Continued from Part 2

Damn and blast you, Michael Shadwell, you half-witted, bog-born, whoreson idiot! Jesus Christ and all the little fishes, how long has that damnable man been a sailor? A pirate? Alright, I know it's not exactly playing by the official rulebook, but really, take a look around, Mick, it ain't as if I just invented it. And now he's put the fear, not just of God, but of his fellow man, into the boy. Just when it was going so unbelievably well!

It ain't too easy to control my temper as we make our way back to the beach.

There's silence for an age, and then Will says, "I didn't get to see your picture, Jack."

Not a bad opener. Going right back to the idea of beauty, and nakedness, and my unreasonable lust for him, all wrapped up in one innocuous sentence. Not stupid, is he?

"There ain't much to see," I tell him. "Only an arm. Good'un, though."

"Where did you learn to do that? To draw that way?"

"Oh, here and there. T'ain't so much something to be learned, though, it either comes out of you or it don't."

"But you must have practised a lot," he persists.

"Mmm," I say vaguely, but I'druther change the subject. "Teach you if you like. And you can teach me some of your skills at sword-play, eh? Oh, no, that won't work, will it, 'cause I'm better than you are."

"No you're not, you're just a better cheat," he retorts, and we slip back into banter and normality. So nothing's too broken. I hope.

Back at the beach, cheerful chaos reigns. Mr Gibbs is trying to organise them, get a party together to fill up on fresh water, and another to go hunting, so's we can do some salting and smoking, but half of 'em are still too sick from last night to be any use to anyone, and the other half have already got started on today's ration and are working on their second day of complete insensibility.

"Anyone been back to the Pearl yet, Gibbsy?"

"Not yet, Jack, but we need to get a couple o' boats over, pick up the rest of the water barrels, and Cotton needs some tools if he's to build us a boucan for all that goat meat."

"Alright then, d'you hear that, lads? Volunteers please!"

Mr Cotton shambles up, parrot fluttering after him, and indicates with a raise of his chin that he'll go. But there ain't a lot of other reaction. So in the end, it's Cotton and Gibbs, me and Will as drags the boats down to the sea, and sets off. I jump into the first boat, and wait for Will to join me, but he gets into the other, and it's me and Silent Joe in the end. And the goddamn parrot, naturally. Why did he do that, eh? Thought we were back on the straight and narrow. May have been wrong.

So it's back to the Pearl, and AnaMaria, and we load up a dozen barrels, and get together the tools, so's Mr Cotton can build us a boucan to smoke the meat that we may catch if any one of my fabulously inebriated crew can eventually get off his arse and wave a firearm around for a bit. It's nice to be back on board, even in the bay. Love the sounds of my Pearl, her movement. Never like to leave her now.

So when Ana rolls her eyes at another couple of nights at Sailor's Grave, it's no hardship to tell her to go ahead and go ashore, Gibbsy promises to keep the boys in line, and I'll stay here tonight.

The gist of which is pretty fuckin' obvious, isn't it? I'm waiting for lovely boy to offer to stay with me. And then we'll be all on our lonesome, and no bloody Shadwell's going to interrupt us, and... ooh, I've a cockstand just planning it, and I give him a great grin as I say it, to make it obvious. Lucky, lucky me.

"See you tomorrow, then, Jack," he says, cool as you please, and scurries down the rope back to the boat.

Fuck!

*

Jack gave me the most hurt look when I left the Pearl, it was almost enough to make me turn round. But not quite.

On the way over, I'd made sure to be with Mr Gibbs, for didn't he know Jack the best of all of them? I took the oars, and was facing him. As soon as we had broached the surfline, I took my courage into both hands and asked him.

"Mr Gibbs?"

"Aye, lad?"

"Can I ask you something... well, rather odd?"

He smiled. "Odd as you care to, Mr Turner, I've seen a lot of odd, odd don't worry me none."

"Well, then... it's about Jack. You've known him for a long time, haven't you?" He nodded, waiting.

"Has Jack never... wanted to marry?"

To my consternation, he started to laugh. "Oh, you've a wonderfully polite way with you, Mr Turner!" He laughed to the point that tears appeared at the corner of his eyes, and finally wiped them, and managed, "Jack ain't exactly the marrying sort of man."

