Here you go!
I just couldn't let things end the way they did in Catch and Release.
Title: Stowaway
Author: meself, fid_gin
Pairing: J/E
Rating: NC17! I'm on a roll!
Disclaimer: I own nothing, all hail Disney
Summary: For all of you (including yours truly) who thought that Elizabeth would not be left in Port Royal...you were right.
Notes: Cranked this out today, hope it's not too incoherent. More fic coming soon...my muse is relentless, as of late.
He has a visitation the night they sail from Port Royal.
Midnight watch being the most potentially dangerous of all, Jack is in the habit of taking it himself to ensure everything goes without incident and the men are alert. This night, however, he wants nothing so much as to lose himself in sleep. Fresh in his mind are the tears Elizabeth tried to hide in the jolly boat as he delivered her home, their brief union still new and raw on both their hearts and bodies - scratches and suck marks that hadn't faded any more than their recently revealed craving for each other.
“Lizzie,” he started, his voice uncharacteristically soft. He'd caught himself rowing too slowly once or twice, nearly motionless, wanting to delay the inevitable. Jack had no idea how he was going to let her go, what he should say, who he should be. “You know this doesn't 'ave to be the end of everything'...”
“Stop.” She was turned away from him, staring out toward the open ocean, away from the harbour. Her voice cracked. “It is.”
“I'll return - pay a visit, as it were. I'm practically a celebrity here.” Trying to make her smile, and she made a noise that could have been a stifled chuckle, or a sob.
“Really, Jack? And will you come to my father's door with roses and ask to be my proper suitor?” Jack had to nearly scoff himself at that ridiculous image. “They'd kill you.”
The dock loomed before them then. “I think you underestimate your Captain, darling. I've penetrated more formidable fortresses than this - haven't you heard the stories that I can disappear from sight, assume the shape of...” Her fingers pressed against his lips, silencing him. She finally faced him, desperation in her eyes.
“Please. Stay this night. I know an inn...if I'm never going to see you again, Jack please...”
And so he had stayed, hiding in an alley while Elizabeth purchased a room and collected no small amount of odd stares, not-stares and whispers. Was that the Governor's daughter, under those ratty men's clothes? Was she purchasing a room all for herself? Hadn't she run away to become a pirate along the side of the notorious Captain Jack Sparrow? Their lovemaking that night had been strange and tender - no ship pitching to and fro beneath them, and the certainty that, after this, it would be over. When he'd woken the following morning, she'd been gone, and Jack had damned himself for being a heavy sleeper.
Now, however, it is a blessing. Escape consciousness: the pain of missing her and the even sharper sting of the knowledge that he has done the right thing in sending her away. Maybe. Probably. Drowsy with much rum, Jack says a silent prayer to not dream before drifting off.
A presence in his cabin. Stifled breath, the pad of bare feet on the boards. He reaches for the pistol which always resides at the side of the bed - no more mutinies, Just try it, lads...but, drunk and disoriented, his hands close on only empty space. A slight weight settles at the end of the large bed as he continues to search frantically, and then there it is, the cool of metal in his palm and he aims in the general direction of the intruder and cocks it with a very loud click.
“Jack?” A feminine and unmistakable voice that confirms this is a dream, then. So his prayers haven't been answered and yet, they have.
Pistol laid aside, no more words necessary. Elizabeth crawls up the length of his body, stripping off the thick blankets and covering him with herself instead. She is dressed in the same clothes he'd left her in - stripped off of her before fucking her for the last time in that dingy room, and is soon similarly relieved of them. But this time there is no finality, no urgency. Taking his time with her, his dream lover; sure that he will wake with empty arms and his sheets tacky with his spent seed, but not minding, not while he has her now.
The hollow of her throat, the tiny protrusion of an erect nipple, the smoothe plain of her belly - all tickled with his mustache and teased with his tongue after he has tumbled her, naked, onto her back. When he parts her legs, her sex, to taste her, he notes with something like awe a trace of musk from their last dalliance...realistic dream, this. It inflames him, and soon he is sucking gently at that center of her pleasure to hear her mewling for more, for him, for him to finish her, bring her, and he does.
