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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17. BD.
Pairing: Jack/Jacques/Jose (sorry, James is still blissed-out), off-camera Will/Elizabeth
Disclaimer: Mine? Don't be ridiculous; if they were, I'd be taping and not writing.
Notes: Fits in Prologue
Summary: Headtrip into the blond side of things.
***
It's very dark under the bandanna. Or sash. Or whatever it is that they've wrapped about his eyes. Just a glimpse of scarlet, blurring past like a shooting star before his lust-blurred eyes. There'd been fingers teasing in and around him, and wet warmth stroking invisible markings into the layers beneath his skin, and in all of that, he'd still managed to notice the slight rasp of cloth.
He'd missed the rope, which had coiled cobra-like about wrists and ankles. One frayed end had tickled up between his spread thighs, brushing the blood towards his rising incoherency, before it had slipped round his waist.
The bed isn't even touching him any more. He's suspended in space, twisting and jerking in steamed air that seems to suck all the tension out of him whenever he moves. He doesn't think he's struggling. Why would he, after all? The distinct clink of gold and precious filters into his ears as a mouth molds itself to the bumps of his spine, tracing each one round with old, old signs. He can feel them sinking into his flesh, arabesques of gilt and jet fire. They curl and tumble through his blood, his nerves, his spirit. Overwriting the previous inscriptions with kind wildness. It's a knowing touch, the movement of fingers and lips and breath across the breadth of his shoulders, down the smoothness of his flanks, and it puts new stars in the black sky of his blinded sight.
There's another, untutored in surface but instinctively adept, caressing the ripple and shiver of his stomach as he swings in endless enveloping ambiguity. Calluses, earthy and solid, softly etch their worldly experience inside him even as lips impart heaven and hell into the small dip of his bellybutton. It's them who put the twinkle to the pinpoints of light that grace the underside of his eyelids. It's their slow engraving that stretches out the tension in his spine, sends it twanging up to meet the waves of spiritual rum that wash down from near his head.
He's drunk, and nearby, two angels are laughing. Male and female, and the rules on high must have changed since last he had a chance to discuss such matters with priests and alchemists, because he didn't think the seraphim were so human as to have sexes. But no matter. The crush in his heart blooms, and the sea courses its overwhelming grace through him, wiping clean all sins in its baptism. And the angels gasp in wonder as the benedictions murmur themselves along his bones in two melting timbres.
He is Jacques now. The whimsical bestowing of his name has become truth, and it carves itself over his past failures, his regrets, his shames.
He's found his place.
***