01-26-2016, 01:10 PM
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.
![[Image: kkN1kfc.png]](http://i.imgur.com/kkN1kfc.png)