flora
Flora’s smile sharpens, sweet enough to poison, delicate enough to hide the blade behind it. "You’re right, Jack," she purrs, voice slipping low and dangerous, a ripple of silk over steel as she tilts her chin defiantly. "I’m not you, and this isn't the Ark." She shifts closer, hips swaying just enough to be deliberate, curls brushing against her shoulders with the soft sound of waves lapping at the shore. Her voice lifts then, eyes still locked onto his as if daring him to look away. "Spice—bring me my daggers, would you?" She doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver, even as the dragon's answering trill rises lightly through the air and the soft flurry of wings signals her obedience.
Between them, the air thickens with memory, with the bitter-sweetness of evenings spent curled in his cabin, of ink-stained fingers and whispered confessions, of promises—spoken and unspoken—that Flora had tucked carefully between the pages. Her mind, usually a garden overflowing with vibrant blossoms, is now a storm-ravaged landscape scattered with broken petals, the colours faded, torn into pieces by a wind named Jack Barclay.
He’d carried the parchment with him, pressed so close it might as well have been written on his skin. And still, not a single godsdamned reply. Not even an empty "fuck you," not even a taunt—just silence. Silence that seeped through her days, bled into sleepless nights, whispered endlessly that maybe she deserved this.
It hurt worse than any blade she could throw, deeper than any cut she’d ever endured, and yet here she was, reaching for him again like an addict grasping for poison. She braces herself, fingers reaching unflinchingly toward his back pocket, her eyes narrowed with anticipation.
Between them, the air thickens with memory, with the bitter-sweetness of evenings spent curled in his cabin, of ink-stained fingers and whispered confessions, of promises—spoken and unspoken—that Flora had tucked carefully between the pages. Her mind, usually a garden overflowing with vibrant blossoms, is now a storm-ravaged landscape scattered with broken petals, the colours faded, torn into pieces by a wind named Jack Barclay.
He’d carried the parchment with him, pressed so close it might as well have been written on his skin. And still, not a single godsdamned reply. Not even an empty "fuck you," not even a taunt—just silence. Silence that seeped through her days, bled into sleepless nights, whispered endlessly that maybe she deserved this.
It hurt worse than any blade she could throw, deeper than any cut she’d ever endured, and yet here she was, reaching for him again like an addict grasping for poison. She braces herself, fingers reaching unflinchingly toward his back pocket, her eyes narrowed with anticipation.
The rumors are terrible and cruel
But honey, most of them are true
But honey, most of them are true
