flora
Flora rolls her eyes the moment he demands documentation of her praise, the gesture exaggerated and fond all at once, but the spark between them catches so fast that it burns away any pretense of mockery. Just moments ago they were discussing delay and danger and contingency plans, and now somehow they are building a wedding out of hair ties and stubborn joy, reshaping compromise into something that feels deliberate and chosen instead of stolen or defensive. It’s ridiculous and perfect and so very them that her smile spreads before she can contain it. "I do love the idea," she admits, nodding emphatically as if stamping it into place. Then her grin tilts sideways, teasing. "And not just because it was mine."
The kisses scatter along her jaw and she makes a show of retreating, chin tucking down as though she might create some defensive padding out of sheer will and double chins, laughing breathlessly as she tries to fend him off without actually wanting him to stop. When he asks if he can resume telling her how much he hates her, she pauses, lips twisting into something wicked and delighted, eyes flashing as her mind flips rapidly through the list of unresolved topics. Most of them have softened, settled, woven into plans instead of problems, such that the grin that blooms across her lips is feral in its satisfaction. "No," she declares, voice low and triumphant.
Her hands find his, fingers sliding around his wrists and guiding them upward until she pins them together above his head against the arm of the couch. The movement is fluid and deliberate, her back arching as she drags herself catlike up the length of his chest, slow and intentional, until her hips press flush against his in a deliberate, provocative line. Heat flares instantly, familiar and electric, and she feels it surge through her like a match struck too close to dry tinder. "You don’t get to say shit," she informs him, breath warm against his mouth, her grip tightening just enough to make the point. "You lost your fighting hat, which is an automatic defeat."
Before he can muster a protest she leans down and kisses him hard; no soft reassurances this time, no careful stitching of emotional seams, just pressure and want and the undeniable rightness of him beneath her. It isn’t about distraction or doubt anymore; it’s about choosing him in this moment as fiercely as she ever has, and to find out if they'd fought hard enough for the make-up sex to compensate.
The kisses scatter along her jaw and she makes a show of retreating, chin tucking down as though she might create some defensive padding out of sheer will and double chins, laughing breathlessly as she tries to fend him off without actually wanting him to stop. When he asks if he can resume telling her how much he hates her, she pauses, lips twisting into something wicked and delighted, eyes flashing as her mind flips rapidly through the list of unresolved topics. Most of them have softened, settled, woven into plans instead of problems, such that the grin that blooms across her lips is feral in its satisfaction. "No," she declares, voice low and triumphant.
Her hands find his, fingers sliding around his wrists and guiding them upward until she pins them together above his head against the arm of the couch. The movement is fluid and deliberate, her back arching as she drags herself catlike up the length of his chest, slow and intentional, until her hips press flush against his in a deliberate, provocative line. Heat flares instantly, familiar and electric, and she feels it surge through her like a match struck too close to dry tinder. "You don’t get to say shit," she informs him, breath warm against his mouth, her grip tightening just enough to make the point. "You lost your fighting hat, which is an automatic defeat."
Before he can muster a protest she leans down and kisses him hard; no soft reassurances this time, no careful stitching of emotional seams, just pressure and want and the undeniable rightness of him beneath her. It isn’t about distraction or doubt anymore; it’s about choosing him in this moment as fiercely as she ever has, and to find out if they'd fought hard enough for the make-up sex to compensate.
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
