[Last time Mikazuki's blood had flowed freely down his face, Takasugi found himself entranced. Bright red, more alive than the countenance that bore it - a beautiful sight. One that could move his hand, pen poetry or raise a blade.
There's no such subtlety to his pursuit now. Mikazuki's wound is ignored. An expected response to bone meeting the fragility of facial structure. The crack that splits the heavy air between them is nothing more than a signal to surge on.
Force himself, his strength, against the grip that refuses to falter. He can't break those weathered bones with angles and force alone. It will require momentum, more than can be coaxed from such a close, tangled position.
Mikazuki's attack is sharp, two bodies crashing together as if there's no skin, no flesh, between them. Only bones, wrought by war, refusing to break. Takasugi's sternum takes the brunt of the blow, a cough sputtered between his decaying lips even as his head reels back.
Crashes forward, the onslaught against Mikazuki's face continued as his forehead careens, carrying with it the wave of motion the smaller beast had met him with.
All while still maintaining his hold, his bulwark against those corrosive bullets.
Another strike comes; and this one Takasugi moves with, not against. His body sways to the side of his hold. He'll use the strength in that arm - taught against his grip - to twist his legs around Mikazuki's shoulder.
Anchored, he drives what remains of his blade - most of its length in shattered pieces at their feet - into thick muscle of neck.]
no subject
There's no such subtlety to his pursuit now. Mikazuki's wound is ignored. An expected response to bone meeting the fragility of facial structure. The crack that splits the heavy air between them is nothing more than a signal to surge on.
Force himself, his strength, against the grip that refuses to falter. He can't break those weathered bones with angles and force alone. It will require momentum, more than can be coaxed from such a close, tangled position.
Mikazuki's attack is sharp, two bodies crashing together as if there's no skin, no flesh, between them. Only bones, wrought by war, refusing to break. Takasugi's sternum takes the brunt of the blow, a cough sputtered between his decaying lips even as his head reels back.
Crashes forward, the onslaught against Mikazuki's face continued as his forehead careens, carrying with it the wave of motion the smaller beast had met him with.
All while still maintaining his hold, his bulwark against those corrosive bullets.
Another strike comes; and this one Takasugi moves with, not against. His body sways to the side of his hold. He'll use the strength in that arm - taught against his grip - to twist his legs around Mikazuki's shoulder.
Anchored, he drives what remains of his blade - most of its length in shattered pieces at their feet - into thick muscle of neck.]