the Dalaverse

Okay. I meant to do a PWP, I really, really did. But I think I managed to overshoot it a little.

This is dedicated to guede_mazaka, mostly for the Game-verse but also for general awesome writing. I think she'll be able to see where she inspired me...

But FIRST! A brief Story of the Fic.


Dala: I'm gonna write me some Will/James lovin'.

Will: Sweet.

James: Ready and willing.

Dala: Go for it ::scribbles::

Elizabeth: Can I watch?

Dala: ...You talk too much.

Elizabeth: But they're hot.

Will/James: *moan* *lick*

Dala: Yes. Yes they are.

Elizabeth: Besides. Voyeurism is cool. Visual writing, not sensory.

Dala: Promise you'll just watch?

Elizabeth: Yup.

Dala: 'Kay.

Will/James: "oh GOD" *nibble* "come on...come on..." *thrust* "harder!" *whimper*

Elizabeth: Damn.

Dala: I know.

Jack: Oooh! Shiny!

Dala: NO! GO AWAY!

Jack: But...m'Jamie...m'Will...

Dala: Leave them alone! They're happy!

Jack: The damsel gets to watch.

Elizabeth: *busy staring*

Dala: SOME people know how to keep their hands to THEMSELVES.

Elizabeth: My...self...yeah...hands...

Dala: *sigh*

Jack: I won't touch!

Dala: Yeah right. It's Will/James! It's not OT3!

Jack: Honest...'M just gonna go congratulate th' whelp on his technique... *scampering off*

Dala: Bloody pirates!


THE END
(They only talk like that in muse form. I SWEAR.)


'Cept that doesn't give anything away, because the ending changed. There are other pairings, but I'll leave them to be guessed at. Much more fun that way.


(title from Joseph Arthur; awesome, awesome song)

ETA: NC-17. Very much so.



Honey and the Moon



Elizabeth has had quite a few drinks when she stumbles out of the tavern and into the streets of Port Royal, but having Jack as a basis against which she measures drunkenness, she figures that she’s not too badly off. She is, at least, sober enough to realize that visiting her father at this hour, in these clothes, carrying this scent, is not the brightest of ideas. And since either the rooms above the taverns or the Pearl’s cabins are sure to be harboring the one person she’s determined to avoid tonight, there is no question of seeking refuge there.

Catching sight of the boot hanging off the back entrance to the cobbler’s, she remembers that the smithy is right next door. Surely Will might offer her sanctuary for the night, provided he isn’t still angry about the whole running-off-with-pirates business. And even if he is, she can think of a thing or two that might soften his anger, not to mention cheer herself up.

Lurching a bit, she sidles up to the window in Will’s small room in the back of the forge, through which she crept more than once when they were still engaged. Before she can tap on the glass, she takes a peek inside and sees that Will already has company – and what company indeed.

The room is lit by a fat, flickering candle. Will is in bed, stretched out on his back. The sheets lie rumpled on either side of him, clenched tightly in his fists, and his head is flat on his pillow. Her eyes travel down his sweat-slicked torso to the dark hair falling in curtains between his legs, obscuring the face of the visitor who is half-curled against Will’s lower half. Well, good for him, she thinks – he never mentioned this particular act of love on those handful of nights she shared his bed, though she might have been willing to try it for the experience. And for that look on his face. She can’t recall exactly how he looked like when he was poised above her, because she usually had her eyes shut with fierce concentration on her own ecstasies. Afterwards his expression was always sated but unsure, as if she’d done him a kindness he didn’t feel he deserved.

Tonight, under the hidden ministrations of this mystery woman, his eyelids flutter at half-mast and he bites his lip as his legs squirm beneath the hands pinning him down. There is something unaccountably pure about the joy on his face, something so innocent that she almost feels guilty for watching. Almost – but he is so lovely, with his chestnut curls in a damp tangle on the pillow, pink color touching his cheekbones. A low moan parts his swollen lips, just barely audible through the window. Her own breathing hitches as Will’s starts to speed up, a familiar knot gathering low in her belly. He calls out again, a name this time – “James...”

Elizabeth frowns slightly, looking back down to his shrouded partner. Yes, though the light in the room is dim, she can definitely make out the muscle and definition befitting a man, though his hunched position made any other method of rendering his gender impossible. Interesting. Well, she does think she heard Will cry Jack’s name in his sleep once, but at the time she believed it to be ‘hat.’ He did so love that feathered buccaneer hat of his.

