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Sweet Revenge	By : EvilE Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > Het - Male/Female > Jack/Elizabeth Views: 10955 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Sweet Revenge

Disclaimer: No, I'm not stealing these characters from Disney, just borrowing them - borrowing without permission. For personal, not commercial ends.

Summary: Post PotC2: DMC. Jack survives his encounter with the sea beast and plots his revenge on dear Elizabeth for that dirty, dirty trick. Find out what he has in mind...

Chapter 1: Belly of the Kraken

As Jack clambered gratefully onto a piece of what he ruefully recognized as the Pearl's aft deck, he could think of nothing except breathing. Which was a privilege very nearly lost in the belly of the Kraken.

Well, at least if he hadn't breathed he wouldn't have been forced to inhale that horrible stench. A thousand rotting corpses, went the legend. More like a thousand rotting fishmarkets. He'd rather smell a dead man than a dead fish any day of the week. Ironically.

With great effort he rolled himself onto the boards, landing sprawled on his back, with his legs spread apart. His eyes fluttered closed, and once he caught his breath, his last coherent thought was: women were the very devil.

* * *

He touched the mast ropes thoughtfully, remembering the first time he sailed on the Pearl, thirteen years ago. He had been young and stupid. He was still a fool, apparently, although he hid it better. His boots touched the deck stairs for what he assumed would be the last time.

“You came back,” Elizabeth said, smiling now, the wind lifting her golden brown hair away from that too-fine face. Except for that nose, which curled up rather pertly, but which had somehow endeared itself to him. Like the rest of her. “I always knew you were a good man, Jack.”

He regarded her as she stepped toward him, the sound lost amid the din of the ocean and the shouts of the others making ready the longboat. She was right in front of him, smiling. She lifted a hand to his cheek. What was she saying? He couldn't hear, because he was looking at her mouth. That sassy mouth, which would praise and damn him in the same sentence. Silly chit would never let him hear the end of it if she knew he came back to the Pearl for her. Not the ship, not even Will, who he'd come to regard as a friend. When it suited him. But her... he couldn't stand the thought of her crushed to death in the Kraken's great jaws, or taking her last breath of cold sea water... no, not his Elizabeth. Besides, he had already saved her life once. That had to count for something. If he let her die, wouldn't that sort of make his heroics a waste, as it were? And as the bloody compass spun and spun (he heard the witch's words “Jack Sparrow doesenn know whatee wants!”) he momentarily contemplated hurling it into the ocean but instead rowed back to the ship. Back to Elizabeth.

Who was now standing so close he could smell her, a delicious combination of vanilla and some other mysterious scent, reminiscent of a tropical flower he couldn't quite name. He smelled it sometimes when they approached a long-sought port, or when he woke from a dream in his cabin, positive she was nearby. But she never was. Except in his dreams, which she haunted almost nightly. In one dream they were stranded together on that island where Barbosa had left them, and instead of drinking so much rum he passed out, which was what had really happened, he had imbibed enough to bolster his courage and encourage Elizabeth to have enough to lower those impeccable inhibitions.

In the dream he convinced her they had no hope of rescue. He told her tales of pirating past and slowly inched his way closer, until her dark eyes were pools of curiosity, and something else - longing? - and as she was looking up at him, he bent his head and kissed her. In the dream her mouth was hot and sweet and she kissed him back gently, in need of tutoring in the department of kissing. He was only too eager to oblige.

In the dream he lay her down beside the fire, and from then on the dreams varied. In one, he simply kissed her thoroughly until her body was pliant and writhing and she wordlessly begged him to touch her, to slide his roughened hand inside that too-thin chemise and close his fingers around her round, firm breast... in another iteration, he gathered the hem of her shift and lifted it up slowly, his eyes never leaving hers as she lay supine on the warm beach, her eyes reflecting the blazing fire, setting his whole body aflame as he pulled it higher and higher, revealing to him by sight what he only knew by feel, from cradling her feminine curves against him when he saved her from drowning in Port Royal. In another dream he spread her knees apart and pressed a kiss to the inside of her pale, creamy thigh, then another, slightly higher, and another, until she moaned deep in her throat and whispered his name, begging him to bring her the pleasure he knew he could bring her if he only had the bloody chance...

