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the_dala at 09:28am on 07/12/2005
the_dala at 09:28am on 07/12/2005I'm looking forward to Christmas and all the ensuing cheer and chaos more than the usual. This is part of the reason why I'm finding it so difficult to work up a shred of concern over finals. Most of you will probably remember that last year, my holidays sucked beyond the telling of it. Not to mention I'm leaving the country right after New Year's, so this Christmas season is kind of compensating for last year as well as getting every inch of jollies out at home before leaving it for over three months. Because of the trip, we're not so much doing the gift thing at my house -- my gift is money in the checking account to take to England, and Dad went and bought himself a rather expensive digital camera (with his discount and a mail-in rebate!), so that's two-thirds of empty tree space right there. We may be reduced to wrapping individual dog and cat treats just so we have something to do on Christmas morning. I'm also not really getting presents for friends because I'll be bringing them back supercool stuff from the trip.
Anyway, my point: to fill the gift-exchanging void, I'm going to do some things that make me happy, and one of those things is writing for other people. I really, truly get a kick out of fulfilling somebody's fic wish, however small, and it's also given me the opportunity to try things I never would've thought up on my own. I was kicking this idea around in the fall, thinking of turning it into a 'thon, but I never got the time to get it off the ground, so I'm keeping it for myself instead.
The plan: you can make up to three requests. Pick one PotC character, pick another one, and pick something you'd like Character A to give Character B as a gift. This doesn't have to be a Christmas exchange, and it doesn't have to be romantic in nature either -- feel free to specify. The gift can be an object -- a new coat, a piece of jewelry, a boat, a lock of hair -- or it can be more abstract -- love, peace, compassion, freedom, etc. It can even be a sign of affection like a kiss, or a sign of...really intense affection. The requests can be sequential: A gives B ____, so B gives A ____ in return. They can be set in a particular fic universe of mine if you like.
And that's my grand idea.
Request gifting drabbles (and I'm really going to try to stick as close to drabble-length as possible this time) in comments here by December 18th, and I'll post them all at once on December 24th.
Please?
Anyway, my point: to fill the gift-exchanging void, I'm going to do some things that make me happy, and one of those things is writing for other people. I really, truly get a kick out of fulfilling somebody's fic wish, however small, and it's also given me the opportunity to try things I never would've thought up on my own. I was kicking this idea around in the fall, thinking of turning it into a 'thon, but I never got the time to get it off the ground, so I'm keeping it for myself instead.
The plan: you can make up to three requests. Pick one PotC character, pick another one, and pick something you'd like Character A to give Character B as a gift. This doesn't have to be a Christmas exchange, and it doesn't have to be romantic in nature either -- feel free to specify. The gift can be an object -- a new coat, a piece of jewelry, a boat, a lock of hair -- or it can be more abstract -- love, peace, compassion, freedom, etc. It can even be a sign of affection like a kiss, or a sign of...really intense affection. The requests can be sequential: A gives B ____, so B gives A ____ in return. They can be set in a particular fic universe of mine if you like.
And that's my grand idea.
Request gifting drabbles (and I'm really going to try to stick as close to drabble-length as possible this time) in comments here by December 18th, and I'll post them all at once on December 24th.
Please?
hopeful
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Jack pouted and planted his hands on his hips. “Honestly, Jamie, I promised I’d fetch you a new one and so I have. I’d think a gen’leman might show a bit more grace. Besides,” he added with an insulted sniff, “what’s your proof, eh?”
“It is long, curled, and gray,” James replied flatly, eyeing the wig like it was a dead rat. “I recognize it. You forgot your promise and stole this from the governor’s collection on your way here.”
Flinging himself down on the settee, Jack kicked his heels up on James’s lap and grumbled, “Such a prissy bugger, y’are.”
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“I’ll see him home,” said Theodore Groves, holding tight to Turner’s arm above his elbow. To general surprise the blacksmith quieted somewhat, lifting his mug to his face and falling against Groves’ side. He blinked in confusion when Groves plucked it from his hands and handed it to a concerned barmaid.
