You want a facial?

Let's make tonight the weekend, I don't wanna wait

The look he catches when the cucumbers finally fall away to let the full weight of her glance through is one his smile tucks away with a similar promise. Tips and such, for the end, as is customary and all.

He supposes he should have expected the answer not to be something so simple as mothers running spas. It's the fate of a whole kingdom after all, and the weight of shouldering it. He doesn't regret the question though, isn't sure he could ever find it in him to not want to know anything and everything about her, even the bits that are surprising. It starts simple enough, and is similar to his own path, the impression of the queen she saw on her no different from the soldiers of his family that surrounded him as a child. Being too young to be seriously considered, that resonates hard with him. "You might be one of the few I've ever heard of that wants it," he muses as wet cloth sweeps over her skin. It's often said that the best ruler is the one that doesn't want it, since the position can provide too much power to an easily corruptible heart, but he's often seen the yoke of leadership nearly choke the life out of someone too. There's something to be said about giving a job to someone who wants to do it, because then they've got the drive to build it up into something stunning, and he thinks Flora has continually proved that.

As she continues though, the complexities start to build, and what had seemed straightforward becomes obscured. He hesitates for just a moment in his process, because it is an odd pairing of present day worship to the song of old wounds. She has gone on willingly though, and he almost thinks that stopping now might make it all land harder, so he keeps the distraction of the touch for both their sakes. His gaze stays on her though, snagging the corner of her eye where she drifts in and out of thought, ensuring he reads her right the whole while. "What the fuck?" he asks sharply when Harper's accusation is retold, the shock of it stilling him for a moment as he bristles on the spot. "He did that just to hurt you," Kaisel breathes, jaw tight as his fingers knead back into her with an extra force, as though it might be Harper's throat instead. "That's not your fault..." he murmurs softer, aware even as he says it that it's already said and done, and that this is just another scar on display, nothing she needs shielding from now even though it still rankles through him fresh and foul.

He does stop now as she shifts, and though the task is finished, he would have halted just at that indication. Moving towards her head, so she doesn't have to strain to see him, he kneels down beside her and props his chin on the edge to hear her out. The confession she lays out is a startling one, to say the least. His gaze widens for a moment as the weight of what she just said registers, and his breath doesn't come for a moment. It's not disapproval so much as disgestion, especially since he'd not seen the way things were then, only now, when the relationship between her and Hadama had always appeared strong, from what little he knew of it anyway.

It's a story of her will more than it is of becoming queen, and at that he can smile, because that is steadfast and strong. "So I'm hearing, that you managed to prove a king wrong, and earn the trust of him and a kingdom enough that now you're able to rule alone without any doubts." He tilts his head a bit near hers, one hand lifting to pull a thread of her golden hair back into the confines of her ear's borders. "Sounds like the best endorsement possible, if you ask me."

He rises with a brief pause to deliver a kiss to the outer corner of her eye, where the smell of cucumber lingers. "Maybe you should ask who wants to rule with you, like he did back then?" Kaisel suggests with a faint shrug as he reclaims the bowl of warm clay. "If that's what really inspire you to stand up, maybe you'll be surprised who answers your call now, especially if you ask all of Caido" Certainly could bring about the wrong sort too, but as long as final say remained in her hands, it could benefit her to see who's willing.

Careful not to get her hair involved in the wash of mud, his fingers gather up the stray strands and hold them to the side. His rusty brush swipes along her nape, and he blows against the clay to help it cool faster so he can release the threads of her crown sooner, allowing him to coat the rest of her back in the earthy tones. "Alright, once that dries, you'll have to hit the showers. I considered an actual mud bath, but I didn't think you'd appreciate me converting one of your tubs into that, The little bit that comes off in the shower shouldn't cause a problem though."

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

Her body stills in the quiet that follows, clay cool against her skin as the weight of his words settles like sunlight filtered through rain; gentle, but piercing all the same. After a breath, she nods slowly, lashes low and thoughtful. "Yeah," she murmurs, voice quieter than before, the edges worn soft with something heavier. "You’re probably right." Her fingers shift faintly against the towel, toes curling into the fabric beneath her. Unlike the way he was framing it in his mind, for Flora, it sat uneasily, like wanting it really was an undesirable quality in a leader.

When Kaisel growls about Harper, her mouth twitches upward, weary and fond and touched by the way he bristles so quickly on her behalf. "He said a lot of other mean things," she admits, her voice still light but wrapped in layers, like silk over splinters. "But that one hurt the most. That, and how everyone just...went along with his bullshit when he was clearly just being a bully." As Kai's fingers press more firmly into her skin, Flora's breath catches in her throat and she wriggles slightly beneath the touch, part tension, part reminder that it was her beneath his hands.

When he kneels beside her, when he pauses—not just to listen but to show that he’s listening—her heart swells so abruptly it nearly undoes her. Her arm shifts enough to brush her fingers against his shoulder, not enough to smear the mud on the other side, but just enough to touch, to ground herself in the reality of him. That he’s still here, still warm, still hers, even after hearing her say things she’s never said out loud before. He doesn’t flinch or pull away, and it's because of that that he's the only one who’s ever made her feel like it’s safe to say things that aren’t pretty.

