you can call me honey if you want
The room is precisely as Flora has made it, with the air salted and green all at once, as though the Arclight Ocean has decided to kiss the edges of the Greatwood without either territory surrendering an inch. Waves roll in soft, rhythmic sighs beyond a line of towering trees whose trunks rise broad and ancient from moss-thick earth, their leaves whispering overhead in a wind that smells faintly of brine and sap. Between forest and sea, a gentle stream threads its way across smooth stones, clear enough to catch the light and fracture it into trembling silver across the picnic laid out at its bend—linen spread immaculate, fruit piled in lacquered bowls with chocolate to dip them in, a chilled bottle sweating quietly beside four waiting glasses.
Flora stands near the stream in a silk robe the colour of seafoam caught at dusk, blonde curls pinned up in a deliberately messy tangle of blonde. Her golden rings flash idly as she reaches into a bowl and plucks out another cotton candy grape, pressing it between her teeth with a decadent crunch. "Oh my gods," she murmurs around it, closing her eyes briefly as she chews. "So good."
She swallows, licking a hint of sugar from her thumb before glancing over her shoulder at the soft click of the door. One of the House staff steps inside, careful not to disturb the illusion of tide and timber, voice low and professional as she announces that their massages will begin in thirty minutes.
Flora pivots slowly, robe swaying around her calves as the sound of waves continues their patient applause behind her. "Perfect," she hums as her aqua eyes flick toward the others—Melita, Sohalia, Colt—each wrapped in their own version of softness and steam, the whole room scented faintly of citrus oil and forest loam. Flora reaches for another grape, holds it up like a jewel between ringed fingers. "Alright," she says, grin curling mischievous and sharp all at once. "Confessions, complaints, or catastrophes. We've got thirty minutes before we’re horizontal and too blissed out to form coherent thoughts, sooo..." With all those C's in mind, Flora turns a bright grin towards Colt.
"I think Colt should go first."
Flora stands near the stream in a silk robe the colour of seafoam caught at dusk, blonde curls pinned up in a deliberately messy tangle of blonde. Her golden rings flash idly as she reaches into a bowl and plucks out another cotton candy grape, pressing it between her teeth with a decadent crunch. "Oh my gods," she murmurs around it, closing her eyes briefly as she chews. "So good."
She swallows, licking a hint of sugar from her thumb before glancing over her shoulder at the soft click of the door. One of the House staff steps inside, careful not to disturb the illusion of tide and timber, voice low and professional as she announces that their massages will begin in thirty minutes.
Flora pivots slowly, robe swaying around her calves as the sound of waves continues their patient applause behind her. "Perfect," she hums as her aqua eyes flick toward the others—Melita, Sohalia, Colt—each wrapped in their own version of softness and steam, the whole room scented faintly of citrus oil and forest loam. Flora reaches for another grape, holds it up like a jewel between ringed fingers. "Alright," she says, grin curling mischievous and sharp all at once. "Confessions, complaints, or catastrophes. We've got thirty minutes before we’re horizontal and too blissed out to form coherent thoughts, sooo..." With all those C's in mind, Flora turns a bright grin towards Colt.
"I think Colt should go first."
