Let's make tonight the weekend, I don't wanna wait
His head tilts a bit, the weight of his smile seeming to pull it down on one end, the shape of it just as tilted as it's caught somewhere between a tease and wonder. "Just don't take me out and turn me into drift wood," he cautions, fully expecting her to go full riptide on his ass. Knowing her she'd even have a shark tucked up her sleeve, or just, in her mouth. Might need a dash of red for the attack.
The curl of her fingers in his hair is an immediate peace, dispersing all the images of her turbulent seaside assault he's crafted. His eyes shut with a soft, appreciative sigh, sensation prickling against each strum of her nail. Outside the little cavern of darkness that sparks with a bright line at each shift of her hand, he hears the way her voice lowers, slipping into memory. One amber eye rises back to view, the other still shut and tucked into the crook of his arms. "Oh yeah," he offers on a breath, holding the moment between them in this soft space of the past dredged back into this present. He searches for her gaze, like holdings hands over distance. "I guess you're right. Is each color from your homes, then?" Since that had been part of the reason she built the comfort world she had back then, a terrain that had felt too at odds to be anything but imaginary.
He rouses fully, chin resting back over his arm instead of tilting against his shoulder, his other eye blinking open at her as she pivots. He appears almost shy for a moment as he considers, though it has nothing to do with the way she's expectantly waiting and watching. She's only ever been the warm sort of light that inspires him to lay out fully, like the perfect beam on a porch to curl up and take a nap in, the wind coming in just enough to brush away too much heat, and the shade a bite too cold to want. It's from not being able to match the splendor she created, where her colors are a tapestry of life, and his is one he pulled out of a box one day and declared was the best. "Yeah, but your colors sound much nicer, and they go well together." The hand that he'd freed to design the sea of her body folds in over her elbow, hand sprawling over skin and paste and wrap like she's a sensory table. "But," he adds after a beat, figuring he could offer up his crayon to her and she could decide if it belonged.
"Mine would be purple." He sets it down amid her sea and forest like a small flower that's decided to take root between them. "Maybe we cover Spice in it and she can trot through at the very end," he suggests with a half laugh.
The curl of her fingers in his hair is an immediate peace, dispersing all the images of her turbulent seaside assault he's crafted. His eyes shut with a soft, appreciative sigh, sensation prickling against each strum of her nail. Outside the little cavern of darkness that sparks with a bright line at each shift of her hand, he hears the way her voice lowers, slipping into memory. One amber eye rises back to view, the other still shut and tucked into the crook of his arms. "Oh yeah," he offers on a breath, holding the moment between them in this soft space of the past dredged back into this present. He searches for her gaze, like holdings hands over distance. "I guess you're right. Is each color from your homes, then?" Since that had been part of the reason she built the comfort world she had back then, a terrain that had felt too at odds to be anything but imaginary.
He rouses fully, chin resting back over his arm instead of tilting against his shoulder, his other eye blinking open at her as she pivots. He appears almost shy for a moment as he considers, though it has nothing to do with the way she's expectantly waiting and watching. She's only ever been the warm sort of light that inspires him to lay out fully, like the perfect beam on a porch to curl up and take a nap in, the wind coming in just enough to brush away too much heat, and the shade a bite too cold to want. It's from not being able to match the splendor she created, where her colors are a tapestry of life, and his is one he pulled out of a box one day and declared was the best. "Yeah, but your colors sound much nicer, and they go well together." The hand that he'd freed to design the sea of her body folds in over her elbow, hand sprawling over skin and paste and wrap like she's a sensory table. "But," he adds after a beat, figuring he could offer up his crayon to her and she could decide if it belonged.
"Mine would be purple." He sets it down amid her sea and forest like a small flower that's decided to take root between them. "Maybe we cover Spice in it and she can trot through at the very end," he suggests with a half laugh.
Kaisel
Got no reason not to celebrate
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