All the way back to the smithy, Groves listened patiently to the man’s drunken ramblings about the inconstancy of the female sex and the reliable blessing of male friendship (provided those men were not also pirates, Groves assumed). Under the sign newly bearing his name, he lurched to a stop and flung Groves against the door, nibbling at his neck.
“Not tonight, Mr. Turner,” said Groves, turning his face away from the attention. “You’ll be bad enough off in the morning as it is.”
Will pressed maddeningly against him and whispered, “‘M fine, Theo, honest – please –”
Despite himself, Groves wavered, and stayed still long enough for a messy, eager kiss while he considered probabilities. When the probability that Will would vomit on his shoes decisively trounced the probability that Groves would find himself pleasantly rewarded for his troubles, his mind was made for him.
“Sorry,” Will mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“It’s all right, Will,” Groves sighed, guiding the inebriated blacksmith through the door. “Let’s get you to bed, shall we?”
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James shook his head, fighting it, his face pale and pinched. Jack was beginning to feel very badly about his fun when the other man said, in a voice like his lungs were closing in, “I love you, more than I can stand, and I fear we’ll be the death of one another.”
He gasped, fingers clutching at Jack’s shirt. Jack closed his eyes, laid his cheek on James’s head, and cursed himself.
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For weeks the incident haunted his mind, long after the Pearl’s repairs were complete. The next time they docked in Tortuga, he found a package awaiting him at the Faithful Bride.
My apologies. I do hope it finds you in good health, and if you were to reciprocate with a replacement for the coat torn under your blade, it would be very well-received. JPN.
Jack tucked the note into his pocket, cocked the smart leather tricorn on his head, and set off for the tailor’s.
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“Nonsense,” Jack replied, uncommonly still as he watched Will handle the curved blade with the reverence of a pilgrim, testing its edge with a fingertip, grinning at the blood beading on his skin. He fingered the hilt of his own Turner-made sword. “It’s a piece of art fit for a master, an’ it suits you well.”
Biting his lip, Will slid the katana back into its scabbard and turned his worshipful gaze on Jack. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
Suggestions flitted through Jack’s head – let me show you how to wield it, let me take you to meet the man who made it, ask me for the blade it’s meant to have as mate.
Instead he swallowed hard, battening them down, and reached into his pack. “Where might the missus be? I’ve a present for her as well – silk enough for a gown as well as something in wee Anna’s size...”
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James exhales with relief, his breath setting Jack's hair to chiming. "Oh?" he says, distracted by the slow, sinuous curves of Jack's hips. He frowns when Jack stops moving. "And what might that be?"
"This one ain't from Bombay," Jack replies, chin tucked to his chest. He places James' hand on his belly to clarify his statement. He blinks twice, very slowly, and James knows he is trying not to shiver from the gentle touch tracing the black outline over his navel. "It was meant t' be a lion," he adds in an aggrieved tone, keen eyes watching for the light of comprehension to cross James' face.
James pushes the lean body back and ducks his head to press his lips to the inked tiger, meaning to hide his smile -- but Jack catches a glimpse of it anyway, because it was the prize he'd sought to begin with.
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or,
Jack, Barbossa, a second chance.
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"No rum," said James sharply, for the fourth time in ten minutes. The query was almost a relief from his mental self-flagellation over having taken a shift watching Sparrow. With the Governor, Miss Swann, and Turner occupying the spare berths aboard the Dauntless, there was hardly an inch of free space. As James had no wish to be responsible for murder in the brig, he hadn't been able to throw Sparrow in with his fellow pirates; however, he was suspicious of the young people's obvious sympathy for Sparrow, and so the latter was kept under a close watch in Lieutenant Gillette's cabin in addition to chains.
Sparrow let his head fall back against the bulkhead with a thunk and a sigh. "A glass of water," he finished in a low, dull tone quite different from any manner of his speech James had heard before.
"Mr. Keynes, a pitcher of water, please," he called, propping the door open with his foot and avoiding the curious gaze swung on him.
