i see nothing better, i'll keep him forever, like a vendetta
The Ark snickers softly at that, the sound low and wicked in her throat as the image unfolds easily in her mind: Flora racing to Jack's door with fury and confusion in her wake, only to find the one man who would understand exactly what had been done standing there with empty eyes and no memory of her at all. The cruelty of it is clean and precise, and her lips twist into a thin, pleased line at the thought. "That would sting," she murmurs, not remorseful in the least. "Running to the only port that makes sense and finding it closed."
Her arms slide up around his neck as naturally as tide rising along a seawall, fingers threading lightly through the hair at his nape. She feels the shift in him when he kisses her—less fire, more weight—and she doesn't mistake it for rejection. Currents change, and not all storms come with lightning. There's no insecurity in her, no sharp questioning; she simply adjusts, staying close, letting her body rest flush against his while the waters of her thoughts settle into something deeper and steadier. When his lips brush her temple, the gesture soft and unguarded, her mind flickers briefly with the knowledge that such easy affection would have sent Flora into a spiral of envy sharp enough to cut, especially given her borderline tantrum on her deck.
She tilts her chin up slightly, fingers drifting to the spaces just behind Jack's ears where tension likes to coil and knot, and begins working at them with slow, deliberate pressure. "No more thinking about her," The Ark agrees. "You need to think about you." Her thumbs press and release, easing the tightness there as she studies his face in the lanternlight.
"The world’s gotten complacent," she continues, voice smooth as dark water. "Since the Family left, rumour among the men has me thinking that all of the leaders are busy with their own little dramas. Babies. Weddings. Breakups." One shoulder lifts in a careless shrug. "You sank a business in King’s End and what did anyone do about it?" Nothing.
Her smile widens into something lean and jackal-bright, sharp with possibility rather than cruelty. "Seems to me," she says, gaze steady and intent, "it’s the perfect time to chart a new heading." Her fingers still at his neck, her body still pressed to his, she watches him not as a place of comfort but as a compass, waiting to see which way he’ll turn them when he stops thinking about the Queen of Torchline and starts thinking about himself.
Her arms slide up around his neck as naturally as tide rising along a seawall, fingers threading lightly through the hair at his nape. She feels the shift in him when he kisses her—less fire, more weight—and she doesn't mistake it for rejection. Currents change, and not all storms come with lightning. There's no insecurity in her, no sharp questioning; she simply adjusts, staying close, letting her body rest flush against his while the waters of her thoughts settle into something deeper and steadier. When his lips brush her temple, the gesture soft and unguarded, her mind flickers briefly with the knowledge that such easy affection would have sent Flora into a spiral of envy sharp enough to cut, especially given her borderline tantrum on her deck.
She tilts her chin up slightly, fingers drifting to the spaces just behind Jack's ears where tension likes to coil and knot, and begins working at them with slow, deliberate pressure. "No more thinking about her," The Ark agrees. "You need to think about you." Her thumbs press and release, easing the tightness there as she studies his face in the lanternlight.
"The world’s gotten complacent," she continues, voice smooth as dark water. "Since the Family left, rumour among the men has me thinking that all of the leaders are busy with their own little dramas. Babies. Weddings. Breakups." One shoulder lifts in a careless shrug. "You sank a business in King’s End and what did anyone do about it?" Nothing.
Her smile widens into something lean and jackal-bright, sharp with possibility rather than cruelty. "Seems to me," she says, gaze steady and intent, "it’s the perfect time to chart a new heading." Her fingers still at his neck, her body still pressed to his, she watches him not as a place of comfort but as a compass, waiting to see which way he’ll turn them when he stops thinking about the Queen of Torchline and starts thinking about himself.
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.
