it ain't no crime, it's just dreams we're stealin'
Flora stands at attention so sharply she could slice the wind with her posture alone, boots planted wide on the deck of the Sugartide as it rocks in slow, deliberate swells beneath them. Stormbreak’s broken silhouette rises in jagged fragments beyond, her gaze sweeping over it once, deliberately solemn, before snapping it back to Kaisel with theatrical precision.
She, too, has dressed for the part and then some. Combat shorts that fit like they were poured onto her hips, boots laced tight to mid-calf, a grey tank top clinging in ways that are absolutely impractical for reconnaissance but deeply important for morale, and beneath it a bra engineered less for support and more for warfare of an entirely different kind lifting her tits so high a small tray could probably be balanced on them. Her hair is braided back over one shoulder, blonde woven tight and purposeful, though several curls have already escaped to riot at her temples thanks to the sea wind. Gold glints at her fingers, subtle except for the one ring she would not wear anywhere public (yet)—a blossom of gemstones clustered like a blossom, petals catching light each time she shifts—it feels warm against her skin, like a secret sun.
She keeps her face stern while Kaisel gestures with his ruler, slicing the air like a general who has read exactly one book about battle strategy and taken it to heart. The feather boa writhes against the map, pink and ridiculous, slowly elongating under the wind’s teasing fingers. Flora’s mouth twitches, but she swallows it down, because this is serious business.
Her aqua eyes follow the ruler as it whooshes toward her and she nods once, grave and obedient, hands clasped behind her back like she has been drilled for years in the art of standing still while looking extremely capable. The small, unidentified weight pinning down one corner of the map does not go unnoticed. Her gaze skims it, lingers a fraction too long, and then very carefully returns to Kaisel’s face. Spice chooses that moment to descend with the solemnity of a knight answering a call to arms. The small white dragon lands squarely on the curling corner of the map, talons pressing it flat, wings mantling once before folding neatly to her sides. She nods at Kaisel, chin dipping with grave dedication.
Flora feels something bright and fizzy bloom in her chest at the sight of it, like laughter trying to climb her ribs, but she holds formation. When Kaisel finishes, decisive and overcommitted, she snaps her right hand up in a crisp salute, chin lifting, shoulders squaring. "Sir, yes sir!" she declares with ringing enthusiasm, voice cutting clean through the wind, entirely too loud for the fact that there is no one else for miles. The gemstones of her ring flare in the light as she lowers her hand, and her lips curve despite herself. Beneath the play-acting, beneath the boots and bravado and theatrical salutes, something steadier hums; the simple, stubborn joy of standing beside him at the edge of ruin and choosing adventure anyway.
She, too, has dressed for the part and then some. Combat shorts that fit like they were poured onto her hips, boots laced tight to mid-calf, a grey tank top clinging in ways that are absolutely impractical for reconnaissance but deeply important for morale, and beneath it a bra engineered less for support and more for warfare of an entirely different kind lifting her tits so high a small tray could probably be balanced on them. Her hair is braided back over one shoulder, blonde woven tight and purposeful, though several curls have already escaped to riot at her temples thanks to the sea wind. Gold glints at her fingers, subtle except for the one ring she would not wear anywhere public (yet)—a blossom of gemstones clustered like a blossom, petals catching light each time she shifts—it feels warm against her skin, like a secret sun.
She keeps her face stern while Kaisel gestures with his ruler, slicing the air like a general who has read exactly one book about battle strategy and taken it to heart. The feather boa writhes against the map, pink and ridiculous, slowly elongating under the wind’s teasing fingers. Flora’s mouth twitches, but she swallows it down, because this is serious business.
Her aqua eyes follow the ruler as it whooshes toward her and she nods once, grave and obedient, hands clasped behind her back like she has been drilled for years in the art of standing still while looking extremely capable. The small, unidentified weight pinning down one corner of the map does not go unnoticed. Her gaze skims it, lingers a fraction too long, and then very carefully returns to Kaisel’s face. Spice chooses that moment to descend with the solemnity of a knight answering a call to arms. The small white dragon lands squarely on the curling corner of the map, talons pressing it flat, wings mantling once before folding neatly to her sides. She nods at Kaisel, chin dipping with grave dedication.
Flora feels something bright and fizzy bloom in her chest at the sight of it, like laughter trying to climb her ribs, but she holds formation. When Kaisel finishes, decisive and overcommitted, she snaps her right hand up in a crisp salute, chin lifting, shoulders squaring. "Sir, yes sir!" she declares with ringing enthusiasm, voice cutting clean through the wind, entirely too loud for the fact that there is no one else for miles. The gemstones of her ring flare in the light as she lowers her hand, and her lips curve despite herself. Beneath the play-acting, beneath the boots and bravado and theatrical salutes, something steadier hums; the simple, stubborn joy of standing beside him at the edge of ruin and choosing adventure anyway.
anything to get more of this feeling
