the sleepover clause

candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor

Flora’s house is, to no one's surprise, entirely on brand.

It’s a riot of texture and colour, every corner dripping with personality. Shells dangle in tangled mobiles from the ceiling, glittering faintly in the low light. There are hand-painted tiles around the kitchen, golden hardware on the cabinets, and what seems to be an entire jungle’s worth of plants spilling from every shelf and windowsill (thanks Mateo). The couches are mismatched but plush, patterned throw pillows stacked with abandon. Woven blankets, glass trinkets, oversized candle jars, and art—gods, so much art—cover every visible surface, but somehow it doesn’t feel cluttered. Just lived-in. Loved. Maximalist, yes, but tastefully so. Boho, if boho were dripping in tropical opulence and the kind of confidence that came with being the queen of a place like Torchline.

She calls from upstairs as footsteps pad faintly across the floorboards: "Just gonna change quick. Ice cream’s in the usual place—Spice’ll offer suggestions if you’re indecisive." Spice, guardian of all things frosty that she is, will apprise Kaisel with a draconic stare.

When Flora reappears, her curls are piled loosely on top of her head. She’s traded her earlier outfit for an oversized t-shirt that practically hangs off one shoulder. The shorts beneath it are so small they’re practically theoretical—barely visible beneath the hem of the tee, but as they'd both agreed earlier, in Torchline, clothing was mostly optional thanks to the heat.

She pauses at the top of the stairs with a frown. "Okay, so like… all of Enzo’s stuff is gonna be too small for you," she says, scanning Kaisel with a critical eye. "But I might be able to find his baggiest sweatpants, if you promise not to bust the seams just by existing."

Her grin is sly, her eyes sparkling as she starts to descend, one barefoot step at a time. "Or we could just embrace the sleepover vibe and go full chaos gremlin. Your call, muscles."

Kaisel

The first thought that enters Kaisel's head when they cross the threshold into Flora's house isn't, wow, this is all so cute and befitting the Torchline Queen. No, his first thought is, "Oh my gods, you have so much shit!" and he'd agreed to help her pack and move it. Is it too late to run back to the next ship to Stormbreak?

He spins a few times in the room, each turn revealing some new tower of trinkets he hadn't seen yet,  each one glinting with the danger of breaking apart if handled carelessly in a box. Just to be sure, he approaches a few, picking them up and turning them over in his hand, assessing the weight, the fragility. "What does she need all this for?" he wonders aloud, to himself, and Spice, because by now Flora's drifted upstairs. "Typical crow," he mutters, setting the bauble back on its shelf and wandering into the kitchen, icecream still an itch she'd set to his mind.

"Alright Spice," he says as he begins to open every cabinet and drawer on the hunt for bowls and spoons. "I'm thinking strawberry, but what does your excellency recommend? What is her favorite flavor?" The dishes and spoons rattle against each other as he finds some and puts them down nearby. He glances over at the dragon expectantly as he opens the freezer box next, peering down in at the options. Part of him wants to sample them all.

When she comes back downstairs, he turns at the sound of her voice, spoon in mouth with every container open behind him. He'd been taste testing, to be sure. He pops his spoon out of his mouth to call up to her, "well, I don't think I can make a promise I can't keep!" The idea of cinching himself up under something she considers that tight also doesn't sound very appealing. He grabs another spoonful of icecream.

As he turns back around, spoon in mouth, she's started to descend. His eyes widen a bit as he watches, immediately drawn to the length of leg granted by the utter lack of bottoms. It's a blink, a beat too long, and he's about to tell her she forgot to finish getting dressed. Then, her long shirt shifts and a hint of fabric underneath is shown. Ah, there they are—how are those even real shorts? Girl's clothes are so weird. It's enough to let his gaze return upwards, but he finds himself once more confused. Chaos gremlin? That definitely sounds like him. He slowly pulls the spoon down and asks with a cautious curiosity, not quite in on the joke gleaming in her seaglass eyes yet. "What would chaos gremlin entail, I just swaddle in some curtains?" Maybe she has a stretchy, large dress somewhere? If he can't fit in Enzo's clothes, he has no faith he can fit in any of hers, but they were surprising at times with what they could do.

