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Sparrow's Odyssey	By : EvilE Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > Het - Male/Female > Jack/Elizabeth Views: 4425 -:- 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.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
Summary: Between the evening bottle of rum, and the morning scent of smoke, lies the real story of Rum-Runners� Island. Canon-friendly through Pirates 2: DMC. Many, many apologies to Homer. If you hated the Odyssey in high school, trust me, you've never seen it like this...

Disclaimer: I definitely do not own any of these characters, and am not stealing them... just borrowing, borrowing without permission. For personal, not commercial, purposes.

Rating: MA/NC-17. Yes, canon-friendly - not spoiling. Just read.

Characters: Jack, Elizabeth.

Chapters: 3, 2 of them long-ish. Complete.

Captain Jack Sparrow felt the warmth of the sand at his back as he reclined on the beach. In his hand he held a crude bottle of rum - half empty - and his feet were bare, allowing him to crunch the sand between his toes. It was probably the only sensation of being on land that he truly adored. That, and being able to take a piss without the chamber pot moving on the floor with the motion of the ship.

He could close his eyes to the night and go to sleep, now. He'd had enough to drink to quell the fears being marooned on the island had dredged up in him. And more often than not, he let people see him drink so that when he behaved normally, it was attributed to the rum, instead of a half-cooked brain. Of which perhaps he was, in fact, possessed, since he was seriously considering going to sleep before he'd made even a half-hearted attempt to seduce Elizabeth Swann.

Especially since there were two other men - that he knew of - who would probably line up to sacrifice their right arms to be in his shoes - well, not that he was wearing any, so, position - at the moment. Totally alone, on a tropical island, by a fire, with a plentiful supply of booze and a half-naked woman. Girl.

Virgin.

Better to go to sleep, he decided.

“Jack?” he heard her say softly. The gentle word caressed him like a warm breeze, and he tried to remember if she'd called him by his first name before. He liked it, liked the musical timbre of her voice. Say it again, he silently pleaded.

“Jack?” Yes. As good as the first time. Perhaps better.

“That's Captain Sparrow to you. Miss Swann.” He peered at her through lowered lids, secretly gratified to be able to retaliate for her insistence that he not use her first name. Then again, being snippy was just her way of trying to empower herself. And since she was stranded on a desert island with an infamous pirate, he didn't blame her for being defensive. But he was going to goad her, anyway, because it pleased him.

She narrowed her eyes, and he contained a smile. “Jack,” she continued pointedly. “Are you going to sleep?”

“Unless there's something further you require. Elizabeth.” And he discovered he liked the sound of her name on his lips, how he could wrap his tongue around the regal syllables, and soften them until they melted... all right, he had drunk more rum than he thought.

So perhaps he shouldn't look at her too closely, since she was bathed in firelight and getting awfully friendly with that bottle of rum, judging by how her pale, soft, long-fingered hands wrapped around it snugly, sliding up and down as she lifted it to her lips... and something answered that motion deep in his belly, and he agreed that yes, he definitely shouldn't look at her too closely. Let her stay a pretty, slightly blurry virgin on the other side of the fire.

Except now she was on his side of the fire - when had that happened? - and she was leaning over him, blocking out the night with her inquisitive expression and hair that couldn't seem to decide on a color, and she was less blurry but more pretty up close, but definitely still a virgin, and Jack Sparrow didn't do virgins. Too tricky. Too likely to result in injury - to him.

“What?” he said sharply.

“Jack, I...” and she trailed off, her eyes falling on the rum, and the fire, before turning back to his face. “I'm not tired.”

“Drink more,” he retorted, and shut his eyes. To his surprise he heard the slosh of the bottle, and while he knew she had been pretending to drink at least half the times she swigged, that had sounded real. And the level of the bottle had gone from full in the late afternoon to half-empty just after dark, and for a bit of a girl who'd never had rum before, that must have been an awful lot, he reckoned. In fact... she must be sloshed.

“Don't go to sleep yet. We could sing more songs,” he heard her say. Was that a hint of pleading in her voice? She's scared, he suddenly realized. She wants me to comfort her, so she won't be alone with her fears.

