flora
Flora stretches along the chaise like sin draped in sunlight, her limbs loose with invitation but her body singing with anticipation. She’s bared already in more ways than one, and the way they both look at her now makes her feel weightless and golden. Worshipped. Wanted in a way that has her skin smouldering beneath their gazes.
Flora tilts her head back against the armrest, the crown of her curls spilling over the edge, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the burn of expectation slides down her spine. Her lips part as his fingers trace her knuckles and she can already imagine the weight of him, the taste of salt and copper, of heat and something far older.
At the other end of her, Asta’s hands are a study in contrast—hot and reverent, trailing slowly from ankle to thigh as if relearning every inch of her. She parts her legs easily for him, wrapping around his hips like a wave curling over rock, letting him settle between them as she arches slightly, lifting her hips in offering. His mouth finds hers in a kiss that starts slow—smoke instead of flame—but deepens with the heat that coils beneath it. Flora moans into it, tasting metal and memory, clutching at his shoulder like it might steady the shiver that runs through her, before he's gone far far too quickly. The purr of his voice and his red-stained smile have her wordlessly nodding in almost desperate anticipation.
There's more to her need of course: Jack’s silence, Koa’s distance, Kaisel’s care. A landscape of heartbreaks carved into the softest parts of her, bruises she’s painted over with lipstick and laughter. But right now, with Asta’s body poised like a statue between her thighs and Danta’s presence looming above her, that pain is quiet. Not gone, but soothed. Smoothed down by touch and heat and the sacredness of being wanted.
And gods, does she want.
"No one cums until I say so, mm? It is my party, after all." So saying, Flora tips her head back even more, arms stretching out behind her to guide Danta into her mouth that she might begin to repay the torture he'd so effortlessly shown her earlier.
Flora tilts her head back against the armrest, the crown of her curls spilling over the edge, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the burn of expectation slides down her spine. Her lips part as his fingers trace her knuckles and she can already imagine the weight of him, the taste of salt and copper, of heat and something far older.
At the other end of her, Asta’s hands are a study in contrast—hot and reverent, trailing slowly from ankle to thigh as if relearning every inch of her. She parts her legs easily for him, wrapping around his hips like a wave curling over rock, letting him settle between them as she arches slightly, lifting her hips in offering. His mouth finds hers in a kiss that starts slow—smoke instead of flame—but deepens with the heat that coils beneath it. Flora moans into it, tasting metal and memory, clutching at his shoulder like it might steady the shiver that runs through her, before he's gone far far too quickly. The purr of his voice and his red-stained smile have her wordlessly nodding in almost desperate anticipation.
There's more to her need of course: Jack’s silence, Koa’s distance, Kaisel’s care. A landscape of heartbreaks carved into the softest parts of her, bruises she’s painted over with lipstick and laughter. But right now, with Asta’s body poised like a statue between her thighs and Danta’s presence looming above her, that pain is quiet. Not gone, but soothed. Smoothed down by touch and heat and the sacredness of being wanted.
And gods, does she want.
"No one cums until I say so, mm? It is my party, after all." So saying, Flora tips her head back even more, arms stretching out behind her to guide Danta into her mouth that she might begin to repay the torture he'd so effortlessly shown her earlier.
We can't make any promises now can we babe?
But you can make me a drink.
But you can make me a drink.
