you know you're my happy clouds, & i'm bob ross

your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand

Flora drifts through the dimmed halls of Wildering House with her arm slung easily around Kaisel’s waist, her bare feet silent against the cool stone where her heels had long since been abandoned somewhere between laughter and too many drinks, the echoes of the party still clinging faintly to her skin like salt after a swim. Her curls have half-fallen from their careful arrangement, soft blonde strands slipping loose to frame her face in a way that feels far more her than anything polished, and the sequins of her dress still catch what little light lingers, scattering it in quiet, tired glimmers with every step. There’s a softness to everything now, the house settling, the night exhaling, and yet something inside her is still bright, still buzzing, still wrapped up in the impossible fact of how loved she’d felt from the moment she stepped through the door.

She glances up at Kaisel as they walk, her expression open in a way she doesn’t always allow, all that sharpness from earlier dulled into something warm and unguarded, the kind of look that lingers just a second longer than necessary because she doesn’t quite know what to do with how much she feels. "I’m tired," she whines softly, the words drawn out with playful exaggeration as she leans a little more of her weight into him, though the curve of her smile gives her away instantly. "But I do not want this night to end."

Her grin blooms wider as she tips her face toward his, eyes bright and glassy with lingering champagne and something softer underneath, something steadier. "This was the best birthday I've ever had," she adds, the words quieter now but no less full, her fingers tightening just slightly at his side like she needs the contact to anchor it somewhere real, before her smile tilts into something more mischievous again. "I mean, future you is going to struggle to top this."

Let me paint a picture for you, I'm feeling like Bob Ross

His head tips back with the force of his laugh, his arm unconsciously tugging her closer to his side from where he has it slung about her shoulders and cradled beneath her hair. The sound isn't boisterous, though it is full, his own tiredness having slipped in somewhere between several glasses of drinks and shenanigans that wriggle on the fringe of his memory. Something about dueling Enzo with chicken legs and crowning the victor with a slice of pineapple. He'll awake tomorrow with a clump of sticky hair. "Fortunately, I have a whole year to come up with it," he hums, his stride bumping against her and tugging her to him as it lists down the hallway, careless and carefree.

His free hand slides into his pocket, the one that she has surely noticed is bulging far too aggressively to merely be a salute to her very fine attire. "There is one more thing I have to give you," he murmurs into her temple, nose pressing there briefly as he turns into her just for a moment to adore her before he releases her. The departure is reluctant, and his fingertips trail off her shoulder, keeping contact as long as they can manage. "You have to close your eyes and hold out your hands though," he instructs, and though they haven't made it fully to the bedroom, this alcove is serene enough to bear his impatience. He's waited long enough, and gods know he's shit at keeping his mouth shut, so it's a wonder he's managed for this long. The next few steps to their room might literally kill him though.

He motions to one of the chairs for her to sit, because he knows too well that despite abandoning her heels some time ago, they'll have left their mark on her feet regardless. "I know you've got other presents to open, but Niki muttered something to me about you snooping around, so it seems this one shouldn't wait." His grin is too lazy to fill his face properly, curling with the same sloppy arc as his hair over his brow.

Kaisel

They don't gotta ask 'cause they know I'm him

your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand

Flora’s smile blooms instantly, wide and unguarded, the kind that feels almost too bright for the quiet hallway as she looks up at him like he’s just said something far more impressive than I have a year to figure it out, like the future itself has already been solved simply because he exists in it with her. There’s something dangerously cinematic about the way they move together—barefoot and tipsy and slightly off-balance, her arm looped around him as though letting go isn’t even a concept worth entertaining—like if anyone had the sense to capture it, to bottle it, it would look exactly like this: her curls falling loose, his laughter still lingering in the air, both of them suspended in that soft, golden edge between celebration and exhaustion where everything feels a little bit more real.

So when he murmurs that there’s one more thing, her attention drops immediately, eyes narrowing with exaggerated suspicion as they land on the very obvious bulge in his pocket, her brows lifting slowly as she tips her gaze back up to him, unimpressed in the most performative way possible. "Oh, is there?" she drawls, tone thick with playful skepticism as she eyes him like she’s already decided whatever this is, it’s ridiculous. And when he adds instructions, she lets out a soft scoff, rolling her eyes with a dramatic tilt of her head. "Uh uh. You think I’m going to fall for that again?"

But of course, she will and does, and as he gestures toward the chair, she drops into it without much protest, her body giving in easily now that it’s been reminded just how tired it is, even as her mouth opens immediately, indignation already rising to defend herself. "I was not snooping, I was—" she starts, the lie collapsing almost instantly under its own weight as she catches herself mid-protest, lips pressing together as she exhales sharply through her nose. A beat, and then a huff, all theatrical annoyance as she lifts her chin, defiance settling into her posture like she’s decided that if she can’t win on honesty, she’ll win on attitude instead.

