the Dalaverse

A three-part ficlet, taking place at random intervals in the long-neglected Honey and the Moon-verse, and thus James/Will, Elizabeth/Jack/Anamaria, and Gillette/Groves. A tad smutty.

(Go request a gifting drabble!)



Possession


“Oh – stop, stop it!”

“If you’d cease your wriggling, it would not hurt so!”

Gillette subsided the faintest bit, huffing out a breath that blew a troublesome strand of hair directly into Groves’ narrowed eyes. Tongue between his teeth, he swiped the last bit of dirt from the wound and pressed clean cotton to it, stemming the sluggish flow of blood.

“There,” he said with satisfaction, leaning back after wrapping the bandage around his shipmate’s head, so that Gillette had to grip him tight to prevent his fall from lap and chair. “It will scar faintly, if at all.”

“That’s a comfort,” Gillette remarked with a scowl. Both of them winced at the resultant cracking sound from his jaw.

Groves soothed the darkening bruise with his lips. “You’re just lucky Taggert promised not to report this. And you still have not answered me plainly, Andrew – what did possess you? I’ve seen you cut with words often enough, but never fists.”

“I –” Gillette dropped his head, speaking into Groves’s shoulder. “I saw you lean over to speak with him, and the way he looked at you...” His tone grew sulkier as Groves snorted with suppressed laughter. “He’s very handsome –”

Forcing himself to quiet, Groves gently lifted Gillette’s chin to meet his eyes. “Yes, he is, and in his unsubtle way he surely meant to proposition me.”

Gillette’s face grew dark with fresh indignation, and Groves kissed him with fresh amusement and a well-worn promise.

“So I suppose I ought to thank you for saving me the trouble of telling him I am already spoken for,” he murmured against the bridge of his lover’s nose.



When she reached a certain age, Elizabeth understood that she would soon reach another age at which she expected to be examined with the scrutiny of a potential buyer. Squint, step back, frown, ponder – mouth, nose, eyes, hips, and other considerations over which she had little or no control – birth, money, politics, fashion, and so on. Being an independent-minded child, she resented this to a degree she could not express in words; bearing a practical streak she tried hard to bury, in her heart of hearts she felt sure she could not escape it. She thought herself lucky that her father never once presented her with an auctioneer’s flair, and then tried not to think of it at all.

She never wanted to be a prize on someone’s mantlepiece. She never wanted to be claimed, or kept, or marked as anyone’s but her own.

But now, she knows – scarred fingers curved over her breasts, against her rib cage, black hair spilling down her shoulders and her thighs, gazes met over her shoulder, over her – gazes dark and darker still, hot with knowing the truth and depth of what they claim.

Smiling to herself, she shudders and bucks beneath her touch, his wicked mouth, and thinks that perhaps being the spark for a little competition isn’t such a terrible thing, nor is a graceful surrender to the victor.



Will Turner was a damned sight more perceptive than he was generally given credit for, even when distracted by such noble efforts as teeth at his ear and arms circling his waist tight enough to make him gasp. He turned from James’s attempts to kiss him, brows drawing together with a rather fetching wrinkle. James might have said so, except he didn’t think flattery would work where blatant seduction had failed.

“All right, all right,” said Will hoarsely, planting his palms firmly against James’s chest and tilting his head back at an uncomfortable angle. James lipped at his neck, but half-heartedly. “There is something on your mind, James, and I would know what it is.”

“I’ve missed you,” said James in a low, warm voice. They were still pressed tightly together so he rocked his hips, ignoring the slight burn.

Will’s throat worked and his lips curved in a shy smile, but he shook his head and insisted, “Besides that.”

James sighed, rested his chin on Will’s shoulder, and considered the possibility of making love in the dark for the foreseeable future. But there were mornings to contend with, after all, and Will’s hands might know him well enough to feel it.

Wordlessly he drew away, unbuttoned his breeches, and pulled them down. Will blinked, misunderstanding his intentions at first, until he saw the difference.

“You – what – how –” He reached out to brush his fingers over the blue letters inside James’s left hip. The touch brought a flush to his skin, pain and pleasure both, and his cock twitched.

“It’s Theodore’s fault,” he mumbled, trying not to shiver as Will traced the elegant joined W and T with his blunt fingertips, over and over. “He – we were drinking, and I suppose it made me lonely and...open to suggestion.”

Will dropped to his knees, studying the small tattoo at close range. His breath ghosted over James’s awakening erection. James fought the urge to plunge his hands into that mess of dark curls and forcefully redirect his attention. “Surely you did not reveal to the artist the...sex of your beloved?” He turned a word or two into something between a purr and a growl, seeming not to notice that it made James fully hard.

“Of course not,” he said, voice a little strained, breath beginning to come short. “I am, for that man’s intents and purposes, engaged to a lovely girl named Winifred Tumblebottom – that bit is entirely Theo's doing.”

Will snickered, finally looking up at him, and finally rubbing a hand along his stiff length.

“Why, James,” he murmured against enflamed flesh, “if I’d known you wanted my mark on you -- I’ve perfectly good branding tools in the smithy.”