I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings
Flora huffs, affronted in the patient, long-suffering way of a queen whose husband has chosen this wilful stupidity as his hill to die on and she's forced to let him. "That’s all right," she says magnanimously, though there is a clear edge beneath the sweetness. "I forgive you for not recognizing what an amazing gesture this was." Her shoulders lift in a graceful little shrug as she starts after him through the pool. "And of course it isn’t new. I’m sure if you asked Deimos, or literally anyone from Halo, they’d tell you that they do it all the time." The lie is delivered with enough confidence that she nearly convinces herself, even as she works against the drag of the water with a grim determination that makes the chase feel much slower than the high-speed pursuit it has become in her mind.
Why are you running "Stop running," Flora calls after him, splashing forward with both hands outstretched. "You have to accept your punishment. That’s how this works." Every step sends another small wave rolling away from her thighs, her wet clothes dragging heavily now, but she keeps coming all the same, curls pasted to her cheeks and throat. By the time Kaisel gets himself out of the pool, she is still a step behind, hauling herself up onto the concrete with considerably less elegance. Water streams from her shirt and leggings, both clinging close enough that she looks more like a soaked cat than the polished Queen of Torchline, and her eyes narrow as she straightens.
"I don’t negotiate with terrorists," Flora says with a low little hiss, launching herself after him the second her feet find purchase. Her hands reach for his sides, already hunting for the spots that will make him fold, but she sends something else ahead of herself too. The illusion blooms into place near the tumseas: Flora as she had been that morning, naked and damp-haired, stepping from the shower with water still slipping down her skin. It is only a moment, chosen with pointed precision, and Flora does not slow as she creates it. The distraction is the whole point; hope that while his attention is dragged sideways, she can close in with a bright, merciless grin and both hands aimed squarely for his ribs.
"I don’t negotiate with terrorists," Flora says with a low little hiss, launching herself after him the second her feet find purchase. Her hands reach for his sides, already hunting for the spots that will make him fold, but she sends something else ahead of herself too. The illusion blooms into place near the tumseas: Flora as she had been that morning, naked and damp-haired, stepping from the shower with water still slipping down her skin. It is only a moment, chosen with pointed precision, and Flora does not slow as she creates it. The distraction is the whole point; hope that while his attention is dragged sideways, she can close in with a bright, merciless grin and both hands aimed squarely for his ribs.
and I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this
