Worlds Enough and Time
Title: Worlds Enough and Time
Author: penknife
Pairing/characters: Calypso/Davy Jones
Rating: R for brief references to sex
Summary: There's always a reckoning.
Disclaimer: Disney owns PotC; I don't.
Author's notes: For the prompt "Calypso/Davy Jones, Post-AWE -- repercussions, cruelty"
Worlds Enough and Time
He's grown used to the water, and so at first when the maelstrom closes over his head and he is tossed through the dark water he isn't afraid. He should be dead, but he can't be dead, not if he can fight to breathe and to swim. The water drags him down and down until it's dark, dark and quiet, with the weight of the water pressing against his bones.
He can feel her more than see her, a shadow moving in the shadows. "Calypso," he whispers, though the word twists and distorts in the water until it comes back strange to his own ears.
"Davy Jones," she says, and he can feel the words more than hear them, a whisper against his skin. He remembers her mouth against his skin, his hands spreading her thighs, finding the hidden warmth there with his own mouth and tasting her on his tongue. He hasn't thought about such things in a very long time.
"Are you going to kill me, then?" It would be easier to glare down at her defiantly if he could see her. He can feel her moving, or maybe it's just the movement of the current, encircling him. He stretches out his hands and his tentacles, searching for her, but she eludes him.
"You already dead, Davy Jones," she says, and he can feel the truth of it in the crushing weight of the water around him, its cold creeping into his bones. The men he brought aboard used to shiver, and he laughed at them. The sea is cold and cruel where once it was warm, spilling over his skin --
"Lies," he growls.
"The truth," she says, and the vibration goes through him like he is the pipe of an organ and she the one who can play him. He wants to see her pretty hands again, her clever treacherous hands. He can't make them out in the shadows.
"Are you here to sit in judgment on me, then? To tell me I will burn in hell? I don't need you to tell me that."
"There nothing to fear in death," she says. "You was a brave man, once. A man not afraid to see another shore."
"Heathen lies," he snarls. He knows what waits for him after all his years of cheating the devil of his due. He is damned, and she has damned him. If there were any justice, she ought to be made to watch him burn. He will welcome the fire, he tells himself; the water is like ice.
"You believe in me," she says, and he can feel her lips brush his, a flicker of warmth in the water, a brief taste of her.
"You are the devil."
"No more than you. You are no devil."
"I am a damned soul," he says. He is a corpse, floating in the water. He is a monster waiting to be drawn from the deep.
"You are afraid."
"Have you seen them? The men who are dying, who know where they are bound? They will do anything to escape what waits for them. They would rather swear to serve a monster." He smiles bitterly and wonders if she can see it. "I don't imagine young Turner will offer me that choice."
"You looking for mercy from me, Davy Jones?"
"Never," he says. The sea is cruel.
"A woman might have mercy for you," she says. "What you ask of a goddess?" He can feel her fingers stroking the back of his neck, or maybe it is the water. He remembers her asking him what he wanted most in life, and telling her the sea; he meant for the sea to love me always, and he thought then that she knew what he did not say.
"I want my life," he says.
"The shore of the living, it not for you."
"Any shore," he says at once, for the sea is vast and strange and there are places where no living creature has ever walked that are still far from the seat of judgment.
"That sound more like my Davy Jones," she says, and now he can feel her very close, feel her warmth against him and one more brush of her lips against his own. "A woman might have mercy," she says, and there is something in her voice that is as close as she comes to regret.
He wakes to a sensation he does not understand, as if the sea has become perfectly still. Then he understands that there is hard ground under his body, and as he sits up awkwardly he can see his hair and knotted beard where tentacles have hung. He can feel something fluttering in his chest that might be a heartbeat.
He does not hope, not even before he raises his eyes to the horizon to see the featureless hills of sand stretching out in every direction under a blank and cloudless sky. The sea is cruel.
All the same he rises, though he knows there is no escape from the Locker, and starts to walk toward the hills. They seen to draw no closer as he walks, but there is no reason not to try to reach them, as once he wanted to reach every foreign shore that lay under the sun; now he has all the time in the world.
