#screaming crying biting rending tearing

[lucyvaleheart]

.

[nordarknessdimsthesky]

A linguistic analysis of tumblr hyperbole in the tags

This post expands my previous analysis of hyperbolic reactions to cluster tags by themes. There were too many themes, some of them overlapping, to create a cohesive graph. Instead, I present several overarching themes from a data set of 50 tags observed and documented in various corners of tumblr.

1. Feeling Normal™️

Tags within this cluster profess Normal feelings (read: extreme excitement, enthusiasm, obsession, derangement, etc.).

#mmmmrrrghuhhhhghhh #I'm so normal about it teehee #absolutely not rending my clothing #feeling very normal and not feral at all #i will simply never recover #gif sets sent to personally destroy me #i can't cope #the eyes #i'm a puddle #i am INCONSOLABLE #i am DISTRAUGHT #IM NOT OKKAAAAAAYYYYYY #FEELING TOTALLY ONE HUNDRED PERCENT NORMAL

2. Feralness

The following data points conjure animalistic behavior. There’s a non-zero amount of biting and chewing involved.

#chomping biting barking #biting my arms off #rattling my cage #[incoherent biting noises] #chewing glass #chewing through wood #*shaking the bars of my enclosure* HELLO!!!!!!!! #climbing the walls #biting gnawing chewing #im gonna rip off my front door and eat it

3. Noisy Emotional Outbursts

These tags encompass crying, screaming, yelling, and other loud reactions.

# shaking sobbing crying #SCREAMIIIING BANGING MY HEAD ON THE WALL #*no thoughts only wailing* #i am SOBBING #IM CRYING LIKE A BITCH #*just fucking yelling* #S C R E A M #screeching into a pillow #brb sobbing for 5-7 business years

4. Throwing

All of these tags except the last one involve being thrown instead of throwing things. I, personally, am entertained by the range of places/situations people are throwing themselves into.

#i am going to THROW MYSELF into the SEA #hurl me into the sea #hurl me into the sun #trebuchet me into the sun #hurl me straight at europa #vent me out of an airlock #slam me against a wall #put me in a box and throw me down the stairs #throwing myself into traffic you know? #just defenestrate me already #defenestrate me #absolutely hurl me through plate glass #i'm going to start tossing furniture

5. Bodily Harm

There’s a good deal of overlap with the previous theme. Nearly all of the tags involving throwing would result in varying degrees of bodily harm. Here are the tags outside of the Throwing subgroup.  

#im going to throw upppppp #tearing my hair out #banging my head against the wall #SCREAMIIIING BANGING MY HEAD ON THE WALL #biting my arms off #microwaving myself #crumple me up and microwave me

6. Absurdism

My personal favorite cluster. The imagery conjured and resulting comedic hyperbole is just [chef’s kiss].

#im gonna rip off my front door and eat it #crumple me up and microwave me #put me in a box and throw me down the stairs #defenestrate me #absolutely hurl me through plate glass

7. Keysmashes

These tags center less around meaning and more around style, so they form the last group. A handful of these could fall under Noisy Emotional Outbursts because they represent reaction noises. In my linguistic judgment, keysmashing increases the hyperbole – consider augh versus aughfhghghghhh – the latter reads as prolonged and more intense emotionally.

#aghdjakgsjadhjaka * #hrhrhrhgnnnghhhhh #aughfhghghghhh #mmmmrrrghuhhhhghhh #I'm so normal about it teehee #waughfhghghh #oughhhhghghhh

*one digression in a friend discord server was how people interpret keysmashes in their minds. Some hear the first couple letters and then some sputtering, others hear static. It’s a common joke that you need a minor in linguistics to understand conversations in this friend group. Such is the nature of things when the chaos linguist energy is strong.

[waterdeep-weavemoss]

Parley, part 5

Tav stretched with the intent to rise from the bed, moving to roll away from the devil at her back. He growled into her shoulder, hands splaying on her belly.

'Where do you think you're going, little mouse?'

'I have to- I have to go home-'

'I think not. You signed the contract. You heal first, understand?'

'Raphael...'

Still inside her, he snapped his hips to make a point. Tav yelped, held firmly against him by the softness of her stomach. 'When will it get into your pretty little head? You are home.'

The darkness within didn't like that one bit. It raged against the borders of her body, threatening to rend it apart. Sweat bloomed on her brow. The devil, not quite satisfied with having made his point, latched his teeth on the softness between shoulder and neck, rolling his hips in long, languid strokes.

'I need to-'

'Lie there and take it like a good girl,' he purred into her ear, pulling playfully at it with his teeth. Tav froze, sudden heat coursing through her and drowning out the cold. Her thoughts were racing; taking a shaky breath she was grateful to be facing away from him, even as he rolled her onto her stomach. His cambion form was twice her size, perhaps more, his wings engulfing her entirely in his embrace. He gathered her hair in his fist and yanked. She snarled like a cat, earning a deep, warm, dangerous laugh. 'Vicious little thing.' He drove into her hard, the force almost driving the air from her lungs.

'Fuck-'

'Look at you,' he whispered, sending shivers ricocheting down her spine. 'My needy, wanton little whore.'

Tav groaned, heat kindling between her thighs. Gods, she liked it. She liked it a lot. Far too much.

'I'm almost surprised you can take it all,' he mused, barely breaking rhythm to bite at her throat. 'But you're so good, little mouse.' He lifted her easily with one hand, her back bowing as he kissed her filthily, his tongue in her mouth, clawed fingers gripping her jaw, only pulling back when she was almost delirious with want, gasping for air. 'He thinks he owns you.' His claws dug into the bruise of darkness in her chest. 'But you're mine.'

Tav bit down on a cry. Raphael roared in response, claws raking at her belly, as he fucked her into the silks, blood and sweat and arousal soaking them. She felt herself nearing the edge, and he knew it too.

'And that child,' he growled, 'who thinks himself tyrant, he wants you too. He presumes to call you his sweet little whore, his strumpet, as if he could ever hope to feel the softness of your animal body. As if you're not my little slut and mine alone. He wants you, and I won't have it. I'd sooner he watched as I fill you over and over again, until you scream yourself hoarse, until you are dripping with me and ONLY ME!'

Tears coursed down her face as he spilled inside her again, holding her against his chest. Her legs shook as she came, her scream stolen by his hungry kiss. She closed her eyes, hair sticking to her face, and sagged in his grip.

'No you don't, my sweet little harlot. I'm not fucking done with you yet.'

Tags:

@bluerosetarot @dansnotavampire @further-than-forever

@forget-me-maybe @poetryvampire @sasha199 @wandawillow

@boufsy @owlseeyoulaterpal @lanafofana @amorgansgal

@auroraesmeraldarose @aryancunin @miradelletarot @marlowethebard

@crimson-and-lavender @reeseykins @medra-gonbites

@roguishcat @weaverofnetheril @galedekarioswifey @hyperfixationstation128 @lastlight-inn

@astarryvamp @feedthepheasants @dabigstinky @dreamingofthewild @ladyofcrowsandcoffee

[fallenclan]

An Otter's Song

a fucking FANTASTIC poem by dice anon!!! he submitted it and asked for it to be posted, so he could stay on anon, so I will put it under the cut :) it's SO fucking good holy shit

An Otter's Song

He wasn’t known for his knowledge, ever.

A kitten, adopted by

Scorching skies and stinging nettles, 

was known.

He was perceived 

And seen. 

He existed.

  Ivy leaves curled around his chest once

Suspicion making his eyes water.

Flashes of lanky reeds drifting in the breeze

And ivy leaves snaking through his bones.

  The scorching skies and nettles protected.

The kitten, happy

Began his journey.

A crow’s feather in his paw

A grin on his face

And those eyes.

Yellow, gleaming white and blue in the sun.

The scorching skies once remarked it was akin to the light

Of the brightest fire in the sky

Glimmering across a frozen landscape

  The sky cracks momentarily

And tears fall.

Nettlestem’s eyes, wide with fear.

Dog bites, huge and deep, cover her body.

The kitten, aged enough to grieve right, weeps.

  His mama has passed

And it’s the first time he’s seen his mother cry.

  Otterpaw wasn’t known for knowledge, ever.

He was seen as a playful cat 

but one laced with a deep-cutting sadness.

He was perceived and seen.

