it ain't no crime, it's just dreams we're stealin'
Flora’s mouth softens around Kai's insistence, around the way he pushes back not with dismissal but with something steadier, something that doesn’t waver even when she does, and still she feels that small, stubborn pull in her chest, that quiet, unreasonable urge to keep picking at it until there’s nothing left to doubt, even if it means unravelling something that doesn’t actually need fixing. "Yeah, but like.." she murmurs, her voice gentler now, threaded through with something almost apologetic as her gaze flickers across the shifting images of Wildering House, too full, too vast, too hers in ways she can’t quite unsee, "what’s one room in the big scheme of things?" Her fingers press faintly into his hands, like she’s trying to hold onto something that keeps slipping just out of reach. "I want them all to feel like your rooms. Not just one you had to be given."
There’s a breath of laughter at his suggestion, soft and fleeting, her nose wrinkling as she tilts her head at him, the fondness in it immediate even if it doesn’t quite root itself deeply enough to stay. "You could turn it into a room just for garbage if you wanted," she says, her tone lightening for a second, offering him that half-smile like a small, steadying thing between them before it fades again into something quieter, more thoughtful. Because even as he talks, even as he reframes it and hands it back to her in a shape that should settle easily, she can’t quite let it go, not fully, not when she’s spent so long building everything outward from herself, not when she knows how easy it would be to take up all the space without meaning to. Her smile lingers, patient and soft, but there’s something searching behind it still, something that doesn’t quite believe she’s done enough, hasn’t made enough room, hasn’t noticed soon enough, and it presses at her even as she listens, even as she nods faintly along with him like she’s trying to convince herself she understands.
She doesn’t protest when he pulls her down, doesn’t try to steady the spill of things around them, because none of it matters in the face of the way he gathers her, the way he insists on closeness like distance is something he simply won’t tolerate, and the breath she lets out is soft and heavy all at once as she settles against him, her legs shifting to bracket him, her body folding into his like it’s the easiest, most natural answer there’s ever been.
Even pressed like this, even half-crushed by the pull of him and the insistence of his hold, something in her loosens, slots back into place with a quiet, almost audible certainty, like everything that had been slightly off-centre finds its alignment again simply by virtue of being here, of being held like this, of being his in the same way he’s so certain he’s hers.
The roughness of his hand against her cheek doesn’t bother her, and indeed he'll feel her lean into it, into the pressure and the certainty behind it, her eyes lifting to his, searching with a kind of quiet desperation she doesn’t bother to hide , combing through every flicker of his expression for hesitation, for doubt, for anything that might confirm the fear she’d built for herself, and finding none. It undoes her a little, that absence.
Her breath catches, just slightly, the sting of it rising unexpectedly at the back of her eyes, and she blinks it away only to have it return, softer this time, less sharp and more like something loosening rather than breaking. "I want all of your marks," she says, and her voice wavers despite her best effort, her fingers slipping free just long enough to thread into his hair, curling there like she’s anchoring herself in the same way he is, "all over everything."
The grip he has in her hair, the pull of it, the certainty of it, only makes her smile grow, uneven and a little shaky but real in a way that steadies something fragile inside her, her head dipping forward just slightly as she nods, quick and fervent, like she’s agreeing to something that matters far more than the moment itself. "I will," she whispers, the promise soft but unhesitating, her thumb brushing once along his jaw as if sealing it there, as if making sure it stays.
There’s a breath of laughter at his suggestion, soft and fleeting, her nose wrinkling as she tilts her head at him, the fondness in it immediate even if it doesn’t quite root itself deeply enough to stay. "You could turn it into a room just for garbage if you wanted," she says, her tone lightening for a second, offering him that half-smile like a small, steadying thing between them before it fades again into something quieter, more thoughtful. Because even as he talks, even as he reframes it and hands it back to her in a shape that should settle easily, she can’t quite let it go, not fully, not when she’s spent so long building everything outward from herself, not when she knows how easy it would be to take up all the space without meaning to. Her smile lingers, patient and soft, but there’s something searching behind it still, something that doesn’t quite believe she’s done enough, hasn’t made enough room, hasn’t noticed soon enough, and it presses at her even as she listens, even as she nods faintly along with him like she’s trying to convince herself she understands.
She doesn’t protest when he pulls her down, doesn’t try to steady the spill of things around them, because none of it matters in the face of the way he gathers her, the way he insists on closeness like distance is something he simply won’t tolerate, and the breath she lets out is soft and heavy all at once as she settles against him, her legs shifting to bracket him, her body folding into his like it’s the easiest, most natural answer there’s ever been.
Even pressed like this, even half-crushed by the pull of him and the insistence of his hold, something in her loosens, slots back into place with a quiet, almost audible certainty, like everything that had been slightly off-centre finds its alignment again simply by virtue of being here, of being held like this, of being his in the same way he’s so certain he’s hers.
The roughness of his hand against her cheek doesn’t bother her, and indeed he'll feel her lean into it, into the pressure and the certainty behind it, her eyes lifting to his, searching with a kind of quiet desperation she doesn’t bother to hide , combing through every flicker of his expression for hesitation, for doubt, for anything that might confirm the fear she’d built for herself, and finding none. It undoes her a little, that absence.
Her breath catches, just slightly, the sting of it rising unexpectedly at the back of her eyes, and she blinks it away only to have it return, softer this time, less sharp and more like something loosening rather than breaking. "I want all of your marks," she says, and her voice wavers despite her best effort, her fingers slipping free just long enough to thread into his hair, curling there like she’s anchoring herself in the same way he is, "all over everything."
The grip he has in her hair, the pull of it, the certainty of it, only makes her smile grow, uneven and a little shaky but real in a way that steadies something fragile inside her, her head dipping forward just slightly as she nods, quick and fervent, like she’s agreeing to something that matters far more than the moment itself. "I will," she whispers, the promise soft but unhesitating, her thumb brushing once along his jaw as if sealing it there, as if making sure it stays.
anything to get more of this feeling
