i see nothing better, i'll keep him forever, like a vendetta
The door closes behind him with a soft, decisive click, the lock turning of its own accord as the wood settles back into place. Outside, frost creeps slow and deliberate along the boards leading to the captain’s cabin, a thin glaze spreading like early morning ice over still harbour water. Anyone foolish enough to try their luck will find no sure footing there tonight.
As Jack's mouth finds hers she meets it head-on, leaning into him with the full weight of her claim. There’s nothing tentative in the way she kisses him back; no softness born of sympathy, no fragile handling of a wounded pride. She has sailed through squalls that cracked her ribs and torn winds that snapped her lines, she has limped back to harbour with splintered rails and taken repair without shame. Storms leave mark; evidence of injury did not mean defeat.
Her hands slide into his hair, fingers tightening, tongue sweeping against his, tasting the rum that still lingers there, polishing the silver of his tongue where blood had marked him above deck. When he pulls back, she lets him, though her hands remain in his hair a heartbeat longer before slipping free. Her ocean-dark eyes take him in without blinking, mapping the lines of fatigue at his mouth, the tightness still living in his shoulders. She turns just enough to refill the glass, amber sliding thick and slow into the chilled cup, then offers it to him again without ceremony.
"Flora sounded real pleased with herself," she says, voice low and even, not barbed but not warm either. "Given the size of the favour she just did you."
As Jack's mouth finds hers she meets it head-on, leaning into him with the full weight of her claim. There’s nothing tentative in the way she kisses him back; no softness born of sympathy, no fragile handling of a wounded pride. She has sailed through squalls that cracked her ribs and torn winds that snapped her lines, she has limped back to harbour with splintered rails and taken repair without shame. Storms leave mark; evidence of injury did not mean defeat.
Her hands slide into his hair, fingers tightening, tongue sweeping against his, tasting the rum that still lingers there, polishing the silver of his tongue where blood had marked him above deck. When he pulls back, she lets him, though her hands remain in his hair a heartbeat longer before slipping free. Her ocean-dark eyes take him in without blinking, mapping the lines of fatigue at his mouth, the tightness still living in his shoulders. She turns just enough to refill the glass, amber sliding thick and slow into the chilled cup, then offers it to him again without ceremony.
"Flora sounded real pleased with herself," she says, voice low and even, not barbed but not warm either. "Given the size of the favour she just did you."
i see how this is gonna go, touch me and you'll never be alone
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.
