Post by BEX on Aug 14, 2013 18:41:10 GMT -5
“If you ya keep movin’ round I’ll end up guttin yer other eye,” Alice giggled girlishly.
Sunlight flooded through the circular stern-side window of the Captain’s cabin making the bleached wood glow with incandescent light. The air was touched with the aged scent of spices and while the space was austere in its accommodations there was a certain air of professional created by the décor leftover from the previous inhabitants. Though he’d slept in finer beds, Jack had been thankful for the mundane brand cotton sheets that weren’t itchy and weren’t freezing to the touch. Most importantly was he hadn’t had to spend his days in recuperation alone; Alice had taken a permanent residence in his quarters much to the other’s dismay.
Often times Jack would wake with his skin drenched in a cool sweat, the last images dancing in his head were the hard glare of the Vice Admiral staring into his face and a silver streak cleaving a gory line through his skull; in his dreams he never survived the death stroke.
As the razor neared his head the desire to slip away and guzzle another flask of bitter-sweet whiskey gripped him, but Alice’s stern glare held him in place. She’d tended to him these three weeks at sea, her attention eclipsing that of a surgeon as her gently hands eased away pain that he’d thought he’d have to carry with him the remainder of his life. Of course her hands weren’t the only thing that provided ‘healing’, but he’d appreciated the time they’d spent together. Looking up at her now he couldn’t help admiring the softness of the skin over cheeks, the way her slender neck curved before vanishing into the mane of fire-red hair that draped wildly down her shoulders. During quiet nights when they lay still from exhaustion she told him that most people—men especially—paid mind only to the marring scar that streaked across the artistry that was her face. Some were able to stomach it because of her physique while others turned away, too afraid to stare at the ugly truth of the world so frankly presented.
Jack fell in neither of those categories. Aside from the fact that they shared a kinship in the wounds that would never mend, he had been drawn to her rambunctious nature. When she came to him at night there was no exaggerated seduction as it had been with Momo; there was a simple look of want in her face and when she wanted, she took. Men like Jack could appreciate a woman like that.
“Why are we doing this, anyway?” Jack whined as he suppressed the urge fidget again. Another lock of hair floated down onto the wooly blanket laid across his lap. Alice’s breath warmed the skin on the back of his neck sensuously as she mischievously allowed her breasts to brush against his back. Damn her, she knows how to play me.
“We’re doin’ this cuz yer already a wanted man,” she replied sweetly, her tiny gyrating movements apparently beneath notice as she talked and worked. “More than that, I ain’t got no intentions of lettin’ them scraggles you call ‘hair’ choke me to death anytime soon.”
Both of them were shirtless and the closeness of their skin stirred a hot want for even more of each other. Consumed by their carnal natures they remained quiet, the sound of shorn pieces of hair coming from Jack’s scalp mixing with external sounds of waves breaking against the ship’s hull lulling them into relaxation. As always was the case during these stretches of silence Jack began to think on what his next move would be. There would be no staying in the Blues—after what had gone down at B-2 and the words that ‘Condor’ bastard had said about everything being blamed on him; he’d be lucky if they weren’t hunted from South to North Blue and back.
Delinquent thoughts of returning to a swashbuckler’s life had occurred as childish and too small time to him; he wanted to do something bigger. Of course he realized he’d need to start with a group of cutthroats he could rely upon, but the loss of his eye had to be answered in full by those bigwigs that called themselves the World Government. He needed them to know that it was their hand that had moved him into seeking retribution.
His hand brushed against the barely repaired skin covering the socket where an eye should have been. Since the battle at B-2, Jack had remained confined to the bed, his every need met and sated by Alice since none of the others felt comfortable being in an enclosed room with him. Veins jumped from his temples as he thought about the sacrifices he’d made for those people; how he’d stood in their stead so that they wouldn’t have to face an overwhelming opponent in the Vice Admiral. And now they were too scared to see how he was doing.
