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( to many, it would seem like the obvious answer. he pauses for a long moment, searching for an optimal way to explain himself that simply doesn't come to him. )
In a way...
( but it doesn't sound all that convincing when he says it.
to makoto, though... there's nuance to it. to him, there has never been a sort of survival component to this. whether he was on earth or in hell, his needs were met regardless. he could draw a relatively simple distinction between the baseline desires "to eat" and "to fuck" and feel that they were two entirely different things, but this... this fetish of his was the gray area in the middle, tearing away elements of both and piecing them together into something very nearly impossible to explain. in a way, yes, it is a sort of hunger — just as one might hunger for one's attention, for their touch, for the taste of their mouth, he felt the same, it just... progressed further. it mutated, it grew teeth and nails, it took on elements of control and possession; to hurt or to maim or to kill has never really been the driving force of his fixation, but he couldn't deny that seeing the pain that it caused only heightened his excitement. he thinks back to the month he spent contracted with J, and he can't really recall ever going to the man as if expecting a meal (not in any way besides colloquially or coquettishly, he supposes). it had always been to satisfy a morbid desire, to achieve a type of sexual satisfaction he couldn't find anywhere else.
in a way, this situation is altogether different. the organs, removed from the corporal context of the body they'd been taken from, cleaned and sanitized as they are now... this might even be an altogether different sort of thing than what he's used to just based on those factors alone. starting to sense that difference makes this even more difficult for him to parse, and therefore makes it next to impossible to explain, even as dextera looks on at him imploringly.
he's never had to explain this to anyone but J, and he had safely side-stepped the worst of that by simply forcing the man into a contract before he knew what he was agreeing to. the weight of dextera's attention brings about a very uncharacteristic flush to makoto's complexion. embarrassed. he can't believe he's fucking embarrassed, but he is. ) It's - more complicated than that, though. ( unspecific and not useful. )
In a way...
( but it doesn't sound all that convincing when he says it.
to makoto, though... there's nuance to it. to him, there has never been a sort of survival component to this. whether he was on earth or in hell, his needs were met regardless. he could draw a relatively simple distinction between the baseline desires "to eat" and "to fuck" and feel that they were two entirely different things, but this... this fetish of his was the gray area in the middle, tearing away elements of both and piecing them together into something very nearly impossible to explain. in a way, yes, it is a sort of hunger — just as one might hunger for one's attention, for their touch, for the taste of their mouth, he felt the same, it just... progressed further. it mutated, it grew teeth and nails, it took on elements of control and possession; to hurt or to maim or to kill has never really been the driving force of his fixation, but he couldn't deny that seeing the pain that it caused only heightened his excitement. he thinks back to the month he spent contracted with J, and he can't really recall ever going to the man as if expecting a meal (not in any way besides colloquially or coquettishly, he supposes). it had always been to satisfy a morbid desire, to achieve a type of sexual satisfaction he couldn't find anywhere else.
in a way, this situation is altogether different. the organs, removed from the corporal context of the body they'd been taken from, cleaned and sanitized as they are now... this might even be an altogether different sort of thing than what he's used to just based on those factors alone. starting to sense that difference makes this even more difficult for him to parse, and therefore makes it next to impossible to explain, even as dextera looks on at him imploringly.
he's never had to explain this to anyone but J, and he had safely side-stepped the worst of that by simply forcing the man into a contract before he knew what he was agreeing to. the weight of dextera's attention brings about a very uncharacteristic flush to makoto's complexion. embarrassed. he can't believe he's fucking embarrassed, but he is. ) It's - more complicated than that, though. ( unspecific and not useful. )
[ 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.
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.
( even with J moving with a measured and cautious acquiesce, the placement of each bend of a limb made with the forethought not to jolt or otherwise unduly place pressure upon the injured body beneath him, makoto feels it regardless. it has nothing to do with the physicality of his body, but then again, it has everything to do with it — his proximity after all of their games of give and take, hot and cold, cat and mouse, seems to rest upon his chest like a leaden weight. the air that he draws into his lungs doesn't feel enough to allow him to catch his breath, and his heart hammers with increasing excitement and anticipation against the restraint of his ribs. there is a small part of him, something internal and reflexive, which interprets such painstaking premeditation as something to be wary of. J's sphinxlike mien and careful ministrations just as often ended in tearing, bloody dismemberment for makoto as they did in something that fell into the textbook definition of "affection." and yet makoto had asked, and J had agreed with ease, and he finds himself half-expecting a trick. had he done enough to deserve this? is there something that J knew or expected, which would soon suddenly cause the low and growing thrill spiking his blood to run ice cold?
ah, but does it matter? love and hate, pain and pleasure — the distinction can seem so blurry, and it's only gotten less distinct for him with time. all he can seem to think, especially when with J, is that he wants his attention, all of it, and no matter what it was, good or bad. even when he was enforcing in him some sort of grim lesson, molding him into the monster he saw he could be even when he had been human and mewling, he can't help but later regard those memories with a feeling of conflict in his heart. at least his attention was on me, he would think, addled, obsessed, his eyes were on me, and nothing else.
J gets so close, his face looming only inches away from makoto's own, waves of pale, beautiful hair cascading on either side of them. just as much as he can hear the man's chuckle, he can also feel it reverberating through his chest, just beneath his hands; it causes makoto's breath to catch (embarrassingly), and his fingers curl into the downy feathers in his back, nails just barely scratching at the faint protrusions of the spine just beneath. what was it that he had wanted to speak to him about again? why was it that he cared about the paltry state of this body of his? as fickle as the wind and as changeable as the tide, makoto's mind shifts, thoughts slowly coloring with desire — he thinks of reaching further still to the base of his leonine tail, of trying to force him to draw their hips together, of sinking his teeth into the soft and vital flesh of his neck and seeing just how far his good graces might extend for his foolish, wayward ward —
J shifts, and his thoughts go with him; he retrieves the arm that he'd had around his back and on his shoulders to better allow him to sit up a bit, though he seems far too reluctant to let him go entirely. he reaches up to curl his fingers around the back of the demon's neck, hanging off of him just as he hangs off of every word that falls from his lips, watching them move with a rapt and pointed attention.
he blinks, owlish, and then starts, jostling ever-so-slightly beneath J's body as meaning filters in a full second or two after the words enter his ears. ) That — ( he bites the words off, lightly fuming, feeling annoyed that he was apparently so easy to see through. how much does he even need to say with J? sometimes it feels like the man can just peer inside his head and see whatever thoughts might be in there; hell, more than half of them he'd put in there himself.
he puts himself back together piece-by-piece, trying to regain his composure. it's one effort completely in vain, because the second J's knuckles graze past his cheek, he finds himself moving again, half startled by and half craving for more of that simple, affectionate touch. he turns his head in towards his master's hand by just a few degrees, staring at him with wide eyes, and then he steels himself in to speak. )
Your name. I want your name.
( where before their words were alternating through the motions of playful sparring and good-natured bickering, these now cut like steel, vibrant and raw. he almost feels like he can feel his chest trembling with the feeling of it. ) Any clue I might have been able to dig up from some dusty record hidden in the slums of Hell is gone now. All of it, gone. ( it's not that he cared that it was, but he cared that he had been so close. ) I don't want to trick it out of you, J. ( he could have. it would have been easy, to simply ask the young demon he'd once been, so guarded and yet so guileless. he would have had no idea what it was worth to the young man who asked. ) I want you to give it to me. I want you to look at me and see that I'm someone who has met your expectations, who has surpassed them, I — I want you to give it to me because you feel like I deserve it.
