flora
Did Jack's telepathy work while he was sleeping? Flora didn't know, nor had it been a consideration as she'd pulled herself out of her bed to stare down toward the docks where the Ark was still moored; it wasn't a consideration as she lined her eyes with kohl and dressed in the gown Asta had purchased for her, made of skin-tight red lace and wine-dark satin; it wasn't a consideration as she'd twisted her ring in order to board the Ark without anyone's notice, not that there was anything more than a skeletal crew milling about giving the late hour.
Only now, standing before Jack's door, it was a consideration as Flora lifted her knuckles to lightly knock upon the wood before pausing. Standing in a puddle of shadow away from the moonlight, there was nothing at risk of giving away her invisibility, not unless someone planned on barging into the captain's quarters. So, resting her hand against the frame instead, the queen closed her eyes and filled her mind with thoughts of ringed fingers touching the lace gown hugging her curves before tearing through its intricate weave, of a still healing mark on the inside of her thigh tattooed over by a new pair of lips, of a man who might not have been in love with her, but sure as fuck wasn't in love with anyone else either.
Pressing her fingertips against the wood of the door frame, Flora let her thoughts grow ragged and wild, taking on their own contour and colour as inspiration struck: icy cold fingers against her spine, hands rough in her hair and lips soft against her cheek, kisses that tastes of whiskey or rum—sweet at first before burning the rest of the way down. Only when they turned to thoughts of days prior, of sultry voices and declarations of love did she actively control the narrative, subbing out those memories for lurid and scarlett fantasies instead.
Only now, standing before Jack's door, it was a consideration as Flora lifted her knuckles to lightly knock upon the wood before pausing. Standing in a puddle of shadow away from the moonlight, there was nothing at risk of giving away her invisibility, not unless someone planned on barging into the captain's quarters. So, resting her hand against the frame instead, the queen closed her eyes and filled her mind with thoughts of ringed fingers touching the lace gown hugging her curves before tearing through its intricate weave, of a still healing mark on the inside of her thigh tattooed over by a new pair of lips, of a man who might not have been in love with her, but sure as fuck wasn't in love with anyone else either.
Pressing her fingertips against the wood of the door frame, Flora let her thoughts grow ragged and wild, taking on their own contour and colour as inspiration struck: icy cold fingers against her spine, hands rough in her hair and lips soft against her cheek, kisses that tastes of whiskey or rum—sweet at first before burning the rest of the way down. Only when they turned to thoughts of days prior, of sultry voices and declarations of love did she actively control the narrative, subbing out those memories for lurid and scarlett fantasies instead.
We can't make any promises now can we babe?
But you can make me a drink.
But you can make me a drink.
