Title: "Maiden's Head"
Author: monimala
Fandom: POTC: Dead Man's Chest
Rating/Classification: Jack/Elizabeth, R, adult situations.
Disclaimer: Yo, ho ho and a House of Mouse.
Summary: This is a strange thought to be having at this particular moment in time. 400 words of introspection with no real spoilers for either film.
His gaze never wavers, never drops. That is a strange thought to be having at this particular moment in time, but his eyes are simply too piercing, too focused -- especially for a man generally considered to be quite daft -- and she cannot look away from them, cannot remark on anything else but the boldness reflected there and painted in thick, inky kohl.
She spent nearly ten years praying that the shy blacksmith boy would lift his gaze from the hem of her gown and it took him just that long to do it. It has taken considerably less time for Captain Jack Sparrow to do much more than that. From the outset, he stared at her with impudence, touched her with disrespect, and now the hem of her gown is somewhere about her ears and her legs are wrapped, lewdly, about his hips.
She must look a fright. Like one of those cheap, tawdry Tortuga trollops he favors. But she only sees lust and tenderness in the rings around his pupils. The same kind of yearning he shows when he stands at the helm of the Pearl, stroking her wheel just as he is now stroking the back of her thigh.
"*Jack*…"
It hurts a bit. She knew it would. Her governess in England whispered about it, giving hushed advice to the little Miss, but as her fingers bite into his bare shoulders, leaving marks next to those far older and harsher, she can see that it hurts him as well.
"Hush," he croons, gently, "hush, Love, it gets better." And she believes him, despite the knowledge that lies are his currency of choice. "It only gets better from here."
He bears her down to the deck, to the tattered remnants of a black sail that will swallow the blood of her maidenhead -- oh, how she always loathed that pretty euphemism for a barrier that is anything but beautiful.
His rings dig into her flesh. She licks over the gold in his mouth, tastes the rum that must run through his veins by now. No wonder she feels a bit lightheaded, intoxicated. It carries her through the pain. And, all the while, she does not close her eyes; she does not retreat to the curtained safety behind her eyelids.
