[ There is something about this that settles wrong in his bones, watching Solomon move like that. Speak those words. Solomon is not Takumi, the same age and struggling with things just as all of them are; he's grown, he knows things that Yugamu doesn't.
He would say he wishes nobody else has to die for them to leave, but he's not that naive. He hasn't spent the past three months cutting people down for the sake of survival to say something he knows is likely unavoidable, and someone like him shouldn't be preaching to the choir, anyway.
Yugamu's gaze gets icier. ]
Ignoring the fact people have actually made them, you sound like you know who and what. [ He doesn't like the sound of it, nor that it sounds like there's more than one. Don, he'd heard of, but... ] And on that note, which task was it? If it's still affecting you, then maybe it hasn't been sated enough.
[ His gaze flickers, still locked on that black mark which almost seems to writhe when he blinks. ]
[He blows out a breath that sounds like an anxious choke of a laugh.]
I know. I know. Sika.
...
Bloodshed. [His fist tightens, still with the pen in his fist. It lowers, slowly.] Cantarella already took me to the hot springs to try and calm me down.
[A beat, a shaking exhale.
The pen flickers immediately into the diamond dagger at his side, gripped so tight his knuckles go white.
The marking at his neck starts to deepen. To spread. Wrapping, wrapping--
But with a sharp exhale, Solomon throws the dagger down with one tense motion. The second it leaves his hands, it snaps right back to a pen, clattering off to the side. The sorcerer heaves deep breathes in as he digs his hands into his hair. The ends of his fingers are starting to color oddly. Darkening. Spreading.]
[ Sika. Because of course it's Sika.. Yugamu has not set out to offer his hand, and this only cements that he will not be doing so; whatever this is, it's not working.
Yugamu watches. Yugamu listens. Yugamu lets his gaze rake down over those white-knuckles, fist lowering every so slowly.
Then there's the dagger, inky black crawling and swirling up and over pale skin, and every muscle in his body coils tight in reflex to match the way a pale hand darts into his sleeve so fast it's a mere blur—
The noise it makes when it clatters to the floor, shifting from blade to pen, seems to echo painfully loudly in the stone-wrought hall. When Yugamu's daze darts back, it's to Solomon hunched like a man in agony, black staining his fingers like blood stains Yugamu's own.
Aaaah, how he wishes that request could excite him as much as it usually would. ]
...Is that really what you want?
[ No real hesitation, no doubt, no refusal. But his steps are swift, and he peers up with a clinical stillness, fingers still in his sleeves. Coiled around a hilt.
[ Yugamu is smaller, but there's an unprecedented strength in those modified bones; a taloned hand curls in the front of that shirt, and one firm push takes them down with the resounding chorus of rattling lab equipment.
It's a shame, is the vague thought behind the cold surgical steel of his gaze. This is a nice outfit.
The glinting steel that slips out of his sleeve is unfamiliar, ceremonial, something plucked from the costumerie for the purpose of this task alone. It brings a comfort the infuser can not, a familiarity that feels both light and heavy. Especially when he angles it, because— there's a gap between the stomach and the liver, thin and slender.
The hand on Solomon's chest is merely to keep him still, sinking the blade in like a knife through butter. ]
[As tall as Solomon is, Yugamu has had his time to fight with the man. He is no soldier, with lean muscle from only casual daily life, movements always light and thin as though walking on air. So despite the difference in height and weight, Solomon will prove to be easy to manhandle down to the floor with a grunt of discomfort.
His hands grip on reflex to Yugamu's shoulders, darkening fingers digging in tight with an agonized keen through clenched teeth at the hot feel of steel slicing right into his midsection. He shudders, choking on his breath as his eyes stay clenched shut, fingers flexing tight against the teenager's upper arms.
Not bracing through the pain, but as though he's trying to let it overwhelm him. To keep him still in the only way he can, right this second.
A beat, two, and Yugamu will feel him start to struggle under the pin, sharp breaths of pain vocalizing at the effort. But he does not try to free himself.]
[ Adults are just meat, under it all; aren't they all? Grown men, children, women, everything in between. It all slices the same, chokes all the same, dies all the same.
Solomon is the same as Fandaniel was, skin thin enough to break. The hands on his shoulders are new, but the pained noises are not. They do not deter him in the slightest, even as he slips the knife free, red catching the light of cathedral windows and soaking into fabric. Despite himself, the sight earns a shudder.
