your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
With the adrenaline flowing like thick cords of gold through her veins, Flora hardly notices how hard Koa is squeezing her hand, only aware that he is. It makes her wonder, as they stumble in through the crowded doorway, if they'd ever actually held hands in a way that hadn't just been in service of something else (climaxing, for instance. Before she can think to, what? ask? Koa is towering above her, all ingrained confidence and control.
Wincing away a touch at the shrillness of his whistle but grinning just the same, the queen nevertheless remains ather the dragoon's side, shooting approving glances at the other soldiers and scowling at the rowdy patrons who seem to want to dig in their heels. This might be Torchline where almost anything went, but they could all fuck off and find somewhere else to drink if they thought Flora was going to let them destroy the one thing she'd managed to keep alive all on her own.
Mostly all on her own.
With her gaze on a man who was reaching out for one of her brother's plants—one touch alone would have his fingers swollen for a week—Flora was blissfully unaware of the danger heading her way until Koa was singing out her name in a tone she'd never heard from him before. It sounded like the way his eyes had looked when she'd shouted at him on Apopo, all rough edges and crimson barbs. "Wh—" She has time to say before he's jumping down at her? no, in front of her, and he's—
—because someone's—
—and his arms are around her, but it isn't a hug, and—
—was that the sound of his heartbeat or hers?—
The crash of glass against Koa's head is nothing likethe movies the way it sounds when struck against the bar. Instead, it's a clunky thing, a heavy thing; a sound that's all maroon wetness and bone-chilling sharpness.
"KOA!" The queen cries, and were her hands already wrapped around the dragoon and unwilling to part from him, she might have instead reached for one of her daggers to stab whoever had struck him.
Wincing away a touch at the shrillness of his whistle but grinning just the same, the queen nevertheless remains at
Mostly all on her own.
With her gaze on a man who was reaching out for one of her brother's plants—one touch alone would have his fingers swollen for a week—Flora was blissfully unaware of the danger heading her way until Koa was singing out her name in a tone she'd never heard from him before. It sounded like the way his eyes had looked when she'd shouted at him on Apopo, all rough edges and crimson barbs. "Wh—" She has time to say before he's jumping down at her? no, in front of her, and he's—
—because someone's—
—and his arms are around her, but it isn't a hug, and—
—was that the sound of his heartbeat or hers?—
The crash of glass against Koa's head is nothing like
"KOA!" The queen cries, and were her hands already wrapped around the dragoon and unwilling to part from him, she might have instead reached for one of her daggers to stab whoever had struck him.
