Flora
Even though it’s nothing more than a throwaway comment, tossed out with that too-wide, cheesy grin because of course he wants more flattery he can hoard away like treasure, Flora doesn’t meet it with the easy scoff it probably deserves. Something in her opens instead, petal-like and helplessly soft, her expression gentling as she looks over at him. Her smile turns sweetly crooked, touched with all the sincerity she rarely lets sit unguarded for long. "Yeah," she murmurs, nodding. "I am."
Of course, he immediately ruins the tenderness by continuing, and whatever has gone warm and bare in her face tarnishes back into laughter. Flora rolls her eyes, the sound bright and fond, because naturally he hasn’t simply been cute and then grown into her husband; he has grown into greatness, apparently, with all the humility of a peacock standing in front of a mirror.
When he trots forward to get a better look at her younger self, the affection that pulses through the bond is entirely unintentional. It catches her by surprise, as these little gestures of his always seem to; the way he darts toward the memory as though child-Flora is something precious he might miss if he doesn’t hurry, the way he loves her so plainly that even an echo of her in a river is worth leaning closer to see. A girlish, twitterpated flush rises through her stomach before she can do anything sensible about it, and by the time he falls back into step beside her, she’s already turning toward him.
She melts easily beneath the weight of his arm, her own sliding around his waist as though there’s no other place it could possibly belong. The kiss he presses to the corner of her mouth is ruined almost immediately by her smile, though she tilts into it anyway, bright and helplessly pleased as the memory of the Greatwood continues to shimmer around them. Only when his arm shifts away does she let him go, trading the wrap of her hand at his waist for the claim of his fingers instead.
Glancing at him over one shoulder as he works through the obvious flaw in giving their house a forest’s ability to rearrange itself, Flora’s brows rise, and the smile that follows is edged with wicked little delight. Her fingers pulse once against his, snug and possessive in his hand. "Oh yeah. And when it comes to things like that, it absoluuuuutely matters who the trees like more." Her shoulders lift in a smug little shrug as her eyebrows bounce. "That’s why so many people get lost in the Greatwood all the time."
Of course, he immediately ruins the tenderness by continuing, and whatever has gone warm and bare in her face tarnishes back into laughter. Flora rolls her eyes, the sound bright and fond, because naturally he hasn’t simply been cute and then grown into her husband; he has grown into greatness, apparently, with all the humility of a peacock standing in front of a mirror.
When he trots forward to get a better look at her younger self, the affection that pulses through the bond is entirely unintentional. It catches her by surprise, as these little gestures of his always seem to; the way he darts toward the memory as though child-Flora is something precious he might miss if he doesn’t hurry, the way he loves her so plainly that even an echo of her in a river is worth leaning closer to see. A girlish, twitterpated flush rises through her stomach before she can do anything sensible about it, and by the time he falls back into step beside her, she’s already turning toward him.
She melts easily beneath the weight of his arm, her own sliding around his waist as though there’s no other place it could possibly belong. The kiss he presses to the corner of her mouth is ruined almost immediately by her smile, though she tilts into it anyway, bright and helplessly pleased as the memory of the Greatwood continues to shimmer around them. Only when his arm shifts away does she let him go, trading the wrap of her hand at his waist for the claim of his fingers instead.
Glancing at him over one shoulder as he works through the obvious flaw in giving their house a forest’s ability to rearrange itself, Flora’s brows rise, and the smile that follows is edged with wicked little delight. Her fingers pulse once against his, snug and possessive in his hand. "Oh yeah. And when it comes to things like that, it absoluuuuutely matters who the trees like more." Her shoulders lift in a smug little shrug as her eyebrows bounce. "That’s why so many people get lost in the Greatwood all the time."
Fatefully, I tried to pick my battles 'til the battle picked me
Misery, Like the war of words I shouted in my sleep
Misery, Like the war of words I shouted in my sleep
Code stolen from Queen Sky
