2019-12-09 - The Duel

Sparrow flicks a look down Rhys' form and then back up again, right to the tippity top of his antlers. Then back down to his eyes as she confirms that it is, "Definitely," snacktime. With the crowd thinning and festivities winding down, she probably should follow Nicole off to the showers to get the jello out of her hair and off of her everything--particularly given that the green-and-red stickiness definitely gives her a rather sickly pallor in places--but instead, she's shaking up that whipped cream can again. "Did you follow my advice?" It shouldn't sound like a threat, but when paired with the cap coming off of the canister? Suddenly, there's a little bit of an edge.

Muddy remnant Jello slime is a look not everyone can pull off. It probably won't be storming the runways next season. All the same, Rhys can't currently resist returning the flicker of a look, and the general impression is probably that he thinks she's doing a pretty decent job of it at present. That, and that he's a little distracted by the shaking of the can. "On which way to bet, you mean?" he asks, "The advice, or the request, and what happens if I answer wrong?" He considers a beat. "Or right?"

It's a gaudy bikini, a high-sheen metallic green better suited to the muscle-flexing poses of a body-building competition than dairy-based threats in any emptying gym, but it kinda works with her head-to-toe sticky sheen and her glossy red lips. Those prettily painted lips edge leftward at the questions, quite sharp at the second. A little hiss draws attention back to the can, a small spurt of whipped cream falling down the spout against which Sparrow keeps her index finger lightly rested. "The request," isn't what she'd been thinking about, but that doesn't stop her from veering that direction now. It's almost a question. As if she might not remember what it was. Doesn't that just make it all the more exciting? "If I don't like your answer, I'm gonna make a mess of you. And if I do?" Grin. "You'll have a bit more say in how that happens." If Rhys has any capacity to read people whatsoever, he might guess that this is purely bravado, that she hasn't a clue how it'll land. But it's a night for betting, isn't it?

It's absolutely a night for betting. Rhys isn't half bad at reading people, though who knows how well the small collection of jello shots riding along right now do. Regardless of how confident he might be in that guess at present, the threat makes him grin back, maybe a touch sharper than the usual one, and arch a brow. "Am I in danger of being half of an impromptu encore? I didn't even bring my trunks." His weight shifts slightly, off one foot and further onto the other, chin lifting a fraction. "Be a waste to ask for reasoned expert insight and ignore it, wouldn't it? Absolutely took your advice," he answers, before shrugging and adding, "and your request. It's all for charity, right?" Half a beat, and he admits cheerfully, "More on the advice, though. You made a good case." And so he probably came out ahead.

"I'll be gentle," Sparrow answers both the first question and the attached comment. Her attention tracks downward more slowly on a second pass, nearly studious as if searching for avenues of entry. With a distracted, "Mm," she agrees with his point on advice and why not to ignore it, but the second half of the sentiment has her smiling rather sweetly, memory refreshed, eyes lifting to find his again. "I thought I had her for a minute there. When I got her ankle." But that's not really where her mind is, just a passing thought to suggest maybe she didn't throw the fight. Taking a step forward, the hand still holding the cap for the canister, tucked between ring finger and pinky against her palm, she reaches for the collar just above where his tie is knotted and, if allowed that far with her sticky digits, gives the fabric a little tug forward to expose some of his neck. "Definitely like that you listened to me. Think I might like it if that continues. But." Eyes up again. "What kind of mess would you like to make then, Mr. Evans?"

"That's a shame." It's almost a throwaway; would be entirely if Rhys weren't so directly watching her and her second pass of attention when he says it. His eyes are right there when hers seek them, and her passing thought gets a laugh. "So did I. It was a good fight, I don't think any of us could deny that. Thrills and chills and sudden twists." Sudden slips, anyway. He absently sets his small stack of empty cups down on the edge of the ring beside him; it remains to be seen whether he remembers leaving them there when he steps away again.

The tie itself is silk; if her sticky digits went for it, the fabric might never recover. The shirt, though? The cotton can probably take it. Rhys either expects it can, doesn't care, or isn't bothering to think about that right now, since he lets her do it without protest. A tilt of his head has the side effect of raising his chin slightly and adding to that neck exposure. "I always listen to people, Ms. Jones. I just don't always do what they say." It's not the grin this time, something a little subtler and, in likely unconscious mirror of her earlier expression, edging decidedly leftward. "But the odds are always better when they make it worth my while."

