( the last individual who had manhandled him like this had been in the process of tearing his head clear off — anything short of that would be all too much bark and too little bite.
if they were in hell and the same misfortune had befallen gen of ending up in the same situation as makoto, that one brief lapse would've been the moment where he'd have him; the syllables of his name would've fallen apart on his tongue, turned sharp as razor-blades and as caustic as acid. lucky for him, then, that they are here, and the only real "power" makoto has in this situation is a distinct lack of care as to what happens to himself. he enjoys it, though, that ever-so-slight rattle in his breath as the otherness of the demon in his grasp shakes his core. it's not that he's without his own reactions, though. the further tightening and tangling of the grasp in his hair brings about a new tautness around his eyes, furrowing a once-composed brow. ow.
he can't help but laugh at the choice in words. "hobby." it's a dry, crackling chuckle that shakes loose from somewhere in his ribcage; the sound is dark and mocking, though... it doesn't really seem like it's directed at gen himself. when he speaks again, the tone is subdued and has a rasp that hadn't previously been there, ) You think this looks like something I'd do to myself?
( of all the possibilities for self-inflicted wounds there might be in the world, he feels like "decapitation" is probably... low on that list. though he supposes he might be half-right. he is, after all, getting pretty adept at redoing the stitches.
the fact that squeamishness doesn't get the better of him is a point in his favor, really; makoto hadn't been certain he would've made it even this far. his hand falls away as the fingertips probe at the macabre juncture, feeling little more than pressure crossing scar tissue and sutures. even still, something coils tight in his chest, preemptively tense, recalling similar scenarios with J and keiran and knowing what was probably going to come next —
the sensation of a finger forcing apart the seam between two of the sutures is a familiar one, though that familiarity doesn't make it any less pleasant. his shoulders rise in involuntary alarm, his lip further curling from his teeth, half-changing his smile into a teeth-bared snarl. a wordless sound of pain lifts from the back of his throat, regardless of how much he hates that it does. makoto is a sadist, not a masochist, and his sensitivity to pain is no different than any human. even still, he's willing to grin and bear it to make a point. he can scarcely move his head for how tight the grip is on his hair, and the prying at his neck feels so much more viscerally alarming when he's relatively certain too much of this thing could actually kill him, this time. and yet he sets all of that aside, steeling his nerve so he can lift his hand to gen's once more. it settles over his own, light as air for just a moment before adding pressure — not much, but just enough to open the new wound slightly more, so that crimson blood begins to leak from it in earnest. )
The blood. It's warm, isn't it? (hurts. pain and discomfort form a block in his mind, but he forces himself around it; the breath he takes before continuing shakes faintly as he draws it. ) My heart, beating, forcing it to run... Odd for a zombie, wouldn't you think?
they are so incredibly normal...
if they were in hell and the same misfortune had befallen gen of ending up in the same situation as makoto, that one brief lapse would've been the moment where he'd have him; the syllables of his name would've fallen apart on his tongue, turned sharp as razor-blades and as caustic as acid. lucky for him, then, that they are here, and the only real "power" makoto has in this situation is a distinct lack of care as to what happens to himself. he enjoys it, though, that ever-so-slight rattle in his breath as the otherness of the demon in his grasp shakes his core. it's not that he's without his own reactions, though. the further tightening and tangling of the grasp in his hair brings about a new tautness around his eyes, furrowing a once-composed brow. ow.
he can't help but laugh at the choice in words. "hobby." it's a dry, crackling chuckle that shakes loose from somewhere in his ribcage; the sound is dark and mocking, though... it doesn't really seem like it's directed at gen himself. when he speaks again, the tone is subdued and has a rasp that hadn't previously been there, ) You think this looks like something I'd do to myself?
( of all the possibilities for self-inflicted wounds there might be in the world, he feels like "decapitation" is probably... low on that list. though he supposes he might be half-right. he is, after all, getting pretty adept at redoing the stitches.
the fact that squeamishness doesn't get the better of him is a point in his favor, really; makoto hadn't been certain he would've made it even this far. his hand falls away as the fingertips probe at the macabre juncture, feeling little more than pressure crossing scar tissue and sutures. even still, something coils tight in his chest, preemptively tense, recalling similar scenarios with J and keiran and knowing what was probably going to come next —
the sensation of a finger forcing apart the seam between two of the sutures is a familiar one, though that familiarity doesn't make it any less pleasant. his shoulders rise in involuntary alarm, his lip further curling from his teeth, half-changing his smile into a teeth-bared snarl. a wordless sound of pain lifts from the back of his throat, regardless of how much he hates that it does. makoto is a sadist, not a masochist, and his sensitivity to pain is no different than any human. even still, he's willing to grin and bear it to make a point. he can scarcely move his head for how tight the grip is on his hair, and the prying at his neck feels so much more viscerally alarming when he's relatively certain too much of this thing could actually kill him, this time. and yet he sets all of that aside, steeling his nerve so he can lift his hand to gen's once more. it settles over his own, light as air for just a moment before adding pressure — not much, but just enough to open the new wound slightly more, so that crimson blood begins to leak from it in earnest. )
The blood. It's warm, isn't it? ( hurts. pain and discomfort form a block in his mind, but he forces himself around it; the breath he takes before continuing shakes faintly as he draws it. ) My heart, beating, forcing it to run... Odd for a zombie, wouldn't you think?