Author: penknife
Pairing/characters: Calypso/Davy Jones
Rating: R for brief references to sex
Summary: There's always a reckoning.
Disclaimer: Disney owns PotC; I don't.
Author's notes: For the prompt "Calypso/Davy Jones, Post-AWE -- repercussions, cruelty"
Worlds Enough and Time
He's grown used to the water, and so at first when the maelstrom closes over his head and he is tossed through the dark water he isn't afraid. He should be dead, but he can't be dead, not if he can fight to breathe and to swim. The water drags him down and down until it's dark, dark and quiet, with the weight of the water pressing against his bones.
He can feel her more than see her, a shadow moving in the shadows. "Calypso," he whispers, though the word twists and distorts in the water until it comes back strange to his own ears.
"Davy Jones," she says, and he can feel the words more than hear them, a whisper against his skin. He remembers her mouth against his skin, his hands spreading her thighs, finding the hidden warmth there with his own mouth and tasting her on his tongue. He hasn't thought about such things in a very long time.
"Are you going to kill me, then?" It would be easier to glare down at her defiantly if he could see her. He can feel her moving, or maybe it's just the movement of the current, encircling him. He stretches out his hands and his tentacles, searching for her, but she eludes him.
"You already dead, Davy Jones," she says, and he can feel the truth of it in the crushing weight of the water around him, its cold creeping into his bones. The men he brought aboard used to shiver, and he laughed at them. The sea is cold and cruel where once it was warm, spilling over his skin --
"Lies," he growls.
"The truth," she says, and the vibration goes through him like he is the pipe of an organ and she the one who can play him. He wants to see her pretty hands again, her clever treacherous hands. He can't make them out in the shadows.
"Are you here to sit in judgment on me, then? To tell me I will burn in hell? I don't need you to tell me that."
"There nothing to fear in death," she says. "You was a brave man, once. A man not afraid to see another shore."
"Heathen lies," he snarls. He knows what waits for him after all his years of cheating the devil of his due. He is damned, and she has damned him. If there were any justice, she ought to be made to watch him burn. He will welcome the fire, he tells himself; the water is like ice.
"You believe in me," she says, and he can feel her lips brush his, a flicker of warmth in the water, a brief taste of her.
"You are the devil."
"No more than you. You are no devil."
"I am a damned soul," he says. He is a corpse, floating in the water. He is a monster waiting to be drawn from the deep.
"You are afraid."
"Have you seen them? The men who are dying, who know where they are bound? They will do anything to escape what waits for them. They would rather swear to serve a monster." He smiles bitterly and wonders if she can see it. "I don't imagine young Turner will offer me that choice."
"You looking for mercy from me, Davy Jones?"
"Never," he says. The sea is cruel.
"A woman might have mercy for you," she says. "What you ask of a goddess?" He can feel her fingers stroking the back of his neck, or maybe it is the water. He remembers her asking him what he wanted most in life, and telling her the sea; he meant for the sea to love me always, and he thought then that she knew what he did not say.
"I want my life," he says.
"The shore of the living, it not for you."
"Any shore," he says at once, for the sea is vast and strange and there are places where no living creature has ever walked that are still far from the seat of judgment.
"That sound more like my Davy Jones," she says, and now he can feel her very close, feel her warmth against him and one more brush of her lips against his own. "A woman might have mercy," she says, and there is something in her voice that is as close as she comes to regret.
He wakes to a sensation he does not understand, as if the sea has become perfectly still. Then he understands that there is hard ground under his body, and as he sits up awkwardly he can see his hair and knotted beard where tentacles have hung. He can feel something fluttering in his chest that might be a heartbeat.
He does not hope, not even before he raises his eyes to the horizon to see the featureless hills of sand stretching out in every direction under a blank and cloudless sky. The sea is cruel.
All the same he rises, though he knows there is no escape from the Locker, and starts to walk toward the hills. They seen to draw no closer as he walks, but there is no reason not to try to reach them, as once he wanted to reach every foreign shore that lay under the sun; now he has all the time in the world.