Fanfic--Metamorphosis (8/20)
Metamorphosis, part 8 of 20
Title: Fantasy (Prompt 37)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Speckett
Word Count: 850
Summary: Series based on Jack and Beckett's early relationship using the prompts at 50_smutlets. In this bit, Jack finds himself in India, thinking on the Chairman's son.
Warnings (for this bit): Drug use, slash, kissing, non-graphic sexual references
Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Mouse!
Author's Note: Belatedly titled this collection 'Metamorphosis.' This is piece 8 of 20.
Previous Chapters: 1. Day ; 2. Night ; 3. Gentle ; 4. Lust ; 5. Touch; 6. Beach; 7. Thigh-Highs
037.-Fantasy
If Jack could describe Kalikata in one word it would have been color.
From the turquoise waters, the exotic temples swathed in verdant foliage, and the diaphanous saris, the streets were painted with vibrancy. Mesmerizing women would stare at him with dark eyes, their gaze following him as he swaggered down the winding streets crowded with vendors hawking their wares.
Normally, Jack would have sought out one of his three favorite taverns, all set near to the docks. They were usually filled with other sailors and their stories, and with plentiful spirits and pleasurable company. The evening would be spent in raucous drinking and unbridled debauchery-all in all, a pleasant time. If he managed to recall where he was when he awoke, Jack considered it a plus.
But, as the hot Indian sun beat down on him, he could not bring himself to venture to any of his favorite haunts. Instead, he let his feet carry him to a place he had only frequented twice before-the dark, secluded place hidden off of one alley, where the wayward sailor could go to forget, or to remember. The other two visits paid to this seedy place had been to forget-today, Jack wanted to remember, to dream, to fantasize about pale silken skin, plump pink lips, and eager grey eyes.
As Jack stepped into the ill-lit room, none of the other patrons stirred. There were five men scattered in the recesses of the room, all lying quietly, lost in their own images and dreams.
The proprietor of the establishment seemed to materialize from the smoke-hazed air, and swept an appraising gaze over Jack. He did not have to ask him what he wanted-there was only one reason men came here. The dark skinned man wordlessly directed Jack to a soft mat on the other side of the room, and offered him the long pipe that Jack knew was already filled with the finest Madak.[1]
After exchanging a tarnished coin and an appreciative nod, Jack leaned back, leisurely reclining on the soft mats and lifted the long pipe to his lips, keeping the base steady in the flickering flame of the oil lamp. It did not take long for the first wafting vapors; Jack inhaled deeply, feeling the dense smoke burn the back of his throat. He closed his eyes and held his breath. As he exhaled, he let his head fall back, his arm draping leisurely across his face.
It did not take long for the opium to work its magic. As Jack lay on the mats, time suddenly ceased to be relevant-every moment that passed could have just as easily been a year, or even a millisecond, but Jack did not care because every moment was filled with the boy.
The hot, still, dank air was replaced by the soft, salty sea breeze and the gently wafting scent of sandalwood and bergamot. Cutler. The boy’s cologne. Jack had always thought it amusing that the little noble had worn cologne like a man, like his father did. Jack was unable to contain the sudden barking laugh that emitted from his lips at the thought, a laugh he would have never made in the boy’s presence, because he could not bear to see the hurt that would inevitably darken the silvery eyes.
Those eyes. Jack could see the intent sparkle in those very same piercing grey eyes as the boy leaned forward, plump, suckable lips pressing against his own. The slightest taste of red wine lingered, followed by the sweetness of the boy’s tongue.
Another burning lungful of the potent mixture and Jack found himself striding carelessly along with the boy, grinning and laughing as they traipsed off to some unknown adventure. The next moment, they were on the beach of Minorca, tangled in each other’s arms, tanned sinew and alabaster flesh melded together and tumbling in the sand. A small giggle echoed hauntingly in Jack’s ears, followed by the most desperate mewling.
With a heavy sigh, Jack rolled onto his side on the thick mat, his hand instinctively stretching out beside him, searching for the familiar curves. He did not feel the rough stone floor beneath his fingers, but instead, damp, silken skin slid beneath his hands. What was once a crack in the floor became the small, barely noticeable scar on the boy’s shoulder-a fencing wound that Cutler would blush and stammer about, before hastily changing the subject. Never wanted to admit anyone got the best of him, Jack thought, or said perhaps. He wasn’t sure. He was sure, however, that the boy had gotten the best of him to have driven him here of all places, to sigh and pant and dream of fevered, stolen moments. Jack saw the room float back into focus briefly before humid darkness overcame him.
This would not do, he thought as he lay there, caught somewhere between blissful sleep and fitful consciousness.
He wanted flesh and blood, not whispering, hazy fantasies that dissipated as quickly as they came.
He wanted the boy.
[1] Madak was a blend of opium and tobacco.