Author's Note: OK, I know this is bad. It's my first fanfic, give me a
break. Expect the installments to be short, as I don't have the patience
to write for a long time and I like to update every time I write. Please
give me reviews, but don't yell at me for my short updates, or I will be
sad.
It spread itself out before him, beckoning him, bringing to mind more than a few desires a month of sea salt air had crystallized in his mind. They were not wholesome. "Tortuga," he whispered, liking the way its foreign poetry danced on his tongue, the way the rumble of his voice when he said it burned his salt-scorched throat. Dancing with fire. He liked that. It was dangerous and irresponsible and illogical, everything he admired in the sea. And in himself.
He could smell Gibb before he heard him; a thick sour stench preceded him. Rum, bad rum. He considered playing the captain once more before they reached shore, bellowing at his first mate and all the others who'd celebrated shore-leave early, spitting frightful curses at them, calling for the nine-tails. You could never be too careful. He knew. But after a month at sea, a month of being careful, his energy was gone. In any case, the sight of Tortuga had cheered him considerably.
Jack Sparrow. She'd been sure it was him when he'd first swaggered in; she'd heard enough stories from the other girls. She hadn't thought much of them or of him. But then he had approached her, pressing the doubloons into her palm and asking to go to her room, and she'd been taken aback by his voice. Although coarse from a lifetime of sea air and cheap rum, it had a musicality she wasn't used to, and she'd found herself attracted to its owner. It had surprised her, the power his voice had over her. Especially since she never allowed herself to be attracted to anyone. It got in the way of business.
It spread itself out before him, beckoning him, bringing to mind more than a few desires a month of sea salt air had crystallized in his mind. They were not wholesome. "Tortuga," he whispered, liking the way its foreign poetry danced on his tongue, the way the rumble of his voice when he said it burned his salt-scorched throat. Dancing with fire. He liked that. It was dangerous and irresponsible and illogical, everything he admired in the sea. And in himself.
He could smell Gibb before he heard him; a thick sour stench preceded him. Rum, bad rum. He considered playing the captain once more before they reached shore, bellowing at his first mate and all the others who'd celebrated shore-leave early, spitting frightful curses at them, calling for the nine-tails. You could never be too careful. He knew. But after a month at sea, a month of being careful, his energy was gone. In any case, the sight of Tortuga had cheered him considerably.
Jack Sparrow. She'd been sure it was him when he'd first swaggered in; she'd heard enough stories from the other girls. She hadn't thought much of them or of him. But then he had approached her, pressing the doubloons into her palm and asking to go to her room, and she'd been taken aback by his voice. Although coarse from a lifetime of sea air and cheap rum, it had a musicality she wasn't used to, and she'd found herself attracted to its owner. It had surprised her, the power his voice had over her. Especially since she never allowed herself to be attracted to anyone. It got in the way of business.