Kaisel
One foot in the ground
One foot in the grave
One foot in the grave
A hum of agreement is the only answer he can rouse before his mouth is occupied, which he doesn't mind in the slightest. Although if this is the outcome of not listening, he's liable to make a habit out of it. Mm, we could always review them together. Seems like something best studied in pairs. The offer curls through the connection as lazy as fog over a lake, lingering with the shape of its meaning. Curiosity glints beneath it, yellow and vibrant, in a way that threatens to be swallowed by the thicker haze.
Any other semblance of thought dissolves on the spot, replaced only with her. The insistence of her lips is beyond his ability to deny, not that he's ever tried. His hand lifts of its own accord, cupping her face again as he pushes up into the heat of her breath and the press of her mouth on his. He forgets, for a moment, that he even wanted to get up. It seems a foolish thing to want now.
Drawing in a deep, resentful breath as she parts from him, his fingertips are slower to do the same, gradually trailing past her jaw and down her arm, ending with a defeated flop back against the foliage. "This feels like effort now," he complains, the issue pointed entirely at him. He is just quite certain that continuing to lie here any longer will invite all manner of jungle creepy crawlies to acquaint themselves with the space between his skin and clothing.
Starting to grunt when she pushes off him, he quickly bites it off, eyes widening faintly with alarm as his gaze tracks her. The last thing he needs is an accusation of calling her fat without ever saying anything near it. As any man knows, there's no greater threat to his life than that misunderstanding. "Hurry," he urges her though, his mind convincing itself he just felt a brush of too many feet on his side, cheek twitching where the removal of the leaf sits with more weight than its presence ever had. "I feel like a sitting duck for nature."
Any other semblance of thought dissolves on the spot, replaced only with her. The insistence of her lips is beyond his ability to deny, not that he's ever tried. His hand lifts of its own accord, cupping her face again as he pushes up into the heat of her breath and the press of her mouth on his. He forgets, for a moment, that he even wanted to get up. It seems a foolish thing to want now.
Drawing in a deep, resentful breath as she parts from him, his fingertips are slower to do the same, gradually trailing past her jaw and down her arm, ending with a defeated flop back against the foliage. "This feels like effort now," he complains, the issue pointed entirely at him. He is just quite certain that continuing to lie here any longer will invite all manner of jungle creepy crawlies to acquaint themselves with the space between his skin and clothing.
Starting to grunt when she pushes off him, he quickly bites it off, eyes widening faintly with alarm as his gaze tracks her. The last thing he needs is an accusation of calling her fat without ever saying anything near it. As any man knows, there's no greater threat to his life than that misunderstanding. "Hurry," he urges her though, his mind convincing itself he just felt a brush of too many feet on his side, cheek twitching where the removal of the leaf sits with more weight than its presence ever had. "I feel like a sitting duck for nature."
It's not the devil at your door
It's just your shadow on the floor
It's just your shadow on the floor
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
