get my car door, isn't that sweet? then pull me to the backseat
Flora waits with a patience born entirely of knowing her husband well enough by now to recognize the exact moment something has gone sailing over his head only to boomerang back around with glitter and capital letters attached. Sure enough, when it does, her smile grows wickedly pleased, dimples threatening at the corners as she nods. "Mhm," she hums, delight sparkling through her like another little burst of champagne, though at the mention of flames her nose wrinkles thoughtfully and her fingers tap against the back of his neck. "You don’t think that’s too obvious? I was thinking maybe just wavy heat lines, like for a mirage or whatever?"
Snickering as he explains the shared custody arrangement of their single braincell, Flora shakes her head at him with such open adoration that even the exasperation can’t sharpen properly. "Okay, but how is it fair that I get pinched and all you get is tickled?" she protests, eyes narrowing playfully as she leans into him, already prepared to argue the ethics of sadness-prevention retaliation as if this is a serious marital concern. "That feels extremely suspiciously weighted against me, and as your queen, wife, and newly appointed demigod, I think I deserve better terms."
Whatever further argument she might have made breaks into a delighted sound when he scoops her properly into his arms, her balance stolen easily enough that she has no choice but to cling, though the way she kicks her feet in bright little bursts suggests she’s hardly suffering. Carried bridal-style up the stairs, Flora beams at him with her arms looped around his neck, the world still gold at the edges from everything that’s happened.
When they cross into their room and he mentions a photo, Flora’s expression softens beneath the mischief, affection folding through her like warm light through sheer curtains. "Okay," she agrees. "You find some pants, and I’ll find the camera." She wriggles just enough to be set down, though she keeps one hand on him for an extra second after her feet touch the floor, before turning toward the dresser with a grin over her shoulder.
Snickering as he explains the shared custody arrangement of their single braincell, Flora shakes her head at him with such open adoration that even the exasperation can’t sharpen properly. "Okay, but how is it fair that I get pinched and all you get is tickled?" she protests, eyes narrowing playfully as she leans into him, already prepared to argue the ethics of sadness-prevention retaliation as if this is a serious marital concern. "That feels extremely suspiciously weighted against me, and as your queen, wife, and newly appointed demigod, I think I deserve better terms."
Whatever further argument she might have made breaks into a delighted sound when he scoops her properly into his arms, her balance stolen easily enough that she has no choice but to cling, though the way she kicks her feet in bright little bursts suggests she’s hardly suffering. Carried bridal-style up the stairs, Flora beams at him with her arms looped around his neck, the world still gold at the edges from everything that’s happened.
When they cross into their room and he mentions a photo, Flora’s expression softens beneath the mischief, affection folding through her like warm light through sheer curtains. "Okay," she agrees. "You find some pants, and I’ll find the camera." She wriggles just enough to be set down, though she keeps one hand on him for an extra second after her feet touch the floor, before turning toward the dresser with a grin over her shoulder.
no one's ever had me, not like you