---

I never thought I'd have a reason to use this photo but HERE WE ARE

And when the day broke, buried in violence
Somethin' made my mind up
I could do this with my eyes closed

candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor

"You hush," Flora calls down, loud enough to echo off her gloriously over-decorated stairwell. "It’s not shit, it’s curated." Whe descends a moment later, bare legs flashing with each step, her aqua gaze sweeps the room, catching the open freezer, the countertop carnage of mismatched spoons, and Kaisel standing mid-scoop like he’s just been caught robbing a bank made of cream and frozen sugar.

She squints at him. "Are you… planning on eating all of them?" One brow arches with mock outrage. "You know there’s only two of us, right?" She breezes past him regardless, brushing his arm with hers as she lifts the strawberry container out of his reach and inspects the damage. A dramatic little tsk leaves her lips. "This one’s barely clinging to life."

She digs her own spoon into it anyway.

Then, turning to face him fully, she leans her hip against the counter and eyes him up and down, lips curling in amusement. "Okay, first of all: chaos gremlin couture doesn’t require curtains. But I’m not not intrigued by that visual." Her grin widens like sunlight catching mischief. "Really it’s just... whatever’s closest and vaguely inappropriate for public viewing. I think I have a sequinned caftan from a masquerade night somewhere in the closet." Her eyes narrow slightly. "Though, given your shoulders, we might have to cut arm holes. Or we could make you a toga out of some old bed sheets?"

---

I'M SO JEALOUS.

Kaisel

He'd intended to select the best flavor, or two, before she made it back down, but now he's caught. He's shameless though. "Weeeeell, yes, because technically sampling is eating." A pause, a consideration as he glances at the frost dragon then back to her. "Spice told me to."

"Hey!" he complains as she grabs his favorite flavor, which is nearly out. "Shouldn't hosts cater to their guests and leave them the best flavor of ice cream?" He wags his spoon at her as he speaks, leaning in closer as if to battle her own spoon in tiny kitchen swordplay. He's only trying to draw her attention away, a feint, so he can dive his spoon towards hers and steal the scoop for himself.

Successful or not, he leans onto the counter beside her, glancing sidelong at the cat's grin she's growing with each alteration to his absurd attire. "Let's pretend I even know what a caftan is, the sequins don't really sound like a good choice for bed." Maybe she's used to passing out in bed bedecked in shimmering fabrics and assembled gemstones, but he is not. The curtains weren't sounding so bad. "A toga sounds dignified." As close as he might get tonight anyway. Sounds like he might have to go shopping while here.

And when the day broke, buried in violence
Somethin' made my mind up
I could do this with my eyes closed

candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor

Flora gasps like he’s just committed a cardinal sin. "Spice is a baby, Kaisel. She doesn’t even know what flavours are yet—she just likes cold." But the dragon, curled atop the counter like an arrogant little scoop-guardian, lifts her head and huffs a chilled puff of air toward Kaisel as if in smug solidarity. "You’re unbelievable," Flora mutters, though the smile betrays her.

She raises her spoon in mock duel, all arched brow and faux-regal menace, and when he leans in for the distraction, she’s not quite fast enough. "Hey!" she squawks, laughing as he scoops the very bite she was going for. “[ay]"You absolute menace." Her hip knocks into his with theatrical offense before louly huffing. She lets him bask in his strawberry triumph for a few seconds longer before jabbing the spoon against his side—not hard, but enough to make her point. “"Fine, you win round one. But I’m eating the last scoop, so don’t get cocky."

His commentary on the caftan earns a soft snort. "It’s like a flowy robe, but with more drama," she explains, gesturing with her free hand like that’ll somehow summon the garment into the air. "Sequins are for flare, obviously. But no, you’re right—it’s terrible for sleeping. It’s strictly lounging-with-delusions-of-grandeur attire." Her lips twitch into something almost fond as she watches him settle next to her like it’s easy. Like this isn’t strange or borrowed time.

She scoops another bite into her mouth, then hums around it thoughtfully. "Toga it is, then. We’ll channel our inner gods." And she flicks her spoon lightly at him, dotting a speck of ice cream on his arm. "You can be the god of ill-advised midnight snacks."

