it ain't no crime, it's just dreams we're stealin'
Flora nods at the declaration of code names with the grave solemnity of someone who has absolutely been expecting this development. "Obviously," she agrees at once, as though he has merely confirmed a long-standing military doctrine rather than invented it thirty seconds ago, her braid sliding over her shoulder as she adjusts her stance into something that feels almost aggressively competent.
Spice swivels her bright blue eyes toward her captain the moment he speaks, small head tilting with sharp attention. At the assignment of Weather, the dragon exhales a proud plume of frost that skates over the map in delicate crystalline veins before she launches herself skyward in a clean, eager arc, wings catching the Longheat light. A draconic trill spirals down to them as she climbs, bright and pleased, the very embodiment of shifting atmospheric conditions.
Flora watches her go with an approving nod, then returns her focus to Kaisel just in time to hear her own designation. She bites gently at the inside of her cheek to stop the smile from overtaking her face entirely, though it pushes at the corners anyway, traitorous and warm. She inclines her head once, accepting the title with ceremonial dignity even as heat slides up her neck in a flush she pretends is purely the fault of the sun. "And would you prefer to be Colonial Ketchup or Sergeant Sprinkles?" The names land with perfect seriousness, though her eyes glitter.
Kaisel's gaze does not go unnoticed as it drags over her in a way that makes something effervescent and giddy bloom beneath her ribs, a fizzing warmth that has absolutely nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the fact that she is still wildly, embarrassingly, gloriously twitterpated by the man she married. Married. The word hums in her like a struck chord. The ring on her finger catches the light again, a little constellation of gemstones flaring as she shifts, and the sight of it paired with the way he looks at her makes her stomach perform a distinctly undignified flip.
She clears her throat delicately, a small cough meant to disguise the blush that insists on colouring her honeyed skin, then cocks one hip as if considering the options with grave deliberation. "mmm, I think paparazzi." The word rolls off her tongue with deliberate indulgence and a trill reminiscent of the travelling tongue.
She steps forward as she says it, closing the distance between them without comment, boots thudding softly against the deck. Inappropriately close, given her rank in relation to his, surely. The sea wind brushes against her as she bends slightly over the map, braid slipping forward, tank top dipping just enough to offer a strategic glimpse of her cleavage that is entirely coincidental and completely intentional.
Her lashes lower as she glances up at him through them, sunlight catching in the blue of her eyes. "Paparazzi," she confirms softly, finger tracing a lazy and entirely suggestive shape near the outline of the Celestine. "I will document your every heroic angle."
Spice swivels her bright blue eyes toward her captain the moment he speaks, small head tilting with sharp attention. At the assignment of Weather, the dragon exhales a proud plume of frost that skates over the map in delicate crystalline veins before she launches herself skyward in a clean, eager arc, wings catching the Longheat light. A draconic trill spirals down to them as she climbs, bright and pleased, the very embodiment of shifting atmospheric conditions.
Flora watches her go with an approving nod, then returns her focus to Kaisel just in time to hear her own designation. She bites gently at the inside of her cheek to stop the smile from overtaking her face entirely, though it pushes at the corners anyway, traitorous and warm. She inclines her head once, accepting the title with ceremonial dignity even as heat slides up her neck in a flush she pretends is purely the fault of the sun. "And would you prefer to be Colonial Ketchup or Sergeant Sprinkles?" The names land with perfect seriousness, though her eyes glitter.
Kaisel's gaze does not go unnoticed as it drags over her in a way that makes something effervescent and giddy bloom beneath her ribs, a fizzing warmth that has absolutely nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the fact that she is still wildly, embarrassingly, gloriously twitterpated by the man she married. Married. The word hums in her like a struck chord. The ring on her finger catches the light again, a little constellation of gemstones flaring as she shifts, and the sight of it paired with the way he looks at her makes her stomach perform a distinctly undignified flip.
She clears her throat delicately, a small cough meant to disguise the blush that insists on colouring her honeyed skin, then cocks one hip as if considering the options with grave deliberation. "mmm, I think paparazzi." The word rolls off her tongue with deliberate indulgence and a trill reminiscent of the travelling tongue.
She steps forward as she says it, closing the distance between them without comment, boots thudding softly against the deck. Inappropriately close, given her rank in relation to his, surely. The sea wind brushes against her as she bends slightly over the map, braid slipping forward, tank top dipping just enough to offer a strategic glimpse of her cleavage that is entirely coincidental and completely intentional.
Her lashes lower as she glances up at him through them, sunlight catching in the blue of her eyes. "Paparazzi," she confirms softly, finger tracing a lazy and entirely suggestive shape near the outline of the Celestine. "I will document your every heroic angle."
anything to get more of this feeling
