ditch the clowns, get the crown
Flora’s grin tilts crooked and bright as she watches Melita move, the kind of easy, practiced confidence that makes something in her chest spark in recognition, like mischief meeting its match and deciding to lean in harder rather than back down, and she shifts her weight against the wood with a soft huff of laughter under her breath, eyes tracking every motion as the Honeybee loads the cannon with the same familiarity other people might pour a drink.
Gold flashes at her fingers as she idly toys with one of her rings, gaze flicking from Mel to the line of the barrel and out beyond it, and when that invitation lands—worst enemies—Flora’s smile sharpens just a fraction, quick and knowing, as if the answer comes too easily to pretend otherwise, and for a heartbeat she lets herself have it, lets the image settle clean and vivid in her mind: maroon sails cutting across the horizon, familiar in a way that presses somewhere just under her ribs. She wouldn’t touch the Ark in reality, not like this, not without reason anyway, but in the quiet, private theatre of her thoughts, it’s effortless, almost indulgent, the way she angles the shot, the way she imagines the impact, the way she doesn’t have to sort through what any of it means or deal with the fallout of attacking her ex boyfriend's boat.
Flora's gaze flicks back to Melita, brows bouncing once in shared conspiratorial delight, and she draws in a breath that feels just a touch too pleased with itself before letting it out in a low, decisive murmur. "Sink it."
Gold flashes at her fingers as she idly toys with one of her rings, gaze flicking from Mel to the line of the barrel and out beyond it, and when that invitation lands—worst enemies—Flora’s smile sharpens just a fraction, quick and knowing, as if the answer comes too easily to pretend otherwise, and for a heartbeat she lets herself have it, lets the image settle clean and vivid in her mind: maroon sails cutting across the horizon, familiar in a way that presses somewhere just under her ribs. She wouldn’t touch the Ark in reality, not like this, not without reason anyway, but in the quiet, private theatre of her thoughts, it’s effortless, almost indulgent, the way she angles the shot, the way she imagines the impact, the way she doesn’t have to sort through what any of it means or deal with the fallout of attacking her ex boyfriend's boat.
Flora's gaze flicks back to Melita, brows bouncing once in shared conspiratorial delight, and she draws in a breath that feels just a touch too pleased with itself before letting it out in a low, decisive murmur. "Sink it."
Flora
baby i'm the one to beat
