locked to @cultri;

[clericus]

[ god complex, meet death wish. he wasn't always like this. he thinks, anyway-- wolfwood's time at the orphanage wasn't as long ago as it should have been, all things considered, but it still feels like a lifetime ago. like all his memories are snips of ancient kinetoscope film, the playback grainy, the inbetween bits rotted out. still. things before were different-- he remembers thinking that him and livio could find a way out of all of it, eventually. wolfwood isn't sure when he started being okay with a quicker way out. ]

fine. christ. i'm coming.

[ logic should prevail. self-preservation should prevail, here, some buried part of him that says hey, you stupid motherfucker, you know this guy turns people into meat ribbons as a hobby. but there's no little voice in his head trying to save him from himself. he wants to know what knives has planned for him. he needs to know. needs to take some sort of action, rather than sitting here with his hands tied.

wolfwood eyes the punisher, decides against it, and leaves his room with just a pack of smokes in his pocket.

the first obstacle is that he's not entirely sure where the piano room is, exactly. he's got a general idea-- but the knowledge of the room existing is mostly based on the fact that, well, he's heard the piano. kind of hard not to. so he makes his way to that hallway, curses how long these fucking hallways are, resigns himself to the fact that legato is going to find him and twist him into a pretzel for blasphemy or some shit.

he doesn't. no one finds him, and wolfwood pokes his head into a room with an ornate... organ, more than piano. ]

Uuuuhh... hello? [ maybe knives has left by now, bored, and he'll have the opportunity to rummage the room uninterrupted. ]

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[clericus]

[ intrigue. maybe that's worse than anger. there's something about anger that self-extinguishes-- a natural stopping point. it's exhausting, to be angry. eventually it peters out, swallows itself up. intrigue? it feeds itself, a hunger for more that only builds with every new scrap of information. there's something... uncanny, so close to human, yet still alien about knives' interest in shame. curiosity is such a human emotion. but to feel it about something else just as inherently human, like embarrassment? it's unnerving.

the blades continue to coil their way around him, over his hip, around his thigh, digging in. the noise he can't stifle this time is less of a hiss, and more of a breathy, sharp ah. two more blade chains join the others, but wolfwood doesn't even look at them, keeps his eyes locked with knives'. it feels like if he so much as glances away, it'll be the signal to strike.

he opens his mouth-- maybe to say one more thing he shouldn't-- but before he can get anything out, two of the tendrils snap taut and burst outwards, shredding his clothing in half. the fabric falls to the ground, pack of cigarettes in his pocket skittering out across the floor. his mouth stays open in shock. wolfwood's first impulse is for his hands to shoot down to try to cover himself to whatever degree he can manage-- but the motion has the knives around his wrists biting in, and he swears and stills.

knives is definitely good at getting what he wants. wolfwood can feel the shame pooling in him, face hot, discomfort tight in his gut. the flush spreads from his cheeks, and red colors his ears, his neck, his shoulders. there's an ache to curl in on himself, make himself look smaller so the attention on him dissipates. he manages to stifle that urge, at least to spare him from another dozen cuts that leave his skin searing. wolfwood's throat is dry, and it bobs as he tries to swallow the discomfort away.

he finally folds, breaks eye contact and looks away. ]

Don't. Please. [ a beat, where he tries to keep his voice from cracking. ] No one else.

[cultri]

( was this all it took to humiliate him?

from the cockiness of his claims before, knives thought wolfwood would have at least held out a little longer. what a shame. he wasn't expecting to see the flush of those cheeks so soon — not when they're just getting started.

fortunately, he hasn't felt anything remotely close to secondhand embarrassment yet, so this little experiment of theirs shall continue without disruption.

drawing him closer, he runs his gaze down the length of his body clinically, more akin to inspecting a specimen than a living person. ) No? ( he doesn't sound surprised. ) But wouldn't that be the most effective way to humiliate you? ( he reclines back against his seat, spreading his arms open. )

If you want to keep this between us, ( the metallic binds pull both of wolfwood's arms and legs back, akin to a hogtie, as knives lowers the man down to face him. ) then I suggest you offer me a more worthwhile alternative. I suspect that you're feeling quite shameful, but ( he motions toward himself. ) I haven't felt anything yet. ( that's where the issue lies, right? ) So, ( the corner of his lips quirks up. ) I'll give you one chance. ( his coils abruptly release their grip on him without warning, dropping him straight onto the floor at his feet in a pathetic heap. ) Put on a performance for me, Punisher.

[clericus]

[ he doesn't embarrass easily. doesn't shame easily. wolfwood isn't an 'end justifies the means' guy, exactly, but-- he does what he has to do. there's not really a lot of leeway for feelings in that. he doesn't have a lot of power here, and he's gotten used to it. he leverages the little he's got however he can, and if that means pleading and stealing and scraping the bottom of the barrel, so be it. it's all for the orphanage, in the end-- pride can't compare.

this? is different. he hasn't been stripped bare like this in front of another person since the eye of michael brought him here. there's an inherent fear in unfamiliarity, and that fear's all mixed up with the shame and guilt and something else of being seen naked. knives pulls his arms and legs snug back behind him, and lowers wolfwood so he's at eye level. a worthwhile alternative. it doesn't click for him then, not quite yet, thoughts bouncing around wildly in his head. wolfwood's still looking for an out, doesn't realize knives is offering it.

then he drops him unceremoniously into a heap on the floor and tells him to put on a performance and oh.

what?

humiliation burns through him, makes his gut clench hot, his toes curl. what the fuck else could knives mean? and what better way to shame him? he must think of wolfwood as barely a plaything. a piece in whatever game he's playing. maybe he's trying to call his bluff. well, wolfwood is going to put on a fucking show, and then they can see who's embarrassed.

he lifts his palm to his face, and licks a stripe up it, an attempt to ease friction before he wraps his hand around his cock and tugs. christ. he's fucking crazy. truly, certifiably insane, this place has finally broken him because what is he thinking? doing what he's done maybe a handful of times, touching himself-- in front of knives. his chest shudders as he sucks in a shaky breath. wolfwood's legs spread, and his left hand presses to the floor to brace himself, right hand stroking himself up to the tip of his dick, then back down to the base.

he's so ashamed he can feel the weight of it pressing down on him. wolfwood is flushed all the way to his ears, and he can hear his pulse pounding, feel his arms trembling. this is humiliating. degrading. knives is watching. (probably. he can't bring himself to look.) wolfwood wants to stop. he wants to cover himself up. knives is watching him embarrass himself.

wolfwood glances up.

knives is watching him. ]

A-ah--

[ his cock twitches along with the sharp pang of shame in the center of his chest.

what? ]