Laura (fried_flamingo) wrote,
Laura
fried_flamingo

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New Pirates of the Caribbean Fic: Empress 1/1

Title: Empress
Author: Laura H fried_flamingo
Rating: NC-17 (no, seriously)
Pairing: Jack/Elizabeth
Category: PWP, sex, BDSM

Author's note: So I'm not quite sure where my mind was at with this fic. It's a little AWE missing scene, but is probably the most graphic I've ever written. Also quite experimental, in terms of style. The setting is inspired by djarum99's fabulous What in Me is Dark Illumine - what could happen between Jack and Elizabeth on the night before battle. Most definitely not work safe. Intended as a little pick-me-up for salr323 who has been sick all week and in dire need of squee. I really hope it's not too dirtybadwrong for you, hun. ;) Squee for Sweeney next weekend!





Cold. Her hand slides into the bowl. Water closes around her splayed fingers like a glove of ice. Tiny leaves float on the surface. Ships. Lost in a frozen sea. There’s heat now, a Caribbean balm. It floats in through the wound in the ship’s side. Candle flames reflect in the golden basin. Dapple her skin. An imitation of sunlight. Elizabeth wonders if she’ll ever be warm again.

The girl places the silver jug upon the small table, eyes averted, and Elizabeth considers her. Sao Feng’s maid? His whore? Did she love him? Her downcast face offers no answer. Delicate hands remove her hat. Set it carefully upon the low bunk. Return to peel the coat from her shoulders. Elizabeth breathes deeply; the black brocade and leather was a heavy weight upon her back. Beneath her, the Empress bucks gently. Chides her for her self-doubt. Settles, as she tentatively reaches out. Places her hand on the hull. Strokes softly.

On the table, there are balms and lotions. None are likely to help. None will soothe her salt-tightened skin. It’s too tight now, too small. Like it’s shrunk around her, suffocating her. Too much salt. Too much water.

Behind her, the maid returns. Gentle tugs at her hair, pulling free the clasp that fastens her knot. Fingers on her scalp, kneading, stroking. Brittle strands drawn sideways across the base of her skull, exposing the nape of her neck, her shoulders. Breath. Elizabeth lets her eyes close, knowing something is wrong, something is different, but she longs for this. For touch.

A chime. Like the toll of a bell. A death knell. Chain and shackle. She turns.

“Majesty.” A greeting. Or a taunt. He bows.

She is silent. Unsure how formal her own greeting should be. She thinks of his fingers in her hair.

He glances around the Great Cabin of the Empress. “Pretty.” Hand flutters. “He liked his comforts.” A pause. “That might need mending though.” The gash in the hull. Captain, dead, ship, broken. “Yours now, eh?”

“For the moment.” Her voice, at last.

“A captain disposed.”

“By Jones.” Not me.

A chime. The toll of a bell. Her eyes flick down to his hand. Chain and shackle.

“Need rid of these.” He frowns. “Make too much of a racket. Can’t bloody sleep with the noise.” He lifts them to eye level. Clangclangclang. “Thought you might want them.”

“Why would I…?”

“Spoils of war. A token lifted from the battlefield. From the dead.”

“You’re not dead.”

“No?” The shackles drop. Clangclangclang. One hand rises. Rests on his chest. Eyes closed and brow furrowed as if waiting. Listening. “Won’t work, will it? Dutchman needs a living heart. Can’t make it work.”

“Jack…” A whisper. Her hand steals out, catches his arm. He spins then, eyes like weathered steel. Pulls her forward. Iron around her wrists. Cold. Shackled. “Jack,” she says again. Something drums in her chest. Fear? Not that. Something else.

“Don’t.” His voice is dry. Like a sun-cracked deck. The thick chain hangs between her arms. He grabs it. Drags her. Feet stumble. The wall, hard, against her back. “Don’t speak. Can’t bear it. Last words I heard were from those lips. Last words before…” Something breaks in his eyes. Melts. Pools. Hardens. The chain is grasped again and her arms are lifted above her head. Clangclangclang. Up and over. Her shackles loop over a torch sconce. Body stretched, pulled tight, feet touching the floor, but barely. She hangs there.

Jack’s hands linger on her arms, fingers grazing the skin, travelling down. His eyes follow their path. Her breath tugs at the air, shuddering gasps. Lips next to hers, untouching. He doesn’t kiss her.

“What’s in your mind, Captain Sparrow?”

He draws back to look at her. Perhaps she expected mocking there. A tease. She finds neither. Leaning forward, he rests his cheek next to her own, lips against her ear.

