Once you go Jack Part 2
Title: "Once you go Jack . . . Part 2"
Author: linaerys
E-mail: linaerys@yahoo.com
Fandom: PotC
Rating/Classification: R, J/E/W, less angst but still some.
Disclaimer: Although I work for a Disney subsidiary, I do not own these characters
Summary: Elizabeth and Will try to leave Captain Jack, but how long can they stay away? Apparently not very long.
Will awoke with a familiar, uncomfortable feeling. Several, actually; one was that his brain was definitely functioning slower than usual, and two, that he seemed to be having trouble breathing through his nose. I know this one, he thought, it's thick, doesn't smell great, and—here he tried to inhale deeply—it is rather grainy and hard to breath in. Other sensations started to greet him, the leaden feeling in his limbs, the pounding headache working its way out from his temples. Ah hah, he realized, I'm laying face down, in the dirt, and trying to breathe it in.
Hmmm, now where was this dirt. That was another thought to be pondered. The last time he had truly felt this awful, he had awoken on the street in Port Royal, after Barbosa's pirates had attacked. But this wasn't Port Royal; for one thing, it smelled worse, for another, there seemed to be some loud snuffling noises near him. Pigs, his mind eventually produced. He managed to turn himself over and found, to his surprise and delight, that he was still clutching a half-full bottle of rum in his hand. "I know what to do about this," he mumbled and took a swig. The pigs started nosing around, but they seemed like nothing more than big pillows to him, as oblivion took him again.
The next thing he knew was a splash of water in the face, and Mr. Gibbs standing over him. "Heh," he laughed, "isn't this a fine change, laddie. Captain wants to meet."
Twilight fell quickly in Tortoga, so close to the equator, and Will saw the skies darkening through the palm trees, and judged it to be late afternoon. He looked down, shamefaced at his rumpled, smelly clothing, much the worse for wear for having spent the night and most of a day in a pig-sty. Mr. Gibbs noticed him trying to straighten out his appearance and said, "No harm in it, laddie. I've spent many a fine evening on shore leave and awoken with nothing but a bottle. Sailor's lot."
Will tried to remember the night before. He recalled some maudlin drinking, being groped by Jack—as if that weren't a common enough experience—and . . . waking up in dirt. There had to be more to it than that. Oh yes, some sadistic corner of his mind supplied, there was more. He had a fuzzy recollection of crying . . . about Jack? To Jack? He couldn't quite work it out. At least Gibbs thinks it was a fine evening, so I hope I didn't make that big a fool out of myself, he rationalized.
They reached a small door under some stairs. Gibbs looked around carefully, then rapped a signal on the door, and Anamaria let them in. The crew was talking aimlessly, hashing over past battles, debating the merit of various sailors they'd seen for hire, to shore up the Pearl's ranks. Jack was already in full story telling mode, wrapping up some yarn about a nun's knickers. Elizabeth looked the way he loved best, in white britches that hugged the curves of her arse, worn men's boots, and a loose white shirt. Her hair was pulled casually back from her face, but fell long and wavy down her back. A sword was belted around one hip, and a dagger rode low on the other. Will remembered countless hot afternoons on deck, practicing fencing with her. Her defenses and footwork were so deft now, only on a good day could either Jack or Will beat her.
Jack taught her to fight dirty. That's what the dagger was for. He'd seen in smeared with blood and hair after some of their fiercer engagements, and thought it was all for the best they hadn't fought near each other those days. Jack was ready to see her slitting throats, but, though Will was a competent and able pirate, he was not quite capable of seeing his wife the same way. Jack looked ready to get started, and conversation started to die down. Elizabeth swung one graceful leg up on the table. Jack regarded it with lazy delectation, and leapt up on the table.
"Ah, we're all here," Jack began, "There's a ship as needs attacking sailing for Isla de los Muertos. One of Barbosa's officers has gotten himself a ship and crew and now has some treasure to leave there, and I think it would really be best if we relieved him of it, savvy?
"It's a big ship, lots of guns, but slow. Big ship, like the dauntless. Needs a big crew."
The crew looked around in wonder. Was Jack looking to become commodore?
"Many of you may be wondering," Jack continued, "if I want to become commodore. And I say: take what you can!"
"And give nothing back!" roared back the crew. Will saw Elizabeth raise her glass with the rest of them
"We depart in the dead man's hour," he added, "the darkest hour of night. We don't need all of Tortuga knowing our business, mmm? Be ready."
Elizabeth threw an unmistakable look at Will; it was all there, the pouting lips, the flaring nostrils, the wide eyes—she had every intention of being on the Pearl when they attacked. Why did I ever suggest leaving? Will berated himself, she'd die without this excitement. Jack seemed to catch the look passing between them and smiled his sideways smile.
