bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive
The moment his grip breaks, the Ark doesn’t move away; instead, the storm tightens. Water surges where his hand had been, not falling away but gathering, rising with intent as though the sea itself has chosen a shape, and in the same breath it closes around his throat, not a crushing force, but something far more precise. It spreads quickly, saturating him, and the next flicker of electricity that dances through the air doesn’t snap outward but settles across him in a fine, glimmering sheen. It isn’t violent in the way one might expect, and is the sort of thing that could even be pleasurable if done the right way. There's no bolt, no flash, just a quiet, insistent current threading through water and muscle alike until his body betrays him, tension turning against itself as his limbs jerk and seize under the charge, each movement sharp and involuntary, pain drawn out in tight, stuttering pulses.
The Ark watches it happen without flinching. "Tsk," she clicks softly under her breath in response to him calling her a bitch, the sound almost disappointed as the chaos around them begins to thin, the other men already breaking apart and scattering into whatever shadows they can find. "Don’t be such a sore loser. My hand was just better than yours." He'd had an ace up his sleeve, but she'd had Jack up hers.
The storm begins to loosen as she speaks, not vanishing but settling, its edge dulling as easily as it had sharpened, and she lifts her chin slightly as though the entire exchange has barely warranted her attention. A flick of her shoulder sends a spill of red hair sliding back into place, the motion casual, unhurried. "I’ve got somewhere else to be," she adds, voice smoothing back into something almost conversational, "or I’d offer you a rematch." Her smile curves then, jackal-bright and edged with something that promises this isn’t the last time their paths might cross. "Maybe another time."
She turns from him without waiting to see if he recovers, the last threads of wind and water peeling away from her as she steps back into the flow of the harbour, slipping easily between bodies and lanternlight. The ring slides back onto her finger as she walks, the metal catching briefly in the glow of the evening before her hand drops back to her side, her gaze lifting just slightly, unfocused to anyone watching, but angled, unmistakably, in Jack's direction before moving through the crowd in the direction of the meetup with the Blackfox.
The Ark watches it happen without flinching. "Tsk," she clicks softly under her breath in response to him calling her a bitch, the sound almost disappointed as the chaos around them begins to thin, the other men already breaking apart and scattering into whatever shadows they can find. "Don’t be such a sore loser. My hand was just better than yours." He'd had an ace up his sleeve, but she'd had Jack up hers.
The storm begins to loosen as she speaks, not vanishing but settling, its edge dulling as easily as it had sharpened, and she lifts her chin slightly as though the entire exchange has barely warranted her attention. A flick of her shoulder sends a spill of red hair sliding back into place, the motion casual, unhurried. "I’ve got somewhere else to be," she adds, voice smoothing back into something almost conversational, "or I’d offer you a rematch." Her smile curves then, jackal-bright and edged with something that promises this isn’t the last time their paths might cross. "Maybe another time."
She turns from him without waiting to see if he recovers, the last threads of wind and water peeling away from her as she steps back into the flow of the harbour, slipping easily between bodies and lanternlight. The ring slides back onto her finger as she walks, the metal catching briefly in the glow of the evening before her hand drops back to her side, her gaze lifting just slightly, unfocused to anyone watching, but angled, unmistakably, in Jack's direction before moving through the crowd in the direction of the meetup with the Blackfox.
we didn't die, but no guarantees this time, but fuck it lets do it again
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.