But the kind of comfort he would usually consider under the circumstances was most decidedly out of the question. Even if her delectably full breasts - how old was she? Older than he originally thought - were nearly spilling out of that white part-of-a-dress that laced up the sleeves and down the bodice and everywhere begged him to slide his fingers through and un-lace it... what had she said?

“'M sorry,” he said, hearing the slur of his words. “No more songs tonight. Be a good girl and toddle off to bed. Well, sand. Whatever you prefer.”

She propped an elbow in the sand next to him, and rested her chin upon it, looking down at him with a new light in her eyes. “Perhaps you'd like to assist me with that.”

His eyes shot open. She couldn't know what she was implying, she was so naive, so innocent... “Come again?”

“Put me to bed, as it were.”

“Put you...” He swallowed a dry lump in his throat, and lifted the bottle to drink again.

“Yes.” Her tone began to grow impatient, as though she were talking to a recalcitrant child. “Won't you do something for me?”

He screwed his eyes shut, repeating to himself, She doesn't know. She doesn't mean it. She's talking about... what is she talking about?

“What are you talking about?”

“I want you to tell me a story.”

His breath escaped in a controlled, hot breath. A story. She wanted a story. Just like a little girl. Shame, and guilt, rushed in to replace the unusually sudden flare of lust that had nearly blown his capacity for reasoning to smithereens. He found to be guilt and shame unpleasant and useless emotions, usually, and so they were also often fleeting. His ability to speak returned.

“A story? What kind of story would amuse you, Miss Swann?” Elizabeth.

“I want a story of piracy,” she said, and he glanced over to see a smile split her full, pouting lips. “Tell me a story about you. One that's not how you escaped from a desert island by getting drunk.”

“And what benefit is there, for me, in the telling of this tale?”

“What do you mean?” She sounded perplexed.

“I mean,” and he rolled onto his side to face her, noticing with another slight twinge of alarm that they were only separated by about a foot of sand - not the most stalwart of defenses. “What's in it for me?”

She narrowed her eyes again. “Always looking to suit yourself, aren't you, Jack?”

“It's what I do best, love. Unless, of course, there's a lady involved. I do make certain allowances in that case.” And he knew she wouldn't, couldn't understand what he meant, and that somehow irked him. Someone should show her...

“All right, name your price.”

His price. Well, that was a devil of a question, because it would require him to decide on what it was he actually wanted. The obvious sprang to mind, and seemed ready to spring to - no, that wouldn't do at all. Unless...

“The conditions of the story are these. I'll tell it, but you've got to assist.”

“Assist... how?”

“At a certain point, you'll be asked to fill a role in the tale, you know? Act it out. Ever been to the theater, Elizabeth?”

“Why... yes.”

“Ever wanted to try it out?”

“It's not proper for a lady of my station.”

“Well, there's no one to watch you, here.” He sat up, then, and she sat up as well, looking uncomfortable with the idea of reclining in front of him. “So you get to play a little part.”

“I'll not have you taking liberties with me, Captain Sparrow,” she declared in a clipped tone.

Oh, so now we're back to Captain Sparrow. One step forward, two steps back. “I wouldn't think of putting you in a compromisin' position, if that's what you mean. Even though - as I'm sure you've noticed - we're alone, it's night, and you are, technically, compromised.”

“Not going to offer for me out of propriety, are you, Jack?” she said, and the teasing fire was back in her eyes.

“An enchanting idea, to be sure. So have we an agreement?”

“For the story?”

“I meant, for your hand. In marriage.” But when he said the words, he detected the spark of an idea.

“Will you stop teasing?”

“Very unlikely. Of course, the bloody story.”

She hesitated, tilting her head to one side as she looked at him carefully, and he couldn't help feeling he was being undressed. Or perhaps just assessed.

“Look, you have my word, all right? I won't touch you. Without your express permission. All I require for the story is the use of your hands.”

“My hands?” she echoed, looking at the appendages in question as though she'd never noticed them before.

