I was born sickbut I love it
She is relatively normal compared to him (him with his bowlegged and scarred knees, him with his white striped markings, him with his well-scarred torso, him with his bruised eyes, him with his angular facial structure, him with the crumbs of his slumber stuck in his mane, him with his maniacal smile eternally plastered on his lips, him with his miniature sandstorms twirling between his ankles). Lately, most commoners seem relatively normal compared to him. He is a master of trickery, a storyteller from the times of Carnage, a walking history book of his life – he is anything but normal.
But her eyes hold a cunning expression he has only seen every so often. They are smart and thoughtful and deliciously attractive (they remind him of another pair of eyes he once looked into; golden eyes from a Jungle warrior who nearly stole his chaotic-loving heart) and they draw him in. Her question doesn’t steer around the elephant in the room, but rather she identifies his uniqueness outright.
His bruised eyes (left one blue and white, right one blue and black, both swirled with mischief and chaotic glee) match the smirk on his mouth. “Yes, but they usually use the word ‘enchanting’ and it’s normally followed by a moan or two.” He shrugs his bony shoulders, inspecting her as she inspects him. “You look like a Daddy’s girl…” His gaze looks over her a little more intently, a little more perverted, a little more dark. “What’s your name, babe?”
LOKII
