the sleepover clause

The lights in the kitchen dim—not from any loss of power, but as if the very air has decided that Kaisel and Flora are no longer the brightest things in the room. The scent of wild honey and summer heat unfurls like an invisible ribbon, thick and golden, curling lazily through the room. The shadows deepen, stretching long and slow, and where they converge—where mischief meets intention, where invocation becomes indulgence—Frey arrives, and the moment they do, the air thickens with desire.

They step from nothing, nude as always, but more than that: perfect. Their form is a fever dream of silk and sweat and desire, shifting with each glance to replicate whatever it was those who beheld them would find most alluring.

"Slumber-party appropriate?" they echo, voice a purr of lazy pleasure as they pad barefoot across the floor, each step rippling with suggestion. Then they turn to Kaisel, and oh, they grin. "You asked," Frey says, circling him like a cat might a bowl of cream, slow and entirely unbothered. "So you shall receive."

With a flick of their wrist—elegant and wholly unnecessary—fabric spins out of nowhere. It's champagne-gold and obscenely soft, a toga cut just wrong enough to be utterly right. The drape clings to Kaisel’s hips like it was sewn there by suggestion alone, the fold across his chest deliberately off-centre to show a shoulder, a curve, a sliver of skin meant to be bitten. There's a thigh slit. Of course there's a thigh slit.

And as the last shimmer of divine thread tightens into place, Frey leans in close, one hand smoothing over the silk with mock care, their lips nearly brushing Kaisel’s ear.

"There. Stunning," they whisper, before straightening to admire their own handiwork, then shooting Flora a glance, delighted and wicked. With a final wink, Frey stretches—sensuality spilling off their skin like sweat—and in the next blink, they’re gone. The honey-thick air lingers a moment longer in their wake, warm and wanting, before the kitchen exhales and settles.

Coding base by Sky!

Kaisel

There are few who can match Kaisel in the taking things too far department, but Flora is definitely one of them. She owns the department actually, she girl bosses the fuck out of it.

He feels her go rigid beside him and he stops, fingers just out of reach of the morsels. It's that moment of tension, the briefest halting of a soon to be unstoppable momentum, that precedes some action of devastation, like an explosion. The spoon tinkling on the counter is almost deafening given the weight that has suddenly swept into the air, the storm of chaos gathering under the gleam of her fingers, golden with the rings that wreath each wicked one.

There, in the devilish curve of her lips—his demise.
Isn't that always how it goes for men.

That moment, the one before the disaster, that's pregnant with promise, it breaks with a name. An actual herald, summoned with the drawn out sweetness of fermented fruit. Kaisel's eyes whip to those horrendously devious aqua ones. He doesn't believe her, at first. Though, he's too afraid to say it, to conjure up some bravado and expose her bluff for what it is—showmanship, like always. He doesn't know every thing about Flora, not the extent of everything she's capable of. She is touched by the divine, in a way that only he could play pretend at in her snack-riddled kitchen.

His doubt is smothered in an instant as the room shudders around them, its plane bending and giving way to something truly celestial. There's a heat that curls against him like a sigh, wistful and aromatic with the sugar and spice of a date unfurling at the local fair, alive with the craving for more than a carnival ride. Kaisel's grip tightens on the counter, white-knuckling it in an attempt to keep him standing and barricaded against the woman before him, the one he'd fall to his knees to for a chance to worship. She is terrifying by her mere temptation alone. One look and he knows he'd give anything for the chance to exist alongside her. He'd lose every part of himself in the fold of her hair. He'd let her forge him into whatever she desired, all for a meager touch.

There is an exchange, like old friends winking at one another. Then her attention is on him, and he feels like he might buckle under the weight of that assessment, unable to endure her attention for too long. He grins roguishly at her cheshire gleam, tracking her as she stalks around him. Despite the nerves that slicken his palms, he wants her to find him acceptable. He stands taller.

