is this the end of all the endings?
The fabled sky-anchor swivel kiss catches Flora so entirely off guard that her laughter spills out before she can stop it, bright and breathless in the little nest they’ve made of themselves beneath the failed hammock. It floods their bond at the same time, all sparkling amusement and the faintly wicked satisfaction of realizing exactly what he means by it, because of course he has held onto that particular memory and kept it somewhere safe to be retrieved at the most inconvenient possible moment.
With mischief already glittering in her aqua gaze, Flora gives the smallest, most suggestive shrug against him. "I did tell you that night you should have taken up my offer of the cards," she murmurs, the memory sweetening her smile as much as it sharpens it. Then she leans down to meet his mouth again, because it would be criminal not to, her tongue a coy quill against his own as though she might write out every occasion he’d failed to listen to her, each one utterly to his detriment.
There are people all around them, friends and family among them, and probably any number of festival-goers who have already noticed the Queen of Torchline and herhusband fiance tangled beneath a hammock like they’ve been abandoned there by a particularly affectionate storm, but Flora can’t quite bring herself to care. When Kaisel gives her the full, undivided force of his attention, the rest of the world has a habit of going soft at the edges until there’s only the glint of copper in his eyes, the warmth of him beneath her, and the familiar, ongoing miracle of being wanted so thoroughly by someone she still can’t believe she gets to keep.
It makes each kiss feel caught between two instincts: the urge to linger over it, to savour every impossible second of this moment exactly as it is, and the urge to seize it greedily before it can slip away. Her mouth does both, slow enough to make a promise of it and hungry enough to make clear that she has no intention of being reasonable.
When he finally suggests they trade the ground for something less humiliating, Flora lets out a theatrical groan as if he’s proposing hard labour. "Fineuh," she sighs, with the long-suffering patience of a woman being asked to leave her perfectly adequate husband-shaped cushion. Sliding her knees to either side of him, she braces both palms against his broad chest and pushes herself upright, sweater falling back into place around her hips. Before offering him a hand, Flora reaches down to pluck the leaf from the side of his face, twirling it between two fingers with exaggerated consideration.
With mischief already glittering in her aqua gaze, Flora gives the smallest, most suggestive shrug against him. "I did tell you that night you should have taken up my offer of the cards," she murmurs, the memory sweetening her smile as much as it sharpens it. Then she leans down to meet his mouth again, because it would be criminal not to, her tongue a coy quill against his own as though she might write out every occasion he’d failed to listen to her, each one utterly to his detriment.
There are people all around them, friends and family among them, and probably any number of festival-goers who have already noticed the Queen of Torchline and her
It makes each kiss feel caught between two instincts: the urge to linger over it, to savour every impossible second of this moment exactly as it is, and the urge to seize it greedily before it can slip away. Her mouth does both, slow enough to make a promise of it and hungry enough to make clear that she has no intention of being reasonable.
When he finally suggests they trade the ground for something less humiliating, Flora lets out a theatrical groan as if he’s proposing hard labour. "Fineuh," she sighs, with the long-suffering patience of a woman being asked to leave her perfectly adequate husband-shaped cushion. Sliding her knees to either side of him, she braces both palms against his broad chest and pushes herself upright, sweater falling back into place around her hips. Before offering him a hand, Flora reaches down to pluck the leaf from the side of his face, twirling it between two fingers with exaggerated consideration.
my broken bones are mending