Her question has his gaze dropping to the canister of cream, then trailing back up. "Here and now? I'd probably rather have that in my mouth than, say, down my shirt," he says, and takes his turn for a step in, indicating the ring with a head-tip, "I'd be tempted by adding toppings to that parfait you made, but I think we'd need a few dozen more canisters to do it right." He lifts a hand, and unless she steps away, draws a finger lightly across her collarbone, collecting some of the mixed jello. "I probably could be talked into that second bout, though." The grin flashes, "Given a chance to get my trunks. What kind of mess did you have in mind, Ms. Jones?" He goes for casual inquiry, and the tone does well enough. Too impish a glint in his eyes to fully carry it off, though. "I'm listening," he adds, and -- possibly inadvisedly -- gives the jello on his finger an experimental taste.

Sparrow's grin goes wide as Rhys draws that distinction between listening and obliging, as he tacks on that rather important qualifier. Might be a little cat-that-ate-the-canary, that satisfied, low-lidded look she gives him, almost certainly preemptive given that she hasn't taken so much as a nibble yet. Eyes widen soon thereafter, flashing minor offense at the suggestion that she might let any of that whipped cream slip below his collar, confident she's got one up on gravity in this instance. Especially when her target's drawn that little bit closer with his matching step.

"Pretty, uh..." The thought falters when his finger sweeps across her collarbone, attention turned to that dirtied digit, focus split between his eyes and that tiny sampling of secondhand jello. Not particularly tasty secondhand jello either. Thicker and not particularly sweet, the wrestling jello plainly was not intended for consumption, a vague suggestion of fruit-flavor pleasant by comparison to the little bit of towel-fuzz that comes with it. Licking jello off a jello wrestler is almost certainly a fantasy best left to intellectual experimentation.

"First," an intentional slowing of the thoughts rushing through her tequila-happy brain. "If I'm being honest?" Brows arch as if to ask if that's what he wants, not that she actually waits for confirmation before flicking a look back the direction that Nicole went. "Most of my thoughts are pretty clean right now." Her smile flashes apologetic, an undeniable lie. "But if you're willing to strip down and hop in? There's a second can over there--" Head-tip toward the bar. "--aaaaand I'm pretty sure that no matter how that battle turns out? I'mma win."

Yup. Definitely inadvisable. Rhys does a decent job of failing to let on just how inadvisable, and probably deserves at least a silver star sticker for his acting skills. The attempt of his nose to wrinkle turns itself quite smoothly and swiftly into a thoughtful look, as though this taste requires some consideration before being dismissed with a tiny headwobble. It almost certainly started out around 'ew, okay, that was not one of my better ideas', considering, but it manages to dress itself up pretty convincingly as a simple 'nah'. Whether someone who's probably accidentally tasted some herself believes an unspoken word of it, of course...

Does he want her to be honest? Well, he doesn't try to insert an answer in that fractional pause, unless one counts lifting a brow. The following sentence gets a small, closed-mouthed laugh, and a glance down along where all the rest of that Jello's still coating her. "I'm impressed there's still anything clean after a round of that," he says, with a head-tip of his own toward the ring.

The proposal has him giving it an assessing look, and there's likely an internal argument going on there, or one between the angel and devil on their respective shoulders. One of 'em has a tidy little collection of jello shots chiming in on its side, though, and the balance tips over into a grin, a shrug, and a, "What the hell. 'bout time somebody gave me my just desserts." He probably deserves the whipped cream just for that. The empties get scooped from ringside (he did remember!) and he turns to head for the bar, and the other weapon waiting there.

Sparrow allows Rhys to maintain that illusion of thoughtful consideration without giving away anything more than her own curiosity, awaiting his final judgment on whether or not there are any redeeming qualities to be found in the questionably festive melange. The tiny snort of laughter which follows his muted review might offer insight into her own experience. Her hips shift, dipping to the left in an adorable, entirely inaccurate bastardization of a curtsy at his praise, accepting it whole-heartedly despite whatever filth might lie beneath those superficially clean thoughts she claims to have. One can almost picture the halo above her head. Made of foil and held up by a crooked wire, so she's been told.

