i'd wipe the dirt off your name with the shirt off my back
Flora huffs as Danta’s sultry little serenade is cut short, her sigh theatrical and long-suffering. "That. Was. Rude," she mutters, shooting a glare at the barman’s back as if he had just interrupted something sacred, which, to be fair, he had.
Still, she laughs as Danta groans about his dry spell, the sound light and wicked. "Boohoo, the Maverick’s having too much sex," she teases, voice soaked in sarcasm. "Tragic. Somebody quick, write a song about it."
But the quip dulls as her thumb circles the rim of her glass, the last drops of lime and fire nearly gone. She tosses it back in one go, then sets it down with a clink. "I only ever really baked with Jack," she admits after a pause, teeth catching the inside of her cheek. "And it always turned into sex. And like..really good sex." She shrugs, but there’s weight beneath it. "They’re good memories. Just...the kind that hurt, now, y'know?"
When Danta sighs over the stolen jam, Flora widens her eyes in mock innocence and shrugs again, this time all wicked delight. "What do I care about what you were or weren't going to do later, when I'm not going to be invited?"
But the mirth softens when she sees his smile shift; when that Haunt magic and all its echoes steal some of the colour from his voice. She nods, quieter now. "Yeah. Asta said it reminded you of the Climb and all that...stuff." Which was putting far too blunt a point on it, of course, so her lips twitch, an almost-apology she doesn’t quite voice. Asta's haunt didn't have the same effect on her, of course, given that it was purely fear for fear's sake, and not emotional torture thrown over someone she was in love with.
But then she leans in again, catching on his words like a tide to anchor. Flora’s grin returns, slow and razor-edged. "Good," she murmurs, voice curling around the word like smoke.
Still, she laughs as Danta groans about his dry spell, the sound light and wicked. "Boohoo, the Maverick’s having too much sex," she teases, voice soaked in sarcasm. "Tragic. Somebody quick, write a song about it."
But the quip dulls as her thumb circles the rim of her glass, the last drops of lime and fire nearly gone. She tosses it back in one go, then sets it down with a clink. "I only ever really baked with Jack," she admits after a pause, teeth catching the inside of her cheek. "And it always turned into sex. And like..really good sex." She shrugs, but there’s weight beneath it. "They’re good memories. Just...the kind that hurt, now, y'know?"
When Danta sighs over the stolen jam, Flora widens her eyes in mock innocence and shrugs again, this time all wicked delight. "What do I care about what you were or weren't going to do later, when I'm not going to be invited?"
But the mirth softens when she sees his smile shift; when that Haunt magic and all its echoes steal some of the colour from his voice. She nods, quieter now. "Yeah. Asta said it reminded you of the Climb and all that...stuff." Which was putting far too blunt a point on it, of course, so her lips twitch, an almost-apology she doesn’t quite voice. Asta's haunt didn't have the same effect on her, of course, given that it was purely fear for fear's sake, and not emotional torture thrown over someone she was in love with.
But then she leans in again, catching on his words like a tide to anchor. Flora’s grin returns, slow and razor-edged. "Good," she murmurs, voice curling around the word like smoke.
