// Start a tiny riot //
This is too important to let wonder crumble to worry. He wants to preserve it—this perfect, fragile moment where they have each other and nothing else matters. He's imagined it too many times that this reality almost feels like something familiar instead of entirely new. Has it always been her? He'd never dared to see her in a light unshaped by Koa's shadow or Jack's reach. She had never been free for him to dream about, not in that way, though he'd found her among his pillows all the same, something quietly stolen in the daylight hours when hugs and laughter helped him trace the shape of her at night all over again.
Only now, when he’s too tired to keep pretending he feels otherwise, when her kiss asked for all the things he’s tried not to need, has he finally given in. To her. To everything that’s ever taken root inside him beneath the light of her particular glow. If this is all he’s allowed, then he’ll make it perfect—etch it into memory until it settles like marrow, so he can always remember exactly how it feels to let himself want her, to have her. He wants to hear every sound she makes, coax every tremble from her skin, memorize the rise and fall of her breath, the precise pitch of her moans, the way her body reaches for him... because it’s all an attempt to keep her echo with him.
Gods, her blush, such a simple thing, but even that soft arousal is something he means to capture for eternity. He’s entranced by the twitch of her hips, the tremble in her thighs, the sounds pulled helplessly from her lungs. He could spend hours like this, worshiping her with lips and fingers and praise until she forgets anything but the pleasure of unraveling beneath him. Just watching her could set him to his knees.
It's the hook of her leg against him, the broken words barely let into the world, that finally strips him of his restraint. Just the heat, the softness, the invitation of her threatens to undo him, a sensation so overpowering because of the ache for it. "Flora," he growls, voice almost pained as he sinks into her by slow degrees until she has all of him. He braces himself with one hand on her hip, the other curling against the leg he keeps high on his chest. It gives him the anchor he needs, something to lean into while the rest of him tries not to fall apart. He knew this would be his greatest undoing. It takes everything in him not to collapse into the sheer relief of surrender, not to let it carry him off before he’s had the chance to enjoy it.
For a second he doesn’t move, just savors the way she fits him. "Ro, gods," he pleads, as if she has been unkind with her perfection. "You feel too good." It’s everything he’s ever wanted, every indulgence distilled into the heat of her. He starts to move, rolling into her with deliberate intent that's like the drift of waves against the Sugar Tide. Steadily he sets a rhythm into her, his hand sliding from her leg down to where they connect, his thumb brushing her clit with a focus on the hitch of her breaths among each thrust.
Only now, when he’s too tired to keep pretending he feels otherwise, when her kiss asked for all the things he’s tried not to need, has he finally given in. To her. To everything that’s ever taken root inside him beneath the light of her particular glow. If this is all he’s allowed, then he’ll make it perfect—etch it into memory until it settles like marrow, so he can always remember exactly how it feels to let himself want her, to have her. He wants to hear every sound she makes, coax every tremble from her skin, memorize the rise and fall of her breath, the precise pitch of her moans, the way her body reaches for him... because it’s all an attempt to keep her echo with him.
Gods, her blush, such a simple thing, but even that soft arousal is something he means to capture for eternity. He’s entranced by the twitch of her hips, the tremble in her thighs, the sounds pulled helplessly from her lungs. He could spend hours like this, worshiping her with lips and fingers and praise until she forgets anything but the pleasure of unraveling beneath him. Just watching her could set him to his knees.
It's the hook of her leg against him, the broken words barely let into the world, that finally strips him of his restraint. Just the heat, the softness, the invitation of her threatens to undo him, a sensation so overpowering because of the ache for it. "Flora," he growls, voice almost pained as he sinks into her by slow degrees until she has all of him. He braces himself with one hand on her hip, the other curling against the leg he keeps high on his chest. It gives him the anchor he needs, something to lean into while the rest of him tries not to fall apart. He knew this would be his greatest undoing. It takes everything in him not to collapse into the sheer relief of surrender, not to let it carry him off before he’s had the chance to enjoy it.
For a second he doesn’t move, just savors the way she fits him. "Ro, gods," he pleads, as if she has been unkind with her perfection. "You feel too good." It’s everything he’s ever wanted, every indulgence distilled into the heat of her. He starts to move, rolling into her with deliberate intent that's like the drift of waves against the Sugar Tide. Steadily he sets a rhythm into her, his hand sliding from her leg down to where they connect, his thumb brushing her clit with a focus on the hitch of her breaths among each thrust.
Kaisel
// Stop being so goddamn quiet //
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
