02-04-2016, 08:39 PM
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.
![[Image: kkN1kfc.png]](http://i.imgur.com/kkN1kfc.png)