You want a facial?

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

Kaisel rolls out of bed well before Flora, shushing Spice when the dragon's head lifts at the disturbance. Although he can't deny her trailing after him to the kitchen, where he promptly puts her to use chilling the champagne and orange juice in exchange for some bacon. He'd doordashed arranged for a courier to drop off supplies, and as the spirits swing the door open right before a loud knock raps on the door, Kaisel hops over to smuggle them in. "Thanks," he whispers, shuffling back inside after clicking the door shut as silently as possible, depositing the goods on a nearby table so he can dart back into the kitchen before anything burns. Sliding to a stop with socks over tile, which nearly threatens to send him on his ass instead, he manages the style points and saves the pancake. A good day, it'd seem.

"Alright," he announces quietly to Spice, nodding for her to lead the way back to the room to gently awaken Flora. He's right behind her, keeping the tray of mimosas and plated food steady, ever grateful to the doors that swing open for his full hands and the blinds that turn just so to let morning light spill into the path he needs.

"Mooooorning," he calls softly as he rounds back to her bed, waiting for her to sit up before trading her the platter of goods. Two eggs and a smile of bacon will greet her, along with a small side of toast and pancakes, with a mimosa and a cup of coffee, depending on which way she'd prefer to start the day. He claims his own flute, sipping it with a smile cocked just behind the glass. "Eat up," he instructs, "your first spa appointment today is in a half hour."

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

The bed creaks faintly as Kaisel leaves, and though Flora doesn’t wake, some part of her stirs enough to sense the loss of warmth. Still tangled in sleep, her fingers grope blindly toward the now-empty space he’s left behind, a quiet, instinctive protest of the morning’s betrayal. Her face burrows deeper into the pillows, cheek squished and mouth parted with the faintest huff, utterly unaware of the dragon and boy tiptoeing out toward the kitchen.

She doesn’t rouse until the scent of butter and bacon ghosts across her nose, accompanied by the hush of light shifting through the curtains and the soft rhythm of Kaisel’s return. Her body moves before her mind catches up, limbs stretching and curling as she sits up groggily, lashes fluttering. A smear of drool clings to the corner of her mouth, and she swipes at it with the back of one hand, blinking in confusion as her aqua eyes narrow against the brightness of day. The sound that escapes her throat isn’t quite a word, more a croaked little question of whuh? as she squints at the tray Kaisel sets before her.

Spice hops up beside her, eyes locked on the bacon like it's a pearl clutched in the jaws of a treasure chest, and Flora’s own gaze follows the shimmering yolk of the egg-smile that waits for her on the plate. The whole scene—him, the tray, the mimosa, the tenderness of a morning curated for her—cracks her open so quickly and quietly that she barely notices the way joy spills through her chest like sun over tidepools. It’s not grand or dramatic. It’s soft and slow and utterly stunning; the realisation that someone has done this just because he wanted to, not to mention that no one has ever brought her breakfast in bed before. No one has ever cared enough to plan, to soften the morning, to make waking up feel like being loved. And Kaisel does it without fanfare or flourish, just socks on tile and pancakes shockingly not burned.

She beams at him, eyes now awake and bright and full of something so wide and shining it could drown her if she let it, one brow arching as her fingers swipe the bacon off the plate before Spice can get any ideas about claiming it for herself. With all the ceremony of a queen delivering judgement, she stabs the yolk-eye until it runs in golden rivulets across the white, then lifts the toast like a blade to catch it before it bleeds too far. "I thought the only thing on my to-do list today was you," she murmurs around a bite, voice still husky with sleep and satisfaction. "And I definitely don’t remember making any spa plans."

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

His laugh flutters against the sip he's trying to take with a ripple and a choke that has him hurriedly lowering the mimosa before he sputters it all over his chest. "No one said the massage couldn't finish with a happy ending," he reassures once he's recovered, winking with an excessive display reminiscent of someone still learning how to close only one eye. "Becaaaause," he drags out with a roll of his hand and a sweeping gesture towards the hallway. "It will be a la, Spa de Wildering." He bows his head faintly with the announcement, sneaking a peek back up at her from the edge of his gaze before long. Somewhere in the kitchen a pot clangs like a brassy trumpet, though a bit muffled with the distance, he appreciates the effort.

