potc fic: Wedding, Interrupted
Title: Wedding, Interrupted
Pairing: Jack/Elizabeth/Will
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: This is utter filth. Yea verily, and amen. Also, no semblance of plot, whatsoever. Spoilers for DMC.
A/N: Inspired by this picture, drawn by![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lizardspots.
Wedding, Interrupted
::
The moonlight paints the island in mutes shades, each yellow and blue and green kissed by a quiet breeze. The white sand is soft, barely warm, and it slips between Elizabeth's toes like grains in an hourglass.
Calm. Peaceful. The waves rush to meet her feet, lapping lazily at her ankles, and she can almost forget the horrors she witnessed at World's End -- barnacled pillars rising from murky water, dead sailors floating in stagnant pools, Barbossa sliced from stem to stern, and Jones at the mercy of that voodoo woman's grotesque snake.
My island, Jack had said, cracking a wry smile as the longboat scraped across the sand. Served two terms as governor, you remember. Elizabeth does remember; rum burning her throat and smoke stinging her eyes, drunken songs and the scars on Jack's arms. He brought them around to the other side, the side she didn't burn down to the ground.
The horizon is black, endless, and she can just make out the silent silhouette of the Pearl. She turns quickly at the rustle of leaves, and the sand shifts under her heels.
Grains of time. She's been a married woman a little over an hour.
"Will," she says quietly.
My father wouldn't approve. A pirate wedding on a pirate ship. I'm a captain, luv, good as any other. Better, I should say, as I'm Captain Jack Sparrow. Arguing with Jack is like arguing with the sea. God only knows where Gibbs found that Bible.
"Elizabeth." He sounds nervous, unsure.
"How's your father?" she asks. She's not yet had a proper conversation with Bootstrap -- her father-in-law -- but she watched him on their voyage back to the real world. She's amazed at how similar he is to Will, at times. Now that he's free of Jones' hold, the resemblance is uncanny.
"Tired," Will replies. Elizabeth takes a step closer, then another. Her skirts drag over the sand, and she hates them, feels weighted and clumsy next to Will's near-nakedness. He's down to his breeches; he left his waistcoat and shirt on the Pearl, lost his stockings and shoes somewhere on the beach. "He's resting now. Tia Dalma's with him."
Elizabeth purses her lips. They owe this woman everything -- it was through her abilities that the tide turned in their favour -- but Elizabeth finds her unsettling. She's too sly, too cunning, too much like Jack, and she's made no secret of the fact that she'd like to know Will a little better.
"And Jack?"
"He went back to the Pearl, I think."
"It's just us," Elizabeth says.
He smiles, a faint flush creeping across his cheeks, and gestures toward the beach. "This wasn't quite what I had in mind."
"No?" she asks. "You were expecting a grand military affair? Guns and violins and men in wigs?"
"At least," Will says. He draws her close, ghosts a hand through her hair. It's wind-blown, and slightly stiff with the salt air. "I would have liked to give you something more proper."
"I don't care about all that," she says, and it's true. She loves Will. Marriage is just words, and it doesn't matter to her who said them, if it was her father, Port Royal's toady little bishop, or Captain Jack Sparrow.
His lips are sun-rough, and she can taste the salt-tang of the sea on his tongue. He cups her face, his thumb brushing the curve of her cheek before his fingers trace the line of her jaw. She wraps her arms around his waist, pulling him closers, and he's hard against her hip.
Yes, this. She's wanted this. Her father had insisted on a year, time enough to smooth over Jack's escape and to boost Will's standing in Port Royal's social community. Her engagement had felt like an interment, a sentence. They'd fought cursed pirates and Aztec gold only to be separated by her honour.
"I'm yours, if you'll have me," he says, and his fingers slip down to toy with the neckline of her dress -- a strangely beautiful yet utterly inappropriate black and red affair that was provided by the voodoo woman.
"Yes," she says, "and now."
The buttons are miniature black pearls -- fitting, Elizabeth supposes. Will kisses her neck as he fumbles them through their tiny loops, his tongue rough and wet against her skin, and she shivers in spite of the balmy, Caribbean air. They've come close, but they've always been stopped. Bothered. Interrupted.
