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...and fiddling around with things while I await mi madre so we can make the trek up to my sister's house. I just have to say though...Massages and Spa treatments for everyone. Hmmmm. And Champs too. And Dior.
And Nip/Tuck!! God, I *heart* this show. A show that actually brings up its own slash!!!!! (For those confused, Season 4 premiere asks the question, is Christian alone because he is already taken? Is he in love with Sean? All that sex from behind, and never kissing, and looking in the women's eyes, and obsessing over Sean and Sean's life, and his slightly metro appearance --waxed brows anyone-- and knowing that Sean is the only true connection he's ever had in his adult life....TEH GHEI. And he knows it now, and he's on the run).
*dead from awesomeness*
In other news, as though y'all didn't know. I am on crack.
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Black eyes were watching him, and Norrington felt his lips soften, nearly falling open as he stood there, staring back. He could hear his own breathing heavy between them and realized he was gaping like a fool. The sting of humiliation was there to match the burn at his cheeks, his brows settling into a frown before he forced his eyes away. He made too much noise clearing his throat, the sound harsh next to the slender figure that had not so much as whispered.
The eyes had tricked him, sending him places best forgotten, and Norrington ran one fingertip up along the delicate golden filigree William Turner had laid into his sword, the only bit of shine a redeemed privateer could claim. If he were to touch his fingers to his lips now, there would be the tang of the gold, salt on his tongue—just his own skin—and even the knowledge was enough to leave him in pain.
If he waited, the sharp cravings would fade, and he focused his mind on the swirls of Turner’s work, so deceptively simple in appearance. When studied closely his sword was more than a match to the decorative piece that the ambassador wore.
That weapon was doubtless purely for show, perhaps the occasional duel, and as his eyes counted the small jewels inset into the hilt, Norrington found himself wondering how this man would fair in a fight between two admitted pirates in a giant rolling waterwheel. Not well, even if his suit showed no signs of padding, the catching fabric of his stockings only showcasing the smooth, rounded flesh of his calves, hinting at the hard muscle of his thighs.
The black eyes that knew his every thought glinted in his mind again, this time defined by long, lush lashes smudged with paint. James clutched tight at his sword and deliberately moved his eyes up to the ambassador’s face, raking an openly disdainful gaze over the ridiculous affectations the man had chosen to wear to Jamaica, knowing it would melt in a matter of hours.
Nothing had been smeared around the dark eyes still observing him, and the long, black hair falling in graceful curls around the man’s shoulders was doubtless a wig. It was neatly arranged to frame the painted, pretty face, not one wild strand out of place, no clacking of ornaments and scraps of old victories tucked behind a ratty scarf. The only colour to be seen was the full, red mouth—and those bloody eyes.
“Monsieur Saint-Cyr?” Norrington kept his words sharp and strode the rest of the way across the room to shake hands. He only hoped the fop spoke English.
And Nip/Tuck!! God, I *heart* this show. A show that actually brings up its own slash!!!!! (For those confused, Season 4 premiere asks the question, is Christian alone because he is already taken? Is he in love with Sean? All that sex from behind, and never kissing, and looking in the women's eyes, and obsessing over Sean and Sean's life, and his slightly metro appearance --waxed brows anyone-- and knowing that Sean is the only true connection he's ever had in his adult life....TEH GHEI. And he knows it now, and he's on the run).
*dead from awesomeness*
In other news, as though y'all didn't know. I am on crack.
------------
Black eyes were watching him, and Norrington felt his lips soften, nearly falling open as he stood there, staring back. He could hear his own breathing heavy between them and realized he was gaping like a fool. The sting of humiliation was there to match the burn at his cheeks, his brows settling into a frown before he forced his eyes away. He made too much noise clearing his throat, the sound harsh next to the slender figure that had not so much as whispered.
The eyes had tricked him, sending him places best forgotten, and Norrington ran one fingertip up along the delicate golden filigree William Turner had laid into his sword, the only bit of shine a redeemed privateer could claim. If he were to touch his fingers to his lips now, there would be the tang of the gold, salt on his tongue—just his own skin—and even the knowledge was enough to leave him in pain.
If he waited, the sharp cravings would fade, and he focused his mind on the swirls of Turner’s work, so deceptively simple in appearance. When studied closely his sword was more than a match to the decorative piece that the ambassador wore.
That weapon was doubtless purely for show, perhaps the occasional duel, and as his eyes counted the small jewels inset into the hilt, Norrington found himself wondering how this man would fair in a fight between two admitted pirates in a giant rolling waterwheel. Not well, even if his suit showed no signs of padding, the catching fabric of his stockings only showcasing the smooth, rounded flesh of his calves, hinting at the hard muscle of his thighs.
The black eyes that knew his every thought glinted in his mind again, this time defined by long, lush lashes smudged with paint. James clutched tight at his sword and deliberately moved his eyes up to the ambassador’s face, raking an openly disdainful gaze over the ridiculous affectations the man had chosen to wear to Jamaica, knowing it would melt in a matter of hours.
Nothing had been smeared around the dark eyes still observing him, and the long, black hair falling in graceful curls around the man’s shoulders was doubtless a wig. It was neatly arranged to frame the painted, pretty face, not one wild strand out of place, no clacking of ornaments and scraps of old victories tucked behind a ratty scarf. The only colour to be seen was the full, red mouth—and those bloody eyes.
“Monsieur Saint-Cyr?” Norrington kept his words sharp and strode the rest of the way across the room to shake hands. He only hoped the fop spoke English.