It's a warm caress, like bathwater trickling free of a sponge against his cold, bare skin, as her fabric crawls across him and replaces his own. He glances down, marveling at the stretch and yawn of the aureate cloth as it dips with the grooves of his muscles, clings along the lines of his hips. It feels the way he's always imagined a cloud does. Heat flushes his cheeks, cherry-bright as he feels a mild breeze against his exposed flesh where the fabric didn't deign to reach; spaces not often exposed to air when standing in a friend's kitchen. The redness creeps to his neck as Frey's hand coasts against him, brief and feather-light, but he feels it echo like a pulse in-between his legs.

She departs, a release, and he slumps like the dead against the counter. His cheek, warm from the burning of desire and embarrassment, feels cool as it squishes against the flat, stony surface. He doesn't dare move, not now, when he could go camping with just the supplies on him, and not when he might flash his gear with too strong of a stride. So he remains, groaning against the counter in utter defeat.

"You win," he says without looking at her, shadowed images of his version of Frey still dancing behind his eyes, unbidden. "Take all the snacks, every snack, anything. It's yours."

And when the day broke, buried in violence
Somethin' made my mind up
I could do this with my eyes closed

candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor

Flora has seen Frey before—has stood in their presence enough times to know better. To brace, to breathe, but gods.

The second the air shifts and that saccharine, summer-slick warmth rolls through her kitchen, Flora feels her thighs press instinctively together, her breath catch sharp in her throat. It’s all she can do not to arch under the weight of it. Frey’s arrival is always like this: decadent and disarming, like every muscle in her body is being kissed and bitten at once. The floral-heat of their presence tangles in her nerves, tugging low and molten through her gut, blooming between her legs with a heat so real it almost shames her. Almost.

Because of course she thinks about bolting upstairs. About sliding her hand beneath the waistband of her shorts and chasing the pressure they leave behind. It wouldn’t take long. Not with Frey still echoing through her skin like the aftershock of a climax that never quite happened. But Kaisel’s in the kitchen. Kaisel, who is watching all of this unfold with wide eyes and the kind of slowly-dawning horror usually reserved for divine smitings and emotional vulnerability.

So Flora swallows her sigh, clenches her jaw, and rides it out.

It helps—barely—that Frey turns their attention to Kaisel. That they take their time, artfully draping gold over every inch of him, pulling a flush up his neck and leaving him slumped against her counter like a man undone. Flora watches, breathless and aching, and when Frey finally disappears with all the ease of someone flicking off a candle flame, she exhales shakily.

"Well," she says at last, her voice still a little raw around the edges, a rasp that only barely sounds amused. "That’ll teach you to steal the last scoop."

And she hops up onto the counter like nothing is wrong, like her legs aren't trembling with restraint. She plucks a few caramel chips from the bag, popping one into her mouth, and eyes him where he’s collapsed in shimmering, slitted humiliation. Her grin returns, all lazy delight. "Stunning, by the way," she drawls, gesturing with a chip toward the toga now clinging to him like a second skin. "But if you don’t think that was a decisive enough win—" she pops another chip into her mouth, lets the moment stretch, "—I’d be happy to call Frey back."

Kaisel

His body trembles. At first, its the tremor of something roused but not released, a river crashing against a newfound dam, wild and hungry. Swiftly though, it morphs into the shakes of laughter, a mad, runaway sound with no end in sight. His fit is loud, at first, when there's still air in his lungs (somehow after Frey stole it all with a glance), and then it quiets into silence except for the slap of his palm on the counter, a beg to breathe. He finds the strength to turn his head, and presses his forehead against the cooling surface for a moment, his humor breathy and hot around his face. Gradually he quiets, and rotates to prop himself up on his chin. Though, he can't see her from there, just the length of her thigh against the stone, the shorts invisible beneath the hang of her shirt. It'll have to do—he hasn't recovered enough to rise more than that, so he speaks to her skin. "I'll never take the last of anything from you ever again, I swear it." A hand lifts, barely, in surrender and promise.

If this is the might she's willing to unleash over icecream, gods help anyone who tries to defy something more important to her.

