Pirates of the Caribbean, Will/Elizabeth, "We both learned to cradle, then live without"
Elizabeth swayed gently at the prow of her little boat, rocking in the placid movements of the waves, gathering the jib rope closer to secure the boat’s direction. Behind her the sky flushed into morning, and the sail fabric glowed softly with the pinkish-grey light that marked the early hour.
Her thighs ached. For a once-in-a-decade chance, they’d certainly made the most of it. Her mind was full of Will --
-- flushed and trembling above her, line of sweat down the cut of his cheek, “Can't wait, Elizabeth, not gonna be able to wait, not this time“. His forearms rest beside her head, and his biceps are taut and mole-soft beneath her teeth. She wants to mark him, mine mine mine, write herself into his skin--
-- stringy muscle and faint, curling hair on his thighs. Will, beneath her, sighing, his cock soft and hot in her mouth as she sucks on him. Her knees are at either side of his head and he leans up, uses his fingers to hold her folds delicately apart and lick at where she's wet for him. He slides two fingers easily inside her, and runs his thumb up to tease at her ass, not pressing in, just teasing, circling, playful --
-- Will growling and desperate behind her, “Come on, Elizabeth, know you’ve got it in you. Come for me, fuck, come on” and there isn't a molecule of her left that could disobey --
Deep in the night, when both of them could taste the coming morning like a sickness at the back of their throats, Will had turned to her and pressed his lips over hers. He tasted like salt water and stale bread, and maybe a little bit like ozone or storms. “Sometimes I can’t remember what color your eyes were,” he whispers softly, like a confession. “Sometimes I try and it just -- it slips away.”
She knows what he’s telling her. Sometimes she can’t remember the heft of a sword anymore, or the color of the horizon at the end of the world. “You always taste like hardtack,” she says. “I eat it to remember.”
He smiles, and no matter how things fade that never goes away. “Apples,” he confesses, “For you, it’s apples. I steal them from the ships we guide.”
“Once a pirate –“ Elizabeth begins, but then they’re both laughing, muffling the sound against each other’s skin and quivering with the mirth of it. There’s no real reason behind it, no real joy, but it’s another piece to store away, something more to add to the pile they each guard jealously between these meetings.
Elizabeth touches the weather-worn sides of her boat, remembers the exact tone of his laughter, the exact moist feel of his mouth when he stifled his chuckles against the soft place just below her arm, the exact delicate line of his teeth. The water below her fingers laps apologetically at the sides of the boat. Around her, the ocean is quiet, not even a ripple to mark his ship’s passing.
Behind her, the morning grows brighter, and Elizabeth has learned enough to smile for a while longer.