You want a facial?

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

Water streaks down the press of their faces, bunching up at the tip of their noses, the corners of their freed lips, dripping off lashes already heavy-lidded with want. His mouth hangs open for breath against the ply of it, rivulets reshaping around the tilt of their foreheads. He blinks through the curtain of the mist, unwilling to lose sight of her for longer than necessary, especially when she's like this—breathless with their love, utterly radiant in nothing but steam and bliss.

A wild grin spreads in response to the hymn of her desire, muddy hands rising to either side of her face so he can grab hold of that wicked mouth with his once more. Brief this time, but the feel of her lips is no less of a relief, and the depth of the groan that sighs free when he slowly parts from her is an echo of her voice. "More than soft beds?" he wonders with an amused tilt of his head as his forehead rolls back against hers, thumb stroking melting war paint against her blushline, as though his affection is about to battle every comfort of the world to find the victor. "What about that super cozy blanket on the back of your couch, the plush one?" He's greedy to hear her deny them all. "Feather boas?" Here his 'brows lift, tickling against the curve of her in disbelief.

He doesn't immediately respond to the drop of her hands, though his nerves spark at every new touch she grants him, alive to the heat of her like a wick just waiting to burn. The splay of her fingers in the wash of warm water is a welcome feeling, intimate in a way he doesn't expect, especially when her gaze levels on him with a newfound meaning aglow inside it. Fuck, she's irresistible when she's possessed with that determination, her thoughts forged behind the borders of her ocean eyes like the will of weather itself. Swept away by the pull of that look, his body yields to the press of her palms, pace slow but steady as he stays in her sea and trusts that she's not about to send him toppling over a ledge.

There is something behind him though. The knock of it on his next step causes one of his hands to drift back behind him, fingers searching for understanding. Slowly he melts into the bench, the shape of it becoming clear with the bump of its edge pushing in on both his legs. Anticipation flares in the small features that build his expression, the image of her standing over him one of his salvation. There's nothing holy about the thoughts that visit him now, especially not with the backlit steam drifting over her head, heat a visible glisten where water beads up on clay and skin, painting her in a sinful dream he'd choose to never wake from. "A much better shower," he appraises with a mumur that's thickened with his need for her.

She doesn't find the seat along the bridge of his thighs like he expected, doesn't settle hip to hip. Instead, she trails down with her hand, teasing in the deliberate slowness of exploration. Each slide of the touch sends a shiver into the core of his arousal like a slow pulse that's building, the grip against his cock sending the strongest drum of it. It escapes as a torn moan, head tilting back faintly as his fingers curl against the shelf, searching for some sort of purchase.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

As Kaisel tilts her face back into another kiss, Flora hums softly into the press of his mouth, a note so full of indulgent adoration that it curls through the air like perfume, warm and clinging. If she could have sealed herself inside the space of his kiss, locking the door behind her and throwing the key into the sea, she would have done so without hesitation. Her heart burns for him with the same intensity that coils low and molten between her thighs, and there’s something almost dizzying about how good it feels to be joyful in her love rather than ashamed of it; to want without apology and to be wanted without guilt.

Still panting faintly, she nods with an answering smile as his thumb sweeps against her cheek, the gesture as grounding as it is intimate, her gaze never leaving his. "Even more," she whispers. "More than golden hour on the beach. More than pear pasta. More than sleeping in on a rainy morning." That was the joy of him, wasn’t it? That she would give up every soft, familiar comfort just to be close to him, but with Kaisel, she didn’t have to. His love didn’t come with barbed strings or a cage she had to contort herself to fit inside. There were no guardrails to stay within, no rules about which parts of herself were too loud or too much or too sharp. With him, she could spill out in every direction and still be held in his arms.

The sound of his moan tears through her like a fever breaking, her lips parting instinctively as the warmth of it echoes down her spine. He looks like something sculpted by desire and stormlight, every line of his bronzed torso half-shrouded in steam and scattered droplets that glint like tiny stars against the sheen of clay still clinging to his skin, staining him with proof of her touch. It only sharpens the heat in her belly, a fresh flush rising across her chest as she watches the way he sprawls there, chest rising with each breath, every muscle taut with the weight of his need.

Her hand remains curled around his cock, thumb brushing along his head as she lowers herself between his legs in one unbroken movement, sinking slowly to her knees with a grace that feels almost ceremonial. Her other hand joins the first, palms gliding against the slick resistance of the mud as she begins to stroke in a twisting rhythm, each pass a deliberate attempt to cleanse and tease all at once. Her body leans forward as she works, letting the swell of her breasts press greedily against his thighs and the base of his cock, bracketing him in soft skin and warmth so the stream of the shower can gather in the hollow between them. The droplets trail from her collarbones down, pooling briefly before her hands catch them again and spread them over him.

