call me chaos, call me divine

JACK

"It'd be one way to let me know your opinion," Jack says with the hint of a smile on his face; never mind that he can lift it all from her mind, the way she unfurls like first light breaking and rippling across the waves, delight and expectation weaving together into something begging for open air and crashing water. But then her fingers close around his hand and she's turning, her back to him and the Greatwood blurring away beneath them like a patchwork of green.

And nevermind the press of her body against him and all the ways it might otherwise bring him to life - with his hand anchored gently against her shoulder and the solid presence of the ship beneath his feet, Jack's focus on the moment is absolute. His brow furrows ever so slightly, not with misunderstanding now or even hesitation, just with the knowledge that this is somehow more intimate than most anything else he's ever done in his life. "A'right," he says, his voice unexpectedly soft. "Hope you were serious about not crashin' us."

The joke is unnecessary - Jack is a bad man but he's a good sailor, and it's anticipation rather than nerves that ripple through him as he takes a slow, deep inhale and allows his mind to settle. Strands of his magic cast out and around her, entwining with thought and breath and the thunder of her heart, and when his hands move, they're gentle but they're confident. Fingers tease through her fiery hair - fill those sails - and his grip squeezes warmth into her shoulder - turn into the tailwind - before his touch skims down against the ladder of her ribs and the curve of her hips, coaxing, learning, adjusting.

fight so dirty but you love so sweet
talk so pretty but your heart got teeth

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

The Ark

The curve of her mouth deepens, wicked and knowing, at his comment about crashing, not because she doubts him but because the idea of danger has always been part of how they speak to one another. When she turns back into him, it is not invitation so much as alignment, the same inevitability that draws a keel into current or a prow into open water, her spine lengthening instinctively as his presence settles behind her, familiar in a way that has nothing to do with bodies and everything to do with memory.

The boards beneath his feet will groan conversationally as he finds himself, and when his fingers thread through her hair, a shiver will race up her spine, but the sensation will not stop at her scalp, but ripple outward, racing through rigging and canvas until her sails shudder and bloom with sudden life. The ship surges ahead, not violently but eagerly, a smooth, powerful lurch that sends the Greatwood tilting away beneath them as she banks into the pressure of his touch, her body leaning into the hand at her ribs the way she has always leaned into his weight at the helm.

Every adjustment he makes is met and amplified, his palm warm at her shoulder translating into a subtle turn that finds the tailwind perfectly, his hand skimming lower along the curve of her side drawing a deeper angle from her hull, her flight steady and sure because there is no delay now, no shouted order or waiting crew, only impulse and response braided together so tightly they might as well be the same thing. The world opens around them, treetops falling away into a living map of green and shadow, and delight rolls through her like sunlit swell, bright and uncontained, the pleasure of motion made effortless and shared.

She glances up at him over her shoulder, hair streaming, eyes alight with sea-bright mischief, and the smile she gives him is all promise and consequence both, the sort she once wore only in the way she cut through waves or tempted storms too close to comfort. "Just think," she says, voice threaded with wind and laughter and the deep hum of her own momentum, "of all the trouble you’d have made for yourself if you’d been able to sail me like this from the start." If he'd never had need for a crew.

Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze,
but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees

Code stolen from Queen Sky

JACK

"Oh love, there's plenty more trouble I can find to make up for lost time," Jack says, his voice barely beyond a whisper at her temple. He's both concentrating and relaxing all at once, a sensation that he'll turn over in the small hours later to decide how he feels about it, but for now it's as though they really are one and the same. It doesn't take him long to find familiarity in her body in a way that would have the majority of the crew, he bets, on their knees with lust, but as they cut through the air, as the Greatwood starts to shrink away into desert plains and the sparkle of blue beyond it, Jack's focus is on the course ahead.

"The crew are good for more than handlin' sail and rope," he points out. Much as he knows The Ark by every board and splinter, she's a galleon, and maintaining her is more than a one man job. Not to mention, y'know, his business dealings. But for sailing? Just sailing? Yeah, he could get used to more of this.

He doesn't know how long passes before the Spillwave, wide and calm and gentle, suddenly stretches out beneath them, the Captain leaning into her a fraction more, both hands clasping her hips. "Ready to land?"

fight so dirty but you love so sweet
talk so pretty but your heart got teeth

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

The Ark

The Ark's laughter spills out of her without effort, caught and lifted by the same air that carries them forward, and in that moment her thoughts loosen their edges entirely, dissolving into colour and motion until Jack’s presence feels less like something behind her and more like a second spine, a shared balance point where intention becomes movement without pause or doubt. The line between man and vessel blurs so completely that if he were to close his eyes, he might not be able to tell where his will ends and hers begins, only that the course holds true and the world is opening beneath them exactly as it should.

