[Hayame snarls the answer out nearly as viciously as she’d demanded that Amos stop playing with gravity and fight her like a man, snapping about with a violent twist and a click of teeth, canines just as sharp as his was, stained with berry-laced vomit that could almost look like diluted blood in certain lights.
She knew what blood tasted like. She had ripped the throat out of the demon that had taken her eyeball in Achamoth, in the dryad’s hold beneath the tree roots, lifeblood and flesh filling her mouth and wet on her tongue, but she had not swallowed, it was revenge, it was desperate, violent war-]
If you call me your friend, if you make me think that is what we are, then I expect to hear about you! I do not care about the names on your fucking “list”, I care that you have one!
[And that she… was not on it. That she found out like this instead of any other calm or quiet moment he could have told her, face to face, with all the words she might need to understand. She doesn’t know if he needs to drink it or if it is for pleasure or power, she doesn’t know if he was born this way or made, she doesn’t know if it’s painful or not, she doesn’t know anything and—- Is he seriously complaining about his dirty clothing in a time like this?]
You liar-
[By omission, yes, but that technicality feels so petty now, when the secret was so foul and so intrinsic. Hayame bites back another betrayed demand, any further insults… and finds what she’s looking for, slamming her injured side into a thick plant stalk, struggling with a whimper to get the right angle and the proper purchase with her legs to try and reduce her dislocated shoulder herself.]
no subject
[Hayame snarls the answer out nearly as viciously as she’d demanded that Amos stop playing with gravity and fight her like a man, snapping about with a violent twist and a click of teeth, canines just as sharp as his was, stained with berry-laced vomit that could almost look like diluted blood in certain lights.
She knew what blood tasted like. She had ripped the throat out of the demon that had taken her eyeball in Achamoth, in the dryad’s hold beneath the tree roots, lifeblood and flesh filling her mouth and wet on her tongue, but she had not swallowed, it was revenge, it was desperate, violent war-]
If you call me your friend, if you make me think that is what we are, then I expect to hear about you! I do not care about the names on your fucking “list”, I care that you have one!
[And that she… was not on it. That she found out like this instead of any other calm or quiet moment he could have told her, face to face, with all the words she might need to understand. She doesn’t know if he needs to drink it or if it is for pleasure or power, she doesn’t know if he was born this way or made, she doesn’t know if it’s painful or not, she doesn’t know anything and—- Is he seriously complaining about his dirty clothing in a time like this?]
You liar-
[By omission, yes, but that technicality feels so petty now, when the secret was so foul and so intrinsic. Hayame bites back another betrayed demand, any further insults… and finds what she’s looking for, slamming her injured side into a thick plant stalk, struggling with a whimper to get the right angle and the proper purchase with her legs to try and reduce her dislocated shoulder herself.]