09-09-2019, 08:33 PM
draco
They are creatures of the below, and they meet just as they are. Draco, head spinning with excitement and confusion, peers at the hellhound with excruciating detail. Not a single piece of her goes unnoticed: from the gleam of her puppy’s teeth to the curve of her back claws. Despoina is sublime, the punkish counterpart to Draco’s studded leather jacket and yellowed cigarette-smoking teeth. He grins.
The demon boy decides he does not like the filly’s silence, so he stares her down with a demanding ferocity he only now knows he possesses. There has always been a monster sitting idly in his chest, plucking here and there at his harp’s strings, but it drags its claws across wires. They snap with a violence the colt relishes, and he leans into it with a beauty such cruelty should not possess. I am the devil himself: this he has decided, as he stares down the girl he now knows is his.
Hades mustn’t be without his Persephone.
Perhaps she’ll like Draco, but for now, that idea is beyond him (and does it really matter to a violent creature such as he?).
“Why aren’t you speaking?” he whispers, reaching forward to touch the iridescent shimmer of her filly’s fur. It takes hardly a moment for him to decide he likes her like this, too -- pretty equine lineage and all; but most of all, he likes her silent, timid, and he begins to wonder if he will like her when she speaks. This guise of submission fuels the little hellion.
“My name is Draco. Tell me yours.”
The demon boy decides he does not like the filly’s silence, so he stares her down with a demanding ferocity he only now knows he possesses. There has always been a monster sitting idly in his chest, plucking here and there at his harp’s strings, but it drags its claws across wires. They snap with a violence the colt relishes, and he leans into it with a beauty such cruelty should not possess. I am the devil himself: this he has decided, as he stares down the girl he now knows is his.
Hades mustn’t be without his Persephone.
Perhaps she’ll like Draco, but for now, that idea is beyond him (and does it really matter to a violent creature such as he?).
“Why aren’t you speaking?” he whispers, reaching forward to touch the iridescent shimmer of her filly’s fur. It takes hardly a moment for him to decide he likes her like this, too -- pretty equine lineage and all; but most of all, he likes her silent, timid, and he begins to wonder if he will like her when she speaks. This guise of submission fuels the little hellion.
“My name is Draco. Tell me yours.”
don't take it to heart
@[despoina]
hitch a ride on my violence