Kaisel
There are few who can match Kaisel in the taking things too far department, but Flora is definitely one of them. She owns the department actually, she girl bosses the fuck out of it.
He feels her go rigid beside him and he stops, fingers just out of reach of the morsels. It's that moment of tension, the briefest halting of a soon to be unstoppable momentum, that precedes some action of devastation, like an explosion. The spoon tinkling on the counter is almost deafening given the weight that has suddenly swept into the air, the storm of chaos gathering under the gleam of her fingers, golden with the rings that wreath each wicked one.
There, in the devilish curve of her lips—his demise.
Isn't that always how it goes for men.
That moment, the one before the disaster, that's pregnant with promise, it breaks with a name. An actual herald, summoned with the drawn out sweetness of fermented fruit. Kaisel's eyes whip to those horrendously devious aqua ones. He doesn't believe her, at first. Though, he's too afraid to say it, to conjure up some bravado and expose her bluff for what it is—showmanship, like always. He doesn't know every thing about Flora, not the extent of everything she's capable of. She is touched by the divine, in a way that only he could play pretend at in her snack-riddled kitchen.
His doubt is smothered in an instant as the room shudders around them, its plane bending and giving way to something truly celestial. There's a heat that curls against him like a sigh, wistful and aromatic with the sugar and spice of a date unfurling at the local fair, alive with the craving for more than a carnival ride. Kaisel's grip tightens on the counter, white-knuckling it in an attempt to keep him standing and barricaded against the woman before him, the one he'd fall to his knees to for a chance to worship. She is terrifying by her mere temptation alone. One look and he knows he'd give anything for the chance to exist alongside her. He'd lose every part of himself in the fold of her hair. He'd let her forge him into whatever she desired, all for a meager touch.
There is an exchange, like old friends winking at one another. Then her attention is on him, and he feels like he might buckle under the weight of that assessment, unable to endure her attention for too long. He grins roguishly at her cheshire gleam, tracking her as she stalks around him. Despite the nerves that slicken his palms, he wants her to find him acceptable. He stands taller.
It's a warm caress, like bathwater trickling free of a sponge against his cold, bare skin, as her fabric crawls across him and replaces his own. He glances down, marveling at the stretch and yawn of the aureate cloth as it dips with the grooves of his muscles, clings along the lines of his hips. It feels the way he's always imagined a cloud does. Heat flushes his cheeks, cherry-bright as he feels a mild breeze against his exposed flesh where the fabric didn't deign to reach; spaces not often exposed to air when standing in a friend's kitchen. The redness creeps to his neck as Frey's hand coasts against him, brief and feather-light, but he feels it echo like a pulse in-between his legs.
She departs, a release, and he slumps like the dead against the counter. His cheek, warm from the burning of desire and embarrassment, feels cool as it squishes against the flat, stony surface. He doesn't dare move, not now, when he could go camping with just the supplies on him, and not when he might flash his gear with too strong of a stride. So he remains, groaning against the counter in utter defeat.
"You win," he says without looking at her, shadowed images of his version of Frey still dancing behind his eyes, unbidden. "Take all the snacks, every snack, anything. It's yours."
He feels her go rigid beside him and he stops, fingers just out of reach of the morsels. It's that moment of tension, the briefest halting of a soon to be unstoppable momentum, that precedes some action of devastation, like an explosion. The spoon tinkling on the counter is almost deafening given the weight that has suddenly swept into the air, the storm of chaos gathering under the gleam of her fingers, golden with the rings that wreath each wicked one.
There, in the devilish curve of her lips—his demise.
Isn't that always how it goes for men.
That moment, the one before the disaster, that's pregnant with promise, it breaks with a name. An actual herald, summoned with the drawn out sweetness of fermented fruit. Kaisel's eyes whip to those horrendously devious aqua ones. He doesn't believe her, at first. Though, he's too afraid to say it, to conjure up some bravado and expose her bluff for what it is—showmanship, like always. He doesn't know every thing about Flora, not the extent of everything she's capable of. She is touched by the divine, in a way that only he could play pretend at in her snack-riddled kitchen.
His doubt is smothered in an instant as the room shudders around them, its plane bending and giving way to something truly celestial. There's a heat that curls against him like a sigh, wistful and aromatic with the sugar and spice of a date unfurling at the local fair, alive with the craving for more than a carnival ride. Kaisel's grip tightens on the counter, white-knuckling it in an attempt to keep him standing and barricaded against the woman before him, the one he'd fall to his knees to for a chance to worship. She is terrifying by her mere temptation alone. One look and he knows he'd give anything for the chance to exist alongside her. He'd lose every part of himself in the fold of her hair. He'd let her forge him into whatever she desired, all for a meager touch.
There is an exchange, like old friends winking at one another. Then her attention is on him, and he feels like he might buckle under the weight of that assessment, unable to endure her attention for too long. He grins roguishly at her cheshire gleam, tracking her as she stalks around him. Despite the nerves that slicken his palms, he wants her to find him acceptable. He stands taller.
It's a warm caress, like bathwater trickling free of a sponge against his cold, bare skin, as her fabric crawls across him and replaces his own. He glances down, marveling at the stretch and yawn of the aureate cloth as it dips with the grooves of his muscles, clings along the lines of his hips. It feels the way he's always imagined a cloud does. Heat flushes his cheeks, cherry-bright as he feels a mild breeze against his exposed flesh where the fabric didn't deign to reach; spaces not often exposed to air when standing in a friend's kitchen. The redness creeps to his neck as Frey's hand coasts against him, brief and feather-light, but he feels it echo like a pulse in-between his legs.
She departs, a release, and he slumps like the dead against the counter. His cheek, warm from the burning of desire and embarrassment, feels cool as it squishes against the flat, stony surface. He doesn't dare move, not now, when he could go camping with just the supplies on him, and not when he might flash his gear with too strong of a stride. So he remains, groaning against the counter in utter defeat.
"You win," he says without looking at her, shadowed images of his version of Frey still dancing behind his eyes, unbidden. "Take all the snacks, every snack, anything. It's yours."
And when the day broke, buried in violence
Somethin' made my mind up
I could do this with my eyes closed
Somethin' made my mind up
I could do this with my eyes closed
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
