flora
Flora grins crookedly at him, her brow arched as she trails her fingers deliberately down the glittering fabric of the gown stretched over his chest, brushing it with faux consideration before muttering, "I actually was planning on full evening attire for the soldiers. Originally I'd have said tuxes but...I think maybe now I've been convinced it should be evening gowns." Her voice is warm with amusement, the kind that bubbles up in waves without ever quite turning to laughter, though her eyes sparkle like he’s handed her a gift with the mental image alone.
But as his voice softens and the next words slip free—the kind that might sound corny from anyone else—her teasing quiets into something gentler. Her heart stirs against her ribs, as if it, too, recognises the truth braided into his tone. The way he says it, like he could listen to her love him forever and never grow tired of the sound, sends a flutter through her chest that feels suspiciously like joy with wings. She leans in close, letting the tip of her nose brush his cheek as she whispers with a smile, "Happy to help you test that theory," and the laughter laced beneath her words is light but steady, not a thing meant to deflect but to delight, to share the glow warming her from the inside out.
Of course, that glow is promptly joined by mischief as Kaisel groans and tilts his head back like he’s being punished by the gods. The melodrama of it all has her grin tripling in size, though that doesn’t stop her from letting out a sharp little yelp of indignation as his hand cups boldly over one of her tits, the weight of his palm somehow both possessive and ridiculous in context. "You're such a menace," she huffs, swatting at his shoulder before sliding both hands to his chest, pressing him down with a firm and theatrical shove to send his back toward the floor. She follows immediately, draping herself atop him like the world’s most self-satisfied blanket, her bare skin sliding against sequins that sparkle like moonlight caught in water. The fabric is cool beneath her, but what draws her attention more is the solid heat of him underneath it; the way the muscles of his chest shift beneath her, the easy strength of of him, the soft flop of his dark hair as his head settles back. She watches the warm copper of his eyes catch the light, and for a moment, just a breath, she forgets about the rest of the world entirely.
Her expression softens as he begins to explain, and as the words unfurl, she shifts, propping herself up slightly so she can see his face more clearly. Her fingers toy absently with a piece of the dress near his collarbone, but her attention is rooted in him now, narrowed to the tension in his voice and the bitter twist of the story he lays out. As he finishes with a shudder, Flora lets out a groan of her own and pulls a face, her nose wrinkling with both sympathy and second-hand revulsion. "Wait, hold on," she says slowly, blinking down at him. "He wanted to give you a handjob, or you were supposed to give him one?" Her brows lift, and she shivers again, assuming that it was the former, curling tighter atop him like the memory is trying to climb up her foot now. "Fuck, that’s the worst."
The words are hushed, but her tone is fiercely protective, and as she rests her hand over his heart again, she leans in just a touch closer. "If you ever want, you can bring Spice up to Stormbreak," she murmurs, her voice like silk stretched over the glint of a blade, "I’m sure she’d be happy to freeze the balls off anyone who tries anything like that again. All you’d have to do is ask." She doesn’t smile when she says it, not really. Not until the thought of her smug little white dragon melting the man’s ego into frost makes the corners of her lips curl with satisfaction. "Or you could take my daggers and my invisibility ring and really have a go of it."
But as his voice softens and the next words slip free—the kind that might sound corny from anyone else—her teasing quiets into something gentler. Her heart stirs against her ribs, as if it, too, recognises the truth braided into his tone. The way he says it, like he could listen to her love him forever and never grow tired of the sound, sends a flutter through her chest that feels suspiciously like joy with wings. She leans in close, letting the tip of her nose brush his cheek as she whispers with a smile, "Happy to help you test that theory," and the laughter laced beneath her words is light but steady, not a thing meant to deflect but to delight, to share the glow warming her from the inside out.
Of course, that glow is promptly joined by mischief as Kaisel groans and tilts his head back like he’s being punished by the gods. The melodrama of it all has her grin tripling in size, though that doesn’t stop her from letting out a sharp little yelp of indignation as his hand cups boldly over one of her tits, the weight of his palm somehow both possessive and ridiculous in context. "You're such a menace," she huffs, swatting at his shoulder before sliding both hands to his chest, pressing him down with a firm and theatrical shove to send his back toward the floor. She follows immediately, draping herself atop him like the world’s most self-satisfied blanket, her bare skin sliding against sequins that sparkle like moonlight caught in water. The fabric is cool beneath her, but what draws her attention more is the solid heat of him underneath it; the way the muscles of his chest shift beneath her, the easy strength of of him, the soft flop of his dark hair as his head settles back. She watches the warm copper of his eyes catch the light, and for a moment, just a breath, she forgets about the rest of the world entirely.
Her expression softens as he begins to explain, and as the words unfurl, she shifts, propping herself up slightly so she can see his face more clearly. Her fingers toy absently with a piece of the dress near his collarbone, but her attention is rooted in him now, narrowed to the tension in his voice and the bitter twist of the story he lays out. As he finishes with a shudder, Flora lets out a groan of her own and pulls a face, her nose wrinkling with both sympathy and second-hand revulsion. "Wait, hold on," she says slowly, blinking down at him. "He wanted to give you a handjob, or you were supposed to give him one?" Her brows lift, and she shivers again, assuming that it was the former, curling tighter atop him like the memory is trying to climb up her foot now. "Fuck, that’s the worst."
The words are hushed, but her tone is fiercely protective, and as she rests her hand over his heart again, she leans in just a touch closer. "If you ever want, you can bring Spice up to Stormbreak," she murmurs, her voice like silk stretched over the glint of a blade, "I’m sure she’d be happy to freeze the balls off anyone who tries anything like that again. All you’d have to do is ask." She doesn’t smile when she says it, not really. Not until the thought of her smug little white dragon melting the man’s ego into frost makes the corners of her lips curl with satisfaction. "Or you could take my daggers and my invisibility ring and really have a go of it."
lust's a liar, a short lived fire
it isn't what you and I are at all
it isn't what you and I are at all