But the dreams all ended the same way, heat and smoke and drowsy Caribbean sun, and he woke covered with a fine sheen of sweat and harder than deck nails.

That same sweat afflicted him now, on the deck of the Pearl, as Elizabeth, the real Elizabeth, swayed seductively toward him and lifted her fine, soft hand to his beard-roughened cheek. He turned his cheek into her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm, and glancing down to find her rosy, curved-doll's-mouth lips parted slightly, only a cork's breadth from his. Jack Sparrow has no regrets, he told himself as he seized the opportunity. No more rum-soaked fantasies. He had to know what her mouth tasted like. Now, before they were all dead.

He bent his head and fitted his lips between hers, surprised to find them warm and wet and suddenly moving beneath his. She was kissing him, good God, she was here and kissing him and Will was ten feet away and they were about to die. He opened his mouth and tasted her with his tongue, gratified to hear a small sound in the back of her throat, and he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him, hard. He needed more. He could never get enough of her mouth. He wasn't aware they were backing up until he felt the base of the mast against his back, and angled his head for better access to the sweet, moist hollow she was offering him.

Somewhere in the back of his head, a warning bell began to sound. A warning bell that said, Danger, Jack Sparrow. You're in too deep now. Or, Bad Luck to have a Woman on Board. Or - and this was the one he wished he'd heeded - Elizabeth distracted you with her charms, and then used the rum to fuel a fire that got you captured and very nearly hanged. That was the last time Elizabeth had turned on the charm. And now? Now she was pressed up against him, the warm curve of her breasts pushing against his chest through that ridiculous man's shirt, and he was lost to anything except the feel and smell of her. Yes, a flower, but which? he thought, as he realized he was already hard and her sweet tongue was inside his mouth, making him dizzy, and it was then that he heard the clink of metal.

“It's after you, not us,” she said breathily, a telltale flush staining her pretty cheeks as he realized she'd shackled him to the mast base. “I'm not sorry, this way we'll have a chance to get away. I'm not sorry.”

He smiled then, because he knew he was lost, but somehow the Kraken didn't scare him that much any more. “Pirate,” he chided her, as she seemed to hesitantly distance her mouth from his and make her way to the longboat. She looked at him once more before she descended, and there were tears in her eyes. Not sorry, indeed. She would be sorry. But not as sorry as he was, for he was shackled and the great sea beast was right below.

When it swallowed him, Jack dove down the slimy, stinking throat of it with a battle cry. He had his sword, and a pistol tucked in his belt, but he doubted they would be much help. He was hopelessly, thoroughly, done in... by a woman. He thought of Davy Jones and almost laughed. Captain Jack Sparrow, undone by a chit of a girl without any weapons. Except, of course, her ample charms. That made twice she had used them to her advantage and won. He resolved that should he survive his encounter with the overgrown calamari - which was seeming less and less likely - he would make her pay. In spades.

His shoulder, at the end of a long, gooey tunnel, hit something hard. A barrel, he was sure. From the Pearl, from the trap they'd prepared for the beast, only one hadn't exploded. Maybe it fell out of the net when Will cut himself down. His mind raced. Was it gunpowder? Or rum? At the thought, he nearly groaned, taking comfort that if he were digested alive - or drowned - he could perhaps be comfortably drunk.

But the practical Jack - the niggling, logical, scheming part that often was subjugated to his baser instincts, as it had been on the deck only a few minutes before - reminded him that he had a pistol. Should he shoot the barrel, there was a chance it would explode. And blow him and the Kraken to kingdom come.

Something hard and sharp pierced his leg, and he howled with pain. He realized it was a tooth, as the long column was lined with them. Well, it was now, or never. He withdrew the pistol from his belt, aimed, and fired.

BOOM.
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Sweet Revenge