i look fly, i look good

JACK

If there's one thing that Jack resents about Stormbreak opting to commit suicide - other than missing the ability to hide things among the rock and stone of its underbelly - it's losing the staggering array of businesses that had lined its main streets. The Castaway Exchange has plenty to offer, sure, variety and colour and even a few unexpected surprises, but compared to the metropolis of the (formerly) floating city, it's a bunch of shacks tethered together by rope.

Nevertheless, it's what they've got and Jack is sure they can make it work.

Quite what they're making work is something The Ark will have to tell him, or show him rather, from the little barge boutique he's waiting outside. The Captain is leaning casually against a dock post, a cigarette between his lips and sunglasses shading his eyes, looking for all the world like a carefree spectator in the marketplace. And he is, he supposes, telepathy sharp for trouble but otherwise fairly mellow, enjoying the babbling streams of thought and desire and intrigue around them.

Occasionally, of course, he does glance towards the boutique, probing at what's left of the tailor's mind after being in close proximity to The Ark and wondering how long he might have left to wait.

you're the last of a dying breed; write our names in the wet concrete
I wonder if your therapist knows everything about me

Code stolen from Queen Sky

bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive

Inside, the Ark is weather. Not the polite drift of tide through hull-shadowed docks, but a sudden, turning swell that knocks crates loose and sends canvas snapping wild. Racks of garments shiver beneath her fingers as though she were testing planks for rot. Silk, leather, satin, she drags them over her skin the way she once let foam drag over deckboards, gauging slickness, resistance, how they answer heat. Linen wilts beneath her touch, cotton sags, dull and shorebound and wrong. She abandons them like dead wind.

The tailor tries to speak, he attempts measurements, he attempts discretion, and mostly fails in each endeavour as the Ark slips from one thing into nothing at all without pause between, fabric pooling at her feet like cast-off sails while she tilts her head, assessing shine, stretch, the way a seam might pull when she twists. Buttons scatter, hooks give way, and a tape measure dangles uselessly from the tailor's shaking hand.

Leather she likes, the creak of it, the way it yields but does not surrender. Satin she strokes with slow approval, the glide of it like moonlight along a calm wake. Lace earns a hum low in her throat when it clings and reveals at once, all suggestion and structure, like rigging silhouetted against horizon light. She gathers pieces with glittering beadwork, scaled embellishments that catch the sun in sharp flashes. Everything must move, must split and flex and breathe with her. If she cannot arch in it, cannot turn in it, cannot feel the drag of air across skin between its lines, she discards it without mercy.

By the time the tailor bolts for the door, he looks like a man who has weathered a hurricane and found himself inexplicably alive, if not uncomfortably aroused. He rushes toward Jack, voice strangled. "Captain, you’re needed."

Inside, the Ark stands half-clothed in a corset of black leather stitched with silver thread that gleams like foam caught in night tide. It laces high at her ribs and low at her hips, leaving long stretches of bare skin between panels. One arm is crossed beneath her breasts, the other braced at her hip, posture impatient as a ship listing while dockhands fumble knots. "He's rigging me wrong," she says, chin lifting toward Jack, eyes bright as sun off open water before she turns slightly, offering him her back, the laces loose, waiting.

we didn't die, but no guarantees this time, but fuck it lets do it again

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

JACK

It says a lot that Jack has been well aware of this maelstrom of fabric and flesh going on inside the boutiqe, and has done absolutely nothing to come to the tailor's rescue. Indeed, as the man bursts out onto the pier, flushed and worried for the integrity of his pants as much as his stock of garments, it will be to find said Captain inhaling slowly on his cigarette and barely regarding him behind the dark tint of his glasses.

"Am I, now," he drawls, peeling himself away from the dock post and stepping aside the tailor to duck into the boutique, where the full extent of The Ark's destruction can be seen in every popped stitch and pool of material. Jack, his cigarette still hanging between his lips, tilts his sunglasses down enough to raise his eyebrows at her, before a laugh rumbles out of him, low and smoky, and he dutifully crosses the room to her.

