When the reaper comes knocking at my door, we'll be going twelve rounds
His words fall away like a hose finally emptying itsellf well after the spigot has been turned off. Her voice turned the nozzle, righty tighty. He's been looking at her, though his gaze has bounced around as much as the licorice as he paints the heroic tale of his survival, and the sudden call to attention now narrows his focus entirely back on her, a quiet question written on his expression.
When she wriggles decidedly closer, he doesn't ask, only takes hold of her thighs and helps pull her in to ensure an exact and close fit, not wanting distance to prevail over effort and bunched up sheets. Though crabs are not often given adoring sentiments, he rather thinks romance has overlooked them when he finds himself entirely pincered in her legs. The feeling of total adoration for being in her clutches hardly befits the otters at sea that only bother to hold hands, and he thinks, this is love, holding on with everything you've got, even a pinky toe. Crabs are notoriously unrelenting in their grip, and that suits them.
His own legs naturally sink deeper around her, less circlling, more angled at the knee. He wedges them in on either side behind her, helping prop her should she so need, and equally it holds him steadily in place. Her hands faintly squish his face as she aligns him even further, and though his attention hasn't strayed, there's no risk of it doing so now, and he stares, expectant, but he can see the thing rising off her chest and to her tongue before he need ask.
"Babe," he returns, the sound soft, though insistant. His hands rise from her thighs and fit overtop hers, holding them still while he slowly turns and offers a kiss to each palm as he talks. "Are you sure you listened to my answer about the guy in the story?" His smile is a shy thing in this moment. It's not the shape of amusement or excitement, but the slant of something that understands and warms around it just the same. "Because that is me." He's finished the soft press of his lips to her hands and returned to their frame, staring back at her resolutely.
The shifts in her had been subtle, but they did not go unnoticed, not when they've had countless times to mock up scenarios to wander through, good or bad. He thought answering her would have been enough, but it seems he did not do a direct enough job of it. He couldn't guess at the entire depth of her breadcrumb trail, and his mistake for pecking at it when he should have been sprinting to keep her from pulling the entire loaf apart. "I have not been stuck in your anything for some time now," he huffs, one eye narrowing faintly at the very accusation. "You made it ours. Or I guess, we did that, together." He pulls her hands down, threading his into hers and squeezing. "Your region is beloved by many and I've never once heard people call it Flora's Torchline...although that does have a nice ring to it, don't you think?" His grin dares stretch a bit more, like taffy becoming warmer. "People take ownership over it, or call it theirs, ours. The only thing that's yours, I'm afraid, is all the hard and miserable work that no one wants. Signing papers and dealing with complainers." He rolls a shoulder as if waving away the gross thought of political work right now.
"And your apartment, I'm fairly certain is my aprtment now, unless you're asking for a take backsie? Not really how gifts work," he tuts, his head shaking with deliberate slowness. "And your house, our house, is full of me by now. A room you built just for me, full of my things. Even an icecream stain I made, that's not coming out, and that's not yours." He could go on, but his point remains the same in whatever level of detail. "It took time, to find my place, to leave my mark," he admits thoughtfully. "I wasn't always sure how, or what, but everything you have doesn't make anything I can do or have any lesser. I climbed the ranks in the soldiers all on my own, after all, and made the office space their mine." There's a touch of pride to that.
Here, a frown does marr his features, and he leans in a touch more. "The spookiest story here, Flora, is thinking you'd ever believe I don't enjoy every moment," his voice has lowered, not a whisper, but less sure now, because what?
When she wriggles decidedly closer, he doesn't ask, only takes hold of her thighs and helps pull her in to ensure an exact and close fit, not wanting distance to prevail over effort and bunched up sheets. Though crabs are not often given adoring sentiments, he rather thinks romance has overlooked them when he finds himself entirely pincered in her legs. The feeling of total adoration for being in her clutches hardly befits the otters at sea that only bother to hold hands, and he thinks, this is love, holding on with everything you've got, even a pinky toe. Crabs are notoriously unrelenting in their grip, and that suits them.
His own legs naturally sink deeper around her, less circlling, more angled at the knee. He wedges them in on either side behind her, helping prop her should she so need, and equally it holds him steadily in place. Her hands faintly squish his face as she aligns him even further, and though his attention hasn't strayed, there's no risk of it doing so now, and he stares, expectant, but he can see the thing rising off her chest and to her tongue before he need ask.
"Babe," he returns, the sound soft, though insistant. His hands rise from her thighs and fit overtop hers, holding them still while he slowly turns and offers a kiss to each palm as he talks. "Are you sure you listened to my answer about the guy in the story?" His smile is a shy thing in this moment. It's not the shape of amusement or excitement, but the slant of something that understands and warms around it just the same. "Because that is me." He's finished the soft press of his lips to her hands and returned to their frame, staring back at her resolutely.
The shifts in her had been subtle, but they did not go unnoticed, not when they've had countless times to mock up scenarios to wander through, good or bad. He thought answering her would have been enough, but it seems he did not do a direct enough job of it. He couldn't guess at the entire depth of her breadcrumb trail, and his mistake for pecking at it when he should have been sprinting to keep her from pulling the entire loaf apart. "I have not been stuck in your anything for some time now," he huffs, one eye narrowing faintly at the very accusation. "You made it ours. Or I guess, we did that, together." He pulls her hands down, threading his into hers and squeezing. "Your region is beloved by many and I've never once heard people call it Flora's Torchline...although that does have a nice ring to it, don't you think?" His grin dares stretch a bit more, like taffy becoming warmer. "People take ownership over it, or call it theirs, ours. The only thing that's yours, I'm afraid, is all the hard and miserable work that no one wants. Signing papers and dealing with complainers." He rolls a shoulder as if waving away the gross thought of political work right now.
"And your apartment, I'm fairly certain is my aprtment now, unless you're asking for a take backsie? Not really how gifts work," he tuts, his head shaking with deliberate slowness. "And your house, our house, is full of me by now. A room you built just for me, full of my things. Even an icecream stain I made, that's not coming out, and that's not yours." He could go on, but his point remains the same in whatever level of detail. "It took time, to find my place, to leave my mark," he admits thoughtfully. "I wasn't always sure how, or what, but everything you have doesn't make anything I can do or have any lesser. I climbed the ranks in the soldiers all on my own, after all, and made the office space their mine." There's a touch of pride to that.
Here, a frown does marr his features, and he leans in a touch more. "The spookiest story here, Flora, is thinking you'd ever believe I don't enjoy every moment," his voice has lowered, not a whisper, but less sure now, because what?
Kaisel
I ain't afraid to bleed, there ain't a casket strong enough for me
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