Long, elegant fingers tighten on Will’s thighs, preventing him from thrusting upward as he writhes, his mouth open on a drawn-out groan. He runs his hands down his own body, reaching out to tangle them in the dark, tousled hair of the man between his legs. His climax arches his back gracefully and he gives one final subdued whimper. She watches with a small gasp, wondering who it is that’s just swallowed Will’s copious release. James, he said – does she know a James?

The man raises his head , tongue slipping out to catch errant droplets at the corners of his lips, and Elizabeth’s knees go even weaker. Dear God, of course – James Norrington. Of all the men Will could have bedded...

At the same time, he’s not the commodore she knew. The commodore would never smile at anyone like that, much less a spent lover, and he would never crawl up that quivering body to rain gentle kisses on closed eyelids. He shifts to the side, leaning down over Will and giving her a good full-length glance at him. Oh dear. No, that is definitely not the commodore she knew as her first beau. Could she have had no inkling whatsoever, with those skin-hugging breeches? She knows from personal experience that the blacksmith is nothing to turn one’s nose up at, but his James – for Will’s arms going tight around the man brand him as such – his James must have been a very, very good boy in a former life.

Aesthetic appreciation, she consoles herself as she whirls in confused thoughts. Like art. Like creamy Italian marble, like perfectly-formed Olympian athletes, like...

Well, frankly the sight of Will and James entwined together on that narrow cot, kissing as avidly as any duelists cross blades, is something that doesn’t cross her path everyday.

She wonders how hefty a sum Jack would pay to see this.

Knowing she ought to turn away, she watches as James pulls back to stroke tender fingers along Will’s cheek, talking too quietly for her to hear. Will kisses James just to the left of his mouth and replies in an equally low voice, bright contentment shining from his eyes. Whatever he says causes the other man to laugh – to actually laugh, his brow wrinkling quite adorably as he buries his face in Will’s neck. She had no idea that the stern Norrington possessed such an inclination as laughter.

He is still clearly – very clearly – unsatisfied, but he ignores his own needs to kiss and fondle Will, bringing him back to hardness more quickly than she thought men were capable of. When Will lifts his legs for James to kneel between them, showing a surprisingly amount of flexibility, she knows that she can’t look away now. Curiosity floods her in regards to this illicit union between men; she’s listened to her captain take more than one irritatingly vocal partner in his cabin, but she’s never gotten the chance to ask him about the physics of the act. James reaches towards the bedside table, for a small clay jar beside the candle. Will takes it from him to tug out the stopper, watching with increasingly labored breathing as James dips his fingers inside. They come up slick and shiny – oil, she guesses. His hand disappears underneath their bodies and Will shudders, steadying the jar on his belly while he grips James’s other arm fiercely. After a few moments they shift slightly and the sheets bunch up so that she can’t quite see what is happening, but James smothers a moan against Will’s mouth as his hand works between them. Finished with the contents of the little jar, Will sets it carefully aside before he returns both arms to encircle his lover, who hovers over him. The sheets are disturbed by James’s braced forearms and she can now see him position himself, then the strong, smooth – push – into Will, whose face tightens in mild discomfort. Understandable, from what Elizabeth has newly seen of James. He murmurs softly; Will nods and James begins to move. His hips rock back, drawing him partially out, and forward again, slow and gentle. Will visibly relaxes, that same blissful expression overcoming him once more, though he keeps his eyes open and on James, who is panting raggedly, his hair falling into his face. Will reaches up to push it back behind an ear, revealing pinched, almost pained features. Lifting his head, he whispers in James’s ear, something that makes him gasp aloud and slip out of rhythm; when he picks it up again, his thrusts are a bit harder, a bit quicker, and it seems to please his partner quite well. Elizabeth finds it interesting that Will on the bottom sets the pace as much as James does, if not more; even more interesting is the way he seems to be privy to this wanton side of James’s nature, fueling and tending to desires finally unbridled in this most unlikely of places. The entire world could walk by this window and they would not notice; green eyes see only wide brown, and vice versa.

