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The sure extinction that we travel to - Any. - Pollock - 01-23-2016
He turned and he ran.
His pulse pumped loud against his eardrums, filling his head with a kind of unbearable pressure.
The hum of a machine. The release of trapped steam.
A sustained drone, drowning out the pound of his hooves on flattened earth, and the heave of his breath as he nearly choked on his want for air. But bliss warmed him around the edges. A heady kind of euphoria, like nothing he had ever experienced before. It cradled him in close comfort as he felt triumph bulge against the surface of his powers for the first time–blood dried on the keratin of his curved headgear, but the tokens of brain matter and fleshy bits had long been jarred off.
Such a shame.
He stopped, gasping for air and letting the foam of sweat dry on his neck and chest.
But he could not sleep. Not kept awake by the uncertainty in his dreams, but this time by the manic throb in his muscles. Exhaustion found him early, but unable to surrender to sleep he was sent limping through the trees as silvery moonlight relinquished to red sun, searching. Coiling and uncoiling his mind around the memory of her dull eyes and the wicked crack as he ran through her skull.
Like an eggshell.
Then came the hard and unfamiliar respite of her black and white hips–he hated her least of all, but found a place for anger between their flesh all the same. It was sweeter for it; it was roiling and primal, and when he disengaged from her, he hadn’t felt the desire to invade her mind. Her body had been enough, his own in that moment just as the black mare wasting away into the roots had been.
It was what he needed. Stranger flesh to take control of and purge his lust, and then leave behind.
Pollock is weary when he wades through the underbrush and loose leaves, finally pressing into the open of the Meadow. He limps heavily, the dull ache in his left front leg and right thigh slowing him to a creep. “Fff-,” the stallion stops, shifting his weight back to his right, moaning low from his throat. The afterglow is dulled, from the sex and violence both, though they continue to rattle in his head as he leans away from his cursed muscles and lets his eyelids droop finally, shielding against the unkind, afternoon sun.
Finally. Bloodshed.
Finally. Mastery.
Finally, rest.
His pulse pumped loud against his eardrums, filling his head with a kind of unbearable pressure.
The hum of a machine. The release of trapped steam.
A sustained drone, drowning out the pound of his hooves on flattened earth, and the heave of his breath as he nearly choked on his want for air. But bliss warmed him around the edges. A heady kind of euphoria, like nothing he had ever experienced before. It cradled him in close comfort as he felt triumph bulge against the surface of his powers for the first time–blood dried on the keratin of his curved headgear, but the tokens of brain matter and fleshy bits had long been jarred off.
Such a shame.
He stopped, gasping for air and letting the foam of sweat dry on his neck and chest.
But he could not sleep. Not kept awake by the uncertainty in his dreams, but this time by the manic throb in his muscles. Exhaustion found him early, but unable to surrender to sleep he was sent limping through the trees as silvery moonlight relinquished to red sun, searching. Coiling and uncoiling his mind around the memory of her dull eyes and the wicked crack as he ran through her skull.
Like an eggshell.
Then came the hard and unfamiliar respite of her black and white hips–he hated her least of all, but found a place for anger between their flesh all the same. It was sweeter for it; it was roiling and primal, and when he disengaged from her, he hadn’t felt the desire to invade her mind. Her body had been enough, his own in that moment just as the black mare wasting away into the roots had been.
It was what he needed. Stranger flesh to take control of and purge his lust, and then leave behind.
Pollock is weary when he wades through the underbrush and loose leaves, finally pressing into the open of the Meadow. He limps heavily, the dull ache in his left front leg and right thigh slowing him to a creep. “Fff-,” the stallion stops, shifting his weight back to his right, moaning low from his throat. The afterglow is dulled, from the sex and violence both, though they continue to rattle in his head as he leans away from his cursed muscles and lets his eyelids droop finally, shielding against the unkind, afternoon sun.
Finally. Bloodshed.
Finally. Mastery.
Finally, rest.
@[Kirin] if it catches your fancy. If not that's fine.
