// I'd take the fall—I got you covered when there's no one at all //
She’d told him before that they had boxes of their old merch, but he’d only half believed it. If she had her hands on a Tragic Star-Crossed Lovers sweatshirt with the hologram card, she either paid an obscene amount to some other collector, or pilfered the mountain of gold her dads were sitting on, helplessly clueless to its worth. He doesn’t really care about its origins, though. Just that she knows the significance of it, and worse, dares to threaten discarding it. Unheard of, even in jest.
For once, he doesn’t rise to meet her laughter as he fits his body back against hers. This is a serious matter. "Jail," he declares, grave as a judge, mud dripping from his hair with the motion of his nod, smeared there from when she'd thrust him overtop her.
As her leg fits around him, he answers in turn. His hand shifts along the outside of her leg, fingers spreading, curling into her like instinct. The other arm bears his weight beside her, sinking into the slop of the ground without notice. All his focus is on her—the heat of her, that dare of her smile trying to undo him, the way the jungle veins around her and holds her like a known treasure. Even caked in mud, she’s devastating, and she knows it.
"First of all," he murmurs, lowering his head until his nose brushes hers. "Who says I couldn’t swipe those keys? Had to get creative all the times I used to sneak out as a kid." His grin curves, hovering near her mouth before he draws back just enough for his breath to ghost over her lips. "Second of all," his tone dips, smug and velvet-rough, a chuckle breaking against the edge of it, "who says I mean that jail?"
A slow, drawn-out tsk follows as his hand slides lower down her leg, grip tightening just enough to make his meaning clear. "Flora, this isn’t about presents anymore," he says, voice slow as syrup. "This is about crimes and punishments. Luckily for you..." his smile deepens, "it’s just a warning—for now."
For once, he doesn’t rise to meet her laughter as he fits his body back against hers. This is a serious matter. "Jail," he declares, grave as a judge, mud dripping from his hair with the motion of his nod, smeared there from when she'd thrust him overtop her.
As her leg fits around him, he answers in turn. His hand shifts along the outside of her leg, fingers spreading, curling into her like instinct. The other arm bears his weight beside her, sinking into the slop of the ground without notice. All his focus is on her—the heat of her, that dare of her smile trying to undo him, the way the jungle veins around her and holds her like a known treasure. Even caked in mud, she’s devastating, and she knows it.
"First of all," he murmurs, lowering his head until his nose brushes hers. "Who says I couldn’t swipe those keys? Had to get creative all the times I used to sneak out as a kid." His grin curves, hovering near her mouth before he draws back just enough for his breath to ghost over her lips. "Second of all," his tone dips, smug and velvet-rough, a chuckle breaking against the edge of it, "who says I mean that jail?"
A slow, drawn-out tsk follows as his hand slides lower down her leg, grip tightening just enough to make his meaning clear. "Flora, this isn’t about presents anymore," he says, voice slow as syrup. "This is about crimes and punishments. Luckily for you..." his smile deepens, "it’s just a warning—for now."
Kaisel
// When you need somebody to turn to—Nobody got you the way I do //
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
