I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales

I do not own a drunk pirate.

Treasure


"What am I to you?!"

"Treasure."


Hector Barbossa had always, would always be, a pirate.

It was in his blood.

The sea.

The salt of it on his skin. The brine upon his lips.

The crash of the waves in his ears, like music it was.

He was a pirate.

The sea was his home.

The rocking of a ship under his boots. The warming of the midday sun casting the shadow of his feathered hat upon the wheel.

It called to him, made him the man he was.

Lately however, he had been called away from his mistress, his first love.

To another.

A much more . . . earthier presence.


"Maggie, m' darlin', you grow more beautiful with every passing day we meet."

A busty barmaid with a quick tongue in her head and sharp dagger hidden about her person.

"Ah, stow ya pretty words, Hector, and turn out yer pockets for yer brew."

A grinning, much young Hector Barbossa, only slightly ravaged by the wind and tides.

Just enough to be dashing.

"Of course, mi' lady! All's you've got to do is grant me clemency."

A cocked brow over an eye so clear of what color of a green apple.

"Clemency for what, pray tell?"

Sly swarthy face.

"For this."

And he swiped out a hand to smack her bustled bottom.

"Give us a kiss, what say you?"

Quick as the slightly inebriated soldier of fortune could blink, he found himself with the tip of said dainty dagger just pricking at his whiskered throat.

And a surreshing voice in his ear.

"I'm disinclined to acquiesce to your request."

She drew back to see a befuddled pirate with almost cross drunk eyes staring uncomprehendingly at her.

She smiled, wicked sharp.

"Means 'no'."

Then she sauntered off, olive skin of the back of her neck striking against the worn white of her blouse.

Tired dark curls dancing tiredly stop her head as she maintained her sashaying gait.

"'e fancies you," the greasy bartender greeted her.

She barked out a laugh.

"Aye, him and every other dog in this dump."

The bartender frowned.

"Ain't a dump, it's me home."

To which she rolled her apple green eyes.

"Yer dump of a home, Curly."


"Oh me, beautiful lass of the Roasted Pig, will you not come a' sit upon me lap, whispering sweet nothings in me ear to lull me into the dream world this eve?"

He was a touch drunker than usual and the ale had served to loosen his wicked tongue even more than his custom.

Margaret Elizabeth Smyth sidestepped the rum soaked table with the deftness of long practice.

"No, I won't, ya cross-eyed cuttlefish! You be too drunk to know the way up!"

Hector swayed dangerously on his stool.

"The way up where?"

And passed out, crashing to the floor in a calamity of boot and hat and clay

"Bloody hell," admonished the barman named Curly. "That's the third tankard this week, it is!"

And the saucy lady herself shook her head.

And stepped over his snoring carcass.

Not entirely uncaring as to bash in what grey matter between his ears.


First foray into 'Pirates'. But I just couldn't help myself.

Four or five chapters, I think. Maybe more if I get inspired further.

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