He didn’t think he could exist like he had before

But he’d survive.

Not live, but survive.

  Maple leaves covered his pelt

And the sun freckled the ground where he trained.

Training upon the cliff sides of the peak

He almost slips.

He gazes behind him and sees it for the first time

Practically stalagmites, the stones rise upward as if

To touch the stars

  The distraction gives Maplethorn 

A chance to dodge the next strike

Otterpaw almost falls, unbalanced.

Maple leaves push him back up from the cliff sides

And save him from those unforgiving spires.

  A golden lion stands atop a stone

And gazes down upon him.

He is perceived in this moment

But not understood.

  Otterslip.

He runs quickly, and was named for that.

But all he can think of are those rocks

That spiral up and down.

That pierces his dreams

And makes them bleed.

  He runs and runs and runs and runs and–

An eagle’s call stabs into his heart.

The sun almost blinds him

And he practically falters.

  He rips and rends into its flesh and feathers

And it falls.

The sky rushes around him as 

He panics to get to his paws.

It feels horrible and the wind

Seems to be punishing him.

  The sun blinds him.

The scorching sky does nothing.

Waltzes past without real care.

  Blood stains Scorchstar’s mind.

Her scream is still echoing in her ears.

Reverberating and curling around her mind.

She cannot and will not

Forget it.

  Otterslip was a fast cat, able to scale the cliff sides, 

Quietly,

Quickly,

And efficiently.

He had to. 

It could be a life or death moment.

Something snaps as hail beats down on him

And he lets it.

The scorching skies have 

Stopped giving him warmth.

  In her final gasping moments

She confesses to her son.

She killed the sun and snuffed it’s flames

And she made sure nobody knew.

He watches her, expression blank.

There was time to get help,

But Scorchstar refused it to make things right 

With the stars.

She will remain among them in death

And he will not.

  He snakes among the grasslands, claws out.

He needs to be angry

And to let it all out.

He hunts for a cat to hurt, and finds none.

  Although, he does find three kittens

And they are hidden with plants.

Grass sways in the breeze, thick with dewdrops.

Yew berries dip low, heavy with their own weight.

Ivy, like before, winds upward. 

It is not within his bones. It never will be.

  He was perceived and seen. 

He existed.

And he will make sure he is known.

  A storm rumbles high above.

Whispers curling around his ears.

The wind rushes around him

Like before,

But now it is tainted with hostility.

Eyes blink open around him.

  He is witnessed

And he is monstrous.

  A dog’s snapping jaws, foam dripping red around it’s

Slobbering jaws.

Grasses torn up

Roots dislodged and ravaged.

Ivy leaves curling around

Weeping and crying.

Yew berries 

Dripping with dewdrops and tears.

  A dog has ruined his life.

The wounds of Nettlestem are seared into his eyes.

The gasping breaths of Scorchstar are whistling in his ears.

The scent of that crimson blood of Grassroot  in his nose.

  He lashes out, and the cliffsides rise up to greet him.

The storm rumbles, but ceases.

It’s screech echoes around the stones

It’s eyes stare as the sickening

CRACK

Echoes around the land.

He tastes iron on his tongue.

The storm has ceased.

Like his mother before him had snuffed out

The sun.

  He runs.

He was named for his speed.

He stumbles.

Slipping on his past.

His eyes, once honored for their beauty

Are bloodshot as he yowls out.

The golden lion watches, horrified.

  Like before

Otterslip is witnessed.

He is seen.

He will never be understood.

His flesh, destined to be meat and bone

And nothing else.

Otters are predators after all.

They must be dealt with.

  The lion roars

And he runs.

He feels the thick light of the sun on his back

And he cannot tell if it is the damnation of Sunwish

Or the regret of his mother.

It doesn’t last long though.

Rain begins to beat down, thick and heavy.

Bulging with regret and woven with the scent of smog.

  And those eyes.

Yellow, gleaming white and blue in the sun.

The scorching skies once remarked it was akin to the light

Of the brightest fire in the sky

Glimmering across a frozen landscape.

  The fire is gone

Smoldering.

There are dancing colors in his vision.

Bismuth in nature and reflecting off each other.

He cannot remember where he is.

Blood stains his paw.

He shifts it, and pain fires up through his leg.

  His leg aches.

The stones around him are gleaming with

That shimmering crimson.

That crimson that stains every moment of his life.

He looks back on his memories, operose.

  Viscera and gristle stain his mind

And he feels guilt.

He does not know if he should.

The sanguineous nature of the clans

Stain his judgment, clouding it.

He is blind

And he is exactly what StarClan wants in a victim.

  He stands before the stars.

Their judging gaze pierces him.

  He is witnessed.

He is truly seen.

Every aspect of his life, examined.

Every action, weighed and debated upon.

The scorching skies say nothing.

The stinging nettles accuse her son of those crimes.

  He will not get a chance to defend himself.

The stars will never understand him

And he will not try to get them to.

  He doesn't understand himself.

All he knew is that there was a storm.

And that it beat down and oppressed him

And its winds spread lies.

But it was gone.

It’s eyes and lies

Dead by his own paw.

  He is witnessed.

The trees branches wind around him

Bark snapping and curving around his pelt.

He screams.

  He thrashes.

He cannot escape.

He speaks to another cat, one last time.

  “I’m sorry! I’ll do anything, please!”

Stormsight watches, guilt clear in his eyes.

Otterslip screams.

Sinewy strength beats back at the branches.

  “Let me see my daughter! I want to say goodbye!”

Grassroot does not appear.

Otterslip, lachrymose to a pathetic extreme

Wails for his life.

“Let me try to be better!”

  The branches tug at his pelt.

“I’ll do good!”

Thorns stab into his brown pelt.

  “This is not mercy!”

He screeches and sobs.

“This is DESECRATION!”

He roars.

  The trees claim him.

His fatal wounds bleed

With a thick dark fluid.

It is practically oozing from his pelt

And from his open flesh.

There will be no storms here.

There will never be any sun

And no plants will sprout.

  The ivy leaves that once woven around his bones have died.

The stinging nettles in his fur have shriveled.

The scorching sky has ceased its warmth.

The grasses, unrooted before, are gone.

The yew berries have rotten.

The ivy around his paws has crumbled.

  He walks onward.

The red forest follows.

Its silence is oppressive.

  A crow’s call makes his ears perk.

He looks up

And a new sight is before him.

A hazy image of the sky 

And unfamiliar cats.

He turns away, lashing his tail at it.

He feels some of his feathers slip from his tail

And he turns to pick them up.

  The image is gone, and so have the feathers.

Realization slams into him.

He is dead

But he still has power among the living.

And he will have to use it

To live again.

  He was once witnessed

And he will inflict that pain upon another.

  i wrote a snippet of this as propaganda for the favorite cat poll but then realized that it was actually turning out okay, so i finished it :3

[666melvin666]

Meet Ethan! (blood and horror warning)

Ethan's heart pounded in his chest as he burst out of the dark, musty cellar, his body fueled by a potent mix of fear and adrenaline. With a surge of inhuman strength, he lunged at the door, his hands gripping the wooden frame with a fierce intensity. A primal scream escaped his lips as he exerted all his power, his vampiric muscles pulsating with raw energy.

In an explosion of force, the entire wall broke away from the hinges, shattering like splintered wood. The sound of rending timber echoed through the night, drowning out the cries of his captor.

His breaths came in gasps as he ran through the dense cornfield, the tall stalks swaying ominously in the night breeze. Each step was a painful reminder of the silver shackles that encircled his legs, their blessed metal searing his flesh with every movement. The agony threatened to slow him down, but the fear of his captor catching up spurred him on.

The cornfield seemed like an endless labyrinth, its shadows dancing in the moonlight, disorienting him as he pushed forward. The scent of the crops filled his nostrils, but he had no time to appreciate its rustic sweetness. He had to keep moving, to outrun the horror that lurked behind him.

As Ethan stumbled through the uneven terrain, his determination overcame the pain of the silver shackles. His vampiric nature provided him with an unnatural resilience, but even that was not enough to dull the burning sensation that threatened to consume him. His vision blurred with each agonizing step, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus.

The sound of crunching cornstalks reached his ears, and his heart skipped a beat. He knew that his pursuer was behind him. ".... come back to the cellar...don’t make me hurt you again my dear creature..."