"I'm surprised he remembers his job at all, love," he says, fingers deftly straightening lace and tugging the ribbons into proper position, ensuring the eyelets have enough to give before he starts to go to work. "Here I thought you'd have opted for somethin' easier to get out of," he remarks idly, nosing towards a soft satin blouse hung over the corner of a mirror, or a pair of sleek leather pants half folded against the counter.

you're the last of a dying breed; write our names in the wet concrete
I wonder if your therapist knows everything about me

Code stolen from Queen Sky

bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive

The Ark's eyes find Jack as soon as he enters the shop. The smile that curves her mouth is slow and feral, wine-dark lips parting just enough to show the promise of teeth beneath. "You remember yours," she says lightly, a dismissive flick of tone as careless as spray against a hull, as her fingers rise to gather her hair and sweep it over one shoulder, baring the long pale column of her back for him where freckles scatter there like salt dried against deckwood. She glances at him from beneath her lashes, brow lifting in a coy arc. "Why would I need to get out of it quickly?"

There is no blush beneath the question. No anticipation of fumbling urgency or heat made frantic. She understands arousal the way she understands tide—that it comes, that it pulls, that it can drown, that she can control it—but the lived scramble of it, the rush to tear free of fabric in some desperate human haste, is foreign terrain. She knows the effect of her body; she has seen it splinter men like rotted beams, and she wields it like a current, a pressure, a drag, an undertow. But physical urgency is not something her mind yet understands.

As Jack's hands find the laces, she exhales as he begins to draw them through the eyelets, slow at first, testing the line. "Tighter," she purrs, the word rolling low from her throat, not strained but satisfied, like rigging pulled to proper tension at last. She tilts her head slightly toward the garments he gestures to and gives a small shrug that ripples down her bare back. "I do have some like those picked out." Indeed, along the walls and counter and abandoned mannequin limbs are piles already claimed: gleaming leather pants supple as oiled deck planks, satin dressed and shirts cut low and fluid, lace that clings and reveals in equal measure.

we didn't die, but no guarantees this time, but fuck it lets do it again

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

A group of Speaking Squirrels bursts into view, chattering excitedly as they scramble over roots and stones. Tails flick wildly as they wave their little paws and shout in unison.

“Come!” one calls, racing ahead a few steps before stopping abruptly. “Follow!” another adds, pointing in a direction that leads directly into a dead end or an entirely unremarkable patch of ground.

They regroup quickly, whispering among themselves before trying again, utterly convinced of their own usefulness. Whether they ever manage to lead anyone anywhere is doubtful, but their enthusiasm never wanes.

---

Speaking Squirrels Areas Found: Hollowed Grounds, King's End, Greatwood — Common Appearing like a slightly larger version of a common ground squirrel, the speaking squirrels - as their name suggests - can speak. Or they appear to. Their vocabulary is limited to "yes", "no", and "follow me!" Though it is entirely unclear whether or not they understand actually speech and the words they are saying, they nonetheless will answer questions and will lead wayward souls further astray. Calls of "follow me!" have led a number of victims to their death, as the squirrels have absolutely no idea where they are going. Challenge Rating: Easy HP: 38 | To Hit: +30 | Dmg: 9 Movement: Scurry 30 ft.; Climb 30 ft.; Leap 15 ft. SPECIAL SKILLS Limited Speech: vocabulary is only “yes,” “no,” and “follow me!” and it’s unclear they understand the words; Misleading Guide: will confidently lead wayward souls astray without any sense of direction; Chorus Echo: nearby squirrels pick up the cry, creating a misleading chorus from multiple directions; Gap Squeeze: slips through holes and hedge tunnels too small for most pursuers

TRAITS Slightly Larger Ground Squirrel: looks like an upsized ground squirrel with bright, curious eyes; Tree & Wall Climber: agile on trunks, ruins, and hedges; Hedgerow Local: nests in the twists and hedgerows, popping in and out of tiny gaps; Fearful but Curious: skittish at noise yet drawn to travelers and their shiny gear ACTIONS Chatter Reply: answers any question with “yes” or “no,” regardless of sense; “Follow Me!”: darts a few bounds, stops to look back, then scurries on, luring travelers deeper; Tail Flag: flicks its tail to signal others or draw attention to a false turn; Dart & Vanish: bolts up a trunk or into a hedge-gap, reappearing on a different branch a moment later

