this ain't for the best

flora

"Do something about it, then." Flora encourages as she breathes out instead of up if only to better fill the spaces between Jack's fingers. Her fingers tangle in his hair, her mouth against his neck, and though the memory of kissing roses against the butcher's skin keeps her from doing the same, she still forms wordless pleas that her mind echoes out in bright reds and golds.

As Jack's fingers tug at the lace, the brief moment of tension between the pull of his hand and the intricate weave of the gown has Flora holding her breath, and in the seconds that follow the delicious sound of tearing lace, it feels as if she's actually able to breathe again. As if she'd been holding her breath in the hopes of things being different ever since she'd placed her hands on Asta's cheeks in the Tavern, and only now with his dress in tatters, could she properly dispel that hope.

Twisting her ring as the discarded bolt of lace reminds her that she isn't visible, Flora shifts enough to lean against Jack's desk (being mindful of his stupid maps), before gathering up the silk and lace into her hands and revealing the yellow-grey bruise on the inside of her thigh. "Make it go away," she whispers, her lips parted and cheeks flushed. How he chose to do that she didn't care; healing water, bruising over it, carving it out, it didn't matter.

We can't make any promises now can we babe?
But you can make me a drink.

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!