[ 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.
no subject
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.