fic post
Fic! Will and Elizabeth, struggling to find some kind of footing after DMC (though the first part is set late-CoBP and between films). With a brief spell of porn.
The first time, he was able to keep her out. She came tapping on his window scant hours after he had left her on the pier. Her disguise for sneaking about just barely after dark was none too clever, merely a hooded cloak over an old, poorly-fitted dress he suspected she had stolen or coaxed from her maid. He had no idea where she’d gotten the cloak, as the weather in the Caribbean rarely warranted such a garment - indeed, she was so overheated beneath it that her hair was plastered to her brow and her skin shone with perspiration.
She tapped at his window, hissing his name in what she obviously thought was a discreet tone of voice, and looked stunned when he refused to let her in the room. He kept his gaze cast down after that first glance of hazel eyes gone wide with surprise and hurt. She was nearly babbling, about Jack Sparrow and the hanging and the pirates’ code, and he spoke more curtly than he’d meant just to halt the flow of self-conscious speech. Without looking at her, he knew she was biting her lip as she whispered his name with a great deal more uncertainty.
“Miss Swann, it’s very late,” he said, jerking his hand away from the hesitant touch of her slender fingers. “You ought to be getting home before you are missed.”
“Yes,” she snapped, finally losing her negligible patience, “I suppose I had better. Good evening, Mr. Turner. I shan’t bother to stop in again.”
Weeks later, he would learn just how little patience she did possess, not to mention modesty and self-control. He tried his best to hold onto his own store of such qualities, but when she picked the lock on the smithy door, silent as a ghost, and came slinking into his room as if she had every right to be there …well, even the most well-weathered port had to give way to such a storm. Through infrequent yet seemingly endless nights he studied the curves and contours of her body, the sound of her voice light with laughter and heavy with passion, the gold of her hair spread across his pillow and the warm press of her cheek against his shoulder. If it was a sin to love her so when they had not yet said their vows, he would gladly be damned, and whistle while he was at it.
Sometimes she came creeping into his room with haunted eyes, pale and trembling, and he would pull her into his arms and ask if she had dreamt of the Isla.
“No,” she whispered, turning her face into his neck. “No, that isn’t it. Oh, Will - aren’t you ever afraid?”
“Afraid of what?” he asked - sensibly, he felt, but she continued as if he hadn’t spoken.
“It wakes me in the night, and I feel - I feel that there is something I must do, something just out of reach, and I’ll die if I don’t -”
He slid his hand behind her ear and kissed her, feeling her pulse jumping under his thumb, murmuring soft nonsense against her lips. When she talked like this, her voice aching, he did know the fear of which she spoke - even if he slept soundly otherwise.
After he had come to understand what she’d meant, it must have taken a deal of courage for her to impose upon his rest again. Strictly speaking, of course, he was not sleeping, any more than he had been sleeping on their return to Port Royal or when he’d waited for her footsteps in the dark. But the rest of the house was asleep around him, snoring or muttering to themselves. Even Barbossa retired after a great deal of argument and rum, and Tia Dalma’s eerie humming had been overtaken by the insect songs of the swamp. It was then she came to him, sinking quietly to her knees behind him. When it became clear that she was not going to rouse him, he sat up and turned around. She had swiped at her face, but had not succeeded in erasing the tear tracks down her cheeks, nor the deep, despairing turn to her mouth. For long moments they looked at one another, all common vocabulary lost.
“Do you want to marry me?” he asked at last, in a harsh breach of the silence..
She swallowed, gaze dropping to her lap. “I don’t know.” Her voice was hoarse.
“Do you want Jack?”
Though she closed her eyes, she was unable to shutter longing, guilt, confusion - but at least she was not making a feeble attempt at denial. “No. Yes. I - I don’t know, about any of it. I don’t know what I’ve done. I don’t know what I want.”
And I don’t know how to fix it, Will thought, staring at her broken before him and wondering when the cracks had first appeared. Wondering if it had been in his bed, and if he had done anything to make it happen. Hating himself for caring still, when she had as good as admitted it might get him nowhere in the end.
The anger took him over and he reached for her, tugging her down against him and cutting off her faint exclamation with his mouth. He kissed her hard, tasting nothing but the bittersweet flavor of Tia Dalma’s mourning posset. Elizabeth stiffened, bringing her hands up as if to shove him away, but one ended up tangled in his hair and the other tugged at his waistband. Glad that he had tucked himself away on the porch - doubting he would care if they’d been sprawled out at Gibbs’ feet - he tore at her worn shirt and bent his head to her breasts. She bit her knuckles to stifle a cry, legs tightening around his waist as he swiped the flat of his tongue over one hardened nipple.
