// Start a tiny riot //
She zeroes in on a word like a shark scenting blood, and he's left a bit slack-jawed, wondering if there's any hope he can walk it back or if all he's done is stave off the inevitable a bit longer. Even as she shifts—descending into soft contentment and lean curves he does his best not to let his eyes trace in the moonlight—he’s still suspicious. It’d be just like her to change tactics mid-battle, lull him into dropping his guard so she can land the perfect strike, merciless as ever in her pursuit of victory.
She disarms him too quickly for it to matter, and he doesn't even twist or shove or enact any of his defense strategies. Maybe he wouldn't have, even if she had gone for the kill. Whether it's submitting to his fate or just to the one orchestrating it, he’s not sure, and it doesn’t matter now. Because instead of tickling claws, she gives him gravity. It's not the weight of her nestling against him that presses down—she’s a favorite comforter pulled close against the dark and the day, warm and familiar and is everything that makes sleep good. No, the heaviness comes from everything else about her.
He isn't sure when casual hugs and shoulder bumps turned into careless slouching and kisses passed like notes to everything except their lips (and even then, at her party). Isn't sure when holding her became more normal than not, or when having her tucked in tight, like this, doesn't feel intimate but expected, though no less valued.
She makes things too easy, makes the edges blur—like watercolor on wet paper. He doesn’t look too hard at the shape of it, just adds a little more water, a little more paint, and lets it spread into an image of twilight.
One arm slips overtop of her, fingers skating lightly along the back of her shirt while the other hand curls around her calf. "Mmm... might be worth the risk if only two are real. Curse roulette sounds fun." He glances down, chin tilting to try and catch her face before giving up and letting his head turn into her hair with a soft exhale. His hand rises to brush strands back behind her ear, coaxing strays away so they stop tickling his skin. He hums something soft—some vague noise of acknowledgment about the water—but he's caught her yawn.
She steals every ounce of tension from his bones with each breath, and though he’d wanted nothing more than for this hellish day to end...now, he's fighting the way his eyelids feel heavy. He wants it to last a little longer, so he can hold onto this.
She disarms him too quickly for it to matter, and he doesn't even twist or shove or enact any of his defense strategies. Maybe he wouldn't have, even if she had gone for the kill. Whether it's submitting to his fate or just to the one orchestrating it, he’s not sure, and it doesn’t matter now. Because instead of tickling claws, she gives him gravity. It's not the weight of her nestling against him that presses down—she’s a favorite comforter pulled close against the dark and the day, warm and familiar and is everything that makes sleep good. No, the heaviness comes from everything else about her.
He isn't sure when casual hugs and shoulder bumps turned into careless slouching and kisses passed like notes to everything except their lips (and even then, at her party). Isn't sure when holding her became more normal than not, or when having her tucked in tight, like this, doesn't feel intimate but expected, though no less valued.
She makes things too easy, makes the edges blur—like watercolor on wet paper. He doesn’t look too hard at the shape of it, just adds a little more water, a little more paint, and lets it spread into an image of twilight.
One arm slips overtop of her, fingers skating lightly along the back of her shirt while the other hand curls around her calf. "Mmm... might be worth the risk if only two are real. Curse roulette sounds fun." He glances down, chin tilting to try and catch her face before giving up and letting his head turn into her hair with a soft exhale. His hand rises to brush strands back behind her ear, coaxing strays away so they stop tickling his skin. He hums something soft—some vague noise of acknowledgment about the water—but he's caught her yawn.
She steals every ounce of tension from his bones with each breath, and though he’d wanted nothing more than for this hellish day to end...now, he's fighting the way his eyelids feel heavy. He wants it to last a little longer, so he can hold onto this.
Kaisel
// Stop being so goddamn quiet //
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
