What Was Done in the Waiting
Characters: Elizabeth Swann/Will Turner
Rating: PG-13
Spoiler(s): Pre-DMC
Warning(s): none
Disclaimer: I don't own them; the characters belong to Disney, etal. No infringement is intended.
They have been betrothed for a year now, models of propriety in the face of a rigid society. No one will ever know how inventive they had become in finding ways to be together during the waiting.
There were the times when they'd audaciously managed to evade her chaperone, the nights when they'd slipped from their respective abodes to meet in secret places. There were not-so-chance encounters in the streets, notes passed that told of times of freedom when they could see each other, snatches of blissful stolen interludes that were all the sweeter because they were forbidden.
Their wedding night won't find them to be fumbling, inexperienced lovers, not them.
There is much that she has learned about him. She can bring him to shuddering need, breathing hard, eyes closed, head thrown back, features taut with pleasure, all with a brush of her fingers here, a warm caress of her lips there. She thinks, sometimes, that she now knows his body almost as well as she knows her own.
And she becomes breathless at the memory of his own explorations, rough blacksmith's hands tracing her every curve and plane and hollow, all with an artist's appreciation and a lover's delight. But while there is much that they know, that final, complete possession of each other still lies ahead of them.
She leans against the doorway that leads to her private balony, staring at the wide expanse of ocean, a warm breeze moulding her shift to her body. Her fingers skim down the line of her throat to the slight curve of her breast, just as she'd guided his hand in the heated darkness of the Interceptor's hold not so very long ago, and she closes her eyes as she emits a longing sigh.
The wedding is three weeks away. It seems like an eternity.
Rating: PG-13
Spoiler(s): Pre-DMC
Warning(s): none
Disclaimer: I don't own them; the characters belong to Disney, etal. No infringement is intended.
They have been betrothed for a year now, models of propriety in the face of a rigid society. No one will ever know how inventive they had become in finding ways to be together during the waiting.
There were the times when they'd audaciously managed to evade her chaperone, the nights when they'd slipped from their respective abodes to meet in secret places. There were not-so-chance encounters in the streets, notes passed that told of times of freedom when they could see each other, snatches of blissful stolen interludes that were all the sweeter because they were forbidden.
Their wedding night won't find them to be fumbling, inexperienced lovers, not them.
There is much that she has learned about him. She can bring him to shuddering need, breathing hard, eyes closed, head thrown back, features taut with pleasure, all with a brush of her fingers here, a warm caress of her lips there. She thinks, sometimes, that she now knows his body almost as well as she knows her own.
And she becomes breathless at the memory of his own explorations, rough blacksmith's hands tracing her every curve and plane and hollow, all with an artist's appreciation and a lover's delight. But while there is much that they know, that final, complete possession of each other still lies ahead of them.
She leans against the doorway that leads to her private balony, staring at the wide expanse of ocean, a warm breeze moulding her shift to her body. Her fingers skim down the line of her throat to the slight curve of her breast, just as she'd guided his hand in the heated darkness of the Interceptor's hold not so very long ago, and she closes her eyes as she emits a longing sigh.
The wedding is three weeks away. It seems like an eternity.