you can call me honey if you want
Flora lifts her brows in dramatic offence, a slow grin curling across her lips. "Your loads, huh?" she repeats, eyes narrowing. "You cannot keep blaming every bubble-bursting laundry catastrophe on the dearly departed. At some point babes, it’s just you being bad at laundry."
Her grin only widens as he fumbles through his fork-based panic, and with an exaggerated huff, she tosses her head back against the table. "I was just trying to give you access to the whole metaphorical menu by saying it was a fancy restaurant, not trigger a cutlery-based existential crisis," she sighs, dripping in long-suffering sarcasm.
Still, her breath hitches slightly when his hands find her hair, brushing it gently aside like she’s something precious and a little messy yet still worth the effort. She humphs faintly at first, brows rising as he finally offers the worship she was clearly owed, though her eye-roll communicates that it's barely enough to balance the earlier injustice. But as his words spill soft and slow, like syrup on fresh waffles, her expression softens too. Her lashes dip, the graze of his teeth at her neck sending a quiet shiver spiralling through her body like a ripple beneath warm water.
"Oh nooo," she deadpans under her breath, clearly not protesting the idea of being regulrly eaten, as she hooks two fingers in his waistband and tugs him closer. Still sprawled and half-pasted in seaweed, she can’t exactly rise to meet him properly, but she can bunch up his shirt, lifting it just enough to lean forward and press a kiss against the jut of his hip. Her lips linger there for a moment, warm and faintly salty, before she collapses back down with a long, utterly contented sigh.
She hums again at Kaisel's next words, nodding her agreement as he preps for round two of her transformation. With great, seaweed-squishing effort, Flora flips herself onto her back, wrinkling her nose as things shift around uncomfortably. Still mostly naked, slightly sticky, and smelling like an ocean salad, she stares up at him through strands of tousled curls. "I mean...Obviously I have favourite colours to wear," she begins loftily, fingers fluttering to gesture at her (lack of) outfit.
"But if we’re talking just...colours I like?" Her expression softens again, and something quiet creeps into her voice. "The colour the sea goes in the early morning, before the sun’s all the way up, when it’s green more than blue and not too harsh" Her fingers trace idle circles on her thigh, eyes drifting somewhere far-off. "Or that golden brown that filters through the trees at sunset. Like when the light goes all syrupy and soft and everything looks like honey." They’re not the kinds of colours you can buy in a bottle or point to on a swatch. They’re feelings in colour form. Memories. Moods. And they just so happen to be the colour of her eyes...and his too.
Her grin only widens as he fumbles through his fork-based panic, and with an exaggerated huff, she tosses her head back against the table. "I was just trying to give you access to the whole metaphorical menu by saying it was a fancy restaurant, not trigger a cutlery-based existential crisis," she sighs, dripping in long-suffering sarcasm.
Still, her breath hitches slightly when his hands find her hair, brushing it gently aside like she’s something precious and a little messy yet still worth the effort. She humphs faintly at first, brows rising as he finally offers the worship she was clearly owed, though her eye-roll communicates that it's barely enough to balance the earlier injustice. But as his words spill soft and slow, like syrup on fresh waffles, her expression softens too. Her lashes dip, the graze of his teeth at her neck sending a quiet shiver spiralling through her body like a ripple beneath warm water.
"Oh nooo," she deadpans under her breath, clearly not protesting the idea of being regulrly eaten, as she hooks two fingers in his waistband and tugs him closer. Still sprawled and half-pasted in seaweed, she can’t exactly rise to meet him properly, but she can bunch up his shirt, lifting it just enough to lean forward and press a kiss against the jut of his hip. Her lips linger there for a moment, warm and faintly salty, before she collapses back down with a long, utterly contented sigh.
She hums again at Kaisel's next words, nodding her agreement as he preps for round two of her transformation. With great, seaweed-squishing effort, Flora flips herself onto her back, wrinkling her nose as things shift around uncomfortably. Still mostly naked, slightly sticky, and smelling like an ocean salad, she stares up at him through strands of tousled curls. "I mean...Obviously I have favourite colours to wear," she begins loftily, fingers fluttering to gesture at her (lack of) outfit.
"But if we’re talking just...colours I like?" Her expression softens again, and something quiet creeps into her voice. "The colour the sea goes in the early morning, before the sun’s all the way up, when it’s green more than blue and not too harsh" Her fingers trace idle circles on her thigh, eyes drifting somewhere far-off. "Or that golden brown that filters through the trees at sunset. Like when the light goes all syrupy and soft and everything looks like honey." They’re not the kinds of colours you can buy in a bottle or point to on a swatch. They’re feelings in colour form. Memories. Moods. And they just so happen to be the colour of her eyes...and his too.