“Story o’ my life,” he grunted as Alice worked vigorously against a particularly stubborn tassel of hair.
Sunlight flooded through the circular stern-side window of the Captain’s cabin making the bleached wood glow with incandescent light. The air was touched with the aged scent of spices and while the space was austere in its accommodations there was a certain air of professional created by the décor leftover from the previous inhabitants. Though he’d slept in finer beds, Jack had been thankful for the mundane brand cotton sheets that weren’t itchy and weren’t freezing to the touch. Most importantly was he hadn’t had to spend his days in recuperation alone; Alice had taken a permanent residence in his quarters much to the other’s dismay.
Often times Jack would wake with his skin drenched in a cool sweat, the last images dancing in his head were the hard glare of the Vice Admiral staring into his face and a silver streak cleaving a gory line through his skull; in his dreams he never survived the death stroke.
As the razor neared his head the desire to slip away and guzzle another flask of bitter-sweet whiskey gripped him, but Alice’s stern glare held him in place. She’d tended to him these three weeks at sea, her attention eclipsing that of a surgeon as her gently hands eased away pain that he’d thought he’d have to carry with him the remainder of his life. Of course her hands weren’t the only thing that provided ‘healing’, but he’d appreciated the time they’d spent together. Looking up at her now he couldn’t help admiring the softness of the skin over cheeks, the way her slender neck curved before vanishing into the mane of fire-red hair that draped wildly down her shoulders. During quiet nights when they lay still from exhaustion she told him that most people—men especially—paid mind only to the marring scar that streaked across the artistry that was her face. Some were able to stomach it because of her physique while others turned away, too afraid to stare at the ugly truth of the world so frankly presented.
Jack fell in neither of those categories. Aside from the fact that they shared a kinship in the wounds that would never mend, he had been drawn to her rambunctious nature. When she came to him at night there was no exaggerated seduction as it had been with Momo; there was a simple look of want in her face and when she wanted, she took. Men like Jack could appreciate a woman like that.
“Why are we doing this, anyway?” Jack whined as he suppressed the urge fidget again. Another lock of hair floated down onto the wooly blanket laid across his lap. Alice’s breath warmed the skin on the back of his neck sensuously as she mischievously allowed her breasts to brush against his back. Damn her, she knows how to play me.
“We’re doin’ this cuz yer already a wanted man,” she replied sweetly, her tiny gyrating movements apparently beneath notice as she talked and worked. “More than that, I ain’t got no intentions of lettin’ them scraggles you call ‘hair’ choke me to death anytime soon.”
Both of them were shirtless and the closeness of their skin stirred a hot want for even more of each other. Consumed by their carnal natures they remained quiet, the sound of shorn pieces of hair coming from Jack’s scalp mixing with external sounds of waves breaking against the ship’s hull lulling them into relaxation. As always was the case during these stretches of silence Jack began to think on what his next move would be. There would be no staying in the Blues—after what had gone down at B-2 and the words that ‘Condor’ bastard had said about everything being blamed on him; he’d be lucky if they weren’t hunted from South to North Blue and back.
Delinquent thoughts of returning to a swashbuckler’s life had occurred as childish and too small time to him; he wanted to do something bigger. Of course he realized he’d need to start with a group of cutthroats he could rely upon, but the loss of his eye had to be answered in full by those bigwigs that called themselves the World Government. He needed them to know that it was their hand that had moved him into seeking retribution.
His hand brushed against the barely repaired skin covering the socket where an eye should have been. Since the battle at B-2, Jack had remained confined to the bed, his every need met and sated by Alice since none of the others felt comfortable being in an enclosed room with him. Veins jumped from his temples as he thought about the sacrifices he’d made for those people; how he’d stood in their stead so that they wouldn’t have to face an overwhelming opponent in the Vice Admiral. And now they were too scared to see how he was doing.
“Story o’ my life,” he grunted as Alice worked vigorously against a particularly stubborn tassel of hair.