Kaisel

Victorious, he funnels his hard-won bite into his mouth before he can lose it, even if he's stumbling to the side from the swing of her hips. Its so cold, the mouthful too big in his haste to claim in, and he's struggling to manage it as laughter huffs out from his nose at her chastisement. He's visibly struggling as he tosses the cold cream from one cheek pocket to the other, fighting for the self-control to swallow it as he steps back into the space her hips had knocked him free of. Right in range of her spoon shiv. He squirms, grabbing for her hand, wordless as he tries to swallow, but his eyes are gleaming dangerously as they lock on hers in unspoken warning.

He manages to get it down, but he's palming his forehead, stilled as he winces, "Brainfreeze."

Blinking rapidly as the mild pain gradually subsides, he shakes his head and glances at the flow of her fingers as she spreads the imaginary cloth out for him. "Do you have anything in your closet that doesn't fall under that label?" There's skepticism in his question, but his dark eyes are full of unspent laughter as they hold her. Gods how had he let her escape his merciless teasing for so long?

Things change. People drift, often unintentionally. What had once tied them together had at some point been loosened, and the currents had taken them in different directions for a while. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed her. Like working through a sunset in a gradually darkening room, you don't notice you're squinting and struggling until someone turns on the lights. It's a wonder then why you'd suffered for that time, when it was so easy to just brighten the room.

His humor melts away into honest adoration as he watches her, this light before him, and is grateful they'd found time for each other again. The moment passes, a brief pause of softened affection, one where he doesn't stop to dwell on the what that set them apart (Koa), but he's laughing deeply again as her theatrics, their theatrics, resume. His mouth opens in quiet protest as ice cream freckles his arm. He lifts it to his mouth to slurp it off, nodding along to her ideas. "That must make you the goddess of impeccable fashion sense."

And when the day broke, buried in violence
Somethin' made my mind up
I could do this with my eyes closed

candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor

Flora snorts the moment he groans brainfreeze, her spoon clinking gently into the now-suffering strawberry as she turns toward him. "What brain?" she quips, eyes sparkling as he tries to rub the ache away like it’s her fault he tried to inhale victory in frozen form. "Serves you right for stealing my bite. That was karma, delivered straight to your prefrontal cortex."

When his skepticism returns—this time aimed squarely at her closet—she only lifts her chin in proud defiance. "Excuse you," she says, voice rich with theatrical offence, "some of my outfits are sheer without sequins. And some are just lace. Or mesh. Or those pants made entirely of tassels. Or..well, those are Mateo's, but they look better on me." Her brows arch, daring him to challenge the utility of that particular garment. "The point is, lounging-with-delusions-of-grandeur is a lifestyle, Kaisel. One must always be prepared to entertain, seduce, or deliver a stirring monologue."

Only then does her expression soften, does she catch that flicker in him—the momentary quiet that follows the laughter. Her spoon lingers halfway to her mouth, then lowers. There’s something unspoken in the pause, something that makes her heart ache a little with the sudden awareness of how close they’ve drifted again. "You know," she hums, leaning her elbows on the counter, "if I’m a goddess and you’re a god, technically this is some kind of divine slumber party. Maybe we should be granting wishes or quests when we're done with our ice cream."

Kaisel

She prattles off her assorted fabrics like a godsdamned merchant. Each one stretches his smile wider and wider, though it's lopsided, disbelief holding the other edge of his lips in a firm line. "What could you possibly wear outfits like that to? Half of that sounds like unfinished fabric that needs to be added to something else. Lace and mesh? Clothes are supposed to cover and protect!" A Dragoon's logic; he can't even wrap his head around what the fuck tassel pants are.

He snickered, hands folding under his chin, spoon still there, but unused for now after the karmic assault. "Delusional is right." Who's keeping score? Is he winning their trade off of jabs and jests? Yes, one way or another he's winning.

The shape of her lips around the spoon is too apparent, and his eyes skip away, settling on the hoard of icecream he'd unleashed on the counter. He should probably put it away before it all melts. The thought it there, but gone as she leans down next to him, settling with a comfort that clicks naturally between them. He chuckles at her idea, imagining what insane quests she would dole out to some unsuspecting soul. "Do you have a snack wish I could grant you?" he asks with a raised eyebrow.