Her eyes go wide at that what-the-hell, her whole bearing straightening as she perks with more hey-that-worked surprise than she might mean to actually project. Her face scrunches up at the pun, the whipped cream container lifted, pointed... and hiss-fizzing futilely at this angle, so long after being primed for dispensing, just a few useless spurts of runny cream sputtering to the floor. "You're setting a very dangerous precedent," she warns in a bit of a singsong as she fires again, just as uselessly as the first time. Let's hope she actually knows how to use that thing when it really comes down to it. "Not that you shouldn't. Yeah, no. Don't listen to me. Keep saying yes." As she starts back toward the pool with a decided bounce in her step which leaves the jingle bells at her hips dully chiming out some sad, jello-filled chinking which is almost inaudible beneath the shaking of her can, she calls back, "Yes is better!"

What, not held there balanced on the devil horns? Rhys eases half a step further away when the cream gets fired, as if that might-- who knows, keep it off the velvet? Lucky for him it's a dud, which makes a blink shade toward another grin, and the moreso when she tries again and it still fails. A light click of his tongue as he pulls together the best Serious and Sympathetic he can: "Don't worry. They say that happens to everyone now and then."

Probably wise that he takes another few steps along with that, even if he does it mostly-backwards so he can still talk to her. Watching the progress back to the pool is surely a simple side-effect. Good thing the place has mostly cleared out -- cuts down on how many people he might collide with, doing that. "It's my precedent and I'll 'no' if I want to," he calls in return, "but history tells me 'yes' is usually more fun!" And the rest of the way to the bar is in the proper direction.

It's not just the whipped cream; he also detours to the locker room, lifting a 'one sec' finger in her direction as he does. It is, of course, more than one sec, but it's only a couple minutes before he emerges again. He doesn't look nearly as festive as she does, now, but then, he didn't really get the chance to prepare. So there's no Rocky Horror gold lame or tiny christmas lights or anything candy-cane related, just plain black boxer-briefs. Well, those and the can of whipped cream. With the other layers off, he actually looks less slender and more athletic; there's actual muscle definition there. And chest hair, which is probably going to be just great with the jello, but eh, there was already the beard and head-hair, right? He has the can open, and gives it a few shakes to ready it as he approaches, though apparently what he's readying it for initially is to spray some into his mouth. Successfully, one might note. "Rules?" he asks as he reaches the ring and begins climbing in to join her. "I'm gonna ante 'no attacking anything I probably want to keep'."

Wire. It's documented somewhere. Sparrow Jones immortalized as the angelic Inquisitor with her great Book of Questions. Maybe it'll come up in conversation someday, but seeing as that halo is wholly imagined right now... well, there might be horns to hold it up. The redhead is not yet sufficiently psychic to know to offer correction. "Poor guy's nervous," she explains of the misfiring cannister with a wholly feigned frown, like she might empathize with that sentiment. Not that even a hint of unease finds its way into her steps as she makes her way back to the pool and steps right back in. Okay, carefully, but that's about the jello, not the company, knowing first hand how slippery it can get. "I hear history's a good teacher. I'm not averse to learning if you've got a story or two to share," may well be understatement, a warning of questions to come, kittenish grin cast over her shoulder.

By the time Rhys returns from the locker room, Sparrow's gotten comfy in the pool, reclining back against the curved wall and distorting the overall shape with her weight. The hint of whipped cream at her lips, swiped up by her tongue, confirms that she does, in fact, know how to use that thing despite the blanks she fired earlier. Teeth catch on her lower lip as she watches him approach, taking in details appreciatively, eyes widening like a kid in a candy store. "Mm?" might suggest she didn't hear him through all the distraction playing in her head. But the way she blinks up at him as she straightens up suggests that, no, she just doesn't get the question. Why would there be rules? "Pretty sure that leaves me with just one target," she counters with a flicker of her gaze down toward those boxer-briefs. "And I'm pretty sure that's not gonna be the best use of either whipped cream or teeth. Though..." The can gets a wobble. She could be wrong. Offering out one hand to wordlessly ask for some help getting back to her feet, she poses, "Nothing that's gonna get us in too much trouble while there are still people around?" So very few of them now, just closing up. But still.

