( 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. )
[ 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?
( 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. )
[ 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.
Edited 2022-08-18 17:20 (UTC)
more of the same... also nsfw mention... bc of course hes gotta make it nastier
( 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. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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. )
no subject
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?
no subject
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. )
cw: depictions vore & blood, fantasized NSFW gore
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.
more of the same... also nsfw mention... bc of course hes gotta make it nastier
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. )