For all little he weighs, when Yugamu presses his weight down, it almost feels like iron. Keep him still, stop squirming. Same with his grip, as it shifts to latch onto Solomon's forearm, knife flipping in his grip to better slip it straight through the meat of his upper arm. No bone nicks, no arteries, but painful.
It has to hurt. It can't be permanent, but it has to linger. Things he can fix with needle and thread and a steady hand painted in red. ]
[He can feel the warmth of blood pooling at those white-hot points - his stomach, his arm, the black of his shirt and tan of his coat staining red under Yugamu's blade. It earns another cry of pain, another pointless struggle despite how he fights it. His heart beats hard in his chest, malaise in his throat.
Despite the pain that rocks him, the longer he drifts in it, the more clarity seems to drift into his pained features. Something, something, to break up that strange pull inside him like the icy grip of hell.
His eyes stay firmly shut, wheezing under the pain and trying not to grow sick from it. But his injured hand still grips tight against Yugamu's shoulder, even as his other drips hot, fresh blood into so many fabrics.
[ There's something that crawls up his bones at those struggles, cries of pain; a primal part of him he can't tape down, even now. Please hurt me resonates in the same vein of please love me in that twisted empty thing he calls a heart, and it guides every slice with finesse and purpose.
Just work, in some way, focused and quiet. A form of love to help, in another. What a war he wages, the pink tinting his ears at odds with the act itself.
The grip against his shoulder is not a move to stop, so downwards the blade treks, settling on the tightened muscle of a lower thigh. Yugamu's gaze is locked onto Solomon's face for another moment, only pausing to actually speak in a cooled tone that matches the look in his eyes. ]
Solomon-sensei. Breathe.
[ That's all he gets before metal slides in to the hilt, past the skin, through the muscle. Wake up. ]
[He barely meets that look. But there's enough recognition - an attempt made, of breath in the nose and out the mouth, as quick and shaky as it comes as his eyes drift shut in tense anticipation.
Metal cuts through flesh, and the pain rips through him like a white-hot whip. His entire spine jerks underneath Yugamu, what vocalization that wheezes out caught between gritted teeth as his face starts to grow pale. The adrenaline rushes, and his chest aches, and--
The grip against Yugamu's shoulders digs, and then weakens, loose fists sliding down his arms detatched.
Breathing. Just breathe.
The act hurts visibly, now that he's purposeful with it. But he tries to force it back under control, the pain vibrant on his features through his attempts at concentration. Waves pass and his face screws tight.
When he finally opens his mouth, it feels like cotton. Dry and sticky and trapped in his throat.]
Enough...
T...that's enough...
[He hopes. He prays. Just give him a moment to let the adrenaline calm...]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He would say he wishes nobody else has to die for them to leave, but he's not that naive. He hasn't spent the past three months cutting people down for the sake of survival to say something he knows is likely unavoidable, and someone like him shouldn't be preaching to the choir, anyway.
Yugamu's gaze gets icier. ]
Ignoring the fact people have actually made them, you sound like you know who and what. [ He doesn't like the sound of it, nor that it sounds like there's more than one. Don, he'd heard of, but... ] And on that note, which task was it? If it's still affecting you, then maybe it hasn't been sated enough.
[ His gaze flickers, still locked on that black mark which almost seems to writhe when he blinks. ]
no subject
I know. I know. Sika.
...
Bloodshed. [His fist tightens, still with the pen in his fist. It lowers, slowly.] Cantarella already took me to the hot springs to try and calm me down.
[A beat, a shaking exhale.
The pen flickers immediately into the diamond dagger at his side, gripped so tight his knuckles go white.
The marking at his neck starts to deepen. To spread. Wrapping, wrapping--
But with a sharp exhale, Solomon throws the dagger down with one tense motion. The second it leaves his hands, it snaps right back to a pen, clattering off to the side. The sorcerer heaves deep breathes in as he digs his hands into his hair. The ends of his fingers are starting to color oddly. Darkening. Spreading.]
I... Yugamu, I need you to hurt me. Please.
[Hurt him, or he's going to hurt someone else.]
no subject
Yugamu watches. Yugamu listens. Yugamu lets his gaze rake down over those white-knuckles, fist lowering every so slowly.