He flops into a seat near the foot of the bed, reclaiming his flute for another swig. "You've had a shit time of it lately, and we can't have you tapping blueprints in anything less than freshly done nails, so yes, a spa day. But one that's lowkey enough we can still be lazy about it all in the house." He'd considered calling Sohalia down and sending the two of them off, but given that last time he'd entrusted her care to Sohalia's hands hadn't gone exactly according to plan, he's opted not to. Then, when none of the spas here could accommodate everything he wanted so last minute, he decided to DIY it a little bit, which honestly could just result in half relaxation and half chaos, but it sounds like a win either way. "Mud bath, seaweed wraps, mani pedi, fizzing face scrub with cucumbers for your eyes—the works."

His smile fades abruptly, features growing suddenly serious as he sits up straighter. "You'll just have to sign a fifty page contract which absolves me of any blame, including potential death and dismemberment." His chuckle cracks in a breath later, unable to hold the guise, especially when he's nearly finished his drink.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

Flora’s laughter spills out before she can swallow it down, melodic and dramatically scandalised as she clutches the toast in one hand and lifts her brows in wide-eyed mockery. "Wait—wait. Are you telling me this whole thing is a scam to get me to give you a massage?" Her voice curls around the accusation like it’s silk-wrapped mischief, too amused to be anything but teasing. Still grinning, she scrubs the heel of her hand across her eye, chasing away the last of the sleepiness as his gesture towards the hall draws her gaze. The sunlight catches on the edge of a moving shadow, a pot in the distance clanging like the muted blare of a trumpet in a velvet-draped orchestra pit, and she tilts her head, lips quirking thoughtfully. "You must have left the spirits something real good last night," she murmurs, impressed.

As he flops near the foot of the bed, she adjusts her posture with a lazy stretch, curling more upright and letting the blanket fall to her waist. The toast is traded for her coffee as easily as if the tray had always been meant for swapping treasures, and she nurses the cup with both hands while he lays out the plan like it’s an itinerary for heaven. Her eyes stay on him the whole time, soft and full of an adoring sort of delight that makes the world shrink to just this room, just this morning, just him. There’s something so disarmingly young about the way it all hits her, like the version of love she once dreamed of but never really thought she'd wake up to. Her heart doesn’t flutter—it sings.

"Oh my gods, it all sounds amazing," she moans with theatrical pleasure, setting her coffee down only to clap her hands together beneath her chin in overjoyed approval. "Except I cannot wait to see what your plan is for the pedicure, given how ticklish your feet are." She bats her lashes with mock innocence, then rolls her eyes and nods solemnly at the mention of the fifty-page waiver, as if that part had been entirely expected. "But babe, the real issue here," she says, voice dipping into deadpan territory as she jabs her fork lightly in his direction, "is whether you expect me to eat all this food and then take my clothes off, and if you seriously think I’m supposed to drink coffee and orange juice and then brush my teeth without dying."

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

His scoff is loud and long, suggesting her allegation, however silky soft, is massively wounding to his newly acquired but evidently depthless spa pride. "What," he throws back with playful sass, "you think only men can have happy endings with massages?" He quirks one 'brow in challenge, smile stretching wider and more devious by the moment. "You're the one being pampered today," he simplifies with a raise of a finger. "Although if you want to tip your masseuse with any of those same tricks from last night, that is acceptable at Spa de Wildering," he reassures her. "After all, the spa staff here strive for the best service and survive off tips." He nods, as if it is known. Then, after a moment, adds a touch more clarity. "Me, I am the spa staff."

As for the house's activity, he laughs soft and deep. "Yes, we have a lot of shared interests, like little candies, small toys and stickers, and seeing you happy. Last night was certainly, spirited," he's unrepentant with the appraisal in his gaze as he sweeps it over her, utterly enamored with her, even half-groggy from waking. "Besides, I think they like the spa effects," he murmurs a touch softer, affectionate almost. It's akin to a field trip, but at the house, things changed and rearranged from the daily order. The wooden frog that makes a croaking noise when the wand is run over the spines of it's back surely helped too, along with the metal ones that hop when the tab on the back is pushed just so.