Hey, sometimes rules are fun! Rhys gets properly into the ring, or-- mostly properly, anyway. Look, he can see all the Jello, he knew it'd be slippery. Just... not quite that slippery, maybe. He doesn't actually fall, but he doesn't exactly stick the landing, either. The startled 'oh shit' expression that inevitably accompanies the near-slip makes it into full view for a fraction of a second before it disappears into laughter along with the successful grab at the rope for stability.

He schools his expression as he straightens up, and her suggested rule gets a solemn nod. "Deal. We're respectable members of this community, after all," he replies, and lifts that 'one sec' finger again. This time it's to shake the canister and spray another jet of the whipped cream into his mouth while he's still leaning against the ropes, and before it risks becoming to what it is now what the wrestling jello mixture is to the shots.

A lick of his lips and he moves to oblige the wordless request, more careful now about where and how he plants his feet before he reaches down to take her hand, the grin returning as he watches her. "Anyway, anything inherent to the bout is fine. I just don't wanna be explaining all day why my left arm's stuck on with duct tape." He shakes his head. "It gets awkward."

Sparrow purses her lips to stifle her own laughter at the worried wobbling he hits upon first entering the jello pit, knowing that particular panic first hand. A little sputter of a giggle escapes when he laughs, cut off with a bright smile when he gets his own expression all in order. Only hers maintains a delighted awareness of unsteady display, bright brown eyes glinting with impish excitement. "Mhm," marks agreement for their mutual respectability, even if the thought is punctuated, for his part, with eating whipped cream right from the can. Totally a respectable adult thing to do, right? Right.

The knuckles of her can-holding hand go down against the jello-laden mat as the other takes his hand, relying on that handhold to keep her reasonably steady while she gets her feet beneath her and teeters toward verticality. Shakily. With a slip-and-stumble his way once she's upright, soft, sticky body knocking lightly into his. Without apology. Or retreat. "No difficult to explain injuries," she concurs quietly, as if this proximity demanded a little drop in volume. "Can't promise you won't come out with bruises." Really, some of that discoloration on her own body is probably burgeoning bruises and not just weird jello stains. "And won't promise that some of 'em won't be entirely intentional."

On that note, that threat, her can starts to rattle again, indication that she's ready to go without any official beginning to the match. Unless Rhys preempts her? The bikini-clad redhead takes a low shot first, right against his left flank, potentially testing ticklishness.

Surely nothing about any of this is less than wholly respectable and adult! Rhys is paying enough attention to physics now to stay on his feet while serving as an anchor, though the center-of-gravity adjustment when Sparrow reaches vertical does its own part to contribute to that mild collision when she stumbles forward. His can-bearing arm automatically swings forward to try to help stabilize her, leaving them for a moment in a position that looks oddly as though they're about to switch to ballroom dance. With whipped cream. ...Maybe that one's next week.

No apology or retreat on his part either, just a flare to that spark of amusement in his eyes. Turnabout is fair play, right? "There's worse souvenirs," he replies at similar volume, raising a brow, but the can-rattle has his hand dropping to do the same, and he takes a half-step back. Not fast enough to get there first, nor to get in the way of her shot, and it's hard to be sure whether the laugh and twist to ineffectually dodge means he's ticklish, or just pleased by the unannounced beginning.

Instant retaliation means he ends up spraying nearly the same spot on her, maybe a bit further back and closer to the top of the bikini bottom as his hand comes around to bring the spray toward the front and up. Gets his hand in a better position to aim, even as the cream endangers her navel.

Whatever pride and delight might have momentarily flashed in Sparrow's eyes when her preemptive strike hit its mark dissipates quickly, barely a glint before it's gone in a startled yelp which sees her twisting away and shooting off-target. A broken strand of whipped cream falls into the jello, a meager topping on a dull dessert, before she lifts her finger from the trigger and stops wasting ammo. In part because she shifts her grip on the can like it might help steady her when her foot slips a few unexpected inches. Even when she stills, some stability regained, her eyes remain wide with panic. Or maybe excitement. It's hard to differentiate when she's giggling like that.

"So, rules!" Because after things have started is the very best time to start laying 'em out, right? She tries to twist into a defensive stance without moving her feet, to bring her shoulder and arm to the fore with less body to target. "Points for reclamation! Nothing scored if you can't get your mouth around it." Brows waggle all big and cheesy. Surely, she's got to know this idea turns terrible once they topple into the jello. Hell, it might start off pretty rough for Rhys. Is she playing to her advantage? Maaaaybe. "Winner gets, mm." Think through the tequila, Phil! You can do it! "A day? First one that doesn't interfere with all our respectability and responsibilities, yeah?" Though she gives her can another shake, she doesn't figure yet, instead eyeing the whipped cream oozing down his side like she might just dive for it.