Ethan's heart lurched in his chest as he heard the chilling voice behind him. His body froze for a split second, the fear of his captor paralyzing him momentarily. He turned to face the man, the moonlight illuminating the cold, calculating look in the captor's eyes.

The tall, brown-haired man with streaks of grey stood there, an eerie smile playing on his lips. Ethan could see the twisted pleasure he derived from the power he held over him. The silver shackles on his legs seemed to glow malevolently, a constant reminder of his vulnerability.

"No... I won't go back," Ethan said, his voice quivering with defiance. "You've held me prisoner for far too long. I won't let you hurt me anymore."

The mad man's smile widened, and a sinister glint flickered in his eyes. "Oh, my dear creature, you misunderstand," he drawled, taking a slow, menacing step forward. "I don't want to hurt you. I want to tame you. You have such extraordinary potential, and I can unlock it for you."

Ethan's body tensed, his instincts urging him to flee, to fight back against the man who had tormented him for so long. But the fear of the shackles' silver bite held him back, reminding him of the pain he would endure if he dared to resist.

"You're a monster," Ethan retorted, his voice trembling with anger.

Ethan's cry echoed through the night as the captor yanked him down to his knees, his grip on Ethan's hair unyielding. Tears welled up in his eyes, a mix of pain and frustration clouding his vision. He tried to break free, to wriggle out of the man's iron grasp, but the shackles on his legs restrained him, leaving him feeling powerless and vulnerable.

"Let go!" Ethan pleaded; his voice choked with anguish. "Please, just let me go. I won't tell anyone what happened here. I'll disappear, I promise."

The captor's laughter was cold and heartless, resonating like a chilling echo in the still night air. "Oh, my dear creature, do you really think I'll let you go that easily?" he sneered, his grip tightening even more.

The pain shot through Ethan's scalp, and he winced in agony. His mind raced, desperately seeking a way out of this nightmare. But with every attempt to free himself, the captor's hold only seemed to tighten, his fingers digging into Ethan's flesh.

"You're mine, my little monster," the captor whispered, his voice dripping with malevolence. "You will never escape me. I have a use for you."

His vision cut off- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Ethan's eyes fluttered open, he found himself standing amidst the cornfield, disoriented and covered in blood. Panic surged through him as he looked down at his blood-stained hands and clothes, yet he could not remember what he had caused.

The torn-apart form of his ex-captor lay before him, revealing the horrifying truth. In a state of rage and fear, he had blacked out and unleashed it… IT. The darkness that lurked within him, the insatiable hunger for blood, had taken over, and he had become a monster.

Ethan recoiled, stumbling back in shock. He couldn't comprehend what had happened. Was this his doing? Had he lost control so completely, succumbing to the very thing he had always feared?

Tears welled up in his eyes, a mix of terror, and self-loathing consuming him. He had fought against the darkness within him since the day he was captured and experimented on, but now it seemed to have taken control, leading him to this horrifying outcome.

"No, no, this can't be me," he whispered, his voice filled with anguish. "I would never... I couldn't…"

As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, Ethan ran away from the cornfield, his heart pounding in his chest like a relentless drumbeat. The image of the lifeless body and the blood-stained scene haunted him, urging him to flee from the terrible truth that lay behind him.

His breaths came in ragged gasps, his feet carrying him faster than he had ever run before. He knew that he had to put as much distance as possible between himself and the scene of horror. His mind was a whirlwind of fear and confusion, the weight of guilt and responsibility bearing down upon him like a crushing burden.

The forest loomed before him like a refuge, and he dove into its depths, seeking solace among the shadows. The trees seemed to close in around him, their gnarled branches reaching out like accusing fingers. Each rustle of leaves sounded like a whisper of condemnation.

Ethan's mind was a battlefield, torn between the fear of his own darkness and the desperate desire for redemption. He couldn't escape the feeling that he was a monster, that he was beyond saving. But something deep within him refused to accept that fate. He clung to a sliver of hope, the belief that there must be a way to control the beast that dwelled within him.

His steps were no longer guided by reason or direction. He ran blindly, as if the forest itself were an extension of his inner turmoil. The pain of the silver shackles seemed distant, overshadowed by the agony of his own internal struggle.

[andromedasummer]

i love how little self control my cat has. she literally cannot help her innate need to attack things sometimes. she stands by the door because she wants to go out, and when i bend down to pull the lock at the bottom of the door up and my hand enters her peripheral vision, she cannot help but sink her teeth into it so happily. in the morning when i wake up if i lean out of bed to grab something that fell from my bedside table she will, without pause, immediately clock what im doing and throw herself off the bed/across the room/out from under the table and bite my wrist before bouncing off me and purring. she loves to tear and rend flesh. her favourite hobby is biting into my sweater sleeve(and arm), pulling it (and my flesh) and sucking on it while growling. she will do it mid cuddling and cry if i gently pull her off. baby gets so overwhelmed with love she has to bite and then screams and wails when i try to back up and give her space to not be overwhelmed.

[stankycowboy]

🧛🏻

He looks up from the bench he lazily adorns at the oncoming wanderer. Strange to see another out here on the nearly deserted road, but he was not disappointed by company. Not when he was looking to slake a particular thirst. This one was no mortal being. An eager flash comes to his eye. With a grin crossing upon his rugged features, Severen leans back, taking up as much of the seating available as possible, forcing her to sit close if she does indeed intend to do so. “Don’t s’ppose you come round here often?” He chuckles, in his experience the lines don’t have to be good, it is all in the delivery. She seems receptive. He notices her sensing him out, smelling the same cold absence he detected about her. They are the same (or similar), now known to one another. She doesn’t seem frightened (her loss), perhaps eager to find another of her own, and glances to the area beside him. “All yours” he offers.

She gives a snort and makes a shooing motion, which he accommodates with false irritation. Scooting more to one side he allows her the space requested, knowing that closing that small gap can be easily accomplished. The other creature sits, confident, but curious. They stare at one another a moment before she casually moves just a fraction closer. He lifts a hand to pull her hair away from her neck, she doesn’t seem to notice how he lingers.

It is disappointing how he can't see the throb of her jugular, its movement nearly ceased in her current state, pulse barely perceptible. Those were the small delights he loved about mortal prey, their vivacity an alluring show of its own; but the inhuman have their own eccentricities to enjoy. She sighs, and clasps his wrist, Severen is unconscious of her actions, finished with the charming disguise, its purpose nearly fulfilled; veneer falling to reveal the looming predator beneath. With one bold move she leans in toward his mouth, mistaking his fixated stare as one of attraction. Her motion does draw his eye, but instead of meeting her lips, he twirls the strands of her hair around his fingers, getting a good grip, and yanks down violently. Her head jerks to the side with a soft cry, unprepared for the force of his action, though her own supernatural proclivities show themselves as she tries to fight back. Not quite fast enough. Severen buries his teeth into the skin under her jaw. The position limits the movement of her head. Her once startled reaction changing to one of survival, desperate to free herself. Frenetically, she grabs at his jacket and head. What starts as frustrated attempts to remove him, turns into clawed thrashing, anguish increasing as she feels herself being drained. He feels his skin being flayed as she wounds him, yet he persists. Crunching down deeper, the blood once a thin trickle welling up through his teeth, becomes a thicker ooze. He sucks at the wound, forces his teeth closer, the skin tearing apart, freed from its moors. Faster it flows, though still languorous as it pools in his mouth, hungrily drawn down to satisfy his gluttonous appetite. She screams, he feels heady, either from sating his needs, or from what he is losing with her rabid attacks. Whatever damage she causes is near instantly healed-- a perk of feeding off his own kind-- as he consumes her vitality, her ferocity waning with each gulp. Severen releases her head to finally grapple her arms, constraining them behind her to hinder her assault. With one last savage bite he rends open her throat, her last cry dying in a sputtering gurgle that he laps out of the bloody cavity. As the stranger stills in his grip, The Savage One smiles, gore smeared up to his cheekbones. "Always nice to meet one'a my own". A dark laugh rumbles in his chest as he moves in to sap the last of what is left of her, his late night companion. He had heard there were those who considered the murder-- let alone cannibalism-- of other immortals as a grave misdeed, fetching punishments of the highest caliber. For him, they were but a palate cleanser from the mortal dredges. Whatever fell into his hands was prey, and prey deserved to be consumed. Until the day his hunger was satisfied, the roving blood drinker would drain the world of all it provided.

