[POTC challenge fic] - "Gold" - rated NC-17
Title: Gold
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Spoilers: Post (my hypothetical) AWE
Pairing: Jack/Elizabeth
Rating: NC-17 (violence, sexual content - or I should say "violent sexual content")
Word Count: 3,185
Summary: Written for a friend's ficlet challenge - the fourth of ten. Set a month or so after the (imagined) events of AWE, Elizabeth and Jack are in a strange - and estranged - place. All that glitters is not gold, but with a little polishing, Jack shines.
WARNING: Despite the brightness of the challenge topic, this is a fairly dark piece. Also, the theme "gold" is loosely interpreted, so I encourage you to discover whatever connections and metaphors you see fit.
Disclaimer: I don't own POTC or any of the people in it. They belong to Disney. Would that I was that rich....
Many, many thanks to my superstar beta readers,
erinya and
djarum99. You are both amazing!
Feedback is fabulous!
Challenge: Write a scene for each of the words below using characters from Pirates of the Caribbean.
1)spine
2)song
3)smoke
4)gold
5)box
6)flee
7)snake
8) memories
9)henna
10)eyes
Four down, six to go. Woo hoo!
Elizabeth estimates that the first watch ended nearly an hour prior, but she imagines Jack still rummaging about the cabin, poring over chart and compass and whatever else he dawdles with in the deep night. A month or so passed since the smoke of afterlife and battle had lifted, and though Jack pranced about for the crew, he remained aloof in her presence and an enigma behind his cabin doors. Their muscles had cooled, their comrades had departed, and she’d been left with a man she did not know. And though she often wonders at his habits in that cabin, she seeks him only when beckoned - save that first night - the wide berth she allows him a bitter gift.
They speak conservatively, Gibbs parceling Jack’s orders on deck with something akin to bashfulness. In bed, they offer their bodies wordlessly. She’s lost her rhythm to Jack, to the sea, lost it in the clack of manacles and in the Pearl’s angry list.
The planks chafe her spine and she’s empty-bellied again, laying at the stern with hands beneath her head. Though accustomed to the hunger whittling the lines of her body, she cannot shake the sudden phantoms of comfort: the satin yolks of soft-boiled eggs, the velvet of potatoes tender with butter, the crumble of biscuits doused in sweet cream, and, most fiercely, the sunshine burst of orange wedges.
“Oh, Mary, where are you with my scones and marmalade?” If the crew takes note of her words, she remains unaware. Her custom of lying on deck and chattering to herself became familiar to all weeks ago, and though she’s aware of their stolen glances at her body, she deems it fair payment for her lack of significant contribution. Gibbs took to teaching her daily operations shortly after they’d set sail for world’s end, but her study reached a plateau after Jack regained his status.
For now, she conjures Mary in her starched apron, a tray of sweets in hand. She’s sure Jack dines on something finer than the mush the crew consumes, but she consistently refuses any offer of finer fair from Gibbs, preferring to take her meals topside with Cotton and his parrot. At first, the elderly man stiffened in her company, hunching over his plate so as to hide his awkward gulping as Parrot squawked and nipped at her. But soon enough he relaxed, Parrot settling as well once morsels of hard tack were offered.
“The stars are so messy tonight. I should like to tidy them.” And she’s not sure who she imagines addressing, but she wants to hear the lilt of conversation and likes the powdery sound of her voice, so little-used as to seem husky and dry. The stars float in jumbled layers above her, blinking in their staccato rhythm behind the fiber of passing clouds. She wants to weave them into epics. Or a maybe bowls of round oranges. Humming quietly, she savors the gentle bob of her bed. Squinting and then shutting her eyes as if to seal the image in, she stores the scene above her: ink and sparkle smudged gray with clouds.
As a proper daughter, she rarely had the opportunity to study it so, and she delights in the sight every evening, looking to her communion with it throughout the day with an urgency that often surprises her. She wonders idly if Parrot sees the sky as she does, if he yearns to touch it as she does.
“Probably not. He can fly. I should ask him what the sky feels like. ‘Dear Mr. Parrot, how do the heavens feel? Could you describe the texture, please?’”
“I don’t imagine that Mr. Cotton’s parrot is quite that articulate.” Jack’s voice startles her, and she pinks with embarrassment.
