f l o r e n t i n e
It is only a brush, a gentle bump and yet to Florentine, it was like worlds colliding. Her eyes close as nerves tingle, her body awakening and it becomes so much easier to just feel. Her neck arches in, links of golden chain running through her lips and chiming against her teeth. Bexley’s breath hitches and against her cheek, Flora feels the other girl’s heart beat, rapid and strong – a hummingbird’s wings fluttering, fluttering.
The dusk girl makes no effort to let go of the necklace she holds, for all thought is lost to scent, to feel, to exploration. It is comfortable here, so close to this other creature of golden skin and daylight hair. But soon she does release that golden chain, and it falls, chiming in the air as it sways and settles at Bexley’s throat.
“It is beautiful.” She breathes in twilight. Her voice is but a whisper, for as they stand, so close, so tight, who else was here to hear them? They are a tangle of woven gold in a field of moonlit silver. “He is lucky then, that you are here to remember him.” Florentine offers, her eyes dark, dark in the shadows of the night. They lift to take in the sun-girl’s vibrant blue and the flower-girl smiles soft and warm. It feels a secret, this thing she has been told through hesitant lips, and so her smile is thus: a promise, a vow to keep this necklace secret. Slow and steady, her lips reach up to rest between the girl’s eyes. Slowly, as though blind, as though an eternity would never be long enough to map the contours of her face, Flora trails her lips down Bexley’s nose and away. It was a gentle caress, a comfort for muscles still held tight with their confession.
But, Florentine should have foreseen, like the tide turning, Bexley becomes lava beside her. She is too soft, too hot and too dangerous. Bexley’s dominance, armed with teeth and heavy breath, plays out across Florentine’s skin. There are teeth at the emissary’s nape, breath at the shell of her ear and skin chafing, rubbing, burning. Through it all the flower girl remains still, a rose within a storm, bowing low, breaking none. She trembles with this touch of gold, vibrating with the rhythm of the hum Bexley slides across her skin.
“I might.” The twilight girl sings in starlight words and evening breezes. Quick as a flash, her teeth are at the necklace again and there is a tug, a pull so gentle, so firm, to bring Bexley closer still. “Or maybe you could visit me?” Her suggestion falls to silence, but her lips laugh on, curved with a laughter that would never die.
Florentine steps back, peeling their skin apart and it feels like she is remade. They had been one, Bexley and she, too tangled, too entwined to even know where one ended and the other began. But here, with skin apart and only cold to surround her, Flora feels bereft as her body rebuilds as her skin aches and turns to its memories of where Bexley had once been.
@Bexley
this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
The dusk girl makes no effort to let go of the necklace she holds, for all thought is lost to scent, to feel, to exploration. It is comfortable here, so close to this other creature of golden skin and daylight hair. But soon she does release that golden chain, and it falls, chiming in the air as it sways and settles at Bexley’s throat.
“It is beautiful.” She breathes in twilight. Her voice is but a whisper, for as they stand, so close, so tight, who else was here to hear them? They are a tangle of woven gold in a field of moonlit silver. “He is lucky then, that you are here to remember him.” Florentine offers, her eyes dark, dark in the shadows of the night. They lift to take in the sun-girl’s vibrant blue and the flower-girl smiles soft and warm. It feels a secret, this thing she has been told through hesitant lips, and so her smile is thus: a promise, a vow to keep this necklace secret. Slow and steady, her lips reach up to rest between the girl’s eyes. Slowly, as though blind, as though an eternity would never be long enough to map the contours of her face, Flora trails her lips down Bexley’s nose and away. It was a gentle caress, a comfort for muscles still held tight with their confession.
But, Florentine should have foreseen, like the tide turning, Bexley becomes lava beside her. She is too soft, too hot and too dangerous. Bexley’s dominance, armed with teeth and heavy breath, plays out across Florentine’s skin. There are teeth at the emissary’s nape, breath at the shell of her ear and skin chafing, rubbing, burning. Through it all the flower girl remains still, a rose within a storm, bowing low, breaking none. She trembles with this touch of gold, vibrating with the rhythm of the hum Bexley slides across her skin.
“I might.” The twilight girl sings in starlight words and evening breezes. Quick as a flash, her teeth are at the necklace again and there is a tug, a pull so gentle, so firm, to bring Bexley closer still. “Or maybe you could visit me?” Her suggestion falls to silence, but her lips laugh on, curved with a laughter that would never die.
Florentine steps back, peeling their skin apart and it feels like she is remade. They had been one, Bexley and she, too tangled, too entwined to even know where one ended and the other began. But here, with skin apart and only cold to surround her, Flora feels bereft as her body rebuilds as her skin aches and turns to its memories of where Bexley had once been.
@
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
