Protection

“Oh yes, Elizabeth, yes,” Barbossa’s low voice was swept away in an indulgent whisper as her mouth caressed his demanding hardness. He was still slick from the elixirs of her wet sheath, and her body ached from the absence of his deep within it, but Elizabeth had been eager to give him this, had dreamed of it for so many months, it wasn’t often that they could be together, but everyday Elizabeth wished they were. He’d always enjoyed her ministrations so in this fashion, and moments such as this with him had become so scarce lately, she missed him.

Her lips closed firmly at the band of his foreskin, the man below her wincing with a growl deep in his throat, but pressing himself closer to her, thrusting at her mouth and into the hand that held him at his base. Elizabeth caught the thin, slippery skin beneath her lips, tracing it with her tongue, then sucking it up and over the swollen head of his cock, then pushing it down again, over and over, as she cupped his heavy scrotum and rubbed the rigid egg shapes within it soundly. His flat stomach tensed and he sat half way up with a roar, falling to his back again, a heavy sigh escaping him as her tongue once more bathed the weeping roundness of his organ’s head. He’d said once that she was like none other, looking into her eyes, his fingers so light and lingering on her cheek as he caught his breath, drawing her closer upon his chest, pressing a kiss to her forehead as his strong arms closed around her. She’d hoped to coax more from him this time. She loved Hector Barbossa. She’d been a fool for lesser things.

The Brethren Court; it hadn’t taken long for them to turn on her. It had been nearly three years now since then. On the morning after she’d married Will Turner, only moments after he’d disappeared beneath the waves, claimed by the sea…the sea…Elizabeth should have known, she was a fool then to believe herself anything more than the other woman, the sea was more Will Turner’s wife than she would ever be. One day together after every decade? It was only enough to make them forget one another. Even now in the span of just three years, the chest she guarded and kept had fallen silent, not a murmur of energy from Will’s heart, not a quake, not a quiver, not a sigh; it no longer beat for her.

On the morning of their last goodbye three years ago, she’d little time to miss him though, or mourn him, or feel guilty, for over the horizon as The Dutchman sank beneath the waves, Elizabeth saw the sails of the pirate fleet she’d lead against the East India Trade Company, their jibs cut sharply into the wind, clearly in pursuit, of her. It had been like some great sobering up after a night’s wild debauchery, discovering that their king was a girl, a girl who’d only held the title of “Captain” and “Lord” for less than a full month. The victory she’d secured for them all was quickly forgotten, and she was taken in chains, back to a reconvening of the Brethren Court, before eight pirate lords, for she’d been immediately informed that she held no true claim to Sao Feng’s piece of eight, nor to lordship, and definitely none to royal authority.

Elizabeth had felt the twist of something like this inside her before, tying itself tighter; stretching to breaking points she didn’t comprehend the boundaries of. Men, pirates; they couldn’t be denied. She herself had been confident in her ability to lead, rule and govern, but her lack of experience had only inspired one thing, treason. She’d defeated an enemy, she’d preserved a way of life, but it had not truly been her enemy she’d defeated, nor her way of life she’d preserved. She was a fool to believe that she had ever truly been king.

That she would no longer be their king was the only thing the court seemed to be in agreement upon. But what to do with her sparked much debate. Which would it be then? Hanging? Beheading? Burned at the Stake? Elizabeth’s hand nervously clutched at her belly, cradling it protectively. There seemed to be no end to the suggestions, and as the impassioned argument erupted around the table, Elizabeth couldn’t help but stand shackled and roll her eyes. Seven of eight pirate lords, with their elected, victorious and then deposed king in chains; did they truly prefer this squabbling status quo over the order a monarch, such as herself, could have brought The Brethren Court? Had she not lead them in battle, lead them to victory over Beckett, and his ilk? ”And his ilk…”

Only one pirate lord had remained silent. One who’d sworn always to be her bulwark.

“Exile.” Elizabeth had heard the word though none of the other boisterously arguing pirate lords had been paying attention. She lifted her eyes from the floor and stared at Barbossa, surprised and angry. Had he truly just said that? After all they’d been to one another, after all the thought and protection he’d given her, he would fall short of standing beside her at a moment such as this? His response to her was the subtlest of calm nods, his unpretentious gaze bidding her trust, and then drawing his pistol, he fired upwards, demanding everyone’s attention with a roar. “Exile!” his blue eyes flashed with the word. “Find’er an island, leave her be there.”

Elizabeth felt herself stand straighter, the tension beginning to leave her body and her stomach steadied. An island…leave her be…of course he’d think of such, he’d marooned her once himself.

“Leave her be?” Jack was quick to object and again Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Why had she hoped, no, assumed really, that Jack might be her savior, just because it was by his vote that she became king? Jack clearly only wished to win the battle, maintain his own freedom. Jack had made her king, but had used her in that station. But then, that is what Jack did, nothing personal, as he was quick to point out to her. “And what if she raises an army what storms Shipwreck Cove and has a successful coup, mate? Do you really think she’d leave any of us left alive, on islands, in exile? What word of yours do we have that it won’t happen? Don’t tell me you know her so well as that.”

