( 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}
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. )