Bruises in different places tell different stories. Bruises on the knees are different from bruises on the hips, which are different from bruises on the neck.
All three of those, together? That tells a different story, too.
whumper who chokes whumpee and leaves thick, deep bruises on their neck. whumper who watches the bruises develop with a satisfied pleasure. whumper who leans down and presses lingering, open-mouthed kisses over the bruises, licking them and scraping teeth while whumpee squirms and hyperventilates and can’t stop the tears streaking down their face. it hurts. it’s terrifying. it’s humiliating. whumper just smiles against their skin.
PLEASE AND VERY PRETTY PLEASE *fluttering eyelashes* I need second part of Zipties and Oh - Oh.I ready to sell my soul.I trade my mind.I saw that promt last night and ı cant stop reading it first every time ı open this app.YOUR WRİTİNG AMAZİNG AND İNCREDİBLE!!
(*awkwardly stands in front of your doorstep like this emoji 🕴🏽*...happy holidays? This is so late I'm sorry please don't sell your soul)
(also THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU)
part 1,
Edit: part 3
When Hero came to, they did so with a panicked gasp, chest heaving. And when they did, they remembered everything. Vigilante’s unconscious bloody form on the ground. Villain’s hand on their face. Their deal.
"Villain!"
"I am right here, my love." A voice chimed right beside them.
It took a while for the black spots to disappear and for the hero to breathe normally. They squinted as they turned their head towards the villain's voice, groaning.
"This is what I had to do to make you scream my name?" The criminal continued. "You're so high maintenance, my dear."
"What?" The hero frowned and their gaze finally landed on the villain. They were kneeling and gazing at them with an almost tender look, but Hero knew better. They saw that obsessive glint in the villain's eye. "You... Villain."
The other nodded. "Yes." They replied, bemused.
"You-" they lurched forward, only to nearly fall forward on their face. That is when they realized that they were sitting on wet grass, their arms still ziptied behind them.
"Careful." Villain's breath was hot on their neck. "You'll hurt yourself." They reached out a hand to push their chest backwards.
Hero twisted their body away, their back colliding with a tree. "Don't touch me!"
Villain blinked and slowly put their hand down. "Now, now... that isn't what you promised..." their eyes flickered dangerously in the moonlight.
The hero felt a chill that had nothing to do with the low temperature of the night. “I-”
“Oh, but don’t you worry.” The villain smiled suddenly. “We have all the time in the world.”
“…time for what?” Hero asked hesitantly and the villain grinned.
“To train you, of course.”
The crime-fighter said nothing to that.
“I’ve always wondered what it would be like.” Villain stood up. “To see you beneath my feet, for once.” Hero’s tongue felt heavy in their mouth. “I quite like it. I like it a lot.”
“Where’s Vigilante?” The captive blurted. Not even the sound of crickets was heard as the two enemies regarded each other in utter silence. Hero with anticipation and Villain with… a blank expression on their face. The hero frowned. “You promised they’d be okay. You said they’d live!” Hero’s voice cracked at the last line. The more silent Villain was the more worried the hero became. Why was the villain not answering? Did they lie? Did Hero give themselves up for nothing? Was Vigilante alive? Why did the villain keep staring at them like that? “Answer me! What did you do to Vig-”
Hero was cut off by a brutal kick in the stomach. They doubled over their stomach and moaned in pain. “If you’re going to be my pet,” the villain finally opened their mouth, “we’re going to need a few sets of rules, love.” Hero whimpered as their stomach throbbed. Just the slightest of movements caused them pain. Their captor paid them no mind as they simply got down to one knee before them and grabbed the roots of their hair and pulled up. The hero’s breath hitched.
“First rule.” Villain whispered in the hero’s ear. “You will never mention that name in my presence again. Better yet, you will not think of them when you’re with me at all.” They shook Hero’s head slightly before letting their hair go. Their hand cradled Hero’s neck gently. “You will wipe them out of your mind completely. Understood?”
The hero took short breaths and nodded. “Use your words.” Their captor ordered.
Hero took one deep breath before responding. “If you tell me their status now, I promise I’d do exactly as you say.” The hand on their neck tightened slightly. “Please.”
Finally, Villain leaned back and looked them in the eye. From Hero’s angle, the villain’s hair prevented the moonlight from falling into them, making their eyes look like two empty voids. “They’re exactly where we left them." A slow smile creeped on Villain's face. Hero shivered. "And don’t you worry,” the villain put a hand on the hero’s cheek gently, as if they were afraid they would break, “I didn’t touch a hair on their head.”
