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    Svedka -- Year 212


    “He only knows home in his dreams and even those dreams do not mimic large, centuries-old redwoods. Lio doesn't remember the last time he laid his head down and truly felt comfortable.” --Elio, written by Phaetra

    [mature]  Trekk.
    Most days, most days stay the sole same
    Please stay, for this fear it will not die
    Down low, down amongst the thorn rows
    Weeds grow, through the lilies and the vines

    The feeling was like a subatomic black hole causing her being to collapse in on itself piece by piece, atom by atom. Sucked in, especially in her throat - a shortening, a lessening, a closing of what once blossomed. The infinite and endless spiral towards exhausted nothingness that never ended.

    And how she hated it.

    The warping of her flesh and bone left only a shell of a mare, though in truth, she did not spend much of her time as such. Spring girl, spring baby. A well aged fairy child, having never learned how to handle responsibility. In this new Beqanna especially, she had no place. She had nothing; no one; not even herself.

    She spent her falls and winters in hibernation; needing only the light rays of the sun and occasionally some water to stay alive, the magical mare subsided into herself so greatly that, during the cold seasons, she shriveled up into an odd looking tree stump and took on the appearance of death. Yet come every spring, as the sun warmed her alabaster hide and dogwood flowers once more, the softly red-and-green glowing woman would be forced to awake.

    This was one of those mornings. Her slumber had started to become interrupted, and subconsciously, in her dreams, she knew that spring was coming; winter was ending; and her reprieve from the terrors of reality was coming to a close. And today, it finally did. The boughs and branches of her figure began to unfurl from their knotted form of a disfigured horse lying on the ground. The flowers in her mane and tail opened and reached desperately for the thin sunlight. And when her eyes opened, their glow took many moments to return; it was as if the black hole within her was running along the wall, flipping on all the switches all at once, though she was simply incapable of processing all the information at once.


    That happened to be the magician's first thought, believe it or not. Of all the things she could recollect (Trekk, her sons and daughter, her parents, her kingdom, her life), water came first. And as she lifted her head from the muddy earth, she heard the rumble of a river.

    Convenient. I thought ahead.

    With a great, noisy, and utterly inelegant effort, Noori heaved herself on to all fours. As her stumbling, infantile steps brought her closer and closer to the water, small flowers began to grow behind her in a sweet little trail, and the grass was visibly greener. Usually, Noori did not allow this function of her magic to be apparent; but she was running on the reserves of the past summer, and her mind simply had to make sacrifices.


    There is something to be said here about the character of this little nymph; how exactly that thing can be said in a good light considering the circumstances, one cannot be certain.

    Bobbing up from her cannon ball into the relatively deep river, Noori was a new mare. Her eyes shone like balls of green fire, and her bark began to unfurl itself from its tight grasp on her body, allowing the red and green glow of her form to perforate her alabaster skin. Reaching some higher ground, Noori threw back her head and shook vigorously, droplets of water raining down like beads of mana. In every way, she was at that moment a Victoria's Secret model, except with the unassuming air of a maiden.

    And for a moment, the black hole ceased to kill her.


    Heads up: this thread accidentally turns into smut. And it is mature smut. Do not read on if that will offend you <3
    He isn’t dead.

    It’s a magical feat that Trekk’s body is not a pile of decomposing flesh and bone upon the bone-white shores of the beach. There had been a time when every cliff, every deep pool of water, and every sharp tree branch had called to him (“Jump  and fall off us!” or “Drown your troubles in us!” or “Pierce your shattered heart on us!”) and it had taken every fiber of his being to resist their temptations.

    The sickly darkness inside him has never left.

    But he has grown firm over the years. Perhaps it is thanks to her absence. Trekk has suffered the life of a soft, abused heart for too long and now he has finally toughened the edges of his shattered, duct-taped, glued-together soul into something stronger. Into a soul that is worth relying on, rather than having to rely on.

    He’s tried to keep tabs on their children over the years - knowing that his spring goddess would do none of that. They were both silent for some time, their boys, but eventually Takei began rustling at the more well-worn corners of Beqanna. Trekk resisted the urge to shoulder his son’s sorrows in the field, when he had screamed to the sky, but the dun mare had been there for comfort in his stead.

