You want a facial?

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

The complexities of who is and isn't meat and the feigned outrage over icecream codes of conduct is momentarily forgotten as he gets ahold of her. "Hhhuuuuup" he gasps audibly, the sound at strong odds among a curtain of laughter. Heeans over her shoulder a bit more, properly peering down at her attire, the hand she's holding stroking the plush robe back and forth. "Is this made from baby unicorns and clouds or what?! I think this is the softest thing I've ever felt." it certainly doesn't hurt that her chest is just below the pattern of his touch, something he becomes aware of after a sweep or two, and though he can't accurately feel her through all the softness of shaved chinchillas or whatever it's made of, it adds a certain something to the experience to be sure.

The integrity of his icecream standings is still at stake though, so he withdraws a bit, kissing the top of her head as it tilts back into range. "You are absolutely one of those freaks who sets the icecream out on the counter to thaw first, huh?" His own glittering state of accusation lands on her, head tipping down to grant her the full scorch of the look. "Tell me, how many times has Spice had to save a pint for you after you forgot about it?" He's betting she's failed at least once, because much as he'd liken her to a dream or a goddess, she's still human, utterly flawed, especially with frozen treat tragedies. "Just sounds like you haven't even tried to eat ice cream with a fork, and I gotta say, you're missing out."

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

Laughter ripples through her, bright and unrepentant, as she sways lazily back into Kaisel, her weight all soft smugness and sparkling amusement. "I could channel Frey," she muses, voice syrup-slow and thoroughly unbothered, "and ask for a robe for you too, if I didn’t think you’d instantly ruin it the way you did the last Frey-outfit I got you." She arches a brow, as if daring him to deny it, her tone scandalised in the way only lovers with long memories can be.

His kiss atop her head earns a hum, sweet as the melting dessert they’re debating, but her eyes roll with theatrical disdain as she retorts, "If by that you mean am I one of those people who can control their appetite for the two minutes it takes ice cream to thaw properly, then yes. I am that type of freak."

Flora does not, however, dignify his accusation about Spice with a reply, mostly because he’s right and the memory of a poor half-liquid strawberry swirl is still a regret of hers. Instead, Flora just tilts her head the barest bit more and blows a stream of cool air right up his nose, the childish sabotage precise and petty.

Then, with an utterly unrepentant smile, she purrs, "I wonder if la Spa de Wildering has an ice cream option I can work into my services." The words are velvet and silk and suggestion, and as she leans back just enough to press her ass against him, she hums with a teasing sweetness, "I’d tip extra for it."

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

If she means to embarass him, he only answers with a wide grin. "That was all your fault." His accusation is soft but also honest. She's the one who started touching herself while he was still getting ready for bed, and if his short performance in the shower is any indicator, seeing her in the midst of pleasure is a massive turn on. His dreams had no hope of staying dry after seeing the moonlit arc of her, however wreathed in facial cleanser he was. Now at least he can actually have her, leaving his dreams pleasantly temperate.

"Is Frey the knife?" he wonders with a whisper, an airy chuckle parting him, perhaps the only trio he could imagine with her, and then only because his arousal for her had been pulled taut in the god's hands once before, all for a dress code.

Rolling his eyes at her apparant patience for ice cream, he's completely caught off guard hy the huff off air that puffs into his face. His head jerks back on instinct, snorting the offense free as he buries his wrinkling nose into her nape with an offended noise. The sort that's completely affectionate still, as if her blast had been little more than a dusting of sugar in the end.

"Mmm," he hums loudly in response to her question, an eye peeking put over the fuzz of her shoulder as the noticable pressure of her ass greets the pocket of his hips, a warm rush rising like a dizzying lurch upright after sitting. His hands drift down in response, searching for the shape of her hips through the plush folds of her robe. "Ice cream could be arranged, but-," His voice tips out into silence as his fingers curl tightly against her, sinking into the curve of her ass's edges. "You really must be disrobed to begin any new treatment, seaweed or icecream."

A smirk finds the edge of his mouth just before his lips graze the point just below her earlobe. "If you were icecream, what flavor would you be?"

