but you’d never get hit without earning it
and i only hit you first ‘cuz i deserved my own hit too
still it comes the time to call you out
since i’m the one that you should be about
The affection between the two is almost overwhelming: Litotes wants to tear away from Kensa’s hot flesh, though he forces himself to swallow the fear that lodges like too-eager swallowed food in his throat. How unknown this all is, he thinks, almost cursing himself for being so fixated on her that he has no experience in pleasure. It is not entirely out of nowhere, the flirtation and devotion to Hyaline forming a bond like kudzu: perpetual through disaster and uncontrollably invasive.
How ignorant - impossibly ignorant to deny that their desires would collide.
Their cheeks brush, breathe to breathe they stand - his grin a perfect physical example of the red velvet blanketing his heart. Kensa’s question goes unanswered, the reason for his murmuring a subtle shiver in the air they can both feel. He will not respond - at least not yet. The Primarch instead presses his lips to his counterpart’s forehead, then one above each eye, draping his mouth slowly over her lashes when he pulls away to feel their tickling brush (a strange gesture but an honest one - a part of her he did not know that he needed to).
In this instant, hovering a fraction of a centimeter above her white fur, he knows it (knows it like he knows nothing else): he loves his Kensa, his plum-devouring goof, his equal. She is the sun to his shadow and the shadow to his sun, both equal parts of an ancient cliche. How he adores her in this moment and all moments future and past: her passions, her pitfalls (in sickness and in health). The sensuous embers smoldering in his eyes simmer to an encompassing gold glitter, like two suns that would warm his love if they could.
The cremello steps to the side, stretching his muzzle to trail his lips down her neck. His journey stops where his teeth marked her skin, pressing a firm kiss into the indented flesh. Kensa’s burnt chestnut spine stretches before him: rolling curves and soft, neverending summertime fur. Litotes cannot resist the way her little movements whisper - the subtle ebb and flow of their dance. He presses onward, kissing down the middle of her back until he thinks he may pass out from breathing in too much of her intoxicatingly sweet scent. On her hindquarters he stops, presses his cheek into the welcoming fur of her back’s coat and just breathes, inching close enough that their sides press hotly together.
The desire is still there but this is decidedly sweet - Lie being the kind so terribly unable to resist his emotions when they spill over.
“I love you -” a pause, hesitant and painful and too much for words barely above a whisper -
“Kensa, I love you.”
Red, flustered, and scared for a moment too long, the cremello prances away from the chestnut. The distance between them stretches for only a second before he steps carefully back, for once not scared that he will ruin what feels right. He returns his head to the dip in Kensa’s back, eyeing her for whatever permission or reciprocation he feels she must give.
@[Kensa]
