flora
Flora's pause isn't hesitation—it’s anticipation. A moment suspended like a breath caught between waves, heavy and trembling with everything unsaid and everything she’s longed to feel. There’s no mistaking what she wants—not with the way she tilts her head back into Asta’s shoulder, the way her lashes lower as heat pulses through her chest like a second heartbeat. It’s been too long since someone touched her like they meant it. Since someone wanted her just because, not in spite of all the chaos she carried with her.
Her arm twists to allow her fingers to slide up into Asta’s dark hair, slow and searching, curling at the nape of his neck as her cheek tilts flush against his. Her lips part on a sigh, crimson against the olive warmth of his skin, as she turns her gaze to Danta, hungry and electric. The curve of her smile is soft and aching, like she’s starving for something she doesn’t quite have the words for.
With her other hand, she trails her fingertips up the hem of Danta’s macramé shirt, nails skating gently along his abdomen, testing the weave of it, tugging softly where the threads start to loosen. The motion is deliberate—a silent question disguised as a touch, even as her hand rises, ghosting up the line of his chest to his throat. The pulse she finds there is strong, steady, and while the liquor in Flora's veins makes her bold, it hasn't yet made her careless.
She shifts slightly against Asta, pressing her lips just beneath his jaw with the kind of delicate reverence that belies the need clawing up her spine. Her voice is a whisper, fragile and low. "Are you sure?" she murmurs against his skin, breath warming the place where her lips linger. While the Maverick might have the ability to read his lover's mind, Flora certainly does not, and when it comes to the butcher, she's misread his politeness as being something more, more often than she'd like to think about. Even so, her fingers dance at Danta’s throat; close enough to test the tension, to feel for any change that might signal jealousy on Asta's part instead of invitation.
Her arm twists to allow her fingers to slide up into Asta’s dark hair, slow and searching, curling at the nape of his neck as her cheek tilts flush against his. Her lips part on a sigh, crimson against the olive warmth of his skin, as she turns her gaze to Danta, hungry and electric. The curve of her smile is soft and aching, like she’s starving for something she doesn’t quite have the words for.
With her other hand, she trails her fingertips up the hem of Danta’s macramé shirt, nails skating gently along his abdomen, testing the weave of it, tugging softly where the threads start to loosen. The motion is deliberate—a silent question disguised as a touch, even as her hand rises, ghosting up the line of his chest to his throat. The pulse she finds there is strong, steady, and while the liquor in Flora's veins makes her bold, it hasn't yet made her careless.
She shifts slightly against Asta, pressing her lips just beneath his jaw with the kind of delicate reverence that belies the need clawing up her spine. Her voice is a whisper, fragile and low. "Are you sure?" she murmurs against his skin, breath warming the place where her lips linger. While the Maverick might have the ability to read his lover's mind, Flora certainly does not, and when it comes to the butcher, she's misread his politeness as being something more, more often than she'd like to think about. Even so, her fingers dance at Danta’s throat; close enough to test the tension, to feel for any change that might signal jealousy on Asta's part instead of invitation.
We can't make any promises now can we babe?
But you can make me a drink.
But you can make me a drink.
