bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive
The Ark clicks her tongue at Jack, narrowing her eyes in playful challenge. "No excuses." None are needed of course, because as he loosens the laces, the corset gives all at once, the tension spilling out of it in a soft release. She feels it before it falls—the pressure easing from her ribs, leather relaxing its hold—and a quiet hum slips from her throat as she exhales with it. She likes the binding, the way it shapes and contains her, but she likes the release too. The sudden freedom of it. The air on her skin.
She turns to face him as he draws the corset away, bare without hesitation. Her breasts sit high and full, nipples a dusky pink in the warm Longheat light, her body unmarked by gravity or shame. The bralette earns an approving tilt of her head, and she takes it from him, slipping it on and fastening it behind her back with steady fingers the way the tailor had shown her, lace settling against her skin. It frames rather than hides, sheer panels hinting more than they conceal. The leather pants follow, gliding up her long legs as though made for her, clinging close to hips and thighs without resistance. The satin blouse she pulls on last, leaving it open just enough that the crimson lace shows beneath, plunging low so that the swell of her cleavage is deliberate and undeniable. She tugs it into place at her waist, the fabric cool against her skin, then smooths it once with her palms. Opting for the boots, much as she likes being barefoot, she slides one on and then lifts her foot onto the table, the length of her thigh and the curve of her hip emphasized as she bends to lace it tight up the front.
She rises slowly, then, and lets her fingers drift down the satin, feeling the cool glide of it warming beneath her touch, the faint textured whisper of lace beneath where it brushes the sensitive curve of her breasts, the contrast deliberate and intoxicating. Her palm continues lower, tracing the smooth, fitted line of leather at her hips, testing the supple grip of it as it hugs her thighs and responds to the subtle shift of her weight. She doesn’t hurry the exploration—she lets herself enjoy the layered sensation of silk, lace, and skin—and then straightens, shoulders back, chin lifted, blue eyes finding his above the rim of his sunglasses. "Well?"
She turns to face him as he draws the corset away, bare without hesitation. Her breasts sit high and full, nipples a dusky pink in the warm Longheat light, her body unmarked by gravity or shame. The bralette earns an approving tilt of her head, and she takes it from him, slipping it on and fastening it behind her back with steady fingers the way the tailor had shown her, lace settling against her skin. It frames rather than hides, sheer panels hinting more than they conceal. The leather pants follow, gliding up her long legs as though made for her, clinging close to hips and thighs without resistance. The satin blouse she pulls on last, leaving it open just enough that the crimson lace shows beneath, plunging low so that the swell of her cleavage is deliberate and undeniable. She tugs it into place at her waist, the fabric cool against her skin, then smooths it once with her palms. Opting for the boots, much as she likes being barefoot, she slides one on and then lifts her foot onto the table, the length of her thigh and the curve of her hip emphasized as she bends to lace it tight up the front.
She rises slowly, then, and lets her fingers drift down the satin, feeling the cool glide of it warming beneath her touch, the faint textured whisper of lace beneath where it brushes the sensitive curve of her breasts, the contrast deliberate and intoxicating. Her palm continues lower, tracing the smooth, fitted line of leather at her hips, testing the supple grip of it as it hugs her thighs and responds to the subtle shift of her weight. She doesn’t hurry the exploration—she lets herself enjoy the layered sensation of silk, lace, and skin—and then straightens, shoulders back, chin lifted, blue eyes finding his above the rim of his sunglasses. "Well?"
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.