    Daemron still remains dormant and ignorant of life.

    Her splash startles his thoughts. He’d been drinking peacefully at the bend of the river when the loud sounds of water moving and the ripples of the water disturbed brought his head up rapidly. She surfaces, like a water nymph, like a diamond from the mine, like a spring goddess. He is quiet.

    He is so, so quiet.

    Trekk’s feathers shuffle against his thin sides for a moment. Normally, the large festering wound on his right hip would be bothering him, crying for an itch against a tree. It says nothing, cries nothing, wants for nothing.

    And then, “Noori?”

    Most days, most days stay the sole same
    Please stay, for this fear it will not die
    Down low, down amongst the thorn rows
    Weeds grow, through the lilies and the vines

    It's the first word she has heard in months. The first sound coming from a conscious creature, from a thoughtful, intelligent creature. The woman had nearly forgotten that such other creatures existed, that she was not alone in her intelligence. Maybe she hadn't forgotten, though, maybe it was more of an intentional obliviousness. She was ever so good at denial.

    When her breathing catches in her throat and her legs become like trunks in the river bed, she knows it is him. When her heart breaks and her stomach churns, she knows it is him. When that feeling of guilt and love mixes in her guts, she fucking knows that it's him. And it hurts. It's the bile of a thousand years of sickness - a burning acidity that is sure to leave her gagging.

    "Trekk." The name slips from her like a stone, heavy but emotionless. She does not know how to feel, not any more, not since she knows how awful she's been, how aloof and otherworldly and unfaithful. Her eyes cannot even bare to see him, and like the trunks of her legs, they are rooted in to river bed.

    She knows it is him.

    And that undeniable tug is pulling at her every fiver, begging her to relent and to collapse into him with wracking sobs and inconsolable chaos and misery. It has been so long - she has been literally sleeping it away - and yet still he is here.

    Always, always here.

    He deserved better; and at best she was a consolation prize that stank of other men and tasted of betrayal.


    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?”

    Most days, most days stay the sole same
    Please stay, for this fear it will not die
    Down low, down amongst the thorn rows
    Weeds grow, through the lilies and the vines

    His legs carry him towards the place where she is rooted, carry his scent and his breath and his being just outside of her grasp, just so far the she can't reach out and touch him. Oh, how she wants to touch him. His mottled fur and rotting flesh are no deterrent, they barely even register in her mind - she thinks only of his touch and of his embrace, of how so very, very long it has been since her last encounter with him. With her true love.

    Her true love.

    His words shatter her fortifications, a pin pricking a solid wall of titanium and rendering it to dust. The trunks of her legs completely give out, and she stumbles, catching herself momentarily before completely losing her footing with her forelegs. Her knees slam into the river bed and her nostrils inhale the bristling water; she resurfaces coughing and bleeding green sap, both from her knees and from her eyes. The tears are sticky and move so slowly down her face, it's as if it will take hours for the first one to fall.

    "Trekk," She says again, her voice tremulous and barely loud enough to hear over the sound of the river. The word is only one yet so much is said, the pain in the back of her throat, her guilt, her plea for forgiveness, the thousands of apologies she has yet to give but that he deserves, every single one of them he deserves. Noori steps to him, her once strong frame wracked with noiseless sobs and desperation - she reaches for him, her eyes pleading, begging, not knowing any better. She is a child before him, desolate and covered in filth. Her lips peel back in a grimace, her eyes clenching shut as the sobs overpower her.

    It is half a minute before the sobs suddenly stop short, her eyes opened and her breath not coming at all. Stop, she tells herself. Stop, or you'll lose him again.

    Her body had buckled in on itself, curling into a tight dogwood-clump of misery. She stretches out now, snot running down her alabaster muzzle, the sap-tears plentiful around her eyes, but barely any length down her face.

    "I haven't been with anyone, Trekk, not anyone since you." And it's true, but she knows that her carousing with Sinder and Eight and all the others from that time beg of his heart to break. "Not since we made Takei, Trekk, not since that night." Her voice is pleading, desperate, inconsolable save for by the man before her. She reaches for him again, this time without the sobs but with all the same intensity and need.

