candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor
She's so close. Back arched, breath caught, her hand moving just so; Frey still humming under her skin like a fevered lullaby. The ache at the centre of her is molten, poised and pleading. Flora’s eyes flutter closed, a moan caught halfway up her throat—
Knock. The door cracks open, and just like that, it’s gone.
The pleasure shatters like glass underfoot, sharp and unrelenting in its absence. The high, the release, the entire godsdamn point of the last five minutes vanishes in a mortifying flash of green face mask, clattering pottery, and Kaisel flailing like a drunken sea lion.
"Are you—" she doesn’t finish the sentence. Her voice comes out as a strangled sound, more feral growl than coherent words as she yanks the blanket up to her chin, flushed from more than just arousal now. "KAISEL." Her thighs slam closed beneath the covers, heart pounding with fury and frustration and the searing ache of an orgasm left behind like a yawn ruined by menacing fingers.
She doesn’t know where to look—at him, green-faced and covered in glitter from some now-upended jar? Away, to avoid screaming? At herself, half-undressed and panting like she’s just finished a sprint?
"Oh my gods I hate you," she snaps, throwing a pillow at him with vicious precision as if his timing had been intentional.
Knock. The door cracks open, and just like that, it’s gone.
The pleasure shatters like glass underfoot, sharp and unrelenting in its absence. The high, the release, the entire godsdamn point of the last five minutes vanishes in a mortifying flash of green face mask, clattering pottery, and Kaisel flailing like a drunken sea lion.
"Are you—" she doesn’t finish the sentence. Her voice comes out as a strangled sound, more feral growl than coherent words as she yanks the blanket up to her chin, flushed from more than just arousal now. "KAISEL." Her thighs slam closed beneath the covers, heart pounding with fury and frustration and the searing ache of an orgasm left behind like a yawn ruined by menacing fingers.
She doesn’t know where to look—at him, green-faced and covered in glitter from some now-upended jar? Away, to avoid screaming? At herself, half-undressed and panting like she’s just finished a sprint?
"Oh my gods I hate you," she snaps, throwing a pillow at him with vicious precision as if his timing had been intentional.
