her fight and fury's fiery, oh but she loves like sleep to the freezing
"You’ve never kept me so long in the cold before," The Ark says in a voice gone low and sultry, though there’s no accusation in it. Jack has spent the whole season taking what care he can of her, worrying ice from her deck and rigging with his magic, warming what he can reach, never letting the winter have more of her than circumstance demands. But that doesn’t mean she can’t offer him the chance to make amends for it anyway.
As he rises, she lifts her chin to keep him in her eyeline and doesn’t give an inch of ground, blue eyes bright with a grin that knows exactly how rare apologies are from him and how little she actually requires one. He’s never let real harm come to her, that much lives beneath every tease she gives him. Still, it’s entertaining to imagine the shipwrights undertaking the task instead: careful hands warming the stiffness from her boards, working away at the strain the cold has left behind until she’s softened and wet with their efforts. Her thoughts turn deliberately suggestive, rich with the idea of melted ice and wet wood.
"That is the least you could do," she agrees, teasingly severe, though greed begins to darken and deepen the tide of her mind at the considerably more he might offer.
As he rises, she lifts her chin to keep him in her eyeline and doesn’t give an inch of ground, blue eyes bright with a grin that knows exactly how rare apologies are from him and how little she actually requires one. He’s never let real harm come to her, that much lives beneath every tease she gives him. Still, it’s entertaining to imagine the shipwrights undertaking the task instead: careful hands warming the stiffness from her boards, working away at the strain the cold has left behind until she’s softened and wet with their efforts. Her thoughts turn deliberately suggestive, rich with the idea of melted ice and wet wood.
"That is the least you could do," she agrees, teasingly severe, though greed begins to darken and deepen the tide of her mind at the considerably more he might offer.
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.
