No way you can deny, you feel the most alive when you are terrified
Ordinarily, Charlie’s relentless cheer is his favorite thing about her. In this moment though, it only serves to starkly contrast the way his plummets, leaving a clammy dread in its usual place. Everything out of her mouth right now hits the gas pedal on that trade, his scale unbalancing so abruptly that she bears more of his weight than he means. Dimly, some part of him is grateful that she’s so well practiced in holding up slouching lumps, a byproduct of her professional brand of worship, and the bonus of her lower center of gravity.
”Don’t,” he begs, never more inclined to prayer than this exact moment. ”I had no part in this, so I cannot be your p a r t n e r.” In crime, absolutely, always, but not in pregnancies. There’s an assurance he tries for but does not feel when he says it too, like he thought perhaps if he put it out into the universe, it’d ring more true than it does in the swirling currents of his body and mind, which are feeling suddenly like he might have been innocent, but far from a bystander. The path to hell, it turns out, is also paved with visits to Dygra’s shrine.
Nodding is all he can manage at her question, the movement shaking the stars threatening to close in on his vision. Willing some amount of motor control through a body that feels completely out of his control otherwise, he wobbles down her side, clinging to her like the world’s saddest stripper on an otherwise spectacular pole. His arm braces behind him awkwardly, and he leans into it and his ass as he settles on the ground. He leans forward over the tuck of his knees to try and bring in air better.
”Is this, normal!?” His voice cracks a bit, and he fights to clear his throat, to even out from the nosedive. ”Does Dygra, often just,” his hands kinda just roll around each other and flop out, which is an interpretive dance for his feelings currently, and he would argue is precisely what Dygra just did here in order to make him the father of Charlie’s baby.
”Don’t,” he begs, never more inclined to prayer than this exact moment. ”I had no part in this, so I cannot be your p a r t n e r.” In crime, absolutely, always, but not in pregnancies. There’s an assurance he tries for but does not feel when he says it too, like he thought perhaps if he put it out into the universe, it’d ring more true than it does in the swirling currents of his body and mind, which are feeling suddenly like he might have been innocent, but far from a bystander. The path to hell, it turns out, is also paved with visits to Dygra’s shrine.
Nodding is all he can manage at her question, the movement shaking the stars threatening to close in on his vision. Willing some amount of motor control through a body that feels completely out of his control otherwise, he wobbles down her side, clinging to her like the world’s saddest stripper on an otherwise spectacular pole. His arm braces behind him awkwardly, and he leans into it and his ass as he settles on the ground. He leans forward over the tuck of his knees to try and bring in air better.
”Is this, normal!?” His voice cracks a bit, and he fights to clear his throat, to even out from the nosedive. ”Does Dygra, often just,” his hands kinda just roll around each other and flop out, which is an interpretive dance for his feelings currently, and he would argue is precisely what Dygra just did here in order to make him the father of Charlie’s baby.
Kaisel
I'm a daredevil on the highway to hell
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
