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The sparks in Eri’s eyes are daring to set Josh’s mischievous streak alight.
She’s wary, at first. Picking up on the dance played between Josh and the rest of the group. Defensive, teeth barely hidden as she holds hostage her friendship, guards herself and friends with a fence made from barbed wires and words.
Sparks, when fanned, turn to flames.
As Composer, it is oh so easy to feed oxygen to Eri’s anger. Boil her blood.
Twist her truth til the taste twinges with a hint of desire in that heat.
She shoots a glare, and he smirks back, tosses the errant Imprint of a kiss into her head.
It’s not enough, of course, to dull the terror she feels, as her body moves by his command, instead of hers.
Outwardly, Eri is dazed, following the Shibuya River to places she never would be able to access, were it not for the fact that she’s answering the summons of the Composer.
Internally, every inch she travels is one she resists. Will pulled taut against the puppeteer’s strings. Her feet trace a path she does not know, following unknown commands, and each step forward tears her further away from help, further into the dark.
Her choked screams echo in Joshua’s head. Air devoid of the terror she feels, but he can sense every drop of emotion she cannot show.
“Kneel.”
His voice reverberates around the Room of Reckoning, as she approaches. Stands before his throne, the seat of his power.
She listens. She has no choice.
“What the fuck, Josh?”
He lets her have her tongue. For now.
Looking down at her, Josh can see the terror scrawled on her face. Widened eyes, staring up at him--nudge some awe into the mixture of fear. Trembling as her knees rest against the cold concrete--a pinch of anticipation is sprinkled into her reasons for that.
She’s pretty. Eri’s always been pretty. The popular girl, the charming girl, Imagination bursting bright through Shibuya’s crowds.
She’s yanked forward by two spindly arms--crooked, sprouting from his back, far too long and inhuman--as he kisses her. Bleeds her lips with sharp teeth. Pries those lips apart with his tongue, letting it explore, feel her teeth, feel her throat, drag moans out of her pretty little mouth.
When he pulls back--or rather, pulls her back--her hair is thoroughly mussed from a seven-fingered hand. He keeps it there, trailing the thumb over her cheek. Two arms keep her from leaving his lap, claws piercing the skin of her shoulders. Another has claimed her back as a good grip.
A fifth hand toys with the edges of her shorts, runs fingers against her thigh. The multitude of eyes all across his skin, his face, drink from the well of revulsion overflowing from her.
Revulsion, and intrigue.
(Whether the latter is there of Joshua’s own accord is of no matter).
“J--”
“You don’t get to say my name until you’ve earned it.” He cuts her off, dives in for a kiss again. Forces her to grind against him. Rubbing against his leg through both of their pants. Helped along by the fingers that dig into her back. Into her. Skin fusing to skin, melding, plucking at the central nervous system in her spine.
When he breaks them apart again, she’s panting. Still feeling his saliva in her lungs.
“When we are alone, Eri, you may only refer to me as Composer, Sir, or any such respectable title which carries weight.” A drop of blood drips from his lips, and she gasps as he licks the rest away. As the particles of her essence do not stop sending signals to her brain, even as they merge with all that He is. “Nobody but us is to know of this, however, so you will act normal with others. Not one hint, no changed behavior. No leaving Shibuya.”
A cough escapes her, as she finds (what’s left of) her voice. “F-fuck off. You-- You don’t get to tell me what to do, J--My Composer, Sir.”
“Ever resilient,” he remarks, no small amount of affection in his tone, “but even you can’t disobey such direct orders, little Eri, dear.”
And oh how she squirms at her name leaving his mouth. At the pressure from all angles of the room. Trapped in her own mind, as her body disobeys. Refuses to push away from him, melts--quite literally--into him instead. As if his touch is comfort, is the warm embrace of safety.
The joy that rises in her at his words might not originally be her own, but she feels it nonetheless.
“You’re mine, and I intend to make sure you never forget.”
Clothes stop existing when the Composer decides they are no longer useful.
One of the hands that had been holding her shoulder moves to grasp her breast instead. Massaging it as she stares at him. Skin translucent, burning edges of the city hidden within. Bones glowing neon lights.
No matter the disgust she feels, the pressure against her clitoris overrides it.
With his hands buried so deep in her, with his Will blended over her own, it doesn’t take much rubbing for her to orgasm. A scream escaping her as her head lands against his chest. Arms wrapping around him, clinging to him for stability.
With his tongue flowing through her mouth once more, waxen words drip into her ears, fill them so he is all that she can hear. “You’re doing so well for me, sweetheart. Such a good girl, when you start to behave.”
Much like joy, pride doesn’t need to be her own, for her to feel it. For honey to seep into her core. Weave a web over her heart, pulse electric in her veins. The desire to please, to obey, weaves Him into her marrow.
(She wants to cry. Tears flowing from her eyes from the sparks shooting across her skin don’t count. Overstimulation crowds her out of her own mind, but at the edges, she hates--no. She can’t even hate. She wishes she could hate him, hate the sickness-turned-ecstasy in her stomach as he steals every scrap of agony she tries to cling to.)