“I was just wondering what it would feel like to fly.” Amusement colors his eyes - that look of a parent humoring a rambling child - and he raises an eyebrow as he sits beside her. She shifts, propping herself against the rail.
“So it would seem. Try the masthead. There’s a taste of it there.”
“Do you ever look at it,” she turns her head skyward, cataloguing her stars, “and feel yourself lifting, like you could float away?”
“Feeling a mite untethered, are we?”
“You could say.” Suddenly chill, she pulls her knees to her chests and shifts away from him ever so slightly, registering that these are more words than they’ve spoken in days - and that he hasn’t answered her.
“Come to bed, Lizzie.”
“The stars are so untidy. I thought I might lay here and shuffle them a bit. I’m collecting.” She turns to beam at him, a bluff of sorts, but he doesn’t leer and tease her as she expects. Instead, he tilts his head thoughtfully, with a calm that unnerves her. Something like affection. Standing, he offers her his hand.
“Come inside with me. Captain’s orders.” His smile is soft, but she bristles at his insistence. The raw memory of too many nights tumbling with him haunts her, she finding her center only to lose balance in his after-coolness. She cannot bear that warm look, cannot bear to fall into gentleness with him only to have it wrenched from her.
“Not tonight. I won’t.” A flicker of emotion creases his brow, but it’s gone before she thinks to name it.
“Suit yourself,” he says in a clipped tone, straightening and pivoting to saunter away. But he pauses, wrist and fingers poised mid air as if ticking off some unknown sum, and he turns to face her again.
“Elizabeth, shall we put an end to our arrangement then?” Arrangement. There’s a weight to the sound. It presses her chest and she feels a stinging in her lungs, sighing heavily.
“Perhaps we shall, Mr. Sparrow. I’ve spent more time than I’d imagined forgiving you.”
“Forgiving me? Shouldn’t I be the one lamenting the entirely perverse amount of time I’ve spent forgiving you? I was the beastie’s snack, after all.”
“No. You forgave me the moment I did it, Pirate. Now you’re just pouting.” Standing, she closes the space between them, his sleeve grazing hers in a flutter.
One beat. Two. Three.
Her heart rises hotly to the back of her throat. He says nothing, remains infuriatingly blank faced. Taking a swig of rum, he offers her the bottle, and though she has no tongue for its thin sweetness, she accepts, tilting it to wash down said lump in a large swallow. Swirling her thumb around the bottle’s mouth, she feels for a moment as though she twirls on a patch of sand with him, feels the dizzy and loose-footed toll of their dance. She longs for the glow of a fire. But there’s only the moon’s blue cast and puddles of golden lantern light. And Jack is nothing but stiff with stillness.
She breaks the silence.
“When will we make port again?’
“One week. The Cape of Good Hope. I’ve a taste for the taverns of Cape Town and all the luscious--”
“Then I should like to disembark there.”
“Is that so?” He’s perilously close now, leaning so that his hot breath grazes her temple, the air tensing between them. “And where will you go from there, Miss Swan? It seems a lady in your particular position might be remiss to find many- shall we say - palatable avenues of employment, as it were, even in the good Cape - hope and all.”
“I’ll find my way.” She’s even closer now, her lips nearly brushing the corner of his mouth. His moustache glances across the bow of her upper lip, prickling her. But he doesn’t answer the challenge; instead he walks to the rail and turns to study her with a casual lean, elbows propped and ankles crossed. His eyes dance impishly. He’s the very Devil in the lamplight, all casual sway and glittering beads.
“So you’ve set yourself to it, then?’
“Yes.” She feels dressed down suddenly, naked and smarting with anger.
“And why might that be?”
“Because I cannot live like this, Jack. Because this life is no better than any other.”
“And you’ve nothing to keep you here?”
“Not so much as I’d imagined.”
“Bitter taste, isn’t it luv? I’m sure you’re missing all those fine linens and gentle manners. Or maybe just young William worshipping your every move.”
“Yes.” A flat-sounding sort of lie. True enough, she has no place on this ship. From the simplest act of bodily release to this strange battle for space to sleep, Elizabeth knows she drifts, anchorless. At least in her father’s home there was privacy and a bed. Yet she’s not sure she entirely misses any of it, although she’s hungry enough. Instead her mind strays to the Jack she remembers best, the Jack she wishes she could talk with now - one part ridiculous, one part disarming, all parts legend. He’d never really been kind, but she’d always imagined that Jack in bed would possess a measure of gentleness to temper the obvious.
