11-30-2017, 01:22 PM
If this were a different time — a different year, a different month, a different day — he might have splashed into the rapids to reach her. His mouth might’ve formed her name a bit more urgently and a bit sweeter too. He might’ve tossed all sense to the wind and wrapped his loving arms around her sweaty, sex-stinking body.
Instead, he watches. Trekk knows her well enough to see the miniscule way her body tenses and her limbs lock into place. She becomes as still as the trunks around them and to anyone passing by she might appear as an exotic glowing tree forming right out of the shallows of the river. He knows better.
Despite the rough callus of his heart, he feels it — that deliciously painful ache that reminds him that he is alive and he loves her, even still.
Her voice rides toward him on the bubbles of the river and the invisible curl of the spring breeze. His name sounds thick on her tongue, just as welcoming as his own emotionless language. Trekk’s feet stir in the mud along the bank. He walks ankle-deep into the water, feeling the sting of the melting snow from the mountains. Pus and dried blood sloughs off his legs as he wades deeper toward her.
She is new and warm and bright.
He is old and infectious and gloomy.
The entirety of their relationship has been spent back-and-forth. She’s flitted between one scandalous lover and the next, fucking whoever has the capability, and he has loved her (always, always loved her) even still. It’s tortured him and he’s finally out of the prison chambers.
His next words are biting, unleashing all of the spite he’s kept buried inside over the years.
“Going for a dip to wash off the latest stud’s saliva and semen?”
@[Noori]
Instead, he watches. Trekk knows her well enough to see the miniscule way her body tenses and her limbs lock into place. She becomes as still as the trunks around them and to anyone passing by she might appear as an exotic glowing tree forming right out of the shallows of the river. He knows better.
Despite the rough callus of his heart, he feels it — that deliciously painful ache that reminds him that he is alive and he loves her, even still.
Her voice rides toward him on the bubbles of the river and the invisible curl of the spring breeze. His name sounds thick on her tongue, just as welcoming as his own emotionless language. Trekk’s feet stir in the mud along the bank. He walks ankle-deep into the water, feeling the sting of the melting snow from the mountains. Pus and dried blood sloughs off his legs as he wades deeper toward her.
She is new and warm and bright.
He is old and infectious and gloomy.
The entirety of their relationship has been spent back-and-forth. She’s flitted between one scandalous lover and the next, fucking whoever has the capability, and he has loved her (always, always loved her) even still. It’s tortured him and he’s finally out of the prison chambers.
His next words are biting, unleashing all of the spite he’s kept buried inside over the years.
“Going for a dip to wash off the latest stud’s saliva and semen?”
@[Noori]