"Oh, now rules, huh?" Rhys says, with a splay of hands (as far as can allows) and twist-and-dip of head and shoulders that'd look a lot more indignant if he bothered to even try to stop grinning. It's also the absolute opposite of making himself less of a target in those moments, so good going on the tactics there, Rhys! Unless her scoring points doesn't sound like the worst outcome here, of course.

And yes, this idea's likely to lose portions of its appeal pretty fast, and surely he's got to know that too, whatever tequila might have to say about things. There's something about the assessment he gives that stripe of cream along her skin that suggests he may not have forgotten the results of that taste-test, too, and a decided thoughtfulness as he muses, "A day, hm?"

A beat or so of apparent inner debate, and then several things happen more or less at once -- or at least, they attempt to. The grin and "Good start," those pretty much work out for sure. The half-crouch where he tries to catch hold just above her hips for support to go ahead and reclaim that cream in one quick movement following it from front toward back? That... is decidedly iffier. But if he can't attempt to do it from surprise, when could he manage it at all?

"Twenty-four hours," Sparrow chirps back, as if it were the definition of 'day' that was in question. She takes a slippery step forward while he's thinking it over. While she thinks he's thinking it over. But that little pause for thought doesn't grant her quite enough advantage, her half-bent body easily caught when Rhys takes more decisive action. The swift shift in her minimal momentum sends sticky fingers in search of something to brace against, his head easily the quickest thing caught. Digits delve into auburn hair, curling at the back of his head and, for a few seconds, rather incidentally encouraging his continued closeness. Not that it makes it all that much easier to clean the unsteady line of whipped cream from navel to hip, what with the way she giggles and threatens to topple them both with her squirming. "Point to black!"

Even distracted, she doesn't let that entirely justified ambush keep her from exploiting his position for more than a moment. Canister lifted, she lays down as much whipped cream as she can along his neck and shoulder while he's right there, painting easy targets for herself which she very much means to draw quickly closer. The hand in his hair tightens, tugs, testing to see how it might be received, if a little more force might leave them both sprawled in the sugar-free mess at their feet. "And I'm listening," she invites, "if you wanna add."

Never hurts to nail down the definitions, does it? If anything that grip of his hair aids to the stability, and he gives a triumphant laugh when he's awarded that point. No attempt is made to avoid the anointment, and the tug does not appear to topple them, though it does get his head tilting up to look at her, the grin this time brief and more wicked. He licks a bit of cream off his lips and slightly regrets it, discovering it's gotten a bit more of the jello as well, but sometimes sacrifices must be made.

"Point for a pin," he suggests, "when the time comes?" A very small shift of balance, which might or might not be a warning, "Extra point for reclaiming a recognizable letter or number? One, I, and lower case L only count with serifs." Half-joking, but he's likely to go for it if she does, and without further remark he's attempting to draw a small 's' on her, close enough he thinks he might be able to steal it back right away. ...though definitely not without increasing that pressure on his hair at least briefly. For whatever that might say.

Sparrow might melt just the teensiest little bit for the wickedness in that grin angled up at her, but she hardly has time to properly sink inti ot before that regret flashes across his features and inspires some schadenfreude to cross her own. Her agreeable, "Mm," doesn't still that building pressure at the back of his head, but the little wobble does, her body going tense at the perceived threat. The, "Tease," she clips just beneath easy hearing, right below his alphanumeric addendum, might be meant as a taunt for how it comes with a squirt of whipped cream to his upturned cheek. Which she quickly tries to modify into what might have been a lower case j with an intended sweep down along his jaw if his head weren't already dipping to her midsection to capture a swiftly-scrawled squiggle. She tries to pull him up, back, deny him that two-point prize when he's already ahead, but all she manages--aside from an undeniable prickle of pain along his scalp--is losing her own balance. Oh, Rhys might have time to capture that 's' from her well-jelloed skin, especially given that she's leaning into him rather heavily all of a sudeen, but unless he's quick and steady on his feet, there's a very good chance she's sending him sprawling backwards and coming with.