"Fine," she declares, as though she’s doing him a favour, closing her eyes with deliberate exaggeration and holding out her hands, palms up, fingers slightly curled in expectation. "But if this is an onion, you're sleeping on the floor."

Let me paint a picture for you, I'm feeling like Bob Ross

It's impossible to fight off the amusement that seats itself immediately at her implication, so he doesn't even try. Instead, he lets the wildly wicked grin answer with all the rampant delight of someone who might very well have two gifts left to provide. "Falling for what?" he plays at innocence, but it's a poorly cast role. He's guilty, of course, but he'd tell the jury the system is entirely rigged against him. She could be fresh from a run and decorated in the baggiest sweats imaginable and he would still find it difficult to abstain from wanting to ravish her. Who can blame a man for wanting to mushroom stamp his incredible wife at every opportunity?

The sputter of her disagreement, flaring then falling like a candle trying to be lit in the wind, is entirely too pleasing to behold. Happy to make her squirm in any manner, he peers down with an unshakable pride for his victory. "That's what I thought," he hums in what should be admonishment but sounds more like understanding. He'd do the same, naturally, but he's not about to be mature enough to avoid being a hypocrite. "You have zero regard for the sanctity of birthdays I see. I probably shouldn't even give you this gift. Seems a fitting punishment for your crimes." He pulls out certain words and squishes others, dramatizing the entire thing as if he himself wrote the birthday laws and is personally offended by this breech of trust.

He sighs deep and loud. "I suppose, just this once, I'll let it slide." Let none say he is not benevolent when in the possession of power. With the slowest turn of his eyes and then his head, labored by his mercy, he glances down with a look of near contempt at the curling hands she offers up. The procession of drama breaks apart at once as a wash of heat engulfs everything else. He is sorely tempted to pull his pants down and place his nuts in the cradle of her palms. He just might have too, but he's seen her wrestle her ship's wheel in the wind. He doesn't desire to be steered by his balls today.

Instead he leans in, one hand slapping down into hers. It's an attempt to trick her into thinking this has all been an elaborate high-five (low-five, in this case) set up, but just as swiftly as he slides his hand away, his other one places the smooth, glass orb into her awaiting clutches. An honest smile shoves away anything still pretending to be worn by him, other than the quiet flicker of maybe she'll actually hate this that seems to plague any gift-giver who gives a damn. "Only an adopted onion," he reassures her with a laugh slipping free on his exhale. "I hid this there to keep you from finding it."

---

Kaisel gives Flora the Everkeep!

Everkeep | a handheld glass globe that can hold memories to be replayed later and include sight and sound.
Type: Light | Style: Other | Level: Basic | Cost: (None)

Currently stored memories
- Remi: where Flora re-opened the Hanged Man - [ME] Am I the drama?
- Ronin: when Flora first bonded to Spice! - & everything nice
- Sunjata: when Flora had gotten him and Melita together to prep the Hanged Man for his proposal to Hotaru! - [PQ][SE] fit for a queen
- Mateo: teaching Flora to fly on La Verbena! - i'll rig the game for you
- Vervain: rather than choosing any one memory in particular, the witch instead offers the very essence of Flora's childhood. A small girl's laughter echoing through trees; the smell of sun and soil and sweetgrass; the crackle of a fire and the sound of endless, endless fairytales, all contained beneath the quiet sanctuary of a thatched cottage roof.
- Sohalia: a relaxing day on the Sugar Tide - rockabye
- Nikander: where he and Flora made their masquerade outfits - [SE] *
- Astaroth: thinks about this memory first - quit wasting the sunlight ...and it shifts to this one - [Training] a conversation about identity
- Danta: tries to give a memory of he and Flora at Dygra's shrine - [SE] by faith, not by sight ...but it morphs into a different one halfway, where he introduced her to pegging - meet me in the middle
- Kaisel: there's no one memory, but a stream of stitched together moments where he watches her work diligently, when she lazes around the house with Spice and they nap in the sun, the sound and the shape of her laugh as it leaves her and reaches others. It's the ordinary pieces of any given day, repeating in different times or outfits and places, moments where he steals her out of the crowd, out of the world, and loves her all over again on his own.

Kaisel

They don't gotta ask 'cause they know I'm him

your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand

me: i'll keep the post short because there's lots to talk about in this thread.
also me:

Flora sighs like the weight of Kaisel's generosity is a burden she’s being forced to endure, her head tipping back just slightly as if she might collapse under the strain of it, but the performance doesn’t quite reach her eyes, doesn’t touch the way something warm and fluttering has already taken root beneath her ribs, because no one has ever done this much, gone this far, thought this carefully about her, and even as her lips press into a mock scowl, there’s something softer blooming underneath it, something bright and unsteady that feels suspiciously like being cherished.

