(something like this would kill a normal person. it’s a thought that, when reflected upon later, when the darkness of his nature hadn’t overcome him and the blood of a demon king wasn’t warm in his stomach, he would probably hate himself for—how much it heats his blood and draws him taut and wanting to just think about, supplemented by the profuse loss of blood and the wet, forced sounds of breaths being drawn through the harrowed span of kazuya’s throat. truthfully, makoto doesn’t want what would inevitably happen after to any other person. he doesn’t want to be left with a corpse, inert and cooling, little more than a testament to his own inextricable evils—even if he didn’t care about the person it had once been, it would seem like a waste. but here, writhing across the knife’s-edge line between what feels like life and death beneath his fingers and between his teeth, he feels more exhilarated and alive than he’s ever felt otherwise. even though in this scenario it’s a bit contrived, with kazuya being near-impossible to kill, it’s still more than enough; pushing another person to that vital edge hopelessly turns him on far more than he would like to admit.
he doesn’t hide it. he couldn’t, even if he wanted to, even if he attempted to try. the only thing he is still mindful of is focusing rather on the perversion of the violence in order to distract himself from the overwhelming desire to eat; he doesn’t indulge in that so plainly as he had with J, stripping flesh from his neck to greedily consume, here only swallowing whatever shreds he might incidentally. for makoto, blood isn’t usually enough to satisfy him, but kazuya’s—it still isn’t, but it’s different, so it’s more. it warms him, buzzing beneath his skin, making him feel bizarrely bold, strong. even if he isn’t in actuality, it’s a dizzying mental illusion. as his own control over kazuya solidifies, the other teen loses it over himself; makoto can feel him repeatedly grabbing at him, not necessarily to shake or stop him but just to hold onto him, to urge him further. well, he certainly doesn’t want him to pass out. that would just be inconvenient.
so it’s with some reluctance that he pulls away from his throat, wantonly licking the blood from his face before it can begin to fleck away and disappear. sitting up a little, something about makoto looks a little different. typically the pallor of his skin is concerning, almost like that of a corpse, but now there’s something like the warmth and glow of life suffusing him now. his odd silver irises seem to faintly glow against the bloody red of the sclera. he breathes out a soft sigh, tongue thick as he intones in a low voice, ) Stay with me, Kazuya, ( reorienting the hand that had been fisted in his hair to the side of his neck, staunching the flow of blood as much as he can as the wound sluggishly started to mend itself.
he’s not going to stop there, though. no, he’s just getting more comfortable, more settled in his own skin and what he wants. dull fingernails still pressing into his skin, he drags his other hand along kazuya’s torso, eventually skating over his hip to his legs, continuing along the long line of his thigh until he finds the bend of his knee. he grabs hold of him there, pulling and twisting his own body so he can try to swing kazuya’s out to his side, so he lies back on the bed rather than how he’d been with his back facing the wall. it’s a shame, really, that the blood is already beginning to disappear from the walls, from his clothing—the huge stain beneath them in the bedding and mattress was already beginning to shrink. it’s a shame because he wishes he could paint kazuya in it, wishes that he could inscribe his own desires into him as a scar of his own. it’s a sudden urge that twists, disappointed and stymied, in the pit of his stomach. it’s okay. he’s not so inflexible—he can trade some desires for others. he settles over kazuya, their hips carefully aligned; he thinks that he likes the feeling of kazuya’s thigh bracketing him there, and he encourages it with a few guiding strokes of his hand, a contented hum filling the hollow of his throat.
