s'ᴄʜɴ ᴛ'ɢᴀɪ sᴘᴏᴄᴋ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ashaya) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
expiationlogs2024-07-16 09:05 pm
ashaya) wrote in expiationlogs2024-07-16 09:05 pm
( mixed. ) pasa mi corazón del frío al fuego
Who: Spock, Jim, Gwen, Peter, and various.
Where: Various locations (see prompts for details).
What: Gnosia-related shenanigans.
Warnings: Uh. Probably more than a few? Most likely: references to genocide, references to starvation/famine, references/overt descriptions of being targeted by racially motivated crimes, general violence, and gore. Maybe some vaguely racy commentary here and there (linked).
Where: Various locations (see prompts for details).
What: Gnosia-related shenanigans.
Warnings: Uh. Probably more than a few? Most likely: references to genocide, references to starvation/famine, references/overt descriptions of being targeted by racially motivated crimes, general violence, and gore. Maybe some vaguely racy commentary here and there (linked).
the hostage
the landing is a little dramatic, considering the pincers sinking on grass, and there's a little pose that goes with it right after, like all the pincers shrug along with him, palms up and happy chipper once he finally speaks - and unfortunately for everyone, he won't stop.)
Hey, Mr. Spock! How about you come with me, have some OJ, some Nyquil, and a nice chicken soup to get the murderous virus out?!
no subject
There is something wrong and the physical ache of a perceived abandonment mutters and seethes and gnaws. It gouges into the steps of his spine, makes of him mockery. How might he have believed he might not be left behind? How might he believed that nothing more should be taken from him? How might he—
His steps are not as measured as they were before. He hears the call of someone, someone that he knows and recognizes, but the name flees from his tongue. It mutes, beneath the persistent buzz of so much static. Like travel interrupted, the electricity of his home whipping red and wild, he cannot hear a thing above the roar.
I'll come with you, I'll come with you.
The sun is high. Spock knows he knows. Gnosia knows he knows, too. It skitters along the back of his mind, lingering over the bruise of the nascent bond gone quiet, but still alive. ]
I do not negotiate, [ Spock rumbles, voice rough with disuse. His dark eyes seem darker still as he circles him, the acquired limp he's drummed up in the interim hardly an impediment. The air is thick with the scent of copper, green smeared across the high of a cheekbone.
There's a glimmer teeth as his body naturally settles into a fighting stance, knowing if he is to get what he wants — he must take this one alive. ] Not with you.
[ And that's as much warning as he's getting. He'll wait for the first move, but the intent is burning hot and bright. ]
no subject
humor has always helped him, a crutch to carry him through the toughest of times, and the mask that conceals his concerned expression, with furrowed brows and thinned lips, boosts the confidence and extrovertive side that he feels once he fits within.
his head tilts as to express confusion, the eyes of the mask squinting as he gestures towards spock, a few circular motions with his hand and one of the pincers.)
Wow, but you said I was fascinating! 'I don't negotiate' is something you tell terrorists, you know? Which, well, would be great if you're practicing for-- well, who knows what we will find, right? But right now, I'm sorry! We are super not negotiating, man.
(the pincers aid on his jump, over spock, webs shooting towards his foot to keep him in place.)
no subject
Either way, the words sound like nonsense to him. Whatever processing power he's got cooking up in his head is keyed into fight and nothing else, knowing he's been already caught out. It is raw and relentless, an ugly wound of a thing that yanks about the heels of his psyche and threatens to rip him apart. There is no logic in talking, taking the bait where intentions are already decided. That is a ploy. It does nothing at all, but serve to keep one's opponent distracted.
Even so, the movement is quick. Quicker than he might have anticipated, given the relative appearance of Peter's suit. That he bounds over him is not surprising, but the height— he manages to angle himself out of the path of most of the webbing, but it catches at the toe.
Unfortunately, the solution is relatively simple. He yanks his foot up and out of the shoe for the moment, the drape of his robes masking much of the movement. Either way, no matter how it is Peter lands, he'll find that Spock's managed to close just enough distance in that time to lash out with — a whip? No, some kind hybrid between that and a flail that he's thrown together and tucked against his person.
Either way, the aim is obvious: get around the base of the pincer and yank him back. Reel him in, as it were. ]
no subject
that said - he isn't quite sure what to expect. thanos was insanely strong physically, and he didn't have the limitations of touch, but spock isn't purple, huge, bald, horrible, and keen on eliminating half the universe, so, just keen on eliminating him - is that a plus? it has got to be a plus. his experience falls short.
shit -- he also was not paying attention to any weapons. his ears ring with how danger approaches, every hair standing, every sound boosting - but he can't get out of the way in time. instead, he's taken, all the pincers sticking to the ground as strongly as peter can will them to.)