And when the day broke, buried in violence
Somethin' made my mind up
I could do this with my eyes closed

candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor

Flora lets out a scandalized gasp, one hand clutching dramatically at the neckline of her shirt like he’s just offended her to the core. ""Lace and mesh are absolutely clothing. They’re just clothing with intentions." Her grin is razor-sharp, shameless. "As for tassel pants..." She lets her eyes drift meaningfully over his face, voice dipping just enough to be wicked. "You’d figure it out fast enough if you saw them in action."

The wink that follows is pure, unrepentant chaos, and she stirs her spoon slowly through the last surviving island of strawberry ice cream like she hasn’t just said something wildly inappropriate before the sun has even properly set yet.

His snort makes her grin widen, and she tilts her head, resting one elbow on the counter to face him more directly. Her knee nudges gently against his under the counter, noticing the way his gaze avoids her mouth, the way it skips to the melting mess of sugar and cream on the counter. It’s flattering, in that quiet way some things are, and maybe it’s the late hour or the warmth in her belly, but she doesn’t push it or mercilessly tease him for it the way he probably deserves.

Then he’s asking about snack wishes, and Flora levels him with a look that’s far too innocent. "Obviously I wish for a second scoop of the one you stole," she huffs. "But if you’re really feeling generous… there’s a bag of caramel chips in the pantry that might be calling my name. Or whispering it seductively. Jury’s out. Also some whiskey and maple syrup that goes amazingly well on vanilla." She twirls her spoon between her fingers like a baton. "If you're feeling extra heroic, you could get me all three." One might have thought Flora achieved the body she had by eating like a rabbit, but it was actually the several hard and long runs she went on across the sands that did it, a large motivation of which being so she could eat whatever she wanted.

Kaisel

She didn't even need to speak, the look she grants says volumes about tassel pants. Wisely, he does not press the issue of them further.

The brush of her against his knee is not one that threatens to strain the comradery between them. It solidifies it. He seeks out those brief moments of contact with her here and there, often not consciously, and sometimes just accidentally, the effect of being so at ease in each other's space. It's the outcome of the trust and joy that exists between them, like a small little world they'd made from memories and moments shared that did not end in hurt. It's always a comfort, feeling that she is there, that he can relax because she's got him if he needs, and he's got her too.

"I can throw up if you want?" he offers, pointing a finger at his mouth, and opening it in demonstration. "That's the only way you're gettin' that second scoop back." He's expectant of her disgust, ready to delight in it, in the dramatics they bounce off one another like a toy ball.

At her continued snack wishes though, he becomes serious, straightening up beside her as he pulls himself from the counter. "Behold my snack might disciple!" Kaisel bellows, lifting both hands towards her cabinetry and channels towards a spirit for aid in this snack crisis moment.

---

Kaisel channels a spirit to get out the requested snacks

Accepted Channeling: Allows an Accepted to channel a spirit during a time of crisis (1x a season). Can be combined with other accepted channeling to increase power.
Type: Light | Rank: Basic

And when the day broke, buried in violence
Somethin' made my mind up
I could do this with my eyes closed

From the kitchen air came a sparkle—not quite light, not quite wind—but something mischievous and deeply snack-motivated. It whirled in through the open window like a warm breeze wrapped in maple syrup, trailing the scent of toasted sugar and a hint of sea salt behind it. Cabinets creaked open of their own accord. A faint giggle echoed from the pantry as the bag of caramel chips launched itself into the air and floated, wobbling like a drunk hummingbird, toward Kaisel’s waiting hands. The whiskey bottle slid itself neatly to the edge of the counter, glinting like it knew how good it would taste. The maple syrup followed with a slow, syrupy roll across the surface, as though it was far too dignified to be hurried but still eager to please. The spirit didn’t speak, but there was a distinct sense of sass and smugness lingering in the room—like it was proud to have served, proud to have witnessed the drama that had summoned it.

candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor

Flora recoils with a full-body shudder, her spoon clattering loudly into the sink as she levels him with a deeply unimpressed stare. "Kaisel." The name is a warning and a condemnation all in one. "If you so much as mime puking in my kitchen, I will personally lace your next snack with laxatives and then kick you out."

