Askaree Bint Bahar

Ugh.

There had to be a goddamn ice pick embedded in the back of her skull, poking its little ice pick needle point into her throbbing brain. A brain that felt precisely three sizes too big to possibly fit inside of its little skull bucket. But she had had hangovers before... hell, hangovers were about as typical as morning breath to alcoholics: unpleasant but something that unfortunately came with the territory. And so, with the passing of the "epiphany" that she had once again drank herself into something of a stupor, Askaree proceeds upon the avenue to another revelation of a completely different caliber. The sheets she was coiled up in. They were soft... like really fucking soft. A whole hell of a lot softer than her sheets, which were probably about as high quality as repurposed motel linens but, hey, she didn't exactly live in the damn Four Seasons. But these sheets, they were like sleeping in a silk cocoon...

These definitely were not her sheets. And if these were not her sheets this was sure as hell not her fucking bed. And if it was not her bed then whose was it? Confusion bubbled and frothed against her incessantly-throbbing brain; of course, it surely was not the first time Askaree had found herself coiled in sheets that were not hers... I mean, let's be real, that was given. It was, however, the first time in a long, long while that the Egyptian minx had found herself waking in said sheets as she had made it somewhat of a personal mandate many years prior that sleeping over at a one-nighter's house (or having said one-nighter sleeping over at hers) was something that would not be done. At least not willingly.

It is this thought, this epiphany in its own right that launches the caramel-skinned beauty from her linen casing and... almost on to the damn floor. Whoa, Flicka. She forfeits a moment to the heightened tempo pulsating against the insides of her ears, clenching her eyes ever tighter against the dusty rays of sun swimming about the room. Who knows how long exactly that she stands there, possibly swaying or simply riding the tumultuous waves of her own post-inbriation. Eventually though does she right herself, finely-chiseled jaw set, irises burning with a rage that rarely ever glistened there for she had become an artisan at shielding such a display. Right now though, in this moment, she was really effing pissed off. What lily-livered pussy of a man had come to the conclusion that slipping her god knows what was a good idea?

She was about to find out.

Disregarding completely the undeniable fact that she was nearly-naked, the intricate black laciness of her underwear the only piece of clothing that currently still resided on her body with her hair (for the moment anyways) shielding her bare breasts, Askaree slithered her way across the impressively large bedroom and down the stairs in search of the culprit of last night's (or this morning's) treachery. Slowly and methodically does she sashay upon the trajectory to what she could only imagine was the kitchen given the smell emanating from the door that stands slightly ajar. Moving closer to peer into the sprawling and unsurprisingly immaculate kitchen, a perfectly manicured brow quirks skyward at the realization of who it is that lingers there.

"SPENCER," she snarls, launching herself over the threshold, the bowl he carries sent careening out of his grasp and into the wall only to shatter in a spray of uneaten sludge. So practiced was she in the realms of her gifted ability nearly no effort at all is taken to perform the task, nor does it tax her to summon the carving knife from its wooden housing and into her waiting palm. "Spencer," she hisses, "what the fuck?"