Typical: can't take what he dishes out. It's a shame he didn't knock his head on the way down. With that thought, Tim lets the bear's paw claw at him. He feels it, the clinical sting of something catching the skin of his face but he doesn't have the weight to afford to react. He doesn't want to react, not when he's faced with this monster so dispassioned for what he's done; Tim has the steel of cold and calculated experience keeping him steady.
Keeping his hands steady.
He feels the way the man's Adam's apple bobs as he sucks in air, confused, erratic, and Tim feels the satisfaction of knowing that life itself is lessening in him, in that moment.
He's a small body in comparison- with months of eating less than he should, Tim would later reason that he'd barely register as an inconvenience for the man if he had kept his wits about him. But that's the thing, this grandiose motherfucker had been so cocksure- Little had dressed up for the event, had known no one would be there to see... and that's what abusers do. They know so much about the people they hurt but say that they love.
This creature had hurt his Pack. Tim can smell the blood welling from beneath those wire binds. It's not enough. Tim is too weak as he is, he realizes suddenly. And he hadn't accounted for that. There's a blinding red and deafening rush of... snarling and desperate silence; he smells blood but needs to taste it; he needs to... protect what's his. Not just fight for the sake of sweet violence.
Tim has experience to fall back on.
"Kate!" he barks, the poor girl-- "Call for help, and do it now!"
Tim will have to shift his weight, will expect to be bucked off this lumbering and idiot thing that he strikes across the face (what is a Robin if not petty), but he has to retrieve his blade, his spear, his staff. He will need teeth-- stubborn legs wrapped around Little until he can't, Tim twists and swings.
The bo staff would hit Little's body. Anywhere. Wherever. Tim needs contact, needs bone to crunch. Needs to hear it happen, his senses too sharp; too hungry.
(As he rears back to swing- he creates distance, a small impenetrable barrier of a metal rod furiously moving in space: Kate. Kate Marsh. This is not her fight. She is not allowed near this man. She is Pack. He has enough teeth for them both. [The blade is no more, retracted as quickly as it had been sprung: for Kate's sake.])
For Kate's sake, to the Navyman, a snarl, guttural and hoarse: "I'm going to kill you." As one should do to remorseless and selfish and cunning men. The hunger is howling. So is Tim. "I'm going to fucking kill you!"
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Keeping his hands steady.
He feels the way the man's Adam's apple bobs as he sucks in air, confused, erratic, and Tim feels the satisfaction of knowing that life itself is lessening in him, in that moment.
He's a small body in comparison- with months of eating less than he should, Tim would later reason that he'd barely register as an inconvenience for the man if he had kept his wits about him. But that's the thing, this grandiose motherfucker had been so cocksure- Little had dressed up for the event, had known no one would be there to see... and that's what abusers do. They know so much about the people they hurt but say that they love.
This creature had hurt his Pack. Tim can smell the blood welling from beneath those wire binds. It's not enough. Tim is too weak as he is, he realizes suddenly. And he hadn't accounted for that. There's a blinding red and deafening rush of... snarling and desperate silence; he smells blood but needs to taste it; he needs to... protect what's his. Not just fight for the sake of sweet violence.
Tim has experience to fall back on.
"Kate!" he barks, the poor girl-- "Call for help, and do it now!"
Tim will have to shift his weight, will expect to be bucked off this lumbering and idiot thing that he strikes across the face (what is a Robin if not petty), but he has to retrieve his blade, his spear, his staff. He will need teeth-- stubborn legs wrapped around Little until he can't, Tim twists and swings.
The bo staff would hit Little's body. Anywhere. Wherever. Tim needs contact, needs bone to crunch. Needs to hear it happen, his senses too sharp; too hungry.
(As he rears back to swing- he creates distance, a small impenetrable barrier of a metal rod furiously moving in space: Kate. Kate Marsh. This is not her fight. She is not allowed near this man. She is Pack. He has enough teeth for them both. [The blade is no more, retracted as quickly as it had been sprung: for Kate's sake.])
For Kate's sake, to the Navyman, a snarl, guttural and hoarse: "I'm going to kill you." As one should do to remorseless and selfish and cunning men. The hunger is howling. So is Tim. "I'm going to fucking kill you!"