you can call me honey if you want
If Flora had a pack of gummy worms within reach, she might have looped one onto each of their fingers like makeshift rings, laughing as they melted against their heat; silly and sweet and just so them. But as it stands, all she can do is beam at him, her cheeks pink from steam and adoration, and something about the way he says it, so easy and raw and full of meaning, makes her heart swell until it almost overspills her chest. Somewhere between bruised kisses in the marketplace and the salt-stung laughter that followed, all the uncertainty she'd once carried like barnacles beneath her ribs had finally sloughed off. It might still ache, sometimes. There were corners of the Wildering House that still whispered, rooms she avoided on instinct, not because of ghosts but because of old echoes, faded and frayed. And maybe there were nights when her heart stirred at memories of something unfinished, but none of that ever made her doubt where she’d anchored herself now. Her past was patched and paint-washed and full of thorns, but her future was spun in gold, and its shape was undeniably Kaisel.
She wants to worship him, and gods, how it thrills her to feel his body respond to every movement of her tongue, every curl of her fingers. It goes deeper than arousal, though that's burning bright and relentless inside her; it’s a craving stitched into something older, something messier and sharp-edged beneath her skin. There’s a wicked kind of satisfaction in wringing those moans out of him, in drawing them up from the well of his chest and knowing she’s the one who placed them there. Maybe it traces back to all the places she used to feel invisible, to all the times she was told to be quiet or smaller or less, but here, with him, every sound he makes is a reward, and the pleasure of pleasing him settles into her like sunlight soaked deep into spring petals. She aches for it. She blooms for it.
Pausing just long enough to let her breath catch and his nerves fray, she holds the base of his cock in one hand and lifts her chin through the haze, gaze smouldering with something equal parts challenge and hunger. "Then do it," she murmurs, the words smoky and coaxing, like a dare she knows he won’t take lightly. Before the heat of her smirk has even cooled, her mouth slips over the head of his cock once more, tongue gliding with purpose as she slides deeper, emboldened by the pressure of his hand in her hair. She hums against him in encouragement, the vibration spilling down his length in a wave of sensation that matches the rhythm building between her thighs.
Without ceremony, her other hand slips fully between her legs, fingers finding her clit with a need sharpened by the feel and sound of him, the weight of him against her tongue, the way his hips twitch when she swirls just right. Her strokes mirror the movement of her mouth, hips tilting forward so she can match the tempo, lost now in the shared rise of their pleasure.
She wants to worship him, and gods, how it thrills her to feel his body respond to every movement of her tongue, every curl of her fingers. It goes deeper than arousal, though that's burning bright and relentless inside her; it’s a craving stitched into something older, something messier and sharp-edged beneath her skin. There’s a wicked kind of satisfaction in wringing those moans out of him, in drawing them up from the well of his chest and knowing she’s the one who placed them there. Maybe it traces back to all the places she used to feel invisible, to all the times she was told to be quiet or smaller or less, but here, with him, every sound he makes is a reward, and the pleasure of pleasing him settles into her like sunlight soaked deep into spring petals. She aches for it. She blooms for it.
Pausing just long enough to let her breath catch and his nerves fray, she holds the base of his cock in one hand and lifts her chin through the haze, gaze smouldering with something equal parts challenge and hunger. "Then do it," she murmurs, the words smoky and coaxing, like a dare she knows he won’t take lightly. Before the heat of her smirk has even cooled, her mouth slips over the head of his cock once more, tongue gliding with purpose as she slides deeper, emboldened by the pressure of his hand in her hair. She hums against him in encouragement, the vibration spilling down his length in a wave of sensation that matches the rhythm building between her thighs.
Without ceremony, her other hand slips fully between her legs, fingers finding her clit with a need sharpened by the feel and sound of him, the weight of him against her tongue, the way his hips twitch when she swirls just right. Her strokes mirror the movement of her mouth, hips tilting forward so she can match the tempo, lost now in the shared rise of their pleasure.