“Well,” he says with some bitter resignation, breaking her meanderings. “Captain Jack Sparrow is no keeper of cages, savvy? If you wish it, I’ll return you to Port Royal and you may take yer leave of us there.”
“Splendid.”
“Good evening, Miss Swan.” Bowing grandly with his hat, he stops to catch her gaze before returning to his cabin with a fluid grace she rarely glimpses in him. No stagger. He is a collection of shadows folding into themselves - flashes of glitter but mostly dark upon dark upon dark.
Elizabeth exhales the breath she didn’t realize she held in a rough sigh. She blinks, her eyes impossibly hot and liquid-feeling beneath her lids. Woozy with the ship’s sway, she wipes at the sweat dappling her forehead and pretends she cannot taste him a bit at the crook of her mouth.
“Damn you. Go then.” And her voice is low and scratchy, overwhelmed by the expanding, burning ache in her throat. Returning to the railing, she touches a reluctant fingertip to the place his elbow rested, longing for the wood to reveal his heat the way embers reveal light, but the banister is cool and Elizabeth feels particularly unsatisfied.
Even the undulating ocean holds no comfort, and something like indignation wells in her belly, fanning like poison to her fingers, her toes. Barely registering her intentions, she turns, walking briskly to his cabin.
She enters the room with a bitter thud. He’s undressing. He looks up, vest fluttering to the floor, and meets her eyes with a triumphant smile, leering and golden as his hands reach behind his head to untie his bandana. In a little rush she prefers to ignore, she realizes she’s never seen his hair loose like this. His eyes predatory, he scorches her as he studies her stiff figure, and she struggles to still her twitching hands - hands that beg to touch his mess of hair. He cocks his head and his piece of eight slips over his left eye with a jingle.
“Couldn’t resist one last tangle, eh Lizzie?”
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I said I was tired of forgiving you?
Smirk still in place, he returns to undressing. “I imagined you’d come by it on your own.” He tugs his shirt over his head, hair settling in a series of clicks. Stepping closer, nearly naked, “You are all a-quiver to share, aren’t you Dearie?”
“Yes.” Her mouth feels dry, but her throat still swells, on the verge of something.
Holding her gaze for a beat, he saunters to the bed, laying down on his back and sprawling leisurely, hands behind his head.
“Well, let’s have it, Darlin’.”
She cannot look at him. Moving to stand at the windows, she lifts a stray book from his shelf, turning it in restless hands. She longs for coolness, longs to press her cheek to the panes. From his cabin, the stars appear muddied, dim. He clears his throat but says nothing. Dropping the book with a dull thud, she does not turn but begins speaking so softly that she’s barely speaking at all.
“I never expected you to be kind - not really. I didn’t even expect gratitude. Maybe I don’t know what I wanted, but I did not want to feel like this -“ Her voice catches. She pauses for a moment, hands trembling, resuming only when she’s gathered all her stillness.
“I thought - it’s just I thought you’d feel this, this shattering, Jack. I thought you’d feel something.”
“Forgive me, Miss Swann, if you’re not the authority on what I feel.” She hears him shift, sitting.
“So I’m to be your unassuming whore?”
“You made your own choices, Elizabeth. You found me of your own volition if memory serves.”
“It’s not the choice I regret, Jack.”
“Then what? You imagined I’d be tender with you, that I’d fawn over you like that boy you cast off? Well, Miss Swann, my world is much larger than young William’s, and you are not its revolving center.”
“I despise you.” She’s spoken in such a whisper, with such rawness that she surprises herself. Her hands tremble uncontrollably now. She presses them together in a vain attempt at steadiness.
But she cannot stop shaking, her whole body jumping in little spasms. Distantly, she registers that he stands. The sea is endless through the warped glass, and she’s hot yet impossibly cold. Something screaming wells in her, and her every joint aches trying to cage it. Whether anger or sorrow or some mix of both, she’s unsure, but she feels him closing in, and she can no longer contain the pressure in her chest.
A single, strangled hiccup escapes before she erupts into sobs so violent she can barely release them. She swallows frantically, her cries escaping in ragged, wet gulps.
