her fight and fury's fiery, oh but she loves like sleep to the freezing
As the warm breeze slips around her, The Ark’s eyes close and she exhales, the sound one of pure indulgence, low and pleased like a wave breaking somewhere it has every right to be. She hums softly in approval, allowing the imagined warmth to settle over her skin and into the deeper places beneath it, until her lashes lift again and pin Jack with a smouldering blue stare of her own.
At the mention of repairs, one brow rises. She nods slowly, eyes narrowing as if she’s giving the matter all the grave consideration it deserves, before reaching for one of his hands. With the other, she catches the hem of his shirt where it hangs loose over her hip and draws it upward just enough to reveal the pale curve of her skin before it vanishes again into black leather. "Ice has managed to get between some of my boards," she says, her voice all false practicality as she guides his hand against her side. "It's made me so stiff. I’ll need a good amount of warming up before any repairs can be done." The innuendo drips from the words, warm and deliberate, and her fingers keep his there as though she expects him to assess the damage properly.
Then, because she can, her expression turns mischievous as she begins to lower the shirt again with an almost dismissive shrug. "But I’m sure the shipwrights will be more than happy to take care of that."
At the mention of repairs, one brow rises. She nods slowly, eyes narrowing as if she’s giving the matter all the grave consideration it deserves, before reaching for one of his hands. With the other, she catches the hem of his shirt where it hangs loose over her hip and draws it upward just enough to reveal the pale curve of her skin before it vanishes again into black leather. "Ice has managed to get between some of my boards," she says, her voice all false practicality as she guides his hand against her side. "It's made me so stiff. I’ll need a good amount of warming up before any repairs can be done." The innuendo drips from the words, warm and deliberate, and her fingers keep his there as though she expects him to assess the damage properly.
Then, because she can, her expression turns mischievous as she begins to lower the shirt again with an almost dismissive shrug. "But I’m sure the shipwrights will be more than happy to take care of that."
sweet and right and merciful, all but washed in the tide of her breathing
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.
