her fight and fury's fiery, oh but she loves like sleep to the freezing
The scrape of Jack’s teeth sends a familiar spark racing through her, bright and immediate, not unlike the way his lightning magic looks when it sparks through the sky. The Ark exhales sharply, the sound breaking only because she needs the next breath too quickly, and when he peels himself back to drag his shirt free, she watches him with an expression that is somehow both coquettish and predatory, all blue-eyed invitation edged in teeth.
The torn lace draws taut against her skin before giving way, and the impatience in him only feeds the heat gathering low and fierce within her. It moves through her in molten currents, loosening the lingering traces of Deepfrost still clinging to her body and leaving her restless beneath his weight. When his mouth finds hers again, she meets him greedily, tasting smoke and liquor and the warmth of him between every stolen breath.
"Funny you should ask," she murmurs against his lips, as her long legs curl around his hips, drawing him closer and keeping him there, anchoring herself against the hard press of him through his clothes as though she has no intention of allowing even the smallest tide to pull him away. Her fingers twist in his hair, demanding rather than pleading, while her gaze catches his again. "But I think I'd be much warmer with my clothes off."
The torn lace draws taut against her skin before giving way, and the impatience in him only feeds the heat gathering low and fierce within her. It moves through her in molten currents, loosening the lingering traces of Deepfrost still clinging to her body and leaving her restless beneath his weight. When his mouth finds hers again, she meets him greedily, tasting smoke and liquor and the warmth of him between every stolen breath.
"Funny you should ask," she murmurs against his lips, as her long legs curl around his hips, drawing him closer and keeping him there, anchoring herself against the hard press of him through his clothes as though she has no intention of allowing even the smallest tide to pull him away. Her fingers twist in his hair, demanding rather than pleading, while her gaze catches his again. "But I think I'd be much warmer with my clothes off."
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.
