[A/N- Johnny fan, don't worry. The corset episode is coming into play, very, very soon. Much to the contrary, your review didn't bore me, it tickled me to death! Thank you for thinking so much of my story to write me such dialogue! And Wicklowe, I'm not writing this for me- sorry. I'm writing it for our dearest darling sexy- assed pirate captain, who is, needless to say, very finicky in that I get it right. There's also the small fraction that if I don't get this finished soon, and I have to start on my next ic beforehand, I'll never finish! So I'm going to friggin finish! Do enjoy! Back to the homework for me. Perhaps another chapter while I'm at it.]
Jack downed the entire tankard of rum in one gulp, flagging down the barmaid for another. He was in his most comfortable stage of drunkenness, the wench who'd laid claim to him earlier sprawled across his lap. Yes, this was the life. He leaned down to kiss the woman sloppily. He could have her right there, almost. Back in the corner of the bloody bar, for every man and woman to see. She had a lovely arse, and how the hell did she get those breasts so high? A fleeting thought passed through his mind, but it was gone, and he turned to look behind him, actually expecting to watch that thought fly out the door. But it didn't, and he found himself leaning against the woman, her lips exploring his neck.
"Let's go somewhere a little more… private, shall we?" he slurred. She giggled and took his hand, leading him up the stairs. He shut the door behind him, kissing her soundly. He needed her out of that dress. He needed her in a way he hadn't had her in well over a week. He unlaced the dress with all the speed his drunken fingers possessed, kissing her shoulders, and pushing her on the bed. He struggled his the hard piece of fabric that was underneath the dress, then gave up, pulling out his knife. The whore squealed momentarily, and he held her down, slicing the knot in the fabric and ripping upwards, causing her to gasp at him in shock. He grinned at her, putting away the blade. He then fell on top of her, his hands dragging their leisurely way up her sides, scraping at her breast, then back down, as she wiggled in the flimsy slip she still had on. He dug into the skirt, pushing it up over her knees, and unlacing his trousers, ramming himself into her with probably a little too much force. He kept thrusting, letting his body give in to the necessity, his mind was a million miles away. When he was finished, he took a deep breath, stepping back and adjusting himself back to the respectable, invincible Captain Jack Sparrow.
"Thank ya, love," he tipped his hat to her, and walked out the door.
He walked down the stairs, back into the bar, and to the barmaid, gripping a tankard on her tray and spilling his pay on it. He gulped down the drink, slamming the empty mug on the nearest table, and walked out of the tavern.
***
You don't know what it was like, love. And neither did I, at the time. Not that I blame you, understand. It wasn't your fault you stole my heart. At least, to the best of my knowledge, it was never your intention.
But still. I look down, and there's this woman. And she has black eyes, and dark skin, and black hair, and carries herself like a bloody whore. You know what I mean. And I don't know if it was her eyes, or her perfume, or the feeling of being inside her, but there was something missing in the whole exchange, and when I walked out of the tavern, I wanted to run back to the shaman's and have you help me sort this feeling out. But I wasn't allowed there, and you were unconscious with an arm as wide as the bloody mizenmast. My fault, that one. His words kept ringing through me head- do you really want to break her? he'd asked, and I said I didn't know. But some things require breaking, love, and that shield of yours would be first to go.
Like I said before, you didn't mean to steal my heart. I don't think.