Only when the last trace of earth is washed away does she shift her weight forward, trading her hands for the soft seal of her lips. Her tongue traces along the underside of his length in a lazy, gliding stroke before she takes him deeper, mouth slick and hot around him, the tip of her tongue flicking just so in an effort to hear his breath hitch again. One of her hands slips with casual stealth between her own thighs, ostensibly in search of stray clay, but the moment her fingers graze too near to where her clit aches with need, she moans helplessly around him, the sound reverberating through every inch of him.

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

Each comfort she stacks up just to let topple under the weight of them flickers through his smile. It's a rare feeling, being willing to give up the things you consider precious for the sake of someone else, but never actually having to, which only deepens the worth of it all. It's an unexpected relief to hear it. Not that he needs her stripped of the world and left with only him, but that she feels for him to that extent, that she's in this too the way he is. She'd told him in a different way, on different days, but each time spreads the belief, a fire consuming more logs until the blaze beats back the shadowy remnants of uncertainty.

He didn't doubt her affection, but he did routinely wonder if she'd regret the choice she'd made, one that didn't come easily or with the surefooted nature of a full heart. This, along with all the hours they've spent decorated in laughter and mischief, has gradually assured him that she's with him, however fully she can be. "I'd give up gummy worms for you," he confesses with a grin, the shape rough with the less silly truth built behind the words. It's perhaps the most sincere I love you he's ever spoken.

His head hangs a bit to the side, molten gaze watching her with a slanted angle as she descends like a foul prayer. His mouth is too caught on the hum of appreciation that rises in response to the capture of him in her hands, so words escape him for a time. His attention instead drifts, torn between the desire to watch her at work, and closing off the world so the sensation might rise up stronger behind shut eyes. He's settled on the latter by the time she exchanges palms for tongue.

The warm embrace of her mouth ripples through him with a groan, her name mangled amid the sound. His hips jerk up once, eager for this new union. He relishes the starburst of pleasure that blooms out into a wave through him, but steadily his gaze unfolds again. The sight of her lips engulfing him, of her hand teasing into the space between her thighs until her pleasure is a thrum joining his own, it's an impossible threat to his composure. "Fuck Flora," he complains with a low rumble, "I could come undone just watching you."

A flick of her tongue has him shuddering, head tilting back again with the force of the feeling wracking through him, curling his spine. One of his hands abandons the surface of the bench, sliding past her temple and into her hair. He doesn't press or pull, but he needs the anchor there to keep him steadier as she pulls him into this aching pace of devotion.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

If Flora had a pack of gummy worms within reach, she might have looped one onto each of their fingers like makeshift rings, laughing as they melted against their heat; silly and sweet and just so them. But as it stands, all she can do is beam at him, her cheeks pink from steam and adoration, and something about the way he says it, so easy and raw and full of meaning, makes her heart swell until it almost overspills her chest. Somewhere between bruised kisses in the marketplace and the salt-stung laughter that followed, all the uncertainty she'd once carried like barnacles beneath her ribs had finally sloughed off. It might still ache, sometimes. There were corners of the Wildering House that still whispered, rooms she avoided on instinct, not because of ghosts but because of old echoes, faded and frayed. And maybe there were nights when her heart stirred at memories of something unfinished, but none of that ever made her doubt where she’d anchored herself now. Her past was patched and paint-washed and full of thorns, but her future was spun in gold, and its shape was undeniably Kaisel.

She wants to worship him, and gods, how it thrills her to feel his body respond to every movement of her tongue, every curl of her fingers. It goes deeper than arousal, though that's burning bright and relentless inside her; it’s a craving stitched into something older, something messier and sharp-edged beneath her skin. There’s a wicked kind of satisfaction in wringing those moans out of him, in drawing them up from the well of his chest and knowing she’s the one who placed them there. Maybe it traces back to all the places she used to feel invisible, to all the times she was told to be quiet or smaller or less, but here, with him, every sound he makes is a reward, and the pleasure of pleasing him settles into her like sunlight soaked deep into spring petals. She aches for it. She blooms for it.

