you can call me honey if you want
"Oh please," Flora calls over her shoulder with the air of a long-suffering queen, rolling her eyes so hard it’s a miracle she doesn’t trip on her own feet. "You’re the one who said all tips had to wait until the end," she reminds him, drawing the word out with as much sass as she can coat it in. Her tone is drenched in indignation—faux indignation, of course—but it does nothing to hide the smile creeping along her lips, especially not when she hears his absurdly dramatic gasping behind her.
The moment he starts crooning in a terrible accent, glasses adjusted as though he were the head of Torchline’s most exclusive museum, Flora is seconds from breaking down again. She bites hard at the inside of her cheek, eyes shimmering with effort as she tries to maintain even the barest illusion of statuesque composure. She makes it about five steps before a strangled chuckle escapes her throat, shoulders hitching with stifled laughter.
She doesn’t stop, though. Not really. If anything, Kaisel’s voice at her back—his pretend panic, the ridiculous EUNICE!—has her steps slowing in a teasing and entirely deliberate way. Each movement exaggerated with grace, her hips shifting just enough to betray the secret smirk blooming across her lips. The villainous part of her delights in the sound of his tray hitting the ground and the urgent rustle of him scrambling after her.
The bathroom she enters is dimly lit, the glow dialed down to a dusky warmth that glimmers like a sunset wrapped in fog. The rainfall shower takes up most of the space, recessed into the ceiling with low water pressure meant for luxury, not efficiency. Steam is already beginning to curl along the tiles as she steps beneath the stream and turns it on, the water cascading like a soft hush across the room but doing little to immediately cut through the thick coat of dried clay that still clings to her skin.
Flora’s back is to the door, the shape of her pear-curved figure outlined in muted golds and browns. Her skin, where it shows beneath the cracks, glows warm in the diffused light, while the dried mud sculpts her into something halfway between art and indulgence. The swell of her hips is softened by the mist rising at her feet, the gentle arc of her thighs leading up to the very distinct handprint still visible in the clay across her ass, bold and unmistakable. Her curls are still mostly caught in a loose knot atop her head, stray wisps now dampening in the mist, while the scent of lilac and sugar from the foaming shower beads at her feet begins to rise with the steam.
One spirit tugs gently at the knot of her hair, loosening it with a teasing caress, while another drifts close enough to guide the water across her shoulder blades, delicate as a kiss. The scent of lilac thickens as unseen hands stir the foam at her feet, lifting it in soft lathers against her calves.
The moment he starts crooning in a terrible accent, glasses adjusted as though he were the head of Torchline’s most exclusive museum, Flora is seconds from breaking down again. She bites hard at the inside of her cheek, eyes shimmering with effort as she tries to maintain even the barest illusion of statuesque composure. She makes it about five steps before a strangled chuckle escapes her throat, shoulders hitching with stifled laughter.
She doesn’t stop, though. Not really. If anything, Kaisel’s voice at her back—his pretend panic, the ridiculous EUNICE!—has her steps slowing in a teasing and entirely deliberate way. Each movement exaggerated with grace, her hips shifting just enough to betray the secret smirk blooming across her lips. The villainous part of her delights in the sound of his tray hitting the ground and the urgent rustle of him scrambling after her.
The bathroom she enters is dimly lit, the glow dialed down to a dusky warmth that glimmers like a sunset wrapped in fog. The rainfall shower takes up most of the space, recessed into the ceiling with low water pressure meant for luxury, not efficiency. Steam is already beginning to curl along the tiles as she steps beneath the stream and turns it on, the water cascading like a soft hush across the room but doing little to immediately cut through the thick coat of dried clay that still clings to her skin.
Flora’s back is to the door, the shape of her pear-curved figure outlined in muted golds and browns. Her skin, where it shows beneath the cracks, glows warm in the diffused light, while the dried mud sculpts her into something halfway between art and indulgence. The swell of her hips is softened by the mist rising at her feet, the gentle arc of her thighs leading up to the very distinct handprint still visible in the clay across her ass, bold and unmistakable. Her curls are still mostly caught in a loose knot atop her head, stray wisps now dampening in the mist, while the scent of lilac and sugar from the foaming shower beads at her feet begins to rise with the steam.
One spirit tugs gently at the knot of her hair, loosening it with a teasing caress, while another drifts close enough to guide the water across her shoulder blades, delicate as a kiss. The scent of lilac thickens as unseen hands stir the foam at her feet, lifting it in soft lathers against her calves.
