[ 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}
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...]