Foster is also spitting up water, and regretting(?) every second of it as the liquid passes over--and through--his cracked molar. It's not really regret, honestly. It's painful, yes--he can't actually be sure whether the water in his eyes is from the lake or not--but with each hot pulse of agony, there's an accompanying thrill, a barely-repressed shudder down the length of him that he chokes on as he sputters pink-tinged backwash into the mud.
Ginko's hooves may not be much for swimming, but they pack quite a (heh) kick.
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Foster is also spitting up water, and regretting(?) every second of it as the liquid passes over--and through--his cracked molar. It's not really regret, honestly. It's painful, yes--he can't actually be sure whether the water in his eyes is from the lake or not--but with each hot pulse of agony, there's an accompanying thrill, a barely-repressed shudder down the length of him that he chokes on as he sputters pink-tinged backwash into the mud.
Ginko's hooves may not be much for swimming, but they pack quite a (heh) kick.
"Fuck," is all he manages, in a breathless gasp.