...And all the flowers will bloom...

She need not glance in the mirror to be assured of his sharp little smile as he noses at her neck and hums a low note of lazy satisfaction quite at odds with the fact that she knows very well that he yet awaits his own, his focus presently on watching her return to something like awareness as he endeavours to seemingly use as light a hold as possible to keep her on her feet.

That is, until that hold shades fierce once again, hauling her tight to him as he delivers a bruising kiss just beneath her jaw, the soft sound of hazy surprise that escapes her answered with a thrum of amusement and—

“What’s all this?”

Their husband’s voice, Hythlodaeus drifting into view as she looks over at the mirror once more, his steps a leisurely amble as he wanders to a halt behind Hades and rests his head on his shoulder to first look down at her, then angle more than a glance at the glass that she has been all too willingly captured before.

Lifting a hand to scrabble for purchase until she can secure a clawing hold just south of Hades’ collar, she wrenches fabric into her grip to steel herself to take a look herself, where she finds herself flushed and dishevelled, one of his hands yet beneath her skirts, as if he might resume his attentions at any moment. Hades’ features have taken on the bright blush that she so enjoys to see when he is flustered or wanting in a fashion he cannot conceal, his eyes near aglow with a pleasure that tips over into something more rueful as the reality of being trapped between them must settle over him and he shifts against her in a manner that does not seem entirely under his control.

Hythlodaeus lets free a soft breath of laughter, easing back to graze a kiss against Hades’ cheekbone before he steps back and murmurs, “Turn around.”

She is absolutely certain that fingers stray just enough to make her gasp at the too much of it, just as Hades seeks to acquiesce and bring her with him, where Hythlodaeus’ pleased scrutiny only makes her burn all the brighter.

A theatrically thoughtful hum finds Hythlodaeus closing the short distance between them to gather her up, encouraging her legs around him as he claims a heated kiss that belies what is a plainly affected absence of urgency, then carries her over to their bed, where he gently eases her back and seeks out further kisses.

“Don’t move,” he tells her, the softness of it closer to a plea. “I want to enjoy taking this dress off you, lovely as it is.”

That he so rarely tells her – either of them – exactly what he wishes has her obeying without question, moving no further than to sit up as he retreats with a low, “Watch.”

And she does, as he herds Hades back against the wall in precisely his own time, knowing very well that that their husband will yield and permit him...

Anything.

Has that not always been the case?

So, there is not the slightest resistance to be seen when Hythlodaeus starts to unbutton Hades’ shirt, only a quietly eager thrill at being cornered and a deliberate surrender that does not dare to make demands.

As open-mouthed kisses slip lower and elegant fingers fumble with Hades’ belt, she has to twist her fingers into the skirts of her new dress, so desperately does she find herself wishing to cross the room, and no more so than when Hythlodaeus sinks to his knees and their beloved tips back his head, golden eyes drifting closed in a moment’s silent bliss.

When a hand lifts, Hythlodaeus reaching for one of Hades’ to encourage an anchoring hold in his hair, a sound escapes her in unison with a wanton plea of a thing from Hades, an all too obvious shiver teasing at Hythlodaeus that betrays amusement or delight.

Or both.

By the time those she loves most move to find her upon their bed, she is trembling all over again and lies back to welcome Hythlodaeus into her arms as he begins to gather up her skirts.

“I thought,” Hades utters in smug and heated tones, bowing his head to murmur in Hythlodaeus’ ear, “that you desired to undress her.”

The warmth of the musing note provoked sings through her.

“We should save something for later.”

“Besides, I’ve heard good things about this place, and I want to see what happens.”

“What happens?” Hades echoes with a measure of incredulity. “I would expect that you select some flowers and depart.”

“Well, yes, but a friend from work said that she asked for a bouquet and didn’t know precisely what she wanted, and the florist somehow chose some of her favourite flowers and colours, and when she sent her sister in to see if it was a fluke, the same thing happened.”

A huff accompanies, “Some sort of social media trickery.”

He nudges an elbow against his ribs as they reach the faded, mint-green shop front, and looks up to study the pastel blossoms that form an archway over the door, anticipating fabric and plastic crafted into realistic enough flowers, only to discover with the brush of a finger that they seem quite real.

An expensive lure, but perhaps it pays for itself.

What he is expecting to find, he has decided, is someone attired in the same light spring colours as they have thus far encountered, bright of smile and—

The figure behind the counter, currently tending to a tall arrangement in a slender vase, is wearing a long black dress, her hair and the kohl lining her eyes of a similar tone, her features settled into the same type of guarded irritation that is Hades’ default mode when in public.

Not precisely welcoming, but nothing that he has ever let deter him before.

That they are met with silence and little more than a nod of acknowledgement invites the slight tilting of Hades’ head, something caustic no doubt brewing, and so he decides it is better to leap in than be driven or dragged out.

“I was hoping that you might be able to help me,” Hythlodaeus starts to say, only for the woman he assumes must be the proprietor and florist to give him a somewhat critical once over and drift from behind the counter to begin gathering different stems and clusters of blooms from the vases and containers lining the walls, almost as if she hasn’t heard a word.

“...An interesting form of entertainment you have chosen for us this afternoon,” Hades drawls, his gaze following her nonetheless.

He watches her select stems of stocks and lupines, gathering lavender, verbena, and roses in a soft twilight shade as she goes, adding a delicate pink flower that he does not recognise, alongside a generous handful of baby’s breath, as she returns to where she began her journey and begins to wrap them up in soft yellow paper and a white ribbon.

It is undeniable that even Hades is staring, just as he is, for despite his reluctance to brave actually buying him flowers, he is, nevertheless, aware of which he likes the most.

The price, she displays on the simple point of sale screen, a certain serenity to her that was not present only minutes ago, while she waits to see whether what she has created and the price she has suggested are acceptable.

(It is not an exorbitant total.)

He taps his credit card against the screen almost without thinking, just as she lifts the flowers towards him and he finds himself cradling them with a gentleness not entirely necessary.

She looks away, ducking her head down, and he catches a clearer glimpse of scarring around one eye, hints of the same along her cheekbone and jaw, and, just as he believes that he and Hades have been dismissed, she rounds the counter once more and approaches his lover to—

Hades is so still. Hardly seems to breathe as she pins a little sprig of forget-me-nots to his lapel and steps back to assess her work, gaze darting up to meet his for the briefest of moments before she turns and he knows for sure that there will be no further communication between them.

As they depart, he recalls the hungry edge to Hades’ stare as her fingers brushed his jacket, and wonders if he sported the same as his fingers grazed hers when accepting her creation.