[He tastes only that first, perfect lick of blood—rich and hot as melted velvet on his tongue—before that force blooms up and punches a hole to the side. His own reaction is all instinct: an arm closes itself around captured prey, eyes flashing not red with transformation but red with Sharingan, then pinwheeling Mangekyou. In those split seconds before the strange, crackling power ignites, the jutsu is cast.
As destruction cools and a draft blows in from the obliterated balcony, Susanoo has formed around them—a large, skeletal warrior shaped out of chakra, manifesting pale red and translucent, enclosing them both within its embrace. It is a less evolved form, no more than the ribs, one arm, and glowing gold eyes inset a jagged skull. But it is enough as a defense. More than enough, considering the blast did not hit them.
Itachi draws himself to his feet. In the process, he doesn't release the boy, keeping one arm coiled tight and hard around his waist, forcing him to stand alongside him, even if it means dangling feet. A slow, languid look surveys the scene. Even through the fervor of his current state, interest and thought seeds itself in his mind for another time. Was that redirected? If so, why, and how?
There's blood on his mouth. He licks it away, then looks down at the top of the boy's head, hearing him sob.]
Shhh. [It's a soft, cooing sound. The hand in Emil's hair smooths over a warm skull, petting, then forms another tight clutch at the roots.] I'm not here to kill you. Only... it may hurt a little, what I need from you.
[He pulls gently on the boy's scalp to expose the raw ring of teeth on that white throat.]
Will someone come soon, hearing that explosion? Tell me the truth. I will know if you lie.
[ He doesn't know what it is the stranger has done, but the crushing weight of pressure he feels against the backs of his eyes tells him it's powerful. Except Emil can't begin to speculate on what it is — a weapon, an attack, some kind of magic, a shield? — with fear crumpling him into himself like he's made of so much paper. There is no debris, no dust, just the strong scent of ozone and a perfectly smooth hole where the balcony and its windowed doors had been, substance deleted by the onslaught.
Emil is light and pliant, paralyzed by fright and trembling, a matter that grows more pronounced into a shudder at the soothing. Too quickly, that contradictory gentleness becomes a tight fist around the roots of his hair, yanking a whimper out of his lungs more from terror than pain. With no barrier against the elements, the room grows cold; he feels the night lick at his injured throat and stays almost breathlessly silent. Listening.
To the silence outside, to the steady threads of formed bonds inside, stretching out in varying directions, as delicate and still as a spider's web.
If Saint or Osiris had noticed anything amiss, he has no doubt they would already be here, but there's.... nothing. There's nothing. Knowing that there was doubtlessly a good reason isn't quite the same with a heart gripped by terror; bereft, Emil's eyes well, and in the moment before he answers in a tremulous voice thick with emotion, they spill as he closes them. ]
No. Nobody's coming.
[ He's alone.
He realizes he's done this to himself — he sent away everyone, hoping to protect them from dangers lurking outside. He thought he could protect them. Maybe he still can. Maybe, like with a thief, if he simply gives him what he wants, he'll go away and leave his friends alone. It might be too trusting and naïve, but the word he used — need — keeps haunting Emil. Like he isn't doing this out of cruelty, and Emil doesn't believe he deserves to die. As a weapon, his options are limited.
Quailing, he turns his watering eyes to the side. ]
You said you needed something. If I, if I let you, will you leave without hurting anybody else?
[When the threat is clear, Susanoo disintegrates—its drain of chakra too much to maintain when the well of his manna feels empty and desecrated as hunger eats through his sanity. No one is coming; he believes it. He can even smell those tears in the air, a sting of salt at the fluctuation of emotion picked up by enhanced senses, and it only makes him more ravenous to rip the boy open. Not physically—he has said he will not kill him. It's a promise he can keep, because death isn't the pursuit. Even in this state, he knows that much.
Will it mean he won't feel compelled to target someone else? Hesitation seizes this brief window of conscious thought. He nods, slowly, hands still like claws on Emil's pliable body, unrelenting in contrast to the quiet tone of his voice.]
Yes. [There is no one else to hurt.] ... I will leave. I won't need more than this.
