time to roll the dice, you know i'm the type
As on sea, so on land, the Ark rises to him without calculation, without chart or compass, answering the shift of his body and the crackle of his power the way she answers wind in her sails. She does not yet know the subtleties of bar fights the way she knows the angle of a squall or the groan of timber before a mast gives way, but she knows this, Jack is still standing. The floorboards split and drink saltwater in greedy gulps, the bar tilting almost imperceptibly as brine snakes across warped planks, and to her that feels like a beginning rather than a loss. A structure taking on water is only a tragedy if it is hers.
She watches the swell creep inward with a slow, approving smirk, lanternlight scattering in broken reflections across the spreading sheen, then moves without hesitation to Jack’s side. Her hand reaches for the lapel of his coat, fingers curling with possessive certainty, and she drags him toward her as if hauling something hard-won back onto deck. Electricity still hums faintly through the air, through him, through her; she feels it like static along rigging, sharp and intoxicating. Since he has acquainted her with sex, she has taken to it the way open water takes to storm, without restraint, without apology. The sight of him now, resolute in the chaos, cigarette dying in salt at his feet, power sparking at his command, pulls that same tide forward in her.
She kisses him hard, mouth claiming his with a tidal hunger. The chop inside her does not ease; it roughens, whitecaps flashing through her thoughts as bodies scramble and curses fill the air in the other room. When she pulls back, her cheeks are flushed, breath warm against his skin, eyes bright with something far from done. A laugh huffs from her, low and exhilarated, as another wave of water slaps against a table leg and sends it skidding. "I don’t care about this rickety barge," she says, voice threaded with salt and mischief, glancing down at the pooling brine before lifting her gaze back to him. "This isn’t a ship you’re going to go down on." Her brow arches slowly, the double meaning cresting clear and unapologetic in the stormlight of her mind.
She watches the swell creep inward with a slow, approving smirk, lanternlight scattering in broken reflections across the spreading sheen, then moves without hesitation to Jack’s side. Her hand reaches for the lapel of his coat, fingers curling with possessive certainty, and she drags him toward her as if hauling something hard-won back onto deck. Electricity still hums faintly through the air, through him, through her; she feels it like static along rigging, sharp and intoxicating. Since he has acquainted her with sex, she has taken to it the way open water takes to storm, without restraint, without apology. The sight of him now, resolute in the chaos, cigarette dying in salt at his feet, power sparking at his command, pulls that same tide forward in her.
She kisses him hard, mouth claiming his with a tidal hunger. The chop inside her does not ease; it roughens, whitecaps flashing through her thoughts as bodies scramble and curses fill the air in the other room. When she pulls back, her cheeks are flushed, breath warm against his skin, eyes bright with something far from done. A laugh huffs from her, low and exhilarated, as another wave of water slaps against a table leg and sends it skidding. "I don’t care about this rickety barge," she says, voice threaded with salt and mischief, glancing down at the pooling brine before lifting her gaze back to him. "This isn’t a ship you’re going to go down on." Her brow arches slowly, the double meaning cresting clear and unapologetic in the stormlight of her mind.
time to risk my life, not afraid to die, i'm a straight up villain
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.
