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Grain of Sand

by Linaelyn


Fandom: PoTC    Rating: R    Pairing: Anamaria/Gillette    Full Header


"What're you looking at?"

"I'm not looking, I'm admiring."

"I ain't sellin' what you're looking for, sailor."

"I'm not looking to buy. I'm just looking to look."

"You interested keepin' them pretty blue eyes?"

"As long as my last sight is your pretty brown ones, I'm pleased enough."

"Your tongue is sharp. How's your prick?"

"Reasonably adept. I prefer to start with my tongue and see where it gets me."

"You're all talk."

He raised a pinkie finger to his lips, licked it, suckled it, and then ran a damp line up her bare arm, raising gooseflesh. "Am I, really?"


The moon set and the breeze rose, but the stars reflected enough off the sea to make the foam of the waves glow white along the shore.

Anamaria stirred and removed her arm from beneath his neck. "Don't go," his somnelent voice called, but she was already tugging her breeches on. Sandy legs rasped against seams and she was glad of the distraction from the burn. They'd gone at it hard and it had been long months of having gone without.

Palms rustled above.

She needed a chance to ponder what this wrought.

She oughtn't have fucked a navy man.


Sitting at the small escritoire, the quill dangling aimlessly from his fingers, he was suddenly struck by the thought:

This wood is the same color as her skin, but her skin is smoother. Particularly on the belly, just a bit above the...

His breeches were suddenly too snug in this position. He blushed furiously and a bead of sweat unrelated to the day's heat trickled from his temple to his jawline.

Gillette closed his eyes and concentrated on taking a few deep breaths, emptying his mind of her like grains of sand hissing through the hourglass.

I must find her.


Two weeks passed before she caught sight of him again. She nearly choked as she swilled bad ale in a bad establishment. She'd been hiding from anyplace he might find her, drinking in taverns she was unused to, avoiding the typical inns.

He still managed to cross her path in the seediest section of town. He had a haggard look about him and he wasn't in uniform.

She recalled the texture of his fine, red hair between her fingers, the thin red lips against her own broader ones.

Pity was a strange sensation. Too strange.

She turned and walked away.


A month passed, and he began to lose hope of ever finding her again.

A month passed, and her cycles did not come. She went to the physicker and nearly died, getting rid of what he left in her.

He found her lying in a bed in the back of a brothel; she was unconscious in a pool of her blood.

He moved her to his quarters despite the gossip. She drank salty broth from a cup in his hands.

As soon as she could cross the room: "I'm leaving."

He gave her his most prized possession: the Jolly Mon.


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