this is why we can't have nice things, honey
Flora exhales softly, laughter curling out like steam from her lips. "Mmh, you’re probably right," she agrees breezily, though there’s an edge of something quieter behind her smile. She can’t explain the ache that still lingers, or how sometimes just wanting to see someone feels embarrassing when they never show. So she doesn’t try. She just lets it roll off her shoulders like saltwater, flicking her gaze back to the pair lounging beside her.
As Asta settles in, Flora shifts smoothly to better reach his back. Her hands move with purpose, light and teasing at first—the barest trace of her nails dragging down his spine in a careful sweep, slow and tantalizing. She lets her fingertips skate down the ladder of his vertebrae before curling a strand of his hair around one finger and giving it a gentle tug the way she likes done to her own hair. Her nails drag down along his ribs next, gliding in a path designed to awaken every nerve, hoping that somewhere beneath the scarring, there's still some sensitivity that doesn't take claws to reach. She doesn’t press hard, not yet—just enough to let sensation bloom like heat in her wake.
At Danta’s remark, Flora glances over with a sharp, wicked gleam. Her gaze flicks to Asta, studying his expression, the soft pull of his mouth and the weight of something unspoken in the set of his shoulders. "I was just about to ask," she says slowly, tipping her head toward the Maverick with exaggerated curiosity. It seemed to her that not only was the butcher not one necessarily to sit back and let Danta have all the fun, but that he might find it extraordinarily difficult to abide, as well.
She flashes a smile, all teeth and temptation, before reaching past Asta to snatch a sip from Danta’s margarita. "Either way," she purrs, licking a drop of salt from her lip, "I do hope you’ve both got energy left for at least one more round of something." Drinks, debauchery, more gossip...
Which, speaking of. "Oh, heyyyy, you know Thal? The one you sent me about the guild?" Flora's fingertips flutter against Asta's skin. "She's infected."
As Asta settles in, Flora shifts smoothly to better reach his back. Her hands move with purpose, light and teasing at first—the barest trace of her nails dragging down his spine in a careful sweep, slow and tantalizing. She lets her fingertips skate down the ladder of his vertebrae before curling a strand of his hair around one finger and giving it a gentle tug the way she likes done to her own hair. Her nails drag down along his ribs next, gliding in a path designed to awaken every nerve, hoping that somewhere beneath the scarring, there's still some sensitivity that doesn't take claws to reach. She doesn’t press hard, not yet—just enough to let sensation bloom like heat in her wake.
At Danta’s remark, Flora glances over with a sharp, wicked gleam. Her gaze flicks to Asta, studying his expression, the soft pull of his mouth and the weight of something unspoken in the set of his shoulders. "I was just about to ask," she says slowly, tipping her head toward the Maverick with exaggerated curiosity. It seemed to her that not only was the butcher not one necessarily to sit back and let Danta have all the fun, but that he might find it extraordinarily difficult to abide, as well.
She flashes a smile, all teeth and temptation, before reaching past Asta to snatch a sip from Danta’s margarita. "Either way," she purrs, licking a drop of salt from her lip, "I do hope you’ve both got energy left for at least one more round of something." Drinks, debauchery, more gossip...
Which, speaking of. "Oh, heyyyy, you know Thal? The one you sent me about the guild?" Flora's fingertips flutter against Asta's skin. "She's infected."
