i'd wipe the dirt off your name with the shirt off my back
Flora stepped through the doorway into the Dusklight like it owed her something—or maybe like she was ready to be owed—heels clicking soft and sharp across the plush welcome mat as the air changed around her. Warmer. Thicker. Like walking into the mouth of something silk-tongued and starved.
The dress Flora had picked was sleek as a threat, clinging in all the places that invited staring and letting go of her back entirely in a plunge of shadow and skin. Her scars—those winding, delicate ridges left by the Reaper in raised silver— seemed to glow in the low amber light. She didn’t cover them, not tonight. Tonight she was happy to let those who looked upon her wonder what kind of girl wore such brutality like an accessory.
At the bar, she ordered something cherry-laced that would burn as it went down, wanting the heat of it to singe away the sharper edges that the past few weeks had carved into her mind. Downing her shot easily with a sigh that was more theatre than exhaustion, Flora turned to lean one elbow on the bar, a twist of hip and hem putting her centre stage in the candle-drenched haze. Gold glinted off her collarbone. Her lashes were curled like claws.
Now all that was left was to wait for Danta to come along and find her like a match finds a fuse, and gods but she could always count on him to brighten her mood.
The dress Flora had picked was sleek as a threat, clinging in all the places that invited staring and letting go of her back entirely in a plunge of shadow and skin. Her scars—those winding, delicate ridges left by the Reaper in raised silver— seemed to glow in the low amber light. She didn’t cover them, not tonight. Tonight she was happy to let those who looked upon her wonder what kind of girl wore such brutality like an accessory.
At the bar, she ordered something cherry-laced that would burn as it went down, wanting the heat of it to singe away the sharper edges that the past few weeks had carved into her mind. Downing her shot easily with a sigh that was more theatre than exhaustion, Flora turned to lean one elbow on the bar, a twist of hip and hem putting her centre stage in the candle-drenched haze. Gold glinted off her collarbone. Her lashes were curled like claws.
Now all that was left was to wait for Danta to come along and find her like a match finds a fuse, and gods but she could always count on him to brighten her mood.