RE: The sure extinction that we travel to - Any. - Kirin - 01-23-2016
And she'll always get the best of me, the worst is yet to come
All the misery was necessary when we're deep in love
All the misery was necessary when we're deep in love
Kirin
son of Khaos
RE: The sure extinction that we travel to - Any. - Hestia - 01-23-2016
RE: The sure extinction that we travel to - Any. - Pollock - 01-26-2016
Shade falls across his face and he exhales, growling between his clenched teeth and tight jaw. His eyelids twitch from the movement below the thin skin.
He sees blood spattering the ground like an expressionist canvas.
Bone, impossibly white…
He feels the phantom pressure in his own skull, remembering his curved horns meeting her cheek and muzzle, forcing the bones and muscles out of their places. In waves, like soft fingers on damp sand, he sees and feels her patched body under him. His chin resting on the rough ridge of her mane. He snorts, exasperation and weariness, and when he opens his dark eyes he is a beast incensed. Roiling under the surface, but subdued by the heavy chains of his own exertion and unnatural wounds. He curses under his breath, blinking once or twice to clear his eyes of her viscera, and the other’s warm haunches.
His lips wrinkles, and with a heave and heavy exhale he evens his weight on all hooves, equally. His left thigh sings, and he wonders (curiously) why sometimes he can see the indentation of teeth there in the corner of his eyes. It is always smooth and supple when he examines that weak muscle more closely. “Do you think so?” his voice is more gritty than usual, lost in his night of overindulgence. The palomino catches his eyes. A pretty boy. He does not look at the wings, but he suddenly feels some measure of shame flood him.
It is dangerous. He doesn’t have the patience to wrestle with his demons right now.
He shifts, the draping, grimey feathers on his left side slink beside him, in the dirt. “Why the fuck have you chosen to ruin it now, then?” He flinches, picking up his right leg and place it down again. His ire and senses are dulled to a low thrum; waiting for for the tranquilizer to wear off and uncloud, the horned stallion does not think to invade this pretty boy’s mind, or become unseeable to slither away.
It is all too much effort.
And there is something in the charming glint in his eye.
Something like him, but more polished and shiny.
“Can I help you?”
He doesn’t need help.
Or he needs his help more than he knows. Either way, the palomino would never admit or concede to it. He’s spent too much time rounding out the corners of his self-sufficiency; refining his own ability to make himself unknown and his violence untraceable –
…. but then why had he revealed his face to the boy?
A demigod gets cocky.
He opens his lips, to tell him to go, or to indulge him further maybe, find in his pretty, pale purple some way to sober himself up. But he is not done. This night and day, wickedly sewn together with stitches of blurriness and blackouts, winds on. Unrelenting. The throb in his head increases – fills up, pressing firm against every inch of his braincase. The pressure, like a profuse hemorrhage.
And there she is. Not quite as he left her, and in his queer, addled state of mind, that is the first thing he notices. Like a painter finding his work marked over, it annoys him. Enrages him. He stares at her, dark eyes narrowing. “Pollock,” he spits, and maybe it is because he is overtired, but he does not at first recognize her as real – or maybe something existing in between. A projection. A thing he must sleep off, loosen with the aches in his head and legs.
So he is mad, and fearful, and those two things come together like the great cracking impact of two rams slamming headgear.
Mad at her incessant need to crowd him.
Fearful, because he is made of that and it drives him. He is master and slave to it.
He sees blood spattering the ground like an expressionist canvas.
Bone, impossibly white…
He feels the phantom pressure in his own skull, remembering his curved horns meeting her cheek and muzzle, forcing the bones and muscles out of their places. In waves, like soft fingers on damp sand, he sees and feels her patched body under him. His chin resting on the rough ridge of her mane. He snorts, exasperation and weariness, and when he opens his dark eyes he is a beast incensed. Roiling under the surface, but subdued by the heavy chains of his own exertion and unnatural wounds. He curses under his breath, blinking once or twice to clear his eyes of her viscera, and the other’s warm haunches.
His lips wrinkles, and with a heave and heavy exhale he evens his weight on all hooves, equally. His left thigh sings, and he wonders (curiously) why sometimes he can see the indentation of teeth there in the corner of his eyes. It is always smooth and supple when he examines that weak muscle more closely. “Do you think so?” his voice is more gritty than usual, lost in his night of overindulgence. The palomino catches his eyes. A pretty boy. He does not look at the wings, but he suddenly feels some measure of shame flood him.
