flora
The flowers climb higher on the Ark’s mast each time she glances out over the harbour, their colours impossible to ignore, each bloom like a spark thrown onto tinder that’s already aching to burn. It isn’t the shoe-flag or even the flower-flag they'd joked about, but gods, it’s louder than any sail could ever be. A living (booty-call) bouquet strung skyward, and on the heels of her last journey, it lands like proof she is actually wanted by someone, and perhaps most importantly, wanted in a way that doesn’t collapse into silence or hesitation.
By the time she ghosts her way onto the Ark, her pulse is already a tide too fast to control. The chambray shirt she wears hangs loose on her frame, soft enough to disguise the lace whispering against her skin, the thin straps of the lingerie beneath cutting delicate lines over her shoulders. Every step invisible, every thought focused on silk and fabric and the teasing scrape of it against her thighs, thus turning herself into a beacon; an open invitation for Jack to find when he inevitably comes prowling.
Rather than sliding into his bed, instead Flora perches on the edge of his desk, long legs dangling on either side of the corner, curls spilling forward as she tilts her head and waits. The shirt hangs rakishly open at the collar, her posture casual and feline, but her mind hums bright and shimmering with deliberate texture; the bite of lace, the softness of silk, the way her body feels wrapped and unwrapped all at once. For all the burrs and thorns still caught in her chest from the Cordillera, she sharpens herself into something sultry and deliberate, an oasis she hopes Jack won’t be able to resist the second he walks through that door.
By the time she ghosts her way onto the Ark, her pulse is already a tide too fast to control. The chambray shirt she wears hangs loose on her frame, soft enough to disguise the lace whispering against her skin, the thin straps of the lingerie beneath cutting delicate lines over her shoulders. Every step invisible, every thought focused on silk and fabric and the teasing scrape of it against her thighs, thus turning herself into a beacon; an open invitation for Jack to find when he inevitably comes prowling.
Rather than sliding into his bed, instead Flora perches on the edge of his desk, long legs dangling on either side of the corner, curls spilling forward as she tilts her head and waits. The shirt hangs rakishly open at the collar, her posture casual and feline, but her mind hums bright and shimmering with deliberate texture; the bite of lace, the softness of silk, the way her body feels wrapped and unwrapped all at once. For all the burrs and thorns still caught in her chest from the Cordillera, she sharpens herself into something sultry and deliberate, an oasis she hopes Jack won’t be able to resist the second he walks through that door.
you're under the feeling like teenagers in cars
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
