Oneshot: "Desire"
Previously posted to Sparrabeth. Just posting here to my side fic-journal for archive reasons.
Title: Desire
Chapters: Just one short one. 1700 words.
Summary: This is some smut. Some hard-core, no-holds-barred smut. Anything's fair game here - it's Jack's fantasy, roughly during DMC. If you're concerned about a particular squick of yours, comment without reading and I'll tell you if it's in there. There’s a little bit of inspiration from
siriuslypeeved’s “Descent/Ascent” art. Thanks.
Pairing: Mostly J/E - but see above.
Rating: A world of NC-17/MA... this was just the mood I was in tonight, and then I sat at the comp and this is what came from my fingers. Much more visceral than my usual writing, if you're using that as a barometer.
Filth, people. You've been warned.
Desire
After much deliberation, Jack Sparrow had concluded that what he wanted most was to make Elizabeth come. That was all he could get from that stupid compass. It was all the sense he could make of the mess he was in, and most of him just wanted to end it one way or another.
He didn't want to fall in love with her, or marry her or carry her off with him or any of that nonsense; no. He wanted sex, and lots of it, with her. But it wasn't even his own orgasm he fantasized about, when he snatched a moment alone behind his cabin door and shoved his hand down to grab hold of his throbbing cock - which seemed to be hard more often than not, as he thought about her almost constantly, didn't want to, wanted to speak and laugh and do all the normal things without suddenly realizing, I want to touch her like this. She was making him insane. He'd never wanted a woman like this, and he couldn't go anywhere on his ship without tripping over her, and every time he saw her it got a little worse, and he started to think that maybe all the folks who believed him daft were right, since he couldn't stop thinking about one stupid prissy virgin governor's daughter who had developed the unfortunate habit of parading herself under his nose.
He wanted to make her come against his hand, watching his brown finger slip inside that pink virgin cunt, no, two, or three if she could take it, not the first time - that would be hell, though she'd be tighter than a barrel-hole and a hell of a lot hotter - slide his ringed thumb over her sensitive bit of flesh and show her what it was for, watch as surprise and desire flickered over that prim face that belonged better in a painter's portrait than a pirate's bed. He'd finger her till she rolled her eyes back and begged him for more. And what would she sound like? Would she whimper or moan, rhythmically, would she scream? Or sob dryly? Shed tears, like a virgin should in total gratitude for the gift he'd given her, though that was unlikely, she was so awfully fucking full of herself, and he wouldn't care what sound she made, really, just that he'd get to learn all her sounds and play them over and over in myriad diffferent ways. No, the best would be if she called his name, begged him, even, rasping because she had no voice left; and he'd want to confess to her that Jack Sparrow was a made-up name and tell her his real one so she could cry that, instead. He'd want to, but he'd think better of it when he returned to his senses, because once he opened that door even a crack he might not ever get it closed again. Jackjackjack would have to do.
He wanted to make her come with his mouth, too - not because she'd like it, but because he would, he always loved the taste of a woman, especially one as clean and untouched as that one, she's be sweet and salty and he'd swallow her nectar eagerly, feel her pulse against his tongue and nose and then maybe he'd do it again, plunging his tongue deep inside her, over and over, until she was helpless and weeping and exhausted.
But as far as fucking, he couldn't make up his mind. On the one hand he wanted to fuck her harder and faster than he'd ever fucked any woman, whore, officer's wife, tavern girl, maid in a gentleman's house... but at the same time he wanted to savor every sensation, slowly feel himself surrounded by her and sucked in amidst all that sweet virgin pussy - and her mouth was a whole other list of things he'd like to do, which often distracted him when he tried to make sense out of any of it - and so then the alternative, equally attractive to him, would be slow, incredibly slow, more time than he'd ever taken for anything in his life, most likely, and it would be dawn or sunset or next year before he'd had enough. If ever.