While she is still panting, he rolls her back over him, positions her above his cock and thrusts up into her. She seems to sense his reluctance to finish too quickly, does not ride him with the enthusiasm she's previously shown but with a deliberate slowness, twitching her hips and grinding herself against him. His hands find her breasts and she arches into them, head thrown back. Jack cannot keep silent for long, being customarily very vocal during the act, and comes amidst encouragement and detailed description of exactly what she does to him, how it feels to bury himself in her heat. And, this being a dream, he does not hesitate to drop words of affection as well - that he was a fool for letting her go and how he wants her, wants this, always - just like she'd promised before.
Awakening - to empty arms, yes, but sheets and stomach conspicuously absent of dried evidence of his phantom tryst. Said sheets tangled as if thrown off in throes of ecstasy, and smelling of girl. The cabin gives off a distinct impression of having recently been occupied by more than one body, and it is not lost on him. Realistic dream, indeed.
Stepping out into the morning air and seeing, clearly, a footprint in the filthy sludge of sea spray on the deck. A very small, very feminine footprint, and Jack cannot decide if he is furious or overjoyed.
“Mr. Gibbs!” he calls toward where his first mate sits, mending a sail in large, crude stitches. Instantly the older man is on his feet and at attention.
“Cap'n?” Jack twirls one end of his mustache thoughtfully, catches a faint scent on his hands, like the sea. He feels himself start to grow hard, puts his hand down and is all business again.
“Search every inch of the ship. We've a stowaway aboard.” Gibbs is visibly taken aback; the Pearl is a large ship but her hiding spaces are few and far between, not accounting for if the person doing the hiding is considerably smaller than the average, bulky sailor. But Jack shoots a dagger look at him, and he steps to.
“Aye, sir!” He starts to walk off to summon aid from the other men, then turns again. “What do ye want done wit h'm when he's found?” Jack walks past him to take up the wheel - it is a beautiful morning.
“Have him brought to my cabin.”
Title: Stowaway
Author: meself, fid_gin
Pairing: J/E
Rating: NC17! I'm on a roll!
Disclaimer: I own nothing, all hail Disney
Summary: For all of you (including yours truly) who thought that Elizabeth would not be left in Port Royal...you were right.
Notes: Cranked this out today, hope it's not too incoherent. More fic coming soon...my muse is relentless, as of late.
He has a visitation the night they sail from Port Royal.
Midnight watch being the most potentially dangerous of all, Jack is in the habit of taking it himself to ensure everything goes without incident and the men are alert. This night, however, he wants nothing so much as to lose himself in sleep. Fresh in his mind are the tears Elizabeth tried to hide in the jolly boat as he delivered her home, their brief union still new and raw on both their hearts and bodies - scratches and suck marks that hadn't faded any more than their recently revealed craving for each other.
“Lizzie,” he started, his voice uncharacteristically soft. He'd caught himself rowing too slowly once or twice, nearly motionless, wanting to delay the inevitable. Jack had no idea how he was going to let her go, what he should say, who he should be. “You know this doesn't 'ave to be the end of everything'...”
“Stop.” She was turned away from him, staring out toward the open ocean, away from the harbour. Her voice cracked. “It is.”
“I'll return - pay a visit, as it were. I'm practically a celebrity here.” Trying to make her smile, and she made a noise that could have been a stifled chuckle, or a sob.
“Really, Jack? And will you come to my father's door with roses and ask to be my proper suitor?” Jack had to nearly scoff himself at that ridiculous image. “They'd kill you.”
The dock loomed before them then. “I think you underestimate your Captain, darling. I've penetrated more formidable fortresses than this - haven't you heard the stories that I can disappear from sight, assume the shape of...” Her fingers pressed against his lips, silencing him. She finally faced him, desperation in her eyes.
“Please. Stay this night. I know an inn...if I'm never going to see you again, Jack please...”
