The Ark
She wrinkles her nose, glancing toward the porthole like she might see that placid stretch of water sulking just out of sight. "Too tame," she agrees. "Even for a holiday sea." The word holiday tastes foreign, like a port she’s never bothered to chart.
When his arm comes around her waist she doesn’t hesitate, leaning into him with the same instinct she’s always had; the way she’s leaned into his weight at the helm, the way her sails have always known how to swell when his magic breathes into them, the way her wheel presses back into his palms when he asks her to turn. It feels right immediately, despite the novelty of skin and bone and balance, her body answering him the way hull and rigging always have. Confident. Forward. Unapologetic.
Her own arm loops around him in return, a touch slower, testing. She’s never held anyone like this before, never wrapped herself around another body rather than carrying it, but the instinct is there all the same as her pressure is adjusted, her centre found.
The Ark exhales, a sharp little huff of breath that makes canvas snap on the decks though the night air is still, and she flashes him a smile that could wreck lesser men. "Careful," she murmurs. "Don't threaten me with a good time, Captain. I've never once not called your bluff."
She clings to him without embarrassment as she starts forward, steps light and uncertain at first, legs moving like a young foal’s—too much lift, not enough confidence—until the rhythm clicks. One foot, then the other. The memory is already there, lodged deep: the cadence of boots crossing her decks, the pace of a captain walking with purpose. She finds it quickly, settling into him as much as into herself. "I want to see Bassian." Her grin curves, sharp and delighted. "I’ve got a few thoughts about his piss-poor aim when he's in his cups." Literally, in fact, given the way the big man's aim tended to get as sloppy as his card playing when he started drinking.
When his arm comes around her waist she doesn’t hesitate, leaning into him with the same instinct she’s always had; the way she’s leaned into his weight at the helm, the way her sails have always known how to swell when his magic breathes into them, the way her wheel presses back into his palms when he asks her to turn. It feels right immediately, despite the novelty of skin and bone and balance, her body answering him the way hull and rigging always have. Confident. Forward. Unapologetic.
Her own arm loops around him in return, a touch slower, testing. She’s never held anyone like this before, never wrapped herself around another body rather than carrying it, but the instinct is there all the same as her pressure is adjusted, her centre found.
The Ark exhales, a sharp little huff of breath that makes canvas snap on the decks though the night air is still, and she flashes him a smile that could wreck lesser men. "Careful," she murmurs. "Don't threaten me with a good time, Captain. I've never once not called your bluff."
She clings to him without embarrassment as she starts forward, steps light and uncertain at first, legs moving like a young foal’s—too much lift, not enough confidence—until the rhythm clicks. One foot, then the other. The memory is already there, lodged deep: the cadence of boots crossing her decks, the pace of a captain walking with purpose. She finds it quickly, settling into him as much as into herself. "I want to see Bassian." Her grin curves, sharp and delighted. "I’ve got a few thoughts about his piss-poor aim when he's in his cups." Literally, in fact, given the way the big man's aim tended to get as sloppy as his card playing when he started drinking.
Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze,
but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees
but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees
Code stolen from Queen Sky
Siren's Wake | After she leaves a space, traces of her presence linger briefly: a faint scent of salt, the sound of distant water, a restless feeling in the chest. People rarely notice it consciously.