Blinking slowly, gaze unfocused and far away, she lets herself drift back into the moment. "Do you really think I should?" she asks, voice barely above a whisper. Her head tilts toward him, cheek resting in the cradle of her arm. "Ruling with someone else is definitely the smarter option. If anything ever happened to me…" She trails off, the words dissolving, unfinished. And then—more rawly, more honestly—she adds, "But what if no one would want to?"

The fear tastes bitter even as she says it, the implication left unsaid: that maybe she isn’t enough, that maybe being the Doubletake and the Queen and everything else she’s tried to become hasn’t made her someone people choose. It wasn't the sort of vulnerability she could ever show to Jack—even though he took it anyway—but Kaisel had never taken more than she offered, and somehow that made it easier to give him everything.

The clay spreads across her back in warm strokes, drying to a pale dust that makes her feel like a statue in the making, something ancient and being uncovered all at once. She shivers slightly as he blows gently to cool it, her body reacting to the intimacy with a low hum of pleasure beneath her breath. "Mmm," she murmurs, soft and thoughtful, before glancing over her shoulder, a sly smile creeping across her lips. "Maybe I’ll ask Frey next for a literal rain shower in one room. Indoor stormcloud, just for us." Her grin brightens, eyes flicking playfully toward him. "We could make out in the rain, on demand."

Let's make tonight the weekend, I don't wanna wait

A soft apology is mumbled out when the squirm of her under his tighter grip is a solid reminder that he's working freshly old frustrations into her very current body. He lightens up after that, tilting an ear for the rest of her tale. The bit about being willing to overthrow Hadama is a strange revelation, and maybe it would have hit him harder if it was what ended up coming to pass instead of just a plan, like an intrusive thought that springs to mind. It's more than that though, he knows, because to accomplish it would be no quick or easy thing, and could have caused a great deal of harm to both sides of the issue, or to the kingdom itself. He sees the kind of dedicated ruler she is though, and there's a trust, maybe an all too blind one, that she'd not make such a choice without reason. His loyalties aren't to kings or Hadama, they're to her, past and present and future. All the scars she wears, visible or otherwise, are part of who she is, of who he cherishes. They're not inherently ugly to him, they're just an indicator of survival and perseverance, and those are things he can always respect.

Before he rises, the drift of her fingers keeps him longer, and the worry that creases into her response softens him further. His hand curls up into hers with an easy reassurance, a squeeze that tries to give her some of the strength he feels every time he looks at her. "I definitely think you shouldn't rule alone," he asserts, although the seriousness of it is betrayed by a smile slant to his lips. "Although aside from all the obvious reasons, it's because I'm completely selfish and don't want you being so permanently busy we're trapped in Torchline forever." But yes, also so that the kingdom doesn't fall into utter anarchy if anything happens to her, although if that's the case, Torchline will be the last thing on his mind then.

"You won't know the answer to that if you don't ask." It's said gently, although he doesn't quite grasp the depth of the concern and how she turns it so inward on herself instead of just the position. He can hear the fear, but it sounds like she's afraid she'll be left alone again, rather than found unfit to rule beside. "A lot of people probably won't want to," he admits, although it's said casually, like it's well known that responsibility is something people avoid. "I think others will surprise you though."

The flick of her attention back over her shoulder toward him should have been indicator enough, especially with the mischief of an idea weaving into her expression. Still, when she says it, he couldn't have expected it in a thousand dreams, and it forces a laugh free with the absurd way she always wrestles the world into her control. He loves it. He loves her. "Is making out in the rain one of the things you like?" he wonders, drifting back towards her head. "Isn't part of the appeal that it's unexpected?" he queries with a fond tilt of his head as he resists his chin back near her, wondering what would make this so different from kissing in the shower. "That you're caught in the sudden douse of it all, but you don't care, because nothing matters more than kissing each other?" He leans in closer with each word, sealing the end with his lips on hers, slow and deep and unfortunately lacking any rain. "I don't mind assigning a room for your lips though, or weather while we're at it. Although, I'm partial to sunny days." Mainly, just because that'll be the weather they most often get, so an excuse to steal her affection as if she doesn't already freely offer it.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

Her breath slows as she takes in his answer, and for a long moment Flora just lies there, her skin drying into pale earth tones, her thoughts moving more slowly than they usually dare. There are a dozen things she could say, confessions that almost come spilling out: the way she’s considered asking him to rule with her, the way she’s already halfway to making him an advisor anyway, given how often she folds his voice into her decisions. But they all feel too fragile, too weighty for this sun-drenched space where laughter still lingers in the air like sea salt and they're supposed to be relaxing. So instead, she hums quietly, a thoughtful sound that floats between them without trying to press too hard against the moment.

