08-23-2023, 03:27 PM
it's a mystery to me
we have a greed with which we have agreed. you think you have to want more than you need; until you have it all you won't be free. and when you think more than you want, your thoughts begin to bleed.
Wishbone lets herself melt under his hypnosis, under the warmth he brings as he moves closer. Her memories and the guilt that comes with them are heavy, and she feels their weight less while his eyes burn into her. As his gaze traces the line of her neck up to her mouth, she shivers. It is in anticipation of what she knows is to come, rather than the night-cold ocean water. She feels hyper in expectation for the splintering of her body — for the few, blissful moments where she can focus on the shattering pain of death rather than the endless grief.
She tips her chin upward again, her amber eyes finding the details of the galaxy above their heads. Yet — there is no bite to her skin, no spray of blood flavoring the ocean, no sensation of shattering into a thousand pieces and reforming. He has hesitated, and Wishbone wonders if he is beginning to remember. If he has not recognized her, Ivar is at least smart enough to notice she has performed this dance before, that she knows what tempts a kelpie.
When he touches her, she leans into it. He urges her honesty to his questions, and Wishbone feels herself relaxing further into his guidance. It is easier to let her mind drift, to give into Ivar’s power, to allow herself to indulge in the heat that simmers under her skin at his proximity. “As much as I like swimming, there are other things I like more.”
She responds to the desires of her body and moves in the water elegantly (though she is not of the sea in the ways he is, she has spent enough of her life among the tides to move with grace). She dances around him, her warm mouth tracing the lines of his deepwater-cold scales. They have moved this way together before, in the tides of a beach now submerged. She wonders if he recognizes her steps, for she has always moved the same way despite her various forms over the years. Wishbone knows how he will move in response to her, and her movements are in time with his.
Does she dare tell him now? She contemplates letting him keep wondering; maybe he thinks she is a mind reader, with how in-tune her actions are with his. Though she knows enough about Ivar that he might not even remember her name, should she give it? How many other lovers has he dragged under the water, ripping their throats to shreds and feasting on their blood? Wishbone can imagine she is just another name, just another meal to fill his belly all those years ago.
It’s enough to keep her quiet about her secret. Yet Wishbone can’t help herself when she feels on fire — when not even the deep of the night is enough to cool her burning. She writhes against him, and his name slides from her mouth in that familiar honey-whiskey voice. “Ivar.”
She tips her chin upward again, her amber eyes finding the details of the galaxy above their heads. Yet — there is no bite to her skin, no spray of blood flavoring the ocean, no sensation of shattering into a thousand pieces and reforming. He has hesitated, and Wishbone wonders if he is beginning to remember. If he has not recognized her, Ivar is at least smart enough to notice she has performed this dance before, that she knows what tempts a kelpie.
When he touches her, she leans into it. He urges her honesty to his questions, and Wishbone feels herself relaxing further into his guidance. It is easier to let her mind drift, to give into Ivar’s power, to allow herself to indulge in the heat that simmers under her skin at his proximity. “As much as I like swimming, there are other things I like more.”
She responds to the desires of her body and moves in the water elegantly (though she is not of the sea in the ways he is, she has spent enough of her life among the tides to move with grace). She dances around him, her warm mouth tracing the lines of his deepwater-cold scales. They have moved this way together before, in the tides of a beach now submerged. She wonders if he recognizes her steps, for she has always moved the same way despite her various forms over the years. Wishbone knows how he will move in response to her, and her movements are in time with his.
Does she dare tell him now? She contemplates letting him keep wondering; maybe he thinks she is a mind reader, with how in-tune her actions are with his. Though she knows enough about Ivar that he might not even remember her name, should she give it? How many other lovers has he dragged under the water, ripping their throats to shreds and feasting on their blood? Wishbone can imagine she is just another name, just another meal to fill his belly all those years ago.
It’s enough to keep her quiet about her secret. Yet Wishbone can’t help herself when she feels on fire — when not even the deep of the night is enough to cool her burning. She writhes against him, and his name slides from her mouth in that familiar honey-whiskey voice. “Ivar.”
@Ivar