Hey, man, personal space!!! Personal space!!!!!!!!
no subject
At Spock's foundations is the same, hurt boy as before. He has never excised him, has never pulled him free of the fate that all he loved would leave him — that his existence was as much a blessing as it too was a curse. He had learned to grow around it, had learned to understand it, but there is something in the way of a body that carries an injury. You may adapt and you may survive, but what comes out of it?
All that Spock knows now is pain. Gone is the way of his teachings, the logic and control that keeps him grounded. His mind is a single-threaded agony, absent of the one that has kept him from the thousand tongues — the bleak and soundless waves. ]
I would have much preferred to have let you alone, [ Spock snarls, the flash of canine teeth as he tugs. Plant yourself all you want, Spock thinks. Something that does not bend is sooner bound to break. End-over-end, he winds the whip tighter over his fist — twisting. The effort of it cuts raw and green across the palm, heels digging into the earth beneath. ] You have not given me the option.
[ No, he knows precisely what it is they've done. ]
no subject
(the ringing in his ears sharpens with the twist of the whip, that innate feeling that should he take too long to act, he'll pay for it in blood. an idea comes, and the pincers retreat into his suit, restructuring and leaving the whip with nothing to grip around. he's free, and he acts fast - coming close with a hop and kicking towards the cheek for distraction, so he can plant the man's feet to the ground with webs before retreating.
the issue has come too suddenly, too unexpectedly, a 0% flashing before his eyes... - the nanites retreat, leaving him in the jeans and polo shirt he had before he was encapsulated by them.
oh.
OH.
fucking hell.)
Hey, so, from a scale of 0-10, how much do you not want to hug me?
(fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck)
no subject
Sometimes it is the absence of sound that makes itself most prominent. For all that Peter banks upon his suit doing much of the job for him, the worst of it is accomplished through sudden removal of resistance. A Vulcan's strength is more than most might calculate, but Peter is able to withstand it. That? That he had already known. But, the sudden release of tension leaves him staggering. It takes almost more than he has to correct, punched through with injury enough as it is. The catching of himself upon one hand in the dirt beneath them is enough to lance ache up his already compromised arm, but it doesn't matter.
He doesn't think it does.
It is this, that allows the kick to miss. Nothing else and nothing more. Nothing more, as Spock shoves himself back up with a sort of liquidity and ferocity that speaks of nothing of his typical, marmoreal presentation. He yanks the whip back, the heft of its end coming up to hit the flat of his opened palm. The suit giving is what his Human compatriots would label fortunate and Spock stalks in closer, movements flickering and indefinite. Crackling, sand and ozone.
His dark eyes are somehow darker, closer than he has been. The thirst for blood thrums like a drumbeat against his ribs, but there is something quelled about it. Quelled enough, that the response to Peter's suggestion is merely to lash out again, whip aiming to tangle about the denim that covers his ankles.
Humans would call it "literally pulling a rug out from under them." Spock supposes it fits here, though Peter is likely not yet aware that the reason for this "gentler" treatment is the intimate knowledge that he is worth much more whole. ]
no subject
all he can do is stick to the ground under his feet, pray that spock has no such strength features that can yank him out - or that an attempt only does so much damage. that should he survive, the broken bones and open wounds heal faster than they do, so he can try to escape on a later date.
even if all these depressing thoughts hit him one after the other, peter is nowhere near giving up. palms curl around the whip, attempting to break it so he can make a run.)
no subject
It matters for reasons that are not at the fore, for reasons that settle beneath. It matters, because Gwen has wrenched Spock's heart from between his teeth and made him part. The absence of the infection in Jim yawns about the presence of the Gnosia in him and it is all he might do, to bite back the growl that bubbles up from the foundations. It is all he might do, to ignore the higher modes of function. It is all he might do, shoulders drawn back and tight as he considers. Considers, and then —
Pulls. It is enough that the strength of it ought to snap it in turn, enough that the loss of the tension might send Peter stumbling back. Enough, Spock thinks and just barely, for him to circle in close enough to get Peter's clothed shoulder under his palm.
If he succeeds, if he manages — the Gnosia in him roars, searching for the pressure points to bruise toward the back of his neck. If he snap the delicate bones of his collar alongside it? It is of little consequence.
It is of little consequence, if it drops him as Spock so intends, for a short and dreamless sleep. ]