Kaisel
One foot in the ground
One foot in the grave
One foot in the grave
Her fit sends him into his own, especially when she snorts, and he's clutching his chest for breath as the laughter goes silent, all the air spent but the humor unending. When he finally drags another breath in, the chuckles steadily dying out, his cheeks hurt from the wide and near-constant smile. "Not always," he admits, "but I have my moments."
He smiles meaningfully back in response to her look. If she has a better name he's all ears. As her legs slide out from under his hand he stretches them above his head and slides out of his seat too. Leaning against the table he lazily watches her pour their drinks. The hot honey returns, and he arches a brow as he takes his measuring cup in both hands and sips on it slowly. What is she getting at now with that innocence that is anything but. "I figured," he says easily, unbothered by his lack of clothing, just hers. "You might need to wear sunglasses once it's off," he warns with a grin. His arms have some color, but he can't say he spends much time sunbathing among all the brick and stone of his home.
If I do you, will you do me?
He holds her with his gaze over his cup, mind instantly racing at that suggestion. Do her, like do her do her? No, no, that's stupid. Use context. Shirts. She wants him to take her shirt off? Why, it doesn't look like one of her difficult tied-up ones. Because she wants him to take her shirt off? Wait, she needs to keep her fucking shirt on damnit. She won't though, will she? Of course fucking not, she's Flora.
She clarifies, and everything that had tightened inside him relaxes at once. Oh, yeah that makes sense. "Sure," he agrees with a shrug, moving towards the stairs back up to the deck, the water coming with him for emotional support. "You better not draw a fucking star or something with it though," he warns, not putting it past her to design something unmanly for a temporary sun-tattoo, as it were.
Going up the stairs goes much faster than navigating down them with her in hand. The sea breeze is there instantly, but so is the heat, though it's a nice graze of warmth against his skin for the moment, like he needs some sun. He sets his water down in a corner and grabs the sunscreen still next to his bag from earlier, cartoon-shark tank-top peeling off over his head in a fluid motion. "Alright, lemme see your back," he says as he turns back to her, squeezing out a dollop of white cream.
He smiles meaningfully back in response to her look. If she has a better name he's all ears. As her legs slide out from under his hand he stretches them above his head and slides out of his seat too. Leaning against the table he lazily watches her pour their drinks. The hot honey returns, and he arches a brow as he takes his measuring cup in both hands and sips on it slowly. What is she getting at now with that innocence that is anything but. "I figured," he says easily, unbothered by his lack of clothing, just hers. "You might need to wear sunglasses once it's off," he warns with a grin. His arms have some color, but he can't say he spends much time sunbathing among all the brick and stone of his home.
If I do you, will you do me?
He holds her with his gaze over his cup, mind instantly racing at that suggestion. Do her, like do her do her? No, no, that's stupid. Use context. Shirts. She wants him to take her shirt off? Why, it doesn't look like one of her difficult tied-up ones. Because she wants him to take her shirt off? Wait, she needs to keep her fucking shirt on damnit. She won't though, will she? Of course fucking not, she's Flora.
She clarifies, and everything that had tightened inside him relaxes at once. Oh, yeah that makes sense. "Sure," he agrees with a shrug, moving towards the stairs back up to the deck, the water coming with him for emotional support. "You better not draw a fucking star or something with it though," he warns, not putting it past her to design something unmanly for a temporary sun-tattoo, as it were.
Going up the stairs goes much faster than navigating down them with her in hand. The sea breeze is there instantly, but so is the heat, though it's a nice graze of warmth against his skin for the moment, like he needs some sun. He sets his water down in a corner and grabs the sunscreen still next to his bag from earlier, cartoon-shark tank-top peeling off over his head in a fluid motion. "Alright, lemme see your back," he says as he turns back to her, squeezing out a dollop of white cream.
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