[unusualindigo]

Yukiko Kisaragi POV: A Leaf in the Fall

Sweat drips into my eyes as I gaze at the boy. I’ve beaten him so many times before. My mind races, trying to find where I’ve gone wrong, and how I could let him get this far into the fight. His cold eyes, shining with satisfaction, stare back at me, and I feel my hackles rise, despite myself.

With a huff, I swing my blade, Militis Luctus: Kamaitachi, toward the ground, to send a deadly crescent of pressurized air toward his legs while propelling myself skyward. But the boy uses his Nox Nyctores, the blade known as Mucro Algesco: Yukianesa, to chill the air around us once again and see my attack coming. He creates a block of ice beneath his feet as he leaps, propelling it forward with ars magus to intercept my descent.

With my own ars magus, I will Kamaitachi to lighten the air around my body as I twist, sending three more arcs of air his way, each meant to end this farce. He dodges the first by maneuvering to the side, twisting to use his icy vehicle as a shield against the second, and uses a barrier to attempt to block the third, which still bites into his white kosode, but only scratches his chest. He turns to use the barrier to slide across the ground, overshooting my position.

Now is my chance. I twist my body into the familiar violent rotations, and I cry to the heavens. “Vacua Caelo: Eurus!”

My body moves on its own as I create a vortex of ever-sharpening air, each swing of my blade only adding to the storm’s fury. As I near the ground, I see him standing in an unfamiliar stance, his barrier is red. Wait. My eyes widen as I see a sigil I do not recognize.

His gaze is certain and as deadly as any blade, face a mask of pure concentration and spite. “Empty Sky Form…”

My attack meets the sigil, swirling into it, and only now do I see the trap I’ve fallen into. With each blow absorbed, I feel the intensity around him increase. He rears back, an instant before my feet reach the ground.

“Winter’s Riposte!”  He swings Yukianesa, the force of his blow pushing him back a few centimeters. I desperately raise my arms to form my barrier spell, but it’s too late. It crashes through my guard and bites deeply into my flesh, rending a scream of utmost agony from me. I’m sent spiraling helplessly into a wall, my head meeting the stone with a dull crack as I feel the warm blood oozing from my chest and stomach, the cold air biting mercilessly into my now bare flesh as I struggle to move. The boy stares at me with a cool, dismissive sneer, and I know I’m beaten once Father’s Master Seven’s voice rings out across the courtyard as my vision blurs.

“That’s enough, Jin.” He glances at me once with his icy eyes, gleaming with disappointment, before turning to the boy with a smile tugging at his lips. The smile I once thought he’d show only to me. “There’s certainly room for improvement, but for now…” He approaches the boy and clasps him firmly on the shoulder. “The Kisaragi name is in your hands.”

My eyes widen, my heart stops, and for the first time in years, I feel the bitter sting of tears.

[the-ghost-of-jason-todd]

This is a @badthingshappenbingo fill for PULLING TEETH, ft. Talon Dick Grayson. You can read it on ao3 HERE.

The Talon is a weapon.  It is made of sharp points, a thousand cutting edges created from the ashes of a time long past, born to kill those which the Owls order it to kill.  Its fingers curl into claws, the lines of its body only made longer and more lethal by the armor it dons.  Its teeth, all, are filed to a deadly pin-point made to rip and rend and tear enemies asunder.  And if it fails to complete a task to satisfaction… well…

It is the teeth that are the first to go.

The Talon knows better than to struggle.  The hands on it won’t soften, with or without, but struggling will only make the process hurt that much worse.  It is a Talon, a weapon, and thus feels little pain—but the Owls, they know how to seek out the very core of it.  As if on a raw, exposed nerve the tools work—the Talon can only gasp through the chill of cold metal in its mouth and black, brackish blood down its throat.

It takes forever.  The Talon knows nothing of time—not here, deep under the ground where the walls are labyrinthine and the echoes endless—but as the hands and the metal pull its teeth one by one… it feels as if it lasts an eternity.  One after another after another are pried loose, rattling into the white marble dish at the side of the surgical suite.  It takes so long that the Talon can hardly remember what the punishment is for, why it ever chose to spare the dark-haired man (little boy, something inside it still insists—a man who was once a little, little boy in a costume of red and yellow and green—a little boy, a brother—).  There is nothing here but the pain, the punishment, transcending the pull of time.  It wants to scream, wants to cry… but all it is allowed to do is lie still and bleed, bleed, bleed.

The teeth, it knows, will grow back.  The memory of the pain, though… such a thing can never be lost in the first place.  Not once, not ever.  Not like the other memories the Talon used to have—memories of a home without a land, with music and people and clapping hands.  Memories of a cold, a blue glow in deep darkness, climbing and hanging and chattering excitement.  Memories of a sleepy fullness, the smell of old wood, the taste of rolling laughter.  No… those memories were ripped from it more permanently than teeth, taken, as efficient and effortless as an Owl flies.  All it has now are scraps, fleeting, sifting like sand through its claws.  They flow faster than the blood in its mouth, gone before it can think to grasp them. 

The truth… oh, so simple, is the truth.  The Talon has nothing—is nothing—will be nothing—if not for the sharpness gifted by the Owls.  It is at the Owl’s whim that the Talon loses its teeth, and it is only by the Owl’s generosity that they will grow back, the Owl’s healing magic coursing through its weapon’s undead veins.  Everything before that, everything the Talon once was, everything the Talon could have been… it is all simply dust, blown away by a wave of an uncaring hand. 

The same hands curl, wrench, metal tool clamped tight over the last of the Talon’s teeth.  They hold its mouth open, jaws wide and unable to bite, unable to move, unable to cry as the root is twisted free of its housing.  One last yank and it comes free, tossed aside like so much scrap.  The tools retract, and the hands push the Talon away.  It can only blink up at the Owl standing, silent and proud, beside it.  Its tongue is slick with blood, the muscle feeling out each of the gaping holes left behind.

“Go.  And this time, you will kill him,” the Owl says.  The metal tool is set down beside the marble bowl with a heavy clank, a punctuation to the command.  The or else does not need to be spoken.  The Talon knows what waits if it fails.  A coldness deeper than any other it has ever known—caught, trapped, in a glass box, unable to move or cry, unable to die but too cold to live, frozen at the blade’s edge of unbearable agony until the Owls decide it will serve them once more.

The Talon will not fail.  Not again.  It lifts its heavy body, closes its bloody mouth, and bows to its master.  It does not stumble as it leaves the surgical suite, as it rises toward the moon-lit world above—not even when it feels the wicked glass edges of new growth splitting apart the bone of its jaws, fresh fangs working their way up through its gums.  This is not the agony of failure—this is the pain of a second chance, a chance to right its wrongs, to prove itself.

It is not a little boy it seeks.  Not a brother.  Not a robin, an innocent baby chick peeping up from its nest.  It is a man—and this man, the Talon knows, must meet his end at the Talon’s claws.  He has escaped his fate once already, and it will not happen again.  The Talon will complete its task—it will bring its target’s severed head so that the Owls will know it is a good weapon, that it is worthy of protecting them, of enacting their will.

Yes… the Talon will kill Jason Todd. 

There is no other option.

[lucifer-kane]

NOT another Lloyd and Raven duet I'm not strong enough when it comes to them

[snuggleupagus]

I'm going to start biting

[rotshop]

GONNA B HONEST W/ YOU ,,,,,, i rlly dont like how this is written lmao ,,,, but also im sleepy tired so i get a pass dhmu /j

[ TW ; gore, some violence, death ]

notes ; based offa DIS ,,, u might wanna read it for some context n shit ,,, lawl ,,,

-

Between the two of you, it's hard to tell who's suffocating more. It's hard to tell if its you, with the little pants that pass by your teeth in shaky steps, hitching whenever they're cut down when you have to stop to cough up blood. It should be you, you who has your guts spilled out onto the floor and your blood staining all the concrete underneath the both of you. It has to be you, who's leaning heavy against 2b's chest and drawing unfocused circles onto his shoulder. It had to be you, you just had to go inside by yourself, you just had to be slow on the draw and nearly be ripped clean in two. It just had to go wrong with just you.

