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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jack/Will/Elizabeth
Feedback: Typos, anything else.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Happy birthday, fabu! Title is Dutch for ‘praise,’ which is one suggested origin for the name ‘rum.’
Summary: A bottle of rum, a good bed and thou.
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The rum sluices a layer of liquid gold over her skin, fragrant and intoxicating. It bends their heads low over her body in blasphemous worship of its lines, clean as the shape of the waves, and its softness and its shadows that bespeak secretive, heavenly pleasures. They pay homage to the pink tips of the nipples, delicately tickling them with their tongues, and they pay sacrilege to the cleft of her breasts, the curve of her neck, the hollow of her shoulderblades where the rum that runs off her breastbone pools, awaiting their plundering.
More rum trickles along her ribs and coats their fingers that lace and unlace over her, binding and freeing her to the insolent air that should be equally available to all but that clings greedily to her so it is only with their mouths right next to her skin, the heat of her body warming the rum that drips from their lips, that they can breathe. They find their own equilibrium in the press of her breast against a cheek and the graze of a mouth over a hand, the arch of her belly and the raspy slide of a sea-weathered shoulder past a forge-scorched one. Her mouth connects their lips, and then they twine together while she laughs and curls around the edges, softens the awkwardness of joints, the scratch of old scars.
Rum rolls down Elizabeth’s back and Jack chases it with his mouth, stroking quivers from her that tremble against Will. He kisses her mouth till he feels the world spin round and round, and does not notice her stealing the bottle from his hand.
She splashes it from one shoulder across his back to the other, and when he draws back in exaggerated surprise, she up-ends it over his chest. One trickle of it slopes off his nipple and makes a miniature waterfall that Jack magically appears just in time to swallow, and then Jack chases it to its root and makes Will groan with the heat of his mouth. The rest of it soaks into the fine hairs that dust Will’s chest so they wish to stick to Elizabeth’s fingers that carelessly run over him, now with the hair and now against it. A few drops fall into Jack’s hair and bead there, dressing him in the rarest pearls.
Will licks along Elizabeth’s jaw that can be stern as the ship’s bow but now is soft in a smile’s curve, and he looks down her beautifully-wrought body to spy the pearls that nestle in the old-gold pelt that starts from bare skin just beneath her belly-button and runs between her legs to end in a wiry tangle over the folds of skin that draw tight over the entrance she sometimes graciously allows one of them when the other is occupied.
And Jack’s teeth against Will’s leg draws his attention to the pearls that bejewel his own, darker strip of fur that curves around the prick now rising into Elizabeth’s delicately knowing hand only to come together into the narrow crevice where Jack is yet seeking treasure despite the difficulty of approach. Always the optimist.
The rum is gone, and the precious gems soon melt away in the heat that they create between each other, but they do not need rum to blind themselves into paradise, and they do not need riches to find happiness. They take each other with open eyes, and clear heads, and in that they find their treasures.
***