Then, as if shaking off the heaviness like droplets from a swim, she grins. Not because she doesn’t take his words seriously, but because this is supposed to be a day of peace. A little indulgent, a little ridiculous, maybe, but safe. Soft. "Maybe I’ll make it like a pageant," she muses aloud, her voice lighter now, teasing at the edges. "All the candidates will have to show off a special talent, walk a runway, and answer impossible questions about world peace while wearing swimwear." Her tone is dry but playful, and she lets the image bloom like a flower just to hear the sound of Kaisel’s laughter again.

It’s quickly becoming her favourite thing. The kind of sound that fills her chest in a way nothing else does, like sunlight warming the inside of her ribs. Her own smile grows in response, spreading across her lips until her cheeks go round and full. "Who doesn’t like making out in the rain?" she asks, feigning scandal at the idea that anyone could find it anything but swoon-worthy. "Though yeah," she concedes with a slow exhale, “"you’re right. It’s absolutely about choosing to keep kissing someone even when you could run for cover." Her voice drops a little, softening into the kind of intimacy that stretches between words like lace. She shifts just enough to glance at him over one shoulder, her lashes casting shadows on her cheek. "But I bet a rainroom could still be unexpected," she insists, the smile tugging at her mouth now full of something else.

Her tone turns more vivid, her grin stretching wider as she begins to paint the image with her words. "Like, we’re supposed to be at some fancy dinner. You’re upstairs, putting the finishing touches on your hair and trying to tame that one curl in the front that likes to rebel." She winks without looking, her grin turning just a little wicked. "And I call you to see if my makeup’s okay, and you’re just standing in the doorway, stunned, because the room I’m in? Suddenly raining."

Her smile makes her cheeks balloon so much she can hardly see him properly anymore as he draws closer, her gaze going blurry with joy until his mouth finds hers and the whole world quiets to the press of it. A soft, happy moan leaves her lips as she stretches up from the makeshift bed, her clay-coated arms unable to rise but her mouth doing all the work, her kiss warm and grateful and full of wonder. She grins into it, breathless and giddy, and when they part she lets out a laugh that tumbles from her like seafoam against his skin.

"Weather rooms, then," she declares, still laughing, her words made breathless with love. "One for every body part."

She sighs as she melts back into the chair, her whole body loose now, contentment radiating from her in waves. A pause stretches quiet between them again, full of everything and nothing, and then she hums it low and sweet like a song only meant for him. "I like you." It slips from her like truth does when you’re too happy to hold anything back. Because it’s not just love—though she’s bursting with that, too—it’s like. She likes him. And that’s rarer, in some ways. That’s what makes everything feel so safe and wild and weightless all at once. She closes her eyes again, smile still curled on her lips. "So much."

Let's make tonight the weekend, I don't wanna wait

She swings from the cold crack of deeply rooted fear to a warm flare of a fresh idea so abruptly that he doesn't trust the cover, but he doesn't dare peek under it either. She slipped it over for a reason, and sometimes it's best to trust in that rather than constantly peel it all away. Plus, the wild plan she's given life to with her breath, which would sound like a completed ad lib coming from anyone else, does make his laugh bubble up light and indulgent. Coming from her, he actually thinks she just might do it, and there's an eager shine to his gaze for it. "You'll definitely attract some attention with that." The amusement dies into just a hum of a smile, thoughts still rich with all the possibilities. "I mean, swimwear is basically a must for Torchline officials, so that seems like a necessary qualifier honestly."

If he hadn't already staunchly considered stepping up as the last hail mary in the event no one does answer her call, because he'd never let her stand alone like that, he certainly is considering entering the fray now that it could be a little more exciting of a journey. He doesn't speak to either thought though, for the same reasons that have come every time to him with the idea. That it wouldn't be good optics, climbing ranks so soon when he's fresh to Torchline, and her bed. That if both of them are the ones in power, how the fuck will they actually manage to leave for vacations? That he's not sure he has half the care she does for this place, and that maybe someone who feels more for this city and doesn't make a face every time sand gets in their shoes should be the one to actually govern it's future, else he might be tempted to pass some decree to remove all the sand from the beaches in a fit of despair one day.

"Cats," he answers her swiftly and utterly deadpan, in reference to who doesn't enjoy kissing in the rain. "Although they don't really make out, so..." There's certainly some girls out there who think they're part cat, what with the way they run from the slightest drizzle like it's acid instead of water.

As some energy rises up in her voice, the idea really starting to solidify into something she paints out for the both of them, his smile spreads slow and rich. His head tilts, cheek brushing the towel beside her as he rests it fully down, weighted with devotion. He's listening, but mostly he's watching, because she comes alive when she dreams like this. All the breathless possibility colors her into something so rare he can't help but behold it, quiet in his admiration so as not to distract her from the full breadth of her brilliant hue. Crayola would have a nice name for it, like Darling Dream or Flora in Bloom, and it wouldn't be one color, but a whole host of them that change and spread with each stroke.

