[ he’d been so quiet the entire time, upright and still as a buddha where he sat in some overgrown public park. (it was easier, see, to fuck around with the optics against the empty backdrop of the sky.) recounting his crimes was less a painful ordeal than it was a bleeding out, mechanical, automatic; a laying out of his bones for this little mage to pore over.
but something of her pressing and her prodding manages to slip through like fingers in his chest cavity, knuckles brushing up featherlight against his living organs. something in her words cradles the raw muscle of his heart, has the whole of him shuddering from the danger of it.
they’re just letters, simple little letters hanging against the blue of a later afternoon, highlighted in bubbles with every raggy cloud that scuds by. they are just words. ]
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but something of her pressing and her prodding manages to slip through like fingers in his chest cavity, knuckles brushing up featherlight against his living organs. something in her words cradles the raw muscle of his heart, has the whole of him shuddering from the danger of it.
they’re just letters, simple little letters hanging against the blue of a later afternoon, highlighted in bubbles with every raggy cloud that scuds by. they are just words. ]