The Ark
She tilts her head at that, slow and curious, the question rising in her eyes before it ever reaches her mouth. "Did you choose for me to look like this?" The Ark asks, genuinely interested, not accusing. He’d shaped her lines once with hammer and hand and vision, with his own blood and tears; it would make sense if this body, too, bore his mark and intentions.
When he mentions the risks, the words slide past her without weight, because all of it happened away from her deck, beyond the reach of her knowing. What catches instead is the way he says it. The restraint in it, the way his body remembers even if he doesn’t dwell. Her eyes darken, intent, fixed on him rather than the fall of his shirt or the bare stretch of skin beneath. "Tell me," she purrs softly, wanting the story from his mouth more than any strip of fabric leaving his body.
And then he’s there on the edge of the bunk, accusing her lightly, and something bright and feral sparks to life in her grin. Every inch of her seems to answer it, as if Jack hadn't just placed the soul of the ship into this body, but that of the sea as well; a creature with the confidence of something built not for safety, but for daring. Jack hadn’t assembled her plank by plank with caution in mind; he’d made her fast, sharp, beautiful, meant to cut through trouble and invite it in equal measure. This body carries that truth as easily as the wood all around them. She lifts her shoulders in a small, unapologetic shrug, eyes gleaming. "I’m exactly how you made me," she counters, feline and pleased.
When he mentions the risks, the words slide past her without weight, because all of it happened away from her deck, beyond the reach of her knowing. What catches instead is the way he says it. The restraint in it, the way his body remembers even if he doesn’t dwell. Her eyes darken, intent, fixed on him rather than the fall of his shirt or the bare stretch of skin beneath. "Tell me," she purrs softly, wanting the story from his mouth more than any strip of fabric leaving his body.
And then he’s there on the edge of the bunk, accusing her lightly, and something bright and feral sparks to life in her grin. Every inch of her seems to answer it, as if Jack hadn't just placed the soul of the ship into this body, but that of the sea as well; a creature with the confidence of something built not for safety, but for daring. Jack hadn’t assembled her plank by plank with caution in mind; he’d made her fast, sharp, beautiful, meant to cut through trouble and invite it in equal measure. This body carries that truth as easily as the wood all around them. She lifts her shoulders in a small, unapologetic shrug, eyes gleaming. "I’m exactly how you made me," she counters, feline and pleased.
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.
