Title: "Twirl"
Author: monimala
Fandom: PotC
Rating/Classification: SAC, humor, mild hijinks, Jack/Elizabeth
Disclaimer: Nope. Disney. Aaaarrrr!
Summary: The sequel to "Twinkle." But WHY is the RUM gone? Heeeeee.
When he returns, stumbling back over the dunes, he looks dreadful. As if he's been hit with a wet fish. Or coaxed into wearing a corset. Except he has no corset. He's probably never worn a corset...although she's fairly certain he's unlaced his share. The cad.
"If you ask me again why the rum is gone, I shall box your ears," she
says, automatically, swishing her soiled skirts and turning away.
In the bright light of day, she expects to be embarrassed about the night's lewd events... but instead she's angry. And anger is a lovely emotion. It enabled her to yank open the door to the rumrunner's hole and appropriate as much rum as she wanted. As much fuel and wood. She's rather proud of her fire. Indeed a thousand feet high.
Jack Sparrow, however, continues to look less than impressed.
And he appears to have no memory of falling, quite boorishly, asleep in
her...intimate parts.
She's thankful for that. She's not sure she could abide the humiliation
of his reaction.
But, no matter, soon the fleet...perhaps even her father and the Commodore themselves, will find them. And she'll be able to stay far, far, away from Captain Jack Sparrow and his vile predilection for rum.
"Wasn't going to ask," he says, sullenly, dropping down onto the sand and draping his elbows from his knees. He really does move divinely...smooth
and broken all at the same time... like some kind of exotic tribal dancer.
Not that she is looking, of course.
In the bright light of day, her mind is perfectly clear. Rational. And
devoted to Will. Who needs her.
Yes.
Will.
Turner.
Right.
"Don't speak to me at all," she orders, imperiously, as she sits a proper
four feet away. They are fairly distant from her inferno, but the fire feels close enough to singe her hair.
"I'd be happy to never speak to you again, Miss Swann." He sounds
sullen. But she's already thought that. Sullen-ER, perhaps. Oh, her tutors would be *so* disappointed.
"And why would *you* be the happy one?" she demands, affronted. "You've had your adventure and your rum and everyone thinks you're a wonderful pirate even though you're absolutely ridiculous and you fall asleep at the most inopportune moments!"
"What was that?" He tilts his head, looks at her askance. Possibly askew.
Oh. How indecorous of her.
"Nothing," she says, quickly. "Eunuch," she adds, under her breath. Sullen-EST.
"Am not," he counters, under his.
And she moves over a foot. To poke him. Hard. "Are too."
"I knew...I knew there'd be no livin' with you." She's not sure what that
means, exactly, but he sighs, sounding weary. "I'm not going to kiss you."
She's perfectly sure what *that* means.
"I didn't *ask* you to kiss me!" she yelps.
"Sure you did." This time, it is he who moves closer. Scoundrel. Definitely a scoundrel. Perhaps even a "brigand." For that, she thinks, her tutors would forgive her.
"Did not!" she scowls, even as her traitorous heart jumps beneath her
shift... anticipating its removal, no doubt. The shift. Not her heart.
"Did, too." He reaches out, twirling a salt-laden curl of her hair between his fingertips. "With your eyes. And your heaving bosoms...savvy?"
"I beg your pardon!" Her bosom does NOT heave. And 'bosom'...there's a horrid word if there ever was one. 'Bosoms', in itself, implies that she has four. And she has to peek down the bodice of her threadbare garment just to check.
Yes. Still just two.
But he says "savvy" so gloriously. So huskily. Just like the pirates in
the serials from the mainland papers.
Heave.
Heave.
Oh.
Now there are no feet between them at all. Save their own. Of which they also both have two. And lips...they each have two of those as well.
And hers part, rather whorishly, as she remembers the taste of him. That appallingly sweet flavor of sharp metal and warm flesh and Captain Jack
Sparrow.
"Fine." Yes. Fine, then. Her hands aren't large enough to cup his face. But they make a passable attempt. "Then, *I'll* kiss *you*."
And she does.
She's a woman of her word, after all.
It gives her a delicious thrill when he moans...when he slides even closer
and his rough, beautiful, mouth opens beneath hers. And the proof of his non-eunuch status leaps against the fingers that she sends south. Shesqueezes, delicately, and the heat of him is more than clear through the rough cloth of his breeches. Hotter than her signal flame.
"M-miss Swann...!"
"You don't really want me to stop," she purrs, tugging at the straggly horns of his beard with her teeth before returning to his lips.
Pirates are not the only ones who can plunder. Or pillage.
Or leave someone panting in the sand in need of satisfaction. Of consummation.
When the soldiers come over the rise, and the white sails fly high and
noble on the shoreline, she is standing...waiting. Waving cheerfully. Like a proper young maiden happy to be rescued and well on the way to saving her true love.
And the great Captain Jack Sparrow is flat on his back. Cursing her name.
Rum is horrible stuff. But turnabout...? Turnabout...is remarkably
effective.
--end--
July 17, 2003.