    "Baby, please, I'm here now.
    I missed you, please, please come to me.
    I'm right here, sweetheart, let me hold you - please Trekk, please baby, I won't hurt you again, I won't."
    And she knew it was true - but she had hurt him so much, so badly, that she knew he had every right to spurn her. Again and again and again. She knew.

    As her gentling words tumble recklessly from her lips, medicinal plants sprout from the river bed and begin winding themselves around the stallion's abused legs. Yarrow, goldenrod, and calendula. They press tightly into his open wounds, splitting apart and spilling their salves and potions into the infections, cuts, scrapes, bruises. Her control over the plants is only subconscious, they physical embodiment of her will for him to heal and to be whole and well. She wants the world for him - but as they stand there, all she can give him is the temporary relief from the misery of his wounds.


    She sobs and he finds it ironic. Throughout the abuse of their relationship, it had always been him (the one reaching forward with longing arms, the one sobbing into the river, the one crouched on its knees to beg) and he can’t resist the crude smile that flashes across his mouth. But he can’t deny that his heart is not steel all the way through. Although calloused on the outside, the interior is bleeding for her.

    So the smile fades into confusion. He is torn between two drastically different sides of himself. The ghost of his former, longer-lived self whispers to cup her weeping face with raw hands and soothe her into a peaceful sleep against his chest. His hard-edged newness persuades him to unleash the full ferociousness of the anger he’s kept pent up inside him for years (to scream in her face, to sneer at her tears, to push her into the depths of the rapids and leave her there).

    Her love blossoms to relieve his rotting, infectious skin.

    The plants are like her kisses on his skin, gentle and soothing. Despite his attempts to hold the bitterness close, he feels the armor of his heart flake off his body like the shedding of a reptile’s skin. He melts, as he always has for her. He chokes on a shuddering breath before stepping into her embrace. She is rough against his blood (there had been a time when he had kissed her freckled cheeks — cheeks which now hide behind white bark and glowing curves) but he leans into her nonetheless.

    “My spring goddess.” It is a song, sweet and guilty on his cracked lips. “Save your tears.”

    He has always been a man of few words. He knows she will understand him without them.

    Most days, most days stay the sole same
    Please stay, for this fear it will not die
    Down low, down amongst the thorn rows
    Weeds grow, through the lilies and the vines

    She doesn't see his crude smile - the thick film of her tears leaves Trekk only a shadow, a shadow of the man she knew as a child, as a frolicsome girl - all blushes and quiet smiles, freckled cheeks and soft, oh so soft kisses. A thousand years ago, in another world and at another time, they existed. A peripheral existence, not seen from straight on; the type of life that is lived so freely that every tiny detail is felt, every fractional brushing of his skin against hers a lifetime of happiness.

    And then, a lifetime of sorrow. Each granular moment degrading her foundation with such swift and cutting movements - a going away of emotion so rapid that, in fact, she herself was gone away too. So far from this realm that time enveloped her being, armored her in woods so white that the cherry of her cheeks disappeared into time itself - remembered only, a fading taste of a lover's fluid that was at once salty and sweet, thick and dissipating.

    She tastes him now.

    He steps into her as he always has, as he always will, as he was always meant to. His body against hers, snagging on the rough edges of her exterior, but melting and combining and becoming one with her underneath once more. Her tongue, the only soft part of her, suckles the soft underside of his shoulder, where his skin is loose and flexible and fits perfectly into the folds of her mouth as she sucks him in, drinks him and becomes of him. There are flowers in her breath, flowers of mourning but also of new birth - a goodbye to the heartbreak, and a hello to the lovers embrace they shall share forever more.

    "I am yours, Trekk," she whispers, moving her lips up to the tangled knots of his mane. She preens them, pulls them, feels the fluidity of his flesh beneath her touch. He responds to her every beck and call, the sinews of his flesh bending to her will like bees to flowers; her touch becomes more insistent, needing more of him, more, it will never be enough - there will never be enough time for her to make up for the harm she has dealt, for the heartbreak she has squandered on her darling.

