THE ARK
The Ark nods, and though neither Jack nor Murphy would likely feel the difference in any meaningful way, her bearings shift to meet the instruction.
She does not relent because of the snarl on his lips, nor because of the ice creeping over the empty glass in his hand. Her attention stays fixed on the wounds and the ruined fabric caught in them, but after another careful pull, her mouth tightens. Water can soften blood and mud, can clean what the swamp has left behind, but it cannot make this painless, not with what she knows she has to do next. Jack will likely feel the shape of it in her mind before she moves. It barely has time to become a thought, more instinct than plan, before The Ark leans in and presses her mouth to his. It is less a kiss than an anchor, a way to catch the pain she is about to cause and keep him with her through it. Her water-drenched hand settles against his side, cool and firm above the ugly slice beneath his ribs, before she pulls the ragged shirt sharply away.
The fabric tears free with a wet, vicious sound, and her fingers hold steady against him through the worst of it. Saltwater beads fresh beneath her palm and slips down his side in bright trails, washing grime from the edges of the wound. Unbeknownst to her, where the water gathers and runs, the torn flesh begins to knit slowly beneath the blood and filth, the damage easing by fractions as if her touch has remembered something she has not yet learned.
She draws back only a little, close enough that the next breath still belongs partly to him, and lets a sly smile curve against his mouth. "Sorry," she murmurs, not sounding especially sorry at all.
She does not relent because of the snarl on his lips, nor because of the ice creeping over the empty glass in his hand. Her attention stays fixed on the wounds and the ruined fabric caught in them, but after another careful pull, her mouth tightens. Water can soften blood and mud, can clean what the swamp has left behind, but it cannot make this painless, not with what she knows she has to do next. Jack will likely feel the shape of it in her mind before she moves. It barely has time to become a thought, more instinct than plan, before The Ark leans in and presses her mouth to his. It is less a kiss than an anchor, a way to catch the pain she is about to cause and keep him with her through it. Her water-drenched hand settles against his side, cool and firm above the ugly slice beneath his ribs, before she pulls the ragged shirt sharply away.
The fabric tears free with a wet, vicious sound, and her fingers hold steady against him through the worst of it. Saltwater beads fresh beneath her palm and slips down his side in bright trails, washing grime from the edges of the wound. Unbeknownst to her, where the water gathers and runs, the torn flesh begins to knit slowly beneath the blood and filth, the damage easing by fractions as if her touch has remembered something she has not yet learned.
She draws back only a little, close enough that the next breath still belongs partly to him, and lets a sly smile curve against his mouth. "Sorry," she murmurs, not sounding especially sorry at all.
everything I want you know i'm going to get it
whether it's your fame or your cableknit sweater
you might've done it first but I know i'll do it better
whether it's your fame or your cableknit sweater
you might've done it first but I know i'll do it better
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.