The tension that Hero had on their shoulders disappeared. They let out a shaky breath that they didn’t know they’d been holding and nodded absentmindedly. Villain smiled. Their hand on Hero’s cheek became firmer as they stroked it gently. “Satisfied?” They asked.
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
Hero looked at them, puzzled, and blinked. “Yes, I am satisfied.” They made sure their words were clear.
The villain snorted. “Oh, we'll have fun you and I.”
Before the hero could question this weird interaction, the villain’s hands went to their throat and started squeezing. “Hey.. Hey, wait!”
“I’m truly sorry for doing this, my love. But you did wake up before you were supposed to.”
“Why are you- ack! I thought we were already h-here.” Hero choked, their legs flailing about in an attempt to push the villain away. But Villain had strategically put themselves close enough to choke them and near enough so that the hero's legs couldn’t be put between them.
“Hm? Oh, no, no, dear. This is just the second meetup. The car will be here soon.”
“Vil-Villain stop…. Wait, please!” Villain responded to Hero’s begging for once and let them go. Hero took deep gasps for air. “What’s the matter with you?!”
“Security measures, you understand.”
“Can’t you just, I don’t know, blindfold me or something?” Hero nearly screamed in desperation. They did not want to experience the feeling of slowly becoming unable to breathe again.
The villain smiled almost fondly. “I could. But…” they grabbed and pulled on Hero’s waist. When they sat on top of them, they put firm hands around the hero’s throat, “I like seeing you writhe under me more.” And then they squeezed.
This hurt more than before. “N-No… stop…”
“Also, for future reference-”
“V’llain, pl-please…!”
“-I expect you to refer to me as master.”
Hero gurgled under them and twitched, tears in their eyes. “But like I said, we’ll have all the time in the world, my dear pet.”
haven't seen much about musician whumpee, so hear me out: singer whumpee who lost their voice hours before an important performance and desperately tried to restore it through any means available. enter a frustrated manager who blamed the singer for being "careless with their health" and told the singer to pull themselves together or risk damaging their hard earned reputation. the singer broke down in the dressing room, with tears ruining their makeup and sobs worsening their hoarse voice.
bonus point if whumpee's vocal problem didn't come from a sore throat, but because whumpee got into a fight earlier in the day and whumper strangled them so hard they nearly blacked out.
oh this is brilliant. the whump reveal here is particularly tasty because it has to happen. whumpee can't pretend that nothing's wrong, because they can't sing. they can hardly talk. not to mention the fact that they're still shaking and terrified from the attack.
are their bruises? do they have enough makeup to cover them? does the manager's reaction change when they find out the truth?
(could whumper actually be the manager? maybe whumpee was already planning on pulling out of the performance. their manager couldn't make them do it, but they didn't think whumpee had a good enough excuse, so they choked whumpee out to give them something real to complain about.)
and how do whumpee's bandmates react? do they confront whumpee outright, or just exchange quiet glances with each other because they're not sure what else to do? something's wrong, but whumpee isn't talking, and when they do, they're sure as shit not being honest.
whumpee has to cancel the performance. obviously. they can't go out like that, with a wrecked voice and tears still on their face. but cancelling makes people try reeeeeeeally hard to find out why. how long before something gets out?
CW: Violence, stabbing, death, minor whump, manhandling, hair pulling, gagging, choking, blood loss
── ⟡ ˙
The first thing Wren registers is their illusion falling, dissipating with the ice-cold pinpricks of their terror. It is not the slow, eventual tug that comes with the flow of their power. A gentle breeze against their skin. It’s fast, abrupt. Taken from them like a stolen breath. They shake all over, tremble from head to toe. The scream has barely escaped their throat as it happens. Stripped naked, exposed to the wind. They feel the hunter’s eyes lock on them, seizing his target, before they have the time to even blink.
They run.
They don’t even have to think about it. Every instinct inside of their bones that had begged them to stay, to lay down and sit still, to hide and stay silent — it’s all forgotten within an instant. Every muscle inside their body screams at them to move, to escape. There’s no other option left. Those yellow eyes, sharp, calculative, have fallen upon them, and they have no other chance. To run is to survive. It is the very thing that has kept them alive until this point, and the only thing that will give them a chance to stay alive another night. They’ve learnt that well by now.