“I hardly know, Captain Swann. Hardly even know if me mind’s me own.” A sigh. His hand pulled over his face. He falls back once more, further away this time. Stepping away, leaving her chained. “I’m sorry,” he says, and turns. Retreat.

Her hands grab onto the chains. Gripping tight, she pulls. Lifts herself from the floor, legs snaking out to catch him, claw-like, around his middle, preventing escape. He stops. He has no choice.

“Elizabeth…”

“Don’t leave.” He turns back, still in the grip of her limbs. Her arms begin to ache. Hands move across her thighs, rippling the material of her ku in silken waves. Her fingers slacken on the chain as he cradles her.

“This is dangerous.”

“For who?”

One hand resting on her hip now. The other moving up, across the shallow of her stomach, her chest. Eyes closed. He swallows. Doesn’t kiss her. Fingers close around her throat. “Could hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“I want to.” She doesn’t challenge that. She thinks it’s probably true. At her back, the wood of her ship is unyielding. One breath. Another. Moments come disconnected, one from the other.

“Then do it.” His eyes flick open. Alarm. Heat. Something else. “If you need to. Hurt me.” The stone wall falls away beneath her feet and she’s sky borne, falling towards the rocks below. Remembering how that turned out before, she is unafraid.

“No.” He shakes his head. Trinkets jingle, a gentler echo of the manacles that bind her. “Can’t.” He has to. She squeezes her legs around him, cinches the vice, tightens the noose. Lets a grimace contort her features, a sneer. It feels familiar. Again, that look in his eyes. Breaks, melts, pools, hardens. Hands grip the collar of her tunic and pull. The sound is loud as it tears, belying the delicate material. All the way down. The Empress breathes through her open scar and Elizabeth feels it warm on the skin of her belly. Her own breath strains against the strip of cotton that binds her breasts. Jewelled fingers trail down through the valley in between. The material puckers in their wake.

“Bound,” he growls, and she can’t tell if he’s angry. “Always bound.”

“Never more so than now. And by no one’s hand but yours.”

“Oh really?” A smile flashes. Gold tempered with something bitter. “Come now, Lizzie. Lift your arms and freedom would be yours if you desired it. Say the word and I unlock those chains. The choice is yours. A luxury I, meself, was denied. In fact…” He reaches up, towards her chains, as if to unscrew the cuffs from her wrists.

“No!” The smile flashes once more. Gold in his mouth a stark contrast to the deep black in his eyes. For a moment she sees herself reflected there and wonders if it spells her doom. Who is this for? Which of us will gain from this? Silently, she pleads for him to continue.

He leans in. Smothers his face in her hair. Inhales, gently. Still, he doesn’t kiss her.

Something’s pressed against her bare stomach. Cold. His hand moves, quickly, upwards. Something stings her skin and she hisses, softly. The cotton bindings fall to the floor. Silver flashes by the side of her head as he buries the dagger in the wood of her ship. She hears the Empress splinter. Glancing down, she sees scarlet beads gather between her breasts, a shallow graze from the caress of the blade’s tip.

Should it be deeper? she thinks. Should he cut me open and rip my heart out completely?

Her torn tunic hangs loose, barely covering her hardened nipples. Jack looks down, sees that he has cut her. She studies his face, but is unsure if she sees remorse there. Then he leans down. His tongue on her stomach. Moving up, across the shallow wound, catching the jewels of her blood, tasting her. He carries on until he reaches the hollow of her throat and, instead of his tongue, she feels teeth. Gentle. Nipping at her skin.

I could hurt you.

She knows it to be true.

“Take off your coat.” Her voice still a whisper, but commanding, even though she is the one in chains. He steps back. Complies. “Your belts.” Eyes narrow. Faint grin. He complies. The buckles thud on the floor. “Your shirt.” Chin lifts. The grin is gone. She thrills at the look upon his face. “Your shirt,” she repeats. He complies.

“Anything else?”

She stretches out her leg, draws her foot over the swell in his breeches. Savours his shaking sigh, the long-lashed quiver of his eyelids. “Not yet.”

“What then?”

She lets her eyes rove across his body, the tawny skin, the ink, the scars. “It seems to me, Captain Sparrow, that I am the one shackled. In no position to make demands.”

“Ah, love, ‘twould seem your notion of shackled is somewhat at odds with me own. But nevertheless…” He returns to her, hands rough on her shoulders, parting the folds of her torn robe. Her breasts graze his skin and she feels the tremor run through him. She moves forward until the chain clinks against the metal sconce. Her arms pull taut above her head. His lips, so close. Just out of reach. He doesn’t kiss her. “Are you ready for this, Captain Swann?” he asks. “Are you ready to give me what should be kept for your perfidious young sweetheart?”

