Unforgivable

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Her breasts were tender; her stomach mutinous. She veered from tears to fury and back again in a matter of minutes and had developed a violent - and completely unjustified - intolerance to rum.

Prospective fatherhood, Jack brooded, was proving bloody hard work.

There was no doubt now in either of their minds that Elizabeth was carrying his child. Besides all the other trying symptoms, her belly had at last begun to swell. A tiny curve under his hand, barely perceptible – but there, all the same.

Not that he’d been allowed to do much more than look, of late. If she wasn’t feeling sick, she was falling asleep everywhere. Or sobbing in his arms because she loved him SO much - then yelling at him because he was SUCH an unfeeling wretch.

Bewildered and bemused by this unpredictable behaviour, Jack quickly learnt that a pregnant Elizabeth must be approached with extreme caution – if at all.

There was a new moon tonight, its rays fragile and weak. He didn’t mind it, though; the shadows suited his mood. Above the ocean’s constant lullaby he could hear her breathing, slow and steady. The darkness hid her from his eyes, but the memory of her naked beauty burned bright and all too vividly.

There had been too many nights like this one.

Nights filled with frustration, with longing to give her the comfort of his body and receive his own from her. But she’d made it abundantly clear that such comforts were not to be countenanced at present.

Sad but resigned, he’d procured another oil-filled jar and returned to old habits; retreating to his chair with nothing but moonlight and a well-greased fist for company.
It was a poor substitute, bitterly reminiscent at times of the dark, aching days before she was his – but far safer than waking his volatile, moody temptress.

Physical needs had been attended to, for now; tension temporarily discharged, warm and wet against his palm. Jack had attended to the mess with a weary sigh, wishing his troubled thoughts could be so easily purged.

The knowledge that Lizzie was breeding at last filled him with joy - and utter terror. Wanting her to bear his child was one thing – having that dream become reality quite another. Suddenly he found himself beset with doubts; how could a black-hearted, rum-soaked rogue like him be a good father? How could a scurvy no-good pirate take on responsibility for the shaping of an innocent young life?

But the job was done; an immutable fact. The life he’d helped create became more real with each passing day, and it was far too late to harbour such doubts. He suspected if Lizzie had been as delighted as she’d anticipated, it would have eased his fears considerably. But she seemed so tired and miserable; could it be that she was regretting her condition? He was too afraid to ask.

In his imagination Jack had seen her glowing with delight and good health, and himself swaggering proudly in her wake, proclaiming to all and sundry that this beautiful wench was growing fat with HIS child. In truth his pride was darkly shadowed; by guilt that he’d done this to her; by concern for her pale-faced fretfulness – and by disgust with himself for resenting her erratic moods.

Desire to be near her far outweighed the danger of further temptation; he soon abandoned his solitary brooding for the blissful peace of her silent company. Stretching out beside her, he curled one hand over her belly and addressed his unborn infant in soft, persausive tones.

“This is yer Dad, son. Hope yer sleepin’ safe in there. Need t’have a chat wiv ye. Need ye t’stop bein’ such an inconsiderate little bugger to yer poor Mum, savvy? Fact is, if ye don’t cease and desist - immediately or sooner - I’ll have no choice but t’throw ye in the brig soon as ye pop out o’there. An’ m’sure ye don’t want that, now do ye?”

A sharp elbow in the ribs told him Elizabeth was no longer asleep.

“Stop threatening our child, beastly man. And you shouldn’t be teaching her such awful language, either!”

“Shhh! S’private, father-son business.”

“Then perhaps the father should have pleasured himself a little more quietly.”

“Ah.”

“Honestly Jack, you were tossing and turning so much, I’d no chance of staying asleep. And as for all the grunting and groaning …”

“Weren’t all THAT much…”

“Well no,” she conceded. “But I knew exactly what you were doing, and – well - it was impossible not to –to - listen.”

“M’sorry, luv. Did try t’be quiet about it.”

“It’s not that! It’s because you didn’t – you should have – Oh! You just don’t get it, do you?”

Her voice was rising, and he shifted surreptitiously closer to the edge of the bunk.

“T’be perfectly truthful, darlin’, no I don’t. Which seems t’be a constant failin’ o’mine these days.”

“I wanted you to wake me, Jack! I wanted you to- to want ME!”

“Elizabeth –”

“It’s because I’m getting fat, isn’t it? Don’t lie to me, I know it is!”