Pausing just long enough to let her breath catch and his nerves fray, she holds the base of his cock in one hand and lifts her chin through the haze, gaze smouldering with something equal parts challenge and hunger. "Then do it," she murmurs, the words smoky and coaxing, like a dare she knows he won’t take lightly. Before the heat of her smirk has even cooled, her mouth slips over the head of his cock once more, tongue gliding with purpose as she slides deeper, emboldened by the pressure of his hand in her hair. She hums against him in encouragement, the vibration spilling down his length in a wave of sensation that matches the rhythm building between her thighs.

Without ceremony, her other hand slips fully between her legs, fingers finding her clit with a need sharpened by the feel and sound of him, the weight of him against her tongue, the way his hips twitch when she swirls just right. Her strokes mirror the movement of her mouth, hips tilting forward so she can match the tempo, lost now in the shared rise of their pleasure.

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

His gaze snaps back to her as those words dart through the lazy curl of the shower's fog. They catch on him easy, and though there's sparks already leaping off each pull of her lips, this one flares up bright and hot. He'd been trying to stamp out each emerging blaze, letting the heat build but not take, not until he's got her with him. The look she provides him though, it's one that sticks with him, even after that sly dip of her head back into her efforts. She doesn't have to tell him twice.

So now he watches her in full, copper simmering as though this is a forge instead of a shower. Each deep roll of her lips down his shaft, the unseen play of her tongue behind it that keeps him wound tight and twitching into the back of her throat. The delicious roll of her tits over his legs as she angles and moves, water slapping between them every so often. Then, the tantalizing arc of her around the seat of her hand, water streaming down thighs bowing to pleasure. He soaks it all in, his breath becoming shallower for the view, the pattern of it tangling around the sounds of his praise for her.

The grip he has in her hair tightens as his hips flinch with greater frequency, the force of what she's building up reaching a tipping point. "Flo—" His body tenses, a groan dragging out as pleasure crests like something too pure and whole as she sinks over him deep and steady. "I'm close," he pants, voice flicking back on like her touch is skipping over countless circuits. It's encouragement as much as warning.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

He feels like heat forged into flesh, like power and affection wound tight beneath every tremble of muscle and curl of fingers, and gods, Flora adores the way he holds her. The grip in her hair isn’t cruel or controlling; it’s claiming, anchoring, a wordless yes to everything she gives him, and it sets off a matching hum beneath her skin that sings in harmony with his every sound. Each gasp he offers, every strained groan and fluttering exhale, is something she swallows eagerly, recording it deep in her bones as though it were sacred. The flinch of his hips, the way he strains and twitches against her tongue, all of it builds into a rising ecstasy that makes her want to shatter apart just to hear him again. There’s no greater reward than watching him break apart in pleasure, no sweeter gift than knowing it was her that brought him to the edge, and even though her knees ache against the bench now and her jaw strains with the angle, she wouldn't stop if the sky cracked open and rained down stars around them.

Her own body keeps shivering with little bursts of tension, each one sparked by the rhythm of her fingers still circling her clit, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter like a tide on the cusp of breaking. She had meant to clean them both, meant to lap the mud from him so she could slide into his lap and take him in properly, but those plans have dissolved like sugar in the steam. Now she wants nothing more than to taste the moment he lets go, to feel him spill into her mouth while her own pleasure blooms in tandem. As he groans her name and warns her, voice ragged and breathless, she inhales through her nose with steady intent, not as a brace but as a promise, a preparation for the final wave she’s about to coax from him.

She deepens her ministrations with care and hunger, her tongue flicking beneath the head of his cock even as her hand continues its pressure between her thighs, and the moment he tips over the edge, it sets her off too. Her orgasm crashes through her in a sudden, soaring burst, her whole body trembling as muscles clench and her breath shudders in a moan muffled around his cock. She pitches forward, toes curling against slick tile, every nerve singing with molten pleasure as she takes him in fully, feeling the way he pulses and spills across her tongue, her throat working instinctively even as her mind spins from the high of it all. Her thighs quake, the pleasure wrung from her still echoing with aftershocks by the time his own release begins to fade.

Only when he’s finished, his cock no longer twitching, does she let him go, her jaw relaxing with a gasp as she steadies herself against his thighs. Her hands tremble slightly, but she uses them to push herself upright, rising from her knees with slow, liquid grace. There’s no tension left in her limbs, only the soft looseness of satisfaction as she sinks into his lap, straddling him with her hips snug to his, thighs bracketing his as she collapses against the warmth of his chest. Her skin still shivers faintly, her breath shallow, but her hands press to his cheeks like he’s the only solid thing in a world gone hazy and golden. She tilts his head toward her, mouth finding his in a kiss that’s deep and consuming, lips parted in a moan that’s more whimper than sound, as if she’s trying to pour all the heat, all the triumph, all the aching love inside her directly into his mouth.