A bullet tears through the metal of the table that Wren had rested against only seconds prior. Screeching and singing its path through the air, clattering against the pavement where Wren does not dare to turn back and look. They run with reckless abandon, the soles of their busted-up converse slapping against the ground against the echoes of gunshots. Their movements have no rhyme or reason, have no attempt at being quiet or agile. It doesn't matter anymore. They’ll do anything to get away.
They don’t make it far. Though that was to be expected. They run, stumble, bleed upon the pavement. Their heart races, thumps against the cavities of their chest, threatens to jump straight out of their skin. Every muscle inside their body screams with pain, ignited upon the fire of their effort. They’re out of breath, heaving slowly. The world has been knocked off tilt. They have nowhere to go. Not like they could dare run now. Their limbs shake, unfathomably weak. The strain has become too much. They have nothing left they can give.
“Too slow!”
It’s a yell in their ear, startling them in their spot. The hunter drags them by their hair, practically yanks out chunks from their scalp. Their feet skitter against the ground, tripping over pebbles of gravel, trying to fight against gravity, reduce the agonizing tension that has overwhelmed their head. A low scream cuts from their throat. Yellow eyes swim across their vision, blurry, smeared by the tears springing to the corners of their eyes. Their mind is fractured, time slowed. They register their pain, the tug against their scalp, pushing them beyond the point of which they can bare. The hand twisted through knots of their hair, fingers pressed into their bicep. The flash of bared teeth just in their peripheral. They register, dimly, as the hand in their hair lets go.
A knee digs into their stomach and they are knocked flat on their back, the air sucked from them by the fatal blow; their body ignited in a world of agony, pain spiking up and down their aching muscles, pulling taut. Wren gags, a silent scream escaping them. Their face is twisted, mouth curved open wide, their eyes squeezed shut. Their knees rise instinctively, pulling towards their chest as they moan, roll helplessly. They cannot recognize anything but their own pain, electrifying their very soul. They gasp and gag, spit sliding down their cheek, past their lips, a hollow noise burying itself in the back of their throat. The blade twitching in their side shifts, digs deeper, stretches their brittle skin. Wren screams. Their face is wet, the planet has been rocked off center, sent spiraling. Everything hurts.
They were not made for this. They aren’t Atlas. He has them defeated in two seconds. This is just a game, always has been. They have nothing left to defend themself with. He’s seen through all their tricks. They’re a stupid, fragile little kid who deluded themself, for one moment, that they could truly play hero among the adults. They press their face into the ground, choking. They can't come up for air long enough to recover. Their hand clutches their chest uselessly. Foolish.
They gasp, face tilted up towards the sky, and it is the stars they see last, twinkling just beyond their vision, before everything is engulfed by black. The hunter’s heavy boot falls down upon their face with deadly intent and Wren sobs as their nose is smashed by the heel of it.
They knew pain like this, once before, when Atlas broke their nose. Pressed their face into the concrete and left a splatter of blood where they rested, a muddy brown spot that would not be discovered until far after their departure. Wren had almost forgotten what that had felt like. The sharp kind of pain, spiking through their face in an all-consuming sort of agony. Blood gushes from their nose, immediately. They feel it late, amongst the waves of pain that wash over them with their pulsating nose. A thick, warm wet, soaking their lips and cheeks with a deep cherry red. Their vision lights up white, any comprehension of their surroundings, or what is happening around them, forgotten within an instant. Wren is gasping and gagging and gulping in air that they cannot swallow. They have never hurt quite so badly. All they know is pain.
And the hunter is laughing. He is laughing, manic, relishing in their pain, grinning at the blood he has smeared across their skin, splattered onto the pavement. He’s enjoying this. He’s really enjoying this. They're not quite sure what shocks them so badly about it. They knew that, going in. He’s an assassin for Eden, a sadist. He has to be, with a job like this. But feeling his cruelty now, something about it stuns them. He does not pretend, not like all the other men they have weaseled their way out of. No, he’s proud of it. Gleeful, as they blink back tears. He’s sick.
They shiver on the ground, covered by their own blood, sticky and wet, tired beyond belief. Their eyes flutter, breath slow, hitching upon every rise of their chest. They’re weak. Limbs moving flimsily, shaking by the pure effort it takes to just move. They know trying to escape is futile. He has them pinned. It does not dissuade them from trying, hopelessly, to crawl away, groaning as their fingers, bloody and raw, dig into the rough ground, tearing at the pads of their skin. Everything hurts.
