i'd wipe the dirt off your name with the shirt off my back
Flora’s eyes go wide, scandalized delight chasing the shadows right off her face. "You—you’ve never been properly drunk?" she whispers, like Sohalia has just confessed to never having tried chocolate. Honestly, she shouldn't be surprised, and in a way she wasn't, but Flora wasn't one to shy away from a theatrical response if there was one to be had. "Oh, babe, that simply will not do. Not in the Dusklight, of all places."
She lifts a hand, signalling the bartender with a confident flick of her wrist. "Couple of house shots—something dark and sweet. And keep the kitchen open; we’re going to need fries, cheese, and regret."
Leaning in until her curls brush Soh’s cheek, Flora lowers her voice to a conspiratorial purr. "Tell you what: you do this first shot with me, and I’ll spill what I got up to the last time I was here." Her grin turns feline. "Spoiler: it involved a very enthusiastic ancient, an adjustable harness, and desperately sore hips the next morning."
She pulls back, arching an eyebrow. "No details until that glass is empty, though." The bartender sets two inky-black shots in front of them. Flora wraps her fingers around Sohalia’s glass, lifts her own, and waits—eyes sparkling—with the patience of a cat poised over cream. "What do you say? Want to shine dangerously low for one night?"
She lifts a hand, signalling the bartender with a confident flick of her wrist. "Couple of house shots—something dark and sweet. And keep the kitchen open; we’re going to need fries, cheese, and regret."
Leaning in until her curls brush Soh’s cheek, Flora lowers her voice to a conspiratorial purr. "Tell you what: you do this first shot with me, and I’ll spill what I got up to the last time I was here." Her grin turns feline. "Spoiler: it involved a very enthusiastic ancient, an adjustable harness, and desperately sore hips the next morning."
She pulls back, arching an eyebrow. "No details until that glass is empty, though." The bartender sets two inky-black shots in front of them. Flora wraps her fingers around Sohalia’s glass, lifts her own, and waits—eyes sparkling—with the patience of a cat poised over cream. "What do you say? Want to shine dangerously low for one night?"
