( 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.
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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.