Tease or not, that cheek is definitely shifting with a flicker of that same grin -- but again it's only there a moment. This time hints of it linger around the edges as he darts for that trail of cream -- even as a grunt of pain greets the pull on his hair. Determination wins out (and wins points!) but does not, alas, save him from the power of gravity.

The best he can do is throw himself forward and aside as he catches that last bit of the 's', and try to tip them more to the side than purely backward. He may still end up the filling of an otherwise Sparrow-and-Jello sandwich, of course, and there's no chance to try to get another attack in. He clutches his can tight, the yelp as balance goes stifled down to a squeak, which is not much of an improvement. It turns into laughter again, which is pretty much just asking for getting more jello in his mouth, frankly. Slightly breathless from the impact, too. The can in his hand spurts briefly, but it's pure luck that decides whether the results end up on her or garnishing the pool. No way it qualifies for extra points. "Pretty sure that's cheating," he says, without sounding like he means a single word of it.

There are certainly mental notes being made. There's a very good chance that they're being sorted by the part of Sparrow's brain half-submerged in tequila and lime-flavored jello, but the data's definitely going somewhere, those details about grins and grunts tucked away for later maybe. For now? There's gravity and giggling, half-panicked laughter only momentarily interrupted for a giddily squeaked, "Fuck!" when she splashes down beside Rhys. "Nope," she laughs for the accusation of cheating, certain she did no such thing. "Not against the--Hey!" Still tangled, if not quite so tightly, that squirt of whipped cream catches her collarbone and sets her to scrambling, body tipping toward his as fingers release hold of his hair to brace behind him. She very much means to go for the pin, to leverage her weight against his and get him beneath her.

It might've worked, too, if she had gotten her own damned arm beneath her first, but her can-holding hand shoots out from beneath her, keeping her sprawled in the semi-festive muck. Conveniently rather close to the... now greatly ickier swath of whipped cream along Rhys' neck and shoulder, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Without sufficient hesitation to suggest she might somewhere have either shame or taste, she goes in mouth first, and not especially gently, teeth clamping down where neck and shoulder meet, where she can nom on an awfully large mouthful of what was hopefully reasonably unadulterated whipped cream. And skin. Look, she might be here a minute.

"I dunno-o, I'm pretty sure," Rhys blatantly lies. There's not an iota of effort going into even trying to make it sound convincing. All effort has other places to go, like fighting off this potential pin. Or strategy! All right, it would be more the former if her can-hand hadn't helped him out there. And, okay, the lunge for the cream she placed earlier doesn't help much with the latter fighting its way out from behind the small cheering crowd of jello shots that've set up temporary residence in his prefrontal cortex.

She gets at least an entire second where his head actually tilts away to make more room, another laugh escaping. Maybe even two, though during that second one he notes, quite low, "Gotta get your mouth around all of it," and then his free arm goes around her tightly, feet pressing hard as they can against the bottom of the pool to try to roll them over and pin her himself. If anything, the grip probably helps her with the reclaiming, really, but there's more than one way to garnish an enemy! Sacrifices have been made for this combat, and more will surely be necessary. If one of them is letting her keep doing that a little longer and likely gaining the point... he'll take that risk. Purely in the name of tactics, of course.

Sparrow might've lost track of strategy and tactics and points right about the same time her tongue found skin beneath all that mostly kinda still sorta palatable whipped cream. It's gonna take more than two seconds for that little bit of suction she gets going between the wide pinch of her teeth to actually leave a lasting mark, but it does seem like that might be what she's angling for before he offers that genuinely helpful suggestion. Sure, if her brain weren't currently liquor-slicked and nom-distracted, she might find some argument in her favor, but right now? More really does suit the way she's thinking about scoring. With an agreeable, "Mm!" she relents with every intention of moving higher or wider, only for her breath to catch as his arm snags around her. Eyes shoot wide as he succeeds where she failed, getting the traction and leverage she lacked, laying her flat in the mashed up jello beneath him.

And laughing, bright and delighted. That little squirm once he's got her doesn't seem to have any purpose beyond comfort, getting used to this new arrangement, like maybe she's not planning on moving any time soon. That she's laid down her weapon further sells that surrender, both hands now creeping up his flanks as she declares, "You win," quietly, gladly, simple as that. Which really doesn't leave her any room to insist, "Kiss me," but that sure as hell doesn't stop her.

