( the scars are a fascination to him—they are now as they had been when kazuya had borne the one on his arm to makoto at the dinner table, when he had reached out to briefly trace his fingertips across the raised ridges of scar tissue. he does the same now, honing in on the places where violence had written itself permanently into kazuya’s flesh just as much out of his own piqued interest as he did in response to picking up on the other teenager’s reaction. he maps them in touch, tracing the pads of his fingers around the place where the scarring knit once more back into soft, unbroken skin—it’s something like this, this literal and figurative border between safety and violence, that which is unmarked and that which is changed forever, that has always entranced makoto. there’s something inescapably fascinating in it. it’s something so rarely seen among demons where he’s from. demons tend to recover from whatever physical injury they might sustain because their bodies are representative of their concepts; the only way a demon might be scarred is if their self-perception, and that of others perceiving them, reflects that. makoto’s persists because, well… remember how strongly he had refused kazuya’s offer to heal him? this scar means something to him. the division of his head and his body, for whatever, means something to him.
what meanings do these marks have to kazuya? there’s certainly something in them, given how he responds to their touch. it causes makoto’s heart rate to slowly pick up, blood growing hotter from the excitement swimming through his veins; he bites once more at kazuya’s throat in his war of attrition against the other demon’s own regeneration. he can’t decide whether he enjoys it or hates it. on one hand, he likes to see the damage he can wreak upon a body—but on the other, how incredible it is to be able to do it, and again, without fear of permanent injury, exsanguination, or death?
though—perhaps he did want some of that permanence. perhaps he did want to write himself into kazuya’s skin, just as these other demons had in the scars he explores. it’s a greedy thought, hot and possessive, to want to forcefully make a part of kazuya his, forever and ever. though it’s also so perfectly characteristic of someone like makoto.
a low shudder starts at the base of his spine and slowly works its way through the rest of his body as kazuya’s hand runs along the line of his body, up along his thigh and across his hip to his side. if kazuya senses that makoto is holding back—he’s perceptive, because yes, that’s absolutely the case. he almost always is, in a situation like this. these physical signs of encouragement, the bald-faced goading of his words… for a moment he’s forced to stop entirely, letting the blood begin to flake away from his face as, unmolested, the wound on kazuya’s neck slowly starts to mend. makoto’s grip in kazuya’s hair goes somewhat slack, permitting him to look down a little more easily, if he wanted.
in the ruins of an exhilaration which had taken up residence on makoto’s face as a rosy warmth that bloomed on his cheeks and dripped, saccharine, down his throat is a very different expression: it’s something that looks almost… anguished. he’s rather good at holding himself back, but other people? his shoulders shake, his hand frozen where it has splayed across kazuya’s chest, right over his beating heart.
after a long moment’s silence where he desperately searches for the right words, he ends up asking in a hoarse whisper, ) Can you promise me again that I won’t kill you? ( kazuya’s fingers trace gently along the nape of his neck, across the row of sutures—his breath skips in a way that’s shamefully obvious, and an odd twinge goes through his body. he blinks, and he continues with a thick tongue, ) I-I just… I’ve never wanted to kill anyone—
( considering what he’s told kazuya about his life, it might be a little more illustrative of a plea than he’d prefer. )
no subject
what meanings do these marks have to kazuya? there’s certainly something in them, given how he responds to their touch. it causes makoto’s heart rate to slowly pick up, blood growing hotter from the excitement swimming through his veins; he bites once more at kazuya’s throat in his war of attrition against the other demon’s own regeneration. he can’t decide whether he enjoys it or hates it. on one hand, he likes to see the damage he can wreak upon a body—but on the other, how incredible it is to be able to do it, and again, without fear of permanent injury, exsanguination, or death?
though—perhaps he did want some of that permanence. perhaps he did want to write himself into kazuya’s skin, just as these other demons had in the scars he explores. it’s a greedy thought, hot and possessive, to want to forcefully make a part of kazuya his, forever and ever. though it’s also so perfectly characteristic of someone like makoto.
a low shudder starts at the base of his spine and slowly works its way through the rest of his body as kazuya’s hand runs along the line of his body, up along his thigh and across his hip to his side. if kazuya senses that makoto is holding back—he’s perceptive, because yes, that’s absolutely the case. he almost always is, in a situation like this. these physical signs of encouragement, the bald-faced goading of his words… for a moment he’s forced to stop entirely, letting the blood begin to flake away from his face as, unmolested, the wound on kazuya’s neck slowly starts to mend. makoto’s grip in kazuya’s hair goes somewhat slack, permitting him to look down a little more easily, if he wanted.
in the ruins of an exhilaration which had taken up residence on makoto’s face as a rosy warmth that bloomed on his cheeks and dripped, saccharine, down his throat is a very different expression: it’s something that looks almost… anguished. he’s rather good at holding himself back, but other people? his shoulders shake, his hand frozen where it has splayed across kazuya’s chest, right over his beating heart.
after a long moment’s silence where he desperately searches for the right words, he ends up asking in a hoarse whisper, ) Can you promise me again that I won’t kill you? ( kazuya’s fingers trace gently along the nape of his neck, across the row of sutures—his breath skips in a way that’s shamefully obvious, and an odd twinge goes through his body. he blinks, and he continues with a thick tongue, ) I-I just… I’ve never wanted to kill anyone—
( considering what he’s told kazuya about his life, it might be a little more illustrative of a plea than he’d prefer. )