( the intensity of his interest is something telegraphed so loudly that it might be lit in neon lights, so easily causing makoto to recall the feverish and impassioned frenzy he was thrown into when his blood had dried on the contract between himself and J and sealed both of them into its terms. he likes to imagine he is more controlled, more refined about his unconventional desires by this point, and perhaps he is, but it's more by force of will and not any change or transmutation in who he is.

so dextera nods, and he accepts this scrap of information about his friend with a sort of reverence, still not quite believing that he is here, sharing this sort of moment — he had always accepted that his indulgence in something like this would be a lonely and alienating one, regardless of how gracious and accommodating his demon master was to his needs.

makoto watches on in awed, breathless fascination as dextera reaches out to the inert yet warm heart, bringing it to his mouth so that he could sink his teeth into it just so, hooking onto the thin membrane of interstitial tissue that had once protected and separated it from the other discrete parts of the body that it shared. he tears away that layer as one might shuck the husk from an ear of corn, though by the nature of animal over plant, it does so more messily, loosing a small gout of blood that runs down the length of dextera's arm, staining his sleeve dark red. he wouldn't have been able to tear his eyes away even if he tried. the copper scent of blood fills the air, bizarre in its twisting nostalgia. makoto has to suddenly clench his jaw and grind his teeth, shifting in place where he crouches to the ground, unable to either attribute words or know how best to process the truly bizarre experience of watching someone else do such a thing.

but rather than proceed with the fruit of his spoils, dextera instead offers it out to him. makoto pauses for a moment, thoughts temporarily wiped clean, and then he reaches out to accept it mutely. his fingers slide across the surface of the organ, slick with blood still warm. he can't help his hands from shaking somewhat. even if it's different, the context and the overall meaning, it's just been so long —

he brings the heart to his lips and opens his mouth, lips drawing back from sharpened teeth and inhumanly long, curving canines. they sink far more easily into the flesh of the organ than his human ones might have, and he pauses for just a moment to savor the feeling of preserved vitality in his hands, the roundness and fullness of it even as he tears a part of it away. and then he does so, biting off the mouthful and then chewing. it's tougher than he might have imagined. the heart, a tireless muscle, was so different both in texture and taste from what he'd eaten before; the metallic taste of blood is almost overwhelming. but still, a wild and restless energy overtakes him, building up to the point where it threatens to overflow. he tries to keep it down, but his breath rattles as he fills and empties his lungs. he swallows, and it is different — not so rote and perfunctory as eating a meal to satisfy mechanical hunger, instead going deeper to seethe as a twisted and pervasive warmth in his blood, enraptured and lowly demanding of more.

he speaks with a tongue thick with affectation, ) I'd never tried the heart before.

( how would J's taste? blood smears his mouth; it runs down both his bottom lip, his chin, his scarred throat, and both of his arms in cooling rivulets. it's not that he doesn't want to take another bite, to tear into the thing until there's nothing left, but — he doesn't. instead, he reaches out to hand the rest of it back to dextera, and he continues, anticipating his resistance, ) Don't argue. I'm grateful to have tried it, but - it means more to you than it does to me.