time to roll the dice, you know i'm the type
The pills look small and unimpressive for the way her head feels, but she tips them into her mouth without ceremony and follows them with the water in a single, decisive swallow. The bitterness he promises can come later; for now she obeys without argument, trusting the way she trusts his hand at the wheel in tight waters. At his casual mention of burning the Exchange to ash, her gaze lifts to him through her lashes, dark and bright at once. There is something feral in the look she gives him, something pleased and deeply affectionate in equal measure, as though the promise of ruin on her behalf is the most natural offering in the world. The pain throbs, yes, but that steady, dangerous devotion of his cuts through it like clean wind.
When he guides her to sit on the edge of the desk she goes, bracing her palms against the wood as he steps closer. His fingers move through her hair with careful precision, parting red strands to examine the white bandage, and even through the ache she registers how steady he is; how the same hands that can split a pier with lightning are now gentle against her scalp.
"I should have been stronger," she says quietly, frustration threading the words. Her lip curls faintly as she stares past him, nails biting into the edge of the desk hard enough to mark it. She is a galleon. She has borne cannon fire and collisions, celebrations where bottles shattered harmlessly against her hull in drunken triumph. She has been rammed, boarded, scarred, and still floated. And yet a godsdamn bottle, thrown without thought, has undone her on a pier like some fragile thing.
When he guides her to sit on the edge of the desk she goes, bracing her palms against the wood as he steps closer. His fingers move through her hair with careful precision, parting red strands to examine the white bandage, and even through the ache she registers how steady he is; how the same hands that can split a pier with lightning are now gentle against her scalp.
"I should have been stronger," she says quietly, frustration threading the words. Her lip curls faintly as she stares past him, nails biting into the edge of the desk hard enough to mark it. She is a galleon. She has borne cannon fire and collisions, celebrations where bottles shattered harmlessly against her hull in drunken triumph. She has been rammed, boarded, scarred, and still floated. And yet a godsdamn bottle, thrown without thought, has undone her on a pier like some fragile thing.
time to risk my life, not afraid to die, i'm a straight up villain
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.