Her eyes snap open the moment his hand slaps into hers, fingers lunging immediately to catch him in retaliation, already halfway to accusing him of something ridiculous before she realises there’s something else there, something cool and smooth pressed into her other palm instead. The shift is instant, her attention dropping as her brows lift, suspicion rearranging itself into curiosity as she turns the small glass orb over slightly in her hands. "An onion-scented paperweight?" she guesses, tone dry and unimpressed in a way that is entirely performative, because there’s already a flicker of something else catching in the glass, something that doesn’t belong to a joke.

And then it moves and the change in her expression is almost imperceptible at first; the skepticism loosening, softening, her gaze sharpening as the first memory begins to unfold, sound and colour blooming out of the orb like something alive. She leans in without meaning to, drawn by it, by the way it feels like reaching into something that should be untouchable, her lips parting slightly as recognition flickers—faces, voices, moments she knows, moments she feels—each one catching somewhere different in her chest as they pass.

By the time she reaches Danta’s memory, it hits differently, the sudden heat of it climbing up her neck before she even fully processes what she’s seeing, her breath catching as her cheeks flush deep and immediate, the orb lowering almost on instinct as if distance might dull the surprise of it. She swallows, hard, eyes flicking up to Kaisel with something that looks almost like guilt before it settles into understanding instead, her mouth forming a soft, startled oh as the pieces slot into place. "Wait..." she breathes, a laugh slipping out under it, quieter now, edged with disbelief. "So that’s why you were talking to Danta about when he and I—" She cuts herself off with a shake of her head, one hand coming up briefly to her forehead as if she can physically press the realization into something manageable. "Oh my gods. And all while you were trying to do this for me?"

The memory of that conversation, the way he’d been unsettled and hurt, lingers just long enough to pull something softer into her expression, and she reaches for him without thinking, her arm looping around his hip to tug him closer, her head tipping to rest there against him, before the orb is changing again. It isn't to something sharp or startling, but to something quieter, something that doesn’t demand her attention so much as hold it, and Flora stills completely as she watches, breath slowing without her permission as Kaisel’s memories unfold. There’s no singular moment to cling to, no grand gesture to marvel at, just the steady, unbroken thread of her; working, laughing, existing in all the small, ordinary ways she’s never once thought worth noticing. The way she moves through a room, the way she collapses into the sun with Spice curled close, the sound of her laughter not as she hears it but as it leaves her and lands somewhere else, reflected back through someone who chose to remember it.

It isn’t loud, isn’t overwhelming in the way fireworks are, but something about it presses deeper, quieter, like a tide pulling steadily at her until she realizes she’s already been swept under. To see herself like that—to be seen like that—without performance, without expectation, just..kept in all the small, unguarded moments she never thought anyone was paying attention to, it does something to her that the rest of the night hadn’t quite managed.

Her throat tightens before she can stop it, the feeling rising too fast, too full, laughter and something dangerously close to tears tangling together until she doesn’t know which one will win, her fingers curling tighter around the orb like she needs to hold onto it or risk losing the feeling entirely. It’s too much in the best, worst way, like trying to contain the ocean in something meant for rainwater, and when she finally lifts her gaze to Kaisel, it’s slower than it should be, weighted by awe. Her eyes shine, bright and glassy in a way that has nothing to do with champagne now, her lips parting as if she means to say something, anything, but the words don’t come, caught somewhere behind the sheer weight of it all. And for once, Flora—sharp-tongued, quick-witted, always ready with something to say—has absolutely nothing. That these ordinary pieces of her—messy, unguarded, unperformed—have been gathered and held and turned into something worth keeping, leaves her feeling split open in the strangest, most luminous way, like every sharp, defensive edge she’s ever relied on has been softened not by force but by attention, by care, by someone who chose to see and didn’t look away. She feels it everywhere at once, in the tightness of her throat, in the flutter beneath her ribs, in the way her fingers won’t quite steady around the orb.

When she finally finds her voice it comes out quieter than expected, but steady, threaded through with something bright and trembling that refuses to be hidden. "If we weren’t already married," she says, her lips curving as she exhales the words like a secret she can’t keep contained, "I’d demand you marry me right now." It’s half-laugh, half-vow, and entirely true, because what else was there to do in the face of a feeling so monumental, other than demand forever? But because they are already married, instead Flora rises from the chair in one fluid motion that’s a little unsteady but entirely certain, one hand still curled loosely around the Everkeep while the other reaches for Kaisel without hesitation, pulling him down to her as she closes the distance between them.