    She breaks from him suddenly, and her lips feel empty without the coarse fibers of his hair tangled between them. The emptiness of her soul as their skin becomes separate is a vacuum, the void of space consuming all matter before it, stars and worlds and beings and gods - all consuming, destroying all in her path with a dead passion so strong that not even time itself could envelope its chaos.

    "Trekk, I... I've been practicing, with my magic, I've been dreaming and working an-and-" Her eyes are worried, panicked, too long without him and he will become only her shadow once more. "Just watch, okay?"

    It happens slowly - for a long while, it seems as if nothing is being done at all. She only stands - the breeze tumbling her willow-tree locks, caressing the dogwood flowers that blossom from between her cracked bark. Her glowing green eyes are filled with concentration, the pulsating of her glowing innards growing more and more fervent. The wind screams, coiled barb and poison icy sprouts like wildfire along the riverside, storm clouds brew over head with an unearthly speed. For a moment, it seems as if she is calling upon all her power to end them both, to crush their existence, to render the passion of their story into a forgotten whisper of wasted grace.


    Not a leaf stirs; the clouds pause; she does not glow at all. The rough folds of her bark turn inwards. The cracks of her being meld together, the seams that were ripped by the gods sewn delicately back together. Then small hair fibers form; still alabaster white, but growing, ripening, coming to fruition. The silence is unbearable. Her eyes never leave his, never once, she does not even blink. Her colour returns; her blush; her youth.

    She is tiny again. Two hands shorter than him, a rosy river child. She stands before him as he met her; and the last parts of her to drain themselves of magic are her eyes. Her pupils resurface, and she blinks. He is no longer a shadow. He is her everything. Her lover. Her sun. The only song she will ever even wish to sing.

    "It's me, Trekk. Your baby." She smiles, her rosy lips trembling with a love so forcefully felt that she wishes she could stay this way forever. But already her hold on this foreign magic is weakening.

    A step forward. Her skin against his. The soft, delicate folds of her body tracing every possible line, every possible crease and curve, her lips making love to his every part, to the soft spot behind his ankle bones, sending shivers down his spine with a warm breath placed there. They are in tandem, they are in concert, a wavering flounce of love that shall inevitably fail. Her hips call to his deep seated desires, beg of him a deed so sacred that she regrets ever sharing it with anyone except him. Her tail tangles itself around his leg; she goes round and round, dancing with him, pressing her lips and her skin and her freckled cheeks to each of his surfaces. Her tongue mingles with the delicate skin within his ears, beneath his eyes, far below his stomach where only she has ever tasted and been one with. She fixates on him, sends her breath and her tongue and her body running down his every crevice, tracing him with such intimacy that there is no time for thoughts, no time for sadness any more.

    "Touch me, Trekk," She breathes, desperate, longing, knowing that it will not be long before she returns to her hardened, magicked self. Her hands are around grabbing at the muscles of his back, her lips pressed against the underside of his jaw - the highest she can reach while standing on her tiptoes. Her breasts are nestled tightly against his muscled chest, her leg raising and begging to be taken into his arms, for him to hoist her up and toss her as if she weighs nothing, but means everything. He smells beautiful. He tastes angelic.

    "Make me yours."


    Idk if this counts as smut but it's getting there.
    Magically described them as human because sue me.
    They melt into one another. Deep red and pale ivory kisses chalky bark and glowing emerald. They meet in a sweet embrace and for a breathless moment there is no time. It is only the two of them — decay and rebirth — caught in a lapse of dimensions. The sun might rise or fall, the waves might tug in or pull out, the seasons may shift from spring to summer but they are caught in a blissful home where it is the two of them — decay and rebirth — standing close enough that her warmth melts any frost that lingers over his bittersweet heart.

    Her mouth finds a delicate piece of his otherwise muscular body. The softest of sighs leaves his parted lips. The feeling of her against him (of her curves against his muscle, of her mouth against his skin, of her whispered lullabies in his ears) is something he has dreamt most of his sorrowful life. Even as she spent her sweat and purity on the others, he slept nestled against some weary willow tree with her in his thoughts. She is here now though, and the vengeance that might have lingered in his chest cavity is swept away by the sweetness of her tongue on his shoulder.