Not everything revolved around him - he wanted to watch her come, too, wanted to know what would make her moan or scream or sob or rake her nails down his chest or back; wanted to know if she ever touched herself, naughty girl, or if she were innocent as she seemed, wanted to know how she would touch herself, would she dip her elegant fingers in or would she curl her fingers across herself over and over, and would she do it for him, watching from across the room? Would she let him watch if he introduced her to Ana's more private side, or Giselle's - no, Giselle was a filthy whore all considered, but Ana was right, strong and kind and that smooth cocoa skin next to Elizabeth's alabaster - God, would Lizzy readily let a woman get between her legs or would she pretend to be horrified even though she wouldn't be, because let's face it, mate, women were just perfectly made for that sort of thing? And if she did, would she taste herself afterward on his lips or the other woman's, or would she turn her face away and wrinkle that adorable nose with a shy smile, before he took her face in his hands and held her still and kissed her anyway, deeply, branding her as his...
And as far as branding went, she wouldn't be truly his until he'd fucked her every way he knew about. Backwards, forwards, her pretty white ankles on his shoulders, or over the chair or the table, hidden below decks somewhere, knocking her against the wood of the hull with every pump of his hips, or facedown on the bed, and then that always got him thinking about the other, too. If her cunt was tight and virgin her ass would be incredible, he knew it, he'd had that before and from much less fine ass than hers. Women, boys barely men, lots of times, lots of years ago. She'd let him, might take some time, maybe an hour or so to loosen her up; she'd eventually let him do anything he wanted, because he'd make her so insane that she'd forget she was supposed to be a proper girl, and he knew that like many good girls she secretly was attracted to men like him, dangerous men who knew how to fuck and were generous with the pleasures of the flesh and gave them minutes or hours of moaning, shaking pleasure that the rest of the world quietly swept under the rug and told them didn't matter or even exist.
His own pleasure, too. He always got round to thinking about that last - not out of altruism or love, God forbid, no, but because there were so many possibilities it nearly boggled his mind. Sure, her quim was the obvious choice, in his fantasies he emptied himself inside of her not caring if she got with child or not; and in one or two of them she was fighting and clawing and claiming she loved Will but he was ignoring her and taking her anyway - though those were fewer and far between, since he couldn't really reconcile a terrified Elizabeth with his own hard-on, and a battle between his free-dreaming brain and genuine sympathy usually killed his erection in the middle. Sometimes a brief thought of buggery, then, and how that would hardly matter if he controlled himself when he came or not; but that would take time to teach her.
He would, though. He'd teach her how to use her mouth, every which way, curled next to him on the bed, or draped across his legs, or - his favorite - kneeling on the floor in front of him, and he'd guide her with his hands on her jaw and gripping that golden-brown mess of hair while he sank home between her warm, pretty lips. Oh, that was the most perfect, wouldn't it, because she always had some sassy comment or other and he'd love to shut her up that way. She couldn't say a bleeding word with his cock buried in her mouth, and he'd show her how to use her hand wrapped around the bottom or cupping his sac gently or lightly - lightly, now - scratching with her nails amidst the odd hair or two; and if she sucked him off often enough she'd figure out that he liked her teeth, just a little, along that long pulsing vein, and just a bit of a bite on her in-and-out was the way to get him to weaken in the knees and not know whether he would faint, first, or lose all control of everything and forget to warn her he was about to shoot off in that self-same saucy mouth of hers.
And would she dribble it onto the floor in disgust, dragging the back of her hand across her lips and glaring daggers at him, or would she drink it down like something delectable, or get her revenge by kissing him after - and he hoped for either of the latter but often chuckled at the former, before chiding himself for a complete and utter fool since none of it, none of it, was ever going to happen in his entire bloody lifetime.
Because when she'd kissed him - only kissed him, that's all, and he realized he'd thought about all those thoroughly dirty things, but never imagined what it would be like to kiss her - fool - he was surprised, too surprised, and then the clink of the shackles, whoops, hey! Never thought about bondage, either. And then his lifetime was over.
Being dead was just so damned different. In the endless hours and unchanging sterile sunlight, none of those delicious corporeal things seemed to hold much appeal any more, and that was what scared him the most. And so he sat on the hot sand and tried really, really hard, to remember what it felt like to have desire, because - he told himself - if he could remember what it was like to want her, then he could remember what it was like to be alive.
