I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings
As Flora hauls herself out of the pool, water pouring from her curls and dragging heavily from every inch of her clothes, she mutters something dramatic and deeply unflattering beneath her breath. Kaisel’s declaration is clearly meant as a truce, or at least a convenient distraction while he calculates whether he can make it inside before she catches him again, but neither of them has ever been particularly good at accepting defeat once the other has taken a lead.
Torchline’s warmth keeps the cold from settling too deeply into her skin, but it does nothing for the way her waffle-knit shirt clings to her. Flora reaches for the hem and peels it off in one smooth motion, leaving a black bra beneath exposed as she twists the soaked fabric between her hands and wrings out as much water as she can. Her leggings are just as wet, plastered close to her legs as she starts after him across the pavement, the shirt gathered in one hand like she means to use it as a weapon. When he sends one of the tumsea floaties toward her, Flora swings without hesitation, snapping the wet fabric against it with a sharp thwack that bats the toy cleanly aside. The look she levels at him afterward is pointed enough to make the message clear without saying it aloud: that could have been your ass, mister.
Then her mouth curves, all bright teeth and trouble, as she twirls the shirt into a more deadly shape. "Sure, but I have a different sled in mind," Flora says, her gaze sliding over him in a way that makes the answer deliberately unclear, though the intention certainly isn’t. She starts toward the house again, purposeful now, one hand still gripping the damp shirt while the other brushes wet curls from her face.
Inside, Spice has taken the opportunity to improve the conditions. The little dragon trills out a warning from somewhere ahead, that the ice has spread well beyond the patch they’d started with, more of the kitchen floor glazed over in thick, glittering sections.
Torchline’s warmth keeps the cold from settling too deeply into her skin, but it does nothing for the way her waffle-knit shirt clings to her. Flora reaches for the hem and peels it off in one smooth motion, leaving a black bra beneath exposed as she twists the soaked fabric between her hands and wrings out as much water as she can. Her leggings are just as wet, plastered close to her legs as she starts after him across the pavement, the shirt gathered in one hand like she means to use it as a weapon. When he sends one of the tumsea floaties toward her, Flora swings without hesitation, snapping the wet fabric against it with a sharp thwack that bats the toy cleanly aside. The look she levels at him afterward is pointed enough to make the message clear without saying it aloud: that could have been your ass, mister.
Then her mouth curves, all bright teeth and trouble, as she twirls the shirt into a more deadly shape. "Sure, but I have a different sled in mind," Flora says, her gaze sliding over him in a way that makes the answer deliberately unclear, though the intention certainly isn’t. She starts toward the house again, purposeful now, one hand still gripping the damp shirt while the other brushes wet curls from her face.
Inside, Spice has taken the opportunity to improve the conditions. The little dragon trills out a warning from somewhere ahead, that the ice has spread well beyond the patch they’d started with, more of the kitchen floor glazed over in thick, glittering sections.
and I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this
