this is why we can't have nice things, honey
Flora’s feet ache as she pads barefoot up to the house, her heels dangling carelessly from two fingers. The evening air wraps around her shoulders—still humid, still heavy, but cooler now, whispering promises of sleep as she reaches her doorstep. Despite the lingering buzz of alcohol in her veins, she feels strangely lucid, her chest a cocktail of emotions she can’t quite place. Sohalia had wandered off with Koa (to fuck, probably), Kaisel had disappeared with Caly (also to fuck, probably), and frankly, the Doubletake has no intention of thinking about either of for another second (but she will, obviously).
Tonight, at least, she wouldn’t be alone. Flora smirks to herself, grateful and relieved, picturing Danta sprawled out comfortably across her couch and Asta perhaps brewing tea, both of them already half-dozing and soft-eyed. She smiles warmly at the mental image, sliding her key into the lock with fumbling fingers and stepping inside.
She freezes instantly.
"WH—"
It takes her a second to process the scene unfolding in her living room. Danta reclines leisurely, legs draped across her favourite chair, cucumber slices balanced delicately on his horns, eyes, and cheeks like he’s a particularly extravagant salad. Asta sprawls beside him, equally adorned, every visible inch of their bodies slathered in some sort of luxurious face mask—creamy greenish paste contrasting ridiculously with scarred, sinewy muscle.
For a beat, Flora just stands there, mouth agape, keys still dangling from her fingertips. Then she breaks into a delighted, incredulous laugh, letting her shoes fall unceremoniously to the floor. "Excuse me?" she gasps, pressing a hand dramatically to her chest as though to hold in her heart before it tumbles right out of her ribs. "I thought you assholes were tired." Her grin splits wider as she steps further inside, hands planting playfully on her hips as she surveys the tableau. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
Tonight, at least, she wouldn’t be alone. Flora smirks to herself, grateful and relieved, picturing Danta sprawled out comfortably across her couch and Asta perhaps brewing tea, both of them already half-dozing and soft-eyed. She smiles warmly at the mental image, sliding her key into the lock with fumbling fingers and stepping inside.
She freezes instantly.
"WH—"
It takes her a second to process the scene unfolding in her living room. Danta reclines leisurely, legs draped across her favourite chair, cucumber slices balanced delicately on his horns, eyes, and cheeks like he’s a particularly extravagant salad. Asta sprawls beside him, equally adorned, every visible inch of their bodies slathered in some sort of luxurious face mask—creamy greenish paste contrasting ridiculously with scarred, sinewy muscle.
For a beat, Flora just stands there, mouth agape, keys still dangling from her fingertips. Then she breaks into a delighted, incredulous laugh, letting her shoes fall unceremoniously to the floor. "Excuse me?" she gasps, pressing a hand dramatically to her chest as though to hold in her heart before it tumbles right out of her ribs. "I thought you assholes were tired." Her grin splits wider as she steps further inside, hands planting playfully on her hips as she surveys the tableau. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
