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[POTC] Barbossa/Elizabeth; Hope Undone
May. 3rd, 2007 07:32 amYou didn't really think it was a "bushel of apples" running through his thoughts in those moments, did you?
Well...maybe in the Disney Universe.
Just a little ficlet to stretch my writing muscles.
"Hope Undone"
Skin the same color as the meat of his apples -- pale and luminescent as mother-of-pearl.
He'd found himself wondering what taste he would get if he bit her. At the junction where neck and shoulders met, just before the delicate curve of bone.
Overwhelmingly sweet like the first bite of a windfall apple? Or sharp and slightly bitter until you got close to the core?
He watched the muscles of her throat work as she swallowed the wine, blue veins standing out like the lines of a map that, were the situation different, he'd be plotting to trace with his fingers...perhaps his tongue.
Turning to the windows of the cabin, he looked out over smooth dark wtaer. They were two, three hours off Isla de Muerta with the swift wind they'd caught.
He closed his eyes, tried to imagine the wood of the Pearl beneath his fingertips, the rough boards, the smooth chill of the nails. But rough and smooth were mere words with barely a memory of sensation.
"Won't be long now, Miss Turner. I trust there'll be no more attempts on me life by way of tableware..."
"Of course not, Captain Barbossa," she said, "you've removed it all."
He smiled, a razor's edge of teeth.
"I'll leave yeh to finish yer meal in peace."
As he closed the cabin door behind him, he saw her reach for an apple, hold it beneath her nose, then sink her teeth into it; the juice on her lips shone like gold in the candlelight.
He wondered what the combination would taste like.
~*~
Releasing her hand, he turned, eyes closed.
Waiting.
He didn't want his first sensation to be the warmth of her skin, the flutter of her pulse in his grasp. He'd be able to scent her from this slight distance he was sure, warmth and woman seasoned by the sea-salt breeze and the lavender soap he'd made offerings of that third night out. Scent was enough. Touch in that moment might surely drive him to do what he'd long considered below him.
A scent, a moment, and then he'd turn and touch that golden hair, the skin of her cheek, the curve of her neck. Hold her to him, feel her breathe as the crew rooted payment for the food and drink and company they'd seek in the coming nights.
And he would keep her.
He'd never thought otherwise.
In his cabin, near the back of the armoire, in a small wooden chest lay a silver bottle. A gift from a wise woman he once knew in Port-de-Paix.
A few drops in her wine and she'd sleep the night through, freeing him to spend a night's leave on shore and to return the next morning prepared for the challenge of taming her. Not to make broken, but malleable. She was already quite the fine fit, Miss Turner was, but a few lessons in discipline wouldn't hurt...
He heard her shift, foot striking loose treasures, and opened his eyes as the sudden echo in the cavern yielded not the sound of a collective intake of 10 years' missed breath, but the curious, cutting words of hope done in.
~End
Well...maybe in the Disney Universe.
Just a little ficlet to stretch my writing muscles.
"Hope Undone"
Skin the same color as the meat of his apples -- pale and luminescent as mother-of-pearl.
He'd found himself wondering what taste he would get if he bit her. At the junction where neck and shoulders met, just before the delicate curve of bone.
Overwhelmingly sweet like the first bite of a windfall apple? Or sharp and slightly bitter until you got close to the core?
He watched the muscles of her throat work as she swallowed the wine, blue veins standing out like the lines of a map that, were the situation different, he'd be plotting to trace with his fingers...perhaps his tongue.
Turning to the windows of the cabin, he looked out over smooth dark wtaer. They were two, three hours off Isla de Muerta with the swift wind they'd caught.
He closed his eyes, tried to imagine the wood of the Pearl beneath his fingertips, the rough boards, the smooth chill of the nails. But rough and smooth were mere words with barely a memory of sensation.
"Won't be long now, Miss Turner. I trust there'll be no more attempts on me life by way of tableware..."
"Of course not, Captain Barbossa," she said, "you've removed it all."
He smiled, a razor's edge of teeth.
"I'll leave yeh to finish yer meal in peace."
As he closed the cabin door behind him, he saw her reach for an apple, hold it beneath her nose, then sink her teeth into it; the juice on her lips shone like gold in the candlelight.
He wondered what the combination would taste like.
Releasing her hand, he turned, eyes closed.
Waiting.
He didn't want his first sensation to be the warmth of her skin, the flutter of her pulse in his grasp. He'd be able to scent her from this slight distance he was sure, warmth and woman seasoned by the sea-salt breeze and the lavender soap he'd made offerings of that third night out. Scent was enough. Touch in that moment might surely drive him to do what he'd long considered below him.
A scent, a moment, and then he'd turn and touch that golden hair, the skin of her cheek, the curve of her neck. Hold her to him, feel her breathe as the crew rooted payment for the food and drink and company they'd seek in the coming nights.
And he would keep her.
He'd never thought otherwise.
In his cabin, near the back of the armoire, in a small wooden chest lay a silver bottle. A gift from a wise woman he once knew in Port-de-Paix.
A few drops in her wine and she'd sleep the night through, freeing him to spend a night's leave on shore and to return the next morning prepared for the challenge of taming her. Not to make broken, but malleable. She was already quite the fine fit, Miss Turner was, but a few lessons in discipline wouldn't hurt...
He heard her shift, foot striking loose treasures, and opened his eyes as the sudden echo in the cavern yielded not the sound of a collective intake of 10 years' missed breath, but the curious, cutting words of hope done in.
~End
