Wheeling Gull Isle bermuda, bahama; come on, pretty mama

She is serpentine and lithe, and she places each paw with care so meticulous it could be mistaken for poise or certainty; but when the behemoth dips his head and stretches his muzzle toward hers, her nervousness is made plain. A wild trembling takes up residence in her gamine musculature and her tufted ears fall submissively against the elegant slope of her skull. Neptune eyes blink, the rise and fall of delicate lashes slow and easy, and remain shyly half-lidded. Her body curves eloquently for him, the scalloped gradient of her ribs turned toward him to approach him in an appealing, nonthreatening manner, and the crenellated bridge of her spine dips so that her tail beats an eager tattoo against her spindly hocks.

She does not know why he is sad, but the feeling emanates off of him in waves of hurt — and although the base desire to claim and keep him still lingers, it is swept away by the need to comfort. She tilts her head to the side, angling her muzzle just slightly, to timidly press up and along the steel of his jaw and the plush of his cheek. She breathes in his scent and buries her nose against the heavy muscle over his collarbone, and she leans against him sideways — hips and shoulders tuck against his breast as she tips her head back, twisting it at what appears to be an impossible angle to look up at him. Why are you sad? I will make it better.