“That's all.”

“Well, I suppose there's no harm in that,” she conceded, nonetheless looking at him warily. He began to perceive that beneath the missish defenses was a very smart girl. Smarter than he'd originally thought. Which could bode well for his plan of the evening; or it could ruin everything. There was only one way to find out...

“Well, then, Miss Swann, shall I begin?” He sat back and raised his knees in front of him so that he could dig his toes into the sand. She settled back on her hips, her hands planted behind her, and he was pleased to note she seemed relaxed. The rum sat unattended next to her.

“This story takes place a long time ago. Before you were born, even.”

“You're not that old, Jack.”

He waited. She waited, wetting her lips. “Are you?”

“Are you going to interrupt, constantly, or can you stow it until I've at least begun the story?”

“Sorry. I'm sorry. Do go on.”

“As I said, a long time ago. Far away from here. In a different sea- the Aegean, 's matter of fact.” He waved his bottle of rum in a grand, circular gesture as he spoke.

“You've sailed to the Mediterranean?”

He picked up the bottle of rum next to her and held it out to her. “New condition. For every time you interrupt - since you asked, no, begged me to tell you a story, you are going to take a drink of rum. And either I'll finish telling the tale or you'll pass out inebriated, but either way, I'll get some peace. Savvy?”

“I apologize.”

“Drink.”

She drank. “Please go on.”

“As I was saying, the Aegean. Me and my crew-“ She opened her mouth, and he could tell she itched to say, 'my crew and I,' but she closed her mouth again and raised her brows, and he thought to himself that she was, in fact, a smart girl. “We were blown off course by a storm. A bad one. We were at sea for weeks, with barely any supplies. Lads keeling over left an' right. And then one morning we saw land, an' a harbor, and we about went mad with delight.”

“So that's when you went mad,” she inserted wryly, and he saw the glint in her eyes as she lifted the bottle to her lips and took a sip, never taking her eyes off of him. She must have decided that one was worth it, he concluded. Fine.

“The harbor. We dropped anchor, and about half my crew - the rowdier, less intelligent half - wanted to immediately take a boat and go ashore to explore. But I said, 'Let's wait. We don't know what's out there, savvy? Could be cannibals, ghosts, giant snakes, trolls - who knows?' Then one of 'em - Ragetti, 's a matter of fact - said he saw smoke in the distance - he still had two eyes, then - and that meant a human being and hospitality. I still demurred, but they wouldn't listen to me, and off they went. And we didn't hear anything until late that afternoon.”

He crossed his legs in front of him, and settled in the sand. He was feeling a little less woozy, now, as he'd had some time to breathe and think. It made him more aware of his surroundings, which was both good and bad, since the night air helped to clear his head, but it seemed now that his every nerve ending was trained on his companion. Her eyes. Her skin. Her breath as it exited her lips.

“So come the afternoon, an' who comes running back to the ship looking distraught, but Ragetti. And he's a right mess - blubbering and weeping so as we can hardly make any sense at all of what he's saying. Finally we get it out of him that they climbed a hill and went through the forest, and they came to a house. And they heard singing, beautiful singing. It enthalled them, and they couldn't resist going closer. And Ragetti hung back, because he was afraid, but then a beautiful lady had opened the door, and invited all of them inside, and only he stayed behind.”

He paused and tilted his head, remembering how Elizabeth had sounded when she sang the pirate song, not when they'd run around the fire like lunatics, but earlier, when she'd only sung one line, and it had enchanted him...

“And then none of them came out. So Ragetti come back to the ship to tell us something evil befell the others, and begged me to set sail right away, from that place. But I wouldn't, of course, and I insisted he lead me back the way they had gone. But he fell to weeping again and I took pity on him and left him on the ship, seeing nothing for it but to go, meself. And that's what I did.”

Elizabeth, he saw, was watching him intently, her brown eyes wide with interest. It pleased him to know he had her full attention, and he lifted his bottle to take a celebratory sip of rum before continuing.

