yeah I got heartbreak that I reminisce about
There’s a question that blooms quietly at the back of her throat—what would it be, then?—but like Jack, Flora doesn't ask. She holds it on her tongue, rolling her eyes instead in soft, familiar affection as she watches him pretend the flowers are nothing at all. "Oh, I see," she murmurs, voice feather-light and utterly unconvinced, her gaze sweeping across the carpet of white blossoms with theatrical awe. "Well, I was rather distracted when we got here." Her smile that follows is sly, knowing, touched with something far gentler than sarcasm.
Jack's request, though, about the backhand has Flora sipping in a breath and nodding. Because for all the sharpness and swagger, what people often forgot was that the captain had feelings that could be hurt. Not often, not easily, but deeply, when they were.
The slap to her backside is met with a smirk and a roll of her shoulder, the gesture more fond than flirty. She takes the cue without complaint, turning toward the glow of the masquerade with one last lingering look cast back over it all. There’s no stolen tender kiss, no parting touch of fingers. No what does this mean? or did you like it? or will you stay?
But as she steps back into the shifting shadows and the flickering light of lanterns and laughter, her thoughts still echo with the sound of his laugh. Still hum with the heat of his hands. Still carry the shape of his voice like a low tide curling at her ankles, and just before she moves out of range, her mind reaches back, soft and playful and full of mischief. We should do that again, she thinks, the words like a casually blown kiss through the darkness.
~FIN
Jack's request, though, about the backhand has Flora sipping in a breath and nodding. Because for all the sharpness and swagger, what people often forgot was that the captain had feelings that could be hurt. Not often, not easily, but deeply, when they were.
The slap to her backside is met with a smirk and a roll of her shoulder, the gesture more fond than flirty. She takes the cue without complaint, turning toward the glow of the masquerade with one last lingering look cast back over it all. There’s no stolen tender kiss, no parting touch of fingers. No what does this mean? or did you like it? or will you stay?
But as she steps back into the shifting shadows and the flickering light of lanterns and laughter, her thoughts still echo with the sound of his laugh. Still hum with the heat of his hands. Still carry the shape of his voice like a low tide curling at her ankles, and just before she moves out of range, her mind reaches back, soft and playful and full of mischief. We should do that again, she thinks, the words like a casually blown kiss through the darkness.
~FIN
some real big things I still gotta figure out
