Honey wherever you go, I know
"Perfect," he says with a ring of mischief to the tone, as if she's just walked into a very cleverly laid trap and not potentially the other way around. Her fearful warnings are waved off like he knows there's no heart to them, or doesn't think there is anyway, which might be in part because he's already doing some of those things after living in King's End and the fear of them is worth more than the actuality. "I would love to find out how little sleep I can actually live off." Certainly would have preferred to put that to the test with her via other means, but ghost stories will do.
A gasp of offense leaves him at her insinuation, "are you saying I'm not bonita?" The direct result of not knowing anything about beauty, as it would be. "I'll have you know my skin doesn't glow like this all on its own. It just distinctly lacks frog spit as an ingredient." He seems to notice something on her though, like a piece of lint or something similarly out of place, and leans in a touch closer, scrutinizing. "Explains why you have a fresh wrinkle, just—there." He sticks his finger out towards her neck, and if she looks down, he'll flick his finger up at her nose, expecting the horror of a line to snare her.
The shadow of her claimed and marked skin remains unnoticed beneath her curtain of hair, and probably for the best.
"Ah, never said you can't cook," he corrects, one finger lifted and wagging. "Just said I'm better. If I do recall...at least one of the pancakes was rather burnt." An unfair jab, he's well aware, given he'd been the source of the distraction that burned it, but he wasn't going to offer that up freely. Her title only earns a satisfied smile as he steps in beside her, because whether mocking or not, he rather felt it suited him. She could have witch doctor, frog kisser, ghost buster, but he'd stick with master chef.
His head turns like a marionette at her question as they find pace, silent before a delayed scoff skips free. "I'm tall!" An arm flies up to his head and ghosts overtop hers, demonstrating the clear difference like she's gone mad. "How fucking tall do you mean? Because Sunjata height seems miserable, bet he has to duck under every doorway and gets a crick in his neck just writing letters."
A gasp of offense leaves him at her insinuation, "are you saying I'm not bonita?" The direct result of not knowing anything about beauty, as it would be. "I'll have you know my skin doesn't glow like this all on its own. It just distinctly lacks frog spit as an ingredient." He seems to notice something on her though, like a piece of lint or something similarly out of place, and leans in a touch closer, scrutinizing. "Explains why you have a fresh wrinkle, just—there." He sticks his finger out towards her neck, and if she looks down, he'll flick his finger up at her nose, expecting the horror of a line to snare her.
The shadow of her claimed and marked skin remains unnoticed beneath her curtain of hair, and probably for the best.
"Ah, never said you can't cook," he corrects, one finger lifted and wagging. "Just said I'm better. If I do recall...at least one of the pancakes was rather burnt." An unfair jab, he's well aware, given he'd been the source of the distraction that burned it, but he wasn't going to offer that up freely. Her title only earns a satisfied smile as he steps in beside her, because whether mocking or not, he rather felt it suited him. She could have witch doctor, frog kisser, ghost buster, but he'd stick with master chef.
His head turns like a marionette at her question as they find pace, silent before a delayed scoff skips free. "I'm tall!" An arm flies up to his head and ghosts overtop hers, demonstrating the clear difference like she's gone mad. "How fucking tall do you mean? Because Sunjata height seems miserable, bet he has to duck under every doorway and gets a crick in his neck just writing letters."
Kaisel
I'd give up half of forever, just to be with you
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
