( prior to coming here, his whole life had boiled down to sections of his time carved away and sold to those that could afford it, all for the express purpose of sleeping with strangers. it had been a means to an end; makoto was neither proud nor victimized by it, as it had been his own choice to stay and work for datenshou. in that way, this doesn’t feel so awkward—he doesn’t personally find it strange that it’s something they had already decided upon, that the other steps of their time together this afternoon (while pleasant) had been made to precede this. he’s done all of that before. as he’d never really been in even a semblance of a “normal” relationship, it actually felt more “normal” to him than anything else might be. no, what is different for makoto both here and now and in the time they’ve spent together up until this point is that—he hadn’t had to pretend. he hadn’t had to try to pose as someone he wasn’t, already beginning to lay the foundations for a mask he would one day weld over his own self: the veneer of the demon known only as “M,” a dangerous creature who, despite formerly human, had grown so rapidly since his introduction into hell that in a paltry three years he had already gained his initial and cast down his former employer into ignominy.
he isn’t that person now, and at this rate he never would be. there are precious few people who see him as “makoto;” there are fewer still that acknowledge or accept him as such. his relationship with kazuya offers him something tantalizingly tempting in its simplicity: a shard of human friendship that he had never really had when he was still alive. it was different from how his friendship with fjord had been. makoto had known, even as they had grown closer, that you could never really trust a demon not to stab you in the back. he wants to believe he could trust kazuya with that.
some of the tension in his expression eases at the reply, replaced instead with resolve. he takes a half-step closer, one knee interjecting between kazuya’s own to give him room to stand between them; he leans forward, drawing their faces close together as his left hand lifts to his jaw. his eyes lid heavily, long eyelashes falling over the sharpness of bright-silver and red as deep as blood. he speaks again in low undertone, but this one is oddly placid and dispassionate—the utterly still surface of a black-water pond which might belie unfathomable depths. )
Let’s get one thing clear, though. ( he’s close enough now that the words are very nearly spoken against kazuya’s lips; the warmth of their breath mingles together. ) In this place, I only do this when I want to.
( he just didn’t want kazuya to have any illusions.
though it’s hard to have any in the way makoto kisses him. no, he is not particularly the type predisposed towards anything gentle and tender—that having been said, he isn’t harsh or brusque either. purposeful is perhaps the best word to describe how he presses his lips to kazuya’s to feel how they mold together, leaning forward enough that his right hand falls to the bed to help prop him up. his mouth moves, his head tilting somewhat, and he tries hard to focus on moderation—which is challenging to do when makoto’s emotions tend to burn hot and fast, consumptive and destructive. his lips part to allow his tongue to sweep across kazuya’s lips in a smooth, suggestive roll, hot and intent. )
cw: underage prostitution mention
he isn’t that person now, and at this rate he never would be. there are precious few people who see him as “makoto;” there are fewer still that acknowledge or accept him as such. his relationship with kazuya offers him something tantalizingly tempting in its simplicity: a shard of human friendship that he had never really had when he was still alive. it was different from how his friendship with fjord had been. makoto had known, even as they had grown closer, that you could never really trust a demon not to stab you in the back. he wants to believe he could trust kazuya with that.
some of the tension in his expression eases at the reply, replaced instead with resolve. he takes a half-step closer, one knee interjecting between kazuya’s own to give him room to stand between them; he leans forward, drawing their faces close together as his left hand lifts to his jaw. his eyes lid heavily, long eyelashes falling over the sharpness of bright-silver and red as deep as blood. he speaks again in low undertone, but this one is oddly placid and dispassionate—the utterly still surface of a black-water pond which might belie unfathomable depths. )
Let’s get one thing clear, though. ( he’s close enough now that the words are very nearly spoken against kazuya’s lips; the warmth of their breath mingles together. ) In this place, I only do this when I want to.
( he just didn’t want kazuya to have any illusions.
though it’s hard to have any in the way makoto kisses him. no, he is not particularly the type predisposed towards anything gentle and tender—that having been said, he isn’t harsh or brusque either. purposeful is perhaps the best word to describe how he presses his lips to kazuya’s to feel how they mold together, leaning forward enough that his right hand falls to the bed to help prop him up. his mouth moves, his head tilting somewhat, and he tries hard to focus on moderation—which is challenging to do when makoto’s emotions tend to burn hot and fast, consumptive and destructive. his lips part to allow his tongue to sweep across kazuya’s lips in a smooth, suggestive roll, hot and intent. )