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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: See individual drabbles.
Pairing: See individual drabbles.
Feedback: Sure. Good lines, bad ones, etc.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: One crossover with Norse myth.
Summary: Snippets for telling while the time passes.
***
Goad: G, Will, for the_dala
Back when he was a boy and traveling over the ocean, Will had had his sea legs within the day. Running errands, trying to learn everything before the sailors did as they’d threatened and tossed him to the sharks, holding as much of his own as he could before the men, he hadn’t had time to fall.
Now he’d argue he is in even greater hurry, but his legs are clumsy and too stiff, and Jack laughs out of the side of his mouth whenever Will tries to cross the deck. In the face of Elizabeth’s kidnapping, it shouldn’t be important. As long as they’re there in time…but Will’s blood still boils, seething higher and higher in his cheeks with every derisive glance he catches.
And then he hits on it, and stands tall and easy. It’s like fighting.
Jack pauses, then grins full on Will.
* * *
Plunge of Faith: PG-13, Elizabeth, blindfold, for fabu
She knows it’s Jack’s sash binding her eyes because she can smell the salty rum, but she does not know whose hands smoothed it so softly about her head, nor whose hands trapped her own against a warm, lingering mouth while that was done. Elizabeth knows only the dark, the fluttering fiery touches that steal her breath while slipping away the strictures of her corset, the uncertain pinpointing of liquid chuckles and rapid breathes that seem to move all about her.
She doesn’t know. Smiling, Elizabeth spreads her arms and lets herself fall backwards into the unknown, trusting that it will catch her.
* * *
Repute and Reason: PG, Anamaria, for fairestcat
So she’s a hellcat like they say. Anamaria’ll fight till the blood drowns the dirt, drink till the fallen men carpet her way out of the tavern, and sail till the horizon falls off the side. She will swear and snarl and slash, live and laugh and jeer, and she’ll not be beholden to anyone, man or woman.
But any damn fool knows that hellcats can be bagged and thrown into the well, or set upon by that one dog that can’t be beat, or gotten rid of in any number of ways. So she’s not a hellcat. Because come morning, there’s her jaunty stride still walking the earth.
That’s the difference, see. Hellcats are furies of hatred. She does what she does because she does, and not because she hates any of it.
* * *
Bonfire of the Vanities: R, crossover with Norse myth, Loki/Norrington, for oneiriad
Theoretically, the fire should burn. Theoretically, James’ flesh should be charring black and crisping where it does not run, melted and yellow, off his white, white bones. Theoretically, he should be gone, screaming into hell for the sin of failure: his ship afire on his watch, far out to sea and no hope of survival for the flames came so fast.
But he is flowing, his iron-hard recriminations liquefying in tendrils of red and white twining so close…so close…and the acid of his guilt turns first bitter and then dry, little bits of ashes that gust away with the hot air caressing his skin. He cannot think but to fall, and he cannot fall but to be taken into the heart of the fire, which now does burn with wicked eyes and long snaking fingers.
Someone laughs.
***