finding a small place to perch along his long, and multiple, work desks wasn't exactly easy --- but jester nothing if not dedicated. the little blue tiefling curled into a spot between the scatterings of objects, legs swinging as much as they could; she was tossing wintercrest candy into the mouths of unsuspecting simulacrums with a "quick, catch!" every time they walked by. however, prime remained enraptured, until the flicking of her tufted tail began to knock things over. "puuumaaaaaat...."
          her company was welcome, most times - rather, all the time, with him simply being poor at expressing it. an adoration exists for her, something deeper that stemmed from a keen appreciation for her carriage. such a pretty blue gem, vibrant and pleasing to an eye trained to enhance and commit to the aesthetics of things. a fondness had grown since, refined with their familiarity.  -- so her company, he adored, longed for.Â
          but it made it difficult to work.Â
          the other manifestations of him did what they could to entertain, to feed into whatever desires she may hold at any given time. ( each passes with a jerking shift to posture, clumsily attempting to capture her candies, often stopping to carefully tuck at the hair around her horns. ) but jester was a clever woman, and clever women arenât fooled by tangible illusions.Â
          he ignores the first clattering - the second too. steadfast, determined : he knows better than to give into her desperate pleas for attention, else she would never let him work. but by the third, heâs straightening his back, a soft, yet heavy sigh off his lips as the goggles are pressed up against his forehead, pushing curls with them. prime takes his time, controls the situation with each prolonged moment he spends wiping grease and metallic dust from his hands. back remains turned to her for the majority of his task, wordless until he finally discarded the cloth and closes the space approaching her.Â
          â respectfully, my lilâ sugarplum, youâre makinâ it awful hard to get anything done. â lopsided grin sits plainly on his face, but itâs ever as unreadable as another manâs pokerface may be. a hand mimics what the simulacrums had done before, brushing dark tresses around her horns, pad of thumb lightly grazing over the textured surface of one. â unfortunately, that just wonât do, nope. i got deadlines, yâknow. â his tone betrays his smile, a touch of scolding from the more surly of the bunch. roaming hand finds a wrist, and another, capturing both of her hands easily.Â
             â but iâm nothinâ if not a problem solver! âÂ