"Good thing my feet are not being cured," he says with a sharp shake of his head, the very thought of handing his feet over to a stranger to scrub at enough to make his toes curl in protest. His focus shifts to the platter in her lap as she lays out the flaw of it all, terribly burdened by the oppressive weight of toast and choices. "Well, I had to make enough eggs and bacon for the face," he begins to explain with a seriousness that is more honest than playful. "So then you also needed toast. But pancakes taste so good so then I had to make some of those. And coffee is typical, but mimosas are spa coded, so really, what was I to do?" It's practically criminal that the universe offered him so little leeway in this matter. "Just nibble on what you want," he offers, leaning forward to swipe a piece from her plate to help her, since she's clearly struggling.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

Flora’s laugh bubbles up like champagne fizz, light and bright as her shoulders lift in a shrug that feigns innocence but can’t quite suppress the wicked little gleam in her eyes. "I just assumed the we in spa day meant you were partaking too," she muses, voice thick with false contrition and amusement, though her grin says she’s absolutely not sorry for the misunderstanding. Her brow arches higher still as he clarifies the staff structure—his grin like a tip jar, already rattling with suggestion—and she meets it with one of her own, wicked as a flame curling under paper. "Well, if you’re expected to survive off tips alone..." she says slowly, drawing out the words like a promise as her lashes lower in time with her smirk, "I guess I should be expecting a really exceptional level of service."

There’s something more molten behind her smile as it slips wider, toothy and dangerous in the way only affection can be, her eyes locking on his with heat and humour twined together like silk and rope. "But if your dedication to making me feel good is anything like it was last night—" (or honestly, anytime, lets be real). Her voice lilts like it’s balancing on a seesaw of tease and truth, before she tips the scales entirely, "—I think you’ll find the gratuity more than generous."

His gaze sweeps over her with the kind of warmth that makes her blush for real this time, a soft bloom rising to her cheeks that rounds them with restrained joy, her heart suddenly too full to stay entirely cool.

As Kaisel explains the plate logic with all the gravity of a war council, Flora listens with a sage nod that masks the curl of her lips. The instant he leans forward to snag a piece of bacon, she moves. Not to stop him, but to catch his hand mid-reach with her fingers wrapping around his. He'd said to nibble on whatever she wanted, and that of course, was him. Whether or not she manages to grab his hand, she watches him with eyes that gleam like ocean glass as she rolls a slice of pancake inside a strip of bacon and pops it into her mouth, chewing with exaggerated delight before sliding the tray gently to the side. "You’re the best."

Padding out from beneath the blankets, the oversized shirt she’s wearing slips over one shoulder, printed with the faded logo of a Stormbreak training gym that still smells like Kai. She crosses the space to him slowly, bare legs brushing against his knees as she cups his face in both hands. Tilting his head up, she leans down and presses a kiss to his mouth, warm and slow and syrup-sweet, her lips soft against his in the quiet way joy sometimes shows itself when words fall short.

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

The pattern of her smile in time with the slow fall of her lashes is a threat to his newfound spa professionalism. Her laughter is just as alluring, that uncontained joy and willingness to jump into every shenanigan-again a favorite of his. Each look she conjures is a match strike, and he'll surely be fired by the end of today at this rate, especially with that blush blooming on her cheeks.

Clearing his throat like it might also rid him of the sudden urge to slap the tray away and offer her some morning sausage instead, Kaisel tries to lay some ground rules for his own sake. "Ma'am," he says with one hand lifted in caution, as helpful as sealing a leaky boat with a boot heel. "It's imperative you don't distract the staff while sessions are being prepared for, or underway. They have to focus on their craft. Tipping should be reserved only for the end." In other words, she better keep her dirty talk about generous tipping to herself if she wants any of these spa features to actually happen, otherwise he has no problem keeping them in this room the entirety of the day.

Breaking character for the sake of breakfast strategies and pilfering, he is surprised by her much quicker hand. He'd been banking on her sleep haze still being in effect, and though he ate while cooking, he's got no problem being her hero and assist her of some of her plated items in such dire times. His gaze lifts as her fingers twine with his, catching the warm and glittering stare she levels at him with a boyish smile. It's a shy look almost, as if he didn't expect to be so thoroughly caught by the feeling that swells without measure for her time and time again, least of all in the simplest of things, like watching her craft a genius breakfast combo.

