Let's make tonight the weekend, I don't wanna wait
A little oof escapes him as she squeezes, like an off brand Pillsbury dough boy. "Laundry soap?" he scoffs. "Look, the spirits keep adding more to my loads behind my back, they want the whole thing to explode in bubbles again." Clearly he'd taste better if he didn't have saboteurs from the afterlife working against him.
His jaw is only dropping further as she continues, a sputter of disagreement forming as he tries to butt inbetween her rising list of complaints to have the space to knock them away. He starts with a very strong argument of, "nuh-uh!" This being the betrayal of his inner self needing more than her. "There is not a lot of things at a fancy restaurant you can eat with only a fork, ok. Or did you want me to say [i]salad." To that he makes a face scrunched up in disgust, suggesting that a salad is a far worse choice than anything else he could have chosen, except perhaps soup, which is purely due to the function of the fork.
"AND!" he stresses, though his rising energy suddenly simmers out as he half-sits, half-standing-leans against her side on the table, ignoring the smear of her paste getting on his clothing. "You're right," he admits, brushing her hair to one side. "That was criminal of me not to say that you're the exactly perfect combination of crunchy, melty, salty, sweet goodness that I'm always looking for. The sort that is good from the first bite until the last crumb of waffle cone. The kind of flavor you savor with every lick and nibble." He leans down to press a kiss to the side of her now uncovered neck, teeth grazing her skin before he pulls away. "I'd eat you up daily." He grins, popping off the table to resume, her distractions never ending if he let's them be.
He doesn't make it far though before she's reeling him back in, tugged by the hook of her hand. He laughs, the sound shaken loose easily just by the shape of her own smile and the never ending delight of spinning around these ridiculous moments with her. She builds joy into everything, a thread of friendship that's been braided time and time again that now it's something so deeply affectionate he feels its weight with every breath, comforting and strong.
His expressions lifts ever higher as realization sets in, a soft "oh," completing it. "So that's why he could be the spinner," he chuckles, finishing the final layer of seaweed over her for this side. "Spin please," he murmurs with a little twirl of his finger, asking her to flip over so he can set about treating her front side in the same manner. Smirking at the idea of mop water being hung up as art, he listens to her color options while painting her in creamy salt again. "What is your color?" he hums thoughtfully, not sure he could pin her down as only one color among the wide array of them, but surely she still has a preference. A favorite maybe, or one that suits her best, or one she wishes did.
His jaw is only dropping further as she continues, a sputter of disagreement forming as he tries to butt inbetween her rising list of complaints to have the space to knock them away. He starts with a very strong argument of, "nuh-uh!" This being the betrayal of his inner self needing more than her. "There is not a lot of things at a fancy restaurant you can eat with only a fork, ok. Or did you want me to say [i]salad." To that he makes a face scrunched up in disgust, suggesting that a salad is a far worse choice than anything else he could have chosen, except perhaps soup, which is purely due to the function of the fork.
"AND!" he stresses, though his rising energy suddenly simmers out as he half-sits, half-standing-leans against her side on the table, ignoring the smear of her paste getting on his clothing. "You're right," he admits, brushing her hair to one side. "That was criminal of me not to say that you're the exactly perfect combination of crunchy, melty, salty, sweet goodness that I'm always looking for. The sort that is good from the first bite until the last crumb of waffle cone. The kind of flavor you savor with every lick and nibble." He leans down to press a kiss to the side of her now uncovered neck, teeth grazing her skin before he pulls away. "I'd eat you up daily." He grins, popping off the table to resume, her distractions never ending if he let's them be.
He doesn't make it far though before she's reeling him back in, tugged by the hook of her hand. He laughs, the sound shaken loose easily just by the shape of her own smile and the never ending delight of spinning around these ridiculous moments with her. She builds joy into everything, a thread of friendship that's been braided time and time again that now it's something so deeply affectionate he feels its weight with every breath, comforting and strong.
His expressions lifts ever higher as realization sets in, a soft "oh," completing it. "So that's why he could be the spinner," he chuckles, finishing the final layer of seaweed over her for this side. "Spin please," he murmurs with a little twirl of his finger, asking her to flip over so he can set about treating her front side in the same manner. Smirking at the idea of mop water being hung up as art, he listens to her color options while painting her in creamy salt again. "What is your color?" he hums thoughtfully, not sure he could pin her down as only one color among the wide array of them, but surely she still has a preference. A favorite maybe, or one that suits her best, or one she wishes did.
Kaisel
Got no reason not to celebrate
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