Her threat invigorates him and he pops up, although there's a languid lean to his arms as they prop him up, that crutch still necessary for the time being. His head bows for a moment between his stretched out arms, hair askew and forehead glistening with a sweat that doesn't feel deserved for simply succumbing to the defeat of these women (at least one woman). His eyes seem to pull his head up as he places them on her happily snacking face. He is done in—but there is nothing other than an appreciative gleam for her mischief in his gaze, though his expression begs otherwise with a taut set to his lips and voice. "Woman, have mercy, you win, what more proof do you need?" He lifts one hand to gesture at his attire. Fabulous, yes, that is a word for it. There's no denying its, what did she call it, delusional grandeur vibes, though it's a stark contrast to his normal fit. His jaw flexes as he resists setting his teeth together too harshly. Does she need him to beg? He would do it, if only to still her hand from ever summoning Frey again. He is not sure he can contain himself again around the goddess, and he'd never live that down.

"We are going shopping first thing in the morning." He points accusingly at her, then seems to beckon for a chip, widening his mouth for her to aim at.

And when the day broke, buried in violence
Somethin' made my mind up
I could do this with my eyes closed

candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor

Flora swings one bare leg where it dangles from the counter, the other folded beneath her, comfortable and smug as a cat in a sunbeam. The heat of Frey’s departure is still clinging to her skin in ways that feel far more sinful than any god should be allowed to inflict, but Kaisel’s wheezing beside her does help, if only because his cackles are the right sort of riotous to chase away her lingering lurid thoughts.

"Shopping?" she echoes, popping another caramel chip into her mouth with deliberate slowness. "You mean you don’t want to wear the toga to breakfast? With, like, a flower crown and some gladiator sandals? Could be your new look." Her grin is sharp, glittering with mischief and residual triumph. "Very god of snacks and easy surrender."

But he’s still flailing somewhat from what she can tell, and the way he points at her, all frazzled and begging for mercy, is so deeply satisfying that she nearly cackles. "Mercy?" she echoes sweetly, aqua eyes going wide as she leans in just slightly, elbow braced against her knee. "Thought you dragoons were meant to be made out of tougher stuff." She tips another chip toward his outstretched mouth, but deliberately misses, letting it bounce off his bottom lip.

"Oops." No remorse.

She shrugs and eats another one herself, licking a bit of sugar from her thumb. "You’re lucky I don’t have a second toga for me," she mutters. "Could have gone for a run tomorrow in matching outfits." Then, opting to take a bit of pity on him, and because she had grown up with brothers and knew there was no waistband in his toga to hide anything behind, Flora nods toward a closed door on the opposite side of the living room. "Bathrooms that way, by the way, if you need a minute."

Not that she thought it would take him that long.

Kaisel

He snorts in protest at the imagery she crafts for him. "When you said clothes were optional? I opt for them, on me." She isn't getting out of this. He'll never leave her house if this is all he has to wear, and then she'll have to deal with him all the time, like some gaudy grouchy roommate.

He clutches his heart as she wounds the last dregs of his pride by going after his rank. His cry for mercy went unheard, it seemed. "Give me a monster over a wicked woman any day," he mutters in response, folding his arms at the sweet innocence she tries to portray as she rests against her knees. He sees the chip coming and prepares, but it doinks off his lip, a small bite and an absence of sweetness.

He watches her swinging legs, predatory for a moment as he considers. He lets the moment slide, focusing instead on her bullshit. "First of all," he drawls, the bad taste of his defeat still bitter on his tongue. "Let's not pretend like you don't have an outfit somewhat like this in your crow's nest." He tilts his head slightly towards the stairs, as if implying the second floor is the rookery of her wardrobe. "Second of all, no one would run in this. It'd chafe and you know it." He rolls his eyes at her ridiculousness, huffing, still a bit bent out of shape about her tricks.

Her leg swings away from the counter again and his eyes are on it in an instant. His hands are not long thereafter and he reaches to grab her leg, to hoist her off the counter and towards him with one solid yank. His chest, visible with his exposed shift, will take her weight if he succeeds. She'll be so light, nothing like the mass of the men he grapples with in training, so all it'll take is some easy foot work to spin and set her back flat on the ground, pinned beneath him. He can't out joke her right now, and he's got lesser spirits on his side, so he'll settle for the last victory he might have over her, his training, and the surprise. She's no freshly sprung flower, she could probably cut his head off between her thighs, to be honest, but it's a risk he's willing to take just to see the fucking look on her face.

