(no subject)
TITLE: Consequence
PAIRING: Jack and Elizabeth
RATING: Hard R (good old fashioned infidelity)
DISCLAIMER: If it were mine, this exact thing would happen.
AN: I've incorporated a few lines, or ideas from various drabbles I've written it the past, and fleshed them out a bit if I felt they deserved a longer, more revised story to go into. Set sometime post-AWE, but I don't make any assumptions (or, many) as to what happens in the movie. Better to wait.
"Darling, you still have far too much interest in consequence."
"A habit you haven't yet broken me of, I suppose."
"In time," He mutters quietly, burning holes into her with his charcoal gaze, "in time."
She tells herself that these midnight rendezvous mean nothing, that it's only an old friend, only a bit of fun, only a way of keeping herself occupied while her husband dreams dreams in which his wife is most decidedly not drinking with a pirate captain into the wee hours. She forces phantom hands, rough against her unmarred skin, out of her consciousness, out of her dreams; waking, and sleeping, so that when faced with actual flesh and blood, she tells herself she can't remember what he tasted like. She tells herself that it's not a slow, painful battle to go back to shore in the morning, that it isn't getting harder not to beg him to take her with him, like she'd always wanted, in a different lifetime.
It's been far too many years to talk about old betrayals, and who killed whom, it all gets so complicated after awhile.
"Besides," She begins, "in this particular instance, forgive me, I'm sure I've more than enough cause to consider consequence." Pirates take what is not theirs, it's as natural as breathing, Jack is no exception, "You do realize I'm a married woman." This was not a question.
He places his hands together, a mea culpa, begging the lady's forgiveness, "Not attempting to take advantage, luv, only pointing out what you've already told me."
A sign escapes her barely parted lips, and she regards him imploringly, "And what, pray tell, have I already told you, Jack, I've said nothing to that effect."
"But your body betrays you, Mrs. Turner, even the way you breathe." He moves closer, beads moving against each other, his matted mane creating a curtain around her face that shuts out the entire world, he whispers, and the air she draws in tastes like rum, "You know what you've come here for."
He wasn't sure who he was trying to test, himself, or the girl. He was equally unsure as to how either of them were doing.
"I'm here," She presses the bottle to her lips, letting the burn run down her throat and into her belly, "because I've become a horribly boring housewife, and I've a need for things more exciting than needle work," he knows the little laugh she gives when she's nervous, it's a strangled giggle that never quite escapes her throat, "and I've decided, Captain Sparrow, that an old friend is the perfect remedy, no more, no less."
"Couldn't be boring if you tried."
"I'm not trying," it's just something that happens, that's what all the old couples say, "I love Will." She's not sure why she said it.
"And he loves you."
"And he loves me."
"So then it stands to reason that he knows you're here," He pauses, moving ever closer, punctuating each word with some sort of grand gesture, "knows exactly where you are, and has no qualms about you, and your old friend, yeah?"
"No."
"No." He nods, a glint in his eye caused by confirmed suspicion, "Now, Elizabeth, is that any sort of behavior for a boring housewife?"
"No."
"'Course not."
He takes another drink.
She follows suit.
"You know, my Mother, before she died, used to read to me before bed. She would always let me pick the story, just one, but, it could be any one I wanted," For a moment he thinks he sees tears forming behind her inebriated eyes, "sometimes it would be Bartholomew Roberts, or Anne Bonny, but, most nights, I wanted to hear about you."
"I knew Annie," He takes another swig, "and Jack," his tone grows quiet, "I was in the crowd, I saw what they did to him." She fights the urge to place her hand on his back, and instead takes another drink, after raising her bottle to his, "You remind me of her, a little."
"Who's that?"
"Anne."
It means something.
"Roberts, on the other hand," he makes a face, as though the rum had begun to disagree with him, "complete wanker, and crazy, too. Ah, but he had unrivaled loyalty. Did you know that his men, once he was killed, promptly gave up and started drinking, and by the time the Navy men went aboard to capture them, they found all the pirates drunk and----"
"---crying." She finishes, nodding; she's heard it before. Still, he notices her face light up, as though she's a child, hearing her stories from the man who lived them. He smiles, genuinely, a way that few ever witness.
"Like very drunk squalling infants."
She notices suddenly that his hand has settled on her thigh, and is subtlety moving, gripping, "There are some who'd say the consequence is damnation." She says without much conviction, without moving away as he comes forward, once more; as he moves in, slow, and fast, and without allowing a proper amount of reaction time.
"Give me hell," He traces her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, she feels him shiver when she takes it into her mouth, "it's a merrier place."
She tells herself to never forget what he tastes like again, or his hands on her skirts, clutching, pulling, and fueling the white hot fire growing in the pit of her stomach. He tastes like secrets, salt, sin, and all manner of other things un-befitting a lady of station. His mouth spells out betrayal along her collarbone in broken blood vessels. He is an idea, who's sole purpose is sating the desires of women doomed to wake next to mediocrity. He is an abstraction invented to give hope to the cloistered. He is a fairy tale that tugs at her hair like salvation.
"Jack," She's panting, shaking; he's always known when she's nervous, "what are you trying to do?"
