flora
Flora gasps again—the audacity—as if his smug little declaration about her powers had been written on a scroll and nailed to her front door. "If we’re building it together," she snips, voice rising with the wounded drama of a queen wrongfully exiled, "then I really don’t see why my hands should be tied behind my back while you strut around like a frog in charge of the pond."
With a scoff and the kind of hairflip that could stun a lesser man into silence, she snatches her finger back from his grasp, the motion quick and feline as she folds her arms beneath her chest, deliberately—very deliberately—propping her breasts up. "Honestly," she purrs, lashes fluttering with weaponised sweetness, "I think you’re just a little intimidated by my strength."
The glitter in her eyes softens only for a flicker as he throws out that babygirl like a line cast into warm seafoam, tugging an absolutely ridiculous grin from her lips before she can stop it. It glows across her face, warm as tide-washed gold. "Don’t try to flatter your way out of this," she says, tone all exasperated delight as she turns, "and it’s not Stormbreak either, dragon boy, so maybe don’t come in here acting like you invented buildings."
She watches his oh-so-proud blanket flap with a look of supreme judgement, as if his entryway is a child’s drawing next to a commissioned mural. "Adorable," she drawls, voice steeped in honey and venom both.
With ceremony worthy of a coronation, Flora stalks to the dining table; a graceful, pointed glide in her sweatpants, hair catching the firelight in molten ribbons as she reaches out and drags the entire thing forward with a grind of wood against floorboards. Not summoned, not magicked. Just raw, glorious pettiness and muscle. If he was making an arch as an entrance, she'd make a hall.
With a scoff and the kind of hairflip that could stun a lesser man into silence, she snatches her finger back from his grasp, the motion quick and feline as she folds her arms beneath her chest, deliberately—very deliberately—propping her breasts up. "Honestly," she purrs, lashes fluttering with weaponised sweetness, "I think you’re just a little intimidated by my strength."
The glitter in her eyes softens only for a flicker as he throws out that babygirl like a line cast into warm seafoam, tugging an absolutely ridiculous grin from her lips before she can stop it. It glows across her face, warm as tide-washed gold. "Don’t try to flatter your way out of this," she says, tone all exasperated delight as she turns, "and it’s not Stormbreak either, dragon boy, so maybe don’t come in here acting like you invented buildings."
She watches his oh-so-proud blanket flap with a look of supreme judgement, as if his entryway is a child’s drawing next to a commissioned mural. "Adorable," she drawls, voice steeped in honey and venom both.
With ceremony worthy of a coronation, Flora stalks to the dining table; a graceful, pointed glide in her sweatpants, hair catching the firelight in molten ribbons as she reaches out and drags the entire thing forward with a grind of wood against floorboards. Not summoned, not magicked. Just raw, glorious pettiness and muscle. If he was making an arch as an entrance, she'd make a hall.
you don't know that you're living til' you're carrying scars
you're either falling in love or falling apart
you're either falling in love or falling apart