***
The night before a battle was always exciting. Elizabeth lived for the slivers of fire that danced through her veins. She felt light and jumpy, like her skin couldn't contain her. As was her habit, she spent the hours before their departure sharpening her blades—in addition to the dagger, she always kept a few slimmer blades for throwing tucked in arm sheathes, and a few in her boots as well. She laid out a small pistol and made sure it was loaded and safetied before setting it on the dresser. The dresser in Jack's room she realized. No longer hers. Oh well, she thought, tossing her hair over one shoulder. All my battle gear is here.
She started getting her hair ready, too, dividing it into two sections, so she could braid it down tight on her head. No use giving the enemy something else to grab onto. She'd escaped rape before only by virtue of her supernatural captors' curse, and she had no wish to risk it again. As her hands were occupied with her hair, tangled in a difficult part of the braid, she heard the door open, and heard her visitor attempting to be quiet. She heard the jingle of small bells and the swish of hair, and started to inhale a musky, spicy smell. Even though, at this point, they both knew the other was aware, she didn't stop the game, but allowed Jack to grasp her hands and hair pinning them up against the wall.
With his free hand she felt him pull down her britches, and felt the cool night air caressing her rear. "We have a little tradition, the night before a battle, don't we, luv?" she heard him whisper. "Aye," she moaned. She heard him pull down his own britches, and as he bumped against her, she could feel that he was already hard and ready. Sometimes she liked it to last for hours, but their pre-battle lust was always sated quickly and roughly. She felt two fingers, those rough, oily ones she knew so well, slide into her, and she was already more than ready, pushing back against him, moaning and begging for him to enter her hard. He did, driving into her, seeming like he was trying to push through her. She built up immediately to a crest, but he was by no means finished, and continued in his strong and punishing rhythm against her. She moaned again, and listened to that sound she'd missed so much (could it only have been three days?) of his flesh slapping hers, the wet sucking noises his body made in hers. The finish was hard and fast and left her as breathless as him. He withdrew and let her fall limply on the bed, smiled a little smile and kissed his fingertips in salute.
"If we die tomorrow morning, luv," he said as he buckled up his clothing, "it will almost be worth it." And with that ambiguous compliment, he left the cabin.
To be continued . . .
Title: "Once you go Jack . . . Part 2"
Author: linaerys
E-mail: linaerys@yahoo.com
Fandom: PotC
Rating/Classification: R, J/E/W, less angst but still some.
Disclaimer: Although I work for a Disney subsidiary, I do not own these characters
Summary: Elizabeth and Will try to leave Captain Jack, but how long can they stay away? Apparently not very long.
Will awoke with a familiar, uncomfortable feeling. Several, actually; one was that his brain was definitely functioning slower than usual, and two, that he seemed to be having trouble breathing through his nose. I know this one, he thought, it's thick, doesn't smell great, and—here he tried to inhale deeply—it is rather grainy and hard to breath in. Other sensations started to greet him, the leaden feeling in his limbs, the pounding headache working its way out from his temples. Ah hah, he realized, I'm laying face down, in the dirt, and trying to breathe it in.
Hmmm, now where was this dirt. That was another thought to be pondered. The last time he had truly felt this awful, he had awoken on the street in Port Royal, after Barbosa's pirates had attacked. But this wasn't Port Royal; for one thing, it smelled worse, for another, there seemed to be some loud snuffling noises near him. Pigs, his mind eventually produced. He managed to turn himself over and found, to his surprise and delight, that he was still clutching a half-full bottle of rum in his hand. "I know what to do about this," he mumbled and took a swig. The pigs started nosing around, but they seemed like nothing more than big pillows to him, as oblivion took him again.
The next thing he knew was a splash of water in the face, and Mr. Gibbs standing over him. "Heh," he laughed, "isn't this a fine change, laddie. Captain wants to meet."
Twilight fell quickly in Tortoga, so close to the equator, and Will saw the skies darkening through the palm trees, and judged it to be late afternoon. He looked down, shamefaced at his rumpled, smelly clothing, much the worse for wear for having spent the night and most of a day in a pig-sty. Mr. Gibbs noticed him trying to straighten out his appearance and said, "No harm in it, laddie. I've spent many a fine evening on shore leave and awoken with nothing but a bottle. Sailor's lot."
Will tried to remember the night before. He recalled some maudlin drinking, being groped by Jack—as if that weren't a common enough experience—and . . . waking up in dirt. There had to be more to it than that. Oh yes, some sadistic corner of his mind supplied, there was more. He had a fuzzy recollection of crying . . . about Jack? To Jack? He couldn't quite work it out. At least Gibbs thinks it was a fine evening, so I hope I didn't make that big a fool out of myself, he rationalized.
