Author's note: This is the first draft I wrote of this drabble, which I don't like very much. However, my friend came across it and convinced me (with only minimal use of sharp objects) to post it as well. So please let me know when you review which you prefer.
No Peace For the Wicked
They say there is no peace for the wicked, and I can attest to the truth of it. Consorting with a pirate. A fugitive for the law, responsible for innumerable crimes, a man who, until recently, I would have said only deserved to be hung. That was before he kissed me. And I kissed him in return, and allowed him to commit the sins of Sodom upon my body. Allowed perhaps being an understatement. So I am surely wicked, in the eyes of the law, the church, the navy, my country and my God.
Jack, lying beside me in the bed, stirs. Already close, he pulls me closer with his decorated arms, wishing me good morning in his usual rambling, nonsensical way. I open my mouth to reply, but his lips are already against mine, and my gesture only serves to admit his tongue while his always-active dancing hands roam across my body. He feels the effect his touches never fail to produce in me, and I taste his laughter as it bubbles out of his throat. He rolls onto his back, pulling me on top of him, coaxing and imperious all at once. I sigh and rolls my eyes in mock resignation, but grin with delight as I reach for the oil. There is truly no peace for the wicked, and I would not have it any other way.