bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive
As Jack leans down to kiss her, the Ark will rise to meet him without hesitation, lips finding his with a hungry insistence that refuses to be calmed or reasoned with. Her fingers are no longer claws digging into his back but grasping instead, holding him there as if the world beyond the cabin has ceased to exist. He'll feel the strength in her, the way the muscles along her spine flex and arch into his palm, her body meeting every measured roll of his hips with instinctive alignment. There is nothing passive in her response; she moves with him, against him, around him, the rhythm becoming shared rather than led.
Some distant, instinctive part of her knows what is coming, that when this swell crests she will not have control over the aftermath. So it is that although the galleon is anchored in the harbour, the force of her mind will ignore the pull of iron and rope, lifting her hull from the water as if caught in a sudden surge, her anchor swaying uselessly beneath as she rises into the air, the sea below churning in confused response. She does it without thinking, as naturally as adjusting sail to spare neighbouring vessels from a wake too violent to bear.
Inside the ship, though, there is no such restraint. As Jack moves within her, the pleasure builds far beyond what she thought possible, eclipsing even the wave he had drawn from her with his mouth. It is deeper now, fuller, a consuming rhythm that takes hold of her thoughts entirely. Doors along the corridor slam open and shut in erratic bursts. Drawers spill their contents. Glass rattles and thuds against wood. Murphy at the helm will find her utterly unresponsive to coaxing, the usual hum of her attention gone as she rocks in midair with the cadence of the Captain's hips.
Her moans are no longer startled but dark and urgent, the sound rising and falling in time with him. The ocean of her mind is no longer gilded copper but storm-lit and roaring, vast swells crashing into one another without horizon. Every thrust sends another wave surging through her, the sensation cresting higher and higher until language becomes impossible and only feeling remains.
Some distant, instinctive part of her knows what is coming, that when this swell crests she will not have control over the aftermath. So it is that although the galleon is anchored in the harbour, the force of her mind will ignore the pull of iron and rope, lifting her hull from the water as if caught in a sudden surge, her anchor swaying uselessly beneath as she rises into the air, the sea below churning in confused response. She does it without thinking, as naturally as adjusting sail to spare neighbouring vessels from a wake too violent to bear.
Inside the ship, though, there is no such restraint. As Jack moves within her, the pleasure builds far beyond what she thought possible, eclipsing even the wave he had drawn from her with his mouth. It is deeper now, fuller, a consuming rhythm that takes hold of her thoughts entirely. Doors along the corridor slam open and shut in erratic bursts. Drawers spill their contents. Glass rattles and thuds against wood. Murphy at the helm will find her utterly unresponsive to coaxing, the usual hum of her attention gone as she rocks in midair with the cadence of the Captain's hips.
Her moans are no longer startled but dark and urgent, the sound rising and falling in time with him. The ocean of her mind is no longer gilded copper but storm-lit and roaring, vast swells crashing into one another without horizon. Every thrust sends another wave surging through her, the sensation cresting higher and higher until language becomes impossible and only feeling remains.
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.
