Flora
Holding her breath as the butcher's hands wander, and had this been one of her brother's romance novels Asta would have already pulled her tight against him, fingers undoing the work they'd already done. It isn't though, so he doesn't, and as he goes back to the corset, Flora lets her breath out slowly. "Something about lace...maybe how delicate it is, but part of me always wants to tear it, you know?" Lifting an eyebrow, Flora's aqua gaze, made all the more blue by the sapphires shining from her ears, grows darkly mischievous as she shrugs.
His non answer has the girl raising a brow, though she keeps silent in her musings. Would it surprise her at all to know that the butcher had once been a couturier? With the way he dressed, the way he eyed her with such intent and knowledge, the way he'd spoken to the staff? No, not at all.
Pressing one of her hips against his palm as it comes to rest there, the queen brushes her fingers across the pillowy cleavage the dress gives her before her eyes find his in the mirror. The way he smells of cleansing fires and olive groves has Flora sipping in a small breath, and, aware of where his horns are, she does stretch back to press the back of her head against his shoulder, her nose angled up toward his jaw. It shows the stretch of the lace if nothing else as Flora's body elongates so that she might coil one arm around the butcher's neck. "No?" Her lips twist just as the light catches one of her earrings and sends a flash of rainbow fire dancing across her neck. "And yet it seems to come to you so naturally."
His non answer has the girl raising a brow, though she keeps silent in her musings. Would it surprise her at all to know that the butcher had once been a couturier? With the way he dressed, the way he eyed her with such intent and knowledge, the way he'd spoken to the staff? No, not at all.
Pressing one of her hips against his palm as it comes to rest there, the queen brushes her fingers across the pillowy cleavage the dress gives her before her eyes find his in the mirror. The way he smells of cleansing fires and olive groves has Flora sipping in a small breath, and, aware of where his horns are, she does stretch back to press the back of her head against his shoulder, her nose angled up toward his jaw. It shows the stretch of the lace if nothing else as Flora's body elongates so that she might coil one arm around the butcher's neck. "No?" Her lips twist just as the light catches one of her earrings and sends a flash of rainbow fire dancing across her neck. "And yet it seems to come to you so naturally."
Fatefully, I tried to pick my battles 'til the battle picked me
Misery, Like the war of words I shouted in my sleep
Misery, Like the war of words I shouted in my sleep
Code stolen from Queen Sky