A hand, agile and quick, hooks around a knot of their hair and tugs. Wren is pulled upwards, screaming, sent reeling. Pain ignites in their skull and the world fades away. The hunter’s laugh overlaps with their pleas, ripping from their throat with a subconscious need. They can't catch their breath, can’t see, their vision blurred around the edges, moving in and out of focus. Their mouth is wide, moving wordlessly. Something ragged, animal, chokes from their breath.
The hunter’s face reappears in front of theirs. He’s leaning down, pressed close to their back, body warm against theirs, frigid and wet with their blood gone cold. He grins, twisted, eyes dancing with a playful light. The image is warped, too blurry to truly see. The black that is creeping ever-steadily into their vision erasing all else. Their eyes flutter again and they choke, legs fumbling to catch their footing upon the ground. Their fingers twitch.
The hunter laughs. The tension in their hair, the persistent pain that pulses at the back of their head, its growing. Building with each second that he lasts, pulling at them. Higher, higher, lifting them off of their feet. Wren howls. They squirm, reaching desperately for his fist, trying to dislodge themself to no avail. The tightness in their scalp has gotten to be so intense they feel as if they are going to burst. Their cheeks burn red, tears prickling the corners of their eyes. The hunter’s voice is low. “Not so strong on your own, are ya?”
Wren gasps, loud, shocked; a pained scream leaving them when he tugs, pulling at their scalp harder. Strands of their hair fall loose.
They’ve grown desperate now. They can’t take any more of this. They haven't had to endure pain so deeply before — they’ve been lucky. Oh, so lucky. They didn’t have to fear a stabbing or a gunshot, they never had to rely on violence to survive. They were spared from it all. They had earned the freedom to choose this life. They think they regret it, now. In the face of death, an assassin holding them down, keeping them still. Metallic blood flooding their senses, nauseating. They wish they were someone else. They wish they had not run away.
Their hands are moving before they have the time to think. It’s not like they have the time, or the mind to. The only thing running through their head is pain. Lightning-hot pain, searing against their skull. They reach for the knife embedded into their side and do not have the thought to steel themself before they rip it out, blood pouring in a thick stream as a scream escapes them involuntarily all the same. Something instinctual is taking over them now, as they pull back their arm and stab the blade into the soft of the man’s stomach. A sort of strength they didn’t know they possessed is carrying them, providing them the only relief they are capable of receiving.
The hunter drops them instantaneously. Yelling out and stumbling back, almost falling over himself by the pure motion of it. His hand immediately jumps to his stomach, blood seeping through the torn fabric there. Through his shock, apparent upon his face, a new emotion takes shape there. Rage. Wren does not hesitate long enough to allow it to touch them.
They scramble away on all hands and knees, huffing and puffing through their restraint. Blood falls freely from their side now, slick against the sidewalk. They barely catch themself in time to not slip in it — their own filth. They feel themself fading a little. It’s hard to just think straight, much less pull themself up off the ground, bruises aching. The last of their remaining strength is pulled into a final illusion. It’s all they have left to offer.
“Fuck!” The hunter is hysterical from behind them. Screaming, howling in the wind. His cheeks reddened and angry. “You little brat!”
He shouts and pulls the blade from out of his stomach, hissing in pain. His eyes are bloodshot, red, and his veins pop as he clenches the hilt of the knife, brandishing it to empty air. He appears close to popping a blood vessel. The humour that was once present upon his expression is gone. It’s been replaced by something deadlier, something much more sinister. He isn’t playing a game anymore. He’s in this for blood.
Wren wonders if it’ll be worse, like this. Or easier, to die from hate. It doesn’t matter either way, truly. They don’t intend to let him have them without a fight. He’ll have to take them kicking and screaming, for all they care.
They still have some life left in them.
Wren moves to a fallen body; a teenager, maybe a little older than Atlas. His mouth pierced, the beginnings of a moustache above his lips. His mouth is parted, revealing the gap between his top two teeth, chipped. His nose is cracked to the side, broken just as theirs. His eyes are half-closed. No breath leaves his lungs, and no warmth colours his sun-kissed cheeks. Wren blinks back tears. They have never seen a body up close, they have never had the chance. There is something desolate about it, the pure emptiness of the corpse. The rotting stench burning in their nostrils. They would not have sought this out. They’ve had a lot of firsts these past two days, willing or not. There is no time left to linger on it. Steeling themself, eyes scrunched tight, they grip the hilt of the knife that has been impaled through the boy’s eye. They tear it out, ignoring the squelching that follows. Feels the weight of it in their palm. Their heart has jumped into their throat, and they furiously swallow it down. They cannot hear anything over the thumping of it inside their mind, an incessant drum. There is nothing left.
