truth be told, it would be bizarrely comforting to makoto that that's what it symbolizes to dextera. an interesting, refreshing, and altogether backwards sort of conception, or at least from makoto's perspective. but he would want to believe in something like that, as twisted as it was. when bending to these desires of his, he had always felt the furthest away from the conception of "God" that he had built when trying to picture the divinity that was damning him for what felt outside of his control. that guilt had plagued him far worse when he had been human and alive — he had held onto J's body in a feverish embrace, tearing strips of living flesh away from him, and all the while he had pressed mumbled apologies into his skin and peppered him with questions, "does it hurt too bad?" he had still had the decency to feel conflicted for finding pleasure in the pain of others. he had still thought it best to end his life when what gave him the most satisfaction could only be satisfied when someone was either dead or would die very soon.
he can sense the resistance at first, but he can also plainly see the release in his self-control as soon as makoto gives him full permission. he doesn't mind the brusqueness with which the heart is taken back from him; actually, a corner of his bloodied mouth tugs upwards in a smile as he watches him take it back with such force and fervency. whether or not he noticed dextera's plain envy, it didn't really matter; it was clear to him that this, for whatever reason unique to dextera, held special significance, and so he didn't mind at all giving it up to him. he pauses, rapt in his attention as he puts off reaching for something else to watch his companion instead. dextera's mien has always been a dull one, alternating blank and blunt, but he can see the fire and light and life in him as he tears into the heart with an intense sense of need. watching him do such a thing, especially with such stark imperative is — well. his eyes have lidded half-closed, and he exhales a long, slow breath from parted lips, even as dextera is certain to not waste even a single drop of blood.
he flushes red with color as well, and turns back to what remains. he begins to reach to the coils of intestines, but then he pauses, a bizarre and singular laugh leaping into the back of his throat. )
...In the past I'd done this with a fork and knife.
( it was bizarre, he knows, but that's how it had been. utensils, soy sauce, ponzu. J, torn asunder on his bedroom floor, entrails spilling free from where he'd torn him in two; heat, blood, pulsing through every part of him. he would fall to him in a passion that verged on desperation, filling his mouth with whatever part of him he could; he would bite, chew, and swallow, and he would feel the demon's hand running through his hair— not having sampled every part of the body, makoto couldn't necessarily say for certain he knew them to be his favorite, but it was the offal of the human body that always brought him back to his most powerful memories of the time he spent contracted with J.
he finishes reaching out to them, looping a length of the entrails around two of his fingers before drawing them up to himself. his heart is beating faster and faster; he is trying to maintain his composure as best he can, but it's more difficult to hide his breath, coming in quicker and more ragged. he pauses, reaching out with his other hand to mimic the same motion, pulling free a separate length of the guts and offering them to dextera.
as with the heart, he wants him to try with him.
with that accomplished, makoto raises the entrails to his mouth. he hesitates for just a moment, swallowing visibly, and then he opens his mouth and takes a bite. even with all of his jittery apprehension and excitement, he doesn't show the same forceful voracity that dextera had. it's been — years. he hasn't been able to do something like this in four or so years, not since he had bitten J's tongue out of his mouth. he wants to appreciate it, to enjoy it. he allows the offal to fill his mouth, soft and still warm with blood and life, and for a moment he keeps it there, pressed against his palate and the flat of his tongue. but... perhaps he's not so disciplined as he would like to believe. his breath hitches, and his teeth shear the bite away from the whole; he chews, blood and juice filling his mouth, and a small sound lifts from the back of his throat before he swallows it down and continues with far more focus and drive, the cadence of his eating sometimes slowing in moments where he seems to appreciate and savor something for a beat before continuing — until the moment that the intestines, between the two of them, have all been eaten, or he is very nearly full from his ravenous attack on them.
his blood moves through his body in what feels like a slow yet urging crawl, thick and inexorable; where before the flush of warmth and color had been like a brush across his cheeks, a faint indication of his being flustered, now it colors his face more earnestly, pooling in the hollow of his throat and burning in the tips of his ears. even with his best efforts to control it, his breathing is thick and affected; feeling embarrassed to be like this around anyone else but J, he curls inward to himself a bit, drawing his knees closer. he hadn't really thought about this part, so excited to be in the passion of the moment that he hadn't thought about what it might feel like to feel so... precariously exposed to someone he already got the feeling did not have the same exact relationship to this particular act as he does.
