(no subject)
TITLE: Seven Deadly Sins
PAIRING: Jack/Elizabeth
RATING: R
SUMMARY: For a long time I'd had the idea to write a series of short J/E drabbles, like a series, each one themed with a different one of the seven deadly sins. So um, that's what this is, parts 1, 2 & 3, which are "lust", "gluttony", and "sloth", and I've used gluttony here in the original context, not to speak about food, but about excess----- I think you'll see what I mean. More to come soon, promise! Feedback is better than crack. Also? I am completely open to suggestions/plot-bunnies for the rest of the sin I have to cover. This leaves, greed, wrath, envy, and pride.
I.
(luxuria)
LUST
Falling asleep in William's arms was not as easy as it once was. Now, even after their lovemaking had subsided, and most couples would find themselves tangled in post-coital bliss, she found herself restless, perhaps even more than before he'd stolen that first, unsteady kiss. He had stumbled across her diary, she could be certain, and was only thankful that she'd remained vague, even in her most private musings. Thankful, because there was one name that did not get uttered in the Turner household, though neither husband, nor wife, was willing to admit the reason.
Thankful, because there were somethings better left unsaid, despite that the fact that her eyes already told him more than he could bear.
The reason for her certainty was found in the red lines running down her back; in the vessels, splayed and broken across her neck, and in the muffled cries that caused servant's passing by the door to cross themselves, before continuing about their daily chores. These things, as much as they pleased the secret wickedness she kept hidden beneath proper upbringing, were the things she wrote about, the things she dreamed of, on nights when Will was either working late, or too busy to take notice of her existence. She would guide Will's would-be tender hand to her hair, closing her fist over his, forcing him to tug harder, but now, either through snooping, or through experience, he had begun to catch on.
Still, his hands were not rough enough; his beard, too fine. She craved the matted tangle snaking through her fingers, the coolness of beads brushing her cheek, the serenade of clinking coins, playing a song of bonfires, and sunsets in her ear.
If she were a good wife, she wouldn't start in the wee hours, and abandon her husband's bed. She would not retreat to some dark corner of their tiny house, two fingers thrust into herself; she wouldn't taste the blood in her mouth, as she chews through her lip to keep from crying the unutterable name.
II.
(gula)
GLUTTONY
If there is one thing he loves about her, it's her ability to say four things at once. At least, in some cases, sometimes, maybe only three. Point is, the woman had, what you'd call "layers". She speaks novels, entire volumes, when no one is listening, or, more accurately, only listening that what she says. He counts her statements, like he counts her smiles (which are also numerous, when no one's looking). For instance, when she says, "Why is that every time you come to call, and, inevitably, you bring rum, you tell me to slow down, like I'm a child, or some sort of prim, affected princess?"
He hears,
"I am suffocating here,"
"Teach me to be like you are,"
"There's quite a lot I'd like to forget in a drunken haze,"
and, above all, "You git, this is our time, and I'll keep up, and prolong it, by any means."
There is always a chance, he reminds himself, that the last bit was imagined.
Instead of answering her question, (because, frankly, they'd been over, many times, the speed at which one should consume vast quantities of rum, and more importantly, when worst comes to worse, at least try and miss the boots), he shrugs, as though he'd only just remembered she was there, and takes the bottle from her hand without a word. However, before she can protest too much, he's raised a single finger aloft, hypnotizing her with it's incessant sway, "Ah, ah, ah, before you have a fit," he shifts, pulling a draw string pouch from his belt, "I've brought you something."
He pauses, to appease his ever-present drive toward dramatic effect, and pulls a tiny, circular black rock from the pouch, and from his belt, a long pipe, made of ivory, with engravings like nothing she'd ever seen before. After a moment, she starts to ask, "What is i---"
"Opium, luv, a magical little treasure I picked up on one of many trips to the Orient."
"Jack! How did you get th--" Her tone, pretended, for a moment to be indignant, to be outraged by such a impropriety, but, in the end, she gave into the curiosity she'd had since birth, "---Well, I suppose it's no worse than that plant you brought last time," she stopped, remembering that night fondly, "the one you said the slaves grew, what did they call it?"
"Ganja." He smiled, devilishly, "Enjoyed that, did you?"
She nodded.
"Good then," he held the rock in the way of the firelight, revealing an tint, beneath the black, that was almost red; somewhere between rust, and mahogany, "then you'll be fine, right as rain, what ever that means---" His tangent was cut short by a quick glare, indicating that he should go on, "but, I'll warn you," he placed it into the end of the pipe, "there's a reason those Asian blokes smoke lying down."
