Kaisel
One foot in the ground
One foot in the grave
One foot in the grave
There it is again. That subtle query in his name, an ask to cease, still at odds with the way she clings to him, compressing even tighter as the space narrows. She doesn't continue to say what she's asking, and he can't read her damn mind. He hesitates for a step or two, but he's still sure that he needs her out of his arms as quickly as possible, like a hot potato, so he continues regardless, ignorant to the fact that each step tugs them closer to her line she's trying not to cross.
She squirms against his command, as uncooperative as ever. He scoffs and jostles her in his arms as rebuke. "Way ahead of you there Flo-ro, water was next on the list," he reassures. "But, if you can't say any good things about yourself, then we have a bigger problem on our hands." He lets it linger like a threat, uncertain what he'll do exactly, but he isn't above waterboarding it out of her if he has to. Hydrate her and complete his request, perfect.
As they hit the bottom of the steps he lingers, taking in her living space for the first time since she moved. It's an organized chaos that suits her, vibrant with life. There's tucked away comforts, testaments to things she refused to yield, and though it lacks the same careful curation of her home, it definitely goes beyond most people's boat arrangements—delusions of sea-grandeur. He sets her on the bench by the table, careful with the exchange, and glances down at her with a finger jabbing at her shoulder. "I wanna hear 'em."
He sets distance between them by moving into the kitchen, flipping open every drawer and cupboard on the hunt for glasses.
She squirms against his command, as uncooperative as ever. He scoffs and jostles her in his arms as rebuke. "Way ahead of you there Flo-ro, water was next on the list," he reassures. "But, if you can't say any good things about yourself, then we have a bigger problem on our hands." He lets it linger like a threat, uncertain what he'll do exactly, but he isn't above waterboarding it out of her if he has to. Hydrate her and complete his request, perfect.
As they hit the bottom of the steps he lingers, taking in her living space for the first time since she moved. It's an organized chaos that suits her, vibrant with life. There's tucked away comforts, testaments to things she refused to yield, and though it lacks the same careful curation of her home, it definitely goes beyond most people's boat arrangements—delusions of sea-grandeur. He sets her on the bench by the table, careful with the exchange, and glances down at her with a finger jabbing at her shoulder. "I wanna hear 'em."
He sets distance between them by moving into the kitchen, flipping open every drawer and cupboard on the hunt for glasses.
It's not the devil at your door
It's just your shadow on the floor
It's just your shadow on the floor
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
