seeing the world in ADHD

Can't touch me, like Gojo—Look good in all my photos

She isn't leaping into a rapid-fire agreement, that much is clear. Though the hesitancy of it does not dig into him, because while he's wrestled with this knowledge and the new weight of it for days now, he himself is unsure of the best path forward. The only thing he's certain about is that Jack does not deserve protection.

So he does listen to what she has to say, openly and fully, gaze firm on her with the strength of one pressing conviction that rises above all else—she is what matters most. He listens, and the conversation is so much more than the words she lays out plain. It's the way she says them and the why buried beneath, the rise and fall of shadow and light in the sea of her eyes and how her brows shift, the small tells around her lips and the curl of her fingers in his. Everyone speaks with more than voice alone, but Flora's body has always been an animated conversationalist. She can quiet it when she wants to, which is its own subtle nod towards truth, but right now it's talking alongside her and he'd hear it all.

As willfully blind as he can be about his own strength at times, as much as he wants to balk and roll at the idea that the lightning strike would have ended no other way, Kaisel knows she's right. His gaze ducks out from the discussion for a moment, needing the fresh air of the adjacent wall to clear the harsh strangle of reality into something manageable. "...Yeah," he admits sourly. It's no easy thing to stand up and find yourself immediately shoved back down. His attention shifts back to her as he feels her lean in, as the edge to what she says bends over itself into something he might mistake for fearful.

His eyes shift back and forth between hers, the strain of what she's saying felt like a fresh bowstring pulling back in his chest. Tight. "Aren't you worried that he has amassed such strength then and could still do any of that at any time? What if he comes to harm you not because you shared his secret, but because you have it at all?" She's worried, rightfully so, about igniting something that could burn more than just Jack, and he recognizes that. What he doesn't like is that either way, the Captain is a powderkeg in waiting. "He was fine with it before, but things have changed."

Teeth grate across on another as she begins to crumble. Pieces of her giving way to a past version of herself, where she'd tried to adorn herself in any way she could to trade for affection. Where she sees guilt for her actions, Kaisel's ire stirs like a cold thing waking to the fresh douse of heat settling in his gut. More proof that Jack had used her. His other palm claps over hers as she rubs at their tether of linked hands, the pressure trying to suffocate the idea that she's to blame. "Hey, hey," he murmurs, grip squeezing and releasing in a small pulse of reassurance. "You are not the cause of his destruction." All she'd done is provide a whetstone for him to sharpen himself on. The blade does not take credit for its kills, and the honing tool least of all. Only the fingers wrapped around the hilt can lay claim to the blood spilt.

He settles though, as she offers up the first glimmer of hope in this considerable shitstorm. "A fleet of rings could work," he reasons. Like a poison, slowly crippling Jack's reach by cutting of more and more minds, bit by bit, instead of an all out fire fight. A stealthier route, not the kind he ever seems to consider. His head tilts back into the cushion again, gaze tipping to the ceiling, searching for solutions like it's as simple as connecting the dots between stars. Slowly, his hands unwind fromt heir tangle with her on his chest. Not to let go of her, but to gather her anew, tugging her closer off his lap, pulling her instead into the line of his chest in an embrace that begs for even more closeness.

Knowing is often not a mercy, he can concede that point. "Perhaps it's best not to burden Koa with the knowledge again, or others. The more that know, the more that will react, and probably in unpredictable ways." His voice is low, thoughtful, trying to see how things play out and jump off one another. "Protecting them though, quietly, that could work."

Kaisel

Sexy jutsu, I feel like Naruto—Fightin' demons in my head like I'm Itadori

flora

Flora’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile, not quite a frown, something resigned settling into place as the weight of it all presses down again. Breakups aren't supposed to end quietly, but with distance and time sanding the edges smooth they were supposed to end, not come with the looming possibility of war, not with the knowledge that someone who once knew every soft place in you might someday turn that knowledge into a weapon. Married or not, blissfully or not, the thought sits heavy in Flora's chest, and when she shrugs it’s with a tired sag of her shoulders, the kind that comes from carrying something too long without setting it down. "At least if that's the case," she says, voice low and steady despite the ache threaded through it, "he’s only targeting me." The words don’t come out brave so much as factual, a line drawn with quiet inevitability. "I don't know that I'm strong enough to fully stand against him, but I do know that if he killed me, he'd lose his life for it." And it wasn't as though she'd stay dead.

