( in another world and another life, makoto would spend a hundred years and more to come across a realization that might have changed everything should he have come to it far sooner: that as much as he blinds himself with his ferocious and ravening desire for revenge, the quickest and ugliest balm to the rankling indignation he feels at how J has mistreated him in the past, it was really recognition that he wanted from the man. bone-deep, to the very cracked core of his once-human soul, he wanted J to look at him with the wholeness of affirmation in his eyes. "I love you," are pretty words, and easily warped, easily misconstrued... but "I see you"? not just as the pathetic slip of a child he'd been or the half-feral, wild thing he'd become — as everything he'd been, he was, and what he held the potential to one day transform himself into under nothing but the force of his own will.
acknowledgement. it's been so long denied him from anyone he might have viewed with love or reverence that he's not even aware how deeply he craves it.
he might not realize this about his innermost desires, but they boil to the surface here and now, glazing over his words alongside youthful earnestness and faint desperation — words that are all-too-easily swept by the wayside as he hastily supplants them with the harsh promises of his contingency plan; the venomous threat of violence that he had sworn like an oath had only been meant if J decided to deny what he so plainly asks for, and so when his master immediately begins to reorient around it, attention encircling like the coils of some immense snake, something begins to curdle within his stomach. it feels like a denial. is it so easily dismissed, that he would ever amount to J's expectations — that he would never earn the right to the mere knowledge of his name by his own merit, without resorting to violence that had been the terms and conditions of his contract but not necessarily the ink with which they'd been written?
something fragile that he doesn't even entirely understand begins to fragment inside of him, made suddenly accessible and vulnerable by the honesty of his plea. because of this he's powerless, he's very nearly paralyzed as J's hands maneuver to tangle thickly in his hair, near the root, but even in this delicate and transitory moment he's in, he can't help a small, sharp sound of pain from dislodging from the back of his throat as he's forced back down onto the assembly of pillows on the bed, his chest rising and falling rapidly and bright, hot tears beginning to bite into the corners of his eyes.
he squeezes them shut against the pain. it isn't just his hair, or the dull ache of permanent trauma encircling his neck, or the winding coil of barely-healed lacerations beneath the bandaging layered thickly across his torso. as had been one of his first and most important lessons learned in hell: physical violence is a language of power second only to the rule of names, and physical pain is cheap in its fleeting nature. it's the injury he sustains to the soft, susceptible substance of his soul that pains him far greater, which torments him day and night without end. in nearly any other creature it would ferment into a fine vintage of despair — delicious in its own right, but ultimately dull. one-note. inert.
makoto is anything but inert.
he tries to resist, but there's a precious thin amount of resistance he can actually put up to the force of nature that is J; his mouth opens with a small gasp of breath which is summarily swallowed up as he kisses him, pouring a confusion of accelerant over the riot of emotion that saturates makoto in this moment — the sharp, jagged edges of confusion still resonating with something that still manages to feel like pain and betrayal (as if he hadn't learned by this point to stop opening himself up to such fresh torments), but which more and more begins to fill with the twin heat and pressure of white-hot fury. that might have been all there was if it weren't for the goading movement of J's tongue against his own, in frank acknowledgement of what he'd sewn into that very place himself, but as it is, it complicates further. pained, irascible, and miserable, his veins burn with the added liquid fire of desperate want, either completely untethered from all the other ways he feels in this moment or tied up into them in ways that his formerly-human brain can't even begin to comprehend as he is now. this, however, he doesn't resist. after a moment of stillness, makoto begins to kiss J back with characteristic rancor and fury, the engine in the pit of his stomach converting his bleak hopelessness into anger and drive. J did not need to chum the not-so-metaphorical waters by being far too liberal with the movement of his tongue across makoto's newly-sharpened teeth — with a low, short growl, he nips at the invasive flat of his tongue — he extricates his hands from wherever they are to reach up and wrap them around the bases of J's horns, where they arc upwards and forwards — and as he finally erupts into a flurry of movement and conviction, he gives a final bite to the round of J's bottom lip before he separates from him and bodily yanks his head to the side using his horns as leverage, physical strength bolstered supernaturally by physical pain and even deeper anguish.
he doesn't care how much it hurts his battered and bloodied body. it doesn't matter. with time, it would pull itself back together, whether he liked it or not. but in this moment he wrestles their positions into a sudden exchange, forcing J beneath him on the bed, his knees denting the mattress where they bracket his thin waist, the rest of his body lifted up to press all of that feeble weight and pressure onto the demon's horns, keeping him trapped below onto the increasingly-messy field of pillows.
where just moments before it had been shaking and rattling within his chest like the last leaf of fall, now his breath comes in short and violent bursts. intent lost somewhere between lust and violence burns on the pale surfaces of makoto's coin-like irises as he stares into his master's face — he manages to find his voice again, faintly hoarse with fire and venom, ) Don't you dare promise me what you can't give, J, ( and as he speaks there's a strange shift in the space behind him as his wings protrude from beneath bandages and clothing, draping over the bed on either side of him — but for the right, which moves forward just enough so that one talon could place its lethally-sharp point on the soft skin right beneath the notch of J's clavicle. as he continues, his tone evens out somewhat, but his words are still strident with barely-restrained mania, ) Tell me. If I carved you open right now — if I broke open your ribs with my bare hands and made an absolute mess of you, how long could you hold on, how long could you stand it before you finally gave out? ( and now that brief moment of control is gone; his voice shakes, his hands shake, his shoulders shake, the point of the talon begins to sink into J's skin and draw blood, ) Before you disappeared and retreated into your shard and left me all alone?!
