For you, shrift. For all you do, for all you are.
[PS Traffic cones! And security, knocking on our door before fucking midnight!]
Title: Still none; WIP
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Pairing: Jack/Elizabeth (well, sorta)
In the night, he dreamt of her.
He could feel the weight of her breasts, warm and soft in his hands. Her lips were soft, her breath clean, smelling only of sweet wine, rather than the decayed teeth and spoilt meat of his usual bedmates. He kissed her hard, greedily and she moaned softly in her throat. That long, white, lovely oh-so-kissable throat. The pins tumbled from her hair as he laid her on the bed, soft curls spreading across the stained linen of his pillow.
He leaned over her, tasted the slight salty tang of her sweat in the valley of her throat, on the gentle hills of her dubs. His fingers found the ribbons that tied her gown and pulled sharply; the fabric separated willingly and disclosed the beauty hidden beneath the cambrey. Her aureolas were the color of ripe apples, ruby red with prominent nipples erect, begging for the warmth of his mouth, the touch of his tongue. Her back arched as he suckled, drawing the taut nipple into his mouth; her fingers tangled into his long hair, flexed and tensed in response to the stroke of his tongue on her sensitive skin.
Balancing his weight over her, he scrabbled with his right hand and drew her skirts up, exposing the legs he had never seen but in these dreams: long, white limbs, elegant, like the rest of her. And there, just there… he extended a finger, drawn like a magnet to her warmth and her scent.
And woke. With a raging cockstand and a rampaging headache. The Pearl rocked gently beneath him, not entirely unlike the sexual rhythm he had been about to initiate in his dream.
It was useless to try to sleep again; from experience he knew he could ease his physical need but not block the mental images of Elizabeth Swann, sprawled in carnal dishabille in his bed. Better to go above, take the wheel and remind himself that the only woman he loved was the ship beneath his feet.
The night was black as pitch; he could barely make out the dark grey ghosts of scuttling clouds that blocked both moon and stars. The great wheel had been tied for the night, to hold the Pearl on her bearing as the crew slept. Jack made a mental note to stop again in Tortuga, after he had filled his hold with treasure from the Isle de la Muerta. A crew of twelve was simply too few to man the Pearl properly. And Jack, above all, was a proper captain and would treat his vessel in the manner she deserved.
The wind was picking up; the trinkets in his hair clicked and chimed in familiar tones as the breeze stirred them. He glanced up; the clouds were stretching thin and the moonlight grew stronger, shimmering through the sheer strands of cloud curtain. With a practiced gesture, he drew out the compass, flipped open the cover and checked his bearings. A beam of clear moonlight shot down to the deck before him; he extended his hand to the light to better read his compass.
And stared at his own skeletal hand, bony fingers curled around the cracked glass of the compass.
He pulled his hand out of the light, close to his body and looked again. His hand was completely normal looking, except for the tinge of whiteness around the knuckle as he gripped the compass tightly.
Extended it into the light again.
Bone glittered whitely in the moonlight.
“Now, that’s interesting,” Jack said aloud. He stared at his hand, as if it were a fascinating piece of treasure. “Exactly how much rum did you drink tonight, my boy?” Not enough, not nearly enough, he thought. “I’m not all that pissed,” he said aloud. “So someone’s been a naughty boy and gone back for the Aztec gold.” He withdrew his hand, stared at the refleshed appendage for a brief moment, then returned the compass to his pocket, replacing it with a conventional compass.
“This one, Jack me boy, is going to need to assistance of Master William Turner.” And with Will, he thought, will come his lovely fiancée, the oh-so-desirable Miss Elizabeth Swann..