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Can you imagine a perfect moment?
11 years ago
"Strength is not a gift you are given,
Something else on the radio. Trapezoid, I think. Up tempo like a motherfucker. Stark contrast to the lazy boneless lying about and gentle micro cirrus of cigar smoke, some would perhaps think. It fails to raise my heartrate above the gentle lope it has rapelled into.
The means of wiggling over to the floor table to the end of another slug of Bourbon down my throat. It rekindles the inexpressibly comfortable nest of coals smoldering in my belly. A perfect way to end a hard day. Our comms are warm and quiet, reflecting StratComm's respect for our endeavors. After a hard, ugly day like what lies behind us, trying to extrapoloate the trend lines of mixed victory and gunshot wounds is condoned by even the stuffiest of brass noses. My partner's hand flops onto my own in search of whiskey and its lovely libation. Ever the one-warrior steamroller of terror and demise for those who would measure against us, I marvel at the waste heat of her mending body.
Naked save for the theoretically ever-present Kevlar undies and the medicated poultice of gauze over her chest, she army-crawls over me to continue her hunt. I feel like a sedated and amorous oven has found a home on my chest. Finally reaching the bottle and hoisting it before her bleary countenance, her plainitive eyes and parched lips collaborate on a threnody to our penultimate bottle of pain. She looks down at me, reminding me, for all the world, of a child deciding what sort of tears to break into.
"Uooo," she intones too-softly.
"Autonomic repair systems don't need that much opposition," I chide.
"Bro," she says, "I have a gun and immeasurable despair. I thought we were in this together. Think chow has anything I'd want?"
I huff a breath in her face, admiring how she scrunches her nose and eyes at the tiny offending gale. A hand on her shoulder convinces her to let me tortoise my way over to the drag-bag and shove my face fully into its primary twain zipped portal. I withdraw a moment later, a flask of something toxically malodorous between my teeth.
"Zhish good?"
In a moment half the breadth of a blonde cunt hair, she lunges from the bunk and I am girded with her nova-hot arms. She grabs the bottle in a flash and places a chaste, if lingering kiss on the side of it before bopping me on the lips with this slightly warmer area if its brushed steel face.
She huffs sensually and flashes me a grin that could boil oceans before beginning her first draught from the serendipitous dreadnought against sobriety and discomfort. I drop back onto my elbows and let my head loll back, giving the ceiling a lazy, drunken smile.
It feels good to be a hero.
The means of wiggling over to the floor table to the end of another slug of Bourbon down my throat. It rekindles the inexpressibly comfortable nest of coals smoldering in my belly. A perfect way to end a hard day. Our comms are warm and quiet, reflecting StratComm's respect for our endeavors. After a hard, ugly day like what lies behind us, trying to extrapoloate the trend lines of mixed victory and gunshot wounds is condoned by even the stuffiest of brass noses. My partner's hand flops onto my own in search of whiskey and its lovely libation. Ever the one-warrior steamroller of terror and demise for those who would measure against us, I marvel at the waste heat of her mending body.
Naked save for the theoretically ever-present Kevlar undies and the medicated poultice of gauze over her chest, she army-crawls over me to continue her hunt. I feel like a sedated and amorous oven has found a home on my chest. Finally reaching the bottle and hoisting it before her bleary countenance, her plainitive eyes and parched lips collaborate on a threnody to our penultimate bottle of pain. She looks down at me, reminding me, for all the world, of a child deciding what sort of tears to break into.
"Uooo," she intones too-softly.
"Autonomic repair systems don't need that much opposition," I chide.
"Bro," she says, "I have a gun and immeasurable despair. I thought we were in this together. Think chow has anything I'd want?"
I huff a breath in her face, admiring how she scrunches her nose and eyes at the tiny offending gale. A hand on her shoulder convinces her to let me tortoise my way over to the drag-bag and shove my face fully into its primary twain zipped portal. I withdraw a moment later, a flask of something toxically malodorous between my teeth.
"Zhish good?"
In a moment half the breadth of a blonde cunt hair, she lunges from the bunk and I am girded with her nova-hot arms. She grabs the bottle in a flash and places a chaste, if lingering kiss on the side of it before bopping me on the lips with this slightly warmer area if its brushed steel face.
She huffs sensually and flashes me a grin that could boil oceans before beginning her first draught from the serendipitous dreadnought against sobriety and discomfort. I drop back onto my elbows and let my head loll back, giving the ceiling a lazy, drunken smile.
It feels good to be a hero.