His fingers circle her arm, and she cannot stop herself from turning and folding into him, from catching her balance against his collarbone, from pressing her wet, peeled-back mouth to his neck and wailing. Her ears ring. He may speak, but she cannot hear anything but her own muffled crying.
His arms circle her, and she’s not sure whether it’s love or hate she feels.
“Bess - ”
She shoves him back violently, feeling her hands beating him. It’s like she’s underwater, everything slow and swaying and surreal. He stands motionless as she pummels him with every once of rage she can muster. Her palm cuts across his face with a furious clap, and it is then that he grabs her wrists, driving her back, back, back until her shoulder blades slam into the wall.
With fevered, hooded eyes he tilts to kiss her, his moustache raking her upper lip. His tongue breaks the stubborn seal of her mouth and he kisses her with a hunger that mirrors her own at the mast - an angry, damning fervor. He tastes of rum and some bitter, exotic spice. Her fingers twitch but her hands remain in his vice-like grip, every inch of her body aching from the strain. She registers some sound from him, deep and rumbling, and her own weak moans answer.
She flails against him as his mouth leaves her, and he traps her arms above her head, bending to press his lips to the base of her throat, tongue dipping into the hollow there. She’s molten as he shifts to pin her with one hand, and she shudders when he rips her vest, the shirt beneath. Sliding his palm across the plane above her breasts, his fingers pause at her sternum, the pucker of his scar pressing her there. She bucks a little, but he’s shoving her against the wall again, his hand circling her throat loosely.
“Let. Me. Go.” A snarl, throaty and ravenous.
“No.” But he releases her and backs away, palms up in unconvincing apology.
It is her turn to lunge, and she’s driving him towards the bed, her mouth pulling at him hungrily as they stumble. Her hands slip under the waist of his breeches, and she grasps his hard slickness as they fall in tangles to the bed. She hums a silent prayer for softness, realizing foggily that she’s missed this nest of wool and silk.
He fumbles with the remnants of her shirt, dragging it free as she struggles to shed her breeches, boots. Brushing aside her yet-shaking hands, he tugs her last shoe free and slides the britches down with agonizing slowness. His fingers skitter breezily across the arch of her foot. Curling her toes reflexively, she shivers.
He’s out of his own pants quickly, kicking free his legs in a grunt.
A golden sort of gentleness descends on him as she spreads her legs, and he cups her mound of curls with his right hand, mouth descending to the underside of her left breast. She’s mad with want for him as she inhales that Jack smell - something like patchouli and brine and a certain tang - and she wriggles desperately, begging his fingers to enter. But he only holds her there, his mouth tugging her skin into a furious bruise. His hair tickles her nipple and she groans.
“Say my name, Lizzie.”
“Jack.” Her thighs are tense ropes of pain as she spreads them even wider, silently pleading. Looking up at her, a lascivious smile turns one corner of his mouth.
“The whole thing. I want to hear you say it, Bess.” Much to her agony he removes his palm from its rest against her center, coolness smarting her there, and traces a tender line across her collarbones with the pads of his fingers. Dipping his mouth to the fold at her arm and shoulder, he licks her.
“Jack Sparrow.”
“Mmm.”
“Captain Jack Sparrow.”
And his mouth finds hers again, ravenous. She bites at his lip as he enters her, his copper taste on her tongue, her muscles grasping him in pulses. Breaking their kiss, he slips two ringed fingers into her mouth and hooks them behind her teeth, pulling her jaw wide as he thrusts. Arching into him, she feels him shudder and retreat with a stifled curse, her legs streaked wet and warm.
They remain knotted for some time, his head pillowed against her chest. Elizabeth waits for the inevitable moment when he will straighten, stretch, and gather her clothes for her.
It does not come.
Confusion flooding her, she looks to the window, the hollows of her body empty-feeling again, and she runs slack fingers across the nape of his neck. A warm collection of saltwater pools at the base of her eyes, and she’s aware of that abysmal, nameless horror expanding before her.
“Elizabeth, look at me.”
She’s startled to see him watching her, concern and something like acknowledgement etched on his face. He swipes his thumb below her right eye, and her tears slip free in thin, burning trails.
“You are me, Bess. My very own Lady Doom. And I love nothing so much as myself.”
And though the tears continue their slow path, she finds herself drawn deliciously, inexorably towards sleep. She dreams of oranges.