Then there's the dagger, inky black crawling and swirling up and over pale skin, and every muscle in his body coils tight in reflex to match the way a pale hand darts into his sleeve so fast it's a mere blur—
The noise it makes when it clatters to the floor, shifting from blade to pen, seems to echo painfully loudly in the stone-wrought hall. When Yugamu's daze darts back, it's to Solomon hunched like a man in agony, black staining his fingers like blood stains Yugamu's own.
Aaaah, how he wishes that request could excite him as much as it usually would. ]
...Is that really what you want?
[ No real hesitation, no doubt, no refusal. But his steps are swift, and he peers up with a clinical stillness, fingers still in his sleeves. Coiled around a hilt.
Just one reaffirmation is all he needs. ]
no subject
[Choked out, immediate.
There's no sign of a rose anywhere on his body. Only inky black.]
J-just... just bring me back to my senses, please, anything--
cw gore i guess AGAIN i live in hell
[ Yugamu is smaller, but there's an unprecedented strength in those modified bones; a taloned hand curls in the front of that shirt, and one firm push takes them down with the resounding chorus of rattling lab equipment.
It's a shame, is the vague thought behind the cold surgical steel of his gaze. This is a nice outfit.
The glinting steel that slips out of his sleeve is unfamiliar, ceremonial, something plucked from the costumerie for the purpose of this task alone. It brings a comfort the infuser can not, a familiarity that feels both light and heavy. Especially when he angles it, because— there's a gap between the stomach and the liver, thin and slender.
The hand on Solomon's chest is merely to keep him still, sinking the blade in like a knife through butter. ]
cw: gore
His hands grip on reflex to Yugamu's shoulders, darkening fingers digging in tight with an agonized keen through clenched teeth at the hot feel of steel slicing right into his midsection. He shudders, choking on his breath as his eyes stay clenched shut, fingers flexing tight against the teenager's upper arms.
Not bracing through the pain, but as though he's trying to let it overwhelm him. To keep him still in the only way he can, right this second.
A beat, two, and Yugamu will feel him start to struggle under the pin, sharp breaths of pain vocalizing at the effort. But he does not try to free himself.]
no subject
Solomon is the same as Fandaniel was, skin thin enough to break. The hands on his shoulders are new, but the pained noises are not. They do not deter him in the slightest, even as he slips the knife free, red catching the light of cathedral windows and soaking into fabric. Despite himself, the sight earns a shudder.
For all little he weighs, when Yugamu presses his weight down, it almost feels like iron. Keep him still, stop squirming. Same with his grip, as it shifts to latch onto Solomon's forearm, knife flipping in his grip to better slip it straight through the meat of his upper arm. No bone nicks, no arteries, but painful.
It has to hurt. It can't be permanent, but it has to linger. Things he can fix with needle and thread and a steady hand painted in red. ]
no subject
Despite the pain that rocks him, the longer he drifts in it, the more clarity seems to drift into his pained features. Something, something, to break up that strange pull inside him like the icy grip of hell.
His eyes stay firmly shut, wheezing under the pain and trying not to grow sick from it. But his injured hand still grips tight against Yugamu's shoulder, even as his other drips hot, fresh blood into so many fabrics.
One more. One more time.]
no subject
Just work, in some way, focused and quiet. A form of love to help, in another. What a war he wages, the pink tinting his ears at odds with the act itself.
The grip against his shoulder is not a move to stop, so downwards the blade treks, settling on the tightened muscle of a lower thigh. Yugamu's gaze is locked onto Solomon's face for another moment, only pausing to actually speak in a cooled tone that matches the look in his eyes. ]
Solomon-sensei. Breathe.
[ That's all he gets before metal slides in to the hilt, past the skin, through the muscle. Wake up. ]
no subject
Metal cuts through flesh, and the pain rips through him like a white-hot whip. His entire spine jerks underneath Yugamu, what vocalization that wheezes out caught between gritted teeth as his face starts to grow pale. The adrenaline rushes, and his chest aches, and--
The grip against Yugamu's shoulders digs, and then weakens, loose fists sliding down his arms detatched.
Breathing. Just breathe.
The act hurts visibly, now that he's purposeful with it. But he tries to force it back under control, the pain vibrant on his features through his attempts at concentration. Waves pass and his face screws tight.
When he finally opens his mouth, it feels like cotton. Dry and sticky and trapped in his throat.]
Enough...
T...that's enough...
[He hopes. He prays. Just give him a moment to let the adrenaline calm...]