want me to leave.” Wishbone knows that isn’t the case, but she dares him to tell her so.
Yet Ivar had traveled to visit her; to leave his warm, clear oceans and swim along the shore to reach her bitter gray shores. So she travels to him; dragging herself away from the reunion of her Nerinian home to reach his Caribbean beachfront.
His touch ignites a fire upon her skin, one that seems to whisper a primal song against their sea-soaked knees. Wishbone’s smile glows from the last pieces of the dying sun at his whisper and at the way his head nestles against her throat (a blue-gold-white dipped ear pressing against the pinprick scar from his teeth in her youth). “I feel like there is no more world to discover,” she admits aloud. It’s quite honestly terrifying to think about for the wanderlust mare: a world in which each corner has been explored to its furthest point and she is forced to settle in a place that is too familiar.
Wishbone could expand upon all that she’d seen in her travels, but she merely leans into Ivar’s embrace instead. There are too many stories, and she doesn’t want to waste his night by telling them. A shiver trickles down her spine at his last question (a flashback to her days as Khaleesi, when his mouth on her neck and his forelegs around her shoulders brought her relief from both lust and responsibility) and Wishbone steps back to find his gaze with her own amber eyes. The shadow of the nighttime has found the curves of Ivar’s face in an appealing way — just as the glow of the slender moon illuminates the angles of her high cheekbones and the way her spine melts into her hips and her hips melt into the smooth slope of her legs.
“I might still return to Nerine.” Her commitment to the kingdom, and to the Leviathans who dwell within it, would make her father proud. “It seems like you have a large enough harem to care for already. I don’t want to… distract you.” A teasing smirk crosses Wishbone’s daring face and she laughs into the nighttime like the sound of a wild northern wave crashing against the face of a stone outcropping. “But I’m here now, Ivar.” She drags his name out with that unique accent of hers (the ’a’ held perhaps a touch longer than the rest of the letters, caressed in the fire and honey of her voice) as she always does. “Unless you want me to leave.” Wishbone knows that isn’t the case, but she dares him to tell her so.
@[Ivar]