is this the end of all the endings?
Flora groans with the dramatic flair of a woman who has clearly suffered unspeakable hardship, even as the corner of her mouth betrays her with a traitorous smirk. "Maybe I’ll just channel and make someone else do it. Sunjata seems like he can juice things better well," she mutters, feigning exhaustion even as her eyes glint with mischief. She makes no move to actually call on anyone, of course; the suggestion is as hollow as her bones currently feel, but the humour helps to soften the edges of her lingering bliss.
Her laughter starts in earnest the moment Kaisel lifts her arm like some prized limb and begins inspecting it with all the reverent intensity of Gomez Adams. She practically wheezes as he squeezes and jostles, tilting her head back against the tile as if this is the height of ridiculous luxury. When he declares her affliction, she nods solemnly, her expression full of gravitas. "Well, that's a relief, honestly. I thought it was a terminal case of toowellfuckedtoeverwalkagainitis."
The towel burrito happens so quickly she barely has time to react before she's being bundled like a beachside delicacy. And when he reaches for her—scooping her up in his arms like she weighs nothing at all—she throws her arms around his neck with the ease of belonging there, legs dangling out of the towel like she's a half-wrapped breakfast. She plants the loudest, most obnoxious kiss against his cheek, smacking her lips dramatically as if she’s sealing a fate. "This is PROOF, by the way," she declares, voice rising like it’s meant to be heard by the gods, "that the mud I made you eat made you stronger." How the hell else was he capable of being verticle while she still felt like an overboiled bit of pasta?
Her laughter starts in earnest the moment Kaisel lifts her arm like some prized limb and begins inspecting it with all the reverent intensity of Gomez Adams. She practically wheezes as he squeezes and jostles, tilting her head back against the tile as if this is the height of ridiculous luxury. When he declares her affliction, she nods solemnly, her expression full of gravitas. "Well, that's a relief, honestly. I thought it was a terminal case of toowellfuckedtoeverwalkagainitis."
The towel burrito happens so quickly she barely has time to react before she's being bundled like a beachside delicacy. And when he reaches for her—scooping her up in his arms like she weighs nothing at all—she throws her arms around his neck with the ease of belonging there, legs dangling out of the towel like she's a half-wrapped breakfast. She plants the loudest, most obnoxious kiss against his cheek, smacking her lips dramatically as if she’s sealing a fate. "This is PROOF, by the way," she declares, voice rising like it’s meant to be heard by the gods, "that the mud I made you eat made you stronger." How the hell else was he capable of being verticle while she still felt like an overboiled bit of pasta?
my broken bones are mending
