( dextera's overall lack of judgment in the moment is appreciated — he realizes in this moment that in the last few years, all moments in which arousal might have been a factor were typically incited or controlled by the demons he's been surrounded by, either within or just outside of his own control. but the context had been different, and so of course it would have been an element and a factor; dextera had invited him here for seemingly completely different reasons, so... to makoto, he feels as though he offers clemency in the form of unquestioning understanding, and he appreciates that. even though it still embarrasses him to all ends, even as it had a few years ago whenever J had managed to get some perverse thrill out of him that he hadn't expected. that does just seem to be his par for the course.
makoto is quiet as he watches dextera clean up what little remains, a faint yet sheepish smile just barely visible on his features. for some reason, even in the afterglow of what they had done to the remains of a man dextera had killed, the evidence of it still scattered around them... he looks younger now than he usually does, perhaps simply because he lets down several of the barrier layers he typically mirrors around himself.
is it so strange that it's been so long? he likely could have indulged — J made it apparent that all he had to do was ask and be sure to seem worthy in the moment — but he had purposefully denied himself. he had kept himself hungry (metaphorically, but also literally) in order to keep himself sharp, the desperation of want driving him past his normal limits. but less of that mattered now. he had never thought he could share something like this with another, and so before he really can consciously track what he's doing, he finds that he's in motion; he shifts soundlessly to a place alongside dextera, one hand pressed into the soft earth as balance as the other finds the other young man's jawline to carefully (and seemingly with much practice) guide his face towards his own. it all happens very quickly, in a way that is so casual and understated that it might be made all the more shocking for it, and it's remarkably chaste — makoto's lips, still faintly tacky with half-dried blood, form to the shape of dextera's own just long enough for the warm of flesh and breath to register, and then he separates from him. he is still close by, though his hand drops; his eyes are half-lidded as he observes him, and he explains the gesture in one simple phrase that fans out in gentle breath, )
Thank you.
( even before he had worked in datenshou's brothel, he had both traded and been traded affection as chit for what was either owed or granted due to a feeling of deserving. in the present moment, he doesn't think it's so odd, because of that, though... there's something sharply human that begins to fight its way into the look in his eyes, a reprise of sudden concern that this might yet be a step too far, especially considering the circumstances and how affected he had been a moment before — )
makoto, in directing dextera’s head, meets only the most cursory resistance. it’s more instinctive than conscious, and as soon as dextera realizes the touch is gentle and not at all meant to harm, he faces makoto properly and is rewarded for his compliance.
dextera doesn’t taste the blood with the shallowness of the kiss, but he feels it; a visceral, grounding thing amidst the way surprise seems to briefly separate his mind and his body. their circumstances neatly coalesce down to the warm point of contact between their lips, and dextera’s senses have to return one by one as if filing in after makoto expresses his gratitude. ]
…
[ he doesn’t know what he’s expected to do in this situation. nobody would. no one else in the world has done this, and that faint realization brings with it some relief—there’s technically nothing he can do that’s wrong, if no one has ever dictated what would be right.
even as he tries in the face of makoto’s concern to offer an instant, perfect answer, his body moves before him as it always does.
dextera’s hands lift to frame makoto’s face. his thumbs sit at either corner of makoto’s mouth—his thumbs, too, still have blood on skin and in the ridges of his nails. once he’s actually touching makoto, his hands are grave-still and he seems caught between two places, his body’s desire and his mind’s rationale leaving him somewhat bereft of a next step. his wide gaze into makoto’s is likely the most sustained eye contact he’s had with another person in—
ages. ever. he doesn’t know what he wants to say. maybe, he just wants to look at makoto until understanding comes to him, a necessary reassurance that makoto has nothing to worry about.
he doesn’t even breathe, holding onto makoto’s sigh in his lungs. ]
( it doesn't even register in makoto's mind to be surprised that dextera molds to the gentle implication of his will, following the steady guidance of his hands without question or complaint once he decided there was nothing to be wary of; to him it feels unspoken and understood, allowing him to act without speaking, only coming to consider and possibly second-guess what he had done after it was over. he lingers there, half-leant over, and a vague tension settles across his shoulders like a thin layer of snow, seemingly ready to retreat at a moment's notice —
dextera doesn't know what might be expected of him in this situation, and neither does makoto; to him, the kiss had been transactional, a soft token of gratitude that felt like paltry repayment for what his companion had brought for them to sate their mutual desires, so now... he doesn't know. they share in that uncertainty. it pools between them, and dextera moves before makoto would be forced to decide what it would pressure him to do next. he can't say whether or not that's a relief. but his hands settle as a steady warmth on either side of his face, pleasant in the faint intimacy but not necessarily precipitous of whatever might come next as he might have expected. it only takes him a moment of looking into dextera's entreating eyes to grasp at least the shape of what it was he was trying to get across to him: that his fears, as impossible as it was to consider, were unfounded.
