it ain't no crime, it's just dreams we're stealin'
Kaisel’s near-collapse into laughter and heat does not escape her for even a second. Flora watches it happen in real time—the crack in his composure, the way he fights it, the effort it takes for him to haul himself back into something resembling command—and it sends a bright, wicked current skimming through her veins. If he is going to try to hold rank, she is absolutely going to test the structural integrity of that authority.
When he settles on Colonial Ketchup, she gives him a single solemn nod, as though this is a promotion of great historical weight. "An honour to serve beneath you, Colonel,?" she replies, voice smooth and respectful in a way that absolutely will not help any potential tightening in his pants.
As the camera is passed to her with stern ceremony, she blinks at it, lashes fluttering in exaggerated alarm. "Oh no," she murmurs sweetly, “we absolutely can't have that." Her grin breaks through a heartbeat later, slow and shameless, as she slips the strap over her head. She adjusts it with deliberate care so that the body of the camera settles snugly against her tits, resting squarely against the swell of her tank top. The wind presses fabric tighter for emphasis. She pats it once, innocently. "Secured," she assures him.
The way he retreats is deeply satisfying. Then—"Gasp!" The word bursts out of her as she spots the pale serpentine shape looping lazily through the sky. The cloud wyrm glides above the fractured skyline like something too serene to belong to ruin, long body curving through the blue as if gravity has agreed to suspend judgment. Flora lifts the camera at once, braid swinging as she pivots for a better angle. Click. Click-click.
She shifts her stance, one boot braced on the deck railing for height, leaning into the shot as though she has been born for dramatic wildlife documentation. "Weather has competition," she calls lightly, lowering the camera just long enough to flash Kaisel a conspiratorial look before raising it again to capture the wyrm’s faint shadow skimming across broken stone.
And then they're off; down from the Sugartide, boots finding purchase on the jagged rock of what remains of Stormbreak. The air smells different here, brine and old stone and something metallic beneath it all, like memory rubbed raw. The Celestine rises in fractured elegance, the Tower stubborn and defiant, the Archive quiet as a held breath. Waves crash through the spaces where streets once floated, water threading through what used to be avenues.
Flora moves like she has always belonged in danger, climbing broken steps, hopping across unstable slabs of marble, braid swinging behind her. She directs Kaisel with exaggerated whispers, positioning him atop a dramatic outcropping so she can capture him in profile against the sea spray. "Hold that," she instructs, crouching low for the perfect angle, snapping a shot as the wind whips at his vest and hat like he’s starring in a propaganda poster for Extremely Attractive Cartographers.
She takes one of him squinting into the horizon like he alone can see the future of the ruins. She takes one of him mid-gesture, still committed to his fictional authority. She laughs when the wind nearly steals his safari hat and documents that too, because authenticity is important in reconnaissance. At some point he insists she climb a narrow ledge so he can capture her in return, and she obliges, standing tall against the backdrop of the Arclight, hands on hips, chin lifted like a conqueror surveying her kingdom. She jumps down afterward with a grin that tastes like salt and sunlight, brushing dust from her thighs while pretending not to glow beneath his attention.
They dart through remnants of old plazas now half-submerged, Flora pausing to snap photos of coral beginning to claim marble arches, of sea foam threading through what used to be doorways. She frames the Tower against the horizon, the Archive in the distance reflected in restless water, the Celestine bathed in Longheat light that refuses to dim even here.
They bump shoulders more than once. They laugh too loudly in places that probably deserve reverence. They invent backstories for collapsed statues and dramatic narratives for cracked pillars. At one point she positions herself beside him beneath a surviving archway and insists on a heroic duo shot, angling the camera outward before leaning into him just enough that their shoulders press, her grin wide and unrepentant.
An hour—maybe two—slips by like water between fingers by the time they climb back aboard the Sugartide with boots dusty and hair wind-tangled, Flora is glowing in that way that has nothing to do with heat and everything to do with being on yet another ridiculous aventure with Kai.
She sinks onto a crate near the unfurled map, braid loosened slightly, camera set carefully down as she goes through the polaroids they'd taken. The gemstones of her engagement ring catch the light again as she fans through them, one by one, her smile widening with each swipe.
