Let me paint a picture for you, I'm feeling like Bob Ross
The temptation to slap down an Uno reverse card and return the no you right back upon her is strong. It wouldn't be the first time the two of them devolved into some pointless push and shove, trading affection and competition in equal parts until one became clever enough to trip the other up and reign champion, a far better end to no you hang up than the silence of someone finally doing just that. Although the sting of stumbling comes close enough just the same. He hasn't got the energy for it though, so he settles on a refuting flutter of his lips and breath as he blows a raspberry to the air near her.
He quiets though under the steady pulse of affection beating back and forth through the bond, coaxed back into the weary contentment of being utterly spent. Instead he listens to every small sound she makes, attuned to every little shift and curve of her heat and the way her thoughts scatter and reshape like light swinging through shadows over the bond. Not words, nothing even really entirely coherent, just motes of Flora drifting against him like the first shy snowfall of Deepfrost attempting to turn the world white before it's ready.
Tilting deeper into the sheet of her hair strewn beside him, he murmurs something incoherent into the crook of her neck as she talks. Tone alone suggests agreement, but the spark of it carries through the link as if his thoughts are nodding thoughtfully in the wake of hers. That it's the same for her is a small relief, admittedly. Not because he's ever been afraid that he'd be too much for her—he is for many, but she has never tried to make him less. It's knowing that they stand in equal with this too, the immensity of it not echoed so much as supported, a vastness he's sure he could not handle alone otherwise. Maybe it's impossible to even discover something like this without getting there together in the first place.
Glancing down to observe the new band on his wrist, he tilts her hand just faintly to catch a glimpse of it, otherwise loath to adjust any of the slow circles her fingers trace on his skin. He regards the metal as if by sight along he might discern all its secrets, the directions inlaid in fine print with some government mandated warning label on the inside. He gives up with a pillow-soft thump of his head back against the bed, smile stretching out around a laugh. "That is a good thing. Maybe we can go to a vocal coach to become louder and stretch it further." He is only half-joking.
"Maybe we should test it out in the morning," he suggests, leg shifting against her, tightening as some strength returns in fragments and grants him the ability to cinch her further against him. "See how far it can go and if it gets quieter or fuzzy at all when we near the end." Would certainly make it easier to know when she was about to come home now, so he could have the glass of wine waiting and still chilled, although he'd hate to steal a job from Spice.
"You're gonna have a hard time topping this next year," he tuts, smile turning soft at the edges even as it curls lazy and smug as a cat over the tease. Yawning big and loud quite suddenly, the day's frantic prep and the night's indulgences dare to creep in between the waves of affection. "Better start planning now."
He quiets though under the steady pulse of affection beating back and forth through the bond, coaxed back into the weary contentment of being utterly spent. Instead he listens to every small sound she makes, attuned to every little shift and curve of her heat and the way her thoughts scatter and reshape like light swinging through shadows over the bond. Not words, nothing even really entirely coherent, just motes of Flora drifting against him like the first shy snowfall of Deepfrost attempting to turn the world white before it's ready.
Tilting deeper into the sheet of her hair strewn beside him, he murmurs something incoherent into the crook of her neck as she talks. Tone alone suggests agreement, but the spark of it carries through the link as if his thoughts are nodding thoughtfully in the wake of hers. That it's the same for her is a small relief, admittedly. Not because he's ever been afraid that he'd be too much for her—he is for many, but she has never tried to make him less. It's knowing that they stand in equal with this too, the immensity of it not echoed so much as supported, a vastness he's sure he could not handle alone otherwise. Maybe it's impossible to even discover something like this without getting there together in the first place.
Glancing down to observe the new band on his wrist, he tilts her hand just faintly to catch a glimpse of it, otherwise loath to adjust any of the slow circles her fingers trace on his skin. He regards the metal as if by sight along he might discern all its secrets, the directions inlaid in fine print with some government mandated warning label on the inside. He gives up with a pillow-soft thump of his head back against the bed, smile stretching out around a laugh. "That is a good thing. Maybe we can go to a vocal coach to become louder and stretch it further." He is only half-joking.
"Maybe we should test it out in the morning," he suggests, leg shifting against her, tightening as some strength returns in fragments and grants him the ability to cinch her further against him. "See how far it can go and if it gets quieter or fuzzy at all when we near the end." Would certainly make it easier to know when she was about to come home now, so he could have the glass of wine waiting and still chilled, although he'd hate to steal a job from Spice.
"You're gonna have a hard time topping this next year," he tuts, smile turning soft at the edges even as it curls lazy and smug as a cat over the tease. Yawning big and loud quite suddenly, the day's frantic prep and the night's indulgences dare to creep in between the waves of affection. "Better start planning now."
Kaisel
They don't gotta ask 'cause they know I'm him
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
