Wheeling Gull Isle santeria

The girl returned his affections in kind, smelting into an atramentous puddle at his feet. The corners of his lips pulled upwards at such a reaction and, reluctant to let her descent throw his ministrations, the brute brought low his head and neck and continued to preen the feathered ear, moving from the tufted tip to the arced base. She tasted of salt, the richness of her coat still encumbered with the heaviness of the seawater. His had been, too; but his feral genes produced a coat that beaded and repelled water rather than absorbed it. A trait as unfamiliar as hers only further ensorcelled the angakkuq and he could not pull away.

So he didn’t! Instead, the brute allowed his legs to fold ‘neath him and he took up residence upon the ground, abreast the puddle that lived and breathed and crooned next to him. He could feel the drumbeat of his pulse thrum through his veins, rushed, then stilled, then rushed once more only to still again. It was foreign to a sang-froid man; this type of uncontrolled physical reaction, but he played into it easily. Lifting an arm over the girl’s gamine withers, he drew her into a close embrace and held her there as long as the flighty dove would allow him. 

The action was less amorous [thought there would always be a part of the man that would never not think of women this carnal way, and this young girl was the cream of such a crop] and more of revelry in familiarity. There was a neediness that emanated unbidden from Coelacanth — and he was willing to provide such comforts. Not only for her, but for him as well. “Stay.”  The mandate came gruffly, softly, reverberating amongst his vocal chords with sincerity and command. She did not seem like she was was keen on leaving, but he wanted the affirmation. If she stayed, food would come — he would make sure of it — but for the time being, it seemed the sheepdog was far more nurtured by his presence.