When the Spillwave finally reveals itself and Jack's hands at her hips tighten, he'll feel tension answer immediately, her muscles bracing the same way her wheel has pressed back against his palms a thousand times before when landfall loomed too soon. A soft sound leaves her, more exhale than word, the truth of it tugged free before she can shape it into anything clever. "No," she murmurs, reluctance rolling through her in a deep, resonant swell, because this—this way of being held and guided and known—is new and intoxicating, sharper and more immediate than anything she has known before. For a heartbeat she lingers there, suspended between sky and sea, between what she has always been and what she is becoming, before the tension melts out of her again, her weight settling back into his hands with deliberate trust.

"But...also yes," she adds, the word warm now, eager and threaded with the thrill of what was to come, her body yielding as the thought of leaving the ship—of stepping onto water not as hull but as flesh—sparks bright and electric through her mind.

Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze,
but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees

Code stolen from Queen Sky

JACK

Jack's laughter is a warm, barely there breath against her cheek, the Captain's agreement coming in the form of gentle hands skimming along her hips, the press of his chest against her back. "That's how you know it'll be good," he says of her reluctance mingling with eager excitement. "And we can always practice this again whenever you want." The urge rises, briefly, to lean in and kiss the corner of her mouth the way high romances would have the leading man do.

But Jack isn't a leading man and this isn't storybook, and the Spillwave looms large and twinkling and perfectly calm beneath them. "A'right - easy does it." His grin is something she'll likely feel rather than see given their positions, and as they dip lower he loses himself in the ease of their quiet, dual control. Jack adjusts and she curves with him, melts into him; where she resists he's quick to correct, until at last they slide from sky to sea like a hot knife gliding through a bolt of silk.

Arguably one of his best landings, if he considers it too much.

"I promised you the beach," he remembers, nodding out across the rail where, in the near distance, soft sand glitters enticingly. "We'll put down anchor a little closer and get acquainted."

fight so dirty but you love so sweet
talk so pretty but your heart got teeth

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

The Ark

The Ark considers him for a breath, trusting his read of it the way she has always trusted his hands on her wheel, and the thought settles easily once she lets it; reluctance braided with excitement feels like a tide turning, not a warning but a promise. As they slip from sky into water, the change is immediate and intimate, the sea taking her weight with a familiar, welcoming pull, and she sinks back into Jack with a soft, involuntary sound, pleasure rippling through her as the hull kisses the surface and the world steadies around them.

Her awareness stretches outward at once, skimming the water ahead the way it always has even when she couldn't do anything about it, and she tilts her head slightly, attention catching on a shallow seam where colour shifts beneath the glassy blue. "There's a sand bar ahead," she murmurs, more instinct than instruction, and she leans her hip into Jack's right hand by a fraction, just enough. The response is seamless: the ship glides aside without resistance, a clean, elegant correction that feels less like steering and more like agreement, the hidden rise slipping past beneath them without so much as a whisper of protest.

Only then does she turn her face up toward him, eyes bright and curious, the water rocking them in slow, contented swells. "So, how do we get down?"

Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze,
but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees

Code stolen from Queen Sky

JACK

Something relaxes in Jack, too as the water comes up to cradle them, and he moves easily with The Ark - the woman and the ship both - as she nudges them imperceptibly out of the way of the sandbar. Impressed and forcing himself not to linger on the way her mind ripples out with anticipation, it's with clear reluctance that he finally steps back from her; he'll need more than just himself and her guidance to get them ready to disembark.

"You know how to get down," he says, his teasing a low rumble as he returns to the wheel and lets out a shrill whistle between his teeth. The sound has one of the shiphands scurrying up from below within moments, and at a mere raised eyebrow from the Captain, he disappears again to fetch the rest of the crew. "We've got rowboats an' rope ladders, an' I'll bet a few of the crew just dive in regardless." It's not like the Spillwave is going to be unfriendly.

"I figure you of all people will know how to swim?" He turns to look at her now, even as men file back on deck and gaze around wonderingly at how The Ark is now cutting smooth lines through the water without any assistance from a crew.

fight so dirty but you love so sweet
talk so pretty but your heart got teeth

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

The Ark

She gives Jack a look that is all salt and offence, one brow lifting as if he’s just suggested something profoundly offensive. Of course she knows the ladders, knows the weight and scrape of them against her sides, the familiar clatter as boots and bare feet descend her flank, but what happens after—what happens once people are no longer on her—has always been a blank stretch of water she’s never had to chart. The rowboats earn a thoughtful glance, her mouth twisting slightly. They feel to her like detached pieces, useful, familiar in weight and balance, but not her in any meaningful way; tools rather than limbs.

