A/N: so... what really happened on the deserted island? here's how i figure it...
enjoy! please review!
"Mr. Sparrow," said Elizabeth indignantly, drawing away, secretly reveling in the success of her plan to get Jack drunk; hopefully drunk enough to pass out. "I'm not entirely sure I've had enough rum to allow that kind of talk."
His gaze turned quite solemn, and Elizabeth's eyes were drawn to the rings on his fingers. Her gaze snapped away as she realized which finger in particular she was lingering on, landing hastily on the nearby bonfire. "I know exactly what you mean love," he said seriously, brushing up the edges of his mustache. At the sound of his voice, Elizabeth's eyes instantly came to rest on his lips. It's the rum, she told herself, tearing her gaze away from him.
Elizabeth sat up a little straighter, raising the rum bottle high so that the amber liquid glistened, glowing in the flickering firelight. The plan is going perfectly! "To freedom," she declared, lifting her chin.
"To The Black Pearl," Jack added pensively. The bottles clinked pleasantly and fairly glowed in the firelight and Elizabeth felt almost giddy. Success was so near that she could almost taste it—or that could be the rum. Any minute, she thought, any minute now he'll start to drink, and then pass out. However, as she watched him intently, she suddenly realized with a jolt that he was also watching her with an expectant look in his dark eyes.
"Have you had enough now?" he asked roguishly, grinning rakishly down at her with the look of a cat.
Elizabeth gulped, her eyes widening in alarm. This is not going according to plan. The thought was wry and sour. "I suppose not…" she replied falteringly, fingering the material of her chemise in unease.
"Well go on then, have some more," he suggested grandly.
She took several nervous gulps, gripping the bottle in an ungainly manner with two hands around its neck as if she wished to strangle it. Soon, however, her anxiety disappeared, and a hazy smile appeared on her face. The alcohol was beginning to close over her mind completely, leaving virtually no sense of rational thought behind as she rapidly became rip-roaringly and undeniably inebriated.
It was like watching a train wreck. Jack had known from the moment she took a swig of rum that something was up. As if a 'well brought up young lady' like Miss Swann would ever drink rum willingly, he had thought. Hah! He could tell that some crazy, pigheaded plan was going through that pretty head of hers and that he would have to watch the girl carefully that night. He had easily fooled her into believing that he was drunk, and maybe he was… a little, but not enough for it to cloud over his sense of self-preservation.
Obviously, by this point, whatever scheme had been in the conniving wench's head was now out of it, because now, much to his amusement, the girl before him was utterly drunk and could barely sit up without clutching his arm. It was a tempting thing. The shift she was wearing was none to thick, and it clung to her slight frame in a way that made the roaring pirate in Jack just want to give in to temptation.
Said pirate was already needling his conscience. Just give in, it whispered in the back of his mind. His conscience had a steady reply that was something along the lines of her being a virgin and all… but that devil inside him continued to insist that hey—it had never stopped him before.
While Jack had to admit that this was true, he did have a sort of honor code when it came to females, especially pretty, young, intoxicated females with a lot to lose if somehow something went amiss one night.
But the woman was practically giving herself away, leaning against Jack and giving him flirtatious endearments that he did not deserve, no matter how handsome and dashing he was (if he did say so himself.) She was practically asking for Jack to ravage her by the firelight.
And then she almost actually did ask for it, metaphors aside. "Jack, are you listening?" She had an endearingly childlike frown on her face.
"Yes, love," he said, but was distracted by his own internal war.
She pouted. "You're still not listening, but maybe this'll get your attention." She leaned into him. "Don't you wanna kiss me?" she asked him coquettishly, her face turned up to him.
Jack nearly jumped with surprise as her proposal brought him back to conversation with other human beings, as opposed to just various parts of himself. But then it was back to Jack arguing with Jack. Do I want to kiss her? He peered down at her ponderingly, noticing her high cheekbones, the fullness of her lips, and the way the shadows played across her face to make her all the more tempting. This point, all parts of him agreed on quite firmly. Yes, I do want to kiss Elizabeth Swann. He stopped in mid thought. The question is, should I?
The look on her face was one of a long-suffering martyr who was just begging to be kissed. She batted her eyelashes at him, looking up at him with large, brown eyes. "Please??" she wheedled.
That was the last straw. The girl was asking for it—no—she was pleading for it, so he shrugged and gave in to the suave pirate that always managed to slither out of situations and leave Jack's conscience to deal with the consequences. He captured her lips with his own and slipped his tongue into her mouth to taste her. She tasted vaguely of rum, and of something sweet and pure, and Jack knew that now that he had kissed her, now that he had sampled her flavor, there would be no going back.
Elizabeth was drunk for the first time in her life, and she remembered flirting outrageously, but suddenly, they were rolling down the beach and kissing each other all over. Clothes had not yet begun to come off, but if she did not stop it soon, they would, and she couldn't let that happen. What would her father say?
Nothing good, that's for sure.
So she started with some halfhearted struggling and a limp sound of protest in the back of her throat. He was already unlacing her chemise, and though the part of her that was passionate did not care (or perhaps, maybe, was glad that he was already unlacing her chemise), she pushed him slightly and said weakly, "Wait."
He obviously did not want to wait particularly, but complied with a resigned sigh. "What is it, love?" he asked, nipping at her earlobe and feeling the curve of her waist with his hand. Most of his weight rested on her, and though it wasn't particularly uncomfortable, it wasn't particularly appropriate either.
"I'm not ready for this," she gasped, even though a large and rather infuriated part of her screamed that she was. However, the part of her more commonly known to the world—the upright, responsible part of her—quashed the feelings that coursed through her body as her rational mind began to retake control. She shook her head firmly as he groaned. "I am not ready for this." She sounded ever so slightly like she was trying to convince herself of the fact. The third time she said it, she finally believed it.
"I am not ready for this."
Jack had stopped short the first time. Now he was just infuriated.
God woman, make up your bloody mind! Jack wanted to scream. He was so close. So close. And now she had to use that quiet but firm tone of voice and act like the purest of maidens with no desires whatsoever of the sexual nature. He wanted to scream in frustration. Or throw something. Or do something involving mindless violence. Or drink himself into a stupor.
Instead, he had to just roll off of her with a small grunt and then sigh. He could not go attack someone or scream or throw things. Instead, he had to pretend he was perfectly all right with the whole thing and spend the rest of the night by himself. Fine, he fumed inwardly. But next time she wants kisses, I'm not holding back!
"Go to bed, Elizabeth," he said harshly, stumbling away to cool himself off in privacy. Again with that damned honor code, he thought, cursing himself. He headed out to the darkness, and then on second thought, weaved his way back to the fire and scooped up a rum bottle that was still half full.
Not too late to drink yourself into a stupor, mate, he told himself grimly, staggering off to the other side of the island and brooding the rest of the night.