Twisted Slough i wish you'd die in the mire

It was like a miracle - the taste of blood on his teeth and the scent of it in his nose. It smelled too much like Magpie himself. A snarl and snap skid along the top of the other's maw, reciprocated by pain flaring up his neck. It was vicious and quicksilver. Cormorant yelped, tugging away, to no avail. He was a shrieking restless thing, falling to the earth again when the cruel teeth let go. He immediately curled away, trying to shelter the bite away from opportunistic teeth.

I hate you, He sniffled, adrenaline slipping away like it was never really there, ushering in the aches and pains of scrapes, pulled fur, and bruised skin. So quickly he went, from angry and defensive to quiet and mournful. The blood so easily spilled ruined everything he could perceive, the color, the taste, smeared in the dark, it was still wrong against everything else.

The press of his keeper's weight trapping him to the ground made it all the worse to try and catch his breath. He hated feeling like nothing, and like this, it was worse, inescapable. Cormorant couldn't begin to leverage up as he was, Magpie too high onto his shoulders and neck - but it didn't stop him from trying to curl away further, drawing his hindlegs toward himself, fearfully protecting his stomach.

His nose wrinkled and his head tried to pull away from the unwanted grooming, eyes firmly hinging on the ground or shielded by the welcome dark of his eyelids. His skin crawled, trying to ignore the warmth protecting him from winter's chill. His voice was a strangled whisper, You're wrong.