@karitxriki said: scalpel pinched betwixt forefinger and thumb lowers closer to his wrist; voice behind a muffled mask rolls smooth as honey and deadly as cyanide. 'now, hold still - for your sake more than mine.'
everything reads as ------ red, bright red, dull red, a thousand different words between crimson and currant and cherry and they all pop into mind as his tongue lulls in his mouth, half chewed through where he’d bitten into it. he can only taste blood, only see blood. it’d run in thick rivulets down from his brow and into his eyes.
with his mouth covered by thick tape that wraps around and onto ears and hair, he is defanged. he’s significantly reduced in efficacy because even razor-point teeth that wanted to lash at nearest limb can only find purchase in the soft, supple insides of his own mouth. another flood of red, of blood. he bites off part of the inside of his cheek in a moment of panic and he swallows around flesh before he can choke.
he breaths out through his nose as the scalpel comes to rest against his flesh. he debates forcing the tip deeper, jolting. he’s already been nothing but struggle and he delights in it, in the grim satisfaction that comes from watching irritation flash across gold eyes. his own silver is simmering with rage, with fatalism fueled by having been fed that self-sacrifice is a HEROIC narrative, even when done in the twilight, in the dark.
he shoves his arm forward, feels scalpel slip and dig through flesh, into vein and scrape against bone as he thrashes against the chair below him. everything is red, and blood flows in a curtain, heavy drops, angry in some way has his vision hazes with pain and he stares, defiant. if he dies he has some agency, he may rob the man above him of whatever it was he was searching for inside of blue veins as sticky, syrupy blood ran down his limbs.
there is none of the panic he expects, none of the swearing or irritation. it only goes to show that he knows nothing about this masked man, this malevolent god donned in halo of bird feathers. there’s annoyance, a flash of it maybe, but then cool indifference and the shade of a amusement. bile rises, acrid in hiraku’s throat, because he’s just resigned to kill himself and still he feels dread.
to watch a glove be pulled free of pale hand is uniquely sinister, to feel barest touch and an echo of ------ ‘ for your sake, more than mine. ’ as pain blossoms, a flower that’s still red, with a spray of viscera and blood. hiraku screams. more so even than forcing the scalpel into his arm, the disappearance of the limb sees him thrash against the chair, his head tilting back as lips refuse to part and he’s muffled by all that tape. his eyes are wide and terrified, the rage that had been so easily held slipping to mercurial fear as the pain stops, all at once, and the limb is replaced.
soreness echoes, but hiraku just looks down, looks at his arm. deft fingers easily replace restraints as hiraku stairs in shock but now the gloveless hand reads like a threat, splattered in blood, everything coated in that same red. when he takes hold of scalpel again, hiraku swallows around a new mouthful of bile and blood, slowly blinking as stomach turns.
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