Kaisel's hand finds hers, the contact grounding and insistent, and she looks down at him, searching his face as his words push back against the guilt she keeps trying to claim. For all the trust she has in him, for all the certainty that he is her safe place, the doubt doesn’t disappear so easily, not when it’s been stitched into her for so long. Still, when he tugs her closer she doesn’t resist, her body folding in on itself as she crumples willingly against his chest, spine arching just enough to settle there before her legs shimmy back until she’s stretched comfortably along him. The moment she lands, something eases, the steady rise and fall beneath her cheek turning the world quieter, simpler, more solvable. This is one of the things she loves best, this closeness where his voice vibrates through bone and muscle, where everything feels figure-out-able just by staying still long enough. She nuzzles into the hollow of his collarbone, the absurd fish hat still swallowing her head, and nods faintly against him. "Yeah," she murmurs. "All it would take is him slipping into the edge of a big crowd, and if there’s even a flicker of recognition in someone’s mind, he’d know."

She lifts her head then, just enough to look at Kaisel, taking in the familiar planes of his face with the kind of attention that feels like coming home, and the thought forms slowly, carefully, like something fragile she doesn’t want to drop. "What if we put off the wedding?" The suggestion comes gently, almost apologetically, because wanting him and wanting safety are tangled too tightly to separate cleanly. "We could use the money I set aside for our rings and get new ones for everyone else instead.." Her thumb traces a small, absent line against his chest as she talks, eyes never leaving his. The words trail off, love and reluctance braided together, because she wants to marry him in front of everyone, wants it fiercely, and selfishly, almost as much as she wants the ability to be at his side in an instant no matter the distance between them. But did she want it more than she wanted the safety of their friends? Did she think Jack would stay away long enough for her to put herself first?

you don't know that you're living til' you're carrying scars
you're either falling in love or falling apart

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Can't touch me, like Gojo—Look good in all my photos

What she says is no easy thing to listen to, and Kaisel’s teeth grit together with a force that aches beyond his jaw. ”You suggesting we wait and see if he’s the one who’ll destroy something first?” His voice comes out low and quiet, scraped off his tongue with the brittle flakes of fear clinging to it. Waiting to be struck, to lose her, it doesn’t sit well with him when acting first and fast is his usual preference. ”Are you—” he swallows, tongue suddenly feeling too thick. ”Are you sure you would…come back?” He exhales shaky, grip tightening to hold her closer still, like his arms could be enough to keep her here always. He knows they aren’t, though, and that’s the worst of it.

”Are you only counting on Ronin, or do you have a revifify feather too?” He searches for her gaze like it could resteady him, like her shrug in the face of death she always takes is really that easy. ”Jack’s punishment wouldn’t be worth trading lives back and forth.” Which is much a reminder for him, too. Blowing this up wouldn’t be worth putting her in the blast radius.

His sigh is haggard, worn out from imagining a future that’s empty of her instead of full with every thing they could do and all the things he hasn’t even had time to dream up yet. He closes his eyes, letting just the feel of her against him be all that he knows for a time. One eye pops back open at the question of a delay though, the other sliding apart slowly after. ”What?” comes the low strain of disbelief. Not doubt, not that she doesn’t want it. Ultimately, they’re already married, so what’s waiting, really? It’s more… ”I can’t believe this fucker is going to make us wait to celebrate each other.”

Because she’s right, they should wait. She offers it, like it’s a choice, but he’s not so selfish as to take the wrong one. ”I’ll do more to make more money, too. I’m sure I could be doing more labor on the side.” Whatever to ensure this doesn’t remain wedged between them too long, this Jack-sized hole.

Kaisel

Sexy jutsu, I feel like Naruto—Fightin' demons in my head like I'm Itadori

flora

Flora exhales slowly, the sound leaving her like something unspooling rather than breaking, and the arm draped over Kaisel’s chest tightens as though anchoring herself to the steady beat beneath her ear. Going at Jack head-on, now, unprepared, all bravado and fury, would be like stepping into a storm with bare hands and calling it courage. Waiting isn’t surrender; it’s bracing the doors, counting the exits, making sure the people you love are under cover before the lightning strikes. "It’s better than charging at him blind," she murmurs, the words pressed into the warmth of him rather than thrown into the air. "Better than starting a war when we don’t even know what he’s capable of right now."

