flora
As soon as the pair are within eyesight of Flora's Kaisel's townhouse, Spice is off, squeezing herself through the open window above the sink with all the elegance of a cannonball wrapped in tulle. Her claws scramble across the counter, tail flicking like a whip, and the second she spots Kaisel, she launches herself onto his shoulder with a flurry of indignant and warning chirps. Moments later, the front door slams open hard enough to rattle in its frame.
Flora storms in like a summer squall; curls half-wild, cheeks kissed by too much sun, fingers already digging at the edge of her waistband as if removing her pants might also remove the entire system of government. Her sandals clatter against the floor as she kicks them off mid-step, and her bag drops at the entry like this was still her home to fall apart in.
Then comes the groan; long and theatrical and echoing through the townhouse like the wail of a siren who’s had enough. "I hate it here!" she declares to no one in particular, arms flung wide as if the walls themselves are to blame. "I’m changing!"
She takes the stairs two at a time, already shimmying out of her jeans. The townhouse isn’t hers anymore—not really—but that doesn’t stop her from heading straight for the bedroom, even though anything remotely practical to wear is long gone. All that’s left in the closet are the glittering cast-offs of her life pre-Sugar Tide: sheer cover-ups, risqué evening gowns, an alarming number of bathing suits that exist solely to be taken off. But that’s fine. Flora doesn’t need sensible right now, she just needs to be out of her bra and into something with a stretchy waistband (or perhaps no waistband at all). Just because she’s a queen doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve to be soft and pantsless at the end of a godsforsaken day.
Flora storms in like a summer squall; curls half-wild, cheeks kissed by too much sun, fingers already digging at the edge of her waistband as if removing her pants might also remove the entire system of government. Her sandals clatter against the floor as she kicks them off mid-step, and her bag drops at the entry like this was still her home to fall apart in.
Then comes the groan; long and theatrical and echoing through the townhouse like the wail of a siren who’s had enough. "I hate it here!" she declares to no one in particular, arms flung wide as if the walls themselves are to blame. "I’m changing!"
She takes the stairs two at a time, already shimmying out of her jeans. The townhouse isn’t hers anymore—not really—but that doesn’t stop her from heading straight for the bedroom, even though anything remotely practical to wear is long gone. All that’s left in the closet are the glittering cast-offs of her life pre-Sugar Tide: sheer cover-ups, risqué evening gowns, an alarming number of bathing suits that exist solely to be taken off. But that’s fine. Flora doesn’t need sensible right now, she just needs to be out of her bra and into something with a stretchy waistband (or perhaps no waistband at all). Just because she’s a queen doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve to be soft and pantsless at the end of a godsforsaken day.
lust's a liar, a short lived fire
it isn't what you and I are at all
it isn't what you and I are at all