"I see what you're up to," he drawls out, sideways and sly with his understanding. "You're just trying to come up with a better reason for being late," and though he clicks his tongue as if to chastise her, the chuckle that comes in soon thereafter says he absolutely won't. "You can always just blame me and my errant little curl," he offers her instead, always willing to be the out she needs. Of course, he knows that isn't why, but he can't resist teasing her thusly. The ridiculous scheme only runs away further when she decrees a different room with a weather and body party designation, and he tilts his head against hers to steady the shake of the amusement that rolls through him, climbing higher and louder with each silly little addition until just making eye contact with her is enough to send him all over again.

Eventually it wanes into just a tremble behind his lips, sides aching with the force of the joy that's the risk of her company. He stills at her words, eyes drifting her back into sharper focus when he'd let it all drift into soft edges. His blink is slow, falling in time with the low, happy sigh that eases free, the reckless mirth from before replaced with something that goes deeper. He flops a hand up between their faces, a finger extending and booping the tip of her nose before curling up near her cheek. "Oh good," he mumbles, unable or maybe just unwilling to keep the playful edge from his voice as a wayward smile returns. "I've been upgraded." He let the tender moment breath between them for a moment, but he simply can't let the opportunity to tease her pass him by so easily. "Started off being loved, then dropped all the way down to being hated. Now I'm back on middle ground—liked." He offers the explanation with no true heart to any of it, aware of the adoration threaded through every term, especially this most recent one.

"I like like you," he extends in return, the amber of his gaze absolutely melted, honest and raw with the core of his feelings for her. It feels so damn evident on his face whenever he looks at her, especially now, but he says it out loud too just to make sure, and he'll never stop doing so, especially not when he'd wasted so much time failing to say it before now.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

Flora's nose scrunches as she nods in mock solemnity, the expression dissolving fast into a grin. "Okay, but what if there’s, like, an obstacle course? You’ve got to be in your swimmies, obviously. Running down the beach, looking good and making regional decisions and fending off a monster attack." She gives a smug little shrug as if she’s just invented the next evolution of governance. "Legit, that’s happened to me before."

The absurdity of it lingers between them like salt spray, only deepening when he offers up cats as the official anti-rain-makeout demographic. Her snicker is sharp and unrepentant, but her expression quickly shifts into something wide-eyed and falsely affronted as he teases her about excuses. "Never," she gasps with a hand to her chest, "I love that little curl."

But it’s his laughter that cracks her wide open again, that golden, rolling sound that doesn’t just fill the space—it lifts it. Flora dissolves into giggles so sudden and bright she can barely breathe, hiccuping into her arm as tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and soon it doesn’t even matter what the joke was. It’s just him. The air around him is always brighter. His laughter doesn’t just echo; it exclaims. Kai! Like he's a punctuation mark in her world, turning the ordinary into the impossible and delightful.

Even once the mirth ebbs, her cheeks still ache from smiling, her body loose and humming with the warmth of him. She huffs softly, nudging his shoulder with the tip of her elbow, her voice still laced with glee. "Hey. That fall wasn’t that far." She grins, tilting her head toward him. "There’s a very fine line between love and hate, right? So you didn’t fall—you just wombled around the border a bit." Her words are feather-light, but the glow behind her gaze is anything but.

Because his eyes—gods, his eyes—have her completely undone. That soft, melted amber could pour straight into her bones and still not fill all the places he’s touched. There’s something about the way he looks at her that feels like being pulled into the centre of gravity, like all the butterflies in her stomach just decided to take flight at once and beat their wings against the cage of her ribs.

Beaming at him, her voice turns soft, slightly breathless from everything he makes her feel. "No one’s ever like-liked me the way you do." She leans forward as if to share some delicate secret, expression turning sweet, lashes low, every detail poised for tenderness, only for her to murmur with exaggerated solemnity, "But also...the way this mud has dried on my ass?" Her mouth quirks, then trembles with contained laughter. "It feels like the worst wedgie ever." A wheeze of laughter escapes her as she bites her lower lip to hold back more. "Is it time to go wash it off yet or am I supposed to marinate longer?"

Let's make tonight the weekend, I don't wanna wait

He quiets to better hear her evolving plans, lips twisting up as she speaks with an effort not to laugh, which makes everything she says ten times funnier. "When has that happened to you before?" he demands with a laugh that breaks free at the end, absolutely calling her out on such a clear fib. There's no disagreement from him though, so if she's looking for anyone to run ideas past for a sanity check, this isn't it. "Could add booby traps too," he offers, picturing abrupt flame throwers emerging from a platform in the beach.

The rest hardly seems to matter when they're both dissolving into helpless fits of laughter that make it clear why doctors can just up and declare hysteria. "Wombled is not a word," he accuses with a surge of adoration, absolutely intending to fold that into his vocabulary immediately. He's reached a point where the happiness hurts, his breath shaky and his sides in stitches. Every attempt to control it though only seems to encourage it, and he seriously considers just walking around of the room to avoid the contagious loop of hearing and watching her break over and over again too. It's the sort of whole-body joy and moment that whenever you try to explain to someone later will sound entirely boring and not amusing in the slightest. You had to be there.