His worry cuts sharper than his anger ever could, and she feels it immediately, the way his arms tighten as though he could stitch her into his ribs if he tried hard enough. Flora lifts her head, just enough to see him properly, and the word "hey," leaves her mouth without effort, soft but firm, the way you speak to something skittish and precious at the same time, a hand finding his jaw to keep him with her. "Of course I’d come back," she says, and the answer lands solid, unnegotiable. "I’ve already died once. I know what it feels like, and I know what I’m saying."

She shakes her head when he asks about the feather, mouth pulling tight for a heartbeat before easing again, honesty chosen over comfort without hesitation. Before the fear can flare again, her fingers press into him, grounding, insistent, tracing a path over his ribs like she’s mapping home. "But Remi hears the dead," she continues, steady now, practical in the way she gets when things matter too much to dramatize. "The second it happened, I could tell him exactly where I was, and even if Remi wasn't with Ronin, he can teleport to him, and there isn’t a place in Caido they can’t reach together." Her thumb settles at his collarbone in a quite claim, hair tie sparkling softly on her wrist. "I will always come back to you."

The sadness that flickers across his face mirrors her own, twin reflections of the same want left temporarily unfulfilled. She wants the celebration too, wants the loud joy and the ridiculous spectacle, wants to stand beside him and say this is mine, this is us , and it hurts in a quiet way to set that aside even temporarily. She nudges him gently, forehead brushing his as she tries on a smile and finds that it grows real simply because he’s there. "I hate that we have to wait," she admits, because pretending otherwise would be a lie neither of them deserves, but it would be just as much of a lie to think they'd be able to live with themselves if they chose spectacle over the safety of their friends.

"But we've always had fun doing things together, right?" she adds, eyes brightening as they catch him. " I can buy the base or upgraded items, we finish them off with a quest, save some money and protect everyone at the same time." Her arm tightens again, possessive without being afraid, content in the shared shape they make. It’s not giving up the wedding; it’s sharpening the path toward it, making sure when they finally stand in front of everyone they love, nothing is lurking in the dark waiting to take it away.

you don't know that you're living til' you're carrying scars
you're either falling in love or falling apart

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Can't touch me, like Gojo—Look good in all my photos

She isn't wrong, and that's the hardest part. He's got no real ground to stand on here, and he knows it, but it doesn't make unclenching his fists any easier, or trudging down from that hill any faster. He still feels all the same ways, even if his mind acknowledges they're not worthy of heeding. "I wonder how many more times I'm going to have to step aside instead of stand up to the things trying to ruin us." From the Family to the Captain and everything in-between and all that he's sure will come after.

He exhales soft and slow, tilting into her. His head thumps against the fish-hat barrier, hair puffing up around it. He's seeking every little bit of extra contact he can find. It's an attempt to feel better than this, to pull her back over his vulnerabilities like her touch could be armor enough against the stings of the world. He'd like to admit it's easier than it is, acknowledging his weakness. Would like to just gloss over this with another laugh like all the other things. A shrug, and he'd be fine. Uncrackable. Every time, though. Every. Damn. Time. He finds he's somehow always behind—not enough. Each realization splinters him a little bit further. He pushes harder for it, spurred on by the desire not to feel this all over again, but it doesn't seem to do much good.

The sensation of her shifting from under him brings his head back up. His gaze meets hers, unflinching even if it's aching. Her hand finds his face and holds him, and it's the first time he becomes aware he's started to drift. He inhales sharply, blinking through a nod. "Good," he tries to say with a firmness even the universe couldn't ignore, but it comes out so much softer than that. "You better, because the day you don't? I'll probably make an enemy out of Mort." A more reassuring claim if he could manage the living threats any better than this, but he'd wear himself out at the very least tearing open Mort's home. For that, he'd never step aside.

Fortunately, it seems it won't have to come to that, with everything she's just explained. It's enough to settle him, and breath comes fuller now. It clears something too, like each exhale is blowing away some of the fog. His gaze brightens considerably, ice chipped away by her words as much as the change in weather. "We're definitely gonna kick ass at these quests together." There's no doubt to it, and it bleeds out in the certainty of a smile he wears just for her. Because only she could somehow turn this abysmal reality into something worthwhile. He leans in then, stealing the distance between their lips with something stronger than gratitude and more binding than agreement.

