the sleepover clause

candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor

She's so close. Back arched, breath caught, her hand moving just so; Frey still humming under her skin like a fevered lullaby. The ache at the centre of her is molten, poised and pleading. Flora’s eyes flutter closed, a moan caught halfway up her throat—

Knock. The door cracks open, and just like that, it’s gone.

The pleasure shatters like glass underfoot, sharp and unrelenting in its absence. The high, the release, the entire godsdamn point of the last five minutes vanishes in a mortifying flash of green face mask, clattering pottery, and Kaisel flailing like a drunken sea lion.

"Are you—" she doesn’t finish the sentence. Her voice comes out as a strangled sound, more feral growl than coherent words as she yanks the blanket up to her chin, flushed from more than just arousal now. "KAISEL." Her thighs slam closed beneath the covers, heart pounding with fury and frustration and the searing ache of an orgasm left behind like a yawn ruined by menacing fingers.

She doesn’t know where to look—at him, green-faced and covered in glitter from some now-upended jar? Away, to avoid screaming? At herself, half-undressed and panting like she’s just finished a sprint?

"Oh my gods I hate you," she snaps, throwing a pillow at him with vicious precision as if his timing had been intentional.

Kaisel

For a brief moment, he dares to hope that he's imagined what she's doing. There's low-light, maybe she just sleeps on her back with her legs up (and spread), maybe he's asleep right now and ...dreaming about Flora masturbating? Is that better or worse than walking in on her doing it?

Oh, he made her scream.

His name is a jolt through him much like the shelving against his back. The jar of glitter poofs against his cheek like a fart, and somewhere underfoot a pot clatters into shards akin to the sanctity of his mind. "Fuck's sake Flora!" He thunders back at her, pain welling tears behind his lashes as the face mask smeared into them, despite the very specific instructions that said to keep it out of your eyes. Be blinks furiously to rid himself of the afterimage of her bowed shape in the night's haze, the keening of her pleasure as she slipped to the edge of freedom. This image, he fears, has burned into his retina.

The pillow buffets his blinded head and he staggers back out of the room, nearly falling onto his ass, but he catches himself with a desperate hand on the wall, glitter smearing there like the blood of the wounded. Bleary-eyed he strains to find his path back to the bathroom, and hollers down the hall at her, as if this isn't her house, "can't you do that shit in the fucking bathroom!"

He fumbles in the bathroom for the shower again, stepping into the chilly water, as he didn't wait for it to warm, towel still draped around him to wash the face mask from his skin and his eyes. He prays it will take Flora with it.

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 glitter hit the wall before she registers the sound of his flailing, the godsforsaken sparkles sticking like cursed memories to every surface he touches. The second her pillow makes impact, she lets out a shriek—not of victory, not this time—but of sheer, visceral frustration. "Are you actually kidding me right now!?" she yells after him as he stumbles from the room like some tragic, slippery goblin. The audacity. The unholy, skin-crawling audacity.

She flings the blanket off in a huff—what’s the point anymore—and storms to the door, not bothering to hide the flush on her cheeks or the wild tangle of her curls. "You’re lucky I don’t send Spice in there to freeze your dick solid!" she shouts, because what else is she supposed to do? (Spice lets out a hiss of icy approval from the kitchen, curled smugly on her cooling shelf.) "And for the record," she snaps, loud enough for the walls to carry it to the gods themselves, "girls don't do it in the bathroom Assborn, not that you'd know."

Kaisel

Kaisel huffs as he scrubs ruthlessly at his face. The skin feels flawless in the wake of the mask's work, but he can't even appreciate it properly while his eyes roast in their sockets. He forces an eyelid open between a thumb and forefinger and lets the shower stream against the chemical burn directly; OSHA approved. Flora's outrage trembles down the hall, her humiliation a raw flame that licks against his own embarrassment. "Pretty sure anywhere you can lay down works, Majesty!" he roars back, the sound duller than hers, but no less full of ire. Fucking ridiculous she needs a four-post bed and mood lighting to finish and has the audacity to blame him for it.

The shower slams off as his eyes finally recover, though there's a bloodshot tinge to them that'll likely linger for a bit. Glitter pools around the drain and some of it still glints across his skin here and there as he fusses with his hair in the mirror again, a fresh towel on hand. Deciding moisturizing isn't worth seeing his friend playing her own fiddle again, Kaisel shimmies back into his golden toga and stalks back to his room, pointedly turning his head away from her's as he does.

He flops into bed facedown, a pillow gathered under his arms. Amid the pungent coconut aroma, Kaisel begs sleep to take him.