Even with all that in mind, he feels like there's nothing in him. There's no lungs to draw in breaths, no mind with clear thoughts on what to do and how to stop this once more, and certainly no heart beating steadily. In those places was instead viscera, a mangled, nameless mess of pink and red weighing him. There was some clump of pink that drew in some shaky puffs, barely reaching him as he choked on his own pride. There was nothing but tangled strings and weights in his head, making his skull pound as something in the back of his mind screamed to do something. There was a heavy weight behind his ribs that stayed put, a finality hanging over his shoulder as it always would.

He doesn't want to cry. He shouldn't be, you're the one with your innards exposed to the eyes of any and all and your face buried in the crook of his neck, it should be you who's crying in pain. He shouldn't be crying, he shouldn't be shedding tears when there's not a single bleeding wound on his skin. He shouldn't be and yet they're tight in his throat, threatening to tumble past his lips and create an embarrassment of himself. A shift brings him back from his thoughts, turning his attention back to you.

There's a little stutter in your movements, a quick pause as your vision momentarily fails you and your breath is wheezed past your lips. A quick, aimless grasp at your innards to have them follow your movements, rather than stay partially stuck to the floor, tugged further from your soon-to-be-cadaver as you readjust. You're just pulling yourself ever closer to him, little to no space left between the two of you as you support yourself on his figure. He can't help the way his own movements choke and pause as he moves his arms to wrap around you. He can't help the way he takes a sharp, shaking inhale as the skin of his arm ghosts over the start of your gash.

He remembers the first time he'd been with you in your 'final' moments. He remembers how the line had fallen dead on your side and the others all fell into a silence. They'd only told him later on why, they 'didn't want to scare him off.' He was still a little upset about it, even now. He had always been stubborn like that, it was a fact of him that you regarded with warm laughter and endearing teases.

He remembers the pure terror that'd gripped him as he came across you, choked squeaks and hisses leaving your lips as you writhed. The debris around you and the tangle of pipes and bars you'd been impaled on told the story he never bothered to ask, the one he'd never truly questioned you on even to this day. Something about the way you'd glanced at him in that moment never left him. Maybe it was how the pure agony you'd been in moments before shifted to confusion on his being there, shifted into something gentler yet still as forlorn and miserable, either way it haunted him endlessly. He remembers how you were such polar opposites after he'd managed to tear himself from his place.

The clatter of his goggles against the ground fell on deaf ears when he'd rushed for you. He barely even noticed how quick his breath was speeding up, he was far too focused on helping you, on getting you back to base so he could fix this. It'd taken your weak swipes at him and breathless pleads to just stop to snap him back, he didn't want to listen to you. He wanted to tear you from that metal and drag you back to base, he wanted to set you down and get to work, and then he wanted to grab you by the collar and ask just what was going through your head. He wanted to be mad, he wanted to argue and to let go of all the tension wracking him and making his hands shake. It was tearing him limb from limb in the worst way possible, in the one way he never wanted to feel.

He was afraid. Honest to god terrified from the moment his gaze fell on your bleeding-out form. It shook him to his core in a way he hadn't felt in forever, breaking past the facade he'd worked so hard to build in an utterly humiliating manner. He hated the way he had to clench his hands and bite his tongue as he stared down at you, his weak attempt at keeping his tears back that hung by a thin string. He hated how he fell to his knees, coming face to face with you as you looked back at him.

Your eyes were still soft with accepting misery in the moment, a weak smile finding it's way onto your lips as you reached for him. You'd struggled, finding it difficult to meet his face when the world was spinning so dizzyingly. He'd hesitated, hand shaking as it found your wrist, him leaning into your touch with an unsteady breath. If the tears weren't already hanging behind his eyes, they would've burst up with a vengeance when you started brushing your thumb over the bandages on his face.

He couldn't remember how exactly you'd spoken, how you'd been able to between the gurgle of blood in your throat and the copper piercing you, but you had. It was a request ; a final wish of sorts he didn't want to deny you. You could've asked for anything in the moment and he would've done it for you, he would tear through whoever and whatever he had to for you. He would rend flesh and ruin relationships and scar the world if he had to in that very moment. He'd never been an especially generous type, he could extend a certain amount of kindness to others but there was a limit to his softness. Yet, you managed to turn him so, managed to make him give an excuse of 'it wouldn't hurt,' or 'it's just a one time thing,' when it came to you.

Even so, you'd made such a simple request. One he would've asked you himself in other circumstances if he weren't so stubborn with what little ego he clung to. One he would've been happy to hear from you in the comfort of home and privacy. Even so, he'd nodded when you asked. Even so, he'd ignored how his own hands shook as he held his over yours gently.

It was an odd feeling, your blood seeping into his mouth, iron heavy on his tongue as his lips met yours. The taste would've been revolting under any other circumstances, making him recoil and pull away with a note to never repeat the cause. Yet, he didn't. He kept his lips against yours gently, experience slipping him in the thick anxiety of the moment. Even then, reluctance followed when he pulled away.

Content lost its footing when you'd given him once last smile, then it fell with a crash when your gaze grew glassy and unfocused. He'd never forget the panic that gripped him so tightly, enough of a disturbance to slip past his guard and make the tears start to fall. He didn't even notice them in the moment, all he saw was your corpse and the end of the compassion and emotion you'd helped him regain over time. He never asked the others if they heard him then, if they heard him plead with you, if they heard the sobs and begs he never would've given if it weren't you. He's glad they never brought it up, it was just a touch easier to forget how he'd completely broken down for the first time in a long time when you'd fallen still.

He was glad you weren't able to hear them. He's sure you would've made some dumb comment about it as you stood before him, alive and well as though nothing happened. He's sure you would've smiled and hummed a question he wouldn't answer, he's sure he would've reacted all the same. He's sure he still would have grabbed you by the collar and shoved you back against the wall, he's sure he would've still hissed at you to explain yourself, ignoring the desperation laced in his voice as his eyes began to burn again. You had an effect on him, one he wouldn't ever admit to even if you poked and prodded at it time and time again by simple virtue of you being yourself.

You were a surprisingly good kisser for someone on the brink of death once more, but you were better at it when you could count how many of him there were.

He's not sure what pulls him back as he looks down at you again, noting your still form blankly. He's not sure why he pauses for a few long moments, simply keeping his arms around you as your body grows colder and colder. He's not sure why he tucks hair behind your ear and lets his hand linger, warm by contrast against you. He's not sure when he pulls himself up off the floor, careful of your innards as he pulls you up with him.

He is however sure he feels a hell of a lot better when you sit up from your previous place on the table, hand trailing over the stitches that line your stomach and chest as you give a little hum of approval. He's sure he's smiling a little at that simple bit of praise. He's sure you'd make a comment about it if you noticed.

"Happy to see me, huh?"

He's happy to be right.

[metamagic-adept]

screaming crying foaming at the mouth biting tearing and rending flesh just trying to get wifi set up at my new place

[whumpywhumper]

Nightmare

Whumptober 2020: No 7. I'VE GOT YOU | Support | Carrying | Enemy to Caretaker

I haven’t done any Whumptober, but I said i was gonna post this when I saw the prompt fit so here we go. I think I’m also going to start jumping around in cannon a little bit and ignore the section that I’m stuck on. Get some content out and stop feeling stuck. 

Set in the future sometime :) Masterpost

Tagging: @misspelledwitch @insanitywishes @imagination1reality0 @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @voidwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @walkingchemicalfire @captivity-whump @liliability @muumimafia​ 

Usual thanks to @0idril0 @rosesareviolentlyread because you guys are awesome and listen to me ramble 

TW: Nightmares?

V***V

Markus was lost in a dream where he couldn’t move, his body completely out of his control, while masked, faceless men stood around with clip boards and white coats. His brain thrummed with panic. He wanted to scream, but as he opened his mouth the viewpoint changed and a black, bulbous bile bubbled out of his mouth, spilling over his lips and spreading into tentacles that wrapped around his throat. He watched his own eyes widen as he choked. Disembodied. A spirit. A soul unable to claw at his throat to loosen the tightening, demonic appendages.

The white coats turned their backs on him as everything went further and further away. The only witness to his dying body was himself. Watching his eyes turning red and bulging as capillaries burst. As his nostrils flared, trying to suck in precious oxygen. Mouthing fruitlessly at nothing, black tentacles keeping his lips spread grotesquely around the thick shaft coming from his throat.

