we show off our different scarlet letters
Flora shifts only slightly, not to recoil but to give the butcher space; graceful, instinctive, like opening a door for the sea to rush through, but not from him. If anything, there’s something sacred in the way she holds still, watching Asta lean forward to feed that hunger he’s held so carefully in check, something awestruck in the bloodlust wrapped around him like a cloak. He tears into the throat she opened, and she watches him, not just with awe but with understanding.
Rather than looking away, her gaze drops to her hands, to the blood drying in her palms like ink, like oil, like something older than language. It had been hot when it splashed against her skin—bright, fever-warm, pulsing with the last echoes of life—but now it cools fast, clinging to her fingers, thickening in the creases between her knuckles, sinking into the gold around her wrists and banding in a line across her cheeks. She breathes, only to find she’s been doing it all wrong. Too fast. Too shallow. Her chest is rising in quick little jolts, but she hadn’t noticed until she hears the sound of Asta's breathing beside her like the purr of a storm.
Swallowing around the taste of blood still clinging to the back of her tongue, not her own, but close enough that her body isn’t sure what to make of it. She’s never smelled death this closely before. Not like this. Not when it didn’t belong to her. And even though she doesn’t have a predator’s instincts, there’s still something ancient and quiet and visceral threading itself through her bones, curling hot and heavy in her belly.
When Asta speaks, it rolls through the hush like a drumbeat beneath the earth—low and grounding, the accent heavier than usual, roughened by memory and blood. And still, she almost misses the words, not because she isn’t listening, but because everything feels like it’s sinking. Not down, not away, but in; into her skin, into her ribs, into the hollow places she hadn’t realised were still waiting to be filled.
The way he says her name feels like a palm against the small of her back, steadying and calming. She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers move first, reaching without thought to brush through the wolf’s fur. It’s still soft. Still warm. The blood on her fingers smears across the dark strands like warpaint, like she’s leaving a mark that only she will ever know the shape of. "I...know," she murmurs at last, voice low and perhaps a touch disbelieving as if some part of her knows that it's true in this moment, but that as soon as she's away, as soon as she's back by herself, the truth of it will seem a little less obvious.
She glances over her shoulder, drawn by the weight of him beside her, by the silence stretched thick between their bodies. Her eyes trace the curve of his jaw, the blood streaked across olive skin like paint left to dry, the dark of his eyes so fully swallowed in black that she can’t see the edges anymore. He looks like something carved from myth and dusk and bone-deep certainty, and for a breath she finds herself searching that darkness—his darkness—for a reflection of her own.
Rather than looking away, her gaze drops to her hands, to the blood drying in her palms like ink, like oil, like something older than language. It had been hot when it splashed against her skin—bright, fever-warm, pulsing with the last echoes of life—but now it cools fast, clinging to her fingers, thickening in the creases between her knuckles, sinking into the gold around her wrists and banding in a line across her cheeks. She breathes, only to find she’s been doing it all wrong. Too fast. Too shallow. Her chest is rising in quick little jolts, but she hadn’t noticed until she hears the sound of Asta's breathing beside her like the purr of a storm.
Swallowing around the taste of blood still clinging to the back of her tongue, not her own, but close enough that her body isn’t sure what to make of it. She’s never smelled death this closely before. Not like this. Not when it didn’t belong to her. And even though she doesn’t have a predator’s instincts, there’s still something ancient and quiet and visceral threading itself through her bones, curling hot and heavy in her belly.
When Asta speaks, it rolls through the hush like a drumbeat beneath the earth—low and grounding, the accent heavier than usual, roughened by memory and blood. And still, she almost misses the words, not because she isn’t listening, but because everything feels like it’s sinking. Not down, not away, but in; into her skin, into her ribs, into the hollow places she hadn’t realised were still waiting to be filled.
The way he says her name feels like a palm against the small of her back, steadying and calming. She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers move first, reaching without thought to brush through the wolf’s fur. It’s still soft. Still warm. The blood on her fingers smears across the dark strands like warpaint, like she’s leaving a mark that only she will ever know the shape of. "I...know," she murmurs at last, voice low and perhaps a touch disbelieving as if some part of her knows that it's true in this moment, but that as soon as she's away, as soon as she's back by herself, the truth of it will seem a little less obvious.
She glances over her shoulder, drawn by the weight of him beside her, by the silence stretched thick between their bodies. Her eyes trace the curve of his jaw, the blood streaked across olive skin like paint left to dry, the dark of his eyes so fully swallowed in black that she can’t see the edges anymore. He looks like something carved from myth and dusk and bone-deep certainty, and for a breath she finds herself searching that darkness—his darkness—for a reflection of her own.
