I wrote this originally for the prompt "candles" on the Broken Compass forum, but chickened out and never posted it. If not for FreedomoftheSeas' encouragement, it would probably never have seen the light of day.

DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to Disney, who would probably have me shot if they found out what I've been doing with them.

(WARNING: What follows is not for the faint of heart. This is very dark and very smutty, and rated M for a reason. You have been warned.)


"You've learned

To love through this hate

To live with it's weight
A burden discerned

In the blood you taste

Why would you deny me answers?
If I'm just a boy on the brink of being
Hardened in hell through it's fires
Be brutally honest,

Was it better before me?
The curve of your body,
How I want, how I want her with me;

The truth of the story…"

-Coheed and Cambria, The Wishing Well III: Fuel For the Feeding End

Elizabeth had always imagined that her first time would be on her wedding night, and her fantasies had run accordingly, full of rose petals, champagne, and pale lace. The loss of her virginity would be slow, tender, and filled with whispered endearments and the discovery of new pleasures. She'd dreamed of romance and candlelight.

But Elizabeth Swann was no longer a virgin, and there was no longer any candlelight in her life. Lanterns were used at sea; there was less risk of fire that way. The ocean offered no sweet-smelling wax to grow soft and melt at the touch of heat, only oil and searing flame enclosed in a prison of steel and glass. And a prison was where she belonged, for she was a murderess and a traitor. She no longer felt she deserved Will's love, couldn't ask it of him, not after what she'd done, but his lust was still hers. Neither of them had planned for it to end up this way. She knew it was wrong, knew they should stop, but she wasn't able to turn him away or to keep herself from seeking him out.

There was no romance, no comfort in what they did, only raw need. The sound of their gasps and shuddering breaths, rhythmic and savage, said all that needed to be said of anger, desperation, and betrayal. He was not quite gentle with her, and she didn't care, didn't care when his fingers dug into her flesh hard enough to bruise, didn't care how roughly he thrust into her, because it was so good, it felt so damned good. When he was taking her, she could forget the distrust in their eyes when they all looked at her now, drown out the agony of her own guilt, and lose herself in sensation, in sweat and filthy needs. She'd never imagined anything could feel like this.

It was shameful, the way she craved it, the way so many tiny things stirred this dark hunger in her now. The taste of blood- she'd bite down hard on her lips to keep from crying out and being heard, and the metallic tang of it would flood over her tongue as the pleasure flooded through her body. The mingled tar-sugar-gunpowder scent of the far end of the hold, where he would corner her and take her up against the wall, catching her between the unyielding hull of the ship and the merciless power of his body. The drops of sweat on his brow and upper lip after sparring with the crew; she knew the taste of his perspiration, longed to sip it from his skin as she did when they were alone and he was deep inside her.

She couldn't imagine ever having enough of him.

Will knew that it was wrong, knew that he should stop, but it was too late, far too late. What he was doing went against everything he'd ever believed about how to treat a woman you loved. He was repulsed by his own behavior even as he counted the moments until the next time. Sometimes he suspected it was all that was keeping either of them alive, the stolen moments of touch, greed, and passion. He found himself caring less and less about wrong and right. The world was going to hell. They were on a fool's quest to save Jack and when they did, he'd lose Elizabeth for good. This fevered sating of rage and lust was all he'd ever have of her. It would never be enough.

He remembered his own sick feeling of victory when he'd taken her the first time and discovered for sure that he'd been her first, that Jack had never had her like this, never been inside of her. He'd felt like a monster when he'd realized what he'd done, but when he'd reached for her to hold her, comfort her, she'd moaned softly and moved under his hands like silk, like fire, burning hot and fast for him, and there had been no going back. She met his greed, his darkness, with a wanton abandon that frightened him. It brought out a side of him that he'd never imagined existed, demanding and ruthless, and still she let him take her as he willed, night after day after night. They had shared intimacies that would once have shocked him speechless, things he'd never dared to dream of, hot, raw, depraved acts that had left them both trembling. It amazed him, how she loved it all.

He used her, degraded her, and she reveled in it… and all he could wonder, in the dark, breathless aftermath when she lay trembling against him, was whether she had been thinking of him, or imagining he was Jack.