The dress parts over her shoulders, falls away like a heavy, brocade shell. He mumbles impatiently at her petticoats, and slipping her hands over the smooth plane of his back, she laughs quietly into his hair.
"I'm sorry if I don't have the luxury of prancing around in naught but my underclothes," she says.
"It's for the best," he replies lightly, as her petticoats pool at her feet. "You'd only be a distraction. The crew would be sailing in circles."
She's naked, and after a brief tussle with Will's flies, so is he. He leans into her, mapping her hips and back with the palms of his hands, and the slide of skin on skin is delicious. He trails his fingers over to her breasts, brushing lightly over her nipples, and she kisses him, her tongue darting out to sneak between his lips.
And then: "A honeymoon! Lovely! Drinks all around!"
"Jack!" Elizabeth hisses, and Will turns. Jack lurks in the shadows, partially concealed by a wind-stunted palm. A bottle of rum is cradled lovingly in the crook of his arm. Will takes a step back, and Elizabeth hides behind him the best she can.
"Evening, Miss Swann," Jack says, gesturing grandly, "or Mrs Turner, I should say." He pauses, leans around Will for another look. "I once told you it should be a dress or nothing. Having seen the goods, as it were, I'd vote solidly for nothing."
"I thought you were back aboard the Pearl," Will says.
"Ah yes." Jack hefts his bottle of rum and takes a healthy swig. "Wonderful pastime, thinking, and I certainly think you should try thinking more often, but keep in mind that thinking something doesn't make it so."
Elizabeth glares at Jack over Will's shoulder. "You were watching us!"
"I was not," Jack replies easily. "I was having a walk. I was pondering -- perusing -- pouring over the scenery, so to speak." He pauses to fondle a palm frond. "It just so happens that the two of you were in my path."
"And you stopped to have a look!" she snaps.
"I can't say it wasn't quite the sight," Jack admits, sighing. "I'll be on my way, now. I'll leave you two to do what it is you've been planning to do. But first, we'll have that drink."
"No drinks," Elizabeth says. She'd only played with rum that once, with Jack on this very beach. The warmth under her skin and the strange heaviness in her limbs had almost been pleasant, but it's not a place she thinks she should go again.
"I'm afraid you must," Jack argues, brandishing the rum like a sword. "Since I affiliated -- instigated -- officiated these nuptials, you have to if I say so."
"Jack," Will starts.
"Old pirating custom, mate," Jack cuts in. "An accord of this magnitude must be sealed with a drink. It's tradition." He lays a hand on Will's shoulder and offers him the bottle. "No way around it."
Will takes a quick swig, pulling a face as he swallows, and Jack pushes the bottle on Elizabeth.
"No," Elizabeth begins, but Jack lifts the bottle to her lips. Rum floods her mouth, and she swallows because she'll choke if she doesn't. It's just as foul and sharp as she remembers, and it burns her throat.
"To the two of you," Jack declares. He drinks, and his fingers dig into Will's shoulders. "And another," he adds, waving the bottle toward the water, "to the Pearl."
Jack takes another drink, and after a moment, so does Will. Elizabeth shakes her head, but the bottle presses against her lips again, and then rum is biting her tongue. Jack leans close, too close. The bottle drops to the sand, and his hand flutters over her hip.
She thinks of the kiss she shared with Jack before the kraken swallowed his horizon. It seems like a lifetime ago. For Jack it was; he was dead when they found him, festering in a brackish inlet with the likes of Roberts and Bartholomew.
"Wonderful," Jack says. "I may kiss the bride!"
"Jack!"
"You, I mean," Jack says, and the heat in his eyes runs roughshod over the mock-sincerity in his voice. "You may kiss the bride."
And Will does. It's different now, harder, almost possessive, one hand catching in her hair and the other curving around her arse. Will sucks her tongue into his mouth, and Jack hums quietly in approval.
Jack. Who should not still be here. Who should be on that ship they went to the end of the Earth for. The voodoo woman has an itch for pirates and she's been near untameable since Barbossa fell; she'd undoubtedly give Jack a warm welcome.
Will deepens the kiss, his tongue wet and slick as it plunders her mouth. His cock presses against her belly, hot and hard and finally hers to touch. Her hands slip from his shoulders to trail down his chest.
