she’s got jumper cable lips
she’s got sunset on her breath. now i inhaled just a little bit, now i’ve got no fear of death
She is young and supple beneath his experienced weight, a young doe who has been swooned by the battle-scarred buck. He leaves her breathless with the force of his initial presence and a weak sob falls from her mouth at his entrance. Not even the height of her arousal could have prepared her for the violent way he drags her virginity away from her. Pain collides brutally with her lust for a few rough moments; Wishbone knows the ache he provides between her thighs will be one she will feel hours after he has left her.
And then he is promising, snatching her knotted mane into his mouth, and her lungs are able to choke down air before rising out into a noise that should sound like a siren’s lusty song to both stallion and kelpie. It isn’t long before she is pushing back, her hips rolling with the motion of his thrusts and increasing the tension that slathers itself between them. She will not ever be a ragdoll beneath the weight of a man — she will change beneath him, pushing into the strength of him and perhaps even manipulating their tempo, sweaty and arching her back into the slope of his underbelly.
It isn’t long before the ache from his entrance fades into sheer pleasure and Wishbone wonders why the fuck no one had told her about this sooner. Bruises will blossom on her ribs from the pressure of his hooves, bittersweet cuts will bead maroon blood on her spine from his scales, and her neck will be a constellation of teeth-markings — but the mahogany knows in an instant that she would (and will) never regret anything.
The water is up to her damp, heaving chest by the time he pauses in his movement. Her entire body is on fire, dangling on the edge of a cliff she had almost careened off of before he had stopped. A moan of frustration slips from her mouth at this thought — at how close she had been — and his warm voice encourages her supple hips to twist and grind up into him. “Ivar.” It’s a smoky, wanton word on her dark mouth and it sounds like a throaty prayer among the rush of the waves on the shore and the heaving of their panting lungs.
He had just finessed her release away from her grasp and now he forces it back against her with a heated kiss to her full lips and a demand. Wishbone is willing under his order, but she hadn’t been expecting his thrust and it sends her deeper into the ocean. The water soaks her throat as they both lose themselves in the same breath. She’s falling off the cliff now and the air around her is hotter than the worst of Tephra’s summer days.
Her mahogany body shudders beneath him, blood dripping heavily from her body and spilling into the moonglow ocean around them. When she resurfaces from that new, thriving, bewildering place there’s a warm glow within her. Wishbone is nearly swimming, being so deep in the water from their movement, and though her body aches from the exhaustion of their evening, she finds herself dipping below the waters and twisting deeper into the ocean. She’s surprisingly elegant in the water (even without the fanciful tails or water-wings his other endeavors might have) and when her head breaches from beneath the surface, she feels refreshed.
wishbone
@[Ivar] / *hoses down this thread with an entire ocean of water*