is this the end of all the endings?
Gods, his voice. It slides low and rough, like smoke curling around the edges of something fragile. Every word hums with that restrained heat—the kind that doesn’t need to burn to feel dangerous—and Flora feels it right down to the pit of her stomach. Normally, the tension between them would have already broken with a kiss by now, wild and breathless, but he holds steady, and that control only makes it worse. Or better. She can’t decide. Either way, her breath comes a little shallower for it, her pulse quick beneath her muddy skin as she tries to bait him further with the tilt of her chin and the challenge in her eyes.
His laugh—bright and easy—cuts clean through the heat like sunlight through water, and she bursts out laughing with him, a delighted sound that tangles their joy together. Nudging him with a mock-scolding shove, she snorts, "You wish." Then his lips brush her jaw, soft and lazy, his words rumbling against her skin, and her laughter catches, splintering into something quieter. The hum that slips from her is almost a moan, barely restrained. "Mmm. I’d rather dirty my name for better reasons than giving you presents," she murmurs, voice warm and teasing but softer now.
The spell breaks a moment later when he glances down, and Flora follows his gaze to the ridiculous sight of her mud cock prodding his side. Her laughter bursts free again, bright and buoyant as ever. "Sorta," she says through her grin. "Only yours usually gets harder the longer I feel it, not flatter." To demonstrate, she arches her hips up, pressing against him until the mud monstrosity slorps its way higher, the tip wobbling heroically above her belly button.
She glances up through her lashes, grin sharp and playful, drinking in the return of that boyish light on his face. "Speaking of things getting harder," she teases, lips curving crookedly, "we’re supposed to be collecting fruit for our RQ."
With a grin that promises trouble, she reaches down into her pocket—her fingers brushing a little too deliberately down the slope of his body as she does, purely by accident, of course—and pulls out a small whistle. "Watch this," she says with mock solemnity, flashing him a knowing look before placing it between her lips. The sound that follows is shrill and faint, barely audible above the jungle’s hum. When she lowers it again, her grin widens as she calls out into the thick, humid air, "Hey, jungle spirits? Any chance you could collect us a bunch of citrus fruit, please?"
Flora is using her Spirit Pact to have the spirits collect citrus fruit!
His laugh—bright and easy—cuts clean through the heat like sunlight through water, and she bursts out laughing with him, a delighted sound that tangles their joy together. Nudging him with a mock-scolding shove, she snorts, "You wish." Then his lips brush her jaw, soft and lazy, his words rumbling against her skin, and her laughter catches, splintering into something quieter. The hum that slips from her is almost a moan, barely restrained. "Mmm. I’d rather dirty my name for better reasons than giving you presents," she murmurs, voice warm and teasing but softer now.
The spell breaks a moment later when he glances down, and Flora follows his gaze to the ridiculous sight of her mud cock prodding his side. Her laughter bursts free again, bright and buoyant as ever. "Sorta," she says through her grin. "Only yours usually gets harder the longer I feel it, not flatter." To demonstrate, she arches her hips up, pressing against him until the mud monstrosity slorps its way higher, the tip wobbling heroically above her belly button.
She glances up through her lashes, grin sharp and playful, drinking in the return of that boyish light on his face. "Speaking of things getting harder," she teases, lips curving crookedly, "we’re supposed to be collecting fruit for our RQ."
With a grin that promises trouble, she reaches down into her pocket—her fingers brushing a little too deliberately down the slope of his body as she does, purely by accident, of course—and pulls out a small whistle. "Watch this," she says with mock solemnity, flashing him a knowing look before placing it between her lips. The sound that follows is shrill and faint, barely audible above the jungle’s hum. When she lowers it again, her grin widens as she calls out into the thick, humid air, "Hey, jungle spirits? Any chance you could collect us a bunch of citrus fruit, please?"
Flora is using her Spirit Pact to have the spirits collect citrus fruit!
my broken bones are mending