A gloved hand spread over his chest, the tacky texture of the latex a sensory overload to his figmented reality. It pressed, harder, and harder. Until his sternum was cracking, and the hand pressed into, no—through— his skin. Red blood gurgled up, between the unrelenting fingers, staining the white of the hand over his chest, and Markus could finally scream as the monstrosity was pushed out of his mouth with a sickening pop.

Markus looked up in horror as Christine arched above him, the reflective metal of a long knife poised above her head in both hands, fangs bared in a rictus of a smile. Her mouth opened in a low, chilling laugh as the blade slammed down between his eyes in a crescendo of pain.

His eyes snapped open as he convulsed in the bed, his elbows knocking against two soft objects with a panicked cry that echoed off of the walls. “No!”

He scrambled against the mattress, fingernails digging into the sheets, still screaming as he frantically fought to get away. “Please, please don’t!” The room was dark, no light illuminating his surroundings as restraining hands tried to trap him again, to hold him down and hurt him. Loud voices joined the cacophony, but the words didn’t make sense to the terrified witch. He ripped free of the restraining hands, panting a croaking sob as he launched himself away, toppling to the floor with a thump.

A gasp exploded out of him when the air was knocked out of his lungs, but he clambered to his hands and knees, ignoring the carpet burn as his skin gave way to his fear. He found a corner as light flooded his senses, and he cowered, pressing his back to the wall as breathless pleas scattered out of his mouth.  “Pleasepleaseplease...”

“Hey, heyheyheyhey—look at me, Markus—look at me, honey,” a voice pulled his attention from where he’d buried his face into the crook of his arms, it was sweet, low, and comforting. Holding none of the false succor that Lucien had plied him with, and Markus raised his eyes slowly.

Tears blurred his vision, but he saw Ben kneeling in front of him, hands raised like he was warding off a wild animal. Kincaid was pressed against the door jam, hand slapped over the light switch as his own chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes wild. They were both in basketball shorts, bare chested, their hair sticking up and crazy from sleep.

Markus felt a broken noise crack through his throat like stained glass, “Oh, god.” Full bodied, throaty sobs wracked him, and he couldn’t stop himself as he started bawling.  He curled up, hands fisting in his hair, and something must have let the other two men know that it was safe to approach him.

Ben’s arms wrapped around his shoulders first, pressing a kiss to the back of his head as he murmured soothingly, “shh, shh, shh, it’s okay, Bambi, just a nightmare.”

Kincaid pressed against his other side, the tell-tale song of magic thrumming as one of his arms slid around his own bare torso. “Heyyy, sweet guy, heyyy...don’t cry, we’re here, you’re okay.“ He gathered him up with a hand under his knees, pulling his unresisting body into his lap, and Markus buried his face into the side of Kincaid’s neck. “I know, sweet guy, we’ve got you. Let it out, baby, shhhh.”

He hiccoughed a wet apology, his face sticking to the other’s salty skin. “S-sorry, ‘m s-so sorry.”

“Hush, honey, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for, shhh.” Ben brushed a hand through his hair as he helped rearrange Markus’s gangling limbs, pulling a blanket off of the bed and wrapping it around both of the witches. He settled beside them, leaning against Markus’s back, breathing slowly and evenly. “Just breathe, Bambi.”

<***>

Kincaid held Markus close as he and Ben soothed the distraught witch, rocking him gently as his hand brushed up and down his back, the other stroking through his hair. Markus was still shaking, small sobs rending his heart into pieces with every sound. His neck was uncomfortably wet from the other man’s tears, and his legs were definitely asleep, but he didn’t feel any urge to move. He would stay on the floor, ass cheeks tingling, as long as he needed.

It wasn’t often that Markus let him or Ben hold him, struggling with the casual touches that made up any relationship, the lack of control making him anxious and skittish. He met Ben’s eyes as he pressed his cheek into Markus’s hair, seeing his same heartache in the other man’s honeyed gaze.

This had been the first night they’d spend with Markus in the same bed, even though they’d been together for months. The other witch had been flighty about staying or letting them stay with him. Usually sneaking out as Ben and Kincaid dropped from long shifts and hard hours.

They’d finally gotten him to agree to stay after it became obvious that he was struggling, the black bags under his eyes swallowing his face, exhaustion written in the slump of his shoulders. Now, they knew why he hadn’t wanted to stay.

He and Ben waited until Markus’s breathing was soft and easy, his lithe frame completely limp, Kincaid feeling the steady  puff of air against his neck that announced he’d fallen asleep. Ben stood first, moving slowly as he separated from Markus, so he didn’t wake him. “Alright,” he whispered, “back to bed, love.”

“Can you take him?” He gave the slightly shorter man a sheepish smile, “I don’t think my legs are gonna be able to move for a few minutes.”

Ben’s eyes crinkled at the corners, but he didn’t say a word as he gathered up their lover, keeping the blanket tucked around him. Markus gave a whimpering moan as his head lolled to the other man’s shoulder, but Ben hummed at him softly. “It’s alright, honey, it’s just me. Go back to sleep, hush.”

With Markus’s weight off of him, Kincaid had to bite his lip to keep from waking the man with his unmanly squealing. Pins and needles shot through his legs, and he spent a few agonizing moments trying to rub feeling back into the numb extremities. Ben offered him a hand after settling Markus back into the middle of the bed, where they’d fallen asleep curled around each other, and pulled him into a tight hug as he stood.

He was trembling, and Kincaid gritted his teeth, eyes squeezed shut for a moment as he held him. Ben was always like this, nothing fazed him in the heat of the moment but, as soon as the emergency was taken care of, he let himself crumble and feel everything. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” he whispered into Ben’s hair, fingers curling into the soft strands as he looked over at Markus’s sleeping face.  

Kincaid really did know how he felt, his own heart was still thudding in his chest from the jolt of adrenaline that had shot through his unconscious system at Markus’s panicked scream. His ribs ached from where Markus’s flailing elbow had caught him in his desperate attempt at fleeing, and he didn’t think he’d get the sound of his pitiful begging out of his ears even if he scraped them clean.

“He’s been struggling like this the entire time, Kincaid,” Ben said tightly, voice choked with emotion. “How—why didn’t he come to us before?”

“You know as well as I do, trauma victims process differently—there isn’t any logic there, he’s doing what he can to protect himself.”

A vigorous nod against his already wet shoulder, and Ben sniffled, “I know, fucking hell, I know. Doesn’t make it any easier to wake up to him screaming like that.”

He held Ben closer, burying his own face into the crook of the other man’s neck, breathing deeply of his woodsy musk. His hug was returned with equal fervor, a calloused hand trailing up and down his back as they swayed for a few moments together.

The sound of Markus whimpering pulled them apart, and they looked over in concern. Still deeply asleep, the other witch’s eyebrows were crinkled in distress, a slight frown pulling his expression downwards as the light caught on the tear streaks on his face. He and Ben moved in sync with each other, like they did in so many ways, Kincaid shutting off the lights as he went to the other side of the bed while Ben pulled back the covers so they could crawl in.

Markus stirred slightly as they settled around him, their arms curling over him in the semblance of a hug, and Kincaid felt Markus’s breath hitch as their skin touched. Kincaid wasn’t strong enough to get more than a twinge when he touched the other witch, but he knew Markus was extremely sensitive to the magic he gave off. “Hush, sweet guy, we’re here,” he murmured soothingly, “we’re not going anywhere. You’re safe, you can sleep, okay?”

He seemed to settle as he and Ben comforted him with gentle words and touches, breaths coming slow and easy as he went back to sleep.

“God, Bambi, you must be so exhausted,” Ben whispered quietly, and Kincaid felt his hand brush against his own as they both smoothed Markus’s hair in tender strokes.

“I knew he had to have been having nightmares, but he’s been so quiet about everything. I haven’t wanted to push.” Guilt tickled against his heart with the same amount of sorrow pressing at his chest. “We’re going to have to ask in the morning, you know that, right?”

Ben sighed, but he heard him nod, hair shifting against the pillow case. “Yeah, but let’s get him to sleep in first, okay? It’ll be easier when he’s well rested.”

Implicit in his qualification was Ben’s own reluctance to push, but they would do what had to be done to help Markus. Just as he would for them.

