it ain't no crime, it's just dreams we're stealin'
It isn’t that Flora suddenly believes everything is perfect or that the doubts vanish cleanly, but they loosen, they slip their grip just enough that she can breathe around them instead of inside them.
"Get back on the bed," she whispers, her lips ghosting against his as she speaks, "I don’t want the monsters to get you." She shifts over him as he settles, not content with the angle he’s taken, nudging and pressing until he’s properly back on the bed, her body draping over his in a way that feels both playful and deliberate, her knees sliding along his sides, her hands finding his shoulders and then his chest as though mapping him out again in real time, reacquainting herself with something she never actually forgets.
There’s a smile in it, a flicker of that earlier humour returning not as armour but as something gentler, something that belongs to this space they’ve made between them, and then she’s kissing him back, not tentative, not uncertain, but not rushed either, like she’s settling into something that’s always been waiting for her to stop overthinking it. His grip in her hair anchors her, the pull of it sending a small, electric line down her spine that makes her lean in rather than away.
The kiss deepens without sharp edges, without urgency, but with a kind of fullness that fills in the spaces she’d been worrying at moments before, the press of his mouth against hers warm and steady. And for a moment, everything else—the house, the questions, the too-big spaces and the too-small fears—fades into something distant and unimportant, because this, this is theirs in a way that doesn’t need defining, doesn’t need carving out or proving or questioning, it simply is, held in the warmth of his hands and the certainty of his voice and the way she answers him not with words now but with the steady, undeniable press of herself against him, as if leaving marks can be as simple as this, as inevitable as breath.
~FIN
"Get back on the bed," she whispers, her lips ghosting against his as she speaks, "I don’t want the monsters to get you." She shifts over him as he settles, not content with the angle he’s taken, nudging and pressing until he’s properly back on the bed, her body draping over his in a way that feels both playful and deliberate, her knees sliding along his sides, her hands finding his shoulders and then his chest as though mapping him out again in real time, reacquainting herself with something she never actually forgets.
There’s a smile in it, a flicker of that earlier humour returning not as armour but as something gentler, something that belongs to this space they’ve made between them, and then she’s kissing him back, not tentative, not uncertain, but not rushed either, like she’s settling into something that’s always been waiting for her to stop overthinking it. His grip in her hair anchors her, the pull of it sending a small, electric line down her spine that makes her lean in rather than away.
The kiss deepens without sharp edges, without urgency, but with a kind of fullness that fills in the spaces she’d been worrying at moments before, the press of his mouth against hers warm and steady. And for a moment, everything else—the house, the questions, the too-big spaces and the too-small fears—fades into something distant and unimportant, because this, this is theirs in a way that doesn’t need defining, doesn’t need carving out or proving or questioning, it simply is, held in the warmth of his hands and the certainty of his voice and the way she answers him not with words now but with the steady, undeniable press of herself against him, as if leaving marks can be as simple as this, as inevitable as breath.
~FIN
anything to get more of this feeling