The kiss isn’t careful, isn’t measured, isn’t anything close to restrained; it’s immediate and full and a little desperate in the way of something that has too much to say and nowhere else to put it. There’s laughter still caught in the edges of it, breath shared and uneven, but beneath that there’s something deeper, something that unfurls slow and endless the longer she stays there, like she’s brushing up against a part of herself that only exists when it’s mirrored in him. It isn’t enough, not really, not in the way that trying to hold water in your hands is never enough when you're desperate for a drink, because the feeling runs deeper than touch, deeper than sound, deeper than anything she can give shape to, but she tries anyway, presses closer, anchors herself in the warmth of him, in the solid certainty of his presence, as if she can translate everything the Everkeep showed her into this one, impossible moment.

Kissing him like this feels like skimming the surface of something vast and ancient and entirely theirs, something that doesn’t need to be understood to be known, her heart knocking hard against her ribs as if it’s trying to reach him directly, bypassing all the fragile, human ways she usually expresses herself. It feels like being seen and chosen and kept all at once, like every version of her—the sharp, the soft, the messy, the luminous—has found its echo in him, and that echo is answering back in kind, steady and sure and impossibly right.

Let me paint a picture for you, I'm feeling like Bob Ross

The waiting for the gift to fully register feels like trying to keep a bubble from popping. He's too struck by the potential that this is actually terrible that he doesn't even try to reclaim the hand she's caught, and no laughter bubbles up at the onion-based guess she tosses out. He's on tiptoe without moving an inch. It's nothing to do with the effort put into it, and everything to do with making sure he's properly bundled up everything he feels, everything she deserves, and delivered it in a way that will land. A gift, after all, is just a tangible form of feeling and thought, but sometimes it shapes itself poorly.

Avoiding the play of past visions and sound as best he can, Kaisel shifts and leans back a touch. The contents stored there are for her, though there is one familiar one that rises up, too impossible to forget or ignore. It severs his focus to do everything but focus neatly, but thankfully she offers somewhere for his attention to land as she looks up just then. "It should have been private," he says gently, clearing his throat faintly in order to afford his voice again. "His was my first...experience with this." All things considered, Kaisel is glad that him being there hadn't persuaded Danta's choice. He had asked for their happiest memory of her, and a lesser man than the Maverick might have tempered themselves for Kaisel's sake. If only Kaisel could have been spared the exposure, things would have been better all around.

He yields to the way she bundles him in her arm, a step forward taken to close the space she removes. It's apologetic, the conversation of their skin murmuring about hurt through heat. It's forgiveness, too, the way he submits to it, this scuff already gone over and smoothed out in days long past. "I asked everyone to share their happiest moments with you, or of you," he explains, the need suddenly spilling out now, like he has to justify the predicament he accidentally tangled them all in. "This way you could always remember and feel close to everyone. So, it's really not my place to know what's in there." Little more than a curator, a messenger. If he'd been curious how others see and cherish his wife, Danta well and truly squished that desire immediately, and he's more than happy to keep Pandora's box unopened. Some he did get to see snippets of, either because the giver did not care to step away, and though he did his best then as now to ignore, fragments of it fluttered in and landed. Enough to know that his goal had been well maintained by everyone who clutched this globe.

As his memories come into view though, he recognizes them, and glances down with her. A fond smile at once replaces the quiet hesitation of before, because in this, seeing her, loving her, he is sure. He shifts more into the chair she's in, sinking deeper into the wind of her arm against him. Only when the moments quiet back into the glass orb, dimmed with nothing beyond the reflection of the low-lit space they hide in, does he glance back to her. There's a shine to her eyes that feels almost like the bioluminescence of the tides at night, and it captures him with all that same, breathtaking wonder. "We're already getting married twice," he laughs, the sound thin as it works past the shape of adoration that has filled him. "What's a third time?"

She rises just like a wave, but there's no attempt to drown him as her body swells to his, not beyond affection at least. His humor, brimming on the shape of his lips, in the stuttering exhale of a low chuckle, is all consumed in an instant. They meet with enough force to unbalance him momentarily, and he sways in the rock of her before driving down to chase the kiss in equal fervor. The chair shoves against the floor with the complaint of wood on tile as his leg fumbles to brace them better, his arms already seating themselves at her side, bowing her into him with a greed that does not permit air to settle between them.

"You are loved," he hums, the sound small as he fights to breathe in around the close press of her, unwilling to let her stray too far just yet.