"That's right, luv, touch him."
"Jack!"
He's behind her now, warm breath on her neck and rough hair brushing her shoulder. He's not touching her, but he might as well be, the heat from his hands and body burns across her skin.
"You should be going, now," Elizabeth says. She's ashamed of her own voice; it's thin, lacks conviction.
"Possibly," Jack replies. "Probably." He touches her then, his fingers sweeping lightly across her shoulders and down her arms. "But the question is -- do you want me to be going?"
Will kisses her before she can speak, which saves her, because her answer would have been a lie. Jack moves closer, resting his hands on her hips, and she feels lips on the back of her neck, warm and wet and more sun-rough than Will's.
The rum sings in her veins, slow and molten and dangerous. She leans back against Jack, in spite of the small measure of her mind that isn't addled by liquor and desire, and with arms twined around Will's neck, she brings him with her. She slips a hand between them, curling it around Will's cock, and when Will's fingers leave her jaw they tangle in Jack's hair.
"Kiss him," Will says. The words come roughly, like they were caught in his throat. "You want to." His face is heated and jealous and once, and Elizabeth can't find the words to argue. "I want you to."
Jack's mouth is nothing like she remembers. It had been different then, frantic and rushed, and once the irons clicked shut he'd tasted like defeat because she knew she was forcing him to fall behind. His tongue is quick and clever now, teasing against her own, and as when she tries to break away he nips at her lips and pulls her back in.
Will kisses her neck and collarbone, mouthing a wet trail over the swell of her breasts. He takes a nipple in his mouth, sucking softly and she moans, arching. Jack's hands splay across her belly, holding her steady. He's hard against her arse and she likes the way it feels.
Jack catches Will by the wrist, brings Will's hand between Elizabeth's legs, and Will's fingers slip carefully between her folds. He presses just there when Jack pulls on his wrist, and the sudden jolt of pleasure snaps her taut against Jack's body.
"That's the spot, mate," Jack murmurs. "Hold the course steady."
And Elizabeth is lost. It's too much -- the delicate sweep of Will's fingers, the heat of Jack's cock against her skin. Jack sucks lightly behind her ear, lips and tongue with a hint of teeth, and the hand not keeping Will on task wanders up to her breasts.
Will sinks to his knees, soft kisses on her belly and strong hands on her hips. Her feet stumble apart as Jack's knee nudges her legs, and Jack snakes a hand down to hold her open. Will's tongue teases her around Jack's fingers, and the first touch makes her legs shake. She comes with Will's name on her lips and Jack's skin under her mouth.
The sand is cool and rough against her back, and she misses Will's hands and mouth, misses Jack's warmth. Will follows, kissing her, and the moonlight glints bright and silver over his skin. Suddenly naked, Jack waits for them, kneeling just a few paces away with half-closed eyes and his cock in his hand.
The pain is sharp and quick, and then Will's inside. He moves slowly, building a steady rhythm that makes her breath hitch in the back of her throat. She arches up, rocking her hips to meet his thrusts, and she can see Jack, hear Jack, hear his knees hissing over the sand as he pushes himself into his hand.
She kisses Will, dipping her tongue into his mouth in time with his thrusts, and Will comes quietly, with a soft noise that's almost drowned out by the rise and fall of the waves.
"Share nicely, William."
Will pulls her up by the arm and guides her to Jack, holding her up as she straddles Jack's legs. She sinks onto his cock slowly, with her arms around his neck and her face buried in his hair, and the sound he makes is delicious, sinful.
"I fear this may be a short voyage, luv," he says. "I'm too old for all that watching and waiting."
He thrusts up into her, hard and fast where Will had been soft and slow. Will presses in behind her, hands sliding up to cup her breasts, his mouth hot and wet against her neck, and she twists her head around for a kiss, snagging her hands in Will's hair.
"Touch her," Jack says.
And Will does -- long fingers rubbing in quick circles as Jack's cock slides in and out of her. Jack pulls a nipple into his mouth, tracing it with his tongue, and Elizabeth falls apart. Jack follows almost immediately, with a string of curses that would make the Devil blush.
You will come b'tween dem, Tia Dalma had said, smiling at the claws. You will come b'tween dem, and prob'ly not de way dat you think.
