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vorbo from my bl comic ([personal profile] affal) wrote2022-02-13 11:43 pm
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tohell: (pic#15585299)

[personal profile] tohell 2022-08-04 12:24 pm (UTC)(link)
[ At Makoto's insistence, J releases his hold upon the headboard without a single word of complaint, as if it had never been important ground to defend anyway. Maybe the key all along to waving that white flag and surrendering to his ward's demands had been the clutch of arms locked possessively around him. Like the whole of his body that slides into Makoto's demanding grasp, it's one more thing that he'd wanted to give up from the start.

The matress dips with every additional limb, first with the press of a patient knee, eased slowly into the mattress somewhere around his ward's lower legs, then a second is thrown into the mix on the opposite side. J eases himself into a wide straddle that doesn't disturb injuries he observes with the lingering study of his center-most eye. And he makes certain to find support on the mattress itself and not accidentally land on the body underneath him in the process.

There's a creek of the bed someplace along its joints, given with the effort of taking on both of them, while springs underneath suffer the impact of his paws thumping down for extra balance. The catlike configuration of his legs offer added support, but J is sure to strategically position both hands atop the small mountain of pillows and on either side of Makoto's head just in case.

In times when J's intent isn't to instill fear, discipline or impart some painful lesson as part of Makoto's demonic curriculum, J is strangely gentle with the person who had suffered his worst as well. Passive even. Going as far as to let Makoto dictate how far and fast these sparse moments of intimacy span.

As he's manhandled, J's laughter ripples between the press of two bodies, rolling out of him and shaking through limbs like a delighted shiver. There's an undeniable thrill at being pawed at so eagerly, and forced to submit to Makoto's demanding nature. It's immediacy sweeps even a monster like himself up into something of a thrall.

A little push upon Pillow Mountain eases his torso back a bit. Done in part to better align their bodies into a face-to-face configuration, but not without the urge to arch up into Makoto's touch, where the outline of possessive hands act as brands to burn their heat past the cotton of his shirt and into skin. A foot or so of retreat rearranges them so that he's no longer facing the plush, down-stuffed valley supporting his ward, but the man himself. Like this, the demon can look down upon all that makes up the exact constellation of Makoto's face: an expressive brow, a mouth so inclined to snarl or pout, and watchful eyes that hold all of J's attention. ]


Oh? Now that you're without any leads, are you finally trying to dig up the skeletons in my closet at their source?

[ With his elbow propped up on the bed, J's right hand can return the contact Makoto so effortlessly lavishes. It's only the line of his knuckles that touch him, but somehow the act is all the more tender like this, as he strokes the contour of one cheek. Still rounded and soft with the impression of eternal youth, no matter how long he may survive here. ]

I won't promise you any answers, but go ahead. [ Alone and close enough to let their breaths intermingle, warm and tinged with only the faintest sense of something medicinal, likely used to tend to Makoto's wounds, J's voice hovers at a level worthy of secrecy or sweet-talk. Every word coils out in a low whisper, turning the worst taunts into provocations or suggestions Makoto is welcome to take. ] Ask away.
passio: (pic#6016936)

[personal profile] passio 2022-08-09 05:12 am (UTC)(link)
[ dextera accepts makoto’s answer with both gratitude and grace, even if makoto himself seems unsatisfied by his explanation. ‘hunger’ doesn’t entirely encapsulate the way dextera feels, either, even if it’s the only word that can describe the sensation that sits in his stomach. he craves not just flesh, but life, a deep need that’s been impressed on so many after the events of the blaze. it’s the worst for dextera, though, a reluctant acknowledgment that god has changed him.

straddling two existences, the only thing dextera can do to maintain his corporeal body is consume. and when he’s fixated on that, his own body’s presence in the real world, it isn’t all that strange that emotional wires would get crossed in ways he can’t explain to many people. ]




[ he nods. his natural silence allows that simplicity without judgment.

then, he withdraws the spoils one delicate revelation at a time. the intestines, the liver, the heart—dextera hadn’t been lying about keeping them fresh, each of them still flushed and warm as if from the body, though with no twitching pulse of tissue the way they might be truly ripped from a torso.

he lays them out on the bag. ]
tohell: (pic#)

Communion - Post 6th of Firaseri

[personal profile] tohell 2022-08-10 10:02 am (UTC)(link)
( ooc: Continued from here. )

[ It comes on so subtly, emotions filtering in through his shard like a second sense, that J only fully acknowledges the depth of this milestone belatedly, a few moments after the fact. Their first communion. A step his ward had staunchly evaded, even for the sake of expedience and his own wellbeing. Makoto's mind locking J out and denying him entry to this singular place he was forbidden to tread for the longest time.

