Silver Medal Crack
Cinnamon Swirl #19. The Darkest Hour with Malt
Story : knights
Rating : PG
Timeframe : N/A
Word Count : 274
Malt Prompt : Trick or Treat (from Olram) Kairn has been betrayed.
Yeeeah, so this is just inside jokes to my teammates and utterly pointless. But Silver Medal for Team Rainbow Brains!
Kairn choked and sputtered. He slammed the bread back down on the table. It hit the wood with a crunch, and he pounded a fist against his chest as crumbs like shards of glass stuck in the back of his throat. He searched the room, with eyes that watered and stung, in hopes of a glass of water. No water. Just the bread. He picked it up, turned it over, broke off a chunk that fell into dust between his fingers. He wasn’t risking another bite of that.
He eyed the door. How long was Reida going to leave him here? What tortures was she going to visit on him when she returned? Wasn’t it bad enough that she’d stuffed him into this hideous pink monstrosity? She’d turned him into one big, puffy cloud of ruffles, decked in little hand stitched rose blossoms and trimmed in silky ribbons. And undoubtedly, she was coming back to do unspeakable things to him. Did she have to leave him alone here, with nothing but a rickety old table and chair and a loaf of stale bread (and no water) to ponder his fate? It was almost too much to bear.
His leg itched. Damned lacy stockings. He reached down, scratched his calf. His backside itched. Stupid things went all the way up. What the hell? Did stockings really do that? What sort of torture device were these? He reached up under the ruffles of the great, billowy pink skirt that hung about his legs and scratched some more.
Everything itched, and the harder he scratched…He grabbed the bread. Maybe it was good for something after all.
Story : knights
Rating : PG
Timeframe : N/A
Word Count : 274
Malt Prompt : Trick or Treat (from Olram) Kairn has been betrayed.
Yeeeah, so this is just inside jokes to my teammates and utterly pointless. But Silver Medal for Team Rainbow Brains!
Kairn choked and sputtered. He slammed the bread back down on the table. It hit the wood with a crunch, and he pounded a fist against his chest as crumbs like shards of glass stuck in the back of his throat. He searched the room, with eyes that watered and stung, in hopes of a glass of water. No water. Just the bread. He picked it up, turned it over, broke off a chunk that fell into dust between his fingers. He wasn’t risking another bite of that.
He eyed the door. How long was Reida going to leave him here? What tortures was she going to visit on him when she returned? Wasn’t it bad enough that she’d stuffed him into this hideous pink monstrosity? She’d turned him into one big, puffy cloud of ruffles, decked in little hand stitched rose blossoms and trimmed in silky ribbons. And undoubtedly, she was coming back to do unspeakable things to him. Did she have to leave him alone here, with nothing but a rickety old table and chair and a loaf of stale bread (and no water) to ponder his fate? It was almost too much to bear.
His leg itched. Damned lacy stockings. He reached down, scratched his calf. His backside itched. Stupid things went all the way up. What the hell? Did stockings really do that? What sort of torture device were these? He reached up under the ruffles of the great, billowy pink skirt that hung about his legs and scratched some more.
Everything itched, and the harder he scratched…He grabbed the bread. Maybe it was good for something after all.