FIN
Pairing: Jack/Elizabeth/Will
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: This is utter filth. Yea verily, and amen. Also, no semblance of plot, whatsoever. Spoilers for DMC.
A/N: Inspired by this picture, drawn by
lizardspots. ::
The moonlight paints the island in mutes shades, each yellow and blue and green kissed by a quiet breeze. The white sand is soft, barely warm, and it slips between Elizabeth's toes like grains in an hourglass.
Calm. Peaceful. The waves rush to meet her feet, lapping lazily at her ankles, and she can almost forget the horrors she witnessed at World's End -- barnacled pillars rising from murky water, dead sailors floating in stagnant pools, Barbossa sliced from stem to stern, and Jones at the mercy of that voodoo woman's grotesque snake.
My island, Jack had said, cracking a wry smile as the longboat scraped across the sand. Served two terms as governor, you remember. Elizabeth does remember; rum burning her throat and smoke stinging her eyes, drunken songs and the scars on Jack's arms. He brought them around to the other side, the side she didn't burn down to the ground.
The horizon is black, endless, and she can just make out the silent silhouette of the Pearl. She turns quickly at the rustle of leaves, and the sand shifts under her heels.
Grains of time. She's been a married woman a little over an hour.
"Will," she says quietly.
My father wouldn't approve. A pirate wedding on a pirate ship. I'm a captain, luv, good as any other. Better, I should say, as I'm Captain Jack Sparrow. Arguing with Jack is like arguing with the sea. God only knows where Gibbs found that Bible.
"Elizabeth." He sounds nervous, unsure.
"How's your father?" she asks. She's not yet had a proper conversation with Bootstrap -- her father-in-law -- but she watched him on their voyage back to the real world. She's amazed at how similar he is to Will, at times. Now that he's free of Jones' hold, the resemblance is uncanny.
"Tired," Will replies. Elizabeth takes a step closer, then another. Her skirts drag over the sand, and she hates them, feels weighted and clumsy next to Will's near-nakedness. He's down to his breeches; he left his waistcoat and shirt on the Pearl, lost his stockings and shoes somewhere on the beach. "He's resting now. Tia Dalma's with him."
Elizabeth purses her lips. They owe this woman everything -- it was through her abilities that the tide turned in their favour -- but Elizabeth finds her unsettling. She's too sly, too cunning, too much like Jack, and she's made no secret of the fact that she'd like to know Will a little better.
"And Jack?"
"He went back to the Pearl, I think."
"It's just us," Elizabeth says.
He smiles, a faint flush creeping across his cheeks, and gestures toward the beach. "This wasn't quite what I had in mind."
"No?" she asks. "You were expecting a grand military affair? Guns and violins and men in wigs?"
"At least," Will says. He draws her close, ghosts a hand through her hair. It's wind-blown, and slightly stiff with the salt air. "I would have liked to give you something more proper."
"I don't care about all that," she says, and it's true. She loves Will. Marriage is just words, and it doesn't matter to her who said them, if it was her father, Port Royal's toady little bishop, or Captain Jack Sparrow.
His lips are sun-rough, and she can taste the salt-tang of the sea on his tongue. He cups her face, his thumb brushing the curve of her cheek before his fingers trace the line of her jaw. She wraps her arms around his waist, pulling him closers, and he's hard against her hip.
Yes, this. She's wanted this. Her father had insisted on a year, time enough to smooth over Jack's escape and to boost Will's standing in Port Royal's social community. Her engagement had felt like an interment, a sentence. They'd fought cursed pirates and Aztec gold only to be separated by her honour.
"I'm yours, if you'll have me," he says, and his fingers slip down to toy with the neckline of her dress -- a strangely beautiful yet utterly inappropriate black and red affair that was provided by the voodoo woman.
"Yes," she says, "and now."
The buttons are miniature black pearls -- fitting, Elizabeth supposes. Will kisses her neck as he fumbles them through their tiny loops, his tongue rough and wet against her skin, and she shivers in spite of the balmy, Caribbean air. They've come close, but they've always been stopped. Bothered. Interrupted.