Kaisel

They don't gotta ask 'cause they know I'm him

your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand

The way Kaisel answers her—physically, immediately—unravels something deeper than anything the Everkeep could have shown her, because memory is one thing but this is another entirely; this is now, this is heat and weight and breath and the undeniable reality of him closing the distance she created as if it were instinct, as if there had never been space between them to begin with. His mouth meets hers with a force that sends a soft, startled sound catching in her throat, her balance tipping for half a heartbeat before he steadies it, before he steadies her, his hands firm at her sides, anchoring her into him in a way that feels less like holding and more like claiming something already his. The scrape of the chair behind him, the shift of his body adjusting to hers, all of it fades beneath the immediate, consuming sensation of him—solid and warm and real—pressing into her like he’s determined to leave no question, no doubt, no empty space where she might forget what she means to him.

There’s a heat to it that spreads too fast to follow, a sharp, bright line of sensation that starts where their mouths meet and fractures outward, threading through her like light through water, catching and scattering and doubling back on itself until she can’t quite tell where it begins or ends, only that it’s there, alive and humming beneath her skin.

When he pulls back, even slightly, it leaves her suspended for a second, breath catching halfway between them, the loss of contact too immediate, too noticeable, and the sound that slips from her is soft and unwilling, a quiet, breathless protest that she doesn’t even try to hide. Her hand remains tangled at the base of his hair, unwilling to let him drift too far, the other still cradling the Everkeep like a reminder of everything he’s already given her tonight, everything he continues to give without even realizing the scale of it. "There’s nothing better than being loved by you," she whispers.

And then she’s closing the distance again, rising just enough to catch his mouth once more, drawn back in by something deeper than want, her lips finding his with a quiet insistence that carries everything she doesn’t quite have words for, her breath warm against him as she leans into the kiss like it’s the only place she knows how to say the rest how just how deeply she loves him.

Let me paint a picture for you, I'm feeling like Bob Ross

It’s a wonder he hasn’t crumbled to charcoal yet with how easily she lights him up at the barest touch. Not that there's anything slight about this. Haloed with celebration and stained with liquor, the flare of it is immediate and consuming.

The small, tortured sound distance pulls from her throat is enough to make him regret speaking at all. He doesn’t make that mistake again, even if a response comes easily to her words. He can show her just how good a thing it is then that he loves her so, and save his breath for better uses. Her mouth finds his again before any more thoughts can spare themselves, and then there's no thinking needed. He settles into the depths of her kiss with no want for anything more, nothing greater in importance or desire beyond her.

Still finding use for his tongue despite no words being brought forth, Kaisel tells her exactly how cherished she is. It's an answer to all the things she's silently murmuring to him, each of them fighting to be heard above the other as lips and breath skate towards something near desperate to be fully understood, unwilling to let each other believe there's any potential for less than everything felt. It drives him mad, the insistent way she talks over him like this, beating him to the punch with every deliberate press of skin.

In response, one of his hands drags up her side, his grip unwilling to loosen even as sequins try to catch on it. It ends with a firm squeeze around her breast, a low groan building in the back of his throat as he trades her bra for his palm to support the weight of it. His other hand flexes deeper where it remains low at her side, fingers pressing into the fabric with unrelenting hunger to feel her.

Kaisel

They don't gotta ask 'cause they know I'm him

your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand

The scrape of sequins beneath Kai's hands dulls what should be sharp, what should be immediate, and it frustrates Flora in a way that pulls a breathless, almost impatient sound from her as she presses closer anyway, chasing sensation through the barrier of glittering fabric like it might give if she just leans hard enough into him. The heat is there, she can feel it, but it’s diffused, spread too thin, and when his hand presses against her breast, she reacts without thought, arching into it, pressing herself into his palm as if she can force the feeling to sharpen, to concentrate, to match the intensity already racing through her.

The response is immediate and involuntary, a soft, breathy moan slipping into his mouth as her lips part against his, her grip tightening at his neck, fingers curling into him. The pressure of his hand, the weight of it, the way his other hand digs into her side, it’s not enough and it’s too much all at once, her body reacting in sharp, bright bursts that leave her chasing the next second before the last one has even settled.

She takes a step back without breaking the kiss, the movement unsteady but deliberate, and there’s a flicker of space between them for half a heartbeat as she waits to feel him follow. Again, another step, another pull backward, her mouth never quite leaving his, breath catching and tangling with his as she leads him, slow and insistent, out of the alcove and into their room. Once inside, she breaks from him just long enough to set the Everkeep down with a care that feels wildly out of place compared to everything else, her fingers lingering for the briefest second as another of Kai's memories shimmers across its surface, and then she’s back on him.

Both hands come up around his neck, pulling him down into her as she closes the space again without hesitation, her body pressing fully against his this time, hips and stomach aligning with his in a way that sends a sharp intake of breath through her teeth. Her chest lifts against his with each uneven breath, the rise and fall pressing her more firmly into the solid line of him, and the friction of fabric between them only makes her shift again, impatient.