---

I'm fucking faded right now which I blame you for so excessive typos are your problem. I think I caught them but idfk.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

Flora huffs, clearly scandalised by the very idea that any of it could be her fault, even as a slow, wicked grin pulls at her lips. "Excuse me," she retorts, swaying gently back against him, her voice teasing and full of smoke. "You were the one who barged in." But the heat in her gaze softens a little, and she murmurs, "And even though I don’t think things would’ve turned out the same if anything had happened that night, gods," she laughs, low and rueful, "I thought about it for weeks."

As for Frey being the knife, she wrinkles her nose, all thoughtful mock-philosophy. "Mmm...maybe," she allows with a shrug, then adds dryly, "but it’d be weird, since we’d both be seeing different things." Then, with a slight tilt of her head, knowing the topic was perhaps to big to just breeze through the way she was going to anyway, adds, "I'd also be super worried about getting pregnant with them around, y'know?"

Kai's snort into her neck makes her squeal with laughter, the noise caught somewhere between protest and delight, and she squirms at the press of his nose before shivering outright at the weight of his hands sinking down to her hips. Her breath catches slightly in her throat as his lips brush her neck, soft and sure and full of his more quiet affection she’s come to crave almost more than the rest. Almost.

A purr escapes her as her fingers loosen the robe’s tie, unfastening the belt with a silken tug. "Mmm, my sincerest apologies, sir," she hums as she rolls her shoulders, letting the robe part enough to slip off as she steps away. With him still clutching the fabric where her hips had been, he’s left holding nothing but the ghost of her warmth and the world’s softest dressing gown.

Flora glances back over her shoulder, chin tipped coyly, and considers Kai's question with exaggerated seriousness. "Probably like…a base of something like French vanilla," she says, tone light but self-aware, because at her core, Flora was a well-off blonde-haired blue-eyed girl, which was pretty vanilla. Then she adds, "But then you drizzle hot maple syrup over top so that it hardens into a shell the moment it hits the cold." Her voice drops into something slower, silkier. "And then with a bit of something salty sprinkled overtop to balance out all the sweet. And," turning, wearing just a fresh pair of lacy underwear now, Flora will hold up a finger before adding, "I'm eaten best out of a waffle cone."

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

"I knocked!" he tosses back with a similar scandalization. "You said knock if I needed anything, so I did." He says it with all the wounded air of a dog wrongfully stepped on for being underfoot. That he only gave her about one second to respond to his knock before he then barged in hardly seems to matter.

He immediately regrets bringing up the knife again, Flora making it all too real with all the risks and issues at hand. "Aaaaand this is why I'm sticking with icecream over steak as my final answer," he declares with a nervous ruffle of his hand through his hair. Kids is certainly not a topic he wants to piece through right now any more than threesomes.

Grateful for the distraction of her breath and her ass, he leans into that shifting pattern of thought all the harder. Loving her is uncomplicated, even with well laid utensil traps, or maybe because of them. It's easy to relish the feel of her, to savor each embrace and keep every kiss. It's more than the heat buried beneath a plush robe though, it's each moment gilded in laughter that weaves effortlessly inbetween, soft and fierce. It's happiness distilled, unlike any he's ever known, and which dwarfs the sort he imagined.

He keeps the shell of her like a prize, though his gaze follows her slow steps as she slips away, appreciative of the sight every time. The shape of her sags out of the fabric in his hands. He twirls it over his back, sleeves dangling from his shoulders, turning it into a makeshift cape. "You're adding extras to your flavor," he admonishes with a sharpened edge to his smile, one that matches his eyes, their attention fixated on tracing the pattern of her lace like he could satiate his hunger for her via design. "I'll let it slide," he declares with all the weight of a Roman emperor's thumb held out before the gladiators at the colloseum. "This time," he adds with a growing spread to his smirk, gaze running languidly up the curves of her to set back on her sea glass stare. Vanilla is best to build additions onto, giving the most flexibility for change.

