is this the end of all the endings?
Flora doesn't have the breath to laugh, not when her lungs are already busy drowning in the sheer brilliance of him, but her head tips forward just enough that her lips graze the shell of his ear, voice shaking loose like mist from the heat between them. "Maybe I was," she murmurs; having been conceived in the presence of a god whose domain wove desire into flesh, who’s to say that somewhere in the stitching of her soul, Frey hadn’t tucked a spark of something divine? Something that made her body echo back every craving Kaisel had ever known, made her flesh answer his hunger with a song meant only for him.
Her mouth finds his in turn, not with elegance but with fever, her kiss losing all the polished precision she usually wears like perfume. There's no more cleverness left in her tongue, no metaphor or flourish, only the hot tangle of lips that ache to say you, the desperate shape of a kiss that pleads more, the helpless press that tries to give him this, and the trembling breath between them that aches to be forever. She pours all of it into him, every unspoken vow and every second of her wanting, and even when his mouth tears away, her own chases the echo of him, drunk on the ruin they’re making together.
And then his eyes find her, dragging over every part of her that's laid bare in the steam, and she swears it feels like he touches her with them. It's not just the hunger in his gaze, but the knowing, and for a girl who has lived entire chapters beneath the weight of being half-seen or half-loved, it is a kind of worship she doesn’t know how to survive. Not when he’s looking at her like he knows every story carved beneath her skin, like her body is a temple and he’s the only one with the map to the altar.
When he adjusts his grip, her leg slips from the wall, thighs clamping tight around him, every muscle working to draw him deeper. She clings to his shoulders like a climber gripping to a ledge that might vanish, her hold equal parts need and anchoring devotion, and as her weight tilts entirely into him, the new angle cleaves a sound from her throat that she couldn’t have held back if she tried. "k...ai...SEL" It rips through her like the sudden shatter of a dam—sharp, crystalline, and blindingly bright—as pleasure erupts without warning, catching her in a wave so immense it folds her forward with the force of it. Her entire body locks around him, her nails digging crescents into his shoulders as her hips buck against his with a reckless, needy rhythm.
Flora's orgasm detonates like starlight behind her eyes, ricocheting through her with a ferocity that borders on rapture. It’s not a bloom of pleasure; it’s a wildfire, sweeping through her limbs and curling heat into every corner of her until she can do nothing but hold on and burn. She moans Kiasel's name again, louder now, unashamed and unrestrained, each syllable wrenched from the deepest part of her. Her legs tighten impossibly, her arms locked around him, refusing even for a heartbeat to let the world exist beyond the feel of him inside her, the storm between their bodies, and the exquisite shattering that only he has ever made her feel this completely. Because it isn't just about lust; it's everything else between them that makes it feel better than it ever has before. Her eyes squeeze shut as if by sealing them she can trap the moment longer, make the sensation stretch, let the aftershocks bloom fully before the next wave hits, her entire being lit up with him, for him, because of him.
Her mouth finds his in turn, not with elegance but with fever, her kiss losing all the polished precision she usually wears like perfume. There's no more cleverness left in her tongue, no metaphor or flourish, only the hot tangle of lips that ache to say you, the desperate shape of a kiss that pleads more, the helpless press that tries to give him this, and the trembling breath between them that aches to be forever. She pours all of it into him, every unspoken vow and every second of her wanting, and even when his mouth tears away, her own chases the echo of him, drunk on the ruin they’re making together.
And then his eyes find her, dragging over every part of her that's laid bare in the steam, and she swears it feels like he touches her with them. It's not just the hunger in his gaze, but the knowing, and for a girl who has lived entire chapters beneath the weight of being half-seen or half-loved, it is a kind of worship she doesn’t know how to survive. Not when he’s looking at her like he knows every story carved beneath her skin, like her body is a temple and he’s the only one with the map to the altar.
When he adjusts his grip, her leg slips from the wall, thighs clamping tight around him, every muscle working to draw him deeper. She clings to his shoulders like a climber gripping to a ledge that might vanish, her hold equal parts need and anchoring devotion, and as her weight tilts entirely into him, the new angle cleaves a sound from her throat that she couldn’t have held back if she tried. "k...ai...SEL" It rips through her like the sudden shatter of a dam—sharp, crystalline, and blindingly bright—as pleasure erupts without warning, catching her in a wave so immense it folds her forward with the force of it. Her entire body locks around him, her nails digging crescents into his shoulders as her hips buck against his with a reckless, needy rhythm.
Flora's orgasm detonates like starlight behind her eyes, ricocheting through her with a ferocity that borders on rapture. It’s not a bloom of pleasure; it’s a wildfire, sweeping through her limbs and curling heat into every corner of her until she can do nothing but hold on and burn. She moans Kiasel's name again, louder now, unashamed and unrestrained, each syllable wrenched from the deepest part of her. Her legs tighten impossibly, her arms locked around him, refusing even for a heartbeat to let the world exist beyond the feel of him inside her, the storm between their bodies, and the exquisite shattering that only he has ever made her feel this completely. Because it isn't just about lust; it's everything else between them that makes it feel better than it ever has before. Her eyes squeeze shut as if by sealing them she can trap the moment longer, make the sensation stretch, let the aftershocks bloom fully before the next wave hits, her entire being lit up with him, for him, because of him.
my broken bones are mending