[He lowers to sit on the ground, right there at the center of the room. Emil is brought with him—dragged into his lap with an arm like a steel bar around his upper body to prevent movement, pinning arms, faced forward because anything else would be too intimate. And because he saw those eyes glow just before that explosion. He is not so stupid, even deranged and starving and cursed.
The other hand remains buried in feathery hair, keeping Emil's throat exposed. The wind gusting through that hole feels almost pleasant on his own hot, red-veined skin. His mouth opens, sharpened teeth flashing in anticipation of what is to come. But first, in a strangely polite utterance:] Thank you.
[Saliva pools in his mouth. He's forced to swallow past it. He can taste the quick, flickering pulse beneath the boy's skin—and he bites back down in the same sore spot, sieving Emil's manna.]
[ None would be faulted for calling Emil a sentimental fool; for what reason should he trust a stranger who stole into his home, who attacked without warning, who for whatever reason needs to drink another living being's blood to satisfy some animal need, who possesses a power that Emil has come to identify as paracausal and could go back on his word once his appetite is sated?
On the edge of his property, an Exo and his beloved are dealing with whatever situation has driven them to request to stay here, whether they're still there or have gone somewhere else, he doesn't know. It's only the very suggestion that they might come to harm when he might have still bartered for their safety that motivates Emil, that and a reluctance to unleash hiw power even on someone who could meet him on level ground.
But that quiet yes appears to be enough. In a show of trust to the debatably deserving, Emil gracelessly staggers into sitting, less by his own power than it is by another's, clumsy for the lopsided view of the world with his head so wrenched to the side.
The stranger observes his manners in a way that makes a terrified part of his brain bark mental laughter in response, incredulously; Emil feels breath on his sore neck and squeezes shut his eyes, the flinching blink painting a wet stripe across the bridge of his nose, down sideways along his cheekbone and into the hollow of his ear, first hot and then rapidly cold. Even if he blindly hopes in the reassurance that this man isn't here to kill him, Emil whimpers at the pinch of teeth.
In the moments that follow, the color drains out of everything, washed cool by the light of the moon slanting into the hole where his balcony had been. His skin pricks up into goosebumps but not solely because of the chill wind, physically reminded of the time when his body started to cover over in hard purple crystal. None of that stiffness, that cold, painful paralysis comes, but he feels depleted, the sapphire inside his breastbone growing duller by the moment.
It's this unmoored feeling, like he's in danger of spiraling out into nothing that makes him reach up so abruptly into the dark silk of Itachi's hair, gathering his fist without attempting to push or pull. If he even has the opportunity to look back, Emil may or may not recognize the problem in surrendering without a fight, he might wonder why, if all he needed was manna, he couldn't just ask for Synchrony.
For now it doesn't seem as important as keeping himself from shaking apart. ]
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no subject
As destruction cools and a draft blows in from the obliterated balcony, Susanoo has formed around them—a large, skeletal warrior shaped out of chakra, manifesting pale red and translucent, enclosing them both within its embrace. It is a less evolved form, no more than the ribs, one arm, and glowing gold eyes inset a jagged skull. But it is enough as a defense. More than enough, considering the blast did not hit them.
Itachi draws himself to his feet. In the process, he doesn't release the boy, keeping one arm coiled tight and hard around his waist, forcing him to stand alongside him, even if it means dangling feet. A slow, languid look surveys the scene. Even through the fervor of his current state, interest and thought seeds itself in his mind for another time. Was that redirected? If so, why, and how?
There's blood on his mouth. He licks it away, then looks down at the top of the boy's head, hearing him sob.]
Shhh. [It's a soft, cooing sound. The hand in Emil's hair smooths over a warm skull, petting, then forms another tight clutch at the roots.] I'm not here to kill you. Only... it may hurt a little, what I need from you.
[He pulls gently on the boy's scalp to expose the raw ring of teeth on that white throat.]
