this is why we can't have nice things, honey
Flora shifts easily with them, her curls tumbling over the pillows as she scoots higher up the bed, her shoulder brushing Danta’s as she goes. "Good," she says, a little smug, a little grateful, letting her head rest against the pile of cushions like she was born to sprawl between two beautifully dangerous men. "I’m taking you both at your word then. If I wake up impaled on a horn, I’m haunting you both."
She pats the other side of the bed with a flourish, eyes twinkling as she turns her face toward Asta. “"Come on, I bet if you spoon me, your reach might even be long enough to grab Danta too," she teases, flicking a glance at the Maverick with an exaggerated lash flutter.
But the moment they both slip out of their respective outfits and settle into the silken sheets beside her, Flora’s breath catches—not loudly, not in any way that would break the mood, but just enough to make her pause. Because gods, she knows tonight is just comfort and closure, it’s hard not to be just a little undone when faced with this kind of warmth and affection wrapped in bodies like theirs.
And they do it so effortlessly, too.
Danta’s arm drapes over her, Asta’s leg tangles with hers, and for a moment she goes utterly still between them, soaking it in. Then comes the ache.
It swells sharp and sudden in her chest as her voice dips to a whisper. "Jack hated cuddling," she murmurs, eyes tracing the moonlight on the ceiling. "We’d do it, sometimes, but...it was always kind of an accident. Like he forgot to pull away."
She presses herself back into Asta’s chest, arching her spine to fit into the space he’s left for her, a soft sound catching in her throat as her hand stretches across Danta’s chest. Her fingertips splay out over his skin, gently scratching in a slow, absent rhythm.
And then, even quieter: "Is this okay?" she asks, the question weightless and heavy all at once, directed to both of them.
She pats the other side of the bed with a flourish, eyes twinkling as she turns her face toward Asta. “"Come on, I bet if you spoon me, your reach might even be long enough to grab Danta too," she teases, flicking a glance at the Maverick with an exaggerated lash flutter.
But the moment they both slip out of their respective outfits and settle into the silken sheets beside her, Flora’s breath catches—not loudly, not in any way that would break the mood, but just enough to make her pause. Because gods, she knows tonight is just comfort and closure, it’s hard not to be just a little undone when faced with this kind of warmth and affection wrapped in bodies like theirs.
And they do it so effortlessly, too.
Danta’s arm drapes over her, Asta’s leg tangles with hers, and for a moment she goes utterly still between them, soaking it in. Then comes the ache.
It swells sharp and sudden in her chest as her voice dips to a whisper. "Jack hated cuddling," she murmurs, eyes tracing the moonlight on the ceiling. "We’d do it, sometimes, but...it was always kind of an accident. Like he forgot to pull away."
She presses herself back into Asta’s chest, arching her spine to fit into the space he’s left for her, a soft sound catching in her throat as her hand stretches across Danta’s chest. Her fingertips splay out over his skin, gently scratching in a slow, absent rhythm.
And then, even quieter: "Is this okay?" she asks, the question weightless and heavy all at once, directed to both of them.