Entirely seized by her, the small press of her fingers in his all it takes, he tracks her as she shifts and rises. Her shirt, his shirt, barely registers, but she wears it better. Everything looks better on her, and also, nothing at all. He moves to better orient towards her, drifting into the kiss she presses down like a meal all its own. "Totally inappropriate," he breathes out, a smile flickering into place against the soft brush of her lips. "To butter the staff up."

He inhales sharply, the smell of breakfast mingling with her in a sweet way that maintains his smile as he slides away and stands back by the door. "Meet me in the—" his features dip into thought for a moment, and he almost seems to speak a few times before giving up and just waving a hand in the direction. "The place with all the windows and the chairs, I forget the fancy name you gave it." With that he ducks out into the hall to prepare. He'll worry about the tray of food later.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

Flora's hand flies to her chest in mock distress as Kaisel calls her ma’am, eyes wide with performative shame while her lips tremble around a gasp that is far too theatrical to be anything but teasing. "Oh no," she breathes, fluttering her lashes in overblown apology, "I’m so sorry. I had no idea I was endangering the integrity of the entire spa. I'll understand if my robe privileges need to be revoked as punishment." Each word drips with sweet irreverence, but the warmth behind them is real; the kind that pulses in her chest like honey-soft sunlight, stirred loose by the way he keeps making her feel so damn loved before she’s even had her first proper sip of coffee.

And then he looks at her like that.

There’s something boyish about the way his eyes lift to meet hers, caught not by cunning or design but by sheer, stunned affection, like he hadn’t expected to be seen so easily, or wanted so fully, and certainly not in the middle of stealing bacon. The morning light behind him brushes gold along the edge of his dark hair, framing his profile in a soft, gilded glow that makes his already unfairly handsome face look carved from myth. That expressive mouth, usually so full of teasing or sass, has curved into something gentler, something honest. The sharpness of his jaw and the warm slope of his cheekbones only accentuate the softness in his eyes, that quiet, stunned devotion that sneaks through when he’s caught off guard.

To Flora, he’s something too beautiful for this ordinary room. A boy with the sun behind him and the sea in his smile, who’s filled the whole house with breakfast and magic just because he wanted to. Not for show. Not to prove anything. Just because he loves her.

She hums softly against his mouth, her breath sweet with syrup and laughter as she murmurs, "Won’t happen again," in a tone that practically promises she’ll make it happen again the first chance she gets. But then he’s pulling back and slipping out of reach, vanishing through the door with a grin and a wave, leaving only the scent of food and that helpless tug in her chest in his wake. "Orangery!" she calls after him through her laugh, correcting his departure with a sing-song lilt that echoes just faintly off the stairwell walls.

She's quick to rejoin him, brushing her teeth with one hand then wrangling her curls into a knot. Spice, meanwhile, takes full advantage of her distraction to demolish what remains of the tray with tiny dragon delight and not a shred of remorse. By the time Flora pads down the stairs, the golden spill of sunlight through the orangery’s wide windows casts soft beams across her skin and clothes, making everything seem even more delicate than it already is. Her tank top clings in the way thin, white cotton does when it’s barely there, especially without the presence of a bra, and her sweatpants hang low and loose on her hips, all softness and suggestion. She doesn't care how undone she looks, not least of all because mud bath is apparently first on his list, but also because she never does around him. That’s the whole point. She’s not performing here. She’s home. He's home.

Striding into the warmth of the glass-walled room, her feet silent on the floor as light dapples across her skin. "Did I ever tell you that my mother used to run a spa in Halo?" Her gaze slides over to him, head tilted just so, sunlight catching in the little wisps of hair that have slipped free from her bun.

