[ Gripping the handle, he does as requested and yanks the knife free from where it had sunken into flesh. The construction of the blade is poor. With just that gesture, he can feel the shift of metal in plastic, not meant to endure more than cutting into a few inches of meat. Regardless, desperation is king. The daemon tucks the knife between his teeth while shoving Suguru's ankle away from his chest. Even beneath another predatory gaze he is bold and proud, unwilling to remain stepped on. It would be a different situation were this Getou Suguru a beautiful woman, but he is not. Guys don't get to freely step on him.
He rolls over in one graceful, fluid motion, returning to his feet. There is no lag or twitch of pain from the manhandling, as if he hadn't been touched at all. It naturally exists, a pang here and an ache there, but he has long grown accustomed to feeling nothing while feeling everything. The natural state of a yaksha.
Pink flashes along the dull edge of the blade. His tongue lashes up to catch the sheen of slick blood, smearing red into the gaps between sharp teeth. ]
Generous of you, [ if he doesn't sound feverishly enthralled at such an honor, it is because he is not—but he is dryly amused at that loftiness, ] but I don't know where to invite you to. I arrived here just today.
[ The shitty little steak knife is slid into his belt once licked clean. His contrary nature demands he set off here and now since he has gotten what he wanted, but the call of a drink is even stronger. Where can they go in a city like this, where there is such a small number of people? Even if there is a bar what are the odds that it will have a bartender? Variable, variable, variable.
Knowing no fear, the daemon approaches the other man. A small bird approaching a hawk, hopping around its feet, he openly studies Suguru from toe to head. There is no particular reason for the scrutiny, just continued vague interest. ]
no subject
[ Gripping the handle, he does as requested and yanks the knife free from where it had sunken into flesh. The construction of the blade is poor. With just that gesture, he can feel the shift of metal in plastic, not meant to endure more than cutting into a few inches of meat. Regardless, desperation is king. The daemon tucks the knife between his teeth while shoving Suguru's ankle away from his chest. Even beneath another predatory gaze he is bold and proud, unwilling to remain stepped on. It would be a different situation were this Getou Suguru a beautiful woman, but he is not. Guys don't get to freely step on him.
He rolls over in one graceful, fluid motion, returning to his feet. There is no lag or twitch of pain from the manhandling, as if he hadn't been touched at all. It naturally exists, a pang here and an ache there, but he has long grown accustomed to feeling nothing while feeling everything. The natural state of a yaksha.
Pink flashes along the dull edge of the blade. His tongue lashes up to catch the sheen of slick blood, smearing red into the gaps between sharp teeth. ]
Generous of you, [ if he doesn't sound feverishly enthralled at such an honor, it is because he is not—but he is dryly amused at that loftiness, ] but I don't know where to invite you to. I arrived here just today.
[ The shitty little steak knife is slid into his belt once licked clean. His contrary nature demands he set off here and now since he has gotten what he wanted, but the call of a drink is even stronger. Where can they go in a city like this, where there is such a small number of people? Even if there is a bar what are the odds that it will have a bartender? Variable, variable, variable.
Knowing no fear, the daemon approaches the other man. A small bird approaching a hawk, hopping around its feet, he openly studies Suguru from toe to head. There is no particular reason for the scrutiny, just continued vague interest. ]
I think you're older than me.