bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive
The Ark watches him strip, her gaze dragging over him without subtlety, without restraint, taking in the shift of muscle and the way anticipation sits under his skin as though she’s measuring it, weighing it, deciding how best to spend it. When he looks up at her, she answers by stepping in, placing her knee on the bed beside him so her body stretches long and deliberate in front of his, the line of her leg braced at his side, her weight angled just enough to keep him where she wants him.
At Jack's mention of the audience, her head tilts, and there’s something in her gaze that sharpens rather than shies away, something that almost welcomes the idea of being heard, of being followed, even as another current runs beneath it, one that runs colder, tighter, unwilling to share more than she allows. Outside, the alley gathers them in, her wake pulling at passing bodies like a tide that can’t quite be seen but can absolutely be felt, curiosity sharpening into something heavier as they linger too long, listen too closely, want without understanding why. It would be easy for Jack to reach for that, to slip sideways into it and take what’s offered—those flickers of heat and hunger that gather just beyond the door—and while the same might not be true in other moments, just now the Ark isn't at all inclined to share.
"Don’t let them distract you," she murmurs, and there’s nothing idle in it, nothing permissive, the words settling into him like a command wrapped in velvet. If there’s pleasure to be taken, if there’s anything worth sinking into, tonight it will come from her, through her, nowhere else, and as if to hone her point, with her free hand she'll reach for one of his, guiding it between her thighs as her hips shift forward against his hand.
At Jack's mention of the audience, her head tilts, and there’s something in her gaze that sharpens rather than shies away, something that almost welcomes the idea of being heard, of being followed, even as another current runs beneath it, one that runs colder, tighter, unwilling to share more than she allows. Outside, the alley gathers them in, her wake pulling at passing bodies like a tide that can’t quite be seen but can absolutely be felt, curiosity sharpening into something heavier as they linger too long, listen too closely, want without understanding why. It would be easy for Jack to reach for that, to slip sideways into it and take what’s offered—those flickers of heat and hunger that gather just beyond the door—and while the same might not be true in other moments, just now the Ark isn't at all inclined to share.
"Don’t let them distract you," she murmurs, and there’s nothing idle in it, nothing permissive, the words settling into him like a command wrapped in velvet. If there’s pleasure to be taken, if there’s anything worth sinking into, tonight it will come from her, through her, nowhere else, and as if to hone her point, with her free hand she'll reach for one of his, guiding it between her thighs as her hips shift forward against his hand.
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.
