her fight and fury's fiery, oh but she loves like sleep to the freezing
"Gods, if they only knew," The Ark murmurs, her laugh soft beneath her breath. Her thoughts turn scarlet with something darker than simple amusement, a dangerous pride spreading through her at the thought of what Jack truly is beneath the stories people tell themselves: not merely a man clever enough to hear a plot before it reaches his door, but something far more difficult to corner, more formidable than most of them will ever understand until it’s far too late.
As he shifts onto his back, she follows the movement without thought, rolling onto her stomach beside him and stretching out languidly across the bunk, all loose limbs and red hair spilled across the sheets. Her smirk curves as she looks sidelong at him. "Oh, well, if you need help breaking the days up..." The words trail away with deliberate invitation, because for the same reason that patience is something she's still working on, she hasn’t yet learned to be entirely satisfied by long stretches without finding another use for the time.
At the thought of meetings aboard other ships, she nods, her blue eyes narrowing slightly with interest. "I imagine you’ll have more than a few of those once we’re back in Torchline." All he need do is indicate which captains require something more persuasive than ordinary business, and she can make certain the sea and their vessels alike seem to have opinions about their behaviour. The fear of the gods is one thing; the fear of her, delivered through an uncooperative rudder and a hull that suddenly refuses to obey, is another entirely.
She wrinkles her nose at the prospect of Flora’s wedding. "Or tacky," she agrees. But then Jack’s observation catches properly, and The Ark stills in a way that has nothing to do with relaxation. Her head tilts, red curls slipping over one shoulder, while the waters of her mind begin to churn as though he has cast chum into them and every predator in the deep has started to circle. Torchline’s ruler away. Its demigods away. Most of the other region’s sharpest teeth gathered in one place, distracted by ribbons and vows and whatever false sweetness they mean to celebrate. "Huh," she says under her breath.
Then she looks back to him, the calculation easing into a slow, knowing smirk. "I did say that, didn’t I?" Her gaze drops to her own hand, where the single ring she took from him rests against her long fingers, and she turns it idly as though considering exactly what sort of additions ought to come next.
As he shifts onto his back, she follows the movement without thought, rolling onto her stomach beside him and stretching out languidly across the bunk, all loose limbs and red hair spilled across the sheets. Her smirk curves as she looks sidelong at him. "Oh, well, if you need help breaking the days up..." The words trail away with deliberate invitation, because for the same reason that patience is something she's still working on, she hasn’t yet learned to be entirely satisfied by long stretches without finding another use for the time.
At the thought of meetings aboard other ships, she nods, her blue eyes narrowing slightly with interest. "I imagine you’ll have more than a few of those once we’re back in Torchline." All he need do is indicate which captains require something more persuasive than ordinary business, and she can make certain the sea and their vessels alike seem to have opinions about their behaviour. The fear of the gods is one thing; the fear of her, delivered through an uncooperative rudder and a hull that suddenly refuses to obey, is another entirely.
She wrinkles her nose at the prospect of Flora’s wedding. "Or tacky," she agrees. But then Jack’s observation catches properly, and The Ark stills in a way that has nothing to do with relaxation. Her head tilts, red curls slipping over one shoulder, while the waters of her mind begin to churn as though he has cast chum into them and every predator in the deep has started to circle. Torchline’s ruler away. Its demigods away. Most of the other region’s sharpest teeth gathered in one place, distracted by ribbons and vows and whatever false sweetness they mean to celebrate. "Huh," she says under her breath.
Then she looks back to him, the calculation easing into a slow, knowing smirk. "I did say that, didn’t I?" Her gaze drops to her own hand, where the single ring she took from him rests against her long fingers, and she turns it idly as though considering exactly what sort of additions ought to come next.
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.
