Sparrow licked his lips, leaning into her touch. He wanted her badly, to be with her right now in this bunk. In part it was habit, a lifetime of impulsive desire and fulfillment and pleasure that had suddenly run up against a wall of someone else's fear and pain, and his own concern, worry, and love.
And yet, it was not lust.
Was it lust to want to be hers? To give himself over to her completely? He didn't know quite what to do with it. It was a new thing, to want to rewrite history with this beautiful artist. To give himself as her blank canvas. To offer to share the power that had been stolen from her--from what he could understand--since as far back as she could remember.
It didn't occur to Jack that any of this could be an experiment. The love felt real, the most natural thing in the world, and the yearning was just as real, or else his body had turned into just as much a traitorous liar as his tongue habitually was.
It also didn't occur to him that his body was anything but a blank canvas. Swirls of text covered his skin, strange poetry from a wanderer who had picked him up one night and left him just as suddenly the next morning. Her name spiraling down his arm. Other inked pictures--a stinging wasp, a falling sparrow--were joined by old bullet wounds and scarred flesh. This was what he had to offer her.
The pirate found himself amazed that the words spilling from his suddenly dry mouth sounded so calm and quiet.
"Jilly. I give my word, love, that I won't touch you tonight. But I want you to learn not to be afraid." He took hold of her hand, moving it down to cover his chest, to feel the steady, quick beats beneath the skin---a gesture that recalled a summer night months earlier with Buffy. The meaning now was different. There was no seduction in it, only hope.
no subject
Sparrow licked his lips, leaning into her touch. He wanted her badly, to be with her right now in this bunk. In part it was habit, a lifetime of impulsive desire and fulfillment and pleasure that had suddenly run up against a wall of someone else's fear and pain, and his own concern, worry, and love.
And yet, it was not lust.
Was it lust to want to be hers? To give himself over to her completely? He didn't know quite what to do with it. It was a new thing, to want to rewrite history with this beautiful artist. To give himself as her blank canvas. To offer to share the power that had been stolen from her--from what he could understand--since as far back as she could remember.
It didn't occur to Jack that any of this could be an experiment. The love felt real, the most natural thing in the world, and the yearning was just as real, or else his body had turned into just as much a traitorous liar as his tongue habitually was.
It also didn't occur to him that his body was anything but a blank canvas. Swirls of text covered his skin, strange poetry from a wanderer who had picked him up one night and left him just as suddenly the next morning. Her name spiraling down his arm. Other inked pictures--a stinging wasp, a falling sparrow--were joined by old bullet wounds and scarred flesh. This was what he had to offer her.
The pirate found himself amazed that the words spilling from his suddenly dry mouth sounded so calm and quiet.
"Jilly. I give my word, love, that I won't touch you tonight. But I want you to learn not to be afraid." He took hold of her hand, moving it down to cover his chest, to feel the steady, quick beats beneath the skin---a gesture that recalled a summer night months earlier with Buffy. The meaning now was different. There was no seduction in it, only hope.
"Stay with me."