( to be given his name wasn't the same as taking it on to speak it to him. even unbound by those laws, makoto... would want to earn that as well. but just to know it, and the affirmation he would receive in knowing that J had been the one to make that decision... the thought of it makes him begin to tremble.
and he does, just a bit, but also because tension begins to seize up his arm. ) And if you won't allow me that, ( he continues, tone dropping and becoming more dangerous; his hand forms a claw, and its blunt nails begin to dig into the skin at the nape of J's neck. as he finishes his point, his lips draw back from teeth that have changed to suit the creature he's slowly becoming: somewhat pointed, the canines long and curved, a similar image to those he would have eventually given himself should their history have been allowed to continue it course, ) Then I will simply have to tear it out of you by force.
ah, but does it matter? love and hate, pain and pleasure — the distinction can seem so blurry, and it's only gotten less distinct for him with time. all he can seem to think, especially when with J, is that he wants his attention, all of it, and no matter what it was, good or bad. even when he was enforcing in him some sort of grim lesson, molding him into the monster he saw he could be even when he had been human and mewling, he can't help but later regard those memories with a feeling of conflict in his heart. at least his attention was on me, he would think, addled, obsessed, his eyes were on me, and nothing else.
J gets so close, his face looming only inches away from makoto's own, waves of pale, beautiful hair cascading on either side of them. just as much as he can hear the man's chuckle, he can also feel it reverberating through his chest, just beneath his hands; it causes makoto's breath to catch (embarrassingly), and his fingers curl into the downy feathers in his back, nails just barely scratching at the faint protrusions of the spine just beneath. what was it that he had wanted to speak to him about again? why was it that he cared about the paltry state of this body of his? as fickle as the wind and as changeable as the tide, makoto's mind shifts, thoughts slowly coloring with desire — he thinks of reaching further still to the base of his leonine tail, of trying to force him to draw their hips together, of sinking his teeth into the soft and vital flesh of his neck and seeing just how far his good graces might extend for his foolish, wayward ward —
J shifts, and his thoughts go with him; he retrieves the arm that he'd had around his back and on his shoulders to better allow him to sit up a bit, though he seems far too reluctant to let him go entirely. he reaches up to curl his fingers around the back of the demon's neck, hanging off of him just as he hangs off of every word that falls from his lips, watching them move with a rapt and pointed attention.
he blinks, owlish, and then starts, jostling ever-so-slightly beneath J's body as meaning filters in a full second or two after the words enter his ears. ) That — ( he bites the words off, lightly fuming, feeling annoyed that he was apparently so easy to see through. how much does he even need to say with J? sometimes it feels like the man can just peer inside his head and see whatever thoughts might be in there; hell, more than half of them he'd put in there himself.
he puts himself back together piece-by-piece, trying to regain his composure. it's one effort completely in vain, because the second J's knuckles graze past his cheek, he finds himself moving again, half startled by and half craving for more of that simple, affectionate touch. he turns his head in towards his master's hand by just a few degrees, staring at him with wide eyes, and then he steels himself in to speak. )
Your name. I want your name.
( where before their words were alternating through the motions of playful sparring and good-natured bickering, these now cut like steel, vibrant and raw. he almost feels like he can feel his chest trembling with the feeling of it. ) Any clue I might have been able to dig up from some dusty record hidden in the slums of Hell is gone now. All of it, gone. ( it's not that he cared that it was, but he cared that he had been so close. ) I don't want to trick it out of you, J. ( he could have. it would have been easy, to simply ask the young demon he'd once been, so guarded and yet so guileless. he would have had no idea what it was worth to the young man who asked. ) I want you to give it to me. I want you to look at me and see that I'm someone who has met your expectations, who has surpassed them, I — I want you to give it to me because you feel like I deserve it.
( to be given his name wasn't the same as taking it on to speak it to him. even unbound by those laws, makoto... would want to earn that as well. but just to know it, and the affirmation he would receive in knowing that J had been the one to make that decision... the thought of it makes him begin to tremble.
and he does, just a bit, but also because tension begins to seize up his arm. ) And if you won't allow me that, ( he continues, tone dropping and becoming more dangerous; his hand forms a claw, and its blunt nails begin to dig into the skin at the nape of J's neck. as he finishes his point, his lips draw back from teeth that have changed to suit the creature he's slowly becoming: somewhat pointed, the canines long and curved, a similar image to those he would have eventually given himself should their history have been allowed to continue it course, ) Then I will simply have to tear it out of you by force.
Edited 2022-08-06 07:20 (UTC)
[ 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. ]
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. ]
( 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. ]
[ 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. ]
( he can't decide if it's humorously ironic or simply infuriating that him getting angry at J making a tasteless joke was the thing that left a door cracked open into his direct internality for the demon, but... well, it's actually probably both, truth be told.
given that it had been in a public forum among the Kenoma, thoughts and feelings and words all layering over one another, it had seemed inconsequential to respond to one that he clearly identified as J's. it had been less personal, less alarming than something direct between them, but --
it's a matter of self-control. like many things when J was involved, makoto had shut him out largely as a security measure; he often feels as though he cannot trust himself when the man is involved. it's not as though he has much to hide -- what is there about himself or his goals that the other demon doesn't already know or that makoto hasn't plainly told him to his face? -- but... it seems too much like allowing himself an obvious impediment. it's already so hard for him to focus when around J physically, but if he can reach out to him mentally at any time?
and yet... when he does, makoto fails to slam the metaphorical door shut. there's a faint shudder to the connection, like a candle flame guttering as it threatened to go out, and then the waters go still. he forces them to.
well, except for a continued static buzz of annoyance, which he feels is safe enough. ) Of course you wouldn't see fit to be content with what I'd given you.
What, is there something in particular you're curious about?
given that it had been in a public forum among the Kenoma, thoughts and feelings and words all layering over one another, it had seemed inconsequential to respond to one that he clearly identified as J's. it had been less personal, less alarming than something direct between them, but --
it's a matter of self-control. like many things when J was involved, makoto had shut him out largely as a security measure; he often feels as though he cannot trust himself when the man is involved. it's not as though he has much to hide -- what is there about himself or his goals that the other demon doesn't already know or that makoto hasn't plainly told him to his face? -- but... it seems too much like allowing himself an obvious impediment. it's already so hard for him to focus when around J physically, but if he can reach out to him mentally at any time?
and yet... when he does, makoto fails to slam the metaphorical door shut. there's a faint shudder to the connection, like a candle flame guttering as it threatened to go out, and then the waters go still. he forces them to.
well, except for a continued static buzz of annoyance, which he feels is safe enough. ) Of course you wouldn't see fit to be content with what I'd given you.
What, is there something in particular you're curious about?
( he would think that it would change the whole equation, if it was something he needed to do — if his body would break down altogether due to some deficiency that required such a thing to satisfy. while prior to his death he did fear that it might one day become a compulsion that might force his hand to act in a way that he didn't necessarily want to happen, that had never ended up being the case. for him, it's simply... fixation. fascination. all of that, extending to the point of becoming a fetish. given that it's all selfish and meant for personal gratification rather than any other deeper or metaphysical meaning (not that he can put into words, anyway), he would draw an obvious delineation between himself and anyone who found themselves driven to requisite cannibalism.
regardless of those differences, however, dextera doesn't comment or question. instead he removes the contents of the bag and places them upon it, and even with the display of them so separated from the body that they had come from, he can tell that dextera really has kept them far fresher than he might have imagined — makoto can't help but think back to how J had looked when he had first torn him apart on his bedroom floor, the pale white of bone peeking through bloody viscera and entrails still pulsing with life where the flesh had been ripped away. he had been — it had been so...
without him noticing, his breathing had started to pick up, his heart beating away at a clip inside his chest. he takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment to regain his composure.
when he opens them again, ) I would hazard a guess as to your favorite.
