( there is a part of him that wishes it could be this way forever. some say the magic fades once you get used to a thing, but— how many lives have they spent together? enough that it surely would’ve happened by now, were it possible. yet kirma never tires of any moment with esi, no matter how fraught things are. even when he’s agitated, complaining, sulking, the spaces between each thought are filled with warmth, and maybe that’s the true thing that anchors him there. if they could somehow come together without those things, though?
it’s akin to a pleasant dream, and right now, he gets to live it thoroughly. his legs part further, angling to try and facilitate esi’s movements, whatever they may be. the giggle is enough to pluck a heartstring, sending so much tension along the sinew that it feels ready to snap. really, why couldn’t it last— why couldn’t they thread themselves together, if they’re already irreversibly intertwined— to his addled mind, it all seems so straightforward. so easy. truly, the way it all backfires will shock him.
that doesn’t matter quite yet. right now, in this room, he’s more occupied with the body atop him; with a hand, he traces the shape of the still-healing gouges down his torso, a gentle echo of the violence from that day. there’s something akin to regret in his gaze, his fingertips lingering at the same spot they’d once pushed in so deep. there’s new skin there, knit soft and pink over a lurid moment, and maybe, with any luck, in another month there’ll be nothing there at all. )
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it’s akin to a pleasant dream, and right now, he gets to live it thoroughly. his legs part further, angling to try and facilitate esi’s movements, whatever they may be. the giggle is enough to pluck a heartstring, sending so much tension along the sinew that it feels ready to snap. really, why couldn’t it last— why couldn’t they thread themselves together, if they’re already irreversibly intertwined— to his addled mind, it all seems so straightforward. so easy. truly, the way it all backfires will shock him.
that doesn’t matter quite yet. right now, in this room, he’s more occupied with the body atop him; with a hand, he traces the shape of the still-healing gouges down his torso, a gentle echo of the violence from that day. there’s something akin to regret in his gaze, his fingertips lingering at the same spot they’d once pushed in so deep. there’s new skin there, knit soft and pink over a lurid moment, and maybe, with any luck, in another month there’ll be nothing there at all. )