f l o r e n t i n e
The dusk girl watches as night passes into day; sunlight melting beneath the growing shadows.
The twilight comes creeping up upon them. It whispers in their ears – the hum of evening flies and home-swept birds. Even the grasses seek their slumber, bodies barely rustling, as the night breathes its sleepy evening sighs.
Moonlight pours upon the ground; so white, so pure, so silvery slick. Upon the ground it draws their shadows that ripple and twist and beg them to dance. This girl, this nymph they call her, would dance until night came to consume her. Then she would dance on to the rhythm of her moon shadow.
What a pair they are, Bexley and Florentine: together drawn in shades of gold and wild honey. Night brings its cool touch, trailing it idly along their spines and over their shoulders. Shiver it begs of Florentine and she would, had Bexley not leaned close.
Heat.
Warm, rippling, flame-soft heat licks its way between the girls. It smolders and trails along their stretches of golden skin and fair, fair hair. Moon-bleached curls whisper along Florentine’s skin, tickling.
Bexley’s head tilts as humour skips and dances between them. It plays along the flower girl’s lips, pulling a smile from the corners of her dusk-hued mouth. Only words have space between the girls, their proximity an intimate thing despite the laughter that simmers between them.
“And what opportunities would a girl like you want with a girl like me?” The words chime as they hang in the dusky air, ruminating. Dark lashes fan over her cheek as her gaze skitters across the ground. The shadows swirled there, threatening to reach up the girls’ legs and within them she hears the whispers of the Night King.
Amethyst eyes reach up to take in the Solterran girl with her scent of sun, sand and scorching heat. She wonders what powers the Day King might have to banish the night. But it is only laughter that curls itself in her throat and coaxes her lips into a sardonic smile. Such powers were the playthings of the gods, not kings or queens.
Or so they say…
Through her tangled fringe – a meadow of golden sun and lavender flowers – Flora lets her eyes trickle over Bexley’s face. “Miss Florentine.” She says lightly, finally answering Bexley’s lingering question. “From the Dusk Court.” With a flare of her wings, up until now reserved for the Night King alone, Flora dips herself into a curtsey.
What curious nights these were turning into.
@Bexley O.O!
this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
The twilight comes creeping up upon them. It whispers in their ears – the hum of evening flies and home-swept birds. Even the grasses seek their slumber, bodies barely rustling, as the night breathes its sleepy evening sighs.
Moonlight pours upon the ground; so white, so pure, so silvery slick. Upon the ground it draws their shadows that ripple and twist and beg them to dance. This girl, this nymph they call her, would dance until night came to consume her. Then she would dance on to the rhythm of her moon shadow.
What a pair they are, Bexley and Florentine: together drawn in shades of gold and wild honey. Night brings its cool touch, trailing it idly along their spines and over their shoulders. Shiver it begs of Florentine and she would, had Bexley not leaned close.
Heat.
Warm, rippling, flame-soft heat licks its way between the girls. It smolders and trails along their stretches of golden skin and fair, fair hair. Moon-bleached curls whisper along Florentine’s skin, tickling.
Bexley’s head tilts as humour skips and dances between them. It plays along the flower girl’s lips, pulling a smile from the corners of her dusk-hued mouth. Only words have space between the girls, their proximity an intimate thing despite the laughter that simmers between them.
“And what opportunities would a girl like you want with a girl like me?” The words chime as they hang in the dusky air, ruminating. Dark lashes fan over her cheek as her gaze skitters across the ground. The shadows swirled there, threatening to reach up the girls’ legs and within them she hears the whispers of the Night King.
Amethyst eyes reach up to take in the Solterran girl with her scent of sun, sand and scorching heat. She wonders what powers the Day King might have to banish the night. But it is only laughter that curls itself in her throat and coaxes her lips into a sardonic smile. Such powers were the playthings of the gods, not kings or queens.
Or so they say…
Through her tangled fringe – a meadow of golden sun and lavender flowers – Flora lets her eyes trickle over Bexley’s face. “Miss Florentine.” She says lightly, finally answering Bexley’s lingering question. “From the Dusk Court.” With a flare of her wings, up until now reserved for the Night King alone, Flora dips herself into a curtsey.
What curious nights these were turning into.
@
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
