i’ve been both a saint & a viper
The darkness within him curls and rattles with something like pride as she howls her delight, as if the sound of her maniacal laughter soothes the brooding beast. Her pearled lips find the mottled blue of his sharp jawline with fervance and the stallion’s dark lips cannot help but ripple into a snarl, snapping dully at the air between them as she sidles away, her worn wings fluttering haphazardly at her withers.
Their voices are different - his are darkness and shadow; writhing, thoughtless things that crawl up his insides and turn everything they touch into acid and bile. Though hers remain earth-bound and attack a far different area than his own do, they both seek the same thing: destruction, whether it be with blood or with the mind.
Two parts of one whole, yin and yang of one another; the cruelty and mercilessness of darkness intertwined with the blood-red lust of madness.
He seems nearly absent beside her, but he is far from an empty shell. The beasts crawl inside him tenfold, chattering and howling and pressing against the bones of his skeleton - they have invaded each part of him, turned each part of his body into ash. There is so much going on beneath the surface of the blue stallion’s skin and perhaps it is only she that knows it.
Balto watches her pace to and fro, thoughtful and calculating and in a frenzy. His cold eyes never leave her, like a predator watching its prey from the shadows. But she is far from prey; no, she is much more to him than most anything he had ever encountered. And when that thought brushes the tendrils of his mind is when she sweeps towards him, those hellish burning eyes on his, and he finds himself standing at attention, ready for whatever is to spill off of her tongue.
Bleed for me.
His black-tipped ears flick back, but no other movement comes. You’ll never die, his darkness hauntingly coos to him, whether it be to remind him of his eternal torture (so what did it hurt?) or that nothing she could ask of him would actually kill him, it didn’t matter. The sharpness of his shadowed face breaks for the first time, a careless grin cracking on the corner of his lips.
When she presses against him - a caress, so gentle, tender (she cares for me, within this darkness) - something dark stirs in the depths of his crystal eyes, flashing menacingly. Blood, they whisper to him frantically, as if the only thing in this moment that he needed was blood to flow - not the air in his lungs or his heart pumping, only blood.
So with a dark curl of his lips, he offers her his throat.
“Yes, my queen.”
Balto