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."
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."
