The Ark
The Ark lifts her fingers to Murphy’s retreating back and sends a kiss skimming after him through the air, light and laughing, then she settles at the rail, hip resting easy against it, posture loose and unguarded in the way she’s only ever been when Jack is at the helm.
Her presence there hums. Not loudly, but buoyant, a playful pressure that moves like a breeze looking for something to catch on. When Jack sets his hands to the wheel, everything should answer him. The rigging is right. The angle is clean. The wind is cooperative. And yet the wheel resists, stiff and stubborn beneath his palms, as though the world itself has thickened, as though they’re dragging keel through mud instead of gliding on borrowed sky. The sails don’t billow, buit instead hover, lazy and unimpressed, canvas fluttering uselessly despite the wind Jack has coaxed into being.
Should he turn, which he inevitably will, he'll find the Ark watching him. She'll be smiling, head tipped, mouth curved with feline mischief, eyes bright as sun on open water, and her hair will lift and stream as though caught by a private current, a breeze that somehow refuses to share itself with the sails overhead. "There’s no need for that," she says lightly, voice smooth as a tide slipping past pilings. Her gaze slides past him then, unhurried, taking in the crew still lingering on deck, the ones pretending not to look, the ones failing badly. For a heartbeat her attention rests there, cool and assessing, the way she’s always known the weight of bodies on her boards, before she shrugs. "..or them." Not with her sails open and her anchor up.
When her eyes return to Jack, the smile she gives him is all roguish invitation and quiet command, a curve of mouth that carries cunning, trust, and intent in equal measure. "Tell them to go," she murmurs, voice low enough to feel like a secret meant only for him. The wheel loosens a fraction beneath his hands—not enough to move, just enough to promise it will—as another breeze tugs at her hair and flirts with the bottom of Jack's shirt against her thighs. "Then come here."
Her presence there hums. Not loudly, but buoyant, a playful pressure that moves like a breeze looking for something to catch on. When Jack sets his hands to the wheel, everything should answer him. The rigging is right. The angle is clean. The wind is cooperative. And yet the wheel resists, stiff and stubborn beneath his palms, as though the world itself has thickened, as though they’re dragging keel through mud instead of gliding on borrowed sky. The sails don’t billow, buit instead hover, lazy and unimpressed, canvas fluttering uselessly despite the wind Jack has coaxed into being.
Should he turn, which he inevitably will, he'll find the Ark watching him. She'll be smiling, head tipped, mouth curved with feline mischief, eyes bright as sun on open water, and her hair will lift and stream as though caught by a private current, a breeze that somehow refuses to share itself with the sails overhead. "There’s no need for that," she says lightly, voice smooth as a tide slipping past pilings. Her gaze slides past him then, unhurried, taking in the crew still lingering on deck, the ones pretending not to look, the ones failing badly. For a heartbeat her attention rests there, cool and assessing, the way she’s always known the weight of bodies on her boards, before she shrugs. "..or them." Not with her sails open and her anchor up.
When her eyes return to Jack, the smile she gives him is all roguish invitation and quiet command, a curve of mouth that carries cunning, trust, and intent in equal measure. "Tell them to go," she murmurs, voice low enough to feel like a secret meant only for him. The wheel loosens a fraction beneath his hands—not enough to move, just enough to promise it will—as another breeze tugs at her hair and flirts with the bottom of Jack's shirt against her thighs. "Then come here."
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.