A scoff through it all, barely heard above his world-eating grin, "I'm not gonna blow a load in your fucking bathroom Flo-ro, relax."

And when the day broke, buried in violence
Somethin' made my mind up
I could do this with my eyes closed

candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor

The moment Kaisel moves, Flora doesn’t register it fast enough to react—not with her usual flair, not with the sort of serpentine grace that might have saved her from the sudden yank. Her spoon clatters to the floor with a sound that’s almost drowned out by her startled gasp as her leg’s seized, her body dragged off the counter like a caught fish reeled in fast and certain.

Her arms snap around his shoulders. Her legs coil tightly at his waist, all muscle memory from years of grappling and dancing through Torchline’s rougher alleys. She's not thinking, just moving—just bracing herself, pressing close to avoid the fall that never comes. And then she realizes—

Oh.

They don't fall. Not really. She's set down, yes, but he follows, chest to chest, the air between them so thin she could kiss it away. Her back meets the floor and he hovers, pinned above her with the kind of grin that should come with warning bells and fire hazards, and gods, if her heart wasn't already galloping from the surprise, it’s sprinting now from something far more dangerous.

Because she can feel him. The toga leaves nothing to the imagination, and certainly not when he's this close. Her breath catches in her throat, a hitch barely disguised by the flicker of her lashes as she meets his gaze. She’s tangled around him like a ribbon in a storm, her legs still twisted around his waist. "You absolute menace," she breathes, her voice low and uneven, one hand fisting briefly in the thin fabric over his shoulder, somehow both holding him at bay and urging him closer all at once. Frey’s lingering heat is still in her blood, pounding through her with a rhythm that urges her to forget every reason this is a bad idea. Her thighs flex just slightly against his hips, testing the tension, the closeness, the temptation; but it's Koa's fucking cousin.

Her tongue flicks across her bottom lip as her eyes narrow, sharp and glittering. "Just trying to save you from dying of blue balls."

Kaisel

He laughs with the thrill of triumph, the sound buffeting the sunspun hair by her ear as he whispers, "now, we're a bit more even." He leans back, admiring his success once he's certain he's set her down gently. It's a high that buzzes against his other senses, dulling his sensibilities and setting fire to the nerves that prickle against the fabric and her skin where both their legs are freely exposed. The pressure of her hand on his shoulder holds him briefly, and he feels the absence of her warmth as he peels part of him from her, the chill striking given the Torchline temperatures. His eyes flash to hers, smug. "Says the menace."

A breath, a heartbeat, and the adrenaline ebbs to awareness, that numb prickle fading to a blaze where their bodies still connected. Too aware of her then, in a way he did not want to be, he reared back against her hand and broke them apart, rising quickly. It's likely the after effects of Frey's visit, her echo relentless when he's had nothing but a counter to stroke in her wake.

These are dangerous games, he realizes, and they aren't the ones he wants to be playing. Flora is his friend, and she is Koa's ex. Soon to be non-ex, actually, he hopes, now that Jack seems out of the picture. Not something he'll address with Flora, especially not tonight when it was still so fresh, but it's definitely something he intends to tell Koa as soon as he's back in Stormbreak. He met Flora because of Koa, he liked them together, they were cute—they can be cute again, he thinks, although he doesn't know the details of what broke them apart. Either way, his goal had been to distract Flora, and to best her a bit for starting all of, this in the first place. Mission accomplished. Game over.

"Trust me, you've done enough for me tonight," he mutters in a way that implies he wishes she'd grant him no more 'favors', if that's what this toga could be called. He extends an arm down towards her, an offer to help her back to his feet, oblivious to the other hand that's also reaching out against the gold slip.

And when the day broke, buried in violence
Somethin' made my mind up
I could do this with my eyes closed

candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor

Oh. Well that was… anticlimactic. Not the part where Kaisel yanked her off the counter. Not the part where her shirt had ridden high and her thighs had bracketed the curve of his hips like she was daring the world to catch fire. No—that had been exactly what it looked like, which was to say a scene from one of Mateo's smutty romance novels. It was everything after.

