i see nothing better, i'll keep him forever, like a vendetta
The Ark's smile turns unmistakably feline at that, slow and satisfied, her teeth barely visible beneath the curve of her lips. She’s had admiration thrown at her since she first stepped out of timber and tar into skin, compliments scattered like petals in her wake, and most of them she’s accepted with lazy indifference because she knows exactly what she is. The rabble can gawk, the dockhands can whisper, the taverns can toast her silhouette cutting the horizon, and it changes nothing. Jack’s approval, though, lands differently. It isn’t noise; it’s weight. It isn’t awe; it’s recognition. And even if the Blackfox falling out of her chair would serve him as much as it serves her, the thought curls warm and indulgent through her all the same.
When he decides on a couple of days, on letting dust settle and loose ends tie themselves off, she nods once in agreement and reaches back without looking, snatching up the bottle of rum as he tugs her from the desk. She moves with him easily, her stride matching his without effort, the wood beneath her feet answering in quiet familiarity.
As he speaks again, the weight in his voice draws her attention in full. Had it been anyone else hearing his words, they might have replied with some dismissive reassurance, some light deflection that aww shucks, sure you would have Jack, but the Ark does no such thing, doesn't coddle or soften the edges of what he's admitting. Instead, she steps into him and lifts her hand, pressing her palm against his cheek, her thumb resting just beneath his eye. Her gaze holds his, deep and endless as the water beyond the hull, steady and certain.
"Your days of facing anything alone are over," she says quietly. There’s no cooing in it, no indulgent sweetness, because this isn't romance, it's fact. They’ve been tested long before she wore skin, long before she could press her hand to his face and feel the warmth there. They’ve taken fire and storm and loss together, carried triumph and ruin in the same breath, and all of it had bound them tighter than any spoken vow could.
When he decides on a couple of days, on letting dust settle and loose ends tie themselves off, she nods once in agreement and reaches back without looking, snatching up the bottle of rum as he tugs her from the desk. She moves with him easily, her stride matching his without effort, the wood beneath her feet answering in quiet familiarity.
As he speaks again, the weight in his voice draws her attention in full. Had it been anyone else hearing his words, they might have replied with some dismissive reassurance, some light deflection that aww shucks, sure you would have Jack, but the Ark does no such thing, doesn't coddle or soften the edges of what he's admitting. Instead, she steps into him and lifts her hand, pressing her palm against his cheek, her thumb resting just beneath his eye. Her gaze holds his, deep and endless as the water beyond the hull, steady and certain.
"Your days of facing anything alone are over," she says quietly. There’s no cooing in it, no indulgent sweetness, because this isn't romance, it's fact. They’ve been tested long before she wore skin, long before she could press her hand to his face and feel the warmth there. They’ve taken fire and storm and loss together, carried triumph and ruin in the same breath, and all of it had bound them tighter than any spoken vow could.
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.
