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Even More Newly Wed

by Linaelyn

 

Fandom: PoTC    Rating: PG-13    Pairing:  Jack/James, Will/Elizabeth   Full Header

 


"Therefore shall a man leave his father's house, and cling to a wife..." The priest at the front of the chapel droned on, barely audible above the buzz of the flies. The hot June sun beat on the colored-glass windows, and red and gold splotches of light littered the cool stones of the floor.

"Damned thing must be made of goat hair," muttered Jack Sparrow, scratching at the scarlet bodice laced around his torso. His mass of scraggly black hair was disguised beneath a peach-colored mantilla, and his manylayered petticoats were several lovely shades of a pale ivy-green. In short, he resembled the contents of a brothel's washline, which coincidentally, was precisely the source of his current accoutrements.

It was unusual, in that Captain Jack's appearance rarely had so great a correlation to his actual state of existence.

Several ells down the pew's length, an elderly auntie glowered at him. Jack dipped his head in a curt nod and an insincere smile, mostly obscured by the black and gold lace fan before his face. "Hmph!" the indignant oldster sniffed the air, and her face expressed the strong displeasure at the aroma she encountered. Jack's smile blossomed up into his eyes belatedly, amused at her discomfiture.

The music crescendoed abruptly, and the bride and groom dashed down the aisle without any of the usual decorum of a post-nuptial retreat. Craning his neck for a better look, Jack let the fan drop slightly, and his mustache made a brief appearance from behind the wobbling lace of the fan.

"Oh...oh dear..." the formerly indignant oldster murmured to herself, and hurriedly averted her eyes.

Jack made an expeditious escape, down the outside aisle, and out through the sacristy and into the back garden. The roses, peakéd and mildewed in this tropic clime, formed at least enough foliage to hide Sparrow from the prying eyes of the crowds making their way to the wedding reception. Jack peered around corners and searched for a path of escape, unhampered by the presence of more invited guests. Shame he couldn't stay for a tipple and smooch with the bride
(and a smooch with the groom, to be truly fair), but still, he'd managed to see the wedding, and that was enough, this day.

Jack saw an opening. He dashed, skirts tumbling and tossing in his wake, for the freedom of the dockside and the commandeering of a some small vessel, to reach the rendezvous with the Black Pearl...

*WHAM*

Jack was blindsided by Commodore Norrington, who had backed suddenly out a doorway into his path, likely in his own attempt to avoid the myriad awkward situations presented to him by this celebration.

Bugger, thought Jack. Now I'm for it.

Jack and James plummeted to the stone flags in a tumble of ivy-green petticoats and gold brocade. Hearing the commotion, the honor guard of Marines came pelting over.

Pitching his voice falsetto, Jack said, "Please sir, play along with a girl for her honor's sake?" and with that, the black and gold lace fan was held before the faces of the Pirate and the Commodore, as despite encumbering skirts, Jack curled strong thighs around James' waist and firmly snogged the man lying above him.

The redcoats, so hastily approaching, checked their progress, and suddenly discovered other pressing duties required their attention; duties that did not include interrupting their commanding officer in a bit of hanky panky with an obviously willing partner, at the wedding of his former fiancée.

Slightly stunned from the blow, James managed, just barely, to disentangle his lips long enough to whisper to his assaulter. "Madam! Release me!"

"Mmmm... rather not, actually," a sultry voice replied. "I don't know 'bout you, but I found that quite an enjoyable pastime, all things considered..." But Jack had forgotten, in the heat of the moment, to disguise his voice.

"Sparrow?" Norrington managed to sputter out, before his mouth was once again plundered for the treasure within.

**********

The freshly minted Mr. and Mrs. William Turner crept into their nuptial bower very nearly silently, in hopes of preventing anyone from noticing their absence from the still-raucous festivities going on in the ballroom below.

"Did we manage it?" Will asked, a gleam in his eye, as he turned the inner key in the lock again.

"I believe so, darling, though why they would have tried to lock us out of our own quarters, I don't understand. Just one of those wedding day pranks, I suppose. Luckily, I can pick any lock in this household!" replied Elizabeth, replacing a significant-looking hairpin in her coiffure. Her voice shifted to a lower register, "You're all mine, now, every inch of you," as she boldly ran a perfectly manicured hand down his chest, lower, lower and slower, exploring the waist and the breeches and the growing mystery there. Not that the contents of a man's breeches was entirely outside her experience. But Will's breeches, they were most certainly new territory.

Will grasped Elizabeth's waist, and lowered his face to her bosom. Working his tongue down into the cleft there, he found the strings of her bodice, tucked them up into his teeth, and tugged to free the strands from their bow.

That was the easy part. There followed several minutes of struggling and heaving and wrenching and a few tiny rents in the fabric of Elizabeth's bridal ensemble. Eventually, however, Elizabeth and William stood together in only the smallest of their smalls, and those seemed reluctant to part with their respective skins, just yet.

Suddenly shy, Will reached for his bride's hand, and gestured with his chin towards the bedchamber. Elizabeth was no more at ease than he, which was likely the reason that neither of them noticed the trail of clothing already leading to the boudoir.

Once they entered the doorway, however, there was no mistaking the scene there.

"James?" Elizabeth addressed the figure leaned against the headboard, wig askew, legs splayed, eyes closed, mouth open in ecstatic abandon.

"Jack?" Will said simultaneously, to the bare arse-end of the Pirate, which was all that rose above the rumpled covers that obscured much of the Commodore's nether regions, although the rhythmic vertical motions showed that it was quite likely that Sparrow was unable to reply to the query in his current position.

The noise next heard within the room was something akin to an "Aauugghh" and also had structural roots in an "Aaiiieee" and also a bit of an "Ooooohhh!"

It was unclear how many voices contributed to the cacophony. Certainly no more than four.

 

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