surface_level | (no subject)

He makes the first sound -- a soft sort of grunt -- when he sprawls on his back. It doesn't take much force, really. He's absolutely tiny, and he's not putting up any sort of a fight. He does arch his back and follow the finger in an instinctive measure meant to try and prevent anything breaking, shutting his eyes tightly and whining softly behind Lucas's hand.

Lucas murmurs something in Russian, too soft to make out, and continues to pull up beyond the extent that Leif can arch.

"Sharp. Hot. Or blunt." He slides his hand off Leif's mouth. "Speak."

Leif isn't even listening, really, not until the hand moves, and he shudders a little, convulsively, before whispering-- "No knives."

His lips thin and twist briefly. It removes some of his favorite possibilities.

"There are sharp things that are not knives," he leans closer to whisper-hiss.

Leif lifts his chin a little, eyes opening. They're pain-stricken and more or less terrified, but his voice is even.

"I know."

There is a moment where he looks human. He hasn't worked in a very long time and, despite Leif considering him strange or cold, he feels more for Leif in these moments than he has for most people he has met in his life. Lucas covers it as best he can and seems to consider, standing up again and towering over him.

"Remove your shirt," he says finally. "And roll. Onto your stomach."

He looks anxious at that, swallowing convulsively a couple times, before lifting the shirt he's wearing over his head. He's skinny and bony underneath, exceptionally pale -- but most noticeably, there's an Ace bandage wrapped repeatedly around his right shoulder and upper arm, covering it.

At this he is markedly impassive - he does not want to break his mask again. Lucas does not look at him with desire, either. He meant what he said about this not involving that. He waits silently for Leif to roll, one eyebrow lifted.

He'll pause a moment, then gesture at the bandage. "Do you want this off?"

"No. Turn over."

He obeys, then, without another word, propping himself up on his elbows.

Lucas then swiftly, without leaving Leif too long to react to the sound of metal clinking, undoes his belt. His pants are form-fitting enough to stay up without it and he kneels down again to loop the leather over Leif's head and around his neck. He shoves his head down toward the ground after and then loops the end through the buckle, feeding it through until it's tight and he moves one knee to between Leif's shoulder blades.

As an experiment, he then tilts his head and watches as he pulls the end of the leather still in his hand. With his knee holding Leif down, the belt simply tightens until it starts to choke.

He swallows convulsively against the choking of the leather, one hand going up automatically to claw at it, a piercing sort of strangled whine escaping him. But he keeps his lips pressed together and his eyes shut tightly.

Satisfied, he loosens his grip and the belt again gives Leif room to breathe. As he lets him recover from the shock, Lucas reaches into his pocket and draws out his lighter. He flicks it and it ignites and he waits, letting it burn.

"It is not weakness," he says softly. "To scream. It is release. You will feel this by the time we are finished."

He's shuddering a little now, breathing in short, raspy bursts, like he isn't quite sure how long it'll last, or if he should relax secure in the guarantee of oxygen. The tiny flame of the lighter catches his eye, and he gives it an apprehensive sort of look, shoulders automatically hunching together, protectively. He doesn't give any sort of answer to Lucas's comment.

"When you do... I will know that you have received what you came for."

Lucas digs his knee in as if in reminder that he shouldn't try to leave. After a moment longer, he blows out the flame, yanks the belt tight again, and then digs the burning hot metal at the top of his lighter into the cluster of nerves at the small of Leif's back.

Having expected to be burned with the flame itself, the feeling of scorching hot metal jabbing into his back gets a strangled sort of squealing yelp from Leif, that he immediately cuts off, clamping his lips together and shuddering violently, but silently.

"Let go."

The belt creaks as he pulls the leather tighter and begins to grind the metal into the skin he's burned, deliberately twisting it back and forth.

There's a dry, almost hoarse sob, but that's it. His nails are digging into the dirt floor, gouging deep furrows into it, but he's still silent.

"You are so very close."

His voice sounds almost soothing. He sets the lighter aside and then runs his long fingernails gently from one side of Leif's waist toward the other, still holding him firm between the belt and the weight of his knee. The touch is gentle until he reaches the broken skin, and then he swipes across it, nails catching and tearing the crackled and red skin.

That gets another sound, still strangled from the belt, something that might be a scream and might be a sob and might be a "stop". He's squirming now, clawing desperately at the floor, obviously trying to get away.

Lucas loosens his grip on the belt. "You know the word," he reminds Leif quietly as he inspects the red lines his nails created.

Leif exhales raggedly, reaching up and rubbing at the belt, coughing a couple times. But then he nods, almost imperceptibly, lowering his head again so his forehead brushes against the dirt.

He pauses, then nods and maintains the current grip on the belt. It will be loose until Leif moves, then tighten immediately. He reaches down with his other hand, carefully, and slowly begins to exert pressure with the tip of his nail into the wound. Blood starts to rise around where he presses.

He's holding himself still with difficulty, letting out soft, whimpering sorts of moans, feeling the blood welling up, shutting his eyes as tight as he can. His shoulders are hitching and shuddering -- he's crying now, very softly, not making a sound as the tears drip from his chin and dot the dirt floor.