[Akechi's words draw a new blade from Maruki's arsenal - a sharp tone so furious he's certain the words came out of his lips and not the man staring him down.
There's a struggle. Hands raised. Breath drawn. Words stated with intent and resolve that Akechi would love to crack between his palms. No would turn into Fine the second Loki came out and he was caught up in its thrall. I don't want to change you would turn into Fine if he kills that tentacle again and again and again, gouges out his eyes for good and-
Can I please just talk to you about it. Please.
Pleading. Different than the erratic static filled whispers of shadows. From the weeping, simpering messes that Shido painted bullseyes on.
It's not the kind of mess he enjoys. Nothing he thrives in. It's not the panicked whispers and begging he likes.
Akechi stands there - resolute in his own right. Loki doesn't appear. Robin Hood doesn't either. No weapon drawn - only two hands resting against his sides, like he's the most relaxed person in the world despite the permanent tension coating him.
Breathing. Pleading. This isn't the norm. It's different.
Pleading, in a voice that almost sounds like a child tugging on the hem of a woman's dress, begging to see a missing mother. Ignored. Redirected. Unheard.
Pleading, in a voice that's doing everything in its power to reach out because there's so little left of him remaining. It never leaves lips. Settles there. Words ready to tumble, but tied back with scripts not meant for TV. Pleading - he can't do this with a gun held to a woman's head. A gun held to a boy's skull.
He doesn't care. The man's an adult - a life spent unheard is his problem alone. Stuck in an empty apartment, grief apparent and blanketing, but not consuming and destroying. It's his fault. He doesn't care.
That power is such a goddamn joke.
He doesn't inhale. Exhale. Do anything different other than count each of Maruki's fingers - ten splintered lines across a corrupted, distorted heart.]
cw: violent thoughts, murder
There's a struggle. Hands raised. Breath drawn. Words stated with intent and resolve that Akechi would love to crack between his palms. No would turn into Fine the second Loki came out and he was caught up in its thrall. I don't want to change you would turn into Fine if he kills that tentacle again and again and again, gouges out his eyes for good and-
Can I please just talk to you about it. Please.
Pleading. Different than the erratic static filled whispers of shadows. From the weeping, simpering messes that Shido painted bullseyes on.
It's not the kind of mess he enjoys. Nothing he thrives in. It's not the panicked whispers and begging he likes.
Akechi stands there - resolute in his own right. Loki doesn't appear. Robin Hood doesn't either. No weapon drawn - only two hands resting against his sides, like he's the most relaxed person in the world despite the permanent tension coating him.
Breathing. Pleading. This isn't the norm. It's different.
Pleading, in a voice that almost sounds like a child tugging on the hem of a woman's dress, begging to see a missing mother. Ignored. Redirected. Unheard.
Pleading, in a voice that's doing everything in its power to reach out because there's so little left of him remaining. It never leaves lips. Settles there. Words ready to tumble, but tied back with scripts not meant for TV. Pleading - he can't do this with a gun held to a woman's head. A gun held to a boy's skull.
He doesn't care. The man's an adult - a life spent unheard is his problem alone. Stuck in an empty apartment, grief apparent and blanketing, but not consuming and destroying. It's his fault. He doesn't care.
That power is such a goddamn joke.
He doesn't inhale. Exhale. Do anything different other than count each of Maruki's fingers - ten splintered lines across a corrupted, distorted heart.]
Fine - then talk.