Because while the weight of the dragoon had sparked that same slow burn Frey had lit beneath her skin, and while her heartbeat had made a home in her throat… Kaisel had pulled away, which was definitely a good thing, but also..??? It left Flora with a confused mess of emotions she didn’t love sorting through. She wasn’t trying to seduce him—gods, no—but what was this, then? If he didn’t want to find himself between her thighs, why the theatrics? Why drag her off the counter like a man possessed with need and then retreat like he'd found poison instead of heat?

Still seated on the ground, her eyes narrow just slightly, not hurt but calculating.

"Right," she says slowly, letting his offered hand linger in the space between them for just a moment too long before reaching up to take it. As her fingers curl around his, she sends a silent mental nudge to the dragon still curled in the rafters. The moment her balance shifts forward, she presses her thumb into the pressure point just beneath the curve of his own—a precise dig honed from childhood scraps with a twin who never played fair—at the exact second Spice dives from her perch above. The little dragon's wings flare, eyes gleaming, before she releases a narrow burst of frost right at the back of Kaisel’s bare knees.

The combined assault would hopefully be enough to drop him. And if it did?

Flora rises gracefully, her golden curls still tousled, her cheeks flushed not with embarrassment but the residual glow of smug satisfaction. She steps lightly around him and comes to a stop just beside where he’s kneeling, then leans down ever so slightly to murmur near his ear. "A good queen," she says, voice syrup-sweet and sugar-sharp, "just lives to serve." Then she'd pat the top of his head, like a well-trained dog, and flounce toward the stairs like nothing at all had happened. "Come'on Kai. Bed time."

Kaisel

She doesn't take his hand for a beat too long. He wonders then, if he ruined this.

Not the kind of ruin where she will chase him out, cursing his name, and refuse to speak to him again. No, nothing so dramatic as that, hard as it is to believe with both of them at the heart of it. It would be the kind of ruin that hurt a lot more, the one where they would drift away with intention this time. It would shadow every thought and wedge between each action. What had once been easy between them would be so complex it would feel like too much to manage, afraid to spark anything with this newfound knowledge that it could ignite.

Because it could.
This could burn them both down to the ground if they fed it.

All it would take is relenting to that growing weight between his thighs. To actually turn her shorts invisible with the help of his teeth. To hunt down that aroma of desire, the one that had been infiltrating his nose since Frey's arrival, and find it there, wet and waiting beneath the curtain of her long shirt. All it would take is her pulling him back down. The pressure of their bodies against each other again a force too diabolical to escape a second time, so the flame would do the rest.

Thing is, Kaisel likes to play with fire, but he doesn't want to burn. He's certain Flora doesn't either. If he's going to do something like this, he wants it perfectly crisped to a golden brown. Shoving it into the fire too fast, it might look done on the outside, but inside it'll still be raw—indulge in that and it'll chew you up from the inside out and have you squat with regret for days in the bathroom. He has never felt that golden gleam with her. Warm, sure, the way the sun is warm on his skin, a comfort and a reminder of good things in the world. Not a flame though, not a promise of something delicious to come with time. So this? This wildfire that's begging to erupt? He doesn't trust it, because where the fuck did it come from, who had come sweeping in with matches and kerosene? This would be a charred mistake, something tasty in the moment, but something that would crumble to ash in the morning light.

The worry dissipates as her fingers clasp his. He smiles at her, a recognition in his face that says, whew, we almost fucked up, close one eh? It quickly crumples to confusion, to pain as her finger presses against a weak point, as her nail digs against his skin like a harpy's talon. "Wha—" Then Spice, blessed snack god she is, who he foolishly thought he'd curried some favor with tonight—as if forgetting who she truly served, Spice dealt his death blow. She was swift at least, merciful, unlike the Doubletake.

Kaisel crumples to his knees with a strangled cry, the look of defeat, a style he's worn too much tonight.
Flora leans in with all the tell Cersei it was me she could muster and beheaded him.