( it's not just that a heart had been what dextera had brought him all those months ago in the cavern. it had been obvious enough to infer from the memories that he had sent him through Communion as well — the feverish haze of violence had seemed to tunnel vision on the heart as it throbbed in its place in the chest, in the palm of his hand. he's still... guessing out the etiquette of this sort of thing (would dextera even have something like that?). given that he had procured their little "feast," it seems rude to makoto to reach first. )
regardless of those differences, however, dextera doesn't comment or question. instead he removes the contents of the bag and places them upon it, and even with the display of them so separated from the body that they had come from, he can tell that dextera really has kept them far fresher than he might have imagined — makoto can't help but think back to how J had looked when he had first torn him apart on his bedroom floor, the pale white of bone peeking through bloody viscera and entrails still pulsing with life where the flesh had been ripped away. he had been — it had been so...
without him noticing, his breathing had started to pick up, his heart beating away at a clip inside his chest. he takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment to regain his composure.
when he opens them again, ) I would hazard a guess as to your favorite.
( it's not just that a heart had been what dextera had brought him all those months ago in the cavern. it had been obvious enough to infer from the memories that he had sent him through Communion as well — the feverish haze of violence had seemed to tunnel vision on the heart as it throbbed in its place in the chest, in the palm of his hand. he's still... guessing out the etiquette of this sort of thing (would dextera even have something like that?). given that he had procured their little "feast," it seems rude to makoto to reach first. )
[ 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. ]
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. ]
[ 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? ]
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? ]
( well, this is strange and (somewhat) unprecedented. besides J dropping into datenshou's brothel to make an appearance as his supposed first client (even if that hadn't worked out the way he might have wanted), makoto isn't exactly accustomed to J being the one coming to him for more attention.
which is a bit of an inference, in this circumstance, but considering makoto might have seen fit to continue to seethe in silence, that's how he decides to view it.
the affectionate nickname, effectively weaponized, extracts a sensory response from makoto that he can't properly nail down; it's a sort of restless and aimless squirming, an odd mixture of pleasure and irritation and vague panic at how he can still so easily get a rise out of him with seemingly so little effort. )
My time, my effort, my words, my thoughts, my person — what more do you need?
( perhaps not all were given, but all were taken. he's never lied to J when he's told him that he's sometimes all he can think about. )
It was a lapse in self-control, but I found it difficult to remain a mute observer of your little joke, and not to mention you playing at propositioning the inquirer while you were at it.
( no, he hadn't missed that. that dull static of irritation surges and then bleeds with greater intensity; anger, shot through with a vague sense of jealousy. if he's aware how much of a hypocrite he's being, considering his own actions both here and in hell, he's not paying it much attention or care. )
which is a bit of an inference, in this circumstance, but considering makoto might have seen fit to continue to seethe in silence, that's how he decides to view it.
the affectionate nickname, effectively weaponized, extracts a sensory response from makoto that he can't properly nail down; it's a sort of restless and aimless squirming, an odd mixture of pleasure and irritation and vague panic at how he can still so easily get a rise out of him with seemingly so little effort. )
My time, my effort, my words, my thoughts, my person — what more do you need?
( perhaps not all were given, but all were taken. he's never lied to J when he's told him that he's sometimes all he can think about. )
It was a lapse in self-control, but I found it difficult to remain a mute observer of your little joke, and not to mention you playing at propositioning the inquirer while you were at it.
( no, he hadn't missed that. that dull static of irritation surges and then bleeds with greater intensity; anger, shot through with a vague sense of jealousy. if he's aware how much of a hypocrite he's being, considering his own actions both here and in hell, he's not paying it much attention or care. )
[ 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?
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?
( makoto knows better than anyone else on horos not to engage foolishly with J in a combat of words, especially when he had to meet J's silvered tongue with a stolen one of his own that far more often than he wished lashed out in anger rather than the trademark premeditation and control of a highly-ranked demon.
so he doesn't attempt to correct him or re-contextualize his own statements, knowing there was no point to it; the sudden roar of his ire ebbs away like a retreating tide — still there, of course, but waiting for whatever would serve as its next beckoning moon, to cause it to once more surge past its bounds.
because ultimately, J is right. he had tipped his hand for something that went far deeper than what he had immediately responded to.
the silence stretches longer than would be strategically advantageous. it's a sign of weakness, after all, not to have a rejoinder ready and waiting, lining the arch of one's tongue like a silvered scourge. unbound by the laws of hell, he's neglected to continue to polish these skills in addition to the ones that he's picked up since arriving in horos.
eventually, in a low and overly-guarded undertone: ) I will not allow you to grow bored of me and toss me aside.
( thinking of that anxiety brings back memories of datenshou and how J had acted around him, controlling and cajoling, but perfect in his understanding of the other man's capabilities — makoto's former boss and J's former ward had at one point in the last hundred or so years stopped being interesting to the man, had stopped growing and proving surprising, and so he'd simply become another object in his life to be picked up and utilized when useful. that possibility, no matter how outlandish it might seem to J, has haunted him with increasing frequency of late. the specters of J's former wards had never tormented him so much in hell, not nearly so much as whatever lie in the man's past that seemed to distract his attention away from him, but —
perhaps it's a bit of both. makoto can't reach into J's mind and tear away whoever still conflicted his thoughts (not yet, anyway), so instead he redirects that anger and hatred to whomever is the current object of his attention, falling victim to a minor fault-line of insecurity that he hadn't yet realized he had. )
so he doesn't attempt to correct him or re-contextualize his own statements, knowing there was no point to it; the sudden roar of his ire ebbs away like a retreating tide — still there, of course, but waiting for whatever would serve as its next beckoning moon, to cause it to once more surge past its bounds.
because ultimately, J is right. he had tipped his hand for something that went far deeper than what he had immediately responded to.
the silence stretches longer than would be strategically advantageous. it's a sign of weakness, after all, not to have a rejoinder ready and waiting, lining the arch of one's tongue like a silvered scourge. unbound by the laws of hell, he's neglected to continue to polish these skills in addition to the ones that he's picked up since arriving in horos.
eventually, in a low and overly-guarded undertone: ) I will not allow you to grow bored of me and toss me aside.
