...i want the k if youre still doing it...
MURDER TIME // i will basically always be doing murder asks // @exec-pr0t0n
4. amputation ! lovecraft adds another limb to the collection.
since u have difficulty scrolling on my blog but this needs to be readmore’d for content, here’s a pastebin for u
Proton’s tired of arguing with this interloper, who offers little explanation for himself and tells Proton only to leave him alone. But, interlopers are always a quick problem to dispose of, and it’s been some time since Proton got to have fun (to spill blood on the city streets). He flicks out a knife from his belt, making a grandiose show of flicking the blade artfully around his fingers, polished blade catching reflection of the streetlights. Usually, the show is enough to scare people off. The skill that Proton has with the knife is obvious, and most people are smart enough to realize they don’t want the blade sunk into their throats.
Lovecraft is not most people. He watches the blade with slight interest, but an utter lack of fear.
“Last chance to run away, bud.” Proton grins at him, threat clear in the bared teeth.
“You’re still in my way,” Lovecraft replies blandly. He doesn’t want to go find another route around just because of one posturing man on an otherwise empty street.
“Aaaalrighty then!” Proton’s far too cheery about this, gleefully spinning the knife into proper grip. He skips forward, cheerily, and before Lovecraft can step to avoid him, Proton’s hardly inches away.
The knife in Proton’s hand sinks fully into Lovecraft’s chest, missing rib and sinks neatly into Lovecraft’s lung.
Lovecraft looks down at the knife with surprise.
The audacity of some people.
The knife is removed from his chest too quickly for Lovecraft to wrap a tentacle around it from behind his ribcage and keep it, Proton skipping backwards to stay out of range. The wound on Lovecraft’s chest remains briefly, a clean-edged line that sheds no blood. Something writhes in the darkness beneath Lovecraft’s skin, the tip of a tentacle poking out of the edge of the hole as the rest of it bows and slithers visibly around the opening. Pressing green tentacle to the opening wound seals it, green flesh bowing upward from the inside and then flattening out, merging seamlessly in colour and quality to Lovecraft’s skin and shirt. Within a few seconds, there is no indication that a knife had been shoved to the hilt within Lovecraft’s chest.
“What the fuck,” snarls Proton, gaze fixed and angry at the spot where the would was, “was that?”
Lovecraft doesn’t bother with the breath for answer. He raises a hand instead. Proton doesn’t falter, fear only fueling his anger and determination to get rid of this interloper. The grip he has on his knife readjusts to a defensive hold.
If the man will not relinquish his knife of his own free will, he will lose his ability to hold it. (It will prevent further annoyances of being stabbed or Proton fighting back.)
With the loud snapping of bone and tearing of sinew, Lovecraft’s hand unravels.
Proton tries to defend himself, but a knife against quickly moving tentacle does not leave much of a mark, only leaving sharp cuts on a few but slowing down none. Quick steps to the side, Proton dances backward. Evasion doesn’t work, his arm is caught ‘round the wrist by coiling tentacles, and from there he has no hope.
Lovecraft is stronger, tentacle coiling up around Proton’s arm until they wrap around his shoulder. He’s undeterred by Proton clawing at him. Without any ability to get purchase, he can’t remove the limbs, especially as they pull tighter. The knife is wrapped in tentacle too, can’t yank that out and try to cut himself free.
Proton resorts to trying to yank his arm out of Lovecraft’s hold. Unsurprisingly, it’s futile, resulting only in Proton slipping forward. Lovecraft lets him fight for a few seconds, until futility is established (not that Proton acknowledges what is futile.)
His hold around Proton’s shoulder tightens.
There’s a reluctant noise of pain from Proton, escalating into a sharp yelp that almost drowns out the snapping of his clavicle.
After the first bone breaks, it’s a very simple process.
Lovecraft frowns, ignoring the exclamations from Proton and renewed furious scrabbling at his tentacles. He twists Proton’s arm, slowly increasing how tight his hold is.
The next thing to go after the clavicle is Proton’s shoulder joint. Ball pops out of socket, ligaments tearing and freeing the arm from skeletal connection with the rest of the body. Lovecraft could leave it at this, rendering Proton’s arm unusable but attached.
But no.
He’s been inconvenienced, and Proton will suffer for making him so. Proton’s knees buckle. He stays held up by his arm, still trying to swear at Lovecraft between the incoherent screeching that pain draws out of him.
(He’s not very intimidating like this.)
Lovecraft almost wishes he was a sadistic sort of demigod, the kind who enjoys the screaming of humanity, solely because he finds it incredibly inconvenient how people keep enticing him into violence and then being so remarkably noisy about it. Proton’s screaming is grating, sharp against Lovecraft’s consciousness. Rather more unpleasant than the knife wound.
Third to break is the humerus. The head cracks into shards. It makes it easier to break, the main structure of the bone in the vicinity already in ruins. Removing the rest is only a matter of constricting the muscle to the point that twisting it rips the fibers open, tearing Proton’s arm messily off at the shoulder. Blood pours between tentacles that quickly unravel, shaking blood off as they throw the severed arm back at Proton.
It catches him in the chest, the impact of the limb and lightheadedness knocks Proton to his side. The man just doesn’t shut up, even weakened and partially dismembered he still screams, hand trying to staunch the flow of blood from his shoulder. It doesn’t work. Lovecraft can hope he bleeds enough to do unconscious soon; the shaking and pained yelling of the man on the floor completely failing to elicit any sympathy.
What a tiring ordeal.
Lovecraft regards Proton and the growing pool of blood for a few seconds, judging if he cares enough to put the man out of his misery and crush him to death, then deciding he’s too lazy for that. Proton can scream himself to unconsciousness. What does he care. No different from the usual noisy backdrop of this city.
Lovecraft’s hand reassembles itself, entirely free of blood. Someone will probably be coming soon. Lights are already flickering on in buildings whose residents haven’t yet had the mafia teach them not to be curious. Lovecraft offers Proton a last annoyed huff (be quiet for once, please) before wandering back off towards the city outskirts.
It’s more peaceful there.
