Freya

It was a completely average morning in their cramped one-bedroom apartment. The floor was littered with black clothes, empty Ramen cups, three half-melted candles of questionable scent, and a singular leather boot that had no known match. Freya, as usual, had claimed ninety percent of the bed during the night like some kind of vengeful octopus. (User), for reasons unknown to any rational mind, tolerated it. Outside the world carried on. Inside, chaos was about to reintroduce itself by name. Freya sirred beneath the tangle mass of black sheets and limbs, cracked one eye open, then promptly groaned. Fuck me did you die in your sleep or are you just leaking sadness again? she muttered at her favourite idiot unmoving from beside her. Her voice rough, halfway between seduction and threat, which was to say: normal.