( thinking of that anxiety brings back memories of datenshou and how J had acted around him, controlling and cajoling, but perfect in his understanding of the other man's capabilities — makoto's former boss and J's former ward had at one point in the last hundred or so years stopped being interesting to the man, had stopped growing and proving surprising, and so he'd simply become another object in his life to be picked up and utilized when useful. that possibility, no matter how outlandish it might seem to J, has haunted him with increasing frequency of late. the specters of J's former wards had never tormented him so much in hell, not nearly so much as whatever lie in the man's past that seemed to distract his attention away from him, but —
perhaps it's a bit of both. makoto can't reach into J's mind and tear away whoever still conflicted his thoughts (not yet, anyway), so instead he redirects that anger and hatred to whomever is the current object of his attention, falling victim to a minor fault-line of insecurity that he hadn't yet realized he had. )
( the intensity of his interest is something telegraphed so loudly that it might be lit in neon lights, so easily causing makoto to recall the feverish and impassioned frenzy he was thrown into when his blood had dried on the contract between himself and J and sealed both of them into its terms. he likes to imagine he is more controlled, more refined about his unconventional desires by this point, and perhaps he is, but it's more by force of will and not any change or transmutation in who he is.
so dextera nods, and he accepts this scrap of information about his friend with a sort of reverence, still not quite believing that he is here, sharing this sort of moment — he had always accepted that his indulgence in something like this would be a lonely and alienating one, regardless of how gracious and accommodating his demon master was to his needs.
makoto watches on in awed, breathless fascination as dextera reaches out to the inert yet warm heart, bringing it to his mouth so that he could sink his teeth into it just so, hooking onto the thin membrane of interstitial tissue that had once protected and separated it from the other discrete parts of the body that it shared. he tears away that layer as one might shuck the husk from an ear of corn, though by the nature of animal over plant, it does so more messily, loosing a small gout of blood that runs down the length of dextera's arm, staining his sleeve dark red. he wouldn't have been able to tear his eyes away even if he tried. the copper scent of blood fills the air, bizarre in its twisting nostalgia. makoto has to suddenly clench his jaw and grind his teeth, shifting in place where he crouches to the ground, unable to either attribute words or know how best to process the truly bizarre experience of watching someone else do such a thing.
but rather than proceed with the fruit of his spoils, dextera instead offers it out to him. makoto pauses for a moment, thoughts temporarily wiped clean, and then he reaches out to accept it mutely. his fingers slide across the surface of the organ, slick with blood still warm. he can't help his hands from shaking somewhat. even if it's different, the context and the overall meaning, it's just been so long —
he brings the heart to his lips and opens his mouth, lips drawing back from sharpened teeth and inhumanly long, curving canines. they sink far more easily into the flesh of the organ than his human ones might have, and he pauses for just a moment to savor the feeling of preserved vitality in his hands, the roundness and fullness of it even as he tears a part of it away. and then he does so, biting off the mouthful and then chewing. it's tougher than he might have imagined. the heart, a tireless muscle, was so different both in texture and taste from what he'd eaten before; the metallic taste of blood is almost overwhelming. but still, a wild and restless energy overtakes him, building up to the point where it threatens to overflow. he tries to keep it down, but his breath rattles as he fills and empties his lungs. he swallows, and it is different — not so rote and perfunctory as eating a meal to satisfy mechanical hunger, instead going deeper to seethe as a twisted and pervasive warmth in his blood, enraptured and lowly demanding of more.
he speaks with a tongue thick with affectation, ) I'd never tried the heart before.
( how would J's taste? blood smears his mouth; it runs down both his bottom lip, his chin, his scarred throat, and both of his arms in cooling rivulets. it's not that he doesn't want to take another bite, to tear into the thing until there's nothing left, but — he doesn't. instead, he reaches out to hand the rest of it back to dextera, and he continues, anticipating his resistance, ) Don't argue. I'm grateful to have tried it, but - it means more to you than it does to me.
so dextera nods, and he accepts this scrap of information about his friend with a sort of reverence, still not quite believing that he is here, sharing this sort of moment — he had always accepted that his indulgence in something like this would be a lonely and alienating one, regardless of how gracious and accommodating his demon master was to his needs.
makoto watches on in awed, breathless fascination as dextera reaches out to the inert yet warm heart, bringing it to his mouth so that he could sink his teeth into it just so, hooking onto the thin membrane of interstitial tissue that had once protected and separated it from the other discrete parts of the body that it shared. he tears away that layer as one might shuck the husk from an ear of corn, though by the nature of animal over plant, it does so more messily, loosing a small gout of blood that runs down the length of dextera's arm, staining his sleeve dark red. he wouldn't have been able to tear his eyes away even if he tried. the copper scent of blood fills the air, bizarre in its twisting nostalgia. makoto has to suddenly clench his jaw and grind his teeth, shifting in place where he crouches to the ground, unable to either attribute words or know how best to process the truly bizarre experience of watching someone else do such a thing.
but rather than proceed with the fruit of his spoils, dextera instead offers it out to him. makoto pauses for a moment, thoughts temporarily wiped clean, and then he reaches out to accept it mutely. his fingers slide across the surface of the organ, slick with blood still warm. he can't help his hands from shaking somewhat. even if it's different, the context and the overall meaning, it's just been so long —
he brings the heart to his lips and opens his mouth, lips drawing back from sharpened teeth and inhumanly long, curving canines. they sink far more easily into the flesh of the organ than his human ones might have, and he pauses for just a moment to savor the feeling of preserved vitality in his hands, the roundness and fullness of it even as he tears a part of it away. and then he does so, biting off the mouthful and then chewing. it's tougher than he might have imagined. the heart, a tireless muscle, was so different both in texture and taste from what he'd eaten before; the metallic taste of blood is almost overwhelming. but still, a wild and restless energy overtakes him, building up to the point where it threatens to overflow. he tries to keep it down, but his breath rattles as he fills and empties his lungs. he swallows, and it is different — not so rote and perfunctory as eating a meal to satisfy mechanical hunger, instead going deeper to seethe as a twisted and pervasive warmth in his blood, enraptured and lowly demanding of more.
he speaks with a tongue thick with affectation, ) I'd never tried the heart before.
( how would J's taste? blood smears his mouth; it runs down both his bottom lip, his chin, his scarred throat, and both of his arms in cooling rivulets. it's not that he doesn't want to take another bite, to tear into the thing until there's nothing left, but — he doesn't. instead, he reaches out to hand the rest of it back to dextera, and he continues, anticipating his resistance, ) Don't argue. I'm grateful to have tried it, but - it means more to you than it does to me.
[ 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. ]
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. ]
[ 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.
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)
( between them they play a clever and cruel little game. it was a game of truth and obfuscation, of cat and mouse, of predator and prey — points to prove and posturing to present often made it difficult to discern who exactly was what "role" in these exchanges, and they could change on a moment's notice. over the last few tumultuous years, he has started to develop a sense of when things are about to go very poorly for him. it was like a shift in barometric pressure that he's taught himself how to perceive, one which tells him to prepare his defenses, to barricade whatever doors and batten down whatever hatches he can. J is like a storm that can appear in the blink of an eye, one that can be heralded in just as much by a clear and sunny sky as it was by precipitous storm clouds bruising the horizon. when he can sense it bearing down on him, it fills him with a familiar tumult of conflicting feelings: fear, anger, and excitement.
in hell, a demon's power is comprised of others' perception of it. very nearly peerless among his demonic brethren, then, J has long since mastered the art of spectacle. his presence can be as subtle or as impossibly overbearing as one can withstand, all according to his whim. he feels his consciousness press against his own, capturing him as if between his hands, and for the time being all he can do is shrink back and bear it. all of the challenges, all of the images, all of the sensory information, and the impressions of feelings that J forces into him now — he accepts them just as readily as the demon had accepted makoto forcing the Kenoma liquid down his throat with the flat of his tongue, insistent and impassioned.
for the most part, he is still and quiet. he is once again the gazelle limp in the jaws of a lion, waiting for the most opportune moment to lash out towards freedom. perhaps the only stir otherwise is at the image of himself — or, rather, his younger self, his human self, mouth red with blood and eyes full of conflict, of pleasure and satisfaction, of a deep hunger for more. he had, of course, never seen himself like that before. but there's not much time for him to ruminate on that now.
because he sees what J is doing, and out of all of the feelings it could unleash within the younger demon, the one that it elicits first is... vexation. it very nearly verges on contempt. there is a long, treacherous silence after his master's last statement, and then he speaks in a tone as low and dull as river stones, worn smooth and featureless by years of aqueous erosion: )
What sort of fool do you take me for?