Once that door is opened, J isn't eager to see it shut in his face. So there's the sense of him feeling out the shared connection between them, seeping in like a breath on skin or the roaming of covetous eyes. ]


Is that all? [ Curious, J poses a question with the familiar taunting slant to his words cut away, leaving only a note of patient expectation. ]
passio: (pic#12191782)

for real this time cw cannibalism

[personal profile] passio 2022-08-15 02:30 pm (UTC)(link)
[ besides the communion itself, makoto’s directed attention to the heart gets the first real pique of interest from dextera, who had up until now been as calm as collected as one could be with a sack of organs. his throat bobs with some suppressed response, but the swallow that comes after is obvious as anything. he presses his thumb against his bottom lip, digging the blunt nail into his own soft flesh in an attempt at composure, and he nods. there’s just the slightest metallic tang still on his skin that he can taste.

yes, the heart is his “favorite.” ]




[ when he had shown makoto initially, the blood of the body had kept the organ bright red, hot with life, though the time that’s passed and dextera’s cleanliness seems to have taken some of that immediate crimson away from it. for better or worse though, there’s a little trick that dextera has learned from the more human meta-beings—the aries, nicl and nicr, all once living people themselves before dextera’s selfish mistake turned them into little more than livestock—in order to keep his meat as fresh as possible. the heart is surrounded by a thin membrane; the thickest part of it was removed when dextera properly eviscerated the body, but there’s still a layer around it now, protecting it from things it has no idea are no longer a concern.

withdrawing his hand from his lip, dextera takes the heart to his mouth. his eyelids are half-lowered, his attention evidently focused in wide pupils. then, he sinks his teeth into that pale membrane and peels it away with a visceral rip. he takes tissue of the heart itself with the movement, and the disturbance brings with it a gush of blood that had been kept safely inside the sac. inevitably staining his sleeve, red runs down his arm and his nostrils flare in response to the iron scent of life. there’s a reason the heart is his favorite, no matter how long it took him to come to this conclusion.

lips now wet with the blood he’s released, dextera breathes an open-mouthed sigh across the organ… and offers it to makoto, a gift after all. ]
tohell: (pic#15864486)

[personal profile] tohell 2022-08-15 06:29 pm (UTC)(link)
[ When the mental connection between them shifts, and the passage through which shared emotion and spoken thought flows becomes constricted, J expects that narrow avenue to close tight afterward. When it instead holds fast with the strain of Makoto's will, what he allows to feed back through isn't that first blip of his surprise, but the faintest inkling of pride in his ward's determination to not buckle under the strain of his presence. What must surely feel akin to J throwing open the shuttered windows of his soul. Perhaps not to such an exposing degree, but so many layers do strip away, and not everything can be dammed up enough to hide all that peeks through in this intimate line of communication. ]

And what have you given me so far- Mako, dear? [ Was he to be satisfied with the perception of Makoto all but growling at him from a corner of the Kenoma's open mental forum? ]

I have to wonder why you went to the trouble of drawing my attention at all, unless you wanted it. [ Did you? ]
tohell: (pic#15864480)

[personal profile] tohell 2022-08-15 08:34 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Everything else shifts by the wayside, becoming background noise once Makoto finally gets down to the brass tacks of the issue. He articulates precisely what's gotten stuck in his craw, but it's practically unnecessary when J is awash in the emotions that speak as well as words across Communion. So thick and raw, they take on a life of their own, like all of it may swallow him whole.

Typically, anyone with a sense of self-respect would despise the venomous sense of fury forming a tidal wave that does its best to drown him in these familiar waters. But that's assuming J doesn't revel in Makoto's vitriol like a good, strong drink that hits hard and burns all the way down.

