[ the top of her head is brushing against the column of his neck (strands of her hair tickling his throat) as she's perched between him, his arms jostling about her, vietnam's palms soft on his calloused knuckles. it's a precarious condition, not physically, but on some mental schema that comes with sustained proximity (how she goes bright red when he does, the benignity of nearness outgunned by his sheepishness). she shouldn't have been embarrassed in the first place, but he is, so maybe she is, too, and it's —
he sucks in a careful, panicky gasp, afraid to breathe out in case she leans too far back and they end up paying their respects to the mortification of a close (deadly) encounter. the pads of her fingers press to the bones of his wrist, stilling his nerves; he's too distracted with the motion that he goes stock-still for a full fifteen seconds after the second egg's been cracked, the shell paper-thin in his hands, the film of the yolk nearly translucent on his fingers. ]
A-huh. Yeah, that's ... gentle. Yeah. That was kind of, um. Really intense.
[ even his ellipses are unintentionally hyperventilating.
clumsily, makoto crushes the pale eggshell in one closed fist, maneuvers around her to scour his hands of the gunk and retrieve two glasses of water.
there's no silvered ingenuity in his hands as he lifts a cup out to her, nothing bold and overwrought, but his tone is brimming with a strangely overelaborate strain, seizing up in rattled aimlessness. ]
Should we mix it now?
[ makoto's obviously no cooking mama, rifling through the drawers even though the whisk is already on the counter. he's not going to make it through this cooking session alive.
no subject
he sucks in a careful, panicky gasp, afraid to breathe out in case she leans too far back and they end up paying their respects to the mortification of a close (deadly) encounter. the pads of her fingers press to the bones of his wrist, stilling his nerves; he's too distracted with the motion that he goes stock-still for a full fifteen seconds after the second egg's been cracked, the shell paper-thin in his hands, the film of the yolk nearly translucent on his fingers. ]
A-huh. Yeah, that's ... gentle. Yeah. That was kind of, um. Really intense.
[ even his ellipses are unintentionally hyperventilating.
clumsily, makoto crushes the pale eggshell in one closed fist, maneuvers around her to scour his hands of the gunk and retrieve two glasses of water.
there's no silvered ingenuity in his hands as he lifts a cup out to her, nothing bold and overwrought, but his tone is brimming with a strangely overelaborate strain, seizing up in rattled aimlessness. ]
Should we mix it now?
[ makoto's obviously no cooking mama, rifling through the drawers even though the whisk is already on the counter. he's not going to make it through this cooking session alive.
basically: maneater.mp3?!?!?! ]