( perhaps there's one thing that J has not taken into account (or perhaps he has, and it was his intention all along): makoto is ever limited by his mostly-human physicality, but in Communion, he can be as boundless as he perceives himself to be. and makoto's internality, regardless of his meager years, is towering. after those flat words, he pours back into J like a flood, like a torrent, like an ocean — vindictive, he tries to grab him by the throat and drown him under all the same images and recollections, all turned around and reflected back to him through makoto's perspective.
the thrill of what was forbidden and suddenly at his fingertips that had been so overwhelming to him after the signing of their contract that he had torn the man in half in his eagerness and fallen upon him in a feverish frenzy; his thoughts lost in light-headed elation, his body an ocean of buoyant euphoria and turbulent arousal. it had started like that. when they had been contracted, their relationship had been much more impersonal. he'd consumed his flesh, and he'd fucked his entrails and throat because he had been searching for exhilaration and satisfaction that he wouldn't be able to find on earth without killing someone. but things had changed. their contract had ended, and though the demon had risen above him like an avenging angel, he had taken him under his wing rather than send him to his ultimate grave. he had felt a burgeoning, tentative tenderness for him; hope, an odd and unfamiliar emotion for him. it had been summarily dashed upon his "betrayal" of being tossed to datenshou like a toy that had lost its novelty, but even then, as he pulls the man's arms around him in the room that he had paid for their time together in, he still reached for those same feelings. a craving for affection, acceptance, protection, love — all of the things that he had promised him. but no matter how many times his frustration with the man muddies the waters, the picture always crystalizes on recurring moments: J arriving to pick him up from the brothel; J looking up at him with surprise as he flew up to him for the first time; J, bloodied and exhausted, ready to be pulled from the shrine and back into makoto's life, where he belonged. each and every one of these times, his heart is impossibly full, inexplicably full — there is so much more than anger and hatred, so much more than loss and betrayal, so much more even than hunger and desire. in their most recent moment spent together, when makoto had finally had the demon under his hands once more when he was so afraid he would get washed away and unravel into nothingness in the Void, he had held onto him with a passion that encroached upon desperation. upon need.
because in a false future that they would never get to see, it hadn't taken him a hundred years to come to this conclusion. in his bedroom, before he had left his master to wither on the vine, after helping dress the wound he'd inflicted upon himself, makoto would look the man who both saved and damned him in the eye and tell him the same thing he tells him now, bristling like a challenge: )
I love you, J. And I have loved you. It was you, after all, ( he grits the words, and as he does so he forces through another memory: makoto, still half-dressed in his school uniform, tears a strip of skin and flesh from J's neck; he looms over him, mumbling over his mortal conflicts, as the demon beneath him eats what drips from his lips, ) That told me dwelling on such contradiction is a mortal struggle.
( anger pours off of him in waves, frustrated and aggrieved that he had been pushed into a moment that he felt was either his own to come across naturally or was either implied and understood between them. perhaps he hadn't perfectly pieced it together until recently for himself, but when he had been trapped in the Void, suffering beneath an unending torrent of existential despair — all he could think about was J. and not just his anger at the man, his deep-seated feeling of personal betrayal and his need for revenge. it had been everything. physical, mental, emotional, all of it; for every aspect of him that exists, there existed a need for J. that had made him realize it. since when did actively plotting the man's destruction by his own hand mean he didn't? to J, his savior and his captor, there is no greater devotion that he can think to pledge to him than to take him, to take every piece of every part of who and what he was, and possess it — to tear him apart, to consume him, to author his destruction once and for all. )
Is that what you need to hear me say?
( if so, he's more insecure than makoto thought he was. )
in hell, a demon's power is comprised of others' perception of it. very nearly peerless among his demonic brethren, then, J has long since mastered the art of spectacle. his presence can be as subtle or as impossibly overbearing as one can withstand, all according to his whim. he feels his consciousness press against his own, capturing him as if between his hands, and for the time being all he can do is shrink back and bear it. all of the challenges, all of the images, all of the sensory information, and the impressions of feelings that J forces into him now — he accepts them just as readily as the demon had accepted makoto forcing the Kenoma liquid down his throat with the flat of his tongue, insistent and impassioned.
for the most part, he is still and quiet. he is once again the gazelle limp in the jaws of a lion, waiting for the most opportune moment to lash out towards freedom. perhaps the only stir otherwise is at the image of himself — or, rather, his younger self, his human self, mouth red with blood and eyes full of conflict, of pleasure and satisfaction, of a deep hunger for more. he had, of course, never seen himself like that before. but there's not much time for him to ruminate on that now.
because he sees what J is doing, and out of all of the feelings it could unleash within the younger demon, the one that it elicits first is... vexation. it very nearly verges on contempt. there is a long, treacherous silence after his master's last statement, and then he speaks in a tone as low and dull as river stones, worn smooth and featureless by years of aqueous erosion: )
What sort of fool do you take me for?
( perhaps there's one thing that J has not taken into account (or perhaps he has, and it was his intention all along): makoto is ever limited by his mostly-human physicality, but in Communion, he can be as boundless as he perceives himself to be. and makoto's internality, regardless of his meager years, is towering. after those flat words, he pours back into J like a flood, like a torrent, like an ocean — vindictive, he tries to grab him by the throat and drown him under all the same images and recollections, all turned around and reflected back to him through makoto's perspective.
the thrill of what was forbidden and suddenly at his fingertips that had been so overwhelming to him after the signing of their contract that he had torn the man in half in his eagerness and fallen upon him in a feverish frenzy; his thoughts lost in light-headed elation, his body an ocean of buoyant euphoria and turbulent arousal. it had started like that. when they had been contracted, their relationship had been much more impersonal. he'd consumed his flesh, and he'd fucked his entrails and throat because he had been searching for exhilaration and satisfaction that he wouldn't be able to find on earth without killing someone. but things had changed. their contract had ended, and though the demon had risen above him like an avenging angel, he had taken him under his wing rather than send him to his ultimate grave. he had felt a burgeoning, tentative tenderness for him; hope, an odd and unfamiliar emotion for him. it had been summarily dashed upon his "betrayal" of being tossed to datenshou like a toy that had lost its novelty, but even then, as he pulls the man's arms around him in the room that he had paid for their time together in, he still reached for those same feelings. a craving for affection, acceptance, protection, love — all of the things that he had promised him. but no matter how many times his frustration with the man muddies the waters, the picture always crystalizes on recurring moments: J arriving to pick him up from the brothel; J looking up at him with surprise as he flew up to him for the first time; J, bloodied and exhausted, ready to be pulled from the shrine and back into makoto's life, where he belonged. each and every one of these times, his heart is impossibly full, inexplicably full — there is so much more than anger and hatred, so much more than loss and betrayal, so much more even than hunger and desire. in their most recent moment spent together, when makoto had finally had the demon under his hands once more when he was so afraid he would get washed away and unravel into nothingness in the Void, he had held onto him with a passion that encroached upon desperation. upon need.
because in a false future that they would never get to see, it hadn't taken him a hundred years to come to this conclusion. in his bedroom, before he had left his master to wither on the vine, after helping dress the wound he'd inflicted upon himself, makoto would look the man who both saved and damned him in the eye and tell him the same thing he tells him now, bristling like a challenge: )
I love you, J. And I have loved you. It was you, after all, ( he grits the words, and as he does so he forces through another memory: makoto, still half-dressed in his school uniform, tears a strip of skin and flesh from J's neck; he looms over him, mumbling over his mortal conflicts, as the demon beneath him eats what drips from his lips, ) That told me dwelling on such contradiction is a mortal struggle.
