03-08-2019, 09:56 AM
Whatever warning bells might have sounded at Sabra's uncharacteristic behavior have been entirely muffled by those same actions. The kelpie is a cautious creature, but he has never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth - especially not one so tempting as the winged mare. A better man might have weighed the cost of immediate pleasure against the burden of regret, but Ivar is all but incapable of contrition. The knowledge that she belongs to someone else is less important than the way she leans against him, the soft curve of her side tucked neatly into his own.
He'd raised two of Castile's sons, says the small part of him that might feel remorse; the dragon surely wouldn't mind letting him borrow their mother for a while.
She clearly wants to be borrowed, after all, and as she tugs him closer Ivar laughs and considers keeping her for longer. She's borne dragons, after all. Whose to say she might not bear kelpies as well? That thought is just as heady as the purr of Sabra's voice, and strong enough that he can ignore the unnatural spark of her parted wings. She is something different than she'd been; something he might not have chosen to hunt. His dislike of her new magic summons a frown for just an instant, but her questions distract him and he glances back into her pale eyes with a wicked smile.
"No," he answers. "I gave up trying to understand women years ago." He smiles as he says it, the light in his golden eyes growing brighter as she nips at him with her dull teeth. Sabra is very much a stranger to him, he realizes.
He's only ever found her weary from birth or beaten and bleeding in the past, but this sparking woman is a different sort of creature entirely. Is this what had drawn Castile to her, Ivar wonders? And if it had been, how could the dragon have left her go?
It doesn't matter, the kelpie decides.
She is his now.
Faster than seems possible, he twists his head about. Too-long jaws snap around the softness of Sabra's throat, and Ivar is not careful about piercing her skin. He wants to hear the rapid increase in her heartbeat, the realization that she is in over her head, the delicious terror of an animal being hunted. He does not hold her long, for there are other things he craves as well. Everywhere his teeth touch her skin he presses hunger, desire, lust, and then his soft muzzle ghosts across her jaw, and each contact is heat and fervor and (because he can never help his nature) fear.
The point of her withers receives a kiss of wantoness, but the lips that trace the myriad of scars down her spine are empty of anything but his own heat. The curve of her hips is thick with muscle and Ivar's mouth waters involuntarily. He is not immune to his own hyponotic sensations, after all. He considers it - tearing into that opalescent skin - but the water laps only at his knees and the spice of her arousal is a reminder of the one season in which he does not kill.
"Tell me you want this," says the stallion who has forced the need for it into her mind. "Say it," he says as he brushes his muzzle against the base of her sunrise tail. The blood is so near the surface here; he can taste it even through her heady arousal. No, he reminds himself, no. It is nearly futile, and he distracts himself with something he has not tried before. Stepping forward, he presses his chest against her hindquarters and presses the command to climax into her mind.
@[Sabra]
well that was pretty spicy for 9 in the morning o.0
He'd raised two of Castile's sons, says the small part of him that might feel remorse; the dragon surely wouldn't mind letting him borrow their mother for a while.
She clearly wants to be borrowed, after all, and as she tugs him closer Ivar laughs and considers keeping her for longer. She's borne dragons, after all. Whose to say she might not bear kelpies as well? That thought is just as heady as the purr of Sabra's voice, and strong enough that he can ignore the unnatural spark of her parted wings. She is something different than she'd been; something he might not have chosen to hunt. His dislike of her new magic summons a frown for just an instant, but her questions distract him and he glances back into her pale eyes with a wicked smile.
"No," he answers. "I gave up trying to understand women years ago." He smiles as he says it, the light in his golden eyes growing brighter as she nips at him with her dull teeth. Sabra is very much a stranger to him, he realizes.
He's only ever found her weary from birth or beaten and bleeding in the past, but this sparking woman is a different sort of creature entirely. Is this what had drawn Castile to her, Ivar wonders? And if it had been, how could the dragon have left her go?
It doesn't matter, the kelpie decides.
She is his now.
Faster than seems possible, he twists his head about. Too-long jaws snap around the softness of Sabra's throat, and Ivar is not careful about piercing her skin. He wants to hear the rapid increase in her heartbeat, the realization that she is in over her head, the delicious terror of an animal being hunted. He does not hold her long, for there are other things he craves as well. Everywhere his teeth touch her skin he presses hunger, desire, lust, and then his soft muzzle ghosts across her jaw, and each contact is heat and fervor and (because he can never help his nature) fear.
The point of her withers receives a kiss of wantoness, but the lips that trace the myriad of scars down her spine are empty of anything but his own heat. The curve of her hips is thick with muscle and Ivar's mouth waters involuntarily. He is not immune to his own hyponotic sensations, after all. He considers it - tearing into that opalescent skin - but the water laps only at his knees and the spice of her arousal is a reminder of the one season in which he does not kill.
"Tell me you want this," says the stallion who has forced the need for it into her mind. "Say it," he says as he brushes his muzzle against the base of her sunrise tail. The blood is so near the surface here; he can taste it even through her heady arousal. No, he reminds himself, no. It is nearly futile, and he distracts himself with something he has not tried before. Stepping forward, he presses his chest against her hindquarters and presses the command to climax into her mind.
@[Sabra]
well that was pretty spicy for 9 in the morning o.0