The dress parts over her shoulders, falls away like a heavy, brocade shell. He mumbles impatiently at her petticoats, and slipping her hands over the smooth plane of his back, she laughs quietly into his hair.
"I'm sorry if I don't have the luxury of prancing around in naught but my underclothes," she says.
"It's for the best," he replies lightly, as her petticoats pool at her feet. "You'd only be a distraction. The crew would be sailing in circles."
She's naked, and after a brief tussle with Will's flies, so is he. He leans into her, mapping her hips and back with the palms of his hands, and the slide of skin on skin is delicious. He trails his fingers over to her breasts, brushing lightly over her nipples, and she kisses him, her tongue darting out to sneak between his lips.
And then: "A honeymoon! Lovely! Drinks all around!"
"Jack!" Elizabeth hisses, and Will turns. Jack lurks in the shadows, partially concealed by a wind-stunted palm. A bottle of rum is cradled lovingly in the crook of his arm. Will takes a step back, and Elizabeth hides behind him the best she can.
"Evening, Miss Swann," Jack says, gesturing grandly, "or Mrs Turner, I should say." He pauses, leans around Will for another look. "I once told you it should be a dress or nothing. Having seen the goods, as it were, I'd vote solidly for nothing."
"I thought you were back aboard the Pearl," Will says.
"Ah yes." Jack hefts his bottle of rum and takes a healthy swig. "Wonderful pastime, thinking, and I certainly think you should try thinking more often, but keep in mind that thinking something doesn't make it so."
Elizabeth glares at Jack over Will's shoulder. "You were watching us!"
"I was not," Jack replies easily. "I was having a walk. I was pondering -- perusing -- pouring over the scenery, so to speak." He pauses to fondle a palm frond. "It just so happens that the two of you were in my path."
"And you stopped to have a look!" she snaps.
"I can't say it wasn't quite the sight," Jack admits, sighing. "I'll be on my way, now. I'll leave you two to do what it is you've been planning to do. But first, we'll have that drink."
"No drinks," Elizabeth says. She'd only played with rum that once, with Jack on this very beach. The warmth under her skin and the strange heaviness in her limbs had almost been pleasant, but it's not a place she thinks she should go again.
"I'm afraid you must," Jack argues, brandishing the rum like a sword. "Since I affiliated -- instigated -- officiated these nuptials, you have to if I say so."
"Jack," Will starts.
"Old pirating custom, mate," Jack cuts in. "An accord of this magnitude must be sealed with a drink. It's tradition." He lays a hand on Will's shoulder and offers him the bottle. "No way around it."
Will takes a quick swig, pulling a face as he swallows, and Jack pushes the bottle on Elizabeth.
"No," Elizabeth begins, but Jack lifts the bottle to her lips. Rum floods her mouth, and she swallows because she'll choke if she doesn't. It's just as foul and sharp as she remembers, and it burns her throat.
"To the two of you," Jack declares. He drinks, and his fingers dig into Will's shoulders. "And another," he adds, waving the bottle toward the water, "to the Pearl."
Jack takes another drink, and after a moment, so does Will. Elizabeth shakes her head, but the bottle presses against her lips again, and then rum is biting her tongue. Jack leans close, too close. The bottle drops to the sand, and his hand flutters over her hip.
She thinks of the kiss she shared with Jack before the kraken swallowed his horizon. It seems like a lifetime ago. For Jack it was; he was dead when they found him, festering in a brackish inlet with the likes of Roberts and Bartholomew.
"Wonderful," Jack says. "I may kiss the bride!"
"Jack!"
"You, I mean," Jack says, and the heat in his eyes runs roughshod over the mock-sincerity in his voice. "You may kiss the bride."
And Will does. It's different now, harder, almost possessive, one hand catching in her hair and the other curving around her arse. Will sucks her tongue into his mouth, and Jack hums quietly in approval.
Jack. Who should not still be here. Who should be on that ship they went to the end of the Earth for. The voodoo woman has an itch for pirates and she's been near untameable since Barbossa fell; she'd undoubtedly give Jack a warm welcome.
Will deepens the kiss, his tongue wet and slick as it plunders her mouth. His cock presses against her belly, hot and hard and finally hers to touch. Her hands slip from his shoulders to trail down his chest.
"That's right, luv, touch him."
