Wheeling Gull Isle angry smol

Seelie’s jaws snipsnap like a tiny crocodile’s, and when a low growl reverberates from her mate’s cavernous chest, she wriggles and redoubles her efforts. If she were able, she would have chattered at him the entire time, warbling and jabbering and generally trying to talk over him. As it is, her sassy, “In case you forgot, I do what I want,” whispers are barely audible over the splashing, sneezing, and growling.

Stockholm interrupts her (the audacity!) by staggering dramatically and dragging them both under, dropping like a stone under her rain of abuse. Instead of popping up right away, she cleaves to the pebbly bottom and circles around to his hindquarters; then she pokes him with her sharply tapered nose right in the thick part of his haunch (a couple of inches east of the Danger Zone), “goosing” him.