// Start a tiny riot //
Her voice and laughter is like a shimmering tether that keeps him from fully sliding into the darkness of the other side. She tugs it with each whispered fantasy, portions of clarity racing back like a sand timer being flicked onto its side, each moment just a bit of borrowed time. "S'rong wif p-akes?" he mumbles with rising offense that dissipates as quick as it comes as he sighs and shifts.
He turns beneath her, slow and loose with sleep, rolling onto his side until they’re chest to chest. His arm slips from her back, curling instead beneath both their heads like a makeshift pillow, and in the same breath he pulls her in tighter. One leg is threaded between hers, his free hand sliding across her back and firmly tugging every inch of her into him, their hips aligning in a way that makes something spark under his skin. He wants her to feel all of him, to know she’s not the only one trying to hold on so hard. It’s not about want, though the flush of it is there without his intention. It’s about giving every part of himself he can, needing her like he’s never needed anyone before, and knowing—with something aching and grateful in his chest—that she needs him too. Like maybe if they both just hold on tight enough, if every surface can connect, this moment might stay.
The steady lick of water against hull is a lullaby of promise, the only noise that stirs amid the careful, tangled stillness they've erected around shallow breaths and skipping hearts. Starlight pierces through the sheer curtain and dusts midnight glitter across the multitudes of edges in her room—glinting on seashells, catching on a feather boa, coating her golden outline until she becomes sterling. It softens her in a way he hasn't really seen before, and silently he treasures it, like this is just for him.
The subtle sway of the boat in the harbor, the rhythm of her breaths and the quiet sounds that slip free when they adjust—it's all new for him, but it feels like a memory worth making, one that he'll think about when his bed is too still on the ground, when there's not lilac and salt wafting off sun-brushed skin lingering in his arms like catchable light.
All her fears are echoed within him. He blinks blearily against the dinge of the night, voice raw with the touch of something new sparking deep in him, something he normally doesn't let rise to the surface, but Flora and sleep alike have stripped him to just the vulnerable bit of his core. "Ro?" he tests the air. "You think we can keep this... forever?" It's barely a whisper, like anything louder might invite the wrong answer.
He turns beneath her, slow and loose with sleep, rolling onto his side until they’re chest to chest. His arm slips from her back, curling instead beneath both their heads like a makeshift pillow, and in the same breath he pulls her in tighter. One leg is threaded between hers, his free hand sliding across her back and firmly tugging every inch of her into him, their hips aligning in a way that makes something spark under his skin. He wants her to feel all of him, to know she’s not the only one trying to hold on so hard. It’s not about want, though the flush of it is there without his intention. It’s about giving every part of himself he can, needing her like he’s never needed anyone before, and knowing—with something aching and grateful in his chest—that she needs him too. Like maybe if they both just hold on tight enough, if every surface can connect, this moment might stay.
The steady lick of water against hull is a lullaby of promise, the only noise that stirs amid the careful, tangled stillness they've erected around shallow breaths and skipping hearts. Starlight pierces through the sheer curtain and dusts midnight glitter across the multitudes of edges in her room—glinting on seashells, catching on a feather boa, coating her golden outline until she becomes sterling. It softens her in a way he hasn't really seen before, and silently he treasures it, like this is just for him.
The subtle sway of the boat in the harbor, the rhythm of her breaths and the quiet sounds that slip free when they adjust—it's all new for him, but it feels like a memory worth making, one that he'll think about when his bed is too still on the ground, when there's not lilac and salt wafting off sun-brushed skin lingering in his arms like catchable light.
All her fears are echoed within him. He blinks blearily against the dinge of the night, voice raw with the touch of something new sparking deep in him, something he normally doesn't let rise to the surface, but Flora and sleep alike have stripped him to just the vulnerable bit of his core. "Ro?" he tests the air. "You think we can keep this... forever?" It's barely a whisper, like anything louder might invite the wrong answer.
Kaisel
// Stop being so goddamn quiet //
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