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

Orangery is definitely a word that sounds made up, so he feels zero shame at having forgotten it. It is a fitting name, insofar as made up ones go, because the room is taking on a lovely shade of the fruit as dawnlight continues to sparkle into it. The space frames her in a champagne glow that has nothing to do with the mimosa from before, and his smile is an immediate greeting at the bright sight of her. She doesn't have to be done up when the world seems apt to wear itself around her. The simplicity of the white cotton lets the sigh of the coast drift against the fabric, teasing it into extra motion with her every stride in such a way that his gaze can't help but be drawn to the shape of her. The amber coating of fresh daylight highlights her better than any bronzer could hope to, granting her a radiance that treasure seekers would covet the same as gold.

He's changed into his workwear, the typical spa outfit that looks like a hybrid of a nurse and a cult follower, except he kept on his blue socks with little white dragons in different shapes patterning them. A fuzzy white robe hangs off one of the chairs for her, but that'd be later, since for now he needs her to, "strip." He can't keep back the devious tilt to his smile at that request, though he does motion towards a padded chair, which is definitely one of the outdoor patio pieces done up with some couch cushions, a sheet, and a healthy dose of towels overtop to keep all of it intact (hopefully) when this is all said and done.

"Oh?" he asks in pursuit of the tidbit of information she handed him upon arrival, one 'brow rising over the other in interest. "So I'm not just up against trained professionals today, but family legacy then?" There's surely no hope he'll compare, the way you can never cook a meal as good as mom's, because you're facing years of childhood memory and a woman who usually stopped following a recipe decades ago. She hasn't really told him much about her though, and he wonders faintly why it was if her father failed her so, that her mother didn't do more, and how it is she came to depend on a witchy grandmother in the woods most of all. "Was this when you were young?" he asks carefully, grabbing for a platter of hot washcloths, to lay across her once she's ready, an exfoliating precursor to the heated mud.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

There’s a curl to her grin before she even reaches him, tugged up from the sight of him standing there like he belongs in some seaside wellness magazine, all calm confidence and ludicrously themed socks. It’s one thing to see him in his soldier’s gear, the authority and swagger carved into every line of his posture, every glint of steel at his hip. That version of him is heat and hurricane, her favourite storm to sail into. But this? This almost-professional, almost-proper version, with hands that soothe instead of strike and eyes that still follow her like they’ve never seen anything more worth watching? It’s enough to make her lips twitch upward with an affection too rich to swallow down.

Her brow arches as he tells her to strip, the command delivered with that too-casual flick of his hand and the soft throne of cushions awaiting her like a dare. Standing tall in the honey-glow light of the orangery, her silhouette framed by its golden hush, Flora doesn’t hesitate. She reaches for the hem of her tank top and peels it up slowly, letting the fabric lift inch by inch, baring the golden stretch of her stomach first, then the fullness of her breasts, her skin kissed by Torchline sun and the salt of long swims, smooth where it’s whole and scarred where it’s not. Her back, once turned, tells stories Kaisel is already familiar with.

She bends at the waist, deliberately unhurried as she hooks her fingers beneath the waistband of her sweatpants, dragging both them and her underwear down in one clean motion. They puddle at her feet like cast-off surf, and she steps free with the same unbothered grace she always has when she’s naked with him, even if there’s a flicker of something else behind her eyes when she murmurs, soft as breath, "Normally the staff leave the room while the client undresses." She glances over her shoulder, smirking, though of course she likes nothing more than having his eyes on her.

The words linger in the air like perfume as she turns, bare and barefoot and bathed in morning light, and saunters toward the makeshift spa throne with a sway to her hips that suggests this whole experience might be healing and dangerous. She sinks into the chair with a languid sort of satisfaction, her body settling into the sheets and towels with a sigh like they’ve been waiting for her, one leg folding over the other as her aqua eyes remain locked on his with open adoration and just the right amount of mischief.

She hums low in her throat, smile lazy as she watches him prepare the washcloths with that boyish concentration she adores so fiercely. "Yeah, my mom lived in Halo for years," she says with a nod, her voice warmer now, touched with something softer than the teasing edge from earlier. "When I took over the Hanged Man, I threw this ridiculous party to celebrate the re-opening. She and Sunjata ended up reconnecting that night, after having not really spoken for years. If not for that night, she might never have left Halo for King's End." Her gaze flickers down to Kai's hands and the careful precision of his movements, then back up to his face, fondness deepening like a current pulling her under.

