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word count: 1,584
warnings: angst, extreme depictions of violence, blood, major character death (death of reader) DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THESE THEMES
description: "He came to a single conclusion: you were as much a liability to him as you were an asset"; J's unhealthy obsession has consequences and all he wants is for the voices to stop.
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As little as J cares for his own safety, he cares for yours even less.
Your existence is like that of a fever dream; J can't shake that feeling and it grates on him as if someone has taken a sander to the inside of his mouth and sawed every yellowed tooth down to the gums. When he wakes in the dead of night, having not slept for days, he finds himself amidst a puddle of cold sweat and drool. His body shakes violently until he wretches; you plague him differently than any other could have ever and, even as he dispels his last thoughts of you by the time he finishes and crudely wipes his mouth with the back of his blood-stained shirt sleeve, he comes to a single conclusion: you are as much a liability to him as you are an asset.
He reaches for his royal purple trench coat and produces a small knife from the inner breast pocket. His body only ceases those full-bodied tremors once his large hand is clasped around that blade; he clicks it open and waves it in front of his face, seeming to daringly taunt some invisible force for all his inner turmoil and regret. Regret, he realizes, is the thing that had gotten him here in the first place.
You are aware of how dangerous J is and that is the fun of it; the thrill that comes from staring danger right in the face and daring it to end you. As the metaphor stands, you would poke that bear until the claws come out and there would be nowhere to run. J doesn't do anything for bare amusement alone. You had served a purpose to him, then, but now he was chasing his high like an addict and you were his fix.
He is running on empty, having let this take hold of him until it rooted itself within him like a giant weed that needed to be plucked out of the metaphorical garden. He would gouge you out of him like a painful splinter underneath layers of skin; J would uproot you, if only to make it all stop.
He cannot stop thinking, processing, every movement of his tensed body becoming the perfect orchestration to the never-ending crescendo in his head of what he longed for the most. You had given him one thing that no other soul had ever been able to, but what you possessed over him was not enough; you had a hold on him and J would pry your fingers loose if it took every ounce of strength he had left. You trusted him and that was all he had ever needed.
As a master manipulator, it took him no time to re-train himself for this. It mattered not for why, when, or how, he only knew he had better do it; J just does things, no matter their purpose in the grand scheme of things. He had put you in harms way with intention, but J knew from brutal experience that 'you have to do everything yourself'.
