PotC: Ficlet
Soft lips on his jaw, slim hands tangling in his hair (easier now than the same action will be in the future, with the strands almost long enough to brush his shoulders and just two beads strung behind his left ear: the first strokes of paint on the canvas, the first planks nailed to the beams of the hull), the touch of something cool and smooth that he can’t quite name as it brushes across his chest. Cool and smooth and round, he feels as the lips move down his throat, and the magpie in his brain straightens to attention as it identifies a rope of pearls.

He twists, tries to wrap his arms around her properly, succeeds only in rolling out of his hammock and being rudely awakened by contact with the deck. It’s not until afternoon watch, when one of his shipmates compliments the new acquisition, that he discovers the black pearl braided in at his temple.