He kneels there for a moment, willing warmth back to his knees as he rubs his hands over the bare skin by them. All the fire has gone out now, overwhelmed by the ice. He glances over his shoulder as she cheerfully calls for him, and he grumbles in response as he struggles to rise, one hand holding the exaggerated slit up his toga to keep from exposing all his humility tonight. The ice cream remains forgotten on the counters, gradually melting, like their temptation fading; collateral for the night ending in them actually sleeping, in their own rooms.

"I'm serious about the shopping in the morning!" He reminds her as he storms up the stairs.

And when the day broke, buried in violence
Somethin' made my mind up
I could do this with my eyes closed

candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor

"Oh, I know you’re serious," Flora calls sweetly from the top of the stairs, leaning over the railing with both elbows propped and her curls haloed by the warm lamplight behind her. Her expression is sunshine dipped in venom, all amused cruelty softened by the genuine affection glinting behind her sea-glass eyes.

Below her, Kaisel is still clutching the hem of his divine disaster of a toga, the slit revealing far more thigh than any self-respecting Dragoon ought to show while storming anywhere. She watches him for a second—just a second—before letting out a delighted laugh. "Don’t forget we’ve got to get you a flower crown to match," she adds. "And proper sandals. Gods forbid anyone mistake you for merely a demigod." A hand lifts as if she’s offering benediction, or perhaps just waving off the ridiculousness of what the night’s become. Because yeah, they’d almost set fire to the whole kitchen tonight. And gods if it wouldn’t have been easy to get burned. But tonight, at least, they’d kept the matches in their pockets.

"Alright, your majesty,”" she says, breezing down the hall ahead of him, her bare feet quiet on the polished floor. "This one’s yours."

She opens the door with a flick of her wrist, revealing a room that’s warm and comfortably cluttered—less gold-crowned than her own, but clearly lived-in. There’s the faint scent of coconut and salt still lingering in the air, and a scarf tossed over one of the lamps turns the lighting an easy amber. Flora steps aside, letting him pass. Her hand drifts across the opposite door as she does—painted a shade deeper than the rest, a bold E carved into the wood. She doesn’t say anything about it, just lets her fingers catch briefly on the frame before moving on.

"Shower’s just there," she says, nodding toward a smaller door off to the side. "Extra blankets in the chest, though I doubt you’ll need them. Torchline doesn’t exactly do cold." She hesitates for a second, thumb tapping lightly against her thigh, before jerking her head toward the far end of the hall. "My room’s the one with all the plants trying to take over. If you need anything."

Kaisel

She's enjoying the toga far too much, he realizes, as she brings up flower crowns and sandals again. He tosses her a herald's spiteful scowl, unwilling to feed in further to her dress up doll fantasies. The fact she got him robed in this is enough—and to think, he thought the toga was going to be dignified. That word can't possibly exist for him as he hobbles awkwardly after her, forced to take a half-step every so often with his one hand still clasping the fabric shut over his thigh, which in turn pulls it a bit too taut in other regions.

He halts behind her, gaze sweeping along each room she points out and its designation. He is peering into his room when her finger trails the E of the opposing door, so he doesn't catch the fondness for which she traces the memory, but he does account for the fact that she doesn't mention it. He had never met her twin, but he knew of him. As someone who didn't even have a sibling, he couldn't imagine the loss of someone like a twin. That Flora could remain so bright when she had endured so much, and so young, it was a wonder at times. Kaisel had been lucky, privileged in a way that even Flora, with all her family ties, wasn't. The worst he'd had to face was a curfew and overprotective parents. His mouth ran dry at the thought, but he tore his attention from the E that looked more like a gravestone than a door in that moment, as she finished her tour with a nod towards her room.

"I'd hate to interrupt your beauty sleep, gods know what you'd look like without it," He grins as he ducks into his assigned room, calling behind him, "thanks Flo-ro, sweet dreams!"

He kicks his door mostly shut and glances around the room, sniffing at the beach-vacation vibe it emanated. A shower is certainly appealing, but he's hesitant to come out smelling like a coconut, although a quick pit check told him coconut was better than whatever his current cologne was, which was some mixture of skyship, dried icecream, and Frey's breath. Bidding his newfound bed farewell he shuffles his way back into the hall and to the shower.

