( to demons, there is very little distinction between affection and violence. there is the object of one's desire — the body, the self that it contains, or a precarious mixture of the two — and then there are reaching hands, pressure and dominance, control and possession. an arm looped carelessly around another's slender waist could register with just the same level of closeness and intimacy as huge jaws closing in around a shoulder, teeth shredding through layers of skin and flesh before they met the firm resistance of bone. affection and violence, love and hate, pain and pleasure — demons do not deal in dichotomies as humans do. they live in the complicated gray area between, blurring the lines of distinction, completely at ease with the hypocrisy that they live and breathe because to embody it is to make it real.
makoto might be newly a demon, but he adjusts to this life well, to this philosophy well. he loves J with the whole of his twisted and terrible heart, with every cellular component of who he is or who he ever will be, but in the same breath still wants nothing more than to see the eternal life dim in his eyes. to feel his vivacious current grow turbulent, then still and slow, until it grew stagnant forever — and to know it was he who had done it.
he prefers the gentle touch of dextera's hand to his face, yes. he has always preferred such things to the harsh realities of pain; regardless of how much of it he has been subjected to, he had never been able to grow accustomed to it. but perhaps, in accepting something warm and gentle from dextera where offered, he would accept the rest of it as well. whatever violent, inherent desires he was afflicted with for reasons beyond himself, his control, or his understanding... no one understands that more than makoto does. he wouldn't want it. he wouldn't want to accept it, either, if dextera reached out to correct what he saw as an imperfection in the fabric of the world. but he would at the very least understand.
his eyes had fallen closed in a flutter of heavy lashes as he had leaned into dextera's hand, but as moments pass and as he moves of his own volition, tending to the stains of drying blood on his face and hair that has gone wild from the usual care with which he tends to it... they open once more, looking up at dextera with a calm, careful watchfulness. usually such an emotion in makoto is sharp, cutting, as appraising as a harsh merchant wanting to ascertain the value of everything around him. but its tone and timbre has changed much now; instead he is light, soft, gently curious. he can sense the tremulous hesitation in the other young man, as if he were so unaccustomed to following his own whims and desires with another that he thought at any moment it would burst into sudden flames in his own hands.
his hand falls from makoto's neck and is soon replaced by his head. it rests lightly on the gentle slope of where it meets his shoulder. he can't see how the demon's lips curve to form a knowing, nuanced smile.
he doesn't say anything, but he responds nonetheless, wrapping one thin arm around dextera's back and another over his shoulders, elbow bent at the angle so that he can rest his hand over the back of his head, ever-so-gently cradling him to himself. he is gentle, inviting — slender fingers thread into his hair. for a long moment he holds him like this in silence, and then, in a low voice sounding only inches from his ear, )
Whatever you would have from me, I would give it to you. You wouldn't have to take.
( affection or violence... in this moment, he is most curious to see what dextera would choose.
but he would owe it to him. a privilege he offers only to him, to a boy he keeps in his heart as his own. )
no subject
makoto might be newly a demon, but he adjusts to this life well, to this philosophy well. he loves J with the whole of his twisted and terrible heart, with every cellular component of who he is or who he ever will be, but in the same breath still wants nothing more than to see the eternal life dim in his eyes. to feel his vivacious current grow turbulent, then still and slow, until it grew stagnant forever — and to know it was he who had done it.
he prefers the gentle touch of dextera's hand to his face, yes. he has always preferred such things to the harsh realities of pain; regardless of how much of it he has been subjected to, he had never been able to grow accustomed to it. but perhaps, in accepting something warm and gentle from dextera where offered, he would accept the rest of it as well. whatever violent, inherent desires he was afflicted with for reasons beyond himself, his control, or his understanding... no one understands that more than makoto does. he wouldn't want it. he wouldn't want to accept it, either, if dextera reached out to correct what he saw as an imperfection in the fabric of the world. but he would at the very least understand.
his eyes had fallen closed in a flutter of heavy lashes as he had leaned into dextera's hand, but as moments pass and as he moves of his own volition, tending to the stains of drying blood on his face and hair that has gone wild from the usual care with which he tends to it... they open once more, looking up at dextera with a calm, careful watchfulness. usually such an emotion in makoto is sharp, cutting, as appraising as a harsh merchant wanting to ascertain the value of everything around him. but its tone and timbre has changed much now; instead he is light, soft, gently curious. he can sense the tremulous hesitation in the other young man, as if he were so unaccustomed to following his own whims and desires with another that he thought at any moment it would burst into sudden flames in his own hands.
his hand falls from makoto's neck and is soon replaced by his head. it rests lightly on the gentle slope of where it meets his shoulder. he can't see how the demon's lips curve to form a knowing, nuanced smile.
he doesn't say anything, but he responds nonetheless, wrapping one thin arm around dextera's back and another over his shoulders, elbow bent at the angle so that he can rest his hand over the back of his head, ever-so-gently cradling him to himself. he is gentle, inviting — slender fingers thread into his hair. for a long moment he holds him like this in silence, and then, in a low voice sounding only inches from his ear, )
Whatever you would have from me, I would give it to you. You wouldn't have to take.
( affection or violence... in this moment, he is most curious to see what dextera would choose.
but he would owe it to him. a privilege he offers only to him, to a boy he keeps in his heart as his own. )