“So I left the ship and climbed up through the woods. And I noted how strange it all was, how there were all manner of creatures and crawlies about-“ He paused, looking at the trees, and around on either side of them, and was pleased to see Elizabeth gather her knees together and pull the folds of her skirt a little more tightly around her. “-but I kept going. When all of a sudden, I met a boy in the wood.”

“How old a boy?” asked Elizabeth, watching him intently.

“I was getting to that.” He indicated with his eyes that she should drink. She sighed, and lifted the bottle to her lips with a roll of her eyes.

“A young boy, who was first beginning to sprout hair on his upper lip. You may picture him as dear Will, if you like.”

“Will's not a boy!”

“Well, he must have been at some point, unless he sprang fully formed from his mother's head.”

She furrowed her brows at Jack, who scoffed and continued.

“Didn't you know Will as a boy in short pants? Didn't you meet him when you were younger, or was that a fantasy he's concocted since he dreams of marrying you?”

He saw from the look in her eyes that it was true, and she looked down with a shy smile, before turning her eyes back to him. Glinting again.

“Having a naughty thought, are you?”

“Of course not, I was just fondly remembering the day Will and I met. But don't fault me for interrupting, and I am now picturing a young Will encountering you - so much the worse for him - in a forest in the middle of the Aegean.”

He ignored the barb and looked thoughtfully upward, as he mentally re-created the scene. “Yes. So I met this boy, who said, 'Avast!' and sounded awfully silly. But I stopped to listen to him anyway, and I noticed something odd- that he spoke in rhyme.”

“What did he say?”

“Uh... let me see if I can remember. Look out, you sorry sack of wine, your men have all been turned into swine. Perhaps that was it.”

“Not exactly poetic.”

“Like I said - Will.” His mouth felt dry, and he took another sip of rum. “Anyway, I was rather surprised - as you can imagine - and I asked, by whom? And the boy replied...” He stalled as he tried to piece together a rhyme, failing miserably. Why couldn't he have just left out the rhyming part? Finally he settled upon something and recited it: “Never fear, your scrape can be fixed in a stitch; all you've to do is seduce the-“

“Jack!”

“ - witch,” he finished with a sly grin. “Drink up, me girl.”

She squinted and her upper lip wrinkled in annoyance as she threw back the bottle of rum again. He noticed the liquid level had continued to deplete. Things weren't turning out so badly after all, he thought.

“And the last thing he said was, She fooled all your men with a drug in their wine; but this magic herb will protect you just fine.” Jack leaned toward Elizabeth, then, sidling closer and reaching behind her. He was inordinately pleased to see her lips part and her breathing quicken, and she looked back and forth from his face to his moving arm as he closed the distance between them.

“Jack,” she breathed, and he saw her pupils enlarge as he got very close to her face. “What are you doing... you promised...” and then he watched her eyes flutter closed and she raised her chin marginally to bring her lips closer to his.

Yes, much better - or worse - than he'd originally thought. She was ripe for the picking already, waiting for him to kiss her. And he leaned in closer to her face, examining every bit of it that he could see in the firelight, but held himself away by about an inch, even though every nerve in his body was screaming at him to move in and kiss her. She'd be his. But while shame and guilt were not virtues of which Jack Sparrow made use, patience was. And often. So he waited there, feeling her warm breath almost against his lips, as he reached around her to pluck something off the ground.

She opened her eyes. He had moved away, and was holding out a small tuft of grass. “It's my magic herb. Going to protect me from the witch's spell.”

She blinked at him, and he could see drowsy desire giving way to anger. Oh ho, she was not going to forget that. The nerve of him, to almost kiss her. He knew for a fact she was madder that he hadn't than she would be if he had. He smiled.

“Now, here's where you come in, Elizabeth.”

“What do you mean?” she said sharply. He surmised she was still smarting from the almost-kiss.

“You're the witch in this story - in case you hadn't guessed.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. And you'll need to start acting the part, now, love.” He watched as she wet her lips.

“What do I do?”

“All right. First, when I came to her house, she welcomed me in, and offered me a seat. With a nice footrest. Find me one, won't you?”