He steps forward, one hand directing her with a spread against the small of her back. "Alright vanilla-maple-shell," he murmurs, glancing sidelong at her, utterly fond. "If you'd please lay out again, I'll get you started for your next appointment, you can have the ice cream during your pedicure." His other arm sweeps towards the makeshift massage table again, fresh towels laid out, clean of clay. "At Spa de Wildering we aim to please, so we have an entire two flavor selection today. Strawberry or salted caramel?" Unless she had a private stash of ice cream he didn't know about.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

Flora rolls her eyes with the exaggerated flair of someone entirely unbothered by Kaisel's wounded theatrics, as she's entirely certain he knows exactly what he did wrong. The kind of wrong that required no apology, only sass and memory for future leverage. "Mmhm," she says, tone rich with disbelief, the corners of her mouth twitching upward.

As he accuses her of adding extras to her flavour profile, she scoffs again, shooting him a look that is equal parts scandalised and smug. "I was being thorough in my answer," she replies loftily, arching one brow as she catches the direction of his gaze and pointedly cocks a hip, shifting just enough to make the lace shift across her skin. "Besides," she adds, sweeping a lock of damp hair off her shoulder, "you’re one to talk. What flavour would you be, oh great judge of dessert purity?"

The soft pressure of his hand against her back draws a pleased little hum from her lips, and the look she tosses back at him—sun-kissed and sea-glass bright—is flushed with a tenderness that melts at the edges. There’s laughter still in her—there always is, with him—but it’s softened now into something warmer. A little bit lovesick and utterly twitterpated, if she’s being honest with herself.

Sliding onto the table again, she stretches out with an indulgent sigh, arms folded beneath her chin as she settles stomach-down. Her hips lift in a playful shimmy, just enough to make the lace flicker and sway over her ass for his benefit. "Mmm...definitely strawberry," she decides after a moment, drawing the word out like a taste she’s savouring. "I’m in the mood for sweet." The look she flashes him over her shoulder leaves no question that the sort of sweet she's looking for, is precisely the sort he never seems to run out of.

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

Oh, he well knows how thorough Flora likes to be. Given his expression is already competing with a knife's edge, her explanation does little to affect him except continue to tip his thoughts into the gutter. Which, honestly seems to be exactly where she wants them if the incline of her hip is any indicator. He's half a mind to wrap her up in his arms instead of seaweed and steal her away to the bedroom for a proper tip (literal and figurative). Alas, that'd completely ruin the reputation of Spa de Wildering, and he definitely can't have that on his conscious.

He inclines his head towards her at the title she's bestowed upon him, tipping down as though expecting the weight of the dessert world to settle there like a homecoming king receiving his plastic crown. "Thank you for finally recognizing my position on this matter," he preens, tone dipping into something fittingly snooty for a moment. He expected she might ask in return, but for all his usual quickfire responses, this one he considers deeply as she arranges herself on the 'massage table'. It could be that he's too familiar with all the varieties of ice cream, and there is quite a selection to them, or a quiet debate about who he has been for so long that is feeling a bit like it's slipping away from who he's becoming. Nothing so major that he's unrecognizable, and change is inevitable, but he'd gone from such a consistent day to day for so many years of his life that this past one has been a complete whirlwind.

There's no need to get too deep into the ice cream tub, as it were, and the pleasantly warm and light sounds from her as she shifts into place quickly reminds him so. "Cookie dough," he declares with a finality completely at odds with the other choices lingering on the back of his tongue. "Seems simple enough, but each bite is a surprise of how much dough you get." Which he supposes could be said about plenty of other flavors boasting swirls or nuggets, but his is one of the classics, a real comfort flavor that you can always depend upon to be in stock and leave you happy with your choice. "Also, who doesn't love two desserts in one?" Especially a forbidden dessert like dough, which also pairs well with him maybe not always having fully baked decisions.

