Title: Crawling

Fandom: Pirates Of The Caribbean

Pairing: Tia Dalma/Elizabeth

Rating: R

Words: 993

Timeline: Post-Dead Man's Chest

Summary: It's a filthy thing, a filthy scent, a filthy sensation, and Elizabeth would like to think she's above it.

She smells like ink and spice and cobwebs and filthy words. Elizabeth finds herself wanting to cover her nose and mouth, overpowered by the scent, despite spending so much time aboard a ship of unwashed men.

The biggest problem is that Elizabeth does not actually find the smell unpleasant. Rather, she finds herself captivated by it; so dark and earthy and exotic and Elizabeth feels more empowered and more light-headed with every breath she takes. Enchanted, and that is the most pressing issue, the quandary that leaves Elizabeth too fearful to breathe. It is entirely possible that the scent is an enchantment, and Elizabeth is all too aware that the woman in front of her is of the same ilk as Captain Jack Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow and his pretty, twisted lies.

Tia Dalma stares at her levelly, hand paused on Elizabeth's thigh, and her eyes feel as though they are ripping into Elizabeth's most private thoughts, as though her concerns are amusing, something to be pitied and mocked. Kohl-rimmed eyes, red-rimmed pupils, deep black depths. Elizabeth can't recall ever seeing her blink.

"I do not want this," Elizabeth says, and her voice is stronger than the tremor in her hands.

"Dyon't ya nouw?" It might almost sound civil, if it were not for the sultry curve of Tia Dalma's blackened lips.

"Of course not," Elizabeth snaps.

She holds the gaze as long as she can. The smell floats around her like insects on a corpse, yet feels strangely intoxicating, invigorating. It teases Elizabeth with the oddest sensation, something she has only ever felt with her feet planted firm and cruel words on her lips, something she has only ever felt when Captain Jack Sparrow coaxed at the fire inside of her.

Her eyes drop to Tia Dalma's chest, to the tangled ends of her hair falling lazily over barely contained breasts, before she can stop herself. Elizabeth tears her gaze away, forces herself to look back into Tia Dalma's face, and this time the smile there shows all of her filthy teeth.

Elizabeth tries to stand, determined to leave with something at least resembling dignity, but calloused hands circle her wrists, nails digging into her flesh through the sodden fabric of her sleeves, and she is dragged forwards.

The smell is even stronger so close, and Elizabeth cannot find her bearings, or her sanity, or her desire to push Tia Dalma away when dry lips press against her mouth.

She hears herself moan as if from a distance, and it sounds much like an angered animal, trapped in a corner and fighting for its life, and then her consciousness returns to her in a great force of air that leaves her gasping and struggling against the painful grasp on her arms.

"You are bewitching me!" she hisses, scandalised.

Tia Dalma merely laughs, throaty and as dry as the air around them.

Elizabeth wrenches her wrists free and steps backwards. She feels less suffocated the farther she moves away, less threatened, and Tia Dalma does not follow her, simply watches through narrowed eyes.

Her back hits the wall, dust fluttering around her, and Elizabeth yelps in shock, head whipping around in search of the door.

Tia Dalma is in front of her in an instant, the air not even rippling around her inhuman speed, crowding against Elizabeth with another wicked laugh. Her leg presses between Elizabeth's thighs with no further hesitation, rubbing high and fierce.

"St-stop!" Elizabeth stammers, her voice sounding oddly high and strangled to her own ears. "Stop at once!"

Tia Dalma pushes closer, breasts heavy against Elizabeth's own, her chapped lips at Elizabeth's neck. One hand rises to Elizabeth's shoulder, long tapered fingers pinching at her sharply enough that she cries out, and then uneven fingernails claw down her chest, sharp enough that Elizabeth can feel them through the many layers of material.

The scent is overpowering, stinging her eyes and thick against her tongue. Elizabeth chokes on it, head falling back against the wall behind her, hips canting forward without her knowledge or consent. Tia Dalma mumbles against her neck, against her ears, words that Elizabeth does not understand, and does not care to. She can no longer remember why she ever thought to fight against the inevitable, can no longer remember why she thought that anything less than total surrender could be an option. She feels control leave her in translucent waves, an almost visible aura of sin drifting around her, as her body attempts to assure her, as it clings to the power centring between her legs, the throbbing sensation of lust and femininity.

Tia Dalma hums, low and constant, as Elizabeth whines and spreads her legs to the wicked pressure, dizzy and unsure of herself, of her surroundings. She feels sweat form on her brow, across her chest, between her shoulder blades, fitfully warm and wonderfully frantic. Her hips thrust faster, and her breath comes in pained bursts, words caught in her throat. She feels the crescendo building with no idea of when and where it could possibly end, and she feels a million burning eyes watching her, and she feels beautiful and sordid and tainted and Tia Dalma holds her pinned against the wall as everything shatters around her and her flesh crawls and sings and Elizabeth clings to her because she finds that she needs to cling to something.

It takes a moment for her to realise that everything is black because her eyes are squeezed shut, and she can feel Tia Dalma take her hand, twist it so her palm is facing the ceiling. Tia Dalma's fingertips tickle at her as they trace twirling paths over her knuckles, over the lines of her hand, the veins at her wrist.

And then a harsh pain rips over her palm, like a blade searing the flesh, and Elizabeth's eyes fly open.

Tia Dalma is gone and Elizabeth is alone in the room. Her hand is flushed but unharmed.