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

He isn't long to last after he speaks, not with the way she's so attentive to every response, chasing them down like each moan owes her lunch money. It's a persistent sort of tenderness, not that there's anything tender about the devilish curl of her tongue flicking around at the right intervals, or the choking depths to which she seizes him again and again—those are exactly as fervent and obscene as he needs. It's her insistence that she drag every shaking moment free in full, all too generous even in this.

Between it all, there's the hums and jolts of her pleasure rising alongside his. Each flutter of her chest where it spirals up, the throb of her satisfaction echoing against him, it layers his euphoria into something fuller. His stare has long since slipped into a sultry haze, glossed over with a deep appreciation for her—the sight of her, the feel of her, the love of her. It all staggers through him with such a bewildering force of bliss he can scarcely manage the simple feat of breathing around it. The way he wants her, it's permanent, chasing that forever they attempted on the sugartide, but instead of holding it to one night, he wants it for the entirety of this lifetime with her.

His view is increasingly shuttered away by his lashes as pleasure grips him so intensely he seizes into it, finally breaking with one such convulsion as she tugs him into release. His hips buck up mildly, his other hand finding her head as he holds her there, heat breaking against her tongue in waves that leave him little more than a shipwrecked man washed ashore at the end. He can feel the quivering of her own tension unwinding with relief, riding it through around him until they're both spent.

He's slumped more than before, and much as he'd like to melt entirely off the bench and puddle onto the floor, his final form after her affections, his attention snaps with better clarity back to her. She's already rising, his hands falling away from her head but lingering to pull and guide her to him, fitting in against her sides and curling in an embrace over her back as she settles in his lap with a languid spill. A shiver of residual ecstacy tumbles through him every so often, especially where their skin meets each other. "You're amazing," he hums, the sound soft and rough with deep contentment before his lips meet hers. It's less a kiss than the consumption of something impossible to truly describe, love hardly seeming to do it justice.

His fingers roam up and down her back, skipping over the rises of her scars without notice. "Did you know?" he wonders softly, his head tilted against hers, the world nothing more than this shower and her. "That I love you?" The streak of a smile after it speaks to the boyish giddiness that's unavoidable in her company, where everything becomes happy and right.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

Sinking into Kaisel feels like tumbling into the tide at sunset, not a crash but a quiet, golden folding-in, the kind of embrace that soothes everything it touches. Every part of her body fits into his as though he were the shape she had been growing toward for years without ever knowing, each brush of skin a perfect match, each press of him against her a wordless echo of belonging.

Her laughter bubbles up between them, breathless and warm as it spills into his kiss, her lips brushing his with affection even as the curve of it breaks their contact. Her fingers curl into the back of his hair, nails skimming lightly along his scalp, and when his hands glide across her back, she arches subtly into every pass, her body responding like it’s been fine-tuned to him alone. If she could capture this feeling—the glow beneath her skin, the peace flooding every inch of her, the gleaming, dizzy joy of being loved like this, and the limitless potential of their future—she’d seal it in a bottle and wear it around her neck forever, a perfume of happiness and heat and wholeness.

"No, you," she murmurs back, melting against him completely, spine soft, lips still parted from where they had been tangled with his. Then, wrinkling her nose with unfiltered delight, she inhales with theatrical flourish, nudging her nose against his in a gentle, teasing tap. "Well, that’s convenient," she declares, lips curling wider with the joy that rises up just from hearing him say it aloud. "Because I love you too."

With a slow sigh of complete satisfaction, she lets herself slouch a little further into him, thighs still bracketing his and arms sliding around his shoulders like she never plans to move again. The world could fall apart outside the haze of the shower and she’d barely notice, not with the way her heart beats in time with his, not with the way every ripple of contentment still glides down her spine in the wake of pleasure and connection. "I think," she hums lazily, lips brushing the hinge of his jaw, "I’m ready to be turned into the sea now."

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

It hurts, this happiness, or at least his cheeks are protesting the depth and continuation of his smile. It's especially present on the heels of her own declaration of love, each one she grants him like a firework in his chest, rapidly making Fourth of July his favorite holiday at this rate (a ranking previously belonging to national taco day). "Floraopolis needs fireworks," he informs her with a mumble where his lips have begun to lean against her temple. He's been jotting down notes once in a while for their perfect city, and a whole host of mental ones. Hard to say if he's become any more serious about the suggestion, but it's growing and becoming more defined one way or another.

