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  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    Enter the hot dream - any
    #1
    Enter again the sweet forest
         Enter the hot dream
           Come with us


    (Heavy-breasted. Pink-earthen.)

    He misses his girls.

    (Rotty skin. Bone bags.)

    They were lovely, really, weren’t they? 
    He dreams about them, sometimes. (Isn’t that sweet?)

    ***

    Sometimes, he lines them up, shoulder-to-shoulder, in order of worth (each a little less dear than the previous – he has always played favourites). They stand for him, pretty and wide-eyed. Waiting. Abeyant. Wanting. Or not – it’s all the same. 
    Some of them, in mewling, dumb moans, say his name: ‘Pollock. Pollock. Pollock.’ Over and over, because here that is their language. Their hymnals and their storytelling.

    Some of them mouth it silently, their lips swollen with the effort. He always liked the way some of them said his name;
    Others are denied that pleasure here.

    Here, where he is king. And like a king he appraises these things – His things.
    Here, anyway.


    ***

    He has not slept. 
    Agitated, he paces with slow, hobbled steps through the cold, austere morning. It is grey and green-grey, the autumn has begun to turn the gravid woodland frigid, nude and bloodless. Draining her skin of the colour he so loves – the fruity wildness of her – turning her sterile and homely.

    It is softened, if only slightly, by the impeding fecundity. The short, erotic display of fleshy flowers. Long ago (eons, really – a whole lifetime ago) this had disgusted him. He watched with bitter, young rage as those petals dripped with pollen and skin was exchanged freely, or with a tenderness that hardened him to the core.
    He had learned to take. That was the key. He had learned that control could be occupied in those exchanges; was shown that some would give it to him willingly – filling his cup as well as their own, where others would fight. 

    He found the joy in both.

    the gift-giver


    i genuinely couldn't figure out how to end this elegantly and i've been nursing it for way too long. pollock is NOT easy to come back into writing, but when he clicks he clicks -shrug-
    [Image: kkN1kfc.png]
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    #2
    Every morning she awakens to a sea of faces. A habit once established, hard to break. Some mornings, she sees nothing in those faces. She sees life, earthen wisdom, truth. Nothing spectacular, nothing to draw her. Once in a while, she sees a face the breaks the mold. That reminds her of why she wakes, day after day, to this monotonous routine.

    His is such a face, but it is an old face. One she has seen many, many times before. It is also a face she has not seen in a long while now. A former king, cast out and homeless, disappearing into the wilds is not in and of itself terribly interesting. But they have a connection, whether he knows it or not, she is ever a curious creature.

    She had sworn once to watch his son die. And though she does not think he will care one whit about such a promise, he is nevertheless a novelty. One who wields power like an extension of himself, with little forethought and even less care. They are similar, in that respect, but oh so very different in others.

    For a time, she ignores his presence. He uses fear as a weapon, and she had once become acquainted with the taste of it. There is little she fears anymore, but she knows how easily consent can be ripped away in the hands of those who care so little for it (she knows because she is as equally guilty as he, only she is far more discreet). In the end however, caution gives way to curiosity.

    And so she finds herself slipping through the trees, a quiet, lithe shadow with determination in her step and purpose in her stride. She makes no attempt to hide her approach, instead allowing the icy blue of her gaze to fix upon him, head tilting slightly. Expression neutral, a faintly cynical quirk to her lips, she greets the deceptive golden beast with only a wry question. “Time has not treated you kindly, has it?”

    I see your sins

    Heartfire

    and I want to set them free.



    I'm sorry she's such a creeper :|
    Reply
    #3
    Enter again the sweet forest
         Enter the hot dream
           Come with us


    (See? They love him.
    They flock to him.)

    “Hm,” he grunts, his lip curling in distaste – or the want to taste – as she moves towards. Gathers ‘round. Blue. But not blue-blue. Not like that old ghost – twisted neck and gravid. More like a moon, wan and wild.

    (she could be his; he could make her fear and she could make him see and in that orgy – that feast, that conflagration; that overfloweth – ah; they could ritualize over bruised flesh, if that’s what she wanted)

    He is tired. Irascible, with weariness, with idleness; he is bursting at the seams, hoggish for the excesses that had once kept him fat and happy on a throne of greyish stone and the twisted scaffolding of bone and teeth and wind-blown, white-mottled hips. He has been blood-letted, drained – but this doesn’t make him weak; too much like a rat, too much like a cockroach – it makes him dangerous. 
    A crocodile, having slowed down the speed of his heart and chilled the core of his body, he waits.

    Once, he subsumed himself to the labors of his wasteland:
    – he made life where it did not belong. He spilled blood like seeds into the earth and that earth had been hungry. That earth had been wanting, parted for him. That earth had bore pink centauries and pale milkvetch, clear water from ancient aquifers – his children, all.
    His most beloved get.

    And then, that earth had closed around him like a throat and swallowed him whole.

    Now he is hound without a job.
    (they bay, they scent; fear knows where it has been before)

    “You don’t think so?” his voice is as it always has been – gravelly and slithery; there is no warmth in it. There is the choke of dust, the lapping of saltwater; something that sounds like being chased feels like. He turns his head, those great, spartan horns weighting to a tilt, his black, vacated eyes meet hers – blue, distinctly alive.
    “I am pained.”

    (He wants to feed her. Be fed by her. He wants to slip into that cold – bitterly cold – plain between the material and soak her up, pick at the skin that stretches over her bones. Shoulder
    Hip.
    Breastbone.
    He wants to feel that infiltrated place of hers; that deep-down, that very-dark, where, it turns out, Bruise had been. He wants her to feel the cold precision of him; or the berserk, sloppiness.
    He want. He wants. He wants.)

    But instead, he stands, calculating her. “Tell me your name, as you seem to already know mine.” Silly woman. Time has only made him godly. Has only cleansed him.

    the gift-giver
    [Image: kkN1kfc.png]
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