Flora
The slow way he descends nearly as Flora moaning her impatience, but she keeps the sound locked in the back of her throat; she enjoys the teasing and the tension almost as much as the result and gods she's almost certain Asta knows it.
Biting her lower lip as he agrees—one more—the queen hisses in a deep breath as the heat of his mouth warms her inner thigh. Crying out softly—not in pain but in pleasure—as his kisses find their mark and a bloom of dark red blossoms on her skin, Flora has to force her lower lip out from beneath her teeth lest she inadvertently begin something neither of them would feel good about finishing just now.
Moaning softly, her blue eyes hooded as she gazes down at him, her expression is one that nearly looks pained one moment and then awestruck the next, as lines crease her forehead and her lips form silent words—pleas, prayers—before his touch has her breath hiccuping in her throat. "I just didn't want you to have to keep bending down." Flora purrs, her words drowned in crimson not unlike the flush across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.
Her fingers tangle a touch desperately in his hair, ruining the perfectly combed lines. She'll fix it later when the desire of having this man—this beast, this butcher—staring up at her from his knees has burned itself out, but for the moment the queen has little interest in maintaining his hairstyle as her hips roll slightly forward, her fingernails scraping against his scalp.
Biting her lower lip as he agrees—one more—the queen hisses in a deep breath as the heat of his mouth warms her inner thigh. Crying out softly—not in pain but in pleasure—as his kisses find their mark and a bloom of dark red blossoms on her skin, Flora has to force her lower lip out from beneath her teeth lest she inadvertently begin something neither of them would feel good about finishing just now.
Moaning softly, her blue eyes hooded as she gazes down at him, her expression is one that nearly looks pained one moment and then awestruck the next, as lines crease her forehead and her lips form silent words—pleas, prayers—before his touch has her breath hiccuping in her throat. "I just didn't want you to have to keep bending down." Flora purrs, her words drowned in crimson not unlike the flush across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.
Her fingers tangle a touch desperately in his hair, ruining the perfectly combed lines. She'll fix it later when the desire of having this man—this beast, this butcher—staring up at her from his knees has burned itself out, but for the moment the queen has little interest in maintaining his hairstyle as her hips roll slightly forward, her fingernails scraping against his scalp.
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
