time to roll the dice, you know i'm the type
The Ark exhales a little too sharply at that, the sound almost a huff, because she doesn't want to be stronger, she wants to be strong; strong enough that no foolish hand with bad aim can interrupt her storm. But when he dips his head into the lanternlight her eyes follow, drawn to the faint silver at his temple. She studies it, gaze softening despite herself, and something in her irritation shifts. "I didn’t realize I’d be weak in this body," she says, quieter now, the edge dulled by a touch of sulk rather than fury and for a fleeting, reckless second she imagines demanding he send her back into her hull, back into timber and iron where she could ram herself into the nearest vessel and prove her superiority. Prove that she is not so easily felled by flying glass and bad luck.
The thought flickers and fades as his lips brush her forehead, and she sighs at the contact, tension bleeding from her in a slow release. The black water inside her does not vanish, but it smooths at the edges, no longer choking and opaque. When his fingers hook gently beneath her chin and lift her gaze, she meets his eyes with something rawer than anger, and without fully deciding to, she pushes off the desk and steps straight into him, arms wrapping around his chest in a tight embrace. It is not calculated, not seductive, not sharpened by mischief; it's firm and close and surprisingly gentle, her cheek pressing against him as though anchoring herself there. For all the violent flashes that had danced through her thoughts on the pier, for all the instinct to break and strike and drown, this is something else entirely.
She doesn't have a name for it, knows only that when the bottle struck and the sea inside her went still, there had been a moment where she was nowhere; a dark stretch where she did not feel him, did not feel herself, and the brush against her own mortality was startling. The idea lingers, sharp as broken glass, not only of her own undoing but of the inverse; of him gone, of his voice no longer brushing along her decks, of his hands no longer steady at her seams. She tightens her arms slightly around him, silent, murderous thoughts banked but not gone, the new and unfamiliar weight of mortality settling against her ribs as she stands there and holds him, realizing how badly she never wanted to leave him, or him her, and just how much of that now seemed out of her control.
The thought flickers and fades as his lips brush her forehead, and she sighs at the contact, tension bleeding from her in a slow release. The black water inside her does not vanish, but it smooths at the edges, no longer choking and opaque. When his fingers hook gently beneath her chin and lift her gaze, she meets his eyes with something rawer than anger, and without fully deciding to, she pushes off the desk and steps straight into him, arms wrapping around his chest in a tight embrace. It is not calculated, not seductive, not sharpened by mischief; it's firm and close and surprisingly gentle, her cheek pressing against him as though anchoring herself there. For all the violent flashes that had danced through her thoughts on the pier, for all the instinct to break and strike and drown, this is something else entirely.
She doesn't have a name for it, knows only that when the bottle struck and the sea inside her went still, there had been a moment where she was nowhere; a dark stretch where she did not feel him, did not feel herself, and the brush against her own mortality was startling. The idea lingers, sharp as broken glass, not only of her own undoing but of the inverse; of him gone, of his voice no longer brushing along her decks, of his hands no longer steady at her seams. She tightens her arms slightly around him, silent, murderous thoughts banked but not gone, the new and unfamiliar weight of mortality settling against her ribs as she stands there and holds him, realizing how badly she never wanted to leave him, or him her, and just how much of that now seemed out of her control.
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.
