( almost as if in mirror-like reflection, there’s something bright, eager, and receptive to finally being able to see esi thrown off. even if it’s just for a moment, and even if he doesn’t let on all that much and recovers just as swiftly, he can see the imperfection in the veneer—a gap in the armor. it’s not really anything he’s considering exploiting, but it’s still a small yet valuable positive reinforcement to makoto, and one he will likely hold well into the future: perhaps it is true what demons say, that the secret to exerting influence and control over others is to keep them off-balance and guessing.
makoto’s smile notches wider. ) Mm, perhaps not. But it is more interesting.
( he’s rather comforted to know that esi seems to be the type of person to agree with him on something like that. why bother with all of the rote and predictable options when there are far more thrilling alternatives? there are very few things about being a demon that set makoto apart—he has no inhuman features, no magic or innate abilities, but there are some things he can offer far easily than others can. there’s a strange, slippery sort of satisfaction in that.
though it’s in makoto’s nature to be capricious and defiant, especially in the face of others using even a small manner of force with him, something between learned instinct and temporary playfulness has him go pliant in esi’s leading gasp. it doesn’t cross his mind once to back out—if anything, he similarly assures esi’s own compliance, reaching out to grab the front of the young man’s clothing. neither pushing away nor pulling closer, it’s more of an anchor than anything else. the eye contact that he maintains is unblinking and perhaps even daring; he lifts his chin, baring his throat.
his eyes do close, though, once esi leans forward to lick the trickle of blood clean from the column of his throat, one blazing hot stripe of sensation before his mouth finds the opening that makoto had torn open for him. as ever, it’s not without its own pain and faint discomfort; it’s the sharp, urgent stinging of torn and irritated flesh followed by the lower, more pervasive feeling of wrongness at the foreign intrusion which causes his breath to hiss through his teeth in the first second or two after esi stuck his tongue into his throat. but that’s just one layer of it. the full picture is far more complex, far more rigorously complicated; makoto’s grasp on the front of esi’s clothing tightens, tense arm and shoulders shaking ever-so-slightly, and his breath rattles a little more loudly and precariously as the press of esi’s tongue into the tight tangle of muscle, blood vessels, and viscera hidden beneath the thin skin of his neck. perhaps it shouldn’t be arousing, but it is. his expression flushes, teeth gritting against a tightening knot of heat which sinks through his body to his hips. he can’t help but think: is this what J had felt when he tore the skin open on his throat so he could fuck him there? there’s a part of makoto that’s still fixated on that moment, preserved in amber for the rest of his existence as the one that directly preceded his own mortal death.
as it is, it’s more than enough to force a small, raspy groan out of his mouth—only half-pained, it thrums his vocal chords, causing the flesh enveloping esi’s tongue to vibrate with that reverberation. )
cw: slight gore...
makoto’s smile notches wider. ) Mm, perhaps not. But it is more interesting.
( he’s rather comforted to know that esi seems to be the type of person to agree with him on something like that. why bother with all of the rote and predictable options when there are far more thrilling alternatives? there are very few things about being a demon that set makoto apart—he has no inhuman features, no magic or innate abilities, but there are some things he can offer far easily than others can. there’s a strange, slippery sort of satisfaction in that.
though it’s in makoto’s nature to be capricious and defiant, especially in the face of others using even a small manner of force with him, something between learned instinct and temporary playfulness has him go pliant in esi’s leading gasp. it doesn’t cross his mind once to back out—if anything, he similarly assures esi’s own compliance, reaching out to grab the front of the young man’s clothing. neither pushing away nor pulling closer, it’s more of an anchor than anything else. the eye contact that he maintains is unblinking and perhaps even daring; he lifts his chin, baring his throat.
his eyes do close, though, once esi leans forward to lick the trickle of blood clean from the column of his throat, one blazing hot stripe of sensation before his mouth finds the opening that makoto had torn open for him. as ever, it’s not without its own pain and faint discomfort; it’s the sharp, urgent stinging of torn and irritated flesh followed by the lower, more pervasive feeling of wrongness at the foreign intrusion which causes his breath to hiss through his teeth in the first second or two after esi stuck his tongue into his throat. but that’s just one layer of it. the full picture is far more complex, far more rigorously complicated; makoto’s grasp on the front of esi’s clothing tightens, tense arm and shoulders shaking ever-so-slightly, and his breath rattles a little more loudly and precariously as the press of esi’s tongue into the tight tangle of muscle, blood vessels, and viscera hidden beneath the thin skin of his neck. perhaps it shouldn’t be arousing, but it is. his expression flushes, teeth gritting against a tightening knot of heat which sinks through his body to his hips. he can’t help but think: is this what J had felt when he tore the skin open on his throat so he could fuck him there? there’s a part of makoto that’s still fixated on that moment, preserved in amber for the rest of his existence as the one that directly preceded his own mortal death.
as it is, it’s more than enough to force a small, raspy groan out of his mouth—only half-pained, it thrums his vocal chords, causing the flesh enveloping esi’s tongue to vibrate with that reverberation. )