008.
* violent action starters // still accepting !
008 - break one of my muse’s bones
A perfect square in the woods. A piece of Eden, her dark hair curls out of it, monochrome fire. It’s too cold. He could make it. One day he could make it.
Leeched of something warmer than life, he crawls. He crawls because it’s all his stubborn ass is able to do. And, really, he doesn’t want to. It’s embarrassing. It makes him want to lay his head down and finally go to sleep. Death is only one door over. There’s something painful and humiliatingly intimate about skipping straight over to it.
He has to keep his mind on that square. He has to keep crawling. Keep going as though this will actually take him home. It’s a long way down.
A shadow looms–the shape of things to come. It shifts as it keeps up with Quentin’s incremental distance. Subtle. He barely notices it. (He supposes the Shape likes it better that way.)
It’s a large, leaden shoe. Scruffy brown leather, something made for work. Good work, bad work. Heavy work. The bloody toe taps on the floor in front of him. Once, twice. For a moment, Quentin believes it’s to a rhythm.
Then it lifts, and he realizes it was just in preparation.
First, it’s a small grunt in the back of his throat. Then it’s a groan. He coughs, and a it bleeds into a low, painful whine. The pale skin of his wrist was pinched red under the weight, and it’s getting redder, and it’s caving under. He tries to twist his arm and body, but he can’t. The Shape stays on top, and his entire mass spills over onto Quentin’s thin arm.
Pressure without pity, force without finesse. A dense ache that’s only getting denser. Something creaks. A snap.
It sounded so much like a twig, just a step on a branch, that his disbelief covers the pain for a tentative second.
“Fuck! Get off!”
He has to yell at the searing pain. His wrist, his forearm, the smallest of bones and nerves, they’ve been snapped under a single foot. He could only feel the idea of his fingers. The hatch was either still in front of him, or it’s moved next to him. It’s all cold and dark around the edges. Rough leather chafes the throbbing skin. He remembers, violently, that his stomach had been torn open too. This was all his blood and bones and bruises.
Fingers try to curl, but nothing can move. The Shape does, though, and he rolls the broken pieces, tugging at the swollen skin. Quentin bites his tongue, taste tears on his teeth, and yells again.
Spitting with blood, this crushing, mortal minute dissolves what is left of his hope.