this realization shakes his shoulders and rattles in his lungs as a sudden laugh, a soft and dry chuckle that gives the impression of the rustle of brittle autumn leaves. he lifts his hands, and they ghost over dextera's, the pads of his fingers crawling slow over the crests of dextera's fingernails, giving him leverage enough to take those hands in hand and guide them down... until they similarly bracket at makoto's throat, those fingertips left to rest against the sutures and dense scar encircling his throat. )
You remember, right? When we'd first met. ( kept corralled by the achamite and hylici soldiers like cattle awaiting the slaughter, and dextera's attention had caught on the wound around his neck; he had reached out to touch it, and he had sensed a murderous intent from him as a flash in the pan before it had fizzled out and he had settled, disappointingly and boringly, into remorse and apologies. the first instance of physical contact between them, and with it kept in mind as a point of comparison... it only went to show how much had happened between them, what all they had been through. )
Though... I have to admit, I prefer this. ( he returns one of dextera's hands to the side of his face, going so far as to turn his face into his touch ever-so-slightly, heedless of the smear of blood across his cheek. )
[ dextera has never forgotten what had struck across his mind when they first met. it wasn’t a fleeting, intrusive thought. it wasn’t something he could deny as imagination gone awry in the moment. even now, there’s an urge in him to do it—a part of him thinks it might even be easy, and he wonders how makoto would respond. it’s easy to justify it to himself by thinking makoto might even find it funny, for dextera to reach in and sever his head from his body as has been done at least once before. he can also imagine betrayal in makoto’s gaze, hate and approximate fear like when dextera unleashed his purification in defense. the thought of losing makoto to the power he can’t help is troubling enough that he’s able to push back the at-times-overwhelming whisper of god to correct the distortions in front of him.
—i prefer this, says makoto, and dextera takes a soft grounding breath that seems to pull him back into the moment. ]
…
[ this particular touch is not what dextera truly craves. it’s not insincere, nor is it even unpleasant, but there’s human restraint in it, a barrier between their respective selves that at least for now keeps dextera from melting away at the borders of his identity.
they just have to be their usual selves, treading unusual ground. he can handle that.
dextera’s hand returned to makoto’s face takes on a more experimental touch now, fingers against his skin to feel softness, or the slight shift when makoto blinks. he moves down to that smear of blood and cleans it. he motions tucking hair behind makoto’s ear, even if the only thing out of place is a few wispy strands. there’s care in the way he tends to makoto, even if the expression on his face is still wide-eyed, his movements so tentative they almost seem designated by someone else.
but, he nods.
of all the kinds of touch two people can share, if the choice is between murder and this, he would choose this any time. the hand that had been guided down to makoto’s neck slips free, resting harmlessly on the ground beside makoto with nowhere to go—and the space, the crook of makoto’s neck and shoulder, is filled with dextera’s head instead, laid there with the kind of awkward haste of someone afraid of being told no. ]
( 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. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
makoto is quiet as he watches dextera clean up what little remains, a faint yet sheepish smile just barely visible on his features. for some reason, even in the afterglow of what they had done to the remains of a man dextera had killed, the evidence of it still scattered around them... he looks younger now than he usually does, perhaps simply because he lets down several of the barrier layers he typically mirrors around himself.
is it so strange that it's been so long? he likely could have indulged — J made it apparent that all he had to do was ask and be sure to seem worthy in the moment — but he had purposefully denied himself. he had kept himself hungry (metaphorically, but also literally) in order to keep himself sharp, the desperation of want driving him past his normal limits. but less of that mattered now. he had never thought he could share something like this with another, and so before he really can consciously track what he's doing, he finds that he's in motion; he shifts soundlessly to a place alongside dextera, one hand pressed into the soft earth as balance as the other finds the other young man's jawline to carefully (and seemingly with much practice) guide his face towards his own. it all happens very quickly, in a way that is so casual and understated that it might be made all the more shocking for it, and it's remarkably chaste — makoto's lips, still faintly tacky with half-dried blood, form to the shape of dextera's own just long enough for the warm of flesh and breath to register, and then he separates from him. he is still close by, though his hand drops; his eyes are half-lidded as he observes him, and he explains the gesture in one simple phrase that fans out in gentle breath, )
Thank you.
