lay your soul onto mine
Flora’s mouth quirks immediately, brows bouncing in unrepentant agreement as she shoots Kaisel a look that very clearly says yes, obviously, because if being dangerous nude is a crime then she has been guilty since the day she was born and shows no interest in rehabilitation.
She keeps working at the mud around the man’s face, fingers slick and sure as she peels it back in obscene, squelching ribbons, and somehow manages to glance up at Kaisel with a smile that is wildly inappropriate for a crime scene. It’s all teeth and heat and shamelessness, like they’re standing in line for cocktails instead of rescuing a man from becoming artisanal spa sludge. "It just looks so big," she says mildly, shaking her head as though this is a completely reasonable observation and not a calculated escalation. "That can be intimidating for some people." Her hand slides along the bather’s newly freed shoulder in a slow, grounding motion, voice softening with deliberate reassurance. "I only meant I didn’t want him getting nervous. You clearly know what you’re doing with it."
The man, unfortunately for everyone involved, is entirely immune to the tone, the subtext, and the aggressively striped metaphor looming over his shoulder. Flora keeps peeling the mud back in slick, stubborn sheets as the man finally finds enough air—and composure—to spill everything at once. "I didn’t even want to be here!" he blurts, the words tumbling over each other in a breathless rush. "This was a terrible idea. I hate spas. I told her I hate spas, but no, apparently I’m ‘holding tension’ and ‘need to relax’ because my brother’s getting married in the morning and everything has to be perfect and this was supposed to, I don’t know, fix me?" His voice cracks somewhere between outrage and panic. "I just wanted to go back to the hotel. I just wanted a nap."
Flora makes a soft, sympathetic sound in her throat, the kind reserved for people who have been profoundly wronged by fate, mud, and pre-wedding expectations, her hand still moving in slow, steady reassurance along his shoulder as if to anchor him back into his own body. "Okay," she murmurs soothingly, still focused on freeing him rather, the chaos, campy horror lighting flickering over mud-smeared walls behind her as she continues. "Well, we’re going to get you out of this because Kaisel here is a highly trained soldier, and then you're going to have literally the best story to tell at this wedding."
She keeps working at the mud around the man’s face, fingers slick and sure as she peels it back in obscene, squelching ribbons, and somehow manages to glance up at Kaisel with a smile that is wildly inappropriate for a crime scene. It’s all teeth and heat and shamelessness, like they’re standing in line for cocktails instead of rescuing a man from becoming artisanal spa sludge. "It just looks so big," she says mildly, shaking her head as though this is a completely reasonable observation and not a calculated escalation. "That can be intimidating for some people." Her hand slides along the bather’s newly freed shoulder in a slow, grounding motion, voice softening with deliberate reassurance. "I only meant I didn’t want him getting nervous. You clearly know what you’re doing with it."
The man, unfortunately for everyone involved, is entirely immune to the tone, the subtext, and the aggressively striped metaphor looming over his shoulder. Flora keeps peeling the mud back in slick, stubborn sheets as the man finally finds enough air—and composure—to spill everything at once. "I didn’t even want to be here!" he blurts, the words tumbling over each other in a breathless rush. "This was a terrible idea. I hate spas. I told her I hate spas, but no, apparently I’m ‘holding tension’ and ‘need to relax’ because my brother’s getting married in the morning and everything has to be perfect and this was supposed to, I don’t know, fix me?" His voice cracks somewhere between outrage and panic. "I just wanted to go back to the hotel. I just wanted a nap."
Flora makes a soft, sympathetic sound in her throat, the kind reserved for people who have been profoundly wronged by fate, mud, and pre-wedding expectations, her hand still moving in slow, steady reassurance along his shoulder as if to anchor him back into his own body. "Okay," she murmurs soothingly, still focused on freeing him rather, the chaos, campy horror lighting flickering over mud-smeared walls behind her as she continues. "Well, we’re going to get you out of this because Kaisel here is a highly trained soldier, and then you're going to have literally the best story to tell at this wedding."