Elizabeth blinked at him. “A footrest? Here?”

“Yes. Anything I can fit me feet on, will do. But I'm the guest in this story. You're the hostess.”

She sighed and glanced around them, looking confused and a little dejected, before spying a large piece of wood by the fire that they had not yet put on. Her features brightened and she leaned forward to reached it, rewarding Jack with another close-up view of her bosom, which practically burst from her dress. She sat back down and held it out to him.

“Put it at my feet.”

She did so, bending over to the sand. He raised his head slightly, just so he could see down the front of her dress... lovely. She looked back at him.

“Now place my feet upon it.”

“I'm not touching your dirty feet!”

“Well, in the story, she also bathes them. Would you prefer to do that?” He heard her scoff, and saw her fold her arms across her chest. “Look, love, either you can hold up your end of the deal, or you can't. No hard feelings, either way.”

She cast him a murderous look and leaned forward again, to where he had stretched his legs alongside the fire. He watched as she lifted one of his feet by the ankle, dropping it onto the piece of wood, before he could fully anticipate how her hand would feel, wrapped around his ankle a second time for the other foot. A light shudder coursed through him at her soft touch, which both tickled and soothed.

“Very nice.”

She took her seat again. “May I ask a question?”

“It'll cost you.”

Elizabeth took another swig, then continued. “The witch - was she beautiful?”

Jack stared at her, watching the reflection of the firelight play across her face. “Oh, very.”

“No warts? No blackened teeth? No knotted hair?”

An image of Tia popped into Jack's brain, unbidden, and he watched as it melted away, into Elizabeth. “No, nothing like that.”

“And so... even though you were trying to save your men, you had a duty... you didn't mind, you wanted... to seduce her?” Her voice became low and throaty toward the end of her sentence, and he could hear her almost trip over the word 'seduce', as if she'd never said it before. He wondered if she even really knew what it meant.

“Oh, yes,” he breathed, never taking his eyes from her face. “I wanted to.”

“Hm,” she said. “So what happened next?”

“Next? Ah...” Jack tried to reel his mind in from the extremely naughty detour it had taken during that last exchange. “Next... she... poured me a drink. A drink she had drugged, with her magic.”

Elizabeth held her bottle of rum out to him with a motion so quick the amber liquid sloshed forward and back several times. He looked at her through lowered lids, up her extended arm.

“That won't do, I'm afraid. Not very hospitable.”

“Well, we haven't got any cups, have we?”

“No,” Jack said, forming the word delicately with his lips, drawing it out sadistically. He saw her eyebrows rise, knew he had piqued her interest.

“Well, then how...” She closed her mouth abruptly. “I'll pour it in.”

That would do for now. He inched closer again, and then leaned back so that his head fell in her lap, with the curve of her thigh supporting the base of his skull through his thick hair. He felt her jump a little at the intimate contact, and looked innocently up at her face. “You may pour.”

“Captain Sparrow, I'm sure I'm entirely comfortable with...”

“Are you going to pour, or not? Am I touching you? Will you quit worrying that I'm going to ravage you - because I'm not - and try to enjoy the bloody story? Hm?”

She gave a little offended cough, and poured the rum. Right up his nose.

He sputtered and sat bolt upright, wheezing. His entire nose burned, and he coughed and swallowed at the same time, gasping for breath. When he had gotten himself under control, he opened his eyes to glare at her murderously.

“Well, she is a witch, isn't she?” Elizabeth said in a dry tone.

“Oh yes, she is,” Jack agreed, clearing his throat as he continued to shoot daggers at her with his eyes. “But she still has to serve her guest a drink.”

“Fine. Lay back then.”

“Oh, I'm not falling for that again. No, no.”

“Well, what, then?”

He reached out and took the bottle from her. “You're going to offer your guest a drink properly. Hold out your hands.” She did so, still looking at his face. He tilted the bottle and splashed the rum over her palms, generously, seeing that she closed her eyes for a longer blink than usual. So she was a sensual creature, too, his Elizabeth. So much the better. “Cup them,” he ordered.

