They're not my clothes.

( dryly--he doesn't care if esikko smears his own blood into them, smears the blood he's collected into them. these aren't the clothes that had been designed for him, fireproof, ragged like his mind; these aren't the clothes he kept in an old dirty backpack, when he'd been living on his own, the only few items he ever possessed there. it would be easy enough to send them all out to be cleaned, and even easier still to just request that the house deliver him new ones. easy enough to shell out a little cash for them.

it doesn't matter. not his clothes, not his skin. esikko's blood smears a soft, gentle scent on his skin, but it doesn't matter.

with a slight narrowing of his eyes, he pulls his hand back for a moment to assess--his nose is still dripping, but it's not the gushing of before, puddling around his palm and fingers. with a soft sigh, he puts his hand back in, pinching gently. )

And I've had my dick inside you. Think I care about a little blood?

( there's some wry amusement in his voice, all the same. )

You're not gonna stay here, are you? You're gonna go back to your room, write in your little journal, and wash your face.