Prompt one: Allow the carefree, happy side of you to run wild and create the fluffiest little fluff that ever fluffed.

Prompt two: Muse

Apologies for the terrible metaphors and flowery writing, but my explanation is: when one is in love, isn't the world just a bouquet of flowers disguised as reality?

She wakes something primal in him when her lips come near his ears. As he is trying to control his hips from bucking, his knee is leaping out of its socket, screaming, "let me free, I can't take it!"

He can't take it.

He remembers the way his thighs trembled when she mumbled "come home," and the way his toes curled when he took it as an "I love you," the way his fingers felt fire shooting from their tips like gunpowder when he pressed a kiss to her forehead to say "it's a promise."

He likes to think about the foam water gently caressing her feet, minuscule fairies licking her skin to have a taste at the life she holds inside of her. He imagines that she is famed far and wide under the ocean as the human who tastes like ambrosia, the drink of the gods that keeps them immortal. The wind brushes through her hair; even Zephyr wants to put his face into her locks and take a deep breath, to feel her youth, to taste sand on his lips.

When she sleeps beside him, he listens to her breathe. In, out, in, out, like the tides, like how a bird's wings go up and down, like how the light withdraws from the sky on summer evenings, slowly and leaving deep colors running across the sky.

When she wakes he never hears her because she is always very careful not to wake him. He probably has dried drool running down his cheek when he first opens his eyes, but she is always standing there ready to kiss him to life. He obliges, and he is not ashamed of his bad breath, because he loves the way that she grins and tells him to brush his teeth.

She says the strangest things sometimes, things that knock him back a step and make him think about everything that he has ever thought about. And when he wants to end everything because he can't fucking take it anymore, she is there to remind him that there is something to look forward to. He is always excited to go home. The cameras and the capitol don't matter anymore; she's here. She's here. She is so good at making him forget the details of his twisted life.

His body rebels against him when he thinks about how she might feel the same way, because if that wasn't what the look in her eye meant that morning, if that isn't what her firmest kisses mean, if that isn't what this promise means, he doesn't know what anything means to her.

If there is a god and xe paused the world at exactly the time a man looked into his love's eyes and said "I do," and if xe opened up xis mind in a surgical fashion and caught all of the colors flying out of their containers, and if xe dissected those colors, xe would have found things beyond even his vocabulary.

And xe would have laughed at the words that humans had created to describe it, as if it could be ever expressed between people through sound.