candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor
Flora's mind is an open ocean, wild and untamed, the currents dragging her under and throwing her back to the surface in dizzying succession. I'm what? Jack had asked, and gods if she was capable of doing more than moan, she'd have said that he was everything. The storm that rages and churns her into chaos, the dark, roiling waves that pull her under until she’s gasping for breath, the rough seas that threaten to break her apart. But he is also the ship that rides it all out, the anchor that keeps her from being lost to the abyss, the steady warmth against her spine that promises safe harbour even when the world turns cold. He was the man she loved with reckless abandon, the one she wanted above all else.
"Jack—" His name is a whisper against the whirlwind of heat rising up through her belly, her lips forming it around a shuddering moan as her body trembles as the pleasure crests higher, sharp and relentless with every snap of his hips.
Flora can’t feel Jack's magic, of course; can’t hear what he’s plucking from the minds outside, but she doesn’t need to. She knows him, knows how he thrives on the audacity of this moment just as much as she does, knows the way his attention flickers and sharpens when he’s listening. And gods—gods—that means there are people out there watching.
The thought alone sends a molten thrill racing down her spine, pooling hot and reckless in her belly. "How many would rather watch? And how many think they could replace one of us?" A slow, wicked grin tugs at her lips as she imagines it—how many wanted to know what it would feel like to have Jack's strong hands touching every inch of them as he fucked them hard and fast, versus how many would rather have their way with the queen, their own hand free to roam?—though the thoughts falter almost immediately as she reaches between her legs, her fingers brushing over her clit—and fuck—she’s right there, drowning in the storm of him.
"Jack—" His name is a whisper against the whirlwind of heat rising up through her belly, her lips forming it around a shuddering moan as her body trembles as the pleasure crests higher, sharp and relentless with every snap of his hips.
Flora can’t feel Jack's magic, of course; can’t hear what he’s plucking from the minds outside, but she doesn’t need to. She knows him, knows how he thrives on the audacity of this moment just as much as she does, knows the way his attention flickers and sharpens when he’s listening. And gods—gods—that means there are people out there watching.
The thought alone sends a molten thrill racing down her spine, pooling hot and reckless in her belly. "How many would rather watch? And how many think they could replace one of us?" A slow, wicked grin tugs at her lips as she imagines it—how many wanted to know what it would feel like to have Jack's strong hands touching every inch of them as he fucked them hard and fast, versus how many would rather have their way with the queen, their own hand free to roam?—though the thoughts falter almost immediately as she reaches between her legs, her fingers brushing over her clit—and fuck—she’s right there, drowning in the storm of him.
