The Ark
Much as The Ark knows there is more world waiting—towns and cities and crowds and danger and spectacle—lying here with Jack in the warm cradle of sand and tide feels impossibly complete. The water laps lazily over their feet, retreating and returning in a rhythm older than either of them, and her body hums with the pleasant after-sensation of having been carried and carrying in turn. It is a different sort of fullness than cargo in her hold or wind in her sails; this one lingers in her muscles and beneath her skin, a quiet echo of movement and closeness that makes her want to stretch simply to feel it again.
When he says he doesn’t want to hide her, something in her answers immediately. It isn't just the way her fingers still idly trace the line of her own stomach, delighting in the feeling of it, but his words and the look on his face that has a ripple of pleasure moving up her spine like a slow current. He has shown her off for years—docked in foreign ports, cutting sharp silhouettes against hostile horizons, gleaming and defiant beneath cannon smoke—and she has never once been tucked away like something shameful. The thought that he would do the same now, with her standing here in skin instead of sail, draws a low, satisfied warmth through her.
At his warning, she snorts softly and turns her face up toward him, hair blazing copper-red in the sun. "They've already tried," she reminds him. "They've tried to board me, to sink me, to burn me, to steal the things you hid away inside me. They have aimed cannons at my ribs and knives at my crew." Her eyes sharpen, bright and almost amused. "And a few who have tried to steal me away." And gods, the bloodbath that had followed.
The Ark props herself up on one elbow so she can see Jack more clearly against the glare of the sky, chin lifting with unmistakable defiance. The expression that curves across her wine-dark mouth is not gentle; it is feral and pleased and utterly certain. "Let them try," she says, and the words are not reckless, they are an invitation. Her smile widens, wicked and delighted at the thought of it. "Besides, it will be better now that we can laugh about it together, after they fail."
When he says he doesn’t want to hide her, something in her answers immediately. It isn't just the way her fingers still idly trace the line of her own stomach, delighting in the feeling of it, but his words and the look on his face that has a ripple of pleasure moving up her spine like a slow current. He has shown her off for years—docked in foreign ports, cutting sharp silhouettes against hostile horizons, gleaming and defiant beneath cannon smoke—and she has never once been tucked away like something shameful. The thought that he would do the same now, with her standing here in skin instead of sail, draws a low, satisfied warmth through her.
At his warning, she snorts softly and turns her face up toward him, hair blazing copper-red in the sun. "They've already tried," she reminds him. "They've tried to board me, to sink me, to burn me, to steal the things you hid away inside me. They have aimed cannons at my ribs and knives at my crew." Her eyes sharpen, bright and almost amused. "And a few who have tried to steal me away." And gods, the bloodbath that had followed.
The Ark props herself up on one elbow so she can see Jack more clearly against the glare of the sky, chin lifting with unmistakable defiance. The expression that curves across her wine-dark mouth is not gentle; it is feral and pleased and utterly certain. "Let them try," she says, and the words are not reckless, they are an invitation. Her smile widens, wicked and delighted at the thought of it. "Besides, it will be better now that we can laugh about it together, after they fail."
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.