( even before he had worked in datenshou's brothel, he had both traded and been traded affection as chit for what was either owed or granted due to a feeling of deserving. in the present moment, he doesn't think it's so odd, because of that, though... there's something sharply human that begins to fight its way into the look in his eyes, a reprise of sudden concern that this might yet be a step too far, especially considering the circumstances and how affected he had been a moment before — )
no subject
makoto, in directing dextera’s head, meets only the most cursory resistance. it’s more instinctive than conscious, and as soon as dextera realizes the touch is gentle and not at all meant to harm, he faces makoto properly and is rewarded for his compliance.
dextera doesn’t taste the blood with the shallowness of the kiss, but he feels it; a visceral, grounding thing amidst the way surprise seems to briefly separate his mind and his body. their circumstances neatly coalesce down to the warm point of contact between their lips, and dextera’s senses have to return one by one as if filing in after makoto expresses his gratitude. ]
…
[ he doesn’t know what he’s expected to do in this situation. nobody would. no one else in the world has done this, and that faint realization brings with it some relief—there’s technically nothing he can do that’s wrong, if no one has ever dictated what would be right.
even as he tries in the face of makoto’s concern to offer an instant, perfect answer, his body moves before him as it always does.
dextera’s hands lift to frame makoto’s face. his thumbs sit at either corner of makoto’s mouth—his thumbs, too, still have blood on skin and in the ridges of his nails. once he’s actually touching makoto, his hands are grave-still and he seems caught between two places, his body’s desire and his mind’s rationale leaving him somewhat bereft of a next step. his wide gaze into makoto’s is likely the most sustained eye contact he’s had with another person in—
ages. ever. he doesn’t know what he wants to say. maybe, he just wants to look at makoto until understanding comes to him, a necessary reassurance that makoto has nothing to worry about.
he doesn’t even breathe, holding onto makoto’s sigh in his lungs. ]
no subject
dextera doesn't know what might be expected of him in this situation, and neither does makoto; to him, the kiss had been transactional, a soft token of gratitude that felt like paltry repayment for what his companion had brought for them to sate their mutual desires, so now... he doesn't know. they share in that uncertainty. it pools between them, and dextera moves before makoto would be forced to decide what it would pressure him to do next. he can't say whether or not that's a relief. but his hands settle as a steady warmth on either side of his face, pleasant in the faint intimacy but not necessarily precipitous of whatever might come next as he might have expected. it only takes him a moment of looking into dextera's entreating eyes to grasp at least the shape of what it was he was trying to get across to him: that his fears, as impossible as it was to consider, were unfounded.
this realization shakes his shoulders and rattles in his lungs as a sudden laugh, a soft and dry chuckle that gives the impression of the rustle of brittle autumn leaves. he lifts his hands, and they ghost over dextera's, the pads of his fingers crawling slow over the crests of dextera's fingernails, giving him leverage enough to take those hands in hand and guide them down... until they similarly bracket at makoto's throat, those fingertips left to rest against the sutures and dense scar encircling his throat. )
You remember, right? When we'd first met. ( kept corralled by the achamite and hylici soldiers like cattle awaiting the slaughter, and dextera's attention had caught on the wound around his neck; he had reached out to touch it, and he had sensed a murderous intent from him as a flash in the pan before it had fizzled out and he had settled, disappointingly and boringly, into remorse and apologies. the first instance of physical contact between them, and with it kept in mind as a point of comparison... it only went to show how much had happened between them, what all they had been through. )
Though... I have to admit, I prefer this. ( he returns one of dextera's hands to the side of his face, going so far as to turn his face into his touch ever-so-slightly, heedless of the smear of blood across his cheek. )
no subject
—i prefer this, says makoto, and dextera takes a soft grounding breath that seems to pull him back into the moment. ]
…
[ this particular touch is not what dextera truly craves. it’s not insincere, nor is it even unpleasant, but there’s human restraint in it, a barrier between their respective selves that at least for now keeps dextera from melting away at the borders of his identity.
they just have to be their usual selves, treading unusual ground. he can handle that.
dextera’s hand returned to makoto’s face takes on a more experimental touch now, fingers against his skin to feel softness, or the slight shift when makoto blinks. he moves down to that smear of blood and cleans it. he motions tucking hair behind makoto’s ear, even if the only thing out of place is a few wispy strands. there’s care in the way he tends to makoto, even if the expression on his face is still wide-eyed, his movements so tentative they almost seem designated by someone else.
but, he nods.
of all the kinds of touch two people can share, if the choice is between murder and this, he would choose this any time. the hand that had been guided down to makoto’s neck slips free, resting harmlessly on the ground beside makoto with nowhere to go—and the space, the crook of makoto’s neck and shoulder, is filled with dextera’s head instead, laid there with the kind of awkward haste of someone afraid of being told no. ]
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. )