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Pee.Ess. Smut makes me VERY happy.
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At least such things as could be taken off -- "Oh," Will cried sharply as Jack's teeth closed on the gold ring in his ear. He uttered a much softer, much lower exclamation when Jack soothed the sting with a delicate swipe of tongue. His lids felt heavy beneath the unaccustomed weight of kohl, which had already been smudged at the corners by Jack's nose as he ranged kisses over Will's face.
"No worries, love," Jack panted, tugging at the stiff new laces of Will's breeches and wrapping fingers around the stiff length of his cock, which was also new, at least to Jack. He was fairly certain the sounds Will was making were not from distress as they sounded, but he kissed the boy in reassurance nonetheless, tweaking a nipple with his free hand. "I had you done up proper, an' I'll have y'laid down proper too."
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"He's a gift!" Jack pushed the bundle back, roughly enough to earn himself a fierce, tiny growl.
James rolled his eyes. "No, 'he' is a burden you are trying to foist off on me, no doubt stolen from some abominably wealthy lord with a menagerie." He feared for a moment that perhaps it had been meant for the King's menagerie, but surely Jack wouldn't have dared...or James would have heard of it by now, at least.
To his surprise Jack dropped the wounded rooster impression and shrugged, his mouth firming into a grim line. "That's true enough, but the man in port I tried to sell 'im to was a nasty sort -- all his beasts were sickly and dull-eyed. I just couldn't leave the little fellow there."
"I never would have thought you such a soft touch for the animal kingdom, Jack," said James, finding the discovery endearing despite all the trouble.
Jack rubbed the cub under its chin, smiling at its rumbly pleased sounds and the paw it batted at his arm. "Aye, well, it must be age and influence." Before James could say a word, he added wryly, "I've stepped on all three tails in that house o' yours, Jamie."
The cub was certainly heavier than any of his cats, even at such a young age. "I suppose I've room for a cage in the garden, but why didn't you return him from whence he came? Surely there is plunder aplenty in Indian waters."
"Too far to sail," said Jack quietly, running his fingertips over the cub's striped head.
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*shifty* I'm a perv.
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James Norrington was not the flogging type, and had only resorted to the cat twice in the eight years he'd had command, when he had been certain of no other recourse. He preferred to lead by example rather than punishment, and as far as he could tell, his men were the better for it.
Except one.
"Teddy, my lad!" Jack Sparrow said warmly, clapping Theodore Groves on the back and winking at James, who blushed even deeper and grumbled into his gag. "I don't believe I've ever been brought a finer gift."
The list of people allowed to see James in the nude was extremely short; Groves had practically written a petition months upon months ago, but had only recently been rewarded for his obvious intentions. James certainly hoped he had enjoyed the brief interlude, because after tonight's little performance --
"You'll thank me in the morning, sir," Groves whispered in his ear with a self-satisfied grin, kneeling on the bed. One of Sparrow's hands patted his cheek while the other stroked James's thigh, and up -- up --
Well. Yes, he probably would. Provided they removed the gag at some point.
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Please? I'm such a hopeless romantic, I'd love a little Norribeth drabble. Pretty please?
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At first the days had flowed like wine, cut with fresh water so that she could drink freely, sweetened with honey for her delight. But in time the bitterness ran over, and the taste became too heavy and stale for either of them to bear it. She wore dark colors after he left -- black on Sundays -- and the town collectively accepted her as a widow. Even amongst themselves they whispered his name as though he were dead. For all they knew, he could be.
Exactly one year later, she set off for the day wearing a pale green gown sprigged with cream-colored lilies. James knew it well, for it had been the dress she wore when first they danced in the governor's ballroom. The sleeves were frayed, but the colors were true.
She waited by the fort for an hour that morning, fanning herself from time to time, unaware that he had changed offices and could see her clearly beneath his window. When the sun rose high, he took pity and went down to cross her path.
"Good morning, Miss Swann. You look well in that color," he said with a short bow.