he leaves kazuya’s own to continue to heal, instead rucking up his shirt away from his stomach and his ribs so he can bend down to them to begin to mouth along, all teeth and tongue, exploratory over the fields and patches of scarring and other marks. something possessive begins to grow inside of him, enough so that even the small, usually-nondescript mark of a spade just under his right ear darkens—it carries him into the swell of a petty, possessive instinct, and he once again drives his teeth into unmarred flesh just over his ribs, breaking skin to glance across bone. he doesn’t bite him quite so savagely as he had at his throat, but it’s because he’s not content to stop just there—he moves to another spot even as the first bite was beginning to heal, biting into him again (each time just harder than the last, as if the impermanence of the marks he’s leaving is a growing annoyance to him), and each time he does it he drives his hips against kazuya’s, forcing him to ride out pleasure with each surge of pain. his hardening cock has been straining at layers of clothing for the last few moments, but he isn’t in any particular hurry to do something about it—in truth it’s instead almost ancillary to what else he’s doing, far too entranced in what kazuya is permitting to want to push anything preemptively towards its inevitable end. )
🔞 cw: blood, violence
he doesn’t hide it. he couldn’t, even if he wanted to, even if he attempted to try. the only thing he is still mindful of is focusing rather on the perversion of the violence in order to distract himself from the overwhelming desire to eat; he doesn’t indulge in that so plainly as he had with J, stripping flesh from his neck to greedily consume, here only swallowing whatever shreds he might incidentally. for makoto, blood isn’t usually enough to satisfy him, but kazuya’s—it still isn’t, but it’s different, so it’s more. it warms him, buzzing beneath his skin, making him feel bizarrely bold, strong. even if he isn’t in actuality, it’s a dizzying mental illusion. as his own control over kazuya solidifies, the other teen loses it over himself; makoto can feel him repeatedly grabbing at him, not necessarily to shake or stop him but just to hold onto him, to urge him further. well, he certainly doesn’t want him to pass out. that would just be inconvenient.
so it’s with some reluctance that he pulls away from his throat, wantonly licking the blood from his face before it can begin to fleck away and disappear. sitting up a little, something about makoto looks a little different. typically the pallor of his skin is concerning, almost like that of a corpse, but now there’s something like the warmth and glow of life suffusing him now. his odd silver irises seem to faintly glow against the bloody red of the sclera. he breathes out a soft sigh, tongue thick as he intones in a low voice, ) Stay with me, Kazuya, ( reorienting the hand that had been fisted in his hair to the side of his neck, staunching the flow of blood as much as he can as the wound sluggishly started to mend itself.
he’s not going to stop there, though. no, he’s just getting more comfortable, more settled in his own skin and what he wants. dull fingernails still pressing into his skin, he drags his other hand along kazuya’s torso, eventually skating over his hip to his legs, continuing along the long line of his thigh until he finds the bend of his knee. he grabs hold of him there, pulling and twisting his own body so he can try to swing kazuya’s out to his side, so he lies back on the bed rather than how he’d been with his back facing the wall. it’s a shame, really, that the blood is already beginning to disappear from the walls, from his clothing—the huge stain beneath them in the bedding and mattress was already beginning to shrink. it’s a shame because he wishes he could paint kazuya in it, wishes that he could inscribe his own desires into him as a scar of his own. it’s a sudden urge that twists, disappointed and stymied, in the pit of his stomach. it’s okay. he’s not so inflexible—he can trade some desires for others. he settles over kazuya, their hips carefully aligned; he thinks that he likes the feeling of kazuya’s thigh bracketing him there, and he encourages it with a few guiding strokes of his hand, a contented hum filling the hollow of his throat.
he leaves kazuya’s own to continue to heal, instead rucking up his shirt away from his stomach and his ribs so he can bend down to them to begin to mouth along, all teeth and tongue, exploratory over the fields and patches of scarring and other marks. something possessive begins to grow inside of him, enough so that even the small, usually-nondescript mark of a spade just under his right ear darkens—it carries him into the swell of a petty, possessive instinct, and he once again drives his teeth into unmarred flesh just over his ribs, breaking skin to glance across bone. he doesn’t bite him quite so savagely as he had at his throat, but it’s because he’s not content to stop just there—he moves to another spot even as the first bite was beginning to heal, biting into him again (each time just harder than the last, as if the impermanence of the marks he’s leaving is a growing annoyance to him), and each time he does it he drives his hips against kazuya’s, forcing him to ride out pleasure with each surge of pain. his hardening cock has been straining at layers of clothing for the last few moments, but he isn’t in any particular hurry to do something about it—in truth it’s instead almost ancillary to what else he’s doing, far too entranced in what kazuya is permitting to want to push anything preemptively towards its inevitable end. )