Rum's Caress
By: Lone Draco
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The boys aren't mine, neither is the rum, but that doesn't stop me from drinking it!
Author Note: This is a short drabble I pondered out after drinking my fourth cup of vanilla rum tea and reflecting that rum does indeed have its very own taste, texture and smell. And it's Jack.
With no further ado.
Rum's Caress By: Lone Draco
It's the rum.
It's in his eyes, in the way he walks; it's the source of that swagger that undoes me. I taste it everywhere on him, in the sweat that pools in the crevices of his lithe body, in his velvet mouth and on his deceptively soft lips. If I close my eyes I can almost feel it as I run my hands across his copper-dusted skin, liquid soft, rum soft. It slurs the words he whispers to me as I writhe wantonly under his touch.
Its scent follows him wherever he goes; its sweet musk mingling with his own unique combination of sin and the sea. It causes his scent to be more intoxicating than the drink itself.
It crackles in his depthless eyes and is more often than not the spark that carries them into the fathomless black of lust. It is in his hands as they flit over my skin, it teases him into feather-light touches that are never certain of their next destination.
He hides in it, drinking until he needs not worry about his answer. It allows him to forget my questions. It is his bargaining chip and his response to both joy and sorrow, to pain and pleasure. It is never far from his bedside, fueling his lust or numbing his hurt.
It is one of the reasons I love him. It is so engraved into his very existence that I could not fathom the man he would be without it. Without its touch upon him his voice would change, that breathless sway of words; his taste would change, loose its sweet euphoria; his scent would change, loose the overture of his drink and simply be the sea.
Without his rum, he would not be my Jack.
-Fin
Disclaimer: The boys aren't mine, neither is the rum, but that doesn't stop me from drinking it!
Author Note: This is a short drabble I pondered out after drinking my fourth cup of vanilla rum tea and reflecting that rum does indeed have its very own taste, texture and smell. And it's Jack.
With no further ado.
Rum's Caress By: Lone Draco
It's the rum.
It's in his eyes, in the way he walks; it's the source of that swagger that undoes me. I taste it everywhere on him, in the sweat that pools in the crevices of his lithe body, in his velvet mouth and on his deceptively soft lips. If I close my eyes I can almost feel it as I run my hands across his copper-dusted skin, liquid soft, rum soft. It slurs the words he whispers to me as I writhe wantonly under his touch.
Its scent follows him wherever he goes; its sweet musk mingling with his own unique combination of sin and the sea. It causes his scent to be more intoxicating than the drink itself.
It crackles in his depthless eyes and is more often than not the spark that carries them into the fathomless black of lust. It is in his hands as they flit over my skin, it teases him into feather-light touches that are never certain of their next destination.
He hides in it, drinking until he needs not worry about his answer. It allows him to forget my questions. It is his bargaining chip and his response to both joy and sorrow, to pain and pleasure. It is never far from his bedside, fueling his lust or numbing his hurt.
It is one of the reasons I love him. It is so engraved into his very existence that I could not fathom the man he would be without it. Without its touch upon him his voice would change, that breathless sway of words; his taste would change, loose its sweet euphoria; his scent would change, loose the overture of his drink and simply be the sea.
Without his rum, he would not be my Jack.
-Fin