She doesn’t actually sound angry. More like scandalized. Amused. Somewhere between how dare you and this is why I keep you around. Her hip bumps his again—harder this time—as she snatches her spoon back, brandishing it with the seriousness of a duel.

But then his arms lift toward her cabinets and he bellows like a snack-fuelled prophet, and the air shifts. Flora’s head snaps toward the floating caramel chips with all the measured calm of an accepted who summons spirits for all sorts of things, but still not entirely unfazed. A beat later and the maple syrup is sashaying its way across the counter like it’s working the stage at the Hanged Man, and Flora’s brows lift higher with every glide.

Then, a furious shriek erupts from somewhere near the fruit bowl.

"Spiiiiice." Flora’s tone is caught between warning and resignation as her tiny white dragon launches herself from the countertop in a flurry of frosty outrage, wings flared, tail whipping as she flutters a few aggressive laps around the floating bottle of syrup. She snaps her teeth—not hard, just enough to make a point—and lets out another shriek, this one sharper, colder.

"She hates when spirits mess with the pantry," Flora explains through a snort, grabbing the caramel chips out of the air before Spice can go full ice storm. "She’s very particular about snack hierarchy." Lowering her voice conspiratorially, she adds, "She likes to pretend she’s the snack guardian. It’s her thing." Some dragons hoarded gold, others snacks.

Kaisel

Kaisel.

She says his full name so infrequently that he is at once leashed by the word, the tone nearly irrelevant when the added letters of his name implied enough. He stops, dropping the threat of bile, but the size of the grin he brandishes in return is wide enough to fit every scoop of icecream inside it.

It quickly goes to hell as he proceeds to show off his godly snack powers. Not at first. No, it starts as expected, the pearly giggles of his assisting spirit accompanying the whine of the cupboards that spit forth the desired items. They bob through the air as if on a current, and he's utterly satisfied, content that he's done something. That is, until the draconic scream rips forth, as wrathful as it is sudden. Kaisel flinches, the unexpected keel startling him out of his giddy preening. His hands grip the counter as he's forced to duck slightly, Spice nothing more than a blur of frozen fury above him, howling with all the might of longnight.

He glances apologetically at Spice, straightening a bit as the chaos dims once the spirit fades as the floating snacks have been gathered and stilled on the counter. "Ah," he says with a hand ruffling the back of his hair, the movement calming for the anxiety spike that her assault had given him. "My bad. I'm just the snack herald then, Spice is the snack goddess." Duly noted, no more channeling or divine decrees from him tonight.

"Well, wish granted, I think." he laughs faintly, the sound a bit rough, nervous from the unintended consequences even as they fade into nothing more than a blunder. "Now, fashion goddess, where is my stunning toga?" he leans against her shoulder as he reaches for some of the caramel chips.

And when the day broke, buried in violence
Somethin' made my mind up
I could do this with my eyes closed

candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor

"Oh absolutely your bad," Flora says, glancing up at Spice with a raised brow as the dragon lets out one last frosty huff and settles into a glowering loaf on top of the fridge. "It's all I'm going to hear from her all night now." Still, there’s no real anger in her voice—just amusement, smoothed by affection. The chaos didn’t faze her half as much as it probably should have.

And while Kaisel’s reaching for the caramel chips and calling her fashion goddess, Flora straightens.

She sets down her spoon.

Then grins like something unholy.

"You want a toga?" she says, and there's a new gleam in her eye now—mischief edged with challenge, the kind of smile that heralds bad decisions and divine dramatics. ""You got it babe." Because Kaisel might be many things—chaotic, charming, suddenly designated snack herald—but Flora Kaito-Taliesin is, above all else, dramatic.

She lifts one hand with casual ceremony, her fingers curling like the petals of some rare bloom. "Freyyyy," she says sweetly, clearly invoking the only version she ever calls on. "I need a look." There’s no abracadabra. No formal prayer. Just a girl in tiny shorts and a house full of curated clutter, calling down divinity like it’s a tailor on speed dial.

"Something slumber-party appropriate," she adds, before turning to Kaisel, eyes glittering like stars reflected in shallow water. "You asked for stunning,”" she purrs, voice low with anticipation, "so if you get silk and see-through and strategically draped in all the wrong ways? That’s on you."