When it flutters down into echoes and smiles that shrink and stretch rapidly, threatening a return to disarray in a heartbeat, he hums softly into the small space between them after his very obvious concession about how he feels about her. The slow creep of her closer to him, expression shifting into something so delicate he can't help but focus on it and gather his breath in waiting wonder of what, makes what she says next entirely unexpected. A laugh he fights to keep back erupts so suddenly, he's sure to spray her with a bit of spit before he turns away and attempts to suffocate himself into a towel. "Cannot be worse than the wedgie you gave me," he mumbles past fabric before reeling back to his feet.

Having lost all sense of his spa professionalism, he delivers a swift slap to her flaky ass, and with a put on southern accent tells her to "go on, git in the shower." He flashes a look back towards her as he starts to gather the towels and the muddy tools and bowl, completely and utterly in love. "Seaweed wrap is next," he informs, "and I'll do your nails while you turn into the ocean."

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

Her gaze sharpens with challenge as she turns her head to look at him, eyes narrowing in exaggerated righteousness. "One morning," she begins, lifting her chin with great drama, "I was out for a run—planning the next RQ for Torchline, being a leader—and a giant void sea panther literally rose up out of the sand and started attacking people on the beach." Her brows shoot up, arms wide like so there, and she gives him a look that practically demands an apology for doubting her obstacle-course-across-monsters scenario.

But then he says booby traps and she snaps her fingers like a diva confirming a feature she didn’t realise she’d always wanted. "Yes," she breathes with fervour, nodding emphatically, curls bouncing with each decisive tilt. "Absolutely. Mandatory. Fire traps. Spike pits. A cannon that asks policy questions and shoots you if you get them wrong."

Of course, it only takes seconds before they’re giggling again, that unstoppable loop of joy where breath becomes optional and everything is funny, and her laughter stutters into hiccups when he dares challenge her word choice. "Wombled is absolutely a word," she says through a squeal, turning her face away as if it might save her from laughing harder. "It’s a verb, adjective, and a lifestyle."

His own sudden outburst catches her mid-snort, and when he turns and buries his face into the towel, she gasps dramatically, swiping at a few stray droplets and mumbling, "That was retaliation during wartime, thank you very much. This was supposed to be a spa day." But she’s laughing again anyway, and barely finishes the sentence before his hand slaps her flaking clay-covered ass. "Rude!" she yelps, grinning too widely to carry any heat. "I'm docking your tips for that."

Pushing up from the table, she takes a moment to look down at herself, the dry, dusty coating across her golden skin turning her into a cracked sculpture. Striking a dramatic pose—one hand overhead, the other at her hip, chin tilted toward the heavens—she mimes tossing her curls with all the grandeur of a garden fountain, even though they're knotted on top of her head. "How do I look as a statue?" she asks, voice full of faux elegance.

With a pivot on her toe and a mischievous sway to her hips, she starts off down the hall toward one of the downstairs showers, her voice trailing back over her shoulder like a tease wrapped in silk. "Sure hope I can manage in the shower alone all right," she says, flirtation rich and sweet in her tone. Then, with a mock-sigh and a wicked little grin, she adds just loudly enough for him to hear, "Good thing all the spirits will be around to thoroughly help wash me off."

And she disappears down the hallway, hips wombling.

Let's make tonight the weekend, I don't wanna wait

She explains the tale without any pause or hesitation, so really he has to believe her, as wild as it sounds. The void aspect helps explain a lot, because of course it'd be the purple fuckers that are at the root of such an insane tale. His lips press down in the kind of frown that isn't upset, but surprised, nodding along with it in an expression that can only be described as a facial shrug. He stands corrected, she has done just that. "Well, then that certainly seems like a fair test," he says with an an impressed edge to his voice.

He's less sure of her assertion about wombled, but by then he's laughing too much to care, and even if it is fake he still loves it. He also really has no ground to stand on when it comes to scrutinizing the vocabulary of others. So, he instead wombles through the laughing fit, the continual revisiting of the word definitely one of the sources of his repeated outbursts.

If you've ever slapped the arm of a couch and then watched a plume of dust rise up, especially if there's a sunbeam cutting in at just the right angle, well that's kinda what happens when his palm connects with her ass cheek. Speckles of clay bounce up off her in a reverse rainfall of crumbs, at least for a moment, before gravity reclaims them and they scatter against the floor. He's tempted to help her remove it all by turning her into a bongo. Just for a second. The yelp she delivers and the swift admonishment after have him lifting his hands in mild surrender instead, although his grin is entirely unrepentant, "that was a bit of a tip all it's own."

