Disclaimer: I do not own "Pirates of the Caribbean" or the character Jack Sparrow.
Authors 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.
Aspiration
It broke his heart every time he would leave her. 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 her, 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 Brielle's bedchamber window, the window she never closed when the sun went down. He didn't do this because he didn't have a key, for she gave him one some time ago, but he did it because he knew it made her smile.
He would awaken Brielle with a kiss, and when those sparkling eyes of hers fluttered open, he whispered her name, like the sweetest melody to the saddest song, and she had no choice but to kiss him again.
On those nights the tears fell silently and uncontrollably as he made love to her. The pirate would press his lips to Brielle's lashes, wipe the salty drops away with the calloused pads of his thumbs, and beg her not to do such things as he hovered over her.
"Please, darling, don't cry. . ."
But she still wept heartbreaking tears, and he still had to leave in the morning. Brielle would plead with him not to go, and she knew that at every moment he was with her, every time her skin caressed his own, that he was fighting with himself. He never wanted to leave her, not once.
He would stay awake, watching Brielle as she slept. He would gently brush his fingertips over her skin, her hair, admiring how natural the two of them were drawn to each other. She would arch into his touch even in her dormancy, dreaming of him. He would wait until the very last moment he could spare before leaving her side, crawling back through the window before she would awaken. Brielle always found a red rose, as crimson as the life within her, lying atop his pillow beside her head when she opened her 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 her, 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 her. The moment he awoke he would scratch the vision down, not sparing her one delicious detail. Many a time the dreams would be reoccurring, and in his favorites, he would be awakening with Brielle at his side.
He would roll over, expecting another day without her, and there she would be, asleep like an angel, or sometimes staring back at him with her warm violet eyes. She would smile that haunting smile and slide over him, placing her legs at either side of his hips.
"Hi," Brielle would say, and he smiled.
"Hi."
Her fingers sliding through the various beads and braids in his wild hair nearly drove him mad. She would take her time, traveling her soft lips from the tanned curve of his shoulders to his neck, and finally to his mouth. He would hold her about the waist, cursing her difficult clothing, and tug most impatiently at them.
Brielle's tanned skin was always silky and inviting, delicate and lightly perspiring. He pulled her close until he could feel every tender curve of her pressed flush to his body, and then took a long moment to inhale her scent. Fresh, clean, sweet, and uniquely Brielle. He couldn't get enough of it, couldn't get enough of her taste. He would dare to make love to her, over and over again, until the both of them were more than pleased and more than exhausted to speak.
These were the dreams her lover would wake with sweat covering his tanned skin and the scent of her on his sheets.
When the letters finally got to her, it was most normal to lock herself in her bedchamber with a bottle of red wine, and to read his words repeatedly, until she fell asleep as she 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.
Fin