He'd like to let is last, to finally roll out from under the haze and just be happy that above everything else they still have this, now, them. He's got one last use of her fish hat though. "What if..." he starts low, the question whispered to her in case it's too fragile otherwise. "We wait on the rings, but not the wedding? We could always get some stand-in, plastic rings, like from the little shops." Not as meaningful as the sparkling hairtie already around his wrist, but easier to explain in front of the crowd on their second wedding day, at least.

Kaisel

Sexy jutsu, I feel like Naruto—Fightin' demons in my head like I'm Itadori

flora

Flora feels it the moment Kaisel folds inward, the way his boldness turns sharp at the edges and then collapses like a tent pulled loose from its stakes, and it makes something instinctive surge up inside her, a need to fill every hollow before doubt can echo there. She shifts closer without thinking, palm coming up to cradle his cheek, thumb brushing the soft curve of his lower lip. "Babe," she murmurs, the word warm and steady, pressed into him rather than floated between them, her eyes holding his with an understanding that doesn’t rush or flinch. She knows that feeling too well, the wanting to plant your feet and say no more, only to realise the world doesn’t always let you choose the shape of your resistance. "I know. I hate it too." Her thumb drifts once more, grounding, affectionate. "But... I guess that just means more runs, huh? Maybe more protein powder shakes." The attempt at lightness isn’t dismissal so much as defiance, a refusal to let fear be the only thing that gets airtime between them, silly hats or no.

When he threatens Mort himself, the tension cracks, and she beams at him unabashedly, because of course he would aim that high, because of course his love is reckless enough to square up to death if it ever tried to take her. Her smile widens as he latches onto the idea of questing together, and when he leans in, she melts gladly, fitting herself into him with immediate ease, one hand still warm against his face, the other fisting lightly in his shirt as she tucks into every inch of space left between them, like the most natural shape either of them could make. The kiss lands deep and fulfilling, less spark than gravity, and when she pulls back her cheeks are flushed, breath a little uneven, joy humming just beneath her skin.

His whisper makes her blink once, then delight spills across her face so fast it’s impossible to contain, eyes lighting up as if he’s just offered her the moon in a pocket-sized box. She leans in close, conspiratorial, forehead nearly touching his. "Gods, you’re the most clever man alive," she breathes back, nodding emphatically. "Yes. Absolutely yes." The idea settles into her chest and blooms there, bright and perfect in its simplicity. "Maybe Remi could make us rings.." she adds, excitement threading her voice now. "He could take the hair bands from Safrin and shape them into rings for the ceremony. They already mean everything to us anyway, and they technically are the real thing." Her gaze drops to the sparkly copper band around her wrist, unable to help the way her smile grew every time she looked at it.

you don't know that you're living til' you're carrying scars
you're either falling in love or falling apart

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Can't touch me, like Gojo—Look good in all my photos

No better than a plant to sunlight, he turns into the slow cup of her hand. Even his lip twitches into the stroke of her thumb, sighing into the presence she offers without complaint. The heaviness of it all has dragged his gaze away from her, letting distant thoughts darken the look of it. At her bid, it rises back to meet her.

It's hard to say what does it. There's the feel of her, a reassurance like wind in your sails leading you on to better seas. The look of her, as steady and inviting as a pool in the middle of Longheat, whisking away discomfort without effort. Then there's her words, like a song you've never heard before, but immediately finds a tempo to match your heart like no other. It doesn't matter which part, all the parts, it's her. It's always her who does it.

From the depths of a frown his lips twitch, a light trying hard to flicker on. It pulls and wriggles into his cheek before giving in and beaming out around a laugh, surprised to hear itself. "Only you could find a way to cheer me up with running," he says with no amount of disguised fondness, the words escaping with the subtle shake of his head. He settles gradually, head tilting back against hers, pressure put on like they're holding each other up and might collapse otherwise in a heap on the couch. "You're not wrong," he huffs low, amusement still lingering in the breath.

The way she tucks into every last bit of remaining space, nearly crawling beneath his shirt, does absolutely no good for relenting his smile from his cheeks. Even the kiss rises into the shape, happiness unwilling to relent in her presence. Glee snatches up the rest of his expression, teasing and sly at once, as he proclaims, "I want that in writing!" Not just clever, but the most clever man alive, which makes him about equal with the stupidest woman. She builds off his suggestion like a vibration tuning into a note, and he matches it with his own wild-eyed stare of approval. "Genius! Way better than shoddy rings off the pier," he agrees, gaze coasting at once to the glimmer that always exists around their wrists, her cropper one lifted up in proof. "Bet he'd appreciate having a hand in it all too," he considers, "and maybe we can use those as a base to become our real rings, later, when we can afford to properly enchant them." The more it comes into shape, the more he likes the idea of turning their original bands, the ones on their wrists, into their permanent ones around their fingers.

