[In the way a hand moves from jaw to nape following a brush of lips, Takasugi's wrist twists along with his blade. Embedded in flesh, risk not taken in initiating the attack but in continuing it - a quick jerk of steel against muscle to draw more blood and leave behind tatters.
Momentum that stalls, strength akin to his own anchoring his sword to the point of contact.
Locked together, a weapon and a wound, Takasugi feels a wholeness well up, lungs full of air and ribs aching to burst. He's forgotten about the gun, cognition replaced with the wild smile he wears. It doesn't disappear when the void of black down the firearm's barrel flashes in his vision.
Avoiding the spread is impossible with such proximity, and there will be no mitigating the rot that sets in after the shards of bullet embed in his skin.
Theirs is a war of attrition. It will leave scars he doesn't mind bearing. Sharing.
Takasugi drops, not surrendering his grip on his sword, but relinquishing the strength behind it to sink beneath Mikazuki's center of balance. The first shot, meant for leg, scatters into his head. It shreds bandage, leaving reddened skin in widening sores. A clump of hair disperses in the air, blood filling its place to flow freely along sweat laden scalp.
The second shot rings in his ear, trajectory at once adjusted for his shift in stature and interrupted by a foot that sweeps along Mikazuki's ankles. Takasugi's body follows the whip of his leg, sword pulled free, no thought spared to the state of the digits left behind.
Crouched low, he follows through with a cresting arc - one not intended to cut skin, but to reassert distance. Something he quickly closes, strike not aimed for body but wrist, disarm or dismember.
To be rid of the damn weapon coming between them - at the cost of his own sword if necessary.]
no subject
Momentum that stalls, strength akin to his own anchoring his sword to the point of contact.
Locked together, a weapon and a wound, Takasugi feels a wholeness well up, lungs full of air and ribs aching to burst. He's forgotten about the gun, cognition replaced with the wild smile he wears. It doesn't disappear when the void of black down the firearm's barrel flashes in his vision.
Avoiding the spread is impossible with such proximity, and there will be no mitigating the rot that sets in after the shards of bullet embed in his skin.
Theirs is a war of attrition. It will leave scars he doesn't mind bearing. Sharing.
Takasugi drops, not surrendering his grip on his sword, but relinquishing the strength behind it to sink beneath Mikazuki's center of balance. The first shot, meant for leg, scatters into his head. It shreds bandage, leaving reddened skin in widening sores. A clump of hair disperses in the air, blood filling its place to flow freely along sweat laden scalp.
The second shot rings in his ear, trajectory at once adjusted for his shift in stature and interrupted by a foot that sweeps along Mikazuki's ankles. Takasugi's body follows the whip of his leg, sword pulled free, no thought spared to the state of the digits left behind.
Crouched low, he follows through with a cresting arc - one not intended to cut skin, but to reassert distance. Something he quickly closes, strike not aimed for body but wrist, disarm or dismember.
To be rid of the damn weapon coming between them - at the cost of his own sword if necessary.]