we write out the ends on our palms, then forget to read
Flora hesitated for the briefest of moments, the weight of her thoughts pressing down around her like a funnel cloud. Thoughts of Jack lingered at the edges of her mind—his hands, his voice, the stormy blue of his eyes, the way he could read her every thought before it even formed—blurred her vision. The contrast with Danta was striking, almost jarring, and it left her feeling oddly exposed, even though he couldn’t possibly know what was swirling in her head.
But..that was the difference, wasn’t it? Danta wasn’t a telepath. He didn’t know her thoughts unless she chose to share them, and the realization washed over her like a wave of freedom.
So when Danta's lips brushed hers, Flora kissed him back, at first tentatively, her mind still tangled in comparisons and thoughts she couldn’t quite shake. But then she shifted, a spark of determination lighting her from within, and she wound her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. The tentativeness faded, replaced by something more deliberate—calculated, even—as she leaned into the kiss with a confidence that felt like slipping into a familiar role.
Her fingers toyed with the ends of his hair, the movement slow and playful as she pressed against him, as if to remind him how willingly this had all been offered to him years before. Whatever unease she’d felt moments ago was buried now, hidden beneath the practiced ease of her touch and the way her lips curved into a faint smile against his. "Do you want me to fuck you with a cock like Asta's?" She whispered against his mouth. No, she'd not be able to pick out the butcher's likeness in the box given how brief her time with him had been, but no doubt the Maverick could find a suitable comparison if he was so inclined.
But..that was the difference, wasn’t it? Danta wasn’t a telepath. He didn’t know her thoughts unless she chose to share them, and the realization washed over her like a wave of freedom.
So when Danta's lips brushed hers, Flora kissed him back, at first tentatively, her mind still tangled in comparisons and thoughts she couldn’t quite shake. But then she shifted, a spark of determination lighting her from within, and she wound her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. The tentativeness faded, replaced by something more deliberate—calculated, even—as she leaned into the kiss with a confidence that felt like slipping into a familiar role.
Her fingers toyed with the ends of his hair, the movement slow and playful as she pressed against him, as if to remind him how willingly this had all been offered to him years before. Whatever unease she’d felt moments ago was buried now, hidden beneath the practiced ease of her touch and the way her lips curved into a faint smile against his. "Do you want me to fuck you with a cock like Asta's?" She whispered against his mouth. No, she'd not be able to pick out the butcher's likeness in the box given how brief her time with him had been, but no doubt the Maverick could find a suitable comparison if he was so inclined.