( anger pours off of him in waves, frustrated and aggrieved that he had been pushed into a moment that he felt was either his own to come across naturally or was either implied and understood between them. perhaps he hadn't perfectly pieced it together until recently for himself, but when he had been trapped in the Void, suffering beneath an unending torrent of existential despair — all he could think about was J. and not just his anger at the man, his deep-seated feeling of personal betrayal and his need for revenge. it had been everything. physical, mental, emotional, all of it; for every aspect of him that exists, there existed a need for J. that had made him realize it. since when did actively plotting the man's destruction by his own hand mean he didn't? to J, his savior and his captor, there is no greater devotion that he can think to pledge to him than to take him, to take every piece of every part of who and what he was, and possess it — to tear him apart, to consume him, to author his destruction once and for all. )
Is that what you need to hear me say?
( if so, he's more insecure than makoto thought he was. )
( closeness to god, huh?
truth be told, it would be bizarrely comforting to makoto that that's what it symbolizes to dextera. an interesting, refreshing, and altogether backwards sort of conception, or at least from makoto's perspective. but he would want to believe in something like that, as twisted as it was. when bending to these desires of his, he had always felt the furthest away from the conception of "God" that he had built when trying to picture the divinity that was damning him for what felt outside of his control. that guilt had plagued him far worse when he had been human and alive — he had held onto J's body in a feverish embrace, tearing strips of living flesh away from him, and all the while he had pressed mumbled apologies into his skin and peppered him with questions, "does it hurt too bad?" he had still had the decency to feel conflicted for finding pleasure in the pain of others. he had still thought it best to end his life when what gave him the most satisfaction could only be satisfied when someone was either dead or would die very soon.
he can sense the resistance at first, but he can also plainly see the release in his self-control as soon as makoto gives him full permission. he doesn't mind the brusqueness with which the heart is taken back from him; actually, a corner of his bloodied mouth tugs upwards in a smile as he watches him take it back with such force and fervency. whether or not he noticed dextera's plain envy, it didn't really matter; it was clear to him that this, for whatever reason unique to dextera, held special significance, and so he didn't mind at all giving it up to him. he pauses, rapt in his attention as he puts off reaching for something else to watch his companion instead. dextera's mien has always been a dull one, alternating blank and blunt, but he can see the fire and light and life in him as he tears into the heart with an intense sense of need. watching him do such a thing, especially with such stark imperative is — well. his eyes have lidded half-closed, and he exhales a long, slow breath from parted lips, even as dextera is certain to not waste even a single drop of blood.
he flushes red with color as well, and turns back to what remains. he begins to reach to the coils of intestines, but then he pauses, a bizarre and singular laugh leaping into the back of his throat. )
...In the past I'd done this with a fork and knife.
( it was bizarre, he knows, but that's how it had been. utensils, soy sauce, ponzu. J, torn asunder on his bedroom floor, entrails spilling free from where he'd torn him in two; heat, blood, pulsing through every part of him. he would fall to him in a passion that verged on desperation, filling his mouth with whatever part of him he could; he would bite, chew, and swallow, and he would feel the demon's hand running through his hair— not having sampled every part of the body, makoto couldn't necessarily say for certain he knew them to be his favorite, but it was the offal of the human body that always brought him back to his most powerful memories of the time he spent contracted with J.
he finishes reaching out to them, looping a length of the entrails around two of his fingers before drawing them up to himself. his heart is beating faster and faster; he is trying to maintain his composure as best he can, but it's more difficult to hide his breath, coming in quicker and more ragged. he pauses, reaching out with his other hand to mimic the same motion, pulling free a separate length of the guts and offering them to dextera.
as with the heart, he wants him to try with him.
with that accomplished, makoto raises the entrails to his mouth. he hesitates for just a moment, swallowing visibly, and then he opens his mouth and takes a bite. even with all of his jittery apprehension and excitement, he doesn't show the same forceful voracity that dextera had. it's been — years. he hasn't been able to do something like this in four or so years, not since he had bitten J's tongue out of his mouth. he wants to appreciate it, to enjoy it. he allows the offal to fill his mouth, soft and still warm with blood and life, and for a moment he keeps it there, pressed against his palate and the flat of his tongue. but... perhaps he's not so disciplined as he would like to believe. his breath hitches, and his teeth shear the bite away from the whole; he chews, blood and juice filling his mouth, and a small sound lifts from the back of his throat before he swallows it down and continues with far more focus and drive, the cadence of his eating sometimes slowing in moments where he seems to appreciate and savor something for a beat before continuing — until the moment that the intestines, between the two of them, have all been eaten, or he is very nearly full from his ravenous attack on them.
his blood moves through his body in what feels like a slow yet urging crawl, thick and inexorable; where before the flush of warmth and color had been like a brush across his cheeks, a faint indication of his being flustered, now it colors his face more earnestly, pooling in the hollow of his throat and burning in the tips of his ears. even with his best efforts to control it, his breathing is thick and affected; feeling embarrassed to be like this around anyone else but J, he curls inward to himself a bit, drawing his knees closer. he hadn't really thought about this part, so excited to be in the passion of the moment that he hadn't thought about what it might feel like to feel so... precariously exposed to someone he already got the feeling did not have the same exact relationship to this particular act as he does.
he is at least... trying to deal with it as much grace as he possibly can. trying to calm his breathing, slow the urging of his blood, and just... wait it out. )
truth be told, it would be bizarrely comforting to makoto that that's what it symbolizes to dextera. an interesting, refreshing, and altogether backwards sort of conception, or at least from makoto's perspective. but he would want to believe in something like that, as twisted as it was. when bending to these desires of his, he had always felt the furthest away from the conception of "God" that he had built when trying to picture the divinity that was damning him for what felt outside of his control. that guilt had plagued him far worse when he had been human and alive — he had held onto J's body in a feverish embrace, tearing strips of living flesh away from him, and all the while he had pressed mumbled apologies into his skin and peppered him with questions, "does it hurt too bad?" he had still had the decency to feel conflicted for finding pleasure in the pain of others. he had still thought it best to end his life when what gave him the most satisfaction could only be satisfied when someone was either dead or would die very soon.
he can sense the resistance at first, but he can also plainly see the release in his self-control as soon as makoto gives him full permission. he doesn't mind the brusqueness with which the heart is taken back from him; actually, a corner of his bloodied mouth tugs upwards in a smile as he watches him take it back with such force and fervency. whether or not he noticed dextera's plain envy, it didn't really matter; it was clear to him that this, for whatever reason unique to dextera, held special significance, and so he didn't mind at all giving it up to him. he pauses, rapt in his attention as he puts off reaching for something else to watch his companion instead. dextera's mien has always been a dull one, alternating blank and blunt, but he can see the fire and light and life in him as he tears into the heart with an intense sense of need. watching him do such a thing, especially with such stark imperative is — well. his eyes have lidded half-closed, and he exhales a long, slow breath from parted lips, even as dextera is certain to not waste even a single drop of blood.
he flushes red with color as well, and turns back to what remains. he begins to reach to the coils of intestines, but then he pauses, a bizarre and singular laugh leaping into the back of his throat. )
...In the past I'd done this with a fork and knife.
