Characters belong to the Holy Rodent Empire.
FOR THE WICKED
Hector Barbossa's hell is usually nothing more than black sand beneath a starless sky, on and on in all directions. There is light enough to reveal that there's nothing to see. No wind scours this desert. It doesn't blaze with the heat it should, nor does it freeze with the biting cold that ought to be the only alternative.
It's usually a place where all the nothing in the world is kept. He doesn't even have the crunch of his boots in the sand to listen to. His footfalls make no sound, and he leaves no prints behind him.
But sometimes, the heatless desert manages a mirage, just for him.
The gown puddles like spilled wine at the Swann girl's feet, and the rustle of that heavy silk sounds like the first wave of a downpour in the silence. Bootstrap's brat runs his roughened fingertips up her bared arms, and she shivers in delight. Her head tips back against Turner's shoulder as he dips low to lap at the down-soft skin of her throat, and their sighs cut through the stillness like the north wind screaming down on him.
When Turner's hands move on from her arms, Elizabeth opens her eyes to stare right into Barbossa's, and her parted lips twist into a cruel smile. And when Turner lays her down on the sand, he lifts his own face to Barbossa's, dark eyes holding blue mercilessly even as the boy lowers his head to press a kiss between her breasts.
"She tastes like apples, you know," Will informs him, and then the boy starts to laugh. Elizabeth joins him, and Barbossa realizes he's fallen to his knees, close enough to touch them.
"If there was anything there to touch, that is."
Jack Sparrow's voice brings Barbossa's head around, and when he looks back, the lovers are gone, not even an imprint in the sand where they'd been.
Jack smiles. "Don't worry, mate. They'll be back." He raises his hand to his mouth, and takes a bite out of the apple he's holding. "Mmm..." he sighs, crunching appreciatively. He licks the juice off his lips, and then his smile widens, getting sharp around the edges.
"None of us are goin' anywhere, Hector."