[The obedience is noticeable, noted. Upon the withdrawal, his eyes center on red lips and he considers the current validity of a reward—whether there is justification to forgo promises and take that mouth with his own again, its pinched line so often loured by defiance, imprinted by some other darkness long before they had ever reached each other. The moment hangs on a fragile stem, and then he looks into Guanshan's face, into irises burnt copper in the bonfire light, and he severs reality. That last image lingers in photo negative: two vivid crimson points with lazily wheeling tomoe like the methodical tick of a clock.
It feels like nothing at first. A world unchanged and undisturbed: fire hot beside them, a solid wall of heat blazing across any bare inch of skin vulnerable to its impression. Warmth in reassurance, at first, before it begins to build and blister, to become distracting, and when Guanshan turns his head he will find that the bonfire has grown in monstrous, uncontrollable size—a beast of its own with the wide hanging maw of a black open mouth. Guanshan is swallowed by it in one hungry cavernous bite. The heat is real and scalding as it closes over him in an incalescent cage, flesh bubbling off bones as though submerged in oily hot soup, flaking to sudden and impossible ash, a tide of temperature beyond mortal range. He will have the briefest sights of his own skeletal, white-raw hands in front of him—starved fire roaring in both ears like a rush of blood to the head—before that too is gone.
A space of more nothing, of blackness, until that splits and forms structure, substance, transformed into the crash of a wave over head. Guanshan in the shallow waters of the ocean, midnight ruling dark dominion and granting no light to this place, yet stinging saltwater is made a relief after the torture of burning alive. His body is utterly unharmed; no scars to remember.
Looking up, the familiar silhouette of a lover towers there, a daemon carved out of the shadow, smirk jagged and wild, voice a rasping drawl,] Hey, beansprout. [And he pushes Guanshan’s head down into the ocean.
The act of drowning is somehow quieter, yet no less an agony—the struggle, the fits, the weakness of limbs and swallowed mouthfuls of water, lungs full and saturated, body made heavy stone. When death threatens to eclipse the world, Guanshan is dragged up and out of waves by the roots of short ginger hair in one slender, fine-boned hand, painted nails gleaming. This time Itachi takes the kiss without permission (a reward for survival and obedience both, for misplaced trust) and seals their mouths as though sucking those last slivers of life out of him, tongue scraping every contour and pocket of air that remains, teeth sharp and hard on a lower lip, tearing flesh. His own blood is the only thing he will taste.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cw body horror, drowning
It feels like nothing at first. A world unchanged and undisturbed: fire hot beside them, a solid wall of heat blazing across any bare inch of skin vulnerable to its impression. Warmth in reassurance, at first, before it begins to build and blister, to become distracting, and when Guanshan turns his head he will find that the bonfire has grown in monstrous, uncontrollable size—a beast of its own with the wide hanging maw of a black open mouth. Guanshan is swallowed by it in one hungry cavernous bite. The heat is real and scalding as it closes over him in an incalescent cage, flesh bubbling off bones as though submerged in oily hot soup, flaking to sudden and impossible ash, a tide of temperature beyond mortal range. He will have the briefest sights of his own skeletal, white-raw hands in front of him—starved fire roaring in both ears like a rush of blood to the head—before that too is gone.
A space of more nothing, of blackness, until that splits and forms structure, substance, transformed into the crash of a wave over head. Guanshan in the shallow waters of the ocean, midnight ruling dark dominion and granting no light to this place, yet stinging saltwater is made a relief after the torture of burning alive. His body is utterly unharmed; no scars to remember.
Looking up, the familiar silhouette of a lover towers there, a daemon carved out of the shadow, smirk jagged and wild, voice a rasping drawl,] Hey, beansprout. [And he pushes Guanshan’s head down into the ocean.
The act of drowning is somehow quieter, yet no less an agony—the struggle, the fits, the weakness of limbs and swallowed mouthfuls of water, lungs full and saturated, body made heavy stone. When death threatens to eclipse the world, Guanshan is dragged up and out of waves by the roots of short ginger hair in one slender, fine-boned hand, painted nails gleaming. This time Itachi takes the kiss without permission (a reward for survival and obedience both, for misplaced trust) and seals their mouths as though sucking those last slivers of life out of him, tongue scraping every contour and pocket of air that remains, teeth sharp and hard on a lower lip, tearing flesh. His own blood is the only thing he will taste.]