07-24-2017, 08:01 PM
god make me pay
like the devil i am
like the devil i am
She flutters beneath his darkening stare, the bottomless and unending blackness of his eyes soaking up her flickering image, crimson and jade sparkling in his irises. She shrinks back, a nameless and unimportant stranger, as she attempts to make herself smaller than him. However, she does not try to run. She remains in the spot she has called her own before his approach, her body still wavering as she shifts in and out of invisibility.
A ripple of thunder shudders through the grasses and trees, the bruised clouds above them beginning to roll and curl into one another, illuminating with the eerie glow of distant flashes of lightning. The sound causes his skin to prick delightfully, the residual sound thrumming wildly as it reverberates through the ground and up the muscular patterns of his legs. Maugrim does not touch her (he is not one for touch; it is intimate for him, too intimate to be wasted on the soft brush of lips or warmth of another’s breath, when it was far better used as a strength to hold them against their will), but lingers on the precipice of personal space as he stands beside her.
Her voice is rather confident on the wavering air between them, and brows rise in amusement. He half-expected a quiet and tinkling voice as a response, or none at all. It made him all the more curious, his dry lips dampening as he runs his tongue over their pale lavender color. Her stutter between visibility and invisibility seems to pulse with the rhythm of the flashes of lightning that slowly roll closer, the sound of thunder now seamlessly following the bright flare of light. As darkness shrouds them, covering and entombing them with its hungry grasp, fear does not find her features.
Maugrim tilts his head a few degrees, his crisp and tangled forelock falling to one side of his face.
No. This simply will not do.
Fear is what he needs (longs for, even) and the blank eyes staring back at him between flashes of lightning gives him no sort of excitement – her acceptance and willingness angers him, his ears flicking back into his mane aggressively as rage bubbles within him. She stands before him, ready and willing to succumb to the darkness that so easily leaks from his very being, without so much as a shudder in her voice? The struggle is what he loved most, but her response also intrigues him; what has she seen that makes her unafraid?
The tobiano stallion tosses his head with a sharp snort, his dark eyes focusing on her flickering image of her once more as his forelock settles across his face. Large, fat drops of rain begin to fall from the tempest that now is upon them, splattering cold water across his back and face. He had never tried anything without a body of water nearby, but he could use a challenge. Besides, she apparently was already going to give him one.
What will make her afraid?
“Am I,” he growls, his voice low and deafeningly raw on his vocal chords, “not what I seem?”
Talk to me, indulge me. I will not be ignored.
A ripple of thunder shudders through the grasses and trees, the bruised clouds above them beginning to roll and curl into one another, illuminating with the eerie glow of distant flashes of lightning. The sound causes his skin to prick delightfully, the residual sound thrumming wildly as it reverberates through the ground and up the muscular patterns of his legs. Maugrim does not touch her (he is not one for touch; it is intimate for him, too intimate to be wasted on the soft brush of lips or warmth of another’s breath, when it was far better used as a strength to hold them against their will), but lingers on the precipice of personal space as he stands beside her.
Her voice is rather confident on the wavering air between them, and brows rise in amusement. He half-expected a quiet and tinkling voice as a response, or none at all. It made him all the more curious, his dry lips dampening as he runs his tongue over their pale lavender color. Her stutter between visibility and invisibility seems to pulse with the rhythm of the flashes of lightning that slowly roll closer, the sound of thunder now seamlessly following the bright flare of light. As darkness shrouds them, covering and entombing them with its hungry grasp, fear does not find her features.
Maugrim tilts his head a few degrees, his crisp and tangled forelock falling to one side of his face.
No. This simply will not do.
Fear is what he needs (longs for, even) and the blank eyes staring back at him between flashes of lightning gives him no sort of excitement – her acceptance and willingness angers him, his ears flicking back into his mane aggressively as rage bubbles within him. She stands before him, ready and willing to succumb to the darkness that so easily leaks from his very being, without so much as a shudder in her voice? The struggle is what he loved most, but her response also intrigues him; what has she seen that makes her unafraid?
The tobiano stallion tosses his head with a sharp snort, his dark eyes focusing on her flickering image of her once more as his forelock settles across his face. Large, fat drops of rain begin to fall from the tempest that now is upon them, splattering cold water across his back and face. He had never tried anything without a body of water nearby, but he could use a challenge. Besides, she apparently was already going to give him one.
What will make her afraid?
“Am I,” he growls, his voice low and deafeningly raw on his vocal chords, “not what I seem?”
Talk to me, indulge me. I will not be ignored.
m a u g r i m.
@[elve]