( it’s unfortunate to kazuya that the pain is a little brighter and fresher, bereft of the veil of arousal, but it’s rather fortunate to makoto—the pained sound that grates out of his throat only drives the surge of his pleasure higher, simultaneously gratified in this evidence and also that which kazuya is careful to painstakingly write into his own flesh with the authoring of stutter-start healing. a ripple of once-torn flesh that, once makoto comes a little more strongly to his own senses again, that he can recognize is his and his alone on the other demon’s skin. he happily submerges into the flood of self-satisfied contentedness at this and the afterglow of his climax; he makes no argument or struggle against being pulled against kazuya, instead wrapping his arms around him in reciprocation. he licks the blood away from the rawer places on the still-healing wound in slower, more methodical strokes of his tongue—the type of an animal licking its wounds to clean them for better recovery.
after the flow of blood stops, he lies there against kazuya, his heart and breathing gradually slowing to a normal rate. heat ebbs and leaves his skin, leaving ripples of gooseflesh to dance across its surface as sweat cools to leave him feeling slightly chilly—but only slightly.
it’s always in the absence of the heat and rush and thrill of passion that sense begins to seep back into makoto. worry. concern. doubt and fear. thinking back on all that had happened, he feels as though he shouldn’t have any reason—everything that they’d done, kazuya had agreed to, participated in himself even—but still, anxiety hounds him. after a long moment of trying to decide how to ask whether or not his friend would find him disgusting for what he had done, he decides to instead ask in a small and questing tone of voice, ) So… was that what you had in mind, when you asked me about trying this sort of thing…?
no subject
after the flow of blood stops, he lies there against kazuya, his heart and breathing gradually slowing to a normal rate. heat ebbs and leaves his skin, leaving ripples of gooseflesh to dance across its surface as sweat cools to leave him feeling slightly chilly—but only slightly.
it’s always in the absence of the heat and rush and thrill of passion that sense begins to seep back into makoto. worry. concern. doubt and fear. thinking back on all that had happened, he feels as though he shouldn’t have any reason—everything that they’d done, kazuya had agreed to, participated in himself even—but still, anxiety hounds him. after a long moment of trying to decide how to ask whether or not his friend would find him disgusting for what he had done, he decides to instead ask in a small and questing tone of voice, ) So… was that what you had in mind, when you asked me about trying this sort of thing…?