Satisfied and lighter than he's felt in some time, Kaisel hums aloud before sneaking a series of kisses across her jaw, each on landing firmer, pushing into her playfully. "Now, anything else, or can I tell you how much I hate you now?"

Kaisel

Sexy jutsu, I feel like Naruto—Fightin' demons in my head like I'm Itadori

flora

Flora rolls her eyes the moment he demands documentation of her praise, the gesture exaggerated and fond all at once, but the spark between them catches so fast that it burns away any pretense of mockery. Just moments ago they were discussing delay and danger and contingency plans, and now somehow they are building a wedding out of hair ties and stubborn joy, reshaping compromise into something that feels deliberate and chosen instead of stolen or defensive. It’s ridiculous and perfect and so very them that her smile spreads before she can contain it. "I do love the idea," she admits, nodding emphatically as if stamping it into place. Then her grin tilts sideways, teasing. "And not just because it was mine."

The kisses scatter along her jaw and she makes a show of retreating, chin tucking down as though she might create some defensive padding out of sheer will and double chins, laughing breathlessly as she tries to fend him off without actually wanting him to stop. When he asks if he can resume telling her how much he hates her, she pauses, lips twisting into something wicked and delighted, eyes flashing as her mind flips rapidly through the list of unresolved topics. Most of them have softened, settled, woven into plans instead of problems, such that the grin that blooms across her lips is feral in its satisfaction. "No," she declares, voice low and triumphant.

Her hands find his, fingers sliding around his wrists and guiding them upward until she pins them together above his head against the arm of the couch. The movement is fluid and deliberate, her back arching as she drags herself catlike up the length of his chest, slow and intentional, until her hips press flush against his in a deliberate, provocative line. Heat flares instantly, familiar and electric, and she feels it surge through her like a match struck too close to dry tinder. "You don’t get to say shit," she informs him, breath warm against his mouth, her grip tightening just enough to make the point. "You lost your fighting hat, which is an automatic defeat."

Before he can muster a protest she leans down and kisses him hard; no soft reassurances this time, no careful stitching of emotional seams, just pressure and want and the undeniable rightness of him beneath her. It isn’t about distraction or doubt anymore; it’s about choosing him in this moment as fiercely as she ever has, and to find out if they'd fought hard enough for the make-up sex to compensate.

you don't know that you're living til' you're carrying scars
you're either falling in love or falling apart

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Can't touch me, like Gojo—Look good in all my photos

There is no sweeter sound than the no she provides in this moment. In the wrong context, that sounds extremely sketchy, but it perfectly suits the now of this. It means they're done scraping raw the things that have hurt them the most, skinning as much of the hurt away as they can and packing in discussion and compromise so that now something close enough to healing can start. Some days will be better than others still, he's sure. Some it may scar, or linger in ways they don't even realize yet, but it's no longer an infection of worry and avoidance brewing. It's all the responsibility wadded up at long last, leaving nothing left but to be utterly irresponsible now, and his hands mean to act up as soon as possible. Or they were.

Now he gives them up to the shackles of his wife's fingers, already caught for just his thought crime. The curve of them presses his hairtie in tighter around his wrist, the feeling more comfort than bind. A wolf's smile claims him as he bends to her will, arms raised overhead in surrender to the pour of her body against him. A breathy exhale of approval breaks free, the sound low and long as it eases from the seat of his desire deep inside him. "You—" he begins in admiration, but as she fits herself to him, hip to hip, all pretense for language dissolves into a growl. His body responds instantly to the contact, tightening beneath her like a drawn bowstring. Heat floods through him, chasing the line of her hips against his, and he tips upward to meet the pressure without even thinking about it.

Her remark tugs up one side of his expression in a crooked grin, head tilting faintly into the scrawl of amusement. Sipping on her breath like it's are a hit all on its own, he murmurs a "that so?" His voice is soft, pushed out with exhale more than spoken. His attention drifts to the closeness of her mouth, to the warmth of her breath against his lips. The space between them suddenly feels unbearable. He leans forward, intent on closing it, but her next comment sparks the beginning of a protest. He only manages to pull back a touch, eyes widening, but the rest of his defense never forms before it’s swallowed whole by the force of her kiss.

