Nuh-uh. Hands to yourself. I just wanted you to see it's real.
（ yes, he bats sasuke's hand fully away after the spot is chosen. shoo. he knows the angle, and needs no guidance. the tantō is lowered, briefly anticlimactic, as he rests it across his knees and peels his shirt off overhead. no point getting it bloody — fine apparel is apparently reserved for the higher-than-gutter rankings.
as he folds it, neat and tidy. sets it aside. ）
On the infinitesimally small chance this actually punches my ticket, you probably want an ounce of plausible deniability to your name.
（ he winks, and then in one smooth motion draws the blade back up left-handed. lets the tip of it rest briefly against his skin, and on the exhale it's thrust abruptly home. there's no hesitation to it, no fear — he may as well have just been sliding the blade back in its saya for all the ceremony he gives the act.
not the most dramatic way he's shown off his immortality. that involved an exploding starship, once upon a time. but this isn't not up there, either.
the blade parts and pierces and severs all the yucky human bits, connective tissue, cartilaginous costal and the arterial cradle of the aorta. he nicks a rib, which is annoying mostly because it sends shockwaves of pain up his sternum that go beyond just ow, stabbed, sort of a low thrumming vibrato of pain.
but he can feel his body's rejection of the injury almost immediately. the way it starts to heal around the blade, immortal offense at the intrusion.
cy lets it go (what, it's not going anywhere, he's gonna sword-in-the-stone this bitch) and then just does a little waggle of his fingers this kid will absolutely not understand as 'jazz hands'. ）
Look, ma, no hands.
（ hey, the kid didn't ask him to puncture a lung. ）
cw: whatever the fuck this thread is actually???
（ yes, he bats sasuke's hand fully away after the spot is chosen. shoo. he knows the angle, and needs no guidance. the tantō is lowered, briefly anticlimactic, as he rests it across his knees and peels his shirt off overhead. no point getting it bloody — fine apparel is apparently reserved for the higher-than-gutter rankings.
as he folds it, neat and tidy. sets it aside. ）
On the infinitesimally small chance this actually punches my ticket, you probably want an ounce of plausible deniability to your name.
（ he winks, and then in one smooth motion draws the blade back up left-handed. lets the tip of it rest briefly against his skin, and on the exhale it's thrust abruptly home. there's no hesitation to it, no fear — he may as well have just been sliding the blade back in its saya for all the ceremony he gives the act.
not the most dramatic way he's shown off his immortality. that involved an exploding starship, once upon a time. but this isn't not up there, either.
the blade parts and pierces and severs all the yucky human bits, connective tissue, cartilaginous costal and the arterial cradle of the aorta. he nicks a rib, which is annoying mostly because it sends shockwaves of pain up his sternum that go beyond just ow, stabbed, sort of a low thrumming vibrato of pain.
but he can feel his body's rejection of the injury almost immediately. the way it starts to heal around the blade, immortal offense at the intrusion.
cy lets it go (what, it's not going anywhere, he's gonna sword-in-the-stone this bitch) and then just does a little waggle of his fingers this kid will absolutely not understand as 'jazz hands'. ）
Look, ma, no hands.
（ hey, the kid didn't ask him to puncture a lung. ）