"Jack!"
He's behind her now, warm breath on her neck and rough hair brushing her shoulder. He's not touching her, but he might as well be, the heat from his hands and body burns across her skin.
"You should be going, now," Elizabeth says. She's ashamed of her own voice; it's thin, lacks conviction.
"Possibly," Jack replies. "Probably." He touches her then, his fingers sweeping lightly across her shoulders and down her arms. "But the question is -- do you want me to be going?"
Will kisses her before she can speak, which saves her, because her answer would have been a lie. Jack moves closer, resting his hands on her hips, and she feels lips on the back of her neck, warm and wet and more sun-rough than Will's.
The rum sings in her veins, slow and molten and dangerous. She leans back against Jack, in spite of the small measure of her mind that isn't addled by liquor and desire, and with arms twined around Will's neck, she brings him with her. She slips a hand between them, curling it around Will's cock, and when Will's fingers leave her jaw they tangle in Jack's hair.
"Kiss him," Will says. The words come roughly, like they were caught in his throat. "You want to." His face is heated and jealous and once, and Elizabeth can't find the words to argue. "I want you to."
Jack's mouth is nothing like she remembers. It had been different then, frantic and rushed, and once the irons clicked shut he'd tasted like defeat because she knew she was forcing him to fall behind. His tongue is quick and clever now, teasing against her own, and as when she tries to break away he nips at her lips and pulls her back in.
Will kisses her neck and collarbone, mouthing a wet trail over the swell of her breasts. He takes a nipple in his mouth, sucking softly and she moans, arching. Jack's hands splay across her belly, holding her steady. He's hard against her arse and she likes the way it feels.
Jack catches Will by the wrist, brings Will's hand between Elizabeth's legs, and Will's fingers slip carefully between her folds. He presses just there when Jack pulls on his wrist, and the sudden jolt of pleasure snaps her taut against Jack's body.
"That's the spot, mate," Jack murmurs. "Hold the course steady."
And Elizabeth is lost. It's too much -- the delicate sweep of Will's fingers, the heat of Jack's cock against her skin. Jack sucks lightly behind her ear, lips and tongue with a hint of teeth, and the hand not keeping Will on task wanders up to her breasts.
Will sinks to his knees, soft kisses on her belly and strong hands on her hips. Her feet stumble apart as Jack's knee nudges her legs, and Jack snakes a hand down to hold her open. Will's tongue teases her around Jack's fingers, and the first touch makes her legs shake. She comes with Will's name on her lips and Jack's skin under her mouth.
The sand is cool and rough against her back, and she misses Will's hands and mouth, misses Jack's warmth. Will follows, kissing her, and the moonlight glints bright and silver over his skin. Suddenly naked, Jack waits for them, kneeling just a few paces away with half-closed eyes and his cock in his hand.
The pain is sharp and quick, and then Will's inside. He moves slowly, building a steady rhythm that makes her breath hitch in the back of her throat. She arches up, rocking her hips to meet his thrusts, and she can see Jack, hear Jack, hear his knees hissing over the sand as he pushes himself into his hand.
She kisses Will, dipping her tongue into his mouth in time with his thrusts, and Will comes quietly, with a soft noise that's almost drowned out by the rise and fall of the waves.
"Share nicely, William."
Will pulls her up by the arm and guides her to Jack, holding her up as she straddles Jack's legs. She sinks onto his cock slowly, with her arms around his neck and her face buried in his hair, and the sound he makes is delicious, sinful.
"I fear this may be a short voyage, luv," he says. "I'm too old for all that watching and waiting."
He thrusts up into her, hard and fast where Will had been soft and slow. Will presses in behind her, hands sliding up to cup her breasts, his mouth hot and wet against her neck, and she twists her head around for a kiss, snagging her hands in Will's hair.
"Touch her," Jack says.
And Will does -- long fingers rubbing in quick circles as Jack's cock slides in and out of her. Jack pulls a nipple into his mouth, tracing it with his tongue, and Elizabeth falls apart. Jack follows almost immediately, with a string of curses that would make the Devil blush.
You will come b'tween dem, Tia Dalma had said, smiling at the claws. You will come b'tween dem, and prob'ly not de way dat you think.