( it doesn't even register in makoto's mind to be surprised that dextera molds to the gentle implication of his will, following the steady guidance of his hands without question or complaint once he decided there was nothing to be wary of; to him it feels unspoken and understood, allowing him to act without speaking, only coming to consider and possibly second-guess what he had done after it was over. he lingers there, half-leant over, and a vague tension settles across his shoulders like a thin layer of snow, seemingly ready to retreat at a moment's notice —
dextera doesn't know what might be expected of him in this situation, and neither does makoto; to him, the kiss had been transactional, a soft token of gratitude that felt like paltry repayment for what his companion had brought for them to sate their mutual desires, so now... he doesn't know. they share in that uncertainty. it pools between them, and dextera moves before makoto would be forced to decide what it would pressure him to do next. he can't say whether or not that's a relief. but his hands settle as a steady warmth on either side of his face, pleasant in the faint intimacy but not necessarily precipitous of whatever might come next as he might have expected. it only takes him a moment of looking into dextera's entreating eyes to grasp at least the shape of what it was he was trying to get across to him: that his fears, as impossible as it was to consider, were unfounded.
this realization shakes his shoulders and rattles in his lungs as a sudden laugh, a soft and dry chuckle that gives the impression of the rustle of brittle autumn leaves. he lifts his hands, and they ghost over dextera's, the pads of his fingers crawling slow over the crests of dextera's fingernails, giving him leverage enough to take those hands in hand and guide them down... until they similarly bracket at makoto's throat, those fingertips left to rest against the sutures and dense scar encircling his throat. )
You remember, right? When we'd first met. ( kept corralled by the achamite and hylici soldiers like cattle awaiting the slaughter, and dextera's attention had caught on the wound around his neck; he had reached out to touch it, and he had sensed a murderous intent from him as a flash in the pan before it had fizzled out and he had settled, disappointingly and boringly, into remorse and apologies. the first instance of physical contact between them, and with it kept in mind as a point of comparison... it only went to show how much had happened between them, what all they had been through. )
Though... I have to admit, I prefer this. ( he returns one of dextera's hands to the side of his face, going so far as to turn his face into his touch ever-so-slightly, heedless of the smear of blood across his cheek. )
no subject
dextera doesn't know what might be expected of him in this situation, and neither does makoto; to him, the kiss had been transactional, a soft token of gratitude that felt like paltry repayment for what his companion had brought for them to sate their mutual desires, so now... he doesn't know. they share in that uncertainty. it pools between them, and dextera moves before makoto would be forced to decide what it would pressure him to do next. he can't say whether or not that's a relief. but his hands settle as a steady warmth on either side of his face, pleasant in the faint intimacy but not necessarily precipitous of whatever might come next as he might have expected. it only takes him a moment of looking into dextera's entreating eyes to grasp at least the shape of what it was he was trying to get across to him: that his fears, as impossible as it was to consider, were unfounded.
this realization shakes his shoulders and rattles in his lungs as a sudden laugh, a soft and dry chuckle that gives the impression of the rustle of brittle autumn leaves. he lifts his hands, and they ghost over dextera's, the pads of his fingers crawling slow over the crests of dextera's fingernails, giving him leverage enough to take those hands in hand and guide them down... until they similarly bracket at makoto's throat, those fingertips left to rest against the sutures and dense scar encircling his throat. )
You remember, right? When we'd first met. ( kept corralled by the achamite and hylici soldiers like cattle awaiting the slaughter, and dextera's attention had caught on the wound around his neck; he had reached out to touch it, and he had sensed a murderous intent from him as a flash in the pan before it had fizzled out and he had settled, disappointingly and boringly, into remorse and apologies. the first instance of physical contact between them, and with it kept in mind as a point of comparison... it only went to show how much had happened between them, what all they had been through. )
Though... I have to admit, I prefer this. ( he returns one of dextera's hands to the side of his face, going so far as to turn his face into his touch ever-so-slightly, heedless of the smear of blood across his cheek. )