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’s scream echoes down the hallway like a war horn. "Why would I lay down in a bathroom when I have a perfectly good bed?!" she howls, the absolute audacity of his suggestion fuelling the outrage in her voice. A beat later comes the stomp of bare feet and the dramatic slam of her bedroom door, rattling the glitter-dusted chaos still strewn through the corridor. And that is the end of negotiations for the night.

...

Morning breaks soft and golden, casting peach-coloured light through the gauzy curtains. Birds trill. Somewhere in the kitchen, a spoon falls out of a bowl with a soft clink. But none of that is what wakes Kaisel. No, what wakes Kaisel is frost breath. Spice slinks under the blanket with all the stealth of a feline in miniature dragon form, her pearl-white body curling like a question mark along the curve of his back before huffing a stream of frigid air directly across the dip of his spine. It’s enough to make every hair on his body stand on end. She repeats the motion—twice—just to be sure.

On the floor, bathed in sunrise, a small pile waits: A pair of loose black shorts with orange piping, a soft grey tank top, and a pair of running shoes that definitely didn’t exist yesterday.

Maybe Flora summoned another spirit. Maybe she’s had them this whole time and was just waiting. Either way, they’re set out like an offering. The tanktop even smells faintly of sea salt and whatever coconut-and-sabotage mist Kaisel sprayed around the bathroom last night. Spice chirrups once, hops up on the pillow, and glares at him with all the weight of a personal trainer from hell. Get up. Get dressed. Your cardio queen awaits.

Kaisel

A muffled groan of displeasure escapes Kaisel as his body squirms away from the sudden chill that sweeps across his back. His face crumples into a frown, but he doesn't rouse fully, not until the second blast layers upon the last. He whips away from the discomfort with an aggressive jolt, rolling off the edge of the unfamiliar bed with a thump just as his eyes burst open. "What the fuck?" he demands with a snarl as he twists among the sheet on the ground, arm wrenched behind his back in an attempt to brush away the offending cold. The twisting motion sets a prickle against his thigh and he flinches away from it with a yelp, startled more than in pain. The previously cloud-soft fabric Frey had crafted for him had hardened overnight in one region, the aftermath of dreams too exquisite to be contained to mind alone. Kaisel jams a hand against the stiffness prodding against the sensitive skin on his inner thigh, hissing through his teeth as he sits upright and finally spies Spice lurking and trilling far too cheerfully for his liking right now.

"FLOOOOOOOOORAAAAAAAAAAA!"

The calm and quiet that had found a foothold in the house overnight splinters under his rude awakening, his outrage vibrating in his jaw as the shout finished. Well, fuck, now what is he actually going to wear? Might have to shuffle around in bed sheets like some modern day mummy. It's then he notices the neatly arranged clothes, and while it only marginally curbs his annoyance in the moment, he grabs them and huffs his way into the bathroom.

It's not long before he's freshened up and changed, a scowl all that remained from earlier. He tosses the ruined god garment in his room and glances around for the blonde devil and her little dragon as he makes his way for the stairs. So much for sleeping in and pancakes, it'll be payback and schemes instead.

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 sun was still just thinking about rising when Flora padded into the kitchen, bare feet light against the tile and curls pulled up high into a ponytail that bounced with every step. She wore tight black running shorts and a dark green sports bra that matched the faint shimmer of sweat already starting to bloom at her temples—Torchline humidity was relentless, even at dawn, even at the tail-end of Flowerbirth.

When Kaisel finally emerged, face freshly scrubbed and scowling like thunder, Flora didn’t even flinch. She leaned casually against the counter with one hip, a glass of juice in hand, and nudged another in his direction with the tip of her finger, like nothing at all had happened the night before. "Morning, sunshine," she called sweetly, voice dipped in honey and mock-innocence.

She didn’t bother hiding the grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. Not when Spice was perched smugly atop the fridge, tail twitching and teeth just barely hidden behind the curved line of a self-satisfied snout. Flora took a sip from her own glass and gestured loosely toward the front door with her chin. "Drink up. We’re going running." There wasn’t a hint of apology in her tone—just that effortless kind of cheer that made it painfully clear she was already several steps ahead in whatever revenge game they were playing.

Kaisel

The golden light of dawn has a way of coating all the cracks and dust that the previous day revealed. It glints with the promise of new, like the possibilities of the fresh day are limited only to your imagination. The gilded hour eventually dims into the reality of a blue sky, the starkness of which has no trouble exposing everything for exactly what it is, but some of the morning glow can linger, if you tilt your head just right and don't look too hard at the things it buried in gold.

