[what is he doing. Zephir is a creature in a human suit, feeding him sludge that he'd like to think he'd feel guilty about taking. he doesn't. he sucks his lower lip in, presses them together and licks up what remains.
pieces of bark stick to his back, dirt and moss falling to the forest floor. he doesn't bother to try and brush any of it off. he's less high, or he feels less high - everything is saturated with tainted clarity. can't hide the arousal in his pants, but he can use the heat for magic. the circle already has what he needs, it had what he needed for the botched conjuring. only he's breaking a rule, he's opening it up. permission to exit, essentially.
conjuring is easy, forced possession is easier. demons love an unwitting host and love a straight shot out into the world even more. he can control what comes out, deal with it later if he has to, for now the buzz of whispers at the altar feel more like wasps - harsh and threatening to crawl into one's ears. they become so violent and chaotic that they're all that can be heard, a haunting into Zephir's mind. a warning.
Zephir poured gasoline over August and lit the match. the words August chants under his breath invite a cacophony of disembodied screams that barrel directly into him, leaving August to watch as unnamed, unseen demons attempt to burrow themselves inside his mind, fighting for who gets what. they tear at skin, press at it until purple blooms. the mind is different, that's what they want to tear apart the most. absolute fear and total dread. they pick and pick and pick. how close can they get him to insanity, how much space can they hold, and will he stop them? they'll take out nightmares if they have to, run them over and over as a broken record.]
im sry i tldr so much
pieces of bark stick to his back, dirt and moss falling to the forest floor. he doesn't bother to try and brush any of it off. he's less high, or he feels less high - everything is saturated with tainted clarity. can't hide the arousal in his pants, but he can use the heat for magic. the circle already has what he needs, it had what he needed for the botched conjuring. only he's breaking a rule, he's opening it up. permission to exit, essentially.
conjuring is easy, forced possession is easier. demons love an unwitting host and love a straight shot out into the world even more. he can control what comes out, deal with it later if he has to, for now the buzz of whispers at the altar feel more like wasps - harsh and threatening to crawl into one's ears. they become so violent and chaotic that they're all that can be heard, a haunting into Zephir's mind. a warning.
Zephir poured gasoline over August and lit the match. the words August chants under his breath invite a cacophony of disembodied screams that barrel directly into him, leaving August to watch as unnamed, unseen demons attempt to burrow themselves inside his mind, fighting for who gets what. they tear at skin, press at it until purple blooms. the mind is different, that's what they want to tear apart the most. absolute fear and total dread. they pick and pick and pick. how close can they get him to insanity, how much space can they hold, and will he stop them? they'll take out nightmares if they have to, run them over and over as a broken record.]