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+--- Thread: Luneshale Pass [m] todo lo que empieza como comedia... (/showthread.php?tid=62786)
[m] todo lo que empieza como comedia... - Moises - September 20, 2024
Mature Content Warning
This thread has been marked as mature. By reading and/or participating in this thread, you acknowledge that you are of age or have permission from your parents to do so.The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: Innuendo.
Lately, he has been having dreams of a certain kind.
He has never been able to predict when and where or even why they occur.
They all start with the same vision. He is sure his eyes are open, but what he sees is the fetal dark pink of sunlight filtered through eyelids. Sometimes, he is able to make out flashes of inverted lightning through that bleak sky; there is no thunder. He looks down and sees wet, black loam. He looks up and sees the unmistakable silhouette of el jefe, his back turned.
By instinct, Moisés begins to walk toward him. As he approaches, he notices that the jaguar seems to be digging at something. His shoulders undulate. The thick band of his trapezium bunches around his neck like a boa before relaxing, and this repeats, as if his entire self has been taken captive by a rhythm, a cadence, a heartbeat.
Moisés is now close enough to hear him. His breathing is deep with a ragged edge. There is the whisper of tongue against fur and flesh.
Eventually Moisés is close enough to reach out and touch him—much too close to feign innocence. So he only watches the shoulder blades rise and fall like the crests of waves, transfixed, until the inevitable long sigh, the shameless release.
Afterwards, el jefe always turns back, smiling, as if he has known all along that Moisés had been there. His laughter fills the air to bursting. He gestures grandly at the ground in front of him as if saying, look what I have sown.
It is here, always here, when Moisés wakes up, breathless and aching and brimming with the desperate urge to destroy himself.
He has never been able to predict when and where or even why they occur.
They all start with the same vision. He is sure his eyes are open, but what he sees is the fetal dark pink of sunlight filtered through eyelids. Sometimes, he is able to make out flashes of inverted lightning through that bleak sky; there is no thunder. He looks down and sees wet, black loam. He looks up and sees the unmistakable silhouette of el jefe, his back turned.
By instinct, Moisés begins to walk toward him. As he approaches, he notices that the jaguar seems to be digging at something. His shoulders undulate. The thick band of his trapezium bunches around his neck like a boa before relaxing, and this repeats, as if his entire self has been taken captive by a rhythm, a cadence, a heartbeat.
Moisés is now close enough to hear him. His breathing is deep with a ragged edge. There is the whisper of tongue against fur and flesh.
Eventually Moisés is close enough to reach out and touch him—much too close to feign innocence. So he only watches the shoulder blades rise and fall like the crests of waves, transfixed, until the inevitable long sigh, the shameless release.
Afterwards, el jefe always turns back, smiling, as if he has known all along that Moisés had been there. His laughter fills the air to bursting. He gestures grandly at the ground in front of him as if saying, look what I have sown.
It is here, always here, when Moisés wakes up, breathless and aching and brimming with the desperate urge to destroy himself.