Flora
Don't worry Asta, Flora is full of ideas.
Humming needily as his hand all but covers the globe of her breast, the queen allows herself a moment of greedy revelry as her eyes slip shut and she presses herself into his touch. There was something so gratifying about the whisper of silk against her skin, the way it wouldn't wrinkle beneath the heat of his hands, and how it felt that much more forbidden than it would have if she stood before him entirely naked. Of course there might be those of you wondering but Flora, didn't you nearly have a panic attack with Jack about what had happened, and to that I sayuhh, chorus is coming up it was nothing that some surprising sweetness from the captain or the magic of being 21 couldn't fix.
Flora could handle a bit of pain, but certainly nothing close to what Asta would need from her, especially if his bloodlust hadn't been sated in some time. That alone should have kept Flora from pushing things, and yet..
His question has the queen's eyes flash opening as a catlike smile curls at her lips. Spinning slowly in his grip as if to emphasize the water-like quality of the silk against his own body, Flora peers up at him, an eyebrow raised in an effort to match the cocky affect she'd seen from him so often. "As it happens.." She purrs, stretching her hands up around his neck (and if doing so revealed the half-moon curve of her ass beneath the slip in the mirror, so be it). "Just a mark, then." So saying her fingertips will pulse softly against his neck, not pulling him down— she's already learned that he likes to fight against any sort of pressure directed at his ability to be in control—but merely encouraging him to do so. Should he, he'll find the queen's bright blue eyes filling his vision as her nose brushes softly against his own, her lips whispering, "—like this—" against his mouth.
Breathing deeply the dark scent of him, lost in the carefully curated manliness of him that has her breath hitching in the back of her throat, Flora lets her lips feather down his olive skin, past the brambles of dark hair on his jawline toward the cords of muscle on his neck. Her own teeth whisper against his skin as her tongue flicks out finding not a single trace of sea salt upon him. Closing her lips, Flora draws up blood, pulling it towards the surface without ever allowing it to break the skin. Instead she simply chases away the subtle pressure of burst capillaries with the tip of her tongue, all while humming a vibration she hopes he'll feel rising up the back of his throat.
Humming needily as his hand all but covers the globe of her breast, the queen allows herself a moment of greedy revelry as her eyes slip shut and she presses herself into his touch. There was something so gratifying about the whisper of silk against her skin, the way it wouldn't wrinkle beneath the heat of his hands, and how it felt that much more forbidden than it would have if she stood before him entirely naked. Of course there might be those of you wondering but Flora, didn't you nearly have a panic attack with Jack about what had happened, and to that I say
Flora could handle a bit of pain, but certainly nothing close to what Asta would need from her, especially if his bloodlust hadn't been sated in some time. That alone should have kept Flora from pushing things, and yet..
His question has the queen's eyes flash opening as a catlike smile curls at her lips. Spinning slowly in his grip as if to emphasize the water-like quality of the silk against his own body, Flora peers up at him, an eyebrow raised in an effort to match the cocky affect she'd seen from him so often. "As it happens.." She purrs, stretching her hands up around his neck (and if doing so revealed the half-moon curve of her ass beneath the slip in the mirror, so be it). "Just a mark, then." So saying her fingertips will pulse softly against his neck, not pulling him down— she's already learned that he likes to fight against any sort of pressure directed at his ability to be in control—but merely encouraging him to do so. Should he, he'll find the queen's bright blue eyes filling his vision as her nose brushes softly against his own, her lips whispering, "—like this—" against his mouth.
Breathing deeply the dark scent of him, lost in the carefully curated manliness of him that has her breath hitching in the back of her throat, Flora lets her lips feather down his olive skin, past the brambles of dark hair on his jawline toward the cords of muscle on his neck. Her own teeth whisper against his skin as her tongue flicks out finding not a single trace of sea salt upon him. Closing her lips, Flora draws up blood, pulling it towards the surface without ever allowing it to break the skin. Instead she simply chases away the subtle pressure of burst capillaries with the tip of her tongue, all while humming a vibration she hopes he'll feel rising up the back of his throat.
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
