Flora
At the sound of Jack's voice she glances vaguely over her shoulder, the movement loose and unhurried, before throwing both hands toward the merchant in a wide, see what I mean? gesture that's anything but subtle.
She doesn’t need to hear the merchant's thoughtss to know something’s shifted; she can feel the change in the man’s stance even before Jack’s shadow cuts across them. Whatever charm or false authority the merchant thought he had drains in an instant, his hands coming up in a half-hearted show of innocence as he backpedals toward safer waters—quite literally—without so much as a farewell. The scent of opportunity still clings to him, faint but sour, and if Jack’s already pulled the truth from his skull then he’ll know exactly what sort of “inspection” the man had been planning (he'd thought maybe he could swipe something valuable from aboard the Sugartide and maybe accidentally grab the queen's ass in the process. Tight quarters and all).
With a dramatic huff that sends a loose curl tumbling from her bun, Flora pivots fully to face the captain. The breeze teases at the hem of her sweater; her gold catches in the sunlight. And despite herself—despite every practical reason not to—warmth spills like sunlight through the garden of her thoughts at the sight of him. She doesn’t mean to think about it, but there it is: the rough press of his hand under her chin, the sharp taste of his mouth, the shiver that ran down her spine when bark pressed cold into her back. It’s enough to have bloomed more than a few late-night thoughts she’d never admit aloud, but then again with Jack, she didn't have to.
She exhales, the sound threaded with a sigh more than annoyance, and tips her head toward him. "Have you ever flown into the Cordillera?" she asks, eyes narrowing slightly against the light. "Or even near the mountains?"
She doesn’t need to hear the merchant's thoughtss to know something’s shifted; she can feel the change in the man’s stance even before Jack’s shadow cuts across them. Whatever charm or false authority the merchant thought he had drains in an instant, his hands coming up in a half-hearted show of innocence as he backpedals toward safer waters—quite literally—without so much as a farewell. The scent of opportunity still clings to him, faint but sour, and if Jack’s already pulled the truth from his skull then he’ll know exactly what sort of “inspection” the man had been planning (he'd thought maybe he could swipe something valuable from aboard the Sugartide and maybe accidentally grab the queen's ass in the process. Tight quarters and all).
With a dramatic huff that sends a loose curl tumbling from her bun, Flora pivots fully to face the captain. The breeze teases at the hem of her sweater; her gold catches in the sunlight. And despite herself—despite every practical reason not to—warmth spills like sunlight through the garden of her thoughts at the sight of him. She doesn’t mean to think about it, but there it is: the rough press of his hand under her chin, the sharp taste of his mouth, the shiver that ran down her spine when bark pressed cold into her back. It’s enough to have bloomed more than a few late-night thoughts she’d never admit aloud, but then again with Jack, she didn't have to.
She exhales, the sound threaded with a sigh more than annoyance, and tips her head toward him. "Have you ever flown into the Cordillera?" she asks, eyes narrowing slightly against the light. "Or even near the mountains?"
I trace the evidence, make it make some sense
why the wound is still bleedin'
why the wound is still bleedin'
Code stolen from Queen Sky