Had J been another man, he had plenty of excuses. That it was a joke, a prank gone astray when two bullheaded Kenoma refused to back down from daring the other to flinch first. Unfortunately, J is precisely what Makoto knows him to be, and apologies and excuses aren't in his wheelhouse. ]


Oh, but you have it all wrong. [ The impression of a smile slinks through the shared space. ] He propositioned me, first.

I was merely stringing him along for a while, just to see if I could call his bluff. But you already seem to know that.

And I hardly think a little joke crawled that far under your skin. [ Childe had been feigning interest for Heaven knows what reason, and backpedaled so hard on his attempt at seduction the man had practically choked up in their last words of a brief encounter that neither cared to continue further. J merely wanted to rub it in his face, just to establish an unspoken rule about playing with fire.

It should have been harmless, but apparently not all would agree. ]


So, what's the real problem here? Furious at the idea of someone else touching your things?
passio: (pic#12270470)

[personal profile] passio 2022-08-18 03:19 pm (UTC)(link)
[ dextera has seen the twisted ones eat. longneck had begged for a heart, just like this—something he had hoped to plant and flower in his delusion, but he had been unable to stop himself from devouring it just the same as everyone else. and even so, it’s different for dextera, different for even makoto. these are not desires brought about by insanity at the end of the world.

for dextera, the gore of it all is proximity to god. for makoto… well, he doesn’t entirely know, but he can begin to guess at something from the sight in front of him. ]




[ he’s so enraptured by the stark contrast of colors—white teeth and skin, black hair, the carmine splash of blood—that his breath catches upon being given back the heart. true to makoto’s anticipation, he moves to deny it, but it’s done in barely more than second. as soon as he’s given real permission, dextera is greedy in the way he takes it.

despite offering, there had been some envy in watching makoto eat something as rare and beautiful as the heart. he won’t give it again, now that he knows he doesn’t have to share. it’s in this second indulgence that he can really open up; his usually glassy eyes seem to gain life, as if every second he isn’t consuming is a slow march to an end. everyone is bound to die, it’s inevitable, but going without this pushes him along faster than most. though his aion body has kept him alive even as he’s denied himself in horos, he needs it. he needs this, tearing piece by piece until his hands are empty and he has only the blood left to lick. ]


Mm…

[ he exhales an urgent little sound, neither a complaint nor a whimper exactly but more like a reflex to desire, as he takes his own sleeve in his mouth and sucks the blood off that too. his skin is newly flushed, hot with color for the first time in months. ]
tohell: (pic#15864470)

cw: depictions vore & blood, fantasized NSFW gore

[personal profile] tohell 2022-08-18 03:34 pm (UTC)(link)
[ When implementing one of the many lessons J has enacted upon his protégé, the demon sheds his frivolous persona the way vipers slough off old skin. Underneath, no matter how violent a turn these moments take, there's a grim neutrality to them. J's discipline is not administered with the bite of venomous curses or the howl of a raised shout, wrought out of frustration or sheer rage, but the briefest glimpse into the cracks beneath what Makoto has always perceived. Exposing the truth behind the creature J really is, shrouded within his campy demeanor.

Seven hundred years is a time in which planets realign and island beaches may sink back into the sea, or whole civilians come tumbling down. Imagine the erosion it lends upon a soul that watches time whirl past, leaving nothing untouched but himself.

He's seen his methodologies fail, time and again. How the only other success in J's innumerable attempts at sculpting the wet clay of an impressionable soul to reflect an idea in his mind, had turned complacent and let his ambitions stagnate. Datenshou had fallen short like all the rest before him. He would never become the weapon J needed to cut himself down, but before that, an equal in the glorious moment before his life came to a close.

Makoto is different. He'd taken to J's harsh lessons, adapted to his brutality, and come out stronger for it. A tried and true method that has worked up until now finds employment again, as he guides Makoto towards the path of comprehension. Not vital to be realized in this instant, but it's a seed that had to be planted eventually. With the subject breached, now is as perfect a time as any. ]


Oh? Why is that of any consequence to you now? [ Firm words bleed from his mind into the space designated for their exchange, their pacing gradual as a slow exsanguination and just as foreboding. Using the same tactic that had once guided J's ward straight into reaping his own father's soul, he falls back on one of the few traps that Makoto is most susceptible to: reverse psychology. By implying that Makoto will not do something or is incapable of it, history has shown this to have the opposite effect. Stirring Makoto to action and igniting a fiery sense of rebellion in his ward, to prove to the authoritative figure J takes on in their relationship, that he's wrong in his assumptions.

