“No…you aren’t a god. So why should you expect me to revere you as one?” (For Scara)
Surrounded by all this blasphemous machinery, its metal cold and unfeeling, it is the familiar warmth of your humanity that serves as a beacon.
He could very well admonish you for your heresy. Perhaps he should. It’s what comes easiest to the likes of him, the most effort he could ever bother to muster when dealing with others. However, for you to still burn so bright despite his best attempts to extinguish the flame, he wonders if now is the time to try a different approach.
“Do you feel better now, getting all that out of your system?”
It’s a genuine inquiry — one meant to foster dialogue rather than shut it off. How fortunate you should feel for his benevolence. How couldn’t he be in a good mood, seeing his many centuries of efforts come together like this? He imagines it must be the same contentment an artist feels upon the eve of their magnum opus’ completion.
“I’ll never feel better,” your response is sharp enough to cut through steel, “So long as I’m forced to be with you.”
With some effort, he manages to force himself forward, ignoring the strain from the tubes inserted into his back. His fingers dance up your forearm in a motion that elicits shivers. “Why not make the most of your ‘misfortune’, then? So many would give anything to be in your position right now, blessed with my favor. And yet you throw it away without a second thought.”
“Power, total authority... these are things the wounded seek since healing the long way takes up too much time. I don’t see what’s so appealing to it.”
The way you fiercely glare makes him tremble; not with irritation, for once, but with delight.
By his fingertips, continents could be submerged in maelstroms. Thousands could perish in an instant, insignificant specs, all caught up in a higher calling that they could never fathom. The rush from knowing this is intoxicating, made all the better by your seemingly unbendable will. He doesn’t want to obliterate it no, that’d be too easy, too boring.
He wants it to incline toward him.
His lips caress the shell of your ear, affectionate, sly.
"I’m curious how long that pretty little philosophy of yours could last... if I gave you a taste of what you’ve continually rejected without trying.”
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Dungeon Meshi is like if you turned that Wouldst Thou Like to Live Deliciously post into a top tier manga that doubles as an essay on ecosystems
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