You want a facial?

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

He snaps his mouth shut so fast his teeth click together audibly. He makes a zipping his lips motion, promising to lock 'girth' up if he's at risk of losing the actual use of it he'd like. She might be joking. She IS joking, judging by the hungry up down he just received, but he's not going to risk the 0.000000000000000001% chance she isn't. Although, the twinkle in his eyes and the pattern of his exhale all speaks to the hum of humor beneath the zipper.

The mirth dries up under the scorch of the gaze she tilts towards him not long thereafter. His own gaze flashes back, one corner of his lips rising up in tempo with the slow motion of her hair drizzling over her shoulder, sly beneath her attention. "Keep looking at me like that while we're talking about your nudity and so help me Flora Grace Kaito-Taliesin I will lock us both in your bedroom for the whole rest of the day and close down Spa de Wildering." That she's currently wrapped up in salt is just an added sensory experience to the whole affair, like a little sardine snack.

His threat breaks at a laugh, cheeks complaining of all the smiles she's bestowed yet again. "I'm strictly barefoot now," he deflects with a faux adoration for hiking and connecting with the land directly via his soles. "You're the one with all the shoes, so seems it'd fit you best, Cinderella." He'd not be touching on the girth of the matter in terms of her role, but she's certainly got a sizeable piece of the pie here.

Genuine surprise does snatch him up when she says her dads have a whole box. "Ew," he says without thinking, and perhaps spending so much time with her she's already started to rub off on him. Phrasing. "Who keeps a whole box of their own faces?" he admonishes, his opinion of her fathers further plummeting. "Self-absorbed much?" He might be a touch jealous, and will absolutely be autographing his merch one day and firing it out of t-shirt cannons at an unsuspecting crowd like an accidental shooting incident.

With her hand back under control, he doesn't dare look up even with her perfect pun, but he does snicker into the polish. He relents only when her tease tilts out, and though he's still wearing half a grin, the speed with which his gaze snaps to her and his voice rises quick and sure, speaks to how deadass he is about it. "For you? Yes, like static baby." Static cling, to be clear. Which, should be obvious he thinks, when her thumb rolls over his knuckles and he's positive visible sparks fly up in the wake of her touch. It certainly feels electric.

Nodding at her selection as a waiter does a well chosen wine, Kaisel pops open the nude polish and begins to apply it. "Oh yeah? More weirdly named positions that I'm certain you've made up?" he wonders, of her ideas that they'll be thoroughly going over. "Maybe we just invent our own card deck," he suggests with a devilish drop to his tone, and it is becoming increasingly difficult to focus on nail polish with all the suggestions starting to suffocate the free room in his drawers.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

Flora nods once, smug as a cat in a sunbeam, clearly pleased that he’s finally decided to shut his very girthy mouth. Her lashes flutter innocently when he throws his threat her way, but her eyes gleam with pure mischief, and if her lips pucker into a kiss-me shape and her head tilts just a little further toward scandal than is strictly necessary—well. Surely it’s the seaweed’s fault. "Looking at you like what?" she asks sweetly, all airy innocence and ocean siren charm, her shoulder lifting in a slow shrug that does not help matters. The motion shifts one of the damp green coils across her chest, teasing just enough cleavage to count, as if she has no idea what she’s doing. (She does.)

"Oh, is that so?" she echoes, brows arching high at his barefoot declaration. "Well, that’s more closet space for me." Tossing her hair like a spoiled heiress, she sighs dramatically. "And anyway, I was the one who made the first move, so maybe the shoe does fit." Her grin is sly, glossy, and unrepentant.

Because Flora absolutely does not want to discuss any more about boxes of parental memorabilia, she cuts that line of conversation off with a flick of her fingers. "You can tell them that to their faces at dinner," she says with a tight-lipped smile, tone chipper enough to be fake. "They’ll love that."

