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Cooked To Perfection (Lay the Very Best - Chapter 379)
🕑 Added 2025-05-02 21:00:04 +0000 UTCThe air shimmered with heat as Heatstroke stood in the center of the arena, flames dancing along her arms and a whip of fire coiled at her side. Her crimson dress shimmered like a lure, hugging her every curve and clashing seductively with the flickering inferno around her. The crimson flame-like markings along her collarbone pulsed like they were alive. The thin slits of her eyes glowed a bright purple as she scanned the rafters beneath the brim of her low-tipped red hat, casting a sly shadow over her dangerous, fanged grin. She was panting now, chest heaving, tongue slipping between her fangs as if tasting the air.
Morgan could see her eyes flick to Hustle now and then, checking on her partner, but she didn't run to help her. She knew the second she turned her back, Morgan would pounce; she'd already learned that lesson the hard way. One of Morgan's black energy claws had torn through the side of her dress in a flash of feathers, leaving a gash that exposed the scaled skin beneath. The glittering fabric still clung in defiance, and Heatstroke's grip on her whip tightened every time she looked at Hustle, her tongue curling against her fangs with frustration, but she didn't dare give Morgan the opening she was waiting for.
Morgan crouched among the ceiling supports. The stage lights were hung off, drumming her black claws thoughtfully against the metal. Her Hurricane wind churned around her; people had been throwing things up into the air to add to the maelstrom, and the swirling popcorn tubs and bits of clothes provided her some nice cover to think in. Every time Morgan went in to strike, the heat drove her back, or worse, she was baited into a plume of choking Poison Gas.
Wiping a tear from her cheek, Morgan narrowed her eyes. Heatstroke's Poison Gas was creeping through her head, a whisper she couldn't quiet. Her emotions were riding painfully high. Every ounce of frustration she felt at not being able to get at Heatstroke was magnified, and she could feel herself teetering between rage and panic. A stray popcorn tub spun past her head, making her flinch.
She glanced down and caught sight of Heatstroke again, those wide, swaying hips exaggerated with every step, the cut of her shimmering dress dragging Morgan's eyes like a magnet. The glimmering crimson clung like a second skin, and Morgan's breath hitched involuntarily. She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough that the pain blotted out all other thoughts.
"Focus", Morgan growled, trying to calm herself when the pain eased.
She'd only taken a few mouthfuls of Poison Gas, and it was making every flicker of desire feel like a burning need. Her skin prickled with hypersensitivity, every brush of her clothing against her flesh a tormenting distraction. Even the cool metal beneath her palms seemed to thrum against her palms.
She couldn't even look at what Calcine was doing to Hustle; it made her mouth water and her thighs press together involuntarily. The sight of Hustle pinned, twitching, wrapped up in Calcine's firm, molten grip was too much. She imagined herself in her place, those strong hands on her hips, her back arching as a molten palm traced fire along her spine and her cock rubbed over the valleys of Calcine's abs. For a moment, she forgot why she was hiding at all.
Morgan clawed the beam beneath her, forcing her focus back with sheer will. "Not now," she muttered through clenched teeth. "Not going to make a fool of myself."
With a sharp breath, she steadied herself. Fight clever. Fight dirty. Find the gap in the rules. This wasn't her usual kind of brawl; this was a fight where emotions were meant to run high, and they were to put on a show that made eyes pop.
How could she do that if she couldn't even close without losing her mind?
Below, Heatstroke's head tilted suddenly. Her glowing eyes locked onto the rafters, slits narrowing as if she'd sensed the hesitation bleeding off Morgan's body. With a sharp hiss, she raised a clawed hand, fire coiling around her wrist before erupting into a stream of roaring flame.
Morgan yelped and threw herself backward as the Flamethrower shot carved through the air just inches from her perch. A few licks sizzled over her feathers, just like Calcine's flames. A shock to the system, but it didn't have the searing pain of a burn; instead, it warmed whatever part of the body it touched. Sweat clogged the down of her feathers, and her heart beat quicker with anticipation. Getting all heated up really wasn't ideal when she was already half-crazed from Poison.