His attention drifts, as it's always want to do, to the feel of her. She's an instrument that comes to life for him, responding to each sweep of his hands, the only musical talent he has, though it's never held him back from belting out Katy Perry in the shower. He strums her until they're both nothing more than butter people, too tired to twitch, breath the only thing that manages inbetween each heattbeat shared between them. Bliss, in it's most pure form, is lounging away with her.

Some part of him rouses at the small reignition of her voice, feeling it as much as hearing it come to life as she skims across his jawline. He smiles, fingers curling against her, pressing her into him wholly and tight. A frewell to this moment, but he doesn't cling to it like it's their last.

He releases her after a beat, instead gripping her shoulders and hoisting her back from him a bit before gasping dramatically. "Yes, but of course! It is ocean time for the lady. Soon you'll be fit to decorate sushi." His grin chases his voice, a laugh cutting in as he rises, carting her the short distance back to the full rainstorm of the shower. He slides her down slow and steady to her own two feet, a few remnants of clay lingering on them both, especially her. "Finish cleaning up and I'll meet you back in the orangery," he murmurs against her ear, smooching her cheek with a loud, wet sound before slinking away. He'll get the rest of his own clay with his towel, only minor residue from her anyway, and gradually redress himself as he wanders back down the hall in reverse of the wild dash from earlier.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

Flora grins, the warmth of Kaisel's words pressed into her temple, lingering like a kiss that trails long after it's gone, her fingers curling briefly against his ribs as if she can trap the sound of his voice beneath her skin. "Fireworks, huh?" she murmurs, arching a brow at him with the kind of teasing amusement that tastes like sunshine and sugar. "I’ll start drafting a noise ordinance that says they can only go off when I’m happy. Which—sorry in advance to basically everyone—is going to be all the time."

When he draws her back, her smile slips crooked with reluctant affection, the part of her that wants to stay melted into him forever pouting in soft protest. Still, she lets him lift her without resistance, letting her arms hang loose around his neck until she’s set down again, her legs sliding slowly back into position with a groan that’s half sigh and half something far more dramatic.

Once she’s alone beneath the rain, she tilts her face into the water with a grin so wide it threatens to split her in two. She still feels him, everywhere; on her skin, in her heartbeat, in the breath she draws in like the steam is part of him too. Every laugh they’ve shared today loops in her memory like a favourite song, and even as she rinses the last of the mud from her body, she feels incandescent with the kind of joy that fizzes up behind her ribs and spills out between her teeth. This is what it means to be loved—fully, completely, without condition—and gods, she wants it forever. Wants him forever.

By the time she returns to the orangery, her skin is flushed with heat, wrapped in one of the softest housecoats in existence, the pink one with embroidered lemons on the pocket. Her hair has been brushed and tied neatly atop her head, though a few stubborn curls have already sprung loose in cheerful rebellion. She leans against the doorframe, eyes scanning the space until they find him, and when they do, her smile blooms anew, soft and helpless. "Okay," she announces with an air of solemnity that’s ruined entirely by the glint in her eyes, "important question. If we were at a fancy restaurant and I turned into a fork, what food would you want to use me for first?"

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

Lifting his head from the careful study of the directions on the back of the box, his sixth read at least as he pauses at every step to consult it all over again, his eyes find her and seem to spark to something brighter. The removal of the concentration is part of it, but there's equally an unmistakable shine that only she manages to coax free, her and unexpected gummy worms. A messy grin is soon tilting everything into a delightfully deep consideration though as he takes her question in like a fresh wine, swirling it around his mind.

"Well, if it's a fancy restaurant, then wouldnt that depend what type of fork you got turned into?" His expression lifts in expectation, but the sly edge of it all doesn't dare hesitate. "If we assume etiquette is out the window though and there's only one kind of fork, then definitely I'd use you for steak." One corner of his face starts to scrunch up, a crease of worry coming in. "Although, that'd require a knife. Is that like, a betrayal. A cutlery threesome??" It's a question, but it's also a touch of panic. "This feels like a trap. Is this a trap." He's not prepared to weight the possibility of a knife joining their dinners. "Can you just also be the knife? Or can I change my answer to ice cream?"

