Hakkyuu (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shadowstrikes) wrote2022-03-21 12:12 am
shadowstrikes) wrote2022-03-21 12:12 am
Entry tags:
[ Retalliation ]
cw: violence and hand trauma
---
While Hakkyuu wouldn't use the word 'methodical' to describe himself, nonetheless, sometimes he is precisely that, especially when specific motivations and circumstances demand it.
The embers of his verbal altercation with Stephen sit glowing in the back of his mind, spattered down his spine, settled somewhere in the depths of his ribcage, a steady raw burn that reminds him why he spends so much time slinking around SIN Guard haunts, sidling up and taking his sweet, sweet time to draw out microscopic hairs of information. Bit by bit, strands breaking and snapping as often as he finds one in tact.
It's part of the process and the timeframe doesn't matter--he can wait as long as he needs to because the only thing that's time sensitive is the inevitability of everything.
But he is methodical, steady and intensely focused in his approach as, at one point during the long night's work, he laughs heartily and casually, warm and smooth with a wave of one hand--"Yeah, well, I just wanna shake the hand of whoever brought the mighty wizard down low, y'know? The guy can be a real asshole sometimes."
One strand leads to another, slowly winding together to make even a basic line of twine. It's enough. It's all he needs.
Because it's that tiny coarse thread that finally results in Hakkyuu down on his knees in a quiet, deserted building in the Down, off-duty SIN Guard who administered Stephen's realignment sat back on a throne of an old office chair with the back all chipped and splintered, hands splayed on each chair arm, with a Submissive LIER's nose nudging up his inseam. Who doesn't want to meet someone wanting to show their appreciation, after all?
Hakkyuu has time. Time enough to press the bridge of his nose against the outward bulge of the the guard's crotch as he draws up slowly, eyes low and obscure but with resolute focus as he spreads one hand over the line of the guard's inner hip as his free hand dips down out of sight.
The dull thunk that arrives is faster than a whip crack, like Hakkyuu barely moved and yet there's proof enough that he did--the blade of a knife sunk deep through the guard's hand at the back of his palm, Hakkyuu's fingers around the hilt and a cool, steady stare locked on the guard's face as he waits for the initial disbelief to shatter. He's got time.
And of course the shrieks fold around hysterical questions, all of which are easy to answer as Hakkyuu stands in the darkness, heel of his palm pushed down on the blade hilt with an all-too casual air about him.
"Said I wanted to shake the hand of the guy who fucked up the wizard," he gives a low, single-shouldered shrug, "Sure looks like I got that hand of yours shaking."
He leans in slow, eyes glinting in the dim light as he takes a slow breath through barely parted teeth, the soft noise loud in that space.
"I once heard there are twenty-seven bones in the average human hand," He twists his hand at the wrist with the smallest movement and the slightest additional pressure, feeling resistance from cartilage and bone as he stares down at the guard over his sharp cheekbones, "I'm thinkin' we can double that by the end of the night."
He's got time.
---
While Hakkyuu wouldn't use the word 'methodical' to describe himself, nonetheless, sometimes he is precisely that, especially when specific motivations and circumstances demand it.
The embers of his verbal altercation with Stephen sit glowing in the back of his mind, spattered down his spine, settled somewhere in the depths of his ribcage, a steady raw burn that reminds him why he spends so much time slinking around SIN Guard haunts, sidling up and taking his sweet, sweet time to draw out microscopic hairs of information. Bit by bit, strands breaking and snapping as often as he finds one in tact.
It's part of the process and the timeframe doesn't matter--he can wait as long as he needs to because the only thing that's time sensitive is the inevitability of everything.
But he is methodical, steady and intensely focused in his approach as, at one point during the long night's work, he laughs heartily and casually, warm and smooth with a wave of one hand--"Yeah, well, I just wanna shake the hand of whoever brought the mighty wizard down low, y'know? The guy can be a real asshole sometimes."
One strand leads to another, slowly winding together to make even a basic line of twine. It's enough. It's all he needs.
Because it's that tiny coarse thread that finally results in Hakkyuu down on his knees in a quiet, deserted building in the Down, off-duty SIN Guard who administered Stephen's realignment sat back on a throne of an old office chair with the back all chipped and splintered, hands splayed on each chair arm, with a Submissive LIER's nose nudging up his inseam. Who doesn't want to meet someone wanting to show their appreciation, after all?
Hakkyuu has time. Time enough to press the bridge of his nose against the outward bulge of the the guard's crotch as he draws up slowly, eyes low and obscure but with resolute focus as he spreads one hand over the line of the guard's inner hip as his free hand dips down out of sight.
The dull thunk that arrives is faster than a whip crack, like Hakkyuu barely moved and yet there's proof enough that he did--the blade of a knife sunk deep through the guard's hand at the back of his palm, Hakkyuu's fingers around the hilt and a cool, steady stare locked on the guard's face as he waits for the initial disbelief to shatter. He's got time.
And of course the shrieks fold around hysterical questions, all of which are easy to answer as Hakkyuu stands in the darkness, heel of his palm pushed down on the blade hilt with an all-too casual air about him.
"Said I wanted to shake the hand of the guy who fucked up the wizard," he gives a low, single-shouldered shrug, "Sure looks like I got that hand of yours shaking."
He leans in slow, eyes glinting in the dim light as he takes a slow breath through barely parted teeth, the soft noise loud in that space.
"I once heard there are twenty-seven bones in the average human hand," He twists his hand at the wrist with the smallest movement and the slightest additional pressure, feeling resistance from cartilage and bone as he stares down at the guard over his sharp cheekbones, "I'm thinkin' we can double that by the end of the night."
He's got time.