[private] could i use you as a warning sign

[Ivar]

i'll use you as a makeshift gauge
of how much to give and how much to take

He had not meant to look, but she makes it hard not to.

The wings had caught his attention first. Wings like Azar’s, soft and feathered, though these are as teal as the waters around Ischia. Ivar had probably been staring a little too long, tracing the line of her wings, and then the matching teal of her mane and tail. She looks very soft.

(patience. they will come to you.)

He draws her in without effort, the slow-developing gifts of his father finally revealing themselves. The smoky black colt had been a homely child, but he’s finally becoming a handsome man.

(see. here she comes.)

Too handsome, really; his other charms are minimal in situations such as these. Ivar doesn’t know how to flirt or tease or seduce, but he willingly follows along. She does most of the work, beckoning him to the water as though he needed an invitation, sliding her soft black muzzle along his sides. It is difficult to think, but she doesn’t seem to mind; she doesn’t really seem to want to talk anyway.

Truly, he’s not entirely sure what she wants.

(it doesn’t matter what she wants. she will take what you give her)

He can’t quite fathom what drives her, but he is an adolescent and it takes little to awaken something similar in himself. Mother has told him to stop looking at girl, but this dunskin horse isn’t really a girl; she’s a woman. And she seems to want him to look at her, and do more than look.

(your turn first, take what she will give you.)

Ivar is cautious at first, placing a gentle kiss on her neck. She leans into him, and he does it again, nipping at the edge of her jaw. The resulting groan is thrilling, as are the breathy sighs as he trails kisses down the length of her spine. Another nip at her rump sends her farther into the water, and he doesn’t stop driving her forward until they’re chest deep in the sea. The water is cold against the fire in his blood, and for a moment he is lost in the way her feathered wings look below the dusk-dark water. Like seaweed, he thinks. She’s reaching for him before he can wonder much more, rubbing the crest of her teal mane against the lower curve of his neck, sliding past him in the water to give him a look over her shoulder that any man would recognize.

(take more.)

This time he isn’t cautious. This is natural. He lifts, pull her closer beneath him. Beside him, her wings spread beneath the surface of the water, and he watches as they curl and flex as she moans beneath him.

(take more.)

The impassioned nipping at her neck become harder, harder until he tastes more in his mouth than hair and skin. It is the sharp copper tang of blood. Ivar does not think he likes the taste of it but she continues to quake, groaning and still begging for more.

(she wants it. she does. take it all.)

Her wings still look like seaweed, down there at the bottom of the ocean.


RIP Lainat and Ivar’s virginity

IVAR