flora
Flora's smile curls against the corner of Kaisel's mouth, warm and secretive, touched by something gentler than mischief and deeper than humour. She has some inkling of what that wish might be, nestled between the tilt of his voice and the tremble beneath his words. If it’s what she thinks it is—her safety, a life unburdened by shadows and threats, a world where she isn't always a target by the Family—then it’s a wish that both is and isn’t hers to grant. Still, as he pulls back to meet her eyes with that sly, charming look, she wrinkles her nose in return, playfully tilting her head. "If you’re waiting on me to turn into a giant gummy worm that you can take a bite out of whenever you want, you’ll have to wait just a little longer," she whispers, teasing layered over something quietly reverent.
And then he touches her. His palm skims across her ribs and goosebumps rise like morning mist in his wake, as though each nerve had been holding its breath until now. Her body, so used to performance and defence, becomes something soft and overly sensitive, wildly attuned to every stroke, every breath. When he presses their hips together, when she feels the full heat and hardness of his arousal pressing low against her belly, a gasp escapes her, sharp and unguarded. The flush it causes blooms low and deep, arousal spreading like honey stirred into warm tea—sweet and golden and slow. She’s had orgasms that felt less consuming than this single, aching press of want; though those ones had come from boredom, mostly, or mild curiosity. But even so.
Her back arches faintly as his mouth finds her breast, not with hunger but with something far more reverent. The warmth of his lips, the scrape of his breath—it unfurls something in her, and as he asks her what she wants, the answer rises through her with easy certainty.
What she wants is him. She wants the boy who'd always made her laugh, who’d carried too much weight in his soul and still found room for her. She wants the man he is now—strong and golden and goofy. She wants mornings with him pouring syrup over her pancakes and dusting her nose with icing sugar; the mess of domesticity and the thrill of everything uncertain. She wants this moment to last until the tide forgets to rise and the sun decides not to come back. She wants to hold the world still and let it echo only with the shape of his breath. She wants it to be him with her at the end of the world.
"You," she whispers, the word light with laughter and thick with truth. "I want you, Kai." How could it ever be anything else?
She knows what he's asking, though—what kind of touch she wants, what rhythm, what kind of yes she’s giving him. And so she reaches, one hand slipping downward to where his fingers linger at the edge of her underwear, guiding his hand beneath the fabric with no hesitation. She presses his middle finger into her, and even that single motion makes her breath stutter. She’s so wet, so open for him already, the heat of her like petals just now brushed by spring. When she brings his finger up, guiding it with hers to her clit, the press is light, almost teasing, but enough to make her shudder slightly, body singing with the anticipation that rolls just beneath the surface.
Still, she holds him there—not pushing, not rushing—just letting that touch breathe between them. Her voice is quieter now as she speaks close to his ear. "I want you," she repeats, "but slowly. Completely."
There won’t be any breathless begging, no fuck me's, no spirals of faster or harder, because this isn’t a moment they’re trying to conquer—it’s one they’re trying to savour. She wants to stretch it across time, to sip from it rather than gulp. But even so, even with her best intentions, Flora knows her body, and she knows his. She knows how easily this will tip from slow into something heady and unrestrained, the moment’s stillness yielding to the pleasure that will ripple through them like an undertow. So she smiles, lashes low, heat blooming at the base of her belly and spreading outward in steady waves—through her hips, her thighs, her fingertips, her mouth. "For as long as you can," she adds softly, a promise wrapped in invitation, already knowing they won’t make it nearly as long as they mean to. But gods, how sweet it will be to try.
And then he touches her. His palm skims across her ribs and goosebumps rise like morning mist in his wake, as though each nerve had been holding its breath until now. Her body, so used to performance and defence, becomes something soft and overly sensitive, wildly attuned to every stroke, every breath. When he presses their hips together, when she feels the full heat and hardness of his arousal pressing low against her belly, a gasp escapes her, sharp and unguarded. The flush it causes blooms low and deep, arousal spreading like honey stirred into warm tea—sweet and golden and slow. She’s had orgasms that felt less consuming than this single, aching press of want; though those ones had come from boredom, mostly, or mild curiosity. But even so.
Her back arches faintly as his mouth finds her breast, not with hunger but with something far more reverent. The warmth of his lips, the scrape of his breath—it unfurls something in her, and as he asks her what she wants, the answer rises through her with easy certainty.
What she wants is him. She wants the boy who'd always made her laugh, who’d carried too much weight in his soul and still found room for her. She wants the man he is now—strong and golden and goofy. She wants mornings with him pouring syrup over her pancakes and dusting her nose with icing sugar; the mess of domesticity and the thrill of everything uncertain. She wants this moment to last until the tide forgets to rise and the sun decides not to come back. She wants to hold the world still and let it echo only with the shape of his breath. She wants it to be him with her at the end of the world.
"You," she whispers, the word light with laughter and thick with truth. "I want you, Kai." How could it ever be anything else?
She knows what he's asking, though—what kind of touch she wants, what rhythm, what kind of yes she’s giving him. And so she reaches, one hand slipping downward to where his fingers linger at the edge of her underwear, guiding his hand beneath the fabric with no hesitation. She presses his middle finger into her, and even that single motion makes her breath stutter. She’s so wet, so open for him already, the heat of her like petals just now brushed by spring. When she brings his finger up, guiding it with hers to her clit, the press is light, almost teasing, but enough to make her shudder slightly, body singing with the anticipation that rolls just beneath the surface.
Still, she holds him there—not pushing, not rushing—just letting that touch breathe between them. Her voice is quieter now as she speaks close to his ear. "I want you," she repeats, "but slowly. Completely."
There won’t be any breathless begging, no fuck me's, no spirals of faster or harder, because this isn’t a moment they’re trying to conquer—it’s one they’re trying to savour. She wants to stretch it across time, to sip from it rather than gulp. But even so, even with her best intentions, Flora knows her body, and she knows his. She knows how easily this will tip from slow into something heady and unrestrained, the moment’s stillness yielding to the pleasure that will ripple through them like an undertow. So she smiles, lashes low, heat blooming at the base of her belly and spreading outward in steady waves—through her hips, her thighs, her fingertips, her mouth. "For as long as you can," she adds softly, a promise wrapped in invitation, already knowing they won’t make it nearly as long as they mean to. But gods, how sweet it will be to try.
My house of stone, your ivy grows
And now I'm covered in you
And now I'm covered in you
