flora
Flora's heartbeat trips and falters at the rough exhale from Kaisel's lips, the scrape of gravel in his voice leaving her senses tangled and electric. The world seems to spin briefly out of orbit when he turns abruptly, carrying her toward the Sugar Tide’s stairs, and her mind stutters helplessly in confusion. The brush of her lips against his jaw had been reckless, but she'd meant it mostly in a friendly way. A kiss on the cheek that had missed its target and lingered, one Kai might blush at, but she hadn't expected this sudden, decisive movement toward the close quarters below deck. Her breath catches sharply in her throat, confusion sparking hotter, brighter, and altogether more dangerous.
"Kai," she whispers softly, uncertainty lacing through the quiet murmur of his name. She tenses slightly in his grip, not to resist but to make herself easier to carry through the tight passage below deck. It doesn’t help at all that her mind immediately stumbles into the worst—or possibly best?—conclusion: Is he thinking about it, too? Sex as a salve, as an escape from pain? Why else had he so abruptly brought her down here after her lips had brushed against his skin? The thought fills her chest with anxious butterflies, fluttering against the hollow ache she'd been nursing.
Below, the Sugar Tide is exactly what one might expect from Flora. The small cabin is a compact riot of colour and texture, a blend of comfort and chaos that somehow still manages to feel utterly hers. A narrow kitchenette runs along one side, stacked with delicate cups and bottles of wine tucked securely into fitted shelves. A polished wooden table sits snugly bolted down, ringed by plush bench seating scattered with vibrant throw pillows.
Further back, through a partially ajar door, lies the cramped, decadent nest of her bedroom—nothing but a sea of bedding, cushions, and silken sheets in pale shades of rose-gold and ivory. The small space practically pulses with a warmth that's entirely too inviting, too intimate.
When Kaisel murmurs into her hair, demanding that she list her good qualities, Flora snorts softly under her breath, tension diffusing slightly into something gentler. But then he continues—I'll tell you when I've heard enough, otherwise you don't stop—and gods if her mind doesn't do a backflip straight into a gutter from which she can't pull it free. Heat pools low in her belly again, sharper now, vividly imagining his voice roughened and stern, those same words falling from his lips as he looks down at her kneeling before him.
She blushes fiercely, turning her face away into his shoulder, thankful he can't see her expression clearly. "Gods, no," she mutters stubbornly, voice muffled against his shirt. "I'd literally rather burn to a crisp out there than talk about myself any more than I already have." Scoffing, the queen gives her head a decisive shake. "Maybe instead we should" think about this? go straight into the bedroom? "hydrate? Spice has made a small hoard of ice for drinks. If you really are worried about what the heat is doing to my brain."
"Kai," she whispers softly, uncertainty lacing through the quiet murmur of his name. She tenses slightly in his grip, not to resist but to make herself easier to carry through the tight passage below deck. It doesn’t help at all that her mind immediately stumbles into the worst—or possibly best?—conclusion: Is he thinking about it, too? Sex as a salve, as an escape from pain? Why else had he so abruptly brought her down here after her lips had brushed against his skin? The thought fills her chest with anxious butterflies, fluttering against the hollow ache she'd been nursing.
Below, the Sugar Tide is exactly what one might expect from Flora. The small cabin is a compact riot of colour and texture, a blend of comfort and chaos that somehow still manages to feel utterly hers. A narrow kitchenette runs along one side, stacked with delicate cups and bottles of wine tucked securely into fitted shelves. A polished wooden table sits snugly bolted down, ringed by plush bench seating scattered with vibrant throw pillows.
Further back, through a partially ajar door, lies the cramped, decadent nest of her bedroom—nothing but a sea of bedding, cushions, and silken sheets in pale shades of rose-gold and ivory. The small space practically pulses with a warmth that's entirely too inviting, too intimate.
When Kaisel murmurs into her hair, demanding that she list her good qualities, Flora snorts softly under her breath, tension diffusing slightly into something gentler. But then he continues—I'll tell you when I've heard enough, otherwise you don't stop—and gods if her mind doesn't do a backflip straight into a gutter from which she can't pull it free. Heat pools low in her belly again, sharper now, vividly imagining his voice roughened and stern, those same words falling from his lips as he looks down at her kneeling before him.
She blushes fiercely, turning her face away into his shoulder, thankful he can't see her expression clearly. "Gods, no," she mutters stubbornly, voice muffled against his shirt. "I'd literally rather burn to a crisp out there than talk about myself any more than I already have." Scoffing, the queen gives her head a decisive shake. "Maybe instead we should" think about this? go straight into the bedroom? "hydrate? Spice has made a small hoard of ice for drinks. If you really are worried about what the heat is doing to my brain."
I want to be when you fall on me like night
I wanna kill the lights
I wanna kill the lights