It is dangerous. He doesn’t have the patience to wrestle with his demons right now.
He shifts, the draping, grimey feathers on his left side slink beside him, in the dirt. “Why the fuck have you chosen to ruin it now, then?” He flinches, picking up his right leg and place it down again. His ire and senses are dulled to a low thrum; waiting for for the tranquilizer to wear off and uncloud, the horned stallion does not think to invade this pretty boy’s mind, or become unseeable to slither away.
It is all too much effort.
And there is something in the charming glint in his eye.
Something like him, but more polished and shiny.
“Can I help you?”
He doesn’t need help.
Or he needs his help more than he knows. Either way, the palomino would never admit or concede to it. He’s spent too much time rounding out the corners of his self-sufficiency; refining his own ability to make himself unknown and his violence untraceable –
…. but then why had he revealed his face to the boy?
A demigod gets cocky.
He opens his lips, to tell him to go, or to indulge him further maybe, find in his pretty, pale purple some way to sober himself up. But he is not done. This night and day, wickedly sewn together with stitches of blurriness and blackouts, winds on. Unrelenting. The throb in his head increases – fills up, pressing firm against every inch of his braincase. The pressure, like a profuse hemorrhage.
And there she is. Not quite as he left her, and in his queer, addled state of mind, that is the first thing he notices. Like a painter finding his work marked over, it annoys him. Enrages him. He stares at her, dark eyes narrowing. “Pollock,” he spits, and maybe it is because he is overtired, but he does not at first recognize her as real – or maybe something existing in between. A projection. A thing he must sleep off, loosen with the aches in his head and legs.
So he is mad, and fearful, and those two things come together like the great cracking impact of two rams slamming headgear.
Mad at her incessant need to crowd him.
Fearful, because he is made of that and it drives him. He is master and slave to it.
RE: The sure extinction that we travel to - Any. - Kirin - 01-26-2016
And she'll always get the best of me, the worst is yet to come
All the misery was necessary when we're deep in love
All the misery was necessary when we're deep in love
Kirin
son of Khaos
any changes, let me know
RE: The sure extinction that we travel to - Any. - Hestia - 02-04-2016
RE: The sure extinction that we travel to - Any. - Pollock - 02-04-2016
He watches her, his lip quivering slightly.
Black and half-faced, she presses in between worlds and planes of reality and for a second he believes she could be real. His gut knots and he places a two-toed hoof in front of him, making to step forwards and examine the sureness of her intangibly.
He glances at the purplish stallion, but his glinting eyes register no recognition nor sign of her anomaly. He stands, pompous and primp, her flesh (and the meaty scent he thinks he can smell coming from the open side of her fractured skull) imperceptible to him.
And when she touches him, her teeth sinking through, unharmed, he wonders if he feels her pass through.
And then he realizes.
She has been stripped of everything that made her animal.
Stripped of flesh and of form. Of bone and sinew and white fat.
Chewed at hastily by maggots and restuffed by the curious gods that animate them,
A husk.
He smiles, flinching back as she slips through his head and horns, sending a thrill down his spine. I did that. I am the god. His lip curls and he continues to look at Kirin as she moves into his chest and past that dark ornament, through his stomach and out his ribs to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder. When she stops, a waft of coolness and the slightly tang of something otherworldly hangs around them.
‘Now as for the rest you have quite a bit of explaining to do.’ He turns his head ever so slightly towards her, tucking in his chin to say something but thinks better of it… she can wallow in his silence as she should have festered in her grave of peat and leaves.
‘I do not ruin things,’ he shakes his head to rattle the strangeness from between his ears. ‘I make them better.’ Pollock examines the cool and confident ridges of his handsome face and when he presses towards him the gift-giver yields (though his jaw locks and flexes, his muscles instinctively clenching to prepare for something sharp and cruel), snorting softly over his muzzle, and smiles slyly. “Cocky,” he notes, he cannot say he does not admire it. He spends much too much time wading through the mire of weakness of broken toys to begrudge him of that.
