[This certainly feels better. The sensation of stretching his arms over his head as Stede moves away is pleasant; skin warm and muscles relaxed, nothing flaking or cracking or drifting free to dirty the hallowed little space he's been allowed into for a time.
The sound that rises in Edward's chest as he stretches is soft and pleased. It's followed by a contented sort of "whomph" as he drops his arms again, rolling his shoulders through the directive to make himself comfortable. It would be lovely to fall back into his usual slouching against fine fabric and plush cushions, but he'll have to stay more or less upright, he suspects, to give his co-captain proper access to his unruly mass of hair.
A thoughtful heartbeat, and Edward moves again, tugging the light fabric of his shirt up and over his head. No use getting it splashed with water or dripped with oil, surely. The uglier scars are on his chest and spine. There are angry jagged marks where swords had run through him, puckered ugly places where shot had blasted through flesh and sinew. A few of the tattoos scattered across this skin are twisted and made more unearthly where scar tissue tugs at the images.
They're pieces of himself. Everything about Stede is soft and smooth and more or less intact, but the man's always seemed oddly accepting of the broken bits of Edward. That makes it easy to sit without self-consciousness as he waits, gaze once again drifting to search out details he'd missed in these quarters.]
no subject
The sound that rises in Edward's chest as he stretches is soft and pleased. It's followed by a contented sort of "whomph" as he drops his arms again, rolling his shoulders through the directive to make himself comfortable. It would be lovely to fall back into his usual slouching against fine fabric and plush cushions, but he'll have to stay more or less upright, he suspects, to give his co-captain proper access to his unruly mass of hair.
A thoughtful heartbeat, and Edward moves again, tugging the light fabric of his shirt up and over his head. No use getting it splashed with water or dripped with oil, surely. The uglier scars are on his chest and spine. There are angry jagged marks where swords had run through him, puckered ugly places where shot had blasted through flesh and sinew. A few of the tattoos scattered across this skin are twisted and made more unearthly where scar tissue tugs at the images.
They're pieces of himself. Everything about Stede is soft and smooth and more or less intact, but the man's always seemed oddly accepting of the broken bits of Edward. That makes it easy to sit without self-consciousness as he waits, gaze once again drifting to search out details he'd missed in these quarters.]