![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kbkI suck so much... My Farscape drabble sucks, and may need to become an actual fic, or cut out a concept. Dunno. Also, I just spent an hour - more than that! - looking at PoTC screencaps and thinking about icons. I even moved over a lamp so I had better light on the screen because it's not very good for looking at pictures. Then I remembered. This laptop doesn't have a picture editing program. At all. *grr!*
Because I wanted a PoTC icon to go with these
Pretty
You're not a eunuch, are you?
There's a prettiness to the boy that lends credence to the idea, but it would be such a shame. Not that equipment is exactly necessary for the images of this boy that are flashing through Jack's mind, but he does like a bit of participation... and if he doesn't pay attention he may well get his own bits chopped off so perhaps he'll postpone this mental perambulation until another time. A time when he isn't in imminent danger of capture.
Because it doesn't matter how pretty the boy is, if Jack gets hisself hanged.
Need
Jack needs the sea. More than he needs money, or women, or respect, or rum... he needs the sea, and to sail it.
He's worked ships since he was old enough to earn, and he's only been ashore since to get drunk, get laid and get a job - not necessarily in that order. The land feels unnatural to him now, and he couldn't take a proper burial.
He lives for the sea, and he'll most likely die out there on the waves. And that's where he wants to rest in the end, safe in the embrace of his beloved sea.
Practice
Will practices his sword fighting every evening. And every other day Elizabeth dons a pair of breeches and joins him. He runs her through her paces until her arm aches, slashing and thrusting and over and under, and then they spar. He doesn't always win. And then she watches as he shows off all his tricks, sword never faltering but flying high and flashing in the lingering sunlight.
Those are the nights he takes her to bed, joyously, with the song of the blade still in their ears and the sweat on his skin like the salt of the sea.
Bed
The bunks on this ship, decides Elizabeth, are entirely too small. It's hard enough fitting two people into one of them, but three is practically impossible - at least one of them falls out every night, seems like. Will sometimes tries to be noble and take the floor, but more often than not she ends up sprawled across the two men - and while hard muscle may be a wonderful thing most of the time, it's hardly the most comfortable surface to sleep on.
They really ought to get a proper bed, she thinks, a big one. With a proper mattress, and goose-down pillows. After all, the crew already know the three of them are... well, together, as it were. They've shared the captain's cabin since they set sail, and nobody who knows Jack Sparrow would think him capable of chastely sharing a bed, especially with such a pretty young couple. But then, an actual bed might suggest that this was something permanent, something serious, rather than the "bit o' fun" it is. And that would cause trouble, and this is closer than she ever thought she'd get to paradise.
So maybe the bed isn't necessary.
Her boys are all she needs.
Dreams
He can't remember what language he dreams in.
He hopes it's English. He likes being American - the privileges it brings, the rights he can take for granted.
It could be Russian - he's certainly fluent enough, and he remembers fever dreams for days and months after he lost his arm, which was careless of him.
Czech, though, seems most likely. He's almost sure, some mornings, that he'll open his eyes to see the shade of his mother standing over him, whispering prayers and muttering imprecations and so disappointed in her little boy.
It doesn't really matter, though. He still can't remember.
Because I wanted a PoTC icon to go with these
Pretty
You're not a eunuch, are you?
There's a prettiness to the boy that lends credence to the idea, but it would be such a shame. Not that equipment is exactly necessary for the images of this boy that are flashing through Jack's mind, but he does like a bit of participation... and if he doesn't pay attention he may well get his own bits chopped off so perhaps he'll postpone this mental perambulation until another time. A time when he isn't in imminent danger of capture.
Because it doesn't matter how pretty the boy is, if Jack gets hisself hanged.
Need
Jack needs the sea. More than he needs money, or women, or respect, or rum... he needs the sea, and to sail it.
He's worked ships since he was old enough to earn, and he's only been ashore since to get drunk, get laid and get a job - not necessarily in that order. The land feels unnatural to him now, and he couldn't take a proper burial.
He lives for the sea, and he'll most likely die out there on the waves. And that's where he wants to rest in the end, safe in the embrace of his beloved sea.
Practice
Will practices his sword fighting every evening. And every other day Elizabeth dons a pair of breeches and joins him. He runs her through her paces until her arm aches, slashing and thrusting and over and under, and then they spar. He doesn't always win. And then she watches as he shows off all his tricks, sword never faltering but flying high and flashing in the lingering sunlight.
Those are the nights he takes her to bed, joyously, with the song of the blade still in their ears and the sweat on his skin like the salt of the sea.
Bed
The bunks on this ship, decides Elizabeth, are entirely too small. It's hard enough fitting two people into one of them, but three is practically impossible - at least one of them falls out every night, seems like. Will sometimes tries to be noble and take the floor, but more often than not she ends up sprawled across the two men - and while hard muscle may be a wonderful thing most of the time, it's hardly the most comfortable surface to sleep on.
They really ought to get a proper bed, she thinks, a big one. With a proper mattress, and goose-down pillows. After all, the crew already know the three of them are... well, together, as it were. They've shared the captain's cabin since they set sail, and nobody who knows Jack Sparrow would think him capable of chastely sharing a bed, especially with such a pretty young couple. But then, an actual bed might suggest that this was something permanent, something serious, rather than the "bit o' fun" it is. And that would cause trouble, and this is closer than she ever thought she'd get to paradise.
So maybe the bed isn't necessary.
Her boys are all she needs.
Dreams
He can't remember what language he dreams in.
He hopes it's English. He likes being American - the privileges it brings, the rights he can take for granted.
It could be Russian - he's certainly fluent enough, and he remembers fever dreams for days and months after he lost his arm, which was careless of him.
Czech, though, seems most likely. He's almost sure, some mornings, that he'll open his eyes to see the shade of his mother standing over him, whispering prayers and muttering imprecations and so disappointed in her little boy.
It doesn't really matter, though. He still can't remember.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-08-25 01:12 pm (UTC)Giggled much at Bed.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-25 01:57 pm (UTC)that one came from me thinking how lucky she was to bed two such pretty men, then thinking "hang on a second..."
too much pretty
no subject
Date: 2003-08-25 05:06 pm (UTC)Mmm. Pretty.
Like t'other longer drabble too, with Will making Jack's new sword. Sounds exactly like both of them.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-27 12:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-27 03:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-27 04:22 pm (UTC)