He pauses with his armful of supplies to fully appraise the new artwork that's arrived to the orangery. "Oh my," he croons. "What an e x q u i s i t e piece," he lavishes, reaching up to adjust a pair of invisible glasses, because cultured people would obviously be wearing glasses. He gives an undignified gasp and a fake startle, towels scattering with the force of it, as she turns to move. "Oh my GODS, EUNICE!" he cries out, pearls theatrically clutched, his terribly named wife somewhere nearby surely. "The statue is moving!" He's forced to reset his pretend glasses, although all pretense for the fine art curator is dropped the moment her alluring tone reaches out. Kinda like old cartoons that have a pie smell wafting off in the shape of a hand and curling finger, guiding a hungry duck or rabbit towards the cooling treat, so his gaze is instantly affixed to the womble of her retreat.

His tray of remaining towels is dropped with all the urgency of something too hot to hold, clattering to the ground with a metallic hum. He does keep a grip on the clay bowl at least, tightly even, as she teases out the idea of spirits helping her instead, a thought which had never occurred to him until now, and abruptly he's jealous of a goddamned house. "I've got spirit!" he calls after her, clay remnants hurriedly deposited on a nearby table as he rushes after her, practically sprinting down the passage. "Ma'am, you have the upgraded package, private assistance included!"

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

"Oh please," Flora calls over her shoulder with the air of a long-suffering queen, rolling her eyes so hard it’s a miracle she doesn’t trip on her own feet. "You’re the one who said all tips had to wait until the end," she reminds him, drawing the word out with as much sass as she can coat it in. Her tone is drenched in indignation—faux indignation, of course—but it does nothing to hide the smile creeping along her lips, especially not when she hears his absurdly dramatic gasping behind her.

The moment he starts crooning in a terrible accent, glasses adjusted as though he were the head of Torchline’s most exclusive museum, Flora is seconds from breaking down again. She bites hard at the inside of her cheek, eyes shimmering with effort as she tries to maintain even the barest illusion of statuesque composure. She makes it about five steps before a strangled chuckle escapes her throat, shoulders hitching with stifled laughter.

She doesn’t stop, though. Not really. If anything, Kaisel’s voice at her back—his pretend panic, the ridiculous EUNICE!—has her steps slowing in a teasing and entirely deliberate way. Each movement exaggerated with grace, her hips shifting just enough to betray the secret smirk blooming across her lips. The villainous part of her delights in the sound of his tray hitting the ground and the urgent rustle of him scrambling after her.

The bathroom she enters is dimly lit, the glow dialed down to a dusky warmth that glimmers like a sunset wrapped in fog. The rainfall shower takes up most of the space, recessed into the ceiling with low water pressure meant for luxury, not efficiency. Steam is already beginning to curl along the tiles as she steps beneath the stream and turns it on, the water cascading like a soft hush across the room but doing little to immediately cut through the thick coat of dried clay that still clings to her skin.

Flora’s back is to the door, the shape of her pear-curved figure outlined in muted golds and browns. Her skin, where it shows beneath the cracks, glows warm in the diffused light, while the dried mud sculpts her into something halfway between art and indulgence. The swell of her hips is softened by the mist rising at her feet, the gentle arc of her thighs leading up to the very distinct handprint still visible in the clay across her ass, bold and unmistakable. Her curls are still mostly caught in a loose knot atop her head, stray wisps now dampening in the mist, while the scent of lilac and sugar from the foaming shower beads at her feet begins to rise with the steam.

One spirit tugs gently at the knot of her hair, loosening it with a teasing caress, while another drifts close enough to guide the water across her shoulder blades, delicate as a kiss. The scent of lilac thickens as unseen hands stir the foam at her feet, lifting it in soft lathers against her calves.

Let's make tonight the weekend, I don't wanna wait

He only catches the faintest blur of her image disappearing around a corner by the time he runs into the hallway. He's still learning the layout of this house, a far cry from the narrow corridors of the Sugartide or the simple pattern of her his home. He doesn't want to lose her, but he's close enough now he can steal a glimpse here, pick up a shuffle of bare feet there, so he lets those guide him as he works himself out of his uniform. He would not be repeating the other shower incident and staying clothed this time, thank you.

Although he meant to adhere to his schedule of treatments and keep layering relaxation upon her, restraint is proving a rather impossible thing to maintain when her hips are extending such an open invitation. What used to be the only thing he could depend upon when in her company is now flimsy at best, seemingly worn through by all the excess strain he placed on it when witholding himself before, that it finally gave in full the moment their lips met in earnest. He could probably patch it up into some shell of its former self, if he had any motivation to ever do so, which he absolutely doesn't.

The vision that greets him when he finally arrives certainly only motivates his arousal. "This is quite the upgrade from the boat's shower," he notes with a twist of a smile. He'd once accused that space of being too small, but given how many memorable encounters he'd had with her there, he prefers the term intimate now. Enough so in fact, that this large stretch of indoor rain almost feels like he could lose her to steam and suds, which would be unfortunate indeed. The room and its fixtures don't keep his focus long though, his copper gaze warming where it glides over the clay continents on display along the map of her bare backside. He steps forward slowly, admiring each vein of her tan skin where it peeks through the rusty earth, the hatching of a dream.

