The Ark
The Ark looks up at Jack as he answers, and whatever weight he’s carrying in his voice passes over her like weather she hasn’t learned to name yet. She feels the way his fingers tighten at her waist, though, the same instinct she’s known when his hands brace at her rails and the horizon looks wrong, and she answers it simply, without digging or doubt. "That’s all you’ve ever done," she says, mouth curving as she meets his eyes. His best. It’s not consolation or reassurance, it’s fact, settled as ballast, and more than good enough for her.
Her fingers worry at a knot and then still as a memory catches. A soft, displeased sound slips out of her—half breath, half moan—as the image rises unbidden. "The air doesn’t move right," she says, frustration threading through it. "It has currents, but they don’t hold you." Her brow furrows faintly. "Nothing in the sea can just...gust without warning the way trees can. Never from below like that." The thought skims her mind like wind over dark water, restless and uneasy, and it only eases when Jack steps closer and takes over, his touch sure, practiced.
She sighs then, the tension loosening, and goes still for him. To her, the untying is familiar, no different than his hands at her rigging, easing lines free, knowing which knots can be trusted and which need coaxing. Canvas loosens, netting falls away, pearls scatter on the floor. Her breasts are bared to the warm cabin air, the last of the cloth slipping from her hips to reveal the red curl of hair there, unapologetic and natural. Her body tells its story openly: the scars she’s shown him already, and dozens more besides; pale seams and darker patches where repairs were once made, where she’d been mended and strengthened and sent back out again.
When he’s finished, she stands naked before him without self-consciousness, hair spilling down her back and over her shoulders like loose sailcloth. She looks down at herself, then back up at him, curious rather than shy. "I wonder if it’ll feel the same," she says thoughtfully, brushing a hand over her ribs, fingertips tracing the rise and fall there. "The cold." She presses lightly, as if listening inward. "Like when my boards groan in the cold, or the way everything went stiff when we were up above the Euribya."
Her fingers worry at a knot and then still as a memory catches. A soft, displeased sound slips out of her—half breath, half moan—as the image rises unbidden. "The air doesn’t move right," she says, frustration threading through it. "It has currents, but they don’t hold you." Her brow furrows faintly. "Nothing in the sea can just...gust without warning the way trees can. Never from below like that." The thought skims her mind like wind over dark water, restless and uneasy, and it only eases when Jack steps closer and takes over, his touch sure, practiced.
She sighs then, the tension loosening, and goes still for him. To her, the untying is familiar, no different than his hands at her rigging, easing lines free, knowing which knots can be trusted and which need coaxing. Canvas loosens, netting falls away, pearls scatter on the floor. Her breasts are bared to the warm cabin air, the last of the cloth slipping from her hips to reveal the red curl of hair there, unapologetic and natural. Her body tells its story openly: the scars she’s shown him already, and dozens more besides; pale seams and darker patches where repairs were once made, where she’d been mended and strengthened and sent back out again.
When he’s finished, she stands naked before him without self-consciousness, hair spilling down her back and over her shoulders like loose sailcloth. She looks down at herself, then back up at him, curious rather than shy. "I wonder if it’ll feel the same," she says thoughtfully, brushing a hand over her ribs, fingertips tracing the rise and fall there. "The cold." She presses lightly, as if listening inward. "Like when my boards groan in the cold, or the way everything went stiff when we were up above the Euribya."
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.