He doesn’t melt into it. Instead, he pushes back with equal hunger, mouth meeting hers with a low, feral sound as if he intends to win the argument with his tongue one way or another. There’s nothing gentle or tentative about it, just the heady mix of relief and want, the ache of missing her after being apart and the spark that's caught after all the friction of the fight between them. His shoulders roll, wrists twisting in her grasp until the restraint feels less like capture and more like a challenge. With a low, breathless rumble, he slips one hand free, then the other, the motion quick and impatient, like the last threads of his restraint snapping. His grip finds her waist at once, fingers firm and certain, claiming the curve of her as though he has every right to it.

He rises in a single, fluid motion, hauling himself up from the couch with her still pressed to his chest, her body gathered in the cage of his arms. The movement is instinctive, all heat and momentum, like something wild and hungry finally given permission to move. For a heartbeat he just stands there with her, breath warm against her mouth, arms tight around her as though he can’t quite decide if it's worth untangling from her for even a moment or moving her where he ultimately wants her.

Kaisel

Sexy jutsu, I feel like Naruto—Fightin' demons in my head like I'm Itadori

flora

Flora doesn’t melt so much as ignite when Kaisel surges up into her, meeting her kiss with that feral, breath-dragging hunger, the sound that leaves her mouth is low and involuntary, a molten thing pressed straight into his lips. She answers him without hesitation, tongue deliberate and commanding even now, because fighting with him has always felt less like opposition and more like a sharpening of the same blade, always fighting for the same thing in the end. For them.

She lets his wrists slip free without protest, the challenge already served and satisfied, and when his hands bracket her waist the reaction is immediate. Her hips roll forward into his grip, chasing the pressure he lays down like it’s a spark she refuses to let die, heat coiling low and tight in her belly at the firm certainty of his fingers. She loves the way he holds her—like she belongs exactly there, like the curve of her was designed for his palms—and she arches into it without thought, seeking more of that possessive touch that makes her feel chosen rather than contained.

The rise comes so suddenly that the startled breath she releases barely has time to form before it melts into a deeper moan against his mouth. Her thighs lock instinctively around his waist, not just to steady herself but to claim him in return, to wrap and hold and make sure there is no slipping free now. The movement frees her hands, and she uses them immediately, sliding them up into his hair, fingers spreading at his scalp as she draws him closer, lifting herself higher against him until she’s kissing him from just above, guiding the angle like she means to pull him up into her entirely.

For a heartbeat she parts from his mouth, not far, not enough to cool anything, just enough for her words to land clearly instead of dissolving into him. Her breath is uneven, flushed with want, and her forehead brushes his as she speaks. "I love when you pick me up," she confesses in the spirit of letting him know exactly the sorts of things she likes, voice husky and unguarded, fingers tightening slightly in his hair. "It makes me feel like I can't have you quickly enough. Her nails press just a little more firmly against his scalp and she drags her mouth back to the corner of his, heat flaring bright in her eyes. "It makes me feel crazy," she murmurs, the word half-breath, half-threat, hips shifting again against him in deliberate demonstration of exactly what she means.

you don't know that you're living til' you're carrying scars
you're either falling in love or falling apart

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Can't touch me, like Gojo—Look good in all my photos

He's certain he could subsist on just a diet of her moans. He swallows down the one she offers him now like it's something delectable, fed after starving for so long, and he leans into the press of her mouth with the full intention of feasting on more of them, of her. As she climbs, he goes with her. Shoulders tighten, arms flex to keep her steady, and the added closeness is exactly what he’s been hoping for. Every kiss is answered in kind, impatient and hungry, his mouth finding hers again and again in a pursuit that doesn't end even when he catches her. The slide of her fingers in his hair sparks down the length of his spine like she's come home and is turning every light on inside him. A pleased, sighing sound escapes his throat as his head tips into the touch without hesitation.

His sides heave with the broken cadence of forgotten breath, now furiously taken in as their foreheads meet. The delay is not welcome, but needed, and he considers the possibility of asking the gods to remove the necessity of air from him just so he might never have to wait to worship her with his mouth again. Her words cause his head to tip back, allowing his gaze to find the seabright set of her eyes, letting the hunger mellow briefly into something meaningful and grateful for what she's doing now. The smirk that forms thereafter is slow and dangerous, pride tangled in it as she hands him proof he's done something right. "Mm," he hums, voice rough with approval, arms tightening around her waist as if needing to give evidence he's heard. "Then it’s a good thing I love having you in my arms."