He takes in the oh so helpful hands at her disposal too, wondering what pervy old soul absolutely lept at this opportunity. "I've never seen the house so helpful before," he notes with a near growl, slipping in behind her with a purposeful possession of the space. "Is it always so amenable?" he wonders, voice lowering now that he's removed the distance, breath skimming against the nape of her neck where he leans in to take the task of unwinding her hair with his own hand. Fingers brush light and careful against the slope of her shoulder as he sweeps the strands to the side, delicate with a reverence for her body.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

"Mmm?" Flora murmurs over her shoulder, feigning distraction even as the corners of her mouth lift in a smile. Her voice is steam-thickened and teasing, like sugar melting on a sun-warmed spoon. "I thought you'd be preparing for my next treatment," she muses aloud, twisting slightly to catch him in her periphery. The moment her eyes land on his form—bare, glistening just faintly with the heat of the room—her teeth find her lower lip, a lazy scrape of appreciation drawn across it as her gaze slides up the length of him, slow and thorough. "Unless," she adds, a sly spark lighting in the aquamarine of her eyes, "you are my next treatment."

The sigh that escapes her when he nears is soft but unmissable, drawn out with arousal and anticipation both. Steam clings to the space between them, but the warmth that races through her is entirely his. A shiver dances up her spine as his breath grazes the nape of her neck, delicate and claiming in the same breath. "You should’ve seen how helpful the house was while you were off in Stormbreak," she says with exaggerated innocence, though the glint in her eyes as she looks back at him is anything but. "I was very thoroughly looked after."

His fingers move gently through her hair, undoing the loose knot as if unwrapping a gift, and though the thick paste of mud mixing with her curls isn’t the most pleasant texture, everything is transformed by the press of his body behind her. Each graze of his skin makes her pulse thrum harder, grounding her in the delicious, unhurried intimacy of the moment.

With a hum that’s more wicked than sweet, Flora twists purposefully in his arms, pressing back into him with intent. Mud smears across his chest in soft, gritty trails as her back meets him, and she doesn’t stop there; her arms loop around his neck, pulling her fully against him, her breasts slipping silkily against his bare skin, streaked in water and earthen clay. She stands on her toes, the angle lifting her body to meet his in full, steam curling around them like something summoned.

Their hair—so often the first thing to protest water—has already begun its unruly transformation. Her golden curls are sticking and frizzing and drooping all at once, flattening around her cheeks as if trying to kiss her skin. And Kaisel, gods, he’s the most handsome thing she’s ever seen, every inch of him glowing beneath the haze, the amber of his eyes shining like light through honey.

She looks at him and feels it crest so suddenly in her chest that she could drown in it. Joy. Not the fleeting kind. Not the borrowed or built kind. But the unfiltered, full-to-bursting joy that comes when you realise your heart has never been this full before, and it’s all because of him. The way he listens. The way he laughs. The way he cares about her like it’s as natural as breathing, without condition, without demand. The way his presence doesn’t just complement hers, it magnifies it, like he’s the exclamation point punctuating every beautiful thing that might’ve once felt ordinary. Not just because he’s playful or sharp or infuriatingly hot. But because he’s Kaisel. And there is no one else in the world who makes life feel as rich, as real, as right.

While it isn’t quite rain, this shower overhead—its lazy drizzle is nothing like the storms she usually dreams of kissing him in—she doesn’t care. There’s water and warmth and him, and that’s enough. Still on her toes, pressed to him like a prayer, she tips her chin up, gaze soft and molten and glowing. Her voice is barely a breath when she says, "kiss me."

Let's make tonight the weekend, I don't wanna wait

Although he knows she's adding emphasis, he can't withhold the narrowing of his gaze, catching the one she flicks back at him with the sharper angle and a disbelieving pause to his movements. "I have not been abusing your compass nearly enough." The words are dropped like a vow, quiet enough to only land in the space between skin and steam, but tight with promise. Although it's just a continuation of the playful threat, he certainly means it no less.

The unwinding of her hair resumes, but for all the care he attempts to provide, his attention ultimately drifts to the delicate slope of her neck, the line of her shoulders, the swell of her breasts that peek up from behind it all when the shower's fog permits. She is a work of art, and better for it that she's no statue. Although, he rather thinks there should be a few stone and metal dedications to her scattered around. Maybe that'll be a requirement for Floropolis, a bust every five miles or so.

Her hair shifts easy in his loose grip as she turns, threads spilling past his fingers like spun gold, dappled with beads of water that glint with the same quality of diamonds tossed against her crown. His extended arm lingers, less shower than dance floor for a moment as she spins. The swipe of her back against his chest leaves an unexpected sensation, one that elicits a gasp of surprise, gaze falling down to where the first smear of rehydrated clay marks him. It's slick in the wet heat of the shower, sliding off her with ease when touched, but too stubborn to wash away without encouragement due to a faint water-repelling trait. It's that which feels the most strange, making every area it layers against weirdly disconnected from the steady drum of the mock rain upon the rest of his skin.

