we show off our different scarlet letters
Trying to get the measure of him, not entirely trusting that his hesitation came from a place of true concern for her wellbeing (honestly, she'd been just about to ask him if he was gay before they'd stumbled down this particular path), Flora pays as much attention to the butcher's words themselves as to the lips that form them, or to his predator's gaze. "In the interest of not wanting you to be surprised you should know that I can tell when I'm being lied to." The words weren't meant as any sort of dig at the information he'd already told her, and while Flora didn't necessarily think Asta was the sort of man to lie (to bend the truth, certainly, or leave out certain details), still, she thought it the sort of thing he might appreciate knowing. If nothing else, it was simply another reminder that wearing almost nothing though she was, Flora was still ever so capable.
Unlike with his scars, the stories of which had been told without any thought for the truth of them, named for crimes or deeds or horrors that might have had nothing at all to do with Asta, if he had accepted the moniker that did mean something, then. Something she could appreciate and respect, even if she was still playing with fire capable of burning only one of them.
"There's a reason I'm called what I am, too." Flora points out softly. Her title might have been more widely known than Asta's, and yet even so, how many really did as they were told? How many bothered to look twice? To see that blue eyes, curls and curves was not all Flora had to offer? Asta had watched her nearly take down the wicker woman herself, to call down a goddess with the snap of her fingers, and still he worried about her?
It was either considerate, or it was condescending.
"So.." Flora muses, shivering slightly as beads of sweat began to drip down her spine thanks to the immense heat of the springs and the touch of the man to whom she was debating her safety. "Is the blood what starts it for you, or what finishes it?" She wants to know, her voice low and eyes ocean-dark.
Unlike with his scars, the stories of which had been told without any thought for the truth of them, named for crimes or deeds or horrors that might have had nothing at all to do with Asta, if he had accepted the moniker that did mean something, then. Something she could appreciate and respect, even if she was still playing with fire capable of burning only one of them.
"There's a reason I'm called what I am, too." Flora points out softly. Her title might have been more widely known than Asta's, and yet even so, how many really did as they were told? How many bothered to look twice? To see that blue eyes, curls and curves was not all Flora had to offer? Asta had watched her nearly take down the wicker woman herself, to call down a goddess with the snap of her fingers, and still he worried about her?
It was either considerate, or it was condescending.
"So.." Flora muses, shivering slightly as beads of sweat began to drip down her spine thanks to the immense heat of the springs and the touch of the man to whom she was debating her safety. "Is the blood what starts it for you, or what finishes it?" She wants to know, her voice low and eyes ocean-dark.
