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Yakov wanted to cover his mouth for additional assurance that there wouldn't be a mess of bile and ill-processed vodka to join his dignity on the floor, but by the time he let go of her, he realized he was completely covered in an unmistakeable foul-smelling sludge. He gave one astonished and disgusted look over himself; he was now wearing s**t for clothes, and sadly, it wasn't the first time either. He decidedly let her news sink into his brain and revive his sanity. A not-so-s**t-eating grin crossed his face. "Ahh, Jóna defeated Grootslang?" he beamed. He took a deep, preparatory breath, and then quickly regretted taking such a deep breath due to the overwhelming smell; it's not like he was used to being covered in s**t. "THIS MEANS THREE THINGS!" he announced with a gesture of his hand. "ONE, Yakov and flower get the ******** to water room. TWO," he then turned to face the workers at the bar behind him that were no doubt in shock, "ALL OF THE VODKA, OR I WILL FIND THE REST OF IT IN THE BACK," then turned back around to Jóna, "THREE, Jóna now stays with Yakov."

Yakov's invisible tail was already wagging in excitement at her story, anxiously anticipating all the details, but his nose wouldn't have it. With a groan, he wasted no time picking her up and hauling her off. "Water room. Now." Yakov trudged down the hall, back to the suite, and into the attached full bath. She could regale them once they were sufficiently wet and clean, which would happen in about 0.2 seconds as Yakov began vigorously turning the knobs to the shower.

Yakov let the beating trail of water splash along his fingertips, grateful that the downpour was hefty and enough to cleanse the two of them. How another human would fit into a shower that barely allowed a 6'5 Siberian, however, was another matter. Yakov looked to the glass-enclosed shower space, then back at Jóna, then back to the shower. Maybe she could go first? No. They both desperately needed a long soak to get that s**t smell off of their skin. And Yakov was not about to sit naked in the cold, feeling the moisture from the s**t settle into his skin. "Water warm now," he stated as he manhandled her once again, picking her up by her waist and setting her in the shower. His blooming love for his elven flower truly shone when he allowed her into the shower first, and even gave her a few seconds of solitude.

Then in came Yakov. It was a bit of a tight fit, but he managed.

He immediately swished his hair underneath the downpour of water, just barely long enough to be swished. Almost frantically, he began to scrub the s**t off his arms as he turned to her. He drew in a breath of steam before groaning it out, "Yakov would love to hear how flower got covered in s**t."

Yakov gave a mild shrug as he mimicked her actions and got a rag himself, lathering his body with the soap provided. He made quick, small scrubbing motions, careful to keep his elbows tucked in so he didn't whack her with one and have an unconscious flower. Yakov was a gentleman.

He stood only partway in the shower's path, somehow, letting them both get wet simultaneously. He reflected briefly on the chaotic state he was previously in before he saw her return through the cafe's doors. "Mmm..." he mumbled, looking diligently at his forearm as he nearly scrubbed it raw. "Yakov's flowers always leave. Was happy when this one came back."

Yakov caught the tapping of her finger out the corner of his eye amongst his fervent scrubbing and uncoiled from being leant over, scrubbing the fire out of his shins. There was no inch of him that would not be hellishly exfoliated by the end of this shower.
Except that one particular inch. Or twelve.
Probably more like ten on a good day.

Obediently and beyond sufficiently whipped, Yakov re-lathered up the washrag in his hands and began gently washing the spot between her shoulder blades. And then he began scrubbing super ******** hard because holy s**t, that spot was once covered in s**t, too.

He tilted his head to the side as he thought, pouting and frowning to himself with dismay. "Yakov remembers this," surprisingly so, "But you never tell me when you were leaving." There was no way around sounding pathetically clingy, apparently; a clingy 6'5 250 lb Siberian that would be forever at her heels, specifically. He stared at her now clean skin a little longer, lingering on the vodka-laden memories of what she felt like against him. "Yakov forgives," he conceded solemnly, feigning ignorance of the fact that her absence had thrown him into an alarming sobbingly incoherent fit of rehashed abandonment issues. Though her back was well cleaned by now, he lightly went over it in soapy circles, nearly lost in thought. "Yakov's home..." he pondered, "Very cold. Not a good place for flower."

When he felt her fingertips trail against his jaw, he jutted out his chin for a good scratch along his puny scruff. Ironically, the giant lug of testosterone was deprived of a decent growth of facial hair, only left with the small patch on his chin. Yakov turned the knobs and turned off the water from the shower as he followed her out. He took a nearby towel and rubbed it wildly over the top of his head, completely careless for whatever pattern his hair would decide to dry in; it typically wasn't long enough to make too much of a difference.

He glanced around the room, remembering that his clothes lay tossed somewhere between the bed and the floor of the other room. Unfortunately this time he would have to be dressed, less he cause another scene.
Actually, that's a lie, he's only getting dressed because he's naked and cold.

After drying off, he haphazardly slipped his shirt over his head and put on his pants, buckling the belt that had somehow gotten wedged underneath a pillow. He wasn't about to wonder how that may have been used in his drunken stupor.

"Heh," he laughed, adjusting the way his pants hugged his waist. "It is always snow where Yakov lived. It is more beautiful when Yakov's belly isn't grumbly." And with that thought, it was indeed, time to celebrate. Yakov gave her a harsh, quick pat on the back as if she were a fellow comrade as they made their way back into the cafe. "Now, we drink."

Yakov grinned at the flower at his side, beyond pleased to see her authoritative attitude toward the cafe staff, or clearly inferior beings. Somehow, he had ended up in a strange new place, met a woman that not only bedded him without hesitation, but carried a warrior's posture and weapons, along with a fondness for human flesh. It was a match made in heaven, and Yakov was on cloud nine.

But cloud nine did not currently have any vacancies. The feeling of floating on air quickly fled when he walked square into one of the establishment's metal beams. "********!" he muttered with clenched teeth. The sound of his skull clanging into the hollow metal beam echoed louder than it should have.

Yakov massaged and held his forehead with both hands; walking blindly into low-hanging objects wasn't such a surprise, but it was a misfortune he had trained himself to avoid since hitting over six feet in height. Jóna had proved to be a sufficient distraction. He'd practically need the rest of their vodka stores to sooth his impending headache.

Yakov was suddenly whisked away and promptly sat down into a chair, far too quickly for him to react with his hands still covering his face and eyes closed. When he felt a weight sink onto his lap and kisses peppered on his forehead and cheeks, he opened his eyes to see Jóna readily engulfed in his 6'5 of man that was currently stifling back the tears of a ten year old. His thick bottom lip pouted to an authentic yet over-exaggerated extreme as it quivered. With his head absolutely pounding, there was no time to waste on appearances.

He gladly accepted her kisses, with a wandering hand holding her thigh as she straddled him. "Vodka and Jóna are all Yakov needs."