hornheads: HE CAN'T EVEN READ THE SWEATER (Default)
😈 ([personal profile] hornheads) wrote2018-12-30 01:45 pm

[ OPEN POST ]



( continuations, starters, and prompts )
wheatcake: aw, nertz. (what the buzz.)

[personal profile] wheatcake 2019-01-26 07:30 pm (UTC)(link)
The crash is when Peter sits up. He doesn't sit up like a normal person would, wounded and slow, and he doesn't sit up like some mummy in a horror movie, all at once. No, Peter sits up with an entirely different posture, slow and crooked, preditory. All human posture is suddenly gone. He thinks with his hands and his nose.

He pulls the breathing tube out of his mouth while Morlun is distracted, taunting Matt on the floor. "You deign to direct me?" Morlun drawls, and in his overconfidence doesn't seem to notice Peter pulling a length of plastic out of his throat. He only turns around when the machines begin to scream as Peter pulls the pulse tracker off his finger, the IV out of his arm with a distracted, almost confused rush, no precision at all in his movements.

"Oh," Morlun says, "It's happening again. I thought-"

But whatever Morlun thought is cut off by Peter launching himself off the bed on all fours, connecting with Morlun's shoulders and beginning to slash at the Inheritor's face with long, poisonous talons that have suddenly sprouted from Peter's wrist. There's a hissing yowl, entirely inhuman, and only a keen sense of hearing would pinpoint that it came from Peter, not the immortal night-prowler.
wheatcake: i mean when else am i gonna use it. (ouchies.)

[personal profile] wheatcake 2019-01-26 08:05 pm (UTC)(link)
Spiders pin their victims with poison or webbing and suck the juices from their heads. Spiders are predators, not prey. The appeal, for the Inheritor, is preying on an apex. It's also a tremendous display of hubris.

The Spider pins its prey, its attacker, and uses newly sharpened fangs to tear and rip into Morlun's face. Of course, being an immortal, it doesn't get much sustenance. Inheritors aren't made of the stuff this world is made of. Once the head is gone, the rest of the body begins to drift, sinking into ash that blows out the window. No blood is left on the Spider's face, on its fangs or its one gaping eye.

But the threat is gone. Time to shore up in safety for later. The Spider spins a web-- there's a faint memory of needing metal to do this, something around its wrist?-- but it's easy to simply lift its wrists and spin webbing organically. The scent is different-- starch and human bodily fluid and something more insectoid-- in short, it smells the way a spider-web smells, if one's ever smelled such a thing.

The Spider climbs into the center of it and waits, listening to the vibrations on its web. The hospital creaks slightly in the wind, footsteps echo down the hall, a squirrel jumps from a nearby tree, and all those vibrations collate in the Spider's web.
wheatcake: (waking up is hard to do.)

[personal profile] wheatcake 2019-01-26 08:37 pm (UTC)(link)
The other creature in the room is no threat, and not prey, so the Spider gives a warning hiss. That is... something doesn't make sense in the mind of a creature that only exists to kill and survive. This is why he was chosen-- he, not it-- to be this, so he wouldn't-

It's all a little familiar, and the Spider can't place it together in such a simple mind, but Peter can. Peter is capable of complexity. Peter is not... capable of staying on the web like this. Probably he could, if he wasn't a mess right now, but his stitches are still healing, and he's-

Peter hits the ground with a thud. His voice is weak. "That sucked." He doesn't... really remember most of it, and what memories he has are fading fast.
wheatcake: look at those huge fucking eyebrows jfc. (hangin' arouuuuuund.)

[personal profile] wheatcake 2019-01-26 08:49 pm (UTC)(link)
"Nnnnnot again," Peter murmurs. He's completely limp, happy to be off the cold of the floor. Well, in the hospital gown, his bare ass is still on linoleum, but this is still an improvement. Matt's warm, and Peter's one non-swollen-shut eye can see his blurry figure, and that's nice. He's all red. It's a good color.

Through a cloying cocktail of painkillers and very real pain, Peter tries to think clearly. He's not... entirely sure what just happened, except it feels familiar. And last time-

"m'I dead?"
wheatcake: (snoozin'.)