he is at least... trying to deal with it as much grace as he possibly can. trying to calm his breathing, slow the urging of his blood, and just... wait it out. )
no subject
truth be told, it would be bizarrely comforting to makoto that that's what it symbolizes to dextera. an interesting, refreshing, and altogether backwards sort of conception, or at least from makoto's perspective. but he would want to believe in something like that, as twisted as it was. when bending to these desires of his, he had always felt the furthest away from the conception of "God" that he had built when trying to picture the divinity that was damning him for what felt outside of his control. that guilt had plagued him far worse when he had been human and alive — he had held onto J's body in a feverish embrace, tearing strips of living flesh away from him, and all the while he had pressed mumbled apologies into his skin and peppered him with questions, "does it hurt too bad?" he had still had the decency to feel conflicted for finding pleasure in the pain of others. he had still thought it best to end his life when what gave him the most satisfaction could only be satisfied when someone was either dead or would die very soon.
he can sense the resistance at first, but he can also plainly see the release in his self-control as soon as makoto gives him full permission. he doesn't mind the brusqueness with which the heart is taken back from him; actually, a corner of his bloodied mouth tugs upwards in a smile as he watches him take it back with such force and fervency. whether or not he noticed dextera's plain envy, it didn't really matter; it was clear to him that this, for whatever reason unique to dextera, held special significance, and so he didn't mind at all giving it up to him. he pauses, rapt in his attention as he puts off reaching for something else to watch his companion instead. dextera's mien has always been a dull one, alternating blank and blunt, but he can see the fire and light and life in him as he tears into the heart with an intense sense of need. watching him do such a thing, especially with such stark imperative is — well. his eyes have lidded half-closed, and he exhales a long, slow breath from parted lips, even as dextera is certain to not waste even a single drop of blood.
he flushes red with color as well, and turns back to what remains. he begins to reach to the coils of intestines, but then he pauses, a bizarre and singular laugh leaping into the back of his throat. )
...In the past I'd done this with a fork and knife.
( it was bizarre, he knows, but that's how it had been. utensils, soy sauce, ponzu. J, torn asunder on his bedroom floor, entrails spilling free from where he'd torn him in two; heat, blood, pulsing through every part of him. he would fall to him in a passion that verged on desperation, filling his mouth with whatever part of him he could; he would bite, chew, and swallow, and he would feel the demon's hand running through his hair— not having sampled every part of the body, makoto couldn't necessarily say for certain he knew them to be his favorite, but it was the offal of the human body that always brought him back to his most powerful memories of the time he spent contracted with J.
he finishes reaching out to them, looping a length of the entrails around two of his fingers before drawing them up to himself. his heart is beating faster and faster; he is trying to maintain his composure as best he can, but it's more difficult to hide his breath, coming in quicker and more ragged. he pauses, reaching out with his other hand to mimic the same motion, pulling free a separate length of the guts and offering them to dextera.
as with the heart, he wants him to try with him.
with that accomplished, makoto raises the entrails to his mouth. he hesitates for just a moment, swallowing visibly, and then he opens his mouth and takes a bite. even with all of his jittery apprehension and excitement, he doesn't show the same forceful voracity that dextera had. it's been — years. he hasn't been able to do something like this in four or so years, not since he had bitten J's tongue out of his mouth. he wants to appreciate it, to enjoy it. he allows the offal to fill his mouth, soft and still warm with blood and life, and for a moment he keeps it there, pressed against his palate and the flat of his tongue. but... perhaps he's not so disciplined as he would like to believe. his breath hitches, and his teeth shear the bite away from the whole; he chews, blood and juice filling his mouth, and a small sound lifts from the back of his throat before he swallows it down and continues with far more focus and drive, the cadence of his eating sometimes slowing in moments where he seems to appreciate and savor something for a beat before continuing — until the moment that the intestines, between the two of them, have all been eaten, or he is very nearly full from his ravenous attack on them.
his blood moves through his body in what feels like a slow yet urging crawl, thick and inexorable; where before the flush of warmth and color had been like a brush across his cheeks, a faint indication of his being flustered, now it colors his face more earnestly, pooling in the hollow of his throat and burning in the tips of his ears. even with his best efforts to control it, his breathing is thick and affected; feeling embarrassed to be like this around anyone else but J, he curls inward to himself a bit, drawing his knees closer. he hadn't really thought about this part, so excited to be in the passion of the moment that he hadn't thought about what it might feel like to feel so... precariously exposed to someone he already got the feeling did not have the same exact relationship to this particular act as he does.
he is at least... trying to deal with it as much grace as he possibly can. trying to calm his breathing, slow the urging of his blood, and just... wait it out. )