But Barbossa did know her so well, even more so than that. He’d meant to marry her once, he’d said so, on that same night her father’s soul drifted passed The Pearl aboard a skiff, solemn and untouchable. It had been Will who had held her, but Barbossa who dried her tears. There was more comfort to be taken in the sound of the Captain’s voice than there had been in Will Turner’s arms. The hour was late when she found herself still within Barbossa’s cabin, so much more than her grief suddenly pouring from the hole punched into her heart. He’d spoken of being a boy and watching his father die upon the gallows, how he’d blamed himself for not having the strength and where with all to save him, then looked to Elizabeth and said, “We choose our own fates, Ms. Swann. Nothing’s to be blamed upon others, and nothing’s to be done for the lot of us.”

It was she that night that had asked him not to go, not to leave her alone, just as it always was. He’d been something monstrous and mad when first she’d met him, something so desperate to live again it had to be killed. But that night, he’d warmed a glass of brandy for her, set her to sleep in the canopy bed that was rightfully the Captain’s bunk; she’d noticed there was color in his cheeks, warmth in his touch, tenderness in his gruff voice, wisdom in his words, and a certain beacon of humanity that seemed to shine only for her, drawing her in, guiding her safely across the vindictive sea her life had become; Jack’s murder, Will’s self-righteous jealousy, her father’s death.

When she kissed him, Barbossa made no move, his rigid posture conveying his utmost to stifle the responsiveness of his body, but he didn’t…he couldn’t, push her away. His lips were unexpectedly soft, meeting hers in the hapless manner of a man shamefully taking that which he’d never dreamed to be offered. But in that instant a million birds took to flight within Elizabeth’s heart, soaring high above the sea, high above The Pearl, gliding through the night sky with gleaming speed that left a distinct tingle within her heightened senses. Closer, more…no kiss had ever been quite as this one. Without a thought her lips parted over his, slightly, waiting, trembling with fevered breath, only to feel the brush of Barbossa’s tangled red hair as he turned away.

“Why won’t you kiss me?” She’d barely been able to whisper, kneeling on the bed, her hands twisted in the fabric of his coat, her eyes dilated and breath heavy.

“Elizabeth,” her name was a gasp, an audible reckless longing that betrayed his militarily strict stance and well intended words. “I should take meh leave of yeh, yer mind is weary and yer heart woebegone. I profess the crassness of havin’ wanted yeh once, but not like this.”

“You speak as though I am disadvantaged by rum,” She shrank back against the bed, the skin above and below her mouth still alive with the prickliness of his beard and only the slightest taste of him upon her lips; a mere brush of puissance, a miniscule flurry of satiety, a moment of asylum. To be alone would have been bearable, but to be without him would have been like dying herself. “Please, stay.”

He stood frozen. “Yer to be another man’s wife.”

Elizabeth turned the richness of her deep brown eyes up at him, filled with comprehension of the respect this pirate held for her, brimming with knowledge that in his eyes, she was and always would be honorable, would always be noble. “We all choose our own fates, Captain Barbossa.” She took his hand, pulling herself up, and he down to her. “Stay.”

It was not the enticing strangeness of a man’s naked body she remembered about her inauguration into womanhood that night. It was the fairness of Barbossa’s skin, the old scar that cleft his right side, the hard lump of long ago torn muscle blemishing the evenly hewed striations between his neck and shoulder, the powder pink of each nipple crowded by the curls of red hairs upon his chest, and how each one was oh so responsive to the brush of her fingers, or lips. She didn’t recall the sensation of a stranger’s hands in places that before had never been touched, but thought only how Barbossa had curled the roughness of his calloused fingertips into the roughness of his calloused palms and skimmed her trembling body with the mildness of his knuckles and smoothness of the backs of his nails.

She had only a scarce memory of the burning and scraping of something hard as it pushed inside her, her body a shudder in reflection of holding her first lover as deeply within her as she could bear at the time. Her pulse quickened at the memory of how he guided her legs to wrap around his waist, how she felt each strand of the coarse dark brown curls between her legs tangling with the swatch of red hairs at his groin. The beating of her heart had echoed in her ears, her skin hot beneath Barbossa’s body as though he were the sun.

Elizabeth’s hand slipped between them, searching out the junction of their bodies, where he became her, where she became him. The experience of his hand chaperoned hers along the path of their intimacy, his thrusts penetrating first the gentle squeeze of her fingers, then that of his own, and then deeper inside the wet tightness of her maidenly channel until she was want to move with him so much that she could no longer feel with her hand how he took her with his cock. She didn’t conjure up the thought of what built within her body and exploded against his in orgasmic nuance, but imagined still his skill in prolonging the crowing point, pressing her to his proficient form as she convulsed and spilled his name from her lips again and again. His arms were tight around her, one hand beneath her wriggling buttocks, locking her onto the spike of bliss within her as she bucked uncontrollably around his immersed erection, his grunts of pleasure resonating against her ear as she climaxed upon the organ heaved so deeply inside her. It seemed to never end, no struggle ever having been so sweet, for as her tide would ebb, he would move again, slowly, then fast and sharp, setting forth the ripple of more contractions within her until Elizabeth felt herself dizzy with the exuberance of it all, was near to blacking out when his lips claimed hers in a kiss both loving and possessive.

