_{Some say you're trouble, boy Just because you like to destroy All the things that bring the idiots joy} Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?

The world weaves, his body is loose. Something within has become unhinged, something vital he had never noticed before—and it is so easily discarded by the burning smoke swirling in his throat, that thickness he can still feel lingering there in the depths of his chest. His pulse—he can feel his pulse, sluggish and lazy, how it pricks and tingles beneath skin that has become sensitive without his notice. The world turns slowly around him; everything is slow. His realization of this is a slow one, and the panic is slow to come. No, actually. There is no panic. He feels these things and the worry is lost amid a lazy, hypnotic sea of his stringy, relaxed joints. He breathes, and the motion of breathing itself is calming, mesmerizing.

It seems he’s not the only one mesmerized between the two of them. His attention is slow to focus, and yet it does, and he sees how Shida looks at him, her dull blue eyes studying features on his face with an intensity that fails to alarm him. He stares back, and his eyes are hard, granite things, as always. Strange smoke can do little to change that (besides tint them red, perhaps, although the basilisk does not know his eyes have been tinted red).

She is speaking—although the words mean nothing to him, not really, as he is more interested in the timbre of her voice, the drops and the high-hats and the bass-kick, the colors of her tones he had never analyzed before, worthless things that suddenly interest him (the Grey-Eye’d is losing his grip). Her voice pulses around him in the void of a weaving, swaying universe, a place where he is compelled to weave, and sway as well. When she comes forward and her body is pressed against his—she is a mare, alive and breathing, and her blood is hot and her veins are pulsing—he is caught off-guard by the sensation of her, the miniscule pinpricks of her unkempt fur sliding across his own, the subtle dips and curves of her muscle-lined body. The pulse, the pulse of her heart, a hammering heart. Teeth against his hip.

He had not noticed the unfurling within him, the rising of a tide that had been calmed not too long ago by the ministrations of a silver-backed harlot. This one maybe plated in gold instead, but the unfurling continues, the building of pressure in a secret place he had thought was depleted. He should’ve known better--his appetite is never satiated, not completely. The shift of his senses has only served to quicken the growth of his hunger (she’s biting him).

He turns toward her, following her lead, reaching for the pleasant curve of her croup. Ka’Ora has flown away.She knows what is coming.



[I MEAN we can continue and get down and dirty if you want ;D BUT we can also call it good here and fade to black?]
"talk talk talk"