Kaisel
One foot in the ground
One foot in the grave
One foot in the grave
Whatever comes next, it'd be worth it just for that soul-satisfying shriek he pulled out of her. He's laughing uncontrollably, half from the imminent fear of her retribution, half because the recoil of her ass against the assault had been delicious.
He always forgets about Spice though. The dragon is so often helpful, and just cute as could be, that she doesn't register as a weapon that can be turned against him. Like how infants have big heads and eyes on purpose so you're innately tricked into caring for them instead of consuming them in a fit of rage for all the crying and the lack of sleep, not to mention the hormone dump—that's Spice. A cute baby in disguise, because she's actually a sleek missile of flying frost, and she's hurtling for him. He writhes, his outstretched arm curling against his face instead as her breath hisses out sharp and cold—a welcome relief to the sweat gathering there to be honest—prickling against him so that he squints against the strike.
He feels rather than sees Flora's hands clap against his ankles like manacles, stiffening every part of him as she flicks a finer out like a switchblade brought to a boxing match. "Flora," he says steadily, as if trying to reason with someone insane, as he looks up at her front the tilt of his head still pressed against the deck, glittering with rapidly warming ice. There's a flash of her wickedness, and then like a professional torturer that's done the job too long to be influenced by human cries anymore, she sets that nail against his foot with all the ruthlessness of a queen scorned.
"FLORA!" he shrieks, back arching up as he foot thrashes in her hand, his other leg kicking against her fucking strong grip in an attempt to regain freedom. Her growled warnings are barely heard over the starbursts of sensation and his wails, the pitch and the depth of which rise to hysteria as he begs for release. "FLOOOOOORA, STOP, STOP!"
He always forgets about Spice though. The dragon is so often helpful, and just cute as could be, that she doesn't register as a weapon that can be turned against him. Like how infants have big heads and eyes on purpose so you're innately tricked into caring for them instead of consuming them in a fit of rage for all the crying and the lack of sleep, not to mention the hormone dump—that's Spice. A cute baby in disguise, because she's actually a sleek missile of flying frost, and she's hurtling for him. He writhes, his outstretched arm curling against his face instead as her breath hisses out sharp and cold—a welcome relief to the sweat gathering there to be honest—prickling against him so that he squints against the strike.
He feels rather than sees Flora's hands clap against his ankles like manacles, stiffening every part of him as she flicks a finer out like a switchblade brought to a boxing match. "Flora," he says steadily, as if trying to reason with someone insane, as he looks up at her front the tilt of his head still pressed against the deck, glittering with rapidly warming ice. There's a flash of her wickedness, and then like a professional torturer that's done the job too long to be influenced by human cries anymore, she sets that nail against his foot with all the ruthlessness of a queen scorned.
"FLORA!" he shrieks, back arching up as he foot thrashes in her hand, his other leg kicking against her fucking strong grip in an attempt to regain freedom. Her growled warnings are barely heard over the starbursts of sensation and his wails, the pitch and the depth of which rise to hysteria as he begs for release. "FLOOOOOORA, STOP, STOP!"
It's not the devil at your door
It's just your shadow on the floor
It's just your shadow on the floor
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