In a way, it's not a stretch to compare it to a child wanting the one thing they're denied, or attempting feats that others have decried as impossible. By tapping into that stubborn streak, perhaps J can pry something else from the steel trap of Makoto's heart. Or merely incite him to react. ]


And if I've already decided to do precisely that, what then? [ Communion isn't just an invasion of word or feeling, but imagery as well. With no barrier left between them, J can press each recollection of their collective history back into the forefront of Makoto's mind. An array of memories floods the space, from their last tussle in his ward's bed. J is careful with him then, in the moments before meeting Makoto's demands head-on, with the clamp of teeth, harsh kisses and the spill of J's blood across bedsheets.

The thing that stands out most is one of the earliest moments, shown at the tail-end of this montage. It isn't a reel composed of the demon sprawled out on a young man's bed that appears with brilliant clarity, that first time mortal teeth pulled away bites of J's flesh. It's Makoto's own youthful face, ecstatic and enthralled. His mouth wet, full and dripping red. ]


Tell me what you stand to lose if everything, all of this, is given to someone else. [ It's as though J's words, comprised of a smokey hypnosis born of his silvered tongue, pry open the delicate cage of his ward's ribs, to search with wandering hands into the depths of his chest. Tearing open the membranes and layers that divide the curve of sharp nails and caresses of curious fingers from the target, muscled and heavy where it stirs. There, J can wrap his hands around the heat of Makoto's yet beating heart and stroke over it until it pulses to the very rhythm he sets, into a peaceful calm or the agonized panic this moment edges nearer towards.

Makoto stands on the precipice of understanding. Those cracks in his composure not superficially skin deep but a ravine he can't yet see. In another time and under different circumstances, some hundred years later, it would come to him. But J's seen the signs for so long, he doesn't need to see that future to know jealousy is only the start of what he's nurtured. And as his ward teeters on that edge, J attempts to push him off into a more complete understanding of himself. He may not fall and hit rock bottom, where Makoto is forced to stare himself in the mirror and question why he craves more from the man he wants to kill than merely his death. But given enough time to let these thoughts take root, he may. ]


The answer should be nothing, when you need no more from me than to 'devour and destroy' my life.
Edited 2022-08-18 17:20 (UTC)
passio: (pic#6016780)

[personal profile] passio 2022-08-29 01:45 pm (UTC)(link)
[ in the same way makoto has never focused so much on the heart, dextera has relatively less experience with the entrails. they’ve never served quite the purpose for him that the rest of the body does—it doesn’t thrill him to bite into them the way that it does to eat a heart, or even to sink his canines into the thick, firm flesh of a thigh. if he thinks of it as a gift from makoto, though, the point of view refreshes what he might have otherwise dismissed as unpalatable. he takes the offered line of meat, testing the new weight of it against his palm, and he follows makoto’s lead in consuming it; though it isn’t a first for him, makoto’s little quip—or perhaps just an honest statement to cover the mess he might make—encourages dextera to fall a step behind as makoto figures out the best way to treat the meal.

less interest in the offal means more interest in makoto himself. though dextera stuffs his mouth with the gusto of a man who skipped breakfast, fingers slipping past his own lips to keep the heft of the meat secure inside as he chews, his eyes inevitably remain on the person he’s invited here to partake. ]




[ remain, and remain, up to the point that there’s nothing else dextera could distract himself with anyway and he can only watch the line of makoto’s body as he shifts to protect himself. dextera assumes at first it’s simply to rearrange his position after such focus on the meal, but—the body language, he knows. it’s more obvious still with makoto’s flushed expression. dextera had gotten excited in his own way, but more aligned with an animal being given its favorite treat than the much more human response of… this. it’s not something he had fully known about makoto, though it doesn’t make him regret the meeting.

for lack of anything better, the wide gap in his knowledge of how to relate to other people showing its hand now, dextera summons up what he would like someone to show him at a vulnerable moment.

utterly bereft of judgment, he smiles. ]
passio: (pic#15616636)

[personal profile] passio 2022-09-05 12:49 pm (UTC)(link)
[ dextera has been in this situation at much worse times, and sure, that may have been brought about by unnatural lust rather than his own interest, but the fact remains that he’s shown a side to himself to others that he would have preferred to keep secret from most. he’s not going to judge makoto for having a body that can still respond to stimuli… even if the stimuli isn’t what most people would call normal.

he gives makoto the moment he needs, cleaning up what he can though they’ve made pretty good work of it all, and when makoto finally relents to apologize, dextera is a little surprised. ]


…?

