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ASPIRATION Author: Lady Anaranë Disclaimer: I do not own “Pirates of the Caribbean” or the character Jack Sparrow. Summary: He always promised he’d return, and Captain Jack Sparrow would never break a promise he made to you. One-shot. Author's Note: Tonight while trying to work on my other fan fictions, I had a sudden urge to write this piece. I don’t know where it came from, but I’m pretty pleased with it. Please review, it means the world to me. * * * * * It broke his heart every time he would leave you. But the pull of the waves was too strong, the whisper of the shore too alluring. It was almost as if the pirate and his beloved ocean were connected, as if the glistening blood that pumped through his veins was of actual salt water, the same water that brought the Black Pearl back to you, time and time again. Sometimes he would stay for weeks. Sometimes it was days, and others it was only mere hours. But his grand entrance was always the same, no matter the length or time of his visit. If he arrived in town at night, he would stealthily climb through your bedchamber window, the window you never closed when the sun went down. He didn’t do this because he didn’t have a key, for you gave him one some time ago, but he did it because he knew it made you smile. He would awaken you with a kiss, and when those sparkling eyes of yours fluttered open, he whispered your name, like the sweetest melody to the saddest song, and you had no choice but to kiss him again. On those nights the tears fell silently and uncontrollably as he made love to you. The pirate would press his lips to your lashes, wipe the salty drops away with the calloused pads of his thumbs, and beg you not to do such things, as he hovered over you. “Please, darling, don’t cry...” But you still wept heartbreaking tears, and he still had to leave in the morning. You would plead with him not to go, and you knew that at every moment he was with you, every time your skin caressed his own, that he was fighting with himself. He never wanted to leave you, not once. He would stay awake, watching you as you slept. He would gently brush his fingertips over your skin, your hair, admiring how natural the two of you were drawn to each other. You would arch into his touch even in your dormancy, dreaming of him. He would wait until the very last moment he could spare before leaving your side, crawling back through the window before you would awaken. You always found a red rose, as crimson as the life within you, lying atop his pillow beside your head when you opened your eyes. It was a promise, a compromise, and most importantly, three little words that were never spoken. When the pirate was out at sea, away from you, he never forgot to write. Sometimes it was once a week, others it was once a month, once a fortnight. Often times he would dream of you. The moment he awoke he would scratch the vision down, not sparing you one delicious detail. Many a time the dreams would be reoccurring, and in his favorites, he would be awakening with you at his side. He would roll over, expecting another day without you, and there you would be, asleep like an angel, or sometimes staring back at him with your warm violet eyes. You would smile that haunting smile and slide over him, placing your legs at either side of his hips. “Hi,” you would say, and he smiled. “Hi.” Your fingers sliding through the various beads and braids in his wild hair nearly drove him mad. You would take your time, traveling your soft lips from the tanned curve of his shoulders to his neck, and finally to his mouth. He would hold you about the waist, cursing your difficult clothing, and tug most impatiently at them. Your tanned skin was always silky and inviting, delicate and lightly perspiring. He pulled you close until he could feel every tender curve of you pressed flush to his body, and then took a long moment to inhale your scent. Fresh, clean, sweet, and uniquely you. He couldn’t get enough of it, couldn’t get enough of your taste. He would dare to make love to you, over and over again, until the both of you were more than pleased and more than exhausted to speak. These were the dreams your lover would wake with sweat covering his tanned skin and the scent of you on his sheets. When the letters finally got to you, it was most normal to lock yourself in your bedchamber with a bottle of red wine, and to read his words repeatedly, until you fell asleep as you forever awaited his return. And he would always do so, for he would die of starvation if he didn’t. Starvation for the woman he loved. THE END |