"I think Safrin will love these as an offering," she says, voice bright with certainty. "No one else in all of Caido will have anything like this."
When he settles on Colonial Ketchup, she gives him a single solemn nod, as though this is a promotion of great historical weight. "An honour to serve beneath you, Colonel,?" she replies, voice smooth and respectful in a way that absolutely will not help any potential tightening in his pants.
As the camera is passed to her with stern ceremony, she blinks at it, lashes fluttering in exaggerated alarm. "Oh no," she murmurs sweetly, “we absolutely can't have that." Her grin breaks through a heartbeat later, slow and shameless, as she slips the strap over her head. She adjusts it with deliberate care so that the body of the camera settles snugly against her tits, resting squarely against the swell of her tank top. The wind presses fabric tighter for emphasis. She pats it once, innocently. "Secured," she assures him.
The way he retreats is deeply satisfying. Then—"Gasp!" The word bursts out of her as she spots the pale serpentine shape looping lazily through the sky. The cloud wyrm glides above the fractured skyline like something too serene to belong to ruin, long body curving through the blue as if gravity has agreed to suspend judgment. Flora lifts the camera at once, braid swinging as she pivots for a better angle. Click. Click-click.
She shifts her stance, one boot braced on the deck railing for height, leaning into the shot as though she has been born for dramatic wildlife documentation. "Weather has competition," she calls lightly, lowering the camera just long enough to flash Kaisel a conspiratorial look before raising it again to capture the wyrm’s faint shadow skimming across broken stone.
And then they're off; down from the Sugartide, boots finding purchase on the jagged rock of what remains of Stormbreak. The air smells different here, brine and old stone and something metallic beneath it all, like memory rubbed raw. The Celestine rises in fractured elegance, the Tower stubborn and defiant, the Archive quiet as a held breath. Waves crash through the spaces where streets once floated, water threading through what used to be avenues.
Flora moves like she has always belonged in danger, climbing broken steps, hopping across unstable slabs of marble, braid swinging behind her. She directs Kaisel with exaggerated whispers, positioning him atop a dramatic outcropping so she can capture him in profile against the sea spray. "Hold that," she instructs, crouching low for the perfect angle, snapping a shot as the wind whips at his vest and hat like he’s starring in a propaganda poster for Extremely Attractive Cartographers.
She takes one of him squinting into the horizon like he alone can see the future of the ruins. She takes one of him mid-gesture, still committed to his fictional authority. She laughs when the wind nearly steals his safari hat and documents that too, because authenticity is important in reconnaissance. At some point he insists she climb a narrow ledge so he can capture her in return, and she obliges, standing tall against the backdrop of the Arclight, hands on hips, chin lifted like a conqueror surveying her kingdom. She jumps down afterward with a grin that tastes like salt and sunlight, brushing dust from her thighs while pretending not to glow beneath his attention.
They dart through remnants of old plazas now half-submerged, Flora pausing to snap photos of coral beginning to claim marble arches, of sea foam threading through what used to be doorways. She frames the Tower against the horizon, the Archive in the distance reflected in restless water, the Celestine bathed in Longheat light that refuses to dim even here.
They bump shoulders more than once. They laugh too loudly in places that probably deserve reverence. They invent backstories for collapsed statues and dramatic narratives for cracked pillars. At one point she positions herself beside him beneath a surviving archway and insists on a heroic duo shot, angling the camera outward before leaning into him just enough that their shoulders press, her grin wide and unrepentant.
An hour—maybe two—slips by like water between fingers by the time they climb back aboard the Sugartide with boots dusty and hair wind-tangled, Flora is glowing in that way that has nothing to do with heat and everything to do with being on yet another ridiculous aventure with Kai.
She sinks onto a crate near the unfurled map, braid loosened slightly, camera set carefully down as she goes through the polaroids they'd taken. The gemstones of her engagement ring catch the light again as she fans through them, one by one, her smile widening with each swipe.
"I think Safrin will love these as an offering," she says, voice bright with certainty. "No one else in all of Caido will have anything like this."
anything to get more of this feeling