Bewilderment melted into disbelief.

“I’ve seen more fat on a bleedin’ bowline!” he spluttered. “An’ when’ve I EVER not wanted ye? From the very first day we met –”

“You held a pistol to my head and tried to choke me!”

“Did not! Alright, maybe the pistol part’s true, but I’d never’ve used it and I certainly had no intention of chok-”

“Stop changing the subject!”

“But –I – I – you -”

“It doesn’t matter.” She dismissed his indignant squawks with a wave of her hand. “The point is, you should have asked me.”

“But last time ye slapped me!”

“Last time you caught me at a bad moment. I don’t recall saying you couldn’t ask me again.”

Jack thought of pointing out that last time she had in fact threatened to eunuchate him if he touched her once more. Luckily wisdom prevailed; he clamped his lips firmly shut.

“Did it not occur to you,” she was saying now, her voice trembling, “that I might also have…needs?”

“Needs which I’ll be more’n happy to see well met.”

“With WHAT, exactly?”

“Well I didn’t mean right this minute...”

One hand crept optimistically between his thighs and set to work, but her scornful expression did little to raise his hopes – or anything else, for that matter.

“Don’t bother,” she sniffed. “It’s too late, anyway.”

“S’no bother, darlin’. An’ if it’s truly too late…why do ye tremble so, when I touch ye like… this?”

His fingers began a teasing dance over breasts and belly, eliciting a plaintive whimper. But for once his own body did not respond; exhaustion and weeks of rejection – not to mention the fact that he’d spent not half an hour ago – undoubtedly taking their toll.


“I’ve a cure in mind for our delightful dilemma,” he whispered a few moments later, trying not to think too unkindly of the soft, heavy weight still resting peacefully against his thigh. “Give me yer hand.”

“No.”

“Not fer me! Want t’try somethin’ else. Please?”

Grudgingly she complied; holding her gaze, he drew her fingers slowly into his mouth, one by one.

Elizabeth moaned, her eyes sliding half-shut, and he leaned in to kiss the tip of her nose before slanting his mouth over hers.

It was a slow, sinful kiss; a promise and a tease. Not relinquishing her hand, he trailed their fingers over her body in a relentless, tender journey that ended in the slick, heated place between her thighs.

Realising his intention, Elizabeth jerked her head away sharply.

“No I can’t, you know I can’t - not with you watching me!”

“Do tell me th’next time ye think m’not watchin’ then…”

“Jack!”

Stifling a grin, he returned his attention to the matter at hand. Or under their hands, as it were.

“S’nothin’ t’be afraid of, darlin’. Quite th’contrary, in point of fact. I swear ye’ll feel so much better fer it.”

“But I really don’t want – Oh! Ohhh…”

“There,” he whispered, moving her fingertips insistently over sensitive, aching flesh. “Like that. Feels so good, Lizzie…”

She closed her eyes, wanting to deny it, but it seemed the coming child had bestowed another gift; one much more agreeable than exhaustion and nausea. Each tender touch sent jolts of pleasure coursing through her; she caught her breath, inhibitions and self-consciousness rapidly disappearing.

When her fingers began to explore without his guidance, Jack withdrew his hand with a smile that hovered somewhere between smugness and pride.

“That’s me girl,” he murmured, settling down to watch. The urge to touch her was strong but he resisted it; this was a sight he’d long wished to see, one that held a joy all its own. A joy that made his own stubborn flesh stir at last; each breathless moan making him rise and swell a little more until he was slick and hard against the curve of her thigh.

“So beautiful….God, Lizzie….ye look so bloody beautiful like this…”

His breath quickened along with hers, and when her hips began to buck in earnest his own took up the rhythm, rocking against her side.

“Let it come, Lizzie,” he whispered, sensing her growing anguish, his body quivering in sympathy.

“C-can’t!” she panted desperately. “Jack – I can’t -!”

“Shhh…yes you can…”

Quickly sliding a hand beneath hers, he found hot, velvet heat; a few deft strokes and she was flying; soaring wild on waves of pleasure.

Gasping, shuddering, Elizabeth rode the storm until she’d no more breath to scream, no more strength to withstand this exquisite onslaught. And finally the tremors began to fade; ebbing away like the tide and leaving her blissfully, peacefully shattered.