Title: Desire
Chapters: Just one short one. 1700 words.
Summary: This is some smut. Some hard-core, no-holds-barred smut. Anything's fair game here - it's Jack's fantasy, roughly during DMC. If you're concerned about a particular squick of yours, comment without reading and I'll tell you if it's in there. There’s a little bit of inspiration from
siriuslypeeved’s “Descent/Ascent” art. Thanks.
Pairing: Mostly J/E - but see above.
Rating: A world of NC-17/MA... this was just the mood I was in tonight, and then I sat at the comp and this is what came from my fingers. Much more visceral than my usual writing, if you're using that as a barometer.
Filth, people. You've been warned.
Desire
After much deliberation, Jack Sparrow had concluded that what he wanted most was to make Elizabeth come. That was all he could get from that stupid compass. It was all the sense he could make of the mess he was in, and most of him just wanted to end it one way or another.
He didn't want to fall in love with her, or marry her or carry her off with him or any of that nonsense; no. He wanted sex, and lots of it, with her. But it wasn't even his own orgasm he fantasized about, when he snatched a moment alone behind his cabin door and shoved his hand down to grab hold of his throbbing cock - which seemed to be hard more often than not, as he thought about her almost constantly, didn't want to, wanted to speak and laugh and do all the normal things without suddenly realizing, I want to touch her like this. She was making him insane. He'd never wanted a woman like this, and he couldn't go anywhere on his ship without tripping over her, and every time he saw her it got a little worse, and he started to think that maybe all the folks who believed him daft were right, since he couldn't stop thinking about one stupid prissy virgin governor's daughter who had developed the unfortunate habit of parading herself under his nose.
He wanted to make her come against his hand, watching his brown finger slip inside that pink virgin cunt, no, two, or three if she could take it, not the first time - that would be hell, though she'd be tighter than a barrel-hole and a hell of a lot hotter - slide his ringed thumb over her sensitive bit of flesh and show her what it was for, watch as surprise and desire flickered over that prim face that belonged better in a painter's portrait than a pirate's bed. He'd finger her till she rolled her eyes back and begged him for more. And what would she sound like? Would she whimper or moan, rhythmically, would she scream? Or sob dryly? Shed tears, like a virgin should in total gratitude for the gift he'd given her, though that was unlikely, she was so awfully fucking full of herself, and he wouldn't care what sound she made, really, just that he'd get to learn all her sounds and play them over and over in myriad diffferent ways. No, the best would be if she called his name, begged him, even, rasping because she had no voice left; and he'd want to confess to her that Jack Sparrow was a made-up name and tell her his real one so she could cry that, instead. He'd want to, but he'd think better of it when he returned to his senses, because once he opened that door even a crack he might not ever get it closed again. Jackjackjack would have to do.
He wanted to make her come with his mouth, too - not because she'd like it, but because he would, he always loved the taste of a woman, especially one as clean and untouched as that one, she's be sweet and salty and he'd swallow her nectar eagerly, feel her pulse against his tongue and nose and then maybe he'd do it again, plunging his tongue deep inside her, over and over, until she was helpless and weeping and exhausted.
But as far as fucking, he couldn't make up his mind. On the one hand he wanted to fuck her harder and faster than he'd ever fucked any woman, whore, officer's wife, tavern girl, maid in a gentleman's house... but at the same time he wanted to savor every sensation, slowly feel himself surrounded by her and sucked in amidst all that sweet virgin pussy - and her mouth was a whole other list of things he'd like to do, which often distracted him when he tried to make sense out of any of it - and so then the alternative, equally attractive to him, would be slow, incredibly slow, more time than he'd ever taken for anything in his life, most likely, and it would be dawn or sunset or next year before he'd had enough. If ever.