He returns to her side with his latest relaxation concoction, a short laugh escaping at the answer she provides, because it's all sweet, except sorbets. Still, he gets her meaning. "The finest cup of strawberry coming up shortly," he announces just before he returns to basting her, this time in a warm, briny paste. "You know, I'm getting good at painting you now. Maybe next time we lay out a big canvas and you can roll around and we'll call it art and hang it up." It's certainly the one kind of art he might be good at—messy and chaotic and bright and covered with Flora. He's only teasing, though he does look up from his brush strokes to appraise her response before setting it all aside to start layering strands of seaweed over here like some sort of oceanic mummy.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

"Oh my gods, yes," Flora breathes, the words muffled slightly by the way her cheek is squished against her hands, her voice brimming with emphatic delight as Kaisel names his flavour. She doesn’t—can’t—know the full weight behind it, just as once upon a time she hadn't known what Kaisel had meant by declaring that the part of a cupcake he'd be was sprinkles. Later, though, she'll think about to this moment and realize that not only was cookie dough arguably one of the best flavours anyhow, but that in moments of decision paralysis when every flashy, seasonal and over-swirled flavour was screaming for your attention, that cookie dough would always be there, and it would never be a flavour you regretted choosing.

But in the now, she just grins wryly over one shoulder, expression mischievous and affectionate in equal measure. "I love cookie dough," she declares, like it’s the highest compliment she can bestow. "I wasn’t really allowed to have it growing up. My nonna used to say it was bad for you." Her tone turns faintly scandalised, as if that somehow made it even more appealing. With a snort, she lays her chin back down on her folded arms and mutters, just loud enough for him to hear, "So two desserts in one is fine, but a fork and a knife is too much?" Pfft.

The lazy chuckle that follows is cut off with a low, surprised moan as the first sweep of warm brine meets her skin. She shivers beneath his touch, the sensation sending goosebumps racing down her arms despite the heat of the room and the feel of his hands. Her next breath comes out in a deep, relaxed trainchuff, body melting like wax beneath the careful drag of his brush.

But then he speaks again, and her whole body perks up like a struck match. "Wait—wait wait wait wait—stop everything," she gasps, twisting with sudden, delighted urgency. She rolls just enough to catch his eye, her sea-glass stare sparkling with a hundred wild ideas already forming. The careful lines on her back crease with her movement, but she clearly couldn’t care less. "We could paint each other first with different colours, and then roll around on the canvas so that everywhere we touch would mix into something new." Pausing, Flora eyes him as if able to see the trajectory of his thoughts. "Not like that," she says flatly, though of course if their painting was the result of sex she would absolutely not mind. "I meant, like, Twister. Either the spirits or Niki could spin the thing for us."

Biting down on her lower lip, she beams at him with childlike glee. "I think that actually sounds like so much fun."

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

He's absolutely chuffed by her response to his choice, glad to know that even if they both were turned into a scoop of ice cream right now, that in this alternate universe it seems they still might find affection for each other. Hopefully before they melted or got eaten. "Oh, that explains it," he drags out the extra emphasis they each trade like they're bartering games and happiness with every possible moment. "Any time you can't have something as a kid, just can't contain yourself as an adult. That's why you love me now, I'm your sexy cookie dough." Admittedly, it sounded better and clearer in his head. His attempt at an overly done pose, to flaunt his doughy muscles, swiftly rippling into confused consideration.

Not that he has a moment to repair it before an eyeroll and a groan are slipping free. "Oh my goooooooooooooooods, I'm never living down this knife fiasco, am I?" He rolls out of his pose and into the role of the dutiful, if scorned, spa attendant. He dabs the bring schmear firmly as he starts on her, the bristles bowing under the added pressure, though the smirk that he flings her way suggests he'd have it no other way. "You had a whole toppings bar added to you, need I remind you." His eyebrows finish that statement with a pointed lift.

Not expecting such a strong response to his silly idea, he instantly freezes, assuming something has gone terribly wrong with the treatment and she's starting to get some sort of terrible chemical burn or regular burn. "What!" he demands, seaweed held across his face like a lady poised for scandal. The look she tosses over to him though doesn't scream, help, my flesh is boiling off my bones. He eases considerably, smile breaking in like dawnlight as she starts to plan it all out. He actually hadn't thought that she meant lIkE tHaT, but he is now, and his grin doubles in size at the same moment he slaps the seaweed still in his hand on her ass. "The sexy cookie dough back at it again," he taunts, clearly accusing her mind of being the dirty one this time.