( it was bizarre, he knows, but that's how it had been. utensils, soy sauce, ponzu. J, torn asunder on his bedroom floor, entrails spilling free from where he'd torn him in two; heat, blood, pulsing through every part of him. he would fall to him in a passion that verged on desperation, filling his mouth with whatever part of him he could; he would bite, chew, and swallow, and he would feel the demon's hand running through his hair— not having sampled every part of the body, makoto couldn't necessarily say for certain he knew them to be his favorite, but it was the offal of the human body that always brought him back to his most powerful memories of the time he spent contracted with J.
he finishes reaching out to them, looping a length of the entrails around two of his fingers before drawing them up to himself. his heart is beating faster and faster; he is trying to maintain his composure as best he can, but it's more difficult to hide his breath, coming in quicker and more ragged. he pauses, reaching out with his other hand to mimic the same motion, pulling free a separate length of the guts and offering them to dextera.
as with the heart, he wants him to try with him.
with that accomplished, makoto raises the entrails to his mouth. he hesitates for just a moment, swallowing visibly, and then he opens his mouth and takes a bite. even with all of his jittery apprehension and excitement, he doesn't show the same forceful voracity that dextera had. it's been — years. he hasn't been able to do something like this in four or so years, not since he had bitten J's tongue out of his mouth. he wants to appreciate it, to enjoy it. he allows the offal to fill his mouth, soft and still warm with blood and life, and for a moment he keeps it there, pressed against his palate and the flat of his tongue. but... perhaps he's not so disciplined as he would like to believe. his breath hitches, and his teeth shear the bite away from the whole; he chews, blood and juice filling his mouth, and a small sound lifts from the back of his throat before he swallows it down and continues with far more focus and drive, the cadence of his eating sometimes slowing in moments where he seems to appreciate and savor something for a beat before continuing — until the moment that the intestines, between the two of them, have all been eaten, or he is very nearly full from his ravenous attack on them.
his blood moves through his body in what feels like a slow yet urging crawl, thick and inexorable; where before the flush of warmth and color had been like a brush across his cheeks, a faint indication of his being flustered, now it colors his face more earnestly, pooling in the hollow of his throat and burning in the tips of his ears. even with his best efforts to control it, his breathing is thick and affected; feeling embarrassed to be like this around anyone else but J, he curls inward to himself a bit, drawing his knees closer. he hadn't really thought about this part, so excited to be in the passion of the moment that he hadn't thought about what it might feel like to feel so... precariously exposed to someone he already got the feeling did not have the same exact relationship to this particular act as he does.
he is at least... trying to deal with it as much grace as he possibly can. trying to calm his breathing, slow the urging of his blood, and just... wait it out. )
[ 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. ]
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. ]
( there would be absolutely nothing in this moment worse than to come this far and find himself rejected, faced with a dawning revulsion. even some of the most pure-hearted among the Pleroma might be able to force themselves to accept a soul that had to do this, to consume the flesh and organs of other living people in order to sustain themselves, even if they might do so with great trepidation and ambivalence. but for someone like makoto, to whom such an act was something he took on purely out of personal interest and pleasure... no, there are likely few enough souls among the Kenoma that would accept this knowledge without allowing it to color their perception of him. that's why he doesn't share this side of him with anyone save J, the demon that had been subjected to the best and the worst of him, who had satisfied his violent and morbid desires at his own detriment — he didn't want to face the same judgment, horror, and disgust that he had experienced when he was still human.
and if he faced the same from dextera... he doesn't know what it would do to him. he figures it would be just like anything else in his life: him having dug through the dirt and grime to find the barest shining hope for something, only to have it tarnish and turn to ash in his hands.
so in these first few moments of choking, stagnant silence after he curls up in on himself, he is terrified. he knows he can't expect words from dextera, and he doesn't sense the other young man move beside him, so — he doesn't know what to expect. he doesn't know what he might see. and so for a sizable pause he doesn't look up, prepared to live on the cusp of that Schrödinger's moment. but he can't do so forever, and as the anxiety of it all threatens to overtake him completely, he forces himself to look up and over to where dextera sat a short distance away.
...smiling. not necessarily guilelessly — he doesn't get the sense that the man is blissfully ignorant, but... at least in a way that seems accepting.
the only thing makoto will come to appreciate about his own conduct in this moment is that he doesn't cry. that would have been so devastatingly embarrassing that he might never have recovered. but he does feel an overwhelming wave of emotion clutch at his throat like throttling hands, and his lips press into a thin, white line as he keeps it all down for a moment before he musters some semblance of control over himself. he lets out a single laugh, an irrational and anxious bark that's half-swallowed up as he rests his forehead back on his arm once more. ) You... ( he mumbles, then pauses. ah, what does he even say to him? )
Have you ever been told that you are entirely too generous?
...Just give me a moment.
( he takes a deep breath, holds it, and breathes out; he does so as silently as he can, but the movement of his shoulders gives it away. with this and some additional time, the worst of his sudden spur of arousal fades — though it does so unhappily, leaving him somewhat discontented, but not enough that it mars this moment that they share. he slowly uncurls from the defensive position he'd contorted in, and he releases a long breath, some of the tension starting to ease out of his shoulders. ) I'm sorry. I - ... It's been years, since I've done something like this last. ( not that his self-control has ever been so good, but... )
and if he faced the same from dextera... he doesn't know what it would do to him. he figures it would be just like anything else in his life: him having dug through the dirt and grime to find the barest shining hope for something, only to have it tarnish and turn to ash in his hands.
so in these first few moments of choking, stagnant silence after he curls up in on himself, he is terrified. he knows he can't expect words from dextera, and he doesn't sense the other young man move beside him, so — he doesn't know what to expect. he doesn't know what he might see. and so for a sizable pause he doesn't look up, prepared to live on the cusp of that Schrödinger's moment. but he can't do so forever, and as the anxiety of it all threatens to overtake him completely, he forces himself to look up and over to where dextera sat a short distance away.
...smiling. not necessarily guilelessly — he doesn't get the sense that the man is blissfully ignorant, but... at least in a way that seems accepting.
the only thing makoto will come to appreciate about his own conduct in this moment is that he doesn't cry. that would have been so devastatingly embarrassing that he might never have recovered. but he does feel an overwhelming wave of emotion clutch at his throat like throttling hands, and his lips press into a thin, white line as he keeps it all down for a moment before he musters some semblance of control over himself. he lets out a single laugh, an irrational and anxious bark that's half-swallowed up as he rests his forehead back on his arm once more. ) You... ( he mumbles, then pauses. ah, what does he even say to him? )
Have you ever been told that you are entirely too generous?
...Just give me a moment.
