candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor
She hears the glitter hit the wall before she registers the sound of his flailing, the godsforsaken sparkles sticking like cursed memories to every surface he touches. The second her pillow makes impact, she lets out a shriek—not of victory, not this time—but of sheer, visceral frustration. "Are you actually kidding me right now!?" she yells after him as he stumbles from the room like some tragic, slippery goblin. The audacity. The unholy, skin-crawling audacity.
She flings the blanket off in a huff—what’s the point anymore—and storms to the door, not bothering to hide the flush on her cheeks or the wild tangle of her curls. "You’re lucky I don’t send Spice in there to freeze your dick solid!" she shouts, because what else is she supposed to do? (Spice lets out a hiss of icy approval from the kitchen, curled smugly on her cooling shelf.) "And for the record," she snaps, loud enough for the walls to carry it to the gods themselves, "girls don't do it in the bathroom Assborn, not that you'd know."
She flings the blanket off in a huff—what’s the point anymore—and storms to the door, not bothering to hide the flush on her cheeks or the wild tangle of her curls. "You’re lucky I don’t send Spice in there to freeze your dick solid!" she shouts, because what else is she supposed to do? (Spice lets out a hiss of icy approval from the kitchen, curled smugly on her cooling shelf.) "And for the record," she snaps, loud enough for the walls to carry it to the gods themselves, "girls don't do it in the bathroom Assborn, not that you'd know."