    She finally says it (“I am yours, Trekk”) and his grim lips pull into a wild smile. The sound of her whispering tune is the melody to a song he has waited too many years to hear. It warms the very core of him until he is hot with delight, writhing with relief, prancing with victory. She gently unknots the coarseness of his locks and he bows her head to her teeth. He is enslaved by her love, but it is of his own choosing.

    Suddenly her touch vanishes. He realizes his eyes had slid shut as her touch traced the curve and line of his body and for too many vicious moments he wonders — was it all just a dream? The heavy nausea of anxiety marries the bitter tang of disappointment in his mouth as his coffee eyes snap open. His gaze is cast around in desperation, the void of her disappearance biting into his bones like a frozen winter wind.

    She is still here.
    He heaves out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in.

    She is speaking about her new magic and his coffee eyes find hers, latching onto them. He can see the fleeting worry in her gaze and he moves to still her panic with his own. He doesn’t say much, but the corners of his mouth flirt with a barely-there smile and his splashed head gives a gentle nod.

    The world is normal for a moment, with spring singing gently around their bittersweet, delirious heads. It happens slowly but then all at once. Nature becomes enraged, the wind whipping at their locks and tugging at the waves that lap near their knees. Twisted, angry plants sprout from the moist banks and seem to extend skinny fingers in their direction. He can feel the pressure in the air increase, as though the weight of gravity were pressing on his back. He is hyper-aware of the inner workings of his body — the beat of his heart, the drag of his lungs, the gurgle of his blood, the crackle of his nerves — until it suddenly all stops.

    Her gaze holds his and he finds he cannot look away. He is wrapped in the warm caress of her eyes. At first she decays into herself and the worry that grips him is ripe and sharp. But her eyes never leave him and he knows, in their depths, that she is okay. And then she is reborn, melting down and rising up until her eyes are the gentle, natural emerald he has missed so dearly.

    She is the woman of his history, of when his heart first fell for her.

    There is the deepest of aches from within his body, radiating out as though he has been hit by something much larger than himself. He hadn’t realized how much he had craved for her natural state (for the soft supple of her skin, for the constellations of freckles that span her cheeks, for the silky sweetness of her hair) until she is suddenly before him. He loves every inch of her as his spring goddess, but he cannot deny he has missed her as he first loved her.

    Her lips find him again and he delights in her. The gentleness of her curves against his muscle is enough alone to send sinful groans from the depths of his chest, rumbling his appreciation. Every inch of her cloaks every inch of him until he is drowning in her (in the perfume of her sweat and arousal, in the suppleness of her rosiness, in the delicate yet fiery touch of her mouth to him). He never wants to come up for air.

    By the time her mouth touches the most intimate part of him, he is already stiff with desire. The warmth of her tongue causes his lips to part and his neck to crane backward. He is blissfully unaware of time. Every nerve is afire and his blood pumps faster than it has in a long time. She whispers against his jaw, words that ignite the beginning of a thread that will lead to her fireworks.

    She is standing flush against the broad of his chest, fingers tracing the lines of his muscles. The swell of her breasts sing to the most deeply-rooted parts of him that make him a man and he is lost in the chaotic, euphoric aura of her body. His calloused hands cradle the curve of her hips but as she whispers those three little words (“Make me yours” — a much dirtier, more sinful version to the three little words we all expect to hear) his fingers dip lower.

    She is practically begging him and he is all too ready to indulge her. His hand skims the plane of her thigh before sweeping her up, cradling her against his chest before tossing her down. A smile curls his mouth — lustful and greedy — before he pushes her legs aside. She is soft and warm, perfectly ripe for him to enjoy. And he does so deliciously, prodding at her intimately until she is shivering beneath his hand and mouth.

    He stops just before she comes undone by his doing. He does not wipe his perfect lips, but slides his sculpted body along her curves until he is sloppily kissing her neck. He whispers her name there, in the slope where her shoulder marries her neck. “Noori.” It is soft at first, but with each lingering, sucking kiss there is an increasing intensity. “Noori. Noori. Noori.”