Her eyes flickered open as she realized what he meant to do. He regarded her, and she regarded him, in a silent challenge. He was daring her, and he also knew - or was reasonably sure - that she responded quite well to being dared. She didn't look away from his face as she held out her left palm and delicately placed her right into it.

“Tightly, now,” he said. “Wouldn't want to spill a drop.” He turned his wrist to upend the bottle, pouring a tiny little puddle of rum into the center of her cupped hands. He then went down on one elbow and turned his head so that she could place her fingertips against his lips. She lifted her hands, and he opened his mouth to drink.

The rum was warm, and trickled over his lips and into his beard, and he had to part his lips even more and use his tongue to catch some of it, and the backs of her fingers still rested there, and he brushed his lips and tongue against them, hearing her small intake of breath. That was nice, he thought, very nice indeed. “Another, if you please, Elizabeth-Witch.”

“Well I can't pour into my own two hands, can I?” She sounded faintly out of breath. This was going very well.

“Then use one, but be quick about it.”

She poured a tiny amount into her right palm, he saw, and she gingerly brought it over to his mouth, shaking a little with the effort of holding it level. Or perhaps from nerves, or something else. The moment the side of her pinky touched his lower lip, he opened his mouth around her hand, as though it were a cup, and she started and the rum sloshed from her hand all over his mouth. He reached up and held her hand fast, before she could snatch it away, and he parted his lips to slide them across her palm, using his tongue to lap the rum from every crevasse. He heard her gasp - undoubtedly she had never felt the touch of a man's tongue anywhere on her body - and used his palm to press her fingers against his open mouth, sliding his tongue between them, up one finger, down the next, slowly, deliberately, until he reached her pinky, which he sucked into his mouth and held, for one moment, before releasing it. He opened his eyes to look at her.

She was red in the face. No doubt ashamed of all the strange and yummy feelings he'd just unleashed in her virginal body. Her lips were parted and she breathed slowly, in, then out, as her hand retreated back to her lap. He watched as she tried to catch her breath, sort out what had just happened. Finally she met his eyes again. “More?” came the faintest whisper from her lips.

Jack felt that whisper like a caress along the length of his body, including his rapidly hardening cock, which seemed to be urging him to forget the rum, forget the game, take her by the shoulders and kiss her senseless, and she would be his soon after... she was asking for it, now, she loved the feel of his mouth on her, and he would make sure he broadened her education to include all the places his mouth could feel delicious... but he took a deep breath and sighed, wanting to see how much she would offer him before he lost control completely.

“Yes, please,” he said in as even a tone as he could muster. To his own ears, his voice sounded gravelly, full of sand. He saw she did away with the pretense of cupping entirely and simply splashed her entire hand with rum, the left one, this time, and held it in front of his mouth.

He took each finger into his mouth, starting at the tip, sliding down to where it met her palm, nudging it with his teeth, laving it with his tongue, before sliding back and moving onto the next one. Then he opened his mouth wide and ran the flat part of his tongue across her palm, sucking just a little, tasting the rum and the slightly salty heat of her skin. When he reached the center of her palm he heard her moan, and it was almost his undoing, right then, but he closed his eyes and took a deep breath before placing a kiss there, languorously, and turning his head away.

“Now that's how I like to be served a drink,” he murmured, opening his eyes to look at her.

“What... what...” He continued to watch as she swallowed, trying to form words. “What... happened after that?”

“Well, after that... the witch thought she'd worked her magic on me, you see? And she came over closer - come closer, Elizabeth - and whispered...” She came, as though pulled on an invisible string, within reach of his arms. “...'now, you too shall be turned into swine, go rut among the others'.”

She was so close he could smell her skin, hear her breathe.

“But I drew my sword, then, since I wasn't under the power of her magic after all. Now, wait while I draw my sword...”

“Jack!” she nearly squeaked in protest, and he grinned at her as he held up one finger, slowly, turning his wrist from side to side. Not so innocent after all, was she? She certainly did have naughty thoughts. Fuzzy and imaginary as they might be.