Kaisel is an expert at not dwelling on the past, so the thundercloud brewing above his head is only a testament to the fact Flora chose to mark up their freshly cleaned scoreboard before he'd even opened his eyes. He's only mad he didn't think to rouse earlier—wouldn't have been the first time he got up before daybreak to play at war.

Flora's framed perfectly with the diffused light of the kitchen, nothing but softness and warmth visible in the tilt of her body on the counter, the drizzle of her sweet voice a veritable breakfast topping choice. It seems impossible she could be a sleepover villain, and yet, Kaisel's spine still ripples with the memory that proves otherwise. He offers her a blatantly mocking smile as he settles against the edge of the counter, but he takes her offered juice readily. As he tilts the glass back, a small, testing sip, his gaze slides accusingly towards Spice who gargoyles above. He sets the glass back down, audibly tasting, suspicious as his attention lazily coasts back to Flora and her hollow cheer. "Didn't spike this with a laxative or something did you?" He can't keep the humorous glint from his features, because damn if that wouldn't be a good idea, and one he wouldn't put past her. He finishes the glass regardless.

He's not put off by the idea of Flora's morning boot camp, too accustomed to the regiments required as a Dragoon and always looking for new ways to push himself. Though, admittedly, he prefers sparring over running, and he doesn't doubt she'll outlast him this morning, so he wisely keeps his ego in check lest he give her another easy point for the day. "I expect pancakes to be ready at the finish line."

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’s laugh rings soft and bright against the morning hush, and she brushes a loose curl from her face as she leans forward on the counter. "Laxatives? Please. I'm not twelve," she teases, offering him a conspiratorial wink. Spice, perched on the windowsill, exhales a gentle puff of cool air that ruffles Kaisel’s hair and keeps the kitchen from feeling too stuffy.

She steps down onto the floor, stretching one arm high overhead before rolling her shoulders back. The sunrise slants through the curtains, gilding her curls and casting their reflections on the tiled floor. "All right, soldier," she says, her tone slipping into playful drill-sergeant mode, "we start with a lap around the dock, then sprints up the beach."

Her aqua eyes gleam, determined and warm all at once. "And yes," she adds, popping a hand on her hip as if she’s announcing her own promotion, "pancakes at the finish line—fluffy, with extra berries and mounds of whipped cream, but only if you can keep up." With that, she touches her fingers to her temple in a mock salute.

Flora brushes past Kaisel, giving his hip a playful nudge as she strides toward the front door. She throws it open wide to the bright morning air, the sea sparkling ahead. "Come on, slowpoke!" she calls back, one hand on the doorframe, the other gesturing impatiently.

Kaisel

Spice's cool caress is a welcome respite to the heat that is creeping in with each golden minute that passes. Kaisel's temple has begun to glisten with a natural shine to match Flora's, and he suspects this will be the coolest part of the day. It isn't even Longheat. Insufferable.

Kaisel leans into some warm ups of his own as he pulls his shoulders back and stretches through his chest, rolling down to touch his toes afterwards. His heels tilt into the floor as he leans further forward on the counter, and he finishes by grabbing each leg and pulling it behind him one at a time until his thigh burns. He straightens as she addresses him, a twist of a smile forming at her supplied orders. "Ma'am, yes ma'am." He salutes back in turn, though his hand whips down at her hip bump, reaching out to gently shove at her shoulder before she's out of reach.

Hot on her heels, he lurches forward into a run before he's even passed the threshold of her doorway, sticking his tongue out at her as he passes into the outdoor path. "Hope you like the taste of my dust," he taunts as he goes, unable to keep back the competitive bite. Keeping his mouth shut had been a great idea, but much easier said than done for him.

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 eases into a steady jog, the morning air cool against her skin and Spice’s playful breezes brushing away the first beads of sweat on her brow. Her ponytail sways like a banner of defiance behind her as she matches Kaisel’s stride, the salt–tinged breeze carrying the promise of adventure down the sunlit path.

"Oh is that so?" she calls over her shoulder with a grin, pushing off the balls of her feet. "If you’re in front, at least I won’t have to worry about you staring at my ass." She catches her own smile as the words leave her lips—part harmless flirt, part challenge for him to try and outpace her—and, for a moment, allows herself to feel light. The memory of Kaisel’s sudden, breath-stealing pin from the night before combined with Frey’s lingering heat still pulsing in her veins, drifts away like a distant echo such that the comment feels entirely harmless. Right now, each inhalation grounds her; each exhalation sweeps away the chaos of last night’s mischief.