Weeks passed after that night with the two of them drawing ever closer to one another; some silent, unspoken of, but trusted bond between them that found them wrapped in each other’s arms by daybreak. Barbossa told her of her beauty in the language of touches and kisses, expressed what he felt for her with tight embraces and nuzzling kisses against her neck and the gentlest brush of his lips over each of her eyelids as Elizabeth fell asleep in his arms, but he never spoke of what their future would hold. She suspected that was by design, and she even felt that broaching the subject carried with it a certain rudeness, but as Will grew colder towards her, and her concern over it faded more and more, she found herself desperate to know her lover’s intentions.

“Do you still wish to have me as your pirate bride, Barbossa?” She smiled coyly; her eyes had just fluttered open at the tickle of his beard on her chest, his lips kissing gingerly around her nipple, his cock hard against her hip, wanting her again for a second time that night.

Her question had put him off though, which was not a surprise, and he flopped onto his back beside her, staring at the upper deck as though he hadn’t been coaxing her to wake in a wanton fashion. “I want what I have, Elizabeth.”

“And?”

He turned his head towards her, reaching for her hand and bringing it to his lips, but then sighed and stared levelly at her. “And I cannot have what I hold. Marry Turner, yeh’ve given the boy yer word. Don’t much like the lad, but he expects yeh to stand by yer promise, as do I.”

“Please say that you aren’t serious!” Elizabeth sat up, her hand pressing hard at her chest, eyes searching his imploringly. She hadn’t been exactly sure of just when this thing they shared had entwined so strongly around them, holding them to one another, bound in some unexpected rhapsody. But she knew she wasn’t of a mind to give it up, or let it die, merely because of a promise she’d made to Will Turner, or to any other man. She couldn’t go back to not having this with Barbossa; she couldn’t not be with him. So much had changed, and there was so much to come. “And what if Will doesn’t want me?”

“He will.”

“He won’t. It’s not as simple as deceiving him where our doings are concerned any longer,” she paused and sighed, looking down at her lover and stroking her fingers through his hair. Had any other woman ever said to him what she must make him know? How did she tell him? This certainly wasn’t the setting or moment she’d intended to say these words in. “You see, I’m…” the words were there, but jammed in her throat, nearly making her cough. She breathed deeply, struggled to say what he’d every right to hear. “I’m…I…love another man.” Emotion rose up within her, pinching off her words, her voice failed her.

Barbossa’s eyes had closed and a sad smile played at the corners of his mouth as what she’d said was absorbed and felt. “Come,” he pulled her down against him before she could speak again and held her as tightly as he was able. “The man yeh love is bygone and worn, a once proud sloop of war with her canvas shredded and yards hangin’, sailed through one too many a tempest, fought one too many a fight, *buried the lee cathead, but damn him, by his word, girl, he loves yeh just as much as yeh do him.” His strong arms trembled around her as he raised her head to look at him, the words sticking in his throat now. “Turner’s a better man for yeh than I, more proper for yeh to be married to a boy like him than a man like meself. Yeh must marry Turner, Elizabeth. Yeh must be true to yer word. Find loopholes as they come, but n’er go back on yer word. Not ever. If yeh do, yeh’ll n’er be trusted by anyone again, and there’s no resurrection from that.”

But she wouldn’t have it, opened her mouth to blurt out her reasoning, but all that came forth was a frantic, “Promise that you will marry me!”

Barbossa cocked his head, perhaps a bit surprised by the outburst, maybe even admirable of her stubbornness, but none of it showed in his reply. “I will, to Turner.”

Elizabeth felt how glassy her eyes had become, and when she blinked them a flood of tears were squeezed out, rolling down her cheeks as she shook her head. “Why would Will want me when my heart is not his?”

Barbossa’s fingers stroked through her hair, brushed away her tears, but more only fell in their tracks. He was trying to be stronger than he actually felt, she could feel the contraction of his muscles beneath her, noticed the raggedness of his breath. “The boy is too consumed in how he wants you to recognize something that not be of his own wishes.”

“How do you know?” She sniffled now, glad when Barbossa’s hand slid warmly up the back of her neck to her head and pressed her cheek to his chest, letting her cry in that relative amount of privacy.

His answer was concise. “The boy and I have spoken.” The next day, when the opportunity to be traded to Sao Feng came, Elizabeth took it.

*"buried the lee cathead:"--The "cathead" is a curved piece of lumber protruding from both the port and starboard side of the bow, where the anchor is weighed. "Lee" refers to the direction of the wind. To "bury the lee cathead" denotes the ship having listed so severely that she is nearly on her side and the cathead is in the water. This is Barbossa's way of describing his limp.

Thank you for reading! Comments are appreciated! More to come, with a better sex scene!:-)