[ the question is obvious for the point at which dextera’s expression changes from that reassuring smile to curiosity—years, really? he knows makoto isn’t really human, evidenced by all of him, but he still looks fairly young. years doesn’t seem like the right timeframe for either incident; not what they just shared, nor what makoto’s body just put him through. ]
passio: (pic#12270467)

[personal profile] passio 2022-09-08 05:43 am (UTC)(link)
[ it is utterly unexpected.

makoto, in directing dextera’s head, meets only the most cursory resistance. it’s more instinctive than conscious, and as soon as dextera realizes the touch is gentle and not at all meant to harm, he faces makoto properly and is rewarded for his compliance.

dextera doesn’t taste the blood with the shallowness of the kiss, but he feels it; a visceral, grounding thing amidst the way surprise seems to briefly separate his mind and his body. their circumstances neatly coalesce down to the warm point of contact between their lips, and dextera’s senses have to return one by one as if filing in after makoto expresses his gratitude. ]




[ he doesn’t know what he’s expected to do in this situation. nobody would. no one else in the world has done this, and that faint realization brings with it some relief—there’s technically nothing he can do that’s wrong, if no one has ever dictated what would be right.

even as he tries in the face of makoto’s concern to offer an instant, perfect answer, his body moves before him as it always does.

dextera’s hands lift to frame makoto’s face. his thumbs sit at either corner of makoto’s mouth—his thumbs, too, still have blood on skin and in the ridges of his nails. once he’s actually touching makoto, his hands are grave-still and he seems caught between two places, his body’s desire and his mind’s rationale leaving him somewhat bereft of a next step. his wide gaze into makoto’s is likely the most sustained eye contact he’s had with another person in—

ages. ever. he doesn’t know what he wants to say. maybe, he just wants to look at makoto until understanding comes to him, a necessary reassurance that makoto has nothing to worry about.

he doesn’t even breathe, holding onto makoto’s sigh in his lungs. ]
tohell: (pic#15768330)

[personal profile] tohell 2022-09-13 12:38 am (UTC)(link)
[ As the crescent shape of Makoto's blunt nails rake over a small inch of spine, flicking over nerves huddled in bunches that alight under his grip upon fragile white plumes, J's bottom lip catches itself under the bite of curved teeth. Hardly his first experience under someone's hands, those that stray over the meager barrier of flimsy cloth encasing his back are unlike any other. None have been so kindred, in ways Hell-born demons or mortal men have never measured up. Makoto, a halfling of both worlds, who reflects slivers of both and a side of something J has tried to bury alive in the depths of a still-beating heart. A child full of so much yearning, and capable of indescribable harm. He reflects everything J has been, and all he could hope to lay him down into the arms of oblivion, as no other had dared before.

Both twining thoughts spur a thrum of exhilaration through his veins, and leave his gaze to sink into a half-shuttered state as J daydreams about what precisely his ward could do with not just his hands upon his skin, but the fangs bared in unmistakable warning. So full of promise to inflict more than a showy display, given the chance.

And then, without expecting the turn towards sentimental, Makoto draws the warmth of an arm above broad shoulders. His weight solid where his ward clings like an offshoot, as if their bodies have grown so close they intertwine together, in ways impossible to separate.

As his ward studies the shape J's lips that weave an opening to an interrogation long-awaited, the demon pinned beneath such intense scrutiny returns the favor in full. J traces the infinitesimal flux of every shift in his ward's expression, pullingeach thought that reads clear as day across Makoto's face into his possession. Even when met with pale irises of gleaming moonlight, cast to float within the morass of dark sclera, that frightful gaze fails to detract from the candidness in those eyes. A sense of vulnerability that eases oft-creased features to leave them open and soft, inexplicably earnest when worn on a creature that's been taught to cleave away his own human nature like bits of gristle scraped off good meat.