She arched a curious eyebrow as he took a twig from the bonfire, and held the flame to the pipe. He blew a ring of smoke that brushed past her face, the smoke was sweet, like an exotic perfume from some far off place she'd never get to. He steadied himself, moved his head slowly from one side to the other, examining the shift in his surroundings, before instructing her, "Now, it's already lit, darling, just breathe in, and hold, like before."
Her peripheral pulsated, the world contracting, then expanding around her, and she exhaled, watching the wind carry the balmy smoke out of sight. She lay down next to Jack in the sand, her hand found his, somehow, through the haze, brushing his knuckles with the pad of her thumb. He said nothing, or made no indication that he noticed her gesture. Perhaps it was because he was too far gone, himself, or, more likely, it was because he was aware that a woman under the influence of altered perception was, maybe, not in the best position to make such rash choices.
"How do we always end up here, Jack?" She whispered, so softly he thought he'd imagined it.
He shrugged, pretending that her question did not mean as much as she meant it to, "I've always enjoyed making contribution to the debauchery of others," he places a disingenuous hand over his heart, "makes me feel and warm, and soft-like."
She rolls her eyes, and, amidst the countless points of light, she catches a glimpse of Cassiopeia, "Well, considering I've still got to be on my way before the sun comes up," she sighs, "I'd say you haven't debauched me very throughly, at all."
And he hears,
"But, there are two hours until then,"
"I believe it is imperative for me to smoke more of that remarkable rock,"
"Thank you,"
and, above all, "Take me with you, please."
III.
(acedia)
SLOTH
A wise man once noted that "work" and "pirates" are two concepts that do not agree with one another. He, observant as he may have been, was probably some puritanical bastard, and besides that, to spend too long trying to remember his name would disprove the wisdom of his wise statement.
Jack thought, perhaps, he drank too much.
But, that was a silly thought, brought on, probably, by drinking too much.
It would be easy to make some noble argument about the abolition of work. To quote Socrates, or Aristotle, or some great political thinker. There would be almost no challenge at all, finding the words to express the meaning of liberty, and to expose, once and for all, the evils of the mighty "trade". Loss of life, loss of limb, shame, degradation, a general feeling of "blech", not to mention the hours----
Frankly, though, making that argument would take far too much effort, and there were naps to be had, and bottles to be emptied, and really, when you strip away all the sickening philosophical prose, who ever heard of a pirate with a work ethic?
PAIRING: Jack/Elizabeth
RATING: R
SUMMARY: For a long time I'd had the idea to write a series of short J/E drabbles, like a series, each one themed with a different one of the seven deadly sins. So um, that's what this is, parts 1, 2 & 3, which are "lust", "gluttony", and "sloth", and I've used gluttony here in the original context, not to speak about food, but about excess----- I think you'll see what I mean. More to come soon, promise! Feedback is better than crack. Also? I am completely open to suggestions/plot-bunnies for the rest of the sin I have to cover. This leaves, greed, wrath, envy, and pride.
I.
(luxuria)
LUST
Falling asleep in William's arms was not as easy as it once was. Now, even after their lovemaking had subsided, and most couples would find themselves tangled in post-coital bliss, she found herself restless, perhaps even more than before he'd stolen that first, unsteady kiss. He had stumbled across her diary, she could be certain, and was only thankful that she'd remained vague, even in her most private musings. Thankful, because there was one name that did not get uttered in the Turner household, though neither husband, nor wife, was willing to admit the reason.
Thankful, because there were somethings better left unsaid, despite that the fact that her eyes already told him more than he could bear.
The reason for her certainty was found in the red lines running down her back; in the vessels, splayed and broken across her neck, and in the muffled cries that caused servant's passing by the door to cross themselves, before continuing about their daily chores. These things, as much as they pleased the secret wickedness she kept hidden beneath proper upbringing, were the things she wrote about, the things she dreamed of, on nights when Will was either working late, or too busy to take notice of her existence. She would guide Will's would-be tender hand to her hair, closing her fist over his, forcing him to tug harder, but now, either through snooping, or through experience, he had begun to catch on.
Still, his hands were not rough enough; his beard, too fine. She craved the matted tangle snaking through her fingers, the coolness of beads brushing her cheek, the serenade of clinking coins, playing a song of bonfires, and sunsets in her ear.
If she were a good wife, she wouldn't start in the wee hours, and abandon her husband's bed. She would not retreat to some dark corner of their tiny house, two fingers thrust into herself; she wouldn't taste the blood in her mouth, as she chews through her lip to keep from crying the unutterable name.
II.