("J's a swindler to his core. that's just the kind of guy he is."
sometimes, makoto is stupid enough to trust in him. to believe him. he wants to — he wants to so badly.
but the blood hasn't even dried on the wound J had just a moment ago cut into his ego; he's not going to allow himself to be misled again so soon and so easily. )
no subject
acknowledgement. it's been so long denied him from anyone he might have viewed with love or reverence that he's not even aware how deeply he craves it.
he might not realize this about his innermost desires, but they boil to the surface here and now, glazing over his words alongside youthful earnestness and faint desperation — words that are all-too-easily swept by the wayside as he hastily supplants them with the harsh promises of his contingency plan; the venomous threat of violence that he had sworn like an oath had only been meant if J decided to deny what he so plainly asks for, and so when his master immediately begins to reorient around it, attention encircling like the coils of some immense snake, something begins to curdle within his stomach. it feels like a denial. is it so easily dismissed, that he would ever amount to J's expectations — that he would never earn the right to the mere knowledge of his name by his own merit, without resorting to violence that had been the terms and conditions of his contract but not necessarily the ink with which they'd been written?
something fragile that he doesn't even entirely understand begins to fragment inside of him, made suddenly accessible and vulnerable by the honesty of his plea. because of this he's powerless, he's very nearly paralyzed as J's hands maneuver to tangle thickly in his hair, near the root, but even in this delicate and transitory moment he's in, he can't help a small, sharp sound of pain from dislodging from the back of his throat as he's forced back down onto the assembly of pillows on the bed, his chest rising and falling rapidly and bright, hot tears beginning to bite into the corners of his eyes.
he squeezes them shut against the pain. it isn't just his hair, or the dull ache of permanent trauma encircling his neck, or the winding coil of barely-healed lacerations beneath the bandaging layered thickly across his torso. as had been one of his first and most important lessons learned in hell: physical violence is a language of power second only to the rule of names, and physical pain is cheap in its fleeting nature. it's the injury he sustains to the soft, susceptible substance of his soul that pains him far greater, which torments him day and night without end. in nearly any other creature it would ferment into a fine vintage of despair — delicious in its own right, but ultimately dull. one-note. inert.
makoto is anything but inert.
he tries to resist, but there's a precious thin amount of resistance he can actually put up to the force of nature that is J; his mouth opens with a small gasp of breath which is summarily swallowed up as he kisses him, pouring a confusion of accelerant over the riot of emotion that saturates makoto in this moment — the sharp, jagged edges of confusion still resonating with something that still manages to feel like pain and betrayal (as if he hadn't learned by this point to stop opening himself up to such fresh torments), but which more and more begins to fill with the twin heat and pressure of white-hot fury. that might have been all there was if it weren't for the goading movement of J's tongue against his own, in frank acknowledgement of what he'd sewn into that very place himself, but as it is, it complicates further. pained, irascible, and miserable, his veins burn with the added liquid fire of desperate want, either completely untethered from all the other ways he feels in this moment or tied up into them in ways that his formerly-human brain can't even begin to comprehend as he is now. this, however, he doesn't resist. after a moment of stillness, makoto begins to kiss J back with characteristic rancor and fury, the engine in the pit of his stomach converting his bleak hopelessness into anger and drive. J did not need to chum the not-so-metaphorical waters by being far too liberal with the movement of his tongue across makoto's newly-sharpened teeth — with a low, short growl, he nips at the invasive flat of his tongue — he extricates his hands from wherever they are to reach up and wrap them around the bases of J's horns, where they arc upwards and forwards — and as he finally erupts into a flurry of movement and conviction, he gives a final bite to the round of J's bottom lip before he separates from him and bodily yanks his head to the side using his horns as leverage, physical strength bolstered supernaturally by physical pain and even deeper anguish.
he doesn't care how much it hurts his battered and bloodied body. it doesn't matter. with time, it would pull itself back together, whether he liked it or not. but in this moment he wrestles their positions into a sudden exchange, forcing J beneath him on the bed, his knees denting the mattress where they bracket his thin waist, the rest of his body lifted up to press all of that feeble weight and pressure onto the demon's horns, keeping him trapped below onto the increasingly-messy field of pillows.
where just moments before it had been shaking and rattling within his chest like the last leaf of fall, now his breath comes in short and violent bursts. intent lost somewhere between lust and violence burns on the pale surfaces of makoto's coin-like irises as he stares into his master's face — he manages to find his voice again, faintly hoarse with fire and venom, ) Don't you dare promise me what you can't give, J, ( and as he speaks there's a strange shift in the space behind him as his wings protrude from beneath bandages and clothing, draping over the bed on either side of him — but for the right, which moves forward just enough so that one talon could place its lethally-sharp point on the soft skin right beneath the notch of J's clavicle. as he continues, his tone evens out somewhat, but his words are still strident with barely-restrained mania, ) Tell me. If I carved you open right now — if I broke open your ribs with my bare hands and made an absolute mess of you, how long could you hold on, how long could you stand it before you finally gave out? ( and now that brief moment of control is gone; his voice shakes, his hands shake, his shoulders shake, the point of the talon begins to sink into J's skin and draw blood, ) Before you disappeared and retreated into your shard and left me all alone?!
( "J's a swindler to his core. that's just the kind of guy he is."
sometimes, makoto is stupid enough to trust in him. to believe him. he wants to — he wants to so badly.
but the blood hasn't even dried on the wound J had just a moment ago cut into his ego; he's not going to allow himself to be misled again so soon and so easily. )