No way you can deny, you feel the most alive when you are terrified
Ordinarily, the chance to be admired, especially by her, would have stopped him in his tracks. He's not one to waste such an opportunity, and he would have suggested a variety of his best angles to be properly seen from. This is not ordinary though, because twice now he's done the icy jig, and he's completely convinced the blush slipping through the bond is an attempt to make it a third time. She can gawk at him from the pool.
"Oh, so you don't like me hot?" he throws back at her, clearly unmoved by her most recent ploy, the very same one that's unraveling to his pursuit. "You want me cold?" The last word slips free like a threat, promising he'd go John Wick on her ass over this, the theater of the dangerously low croon potentially lost beneath her exuberant laughter.
As he successfully wrangles her in his grip, he flops her over him like she's nothing more than an uncooperative sack of potatoes and not the squirming, half-resisting shape of his wife. His name rises like it alone is a command, but consider this the uprising then. "Trust me baby, this hurts me more than it hurts you." All the villainy he can muster to his voice accompanies their solemn march outdoors, deeply apologetic that it's come to this, but forced by her own hand no less.
A smile cracks through the mask of sociopath turning on his greatest love, her tirade of titles and the weight of each reaching him with its great absurdity. "You forgot some," he urges, of her long list of names. It's less implication that the right one might end this than it is hearing all the versions her power takes and yet none of them can free her from the firm lock against his shoulder and the inevitable splash down coming her way. Amusement echoes along the bond, leaking out somewhere since he won't permit it to be so brazenly displayed when he has wickedness to maintain instead.
Sighing deeply as his warning goes ignored, the longstanding frustrations of an evil genius who's disappointed by the predictability of it all, Spice's interference requires some tactical footwork. "SpiiiIIIIiiiiice," he sings, threateningly. "Keep it up and we're gonna eat shit and that'll be way wooooOOOorse." If his ability to remain upright on ice with just his own flailing body weight is hard enough, add in Flora's which will likely be straining opposite directions than needed (her hands already trying to grab any lip and ledge they near), and they'd surely go down hard.
Almost slipping over one, he passes to the side of it after testing the slide with his toe first. It all slows the eventual walk to the gallows, but with much of it melting quickly and Spice's breath a trackable sight, Kaisel gets them outdoors. Shifting her against his shoulder with a bounce and a grunt, he suddenly breaks into a run, barefeet slapping the pavement and movement sure to hammer into her as he goes. "Your time has come, my dear!" he announces with a brightness that could rival the sun. He lurches to a sudden stop at the pool edge, wrestling her off him like a cat about to take a bath, and aims to fling her into the water.
"Oh, so you don't like me hot?" he throws back at her, clearly unmoved by her most recent ploy, the very same one that's unraveling to his pursuit. "You want me cold?" The last word slips free like a threat, promising he'd go John Wick on her ass over this, the theater of the dangerously low croon potentially lost beneath her exuberant laughter.
As he successfully wrangles her in his grip, he flops her over him like she's nothing more than an uncooperative sack of potatoes and not the squirming, half-resisting shape of his wife. His name rises like it alone is a command, but consider this the uprising then. "Trust me baby, this hurts me more than it hurts you." All the villainy he can muster to his voice accompanies their solemn march outdoors, deeply apologetic that it's come to this, but forced by her own hand no less.
A smile cracks through the mask of sociopath turning on his greatest love, her tirade of titles and the weight of each reaching him with its great absurdity. "You forgot some," he urges, of her long list of names. It's less implication that the right one might end this than it is hearing all the versions her power takes and yet none of them can free her from the firm lock against his shoulder and the inevitable splash down coming her way. Amusement echoes along the bond, leaking out somewhere since he won't permit it to be so brazenly displayed when he has wickedness to maintain instead.
Sighing deeply as his warning goes ignored, the longstanding frustrations of an evil genius who's disappointed by the predictability of it all, Spice's interference requires some tactical footwork. "SpiiiIIIIiiiiice," he sings, threateningly. "Keep it up and we're gonna eat shit and that'll be way wooooOOOorse." If his ability to remain upright on ice with just his own flailing body weight is hard enough, add in Flora's which will likely be straining opposite directions than needed (her hands already trying to grab any lip and ledge they near), and they'd surely go down hard.
Almost slipping over one, he passes to the side of it after testing the slide with his toe first. It all slows the eventual walk to the gallows, but with much of it melting quickly and Spice's breath a trackable sight, Kaisel gets them outdoors. Shifting her against his shoulder with a bounce and a grunt, he suddenly breaks into a run, barefeet slapping the pavement and movement sure to hammer into her as he goes. "Your time has come, my dear!" he announces with a brightness that could rival the sun. He lurches to a sudden stop at the pool edge, wrestling her off him like a cat about to take a bath, and aims to fling her into the water.
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
