Let's make tonight the weekend, I don't wanna wait
Oh, he well knows how thorough Flora likes to be. Given his expression is already competing with a knife's edge, her explanation does little to affect him except continue to tip his thoughts into the gutter. Which, honestly seems to be exactly where she wants them if the incline of her hip is any indicator. He's half a mind to wrap her up in his arms instead of seaweed and steal her away to the bedroom for a proper tip (literal and figurative). Alas, that'd completely ruin the reputation of Spa de Wildering, and he definitely can't have that on his conscious.
He inclines his head towards her at the title she's bestowed upon him, tipping down as though expecting the weight of the dessert world to settle there like a homecoming king receiving his plastic crown. "Thank you for finally recognizing my position on this matter," he preens, tone dipping into something fittingly snooty for a moment. He expected she might ask in return, but for all his usual quickfire responses, this one he considers deeply as she arranges herself on the 'massage table'. It could be that he's too familiar with all the varieties of ice cream, and there is quite a selection to them, or a quiet debate about who he has been for so long that is feeling a bit like it's slipping away from who he's becoming. Nothing so major that he's unrecognizable, and change is inevitable, but he'd gone from such a consistent day to day for so many years of his life that this past one has been a complete whirlwind.
There's no need to get too deep into the ice cream tub, as it were, and the pleasantly warm and light sounds from her as she shifts into place quickly reminds him so. "Cookie dough," he declares with a finality completely at odds with the other choices lingering on the back of his tongue. "Seems simple enough, but each bite is a surprise of how much dough you get." Which he supposes could be said about plenty of other flavors boasting swirls or nuggets, but his is one of the classics, a real comfort flavor that you can always depend upon to be in stock and leave you happy with your choice. "Also, who doesn't love two desserts in one?" Especially a forbidden dessert like dough, which also pairs well with him maybe not always having fully baked decisions.
He returns to her side with his latest relaxation concoction, a short laugh escaping at the answer she provides, because it's all sweet, except sorbets. Still, he gets her meaning. "The finest cup of strawberry coming up shortly," he announces just before he returns to basting her, this time in a warm, briny paste. "You know, I'm getting good at painting you now. Maybe next time we lay out a big canvas and you can roll around and we'll call it art and hang it up." It's certainly the one kind of art he might be good at—messy and chaotic and bright and covered with Flora. He's only teasing, though he does look up from his brush strokes to appraise her response before setting it all aside to start layering strands of seaweed over here like some sort of oceanic mummy.
He inclines his head towards her at the title she's bestowed upon him, tipping down as though expecting the weight of the dessert world to settle there like a homecoming king receiving his plastic crown. "Thank you for finally recognizing my position on this matter," he preens, tone dipping into something fittingly snooty for a moment. He expected she might ask in return, but for all his usual quickfire responses, this one he considers deeply as she arranges herself on the 'massage table'. It could be that he's too familiar with all the varieties of ice cream, and there is quite a selection to them, or a quiet debate about who he has been for so long that is feeling a bit like it's slipping away from who he's becoming. Nothing so major that he's unrecognizable, and change is inevitable, but he'd gone from such a consistent day to day for so many years of his life that this past one has been a complete whirlwind.
There's no need to get too deep into the ice cream tub, as it were, and the pleasantly warm and light sounds from her as she shifts into place quickly reminds him so. "Cookie dough," he declares with a finality completely at odds with the other choices lingering on the back of his tongue. "Seems simple enough, but each bite is a surprise of how much dough you get." Which he supposes could be said about plenty of other flavors boasting swirls or nuggets, but his is one of the classics, a real comfort flavor that you can always depend upon to be in stock and leave you happy with your choice. "Also, who doesn't love two desserts in one?" Especially a forbidden dessert like dough, which also pairs well with him maybe not always having fully baked decisions.
He returns to her side with his latest relaxation concoction, a short laugh escaping at the answer she provides, because it's all sweet, except sorbets. Still, he gets her meaning. "The finest cup of strawberry coming up shortly," he announces just before he returns to basting her, this time in a warm, briny paste. "You know, I'm getting good at painting you now. Maybe next time we lay out a big canvas and you can roll around and we'll call it art and hang it up." It's certainly the one kind of art he might be good at—messy and chaotic and bright and covered with Flora. He's only teasing, though he does look up from his brush strokes to appraise her response before setting it all aside to start layering strands of seaweed over here like some sort of oceanic mummy.
Kaisel
Got no reason not to celebrate
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