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

It's strange to consider that just a short time ago he hadn't ever kissed her before, and now he's watching her remove every layer hiding her body, and this is hardly the first time. The weeks have blurred easily, time of little concern when embracing this love in its entirety. It's always been comfortable with her, a connection that fits into place easy, which has made jumping into this with both feet just as simple. Loving her has never felt like needing to make space for her, but like something that's always been missing has finally returned, as though he's always had room fitted just to her shape.

He's sure that he'll never tire of this, watching the remergence of her skin from beneath clothing. She wears such an assortment of garments, few at all in Longheat, but it's his favorite to finally have her laid bare and free for his touch. The color of her exposed body joins the rest of the orangery, light and shadow skating over curves he plans to adore to eternity. She shifts with all the slow grace of seasons turning, allowing each moment to be admired in full for what it is. The heat of his gaze lifts to the peek of aqua, brighter than ever in the frame of all the amber, from her cheeks to the burnished sunlight in the room. "It's customary at Spa de Wildering to watch," he informs her with the crooked crack of a hungry smile. "It's all in the contract." The one she theoretically signed, if the consent of her abandoned clothing is any indicator.

Flora naked only pales to one thing, and that's naked Flora in motion. He doesn't even realize he's paused his approach until the song of her hips quiets into something settled against the 'table'. Blinking, he resumes, laying a scattering of small towels as she talks, gaze flicking up to meet the mischief in hers every so often. "So you're a successful matchmaker," he notes with a flourish of a smile, choosing not to inform her that all her parties are ridiculous. Setting the plate of washcloths to the side, he deposits some cucumber slices on her eyes, feeding one into his mouth with a crisp bite.

He returns to the first cloth he placed, the wet warmth of it gathered in his hands. He slides it across her collarbone and down the length of one arm, unfurling her limb out to the side as he goes. He runs the fabric down to her fingertips, giving each digit attention before sliding the damp cloth back up her arm, returning it to her side once more and setting that towel back on the tray. He repeats this on her other side, each stroke a tender brush of worship for her body. "Is the temperature to your liking, miss?" he asks with a professional courtesy just before leaning down to seize one of her nipples with his mouth. He sucks and teases briefly, reluctantly parting from it and letting the cloth for her chest wipe against the swell of her breast before moving to do the same to the other. He sinks down her stomach with a myriad of kisses lightly sweeping over her belly, the drag of the towel wiping them free as he goes. He ends with a firm press of his hands to the corners of her hips, an appreciative noise impossible to keep back as he does, but the brief possession is shortly thereafter removed with the swipe of warm water and cotton. "Your mom's spa go something like this?" he wonders, voice rougher than last he used it, attraction thickening it with the temptation of taking her so close. Given that Hotaru's a Frey demi-god and works at the House of Midnight now, if her answer's yes, it wouldn't be all too surprising.

His focus lowers, the fresh towel on her leg taken up, sliding it from her knee to the inside of her thigh. He lingers, just his fingers slipping down to roll against her clit, brief and teasing before he takes the washcloth back to the outside of her thigh and down the rest of her leg. It's absolutely insane to him that she isn't ticklish, though some wicked part of him still tries to rouse the feeling as he faintly trails the fabric across the sole of her foot before discarding it on the tray. He repeats the entire process on her other leg, the entire process unhurried. "Mm, Flora," he appriases with a hum.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

"Is that so?" she murmurs, her brow arching high with amusement and suspicion both, though the smile that stretches across her mouth betrays the game. "Noted," she adds with mock solemnity, letting her eyes flutter shut again as the cucumbers settle into place like tiny masks for her secrets. The light behind her lids turns warm and gold, like pressed flowers caught between the pages of a book, and she sighs softly as her focus begins to drift inward, attuning to the quiet shift of air and movement that reveals where Kaisel is in the room without needing her eyes. The way the boards creak, the subtle hush of fabric, the muted chime of water against porcelain.

