THE ARK
Jack had built her out of sturdier stuff than anything a bit of magic could fully deplete, and so even as the room tilts around her and the effort leaves her limbs feeling borrowed, The Ark does not falter when he braces himself against her. Her breath leaves her in a soft, uneven sound, relief tangled through with a fear she cannot quite shake loose. It spills against his muddy, bloodied hair as he drops his forehead to her shoulder, and with her left arm she curls herself around him, careful of the injuries she knows about and quietly furious over the ones she may not have found yet. Turning her head, she presses a possessive kiss to the side of his skull, holding him there as if the swamp might still somehow reach through the boards to try and take him back.
Doubtless, with anyone else, Jack would have passed out from the pain on principle rather than let himself be seen with it written so clearly through him, and the thought tightens something in her chest. That he has let her see it does not feel like weakness, but a privilege sharp enough to hurt, and so The Ark holds him with a grip that is both wildly possessive and impossibly gentle.
Only when she feels him stir against her does she consider straightening. Even then, she does not pull away so much as loosen one careful fraction at a time, her damp fingers still resting near his arm as if unwilling to trust the wound to remain closed without her attention. "You’re going to want to shower before getting into your bunk," she says gently. Then she pauses, glancing toward the rum, the ruined shirt, the grime streaked across his desk and the tired, stubborn shape of him between her hands. When she speaks again, there is a wry smile in her voice, whether or not he is looking closely enough to see it. "Or we can kick someone else out of theirs." At least then, when he woke, he would not have to face the swamp a second time in the filth left behind.
Doubtless, with anyone else, Jack would have passed out from the pain on principle rather than let himself be seen with it written so clearly through him, and the thought tightens something in her chest. That he has let her see it does not feel like weakness, but a privilege sharp enough to hurt, and so The Ark holds him with a grip that is both wildly possessive and impossibly gentle.
Only when she feels him stir against her does she consider straightening. Even then, she does not pull away so much as loosen one careful fraction at a time, her damp fingers still resting near his arm as if unwilling to trust the wound to remain closed without her attention. "You’re going to want to shower before getting into your bunk," she says gently. Then she pauses, glancing toward the rum, the ruined shirt, the grime streaked across his desk and the tired, stubborn shape of him between her hands. When she speaks again, there is a wry smile in her voice, whether or not he is looking closely enough to see it. "Or we can kick someone else out of theirs." At least then, when he woke, he would not have to face the swamp a second time in the filth left behind.
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.
