flora
Flora’s lips twitch at that, and she hums thoughtfully into her glass, eyes drifting for a moment toward the green-gold light of sunrise spilling over the bar. "I guess I’d better ask Safrin about it too," she says, the words lighter than the thought itself, though not careless.
Still, when Asta speaks of what might come next, of power kicked up two or ten notches, Flora’s expression shifts immediately, curiosity turning wicked as her gaze slides over him with open anticipation. "I can’t wait," she says, the words warm and crooked, her grin sharpening.
The mention of her parents draws a very different sort of expression from her, all irritation and old frustration neatly tucked beneath the roll of her eyes. "Yes, they did have a terrible time," Flora says, huffing out a sigh as she lifts her mimosa in a tiny, exasperated salute to the entire complicated history of Remi, Ronin, Safrin, and all the wounds nobody had handled particularly gracefully. "But seeing as I’m not planning on being in love with Safrin or fucking her and having her kids, I feeeeeel like I’ll be okay." She draws the word out with deliberate brightness, the edge of it softened by the fact that she knows the difference, even if her fathers had needed a minute to remember that she did too.
As for being channelled, though, Flora grimaces immediately, and though Asta’s dramatics earn a smirk when he peeks through his fingers, the look does not quite wipe the distaste from her face. "It’s weird," she admits, wrinkling her nose as she turns her glass slowly between her fingers. "Like, instant. There’s no time to put down what you’re doing or say anything, and then suddenly you’re there, wherever you’ve been channelled, and it’s like..." She pauses, searching for the shape of it with a small, unhappy flick of her brows. "You’re compelled to do what you were called for."
Her mouth twitches, but this time the amusement is thinner, made more of distaste than delight. "I actually kind of hate it." There is no drama in the admission, not really, only the blunt discomfort of a woman who has spent too much of her life fighting for control over her own choices to find anything cute about being snatched into someone else’s emergency without warning. She takes another sip of her mimosa, as if the orange liqueur might sweeten the thought before she continues.
"Mel and I talked about it," Flora adds, shaking her head as her expression sharpens into something more incredulous. "And the fact that people just randomly channel demigods into dangerous situations where they could die and then don’t even say thank you after is wild."
Still, when Asta speaks of what might come next, of power kicked up two or ten notches, Flora’s expression shifts immediately, curiosity turning wicked as her gaze slides over him with open anticipation. "I can’t wait," she says, the words warm and crooked, her grin sharpening.
The mention of her parents draws a very different sort of expression from her, all irritation and old frustration neatly tucked beneath the roll of her eyes. "Yes, they did have a terrible time," Flora says, huffing out a sigh as she lifts her mimosa in a tiny, exasperated salute to the entire complicated history of Remi, Ronin, Safrin, and all the wounds nobody had handled particularly gracefully. "But seeing as I’m not planning on being in love with Safrin or fucking her and having her kids, I feeeeeel like I’ll be okay." She draws the word out with deliberate brightness, the edge of it softened by the fact that she knows the difference, even if her fathers had needed a minute to remember that she did too.
As for being channelled, though, Flora grimaces immediately, and though Asta’s dramatics earn a smirk when he peeks through his fingers, the look does not quite wipe the distaste from her face. "It’s weird," she admits, wrinkling her nose as she turns her glass slowly between her fingers. "Like, instant. There’s no time to put down what you’re doing or say anything, and then suddenly you’re there, wherever you’ve been channelled, and it’s like..." She pauses, searching for the shape of it with a small, unhappy flick of her brows. "You’re compelled to do what you were called for."
Her mouth twitches, but this time the amusement is thinner, made more of distaste than delight. "I actually kind of hate it." There is no drama in the admission, not really, only the blunt discomfort of a woman who has spent too much of her life fighting for control over her own choices to find anything cute about being snatched into someone else’s emergency without warning. She takes another sip of her mimosa, as if the orange liqueur might sweeten the thought before she continues.
"Mel and I talked about it," Flora adds, shaking her head as her expression sharpens into something more incredulous. "And the fact that people just randomly channel demigods into dangerous situations where they could die and then don’t even say thank you after is wild."
I hope you're wetting your appetite, finding your way into someone's eyes
I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
