flora
His cries only fuel her. Each squealed syllable of her name, every wriggle and slap at her invading fingers, spurs Flora on like some twisted little symphony of triumph. "This is what happens," she declares between peals of laughter, "when you frame a queen!" Her fingers dig mercilessly between his ribs and above his hips, chasing each flinch with the precision of someone who’s studied the art of tickle-based warfare, only relenting once he’s a breathless, boneless wreck beneath her—more sea sponge than man.
He sags like her favourite victory banner. But when his arms wind around her again, strong and warm and so effortlessly right, her mischief gentles like a tide pulling back. She sinks into him, fitting perfectly to his chest as her lips brush up the long line of his throat—soft, lingering kisses planted one after the other: the edge of his jaw, the apple of his cheek, the corner of his grin. No words needed. Just breath and affection, unhurried and golden.
That is, until he yells. She blinks down at him in confusion, sitting up as he stiffens beneath her, a puff of curls drifting down over one eye as if her whole body is affronted by the interruption. "Wait? Wait what—?" Before she can demand clarification, she’s being bench-pressed like a startled cat, limbs momentarily flailing as he scoots free. She glares after him, half-annoyed, half-admiring the boldness of it. "Rude!" she mutters, though the glint in her eye betrays her amusement.
With a sigh and a theatrical huff, Flora reaches for the pillows he’s flung her way, dragging them into the depths of their makeshift sanctum like treasure hoarded by a dragon. Blankets follow, twisted and tucked and fluffed with deliberate, imperious care as she burrows deeper into the fort, vanishing into its heart to await whatever nonsense he’s plotting now.
"This better be good!" she calls from within, her voice muffled by fleece and anticipation.
He sags like her favourite victory banner. But when his arms wind around her again, strong and warm and so effortlessly right, her mischief gentles like a tide pulling back. She sinks into him, fitting perfectly to his chest as her lips brush up the long line of his throat—soft, lingering kisses planted one after the other: the edge of his jaw, the apple of his cheek, the corner of his grin. No words needed. Just breath and affection, unhurried and golden.
That is, until he yells. She blinks down at him in confusion, sitting up as he stiffens beneath her, a puff of curls drifting down over one eye as if her whole body is affronted by the interruption. "Wait? Wait what—?" Before she can demand clarification, she’s being bench-pressed like a startled cat, limbs momentarily flailing as he scoots free. She glares after him, half-annoyed, half-admiring the boldness of it. "Rude!" she mutters, though the glint in her eye betrays her amusement.
With a sigh and a theatrical huff, Flora reaches for the pillows he’s flung her way, dragging them into the depths of their makeshift sanctum like treasure hoarded by a dragon. Blankets follow, twisted and tucked and fluffed with deliberate, imperious care as she burrows deeper into the fort, vanishing into its heart to await whatever nonsense he’s plotting now.
"This better be good!" she calls from within, her voice muffled by fleece and anticipation.
you don't know that you're living til' you're carrying scars
you're either falling in love or falling apart
you're either falling in love or falling apart