Shaking, dripping wet, (forcibly) shaped into something perfect for him, Joshua pushes his dick into her. Lets her feel every ounce of intrusion, of his presence in her body.
Is it even a trick, anymore, when she’s been so trained to want this?
Eri’s legs wrap around his waist, and she starts to shift. Move. Those puppet strings might not even be doing the work, as far as she knows. What does she know?
She knows that she wants this--needs this. Lifting up as much as she can, slamming down on his cock as he meets her motions. Needs to be full.
Finds that she can no longer separate from him. Thickness inside her building, pressing at the edges of her walls. Pulsating.
How is she breathing? His tongue is still snaking down her throat, clogging up her airways. Filling her mouth with what she is craving. But it’s not enough.
(Is it even attached to him? It’s not the same tongue as what’s in his mouth, the one kissing her from earlier. That one is lavishing her neck.)
Even as it builds, and builds. Blotting out everything but this moment. Nothing is enough.
Joshua presses into her, holds her back from the release she’s building to.
Your work pleasing me isn’t done, hon.
Desperation fills her next moves, as the emptiness continues to claw at her insides, needing more.
She doesn’t need to breathe, she needs to latch onto one of the Composer’s own breasts. Suck hard. Press her hands against his back as if she could fall into him. Be filled by him. Whatever it takes to reach the climax he withholds.
What flows into her mouth isn’t a mother’s milk. The liquid of Shibuya fills her, succor from a god and the city does not have a taste, but it so very is. Mind full of clouds and the pounding of a rave, dancers pressed against each other and a hundred different people finding their drug of choice.
It pours into her, into her lungs, into her stomach. Too much for any mere mortal to withstand, without the Composer holding her steady. Letting her experience such heights with His grace.
And yet still, it’s not enough.
It just makes her hungry.
Or to be hungered for.
It’s a bite to the neck, in the end.
Two blended as one, as his teeth sink into her skin, she screams. Bites down hard. Draws whatever passes as Ichor for a city god such as him.
And he grasps her, pulses, and comes deep, filling her with Imagination and bodily fluids long since unneeded. It’s rather the point of the matter, here.
She has no throat with which to keep screaming. Drowned by all that she has taken in.
Finally, finally, she is full. Stomach drenched in what she has sucked from him. Body filled with what he has released into her.
With the fuzz at the edges of her mind starting to clear, the creeping dread crawls against her mind once more.
J--Her Beloved Master--lounges against His throne, and she finds herself curled up at his feet. Naked, bruised, bleeding. Every inch of her skin sore, beaten, marked as His.
Not just at the skin level, however. It runs deeper than that. The fully belly contentment wars with the ache burning in her muscles. The euphoria she so wishes she could loathe, instead only amplified by pain etched into her bones.
Whimpers, mewls, escape her mouth even still. As if begging would convince Him to fill her more. As if breathing in His essence would help anything.
He reaches down, deigns to pet her hair, human-shaped once more.
Shame bubbles in her stomach as the contact turns her to jelly, slumping against him and nuzzling into the touch. Desperate, greedy.
“Eri, darling,” He murmurs, and her name on His tongue, so sweet, makes her wish that tongue would crawl inside her and twist her body until she was molded to his form.
“Mm?” is all she can manage in reply.
“Don’t go forgetting everything, my pet.”
The rubberband snaps. Slingshots her back into her head. Even has her body refuses to listen, refuses to remove herself from being pressed up against the assh--Him.
“What the fuck did you do to me, you f--” her throat chokes, and she finds herself moaning out, “My lord, sir, love,” instead. Rattling through her synapses to her core.
“I taught you not to hate me. I taught you that I’m the one in control. That you prefer it this way.” He smiles at her, silken sunlight to her eyes, and she finds herself bathing in the rays.
No matter how much she tells herself not to, her body refuses to listen.
Does she even actually dislike this? Is she just trying to maintain a hate that cannot exist?
Why does she want what feels so right to be wrong?
“Be a good girl for me, don’t let go of any of those nasty emotions. You do have to keep up the act, after all.”
Her God leans down, kisses her on her forehead, and the Grace that burns against her skin makes her weep.
The anger can’t leave her system. No matter how hard she cries. Rage boiling under the surface.
She wants to hate him. Wants to hate what he’s done. Molded her like putty, like clay, turned her into what she isn’t.
But all she can do is yearn for His fingers digging into her skin. For Him to push into her. Blessing her with a glimpse into all that He is.
Later, she watches herself as she talks to the others. Scowls when Neku brings Josh around as if she isn’t leaping for joy when His skin brushes hers.
Remnants of what He gifts her each night she is worth calling for--each night she makes herself worthy of His presence--clings to her insides.
If asked, she has no answer for the sickness that doesn’t leave her stomach. It’s certainly not because of Josh.
No matter how much she wishes it was.