Not everything revolved around him - he wanted to watch her come, too, wanted to know what would make her moan or scream or sob or rake her nails down his chest or back; wanted to know if she ever touched herself, naughty girl, or if she were innocent as she seemed, wanted to know how she would touch herself, would she dip her elegant fingers in or would she curl her fingers across herself over and over, and would she do it for him, watching from across the room? Would she let him watch if he introduced her to Ana's more private side, or Giselle's - no, Giselle was a filthy whore all considered, but Ana was right, strong and kind and that smooth cocoa skin next to Elizabeth's alabaster - God, would Lizzy readily let a woman get between her legs or would she pretend to be horrified even though she wouldn't be, because let's face it, mate, women were just perfectly made for that sort of thing? And if she did, would she taste herself afterward on his lips or the other woman's, or would she turn her face away and wrinkle that adorable nose with a shy smile, before he took her face in his hands and held her still and kissed her anyway, deeply, branding her as his...
And as far as branding went, she wouldn't be truly his until he'd fucked her every way he knew about. Backwards, forwards, her pretty white ankles on his shoulders, or over the chair or the table, hidden below decks somewhere, knocking her against the wood of the hull with every pump of his hips, or facedown on the bed, and then that always got him thinking about the other, too. If her cunt was tight and virgin her ass would be incredible, he knew it, he'd had that before and from much less fine ass than hers. Women, boys barely men, lots of times, lots of years ago. She'd let him, might take some time, maybe an hour or so to loosen her up; she'd eventually let him do anything he wanted, because he'd make her so insane that she'd forget she was supposed to be a proper girl, and he knew that like many good girls she secretly was attracted to men like him, dangerous men who knew how to fuck and were generous with the pleasures of the flesh and gave them minutes or hours of moaning, shaking pleasure that the rest of the world quietly swept under the rug and told them didn't matter or even exist.
His own pleasure, too. He always got round to thinking about that last - not out of altruism or love, God forbid, no, but because there were so many possibilities it nearly boggled his mind. Sure, her quim was the obvious choice, in his fantasies he emptied himself inside of her not caring if she got with child or not; and in one or two of them she was fighting and clawing and claiming she loved Will but he was ignoring her and taking her anyway - though those were fewer and far between, since he couldn't really reconcile a terrified Elizabeth with his own hard-on, and a battle between his free-dreaming brain and genuine sympathy usually killed his erection in the middle. Sometimes a brief thought of buggery, then, and how that would hardly matter if he controlled himself when he came or not; but that would take time to teach her.
He would, though. He'd teach her how to use her mouth, every which way, curled next to him on the bed, or draped across his legs, or - his favorite - kneeling on the floor in front of him, and he'd guide her with his hands on her jaw and gripping that golden-brown mess of hair while he sank home between her warm, pretty lips. Oh, that was the most perfect, wouldn't it, because she always had some sassy comment or other and he'd love to shut her up that way. She couldn't say a bleeding word with his cock buried in her mouth, and he'd show her how to use her hand wrapped around the bottom or cupping his sac gently or lightly - lightly, now - scratching with her nails amidst the odd hair or two; and if she sucked him off often enough she'd figure out that he liked her teeth, just a little, along that long pulsing vein, and just a bit of a bite on her in-and-out was the way to get him to weaken in the knees and not know whether he would faint, first, or lose all control of everything and forget to warn her he was about to shoot off in that self-same saucy mouth of hers.
And would she dribble it onto the floor in disgust, dragging the back of her hand across her lips and glaring daggers at him, or would she drink it down like something delectable, or get her revenge by kissing him after - and he hoped for either of the latter but often chuckled at the former, before chiding himself for a complete and utter fool since none of it, none of it, was ever going to happen in his entire bloody lifetime.
Because when she'd kissed him - only kissed him, that's all, and he realized he'd thought about all those thoroughly dirty things, but never imagined what it would be like to kiss her - fool - he was surprised, too surprised, and then the clink of the shackles, whoops, hey! Never thought about bondage, either. And then his lifetime was over.
Being dead was just so damned different. In the endless hours and unchanging sterile sunlight, none of those delicious corporeal things seemed to hold much appeal any more, and that was what scared him the most. And so he sat on the hot sand and tried really, really hard, to remember what it felt like to have desire, because - he told himself - if he could remember what it was like to want her, then he could remember what it was like to be alive.