[personal profile] wheatcake 2019-01-26 09:52 pm (UTC)(link)
"Dun' wanna," Peter says, making a troubled noise. He tries to open his other eye, fails, and groans with the pain of it. Peter reaches out with what strength he has left to him and grabs at Matt, trying and failing to get a handful of his clothing. He red. His uniform. He came here as Daredevil. That means something could be wrong, but all the pieces are out of place; Peter can't quite figure it.

His hand flaps uselessly in the air, still grabbing for Matt.

"Don't go."
wheatcake: (waking up is hard to do.)

[personal profile] wheatcake 2019-01-26 10:06 pm (UTC)(link)
Peter tries to think. It's deeply, soul-scouringly annoying that he can't. Thinking is the thing he's good at, one of the few. He shakes his head.

"Can't-" It hurts to talk. It feels like something was ripped out of his throat. "Stronger than drugs. The- what they're giving me." It hurts too much to sleep.

Now that he's coming back to himself, the pain is becoming a problem; his breathing picks up slowly and steadily. "Wasn't a demon."
wheatcake: i mean when else am i gonna use it. (sad penis.)

[personal profile] wheatcake 2019-01-27 12:10 am (UTC)(link)
"The press..." Sorry, Peter's stubborn; he's gonna keep yapping. He can feel the stitches in his stomach, in his gut, the pain radiating all over his face, and... it's a bit nauseating. "Need to leave. Please."

But the idea of Matt being worried is... bad. Peter shakes his head, groans with pain, and just says, "never hurt you."

His breathing continues to quicken, his pulse raises to match it. It hurts, it hurts, and-

Someone's banging on the door... the door which Peter inadvertently webbed closed when he was going full totem. They must be responding to the fact that Peter's been flat-lining for the last... his sense of time feels distorted.
wheatcake: i mean when else am i gonna use it. (that's a shiner.)

[personal profile] wheatcake 2019-01-27 12:29 am (UTC)(link)
Everything hurts. More hurt won't... matter. Peter has a high threshhold for pain in general-- he's been hit in every conceivable way since he was fifteen. The difference is, he trusts Matt, not these doctors. So Peter curls into the tightest ball he can manage, holds on with all the strength he has, ignores the feeling of his stitches popping, and murmurs, "love you," into Matt's chest. It's all he can do.
wheatcake: wait wrong knight..... nurse....... shit marvel is hard. (help me moon knight.)

[personal profile] wheatcake 2019-01-27 01:02 am (UTC)(link)
Peter tries to sit up in bed, swears when his gut protests, and looks down to see the popped stitches seeping dark blood. He ignores it, lying back and grabbing far more than six to dry swallow, which almost hurts worse-- what was down his throat.

"L'be fine," he drawls. He begins pulling bandages off his face-- they're just annoying him. "Heal inna few days. Sorry 'bout your sheets..." The blood has begun to drip over the side of his chest, and the hospital gown isn't doing much to absorb it. Peter paws for his webshooters, a little groggy.
wheatcake: i mean when else am i gonna use it. (sad penis.)

[personal profile] wheatcake 2019-01-27 03:13 pm (UTC)(link)
"House calls?" He didn't know the Night Nurse made house calls. He'll take it, though. He's not moving again, is the thing. He doesn't know if he can. He's kind of not interested in seeing what he looks like from the inside.

A little weakly-- "Help me sit up?" A cough, and a cringe-- it just gets more blood and more pain in his throat. "Don't wanna choke."
Edited 2019-01-27 15:13 (UTC)
wheatcake: luv them flat colors. (sleepy boy.)

[personal profile] wheatcake 2019-01-27 10:55 pm (UTC)(link)
Peter drinks the water, and that feels so much better. He gulps at it greedily until the glass is emptied, and then he feels like he can talk again, it's a miracle. "Totem," he says. "It wasn't... that was me. Just... less brain. Like Connors, but I never- it almost never comes out unless I'm- unless it's... almost curtains."

A raspy laugh. He leans into Matt, reveling in the comfort.

"Couldn't do it now. Would never hurt you." Matt's so nice... and soft and warm and not the hospital. "Love you."

Though, speaking of things that are the hospital... "If- Night Nurse, could I... not look like y-you stole me from a hospital?" He grimaces at the request-- he's asking Matt to dress him, which can't be fun, but he doesn't want to be in this flimsy hospital gown anymore. "And- water?"

Now he's just being needy.