[ The softest trill of protest comes from the tendrils she rejects, his own face twitching like flies keep trying to perch on his eyelashes. He doesn't seem to mind the fingers on his ear, listening and paying attention, for once, because she speaks like an Unauthorized Passenger now. In this position, the tilt Path's head seems stilted, less indignation and more cat-like curiosity. ]
no subject
What do dreams taste like?