flora
A low, content hum spills from Flora’s throat as Asta’s fingers find her curls, the sound curling up like smoke between them, indulgent and wordless. She doesn’t bother to hide the way she leans into the touch—doesn’t bother to pretend she isn’t soothed by the simple rhythm of his hand in her hair, by the warmth of him beneath her cheek and the steady cadence of his voice wrapping around them both.
But when he says primal, her fingers twitch lightly against his skin in a gentle staccato that’s all curiosity—delicate taps that suggest both mischief and interest, the way someone might tease a sleeping tiger just to see it stir. The mental image of Asta at his most feral is not one she finds particularly off-putting (though it absolutely should be). But then he speaks of Danta, and just like that, her body sinks ever so slightly against his, the playful weight of her presence softening with a quiet sigh that feathers against his chest. "Oh," she whispers, the word fragile with sympathy, as if spoken too loudly it might wound. Her brows furrow unseen, and her hand shifts, not in withdrawal but in comfort, smoothing slow circles near where her cheek rests. "That makes a lot of sense," she murmurs, the sadness in her voice tender rather than pitying, fondness laced through it like a thread of gold. "Gods, I hate how much history you two have. And I love it. And I hate it again."
Still, when his form begins to change—when the shadows begin to flicker like candlelight caught in storm winds and his horns extend, thickening with new prongs like some forest god blooming under a blood moon—Flora lifts her head at last. The grin that curls across her lips is wicked, gleaming, and utterly delighted.
"Oooh, show off," she drawls approvingly, untangling herself from his arms. She peels away from his chest with a languid stretch, golden curls invisible still but dancing with motion. "Yes," she hums, stepping back just far enough to admire the emerging silhouette of him, the slow smile in her voice thick with want. "I absolutely want to see it."
Her arms cross lightly under her chest, chin tilted in assessment as she makes herself visible again with a flicker, her pale curls tousled from his hands, her expression bright with anticipation. "Don’t hold back on my account, but fair warning," she adds, eyes glittering, "If I faint from how terrifying you are, you're responsible for catching me, invisible or not."
But when he says primal, her fingers twitch lightly against his skin in a gentle staccato that’s all curiosity—delicate taps that suggest both mischief and interest, the way someone might tease a sleeping tiger just to see it stir. The mental image of Asta at his most feral is not one she finds particularly off-putting (though it absolutely should be). But then he speaks of Danta, and just like that, her body sinks ever so slightly against his, the playful weight of her presence softening with a quiet sigh that feathers against his chest. "Oh," she whispers, the word fragile with sympathy, as if spoken too loudly it might wound. Her brows furrow unseen, and her hand shifts, not in withdrawal but in comfort, smoothing slow circles near where her cheek rests. "That makes a lot of sense," she murmurs, the sadness in her voice tender rather than pitying, fondness laced through it like a thread of gold. "Gods, I hate how much history you two have. And I love it. And I hate it again."
Still, when his form begins to change—when the shadows begin to flicker like candlelight caught in storm winds and his horns extend, thickening with new prongs like some forest god blooming under a blood moon—Flora lifts her head at last. The grin that curls across her lips is wicked, gleaming, and utterly delighted.
"Oooh, show off," she drawls approvingly, untangling herself from his arms. She peels away from his chest with a languid stretch, golden curls invisible still but dancing with motion. "Yes," she hums, stepping back just far enough to admire the emerging silhouette of him, the slow smile in her voice thick with want. "I absolutely want to see it."
Her arms cross lightly under her chest, chin tilted in assessment as she makes herself visible again with a flicker, her pale curls tousled from his hands, her expression bright with anticipation. "Don’t hold back on my account, but fair warning," she adds, eyes glittering, "If I faint from how terrifying you are, you're responsible for catching me, invisible or not."
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
