[good. it's not worth it if he thinks he can just lie there and take it quietly. but Robin is not setting out to suffocate him or drown him in his own blood (not again, not a second time) so he moves his hand. he lets go of the bite too, indulgently licking at the wound as the pressure eases away. he doesn't want Coil to fight too hard for breath. he just wants it to hurt when he does.
he presses a kiss to Coil's neck, too soft and delicate compared to what he's just done, probably barely even worth notice. it's just a little token, a moment of blessing before he leans back and the real work begins.
he starts with his wrists. he starts breaking bones, snapping the big things, leaving cracks. moving upwards. he turns joints ways they shouldn't be turned, then tugs with a flick of his wrist, a ghostly puppeteer. he reaches just under his skin in his chest, starts to tear things open. starts to stretch and fray muscle and fibers and watches the hundreds of millions of tiny circulatory tunnels tear with them. he leans over, presses his lips to Coil's forehead, shushes him and pets his hair and runs his fingers down his sides, giving himself a moment to put him back into enough order that his systems don't start failing out of shock.
but when it feels balanced again, the fingers turn into knives that cut into his skin, and his blood reaches out and lances things he needs and things he doesn't strictly require (the lungs, though--those are spared, look at how kind he is). with his gloves completely ruined, he eventually pries one off with his teeth--just so that he can reach back and feel what he's like on the inside. very intimate, this.
he cuts and scrapes and tears patterns into his skin, waiting. humans, no matter how trained, have a limited threshold. he plays a very careful, precise game. mutilate, then wait. mangle, then pause. wait for his body to think he might have time to feel again, then stab in deep and cause a well of pain even greater than the last. but there's a point where he simply will not take any more--where it's physically impossible, because his brain is overloaded or his nerves are too damaged--when he will stop.
until then, he's calculating. precise. waiting, waiting, waiting.]
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he presses a kiss to Coil's neck, too soft and delicate compared to what he's just done, probably barely even worth notice. it's just a little token, a moment of blessing before he leans back and the real work begins.
he starts with his wrists. he starts breaking bones, snapping the big things, leaving cracks. moving upwards. he turns joints ways they shouldn't be turned, then tugs with a flick of his wrist, a ghostly puppeteer. he reaches just under his skin in his chest, starts to tear things open. starts to stretch and fray muscle and fibers and watches the hundreds of millions of tiny circulatory tunnels tear with them. he leans over, presses his lips to Coil's forehead, shushes him and pets his hair and runs his fingers down his sides, giving himself a moment to put him back into enough order that his systems don't start failing out of shock.
but when it feels balanced again, the fingers turn into knives that cut into his skin, and his blood reaches out and lances things he needs and things he doesn't strictly require (the lungs, though--those are spared, look at how kind he is). with his gloves completely ruined, he eventually pries one off with his teeth--just so that he can reach back and feel what he's like on the inside. very intimate, this.
he cuts and scrapes and tears patterns into his skin, waiting. humans, no matter how trained, have a limited threshold. he plays a very careful, precise game. mutilate, then wait. mangle, then pause. wait for his body to think he might have time to feel again, then stab in deep and cause a well of pain even greater than the last. but there's a point where he simply will not take any more--where it's physically impossible, because his brain is overloaded or his nerves are too damaged--when he will stop.
until then, he's calculating. precise. waiting, waiting, waiting.]