flora
"We can always pick a safe word if you're that worried about it." The queen chuckles over her shoulder. Quite confident that if things ever went too far she'd absolutely be able to stop herself if Jack was in pain or discomfort, even with a safe word she knew herself better than to promise that she'd have the self control to peel herself away from him simply because wanted to win a bet or cum in a different position.
Where Flora might look like an angel, Jack with his serpentine tattoo and skull of whiskey sat upon a throne of wood and leather looked precisely like the dangerous shadowy monarch that he was. "Oh?" She hums innocently as her fingertips trickle down between her breasts before smoothing the silken material over her stomach. "Are you sure you mean that couch?" Flora asks, her eyes meeting his as a flash of heat streaks across the bridge of her nose, illuminating the memory replaying behind her eyes of another couch and a very different kind of first. Gods she really had been young then, only sixteen, but Jack had been surprisingly gentle, had let her take her time and hadn't let her fake things as had been her initial inclination with him.
Grinning at the memory, Flora slinks her way toward the throne, setting her whiskey down in order to slip into Jack's lap. "Help me with something?" Not bothering to explain, instead, she recalls her conversation with Safrin, the tasks given to her followed by the captain's insistence that she avoid his telepathic offspring. "I'm going to think of a number and you try and guess it." Easy work for Jack no doubt, but in order to obfuscate his efforts, Flora let her thoughts grow as noisy as she could, covering the number thirteen in thick brambles of gossip and refrains of songs.
Where Flora might look like an angel, Jack with his serpentine tattoo and skull of whiskey sat upon a throne of wood and leather looked precisely like the dangerous shadowy monarch that he was. "Oh?" She hums innocently as her fingertips trickle down between her breasts before smoothing the silken material over her stomach. "Are you sure you mean that couch?" Flora asks, her eyes meeting his as a flash of heat streaks across the bridge of her nose, illuminating the memory replaying behind her eyes of another couch and a very different kind of first. Gods she really had been young then, only sixteen, but Jack had been surprisingly gentle, had let her take her time and hadn't let her fake things as had been her initial inclination with him.
Grinning at the memory, Flora slinks her way toward the throne, setting her whiskey down in order to slip into Jack's lap. "Help me with something?" Not bothering to explain, instead, she recalls her conversation with Safrin, the tasks given to her followed by the captain's insistence that she avoid his telepathic offspring. "I'm going to think of a number and you try and guess it." Easy work for Jack no doubt, but in order to obfuscate his efforts, Flora let her thoughts grow as noisy as she could, covering the number thirteen in thick brambles of gossip and refrains of songs.
i scream for whatever it's worth
"i love you" ain't that the worst thing you've ever heard?
"i love you" ain't that the worst thing you've ever heard?
