time to roll the dice, you know i'm the type
Murphy will feel a strange absence threaded through the galleon, a hollowness where current ought to run. The Ark lies quiet in her berth, too quiet based on what the first mate will have come to expect from her over the years. The usual flicker of presence that hums along her rigging and through her planks is dulled; the flare and bite that make her more than timber and sail feel banked, smothered beneath something heavy and formless.
When awareness returns it does not arrive cleanly. It seeps in, thick and reluctant, and the first thing that greets her is pain. Not sharp in the way lightning splits air, not hot like friction and desire, but dense and pulsing, as though something is knocking from the inside of her skull. Jack will feel it before he hears anything, the sudden fog rolling through her thoughts, a muted swell of confusion and hurt that has no salt-sweet edge to it. A soft gasp escapes her before she can stop it, breath hitching as she shifts in the Captain’s bunk and the world lurches unpleasantly. She presses her palm to her forehead in reflex and immediately recoils, the tenderness there shocking and foreign, her fingers coming away to find the dressing instead of blood.
Pain, like pleasure, had been, is new. Pleasure she'd taken to like a rising gale, devoured and understood in instinctive tides. This is different. This is an unwelcome weight, a dragging undertow she does not yet know how to navigate and does not like.
She sits up slowly, every movement deliberate, as though testing whether the world will tilt again if she moves too quickly. Though she can feel the crew, boots crossing her deck in measured rhythms, the low murmur of voices through timber and corridor, there is no panic in it. No frantic scrambling. If not for the ache in her head and the dried stiffness of blood in her hair, she might have thought she'd imagined the whole thing.
As she swings her legs over the side of the bunk and stands, a muffled cry slips from her throat and she bites it back hard, jaw tightening as if stubbornness alone might master the sensation. She steadies herself with one hand against the desk and reaches for a bottle of rum on Jack's desk. In the past, she's felt the way Jack had medicated himself with it in moments like these, and if it worked for him, perhaps it will work for her.
When awareness returns it does not arrive cleanly. It seeps in, thick and reluctant, and the first thing that greets her is pain. Not sharp in the way lightning splits air, not hot like friction and desire, but dense and pulsing, as though something is knocking from the inside of her skull. Jack will feel it before he hears anything, the sudden fog rolling through her thoughts, a muted swell of confusion and hurt that has no salt-sweet edge to it. A soft gasp escapes her before she can stop it, breath hitching as she shifts in the Captain’s bunk and the world lurches unpleasantly. She presses her palm to her forehead in reflex and immediately recoils, the tenderness there shocking and foreign, her fingers coming away to find the dressing instead of blood.
Pain, like pleasure, had been, is new. Pleasure she'd taken to like a rising gale, devoured and understood in instinctive tides. This is different. This is an unwelcome weight, a dragging undertow she does not yet know how to navigate and does not like.
She sits up slowly, every movement deliberate, as though testing whether the world will tilt again if she moves too quickly. Though she can feel the crew, boots crossing her deck in measured rhythms, the low murmur of voices through timber and corridor, there is no panic in it. No frantic scrambling. If not for the ache in her head and the dried stiffness of blood in her hair, she might have thought she'd imagined the whole thing.
As she swings her legs over the side of the bunk and stands, a muffled cry slips from her throat and she bites it back hard, jaw tightening as if stubbornness alone might master the sensation. She steadies herself with one hand against the desk and reaches for a bottle of rum on Jack's desk. In the past, she's felt the way Jack had medicated himself with it in moments like these, and if it worked for him, perhaps it will work for her.
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.