The golden fabric pools by the sink as he eases into the warm embrace of the water. He leans against the side of the wall and lets the stream hit between his shoulders. Drop by drop it melts away the wear of the day, untangling his thoughts. He places them carefully into rows of things to remember to do tomorrow, or later, and things he wishes he might let go, mistakes he repeats like a film on rewind, some of which happened here. He sighs, a resignation for what's happened has happened, and commits to washing with all the coconut scented soaps.

And when the day broke, buried in violence
Somethin' made my mind up
I could do this with my eyes closed

candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor

She hears the water first—soft and steady behind the walls—the kind of sound that should fade into the background but doesn’t. Not after everything that's happened tonight. Flora shifts under the sheets, the silk reflecting her own heat back at her, her mind tangled up in the brush of gold fabric and the bite of cold air on exposed skin. Frey’s heat still lingers in her bones like an echo, sticky-sweet and slow to release.

She thinks briefly about sending Spice in to ruin Kaisel's shower. An icy blast down the spine would serve him right, wouldn’t it? But the thought curls back on itself. After everything that’s happened tonight, maybe coaxing Kaisel naked and dripping into her hallway isn’t the best idea. Still, her body hums, restless. It’s the kind of tension that sleep won’t soothe, that hours of tossing in satin sheets will only sharpen. So she sighs, rolls to her back, and lets her legs fall open beneath the blanket. Her hand finds her thigh first, slow and curious like it might not go further, like this isn't a regular routine since Jack left.

She thinks of the moment Frey stepped into the room, honey-slick and glowing with indulgence. The ache pulses sharper. Flora drags her fingers higher, circling slow, teasing herself the way she imagines someone else might. Someone who’d kneel without question and wouldn't run away when things got hard. Her breath hitches, and as her back begins to arch, the only sound in the room is her own whispered moans and the steady thrum of water behind the wall.

Kaisel

Though staying in the shower forever is a tempting thought, where there'd once been tension, the water had now beat it into weariness. For a city boy striking out to the beach on his own for the first time, today had been, a lot. He probably should have recognized that getting on a ship and sailing here in the first place just to ask a clarifying question is the kind of thing you do when you're asking for a lot, but he makes it a habit not to think too far ahead, or too deeply about his actions. Doing so isn't very upholding of the fuck it we ball lifestyle he tends to maintain.

So he quiets the shower and steps out of it with only a fraction of reluctance. He shakes his head like a dog before reaching for a towel and drying off. He cracks the door to let some of the steam out, and rubs it from the mirror, to which it stubbornly clings, as he combs his hair with his fingers. It's mostly wet still, but it'd dry like ass if he didn't mess with it now. A cream on the counter catches his eye, and after some quick reading and a shrug, he's plastered the pale green face mask all over the directed areas. He admires the handiwork in the cooling mirror, and rifles through the rest of the girly potions laid out. After some spritzes and splashes, he staggers from the bathroom like a bouquet of confusion. Food, floral, destination location—he's got it all. All except lotion, the one thing he actually normally uses after a shower.

Mask still foaming pleasantly on his face, he pads down the hall, not as quiet as Flora had been on nearly dancing feet, but not loud now that his boots were off. He hesitated in front of her door, listening for the sound of snoring that might make him second guess bothering her all for an attempt to keep his youthful skin from aging rapidly. He's also half-expecting he might hear crying, in which case his intrusion could be beneficial. He does hear a mild noise, but can't make out what it is. Deciding she deserves to be woken up even if she is sleeping, payback for all the last laughs she'd managed to get on him, he knocks. Much like his mother is prone to doing to him, the knock is just a precursor to immediately barreling the door open.

"Hey Flo-ro, where is your lotio—oooh!" He immediately flings an arm up to cover his eyes and backs up, but in doing so the face mask smears and he hits a wall and a dozen different shiny objects and plants that she'd curated that lived there.

And when the day broke, buried in violence
Somethin' made my mind up
I could do this with my eyes closed