( truth be told, it hadn’t been intended as a sleight—or, at least, not entirely. though he certainly wouldn’t be free with the information, the element of choice, of agency, had often been taken from him when it came to sex; even though working for datenshou was a decision he had made, it had still ultimately been a decision to cede away many of his personal freedoms to another. whispered into the scant space between them, makoto almost says the words as a mantra to guide him in this place. having been denied choice, he would now aggressively defend his regained ability to do so, perhaps even to his own detriment.
regardless, kazuya’s tendency towards being a pushover in intimate matters is only something to joke and tease him about when makoto isn’t personally benefiting from it.
the thing about the careful delineations of makoto’s self-restraint is that they have been structured and reinforced in a way where they only withstand the strength of his impulses and urges coming from within. he is incredibly weak to any pressures from outside. so when kazuya reaches out to grab at his hip, pulling him forcefully towards him so that their bodies go flush against one another, his brow knits, breath shaking and rattling as he draws a sharp inhale through his nose. it’s a spark struck haphazardly around dry kindling, and he tries to keep himself from reacting too much, too fiercely—because all it awakens in him is a bone-deep yearning for more, for more touch and more taste and more pressure and more friction and more everything he can get, everything he can take all for himself. kazuya’s lips part, their tongues meeting; makoto allows kazuya to break away, ruminating over the taste of a king of hell.
when he’s like this, there’s often a shuttering of some of makoto’s emotional reactivity as the part of him that he so often tries to bury when around others begins to assert itself to his forefront; with what kazuya tells him, though, that falls alway, revealing something fleeting and vulnerable—the look of a drowning man seeing the light of an approaching ship, a lifeline being thrown his way.
he doesn’t have anything to say back to it, merely accepting it with a momentary lump in his throat; his eyes lid closed as kazuya bumps his forehead to his, just for a moment. but then his lips are back on makoto’s, hot and investigatory in a way that almost poses a question, as if asking for what it is he brings to bear. fine, then. his spine straightens up somewhat, moving to cup kazuya’s face in both hands to kiss him back with matching fierceness and a hunting sort of hunger. makoto tends to wear his tendencies on his sleeve like this: sometimes his mouth opens just a little wide in the kiss, so that as their mouths move against one another, occasionally he just barely scrapes across his lips with the edges of his teeth. he kisses him deeply, rolling his tongue into kazuya’s mouth in almost rhythmic surges, alternatingly inviting him into his own so he can trap it and suck on it for just a moment, a small, faint hum in his throat.
the quick warmth of his blood slowly ratchets to a steady heat beneath the surface of his skin; it begins to tangle and knot complicatedly in his stomach. standing is quickly becoming burdensome. he presses even closer, lifting one knee to rest on the edge of the mattress, pushing against the interior of kazuya’s thigh—back up and give me some room.)
no subject
regardless, kazuya’s tendency towards being a pushover in intimate matters is only something to joke and tease him about when makoto isn’t personally benefiting from it.
the thing about the careful delineations of makoto’s self-restraint is that they have been structured and reinforced in a way where they only withstand the strength of his impulses and urges coming from within. he is incredibly weak to any pressures from outside. so when kazuya reaches out to grab at his hip, pulling him forcefully towards him so that their bodies go flush against one another, his brow knits, breath shaking and rattling as he draws a sharp inhale through his nose. it’s a spark struck haphazardly around dry kindling, and he tries to keep himself from reacting too much, too fiercely—because all it awakens in him is a bone-deep yearning for more, for more touch and more taste and more pressure and more friction and more everything he can get, everything he can take all for himself. kazuya’s lips part, their tongues meeting; makoto allows kazuya to break away, ruminating over the taste of a king of hell.
when he’s like this, there’s often a shuttering of some of makoto’s emotional reactivity as the part of him that he so often tries to bury when around others begins to assert itself to his forefront; with what kazuya tells him, though, that falls alway, revealing something fleeting and vulnerable—the look of a drowning man seeing the light of an approaching ship, a lifeline being thrown his way.
he doesn’t have anything to say back to it, merely accepting it with a momentary lump in his throat; his eyes lid closed as kazuya bumps his forehead to his, just for a moment. but then his lips are back on makoto’s, hot and investigatory in a way that almost poses a question, as if asking for what it is he brings to bear. fine, then. his spine straightens up somewhat, moving to cup kazuya’s face in both hands to kiss him back with matching fierceness and a hunting sort of hunger. makoto tends to wear his tendencies on his sleeve like this: sometimes his mouth opens just a little wide in the kiss, so that as their mouths move against one another, occasionally he just barely scrapes across his lips with the edges of his teeth. he kisses him deeply, rolling his tongue into kazuya’s mouth in almost rhythmic surges, alternatingly inviting him into his own so he can trap it and suck on it for just a moment, a small, faint hum in his throat.
the quick warmth of his blood slowly ratchets to a steady heat beneath the surface of his skin; it begins to tangle and knot complicatedly in his stomach. standing is quickly becoming burdensome. he presses even closer, lifting one knee to rest on the edge of the mattress, pushing against the interior of kazuya’s thigh—back up and give me some room. )