10-19-2017, 07:17 AM
 i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
Ahead of them, the sun sinks down behind the western mountains. A flare of color lights up the craggy vista – soft blue, pale lavender, rosegold. The winds that hurry the last visible clouds across the sky stirs the two horses as well, and Ivar’s attention is on a hank of Heda’s navy mane. It flutters in the wind, catching the last rays of light, and he tames it easily with a press of his muzzle. Many things are easy to tame (even those that are not his intention). “Needy, aren’t we?” She teases him, and a low rumble of laughter echoes from his throat. He had been demanding, he supposes with a moment of reflection, but he had never doubted that Heda would give him what he asked for. She’s always done so, even from the very moment they’d met. She’d swept him from frowning Merida, showing him the realm of Loess that he had come to see. Ivar had been barely more than a boy then, enthralled by the novelty of this strange land and the charming beauty of the buckskin queen. The winged mare had surprised him with the sudden reciprocation she’d shown, pressing herself against him when he had least expected it. Ivar wonders idly what had become of that odd little mouse. Now though, the stallion knows the reason. Even young, not quite in his prime, he was impossible not to desire. That’s been proven time and time again, especially recently, when the leaves have begun to fall. Heda had never had a choice, but as she glances bay at him coyly from over her shoulder, Ivar finds that it doesn’t matter. The kelpie smiles, already sated this evening by an equally willing mare. There is no need for Ivar to be anything but gentle as he moves forward, his bloodlust satisfied on skin far less precious than Heda’s. She asks him to show her his love. No, she demands it, because she is his queen. That gives him a different sort of thrill – pleasant certainly, but of a different sort. Ivar could oblige her easily, hook a leg over her hips and pull her to him. Instead, he chooses to toy with her for a moment, insatiably curious as to her reaction. “Haven’t I been?” He says quietly, the tone of his words and the soft kiss he presses to her hip an indication that he doesn’t expect it to be answered. Inch by inch he moves the scaled creature moves up Heda’s side, running his sleek muzzle in whirls and spirals along her golden coat. Heda had asked him to show her his love, but Ivar suspects it might be even more pleasant for her to beg him for it. Separate from his physical caresses, little bits of his lust pressed into her with each one, Ivar continues to speak, his voice low and muted. “Surely I’ve been proving my devotion?” He ducks beneath her wing, the warmth of his body pressed to hers as he sweeps his muzzle along her neck and shoulder. “Bringing in recruits, patrolling the border.” Her softly beating throat passes beneath his caress with no unnatural desire; (he could, but he does not need to.) “Making diplomatic visits, training for the guard.” He lists the accomplishments that she knows of, each of the contributions to the kingdom that she rules. Ivar, who was raised by a queen-mother who did not care much for kingdoms, cares little that Heda does not shoulder most of the responsibility of the kingdom. Heda is the decision-maker, it seems, the rest of the tasks fall to others – and in this case to Ivar. It has never bothered the young stallion, if anything he is grateful for responsibility to keep his mind and body occupied. There is only one time of year – this time of year – that he longs for more free time. He needs to pursue game in the autumn, and he has been. Tonight he’s returned from one such successful hunt, and Heda is the warmth that he intends to fall into before the day breaks. “What more could you want of me?” Ivar asks, having rounded her far side, pressing kisses laced with hypnotic lust, with desire, with need and urgency into every inch of her golden skin. Pivoting to stand beside her, he presses his scaled shoulder into the warmth of her barrel, his dark eyes dancing wickedly. |