Eridan gave Eddie a lingering look, the bridge of his nose beginning to pinch, before shrugging and finishing off the bottle. It went the same way the chair leg cum bludgeon had, tossed carelessly somewhere into his jungle of tarp.
"Suit yourself." His mouth opened, paused midway through forming some snotty remark; scalpel in hand, bloodflecked sleeves rolled to the elbow, shirt untucked and hair lying halfway in his face, Eridan marvelled over his work. Edward Nygma, adroit and untouchable, now bitter and bleeding all over these nice tarps. Furious. The better part of a year's worth of agonizing, degrading work culminating in a few hours, and then he'd never get to experience this again - like all really good things, this exact sight and the feeling it held for him would never happen again, not in a thousand years of life. Never.
Which was good. That meant it was probably the same for Eddie, too.
"You know, Ed. Once-moirail a mine, lukewarm swell a brine in my chest. I'm real glad I newer got around to krillin' you."
Preamble done, Eridan stepped back in and crouched at Eddie's right, examining his workspace. The marks would have to be clean, precise, and account for the man himself; thrashing could be minimized by appropriate bonds, and had been to the best of Eridan's ability, but there was only so much rope could do. The breathing and screaming would be a problem. But all that had long since been (obsessed over) accounted for, and as he swept a thumb over the curve of a rib, Eridan figured a little imperfection would suit a mark left on a perfectionist like Edward. Not Osborn's cold, clean lines, but something personal.
The gills themselves were less biologically accurate slits and more neat, long strips of skin flayed off. Little half-moons between the ribs, shaving off skin and fat but not deep enough to penetrate muscle, stretching from mid-latissimus to mid-serratus, respectively, and about a half inch wide each. As soon as one was finished, Eridan pressed and taped a rag to each, always vigilant for any signs that his canvas was doing worse than he was supposed to.
"Look at that, you're fuckin' halfway there already," Eridan noted aloud, four bloody rags taped to Eddie's right side. His upwards grin was nothing short of absolutely, heart-meltingly genuine. "Doin' great."
no subject
"Suit yourself." His mouth opened, paused midway through forming some snotty remark; scalpel in hand, bloodflecked sleeves rolled to the elbow, shirt untucked and hair lying halfway in his face, Eridan marvelled over his work. Edward Nygma, adroit and untouchable, now bitter and bleeding all over these nice tarps. Furious. The better part of a year's worth of agonizing, degrading work culminating in a few hours, and then he'd never get to experience this again - like all really good things, this exact sight and the feeling it held for him would never happen again, not in a thousand years of life. Never.
Which was good. That meant it was probably the same for Eddie, too.
"You know, Ed. Once-moirail a mine, lukewarm swell a brine in my chest. I'm real glad I newer got around to krillin' you."
Preamble done, Eridan stepped back in and crouched at Eddie's right, examining his workspace. The marks would have to be clean, precise, and account for the man himself; thrashing could be minimized by appropriate bonds, and had been to the best of Eridan's ability, but there was only so much rope could do. The breathing and screaming would be a problem. But all that had long since been (obsessed over) accounted for, and as he swept a thumb over the curve of a rib, Eridan figured a little imperfection would suit a mark left on a perfectionist like Edward. Not Osborn's cold, clean lines, but something personal.
The gills themselves were less biologically accurate slits and more neat, long strips of skin flayed off. Little half-moons between the ribs, shaving off skin and fat but not deep enough to penetrate muscle, stretching from mid-latissimus to mid-serratus, respectively, and about a half inch wide each. As soon as one was finished, Eridan pressed and taped a rag to each, always vigilant for any signs that his canvas was doing worse than he was supposed to.
"Look at that, you're fuckin' halfway there already," Eridan noted aloud, four bloody rags taped to Eddie's right side. His upwards grin was nothing short of absolutely, heart-meltingly genuine. "Doin' great."