A laugh curls from her throat as she breathes out, "I wasn’t a matchmaker. People just tend to fall in love at my parties." One arm stretches languidly along the chair, while the other lifts, fingers blindly searching until she peels one cucumber slice up with a mischievous little smirk. Peeking at him from behind it, her expression is half-shy, half-knowing. "I kissed you at my last party," she reminds him, as if the memory doesn’t already live in both of their bones, however innocently it had been at the time and however confusing things had been for a while after. Her voice softens as she replaces the cucumber and lays back into the chair’s embrace. It had just been stupid and flirty and reckless, but Flora had wanted to see what it would feel like, and emboldened by liquor and the fact that it was her night, she had.

The quiet hum that follows his question is all indulgence, warm and airy, but it’s immediately chased by a sharp gasp as his mouth closes around her nipple. She arches toward the heat of him instinctively, lips parted in surprise and pleasure, a flush beginning to bloom across her chest like sunrise spilling across tide-warmed sand. The shiver that rolls through her is uncontained, and her mouth twists into a crooked grin even as her breath stutters. "Apparently I should’ve read the contract more carefully," she mutters, her voice huskier now, edges frayed with want as his kisses trail down the length of her belly.

When Kaisel's hands settle at her hips, a fresh wave of heat pools low in her stomach, and he’ll feel it in the way her muscles tense beneath his palms; the anticipatory flex, the held breath, the subtle tremor of effort as her body tries to guess his next move. The slide of cloth masks nothing; her tension is a pulse, a living rhythm beneath his touch. She swallows hard, her voice rougher as she admits, "They probably did have services like this." Her laugh is shallow and faint, nearly swallowed by a breathy sigh. "But I mostly only went when I was upset, so.." She'd more been looking to cry in her mother's arm rather than be fucked by some random stranger with too much massage oil.

Flora's breath catches again as he shifts to her leg, the cloth tracing down the inside of her thigh like a whisper with weight. She doesn’t mean to moan—she’s trying to be clever, trying to be casual, even now—but when his fingers press against her clit in that brief, maddening tease, her body answers before her mind can catch up. The sound that escapes her is raw and honest, her back arcing slightly as his name breaks from her lips like it’s the only thing she has left. "Kai—" she gasps, reaching blindly, her hand groping for anything solid to anchor herself to, him most of all.

Even as he trails the towel along the sole of her foot in mock innocence, her toes flex, her ankle twisting; not from ticklishness, but in disbelief at her own restraint. Her voice is thick with arousal, threaded through with disbelief and hunger alike, as she growls, "I’m pretty sure there was nothing in your contract about being tortured."

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

His breath comes out with the rough edge of a short laugh, well aware of that particular night and the surprise kiss she'd granted him, easily passed off as nothing serious then. "Yes," he agrees of the memory, "and you did such a terrible job transferring your lipstick that Mateo accosted me with his own stick shortly thereafter." His lips twitch with the image of it all in his mind. "I don't count that as our first kiss though," although it certainly does suit the chaos of everything else they've managed to do. "That one belongs to the Sugar Tide," he tells her instead, voice softer with that much more tender, fragile memory where things had been risked. That moonlit night fades as he starts to focus on the task at hand.

An agreeing mumble is all that he returns her comment with, because it's really all in the fine print. The one that clearly states if she's going to undress in front of him, he's powerless to completely withhold himself from her. Each jolt of her body in response to his attention, and the taut hum of want he feels just underneath is delicious. He doesn't mean to cut her treatment short on his behalf though, so torture is all she'll be getting, at least for the time being. "You really should be more thorough when you put your name to something," he admonishes with a devil's lilt to his voice, shifting beside her as he grabs the bowl of clay warmed into a liquid.

"All part of the preparations," he reassures her, as if winding her up is the only way he'll find where to release her. A brush dabs into the mud, and with him as an artist and her body the canvas, he paints her into a portrait of the earth. Each stroke is long and careful, spreading the thick balm of the mineral soup across most of her skin, avoiding sensitive areas. It will dry like a curing mask, pulling her skin taut into the coating of it, and that's when he asks her to turn over so he can similarly attend to her back. That'd been half the reason for the towels he laid down on the makeshift table.

