No way you can deny, you feel the most alive when you are terrified
An unimpressed turn finds one corner of his mouth and the angle of his eyes as she pulls her shirt up over her head. "That won't work on me twice," he huffs, as if insulted she'd even think to repeat her tactics. Although her ring would remind her of a truth she already well knows, his eyes equally betraying him as they drop briefly from the line of her face to her chest. The mental hoops assure him there's no harm in looking, especially if she's offering, and he's confident he's too clever to be trapped by them again, at least for the next hour or so.
Unfortunately for him, that isn't her intent, as the loud crack of wet fabric on an innocent tumsea floatie shortly reveals. All manner of casual confidence evaporates from his expression, and even his posture tightens up in fresh awareness of the new threat. The twirl of the wet shirt in her hand is worrisome enough, but the smile that she fits on and the sudden departure from screeching to amiable sweetness is by far the most terrifying indicator. "You're mad," he breathes, little room for more volume when every part of him has tightened in readiness for motion, wondering now if he shouldn't have saved that spirit for his own escape needs.
He takes the look she grants him as a clear sign she means for him to be the sled, which sounds undesirable at best and like Halo's version of roadrash at worst. Yet, when she steps in ahead of him, rather than whipping him into place or wrestling him down, he's left gaping after her in the quiet wonder of a man who hasn't a clue what his vengeful wife is entirely up to. "I lo000ve you!" he calls in after her, a reminder perhaps that she need not go scorched earth (only considered because he's beating her at the moment, yes).
Carefully he follows after her, tumsea floatie held in front of him like a flimsy shield.
Unfortunately for him, that isn't her intent, as the loud crack of wet fabric on an innocent tumsea floatie shortly reveals. All manner of casual confidence evaporates from his expression, and even his posture tightens up in fresh awareness of the new threat. The twirl of the wet shirt in her hand is worrisome enough, but the smile that she fits on and the sudden departure from screeching to amiable sweetness is by far the most terrifying indicator. "You're mad," he breathes, little room for more volume when every part of him has tightened in readiness for motion, wondering now if he shouldn't have saved that spirit for his own escape needs.
He takes the look she grants him as a clear sign she means for him to be the sled, which sounds undesirable at best and like Halo's version of roadrash at worst. Yet, when she steps in ahead of him, rather than whipping him into place or wrestling him down, he's left gaping after her in the quiet wonder of a man who hasn't a clue what his vengeful wife is entirely up to. "I lo000ve you!" he calls in after her, a reminder perhaps that she need not go scorched earth (only considered because he's beating her at the moment, yes).
Carefully he follows after her, tumsea floatie held in front of him like a flimsy shield.
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