Maybe he hadn't considered like that until she said it, but he definitely pictured them naked in this ordeal, so when she offers Niki's name, Kaisel's features lift in mild surprise for a moment. "Is Niki the knife?" he whisper wonders, or perhaps she still thought him a ghost and likened him to the same level of helpfulness as all the other household spirits.

"Yes!" he snaps his fingers, sealing the deal, the details still a bit hazy as to who would be twisting what. That hardly matters so much as keeping that perfectly happy look on her face, so contagious it's warming his into something entirely soft and adoring. "Let's do it then. What colors? Too many might look bleh when mixed, so we might wanna stick with one or two each?"

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

"Oh yeah," Flora drawls, flashing him a scandalously sweet smirk before tipping her head into a feigned nod of solemn agreement. "It’s got nothing to do with you, obviously. It’s just the trauma of a strict Nonna." Her grin curls higher, eyes dancing with laughter, though her fingers drift lazily across his stomach as if tasting her words. "Sexy? Absolutely. Colour of cookie dough? Sure. But..."

She pinches, expectantly and frowns when no gooey prize is earned, then pops the tip of her finger into her mouth and sucks it thoughtfully. "...and yet you weirdly taste like my laundry soap." She hums, head cocked as if considering the science of it, but the glint in her eyes betrays her teasing.

The truth is, it’s not that far off. Not the soap, obviously, but the way childhood shapes the palette of love. If she’d had a different upbringing, if her father(s) hadn’t disappeared into bitterness and guilt and ghosts, maybe she wouldn’t have craved the danger that eventually led her to Jack. And without that whole cursed shipwreck of a chapter, maybe she’d never have recognised the bright, ridiculous, relentless joy that Kaisel brings. Maybe she wouldn’t have known how rare it is to feel this kind of safe and happy.

"Clearly," she sighs, circling back to his dramatic groan, "some deep part of your subconscious thinks I need help with you. I’m just trying to figure out what kind." Her eyes narrow, faux-serious. "And yes. I had an entire topping bar, and you didn’t even say I’d be delicious. Which, honestly? Feels like a hate crime." Like failing one of those ridiculous couples tests. Would you kiss someone else for ten million dollars? If we broke up, would you get back with your ex? If I had a twin sister, would you be attracted to her?

The back-and-forth swells, both of them caught in the spiral of escalating absurdity, and when Kaisel tosses out the cookie dough line again, Flora gasps in mock delight. "What can I say?" she purrs, ass flexing under his hand with a deliberate little wiggle. "I have a sweet tooth." Then, casually as a wave lapping at the shore, she reaches back to hook one playful finger in the waistband of his pants, like she’s fishing in shallow waters and fully expects to catch something slippery.

Kaisel's scandalised whisper earns a snort. "If you’re the meat," she says with a lifted brow and a wicked glint, "then Niki would probably be happiest as the knife." It’s said with all the layered implication of someone who knows exactly what team their friend plays for (and it definitely isn't hers). "I'm not sure you're his type, though."

At Kaisel's enthusiastic agreement, she beams, lips twitching in thought. "You’re right though. If we mix too many, it’ll just be brown. And not even a cookie-dough brown. More like...old mop water." She taps her chin. "So maybe blue and yellow? Gold and green? Or ooh—red and blue?"

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

A little oof escapes him as she squeezes, like an off brand Pillsbury dough boy. "Laundry soap?" he scoffs. "Look, the spirits keep adding more to my loads behind my back, they want the whole thing to explode in bubbles again." Clearly he'd taste better if he didn't have saboteurs from the afterlife working against him.