He decided not to make her drink, that time, and instead laid his finger next to the white column of her exposed throat. “I laid my sword against her throat, letting her feel my blade.” He drew his fingertip up her neck, across under her jaw, watching the pulse pound at her throat. He caressed her with his finger, forward and back, up and down, and was pleased to see her muscles flex and her head roll slightly from side to side with his motions, just like a boat on gentle waves.

“And then?” she said on a near-moan. “Did you seduce her? Or cut her throat?”

“Well,” Jack said. “I suppose you can have whatever ending you prefer. Would you like to think I killed her, or that I bedded her?”

“I'm sure she would have preferred to be seduced.”

“A brilliant conclusion.” He still stroked the skin of her throat. She turned her face in rhythm with his movements. “I would have killed her. But she begged my forgiveness for the trick.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, yes. On her knees, in fact. Shall I show you?” And he got to his feet, then, and bent down to gently haul Elizabeth up by her upper arms, onto her knees. He fought his own arousal, then, because looking down at her and knowing what he wanted, what he really wanted, she wasn't ready for... “She clasped my knees in supplication. Do you know how to... supplicate?”

She peered up at him through narrowed eyes, and wrapped her arms around the backs of his knees. “Even if I did, I somehow think it would violate our terms, Captain Sparrow.”

“Pity. Well, what are they teaching you in church these days, if not proper supplication?” He looked down at her in the firelight, her face inches from his swollen member inside his breeches, but she seemed none the wiser as she looked back up at him, and it occurred to him that she really did trust him, and perhaps he ought to end this, now, before it went entirely too far...

“What did she say, then?” Elizabeth asked, still hugging Jack around the knees.

“She said... she said...” Jack could no longer think with her kneeling in front of him like that, trying like hell to banish all the nasty thoughts in the universe that were descending upon him with alarming speed. He couldn't take her... couldn't ruin her... the Commodore would kill him, if Will didn't do it first. But most of all, he had given her his word, and she had given him her trust, and surprised as he was to realize it, he actually cared about that. He took a deep, slow breath, and sighed. “She said...she said - forgive me, I'm paraphrasing - 'Who the bloody hell are you, and where did you come from, and why aren't you falling off your chair because I put enough happy juice in your rum to knock a ten-foot-sailor flat, and oh! You must be Captain Jack Sparrow, on the ship with the black sails, as was revealed to me by the gods. Don't be angry, love, and let's get to know each other better in the bedroom, shall we?' Something like that.”

“And then what did you say?”

He looked down at Elizabeth, who had sat back on her knees, her hands dropped to her sides, and she looked at him with a certain amount of curiosity, but also hunger. Hunger. For him. He knew it, he could sense it, smell it, almost taste it... she would be so easy to...and his control snapped, and he got down to his knees, then, and reached out to draw her against him, and he knew he had just broken the rule but she didn't protest at all. Her face was now inches from his, still regarding him curiously. “Then I didn't say anything, because I picked her up and carried her to her bed...” He reached out and scooped Elizabeth up, drawing her feet out from beneath her knees, and her arms came up to wrap around his neck. “...and I lay her down...” He put her back down, again, on her back, her legs extended out toward the fire. “... and I fell on top of her...” Jack leaned over her chest, feeling his weight press her down into the sand. “...and I kissed her.”

He lowered his mouth to hers, needing to kiss her, needing to feel her warm, wet mouth against his, needing to taste her, desperately. But when his lips made contact, they were touching something far too hot and flat and he realized she had placed her hand over her mouth. And so he kissed that, as ardently as he would have kissed her lips, brushing kisses against her hand from both sides of his mouth, his tongue darting out to taste the salt of her skin, and he heard her moan on the other side of her hand.

Then he felt her pushing at his shoulder, and he thought, Bloody hell, I've just ruined the whole thing and I didn't even get a single kiss. He sat up, pulling his lips away from her hand, and looked down to see her face was flushed with a mixture of emotions: desire...good. Exhilaration... also good. And anger...not good. Really not good.
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Sparrow's Odyssey