03-18-2022, 02:00 PM
I KNOW I NEED US MORE THAN I NEED ME
He should not feel surprised when he hears the snap--crack! of twigs and underbrush nearby which signal the approach of a stranger. Yet there in his chest springs the red-toned emotion of surprise. After all, sometimes he gets away with singing to himself in private. But despite his best wishes to just be alone on nights like these, when his self-pity steams off his body in reeking sheets, his voice betrays him, the nature its magic predisposing him to attracting visitors.
When he looks up to reprimand the intruder in between notes, however, his anger stops in his throat and turns warm and liquid. His song falters.
"Gods, you're beautiful."
The words fall from his lips before he has time to catch them, quiet but forceful, earnest. His whole body shakes with the chill of his decisions not minutes prior, blinding him to sense or reason. Nothing else matters as he stares at the manifestation before him: small, woman, angel. In the breadth of this momentary glance, he consumes her.
"Come closer," breathes Indius. In the interim where she may decide to deny his request, the star-cloaked stallion resumes singing.
The melody maintains its soft volume but sheds its timidity. Its notes turn outwards and twist, the notes sharp, keening for her. Her, of the golden skin and beflowered hair, smelling more alive and luscious than any of the frozen waste surrounding them, with the black instrument of death poised atop the unblemished surface of her skull like a knife between red-stained lips. He thinks of silk as he looks upon her. Soft. Intimate. Binding.
What self-pity he felt before transmutes into something else, something raw, edged, and needy; and in his chill, in his lonesomeness and regrettable lack of internal boundaries, he begs the stranger closer.
Closer.
When he looks up to reprimand the intruder in between notes, however, his anger stops in his throat and turns warm and liquid. His song falters.
"Gods, you're beautiful."
The words fall from his lips before he has time to catch them, quiet but forceful, earnest. His whole body shakes with the chill of his decisions not minutes prior, blinding him to sense or reason. Nothing else matters as he stares at the manifestation before him: small, woman, angel. In the breadth of this momentary glance, he consumes her.
"Come closer," breathes Indius. In the interim where she may decide to deny his request, the star-cloaked stallion resumes singing.
The melody maintains its soft volume but sheds its timidity. Its notes turn outwards and twist, the notes sharp, keening for her. Her, of the golden skin and beflowered hair, smelling more alive and luscious than any of the frozen waste surrounding them, with the black instrument of death poised atop the unblemished surface of her skull like a knife between red-stained lips. He thinks of silk as he looks upon her. Soft. Intimate. Binding.
What self-pity he felt before transmutes into something else, something raw, edged, and needy; and in his chill, in his lonesomeness and regrettable lack of internal boundaries, he begs the stranger closer.
Closer.
Indius
@Bardot