From very far away came the deep sultry growl of Jack’s voice; the gentle caress of his fingers on her damp skin. She thought he might be asking something but felt too drowsy and sated to think what. Still wondering, his rich, soothing tones were the last thing she remembered…

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then.”

Jack rolled onto his back, stifling a curse. The movement made his erection sway cheerfully in the air, and he gave it a sour glance. “S’no bloody use bein’ ready fer it NOW, ye inopportune bugger!”

Closing his eyes, he wondered if his problem could be cured with pure and noble thoughts. But neither the pulsing ache nor the steady dribble of clear, sticky fluid showed signs of abating.

“Oh, will ye please bugger off? M’too bloody tired fer this.”

Rolling defiantly onto his stomach, he screwed his eyes shut and tried to will himself to sleep. A ploy that might have worked better without visions of a naked, writhing Elizabeth dancing through his head.

He clenched his fists and counted to ten. Stared at the space where his rum bottle should be, muttered a few heartfelt curses and counted again, in latin this time.

It didn’t help.

His hips seemed to move on their own; a slow, delicious grind against the hard mattress.

“No. Stop that an’ go t’bloody sleep!”

Helpless, he repeated the motion.

“Ye’ll make yerself sore. Think of – think of Barbossa, naked.”

In his head Elizabeth gave a low, teasing moan, and his body responded accordingly.

“Never manage it this way, anyhow. Daft bugger.”

She was laughing at him now, he could swear it; watching and laughing as he settled into a rhythm.

It was a tantalising sensation; pleasure mixed with pain as he rubbed himself across the rough sheets, both easing and exacerbating that throbbing, inescapable ache. ‘Not good,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Go get the bloody oil at least!’ But the pressure inside was growing more insistent with every stroke; sore or not, he knew that stopping now was no longer an option.

But when that familiar, delicious tightening in his balls told him release was both inevitable and imminent, common sense prevailed at last. He’d no wish to sleep on wet sheets, and prior experience had taught him they were about to get a thorough soaking. Rolling inelegantly off the edge of the bunk, his free hand came down on something soft and yielding, and he snatched it up gratefully, just in time.

Blessed relief came in quick, sweet bursts, quickly drenching the cloth bunched in his hand. As soon as it was over he threw it aside; crawled back onto the bunk without bothering to open his eyes. Muttering a drowsy curse about the vagaries of pregnant females, he fell at last into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Elizabeth awoke several hours later to a cabin filled with sunlight. She cast a fond glance at the prostrate pirate by her side; it seemed a long time since she’d woken to find him there. Of late he’d taken over the morning watch, claiming that being woken by the sounds of retching was not good for his appetite.

Talking of which - pressing one hand gingerly over her belly, she waited for the rebellious churning to start – and realised it was unusually, delightfully absent. She sat up, rather cautiously. Still nothing. Well not quite nothing – there was a different discomfort; a gnawing, empty kind of discomfort, almost as if she were –

“Hungry! Jack, I’m actually hungry!”

Her companion slept on, unimpressed by this miraculous news.

“I think you may have found a rather intriguing cure for nausea, my love,” she went on, unabashed. “Clever pirate!”

She leaned over to kiss his tangled mane; he burrowed a little deeper into the mattress with a sleepy groan.

“Enjoy your rest, my love - you certainly deserve it!” Grinning, she clambered over him and reached for her shirt. “If you want me, I’ll be in the galley. I’m going to eat everything I ca….. JACK SPARROW!”

Her screech was loud enough to wake the dead; it certainly had the desired effect on an exhausted, half-dead pirate.

Scrabbling up onto hands and knees, he glanced around wildly for a weapon.

“Man the rigging!”

“WHAT have you done? You despicable wretch! All over my shirt, my clean, just-washed-yesterday shirt!”

Jack peered at her in bleary bewilderment.

“Wha…”

“Look at it, just look at it! What on earth were you doi – no, don’t answer that! I know EXACTLY what you were doing, but why did you have to do it all over MY shirt?”

“Erm…”

“Never mind! Just – just leave me alone!”

He subsided obediently onto his belly, eying her nervously as she stomped about the cabin, pulling on breeches and a different shirt – his, he surmised, from the angry glare she gave him.

With a final, exasperated shake of her head she was gone.

‘Congratulations, Sparrow,’ Jack muttered glumly, staring at the space where she wasn’t. “Yer in trouble. AGAIN!”