The hunter is cursing. Raving to himself like a maniac, throwing out expletitives for all those that will listen, pretending like there are any amongst the dead that can hear his grievances. None, except for Wren. The very object of his endless frustration. The tear in his stomach and the road rash along his skin is evident to it. His gut is bleeding heavily and he’s breathing hard, pained. He’s hurt. There’s a thrill that sparks inside Wren at this revelation. They hurt him; a small victory, amongst their shortcomings.
The hunter throws a knife, rabid, at a slight movement in his peripheral, and Wren watches as another body falls, hidden from the bloodshed by the alleyway. No longer now, as the knife makes it’s arc; perfect, clean. Blood splashes against the pavement. Wren feels sick with relief that it is not them that lays face-down against the gravel. The body must be no more than a child. Something twisted settles itself inside their chest.
They have nothing to lose. They realize that now. They are outmatched, completely, undoubtedly. They knew that, on some sort of level, going into this. Atlas’s voice rings inside their mind for not the first time now, and they know with a certain clarity that he has never been more right. This is his world after all, never theirs. They are more of an imposter than he ever pretended to be. The spy, the deviant. The rogue without a home, without nowhere to belong. They’d never survive here, nor would they have back in their old life, back when lying was but a second tongue. It would do them some good to surrender. To evade the fate of all those that lie at their feet. But Wren is stubborn. Always has been, and always will be. It’s how they got themself into this in the first place. They couldn’t let it go. They couldn’t live amongst this. They are driven by their spite, and they will die by their spite. They will never bow down.
They charge.
Foolishly, recklessly. With the same courage that drove them to rescue Atlas, the undying desire of theirs to do a good act — one good act. No matter the price. They sit in it now, as they stumble, heavy-footed, careless to whatever noise they are making, and bring the knife against the hunter’s back, their arm arcing in a wide slash. And they realize, the same time they do that this is futile, that they can never defeat him, that they don’t regret it. Despite the mission. Despite all they could have achieved. They don’t regret leaving with Atlas for one minute. They don’t regret meeting him. They don’t regret any of it.
The sound of fabric tearing breaks away to the deep gash of their blade, blood spurting across their cheek. Wren does not hesitate at the momentary win, the one and a million chance of actually landing a hit. They pull back and move to stab again, and again, aiming to pin the knife into the back of his neck — a true fatal blow. But they never recieve the same chance. A hand grabs them, twists around their bicep, and they are dragged, rough, down to the ground. Thrown with the pure fury of an assassin previously left unmarked — at least from someone as inexperienced as they are. The knife clatters from their grip.
“You’re really fucking pissing me off!” The hunter whirls around, screaming. He grabs them by the throat, and lifts them into the air, his hand easily fitting around their neck, gagging them with the press of his nails into their flesh. Their illusions prove to be useless, though they knew that by now. His yellow eyes pin them and everything else dissipates. They do not have the thought to run. It’s over. He has them beat.
He tosses them like a ragdoll and they have lost, instantenously. They skid upon the pavement, skin torn to shreds, and there is no more fight to them as the hunter stomps towards them, footsteps reverbrating. They don’t attempt to push themself to their feet again, face him head-on. They can’t. He’s stolen all they have.
The steel-encased heel of the hunter’s boot is pressed against their gaping, bloody wound, a persistent and undying pressure, igniting against their side. Wren screams. High-pitched, desperate. They scream like they never have in their life. The pain is all-consuming. Their arms and face are bleeding, pebbles embedded within their skin. They have no strength now. They are helpless, truly helpless.
The hunter pulls a knife from his belt, hands fumbling. He’s shaking a little too, they notice that now. A tremble in his fingers, from the blood loss probably. It’s affecting him just as much as it is them. Not that it matters though. He’s won. He’ll run back to Eden and they’ll fix him right up, with their endless array of supplies and mountains of money. Not like Wren, surviving out of the back of their dad’s busted up SUV, scrounging together all the first aid they can manage. They don’t have enough cash to get through the rest of the month, at this point. Their supply has run dry. No one at Eden will ever have to worry about that. None of the higher-ups the hunter kneels before will ever wonder what it is to be hungry, to gather up their dinner out of the back of garbage cans or freeze in the middle of night, terrified of not making it just to the next week. They’ll never understand any of it. The injustice of it all is the cruelest part of all of this. It breaks them, a little.