    And just when she might unveil herself from beneath him, he stops again. There is a devilish smirk now, a hint of victory in his eyes. “Payback for all those years of hell,” he crows. And then he positions himself, perfectly aligned with her perfect body. But he waits. His coffee eyes lock with her emerald ones. “Tell me, my dear. What do you want?”

    (This counts as smut but I give no hecks. Also anyone who cares that sex is in human form can drive to my house and suck my ass — PS love you all)
    Most days, most days stay the sole same
    Please stay, for this fear it will not die
    Down low, down amongst the thorn rows
    Weeds grow, through the lilies and the vines

    Be calm, my love, and know that I love you, she thinks as worry blossoms on his lovely face at the sight of her rebirth. To witness such a tender expression breaks her heart in such a way that the pieces can finally reform her heart: a heart which had been fundamentally shattered by her own doing. Now, however, he heals her. In that one simple look of love and concern, she feels herself coming undone in the best of ways.

    She tastes the tang of his love for her and memorizes its flavour, memorizes the curve of his hipbones and the grooves of his stomach as they meet with that which she presses her lips to now. Her every movement and suckle is met with the smallest of moans cast from her lover's parted lips, and the response only furthers her dedication to him, to his body, to his soul: that she would ever consider another is an abomination, one that she knows is no longer a possibility for as long as she lives. He is hers, and hers alone. She holds him in the palm of her hand, in the curve of her tongue - that is proof enough of her ownership of him.

    His hands reach from her shoulders and pull her to him as she stands to press her open mouth to his jaw, welcoming her, brushing the hair from her face and running over the lithe muscle of her back until the come to rest at the crests of her hips. She can feel his desire growing and bumping hungrily between her thighs; her hands grab and devour the flesh of his back, needing him closer, closer, closer. His broad ribs are expanding against her own, the muscle over them flexing and extending in a mesmerizing way, manipulating her breasts and calling to her most deeply seated desire. She whispers the words then, her breath hot on the underside of his jaw - make me yours.

    An audible gasp escapes her as his fingers dip between her thighs, but he takes away their pressure and delight to respond to her request. With an ease that further wettens her, Trekk hoists her into his arm and for a moment, she is flying. He is her wings, her freedom. With him, gravity ceases to exist. They align perfectly in the time it takes for him to cast her wantonly onto the bed, and her hips raise the second she lands there in a show of desire for their becoming one. Her arms extend above her head, breasts falling to the sides as her weight travels to her shoulders.

    But that is not Trekk's intention - yet.

    He pushes her legs further apart with a greedy smile that sends electricity racing up her body from the pit of her stomach, and then melts his lips into her labia. His tongue teases and adores her scrupulously, calls from her throat moans and cries of utter abandon and amour; her hips swivel and jerk beneath him, and her hands tangle themselves into the mess of his hair, tightening and releasing just as her hips do.

    She is on the cusp of ecstasy as he leaves her soft flesh - a cry sits on the tip of her tongue, uncompleted and stunted, furious at having been denied the right to existence. Her ribs are expanding and contacting rapidly, heaving, really. Her hands clutch at his figure as he slithers up from below, pressing her own fluids to the nape of her neck. Her hips are still writhing, pressing and wiggling against him in pure and utter desire.

    The breath in her lungs escapes at the sound of her name on his lips. The first time, it causes her to stop, for her nerves to stop responding: it feels too good, too right, too lovely, her system becomes overloaded in that one simple word - the one simple word with which he claims her. Makes her his own, and never to be anyone else's. She could live forever in this moment, never needing to take another breath.

    He repeats her name, and it is better than the first time. It revives her, brings her to throw her arms around his back and to draw him closer to her. The third time, she is nuzzling his mouth away from her neck and onto her own. She tastes herself on his tongue, and he tastes himself on hers - for a long moment this exchange is all the exists between them, the film of their lives stuck perhaps permanently on a single frame. Then, he says her name a fourth time. She bites his bottom lip and moves to make herself available to his truest desire, delirious in her need for their joining.

