[ 'I don't remember who the hell you are,' Makoto says. If Gen hadn't already decided to leave his mark on Makoto, those words would have pushed him over the edge. But said now, when Gen's already started digging his claws in, they only spur him to knuckle down harder -- to make sure that what happens next is by his will, not Makoto's. His eyes flash bright with vicious loathing for a moment before that light vanishes, replaced by cruel determination.
(It's not even that he particularly wants Makoto to know his identity. But those words remind him too much of pale, wide eyes and a gormless stare, of an old scar buried under soft hair, of Reiji saying, 'this has nothing to do with you.' He's sick and tired of feeling like a ghost in his own life.) ]
Ah, that's right. [ His words are a languid drawl. ] Guess there's no reason you should have to remember me when you're so used to being treated like this, huh?
[ The swiftness of his movements is in sharp contrast to the dragging pace of his words. Gen shifts his grip on Makoto's clothes at the same instant that he lashes out with a hooking kick, slamming the heel of his boot into the side of Makoto's knee; a simultaneous yank at his clothes should topple him to the ground. Not that he'll get any room to scramble away or defend himself -- Gen aims to smother him with violence, lunging in before Makoto can react, aiming a hard stomp at Makoto's midriff to punctuate his words. ]
You slimy little rats are always too busy feeling sorry for yourselves when you're on the back foot, after all. [ Another stomp, though this one's aimed poorly, scuffing off Makoto's back at best. Gen's own agitation is working against him. Though -- his stiff movements are made up for escalating mental pressure as Gen continues to bear down on Makoto mentally. 'Bend,' he wills. 'Break.' ] Can't do anything unless it's all backstabbing and pretty words. Crawling around in the shadows like bugs, just waiting to bite people when they aren't looking.
[ Dirt grits underfoot when he heavily thumps down to kneel over Makoto, grabbing at his shirtfront once more. Regardless of how hard Makoto might claw or fight, he barely registers the retaliation, numb to any injuries -- he's too accustomed to valuing hatred and anger over pain. His grasp is vicious when he tangles his fingers through Makoto's hair and yanks. Forcing eye contact as he leans in to hiss, ]
The hell're you doing thinking you get to hesitate over which side you're going to? I know your type. There's nowhere else you could have gone.
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(It's not even that he particularly wants Makoto to know his identity. But those words remind him too much of pale, wide eyes and a gormless stare, of an old scar buried under soft hair, of Reiji saying, 'this has nothing to do with you.' He's sick and tired of feeling like a ghost in his own life.) ]
Ah, that's right. [ His words are a languid drawl. ] Guess there's no reason you should have to remember me when you're so used to being treated like this, huh?
[ The swiftness of his movements is in sharp contrast to the dragging pace of his words. Gen shifts his grip on Makoto's clothes at the same instant that he lashes out with a hooking kick, slamming the heel of his boot into the side of Makoto's knee; a simultaneous yank at his clothes should topple him to the ground. Not that he'll get any room to scramble away or defend himself -- Gen aims to smother him with violence, lunging in before Makoto can react, aiming a hard stomp at Makoto's midriff to punctuate his words. ]
You slimy little rats are always too busy feeling sorry for yourselves when you're on the back foot, after all. [ Another stomp, though this one's aimed poorly, scuffing off Makoto's back at best. Gen's own agitation is working against him. Though -- his stiff movements are made up for escalating mental pressure as Gen continues to bear down on Makoto mentally. 'Bend,' he wills. 'Break.' ] Can't do anything unless it's all backstabbing and pretty words. Crawling around in the shadows like bugs, just waiting to bite people when they aren't looking.
[ Dirt grits underfoot when he heavily thumps down to kneel over Makoto, grabbing at his shirtfront once more. Regardless of how hard Makoto might claw or fight, he barely registers the retaliation, numb to any injuries -- he's too accustomed to valuing hatred and anger over pain. His grasp is vicious when he tangles his fingers through Makoto's hair and yanks. Forcing eye contact as he leans in to hiss, ]
The hell're you doing thinking you get to hesitate over which side you're going to? I know your type. There's nowhere else you could have gone.
[ 'You belong with me, in the dirt.' ]