bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive
Her mouth hooks at one corner when he calls her his job, the expression sharp and satisfied, before she steals the cigarette from his lips without asking. She inhales slowly and deeply, the smoke curling through her lungs as her eyes flick briefly toward the doorway at the skitter of squirrels and the tailor’s strained muttering beyond, where he leans against the frame. The sound barely registers; her attention returns to Jack almost immediately. She exhales through her nose, then presses the cigarette back between his lips with two fingers. "I bet I could swim in this," she says lightly, chin tilting as she glances down the line of the corset, fingers testing the snug curve of it against her ribs. Then she looks at him again, mischief darkening her smile. "And if I couldn't, you could always cut me out of it."
When he finishes tying the laces and asks how it feels, she answers by lifting her arms over her head and stretching. The leather tightens, boning pressing firm against her torso, lifting her breasts, narrowing her waist. She breathes in and lets the corset hold her upright. It feels good—structured—like being drawn tight at harbour, every line properly fastened.
Her hair falls loose down her back as she turns barefoot across the boutique floor, hips swaying without conscious effort. She catches the lace wrap from the counter and fastens it high on her hip, the single clasp holding while the slit falls open from waist to ankle, exposing the long length of her thigh with every shift of weight. She tests it with a slow step, watching how it parts, how it slides back into place before her gaze sweeps the room and the mess she's made of it. Then she looks at Jack again, head tilting slightly, blue eyes steady. "What would you choose for me?" she asks, and there is something genuinely curious in it, not coy. "I've always liked the things you've picked for me so far."
When he finishes tying the laces and asks how it feels, she answers by lifting her arms over her head and stretching. The leather tightens, boning pressing firm against her torso, lifting her breasts, narrowing her waist. She breathes in and lets the corset hold her upright. It feels good—structured—like being drawn tight at harbour, every line properly fastened.
Her hair falls loose down her back as she turns barefoot across the boutique floor, hips swaying without conscious effort. She catches the lace wrap from the counter and fastens it high on her hip, the single clasp holding while the slit falls open from waist to ankle, exposing the long length of her thigh with every shift of weight. She tests it with a slow step, watching how it parts, how it slides back into place before her gaze sweeps the room and the mess she's made of it. Then she looks at Jack again, head tilting slightly, blue eyes steady. "What would you choose for me?" she asks, and there is something genuinely curious in it, not coy. "I've always liked the things you've picked for me so far."
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.