(He is shiny and arrogant –)
When Kirin touches his lips to Pollock’s face, the horned stallion stiffens, groaning from his throat; the warning growl before the teeth.
“I’ve never thought myself particularly helpful.” He exhales as Kirins pulls away and gives him his name, “but I suppose I’m feeling a little more… giving today, than usual.” He turns his cheek a bit towards Hestia, his lips tightening and he wonders what she thinks of his generous mood.
“I am not sure I can be helped, Kirin. I am a man of simple pleasures, really. It doesn’t take so terribly much. What do you need? Maybe you are more… complex. Or needy.”
Black and half-faced, she presses in between worlds and planes of reality and for a second he believes she could be real. His gut knots and he places a two-toed hoof in front of him, making to step forwards and examine the sureness of her intangibly.
He glances at the purplish stallion, but his glinting eyes register no recognition nor sign of her anomaly. He stands, pompous and primp, her flesh (and the meaty scent he thinks he can smell coming from the open side of her fractured skull) imperceptible to him.
And when she touches him, her teeth sinking through, unharmed, he wonders if he feels her pass through.
And then he realizes.
She has been stripped of everything that made her animal.
Stripped of flesh and of form. Of bone and sinew and white fat.
Chewed at hastily by maggots and restuffed by the curious gods that animate them,
A husk.
He smiles, flinching back as she slips through his head and horns, sending a thrill down his spine. I did that. I am the god. His lip curls and he continues to look at Kirin as she moves into his chest and past that dark ornament, through his stomach and out his ribs to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder. When she stops, a waft of coolness and the slightly tang of something otherworldly hangs around them.
‘Now as for the rest you have quite a bit of explaining to do.’ He turns his head ever so slightly towards her, tucking in his chin to say something but thinks better of it… she can wallow in his silence as she should have festered in her grave of peat and leaves.
‘I do not ruin things,’ he shakes his head to rattle the strangeness from between his ears. ‘I make them better.’ Pollock examines the cool and confident ridges of his handsome face and when he presses towards him the gift-giver yields (though his jaw locks and flexes, his muscles instinctively clenching to prepare for something sharp and cruel), snorting softly over his muzzle, and smiles slyly. “Cocky,” he notes, he cannot say he does not admire it. He spends much too much time wading through the mire of weakness of broken toys to begrudge him of that.
(He is shiny and arrogant –)
When Kirin touches his lips to Pollock’s face, the horned stallion stiffens, groaning from his throat; the warning growl before the teeth.
“I’ve never thought myself particularly helpful.” He exhales as Kirins pulls away and gives him his name, “but I suppose I’m feeling a little more… giving today, than usual.” He turns his cheek a bit towards Hestia, his lips tightening and he wonders what she thinks of his generous mood.
“I am not sure I can be helped, Kirin. I am a man of simple pleasures, really. It doesn’t take so terribly much. What do you need? Maybe you are more… complex. Or needy.”
the low-key flirting is sooo not in Pollock's nature. blame it on the sex and violence.
unless it totally is and I'm just finding out haha.
RE: The sure extinction that we travel to - Any. - Kirin - 02-08-2016
And she'll always get the best of me, the worst is yet to come
All the misery was necessary when we're deep in love
All the misery was necessary when we're deep in love
Kirin
son of Khaos
RE: The sure extinction that we travel to - Any. - Hestia - 02-12-2016
RE: The sure extinction that we travel to - Any. - Pollock - 02-16-2016
It is a curious thing, that the lavender stallion’s excitation does not rankle him.
In many other situations, it would have. When he found sex abhorrent—a dull abdication of sense for pleasure (that was before he had found out the value in that plunge for himself)—and Kirin’s advances would have exhumed the whorish bones of his mother. It would remind him too much of her painted up lips and hip sway; of the way emptiness and malice wear lechery like a skin-tight dress. If it weren’t for the fatigue and the thin voice in his head making it hard for him to concentrate.
He cannot think.