(gula)
GLUTTONY
If there is one thing he loves about her, it's her ability to say four things at once. At least, in some cases, sometimes, maybe only three. Point is, the woman had, what you'd call "layers". She speaks novels, entire volumes, when no one is listening, or, more accurately, only listening that what she says. He counts her statements, like he counts her smiles (which are also numerous, when no one's looking). For instance, when she says, "Why is that every time you come to call, and, inevitably, you bring rum, you tell me to slow down, like I'm a child, or some sort of prim, affected princess?"
He hears,
"I am suffocating here,"
"Teach me to be like you are,"
"There's quite a lot I'd like to forget in a drunken haze,"
and, above all, "You git, this is our time, and I'll keep up, and prolong it, by any means."
There is always a chance, he reminds himself, that the last bit was imagined.
Instead of answering her question, (because, frankly, they'd been over, many times, the speed at which one should consume vast quantities of rum, and more importantly, when worst comes to worse, at least try and miss the boots), he shrugs, as though he'd only just remembered she was there, and takes the bottle from her hand without a word. However, before she can protest too much, he's raised a single finger aloft, hypnotizing her with it's incessant sway, "Ah, ah, ah, before you have a fit," he shifts, pulling a draw string pouch from his belt, "I've brought you something."
He pauses, to appease his ever-present drive toward dramatic effect, and pulls a tiny, circular black rock from the pouch, and from his belt, a long pipe, made of ivory, with engravings like nothing she'd ever seen before. After a moment, she starts to ask, "What is i---"
"Opium, luv, a magical little treasure I picked up on one of many trips to the Orient."
"Jack! How did you get th--" Her tone, pretended, for a moment to be indignant, to be outraged by such a impropriety, but, in the end, she gave into the curiosity she'd had since birth, "---Well, I suppose it's no worse than that plant you brought last time," she stopped, remembering that night fondly, "the one you said the slaves grew, what did they call it?"
"Ganja." He smiled, devilishly, "Enjoyed that, did you?"
She nodded.
"Good then," he held the rock in the way of the firelight, revealing an tint, beneath the black, that was almost red; somewhere between rust, and mahogany, "then you'll be fine, right as rain, what ever that means---" His tangent was cut short by a quick glare, indicating that he should go on, "but, I'll warn you," he placed it into the end of the pipe, "there's a reason those Asian blokes smoke lying down."
She arched a curious eyebrow as he took a twig from the bonfire, and held the flame to the pipe. He blew a ring of smoke that brushed past her face, the smoke was sweet, like an exotic perfume from some far off place she'd never get to. He steadied himself, moved his head slowly from one side to the other, examining the shift in his surroundings, before instructing her, "Now, it's already lit, darling, just breathe in, and hold, like before."
Her peripheral pulsated, the world contracting, then expanding around her, and she exhaled, watching the wind carry the balmy smoke out of sight. She lay down next to Jack in the sand, her hand found his, somehow, through the haze, brushing his knuckles with the pad of her thumb. He said nothing, or made no indication that he noticed her gesture. Perhaps it was because he was too far gone, himself, or, more likely, it was because he was aware that a woman under the influence of altered perception was, maybe, not in the best position to make such rash choices.
"How do we always end up here, Jack?" She whispered, so softly he thought he'd imagined it.
He shrugged, pretending that her question did not mean as much as she meant it to, "I've always enjoyed making contribution to the debauchery of others," he places a disingenuous hand over his heart, "makes me feel and warm, and soft-like."
She rolls her eyes, and, amidst the countless points of light, she catches a glimpse of Cassiopeia, "Well, considering I've still got to be on my way before the sun comes up," she sighs, "I'd say you haven't debauched me very throughly, at all."
And he hears,
"But, there are two hours until then,"
"I believe it is imperative for me to smoke more of that remarkable rock,"
"Thank you,"
and, above all, "Take me with you, please."
III.
(acedia)
SLOTH
A wise man once noted that "work" and "pirates" are two concepts that do not agree with one another. He, observant as he may have been, was probably some puritanical bastard, and besides that, to spend too long trying to remember his name would disprove the wisdom of his wise statement.
Jack thought, perhaps, he drank too much.
But, that was a silly thought, brought on, probably, by drinking too much.
It would be easy to make some noble argument about the abolition of work. To quote Socrates, or Aristotle, or some great political thinker. There would be almost no challenge at all, finding the words to express the meaning of liberty, and to expose, once and for all, the evils of the mighty "trade". Loss of life, loss of limb, shame, degradation, a general feeling of "blech", not to mention the hours----
Frankly, though, making that argument would take far too much effort, and there were naps to be had, and bottles to be emptied, and really, when you strip away all the sickening philosophical prose, who ever heard of a pirate with a work ethic?