"Nothing, luv," He brushes the hair from her face, "I only open the doors, you decide whether or not to walk through them."
There are three empty rum bottles.
"I don't think I could walk at all right now, actually."
"Not even so far as my cabin?"
"I'm not yours."
He flinches, and grabs her left hand, pressing it hard against his, palm to palm, scar to scar, "Yes," he whispers, harshly, "you are." He watches her resolve crumble, "The compass doesn't lie, darling."
His shirt is off by the time they tumble through the cabin door, his mouth covering hers takes her mind off the pain when her back meets hard wall, and she's arching into him, clawing at his back, leaving bloody half moons in her wake. She gasps when he cuts her corset laces, moving against the leather-bound hand that cups her breast, the calloused thumb that brushes her nipple. She pulls at his belt, and breeches, down, and off; he presses against her, pinning her even closer to the wall. She pouts, with wet, swollen lips, when he stops touching her, when he reaches to untie his bandanna.
Hair falls in his face, wild and unruly, but it's a sight she only enjoys until he ties the dirty red cloth around her eyes. She feels her remaining underskirt fall, and then he lifts her, both legs wrapped around his waist, he pushes into her, and she stops thinking.
Will touches her like glass, like she's the porcelain doll that exists in every portrait her Father ever had commissioned. This is what it means to be pillaged, this is her age of exploration. She tells herself that William would never, ever kiss her like that.
Not anymore.
He grunts into her neck, hot, hurried breaths sticking to the flesh. His ever-moving fingers find her center, tracing small circles, causing her to bite into his shoulder to keep from crying out. She reaches up, pushing the bandanna from her eyes, and finally meets his lusty stare. He is the most beautiful thing she's ever seen; then all she sees are stars. She catches his earlobe between her teeth, and he shudders inside of her, collapsing, finally, against her chest.
Dressing is done is silence, as is the sunrise row back to shore, and most of the goodbye that followed. He starts to walk away, back toward the beach, back toward his sea.
"Rum." She whispers, because that's what she's telling herself now that the tremblings subsided, and he turns, as though she'd caused him to remember something.
He stops short of her, regarding her carefully for a moment, and then pulls his hand from his pocket.
"You might want this back, before you go." He's produced her wedding ring, and she's not sure if she lost it in the haze, or if he'd taken it, as some sort of statement. "For the sake of appearances," He pauses, "and blacksmiths."
He takes her left hand again, and places it back on her finger. She says nothing, only nods, and turns to walk back toward town. She thinks she hears him say it would never have worked, anyhow.
epilogue.
PAIRING: Jack and Elizabeth
RATING: Hard R (good old fashioned infidelity)
DISCLAIMER: If it were mine, this exact thing would happen.
AN: I've incorporated a few lines, or ideas from various drabbles I've written it the past, and fleshed them out a bit if I felt they deserved a longer, more revised story to go into. Set sometime post-AWE, but I don't make any assumptions (or, many) as to what happens in the movie. Better to wait.
"Darling, you still have far too much interest in consequence."
"A habit you haven't yet broken me of, I suppose."
"In time," He mutters quietly, burning holes into her with his charcoal gaze, "in time."
She tells herself that these midnight rendezvous mean nothing, that it's only an old friend, only a bit of fun, only a way of keeping herself occupied while her husband dreams dreams in which his wife is most decidedly not drinking with a pirate captain into the wee hours. She forces phantom hands, rough against her unmarred skin, out of her consciousness, out of her dreams; waking, and sleeping, so that when faced with actual flesh and blood, she tells herself she can't remember what he tasted like. She tells herself that it's not a slow, painful battle to go back to shore in the morning, that it isn't getting harder not to beg him to take her with him, like she'd always wanted, in a different lifetime.
It's been far too many years to talk about old betrayals, and who killed whom, it all gets so complicated after awhile.
"Besides," She begins, "in this particular instance, forgive me, I'm sure I've more than enough cause to consider consequence." Pirates take what is not theirs, it's as natural as breathing, Jack is no exception, "You do realize I'm a married woman." This was not a question.
He places his hands together, a mea culpa, begging the lady's forgiveness, "Not attempting to take advantage, luv, only pointing out what you've already told me."
A sign escapes her barely parted lips, and she regards him imploringly, "And what, pray tell, have I already told you, Jack, I've said nothing to that effect."
"But your body betrays you, Mrs. Turner, even the way you breathe." He moves closer, beads moving against each other, his matted mane creating a curtain around her face that shuts out the entire world, he whispers, and the air she draws in tastes like rum, "You know what you've come here for."
He wasn't sure who he was trying to test, himself, or the girl. He was equally unsure as to how either of them were doing.
"I'm here," She presses the bottle to her lips, letting the burn run down her throat and into her belly, "because I've become a horribly boring housewife, and I've a need for things more exciting than needle work," he knows the little laugh she gives when she's nervous, it's a strangled giggle that never quite escapes her throat, "and I've decided, Captain Sparrow, that an old friend is the perfect remedy, no more, no less."
"Couldn't be boring if you tried."
