// I'd take the fall—I got you covered when there's no one at all //
His question rather answers itself, given his current situation. Although he'd argue he could undress her with his eyes closed—blindfolded, her invisible, whatever—assuming she held still. "My hands and you!" he scoffs, the sound a rough drag of vexed breath rising to the taunting melody of her words.
Certain that she pulled this stunt just to get his ass in the shower faster, retaliation for the slow drag up here, he doesn't even consider that she's still lurking above deck in all her voyeur glory. She gets his ass alright.
It's the slap heard 'round the world.
Or at least it sounds like it in the moment, louder than any march of his stride along the narrow hallways of the ship, a gunshot of scandal that echoes off every beam. He freezes—well, no, first he jolts forward like her hand had been a lightning strike. His spine bows inward with the shock of it, dick gloriously thrust up with the motion, hands shooting back to shield him after the fact. His gasp is so sudden and sharp he nearly chokes on it, lungs stuttering under the abrupt pressure change. He spins on the spot, a laugh breaking around the heated "you little shit," that bursts out after it.
Abandoning the bathroom, he bolts into the kitchen, one hand attempting to deflect either side of him, dick and ass (a stark, red handprint flushing the white cheek), as he goes. He skids to a stop, snatching a cupboard handle, and yanks it open so hard in haste it slams against its neighbor. He grabs a bag of flour, all the weapon he needs on his warpath of vengeance now. "Ooooooh, you—" he starts, but wicked laughter overtakes the words as he begins to shake out the flour with reckless abandon. White dust fills the air, coating counters, cabinets, and corridors in a chaotic blizzard of Flora-finding powder—possibly even marking her directly in the process.
Certain that she pulled this stunt just to get his ass in the shower faster, retaliation for the slow drag up here, he doesn't even consider that she's still lurking above deck in all her voyeur glory. She gets his ass alright.
It's the slap heard 'round the world.
Or at least it sounds like it in the moment, louder than any march of his stride along the narrow hallways of the ship, a gunshot of scandal that echoes off every beam. He freezes—well, no, first he jolts forward like her hand had been a lightning strike. His spine bows inward with the shock of it, dick gloriously thrust up with the motion, hands shooting back to shield him after the fact. His gasp is so sudden and sharp he nearly chokes on it, lungs stuttering under the abrupt pressure change. He spins on the spot, a laugh breaking around the heated "you little shit," that bursts out after it.
Abandoning the bathroom, he bolts into the kitchen, one hand attempting to deflect either side of him, dick and ass (a stark, red handprint flushing the white cheek), as he goes. He skids to a stop, snatching a cupboard handle, and yanks it open so hard in haste it slams against its neighbor. He grabs a bag of flour, all the weapon he needs on his warpath of vengeance now. "Ooooooh, you—" he starts, but wicked laughter overtakes the words as he begins to shake out the flour with reckless abandon. White dust fills the air, coating counters, cabinets, and corridors in a chaotic blizzard of Flora-finding powder—possibly even marking her directly in the process.
Kaisel
// When you need somebody to turn to—Nobody got you the way I do //
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
