Title: "Twinkle"
Author: monimala
Fandom: PotC
Rating/Classification: SAC, humor, mild hijinks, Jack/Elizabeth.
Disclaimer: Nope. Still Disney. And we get a seeeequel, yay!
Summary: Yet another answer to that eternal question. "But why is the RUM gone?" I *had* to counteract the misery of "...And a Bottle of Rum."
The night sky looks different when you're flat on your back. She hasn't
noticed that before... but with the lovely addition of the rum, the lights seem to twinkle like miniature jewels. Like Jack Sparrow's teeth.
She pokes him to tell him so and he makes an uncouth grunting noise,
ignoring her, so she pokes again. A hard jab into his upper arm. "Jack..."
"What? What's it?" he mumbles, rolling to one side so he can open one
eye to glower at her. And he does it well. He's quite a remarkably effective pirate. "Summat the matter, Miss Swann? Have to get me beauty sleep." And a rude one.
Well, then she's not going to share her insight. No. "You're not the only
one," she whines, feeling a little slighted. She hates whining. It must be the rum. Horrible stuff. Horrible beautiful stuff. "In fact," she announces, waving her arms and legs in the sand...as if she's swimming. "I'd say that I'm far more beautiful than you...so I need more sleep."
"Then sleep," he says, poking her back with the tip of an empty bottle.
At least she hopes that's what it is.
If she didn't have enough rum for talk...well, she certainly didn't have enough for *that*.
She reaches, blearily, for the half-empty bottle she'd disposed of while blissfully gazing at the shiny constellations...and...oh...
Well.
That's *certainly* not a bottle. No.
He chuckles. Terribly bawdy. The scoundrel. "Thought you wanted sleep?"
She yanks her hand away, sure that her cheeks are red, and thankful for the firelight. "I...I do," she assures. Yes. Be firm. "I want sleep. And dreams of Will."
Jack Sparrow winks...or perhaps blinks. His eyes close and open and the motion is absolutely enchanting. No...maddening. "He's a eunuch, you know."
"He most certainly is not!" On her second try, she finds the bottle. She's always been an industrious girl. That's what all her tutors say. And she struggles to sit up, kicking the skirt of her shift. "Will is not a eunuch! All his parts work..!" she assures, with conviction.
"How do you know? Have you looked?" Jack looks scandalized. She knows he's faking. Nothing can possibly scandalize the great Captain Jack Sparrow. "You two..." He sits up, too...much more smoothly than she...but waves his hands around dizzily. "Before the wedding...?" he gasps. "Why, Miss Swann...you *are* a brazen hussy."
She chokes on her millionth sip of rum. "No! Of COURSE not!"
"Well, good." And then the evil liquor is out of her hands. And this time it is definitely a wink. Altogether too close for comfort. "Then, there's hope for the likes of me."
His mustache tickles as he swoops in to kiss her. As do the ropes of his beard. That's what pirates do. They swoop. She read that in a dime novel once. They dance and they swoop and they pillage. Even though she's not quite sure what "pillaging" entails and oh...oh, that really *is* quite a lovely sensation.
His mouth is soft, warm. Sweet like the rum and bitter like the smoke from the fire. "*I'm* not a eunuch," he whispers against her lips.
A little industrious investigation reveals that as truth.
He's a pirate...but not a liar. And no...not a eunuch.
And the stars really do twinkle like his teeth.
She'll tell him so. *Later*.
His hands are rough...but, then again, he's not a gentleman. No... gentlemen don't push down the shoulders of your shift and follow the path of the cloth with their tongue. And they don't tip the bottle of rum to your skin...
If his kisses are delightful, the sensation of the warm liquid trailing between her breasts is downright wicked. He nips and licks his way down her throat and...and this cannot be proper. No, not at all.
"Jack Sparrow!"
"Mmm?" he asks from the depths of her bosom.
"St-stop that at once!" Her voice is dreadfully reedy. Like one of the women at the dress shop in Port Royale who always has the vapors. And she feels like she has that wretched corset on again except that...that his tongue is really, really quite inventive. And her breasts have never felt so wonderfully heavy.
"You don't really want me to stop," he assures, helpfully, as he pushes the shift down farther and follows.
That isn't entirely true, she thinks. Part of her really does want him to stop. The part that isn't rum-addled. But the other part of her is screaming like a tavern cat in heat and she wants...she wants...freedom. She wants him to come back up and kiss her again but...but his lips are against her navel and that...that feels nice, too.
He really is quite a remarkably effective pirate.
Perhaps this is what "pillaging" entails.
She certainly feels plundered.
Or perhaps just drunk.
"Jack..."
His hands are on her hips, mouth on the curve of her belly. Promising so much more.
"Jack..." She nudges him with the inside of her thigh.
And he doesn't move.
So, she nudges him again. "Jack...you're quite right...I don't want you to stop."
He replies with a resounding snore. A wheezing murmur. And rolls to the side. Beauty sleep. Apparently.
Well.
Yes, then.
All right.
*Bugger*.
Rum is horrible stuff. Horrible beautiful stuff.
And the night sky is thoroughly and utterly boring.
--end--
July 16, 2003.