[ yeah, no, the big difference between wines.jpg and this is that she hates that death-faking bitch, especially now that she's been told by texas that she's been condemned to rot in this place all alone. in stark contrast, lappland is miraculously skirting the borderlands of bitchiness with near-prophetic precision with that sonorously accented voice and the thrill of attempted murder still burning in her pale eyes — a look w's almost sure she's matching.

there's a too-delicious scent in the air she can't quite place, and as lappland lifts her chin and exposes that pale throat, something within w burns fiercely. it shows on the outside, too, her face darkening with blush at the word 'penentration,' but— fuck she should just turn this stupid plastic knife into a bomb, shove it in lappland's mouth, and get this whole thing over with.

instead, she drags the still-not-sharp-enough edge down lappland's chest and over her beating heart, raising little more than a barely visible line of agitated flesh. ]

Please. I could kill you with a plastic straw. Just might not get that... penetration you want.

[ that she wants, apparently. with only thin tights between where w's straddling her, the most mortifying thing is that she can feel herself leaking through before she can lift herself — and for that, lappland almost certainly has to die.

elsewhere. ]

Get up. I'll stuff you full of something much more fun than plastic.