flora
Flora chuckles quietly to herself, the sound muffled where her cheek still presses against his chest—because gods, last time she’d been wrapped up in him like this there’d been considerably more limbs involved and considerably fewer clothes and warm was not the word she'd have used to describe him then. That this moment is somehow even more comfortable now, warm and familiar and threaded through with zero expectations, only makes her grin.
"No?" she hums, soft and wry, tilting her chin just enough to nudge against his sternum. Her voice is curious, not concerned, but there’s something tender in the way her fingers sweep against his skin—just a quiet little press of attention, like a whisper of I'm listening given that he couldn't see the way her eyes were trained on his face.
Her arms remain around him, loosely now, draped like the casual intimacy of a hammock left in the sun. "Is that what the magic does?" she murmurs. "Makes nightmares true or something?" There’s no mockery in it, no teasing this time—only a flicker of thoughtful intrigue, like someone reading a story in reverse and wondering how it ends. She can picture Danta, tangled in a dream too real to shake, and Asta standing steady through the middle of it all, with the scar beneath her fingertips feels like a rather plot twist.
"No?" she hums, soft and wry, tilting her chin just enough to nudge against his sternum. Her voice is curious, not concerned, but there’s something tender in the way her fingers sweep against his skin—just a quiet little press of attention, like a whisper of I'm listening given that he couldn't see the way her eyes were trained on his face.
Her arms remain around him, loosely now, draped like the casual intimacy of a hammock left in the sun. "Is that what the magic does?" she murmurs. "Makes nightmares true or something?" There’s no mockery in it, no teasing this time—only a flicker of thoughtful intrigue, like someone reading a story in reverse and wondering how it ends. She can picture Danta, tangled in a dream too real to shake, and Asta standing steady through the middle of it all, with the scar beneath her fingertips feels like a rather plot twist.
I hope you're wetting your appetite, finding your way into someone's eyes
I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