[originlist]

[ from ]

> @bonmotx

Seimei accepts Bei’s decision to change and die wordlessly. He watches their own future, the immediacy of it, and knows that if nothing else, this will succeed. (It’s a formality he doesn’t understand his own choice to do. Generally — at least, before a certain event — Seimei did not ever bother to use foresight on Ashiya Douman. Because, certainly, Douman is a skilled and good onmyoji, thus can take care of themselves. Why check? Is this paranoia, or, hm...)

The warding charms settle themselves in a star pattern around Laurel and Seimei. They throw up a wall that protects them from all outside, impassible. To enemies and to the curses that Bei swallows and becomes. It’s opaque, for Laurel’s sake. Seimei's mystic eyes look past it, impassive and recording.

He watches as Ashiya Douman becomes ‘Ashiya Douman’ becomes only curses and monstrosity and the thing they were accused of being once. He watches and does not flinch. Something of it feels uncomfortable within him, but that he does not understand either, nor does he try to.

The wall only dissolves once everything but the monster stills. It’s gorged heavy on curses and corpses, teeth red and black with blood, curses bubbling from the tear ducts on eyes that are not all on its face. It turns to Seimei and Laurel bristling.

Laurel freezes, eyes wide. Unlike Seimei, she wasn’t able to watch. She didn’t see the shift, but she knows this is Bei. (This is her beloved friend, this still has a similar shape to the little ferretlike thing that has curled up in her lap before, this is a person she’s held and who is her family and who she must protect, even as it is a thing that is huge and monstrous and does not recognize her, wants her dead.) “No,” she says, as Seimei lifts a hand with sealing charms at the ready.

The charms flick to what was Bei, impacting and turning to glowing white bindings that bite into fur and scales and skin. The monster hisses. It strains against the ties as Seimei shifts his stance into something Laurel can feel the decision of. He is going to kill her friend.

He is going to kill Bei, and she cannot allow that. “Stop!” she says, as Seimei walks forward.

“Let the wrongs be forgiven,” Seimei begins. A magic circle gathers beneath what was Bei.

“Stop!” He does not listen. “Caster, stop!” Seimei ignores her completely.

She doesn’t have time, and she needs it, because... because in stories, it doesn’t end with this being the outcome. It’s about the power of love and friendship and whatever other bullshit, right, not about someone saying they’ll die and just letting it happen. “Stop!” Laurel screams, her voice tearing and echoing with all the power of the unified language she can barely tap into. It nearly rips her throat, but she ignores the pain. “Stop!” Blood wells on the back of her tongue. With such a simple order and in such a tongue, it cannot be disobeyed. Both Seimei and the creature he faces shudder to a still, as if abruptly chained.

The thing that was Bei bristles, growling and shaking, only barely restrained as Laurel tries to run over. “You can’t-- you can’t kill them, you have to save them. You’re supposed to save them!”

“It won’t be undone. Laurel, this is not Bei, nor is it Ashiya Douman.” A rare time when Seimei refers to them by the name that was put upon them. Not Ashiya Douman nor ‘Ashiya Douman’ nor their moniker.

“I don’t care! Shut up and fix them, you have to!” She goes far as to stomp her foot, tears in her eyes and too close to Bei as the power her voice had fades. Seimei feels the command to stop weaken.

Seimei casts two seals aside as soon as Laurel’s binding snaps. The first catches the monstrosity in the muzzle and releases a flash of lighting, redirecting the teeth away from Laurel, and the second hits Laurel in the chest and turns to chains. She’s thrown aside, some meters behind Seimei, and held with seals keeping her to the ground. One covers her mouth. “I will take care of them as they asked. Kindly do not risk us again.”

“The vengeful will rest. The cursed will be cleansed. The harmful will be neutralized. The dead will be quieted. Seiman no Seimei.”

Laurel still screams at Seimei through the seal, her voice muffled enough to be lost almost entirely. Seimei ignores her. He has a job, a request to do. He could use his talismans to incinerate the demon on the ground before him, but... maybe it’s sentimentality?

A promise to be fulfilled. There is a knife kept tucked hidden in the belt of his robes, just in case. He uses that instead of summoning something else. “You did well,” Seimei says, quietly, in the tone of an afterthought. When he stands before the creature, it tenses, hisses, tries desperately to reach him with a palpable desire to rend him open.

Seimei doesn’t flinch. One of the many eyes on the monster’s face stares at him with what he’s not going to pretend is lucidity as Abe no Seimei pushes a blessed blade into the neck of a demon. He murmurs a cleansing and a prayer as he does. It doesn’t do much, but it makes him feel better. The blood is black and noxious and seemingly never-ending as he cleaves through a vessel. Tiny malformed limbs of curses spawn around the wound and from it and try to grab at him, then shrink back as if burned.

He decapitates the monster. It goes quicker than it should, given the size of its neck and of Seimei’s knife, but his blessings do help this endeavour. When it dies, the thing that was Bei vanishes not in the gold light of a Servant, but with a dissolution into a disgusting black gunk that melts into the mud at Seimei’s feet.

The entire time from behind him, Laurel screams. Even if she can’t be heard, even if it’s not words, her rage and sadness is potent enough a miasma to be felt. She screams for Seimei to die, that he’s a monster, she hates him, how could he, she hates him, because —

(it’s easier to hate Seimei for killing what was Bei than it is to mourn a loss. She’s terrified and refuses to acknowledge that perhaps Bei won’t come back.)

He waits for a moment after the body vanishes to turn and release the seals on Laurel. They vanish and she’s caught midscream, crying and cursing him. Seimei supposes it’s understandable, given her emotional volatility. Still... he doesn’t really deserve it, does he? (Does he? He doubts, a little....)

She still barks her hatred for him as she hauls herself up, voice cracking intermittently and with a little too much magic in her voice when she says she wishes he’d die, too. It’s a physical stabbing feeling Seimei gets from it. He walks over and tries to help her up anyways.

His offered hand is immediately yanked on. Laurel throws him to the ground and gets up with Seimei as leverage, kneeling over him. A white smudge on bloody soil.

“You’re a monster,” Laurel rasps, blood dripping over her lips and her fingers tightening around Seimei’s neck enough to bruise, to draw blood with her nails. He looks at her with a neutral expression she can’t decipher and eyes with nothing human behind them. It makes Laurel’s head hurt more than it already does. Rather than what it should be, where even messes of emotions are things she can draw from, Seimei seems to her like a black hole, sapping her energy with his sheer void.

She lets his neck go and spits blood at him. they both stand, Laurel making a point to keep a distance. “If you can’t bring them back when we get to Chaldea, I’ll kill you myself.”

A bland smile that seems more like a plastic expression than anything else and a placid voice that’s hardly changed answers her. “They ensured we would be able to return. We’ll be fortunate on the way back.” They are. Without the miasma of ill will and curses, those things that have been eaten and then killed, Seimei’s blessed fortune can take effect again. The rain slows and the sky begins to clear. Laurel tells Seimei to go fuck himself and slogs off, mud sucking at her feet.

[bibliocratic]

Ooo jonmartin prompts ya say? 👀 If you're still taking requests, I'm really feeling some Supportive Monster Boyfriends angst rn. Either jon being Very Eye and martin calming him down, or martin being Very Lonely and Jon pulling him back, whichever....😁 --@screaming-introvertedly

Here you are! Supportive Martin and the Eye-based horror his boyfriend sometimes turns into like some sort of shitty superpower

(some content warnings for violent imagery and graphic hurt/comfort, I’ll add more detail to the tags. 

Jon rocks him awake violently, his nails leaving reddened half-moons in the skin of Martin’s arm, clamping his other hand vice-tight over his mouth. He is panicked and panicking and Martin’s pulling his beaten, aching body up out of muddy awakening, dredging together the scraps of energy he has left.

Jon releases him, and makes sloppy gestures, their meaning imperfectly delivered with how rushed he’s being; Up. Leave. Corruption. Now. Leave. Now. Now.

His mouth and hands make a terrified picture of desperation, and Martin’s staggering to standing, steadying himself on the rust-mossed bannister of the car park stairwell they’ve been sheltering in, trying to shuck exhaustion from his limbs to paw around for his backpack.

It’s too late anyway.