( he takes a deep breath, holds it, and breathes out; he does so as silently as he can, but the movement of his shoulders gives it away. with this and some additional time, the worst of his sudden spur of arousal fades — though it does so unhappily, leaving him somewhat discontented, but not enough that it mars this moment that they share. he slowly uncurls from the defensive position he'd contorted in, and he releases a long breath, some of the tension starting to ease out of his shoulders. ) I'm sorry. I - ... It's been years, since I've done something like this last. ( not that his self-control has ever been so good, but... )
Edited (i had a better icon) 2022-09-01 08:48 (UTC)
[ 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. ]
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. ]
( dextera's overall lack of judgment in the moment is appreciated — he realizes in this moment that in the last few years, all moments in which arousal might have been a factor were typically incited or controlled by the demons he's been surrounded by, either within or just outside of his own control. but the context had been different, and so of course it would have been an element and a factor; dextera had invited him here for seemingly completely different reasons, so... to makoto, he feels as though he offers clemency in the form of unquestioning understanding, and he appreciates that. even though it still embarrasses him to all ends, even as it had a few years ago whenever J had managed to get some perverse thrill out of him that he hadn't expected. that does just seem to be his par for the course.
makoto is quiet as he watches dextera clean up what little remains, a faint yet sheepish smile just barely visible on his features. for some reason, even in the afterglow of what they had done to the remains of a man dextera had killed, the evidence of it still scattered around them... he looks younger now than he usually does, perhaps simply because he lets down several of the barrier layers he typically mirrors around himself.
is it so strange that it's been so long? he likely could have indulged — J made it apparent that all he had to do was ask and be sure to seem worthy in the moment — but he had purposefully denied himself. he had kept himself hungry (metaphorically, but also literally) in order to keep himself sharp, the desperation of want driving him past his normal limits. but less of that mattered now. he had never thought he could share something like this with another, and so before he really can consciously track what he's doing, he finds that he's in motion; he shifts soundlessly to a place alongside dextera, one hand pressed into the soft earth as balance as the other finds the other young man's jawline to carefully (and seemingly with much practice) guide his face towards his own. it all happens very quickly, in a way that is so casual and understated that it might be made all the more shocking for it, and it's remarkably chaste — makoto's lips, still faintly tacky with half-dried blood, form to the shape of dextera's own just long enough for the warm of flesh and breath to register, and then he separates from him. he is still close by, though his hand drops; his eyes are half-lidded as he observes him, and he explains the gesture in one simple phrase that fans out in gentle breath, )
Thank you.
( even before he had worked in datenshou's brothel, he had both traded and been traded affection as chit for what was either owed or granted due to a feeling of deserving. in the present moment, he doesn't think it's so odd, because of that, though... there's something sharply human that begins to fight its way into the look in his eyes, a reprise of sudden concern that this might yet be a step too far, especially considering the circumstances and how affected he had been a moment before — )
makoto is quiet as he watches dextera clean up what little remains, a faint yet sheepish smile just barely visible on his features. for some reason, even in the afterglow of what they had done to the remains of a man dextera had killed, the evidence of it still scattered around them... he looks younger now than he usually does, perhaps simply because he lets down several of the barrier layers he typically mirrors around himself.
is it so strange that it's been so long? he likely could have indulged — J made it apparent that all he had to do was ask and be sure to seem worthy in the moment — but he had purposefully denied himself. he had kept himself hungry (metaphorically, but also literally) in order to keep himself sharp, the desperation of want driving him past his normal limits. but less of that mattered now. he had never thought he could share something like this with another, and so before he really can consciously track what he's doing, he finds that he's in motion; he shifts soundlessly to a place alongside dextera, one hand pressed into the soft earth as balance as the other finds the other young man's jawline to carefully (and seemingly with much practice) guide his face towards his own. it all happens very quickly, in a way that is so casual and understated that it might be made all the more shocking for it, and it's remarkably chaste — makoto's lips, still faintly tacky with half-dried blood, form to the shape of dextera's own just long enough for the warm of flesh and breath to register, and then he separates from him. he is still close by, though his hand drops; his eyes are half-lidded as he observes him, and he explains the gesture in one simple phrase that fans out in gentle breath, )
Thank you.
( even before he had worked in datenshou's brothel, he had both traded and been traded affection as chit for what was either owed or granted due to a feeling of deserving. in the present moment, he doesn't think it's so odd, because of that, though... there's something sharply human that begins to fight its way into the look in his eyes, a reprise of sudden concern that this might yet be a step too far, especially considering the circumstances and how affected he had been a moment before — )
[ 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. ]
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. ]
[ 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. ]
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. ]
( it doesn't even register in makoto's mind to be surprised that dextera molds to the gentle implication of his will, following the steady guidance of his hands without question or complaint once he decided there was nothing to be wary of; to him it feels unspoken and understood, allowing him to act without speaking, only coming to consider and possibly second-guess what he had done after it was over. he lingers there, half-leant over, and a vague tension settles across his shoulders like a thin layer of snow, seemingly ready to retreat at a moment's notice —
dextera doesn't know what might be expected of him in this situation, and neither does makoto; to him, the kiss had been transactional, a soft token of gratitude that felt like paltry repayment for what his companion had brought for them to sate their mutual desires, so now... he doesn't know. they share in that uncertainty. it pools between them, and dextera moves before makoto would be forced to decide what it would pressure him to do next. he can't say whether or not that's a relief. but his hands settle as a steady warmth on either side of his face, pleasant in the faint intimacy but not necessarily precipitous of whatever might come next as he might have expected. it only takes him a moment of looking into dextera's entreating eyes to grasp at least the shape of what it was he was trying to get across to him: that his fears, as impossible as it was to consider, were unfounded.
this realization shakes his shoulders and rattles in his lungs as a sudden laugh, a soft and dry chuckle that gives the impression of the rustle of brittle autumn leaves. he lifts his hands, and they ghost over dextera's, the pads of his fingers crawling slow over the crests of dextera's fingernails, giving him leverage enough to take those hands in hand and guide them down... until they similarly bracket at makoto's throat, those fingertips left to rest against the sutures and dense scar encircling his throat. )
You remember, right? When we'd first met. ( kept corralled by the achamite and hylici soldiers like cattle awaiting the slaughter, and dextera's attention had caught on the wound around his neck; he had reached out to touch it, and he had sensed a murderous intent from him as a flash in the pan before it had fizzled out and he had settled, disappointingly and boringly, into remorse and apologies. the first instance of physical contact between them, and with it kept in mind as a point of comparison... it only went to show how much had happened between them, what all they had been through. )
Though... I have to admit, I prefer this. ( he returns one of dextera's hands to the side of his face, going so far as to turn his face into his touch ever-so-slightly, heedless of the smear of blood across his cheek. )
dextera doesn't know what might be expected of him in this situation, and neither does makoto; to him, the kiss had been transactional, a soft token of gratitude that felt like paltry repayment for what his companion had brought for them to sate their mutual desires, so now... he doesn't know. they share in that uncertainty. it pools between them, and dextera moves before makoto would be forced to decide what it would pressure him to do next. he can't say whether or not that's a relief. but his hands settle as a steady warmth on either side of his face, pleasant in the faint intimacy but not necessarily precipitous of whatever might come next as he might have expected. it only takes him a moment of looking into dextera's entreating eyes to grasp at least the shape of what it was he was trying to get across to him: that his fears, as impossible as it was to consider, were unfounded.
this realization shakes his shoulders and rattles in his lungs as a sudden laugh, a soft and dry chuckle that gives the impression of the rustle of brittle autumn leaves. he lifts his hands, and they ghost over dextera's, the pads of his fingers crawling slow over the crests of dextera's fingernails, giving him leverage enough to take those hands in hand and guide them down... until they similarly bracket at makoto's throat, those fingertips left to rest against the sutures and dense scar encircling his throat. )
You remember, right? When we'd first met. ( kept corralled by the achamite and hylici soldiers like cattle awaiting the slaughter, and dextera's attention had caught on the wound around his neck; he had reached out to touch it, and he had sensed a murderous intent from him as a flash in the pan before it had fizzled out and he had settled, disappointingly and boringly, into remorse and apologies. the first instance of physical contact between them, and with it kept in mind as a point of comparison... it only went to show how much had happened between them, what all they had been through. )
Though... I have to admit, I prefer this. ( he returns one of dextera's hands to the side of his face, going so far as to turn his face into his touch ever-so-slightly, heedless of the smear of blood across his cheek. )
[ 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. ]
—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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