She knows there is something deep within, something sparked by James’s powerful thrusts that makes Will cry out hoarsely again and again, but she is somewhat relieved when James adjusts his position to free one hand. Will curves to let him in between their heaving abdomens rocked by their own tides. James grasps his cock in a firm pull, and it is something Elizabeth understands. Their mouths are pressed together now, sometimes kissing, sometimes parting for words she can’t make out, their tones alternating between harsh demand and soft entreaty. She wonders what they are saying, if Will is begging, if James is telling him how beautiful he is. If they’re proclaiming love or if they’re celebrating in great detail how their bodies fit and move and work together. When they reach unbearable heights and become loud enough for her to hear, James is stuck on a jagged-sounding loop of Will’s name, while the other is moaning without coherent form. A last great cry and Will is spurting into a ready palm. A giggle bubbles in her throat as she remembers the first time she and Will touched one another like this – the same thing happened and far too soon, much to his shame. He was more nervous than she, trembling and pale and desperate to please her.

His hands on James’s hips through a few final thrusts are sure, as are hers on the hands of her own lover. They’ve come admirably far, but the memories of that first time will never fade, at least for her.

James comes under Will’s urging and his voice breaks, though he manages to keep himself from crushing the man beneath him. Instead he withdraws carefully and settles against Will’s side. They caress each other, comforting through the fall back to earth, the return to sensibility. It must have been such a shock the first time they did something like this, each drifting back through soporific release to find himself in the arms of another man.

Perhaps it is only her assumption that they are each the other’s first foray into the grievous offense of sodomy. To look at them, they are the first of everything for one another.

She is not surprised to feel dampness soaking through her trousers, but the tears she wipes away with her sleeve are unexpected.

Casting one last look through the window, she sees the still oblivious pair exchange a fragile, almost chaste kiss, wrapped up together in the guttering candlelight. Elizabeth turns back the way she came.

Jack is stumbling towards her through the alley. She rushes to still him before he can make a noise to stir the blacksmith and his guest

Rum is heavy on the captain’s breath and he tilts forward over her arm. “Got finger'd for messenger duty,” he says, blinking at her raised eyebrows. “An’maria sent me t’tell you she’s awful sorry and she has watch tonight if you should want to go talk it out. Please do,” he adds with an exaggerated wince. “I can’t take two hellcats at once, Lizzie darlin’.”

Renewed anger sparks Elizabeth’s hissed words. “Sent you, did she? Could she not come speak to me her own damn self? The woman is...” She pauses, an image of James loving Will falling crossways through her head.

“Stubborn, I know,” says Jack placatingly. “Temper to match your own, love, and it’s a wonder the two of ye haven’t managed to burn each other up as yet.”

Elizabeth rubs her bare forearms against a sudden gusting breeze. The Pearl will be warmer than the town tonight, and her own bed more welcome than an empty one..

“You don’t have to convince me,” she says quietly before Jack can launch into what is obviously an elaborate speech on Anamaria’s behalf – or at least on the behalf of the prospect of peace between the quarreling females in his crew. “I’m going to her right now.”

Jack claps in approval and she drags his hands down, shushing him.

“What’s that about?” he stage-whispers, peering at her in confusion.

She bites her lip in thought while she studies him for a moment, then draws him over to the window at the back of the forge. The light has been blown out, but their eyes gradually filter the moonlight to paint the picture within: James now on his back, Will cradled against him, their hands clasped above the coverlet as they sleep.

Jack’s mouth goes briefly round. Then he smiles, gently, indulgently, a little sadly. She thinks on his last conquest: just this morning, in the back room of the tavern. She tries to remember anyone staying a whole night with him in the six months she’s been aboard, and comes up empty.

“Pretty,” he murmurs.

“I’ve always thought so,” she says, waiting for him to meet her eyes. When he does, he cocks his head in silent question at her stare. She takes him by his braided beard and tugs him forward for a kiss, the first they’ve shared since her second night under his command, when she’d gotten truly drunk for the first time and tried clumsily to seduce him. He’d turned her down, held her hair back while she vomited after bursting into tears at his rejection, and tucked her into his own bed. When she woke in the morning, it was Anamaria who sat by her side with a nauseating hangover brew, the worry in her eyes not quite hidden behind her curt voice. It is easy to slip into his arms once she imagines another pair sliding around her waist as well, slender and dark and much beloved.

Jack looks at her through his long lashes when she releases him. “You sure this is goin’ to go over well with your girl?”

Elizabeth smiles and turns, tucking herself under his arm. “I’ll talk her ‘round.”

“‘F anyone can manage it, you can,” says Jack, the note of hesitation gone from his smooth voice.

She can manage it, she thinks, and she will.