In those nights that now seemed a lifetime away, she had always worn her stolen uniform, so he had no difficulties divesting her of a man’s clothing. She grabbed his wrist, digging her nails into his skin, and moved his hand between her legs. He raked his fingers through her damp curls, gasping at the insistent throb of his erection and her teeth at his throat. She needed no more and he could not take his time; he pushed into her with a low groan.
God, it was all too much and it had been too long - everything changed but this... Dark thoughts wormed their way into his brain - would she grip Jack so tightly, would she writhe and strain beneath him, fighting for her own pleasure, her own heading?
The shock of it stilled him. That was it: of course that was it. It wasn’t about love, or desire, or betrayal. It was about the wind, and her fears about letting it blow her where it would, onto shores she couldn't see or imagine.
He looked down and there were tears in her eyes, even as she bared her teeth at him.
“Will, please - I need -”
“Elizabeth,” he whispered, feeling his lungs constrict. He began to move his hips again and she pressed her lips together, sliding her hands beneath his shirt. Suddenly irritated with himself - this at least he could give her, this much he could prove in unquestionable terms - he thrust harder, until she moaned against his neck and the tension knotted itself through all her body, then fell away. In the seconds of clarity before he spent himself, it occurred to him that this was far more ill-advised than all the times before, but by now his steadfast control had been worn away by sand and sea.
They lay side by side, breathing quickly and out of rhythm, the heat of the swamp settling upon them. Ordinarily Will found it easy to drop off to sleep afterwards, but tonight he stared at the canopy of leaves above their heads. Elizabeth pulled her shirt up and snugged her arms across her chest.
“Do you understand?” she asked after a time, turning just enough to see his expression, now constantly on the lookout for a lie.
He stretched out the arm he’d crooked upwards, and she laid her head upon it. “No,” he said quietly. “I don’t believe I can. But I - I see.”
Elizabeth let out a sigh, considering this, and finally said, “Well. All right. I think that this is as far - as much as we can - before…”
“Before,” Will repeated. “Yes.” The impulse to kiss her was very strong, battling his better judgement, but before he could make a decision she rolled over, curling around herself. Will ran his hand down her arm, briefly lacing his fingers through hers, before he detached himself and turned to the opposite side. Better that the men should see them such; with any luck it would warn them off and save Will the trouble of brandishing his sword every other day.
She had until the end of the world to figure out what she wanted, and Will did not intend to let anything deter her from working it out in peace - least of all his own heart, which was none too steady itself these days.
The first time, he was able to keep her out. She came tapping on his window scant hours after he had left her on the pier. Her disguise for sneaking about just barely after dark was none too clever, merely a hooded cloak over an old, poorly-fitted dress he suspected she had stolen or coaxed from her maid. He had no idea where she’d gotten the cloak, as the weather in the Caribbean rarely warranted such a garment - indeed, she was so overheated beneath it that her hair was plastered to her brow and her skin shone with perspiration.
She tapped at his window, hissing his name in what she obviously thought was a discreet tone of voice, and looked stunned when he refused to let her in the room. He kept his gaze cast down after that first glance of hazel eyes gone wide with surprise and hurt. She was nearly babbling, about Jack Sparrow and the hanging and the pirates’ code, and he spoke more curtly than he’d meant just to halt the flow of self-conscious speech. Without looking at her, he knew she was biting her lip as she whispered his name with a great deal more uncertainty.
“Miss Swann, it’s very late,” he said, jerking his hand away from the hesitant touch of her slender fingers. “You ought to be getting home before you are missed.”
“Yes,” she snapped, finally losing her negligible patience, “I suppose I had better. Good evening, Mr. Turner. I shan’t bother to stop in again.”
Weeks later, he would learn just how little patience she did possess, not to mention modesty and self-control. He tried his best to hold onto his own store of such qualities, but when she picked the lock on the smithy door, silent as a ghost, and came slinking into his room as if she had every right to be there …well, even the most well-weathered port had to give way to such a storm. Through infrequent yet seemingly endless nights he studied the curves and contours of her body, the sound of her voice light with laughter and heavy with passion, the gold of her hair spread across his pillow and the warm press of her cheek against his shoulder. If it was a sin to love her so when they had not yet said their vows, he would gladly be damned, and whistle while he was at it.
Sometimes she came creeping into his room with haunted eyes, pale and trembling, and he would pull her into his arms and ask if she had dreamt of the Isla.
“No,” she whispered, turning her face into his neck. “No, that isn’t it. Oh, Will - aren’t you ever afraid?”
“Afraid of what?” he asked - sensibly, he felt, but she continued as if he hadn’t spoken.
