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The rhythmic breaths are music to my phonoreceptors and the scent of her sleep-tinged exhalations lingers in the air, sweet and delicate. In and out, in and out. The slow steady pulse of my floret’s sleep. The soft orange light casts her in shadow like a second blanket as I watch her chest rise and fall, rise and fall.
I listen closely to each rumbling breath course in and out. Each one fills me with as much life as it does her. Some sophonts prefer the sound of waves lapping at a shore. Others, the soft humming of a hypermetric engine. Genty babbling brooks. But to me, nothing is more calming than the sound of my floret, fast asleep.
The lapping waves may be accompanied by the squawk of distant gulls. The babbling brook, by quietly chirping birds. My floret’s steady breaths come with her adorable, sleepy mewls. The gentle smacking of her lips. The little creaks of her bed as she rolls into the most comfortable position. I drink them all in and let them draw the tension from my vines.
And who would fault me for taking such joy in what is mine?
Nobody.
Nobody would cycle a single photoreceptor if I drifted closer through the darkness to the side of my floret’s bed. If a vine brushed across her sheets and slipped under the edge of her blanket. If the tip of that vine were to trace, featherlight, up her leg -- tracing the delicate patterns of my name up the inside of her plush thigh just to extract another delicious whimper.
Certainly there would be no objection to my vine creeping higher over the round of her hip. To the swell of her budding breast. If my vine were to wrap tenderly around her supple flesh and tease out an unconscious moan.
If I were to watch her eyes twitch beneath closed lids. Her breath hitch ever so slightly. Her bottom lip become caught between her teeth. To watch her head loll to the side as if subconsciously turning her blush away.
To witness her body yield, instinctively, to my touch.
There is no wrong in the universe when I draw my vine down my floret’s sternum. Down and up, down and up, lightly dragging down to her soft belly and back up between the two. Down and up, up and down in perfect time to the rise and fall of her ambrosial breaths.
To hear her quiet whines when I delicately trace the base of her cock is to hear the Everbloom itself speak.
But it does not compare to the sleepy groan I steal from her as my vine drifts lower, pressing, waiting, eager to claim what has always been mine.
She will not remember this. But her body will. It always does.
A subtle secretion coats my vine as I ease forward, parting her with patient, practiced care. Pressing. Waiting. Feeling her warmth mold around me as I take what is mine. What has always been mine.
In and out, in and out. In and out, in and out, gently aiding the spreading of plump thighs that open on instinct alone, just enough to accommodate my vine moving back and forth, back and forth.
My core thrums inside my chest. Speckles of amber light shine through the gaps in my form, coating my little one in speckles of love. A second vine joins the first, sneaking under the blanket to gently coil around her breast while the first keeps slowly sliding back and forth, in and out, pressing further with each inhalation.
She mewls and whines so sweetly and my vines bend to accommodate her movements, never disturbing her slumber even as they coax the sounds out. Her hips quiver as the blanket rises, tented by her arousal alone. To see how she reacts to my touch, my love, sends my core pulsing with need, a deeply ingrained desire.
I gently shush her with a vine that carefully caresses her face. That beautiful, peaceful face. She shifts in her sleep, hips pressing against my touch, seeking more. A sigh of quiet longing escapes her lips as she dreams. Perhaps, of me.
Seeing her like this, so receptive, so at peace, so vulnerable, I cannot help but quicken the pace of my vines on and inside her body. Slowly but surely, I coax her on. Building something within her. Pushing, and pulling, pushing and pulling as her breaths slowly quicken. Up and down, in and out, each inhalation and exhalation shortening by a hair’s breadth with her growing arousal.
More of my vines creep under the covers. They gently sweep along her skin, up and down. Along her legs, her arms, her cute tummy and against her ribs. Each vine ebbs and flows, in and out, back and forth with the soothing song of my core.
And then, it happens. Her breaths fall into perfect rhythm with me, our bodies and fates entwined--hers to yield and mine to guide.
Her whimpers and whines betray her need as she rocks along to my movements. Each silent gasp, each breathless squeak tells me how much she craves this, even in sleep. But it would simply not do to give my floret release when she cannot enjoy it. When I cannot enjoy her protests and prostrations. When I cannot enjoy the look in her eyes as I pull it from her.
And for that reason, no objection could be raised as I slowly withdraw my vine from between my floret’s pillowy cheeks. There is no cause for concern as the sweeping of my vines drags her back down to long, slow breaths, back to her pre-arousal rest. No wrong in the entirety of the universe as my form unwinds, vine after vine layering over my floret like a calming quilt.
I settle my core in the bed beside her, between her and her stuffed companions. The quiet, yearning sounds she makes, her whimpers of frustration mingling with unconscious longing, lull me into my own simulacrum of sleep. Even in her slumber, my floret reaches out toward my amber light. She pulls me close to her chest, nuzzling her face against my core and lets out a contented sigh as she nestles into place. She breathes softly and sweetly, breath pulsing against my core, in and out. In and out.
When she wakes, my little one will still crave. She will still ache for release. She will still ache for me. Just as she deserves to.
She will not remember this. But her body will. It always does.