They reached a small door under some stairs. Gibbs looked around carefully, then rapped a signal on the door, and Anamaria let them in. The crew was talking aimlessly, hashing over past battles, debating the merit of various sailors they'd seen for hire, to shore up the Pearl's ranks. Jack was already in full story telling mode, wrapping up some yarn about a nun's knickers. Elizabeth looked the way he loved best, in white britches that hugged the curves of her arse, worn men's boots, and a loose white shirt. Her hair was pulled casually back from her face, but fell long and wavy down her back. A sword was belted around one hip, and a dagger rode low on the other. Will remembered countless hot afternoons on deck, practicing fencing with her. Her defenses and footwork were so deft now, only on a good day could either Jack or Will beat her.
Jack taught her to fight dirty. That's what the dagger was for. He'd seen in smeared with blood and hair after some of their fiercer engagements, and thought it was all for the best they hadn't fought near each other those days. Jack was ready to see her slitting throats, but, though Will was a competent and able pirate, he was not quite capable of seeing his wife the same way. Jack looked ready to get started, and conversation started to die down. Elizabeth swung one graceful leg up on the table. Jack regarded it with lazy delectation, and leapt up on the table.
"Ah, we're all here," Jack began, "There's a ship as needs attacking sailing for Isla de los Muertos. One of Barbosa's officers has gotten himself a ship and crew and now has some treasure to leave there, and I think it would really be best if we relieved him of it, savvy?
"It's a big ship, lots of guns, but slow. Big ship, like the dauntless. Needs a big crew."
The crew looked around in wonder. Was Jack looking to become commodore?
"Many of you may be wondering," Jack continued, "if I want to become commodore. And I say: take what you can!"
"And give nothing back!" roared back the crew. Will saw Elizabeth raise her glass with the rest of them
"We depart in the dead man's hour," he added, "the darkest hour of night. We don't need all of Tortuga knowing our business, mmm? Be ready."
Elizabeth threw an unmistakable look at Will; it was all there, the pouting lips, the flaring nostrils, the wide eyes—she had every intention of being on the Pearl when they attacked. Why did I ever suggest leaving? Will berated himself, she'd die without this excitement. Jack seemed to catch the look passing between them and smiled his sideways smile.
***
The night before a battle was always exciting. Elizabeth lived for the slivers of fire that danced through her veins. She felt light and jumpy, like her skin couldn't contain her. As was her habit, she spent the hours before their departure sharpening her blades—in addition to the dagger, she always kept a few slimmer blades for throwing tucked in arm sheathes, and a few in her boots as well. She laid out a small pistol and made sure it was loaded and safetied before setting it on the dresser. The dresser in Jack's room she realized. No longer hers. Oh well, she thought, tossing her hair over one shoulder. All my battle gear is here.
She started getting her hair ready, too, dividing it into two sections, so she could braid it down tight on her head. No use giving the enemy something else to grab onto. She'd escaped rape before only by virtue of her supernatural captors' curse, and she had no wish to risk it again. As her hands were occupied with her hair, tangled in a difficult part of the braid, she heard the door open, and heard her visitor attempting to be quiet. She heard the jingle of small bells and the swish of hair, and started to inhale a musky, spicy smell. Even though, at this point, they both knew the other was aware, she didn't stop the game, but allowed Jack to grasp her hands and hair pinning them up against the wall.
With his free hand she felt him pull down her britches, and felt the cool night air caressing her rear. "We have a little tradition, the night before a battle, don't we, luv?" she heard him whisper. "Aye," she moaned. She heard him pull down his own britches, and as he bumped against her, she could feel that he was already hard and ready. Sometimes she liked it to last for hours, but their pre-battle lust was always sated quickly and roughly. She felt two fingers, those rough, oily ones she knew so well, slide into her, and she was already more than ready, pushing back against him, moaning and begging for him to enter her hard. He did, driving into her, seeming like he was trying to push through her. She built up immediately to a crest, but he was by no means finished, and continued in his strong and punishing rhythm against her. She moaned again, and listened to that sound she'd missed so much (could it only have been three days?) of his flesh slapping hers, the wet sucking noises his body made in hers. The finish was hard and fast and left her as breathless as him. He withdrew and let her fall limply on the bed, smiled a little smile and kissed his fingertips in salute.
"If we die tomorrow morning, luv," he said as he buckled up his clothing, "it will almost be worth it." And with that ambiguous compliment, he left the cabin.
To be continued . . .