The Ark
The Ark doesn’t hesitate. At Jack’s invitation she moves with the same instantaneous eagerness she always had when he stepped onto her deck with intent written in his spine, out of the bed and into motion before the idea can cool. Bare feet meet boards with a familiar certainty, the linen of his shirt skimming her thighs, clinging where it shouldn’t and refusing to hide the generous curves beneath it. There’s no self-consciousness in her at all, only purpose, the way she’s always worn herself whether she was all mast and hull or flesh warmed by morning light.
She falls into stride beside him easily, long legs matching his without thought, as though she’s been walking at his side for years instead of minutes. The fabric rides just high enough to have any who catch a glimpse of her to find themselves holding their breath and praying for a gust of wind reveal what's underneath. On deck, the world opens. Gold spills across canvas and rope, the Greatwood below breathing green and alive. Her hair burns maroon in the sunlight, rich and glossy as freshly tarred planks, and her eyes are the open sea; depth without edge, bright with motion. She glances instinctively at the wheel, the rigging, the set of her sails, cataloguing everything out of habit and then lets it all go. With her at Jack's side, none of it is necessary.
There’s a hum in her—not quite named, but akin to joy or excitement—something like a tide pulling hard toward open water. She turns her head toward him, that energy shining through her like sun through glass, lifts her chin with the same fearless confidence she once carried into storms. "Don’t overthink it," she says, voice low and sure, the advice she would have given him on their very first voyage if she’d had a mouth to speak with then. Her gaze holds his, wild and siren-bright, daring and trusting all at once. "You know how to sail me."
She falls into stride beside him easily, long legs matching his without thought, as though she’s been walking at his side for years instead of minutes. The fabric rides just high enough to have any who catch a glimpse of her to find themselves holding their breath and praying for a gust of wind reveal what's underneath. On deck, the world opens. Gold spills across canvas and rope, the Greatwood below breathing green and alive. Her hair burns maroon in the sunlight, rich and glossy as freshly tarred planks, and her eyes are the open sea; depth without edge, bright with motion. She glances instinctively at the wheel, the rigging, the set of her sails, cataloguing everything out of habit and then lets it all go. With her at Jack's side, none of it is necessary.
There’s a hum in her—not quite named, but akin to joy or excitement—something like a tide pulling hard toward open water. She turns her head toward him, that energy shining through her like sun through glass, lifts her chin with the same fearless confidence she once carried into storms. "Don’t overthink it," she says, voice low and sure, the advice she would have given him on their very first voyage if she’d had a mouth to speak with then. Her gaze holds his, wild and siren-bright, daring and trusting all at once. "You know how to sail me."
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.