His jaw is only dropping further as she continues, a sputter of disagreement forming as he tries to butt inbetween her rising list of complaints to have the space to knock them away. He starts with a very strong argument of, "nuh-uh!" This being the betrayal of his inner self needing more than her. "There is not a lot of things at a fancy restaurant you can eat with only a fork, ok. Or did you want me to say [i]salad." To that he makes a face scrunched up in disgust, suggesting that a salad is a far worse choice than anything else he could have chosen, except perhaps soup, which is purely due to the function of the fork.

"AND!" he stresses, though his rising energy suddenly simmers out as he half-sits, half-standing-leans against her side on the table, ignoring the smear of her paste getting on his clothing. "You're right," he admits, brushing her hair to one side. "That was criminal of me not to say that you're the exactly perfect combination of crunchy, melty, salty, sweet goodness that I'm always looking for. The sort that is good from the first bite until the last crumb of waffle cone. The kind of flavor you savor with every lick and nibble." He leans down to press a kiss to the side of her now uncovered neck, teeth grazing her skin before he pulls away. "I'd eat you up daily." He grins, popping off the table to resume, her distractions never ending if he let's them be.

He doesn't make it far though before she's reeling him back in, tugged by the hook of her hand. He laughs, the sound shaken loose easily just by the shape of her own smile and the never ending delight of spinning around these ridiculous moments with her. She builds joy into everything, a thread of friendship that's been braided time and time again that now it's something so deeply affectionate he feels its weight with every breath, comforting and strong.

His expressions lifts ever higher as realization sets in, a soft "oh," completing it. "So that's why he could be the spinner," he chuckles, finishing the final layer of seaweed over her for this side. "Spin please," he murmurs with a little twirl of his finger, asking her to flip over so he can set about treating her front side in the same manner. Smirking at the idea of mop water being hung up as art, he listens to her color options while painting her in creamy salt again. "What is your color?" he hums thoughtfully, not sure he could pin her down as only one color among the wide array of them, but surely she still has a preference. A favorite maybe, or one that suits her best, or one she wishes did.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

Flora lifts her brows in dramatic offence, a slow grin curling across her lips. "Your loads, huh?" she repeats, eyes narrowing. "You cannot keep blaming every bubble-bursting laundry catastrophe on the dearly departed. At some point babes, it’s just you being bad at laundry."

Her grin only widens as he fumbles through his fork-based panic, and with an exaggerated huff, she tosses her head back against the table. "I was just trying to give you access to the whole metaphorical menu by saying it was a fancy restaurant, not trigger a cutlery-based existential crisis," she sighs, dripping in long-suffering sarcasm.

Still, her breath hitches slightly when his hands find her hair, brushing it gently aside like she’s something precious and a little messy yet still worth the effort. She humphs faintly at first, brows rising as he finally offers the worship she was clearly owed, though her eye-roll communicates that it's barely enough to balance the earlier injustice. But as his words spill soft and slow, like syrup on fresh waffles, her expression softens too. Her lashes dip, the graze of his teeth at her neck sending a quiet shiver spiralling through her body like a ripple beneath warm water.

"Oh nooo," she deadpans under her breath, clearly not protesting the idea of being regulrly eaten, as she hooks two fingers in his waistband and tugs him closer. Still sprawled and half-pasted in seaweed, she can’t exactly rise to meet him properly, but she can bunch up his shirt, lifting it just enough to lean forward and press a kiss against the jut of his hip. Her lips linger there for a moment, warm and faintly salty, before she collapses back down with a long, utterly contented sigh.

She hums again at Kaisel's next words, nodding her agreement as he preps for round two of her transformation. With great, seaweed-squishing effort, Flora flips herself onto her back, wrinkling her nose as things shift around uncomfortably. Still mostly naked, slightly sticky, and smelling like an ocean salad, she stares up at him through strands of tousled curls. "I mean...Obviously I have favourite colours to wear," she begins loftily, fingers fluttering to gesture at her (lack of) outfit.

"But if we’re talking just...colours I like?" Her expression softens again, and something quiet creeps into her voice. "The colour the sea goes in the early morning, before the sun’s all the way up, when it’s green more than blue and not too harsh" Her fingers trace idle circles on her thigh, eyes drifting somewhere far-off. "Or that golden brown that filters through the trees at sunset. Like when the light goes all syrupy and soft and everything looks like honey." They’re not the kinds of colours you can buy in a bottle or point to on a swatch. They’re feelings in colour form. Memories. Moods. And they just so happen to be the colour of her eyes...and his too.