    The weight of him disappears without warning. Her green eyes snap open and find him next to her, with a self-indulged smile writ clearly on his unfathomably perfect lips. Lips that, only minutes before, had brought her to the edge of ecstasy, had spoken her name and stopped time, had melded with the warm flesh of her tongue. Now, those self same lips crow out his vindication, flirt with her impatience in the most insinuating and arousing of ways.

    "My darling," she murmurs, a brow cocked, a hand just barely tracing the lines of his stomach until they reach the stiff shape of his desire. There, they stop; there's a twinkle in her eyes, a lust on her breath. "Do you really want to play this game?" She leans forward as she speaks the words, so far that her mouth is only centimeters from his ear. She can see the goosebumps the warmth of her breath causes him. Whimpering as only dollish girls can, her tongue reaches and caresses the lobe of his ear, the curve of its inside.

    He is on top of her again in an instant, looking disheveled but determined. She grins at him, foxy and red, the same sun-kissed girl from before, except that her freckles have taken on a far more tantalizing hue. Tell me my dear. What do you want? She bites her bottom lip, arches her back so that her hardened nipples brush against his chest. Her eyes toy with his knowingly, daring him to wait for her answer.

    When the beginning of him meets the beginning of her, she loses all sense of playfulness and dollishness - his stiffness against the folds of her body utterly destroys her mental fortifications, leaves her in absolute chaos that can only be reined in by the full brunt of him inside of her. The change in her eyes is apparent, flashing from foxy to that of the vulnerable girl he once knew and loved, who then and now and and always will need him.

    She shivers.

    "I want to be one with you," barely audible, an admittance so sacred that she could not say it louder even if she were screaming. One small hand reaches up to cup his face, to bring it carefully closer to her own in a most delicate of ways. "I love you, Trekk," her voice breaks, but there is no time for tears.

    Their lips meet as he presses himself into her innermost part. Her lips part in a gasp but the weight of his lips against hers brings her attention back to the kiss, back to the rhythm of his hips and the way she can't help but arch her back and move with him in perfect harmony. The hand that was on her face moves to his lower back, pulls him deeper within her. He goes slowly at first, and she marvels in his design, at how with every liquid movement he reaches the part of her that she never knew could create such carnal sensations of utter bliss.

    "I love you, Trekk," she says again, more urgently, needing him to know, to never forget. Her finger nails drag against the skin of his back, their chests are pressed together and the heat of his breath is the only weather she will ever know. Their sweat and saliva and arousal mingles, rejoicing in their reunion in a cocktail of fluids and scents. She begins crying out again, softly at first, in response to each of his full-length thrusts. Their bed is a cacophony of the sense, of scent, taste, touch, sound, and smell.

    To ever leave it again would be her life's end.

    She moves against him in absolute bliss, utterly incapable of anything except accepting him into her, over and over again. Her eyes roll back in pleasure and delirion, and it is to his every beck and call that she responds; a figment of his imagination; fit to perform his every desire.


    Saw the chance to accurately use the word "labia," and on behalf of all of us here at Beqanna who have slandered that word's meaning, I took it.
    Word count: 1466.
    1466 words of pure, glorious smut. ENJOY.
    She will be the end of him. She wraps the fibers of his very being around her slender fingers and he follows wherever she desires. She whispers one word into his ear and he shall melt against her feminine curves. She holds — she has always held — his heart cusped between her soft palms and although she has dashed it against stones time and time again, he always returns it to her embrace.

    She will be the end of him. He is more aware of it now than ever, as her hips buck and roll beneath the sensuality of his mouth. Her hands tangle the chestnut of his hair, tugging on the nerves under his skin in a way that sends a soft groan into the saturated warmth of her innermost pieces. The sounds that break away from her open lips only prove the effect she has on him. With every moan and cry, he feels the pressure of added arousal building in the pit of his stomach.

    As his muscular chest slides against her heaving breasts, his eyes catch hers. He can see the unfathomless desire swimming in the depths of her gaze, unable to release by the courtesy of his actions. A knowing smirk dances over his mouth. He whispers her name against the smoothness of her skin and then suddenly she is pushing their lips together. He greedily obliges, prodding his tongue past the plush gates of her lips.

