with each love i cut loose i was never the same
Flora watches Danta with a catlike stillness, head tilted as the blood blooms fresh across the Maverick's fingers—bright against obsidian, sacred in its simplicity. There’s a reverence in his offering that doesn’t feel performative, and maybe that’s what holds her gaze longer than intended. He wears his chaos like silk, but beneath it, there's always something sharp, something deeply loyal to the roots he was carved from.
Still, she isn't inclined to mimic him exactly. Pain has already left so many offerings in her wake—teeth and tears and bruised ribs and broken hearts—and she’s not eager to bleed for a goddess she doesn’t serve, no matter how much she respects what Dygra’s done. But that doesn’t mean she won’t make her own kind of offering.
So instead, Flora sidles up beside Danta with a slow, languid grace. Her hands slide around the back of his neck, and with a grin that’s half mischief and half dare, she rises onto the tips of her toes. The kiss she presses to his mouth is warm and unhurried as she steals the blood he’s already spilled, drawing the copper taste between her lips.
Then, just as easily, she turns away, curls bouncing as she moves to the altar. Without hesitation, she presses her mouth—now marked by both of them—against the obsidian slab. "There," she murmurs, glancing over her shoulder with a wink.
Still, she isn't inclined to mimic him exactly. Pain has already left so many offerings in her wake—teeth and tears and bruised ribs and broken hearts—and she’s not eager to bleed for a goddess she doesn’t serve, no matter how much she respects what Dygra’s done. But that doesn’t mean she won’t make her own kind of offering.
So instead, Flora sidles up beside Danta with a slow, languid grace. Her hands slide around the back of his neck, and with a grin that’s half mischief and half dare, she rises onto the tips of her toes. The kiss she presses to his mouth is warm and unhurried as she steals the blood he’s already spilled, drawing the copper taste between her lips.
Then, just as easily, she turns away, curls bouncing as she moves to the altar. Without hesitation, she presses her mouth—now marked by both of them—against the obsidian slab. "There," she murmurs, glancing over her shoulder with a wink.
