// Start a tiny riot //
There are a million shoulds that exist between them. One of which, being how he should think of them. He's rooting for her and Koa to work out—it's him she should be with. This can be nothing other than a betrayal to his cousin's heart, the one he adores and never wants to wound—intentionally or carelessly. Flora isn't over Jack, and Caly is someone he wants to pursue.
He should've never let himself get so tangled up with her tonight, as if body heat erases trouble instead of writing it. This might ruin their friendship, or shift it into something more, but either way it won't come out unchanged. Harmless seems primed to become harmful.
He might have thought about all this, normally. He has, even. Every time he's caught himself watching for her laugh like it's air he needs. Or when he traces the curves she wears so well, too long to count it as a passing glance. Yet... he's never been so uncertain about tomorrow as he is tonight (and in the famous words of Pitbull, Mr. Worldwide himself, give me everything tonight, for all we know we might not get tomorrow). With everything that's happened with the Family lately, death seems like a very possible reality. So all of the shoulds melt into could, into would, beneath the heat of her breath. The world is full of tomorrows waiting to unmake them, but tonight? Tonight, forever is the shape of her lips.
The amount of times he's felt her touch against him may as well be none for the way this feels. Each point of contact is a spark, nearly visible in the dark as her affection collides with his, coalescing into a heat that rises to consume him—slow, complete, and inevitable. She weaves against him, as if she isn't already a thread that has stitched all his tattered corners back into something whole already. Her hands in his hair, her tongue brushing against his, the tug of her thigh—it’s not just the way they feel, damn good, it's everything wrapped inside. He presses her name between their lips with a groan, "Flora," like she's the solution to every question he's ever had.
He presses his forehead to hers, noses fitting alongside each other, his gaze searching amid her aqua with a lightness he's never felt before. She's always someone who has filled him, not someone that has ever left him feeling empty, but this is something new, heavy and light all at once. He shifts, rolling her onto her back, his body moving with a kind of grace that speaks not of dominance, but of trust—of familiarity grown electric. He braces above her, one arm planted to keep his weight off her, the other maintaining a curve around her leg as their hips slot closer together. He traces one slow pass down her hip, palm dragging appreciatively along her bare skin. "You don't know how I've dreamed of you like this..." he says low, smiling faintly before leaning in to kiss her again, something he can't quite get enough of now that he's had it.
His kiss deepens, not with urgency but with intensity, with the quiet insistence of someone trying to commit this to memory—the taste of her, the weight of her beneath him, the way her body welcomes him without a single word. The heat between them builds slow and sure, like a fire banked low to last the night, and he pours into her every unspoken thing: gratitude, comfort, devotion, love.
If this is the only forever they get—here, tonight, with the sea sighing beneath them and the stars scattered careless above—then he’ll make it enough. He’ll make it everything.
He should've never let himself get so tangled up with her tonight, as if body heat erases trouble instead of writing it. This might ruin their friendship, or shift it into something more, but either way it won't come out unchanged. Harmless seems primed to become harmful.
He might have thought about all this, normally. He has, even. Every time he's caught himself watching for her laugh like it's air he needs. Or when he traces the curves she wears so well, too long to count it as a passing glance. Yet... he's never been so uncertain about tomorrow as he is tonight (and in the famous words of Pitbull, Mr. Worldwide himself, give me everything tonight, for all we know we might not get tomorrow). With everything that's happened with the Family lately, death seems like a very possible reality. So all of the shoulds melt into could, into would, beneath the heat of her breath. The world is full of tomorrows waiting to unmake them, but tonight? Tonight, forever is the shape of her lips.
The amount of times he's felt her touch against him may as well be none for the way this feels. Each point of contact is a spark, nearly visible in the dark as her affection collides with his, coalescing into a heat that rises to consume him—slow, complete, and inevitable. She weaves against him, as if she isn't already a thread that has stitched all his tattered corners back into something whole already. Her hands in his hair, her tongue brushing against his, the tug of her thigh—it’s not just the way they feel, damn good, it's everything wrapped inside. He presses her name between their lips with a groan, "Flora," like she's the solution to every question he's ever had.
He presses his forehead to hers, noses fitting alongside each other, his gaze searching amid her aqua with a lightness he's never felt before. She's always someone who has filled him, not someone that has ever left him feeling empty, but this is something new, heavy and light all at once. He shifts, rolling her onto her back, his body moving with a kind of grace that speaks not of dominance, but of trust—of familiarity grown electric. He braces above her, one arm planted to keep his weight off her, the other maintaining a curve around her leg as their hips slot closer together. He traces one slow pass down her hip, palm dragging appreciatively along her bare skin. "You don't know how I've dreamed of you like this..." he says low, smiling faintly before leaning in to kiss her again, something he can't quite get enough of now that he's had it.
His kiss deepens, not with urgency but with intensity, with the quiet insistence of someone trying to commit this to memory—the taste of her, the weight of her beneath him, the way her body welcomes him without a single word. The heat between them builds slow and sure, like a fire banked low to last the night, and he pours into her every unspoken thing: gratitude, comfort, devotion, love.
If this is the only forever they get—here, tonight, with the sea sighing beneath them and the stars scattered careless above—then he’ll make it enough. He’ll make it everything.
Kaisel
// Stop being so goddamn quiet //
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
