A/N: Boredom is the mother of smutty stories. Or something.
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me. Yadda yadda yadda. (That phrase, by the way, doesn't belong to me, either.)
Peering over his prostate body with some trepidation, Elizabeth gazed skeptically at the apparently unconscious Captain Jack Sparrow. His bottle of rum had been emptied, and lay forgotten at his side. It was a small comfort to see that he was breathing, but he appeared to be in the most serene stage of sleep, completely still and oblivious to the outside world, suddenly appearing very innocent and vulnerable. She leaned over his torso carefully, although she could hardly imagine that even the most rambunctious of movements would stir him.
Remembering the scars he had shown her earlier, she pushed his sleeve up his well-toned, sun-kissed forearm, and winced once again to see the web of scarring there. "Poor Jack," she mumbled to herself with true empathy, lightly tracing their maze with a fingertip. "You really are a brave man, aren't you?" It was a question that expected no answer, and the words were heard only by the wind. Feeling very sentimental, she hummed a quiet, mournful tune to herself, pushing a few forgotten strands of hair off his face. He really seemed quite harmless lying there in the sand, his breath coming steadily and softly, chest rising and falling in rhythm.
Freely exploring, her gentle, feminine touch trailed down his face and neck, pulling aside the beaten white shirt to reveal the souvenirs of battle that lay upon his bronze skin. Although she had seen them before, a small pang of surprise hit her as she examined them closely, and she saw his muscles twitch and relax, twitch and relax, as she ran her finger around the edges of the two small, circular wounds. "Still sore," she said softly, fascinated by the movement of his muscles beneath the skin.
The sudden touch at the tender skin awoke Jack from a peaceful, drunken doze. He became slowly aware of a familiar pounding at his temples, and then, more acutely, the delicate, foreign touch of a woman. Eyes still closed tightly, he tried to remember his surroundings, and when that failed, peered up curiously under heavy lashes.
It was a pleasant surprise to see the fair figure of Elizabeth Swann leaning over him, one hand very nearly buried in the sand by his side, bracing her lithe body, the other working small circles at his sensitive wounds. The curly locks of her dark gold hair fell around her face like a curtain, tickling at his chest, and she seemed almost angelic in the warm red glow of the fire still blazing beside them, shadows dancing across her smooth features, eyes catching the glint of the light and sparkling. Her breasts seemed loathe to be kept in the confines of her thin gown and threatened to spill over the neckline that contained them, and for a brief moment he wondered if he had been shipwrecked and rescued by a beautiful mermaid that would surely vanish once he came fully to his senses.
"Elizabeth," he said simply, a statement that was at the same time both a question and an answer. His voice had the throaty edge of one just awoken from sleep, and Elizabeth's gaze wandered up to his face to see his thoughtful brown eyes suddenly open, observing her.
"I thought you were...asleep," she said stupidly, blinking slowly.
"So did I," he said silkily, pushing his weight up onto his forearms and pulling the arm that braced her body out from under her, so that she collapsed against him. Suddenly the small breasts that had taunted him from beneath her gown were pressed soundly against his chest, the loose hairs that had tantalized his chest were a reality against his skin, smooth as silk. And the large brown doe eyes that had been so filled with gentleness only moments before appeared wider than ever, and afraid.
"Tell me, Elizabeth," he said, he voice a breathy whisper against her ear, "is this a dream?"
She did not answer, finding her vocal chords defunct at their proximity. The paralysis she had felt at his sudden seizure of her body vanished as he pulled her down into the sand with him, rolling her so that they lay there side-by-side. She felt suddenly very free, released somehow by the look in his eyes as they gazed at each other with slow, blinking eyes.
She did not protest when she felt his hand at her waist, pulling her flush to him. Nor did she protest when his fingers wound their way into her hair and he looked at her with a fire in his eyes that would've made her blush red all over in normal circumstances. It was an odd, thrilling new sensation, and she felt as if she were a stranger looking in at the scene unfolding before her.
The unreality of drunkenness was met by the very real solidarity of Jack. There was so much to take in at once, so much that was enormously earthy and male. There was the hard, unyielding sturdiness of his taut muscles, in sharp contrast to the pliability of her womanly curves. There was the sheer strength of his limbs against the sweet frailty of her dainty body. There was the boldness of his rough, large hands in contrast to the virginal uncertainty of her soft, small ones.
And most of all, there was the demanding quality of the first searing kiss that met her full lips, hungry and intense.
She separated her lips from his for the barest of moments, to gasp the answer to the question he had forgotten.
"This is a dream, Jack," she said, "..but let's keep dreaming."