The roll of her hips against him is its own reward, and he turns roughly to reclaim her mouth, nails dragging against his scalp with the motion. There's a new urgency now, movements even more certain. Crazy is exactly the right word. "Gods, I love when you do that." She finds a way to use every part of her to strike friction and arousal, taking him by surprise more than a few times when some part of her has impossibly met his and scored heat there. His hands shift along her, grip firm, palms flexing around her as he pops her up even higher suddenly. There’s a slant of mischief in his lips as he rumbles out, "hope you don’t mind being set down." The warning barely has time to register before he moves. He turns and drops her back onto the length of the couch. It's not rough, a controlled toss that sinks her into the cushions and bounces her back up slightly from the force of it, the couch bucking back against the suddenness. The fish flops, ridiculous.

He follows immediately, weight coming down over her, mouth finding hers again without pause. Though, he does not linger on her lips for long this time. One hand plants beside her shoulder for balance, but the other slides up along her side beneath her shirt, fingers spreading over the warm curve of her ribs, thumb pressing in-between them with a possessive curl against her body. Slow, just for a moment to appreciate, then he hitches the fabric containing her up and over her breasts in a fluid motion. He drags it up higher, breaking from her mouth to tug it free, one hand never fully leaving its exploration of her chest. When he rejoins her, it's with lips and teeth dragging along her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there as he sinks down to where his fingers roll slowly across her nipples, teasing them to stand firm. The first pert one he claims with the warm embrace of his tongue, hand giving the other attention with a subtle pinch of forefinger and thumb. "I want every part of you," he murmurs into the swell of her bosom, too greedy now as he presses them in together, trying to take each into the reach of his mouth.

Kaisel

Sexy jutsu, I feel like Naruto—Fightin' demons in my head like I'm Itadori

flora

There is a half-formed protest gathering behind her teeth when Kaseil says he hopes she doesn’t mind being set down—because she had just said she liked being lifted, thank you very much—but the world tilts before she can weaponize it, and the couch catches her in a breath-stealing bounce that knocks the complaint clean out of her. Laughter bursts up instead, bright and startled and shameless, the fish hat flopping sideways like it too has been scandalized by the betrayal. Her hands reach for him automatically, not to stop the fall but to make sure he follows, because if she is going down, she expects him to be going down too.

He is on her before the cushions finish settling, and the weight of him—solid, warm, decisive—presses a sound out of her that feels like approval written in velvet and heat. The brief sip of air between them disappears almost immediately, and when his mouth finds hers again she answers with no hesitation, legs winding around his waist like she’s locking a door behind them. The world shrinks to pressure and breath and the wild, ridiculous knowledge that they were just discussing nearly ruined proposals and murderous ex-boyfriends and now she is thinking about the way his hands fit around her ribs like they were designed for that exact stretch of her.

When his palms drag along her sides she shivers openly, spine arching into the path of him without any performance left in it, wriggling to help him peel her shirt away because patience is suddenly intolerable. The air touches where his hands were and she barely registers it before he replaces the absence with heat again. Her chin tips back as his mouth descends, offering her throat without conscious though, laughter catching low in her chest because the sheer indulgence of making out with her husband on their couch feels obscene in the best way. "You could always ask Frey for more hands," she breathes, the tease spilling out even as her pulse hammers, because she cannot resist needling him even when she is the one unraveling.

Her fingers bunch in his shirt, tugging stubbornly upward. She is less efficient than he'd been, more frantic, fabric catching and resisting, but she refuses to let him have the advantage. She forces him to part from her long enough to drag the shirt over his head, and the second his skin meets hers fully it is like striking flint. A quiet, reverent sound escapes her—softer than the laughter from before, deeper than teasing—because the heat of him against her feels less like play and more like gravity as her hands spread over his shoulders as though reacquainting themselves with something wild and entirely hers, thumbs tracing the breadth of him, the strength that lifted her without effort. She moans under her breath, low and pleased, fingers tightening as she pulls him down again, unwilling to waste even a second. There is no more fight between them, no Jack, no Koa, no secrets to be kept. There is only the way his body fits against hers, and the wild, dizzying joy of being wanted exactly like this.

you don't know that you're living til' you're carrying scars
you're either falling in love or falling apart

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Can't touch me, like Gojo—Look good in all my photos

The laughter that bursts from her hits him like sunlight after a storm. It pulls a grin from him just as quickly, the feral edge of his expression softening into something bright and boyish for a heartbeat before it dissolves back into heat on her skin. Gods, he’s missed this—how right everything feels when she’s looking at him like that, wrapped around him like they belong nowhere else, giggling amid heat because the joy is uncontainable.

