flora
Whatever foolish, fluttering part of her that had dared to imagine what it might be like with just Asta—without the tether of Danta between them, without the safe triangulation of their dynamic—is immediately, irrevocably buried. Not in fear, not exactly, but in a clarity as sharp as the fangs Asta had bared. She’d felt the edge of that hunger before, had caught a glimpse of it in Frey's breath, but this was something properly clarifying about what she could and couldn't handle when it came to the butcher.
But as he pulls away now—scorched blood flaking off him like ash, his hair mussed and his eyes no longer wholly black—what settles in her chest isn’t dread. It’s warmth. Fondness, even, like watching a storm pass without it hitting your shore. She remains where she is, still tangled beneath various limbs, flushed and loose-limbed but so very aware.
Her head tilts as she watches him—first smoothing back his hair, then dousing blood with fire like it’s a habit—and she lets a breath ease from her lungs before grinning up at him, slow and golden and just a little wicked. "What are you apologizing for?" she hums, eyes still dancing, "Didn’t you enjoy yourself?"
It’s meant to disarm, to distract, to reroute the weight of his apology into something playful. And if the curve of her lip is a little too sweet, if the purr in her voice hides something softer beneath it, well, that’s between them and the hush of the thieves guild.
But as he pulls away now—scorched blood flaking off him like ash, his hair mussed and his eyes no longer wholly black—what settles in her chest isn’t dread. It’s warmth. Fondness, even, like watching a storm pass without it hitting your shore. She remains where she is, still tangled beneath various limbs, flushed and loose-limbed but so very aware.
Her head tilts as she watches him—first smoothing back his hair, then dousing blood with fire like it’s a habit—and she lets a breath ease from her lungs before grinning up at him, slow and golden and just a little wicked. "What are you apologizing for?" she hums, eyes still dancing, "Didn’t you enjoy yourself?"
It’s meant to disarm, to distract, to reroute the weight of his apology into something playful. And if the curve of her lip is a little too sweet, if the purr in her voice hides something softer beneath it, well, that’s between them and the hush of the thieves guild.
We can't make any promises now can we babe?
But you can make me a drink.
But you can make me a drink.
