I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings
The moment Flora feels him fully against her, that aching, velvet heat finally freed from constraint, she nearly chokes on a moan. Her mouth stutters against his, breath splintering like lightning behind her ribs, and everything inside her clenches with wild, helpless need. It’s too much and not enough all at once. Just a scrap of lace between them now, and gods, she’s burning alive beneath it.
Her hips grind against him, hungry, frenzied, desperate to erase the last barrier between them. The pressure of his fingers digs in like he’s afraid she’ll vanish, and it only makes her softer, wetter, molten beneath his touch. Smoke coils up through her, thick and slow, curling behind her eyes and making thought impossible. He wants to know how badly she wants him, and the question itself sends another wave crashing through her, sharp and dizzying and so intense it steals the air straight from her lungs. Want is too small a word for what coils inside her now. It’s a heat that lives under her skin, a tight, trembling ache that pulses between her hips and radiates outward, turning her thighs weak and her spine pliant, her entire body tilting instinctively toward him as if gravity itself has shifted. She feels claimed by it, pinned in place by the sheer force of needing him, by the certainty that nothing else in the world matters in this moment except the press of him against her, the promise of him inside her, the relief she knows is so close she can almost taste it. Her thoughts dissolve into colour and sensation, scarlet and gold and breathless, every nerve ending lit and singing and screaming for him.
She tries to speak, she really does, but the words tangle and fall apart before they ever reach her tongue. What could she even say that would come close to this? That she feels like she might shatter if he doesn’t touch her the way she needs, that the ache inside her is so deep it feels structural, like it’s woven into her bones? All that comes out is a small, broken sound, a helpless whimper that slips free as her body arches into his, her forehead dipping briefly toward his shoulder as if the intensity of it all has bent her in half.
"I need you so bad that—" she starts, the words breathless and shaking, and then the sentence fractures completely as his hands tug again and the lace refuses to give. The sudden pause, the frustration in the motion, jars her just enough to pull her back from the edge, awareness rushing in alongside the heat still thrumming through her veins. Her lips curve into something wicked and needy as she leans down toward him, breath hot against his ear, her teeth grazing his earlobe in a promise she has no intention of walking back. "Try using your teeth."
Her hips grind against him, hungry, frenzied, desperate to erase the last barrier between them. The pressure of his fingers digs in like he’s afraid she’ll vanish, and it only makes her softer, wetter, molten beneath his touch. Smoke coils up through her, thick and slow, curling behind her eyes and making thought impossible. He wants to know how badly she wants him, and the question itself sends another wave crashing through her, sharp and dizzying and so intense it steals the air straight from her lungs. Want is too small a word for what coils inside her now. It’s a heat that lives under her skin, a tight, trembling ache that pulses between her hips and radiates outward, turning her thighs weak and her spine pliant, her entire body tilting instinctively toward him as if gravity itself has shifted. She feels claimed by it, pinned in place by the sheer force of needing him, by the certainty that nothing else in the world matters in this moment except the press of him against her, the promise of him inside her, the relief she knows is so close she can almost taste it. Her thoughts dissolve into colour and sensation, scarlet and gold and breathless, every nerve ending lit and singing and screaming for him.
She tries to speak, she really does, but the words tangle and fall apart before they ever reach her tongue. What could she even say that would come close to this? That she feels like she might shatter if he doesn’t touch her the way she needs, that the ache inside her is so deep it feels structural, like it’s woven into her bones? All that comes out is a small, broken sound, a helpless whimper that slips free as her body arches into his, her forehead dipping briefly toward his shoulder as if the intensity of it all has bent her in half.
"I need you so bad that—" she starts, the words breathless and shaking, and then the sentence fractures completely as his hands tug again and the lace refuses to give. The sudden pause, the frustration in the motion, jars her just enough to pull her back from the edge, awareness rushing in alongside the heat still thrumming through her veins. Her lips curve into something wicked and needy as she leans down toward him, breath hot against his ear, her teeth grazing his earlobe in a promise she has no intention of walking back. "Try using your teeth."
and I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this
