[ 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. )
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—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. ]
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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. )