Let's make tonight the weekend, I don't wanna wait
She explains the tale without any pause or hesitation, so really he has to believe her, as wild as it sounds. The void aspect helps explain a lot, because of course it'd be the purple fuckers that are at the root of such an insane tale. His lips press down in the kind of frown that isn't upset, but surprised, nodding along with it in an expression that can only be described as a facial shrug. He stands corrected, she has done just that. "Well, then that certainly seems like a fair test," he says with an an impressed edge to his voice.
He's less sure of her assertion about wombled, but by then he's laughing too much to care, and even if it is fake he still loves it. He also really has no ground to stand on when it comes to scrutinizing the vocabulary of others. So, he instead wombles through the laughing fit, the continual revisiting of the word definitely one of the sources of his repeated outbursts.
If you've ever slapped the arm of a couch and then watched a plume of dust rise up, especially if there's a sunbeam cutting in at just the right angle, well that's kinda what happens when his palm connects with her ass cheek. Speckles of clay bounce up off her in a reverse rainfall of crumbs, at least for a moment, before gravity reclaims them and they scatter against the floor. He's tempted to help her remove it all by turning her into a bongo. Just for a second. The yelp she delivers and the swift admonishment after have him lifting his hands in mild surrender instead, although his grin is entirely unrepentant, "that was a bit of a tip all it's own."
He pauses with his armful of supplies to fully appraise the new artwork that's arrived to the orangery. "Oh my," he croons. "What an e x q u i s i t e piece," he lavishes, reaching up to adjust a pair of invisible glasses, because cultured people would obviously be wearing glasses. He gives an undignified gasp and a fake startle, towels scattering with the force of it, as she turns to move. "Oh my GODS, EUNICE!" he cries out, pearls theatrically clutched, his terribly named wife somewhere nearby surely. "The statue is moving!" He's forced to reset his pretend glasses, although all pretense for the fine art curator is dropped the moment her alluring tone reaches out. Kinda like old cartoons that have a pie smell wafting off in the shape of a hand and curling finger, guiding a hungry duck or rabbit towards the cooling treat, so his gaze is instantly affixed to the womble of her retreat.
His tray of remaining towels is dropped with all the urgency of something too hot to hold, clattering to the ground with a metallic hum. He does keep a grip on the clay bowl at least, tightly even, as she teases out the idea of spirits helping her instead, a thought which had never occurred to him until now, and abruptly he's jealous of a goddamned house. "I've got spirit!" he calls after her, clay remnants hurriedly deposited on a nearby table as he rushes after her, practically sprinting down the passage. "Ma'am, you have the upgraded package, private assistance included!"
He's less sure of her assertion about wombled, but by then he's laughing too much to care, and even if it is fake he still loves it. He also really has no ground to stand on when it comes to scrutinizing the vocabulary of others. So, he instead wombles through the laughing fit, the continual revisiting of the word definitely one of the sources of his repeated outbursts.
If you've ever slapped the arm of a couch and then watched a plume of dust rise up, especially if there's a sunbeam cutting in at just the right angle, well that's kinda what happens when his palm connects with her ass cheek. Speckles of clay bounce up off her in a reverse rainfall of crumbs, at least for a moment, before gravity reclaims them and they scatter against the floor. He's tempted to help her remove it all by turning her into a bongo. Just for a second. The yelp she delivers and the swift admonishment after have him lifting his hands in mild surrender instead, although his grin is entirely unrepentant, "that was a bit of a tip all it's own."
He pauses with his armful of supplies to fully appraise the new artwork that's arrived to the orangery. "Oh my," he croons. "What an e x q u i s i t e piece," he lavishes, reaching up to adjust a pair of invisible glasses, because cultured people would obviously be wearing glasses. He gives an undignified gasp and a fake startle, towels scattering with the force of it, as she turns to move. "Oh my GODS, EUNICE!" he cries out, pearls theatrically clutched, his terribly named wife somewhere nearby surely. "The statue is moving!" He's forced to reset his pretend glasses, although all pretense for the fine art curator is dropped the moment her alluring tone reaches out. Kinda like old cartoons that have a pie smell wafting off in the shape of a hand and curling finger, guiding a hungry duck or rabbit towards the cooling treat, so his gaze is instantly affixed to the womble of her retreat.
His tray of remaining towels is dropped with all the urgency of something too hot to hold, clattering to the ground with a metallic hum. He does keep a grip on the clay bowl at least, tightly even, as she teases out the idea of spirits helping her instead, a thought which had never occurred to him until now, and abruptly he's jealous of a goddamned house. "I've got spirit!" he calls after her, clay remnants hurriedly deposited on a nearby table as he rushes after her, practically sprinting down the passage. "Ma'am, you have the upgraded package, private assistance included!"
Kaisel
Got no reason not to celebrate
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