When he asks about swimming, she hesitates just long enough for the truth of it to surface. In her mind there is speed and resistance, the way water parts for her prow, the deep satisfaction of momentum, but none of that translates cleanly into arms and legs and breath. Still, the uncertainty doesn’t slow her; it sharpens her smile instead. She shrugs, loose and daring. "Guess we’ll find out."

Without waiting for approval, she eases them to a stop where it feels right, the decision made by instinct rather than sight before nodding to Jack that the anchor could be lowered. Then she drifts toward the railing, hands bracing on it as she leans out over the side, peering down at the inviting blue below, the hem of Jack's shirt riding dangerously high on the back of her thighs. The distance is nothing she hasn’t felt a thousand times before, but now it’s framed differently. She glances back at Jack, lips curved with mischief and challenge in equal measure, then looks down again, gauging the water the way she always has, only now with knees and toes instead of keel and draft.

Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze,
but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees

Code stolen from Queen Sky

JACK

"Guess we will," Jack says with a raise of his eyebrows that suggests there might just be a kernel of worry buried there in the curiosity. Having his ship drown is not a prospect he likes to consider much at any point, let alone when she's wrapped in the shape of fair skin and fiery hair and ample curves. They stop before the crew has much of a chance to contribute, the Captain laughing under his breath at their clear confusion, before he's calling out orders to lower the anchor and the sails down.

Before long The Ark is sitting pretty in the Stillwave, a lone ship on an expanse of calm, bright blue bordered by sandy shorelines. It makes for a nice picture, even if the galleon in question - in both shape and spirit - seems more like a wild animal that has stopped for a rest than anything that truly belongs here.

By the time The Ark is peering over the rail and into the deep with the breeze catching at the hem of his shirt, Jack is calling for the crew to spend a day at ease, and it takes mere moments before the boldest individuals are shedding clothes and finding a good place to dive in. The Captain, at least, holds fire for now, drawing up beside her and considering the soft lap of waves against the hull. "We've got manta crystals," he says, "if you'd prefer. You wear 'em here," and by here, he brushes a gentle finger against the hollow of her throat, "an' they let you breathe in the water."

fight so dirty but you love so sweet
talk so pretty but your heart got teeth

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

The Ark

The Ark straightens slowly, drawing herself upright from the rail as if she’s hauling a sail hand over hand, the air filling her lungs in a way that still feels indulgent rather than necessary. The Spillwave breathes against her hull—against her—a patient, glassy pulse that nudges and rocks with a familiarity she understands down to her marrow. Her hair lifts and settles with the breeze, maroon strands slipping over her shoulders like kelp in a gentle current, and for a moment she is everywhere at once: the woman at the rail, the ship riding at anchor, the water lapping in quiet conversation.

When Jack comes alongside her, she turns without hurry, sea-bright eyes catching the light and throwing it back at him. His finger brushes her throat and the touch lands somewhere deep, not just skin but memory of that touch on lines run taut, on tables and railings. She nods once, slow and certain, the curve of her smile spreading into something sharp and pleased. "Well," she says, voice easy, carrying the salt and the sun with it, "if I can breathe..." Her gaze flicks past him, out toward the water where bodies arc and vanish in flashes of skin and laughter, then back to him again, gleaming with roguish confidence. "Seems like there’s no way for me to go under, is there?"

She leans a fraction closer, the ship answering with a faint, contented roll beneath them, and glances down at the calm blue stretch waiting below. "Will you put it on?" she asks lightly, already tipping her weight toward the edge, as if the sea has been calling her name all along and now that she's finally in a position to answer, she can barely wait.

Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze,
but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees

Code stolen from Queen Sky

JACK

The Ark is almost too much as Jack leans against the rail. The pull of the ocean, the way she's everywhere as well as standing solid beside him, the brimming excitement and expectation of all that the world might hold; it almost feels like running a hand along a sunburn to his telepathy, and he has to steady himself on an inhale that nearly echoes her own, adjusting the parameters of his magic to stave off the ache of it.

"Safety first," he drawls his agreement, inclining his head in an easy nod and drawing away from the rail again. "I will," he says. "Just a sec." And then he's off across the deck, steps sure and easy on the boards even as his crew begin lowering ladders and rolling out barrels of beer and bottles of liquor. Undoubtedly The Ark will be able to track his every movement, from step to corridor to cabin and back again, and when he returns it's with the pale, pearlescent manta crystal firmly encased within a strip of leather to keep it snug against the throat.

"This ain't what I had in mind for the first piece of jewellery I was gonna give you," he admits, drawing back up behind her to sweep her hair over one shoulder and fasten the crystal in place. "But it's useful, I'll give you that."

fight so dirty but you love so sweet
talk so pretty but your heart got teeth

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

The Ark

The Ark’s laugh spills out low and bright at Jack's safety first, the sound catching on the rigging like wind teasing canvas. It is so unlike him that she can’t help the grin that blooms, sharp and delighted, as she watches him go. Cunning first, sure. But safety? Even without turning her head she knows where he is—his path traced in the familiar language of footfall and weight and intent—and his cabin door will swing open just as he reaches it.