JACK

"That's 'cause you are my job," Jack quips, the words low and half playful, his smile forming around the cigarette between his lips. "An' a great deal more'n that, might I add. But even so." She sweeps her hair over her shoulder and he takes his time mapping the lace against her pale flesh, marking each freckle and scar before he starts to cross the ribbons together to properly hold the corset against her body.

Glancing up at the chirrup of sudden voices and raising an eyebrow over his shoulder when he can't find any thoughts attached to them, Jack just about catches a glimpse of the squirrels darting across the pier outside before he dismisses them, turning back to The Ark - who is much more interesting by far anyway. "To swim, obviously," he mutters, though the amusement in his voice suggests that it's hardly the only reason.

Tighter is something he almost feels in her thoughts before she says it out loud, Jack complying without remark to pull the lace as tight as she considers reasonable before he ties it off between her shoulder blades. "How's that?" he asks, taking the cigarette from his lips at last to exhale a stream of smoke, following her gaze around the boutique. "Mm, so you have. You got anythin' mind to go with this corset?" Or will it just be her long, long legs?

you're the last of a dying breed; write our names in the wet concrete
I wonder if your therapist knows everything about me

Code stolen from Queen Sky

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."

we didn't die, but no guarantees this time, but fuck it lets do it again

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

JACK

"Mm, bet I could," Jack agrees, his free hand also drifting over the snug fit of the corset, the lace and ribbing and structure of it. "I don't cut your ropes unless I absolutely have to, though." All of that's to say it would need to be quite a situation for him to consider snipping through the ribbons to drag the garment off her. Jack would be lying if he said he couldn't already imagine the sound of it, though, or the arch of her body against his warm palms, breasts accentuated by the tight grip of the corset before it releases its hold.

He'd be lying even more to say that image doesn't become clear and impossible to ignore as she stretches, the Captain tilting his head approvingly before taking another drag on his smoke and pushing his sunglasses up a fraction. She sashays across the room and he perches on the edge of a desk most likely used for sketching out designs or marking down measurements, watching the peek of her thigh through the slit in the lace wrap with an interest that goes beyond her being his job.

"Mm?" What would he choose for her? "Reckon you've already picked out most of what I'd choose in these piles," he remarks. Still, stubbing out the cigarette on the edge of the desk, Jack exhales slowly and rolls back to his feet, stepping around to investigate. He plucks something up here, grabs another couple of items there, and hums his satisfaction.

"Here," he says, setting the bits of the outfit own on the counter and gesturing for her to turn around so he might unlace the work he's just done.

you're the last of a dying breed; write our names in the wet concrete
I wonder if your therapist knows everything about me

Code stolen from Queen Sky

bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive

The Ark huffs a soft laugh at that, eyes narrowing with amusement as Jack's hand traces the corset’s structure. "I’m sure your fingers could be clever and quick if I needed them to be," she replies, voice low and easy, entirely confident in the claim.

When he suggests she’s already chosen what he would have, her smile shifts; small, satisfied, almost triumphant, as if having passed some little test she'd set for herself. She lets her fingertips drift through a heap of lingerie the tailor had been far too eager to present and far too flustered to survive, lace sliding between her fingers while she glances at Jack. With the tailor, she'd watched the his face go red and had enjoyed the sport of it, but with Jack, it was different.

