bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive
When Jack's sunglasses slip and she sees his eyes clearly, she goes still for a moment. Not frozen, just anchored. In this body, in this warm little shop strung together over wreckage and shallow tide, those eyes are the only sea she needs. Endless and dark and knowing. She rests there, held by them, and when he reaches up to brush that stray lock of hair from her face, something quieter moves through her. She likes when he does that. Not because it corrects her, not because it sets her to rights like spooling a bit of rope on her deck, but because of the simple fact of it; his fingers at her temple, the closeness of him, the warmth radiating off his chest. It sends a small, clean shiver down her spine that has nothing to do with spectacle and everything to do with him.
She straightens at once at his question, tossing her head back with a flash of defiance, smile sharpening. If his job is her, then her job is him. For as long as he’s owned her, she has been his leverage, his advantage, the thing that lets him take and be taken seriously in the same breath. She glances down at herself, considering the line of lace and leather and satin as though weighing a weapon, and then she turns on her heel.
The tailor is just outside the door, a cigarette in his lips as he tries to lower his blood pressure. She approaches him without hesitation, stepping close enough that he has nowhere to retreat. "Can you help? We need a second opinion," she says sweetly. Before he can answer, she takes his hand and places it firmly against her breast, pressing his palm flat over the lace where her nipple rests beneath. Her head tilts, eyes wide and curious. "Does this feel like the right size?" His breath catches. The cigarette wobbles dangerously. "Here, let’s be sure," she adds, capturing his other hand and guiding it to her opposite breast, pressing forward just enough to make the contact undeniable.
The touch itself does nothing for her. It’s warm, clumsy, and unremarkable, but the way his fingers tremble, the way his mouth parts helplessly, the way every drop of blood abandons his face and rushes south, that sends a maroon current of pleasure straight through her. "N-n-no...it’s..it’s perfect," he stammers. "Oh good," she interrupts smoothly. "Also, I forgot my wallet at home. I can pay you later, yes?" He nods immediately, incapable of forming words.
It’s only when his fingers tighten reflexively against her breasts that she lets out a little titter, leaning in close enough that her breath ghosts his ear. "Thank you," she purrs, before releasing him entirely.
She spins away and returns to Jack, looking wildly pleased with herself. "I think I like it," she says, slipping back to his side as though nothing at all unusual has happened, before shooting the tailor another look. "You'll wrap this all up to go?"
She straightens at once at his question, tossing her head back with a flash of defiance, smile sharpening. If his job is her, then her job is him. For as long as he’s owned her, she has been his leverage, his advantage, the thing that lets him take and be taken seriously in the same breath. She glances down at herself, considering the line of lace and leather and satin as though weighing a weapon, and then she turns on her heel.
The tailor is just outside the door, a cigarette in his lips as he tries to lower his blood pressure. She approaches him without hesitation, stepping close enough that he has nowhere to retreat. "Can you help? We need a second opinion," she says sweetly. Before he can answer, she takes his hand and places it firmly against her breast, pressing his palm flat over the lace where her nipple rests beneath. Her head tilts, eyes wide and curious. "Does this feel like the right size?" His breath catches. The cigarette wobbles dangerously. "Here, let’s be sure," she adds, capturing his other hand and guiding it to her opposite breast, pressing forward just enough to make the contact undeniable.
The touch itself does nothing for her. It’s warm, clumsy, and unremarkable, but the way his fingers tremble, the way his mouth parts helplessly, the way every drop of blood abandons his face and rushes south, that sends a maroon current of pleasure straight through her. "N-n-no...it’s..it’s perfect," he stammers. "Oh good," she interrupts smoothly. "Also, I forgot my wallet at home. I can pay you later, yes?" He nods immediately, incapable of forming words.
It’s only when his fingers tighten reflexively against her breasts that she lets out a little titter, leaning in close enough that her breath ghosts his ear. "Thank you," she purrs, before releasing him entirely.
She spins away and returns to Jack, looking wildly pleased with herself. "I think I like it," she says, slipping back to his side as though nothing at all unusual has happened, before shooting the tailor another look. "You'll wrap this all up to go?"
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.
