Scars
folder
Pirates of the Caribbean (All) › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
7
Views:
2,489
Reviews:
5
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Pirates of the Caribbean (All) › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
7
Views:
2,489
Reviews:
5
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter 1 text
Title: Scars
Author: watashi (mkdchenes@yahoo.com)
Rating: Probably R, for the mention of rape
Pairing: Jack/OC
Disclaimer: Anna is mine, the rest are Disney's.
Author's Note: This is my first fanfic, and please don't ask me to rewrite it with smut in it. I've tried; I can't. Feedback is good. Flames will be used to reheat leftover coffee. On with the show...
Jack Sparrow was enjoying his usual routine when making port in Tortuga, that being: leave the Pearl, find the nearest tavern that wasn’t already full up with drunken patrons, do his damnedest to force the tavern to close for lack of rum, and then, depending on how much rum he’d managed to find, either stumble back to the Pearl and sleep it off, or go on, find another tavern and repeat the process until he was no longer capable of walking and woke up on the floor or in an alley or some such. It was a plan that had never let him down in all the years he’d been following it. The first night in port was for rum, and the second was for other amusements. Depending on his mood, the second night’s amusements could be drunken brawls, whores, card games, dice, cockfights, or whatever other exotic or mundane pleasures he felt like.
Last night it had been a highly entertaining fight in a waterfront tavern between a drunken shipwright and Cotton’s parrot. It had started when the shipwright had mistaken “Wind in your sails” for something obscene. The parrot had won the fight by default when the shipwright swung at it, missed by at least six inches, overbalanced and crashed face-first onto the floor, where he stayed for the rest of the night. Jack vaguely remembered lifting the shipwright’s purse and buying the whole tavern a round, ostensibly on the parrot’s behalf.
Tonight being the third night, it was back to the rum, at least to start with. And he knew just where to go for it, too. A fairly new tavern not far from the heights, which was already famous for the quantities of rum it kept on hand and its proximity to a very good brothel. Jack hadn’t yet been able to drink the tavern dry, even when he brought most of his crew with him and his crew brought most of the brothel with them. Shockingly enough, when he finally found the place again, it was closed.
“Well, bloody hell! What’s the old island comin’ to? “ Jack demanded of nobody in particular. He stalked up the narrow street to the brothel, which seemed to be closed too. That was less of a shock, since it was only ten o’clock in the morning and the girls had to sleep sometime. Failing to find any more excitement at a closed brothel than he had at the closed tavern, Jack wandered back down to wait for the tavern to open. He settled across the street, under the overhang of a second-story balcony, and pulled his hat over his eyes for a nap. The noise of the tavern’s patrons would wake him when it opened.
Fifteen minutes later, Jack was dozing intermittently, and thinking in between about the brothel’s whores. Last time he had had one with a voice like running a heavy cart over a gravel road, but the other things she could do with her tongue…and then there was the one with the hair like a haystack and the rutting instinct of a weasel…and the black one with the bosoms…and…what the hell?
A woman’s voice had reached his ears and made its way into his awareness. It was a singing voice, low soprano, in tune and unroughened by rum or the general atmosphere of the tavern, which consisted mostly of equal parts tobacco smoke, unwashed bodies, spilled alcohol, overcooked stew, and a variety of bodily fluids spilled as a result of too much rum. That would thicken anyone’s throat in about two minutes, and Jack knew it. Besides, no woman sang in Tortuga unless she was paid to.
Jack’s experience with singing was more of the drunken bellowing pirate variety, and once or twice with the church choir variety. Not that he had been in a church since he’d been impersonating a Church of England pastor, mind you. Not that he could sing, himself, either, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate it. The singing he was hearing now was completely unknown to him, and he decided he liked it.
“New tavern wench, probably. Not broken to the Tortuga life yet. That could be fun.” Jack thought for approximately fifteen seconds before getting up and going across the street to track down the owner of the voice and see if he could charm her into giving him some amusement until the brothel opened.
Author: watashi (mkdchenes@yahoo.com)
Rating: Probably R, for the mention of rape
Pairing: Jack/OC
Disclaimer: Anna is mine, the rest are Disney's.
Author's Note: This is my first fanfic, and please don't ask me to rewrite it with smut in it. I've tried; I can't. Feedback is good. Flames will be used to reheat leftover coffee. On with the show...
Jack Sparrow was enjoying his usual routine when making port in Tortuga, that being: leave the Pearl, find the nearest tavern that wasn’t already full up with drunken patrons, do his damnedest to force the tavern to close for lack of rum, and then, depending on how much rum he’d managed to find, either stumble back to the Pearl and sleep it off, or go on, find another tavern and repeat the process until he was no longer capable of walking and woke up on the floor or in an alley or some such. It was a plan that had never let him down in all the years he’d been following it. The first night in port was for rum, and the second was for other amusements. Depending on his mood, the second night’s amusements could be drunken brawls, whores, card games, dice, cockfights, or whatever other exotic or mundane pleasures he felt like.
Last night it had been a highly entertaining fight in a waterfront tavern between a drunken shipwright and Cotton’s parrot. It had started when the shipwright had mistaken “Wind in your sails” for something obscene. The parrot had won the fight by default when the shipwright swung at it, missed by at least six inches, overbalanced and crashed face-first onto the floor, where he stayed for the rest of the night. Jack vaguely remembered lifting the shipwright’s purse and buying the whole tavern a round, ostensibly on the parrot’s behalf.
Tonight being the third night, it was back to the rum, at least to start with. And he knew just where to go for it, too. A fairly new tavern not far from the heights, which was already famous for the quantities of rum it kept on hand and its proximity to a very good brothel. Jack hadn’t yet been able to drink the tavern dry, even when he brought most of his crew with him and his crew brought most of the brothel with them. Shockingly enough, when he finally found the place again, it was closed.
“Well, bloody hell! What’s the old island comin’ to? “ Jack demanded of nobody in particular. He stalked up the narrow street to the brothel, which seemed to be closed too. That was less of a shock, since it was only ten o’clock in the morning and the girls had to sleep sometime. Failing to find any more excitement at a closed brothel than he had at the closed tavern, Jack wandered back down to wait for the tavern to open. He settled across the street, under the overhang of a second-story balcony, and pulled his hat over his eyes for a nap. The noise of the tavern’s patrons would wake him when it opened.
Fifteen minutes later, Jack was dozing intermittently, and thinking in between about the brothel’s whores. Last time he had had one with a voice like running a heavy cart over a gravel road, but the other things she could do with her tongue…and then there was the one with the hair like a haystack and the rutting instinct of a weasel…and the black one with the bosoms…and…what the hell?
A woman’s voice had reached his ears and made its way into his awareness. It was a singing voice, low soprano, in tune and unroughened by rum or the general atmosphere of the tavern, which consisted mostly of equal parts tobacco smoke, unwashed bodies, spilled alcohol, overcooked stew, and a variety of bodily fluids spilled as a result of too much rum. That would thicken anyone’s throat in about two minutes, and Jack knew it. Besides, no woman sang in Tortuga unless she was paid to.
Jack’s experience with singing was more of the drunken bellowing pirate variety, and once or twice with the church choir variety. Not that he had been in a church since he’d been impersonating a Church of England pastor, mind you. Not that he could sing, himself, either, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate it. The singing he was hearing now was completely unknown to him, and he decided he liked it.
“New tavern wench, probably. Not broken to the Tortuga life yet. That could be fun.” Jack thought for approximately fifteen seconds before getting up and going across the street to track down the owner of the voice and see if he could charm her into giving him some amusement until the brothel opened.