Rhys hoped, obviously, that it would work. Expected? Maybe not quite so much. It's not enough of a surprise to get in the way, but it's there in the expression that shifts remarkably easily into an mirror of the delight in her laugh. He hasn't set the can down yet, and it may take a moment to sort out that there are too many fingers and too little metal sliding against his sides for hers to still be in her hand, but he doesn't use his in the meantime. Should, perhaps, tactically speaking, but there's that wriggle, and for that moment he's a little distracted watching her.

The surrender makes his smile widen, and while it can't hit the same kind of wicked as the grin, it does suddenly get more impish. The can's abandoned, and his fingertip finds that little glob of cream luck left on her collarbone. A shift of his weight against her, and the finger moves up to dab it on the tip of her nose. "All right," he murmurs back, and doesn't leave her much time to react before that hand curls against the side of her jaw and he obliges her request. Could be that question of room to insist that has the first brush of lips almost teasingly light, but that doesn't last for long. Kissing her just sounds like much too good an idea, whoever's it might be. And it surely won't get their respectable adult selves in too much trouble.

Sparrow's gaze dips down toward the digit swiping along her skin, to the diminishing distance between their bodies, to far less respectable thoughts which begin where their separation ends. The dollop of cream touched to her nose draws her focus back up with a cute crinkle of her nose which smooths out the moment Rhys leans in. The brief tease with which that kiss begins is answered with soft breath of laughter from parted lips, ready for more before she's had more than the barest taste. She presses up into that affection, hands edging up higher, splayed against shoulder blades to hold him encouragingly close. For a few seconds anyway. That grip loosens before the kiss lets up, before the soft movement of lips gives way to a scrape of teeth catching on his lower lip and tugging playfully. "You taste terrible," she accuses all too warmly once she's let go, let her head sink back into the jello. "Too presumptuous to point out there's a working shower back there? I mean." With a roll of her eyes, she notes, "There's more than one, but," it sounds like that is somehow entirely beside the point. "You're delicious."

A brief, low laugh at the scrape of teeth, the accusation stoking the amusement that glints side by side with something rather different in that look. "Still thinking those clean thoughts, huh?" he says, and an 'innocent' tone murmured at that level is unavoidably anything but. "I'd say you should make up your mind on terrible or delicious, but frankly, I know exactly what you mean." He settles his other arm down lift up a little further, gaze traveling downward from her face and over the flesh and fabric he's peeling away from. "Still welcome to make any necessary tests on the matter, thought."

A push -- and then another one, because dammit, jello is still slippery, and though he manages not to fall right back down, it doesn't give nearly enough traction on try #1 -- and he's somewhat gingerly getting to his feet, hunting down enough balance to offer her a hand up. Or both, if she likes. He's generous like that. And as it turns out, a half-smile and an eyebrow can get him a pretty decent wicked even without the grin. "C'mon, you're right. I think we could both use that shower." There's more than one, sure. But.

"Entirely chaste," Sparrow declares with a slight widening of her eyes meant to sell that innocence. Pay no mind to how everything that's lead them to this point belies that purity. As does everything she says after, like the quiet assurance of, "I will," for his invitation of continued taste-testing. She makes no move to follow when Rhys begins to peel away, though she definitely braces at that first slip, body tensing beneath his just in case he loses his balance entirely. Undue worry, in the end, and she might look just a smidge impressed with his steadiness before her expression goes all happily low-lidded for the unasked-for offer of assistance. Which she accepts in full. Carefully.

With similar deliberateness, she leans in once upright, nudging her cream-tipped nose against his as if she might go in for another kiss, but she doesn't. Not while they're both still covered in jello. She just smiles dopily for a moment, so very pleased with herself. Despite her loss. As she withdraws to gingerly pick her way through the muck and out toward safety, she tells him, "I look forward to seeing what you do with your winnings." Her path toward the back requires a brief detour, to collect her dress... with a towel so that she doesn't make a mess of it along the way. Nevermind the mess she's making of the floor with her every step as red-and-green gelatin drips from her dessert-matted hair, from her glossy green bottom, from her jello-coated calves. That's a tomorrow problem. Making sure she can leave the building without flashing anyone she doesn't mean to? That's a right now problem solved with terrycloth.