[quote pid='2316' dateline='1501626347']
f l o r e n t i n e
Florentine fancies that she sees the moment the Solterran girl, free-falls into the night. It was there in the sudden darkening of Bexley’s azure eyes. They were the sea turning inky black beneath roiling storm clouds. Intensity and passion still crash through that gaze; waves reaching to push and pull at Flora, drowning her in wild abandonment.
The twilight girl is tethered, held fast beneath the sun-girl’s gaze. She feels those eyes, draw across the lines of her face like a paintbrush, and wonders what art it creates within Bexley’s mind. How does the Solterran girl see her? It is a small voice, made more tremulous since her disastrous meeting with Charlemagne, that hopes she is beautiful to those sea-blue eyes.
Bexley’s words steal the smile from Florentine’s face as readily as it stole her own. Those words, their proposition, settle heavily between the golden girls. They do not leave space for playful smiles or toying laughs. Rather, like tempting caresses, provoking and enchanting, they slide across sun-kissed skin. They are dancing then twirling, exotic and alluring… tempting.
Was Florentine afraid? No. She was the girl that died. The girl that slipped through time into unknown worlds with greedy amethyst eyes and a thrill that sets her heart racing. And yet, here, where the haze of dusk, pulled them beyond light teasing and into the realm of secretively shadowed allure, Florentine was beginning to drown in that girl’s sea-blue gaze. Bexley keeps her there, boldly and suggestively, even as her cheeks turn warm.
The dusk girl’s skin tingles with want, with challenge. She runs her gaze like a whispering touch over Bexley’s lips, her eyelashes, the slant of her nose. But it is her lips that brush across the blush of Bexley’s cheek; hot breath fanning hotter, flushed skin.
It is a kiss that lingers, an answer framed in twilight.
The smile returns to Bexley’s face, drawing Flora’s eyes like moths to the flame of those lips. Riotous hair, thick and tangled, tumble its way forward, hiding Florentine’s face, her eyes, like a veil from the Solterran girl. But through those strands, steady amethyst watches as Bexley drinks in the setting sun.
“It is my time.” The flower girl hums finally letting her own eyes drift from caramel skin and azure eyes, to drink in the wild coming of the night.
The twilight girl is so absorbed in her silver moon, that she almost misses the brush of a muzzle against a lavender flower. Her head twists, purple eyes finding the sun-girl as she smiles, “No, they grow there.” Her eyes track a petal that falls to the earth at their feet. “Yes, like a fairy’s, I suppose…” Her smile is small, impish. She is the nymph in the woods, the girl of flowers and dancing and woodland music. That is what Lysander had once called her…
“Would you like one?” She asks, as whisper soft as Bexley’s challenge had been. A lilac bell flower untangles itself from the vines of honey hair as Florentine holds it before Bexley. “A gift to remember me by?” She asks from beneath her lashes, from behind that coy smile that playfully lifts the corner of her lips.
It is hope that has her wanting to be remembered by more than a flower, rather, a kiss.
@Bexley
this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
The twilight girl is tethered, held fast beneath the sun-girl’s gaze. She feels those eyes, draw across the lines of her face like a paintbrush, and wonders what art it creates within Bexley’s mind. How does the Solterran girl see her? It is a small voice, made more tremulous since her disastrous meeting with Charlemagne, that hopes she is beautiful to those sea-blue eyes.
Bexley’s words steal the smile from Florentine’s face as readily as it stole her own. Those words, their proposition, settle heavily between the golden girls. They do not leave space for playful smiles or toying laughs. Rather, like tempting caresses, provoking and enchanting, they slide across sun-kissed skin. They are dancing then twirling, exotic and alluring… tempting.
Was Florentine afraid? No. She was the girl that died. The girl that slipped through time into unknown worlds with greedy amethyst eyes and a thrill that sets her heart racing. And yet, here, where the haze of dusk, pulled them beyond light teasing and into the realm of secretively shadowed allure, Florentine was beginning to drown in that girl’s sea-blue gaze. Bexley keeps her there, boldly and suggestively, even as her cheeks turn warm.
The dusk girl’s skin tingles with want, with challenge. She runs her gaze like a whispering touch over Bexley’s lips, her eyelashes, the slant of her nose. But it is her lips that brush across the blush of Bexley’s cheek; hot breath fanning hotter, flushed skin.
It is a kiss that lingers, an answer framed in twilight.
The smile returns to Bexley’s face, drawing Flora’s eyes like moths to the flame of those lips. Riotous hair, thick and tangled, tumble its way forward, hiding Florentine’s face, her eyes, like a veil from the Solterran girl. But through those strands, steady amethyst watches as Bexley drinks in the setting sun.
“It is my time.” The flower girl hums finally letting her own eyes drift from caramel skin and azure eyes, to drink in the wild coming of the night.
The twilight girl is so absorbed in her silver moon, that she almost misses the brush of a muzzle against a lavender flower. Her head twists, purple eyes finding the sun-girl as she smiles, “No, they grow there.” Her eyes track a petal that falls to the earth at their feet. “Yes, like a fairy’s, I suppose…” Her smile is small, impish. She is the nymph in the woods, the girl of flowers and dancing and woodland music. That is what Lysander had once called her…
“Would you like one?” She asks, as whisper soft as Bexley’s challenge had been. A lilac bell flower untangles itself from the vines of honey hair as Florentine holds it before Bexley. “A gift to remember me by?” She asks from beneath her lashes, from behind that coy smile that playfully lifts the corner of her lips.
It is hope that has her wanting to be remembered by more than a flower, rather, a kiss.
@
[/quote]
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