:::to be continued:::
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me. Yadda yadda yadda. (That phrase, by the way, doesn't belong to me, either.)
Peering over his prostate body with some trepidation, Elizabeth gazed skeptically at the apparently unconscious Captain Jack Sparrow. His bottle of rum had been emptied, and lay forgotten at his side. It was a small comfort to see that he was breathing, but he appeared to be in the most serene stage of sleep, completely still and oblivious to the outside world, suddenly appearing very innocent and vulnerable. She leaned over his torso carefully, although she could hardly imagine that even the most rambunctious of movements would stir him.
Remembering the scars he had shown her earlier, she pushed his sleeve up his well-toned, sun-kissed forearm, and winced once again to see the web of scarring there. "Poor Jack," she mumbled to herself with true empathy, lightly tracing their maze with a fingertip. "You really are a brave man, aren't you?" It was a question that expected no answer, and the words were heard only by the wind. Feeling very sentimental, she hummed a quiet, mournful tune to herself, pushing a few forgotten strands of hair off his face. He really seemed quite harmless lying there in the sand, his breath coming steadily and softly, chest rising and falling in rhythm.
Freely exploring, her gentle, feminine touch trailed down his face and neck, pulling aside the beaten white shirt to reveal the souvenirs of battle that lay upon his bronze skin. Although she had seen them before, a small pang of surprise hit her as she examined them closely, and she saw his muscles twitch and relax, twitch and relax, as she ran her finger around the edges of the two small, circular wounds. "Still sore," she said softly, fascinated by the movement of his muscles beneath the skin.
The sudden touch at the tender skin awoke Jack from a peaceful, drunken doze. He became slowly aware of a familiar pounding at his temples, and then, more acutely, the delicate, foreign touch of a woman. Eyes still closed tightly, he tried to remember his surroundings, and when that failed, peered up curiously under heavy lashes.
It was a pleasant surprise to see the fair figure of Elizabeth Swann leaning over him, one hand very nearly buried in the sand by his side, bracing her lithe body, the other working small circles at his sensitive wounds. The curly locks of her dark gold hair fell around her face like a curtain, tickling at his chest, and she seemed almost angelic in the warm red glow of the fire still blazing beside them, shadows dancing across her smooth features, eyes catching the glint of the light and sparkling. Her breasts seemed loathe to be kept in the confines of her thin gown and threatened to spill over the neckline that contained them, and for a brief moment he wondered if he had been shipwrecked and rescued by a beautiful mermaid that would surely vanish once he came fully to his senses.
"Elizabeth," he said simply, a statement that was at the same time both a question and an answer. His voice had the throaty edge of one just awoken from sleep, and Elizabeth's gaze wandered up to his face to see his thoughtful brown eyes suddenly open, observing her.
"I thought you were...asleep," she said stupidly, blinking slowly.
"So did I," he said silkily, pushing his weight up onto his forearms and pulling the arm that braced her body out from under her, so that she collapsed against him. Suddenly the small breasts that had taunted him from beneath her gown were pressed soundly against his chest, the loose hairs that had tantalized his chest were a reality against his skin, smooth as silk. And the large brown doe eyes that had been so filled with gentleness only moments before appeared wider than ever, and afraid.
"Tell me, Elizabeth," he said, he voice a breathy whisper against her ear, "is this a dream?"
She did not answer, finding her vocal chords defunct at their proximity. The paralysis she had felt at his sudden seizure of her body vanished as he pulled her down into the sand with him, rolling her so that they lay there side-by-side. She felt suddenly very free, released somehow by the look in his eyes as they gazed at each other with slow, blinking eyes.
She did not protest when she felt his hand at her waist, pulling her flush to him. Nor did she protest when his fingers wound their way into her hair and he looked at her with a fire in his eyes that would've made her blush red all over in normal circumstances. It was an odd, thrilling new sensation, and she felt as if she were a stranger looking in at the scene unfolding before her.
The unreality of drunkenness was met by the very real solidarity of Jack. There was so much to take in at once, so much that was enormously earthy and male. There was the hard, unyielding sturdiness of his taut muscles, in sharp contrast to the pliability of her womanly curves. There was the sheer strength of his limbs against the sweet frailty of her dainty body. There was the boldness of his rough, large hands in contrast to the virginal uncertainty of her soft, small ones.
And most of all, there was the demanding quality of the first searing kiss that met her full lips, hungry and intense.
She separated her lips from his for the barest of moments, to gasp the answer to the question he had forgotten.
"This is a dream, Jack," she said, "..but let's keep dreaming."
:::to be continued:::