yeah I got heartbreak that I reminisce about
Flora laughs, low and glittering. "Other people can only see Niki tonight because we’re in Ludo’s Woods," she whispers, conspiratorial as ever. "There are ghosts everywhere. Ludo probably just allowed it so that more people would dresss up like it."
She follows Jack’s gaze toward the clearing, where Niki’s bones glow pale under his cloak and candlelight and her grin sharpens. "All him. He has very clever hands." Her voice drops, the sexual implication hanging there between them like the humidity before a storm, but Jack would know better of course.
Flora feels the captain shift before he moves, the subtle stir of air as he straightens behind her, leaning in over her shoulder to scan the crowd. She doesn’t react—or at least she tries not to—but her pulse betrays her anyway, thrumming beneath her skin in a way Jack would feel as surely as if her body had spoken aloud. Her thoughts spark in gold and static, lightning tracing the edge of something dangerously familiar, all copper glint and too-blue heat.
She watches the crowd, steadying herself in the space between their breaths, waiting for him to choose someone for their game to begin. But then his fingers close around her wrist instead, turning her to face him with a movement that’s deliberate and unmistakably his. And just like that, she’s there again, suspended between the past and the possibility, her breath catching as if the memory of his mouth has stepped between the present and her pulse.
For a heartbeat, she leans in, tilting her chin up like it’s an invitation, like she’s about to kiss him, but then she smiles. Smirking, slow and wicked, she drops her voice into velvet. "That I can do," she whispers, the words brushing the space between them. Her gaze drops to his hand still on her wrist—more specifically to the mageglass there, her mind doing the mental math as her grin deepens. And then, without warning, she peels away. Slipping through his grasp with the same liquid ease she’s always had when escape was part of the performance.
There are few things that motivate Jack Barclay more than watching someone else enjoy what he’s told himself not to want, so naturally, Flora finds precisely that sort of someone. It doesn’t take long—just a glance, a smirk, a finger curled toward the dance floor—and she’s moving with a stranger now, some handsy young man with eager eyes and a mouth already carving praise into her shoulder. His hands are unpractised but enthusiastic, sliding lower with every pass, drawn to the shimmer of her skin and the curve of her hips. And while he kisses the line of her throat and whispers promises he thinks are original, Flora whispers back all the places she’d like to fuck him. Only her ideas aren't original either, as Jack would no doubt immediately recognize.
The beaches of Torchline during LongNight, firelight in the surf, with an audience watching and Flora moaning his name into the dark. The dark ice of Halo’s back sands, her breath fogging the air while his fingers—cold, demanding, perfect—left bruises down her thighs. Mother Molly’s, where he’d suspended her in a harness and made her beg for every inch, every word. Frey’s Breath, where hot water seared the tension from her spine even as his fingers left colder marks against her skin.
She paints it all in her mind while the stranger grows bolder, grinding against her like he already believes he’s earned her, pants already tented and thoughts already on fire. Behind her mask, Flora smiles, before whispering in his ear that he should take her someplace darker, somewhere farther into the woods, to which his agreement is both enthusiastic and immediate, grabbing her by the hand and all but dragging her out of the lantern light.
She follows Jack’s gaze toward the clearing, where Niki’s bones glow pale under his cloak and candlelight and her grin sharpens. "All him. He has very clever hands." Her voice drops, the sexual implication hanging there between them like the humidity before a storm, but Jack would know better of course.
Flora feels the captain shift before he moves, the subtle stir of air as he straightens behind her, leaning in over her shoulder to scan the crowd. She doesn’t react—or at least she tries not to—but her pulse betrays her anyway, thrumming beneath her skin in a way Jack would feel as surely as if her body had spoken aloud. Her thoughts spark in gold and static, lightning tracing the edge of something dangerously familiar, all copper glint and too-blue heat.
She watches the crowd, steadying herself in the space between their breaths, waiting for him to choose someone for their game to begin. But then his fingers close around her wrist instead, turning her to face him with a movement that’s deliberate and unmistakably his. And just like that, she’s there again, suspended between the past and the possibility, her breath catching as if the memory of his mouth has stepped between the present and her pulse.
For a heartbeat, she leans in, tilting her chin up like it’s an invitation, like she’s about to kiss him, but then she smiles. Smirking, slow and wicked, she drops her voice into velvet. "That I can do," she whispers, the words brushing the space between them. Her gaze drops to his hand still on her wrist—more specifically to the mageglass there, her mind doing the mental math as her grin deepens. And then, without warning, she peels away. Slipping through his grasp with the same liquid ease she’s always had when escape was part of the performance.
There are few things that motivate Jack Barclay more than watching someone else enjoy what he’s told himself not to want, so naturally, Flora finds precisely that sort of someone. It doesn’t take long—just a glance, a smirk, a finger curled toward the dance floor—and she’s moving with a stranger now, some handsy young man with eager eyes and a mouth already carving praise into her shoulder. His hands are unpractised but enthusiastic, sliding lower with every pass, drawn to the shimmer of her skin and the curve of her hips. And while he kisses the line of her throat and whispers promises he thinks are original, Flora whispers back all the places she’d like to fuck him. Only her ideas aren't original either, as Jack would no doubt immediately recognize.
The beaches of Torchline during LongNight, firelight in the surf, with an audience watching and Flora moaning his name into the dark. The dark ice of Halo’s back sands, her breath fogging the air while his fingers—cold, demanding, perfect—left bruises down her thighs. Mother Molly’s, where he’d suspended her in a harness and made her beg for every inch, every word. Frey’s Breath, where hot water seared the tension from her spine even as his fingers left colder marks against her skin.
She paints it all in her mind while the stranger grows bolder, grinding against her like he already believes he’s earned her, pants already tented and thoughts already on fire. Behind her mask, Flora smiles, before whispering in his ear that he should take her someplace darker, somewhere farther into the woods, to which his agreement is both enthusiastic and immediate, grabbing her by the hand and all but dragging her out of the lantern light.
some real big things I still gotta figure out