When he returns, she helps lift her hair, fingers combing the heavy maroon spill aside so the crystal can settle against her throat. The leather is cool, the manta stone cooler still, and the contact sends a shiver skimming down her spine like a ripple racing a hull. She turns back toward him as he fastens it, eyes bright, pleased by the weight of it, by the way it marks her as something both adorned and prepared, but when has he ever given her anything less?

She notices how the crew have stripped down before entering the water, such that there is almost nothing coy in the way she reaches for the bottom of Jack's shirt, catching the hem and tugging it up and free in one smooth, thoughtless motion. Fabric slides, air rushes in, and she stands bare to the sun and salt with no hesitation at all, skin warmed and alive, scars and curves and the long history of her written openly across her. The shirt drops at her feet, forgotten, and she looks at him once more with that same cheshire, sea-bright smile, all promise and mischief and invitation.

Then she turns and steps into nothing. The sea rises to meet her like a held breath finally released, cool and enveloping, her body knifing down through blue that folds around her without resistance. For a heartbeat there is the instinct to try and sail, for the familiar certainty of weight and balance atop the water, but the crystal at her throat hums softly and air remains with her, easy and constant. Her hair fans out in a dark red halo, currents cradling and guiding her as if the water itself remembers her, recognizes her, makes room. She doesn’t swim so much as allow herself to be carried, the sea pressing where she leans, turning her gently when she turns her thoughts, each movement answered by a subtle shift of tide, a whisper of magical control as intuitive as sailing herself had been, such that she isn't even aware she's doing it. It is not the rush of speed she knows from cutting waves, but something slower, intimate, like being held beneath the surface of her own mind, and the delight of it blooms wide and bright in her chest as she drifts, suspended, finally inside the element that has always known her best.

Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze,
but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees

Code stolen from Queen Sky

JACK

Giving the leather a gentle but sure enough tug to ensure that it isn't about to go anywhere, once Jack is satisfied he releases her to step back - for good reason, as it happens. Mere moments later The Ark is turning to look up at him, all coy, teasing promise and siren eyes, before the shirt he's given her is discarded with much more ease and confidence than her attire last night had been. Jack arches a brow and watches it pool to the deck, his eyes making a slow and appreciative march back up to her face.

It's true that the Captain swings all ways known to man, that his proclivities lean towards the cerebral rather than the physical, but fuck, that doesn't mean he's immune to the wild beauty of her body or the way she carries it. Breath catching slightly on the inhale as The Ark steps off the side and cuts away from herself, Jack finds himself leaning against the rail to watch her plummet down towards the deep, hair streaming like a bloody banner, until she's gone. Not just gone from view, gone from the range of his magic, and he hisses something under his breath that lands between affection and frustration.

When he joins her - because he inevitably will - the Captain is similarly clad in only freckles and scars and jewellery, though he has no need of a manta crystal these days. The air carries him down in a dive and the water nearly parts for him as he makes contact, magic spearing him into the cool depths before older instincts take over. When he surfaces it's with salt and sunlight glittering against his wet face and the sound of the waves and the crew filling his ears, but he is - of course - only really looking for one person in particular.

fight so dirty but you love so sweet
talk so pretty but your heart got teeth

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

The Ark

As Jack scans the surface for her he'll find only glare and ripple, the Spillwave stretched smooth and blinding beneath the sun. No flash of red breaks it, no familiar shape rising. Then she touches him. Not with her hands, but with pressure first, a slow, insistent pull that curls around his calves and ankles like the tide remembering his name. It is unmistakably her, the sensation threading straight through his magic as her mind returns within range. The tug is playful, coaxing, fingers of water that flow like an extension of herself even if she doesn't realize quite how she's doing it. 

She waits in the blue like a held breath, pale skin luminous where sunlight fractures and finds her anyway. Her hair drifts around her in a dark, slow bloom, maroon threads curling and unfurling with the lazy confidence of something that has never feared depth. Her eyes manage to be brighter than the sea itself, a fierce, electric blue that makes the water around her look dull by comparison, as if it exists only to frame her.

The water bends instead, subtle currents slipping around Jack's waist and shoulders, guiding him down with the same intimate certainty she once used to draw him along her deck in storms, to lean into his hands when he took the helm just right. It is invitation made tangible, a siren’s promise without a single note sung. Here, beneath the glassy calm of the Spillwave, she is nothing like the sea above them. There is no stillness in her now, no patience. She is motion and hunger and wild, joyous intent, her presence alive and crackling, a living current that seeks only one man in the entirety of the Maria Mundi.

Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze,
but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees

Code stolen from Queen Sky