He holds the other man’s eyes but she mutters in his ear, and he cannot help but flick them to the side. His lip wrinkles,
‘Have you no better company Pollock? Is that why I landed your victim? Where you jealous of my life? My family? My enjoyment of something that you will never possess?’ She cannot know how wrong she is; or he cannot accept how right. He had been jealous of pretty little Elve whose mother and sobbed and skinned her knee when she found her wayward little girl. He had been jealous of Lirren, the well-loved, starlit thing of promise and potential and privilege. Of Chessur and his upbringing…
What is left in him that may have wanted those things is under immense pressure, being pressed into a fossil of what might have been and what was denied for too long.
She does not make him jealous. She makes him angry and he suddenly needs room.
He takes a step back, away from the heat of Kirin’s breath and his arousal, ‘Giving? Well what a pleasant revelation, I am of the business of taking myself.’ He presses his eyes tight, his head pounding harder and harder as she raises her papery voice to meet and battle Kirin’s. “I am not surprised,” he mutters, his jaw clenching tight and stiff. They are similar in that way, they both know that well enough.
‘I hope you realize that you have just killed the Valley Kings lover.’
The corners of his lips curl upwards slightly, and he huffs air out his nostrils, heh.
He had not. Imagine that.
‘...for starters you. I'll take you, you look like someone to fill my needs, play my games quite nicely.’
He is walking a thin line. He must be used to taking easy little things. He must be used to playing games with pliable opponents. Pollock would run him through if he thought he had it in him, or if he thought it would be worth it, right now.
But his proposal is just interesting enough, “I do not think you know the value of treading carefully, Kirin. That might be a lesson worth learning, one day,” he must be the kind of man that self-destructs, “but I’ll play. I cannot say I am having much trouble managing to entertain myself on my own, but I am nothing if not willing to take on some extra playing time. I know I don’t need to warn you, but while we are on the subject, I’d be cautious. I am not saying I’ll play your games, necessarily. But that I’ll play with you. We’ll make our fun.”
In many other situations, it would have. When he found sex abhorrent—a dull abdication of sense for pleasure (that was before he had found out the value in that plunge for himself)—and Kirin’s advances would have exhumed the whorish bones of his mother. It would remind him too much of her painted up lips and hip sway; of the way emptiness and malice wear lechery like a skin-tight dress. If it weren’t for the fatigue and the thin voice in his head making it hard for him to concentrate.
He cannot think.
He holds the other man’s eyes but she mutters in his ear, and he cannot help but flick them to the side. His lip wrinkles,
‘Have you no better company Pollock? Is that why I landed your victim? Where you jealous of my life? My family? My enjoyment of something that you will never possess?’ She cannot know how wrong she is; or he cannot accept how right. He had been jealous of pretty little Elve whose mother and sobbed and skinned her knee when she found her wayward little girl. He had been jealous of Lirren, the well-loved, starlit thing of promise and potential and privilege. Of Chessur and his upbringing…
What is left in him that may have wanted those things is under immense pressure, being pressed into a fossil of what might have been and what was denied for too long.
She does not make him jealous. She makes him angry and he suddenly needs room.
He takes a step back, away from the heat of Kirin’s breath and his arousal, ‘Giving? Well what a pleasant revelation, I am of the business of taking myself.’ He presses his eyes tight, his head pounding harder and harder as she raises her papery voice to meet and battle Kirin’s. “I am not surprised,” he mutters, his jaw clenching tight and stiff. They are similar in that way, they both know that well enough.
‘I hope you realize that you have just killed the Valley Kings lover.’
The corners of his lips curl upwards slightly, and he huffs air out his nostrils, heh.
He had not. Imagine that.
‘...for starters you. I'll take you, you look like someone to fill my needs, play my games quite nicely.’
He is walking a thin line. He must be used to taking easy little things. He must be used to playing games with pliable opponents. Pollock would run him through if he thought he had it in him, or if he thought it would be worth it, right now.
But his proposal is just interesting enough, “I do not think you know the value of treading carefully, Kirin. That might be a lesson worth learning, one day,” he must be the kind of man that self-destructs, “but I’ll play. I cannot say I am having much trouble managing to entertain myself on my own, but I am nothing if not willing to take on some extra playing time. I know I don’t need to warn you, but while we are on the subject, I’d be cautious. I am not saying I’ll play your games, necessarily. But that I’ll play with you. We’ll make our fun.”