bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive
The Ark gives a small shake of her head at his assurance; she hadn’t done anything. Whatever that had been, whatever it had stirred inside her, it had come from him.
As Jack leans back in, she rises to meet him like a wave. The lemon slips from her fingers and drops forgotten to the pier, rolling slightly before coming to rest. Her free arm winds around him, fingers spreading across his back, nails pressing in with a gathering intensity as his hand finds her hair and her neck and holds her there. Her mouth answers his, though clumsily at first. Too eager, too direct. She follows the warmth instead of shaping it, her tongue brushing his with more enthusiasm than finesse. But every contact sparks something brighter, every glide of his mouth against hers pulls heat through her again, and she chases it instinctively, adjusting, learning, refining with each breathless second.
But then it changes. The warmth deepens, concentrates low in her belly, no longer sunlight or surface shimmer but something denser. Hotter. It spreads inward instead of outward, blooming beneath her ribs, curling downward and pooling heavy and urgent. Not a glow. Not a spark. But flame.
She stiffens abruptly in his arms as the coral flush on her cheeks sharpens, no longer just colour but alarm. Her nails dig harder into his back without her meaning to, and she breaks from his mouth just enough to drag in a breath, eyes wide now, confused and startled. "Something’s wrong," she whispers, voice tight and unsteady, the unfamiliar heat coiling inside her like a fire catching, already threatening to spread.
As Jack leans back in, she rises to meet him like a wave. The lemon slips from her fingers and drops forgotten to the pier, rolling slightly before coming to rest. Her free arm winds around him, fingers spreading across his back, nails pressing in with a gathering intensity as his hand finds her hair and her neck and holds her there. Her mouth answers his, though clumsily at first. Too eager, too direct. She follows the warmth instead of shaping it, her tongue brushing his with more enthusiasm than finesse. But every contact sparks something brighter, every glide of his mouth against hers pulls heat through her again, and she chases it instinctively, adjusting, learning, refining with each breathless second.
But then it changes. The warmth deepens, concentrates low in her belly, no longer sunlight or surface shimmer but something denser. Hotter. It spreads inward instead of outward, blooming beneath her ribs, curling downward and pooling heavy and urgent. Not a glow. Not a spark. But flame.
She stiffens abruptly in his arms as the coral flush on her cheeks sharpens, no longer just colour but alarm. Her nails dig harder into his back without her meaning to, and she breaks from his mouth just enough to drag in a breath, eyes wide now, confused and startled. "Something’s wrong," she whispers, voice tight and unsteady, the unfamiliar heat coiling inside her like a fire catching, already threatening to spread.
we didn't die, but no guarantees this time, but fuck it lets do it again
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.