It’s so unfair. Why is it so unfair?
The hunter’s movements are rough, jagged as he stabs them. Harsher than the first, piercing through their thigh with true intent. A desire to kill. Wren does not evade it.
He smiles when they scream, high-pitched, broken; twists the blade deeper into their leg, cackling at the spasms and pleading it brings out of them. It’s involuntary now. They can’t fight it. Their fingers reach shakily for the blade, tearing at their exposed skin, and they’re trembling and weak as they do it. Pathetic. Their arms feel as if weighted down by bags of sand, far too heavy for them to ever dare to lift. They strain to move away and he’s quick to cut them up, bringing his boot down against them again and kicking them in the side. They gag, gasping through their agony. Nausea washes over them in waves, threatens to pull them under entirely. Their vision blurs, blinks black.
The hunter’s blood drips onto them steadily, a stable pattering of red seeping into their clothes, their hair. He seems to have forgotten about it by now. His smile is wide, crooked, as he watches them, presses down and forces them to squirm. Pain intensifies with their every movement. They know nothing else.
“Atlas?” They call, trembling. Their voice is brittle, nothing to it. They’re going to die. They recognize that now, far more than anytime previous through the past forty-eight hours. They are going to die, and he is going to kill them. They will never see the sun again. They will never feel the kiss of their mother’s lips on their cheek, the warmth of their father’s food. They will never feel anything. He will make sure of it. “Atlas!”
The call is out of desperation. They know that, the hunter knows that. It’s why he allows them to scream, to beg for the only one who could save them now. The only one they have ever been capable of relying on. In all of their stubbornness, all of their distrust. Only him.
It is why the hunter glances around, slow, as if he’s waiting for someone, curious of when they're about to show. Why he waits, lets the silence stretch out a beat. His eyes, of course, land on empty air. No one is here, not anymore. He’s killed them all, he knows that. Wren knows that. No one is left to prevent this, to save them from their fate.
The hunter’s eyes fall back on Wren, and he’s grinning, wider than he’s ever. He laughs as if he has been told a good joke, heel digging into the shredded, wet skin of their wound as he slowly places his full weight onto it.
“Atlas ain’t comin’.” He whispers.
Wren’s breathing picks up as panic takes over. Atlas isn’t coming, and nothing spoken to them has ever been truer. Atlas will not be here to save them, not this time. They know it, deep within their gut. He cannot save them. They should have ran with him when they had the chance. They should have never pushed him away. They wish they had listened, with all his lectures, all his warnings. He was right. They don’t want to die. They were naive.
They wish they listened.
Tears well in their eyes. “Sorry.” They choke out. They aren't quite sure who it is they’re apologizing to. It’s certainly not the hunter. Yet nevertheless, they feel the insistent urge to say it. They need to, before they go. Before he drags them past the point of no return. Wren sobs. They are so, so sorry. Sorry for everything. They have never been more sorry in their entire life. They wish they could apologize truly now, beg the universe for forgiveness. It’s all they have.
“‘S alright.” The hunter cocks his head for them, slow, answering for them. Giving them the only mercy he can dredge up. His eyes appear muted in the orange of the evening. “It couldn’t be helped, really.”
He pulls a silver gun from out of the holster hanging loosely at his hip and aims it at their neck. The gun clicks, and he smiles, all teeth. “I’m sorry too.”
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
His hand goes slack.
Wren tenses, shuddering, and looks up just in time to see his eyes roll backwards into his skull, his lips parted slightly, as if in shock. He crumples, a tumbling of uncoordinated limbs in a rush of movement, body limp, thudding as his head cracks against the sidewalk.
Time goes still. Wren is freed in time to see Atlas standing before them. Shining, metallic. His skin is silver and rock-hard, swirling by the designs of magic. Their knight in shining armour. Literally. The slow sunlight of the evening past twinkles off of his skin, magnetic. He looks like something beautiful, something forbidden. It pulls a breath from Wren’s lips.
Could you draw something with asphyxiophilia? (It’s where you choke your partner almost to the point of unconsciousness, but without killing them, obvs)