She laughs at that, at what could be construed as naïveté from Captain Jack Sparrow. “Jack, we sailed around the Cape together, Will and I. Months spent in cramped quarters. How strong do you think our resolve was?”

Gold flashes. A sneer, this time. Mouth pulled back. In anger? Jealousy? Heat pools in her belly. And lower. She’s pushed once more against the wall of her ship. Feels it give, just slightly. Weakened by the Dutchman’s onslaught. “And what was he able to give you, Lizzie? What wonders could such an earnest young boy show you?” His words are hissed. Spat against the skin of her neck, her collar bone, across her chest. Elizabeth wonders if he can feel the violent beating of her heart against his lips. “Frantic groping and fevered gasps? How long did it last, eh? So long spent with only swords for company must’ve built up some tension in the lad. How long did you have to lie there beneath his frenzied pounding?” She refuses to answer. Will not give into his anger and compare this to what she had – has – with Will, or vice versa. Will not taint one with the other. Like water. Like rum. Both different. Both necessary. Let this be what it would be. Let this happen.

His lips close over the nipple of her left breast. Her heart beats and she thinks she can hear it. His hand is between her legs. Pressing. Rubbing. The silk of her ku slides across the moisture pooling there. An unwelcome barrier. She craves the flesh on flesh sensation of his fingertips at her centre.

“Can’t feel you,” she gasps, writhing. “Take them off. Can’t feel.” Immediately, he pulls at the waistband, dragging them down and off. She’s free. Naked in front of Jack Sparrow. Chained. Letting him touch her. Letting him hurt her if he wants. If she wants. Forehead against forehead, his hand clutching at the back of her neck. He doesn’t kiss her.

“Touch me. Touch me again.” Gasping still, but commanding. He complies. Oh! Back arches. He plays her, fingers dancing. Heat. Then he moves them inside. One finger. Two. Opening her up. She feels the metal of his rings as he moves them in and out.

“Did he do this, your boy? Did he know about this spot? Here, inside?” He pushes, presses. She cries out. Feels close to breaking, but not there yet. His breath is angry, hot against her ear. Feral. “Could he bring you off like this?” She bucks under his touch, clenches over his fingers, but won’t be drawn. Won’t be baited. Let this be what it would be. Different. Necessary.

Jack withdraws his hand and she sags. Thinks only her bonds are holding her upright.

“What do you want, Elizabeth?” His voice is quiet now. The anger gone. Lips still against her ear.

“This. Now.”

“Is it a substitute you need? Someone to take the place of your absent love?”

She knows the answer, but is unsure how to give it voice.

“Will you fuck me, but see his face behind closed eyes?”

“Jack…”

“I’ll not play your whore, Lizzie. I’ll not have you lie with me and long for another. What is it you want?”

“You.” No tremor in her voice. No uncertainty. “I want you. But don’t make me choose. I can’t give up one for the other.” He frowns. Considers. Eyes inscrutable. “Don’t you want this, Jack? Don’t you need this?”

Jack’s touch, light on her face, across her cheek. “Need this,” he echoes, as if testing the words. His breath, a ghost, spiced with rum. He doesn’t kiss her. His eyes catch hers. A flame there, suddenly. A spark. “So what?” he asks. “What now?”

She grins, an expression to mirror Jack’s, a totem against the demons lurking in shadow. A parasol held against a hurricane. For now, it will do. For now. His hands move to his breeches, unfastening. Her foot kicks out, knocking his fingers from the laces. She shakes her head, feeling dangerous. On the edge of the volcano. Heat. “Not yet.”

He stills. “What then?

Her eyes narrow. “Down,” she murmurs. He complies. Lips press to her stomach, the only kisses he has granted her so far. A trail of fire across her hip bone. She savours the anticipation, relishes the slow build. But between her legs, she is aflame. Perhaps he senses her impatience.

Perhaps he feels it too. He grasps her legs, pulling them up, over his shoulders. She is suspended by the shackles; they pull against the sconce and chafe at her wrists. Beneath her legs, she feels the muscles work in his shoulders and back, slight but strong. He leans into her. Tastes her. Fingers again, thumb and forefinger, pulling her apart. The build heightens. Her cry is a gasp, a sob. She longs to fly. Tongue, again. Inside. Searching her. Freeing her. She moves against him, legs pressing against his back, feeling the ridges of scars against the unsullied skin of her calves. His mouth closes around her, sucking, tugging. Such a small bud of flesh to arouse such sensation. She flies, she soars. She won’t compare, she won’t. Water and rum. One is life, the other freedom. But in this haze, this blaze of fire, she can’t think which is which.

