is this the end of all the endings?
At his joke, Flora stops dead in her tracks and turns to give him a look that's basically the llama gif I always send. Drips of sweat and humidity drip down her face, curls plastered against her cheeks, and for several long seconds she just stares at him, unimpressed in the way only someone who’s heard too many bad puns can be. Then, inevitably, her composure cracks; the corners of her mouth twitch upward, and a snort of laughter slips out before she shakes her head. "You’re the woooooooooorst," she snickers, rolling her eyes but unable to keep the grin from blooming back across her face. Because while she knows fights between friends are serious—and so are two leaders potentially getting into a dick-swinging contest (hers was much bigger, of course)—it was still funny.
The next moment is chaos. As Kai dramatically spits and flails, trying to rid himself of his new culinary experience, Flora absolutely loses it. Her laughter bursts out in delighted waves, bright and unrestrained, echoing through the dripping jungle. "I’m sorry, what was that?" she gasps between peals of laughter. "Do what to your dick?"
Flora probably should have anticipated retaliation; there’s a flash of motion, and then splat. Mud hits her square in the chest, warm and heavy, sliding down the soaked fabric of her shirt. For a second, she just blinks, staring at the spreading stain, and then grins up at him with feral triumph. "Seeeeee?" she crows, "Stronger already."
And before he can gloat, she crouches, scoops up two massive handfuls of mud, and bolts forward through the squelching mess, her laughter turning wild. "C’mere, city boy!" she calls, aiming to plant both mud-caked palms right on his chest with gleeful precision. "You’re about to get yourself a pair of mud titties!"
The next moment is chaos. As Kai dramatically spits and flails, trying to rid himself of his new culinary experience, Flora absolutely loses it. Her laughter bursts out in delighted waves, bright and unrestrained, echoing through the dripping jungle. "I’m sorry, what was that?" she gasps between peals of laughter. "Do what to your dick?"
Flora probably should have anticipated retaliation; there’s a flash of motion, and then splat. Mud hits her square in the chest, warm and heavy, sliding down the soaked fabric of her shirt. For a second, she just blinks, staring at the spreading stain, and then grins up at him with feral triumph. "Seeeeee?" she crows, "Stronger already."
And before he can gloat, she crouches, scoops up two massive handfuls of mud, and bolts forward through the squelching mess, her laughter turning wild. "C’mere, city boy!" she calls, aiming to plant both mud-caked palms right on his chest with gleeful precision. "You’re about to get yourself a pair of mud titties!"
my broken bones are mending
