🙌 oh why not. might have to get creative, though.
Send 🙌 to strangle my muse (no longer accepting)!
It's Reginald's clipped, nasal voice in his head.
The first line of defense upon attempted strangulation is to blind your opponent!
Klaus isn't exactly the type of person known for fighting back against adversity: not with the more conventionally recognized forms of battle. But it's even harder to fight off this spindly, bruised child who will never know the exhilaration of living in a safe skin, the way Klaus, after years of the hard-to-recognize type of fighting, has.
He can't fight a protege who, if time for Klaus were linear, would have been his mentor.
He can't push his goddamned fingers into BJ's sad scared eyes and scoop them from their sockets. Like, fuck training, Jesus. The kid's crying, right now, while assailing him.
Get with the program, Number Four!
Shut up, dad. Remember your "gift" to me: it's not like it'll be permanent.
His own voice is haggard. Dissociation tries to bleed into the corners of his thoughts, makes him wonder, not for the first time, lately, why so many people feel entitled to lay their hands on some part of his body.
"Beej--Tangy--hk!...Dream, what'd I do? Stop...!"
He smacks the young prostitute's cheeks, imploring gently, and then insistently, and then a little savagely.
Klaus begins to black out; his eyes glow a veil-piercing teal and he is out. Bright light, the same hue, his ribcage its lantern, and then an explosion. The force throws BJ back a good six, seven feet.
Klaus collapses awkwardly on his face. He sits up and gawks through a mop of curls.
"The fuck--? Did I just go into the....fricken....Avatar State, or somethin'?"
Green eyes shift toward the waif's face. Anger and grief sink in, rapidly clouding over the comical shock.
'Why'd you hurt me, man? Whatever you needed, you coulda just asked! Like, damn! I'm super fuckin' chill, okay?! "