Let me paint a picture for you, I'm feeling like Bob Ross

He doesn’t give her the chance to wonder if he’ll follow. The space she tries to make is gone as quickly as it appears, eaten up in steps that bring him back into her so swiftly that it's more instinct than choice, as though there’s no version of this where he lets her get further than lip’s reach. He's only dimly aware of the way they fumble down the hall, the space familiar enough to navigate with the slightest bearings.

When she slips from him to set the Everkeep aside, it pulls a sharp breath from him, sudden and unsteady, like he’s just been dragged up for air he didn’t ask for. Almost bewildered for that moment, he has enough time to register that they are, in fact, in their room. He's halfway through kicking off his shoes when she finds him again, balance slipping just enough to make him stumble into her with a rough huff of breath as he flings the last shoe away urgently. It only drives him closer, hands catching her instinctively, mouth reclaiming hers before the motion has even settled. There’s no resistance, barely even self-preservation, just a dive straight back in.

He goes under with a quiet kind of force, the heat already settled into something deeper, something that doesn’t need to flare because it’s already taken hold. Every point of contact anchors him further into it, into her, and it's something set long before this moment, drawing him in no matter how close he already is. It leaves him wanting more, not because something is missing, but because everything is already there and he can’t seem to get enough of it. His hand doesn’t stay polite this time. It slides along her side only long enough to find purchase, gathering the fabric of her dress in his grip and dragging it up with a lack of ceremony. "Do you care about this?" say no, not because he needs to ruin it, but because he's more interested in closing the distance than preserving anything in the way.

All care for caution is immediately lost when she bows into him. His restraint breaks, clean and immediate, as her body finds the full line of his, every new point of contact hitting like a fresh surge through something already overwhelmed. He yanks the dress hard enough for the slit to give higher, tearing it open in a jagged line toward her navel and baring more of her skin to the hard press of his body. "Fuuuuck, Flora," it slips from him low and rough, the last of anything measured unraveling in the sound as his other hand finds her just as quickly, slipping beneath the gathered sequins to the curve of her ass. His fingers spread with a firm, unrelenting grip, dragging her tighter into him instead of letting her drift even a fraction away.

The friction of it only feeds the need, sharp and immediate, the press of him caught tight against his pants between them, the want for her unmistakable. His mouth leaves hers with a rough drag of breath, parting just long enough to chase her elsewhere—jaw, throat, wherever he can reach without losing contact entirely—before finding her again like he can’t stand to be without the full taste of her for more than a second.

"What do you want?" he murmurs against her mouth, the words roughened by breath and far too close to be anything but felt as much as heard. There’s no hesitation in it, no uncertainty. It's an open and immediate offer, like he’s already prepared to meet whatever answer she gives. "It's your night." A reminder that on her birthday, she can have whatever damn well she pleases.

Kaisel

They don't gotta ask 'cause they know I'm him

your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand

The way his hand bunches her dress doesn’t worry her, but it does something far more dangerous, something that catches her breath halfway in her lungs and holds it there, sharp and bright and electric, because gods she wants him to ruin it, wants the night to leave marks that won’t wash out, won’t fold neatly back into something wearable and polite tomorrow. Her lips part against his, the word slipping out soft and urgent and entirely without hesitation, "no," and it’s barely more than breath before the sound of tearing fabric cuts through the room, loud and jagged and perfect; the rip echoing through her like it’s happening inside her body too, a hot, rising line that starts low and climbs fast, setting every nerve alight as if something has just been uncorked.

The fall of sequins against the floor barely registers, a shimmer of blue scattering out of sight as her attention narrows down to contact, to heat, to the way his hand finds her and holds her there with intent, and she presses into it instinctively, hips rolling forward in a slow, deliberate answer to the firm grip at her ass, chasing the friction that sparks instantly between them. It drags a shiver out of her, sharp and delicious, her breath catching as her body leans harder into his, like she can close the gap entirely if she just tries enough times in quick succession. Her fingers tighten where they’re tangled in his hair and hooked at his shoulders, holding him close, holding herself there too, her head tipping back just enough as his mouth leaves hers, lips parting on a soft, unsteady exhale that she doesn’t even try to hide.

His question threads straight through her, an echo of one he'd asked her almost a year before, causing a flush to bloom instantly out across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her gaze finds his again without thinking, bright and dark all at once, her voice softer now but no less certain as she repeats what she'd said to him then. "You," she whispers, the word catching just slightly as it leaves her, breath still uneven. "I want you, Kai."

It would be so easy to stay there, to let the night tip fully into this heat, but something tugs at her, something she’d meant to do, something she doesn’t want swallowed up entirely in this if only because of how much better it could be. "Wait—" she breathes, the word reluctant, an internal groan threading through her as she forces herself to pull back just enough to break the contact, her hands lingering for half a heartbeat longer before she lets them fall. "I have something for you."