A smirk soon replaces the surprise, never having had any hope of making it out of this without getting a little filthy. His hands find her sides as her arms circle around his neck, thumbs sliding down the rust of her torso with a creamy smoothness, mud whittling away beneath the pressure. He meets the way she joins him, pressing in on her tighter with a hungry sigh as her breasts slip along the plane of his chest, red water pooling shallowly in the design of their touch. With space so absent there's no hiding the way he wants her, his erection cutting a firm line through the clay on her thighs where it seats itself between them.

The want he feels is more than just the heat that crawls low in his gut. It's every moment spent with her that feels fuller, and all the ones after where he can't imagine the absence of her. She makes life feel large, like it's finally opened up and become something worthwhile instead of stooped and boxed in. Every love song makes sense now, and he wonders how the world knew to write so much music about her and what she does to him.

His gaze is liquid at this point, spilling into the sea of her stare like he means to dive right into the bright tide of her eyes. The soft request that barely breaks sends his smile into a knowing tilt. He leans down with all the intensity of the storm they've found themselves caught in, the movement hurried until he finds her, and then she's all the shelter he could ever need from this sudden downpour, and he means to linger there until the rain runs out. His grip tightens against her, palms pressing in while fingers curl, fighting the slide of the mud.

He's relentless in his fulfillment of her ask, driving her to a breathless pant. His hands have given up on holding, choosing to slip up and around her breasts, her back, the slope of her cheeks. It's as though he's exploring the terrain of her body anew, marking each point of interest while taking every ounce of breath she has with tongue and teeth. All the while the clay slowly yields to the continual stream of water and touch.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

Flora grins, wicked and satisfied, as if sealing a deal they never needed to speak aloud, but the mischief that curves her lips is swept away the moment his hands meet her clay-covered skin. The warmth of his body against hers turns her molten from the inside out, desire spilling into every place he touches until her breath is stolen from her altogether. The laughter and the teasing, the mud and the steam, all blur into something singular and all-consuming; the feel of him.

There’s an affection in her as much as there is hunger, not just because he touches her like she’s something worth holding on to, but because he is. She’s never known a man like Kaisel. Everything about him feels rare, not in the way of something breakable or untouchable, but in the way treasure feels when it’s found in the least expected place; half-buried and glinting in sunlight like it’s been waiting just for you. The breadth of his chest beneath her hands is like the answer to a question she hadn’t known she was asking, and the way she fits against him isn’t just easy; it feels inevitable. If there had ever been fear that being with someone who wasn’t in her head would mean something was missing, that touch wouldn’t land quite right or affection might fall short, then that fear dissolves beneath the sweep of his hands and the pressure of his hips. Every place he touches her feels like he already knows how she wants to be held, how she wants to be seen, how she wants to be loved.

Flora gasps against his mouth with every press, every slip of fingers and grind of clay-slicked skin, each moment drawing her further from words and closer to something truer. Her arms wrap tighter around his shoulders and neck, holding herself up as much as holding him close, her body trembling under the weight of it all; want, love, joy, in addition to the ache that sings in her belly like wildfire. Her lips chase his again and again until the desperate need for air forces her to pull back, her mouth parting with a soft, breathless whimper. Even then she doesn't stray far, her forehead pressing to his as she tries to catch her breath, one hand cradling the side of his face, the other curling at the nape of his neck.

The water drips between them and steam curls around her spine like silk, but all Flora can see is the golden flame of his eyes and the way they glow with something that burns just for her. "You’re all that I want," she whispers, the words escaping like a prayer wrapped in reverence and heat, and though they’re laced with hunger, what they carry is so much more than just a craving to be touched.

It’s ridiculous, how hard she’s fallen for him. How fast. How foolish she feels for ever asking for time when all she wants now is to spend that time with him. To waste it shamelessly, to turn it into years, a life, a forever. She’d said she wanted space to breathe, to think, to choose, but now all she wants is morning after morning in his arms and a lifetime of falling asleep to the rise and fall of his chest beside her. He makes joy feel effortless and love feel like the only answer she’s ever known, and if her heart wants to imagine wedding bells ringing like laughter through a sun-drenched hall, well—so what? She’s never loved like this. She’s never been loved like this. How could she not imagine it?

A soft sound slips from her lips, something between a sigh and a moan, and she twists in his arms just enough to shift their balance, her hands gliding over his shoulders and down his chest until her palms settle flat against him. She pushes gently, slowly, eyes locked on his as her breath stutters with anticipation, guiding him step by step until the back of his knees brushes the smooth wooden bench built into the curve of the shower wall.

Flora holds Kaisel's gaze without wavering, her breath still shallow, eyes glowing with the kind of adoration that makes the whole world narrow to the shape of him. Steam beads across his skin like dew on bronze, every drop sliding down muscle and clay and heat until she can no longer help herself. One of her hands trails downward, fingers painting through the mud as if rediscovering a map she already knows by heart. When she reaches the base of his cock, her touch is slow and deliberate, her fingers curling around him with aching restraint. She draws a teasing stroke along his length, her grip confident but unhurried, as if every second she spends touching him is a pleasure to be savoured in and of itself.