flora
There’s being romantic, and then there’s being romantic for Jack. The bar wasn’t lower so much as it was tilted, skewed into its own shape, one that anyone who didn’t really know him might write off as careless, heartless even. For those on the outside it was easy to miss the small things, the private gestures, the ways he bent the world just a little out of character for someone else’s sake. But Flora, who arguably knew him better than anyone else alive—yes, even Murphy—could see it. Could feel it, when it was there. And so at the mention that this was the first time he’d ever given her flowers, her thoughts gild bright and shimmering despite the near-overwhelming desire to just shove her hands down his pants. A smile sweet as honey curves across her lips as she murmurs, "Ah, well, I stand corrected."
Her grin deepens, sharp and hungry, as his hands tighten around her waist. Her breath stutters, nails raking down his skin in answer, and she straightens up just enough that the shirt slips looser across her shoulders. In her mind she lets it fall away entirely—black satin and lace revealed, intricate straps hugging curves meant for his eyes alone. She imagines him sweeping it from her body, his mouth fierce and demanding as he lifts her easily, tossing her down onto his bed as if he’s been starving for this.
Her lips brush his ear, voice roughened with heat. "Like you’ve just seen me after far too long and you can't help yourself." And in the space between their minds, he’ll feel her want him with both ferocity and ache, her fantasy colouring everything with a sort of uncharacteristic raw need. "You’ll want to fuck me," she whispers, and in her thoughts she’s pinned hard beneath him, headboard rattling as her hands claw for purchase while he drives into her. Another breath, another whisper—"But you’ll also want me on top, to see everything you’re doing to me"—and suddenly the memory-shapes shift, and she’s straddling him, skin glistening, his hand clamped around her hip to guide her and the other palming her breast as she rides him.
At the childish sounds from somewhere outside of his window, Flora will exhales a slightly shaky breath, raising a brow up at him and emphatically adding, "And you definitely don't leave me to go and deal with the echo sharks."
Her grin deepens, sharp and hungry, as his hands tighten around her waist. Her breath stutters, nails raking down his skin in answer, and she straightens up just enough that the shirt slips looser across her shoulders. In her mind she lets it fall away entirely—black satin and lace revealed, intricate straps hugging curves meant for his eyes alone. She imagines him sweeping it from her body, his mouth fierce and demanding as he lifts her easily, tossing her down onto his bed as if he’s been starving for this.
Her lips brush his ear, voice roughened with heat. "Like you’ve just seen me after far too long and you can't help yourself." And in the space between their minds, he’ll feel her want him with both ferocity and ache, her fantasy colouring everything with a sort of uncharacteristic raw need. "You’ll want to fuck me," she whispers, and in her thoughts she’s pinned hard beneath him, headboard rattling as her hands claw for purchase while he drives into her. Another breath, another whisper—"But you’ll also want me on top, to see everything you’re doing to me"—and suddenly the memory-shapes shift, and she’s straddling him, skin glistening, his hand clamped around her hip to guide her and the other palming her breast as she rides him.
At the childish sounds from somewhere outside of his window, Flora will exhales a slightly shaky breath, raising a brow up at him and emphatically adding, "And you definitely don't leave me to go and deal with the echo sharks."
you're under the feeling like teenagers in cars
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
