your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
Kai's kisses land against her skin and scatter through the bond in delicate, overbright fragments, each clumsy press of his mouth refracted back toward him like rainbows caught inside a prism, all colour and warmth and shimmer against nerves still so oversensitive that even tenderness feels almost too vivid to bear. Flora huffs a laugh that is barely more than air over her lips, too wrecked to make it pretty, too happy to care, and though she wants to wrap both arms around him and pull him down until there is no possible argument about where he belongs, her limbs have apparently submitted a formal resignation from duty, leaving her only able to gaze up at him with the kind of adoration that makes her smile turn crooked and helpless at the edges.
When his nose brushes hers, the laugh that slips out of her is softer this time, warmer, and as he flops beside her, her eyes follow him like the rest of the room has lost all relevance. Exhaustion sits heavy in her bones, but beneath it she feels blissfully, stupidly full, like she’s been hollowed out and poured back into herself with sunlight and champagne and whatever ridiculous substance makes people write bad poetry and mean every word of it. She scooches just enough to stay tangled with him, because if she is going to be left boneless and unhelpful then she is at least going to be boneless in the correct direction, allowing him to take her hand and threading her fingers through his. "That’s a very good way of putting it," she murmurs, her thumb brushing lazily against his hand, the words slow and sleepy and soaked in affection.
Her other arm stretches above her head before falling there, loose and useless in the best possible way, and she lets herself sink properly into the bed at last, her gaze sliding over the slices of him carved out by the room’s low light and the moonlight beyond, lingering on the familiar places that feel somehow newly named now. "I guess it goes without saying," she says after a moment, voice quiet but not careful, because careful feels almost impossible with her fingers still threaded through his and the bond between them still humming with the last warm remnants of what they’d just done to each other, "but I’ve never felt like that before." Her hand tightens slightly in his, but not enough to pull or ask for anything. It isn’t only the pleasure she means, though gods, that alone had been enough to leave her body feeling poured out and remade; it’s the way there had been no distance left between giving and receiving, no lonely part of herself that was seen but not understood, nothing one-sided or taken in secret or a distance she couldn't possibly understand. Instead, everything had gone both ways; his hunger rushing into hers, her release breaking through him, their love caught between them and thrown back brighter each time until it hadn’t felt like being watched or known or wanted from the outside, but like being held from within the same impossible tide.
Her lashes lower for a second as she breathes out, still a little shaky with it, still tender in places she doesn’t have names for, and when she looks back at him her smile is small and soft and entirely without armour. "It felt like...really being whole," Flora murmurs, the confession slipping out quiet and plain because dressing it up would only make it smaller, and after a moment, her thumb brushes over his hand again, slow and affectionate. "I didn’t know it would be like that." Didn't know it could be like that. She'd thought it would make the sex good, yes, but she had not expected the quiet devastation that came after it, the feeling of some hidden absence inside her finally being answered.
When his nose brushes hers, the laugh that slips out of her is softer this time, warmer, and as he flops beside her, her eyes follow him like the rest of the room has lost all relevance. Exhaustion sits heavy in her bones, but beneath it she feels blissfully, stupidly full, like she’s been hollowed out and poured back into herself with sunlight and champagne and whatever ridiculous substance makes people write bad poetry and mean every word of it. She scooches just enough to stay tangled with him, because if she is going to be left boneless and unhelpful then she is at least going to be boneless in the correct direction, allowing him to take her hand and threading her fingers through his. "That’s a very good way of putting it," she murmurs, her thumb brushing lazily against his hand, the words slow and sleepy and soaked in affection.
Her other arm stretches above her head before falling there, loose and useless in the best possible way, and she lets herself sink properly into the bed at last, her gaze sliding over the slices of him carved out by the room’s low light and the moonlight beyond, lingering on the familiar places that feel somehow newly named now. "I guess it goes without saying," she says after a moment, voice quiet but not careful, because careful feels almost impossible with her fingers still threaded through his and the bond between them still humming with the last warm remnants of what they’d just done to each other, "but I’ve never felt like that before." Her hand tightens slightly in his, but not enough to pull or ask for anything. It isn’t only the pleasure she means, though gods, that alone had been enough to leave her body feeling poured out and remade; it’s the way there had been no distance left between giving and receiving, no lonely part of herself that was seen but not understood, nothing one-sided or taken in secret or a distance she couldn't possibly understand. Instead, everything had gone both ways; his hunger rushing into hers, her release breaking through him, their love caught between them and thrown back brighter each time until it hadn’t felt like being watched or known or wanted from the outside, but like being held from within the same impossible tide.
Her lashes lower for a second as she breathes out, still a little shaky with it, still tender in places she doesn’t have names for, and when she looks back at him her smile is small and soft and entirely without armour. "It felt like...really being whole," Flora murmurs, the confession slipping out quiet and plain because dressing it up would only make it smaller, and after a moment, her thumb brushes over his hand again, slow and affectionate. "I didn’t know it would be like that." Didn't know it could be like that. She'd thought it would make the sex good, yes, but she had not expected the quiet devastation that came after it, the feeling of some hidden absence inside her finally being answered.