She moves away from him with visible reluctance, each step slower than it should be, her dress hanging open where it’s been torn, curls a mess around her shoulders, her breath still uneven as she crosses to the bookcase and reaches for the small box tucked there. It fits easily in her hand, and when she turns back there’s a crooked smile already pulling at her lips, something softer layered beneath the lingering heat that hasn’t gone anywhere, just shifted. "Happy early anniversary," she says, holding it out to him, her voice warm and a little breathless still.

Inside, nestled carefully, is a ring—small, gold, unmistakably hers—and beside it, the golden cord bracelet with a thread of aqua.

---

Kaisel and Flora have received:
Attuned-Lite Ring | Allows the owner of its partner bracelet to hear the intentional thoughts and feelings of the wearer, as if they shared the attuned bond.

Attuned-Lite Bracelet| Allows the owner of its partner ring to hear the intentional thoughts and feelings of the wearer, as if they shared the attuned bond.

Let me paint a picture for you, I'm feeling like Bob Ross

Her answer hits him the second she says it. You. It lands somewhere deep and immediate, and the ripple of it sends something familiar lapping up against the surface of his mind. A memory that flashes sharp and bright through the heat of everything else. A different room, a different night, when he’d barely known what to do with her. When wanting her had felt like something that'd be ruin, and yet he did the best he could to keep hold of her.

Gods, he hadn’t even imagined this then. Not this. Not her like this, not them like this—married and tangled up in something that refuses to feel anything less than impossibly in love. It hits him all over again, the way he'd chased forever on her lips. He leans into her for it, like he means to deliver it once more, to give her exactly what she’s asking for—and then she says wait.

It barely slows him. Not at first. His mouth lingers too close, breath still uneven, like he’s expecting her to follow it up with something else, something that keeps them right where they are. Even when she starts to pull back, he only gives her just enough space to move, his hands slow to loosen, like he doesn’t quite believe she means it. "What?" it comes out low, half a breath, half a protest.

He watches her move away with all the belief it'd be temporary, but there's a faint, incredulous huff of a laugh under it. He stands as erect as the line against his thigh, heat left simmering just under his skin with nowhere to go now that she's out of reach. "Now?" he adds, a disbelieving climb to his brow. He leans in effortlessly against the dresser nearby, a bemused expression settling. "You do know how birthdays work...right?" Meaning, why the fuck was she giving him something?

Adjusting the strain of his pants, and in fact choosing to forgo them entirely as he tugs them down, and with one hop, sends them to his ankles, his boxers shamelessly bearing her name now on display. The box in her hand pulls his attention with all the dubious curiosity he can muster, but when she says it, he stills in place. He hadn't forgotten, but he'd shifted their anniversary to the wedding, so he's caught off guard not only by the questionable timing of this, but also by the prepared production of the latest Hot Ketchup commemorative memorabilia.

He glances from the box back to her, a wholly boyish smile overtaking the previous carve of deviousness. "You cheated," he accuses with the warm glow of affection and the quiet delight at receiving a token of adoration such as this. "I thought we were saving for the wedding rings, and going off that date!" A true collector at heart, he'd wear every manner of her love that he could, and enjoys a good unboxing sesh. The bracelet matches too well with his hair tie to be a mistake, and knowing the band would eventually be folded into their wedding rings, this seems a perfect, long-standing replacement. "The Torchline Crow is back on her game, I see," he teases as he slips the bracelet on without hesitation. "Couldn't let me touch you one second longer without something shiny being part of the occasion?" Still certain all she's done is provide a very nice bracelet, and wonderful proof that he's not the only one who can fumble hot and heavy moments, although he is glad Melita isn't here this time for it.

Kaisel

They don't gotta ask 'cause they know I'm him

your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand

Flora laughs softly, the sound warm and a little breathless still, her head tipping in an easy nod because yes, obviously she knows how birthdays work, even if she’s currently derailing one in the most spectacularly on-brand way possible. Her smile tilts crooked, fond and a little conspiratorial as she holds the box out toward him, watching his face far more than the gift itself. "You’ll see why I want you to have it now," she says, voice low and teasing, "just—wait."

Her attention flickers, dragged for half a second to the way he’s stepped out of his pants without ceremony, the line of him suddenly far more visible and far more distracting than she’s prepared to handle with any dignity, and her fingers twitch at her side like they’re considering very poor decisions about waistbands and timing. She stills them with visible effort, curling them instead around the edge of the box as if that will keep her focused, at least until he’s finished slipping the bracelet on.

"I didn’t cheat," she counters, rolling her eyes with a softness that never quite commits to annoyance, more fond than anything else, her shoulders lifting in a small, careless shrug. Her aqua eyes catch the low light, bright with something sharper than mischief, something edged with anticipation that she makes utterly no effort to conceal. "I just.." She pauses, lips pressing together briefly before they curve again. "I just wanted us to have this."

