we show off our different scarlet letters
As Kaisel rises, Flora’s gaze trails shamelessly after him, drinking him in like something she’s earned the right to worship. Firelight and ocean-glow duel across his skin, gilding the hard lines of him in bronze and blue; every flex of his muscles catches the light like wet stone. There’s a kind of wild grace to him, all power and motion wrapped in boyish mischief; a rough-hewn kind of beauty that doesn’t fade when the laughter starts. Even in nothing but his underwear, he looks untouchable. Gods, he’s perfect in the way storms are: unpredictable, alive, impossible not to watch, not that Flora has plans of ever looking away.
When his words start winding their way toward the inevitable punchline, her brows lift, suspicion written all over the curve of her grin. "Uh huh," she hums, narrowing her eyes with mock warning, because she knows that tone. There’s mischief brewing behind it, and sure enough—before she can so much as blink—he’s turned on his heel and bolted down the beach.
"ASSBORN!" she hollers after him, the insult carried on the sound of her laughter. She breaks into a run a heartbeat later, one arm thrown across her bare chest to keep from jostling herself into oblivion (they aren't big enough for black eyes, but fuck if it isn't still uncomfortable). Her feet sink and spring against the sand, and while she could easily overtake him—probably— where’s the fun in that?
Instead, she lets him think he’s winning, lets the gap narrow just enough before crashing into him as his feet hit the surf. The sea explodes around them in liquid neon, and she throws her arms around him, hands sliding greedily over salt-warmed skin. Her laughter bursts free again, tangled with his, as the waves lap at their ankles and the candles bob around them like tiny witnesses to their chaos.
"Oh noooooo, looks like you won."
When his words start winding their way toward the inevitable punchline, her brows lift, suspicion written all over the curve of her grin. "Uh huh," she hums, narrowing her eyes with mock warning, because she knows that tone. There’s mischief brewing behind it, and sure enough—before she can so much as blink—he’s turned on his heel and bolted down the beach.
"ASSBORN!" she hollers after him, the insult carried on the sound of her laughter. She breaks into a run a heartbeat later, one arm thrown across her bare chest to keep from jostling herself into oblivion (they aren't big enough for black eyes, but fuck if it isn't still uncomfortable). Her feet sink and spring against the sand, and while she could easily overtake him—probably— where’s the fun in that?
Instead, she lets him think he’s winning, lets the gap narrow just enough before crashing into him as his feet hit the surf. The sea explodes around them in liquid neon, and she throws her arms around him, hands sliding greedily over salt-warmed skin. Her laughter bursts free again, tangled with his, as the waves lap at their ankles and the candles bob around them like tiny witnesses to their chaos.
"Oh noooooo, looks like you won."
