( no one fears him like they should here. they think just because he can't kill he can't do lasting damage, think because his fangs are blunted that he's forgotten how to use them. it's moments like this that he wants to show them how wrong they are, when they meet his eyes with challenge written all over their faces — challenge, and trust. misato doesn't think he won't hurt her because he's weak, but because he's a friend. she thinks his teeth won't search for her neck if she says no.

he wants to tear her throat out just to prove her wrong.

in to eleven, out to seven. )

What do you want to hear, Misato? That I wake up and for a few seconds my bed feels like stone and I can't breathe? Or that I'm as furious as I am scared and I want to kill someone to feel like I'm in control again?

( it's harder to breathe now, and the fire in his memories roars louder. flame flirts with his skin and blood coats the inside of his mouth, thick, cloying after years of starvation, too rich to stomach —

this is why he hates talking. )

That shit's not for you. What I do with my dreams is my business, and until I try to kill another host, you don't get to comment on how I'm dealing with it.