"Thank you, James. It seems forever since I have worn it." She met his eyes and smiled a smile at once familiar and utterly different. Modesty would never suit her, but a softening of pride, a weathering of heart -- he liked that countenance very much.
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Jack, Groves, a chance.
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"I have no memory of our ever meeting, sir," he says -- smooth, accomplished at lying, and most certainly not born in a barn. His clothes are ill-fitting and patched, but he hasn't thought to exchange his fine boots for a more convincing pair. If his blood doesn't run Navy blue, Jack will eat Mr. Cotton's parrot.
Taking note of the bruise on the lad's cheek, Jack quells his nagging memory -- he passed eyes over many a sailor in his recent brush, and reckons he would hardly recognize the commodore out of wig and uniform. It's his job to ascertain the lad's suitability to the Pearl, not to suss out what he's running from.
"All right then, Mr....Groves, is it? I've a few berths open, now I think on it..."
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Jack Sparrow died at a monastery in Florida. He raved through a steadily mounting fever for five days, talking of pearls and gold and bones, snarling at the Spanish monks who tended him. On the six day, a man dressed in blue came -- the admiral of the English fleet, according to the clumsy translation of a young lieutenant. The monks wanted no trouble with any navy, but the admiral took off his hat and spoke to them in their own language, so they allowed him to stay, although the pair who had cared for Sparrow most regularly stood guard at the door.
When Sparrow saw him, his face cleared and he stopped shredding the corner of his blanket. "James," he said, fixing his dark eyes on the admiral's face.
"Aye, Jack," said the admiral softly, kneeling beside the pallet. He laid his hand on the laboring breast, and Sparrow curled all his fingers around it. "I would have come sooner if I had known."
"No worries," said Sparrow, his grin broken into a grimace. When the fit of coughing ended, he murmured, "Tell me -- tell it all again."
The admiral's green eyes went distant for a spell, but he recovered before Sparrow noticed, and his smile was no less kind for the effort it clearly cost him. "Well, I suppose it must begin with a ship..."
The monks left them be and returned in the early hours of the morning to say their prayers. Though they had cleared a space in the garden, they bequeathed the body to the admiral, who took it with him when he sailed.
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Gibbs loved animals and handled them well. The first twelve years of his life had been spent on a farm with all manner of creatures; he'd kept a dog whenever he lived on land, however short that time had been; he made sure every ship he sailed had a good rat-catcher. Beasts just took to some people (and took offense to others, as the captain could attest).
But Cotton's parrot had a habit of snatching caps from his head, ruffling its feathers at him when he spoke to Cotton, and pinching him with its beak whenever it thought no one was looking. "Shot 'cross yer bow! Letter o' marque!" it shrieked whenever he protested, and Cotton frowned at its fibbing.
Gibbs tried everything he could think to woo the blasted bird, but it remained unmoved until the day he dropped a chunk of biscuit he'd been sopping in rum. He'd never had much dealing with birds smarter than geese or chicken, and he'd never suspected a parrot might share a man's weakness.
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"Oh, I can, lass," he assured her, crossing his arms over his bare chest, daring her to watch the sweat run down his bronzed skin. She defied him, but from his grin, he knew how hard she had to fight. "The question is," he said, leaning too close for the heat -- too close entirely -- "How much d'you want it?"
When it did begin to rain not two hours later, Jack was not on deck to enjoy his victory, and Elizabeth was not surprised.
"You are merely a lucky bastard," she told him primly, slamming the cabin door and shucking her shirt.
Lounging nude on the cot, Jack flashed his teeth at her and admitted, "Been called that in me time, true enough."
Elizabeth snorted in derision even as the low rumble over the waves sent an answering call through her blood. She'd seen enough tropical weather to gauge they had about half an hour til the storm struck true, and she intended to make him work for his victory.
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I don't have anything specific in mind, but I'd love to read about the Christmas exchanges in your modern day kiltverse.
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;)
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James gives Jack Will?
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James gives Jack Will.:)