But then he says like static baby and her teasing stills mid-smirk, expression softening like sugar dissolving in tea. The grin he wears is one thing, but the speed, the certainty, like there’s no question in the world that he’d be there, that he wants to be there? It swells something warm and unbearably fluttery in her chest, like her ribs are just a pretty birdcage for all the butterflies he puts there. And she doesn’t say anything right away, just watches him, her lips parted slightly in a stunned sort of smile. Static, he says and she feels it; like sparks licking beneath her skin. "You’re lucky my nails are wet," she whispers, the words half breath, half warning. "Or I’d be all over you." And judging by the heat rising in her gaze, that’s a promise, not a threat.

But then he mentions the deck, and her eyes narrow with sudden, predatory interest, before exhaling sharply through her nose as he questions her source, feigning outrage. "I didn’t make them up!" she insists. "They were designed by the very knowledgeable and creative staff at the Halenani." Her teeth catch at her lower lip, her cheeks a perfect cherry flush as her gaze drops deliberately down his chest and back up again, slow and hungry. "A standard deck has what, 52 cards?" she murmurs, voice low, languid, and dangerous in all the best ways. Her brows lift with a faux-innocent challenge, lashes batting as she lets her fingers rest delicately in his hand. "You think you’re up for that kind of variety?"

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

When she looks at him like this, it's a wonder he once had any self-control at all around her. It's deteriorated beneath every kiss, that first one breaking a seal on happiness that's only continued to rise with every moment alongside her. Even now, his restraint feels flimsy at best, and there's no denying the distracted tilt of his gaze that lingers over curves he's just begun to appreciate. He's nearly finished though, and he'd rather make good on her pampering here so there'd be no reason to wait later. With considerable effort, he gets back on task.

Letting her keep her fitted shoe and snorting dismissively over what to say (or not say) to her fathers is all easy enough to survive. The drop in her tone and the single barrier of wet nails that she sets down between them though, that's the death of his thinning resolve. She meets the certainty of his gaze with her own, the intensity of which is a live wire that strikes him in his core. "Wet nails is the only issue, is it?" His voice is low, the curiosity there dangerous with intent as he pointedly twists the bottle of polish shut.

While she starts to shuffle cards for them, so to speak, he leans in and slides his hand along the underside of hers, lifting her higher as he dips. Carefully, he blows across the freshly painted nails, lips puckered to direct the exhale into something meaningful, the force of which is slow and steady to avoid stirring ripples in the paint. All the while, he doesn't lose the aqua of her eyes, holding them firm with his own promise as he works to dry her. A pause comes only when he has to inhale again through his nose, the moment a brief respite before his directed breath resumes its efforts, rolling in an even, rhythmic wash across each finger, down and back.

With his free hand, he reaches up and yanks the seaweed layers off her chest, ripping through the oceanic lace and flinging it aside.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

One skeptical brow lifts, high and sharp, Flora's expression caught in that dangerous halfway place between incredulous and undeniably turned on. "Obviously," she mutters, as if it should have been self-evident. And really, it was. After being practically naked for half the afternoon, wrapped in little more than the sea’s leftover salad and the lingering sweep of his gaze, it’s a miracle she hasn’t already dragged him onto one of the loungers for round two. Or three.

Her eyes narrow with smoky delight as Kaisel leans in to blow across her nails, his exhale so careful, so controlled, and yet somehow so suggestive because of it. The steady stream of air sends tiny goosebumps racing up her arm, her skin prickling in perfect response to the contrast between heat and restraint. It’s the way he draws in that breath through his nose, purposeful and quiet, as if he’s taking her in alongside the air, that steals a tremble up her spine and coils something molten low in her belly. Her lips part, but no words come, just a slow, delighted curl at the corners of her mouth as her eyes stay locked with his.

And then he tears the seaweed from her chest.

Her breath catches; heat flares across her cheeks and her nose, the blush more red than the polish, but there's nothing demure in the way her back arches ever so slightly, shoulders pressing subtly back, lifting the full curve of her breasts into view with all the pride and play of a siren showing off her spoils. She’s fit and flushed and grinning now, half-wild and wholly his.

"I thought ice cream was supposed to come next," she murmurs, voice low and sticky-sweet with sin, the words curling around him like seafoam around ankles. Her eyes rake slowly, hungrily, over him; hair, lips, chest, hands, everything she could want. One brow arches higher, a devil’s invitation on her lips as she adds with a purr, "But maybe you can instead."

~FIN