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

Flora shrugs as Kai questions what kind of fork she might be, the casual roll of her shoulder suggesting that whether she’s a dinner fork or a salad one, it’s all part of the same absurd quiz he’s now obligated to answer correctly. Her grin tugs wider the longer he thinks, already savouring the trap he’s wandered into with a kind of fond, predatory amusement. So when he finally offers his answer, she narrows her eyes with slow, theatrical offense, lips twitching despite herself. He’s the one who started this, she only asked a simple question. He’s the one who braided the rope, tested its strength, slipped the noose around his neck, and then stepped on the stool all on his own. Who is she if not the one to kick it out from under him?

Gasping as if he’s wounded her deeply, she clutches a hand to her heart through the soft fold of her robe, shaking her head with exaggerated dismay. "Wow, really? First of all, insulting you'd pick something that I can't provide you with on my own. I guess this is your way of saying I'm not good enough for you? Or not enough for you on my own??" Her voice lilts with feigned heartbreak, her gaze gleaming far too brightly to be taken seriously. "And don’t even get me started on this little cutlery threesome of yours. I wouldn’t even mind a third, but you didn’t just want me with someone else—you wanted me shoved into their meat, Kaisel."

Her scandalised stare is no less delighted as she swans slowly across the room toward him, the lemon on her robe pocket bouncing gently with each step. She’s nearly within arm’s reach by the time he changes his answer, and that’s when she halts, her expression shifting into one of cautious suspicion. "Ice cream, huh?" Her nose wrinkles as she tips her head, hands resting on her hips. "Tell me something. Do you...chew your ice cream?" Suddenly her tone is deadly serious. "Because I swear, if you do, that might actually be a dealbreaker."

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

Amusement lingers on her, he knows it, but he doesn't want her gasping, however mock, because he's failing her buzzfeed pop quiz. He can feel the growing fumble as it rolls out of him, as unelegant as a belch and just as impossible to grab it and put it back once it's out. He grimaces as she manuevers towards him in utter shock and put on hurt. "No, no, no. See, I picked steak because that's why you'd go to a fancy restaurant right, so you're being used on the main meal. The BEST meal. One I couldn't eat without you...at least not without getting kicked out."

If she expects him to keep a straight face when she says 'shove' and 'meat' in a sentence like that then she's asking for the impossible. His serious debate face falters, an attempt at keeping it in puffing up his cheeks for a moment, features lifting from a terrified frown to lit surprise. It sputters free a second later, his laugh loud and cutting, a palm slapping the counter for extra effect.

"Wait a damn minute," he says on an inhale of breath he's struggling to keep from devolving into a further fit. "If you're the fork, doesn't that make me the meat? Who's the meat? Not the knife. Is this four now?" Which, three had been more than enough so he raises a hand and waves away the question, deciding he really doesn't want her answer.

With her so closeby now, the changeup into actual wonder allows him to step into the offended role. "I'm sorry, did you just ask if I'm a criminal? This is feeling like slander!" A wide, wicked grin creeps out just before he reaches out to abruptly hook her hip-hung arm with him. He hauls her towards him, tipping her back to his chest as he gravely laughs. "I'm glad to know you have very strict ice cream standards." His expression dances with delight at the possibility of pushing that button though. "Tell me, why does using a fork mean I chew the forkful?" He shakes his head. "The fork helps you get it faster when its super frozen. You know how you sometimes bend a spoon trying to scoop it? Forks carve it."

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

Flora raises an eyebrow, fixing him with a sharp, mock-hurt look that only deepens the mischief in her expression. "Ohhhh," she says slowly, voice pitched in dangerous sweetness, "so you’re only using me because you have to? Is that it?"

His laughter—loud, helpless, impossible not to join—undoes her in an instant. She’s grinning before she can help it, girlish and wicked, her protest already spilling out even as she fights through her own laughter. "Even if you are the meat," she argues between giggles, "you’re still saying I’m not enough to get you all on my own, which is—"

But the rest is lost in a delighted squeal as he grabs her. She yelps, startled and gleeful, as he hauls her in with that sudden strength she's come to expect from him, her robe fluffing out and then collapsing against him as she lands squarely against his chest. She immediately covers his hand where it rests against her, both of theirs disappearing into the plush fuzz like some scandalously cozy magic trick.

"Of course I have very strict ice cream standards," she huffs, chin tilted up with royal indignation as if she’s halfway to declaring it law. Tilting her head back to look up at him—spying him upside-down now, from where her pinned-up curls drape along his collarbone—Flora narrows her eyes. "If you’re the kind of person who can’t wait for ice cream to reach the right temperature and has to carve it with a fork," she accuses, voice thick with suspicion, "then maybe you are the kind of maniac to chew it too, if you're in that much of a rush."