( makoto’s relationship to the concept of humanity is different than kazuya’s. it’s not something he derives any pride or identity from—not something he wants to particularly preserve or defend. depending on whatever level of emotional intensity he might be at any given moment, his opinion on humanity at large ranges somewhere between “on the disgruntled side of impassive” and “actively misanthropic.” he had never seen an ounce of kindness or compassion extended to him during his years on earth that hadn’t turned to a pillar of salt the instant he looked more closely at it. and yet so much of the hurt that tends to radiate from his feelings on humans tends to come from a place of rejection, of betrayal; there is a secret part of him which yearns so much for understanding and acceptance, even still. even when he feels like he knows better. makoto might not flaunt his former humanity (he simply doesn’t care to), but he also doesn’t want to dismiss or hide it. it is, regardless of how he might feel about it, a part of who he is and who he was. and, in a way, he’d daydreamed about one day lording it over all the other demons of hell, when he’d finally climbed to their hierarchical apex. he would keep this small, weak, pathetic body with its ugly, disfiguring scar, and they would have to look at him and realize that it was a former human that had beaten them all at their own game. and they would fear him or love him for that.
but that was over a hundred years into his future—barely worth a thought here and now.
for a moment makoto lets his head hang, resting his forehead against the curve of kazuya’s neck; he can feel the flesh knitting together to make itself whole as he does so, as the gentle touch playing at the sutures along the nape of his neck makes him feel more and more restless, as kazuya laughs softly, giving him the promise he needed to have. makoto focuses on his breaths—in, and out—pulling the wool from his eyes and forcing himself, in contrast of opposites with what kazuya is doing with him right now, to see him as a demon and not as a human being. no matter how soft and vulnerable he looks—he’s agreed to let him do this. he wants him to. he can stop holding himself back.
another shudder passes through him, and then he moves, sitting up and leaning forward so he can press his lips to kazuya’s in a hungry kiss—a side-effect of his coming into hell and learning what he did from J and the other demons there was that, when he couldn’t really seem to find the right words to express appreciation or gratitude, he repays them like this. it only lasts a moment, in one surge of passion, and then he breaks away. something seems… a little different, a little off in his demeanor after that—having unwound himself from his inhibitions, it seems like the dark shapes of the monsters lurking in his depths have crowded to the surface. he doesn’t waste any more time. he mouths his way down to the other demon’s jawline and back to his throat, teeth scraping haphazardly against skin, before he once again fixates on the strength of the pulse thrumming beneath it surface. his eyes lid heavily, and he allows himself to let go—he snaps forward with sudden, unfettered violence.
many things happen at once. dull human teeth sink into flesh, into that delicate and vital weave of the throat, but this time is different because he tears with a sharp, almost-practiced cant of his head—the jugular torn, blood surges from the wound in a thick wave, the strength of kazuya’s beating heart sending arterial spray into the air. some of it splatters the walls, the vast majority seeping into the bedding beneath them; some runs down makoto’s throat, sweet as ambrosia, even more decorating his face and his neck and down the front of his shirt. he gives a sharp breath, half a gasp. energy buzzes through every part of his body, wild and aimless—it presses him further, farther, far too demanding to permit for even a second’s pause. makoto’s body closes around kazuya like a bear trap: one hand fisting tightly in his hair, the other that had been on his chest sweeps around his back, dull half-moons of his nails digging into the flesh as he half-claws, half-pulls him up closer to him, wanting to feel the tense heat of him against as much of himself as he possibly can. blood continues to flow, and makoto doesn’t want it to stop; with a soft moan catching in the back of his throat, he presses his mouth into the wreckage of kazuya’s throat, tearing with his teeth to make it wider—wide enough so that he can stick his tongue, hot and needy, into the tangle of torn flesh and muscle. he kisses him there almost as deeply here as he had moments ago—he remembers how J had similarly torn his throat open for him when he was still human, and the tangential closeness of the experience roars through him as adrenaline and arousal. already pressed up against kazuya’s body, he roughly rolls his hips against the other teen’s, eager for some sort of outlet, no matter how indistinct or indirect. in the moment, his head swims; he feels oddly high, as if short of breath—and he has to wonder, having lost so much blood, does kazuya feel the same? even though they are both at this knife’s-edge, on drastically different sides? )
cw: blood, gore, violence, slight cannibalism...
but that was over a hundred years into his future—barely worth a thought here and now.
for a moment makoto lets his head hang, resting his forehead against the curve of kazuya’s neck; he can feel the flesh knitting together to make itself whole as he does so, as the gentle touch playing at the sutures along the nape of his neck makes him feel more and more restless, as kazuya laughs softly, giving him the promise he needed to have. makoto focuses on his breaths—in, and out—pulling the wool from his eyes and forcing himself, in contrast of opposites with what kazuya is doing with him right now, to see him as a demon and not as a human being. no matter how soft and vulnerable he looks—he’s agreed to let him do this. he wants him to. he can stop holding himself back.
another shudder passes through him, and then he moves, sitting up and leaning forward so he can press his lips to kazuya’s in a hungry kiss—a side-effect of his coming into hell and learning what he did from J and the other demons there was that, when he couldn’t really seem to find the right words to express appreciation or gratitude, he repays them like this. it only lasts a moment, in one surge of passion, and then he breaks away. something seems… a little different, a little off in his demeanor after that—having unwound himself from his inhibitions, it seems like the dark shapes of the monsters lurking in his depths have crowded to the surface. he doesn’t waste any more time. he mouths his way down to the other demon’s jawline and back to his throat, teeth scraping haphazardly against skin, before he once again fixates on the strength of the pulse thrumming beneath it surface. his eyes lid heavily, and he allows himself to let go—he snaps forward with sudden, unfettered violence.
many things happen at once. dull human teeth sink into flesh, into that delicate and vital weave of the throat, but this time is different because he tears with a sharp, almost-practiced cant of his head—the jugular torn, blood surges from the wound in a thick wave, the strength of kazuya’s beating heart sending arterial spray into the air. some of it splatters the walls, the vast majority seeping into the bedding beneath them; some runs down makoto’s throat, sweet as ambrosia, even more decorating his face and his neck and down the front of his shirt. he gives a sharp breath, half a gasp. energy buzzes through every part of his body, wild and aimless—it presses him further, farther, far too demanding to permit for even a second’s pause. makoto’s body closes around kazuya like a bear trap: one hand fisting tightly in his hair, the other that had been on his chest sweeps around his back, dull half-moons of his nails digging into the flesh as he half-claws, half-pulls him up closer to him, wanting to feel the tense heat of him against as much of himself as he possibly can. blood continues to flow, and makoto doesn’t want it to stop; with a soft moan catching in the back of his throat, he presses his mouth into the wreckage of kazuya’s throat, tearing with his teeth to make it wider—wide enough so that he can stick his tongue, hot and needy, into the tangle of torn flesh and muscle. he kisses him there almost as deeply here as he had moments ago—he remembers how J had similarly torn his throat open for him when he was still human, and the tangential closeness of the experience roars through him as adrenaline and arousal. already pressed up against kazuya’s body, he roughly rolls his hips against the other teen’s, eager for some sort of outlet, no matter how indistinct or indirect. in the moment, his head swims; he feels oddly high, as if short of breath—and he has to wonder, having lost so much blood, does kazuya feel the same? even though they are both at this knife’s-edge, on drastically different sides? )