flora
She flickers back into view in a shimmer of sunlight and humidity. There’s no grand reveal, no gasp or flourish, just a quiet surrender to being seen. Because if the whole point is fear, then it would be rude not to let him have it. And gods, he earns it.
Flora stumbles backward the second the fire catches in his chest. Her shoes skid against the stone, breath catching in her throat as the shadows bloom—not like vines, not like flowers, but like teeth—grinning, pulsing, hungry. There’s a sound that might be her name in the air, or maybe it’s just her own pulse, thunderous and unrelenting in her ears. He is awful. Magnificent. Terrible. Crowned in fire, ribcage cracking like kindling, a creature built from the things she only used to imagine were waiting under her bed.
But he’s also her friend. And she knows the rhythm of his laugh. The weight of his arms around her. She shivers, not from cold, but from the war between instinct and understanding. Between the memory of the man she's come to know so well and the horror standing in his place. "I—" Her throat’s dry, voice as thin as tide foam, so she swallows and tries again. "I can see why you were good at it." It’s not praise exactly, but not condemnation either. "What you had to do. Back then."
Swallowing hard, the queen inhales a shaky breath, her limbs begging her to run even as she continues to let her eyes drink him in. "You’re terrifying, Asta."
Flora stumbles backward the second the fire catches in his chest. Her shoes skid against the stone, breath catching in her throat as the shadows bloom—not like vines, not like flowers, but like teeth—grinning, pulsing, hungry. There’s a sound that might be her name in the air, or maybe it’s just her own pulse, thunderous and unrelenting in her ears. He is awful. Magnificent. Terrible. Crowned in fire, ribcage cracking like kindling, a creature built from the things she only used to imagine were waiting under her bed.
But he’s also her friend. And she knows the rhythm of his laugh. The weight of his arms around her. She shivers, not from cold, but from the war between instinct and understanding. Between the memory of the man she's come to know so well and the horror standing in his place. "I—" Her throat’s dry, voice as thin as tide foam, so she swallows and tries again. "I can see why you were good at it." It’s not praise exactly, but not condemnation either. "What you had to do. Back then."
Swallowing hard, the queen inhales a shaky breath, her limbs begging her to run even as she continues to let her eyes drink him in. "You’re terrifying, Asta."
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
