flora
Flora’s grin turns downright villainous at the suggestion of an unreasonably difficult surname, eyes lighting with wicked possibility. "Oooh,”"she says slowly, savouring it, "do you think I could ignore letters or political nonsense if they spell my name wrong?" Her smirk sharpens. "Pretend I don't know who it was for, send it back unopened." The sheer tyranny of it delights her, and she looks entirely prepared to abuse the privilege.
When he boops her nose, she blinks at him flatly, pulled abruptly from the depths of phonetic engineering. For one suspended second she simply stares, then shoves him lightly in the shoulder, nose wrinkling in affront. "Excuse you," she mutters, as though he has violated her sacred concentration.
She sighs when he agrees the stress is wrong in Hacésop, nodding with resigned disappointment. "Yeeeah, I kinda thought so too." But then his excitement shifts, quick and electric, and she feels it in herself like a current jumping circuits. She sits up a little straighter, shoulders drawing back, his enthusiasm bleeding into her until she is nearly vibrating with it. When he demands she say it again, she doesn't hesitate. "Háksop," she purrs, careful and deliberate, letting the final p land with a crisp pop of her lips.
The sound of it hangs between them, new and perfect.
"Háksop," she whispers again, softer this time, like she is trying it on in private. For a moment she just looks at him, firelight catching in her lashes, something almost girlish stealing into her expression. Hot Ketchup had been theirs when they were only friends pretending not to orbit each other too closely, when every inside joke had felt like borrowed time that they'd steal and steal again. Now here they are, secretly married, and Háksop feels like a bridge between those beginnings and this, this reckless, chosen forever.
"Gods, I love you," she breathes, barely louder than the fire. Then she straightens, remembering herself. Tutting sharply under her breath, she shakes her head at his attempted logic. "No. No, absolutely not. No husband of mine is going to weaponize incompetence against me." Her tone is firm, scandalized, entirely theatrical.
When he moves, drawing her hand deeper into his pants, she has to bite hard at the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing outright. She glares down at him, trying for severity, but affection and heat keep bleeding through the cracks. "You are the woooorst," she informs him with a defeated huff, before letting her head loll to the side. "Well," she concedes at last, voice lowering as her fingers press further, wrapping around his shaft with deliberate certainty, "I suppose your wristband does grant you the VIP package..."
She leans closer, his fingers tangled in the strap of her bra, her lips brushing his as she whispers, "And yes, that does stand for very impressive penis." Then she kisses him hard, laughter and heat and victory all braided together, the campfire crackling merrily beside them as the rest of the world narrows to warmth, whispered nonsense, and the kind of shenanigans only they could ever fully translate.
~FIN
When he boops her nose, she blinks at him flatly, pulled abruptly from the depths of phonetic engineering. For one suspended second she simply stares, then shoves him lightly in the shoulder, nose wrinkling in affront. "Excuse you," she mutters, as though he has violated her sacred concentration.
She sighs when he agrees the stress is wrong in Hacésop, nodding with resigned disappointment. "Yeeeah, I kinda thought so too." But then his excitement shifts, quick and electric, and she feels it in herself like a current jumping circuits. She sits up a little straighter, shoulders drawing back, his enthusiasm bleeding into her until she is nearly vibrating with it. When he demands she say it again, she doesn't hesitate. "Háksop," she purrs, careful and deliberate, letting the final p land with a crisp pop of her lips.
The sound of it hangs between them, new and perfect.
"Háksop," she whispers again, softer this time, like she is trying it on in private. For a moment she just looks at him, firelight catching in her lashes, something almost girlish stealing into her expression. Hot Ketchup had been theirs when they were only friends pretending not to orbit each other too closely, when every inside joke had felt like borrowed time that they'd steal and steal again. Now here they are, secretly married, and Háksop feels like a bridge between those beginnings and this, this reckless, chosen forever.
"Gods, I love you," she breathes, barely louder than the fire. Then she straightens, remembering herself. Tutting sharply under her breath, she shakes her head at his attempted logic. "No. No, absolutely not. No husband of mine is going to weaponize incompetence against me." Her tone is firm, scandalized, entirely theatrical.
When he moves, drawing her hand deeper into his pants, she has to bite hard at the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing outright. She glares down at him, trying for severity, but affection and heat keep bleeding through the cracks. "You are the woooorst," she informs him with a defeated huff, before letting her head loll to the side. "Well," she concedes at last, voice lowering as her fingers press further, wrapping around his shaft with deliberate certainty, "I suppose your wristband does grant you the VIP package..."
She leans closer, his fingers tangled in the strap of her bra, her lips brushing his as she whispers, "And yes, that does stand for very impressive penis." Then she kisses him hard, laughter and heat and victory all braided together, the campfire crackling merrily beside them as the rest of the world narrows to warmth, whispered nonsense, and the kind of shenanigans only they could ever fully translate.
~FIN
i scream for whatever it's worth
"i love you" ain't that the worst thing you've ever heard?
"i love you" ain't that the worst thing you've ever heard?