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

Soap must not be so bad if she's going to sigh like that back onto the bench, but maybe she was the kind to do the Tidepod challenge. The press of her lips flutters through him and rises light and gentle in his chest, stilling him a moment longer even as she settles, his gaze trailing down after her like ivy abandoning the arch of its designated trellis. Whether ice cream or fork, he'd like to have this daily—sans salt and clay. Such that when she heeds his request, flopping over like the catch of the day, he lurks near her head to steal an upside-down kiss before moving on.

While cutlery and ice cream flavors might have sent him spiraling, it's colors that seems to do it for her. Expecting something simple like aqua, the way a child might proudly announce their color, a choice made early on when battling peers for crayons during coloring activities, she doesn't keep it so easy. He pauses some of his salt smearing, glancing up at her as she paints the image with her explanation, her gaze clearly distant as she wanders the poem of the hue. A grin spreads steadily with every word, and he abandons his task for a moment to crouch down beside her, folding his arms on the side of the cushion and resting his chin over them.

"Okay," he decides soft and sure. "So you'll be painted like the day's first wave, some white heeeere, and then green here, and some blue along here." One of his arms slinks out, a finger skimming over her shoulder, then sweeping up and over to her opposite hip and flicking down in a point towards her legs. "And when you have to twist around on the sheet, you have to do your best imitation of the tide." Which, she's had plenty of practice with being in Torchline for so long, but he's giving her an even better upperhand now with all the seaweed.

"Then I'll be the last light of the woods, with orange and gold and brown." Less colors than he'd first suggested, but a blend of matching schemes to create this moment in time she's captured in an explanation. Not a swatch, but a variety of them, streaming together and mixing over one another to create a day blurred between the dawn and the dusk of a seaside forest.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

Flora bursts into laughter as Kaisel kisses her upside-down, the ridiculousness of it perfectly timed, like he's Spiderman and she's Mary Jane. The sound is all sun-drunk affection, bright and warm and wholly unbothered by the seaweed squishing beneath her as he draws back. She lets the echo of it linger, her chest rising with another soft giggle before she settles again, arms limp at her sides in delighted surrender.

When Kaisel begins to smear the paste across her front, Flora lets her head loll dramatically to the side, turning just enough to catch him watching her. It makes her want to squirm—not from discomfort—but because his touch always seems to be haloed in something golden that she's helpless to resist wanting more of. Still, she holds mostly still as his fingers trail lightly over her skin, declaring where the seafoam would go, where the green swell should break, where the ocean current might swirl. "I’ll do such a good tide impression," she grins, voice honeyed, "you’ll think you’re standing knee-deep in the surf."

But then he starts to speak of himself—orange, gold, brown—and the joke catches in her throat and her smile softens. One hand lifts from the table, fingertips finding his hair, still damp from earlier. She toys gently with the curls at his nape, letting them slip between her fingers as her eyes trace the features of his face from this new angle.

In her mind, the colours bloom across him like the brushstrokes of an old painting: the low golden hush of dusk pressed to his cheekbones, the deep wood-brown smudged across his jaw, flickers of auburn and amber catching in the strands of his hair. He’s a walking sunbeam filtered through canopy leaves, a last light through the trees kind of beautiful; quiet, not because he is, but because the moment feels that way.

Her voice drops to match it. "That sounds like how I made my room at the House of Midnight," she murmurs, brushing her thumb along the line of his temple. "When you came to see me there."

Twisting slightly onto her side, she shifts her elbow beneath her and tries to prop herself just enough to look at him properly. Her fingers don’t leave his hair, just continue their gentle fussing—absently, affectionately—as her expression tilts thoughtful. "But I don’t want it to be just the colours I like," she adds quietly. "What ones do you like?" Her gaze flicks down to his chest, then up again.