Flora
Had Kaisel not already wound her up past the point of mercy, had he not slapped her ass like a war drum and hoisted her like some screeching, writhing prize, she might’ve actually considered punishing him the fun way.
But alas. This was a war he started—and Flora was a queen who finished things.
As he groans and curls in upon himself like a wilted fern, she stumbles forward from the unceremonious drop, landing in a half-spin against the counter. One hand reaches back instinctively to adjust her jeans—still stinging—while the other delicately claims a chip, still cold and half-covered in shredded cheese. She crunches into it with theatrical flair, her victorious little hum almost drowned out by his wheezing suffering behind her.
"Oh noooOoOooo," she murmurs around the chip, voice full of false sympathy as she turns toward him, "You know better than to start something you can't finish with me." The nachos—no longer even pretending to be anything more than dairy-coated carbs—are gathered up and tossed unceremoniously into the oven. She shuts the door with a decisive clang, brushing her hands together like a job well done.
Then, she glances back over her shoulder at the mess of a man doubled over in her kitchenette. "Want me to call Spice?" she asks sweetly, innocence painted all over her features like frosting on a poisoned cake. "She could ice your balls for you, and by the looks of it, that's the only amount of heat you can handle."
But alas. This was a war he started—and Flora was a queen who finished things.
As he groans and curls in upon himself like a wilted fern, she stumbles forward from the unceremonious drop, landing in a half-spin against the counter. One hand reaches back instinctively to adjust her jeans—still stinging—while the other delicately claims a chip, still cold and half-covered in shredded cheese. She crunches into it with theatrical flair, her victorious little hum almost drowned out by his wheezing suffering behind her.
"Oh noooOoOooo," she murmurs around the chip, voice full of false sympathy as she turns toward him, "You know better than to start something you can't finish with me." The nachos—no longer even pretending to be anything more than dairy-coated carbs—are gathered up and tossed unceremoniously into the oven. She shuts the door with a decisive clang, brushing her hands together like a job well done.
Then, she glances back over her shoulder at the mess of a man doubled over in her kitchenette. "Want me to call Spice?" she asks sweetly, innocence painted all over her features like frosting on a poisoned cake. "She could ice your balls for you, and by the looks of it, that's the only amount of heat you can handle."
I hope you're sweating the bigger stuff,
finding some peace in an honest love
Hope you stop when you've had enough & throw the towel in
finding some peace in an honest love
Hope you stop when you've had enough & throw the towel in
Code stolen from Queen Sky