"I'm not trying," it's just something that happens, that's what all the old couples say, "I love Will." She's not sure why she said it.
"And he loves you."
"And he loves me."
"So then it stands to reason that he knows you're here," He pauses, moving ever closer, punctuating each word with some sort of grand gesture, "knows exactly where you are, and has no qualms about you, and your old friend, yeah?"
"No."
"No." He nods, a glint in his eye caused by confirmed suspicion, "Now, Elizabeth, is that any sort of behavior for a boring housewife?"
"No."
"'Course not."
He takes another drink.
She follows suit.
"You know, my Mother, before she died, used to read to me before bed. She would always let me pick the story, just one, but, it could be any one I wanted," For a moment he thinks he sees tears forming behind her inebriated eyes, "sometimes it would be Bartholomew Roberts, or Anne Bonny, but, most nights, I wanted to hear about you."
"I knew Annie," He takes another swig, "and Jack," his tone grows quiet, "I was in the crowd, I saw what they did to him." She fights the urge to place her hand on his back, and instead takes another drink, after raising her bottle to his, "You remind me of her, a little."
"Who's that?"
"Anne."
It means something.
"Roberts, on the other hand," he makes a face, as though the rum had begun to disagree with him, "complete wanker, and crazy, too. Ah, but he had unrivaled loyalty. Did you know that his men, once he was killed, promptly gave up and started drinking, and by the time the Navy men went aboard to capture them, they found all the pirates drunk and----"
"---crying." She finishes, nodding; she's heard it before. Still, he notices her face light up, as though she's a child, hearing her stories from the man who lived them. He smiles, genuinely, a way that few ever witness.
"Like very drunk squalling infants."
She notices suddenly that his hand has settled on her thigh, and is subtlety moving, gripping, "There are some who'd say the consequence is damnation." She says without much conviction, without moving away as he comes forward, once more; as he moves in, slow, and fast, and without allowing a proper amount of reaction time.
"Give me hell," He traces her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, she feels him shiver when she takes it into her mouth, "it's a merrier place."
She tells herself to never forget what he tastes like again, or his hands on her skirts, clutching, pulling, and fueling the white hot fire growing in the pit of her stomach. He tastes like secrets, salt, sin, and all manner of other things un-befitting a lady of station. His mouth spells out betrayal along her collarbone in broken blood vessels. He is an idea, who's sole purpose is sating the desires of women doomed to wake next to mediocrity. He is an abstraction invented to give hope to the cloistered. He is a fairy tale that tugs at her hair like salvation.
"Jack," She's panting, shaking; he's always known when she's nervous, "what are you trying to do?"
"Nothing, luv," He brushes the hair from her face, "I only open the doors, you decide whether or not to walk through them."
There are three empty rum bottles.
"I don't think I could walk at all right now, actually."
"Not even so far as my cabin?"
"I'm not yours."
He flinches, and grabs her left hand, pressing it hard against his, palm to palm, scar to scar, "Yes," he whispers, harshly, "you are." He watches her resolve crumble, "The compass doesn't lie, darling."
His shirt is off by the time they tumble through the cabin door, his mouth covering hers takes her mind off the pain when her back meets hard wall, and she's arching into him, clawing at his back, leaving bloody half moons in her wake. She gasps when he cuts her corset laces, moving against the leather-bound hand that cups her breast, the calloused thumb that brushes her nipple. She pulls at his belt, and breeches, down, and off; he presses against her, pinning her even closer to the wall. She pouts, with wet, swollen lips, when he stops touching her, when he reaches to untie his bandanna.
Hair falls in his face, wild and unruly, but it's a sight she only enjoys until he ties the dirty red cloth around her eyes. She feels her remaining underskirt fall, and then he lifts her, both legs wrapped around his waist, he pushes into her, and she stops thinking.
Will touches her like glass, like she's the porcelain doll that exists in every portrait her Father ever had commissioned. This is what it means to be pillaged, this is her age of exploration. She tells herself that William would never, ever kiss her like that.
Not anymore.
He grunts into her neck, hot, hurried breaths sticking to the flesh. His ever-moving fingers find her center, tracing small circles, causing her to bite into his shoulder to keep from crying out. She reaches up, pushing the bandanna from her eyes, and finally meets his lusty stare. He is the most beautiful thing she's ever seen; then all she sees are stars. She catches his earlobe between her teeth, and he shudders inside of her, collapsing, finally, against her chest.
Dressing is done is silence, as is the sunrise row back to shore, and most of the goodbye that followed. He starts to walk away, back toward the beach, back toward his sea.
"Rum." She whispers, because that's what she's telling herself now that the tremblings subsided, and he turns, as though she'd caused him to remember something.
He stops short of her, regarding her carefully for a moment, and then pulls his hand from his pocket.
"You might want this back, before you go." He's produced her wedding ring, and she's not sure if she lost it in the haze, or if he'd taken it, as some sort of statement. "For the sake of appearances," He pauses, "and blacksmiths."
He takes her left hand again, and places it back on her finger. She says nothing, only nods, and turns to walk back toward town. She thinks she hears him say it would never have worked, anyhow.
epilogue.