And so he had stayed, hiding in an alley while Elizabeth purchased a room and collected no small amount of odd stares, not-stares and whispers. Was that the Governor's daughter, under those ratty men's clothes? Was she purchasing a room all for herself? Hadn't she run away to become a pirate along the side of the notorious Captain Jack Sparrow? Their lovemaking that night had been strange and tender - no ship pitching to and fro beneath them, and the certainty that, after this, it would be over. When he'd woken the following morning, she'd been gone, and Jack had damned himself for being a heavy sleeper.
Now, however, it is a blessing. Escape consciousness: the pain of missing her and the even sharper sting of the knowledge that he has done the right thing in sending her away. Maybe. Probably. Drowsy with much rum, Jack says a silent prayer to not dream before drifting off.
A presence in his cabin. Stifled breath, the pad of bare feet on the boards. He reaches for the pistol which always resides at the side of the bed - no more mutinies, Just try it, lads...but, drunk and disoriented, his hands close on only empty space. A slight weight settles at the end of the large bed as he continues to search frantically, and then there it is, the cool of metal in his palm and he aims in the general direction of the intruder and cocks it with a very loud click.
“Jack?” A feminine and unmistakable voice that confirms this is a dream, then. So his prayers haven't been answered and yet, they have.
Pistol laid aside, no more words necessary. Elizabeth crawls up the length of his body, stripping off the thick blankets and covering him with herself instead. She is dressed in the same clothes he'd left her in - stripped off of her before fucking her for the last time in that dingy room, and is soon similarly relieved of them. But this time there is no finality, no urgency. Taking his time with her, his dream lover; sure that he will wake with empty arms and his sheets tacky with his spent seed, but not minding, not while he has her now.
The hollow of her throat, the tiny protrusion of an erect nipple, the smoothe plain of her belly - all tickled with his mustache and teased with his tongue after he has tumbled her, naked, onto her back. When he parts her legs, her sex, to taste her, he notes with something like awe a trace of musk from their last dalliance...realistic dream, this. It inflames him, and soon he is sucking gently at that center of her pleasure to hear her mewling for more, for him, for him to finish her, bring her, and he does.
While she is still panting, he rolls her back over him, positions her above his cock and thrusts up into her. She seems to sense his reluctance to finish too quickly, does not ride him with the enthusiasm she's previously shown but with a deliberate slowness, twitching her hips and grinding herself against him. His hands find her breasts and she arches into them, head thrown back. Jack cannot keep silent for long, being customarily very vocal during the act, and comes amidst encouragement and detailed description of exactly what she does to him, how it feels to bury himself in her heat. And, this being a dream, he does not hesitate to drop words of affection as well - that he was a fool for letting her go and how he wants her, wants this, always - just like she'd promised before.
Awakening - to empty arms, yes, but sheets and stomach conspicuously absent of dried evidence of his phantom tryst. Said sheets tangled as if thrown off in throes of ecstasy, and smelling of girl. The cabin gives off a distinct impression of having recently been occupied by more than one body, and it is not lost on him. Realistic dream, indeed.
Stepping out into the morning air and seeing, clearly, a footprint in the filthy sludge of sea spray on the deck. A very small, very feminine footprint, and Jack cannot decide if he is furious or overjoyed.
“Mr. Gibbs!” he calls toward where his first mate sits, mending a sail in large, crude stitches. Instantly the older man is on his feet and at attention.
“Cap'n?” Jack twirls one end of his mustache thoughtfully, catches a faint scent on his hands, like the sea. He feels himself start to grow hard, puts his hand down and is all business again.
“Search every inch of the ship. We've a stowaway aboard.” Gibbs is visibly taken aback; the Pearl is a large ship but her hiding spaces are few and far between, not accounting for if the person doing the hiding is considerably smaller than the average, bulky sailor. But Jack shoots a dagger look at him, and he steps to.
“Aye, sir!” He starts to walk off to summon aid from the other men, then turns again. “What do ye want done wit h'm when he's found?” Jack walks past him to take up the wheel - it is a beautiful morning.
“Have him brought to my cabin.”