we show off our different scarlet letters
Flora knows the teeth aren’t real. Knows the twisted faces and writhing shadows, the wrongness of his voice and the too-wide grin—none of it is real in the way that matters. It’s all illusion, all haunt and smoke and sharpened glamour. But gods, her body doesn’t care. Every instinct screams run, begs her to get the hell away from the monster he’s wearing like a second skin. Even knowing it’s him beneath, even feeling the weight and heat of his body under her palm, still her nerves bristle, her breath catching with the kind of tension that’s stitched into bone.
Her hand stays pressed against him, blood slipping between her fingers as the ring hums steady, soft warmth threading through the violence. She watches as the nightmare peels away—slowly at first, then in a rush, like a mask dissolving in rain—and when it’s Asta again, properly Asta, standing close with a too-sharp smile and his chin dipped toward her, Flora breathes out like she’s been holding her lungs hostage.
Her smile comes slow but genuine, bright despite the sweat and blood smudged at her temple. "Gods," she says, her voice low and warm, "I actually kind of enjoyed that."
There’s a flicker of mischief in her eyes, that familiar gleam like she’s just gotten away with something terribly clever. "Is that terrible to say? I don’t usually get to really go all in with my daggers." She leans in a fraction, hand still on his chest and her curls brushing her cheek as her smile softens into something undeniably fond. "So... thanks for indulging me."
Her hand stays pressed against him, blood slipping between her fingers as the ring hums steady, soft warmth threading through the violence. She watches as the nightmare peels away—slowly at first, then in a rush, like a mask dissolving in rain—and when it’s Asta again, properly Asta, standing close with a too-sharp smile and his chin dipped toward her, Flora breathes out like she’s been holding her lungs hostage.
Her smile comes slow but genuine, bright despite the sweat and blood smudged at her temple. "Gods," she says, her voice low and warm, "I actually kind of enjoyed that."
There’s a flicker of mischief in her eyes, that familiar gleam like she’s just gotten away with something terribly clever. "Is that terrible to say? I don’t usually get to really go all in with my daggers." She leans in a fraction, hand still on his chest and her curls brushing her cheek as her smile softens into something undeniably fond. "So... thanks for indulging me."