Will someone come soon, hearing that explosion? Tell me the truth. I will know if you lie.
no subject
Emil is light and pliant, paralyzed by fright and trembling, a matter that grows more pronounced into a shudder at the soothing. Too quickly, that contradictory gentleness becomes a tight fist around the roots of his hair, yanking a whimper out of his lungs more from terror than pain. With no barrier against the elements, the room grows cold; he feels the night lick at his injured throat and stays almost breathlessly silent. Listening.
To the silence outside, to the steady threads of formed bonds inside, stretching out in varying directions, as delicate and still as a spider's web.
If Saint or Osiris had noticed anything amiss, he has no doubt they would already be here, but there's.... nothing. There's nothing. Knowing that there was doubtlessly a good reason isn't quite the same with a heart gripped by terror; bereft, Emil's eyes well, and in the moment before he answers in a tremulous voice thick with emotion, they spill as he closes them. ]
No. Nobody's coming.
[ He's alone.
He realizes he's done this to himself — he sent away everyone, hoping to protect them from dangers lurking outside. He thought he could protect them. Maybe he still can. Maybe, like with a thief, if he simply gives him what he wants, he'll go away and leave his friends alone. It might be too trusting and naïve, but the word he used — need — keeps haunting Emil. Like he isn't doing this out of cruelty, and Emil doesn't believe he deserves to die. As a weapon, his options are limited.
Quailing, he turns his watering eyes to the side. ]
You said you needed something. If I, if I let you, will you leave without hurting anybody else?
no subject
Will it mean he won't feel compelled to target someone else? Hesitation seizes this brief window of conscious thought. He nods, slowly, hands still like claws on Emil's pliable body, unrelenting in contrast to the quiet tone of his voice.]
Yes. [There is no one else to hurt.] ... I will leave. I won't need more than this.
[He lowers to sit on the ground, right there at the center of the room. Emil is brought with him—dragged into his lap with an arm like a steel bar around his upper body to prevent movement, pinning arms, faced forward because anything else would be too intimate. And because he saw those eyes glow just before that explosion. He is not so stupid, even deranged and starving and cursed.
The other hand remains buried in feathery hair, keeping Emil's throat exposed. The wind gusting through that hole feels almost pleasant on his own hot, red-veined skin. His mouth opens, sharpened teeth flashing in anticipation of what is to come. But first, in a strangely polite utterance:] Thank you.
[Saliva pools in his mouth. He's forced to swallow past it. He can taste the quick, flickering pulse beneath the boy's skin—and he bites back down in the same sore spot, sieving Emil's manna.]
no subject
On the edge of his property, an Exo and his beloved are dealing with whatever situation has driven them to request to stay here, whether they're still there or have gone somewhere else, he doesn't know. It's only the very suggestion that they might come to harm when he might have still bartered for their safety that motivates Emil, that and a reluctance to unleash hiw power even on someone who could meet him on level ground.
But that quiet yes appears to be enough. In a show of trust to the debatably deserving, Emil gracelessly staggers into sitting, less by his own power than it is by another's, clumsy for the lopsided view of the world with his head so wrenched to the side.
The stranger observes his manners in a way that makes a terrified part of his brain bark mental laughter in response, incredulously; Emil feels breath on his sore neck and squeezes shut his eyes, the flinching blink painting a wet stripe across the bridge of his nose, down sideways along his cheekbone and into the hollow of his ear, first hot and then rapidly cold. Even if he blindly hopes in the reassurance that this man isn't here to kill him, Emil whimpers at the pinch of teeth.
In the moments that follow, the color drains out of everything, washed cool by the light of the moon slanting into the hole where his balcony had been. His skin pricks up into goosebumps but not solely because of the chill wind, physically reminded of the time when his body started to cover over in hard purple crystal. None of that stiffness, that cold, painful paralysis comes, but he feels depleted, the sapphire inside his breastbone growing duller by the moment.
It's this unmoored feeling, like he's in danger of spiraling out into nothing that makes him reach up so abruptly into the dark silk of Itachi's hair, gathering his fist without attempting to push or pull. If he even has the opportunity to look back, Emil may or may not recognize the problem in surrendering without a fight, he might wonder why, if all he needed was manna, he couldn't just ask for Synchrony.
For now it doesn't seem as important as keeping himself from shaking apart. ]