you are such a soft and messy thing, nobody knows how to take care of you
His own perfectionism in his marshmallow matches hers, and she spares an unladlylike snort of amusement under her breath to see it. It is so telling of their personalities that it can be nothing short of humorous. The need for perfection, control; the refusal to accept anything but the exact satisfaction for their tastes. Except Hotaru is already halfway through her own concoction by time Deimos’ has touched the flame, practically savaging the little dessert sandwich. As such his rebuff has her snickering crumbs, graceless and messy in ways she only ever is with him.
Swallowing and thumbing away stray sticky threads, Hotaru casts an amused glance his way. “Hey, blame the baby, not me. They’re adamant it sounds delicious.” She’s merely the unfortunate victim, the vessel for their desires. Or so she’ll defend herself with. “They’ll be born in Leafchange I think,” she notes blithely, glancing about at the long shadows. Already it is turning colder. “I’ve been speaking to them a lot. Maybe we should tell a spooky story, since they’ll be children of the season.” Pale irises glitter with mischief, eager to hear a tale spun by the normally reticent man.
Swallowing and thumbing away stray sticky threads, Hotaru casts an amused glance his way. “Hey, blame the baby, not me. They’re adamant it sounds delicious.” She’s merely the unfortunate victim, the vessel for their desires. Or so she’ll defend herself with. “They’ll be born in Leafchange I think,” she notes blithely, glancing about at the long shadows. Already it is turning colder. “I’ve been speaking to them a lot. Maybe we should tell a spooky story, since they’ll be children of the season.” Pale irises glitter with mischief, eager to hear a tale spun by the normally reticent man.
