jimwildwildwest
The Pale Blue Rider
On the faded floor of the abandoned mansion lies a man — too still to be asleep, too perfect to be dead. He is young, heartbreakingly handsome, dressed immaculately in a U.S. Civil War cavalry uniform: tight blue breeches clinging to his sculpted legs, a dark shell jacket on a wide open chest, and tall black riding boots polished to a ghostly shine. His lips are parted as if whispering something long after the breath has gone.
In the hallways at the threshold, a figure stands in the shadows — tall, angular, and unblinking. A man in a long, black coat that absorbs the moonlight like velvet. His eyes shimmer like mercury. He watches the cavalryman with an intensity that borders on reverence… or hunger.
The stranger steps forward, his boots silent. As he kneels beside the prone man, he runs a gloved hand along the seam of the breeches. His hand lingers at the ridge of the breeches, then glides to the narrow waist, pressing gently — as if memorizing the contours of a body long lost to him. The air bends slightly around them, as if time is folding inward.
The Pale Blue Rider
On the faded floor of the abandoned mansion lies a man — too still to be asleep, too perfect to be dead. He is young, heartbreakingly handsome, dressed immaculately in a U.S. Civil War cavalry uniform: tight blue breeches clinging to his sculpted legs, a dark shell jacket on a wide open chest, and tall black riding boots polished to a ghostly shine. His lips are parted as if whispering something long after the breath has gone.
In the hallways at the threshold, a figure stands in the shadows — tall, angular, and unblinking. A man in a long, black coat that absorbs the moonlight like velvet. His eyes shimmer like mercury. He watches the cavalryman with an intensity that borders on reverence… or hunger.
The stranger steps forward, his boots silent. As he kneels beside the prone man, he runs a gloved hand along the seam of the breeches. His hand lingers at the ridge of the breeches, then glides to the narrow waist, pressing gently — as if memorizing the contours of a body long lost to him. The air bends slightly around them, as if time is folding inward.