// Start a tiny riot //
Has there ever been a better sound than this? His name, stretched with want across her lips, less word than breath. It's the hit song of the summer, chart topper on his Spotify wrapped. Flora Kaito-Taliesin the Doubletake (feat. Kaisel Ashborn).
Even that sound can’t compete with the way she trembles beneath him, around him. The way her body arches, the way her hips chase him, the flush that rises like fire across her skin—it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. "That's my new favorite view," he croons, voice thickened with the awe of discovering yet more about her to admire. This is what he’ll remember in every moment he's alone after. Not just the pleasure, but the affection wound so tightly it feels like the first time and a lifetime all at once—like how each sunset belongs only to the day that it marks an end to.
He doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until her leg falls away, and as if it had been key to his structural support, he leans over her and onto the bed, as much tugged in closer by her insistence as her gravity. He tilts into the glide of her fingers through his hair, jaw taut with the edge he rides, every touch she grants him blooming sensation across his skin, his control fraying with each fresh current. That is, until her hand sweeps across the scar along his back. He freezes—just for a heartbeat.
Something cold spiderwebs along the skin there, caution. That jagged place, earned for her, burns anew under her attention. Not with pain, but weight. Because she feels it, sees it, not just as the aftermath of his recklessness, but for what it meant. She touches it like it's not a monument to his worst mistake, but something she can still hold with care and choose to see differently. Just as she tries to mold it into something other than failure and ruin, he chases the only warmth that could ever make it right, the one buried in her.
His name brings his gaze to her, half-lidded as her hand seems to touch him for the first time for all its slow and quiet exploration. Where her thumb connects with the corner of his mouth, he quirks his lips to kiss it, soft and grateful. For her. For this moment. For all the golden ones she's given him over the years, knowing or not. Every small tease that told him he mattered enough to poke at, every game where they fought for their win like nothing else could matter more, every small compliment handed out in passing because anything bigger would diminish it. "I don’t know another way," he admits softly, because with her, it's always been that, even when he wouldn't let it be.
He shifts then, hooking his arms beneath her back and lifts her to him, completely stripping any remaining space. A guttural note of pleasure breaks from behind his teeth as he manages to sink deeper into her like this, appreciating all the heat of her thoroughly as it now presses in with no room for anything but the two of them, wholly and completely. He carries her the short distance to the wall, the motion urgent but careful, like he's afraid he might wreck (tripping or otherwise) before he's loved her properly. Something clatters to the floor behind them—a lamp maybe, or a picture frame—but he doesn’t stop.
He presses her back to the wall, a perfectly fitted space among her shelving, the weight of his body and the cradle of his arms keeping her steady as his hips resume their rhythm, each thrust deeper now. He's given into the idea that this will be his undoing. Flora, it'd always been Flora that would manage it. He kisses her—deep, open-mouthed, all breath and wanting and everything he never let himself have.
Even that sound can’t compete with the way she trembles beneath him, around him. The way her body arches, the way her hips chase him, the flush that rises like fire across her skin—it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. "That's my new favorite view," he croons, voice thickened with the awe of discovering yet more about her to admire. This is what he’ll remember in every moment he's alone after. Not just the pleasure, but the affection wound so tightly it feels like the first time and a lifetime all at once—like how each sunset belongs only to the day that it marks an end to.
He doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until her leg falls away, and as if it had been key to his structural support, he leans over her and onto the bed, as much tugged in closer by her insistence as her gravity. He tilts into the glide of her fingers through his hair, jaw taut with the edge he rides, every touch she grants him blooming sensation across his skin, his control fraying with each fresh current. That is, until her hand sweeps across the scar along his back. He freezes—just for a heartbeat.
Something cold spiderwebs along the skin there, caution. That jagged place, earned for her, burns anew under her attention. Not with pain, but weight. Because she feels it, sees it, not just as the aftermath of his recklessness, but for what it meant. She touches it like it's not a monument to his worst mistake, but something she can still hold with care and choose to see differently. Just as she tries to mold it into something other than failure and ruin, he chases the only warmth that could ever make it right, the one buried in her.
His name brings his gaze to her, half-lidded as her hand seems to touch him for the first time for all its slow and quiet exploration. Where her thumb connects with the corner of his mouth, he quirks his lips to kiss it, soft and grateful. For her. For this moment. For all the golden ones she's given him over the years, knowing or not. Every small tease that told him he mattered enough to poke at, every game where they fought for their win like nothing else could matter more, every small compliment handed out in passing because anything bigger would diminish it. "I don’t know another way," he admits softly, because with her, it's always been that, even when he wouldn't let it be.
He shifts then, hooking his arms beneath her back and lifts her to him, completely stripping any remaining space. A guttural note of pleasure breaks from behind his teeth as he manages to sink deeper into her like this, appreciating all the heat of her thoroughly as it now presses in with no room for anything but the two of them, wholly and completely. He carries her the short distance to the wall, the motion urgent but careful, like he's afraid he might wreck (tripping or otherwise) before he's loved her properly. Something clatters to the floor behind them—a lamp maybe, or a picture frame—but he doesn’t stop.
He presses her back to the wall, a perfectly fitted space among her shelving, the weight of his body and the cradle of his arms keeping her steady as his hips resume their rhythm, each thrust deeper now. He's given into the idea that this will be his undoing. Flora, it'd always been Flora that would manage it. He kisses her—deep, open-mouthed, all breath and wanting and everything he never let himself have.
Kaisel
// Stop being so goddamn quiet //
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
