βοΈ πΆπ·πΎπππ±ππππ΄ππ, ππ·π°π π³πΎ ππΎπ ππ°π½π? || Long coffin nails lift his chin, a smile is on your face, β tell me,β you gently scratch, your voice lower than a whisper, β do you prefer to be called doctor or ghost hunter?β || @jient
PHYSICAL TOUCH WAS NEVER A FORTE OF HIS. Indeed, the urge to grimace, to squirm, even, at the way his head was adjusted by the polished keratin (because, in his mind, skin appendage was too crude a term, even if it was strictly correct) slammed itself into his psyche. However, his expression remained mostly stoic, in spite of the fact that his personal space - and comfort by extension - was being so ruthlessly invaded without his permission. The only evident change was the slight arching of his brow.
WAS HE SCARED? No, Should he have been? Possibly. He'd been exposed to far too much horror and nightmare fuel in his time, though, and as such, the immunity he'd rendered was ironclad. Still, curiosity was a far more potent fiend; practically irresistible, too. Such was the real intent behind the subtle alteration in his visage.
β Does it matter? I assure you, I've rightfully earned both accolades. β