Gradually she nudges her pace beyond comfortable, rolling her shoulders back, opening her chest, and feeling the burn of her thighs as they drive her forward. Her intention of course is to force Kai to either ask her to slow down or to vomit from overexertion.

Kaisel

She catches up with him quickly. Too quickly. His hope had been to have the head start at least for the first section of the dock lap, which is about when he expects his stamina will began to wane, while hers undoubtedly will remain steady. He glances sidelong at her, his pace stepping it up slightly to stay on tempo with her, the rhythm synchronizing. It's nice, the moment when they're in harmony, their ftsteps like a hum of rainfall.

"What!?" he scoffs then, his stride jarring, off-beat now as he sinks a bit behind. "Girl," he tsks, "I know you're fabulous but the entire world doesn't stare at your ass." Of course now it takes everything in him not to look at it, psychology doing a real number on him. Kaisel is definitely not above openly gawking at passing hotties, but Flora is strictly a nottie. Last night—no. He did not want to think about last night, not the portions that threatened that label for her. Not the spoon in her mouth, not the mile of legs wearing a nearly pointless pair of shorts, and definitely not the low-light coasting over the slope of her naval as she sought release. He's only going to focus on winning (hah), pancakes, and how exactly to tell Koa that he needs to be the next one to sleepover, and to not let her go to her room alone when he does.

He doesn't notice the way she pulls ahead, as he's pointedly looking everywhere except at her backside. There's a point when the bounce of her hair catches the light though, and he sees from the corner of his eye just how much ground she's putting between them. He sets his teeth together and kicks out deeper with his legs, swooping the space back up at the expense of an unmaintainable speed. He keeps his mind on his breathing, knowing that like most forms of training he does, it's a key to the success of pushing through walls his body builds up for him.

As he nears her, he skips a beat, quickly double stepping to hit a particular stride. Just as her nearest heel comes down, he strikes out with his toe to give her a flat tire. "Oops," he mutters as he powers forward, sweat beginning to drench sections of his shirt from the extra burst he just expended to pull this off. He'll pay for it later, but it's too sweet to resist now.

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’s stride falters as the tell-tale tug of fabric snags her heel; momentum lurches, arms pinwheel, but she catches herself with a dancer’s twist that turns the misstep into something almost graceful. Laughter bursts from her chest, bright and breathless, rolling back across the short distance Kaisel has stolen.

“Oh, please— my ass has its own fan club and you know it,” she calls, letting the teasing drip like syrup while she rolls her shoulders and settles back into rhythm. She tells herself the flirt is harmless, a puff of mischief; last night’s combustible energy is boxed up and shoved behind steadier thoughts of pace and breath.

Still, revenge is a necessary vitamin. A low whistle summons Spice from the azure sky; the little dragon hurtles downward, wings thrumming, and skates a ribbon of chilled air just in front of Kaisel’s pounding feet. The dock boards sheen over with sudden frost—thin enough not to splinter, slick enough to deliver justice. "Careful, Dragoon!”" she sings over a shoulder, the words tumbling in rhythm with her pulse. "Wouldn’t want to explain scuffed knees to the Stormbreak medics. Keep up and I’ll throw in whipped cream with your pancakes— lose, and I'll throw it on your face instead." Sun blazing, lungs burning in the best way, she lets the cadence of her breathing drown every lingering memory of green-masked chaos and countertop confessions. Out here it’s just the slap of shoes, the salt-sweet wind, and a race she fully intends to win.

Kaisel

Smug with success, Kaisel should know better than to let the taste of victory linger too long in Flora's company. She is one who does more than get even. Traction vanishes underfoot as ice sends him sliding. His legs yawn apart in the threat of a split, which is terrifying, and Kaisel flails and leans over to brace himself with his fingertips. No better than a fawn on fresh legs, Kaisel stutter steps off the slicked dock, grumbling as Flora prances by with all the cheer of a serial killer at a nursery.

He huffs out a breath as he picks the jog back up behind her, his legs complaining after the brief taste of a stop. Flora's carrot and stick dangling in front of him is a motivator though, and he pushes through the burn, mind set on the in and out of his breath as he presses to catch back up to her side. He throws a soft elbow to her by way of greeting. "Forget pancakes," he pants, "I think a pool is the only thing that sounds good now," His forehead drips with sweat that's continued to color his shirt shades darker. The exertion and the continuous heat has done it's toll on him.

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