The Ark
She hums softly at that, a pleased sound that settles through the cabin like a line paid out and set just right. He isn’t wrong of course. Over the years her resistance has learned to soften into play, a deliberate drag of current rather than a fight against it. With him, at least. New hands at the helm still get tested, no matter how skilled they think they are, lessons taught in stubborn leans and sudden pulls until they learn how she likes to be handled.
His compliment lands cleanly. She doesn’t duck it, doesn’t dress it up, her smile only sharpens as she straightens, chin lifting a fraction. "Of course I do," she says, easy and sure. She reaches for him then, fingers catching the edge of his collar where it’s slipped out of place, tugging it straight with the same absent familiarity she’s used a thousand times in other forms. Her hand lingers there, thumb warm against his throat, the contact unhurried, her eyes on his.
"For all the times you went without," she adds quietly, voice low and steady, "for all the stealing and killing you did to get what you needed, for all the times you limped home to me, bloody and bruised, you never left me wanting for anything. Not once." So of course she looked good; Jack wouldn't have left her any other way.
Her gaze drifts then, slow and unapologetic along the sharp line of his jaw, the scruff dark against weathered skin, the sun-faded curve of his mouth she knows better than most men know their own hands. There’s no shyness in it, no retreat, but she does huff out a small breath that almost turns into a laugh, surprised despite herself. "It is different for me to see you like this, too," she admits. Seeing him like this, without the distance of deck and rail and mast between them, without his touch being the guiding force between them, will take some getting used to. Her eyes lift back to his, bright and deep and unwavering, her smile turning crooked again. "You look the way you’ve always felt to me, though."
His compliment lands cleanly. She doesn’t duck it, doesn’t dress it up, her smile only sharpens as she straightens, chin lifting a fraction. "Of course I do," she says, easy and sure. She reaches for him then, fingers catching the edge of his collar where it’s slipped out of place, tugging it straight with the same absent familiarity she’s used a thousand times in other forms. Her hand lingers there, thumb warm against his throat, the contact unhurried, her eyes on his.
"For all the times you went without," she adds quietly, voice low and steady, "for all the stealing and killing you did to get what you needed, for all the times you limped home to me, bloody and bruised, you never left me wanting for anything. Not once." So of course she looked good; Jack wouldn't have left her any other way.
Her gaze drifts then, slow and unapologetic along the sharp line of his jaw, the scruff dark against weathered skin, the sun-faded curve of his mouth she knows better than most men know their own hands. There’s no shyness in it, no retreat, but she does huff out a small breath that almost turns into a laugh, surprised despite herself. "It is different for me to see you like this, too," she admits. Seeing him like this, without the distance of deck and rail and mast between them, without his touch being the guiding force between them, will take some getting used to. Her eyes lift back to his, bright and deep and unwavering, her smile turning crooked again. "You look the way you’ve always felt to me, though."
Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze,
but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees
but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees
Code stolen from Queen Sky
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.