Martin can hear the skittering, scraping tumult approaching up the floors below, and Jon must know something he doesn’t, because he’s grabbing Martin’s hand and tugging him manically up, pushing him when he thinks Martin’s going too slow, and their feet are tripping on the concrete stairwell and still Jon is trying to pull them both upwards with nothing but his will and shaky legs. Their thumping, irregular steps echo in the boxy space, and still they aren’t fast enough.

They come as a mass. A roiling, compacted sea of matted, boil-plagued fur and knotted tails. Mouths frothing rapid cry out a hideous rending song that scampers and squeals, and they pour up the steps like a wave and break against them as they run.

Martin fights hard as they’re blocked in at a higher landing. He’s getting good at fighting these days. He scythes with a home-made weapon of brute force and nails while Jon burrows into their backpack, and then he’s being handed a flare as Jon casts down a glugging spill of petrol, and that when illuminates in a fetid barbecue stench takes out a good few of them. Yet they are legion and there are only two of them, and they were shattered and wasting before even this assault, and Martin is not fast enough.

He remembers hearing Jon holler in agony, his body turning in a pirouette of violent motion and intended impact and private terror, and he doesn’t even manage to complete his turn. A rat-king, made of up dozens of writhing furry bodies latches into his leg, using the leverage to claw savagely at his chest with a dozen back legs, a mauling amalgamation of impossible, flesh-rot limbs.

Something chomps into the meat of his arm and dangles there. He screams himself, the sound too big in the stairwell, a return cry of a dozen distant howling Martins, and his body shudders felled as he’s pulled down, and he keeps on screaming. He’s lost sight of Jon. There’s blood and matted fur over his eyes. His lungs expanding with a breathless terror, he tries to batter them away like midges in a summer heat as they swarm over him and take him for food.

The patter of their nailed feet over his cheeks, the paper-cut, dig-drag sensation of the onslaught, the decisive and brutal splitting bite and rip of the skin of his throat.

“Stop.”

The rats stop. So does Martin. The scream bubbles un-made and unvoiced in his chest and he can’t blink the blood out of his eyes. He can’t see Jon, but he doesn’t expect to. It’s not Jon that’s here with them any more.

“Tell me,” whisper-demands-croons-sings the thing that is no longer Jon, voice crashing on the rocks of them with with a wave-foam aftertaste of static and Martin’s mouth fills with the saliva of every shameful story he’s ever kept secret, every unkind thought, every mistake, every evidence of his fragile humanity laid bare.

“Tell me your story, Tangled Hoarde of Many Claws,” compells the voice of the Archive. “Let me rip your song from your spines.”

Martin pays hideous witnessing to the rats’ screaming. He sees when they start rocking their mismatched, desecrated bodies, moaning and keening, when they start dying with all the violent grace that was probably afforded to Peter Lukas. The infected bodies that survive turn delirious, wailing in confusion, lost from their hive, dragging their broken-backed, broken-brained bodies from the battleground, and the Watcher drinks it all in.

Martin feels the compulsion flicker and falter like a loss of pressure. His mouth remembers the agony of his body.

The thing that is not Jon watches him for a steady moment. The edging of its eyes stretches, retracts like the bodies of jellyfish, and pupils bloom into existence like opening flowers with a sucking, popping sound. Still the thing stares and Martin wails at the torn places of his skin, and the flayed torn places in his head that the thing is calmly perusing through as his movements get weaker.

He wants Jon here. He is trembling, and blood-loss woozy and he wants Jon to tell him it’ll be ok.

It is a body in all the ways something can be technically a body, and it moves in all the ways something can mechanically move. The hands that touch him are not the thin-spindle fingers that are deceptively calloused, they are not hands he knows, hands that have held him with a cherishing softness. There is nothing soft in this gaze, like being the only thing in the sights of some predator on a desolate, wind-scoured moor, nothing soft in its hold as it observes the violence done to Martin’s body.

Martin gasps and thrashes faintly, gargles blood through the weeping gash in his throat, and the thing makes a sound like a snarl of tape being wound back.

“Breathe,” his body is commanded. It doesn’t even have a mouth any more. It sounds its demand in the fibres of his skin, in the tendrils of his slipping-away consciousness, and Martin almost weeps at the meat-hook immoveable yank of it as he’s made to persist.

It is unendurable to continue. And the thing, that flexes the outline of a face that could have been Jon’s, whose eyes have lost all colour, replaced by the shock-wide black of pupils like the unblinking gaze of owls, will not permit him to drop into unconsciousness. Martin is instructed to live and breathe and survive in this blood-soaked, echoing stairwell, and his abused body does as instructed. It is efficient, this brutality of meatball surgery, but there is nothing human in it, and Martin’s throat gags on a wail as a tourniquet is applied to his leg.

Finally, eyes that could be eyes he knows boil down to the front of the thing’s face.

“Sleep. Long and dreamless,” comes the final command. Martin has no choice in the matter.

He awakes in a different place. There was a multi-level shopping centre running off one of the floors of the car park, and he opens his eyes in the plush-carpeted, desolate foyer of a multiscreen cinema. His body an anguish, aching and bruised to the bones of him. He blearily looks at the patch on his arm, the neatly sewn stitches and tape marking his skin, manages to move his arm with a pained wince to touch at the padding of gauze at his throat, his upper leg.

Around him like the elements of a summoning circle; medical gear, antiseptic and needle driver, tissue forceps, blood-heavy bindings discarded along with make-shift compressions. Martin wonders how much of his body needed mending. How much of it was commanded to.

Jon is there. His face ashen and smeared with Martin’s blood, the horrifying vista of his face returned to almost normal. Martin watches an eyeball roll back and into the scar tissue of Jon’s throat. He has his back against a circular plinth, body collapsed and folded uncomfortably like he’s lying where he fell.

He’s not looking at Martin. His eyes – his own dark pupils returned to him – staring off at a distance Martin cannot reach, a horizon he cannot venture to.

There are the drying trails of tears down Jon’s cheeks. His mouth is moving but it is not his voice that spools out but a testament of horror bestowed by some other poor soul using a mimicry of their voice.

Jon has the expression on his face of a man who has spent a long time drowning.

Martin wonders if he’s too late to bring him back to shore.  

Martin reaches out, fumbling, his motions jerky, imprecise. His reach limited by the bindings of his wounds, he flails his hand to touch Jon’s leg, the bare skin revealed below the line of the trouser leg, the only part of him he can reach.

“Jon, come back,” he pleads hoarsely, and stares at him as if hoping to snag his gaze away.  “Come on, you can do it, come back to me.”

Jon’s eyes blink slowly, like a lizard. His mouth doesn’t stop moving. His body has started shivering, though it’s warm enough here.

Martin wets his lips and wishes for water.

“I broke my wrist when I was six,” he says, the words scraping up the side of his throat. Jon’s eyes flick to him, and there are still the embers of a hungry light there. He has stopped talking. He is paying attention.  “I used to play rugby, though I was never any good at it. There was a fight in the changing rooms when I was thirteen, and I stopped playing after that.” Martin sucks in more air and Jon’s gaze doesn’t leave him. He’s stopped shivering.

The Eye likes the tales of minor tragedies, of fears and hurts and heartaches and so Martin feeds it like a praying man might light votive candles to try and lead his loved ones home.

“The first boy I loved, it-it was, we were at uni, but he was so ashamed of who he was he kept me a secret too,” he continues. “I am frightened that one day I’ll become my dad. I miss Tim and Sasha. I knew I had a crush on you when you told me I could stay in the Archives, and even then, I wished it gone because I didn’t want to be hurt again and I thought you’d be the sort of man who’d tear me down to build himself up.” He clenches his fingers around Jon’s ankle. “I am scared that one day you’ll drown. Come back, Jon. It can’t have you, come back to me.”

Jon sways and blinks woozy. He looks at Martin, seeing again, and his gaze is thready and human and terrified.

He’s stumbling, crawling on hands and knees to Martin’s side. Stuffed in his mouth are all the sorries and regrets and pains Martin can see writ large over his face; his hands span bird-flighty over Martin’s healing, shattered places.

“Jon, I’m ok, you saved me, Jon, we’re alive.”

Martin uses his arm to pull him close. Jon’s hands are beginning to scatter in explanation, in apology, but Martin shushes him with a croaky, relieved sound and holds him, a known quantity cradled in his hands, rocking his creaking, bruised painfully human body as tight as his battered limbs can bear.