sits on his lap, "tell me old sport did you miss me?"

Lovecraft splits his entire lower body into a mass of tentacle and limb (complete with the nausea-inducing noises it entails, crunching bones and all), solely so he can allow Fitzgerald to drop right back down to the ground. The tentacles coil around the ground with a radius of absolutely nothing around Fitzgerald, as if his presence is a strong enough ward against Lovecraft’s touch to burn away any of the limbs that get too close. (Really, Lovecraft just doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.)

           “You push your luck, Fitzgerald.”

He speaks drily, slumping forward to lean (bored, sitting up straight takes so much energy) against a few of his own tentacles, bowed up before him.