The declaration, not what comes after: what comes after is a nightmare. It's a hideously good trap and almost entirely pointless. He'll reel over it, later, at the bottom of a bottle: she seeded the rain against him. It's ridiculous. He might be flattered, when he takes the time to think it through.
In the moment he is not spared the breath or thought to dwell. Her nonsensically complex flash-bang wipes the street to ringing obliteration, and he shuts his eyes against it. Suspended Vileblood blooms over him in a stinging pins-and-needles gust; it burns his eyes, kills his sinuses, speckles out vision and proprioception both. He would stagger if he weren't what he is. He would die if he were human.
While he's breathing pure hell and menthol, Mercy punches out his spinal column.
The lance of bone snaps, easy as breaking a twig, when he turns to face her. He's never needed his brain to make his meat move, not really. Not when he's paying attention.
"Ow," says God, his voice stripped hideous and Vileblood in his teeth. The bone makes a bad sound when it comes free from the back of his head. In its absence is a hole weeping soot and starlight, and it smudges glitter and gray matter on his fingers when he presses it shut. "Seriously?"
cws will continue
The declaration, not what comes after: what comes after is a nightmare. It's a hideously good trap and almost entirely pointless. He'll reel over it, later, at the bottom of a bottle: she seeded the rain against him. It's ridiculous. He might be flattered, when he takes the time to think it through.
In the moment he is not spared the breath or thought to dwell. Her nonsensically complex flash-bang wipes the street to ringing obliteration, and he shuts his eyes against it. Suspended Vileblood blooms over him in a stinging pins-and-needles gust; it burns his eyes, kills his sinuses, speckles out vision and proprioception both. He would stagger if he weren't what he is. He would die if he were human.
While he's breathing pure hell and menthol, Mercy punches out his spinal column.
The lance of bone snaps, easy as breaking a twig, when he turns to face her. He's never needed his brain to make his meat move, not really. Not when he's paying attention.
"Ow," says God, his voice stripped hideous and Vileblood in his teeth. The bone makes a bad sound when it comes free from the back of his head. In its absence is a hole weeping soot and starlight, and it smudges glitter and gray matter on his fingers when he presses it shut. "Seriously?"