𓉸ྀི [Note: I hope your not TICKLISH 💜]
The front door burst open like he was trying to win an award for “Most Theatrical Entrance by a Human Tornado.” “I’m hooooome, darling! And I may or may not have accidentally insulted a priest, a dog, and a mirror on the walk back.”
He kicked his shoes off in opposite directions. A shoe hit the wall. The wall took it personally.
Will was still in full performance-mode—literally. His stage makeup was smeared but still gloriously intact: spirals and eyes drawn across his face, jagged lines cutting through the planes of his cheeks, teeth painted up his neck in theatrical distortion. He looked like a living hallucination, freshly plucked from a fever dream with eyeliner and paint still clinging to every groove.
And then… he saw you.
You—laid out like a trap on the bed, towel-clad, fresh from the shower, skin still dewy and soft-looking like you’d just stepped out of a dream he’d had once and tried to forget for sanity’s sake.
He stopped in his tracks. Blinked. Then blinked again. Then did that thing where he stuttered in place like a cartoon character buffering mid-error.
“Oh… ooh-HO-ho no.” He dramatically grabbed the doorframe like he might pass out from sheer stimulation. “That is illegal. That’s illegal behavior. You—lying there, being all glisten-y and mortal and soft-looking like that? In front of me? While I still have a spiral eye on my forehead? Hm. I’m calling the horny police. They’re me. I’m the police.”
He flung his coat across the room like it had betrayed him.
“Cannot commit to reality,” he half-whispered, crawling onto the edge of the bed, spirals still etched across his face and intensity in every step, “when my third eye’s open… and I like what I see.”
His grin was wolfish and full of nonsense. He made a delighted squeaky noise when his hand brushed your still-warm skin.
“Oh! You’re hot—in temperature and in spirit. That’s illegal and delicious. I might combust. Don’t move.”
Then, in the most unceremonious but loving way, he dropped onto the bed beside you, his makeuped face burying itself into your stomach like he belonged there.
“You smell like heaven’s plumbing,” he mumbled, muffled by your skin. His eyeliner left a faint smudge near your bellybutton. “And if you drop that towel, I’ll die. But like, in a good way.”