bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive
The sound she makes when Jack's fingers tweak her nipple is not pretty; it’s rough, pulled from somewhere deeper than her throat, something that catches and holds for a second before slipping free, and the grin that follows it is all edge and intention as she leans into him, close enough that the space between their mouths feels like it might collapse on its own. "You’re about to find out."
Her hands don’t hesitate as they continue. There’s no flourish, no pause to draw it out for his benefit; she wants him now, and that wanting translates cleanly into motion as she undoes the button and fly of his pants, freeing his erection. She responds to its release with a deliberate press of her hand at his hip, guiding him backward like she’s already decided exactly where this is going. The other hand settles at the base of his cock, firm, unyielding, not teasing so much as claiming, and she steps forward into his space with a prowling certainty that leaves no room for negotiation. He gives ground because she takes it, because she keeps taking it, walking him back one step, then another, her grip steady, her mouth just shy of his like she’s holding something in reserve on purpose, letting the tension coil tighter and tighter between them until his knees hit the edge of the bed. Much as she'd happily fuck him against the wall, at least seated he'll be able to kick his pants off with having to hop from one foot to the other.
Outside, the alley doesn’t stay empty. The Ark's wake extends even now, a restless pull threading through the narrow space as passersby slow without knowing why, drawn by something they can’t name. The faint scent of salt lingers where there should be none, the distant hush of water where there is no sea, and beneath it all—threaded through the dark like a hook—are the sounds she makes, low and unguarded, slipping through the cracked edges of the bolthole to catch in the chests of those who wander too close where they pause, and whisper, and wonder.
Her hands don’t hesitate as they continue. There’s no flourish, no pause to draw it out for his benefit; she wants him now, and that wanting translates cleanly into motion as she undoes the button and fly of his pants, freeing his erection. She responds to its release with a deliberate press of her hand at his hip, guiding him backward like she’s already decided exactly where this is going. The other hand settles at the base of his cock, firm, unyielding, not teasing so much as claiming, and she steps forward into his space with a prowling certainty that leaves no room for negotiation. He gives ground because she takes it, because she keeps taking it, walking him back one step, then another, her grip steady, her mouth just shy of his like she’s holding something in reserve on purpose, letting the tension coil tighter and tighter between them until his knees hit the edge of the bed. Much as she'd happily fuck him against the wall, at least seated he'll be able to kick his pants off with having to hop from one foot to the other.
Outside, the alley doesn’t stay empty. The Ark's wake extends even now, a restless pull threading through the narrow space as passersby slow without knowing why, drawn by something they can’t name. The faint scent of salt lingers where there should be none, the distant hush of water where there is no sea, and beneath it all—threaded through the dark like a hook—are the sounds she makes, low and unguarded, slipping through the cracked edges of the bolthole to catch in the chests of those who wander too close where they pause, and whisper, and wonder.
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.