The moment the bracelet settles against his wrist, she doesn’t wait any longer, slipping the golden ring onto her own finger.  As she does so, he'll feel the sudden pulse of her emotions in his mind; not all at once, not like a jolt, but like something effervescent breaking open as a golden, champagne-fine shimmer runs through her veins, fizzing light and warmth that makes her feel almost weightless and too full all at once. It’s excitement, sharp and sparkling, threaded through with something deeper and steadier, something that pulses low and heavy in her belly in a way that has nothing to do with the room and everything to do with him, standing there, watching her.

Her heart kicks hard against her ribs, fast and insistent, each beat echoing through that strange, shared space between them now, impossible to contain, impossible to hide, and she can feel herself reacting to it, to him, her body caught somewhere between wanting to move and not wanting to disturb the moment at all. It’s overwhelming in the best way, like trying to stand still inside a wave, her breath catching slightly as she looks at him, knowing he can feel it too.

She steps closer, her hand lifting to his face, fingers gentle as they find his cheek, the pad of her thumb brushing softly across his lower lip, slow and deliberate, just enough to pull his focus back to her where her lips remain intentionally still and closed. I love you, Kaisel. The words slip into him without sound, carried on that golden, flickering thread between them, her gaze steady on his as everything she feels—bright, overwhelming, unfiltered—follows right behind it.

Let me paint a picture for you, I'm feeling like Bob Ross

For a second, he doesn’t understand what’s happening. There's a sensation that rolls through him, trickling down like a phantom egg cracked over his head, seeping in, somehow. It's a strong enough feeling that he reaches up to touch the top of his head, the new bracelet flashing in the light with the motion. He feels only the drop flop of his hair.

It is nothing unpleasant. In fact, quite the opposite, it buzzes across every thought and perception with a low, humming happiness that rises and pops only to rebuild and repeat in a storm of merry bubbles on loop. It's an undeniable presence that settles into him with such familiarity it's as if it’s always belonged there, bright and overwhelming in a way that steals the breath straight out of his chest.

His expression shifts, the amusement of beholding her crow-qualities drawn back as swift and sure as the tide, leaving just the shore of confusion, at first. It settles, sharp and immediate, his brows pulling together as his focus snaps inward, and because he's never tried to hold anything back from her, it'll trickle out to her ring with all the uneven sway of a boat barreling through a storm. His fingers stretch quite on their own at his side, unknowingly trying to grasp onto understanding as if it could be pulled straight from the air.

Then, it hits him properly. Not all at once, but with every pop of her champagne fizzing bubbles. The lightness of it. The warmth. The way it tumbles and splashes along every portion of him with a quality not unlike mint singing to the nerves and yet it doesn't prickle with anything akin to that cold. "…What—" it comes out quieter than expected, not alarmed, just trying to get his footing in something that won’t hold still long enough for it. Then—I love you, Kaisel.

That lands clean. It cuts through everything else, neatly lancing aside every other thought and feeling with the low ring of it fading out like a perfectly plucked note in a quiet room. The startling effect of a thought he didn't think strikes him with such severity that he stills in a way nothing else has ever managed to do, except her on a few other occasions. "Always her", the thoughts swells and rises and lifts between them, utterly fond in a way he doesn't even mean but just is all the same.

Once he overcomes the shock, not unlike a dog frightened by its own fart, Kaisel's attention shifts from inward back out, to her. His hand comes up without thinking, catching her wrist lightly where it rests against his face. Not to move it, but to keep it there, grounding himself in something real while everything else settles around it. "Flora?" he breathes, the word dragged out of him like it’s been pulled from somewhere deeper than his lungs, or maybe it's just a bit more crowded inside him now that it requires a bit more effort to manage it. "Did you...are we...this is amazing!" His gaze doesn’t leave hers, focusing on her with an intensity that strikes and brightens behind a series of quick blinks as realization dawns steadily. He tries it out much more intentionally this time, still not entirely convinced he hasn't gone mad. "I love you, you incredible, amazing, gorgeous, wife of mine."

As if he has been held in suspension by some outside force that suddenly ceases, movement returns to him like a band snapping back into place. He steps into her abruptly, reaching past her arm to roughly take hold of her head and pull her into him, mouth sinking against hers. Heat crackles from the point of contact, pushed through the open door that swings between his heart and hers, allowing her to feel every feverish thing she does to him. He does not content himself with a mere kiss or closing distance, but continues to push into her, walking her back towards their bed without giving her room for breath. They don't need it anymore. "I'm going to worship every inch of you."

Kaisel

They don't gotta ask 'cause they know I'm him