When he stubs out the cigarette and starts gathering pieces, she watches him move, measuring nothing and everything at once. The items he selects earn a title of her head, and when he gestures her closer, she doesn’t hesitate. She crosses the space between them without pause, barefoot on the floor, and turns her back to him again. Her hands rise to gather her hair off her neck, holding it forward over one shoulder, baring the laces he’s just finished tying. She glances at him over her shoulder, mouth curving, eyes bright and daring. "Let’s see how fast you can do it."

we didn't die, but no guarantees this time, but fuck it lets do it again

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

JACK

"An' even when you don't need 'em to be," Jack agrees readily; he'd made his way as a kid through pickpocketing, petty theft and the odd break-in, and those aren't the sorts of skills one forgets all too easily. But then she's crossing over to him and presenting the back of the corset, the Captain scoffing out a laugh as he tugs the neat bow he'd tied free. "That ain't exactly fair," he says, though his tone suggests it isn't fair on her. "These things are easier to get out of than into."

Case in point, he's able to walk his fingers like a ladder along the ribbons and their criss-cross patterns, tugging them loose with each pass until she can practically shimmy out of the garment entirely. Of course, Jack doesn't expect that - he draws it away from The Ark with the same efficient care as he'd helped to place it on her. And with her once again bare to the warm Longheat afternoon, he grabs his first selection from the counter.

It's not lingerie exactly, but the deep crimson bralette is all lace and sheer panelling, and he passes it to her with a satisfied curl of his lips. To go with it he's selected a billowing blouse in white satin, cinched tight at the waist and left plunging towards her ample cleavage, and a pair of dark leather pants that hide none of her other assets. "Barefoot or boots?" he asks. "Lady's choice."

you're the last of a dying breed; write our names in the wet concrete
I wonder if your therapist knows everything about me

Code stolen from Queen Sky

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?"

we didn't die, but no guarantees this time, but fuck it lets do it again

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

JACK

With the clothes handed off Jack retreats to watch and see what she's learned; if nothing else, the tailor has taught her well how to get into and out of garments, her movements easy and confident if no less curious for it. Lace and leather slide along skin he knows is soft as silk, the blouse both clinging and loose in its suggestions of her considerable curves. The Captain is already watching with approval even before she laces her boots, but although the look of her is mouthwatering, of course Jack is more interested in what she thinks about it.

Her hands skim the different textures, the cool material against warm flesh, and her enjoyment ripples down the length of his magic and pools there, already drawing him closer even before she turns, triumphant, and presents herself to him. "Well?" he repeats, finding himself standing before her, teasing a stray lock of fiery hair out of her face. "I already knew I liked 'em and how they'd look on you," he objects, sunglasses slipping low enough for him to pin her in the endless ocean of his eyes

"What'd you think?" he asks. "Does it make the cut?"

you're the last of a dying breed; write our names in the wet concrete
I wonder if your therapist knows everything about me

Code stolen from Queen Sky

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?"

we didn't die, but no guarantees this time, but fuck it lets do it again

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

JACK

The moment stretches between them like something Jack thinks he might be able to reach out and touch, that curl of heat that begs him to follow it against her soft skin to see what else might catch. And he might have done just that - he's shifting enough to close that distance, in fact - but The Ark is already moving, grace and leather prowling across the boutique to the dock just outside the door.

Jack doesn't move. He doesn't have to. He can hear every word whether whispered or shouted, can sense the way the tailor's mind scrambles clean of every coherent thought other than BOOBS, can practically hear the way all the blood in his body drops beneath the waistband of his pants. It's perfect, the man stammers, and the Captain feels the first flicker of a snarl wanting to curl up his lips, stifling it with the effort of a man practiced at keeping a neutral expression.

But when The Ark returns like nothing remarkable has happened, like this is a normal occurrence for the tailor and his greedy hands and too-tight pants, the smell of ozone hanging in the air is unmistakeable. Jack's arm hooks snugly around her waist to draw her flush against the warmth of his side, and though the tailor is happily bumbling along, nodding to all of her requests, the sight of the good Captain manages to sober him up considerably.

"You can have it delivered to my ship," he tells him curtly, and it's only the fact that she'd said she liked the outfits that stops him seriously considering sinking the entire floating boutique to the bottom of the Arclight instead.

you're the last of a dying breed; write our names in the wet concrete
I wonder if your therapist knows everything about me

Code stolen from Queen Sky