Her tease about Frey earns a breathy laugh of his own, nipple popping free of his attention. "That’d actually be useful for a lot of reasons," he admits, smiling into the curve of her breast as the thought isn't entirely dismissed. His eyes flash up towards her, features barely visible from this angle, so he rises up further, thumbs still rolling across her skin and down to her hips. "I think you’re at your cap for good ideas for the day."

The shirt comes off with her help, the fabric dragged free between them, and the moment it’s gone he wastes no time reclaiming the contact. His hands return to her like they’d been wandering and finally found their way home, sliding warm and indulgent across her sides and the sleek cut of her abdomen, palms pressing her closer as his mounting erection dips in against the frame of her. He leans down to kiss her again, slower this time, savoring the feel of skin against skin, the heat of her, the soft sounds she makes for him.

For a few breaths, he lets himself just have this—her warmth, her laughter, the simple, dizzying rightness of it all. Then the urgency creeps back in. He shifts suddenly, pushing up from the couch, the halo of her legs around him bringing her thighs with his retreat before her escapes her grasp. His eyes are nothing but a streak of mischief when he meets her gaze, parting from her only briefly to position himself at the edge of the couch. He leans over the armrest, grasping her toes and tugging her like his day's catch towards him. "C’mere," he says just before hoisting her along, voice low and intent.

The soft sink of the cushions could work, but he doesn't want to fight the plush just to ensure he has her fully in grasp. He wants the leverage of the solid floor and the angle of her rising above the arm, prime for the taking. Flicking the button of her pants apart as he bows down to kiss her naval, his fingers hook in her pants and yank down, panties rolling with. "Unlike the pom poms, the fish has to go," he informs her, mouth tilting sideways into something challenging. "Unless..." one brow kicks up. "Are we still fighting?"

Kaisel

Sexy jutsu, I feel like Naruto—Fightin' demons in my head like I'm Itadori

flora

Laughter keeps spilling out of her, softer now, richer, less startled and more indulgent, and she shrugs just enough to feel the slide of him against her again. "Mmm," she hums, tilting her head lazily, lashes lowered in exaggerated thought. "You could take up juggling." The suggestion dissolves into a breathy little huff as his thumbs travel lower, warmth blooming wherever he presses, her mind scattering like startled birds.

"That’s good," she murmurs, voice thinning into heat as her back arches without permission. "Because suddenly my mind is super distracted." And it’s true. Silly as it might be, she could stay exactly here—the pair of them topless, tangled, kissing him until the light shifts through the stained glass and the house spirits get bored and slam doors in protest. There’s something obscene in how simple it is, how deeply satisfying just pressing skin to skin can be. She has never once managed to get enough of him, not in all the time she’s known him, not even now when they are married and technically allowed to devour each other without consequence in a way that in theory could have taken some of the spark out of things.

But then Kaisel is pulling away, and as he does, her legs tighten immediately, reflexive and possessive, trying to bar his retreat, and the small protest that escapes her is more laugh than complaint. He doesn’t fight it; he simply shifts, positioning himself beyond the armrest with intent that sends anticipation sparking beneath her ribs. When he releases her feet and bows over her, mouth brushing her stomach, a shivery breath spills from her as his lips press against her skin.

The remainder of her clothes disappear with a decisive tug, fabric sliding away until she’s left gloriously bare except for the absurd fish hat perched stubbornly atop her head. The ridiculousness of it makes her grin wickedly even as heat coils tighter inside her. She lifts one shoulder in a languid shrug that makes the movement deliberate, indulgent, offering. "We could keep fighting," she suggests, eyes flashing with challenge, voice warm and honeyed before she narrows her gaze at him, playful indignation sharpening the edges. "I mean, it’s basically spousal abuse to get me naked and then ask stupid questions instead of doing something about it."

With exaggerated offense she reaches up, plucks the fish hat from her head, and flings it at him like a thrown gauntlet, curls tumbling free as she settles back against the cushions, unashamed and entirely expectant.

you don't know that you're living til' you're carrying scars
you're either falling in love or falling apart

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!