makoto, in directing dextera’s head, meets only the most cursory resistance. it’s more instinctive than conscious, and as soon as dextera realizes the touch is gentle and not at all meant to harm, he faces makoto properly and is rewarded for his compliance.
dextera doesn’t taste the blood with the shallowness of the kiss, but he feels it; a visceral, grounding thing amidst the way surprise seems to briefly separate his mind and his body. their circumstances neatly coalesce down to the warm point of contact between their lips, and dextera’s senses have to return one by one as if filing in after makoto expresses his gratitude. ]
…
[ he doesn’t know what he’s expected to do in this situation. nobody would. no one else in the world has done this, and that faint realization brings with it some relief—there’s technically nothing he can do that’s wrong, if no one has ever dictated what would be right.
even as he tries in the face of makoto’s concern to offer an instant, perfect answer, his body moves before him as it always does.
dextera’s hands lift to frame makoto’s face. his thumbs sit at either corner of makoto’s mouth—his thumbs, too, still have blood on skin and in the ridges of his nails. once he’s actually touching makoto, his hands are grave-still and he seems caught between two places, his body’s desire and his mind’s rationale leaving him somewhat bereft of a next step. his wide gaze into makoto’s is likely the most sustained eye contact he’s had with another person in—
ages. ever. he doesn’t know what he wants to say. maybe, he just wants to look at makoto until understanding comes to him, a necessary reassurance that makoto has nothing to worry about.
he doesn’t even breathe, holding onto makoto’s sigh in his lungs. ]
no subject
makoto, in directing dextera’s head, meets only the most cursory resistance. it’s more instinctive than conscious, and as soon as dextera realizes the touch is gentle and not at all meant to harm, he faces makoto properly and is rewarded for his compliance.
dextera doesn’t taste the blood with the shallowness of the kiss, but he feels it; a visceral, grounding thing amidst the way surprise seems to briefly separate his mind and his body. their circumstances neatly coalesce down to the warm point of contact between their lips, and dextera’s senses have to return one by one as if filing in after makoto expresses his gratitude. ]
…
[ he doesn’t know what he’s expected to do in this situation. nobody would. no one else in the world has done this, and that faint realization brings with it some relief—there’s technically nothing he can do that’s wrong, if no one has ever dictated what would be right.
even as he tries in the face of makoto’s concern to offer an instant, perfect answer, his body moves before him as it always does.
dextera’s hands lift to frame makoto’s face. his thumbs sit at either corner of makoto’s mouth—his thumbs, too, still have blood on skin and in the ridges of his nails. once he’s actually touching makoto, his hands are grave-still and he seems caught between two places, his body’s desire and his mind’s rationale leaving him somewhat bereft of a next step. his wide gaze into makoto’s is likely the most sustained eye contact he’s had with another person in—
ages. ever. he doesn’t know what he wants to say. maybe, he just wants to look at makoto until understanding comes to him, a necessary reassurance that makoto has nothing to worry about.
he doesn’t even breathe, holding onto makoto’s sigh in his lungs. ]