“It wakes me in the night, and I feel - I feel that there is something I must do, something just out of reach, and I’ll die if I don’t -”
He slid his hand behind her ear and kissed her, feeling her pulse jumping under his thumb, murmuring soft nonsense against her lips. When she talked like this, her voice aching, he did know the fear of which she spoke - even if he slept soundly otherwise.
After he had come to understand what she’d meant, it must have taken a deal of courage for her to impose upon his rest again. Strictly speaking, of course, he was not sleeping, any more than he had been sleeping on their return to Port Royal or when he’d waited for her footsteps in the dark. But the rest of the house was asleep around him, snoring or muttering to themselves. Even Barbossa retired after a great deal of argument and rum, and Tia Dalma’s eerie humming had been overtaken by the insect songs of the swamp. It was then she came to him, sinking quietly to her knees behind him. When it became clear that she was not going to rouse him, he sat up and turned around. She had swiped at her face, but had not succeeded in erasing the tear tracks down her cheeks, nor the deep, despairing turn to her mouth. For long moments they looked at one another, all common vocabulary lost.
“Do you want to marry me?” he asked at last, in a harsh breach of the silence..
She swallowed, gaze dropping to her lap. “I don’t know.” Her voice was hoarse.
“Do you want Jack?”
Though she closed her eyes, she was unable to shutter longing, guilt, confusion - but at least she was not making a feeble attempt at denial. “No. Yes. I - I don’t know, about any of it. I don’t know what I’ve done. I don’t know what I want.”
And I don’t know how to fix it, Will thought, staring at her broken before him and wondering when the cracks had first appeared. Wondering if it had been in his bed, and if he had done anything to make it happen. Hating himself for caring still, when she had as good as admitted it might get him nowhere in the end.
The anger took him over and he reached for her, tugging her down against him and cutting off her faint exclamation with his mouth. He kissed her hard, tasting nothing but the bittersweet flavor of Tia Dalma’s mourning posset. Elizabeth stiffened, bringing her hands up as if to shove him away, but one ended up tangled in his hair and the other tugged at his waistband. Glad that he had tucked himself away on the porch - doubting he would care if they’d been sprawled out at Gibbs’ feet - he tore at her worn shirt and bent his head to her breasts. She bit her knuckles to stifle a cry, legs tightening around his waist as he swiped the flat of his tongue over one hardened nipple.
In those nights that now seemed a lifetime away, she had always worn her stolen uniform, so he had no difficulties divesting her of a man’s clothing. She grabbed his wrist, digging her nails into his skin, and moved his hand between her legs. He raked his fingers through her damp curls, gasping at the insistent throb of his erection and her teeth at his throat. She needed no more and he could not take his time; he pushed into her with a low groan.
God, it was all too much and it had been too long - everything changed but this... Dark thoughts wormed their way into his brain - would she grip Jack so tightly, would she writhe and strain beneath him, fighting for her own pleasure, her own heading?
The shock of it stilled him. That was it: of course that was it. It wasn’t about love, or desire, or betrayal. It was about the wind, and her fears about letting it blow her where it would, onto shores she couldn't see or imagine.
He looked down and there were tears in her eyes, even as she bared her teeth at him.
“Will, please - I need -”
“Elizabeth,” he whispered, feeling his lungs constrict. He began to move his hips again and she pressed her lips together, sliding her hands beneath his shirt. Suddenly irritated with himself - this at least he could give her, this much he could prove in unquestionable terms - he thrust harder, until she moaned against his neck and the tension knotted itself through all her body, then fell away. In the seconds of clarity before he spent himself, it occurred to him that this was far more ill-advised than all the times before, but by now his steadfast control had been worn away by sand and sea.
They lay side by side, breathing quickly and out of rhythm, the heat of the swamp settling upon them. Ordinarily Will found it easy to drop off to sleep afterwards, but tonight he stared at the canopy of leaves above their heads. Elizabeth pulled her shirt up and snugged her arms across her chest.
“Do you understand?” she asked after a time, turning just enough to see his expression, now constantly on the lookout for a lie.
He stretched out the arm he’d crooked upwards, and she laid her head upon it. “No,” he said quietly. “I don’t believe I can. But I - I see.”
Elizabeth let out a sigh, considering this, and finally said, “Well. All right. I think that this is as far - as much as we can - before…”
“Before,” Will repeated. “Yes.” The impulse to kiss her was very strong, battling his better judgement, but before he could make a decision she rolled over, curling around herself. Will ran his hand down her arm, briefly lacing his fingers through hers, before he detached himself and turned to the opposite side. Better that the men should see them such; with any luck it would warn them off and save Will the trouble of brandishing his sword every other day.
She had until the end of the world to figure out what she wanted, and Will did not intend to let anything deter her from working it out in peace - least of all his own heart, which was none too steady itself these days.