The Ark
She grins at him, slow and wolfish, the kind that bares teeth without ever quite showing how sharp they are. "And that's barely a breeze of what I could have made them feel."
The Ark drifts closer as Jack moves to the rail, not crowding him, but just aligning herself. Even as a woman, she feels the press of him there—the familiar brace of his arms against the edge, the weight of him leaning out over open space—a sensation that echoes somewhere deep in her, a pressure along her side, a phantom contact that makes her spine hum. He’s always been like this with her, present in more ways than one, even when he thinks he’s stepped away.
She listens to him, not yet capable of reading into body language that's entirely based on what she sees, and so takes his words at their face, turning them over like stones in her palm. After a moment she shakes her head, red hair slipping loose over her shoulder. "I'd still be able to feel you, even if I stayed here." Then she looks at him again, the smile that finds her mouth smaller, closer, something new and private. "But I like this," she adds, nodding between them. "Talking. Not just weight and motion and the feel of your steps." Her eyes trace him, unhurried, curious. "I like seeing you, too." Her following shrug is almost sheepish in its honesty. "I never knew how much of all of you there was that wasn’t just voices carried through wood, or pressure, or hands on my rigging."
Her attention flicks toward the helm, where Murphy stands steady and intent, and the look she gives him is fond, settled, unmistakably adoring. Then she turns back to Jack, one brow lifting, mischief sliding easily back into place. "If I get bored, maybe I could make things go awry. No reason his night shouldn't be as interesting as everyone else's." Her smile sharpens, dangerous and playful all at once.
The Ark drifts closer as Jack moves to the rail, not crowding him, but just aligning herself. Even as a woman, she feels the press of him there—the familiar brace of his arms against the edge, the weight of him leaning out over open space—a sensation that echoes somewhere deep in her, a pressure along her side, a phantom contact that makes her spine hum. He’s always been like this with her, present in more ways than one, even when he thinks he’s stepped away.
She listens to him, not yet capable of reading into body language that's entirely based on what she sees, and so takes his words at their face, turning them over like stones in her palm. After a moment she shakes her head, red hair slipping loose over her shoulder. "I'd still be able to feel you, even if I stayed here." Then she looks at him again, the smile that finds her mouth smaller, closer, something new and private. "But I like this," she adds, nodding between them. "Talking. Not just weight and motion and the feel of your steps." Her eyes trace him, unhurried, curious. "I like seeing you, too." Her following shrug is almost sheepish in its honesty. "I never knew how much of all of you there was that wasn’t just voices carried through wood, or pressure, or hands on my rigging."
Her attention flicks toward the helm, where Murphy stands steady and intent, and the look she gives him is fond, settled, unmistakably adoring. Then she turns back to Jack, one brow lifting, mischief sliding easily back into place. "If I get bored, maybe I could make things go awry. No reason his night shouldn't be as interesting as everyone else's." Her smile sharpens, dangerous and playful all at once.
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.
