bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive
The Ark huffs softly under her breath, though the edge of her irritation has dulled into something more wry as she reaches to pluck the cigarette from his lips, drawing it in with a quiet hum as she considers his words. "Some of your crew are stupid," she concedes, her mouth quirking with something almost self-deprecating as the smoke curls from her lips, "but they aren’t idiots like that." If they had been, they never would have lasted under him.
Jack's casual admission and the ease with which he lays violence in her name at her feet, lands clean and sharp. She reaches for him, the cigarette pulled hastily from her mouth and held forgotten between her fingers as her other hand catches his coat and drags him in just enough to meet her. The kiss is rough and quick, more claim than caress, though there's nothing tentative in the way she presses her lips against his.
Who says they already didn't? Gods, she loves him for that. It isn't just the violence or humiliation so skillfully enacted, but the certainty beneath it, the way he has always done this, always handled things for her without needing an audience, without needing to make a show of it, the quiet, ruthless assurance that what is his is not to be mishandled, not to be spoken down to, not to be touched without consequence. "Thank you," she says quietly, the words simple and entirely sincere as she pulls back, breath barely changed, the cigarette still smouldering between her fingers as her eyes linger on him, darkened for a fleeting second into something deeper, something edged and almost sharklike beneath the surface, before reaching out to touch the signpost.
Jack's casual admission and the ease with which he lays violence in her name at her feet, lands clean and sharp. She reaches for him, the cigarette pulled hastily from her mouth and held forgotten between her fingers as her other hand catches his coat and drags him in just enough to meet her. The kiss is rough and quick, more claim than caress, though there's nothing tentative in the way she presses her lips against his.
Who says they already didn't? Gods, she loves him for that. It isn't just the violence or humiliation so skillfully enacted, but the certainty beneath it, the way he has always done this, always handled things for her without needing an audience, without needing to make a show of it, the quiet, ruthless assurance that what is his is not to be mishandled, not to be spoken down to, not to be touched without consequence. "Thank you," she says quietly, the words simple and entirely sincere as she pulls back, breath barely changed, the cigarette still smouldering between her fingers as her eyes linger on him, darkened for a fleeting second into something deeper, something edged and almost sharklike beneath the surface, before reaching out to touch the signpost.
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.