Heatstroke's fighting style was clear; she made it so her opponents couldn't even think straight.
But maybe thinking wasn't what she needed.
Morgan dropped from the rafters in a flurry of feathers, and a lance of flame shot straight through the cloud mid-fall, scattering dark plumes in every direction. The crowd gasped as the blast consumed her entirely, feathers igniting and fluttering out into the air, fully ablaze.
Astonish usually only lasted a few seconds, and it was tough to focus until it was over, but the crowd's gasp still gave Morgan a thrill.
The scorched feathers spun back together with eerie precision, coalescing right where she'd intended on the Arena floor. Morgan reappeared in full blaze, her spread wings wreathed in fire, burning like she was Moltres herself. The glow of the flames made her red eyes gleam wild beneath the brim of her hat.
"Got you," Heatstroke grinned, "Though you make losing look good."
Morgan let the heat flow into her and inflame her desires. The last dregs of Poison Gas in her blood stoked the sensation even hotter. Was this how Brandy and Calcine felt with their Steam Engines? This hunger boiling in her veins? Her skin tingled like it was being kissed by a thousand lips, and her chest heaved with short, shuddering breaths as she let it all wash over her. The ache between her legs throbbed with each pulse of adrenaline, and Heatstroke did give her cock an appraising look and a quick lick of her lips.
Morgan was letting it all hand out, but she didn't shy away from it. She welcomed it.
Hips rolling in exaggerated swagger, Morgan stalked forward, her claws flexing with predatory grace. Every breath made her nipples ache, and every step sent delicious friction rippling through her body. She wasn't just on fire, she was clearly a horny fucking mess and the crowd was eating it up. Morgan didn't pay them any attention; all her attention was focused on one person.
Heatstroke.
Morgan locked eyes with her and licked slowly along her win, tasting the heat of the flames. She let out a moan as her mouth burned, which was half-laugh, half-taunt. She couldn't get close to Heatstroke without losing her mind, so Morgan had taken the path left for her. Let her emotions overflow. Let them rule her.
She was a Dark Type. She denied herself too much.
Heatstroke's smirk faltered. Her lashes fluttered, and her grip on her flaming whip twitched. She'd spotted what was happening.
"Oh, come on," she sneered, though the strain in her voice cracked through. "You're not trying to weaponize that mess of a brain you have there? It will drive you crazy, you won't even be able to stand."
Morgan's grin sharpened, eyes gleaming with something feral and gleeful.
"Stand? I don't need to stand. I just need my hands on your hips and my tongue down your throat."
The crowd exploded as her words sang out over the speakers. Heatstroke's eyes narrowed until they were just two fine purple lines, fire stuttering across her arms as her body tensed.
"What-"
She didn't get to finish. Morgan lunged, and Heatstroke tried to ward her off with a blast of Poison Gas. Morgan didn't slow. She burst through the gas, eyes wild, breath coming in ragged, euphoric bursts. The purple mist clung to her, curled around her wings, and burned with a bright green flame as it touched her flaming wings, but Morgan didn't falter. She emerged from the smog like a demon in heat, panting, flushed, and grinning like she'd never tasted anything sweeter. Her feathers were matted with sweat and smoke, her claws dripping shadow and clicking with raw intent.
Heatstroke, whip raised, eyes wide with panic, finally realized there was no stopping her this time. Morgan crashed into her, and she wasn't trying to hold herself together anymore.
For the first time in a long, long time, Morgan stopped thinking and reached out for what she wanted. Shapely hips, inviting lips, and a warm body she was going to enjoy every bit of.
Heatstroke would be a lovely appetizer, and then Calcine would be the main course. A real feast for their first date, and she was going to savor every. Last. Bite.
Comments
Irish Not Sane
We finally get a Morgan let lose, the only way she could actually win. I can’t wait for the Calcine Morgan competition as they destroy their opponents and bond with each other
