（ give him a second, this requires some Math. the distance away, the volume of air in the room, the specks of gathered dust. his eyes close briefly, brow furrowed, and then he pulls. tendrils of some manner of energy, void-touched, flickering between a black so deep it seems like an impossible trick of the light and an electric violet, as illuminated as its spectral opposite is chthonic.
the weapon manifests in one hand, and the magic — because he's never bothered to call it anything else — falls away. one tantō, as dramatically ordered. the blade is in the osoraku style, the tapered point cut to a vicious edge.
he draws it without flourish, and sets the wooden scabbard to one side. he can feel it sing beneath his hand like a homecoming chorus, and there is a quiet sort of ease with which it fits across his palm. like it was made for him. there's a twist of annoyed revulsion that follows — it's not overwhelming, fuck knows he's had a long time to really dig into the meat and potatoes of exposure therapy, here, but it's something he's frankly still glad he gets. the day he picks up a weapon and doesn't instantly hate it is going to be a fucking dark day for all things mortal in the universe.
he scratches an itch with the tip of the blade, just above one ear. ）
See, here's the rub. If I stab myself somewhere, you're going to convince yourself it was a trick. Sleight of hand. Maybe I'm some grand illusionist fucking with your head. So, first thing's first （ he flips the tantō in his hand, rests the blade against his forearm and offers it out hilt first to the kid. ） You gotta make sure it's not a fake blade. Then you can pick a place, somewhere fatal. I'll do the stabbing, thanks, I don't need your weird guilt complex on my conscience. You can just stand there and look pretty.
（ he pulls a face, a sort of grimace. ）
And let it be known for the record that I am like, in no way into this. Masochism really isn't my vibe, which you'll understand the hilarity of in like thirty seconds.
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the weapon manifests in one hand, and the magic — because he's never bothered to call it anything else — falls away. one tantō, as dramatically ordered. the blade is in the osoraku style, the tapered point cut to a vicious edge.
he draws it without flourish, and sets the wooden scabbard to one side. he can feel it sing beneath his hand like a homecoming chorus, and there is a quiet sort of ease with which it fits across his palm. like it was made for him. there's a twist of annoyed revulsion that follows — it's not overwhelming, fuck knows he's had a long time to really dig into the meat and potatoes of exposure therapy, here, but it's something he's frankly still glad he gets. the day he picks up a weapon and doesn't instantly hate it is going to be a fucking dark day for all things mortal in the universe.
he scratches an itch with the tip of the blade, just above one ear. ）
See, here's the rub. If I stab myself somewhere, you're going to convince yourself it was a trick. Sleight of hand. Maybe I'm some grand illusionist fucking with your head. So, first thing's first （ he flips the tantō in his hand, rests the blade against his forearm and offers it out hilt first to the kid. ） You gotta make sure it's not a fake blade. Then you can pick a place, somewhere fatal. I'll do the stabbing, thanks, I don't need your weird guilt complex on my conscience. You can just stand there and look pretty.
（ he pulls a face, a sort of grimace. ）
And let it be known for the record that I am like, in no way into this. Masochism really isn't my vibe, which you'll understand the hilarity of in like thirty seconds.