When she turns, her cucumbers will sadly be lost to the wreathe of the towel he offers for her face to sink into. He'll start with the hot towels again, at least on the main part of her torso where he hadn't been able to reach before. "Why'd you decide to become queen?" he asks as he waits for her to settle back down before proceeding, since they're wandering down a memory lane that is only brushing past old tragedies like a rose garden they're not going to pluck any flowers from. Towel in hand, he tugs down on the space between her shoulder blades, pulling the movement low and long before sweeping off to her side. The dip of her lower back into the rise of her ass is a place he spends longer on, thumb appraising the impressive scope of the curves to be found there.

Kaisel

Got no reason not to celebrate

you can call me honey if you want

"Fine, fine," Flora groans beneath the cucumbers, rolling her eyes though he can’t see it, the corners of her mouth tugging upward in a grin that refuses to be quelled. "The Sugartide was definitely the first time you kissed me back." Her voice softens with the admission, dipping into something reverent at the edges of memory. The truth of it lives in the air between them, like salt hanging after a wave breaks; moonlight on their skin, his hands steady against her hips, the moment slower than it should’ve been. Realer than it had any right to be.

When he brushes off her accusation of torture, her breath catches on a sound halfway between a whine and a laugh, playful exasperation worn like a perfume. "I hate you," she huffs under her breath, though the words carry the weight of a thousand I love yous in the spaces between them.

The first stroke of the warmed clay is a jolt and a balm, and she shivers beneath the brush like a creature stirring beneath sun-warmed sand. "Mmmm," she breathes, rolling her shoulders to dispel the heat still simmering in her belly, every nerve sensitised from the attention he’d just stolen with his mouth and fingers. Still, she obeys as he requests, shifting with a slow, feline stretch to lay onto her stomach, the cucumbers slipping from her face like fallen leaves. Before sinking fully into the nest of towels, she tilts her chin toward him and shoots him a look that smoulders with lazy affection and unmistakable hunger, something wordless that promises she’s not done with him, just biding her time.

When the cloth presses against her shoulders and upper back, Flora moans again, softer this time, the sound half-melted into a sigh as the warmth seeps into muscles that never quite release their hold. At his question, she lays her cheek on the crook of one arm, her voice quieter now, more distant, like something peeled gently from memory. "When I was little, Ronin took me to meet Queen Maeve." Her lips lift faintly at the edges. "She was unlike anyone I’d ever seen before. So confident and regal and—herself. I think I idolised her for years. Even after I grew up, I still respected the hell out of her."

Her hand drifts absentmindedly across the towel beside her, fingers feathering toward her jaw as if brushing away an old version of herself. "When Hadama asked who should rule with him, I think...honestly I think I deserved it just because I wanted it. I thought I could balance out Hadama and that my family would be able to protect Torcholine better than any grouping of soldiers ever could, but more than that..I think I thought I just deserved to be a queen, like Maeve was." A sigh escapes her, more wistful than bitter. "I was only twenty, so no matter how much of it was true, no one really took me seriously."

Though Kaisel's hands never stop moving, lavishing care against her curves, her voice dips again, a little rougher now as old wounds resurface. "The guy who ran against me, Harper, said some really shitty things during the campaign. About me. About my family." She swallows, gaze flicking toward Kaisel from the corner of her eye. "He said if we were all so strong, how had we let Enzo die in the war?" She bites the inside of her cheek as his hand trails low, the intimacy of the moment at odds with the naked honesty spilling from her mouth. "It lit something in me. I wanted to prove him wrong, that I wasn't the entitled brat he made me out to be. I wanted to prove everyone who voted for him and against me, wrong."

Flora's exhale is shaky when it comes. "When Harper abdicated a year later, I went to Hadama and told him I wanted the job." She shifts slightly, looking at Kaisel more fully now, unguarded and unashamed. "He told me he wasn’t sure, that he’d have to think about it." Her cheeks flush again, not with arousal this time, but something closer to regret, maybe even shame. "I was ready to take it if he said no. There were...plans in place to remove him, if he didn't agree." Her voice lowers as she lays her cheek back down, lashes brushing her arm as her eyes slip shut again. "And now...here I am. All these years later, finally ruling alone, the way I thought I always wanted."

The silence that follows is deep, golden, full of things not said. And still, she breathes easier knowing it’s him touching her now, him listening and hearing it all, even though before now, aside from those, Flora had never admitted this plan to anyone.