her fight and fury's fiery, oh but she loves like sleep to the freezing
As he leans back and his hands lower to the leather at her hips, her legs remain unhelpfully hooked around his waist for the moment, holding him close as though she hasn’t the slightest intention of making anything easy for him. The Ark uses the firm line of his body as a fulcrum instead, arching herself from the bed just enough to shimmy free of his shirt with a slow, coquettish roll of her shoulders, before letting it fall carelessly somewhere beyond the edge of the bunk.
What remains of the black bralette lies across her like a torn sail, ragged lace dark against the pale expanse of her skin, and the sight of it draws something openly pleased through the deep water of her thoughts. Only then does she loosen her hips by a fraction, the lessening of that contact travelling through her like an unhappy ripple over otherwise heated water. One hand reaches for him as his hands work at the leather, palm flattening warm against the centre of his chest before her fingers begin to trace downward. She follows the dark curve of the serpent ink where it winds along his ribs, lingering over the familiar line with the same attention to detail she might have used to follow a coastline. Beneath her touch, saltwater begins to gather—first a sheen, then small warm beads slipping from her palm to his skin—as though the sea inside her has pressed too close to the surface to be held back properly for much longer.
What remains of the black bralette lies across her like a torn sail, ragged lace dark against the pale expanse of her skin, and the sight of it draws something openly pleased through the deep water of her thoughts. Only then does she loosen her hips by a fraction, the lessening of that contact travelling through her like an unhappy ripple over otherwise heated water. One hand reaches for him as his hands work at the leather, palm flattening warm against the centre of his chest before her fingers begin to trace downward. She follows the dark curve of the serpent ink where it winds along his ribs, lingering over the familiar line with the same attention to detail she might have used to follow a coastline. Beneath her touch, saltwater begins to gather—first a sheen, then small warm beads slipping from her palm to his skin—as though the sea inside her has pressed too close to the surface to be held back properly for much longer.
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.
