[ Masamune's initial action is to jerk back suddenly when it is no longer simply a grip, opening his mouth but the words do not vocalize like they should. That, along with the strange feeling of his neurons demanding an electrical discharge with his emotional surge of shock and said energy being impeded, gets his attempt to not even last half a second. He's reminded of nightmares that never allow the dreamer to scream or speak up when they need to most.
Grimacing, Masamune stares at the hand about his wrist and the glow resulting. It's unnatural—the unsettling feeling of something inside of him distinctly ebbing and flowing as if his skin has been turned inside out for the sensation. It alone doesn't hurt, but it's unpleasant and a disgusting form of self-awareness he's not used to it. What it does do, however, is make what is painful worse. There's no way to gather himself and brace to get accustomed to it. Like being in deep water, there's nothing to grab onto. Without a grounding point, the constant rending suction is felt in full. Seconds don't feel like seconds.
This is definitely...
( —he bites his lip, refusing even mentally to admit such a thing because this is nothing, nothing— )
This is not the samurai's idea of a good time.
When he can finally speak again, it's a strained and tired chuckle. Somewhere being exasperation and exhaustion laced with that tinge of anxiety from the less than pleasant situation. The words spoken are distracted and slowly forced out, but any focus he can give to speaking is focus taken from this skin-crawling pain.
He's still refusing to look up (actually, he bows his head even more), but he feels as hot as he is now flushed from adrenaline and the backfire of intended discharge due to the silencing. It could be worse, he guesses. He could be pale as a ghost and about to puke. Or something. ]
Don't know if you know this or not, but... this sorta' sucks serious shit...
no subject
Grimacing, Masamune stares at the hand about his wrist and the glow resulting. It's unnatural—the unsettling feeling of something inside of him distinctly ebbing and flowing as if his skin has been turned inside out for the sensation. It alone doesn't hurt, but it's unpleasant and a disgusting form of self-awareness he's not used to it. What it does do, however, is make what is painful worse. There's no way to gather himself and brace to get accustomed to it. Like being in deep water, there's nothing to grab onto. Without a grounding point, the constant rending suction is felt in full. Seconds don't feel like seconds.
This is definitely...
( —he bites his lip, refusing even mentally to admit such a thing because this is nothing, nothing— )
This is not the samurai's idea of a good time.
When he can finally speak again, it's a strained and tired chuckle. Somewhere being exasperation and exhaustion laced with that tinge of anxiety from the less than pleasant situation. The words spoken are distracted and slowly forced out, but any focus he can give to speaking is focus taken from this skin-crawling pain.
He's still refusing to look up (actually, he bows his head even more), but he feels as hot as he is now flushed from adrenaline and the backfire of intended discharge due to the silencing. It could be worse, he guesses. He could be pale as a ghost and about to puke. Or something. ]
Don't know if you know this or not, but... this sorta' sucks serious shit...
. . .
...no pun intended whatsoever.
[ A warning would have been a nice consolation. ]