Then, for the first time that night, with lips and teeth and tongue, Jack Sparrow unleashes her. Opens her cage, sets her free. She flies. She falls. Misses the rocks below.

“Lizzie, Lizzie…” His whispers gust across her stomach, stirring her once more. She looks down at the top of his head. Longs to thread her fingers into his thick braids. Longs to touch him. But she won’t release herself from the shackles. Is this penance? she wonders. Do the flames of Hell burn with such fervour?

“Jack.” He looks up. A gesture with her head. Bids him stand. He complies. Her gaze drops down, across his chest, sweat-slicked now. To his breeches. That gathering of hair. Lower.

“Now,” she says. “I want to see you.” She bites her lip. Holds his gaze. He pulls off his boots, his breeches. Never loses sight of her eyes. He’s naked before her. Breath pains her.

“This what you want, love? What you crave?” He takes hold of himself. Strokes. He backs away. Collides with the table. Turns. The jug wobbles, settles. He picks it up, picks up the cloth. Walks toward her. Pours. The water cascades over her, sluices across her breasts, her stomach. Lower. Cold. The jug empty, he wipes her down. The cloth gathers droplets from her skin. Water mixed with fresh red beads from the narrow cut. She isn’t clean though. Never clean.

“Jack, please…” He smiles at this plea. A moment of longing, betrayed. Power conceded. He reaches behind, to the table again. Grasps a bottle. Green glass, filigree silver surrounds it. Unscrews the cork. Steps forward. Splashes the balm across her skin. The fragrance is thick, woody. Like cashews. Oil rolls down her body. Across her breasts. Drips from her nipples. His hands follow. Elizabeth looks down; her skin shines, feels whole again. Her own.

“Tell me what you want, Lizzie.” His hands smooth the oil across her skin, over her arms, on her neck. He doesn’t kiss her. She can feel him, hard, pressed between their bodies.

“You,” she gasps. “You, inside.” Her leg snakes up, encircles his hip, pulls him towards her. He reaches between them, takes hold of himself again. Rubs his head across that place between her legs, the place his mouth had licked and sucked just moments before. “Inside,” she says again, voice urgent.

He complies. Fills her. Their gazes lock. A change acknowledged. In his eyes, that look. Something breaks, melts, pools… He kisses her.

Her heart fractures.

“I could hurt you,” he says. Chokes. Gasps. Thrusts into her.

“You can’t.” She knows it to be true.

“Lizzie…”

“How does it feel, Jack?”

His hand against the wooden wall of the Empress, the other grasping her thigh. He thrusts. “Lizzie…” His voice like ash, like lava. Like ice. Cold. Heat.

“How does it feel? How do I feel?”

He kisses her. “Hot.”

“Yes.” Her lips catch his. “What else?”

“Wet.” He moans, gasps. She leans forward. He kisses her. Thrusts. The skin of his torso is slick with oil, sliding against her.

“What else?” Her voice is not her own. She can hardly think beyond the press of him between her thighs.

He kisses her, deep, long. Thrusts and holds it. “Tight. Oh Lizzie, so tight.” His words are a growl, feral, primal, in the back of his throat. She can take no more. Her legs hook onto his hips, she pushes herself up and off the sconce. The chain loops over his shoulders.

He gathers her around him, still inside. Carries her to the low, silk-draped bunk. They fall upon it, the brocade soft against her back. He kisses her, thrusts in. Again. Again. She urges him to move faster, harder. He complies. Once more, she feels the sky beckon. Rushes towards the cliff. His hand reaches between them, presses, sends her over the edge. This time she flies, but doesn’t fall. Stays airborne. Her arms curl around him, flesh and metal draping his shoulders. Watches his face as he sees her break. He’s a phantom to her, eyes black, like tar, beautiful. Eldritch. She loves him. She feels the words curl her tongue but doesn’t utter them, though she wants to.

Still, he’s hard inside her. He thrusts. Once, twice. Withdraws with a choked gasp. Spends, hot between them. Wet on her belly. They press together. Water burns her eyes. Hot. Salt.

He kisses her.

Dawn brings war.

Like water and rum, she refuses to compare. One is cold, like life, the other is heat. Freedom. He kisses her and she falls. The rocks below are sharp like teeth. Kicking, she strains for the surface.




~~~
Tags: fic, j/e, potc
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  • I do believe the appropriate word is 'Squee'..."

    This... ...has left me with a huge grin on my face. If the actual movie is anything like the trailer then I am one very happy bunny. Minimal FX,…

  • PotC Drabble: Red Sky 1/1, PG

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