It shatters with the shift in a voice running through the mood like a hidden knife. Swift and accurate, Makoto's demands land like a killing blow. Only, their severity is met with a spike in adrenaline that has nothing to do with fear. The threat that builds like a violent, surging storm sets a gleam in J's eyes that echos Makoto's earlier desires. Impassioned as opposed to frightened, J's mouth splits wide with a pull of lips; mirroring his protégé's reveal with his own set of gleaming teeth. ]
And where do you think you'll find this answer?

Will you search for it under my flesh, in the wet-hot viscera of my insides, or squeeze it from this beating heart of mine? [ Where knuckles have traced the planes of Makoto's face, fingers replace them to slide beyond his jawline and into the depths of dark hair. Gathering a handful within a closed fist that pulls with a sudden force that's meant to haul him back against the pillows amassed upon his bed. There's an abruptness in the way things take a sudden turn. The old, familiar slant J harbors towards violence rears its head as Makoto is rearranged to J's specifications. ]

Show me exactly what you can do- Mako, my dear. [ When J sinks further down into the bed atop his ward, he can feel the warmth radiating off more than the limbs still cast around him. The heat and every mouth-watering shiver that thrums into him, built up either from a tumultuous mood or Makoto's stint baking under the nest of covers comprising his sick bed, only amplifies when J presses in closer. They're not quite arranged hip to exquisitely inviting hip, but close as the difference in their statures will permit. ]

I want to see just how you plan to rip this secret out of me.

[ Fingers work a clenched jaw he pries open to fill in the next shaky, over-eager breath. Hot as the tight space it enters, his tongue pushes past lips and into an awaiting mouth claimed in full. Once inside, he lavishes attention in lapping over the ridges of a stolen tongue, the crease run through it's middle and across the canines which loom over in a constant threat. J tastes of mint and liquor, his cleansed palate spoiled by the flavor of a stiff drink that speaks of concerns he may never fully express. And then, in the span it takes to press one more delicious tremble of Makoto's frame into his own, absorbing those tremors like a beast with something shaken by death rattles or ecstasy in his grip, there comes a wash of rust. A tongue savaged by the teeth it greedily strokes over drips blood into the cocktail of flavors poured into Makoto's mouth. ]
passio: (pic#12191783)

[personal profile] passio 2022-10-11 08:48 am (UTC)(link)
[ dextera has never forgotten what had struck across his mind when they first met. it wasn’t a fleeting, intrusive thought. it wasn’t something he could deny as imagination gone awry in the moment. even now, there’s an urge in him to do it—a part of him thinks it might even be easy, and he wonders how makoto would respond. it’s easy to justify it to himself by thinking makoto might even find it funny, for dextera to reach in and sever his head from his body as has been done at least once before. he can also imagine betrayal in makoto’s gaze, hate and approximate fear like when dextera unleashed his purification in defense. the thought of losing makoto to the power he can’t help is troubling enough that he’s able to push back the at-times-overwhelming whisper of god to correct the distortions in front of him.

i prefer this, says makoto, and dextera takes a soft grounding breath that seems to pull him back into the moment. ]




[ this particular touch is not what dextera truly craves. it’s not insincere, nor is it even unpleasant, but there’s human restraint in it, a barrier between their respective selves that at least for now keeps dextera from melting away at the borders of his identity.

they just have to be their usual selves, treading unusual ground. he can handle that.

dextera’s hand returned to makoto’s face takes on a more experimental touch now, fingers against his skin to feel softness, or the slight shift when makoto blinks. he moves down to that smear of blood and cleans it. he motions tucking hair behind makoto’s ear, even if the only thing out of place is a few wispy strands. there’s care in the way he tends to makoto, even if the expression on his face is still wide-eyed, his movements so tentative they almost seem designated by someone else.

but, he nods.

of all the kinds of touch two people can share, if the choice is between murder and this, he would choose this any time. the hand that had been guided down to makoto’s neck slips free, resting harmlessly on the ground beside makoto with nowhere to go—and the space, the crook of makoto’s neck and shoulder, is filled with dextera’s head instead, laid there with the kind of awkward haste of someone afraid of being told no. ]

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