flora
Flora beams, grateful for the flicker of dry humour he manages to offer through the lingering fog of his embarrassment. "Tea sounds perfect," she says, pushing herself up with the aid of the wall and offering one hand toward him without fanfare. There’s no gentling touch or coaxing in her expression, just a straightforward kind of practicality: you’re here, I’m here, so take the damn hand, especially because he doesn't have his cane.
Once he’s upright and steady, she holds his gaze for a moment, then gives a thoughtful shrug and turns. Her fingers slip down the back of her shirt, tugging the hem up, not flirtatiously or shyly, just openly. The thin cotton bunches around her waist and then upper back, revealing the curve of her hips and the lace of dark underwear against her skin, but the point isn’t the view. It’s the shadows left behind. Scars slash down her ribs like whip lines, and puncture wounds score their way across her side, silver and ugly in the lightning-glow.
She glances over her shoulder, lashes low over her eyes. "Being carved up by Dahlia was worse than being killed by Pierce," she says quietly. "The Reaper didn’t just want to kill me—she wanted to tear me apart from the inside out. I felt her claws right here—" She taps just under her ribs. "—like she was trying to break me open." And then, just as simply, she lets the shirt fall back down. It wasn't meant to be a performance or a demand, just a trade; an I'll show you mine if you show me yours sort of thing so that he wouldn't be so alone in his scar tour.
As they begin to walk, Flora tucks her arm lightly into his, keeping her steps easy and slow. "Do you think your sleeping self has a system? Like some creepy Dewey decimal code only your dreams understand?" It wouldn't surprise her at all that the necromancer's mind wanted to keep working even when he'd turned out the literal and metaphorical lights.
Once he’s upright and steady, she holds his gaze for a moment, then gives a thoughtful shrug and turns. Her fingers slip down the back of her shirt, tugging the hem up, not flirtatiously or shyly, just openly. The thin cotton bunches around her waist and then upper back, revealing the curve of her hips and the lace of dark underwear against her skin, but the point isn’t the view. It’s the shadows left behind. Scars slash down her ribs like whip lines, and puncture wounds score their way across her side, silver and ugly in the lightning-glow.
She glances over her shoulder, lashes low over her eyes. "Being carved up by Dahlia was worse than being killed by Pierce," she says quietly. "The Reaper didn’t just want to kill me—she wanted to tear me apart from the inside out. I felt her claws right here—" She taps just under her ribs. "—like she was trying to break me open." And then, just as simply, she lets the shirt fall back down. It wasn't meant to be a performance or a demand, just a trade; an I'll show you mine if you show me yours sort of thing so that he wouldn't be so alone in his scar tour.
As they begin to walk, Flora tucks her arm lightly into his, keeping her steps easy and slow. "Do you think your sleeping self has a system? Like some creepy Dewey decimal code only your dreams understand?" It wouldn't surprise her at all that the necromancer's mind wanted to keep working even when he'd turned out the literal and metaphorical lights.
you're under the feeling like teenagers in cars
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