    They lock themselves in a moment of heaven — breast against chest, mouth against mouth, his hips snug against hers — and he is awed by the way they fit so perfectly. She is his queen and he is her king as they worship each other equally. The edges of his muscle fit against the rise and fall of her curvature with perfection, the two final pieces to a puzzle unfit for all of eternity until this one blissful moment.

    He croons her name again and she unleashes the ferocity of her desire on his lower lip. The bite leaves the taste of blood in his mouth, but it elicits a throaty groan from the depths of his chest. She wriggles and slides beneath him like a sinful goddess and he opens his eyes to watch the way her soft body moves against his. And then he is easily pulling himself off of her erotic frame.

    He wants to capture an image of her, in that moment. The sheets of the bed have long since been roughened by their sexual prowess, pulled from the corners of the mattress. They are tangled along the slope of her curves, nestled against the inward bend of her side and knotted among the line of her arm that is hazardously tossed above her head. Her pale legs are still spread wide, her body ready for his firm length to slide into her warm depths. His dark eyes greedily follow along the points of her hips, the smoothness of her belly, the swell of her breasts, the elegance of her neck (now scattered with blossoming colors of purple and blue from his suckling kisses before), the swollen mess of her lips, the tangled crown of red locks (hair that contrasts with the ivory of their misshapen sheets).

    The weight of her hand on his lower stomach and then closer still changes the expression in his eyes.Tender love is overcome by overwhelming lust as she toys with him, as she sits up to press her tongue to the slope of his ear. Goosebumps rise on his skin unbidden and he shivers, completely surrendering for a moment to the control she possesses. As her tongue departs from his skin, he attacks.

    She is a wild, feral goddess underneath him. She is his wild, feral goddess. Her teasing has him more determined than before, fully prepared to take her as his and leave her a satisfied, happy queen. The tip of him teases the beginning of her, just enough that he can see the dramatic way she shifts from a creature born of sin and sex to the dainty princess he met when he’d been considering his future among the suffocating vine and deep jungle pools.

    His goddess whispers her desire among the thick sounds of their breathing. Her hand pulls his narrow face close and she croons her love against his swollen lips. He can hear the way her voice breaks — her words carry a weight far more important than sex or lust, but a true mending of their broken hearts. He is warmed by the affection she gives him and it encourages him to press his length into the depths of her being.

    As she gasps, he groans. It is low and wild, drawn from the call of their ancestors. He is lost in the cavern of her beauty, swept away by the way her warmth which pulsates around him. It is the touch of her mouth against his once more, the grasp of her hand against his waist, that grounds him. They move with perfection, dancing a song they both sing with their bodies but no notes or lyrics are heard. It is a song of worship, of praise, of love.

    He tucks his head into the bend of her shoulder and his teeth scrape against the tenderness of her flesh. It will leave bruising in the morning — much like the circular marks that dapple her neck — but he hardly thinks she will mind. A reminder, of the night they fortified their love. A moan rides on the heat of his breath as she cries out. Her noises only encourage his efforts and he moves deeper until the entirety of his firmness is within her.

    Despite the lustfulness of their sensuality, there is purity behind their actions. His hips meet perfectly with hers with each shift and thrust, his mouth melds against hers when he brings it back from her shoulder, his arms hold her securely among the mess of the sheets and the heat of their love. They covet each other. They delight in one another.

    He moves easily, taking his time to enjoy her with a reckless sort of patience. After a few more delicious moments of tender lovemaking, he picks up the pace. He delights in the sounds he hears from her mouth, in the way her nails carve red markings down his lean back. They move quicker now, more absorbed in their sexual appetite. “You are my queen,” he says against her rosy lips. He bites her lower one then, on the cusp of his undoing.

    With another rough thrust, he unveils himself to her. The heat of his seed spills into her innermost delicacies and throaty moans pour from his mouth as the ecstasy of sex blinds him of all thought and sense. The relief is desired and well-deserved as he floats among the cloud-palaces of delight and passion. He comes down slowly, sweatily, to collapse atop her slick body.

    For the first time in a long time, he is content.

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