Stavanger Bay her early leaf's a flower

Rusty. Getting back in the swing of things! Posts may be clunky for awhile. ;-;
Sorry for Szymon. He is grumpy. x__x;

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Szymon’s ginger-laced tail took up an agitated flickering as salt-damp hackles spiked along his spine, shoulders, and hips; his eyes, as golden as his mate’s, widened at her promise of defiance. He was irritated with her impetuousness and only just recovered from the panic engendered by the thought of losing her — but beneath his current of bad temper ran a steely thread of pride at how utterly fierce she was. He was determined that no other would have her, not even the Sea Herself. He stood his ground whilst the Atoll made her approach, his bristled tail curving high above his back and his narrow skull assuming a position of dominance greater than Doe’s own — out of habit, he kept his muzzle tucked to protect his throat, but his tall, tattered ears were thrust boldly forward upon his crown and his carriage did not bend for her. The voice of reason that so often curbed his tongue and pulled his punches was crushed within the monster’s grip as he curled his lips and growled his displeasure, an undulating, guttural current of ire that emptied his lungs.

Doe had chosen Szymon to be her mate, and to the naturally submissive seawolf, this meant she called the shots. Moreover, she was the pack’s witch doctor and Skellige’s Atoll. She outranked Szymon in every way a wolf could outrank him — but in this situation, on this matter, he would not yield. He would willingly hunt for her, provide for her, kill for her, and die for her — but he would not tolerate anything that could be deemed interference during The Drop, especially if he felt her life or the lives of their unborn children might be harmed in the process. Even Szymon couldn’t put into words what he wanted from Doe in this moment — or what he expected from chastising her so boldly. He was just…angry. “Then you are foolish,” he spat, answering her unspoken reply. The rumble in his throat was unceasing, rubbing each syllable raw so they emerged from him like barbed, abrasive things aimed to draw blood. “I know very little about p-pregnancy,” he admitted begrudgingly, his tongue tripping inconveniently, “but at least I know you are not supposed to jump off cliffs.”

It made him angry all over again, recalling the silhouette of her small, infinitely precious form as she leapt headlong after Qilaq — and he knew it wasn’t the babies he worried about. It was Doe — only Doe. They could — and likely would — have more litters; the process of creating them was worlds away from repugnant and just next door to intoxicating. But there would never be another female as magnificent as Doe, who fit him so well and brought him such joy. Allowing himself to get so angry was dangerous, but he was past the point of cooling off and walking away — though he knew it to be a mistake, he took a single threatening step toward his odd-eared love against his better judgment and rumbled venomously, displaying every tooth in his mouth. Movement out of the corner of his eye let him know that Qilaq could hear him and was responding to him, but he could not draw his eyes away from the petite, defiant seabird.

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