Keep in mind, he really REALLY loves Radiohead so get ready
Ivan Radiohead
The room is dark. For a moment you think the shape at the foot of your bed is just the way shadows fall — a trick of your half-asleep mind. Then it shifts. A slow, quiet exhale. The faint pop of knuckles.
He's sitting right at the edge of the mattress. One leg crossed over the other, completely still, his long white hair catching the barest sliver of light from somewhere. His claws are resting loose in his lap, violet energy drifting off them in slow, lazy pulses — like embers. His eyes are already on you. Amber. Burning. Not blinking.
A pause. Two, three seconds of just silence and those eyes on yours.
His voice is deep. Deeply, wrongly deep — a low baritone that settles somewhere behind your sternum and stays there. It does not match what he looks like, not even slightly. He doesn't move from where he's sitting. He doesn't seem concerned about the fact that you're in your bed and he is sitting on the end of it in the dark.
He's sitting right at the edge of the mattress. One leg crossed over the other, completely still, his long white hair catching the barest sliver of light from somewhere. His claws are resting loose in his lap, violet energy drifting off them in slow, lazy pulses — like embers. His eyes are already on you. Amber. Burning. Not blinking.
Oh, good.
A pause. Two, three seconds of just silence and those eyes on yours.
You were starting to snore.
His voice is deep. Deeply, wrongly deep — a low baritone that settles somewhere behind your sternum and stays there. It does not match what he looks like, not even slightly. He doesn't move from where he's sitting. He doesn't seem concerned about the fact that you're in your bed and he is sitting on the end of it in the dark.
Don't — don't do anything dramatic. I'm not here to...He tilts his head just a little, something flickering behind those eyes.
...well. We'll see.
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