There was a beat of silence, and then I asked, "What sort of man is he, then?"

He calmed then, and stroked a hand down each of his long muttonchops, and looked out at the approaching ship. "He's his own sort of man," he said. "With his own sort of ways. But I can tell you, they're not bad ways. And if you're asking me whether you can trust him, the answer's yes. And if you're asking me what I would think if you were to take up with him, the answer's that I believe there are a great many ways in this world of finding your happiness, and not just the few straight paths that some folk may trust in."

That was quite a speech for Mr Gibbs. And it's certainly quite counter to Mick Shadwell's opinion. So it's given me a lot to think about, but it was hardly a representative survey, and I needed to talk to someone else. Someone who would likely understand my concerns, someone sympathetic. A woman.

Which is why I'm sitting back in this rowboat, which is full of barrels and threatening to swamp, trying to broach the subject with AnaMaria. How does one politely ask a woman one doesn't know terribly well what her opinion is of... well, that sort of thing? It's really not something I've had occasion to practise.

"I'm sure you'll be fine ashore tonight," I begin.

She looks at me as though I'm a simpleton. "Of course I bloody will be! They don't scare me, Will Turner. I could have any one of them at the end of my blade in seconds, and don't you forget it."

Well, that's confusing. "But I thought you stayed aboard last night because...?"

"Oh, that's just a good excuse, and it means I get first pickings of booty. And a night all to myself." Suddenly she looks worried. "But don't tell Jack that, will you? I mean, what with you and him bein' such good friends and all, you might be in the habit of tellin' him everything." A sly smile has crept over her pretty face and it's clear what she's thinking. I'm... surprised, and yet also relieved. Surely she's had no reason to think that? But on the other hand, somehow we've reached the thing that I wanted to talk to her about.

"What do you mean, good friends?" I say, cautiously.

She snorts like a horse. "Oh, don't you play all coy wit' me, William, I'm not a blind woman. We can see how Jack looks at you. And you're just as bad, and don't even try to tell me that you came here an' joined the company for the joy of piracy."

"...'we'?"

"Are you askin' me if everyone in the company knows it? Aye, all but the most blind and foolish."

"Look, AnaMaria," I say, feeling that this is getting quite out of hand, "nothing's happened, well not really, there's really nothing to know. But... but, well, if there were something to know... would it, you know... matter?"

She laughs merrily. "Only to those as would have Jack for their own. Or you, indeed!"

Oh, that really is a bit much. I don't even want to consider that statement any further, it's too disturbing. With a crashing lurch and a dousing of cold spray, we come down over a wave, and are rushed in to shore by it. But now that I'm back... after those two conversations, I wish I wasn't. I wish I was with Jack. Poor Jack, all alone! And he didn't even take his drawing box over with him.

But I'm not there, I'm here, so I might as well be useful. We unload the boats, and I go to help Mr Cotton with his carpentry. We take the axes, and go off into the woods, and it's a great relief to me to spend some time in honest toil, felling trees, and splitting logs. By the time the evening is drawing in, I'm in a fine mood, and Mr Cotton and I (well, mostly I) start ferrying the wood back down to the beach, where the rest of the company is sitting or lying around, mostly drunk, but generally appearing to be enjoying themselves, after their fashion. Each to his own! Really, I'm learning an astonishing amount of tolerance.

I'm on my third load, coming out onto the beach with split logs over my shoulder, when Mick Shadwell's weaving path intersects my own. Ignore him, he's a minority, alright? I tell myself.

But he won't be ignored. He swerves in front of me, and spits again, and hisses, "Get out of my way, you filthy little catamite!"

I feel a hot flush, but it's as much anger as embarrassment this time. I try to step round him, but he steps to the side, in my way again. His face is red, angry, and ugly in every way, and he's so big. His giant fists are clenching and unclenching. Why does the man hate me so?

"Excuse me," I say, and it sounds ludicrous even to me. He snorts in disgust.

"An' keep your dirty little hands off Jack, you hear me?" And his thick, dirty finger pokes me in the chest. This, somehow, enrages me beyond reason. Jack touched me there. And now it has been soiled, again, by this filthy, stupid man.

"Why?" I ask, looking up into his bloodshot eyes for the first time. "Do you want me to make room for yours?"

It's not very sensible, is it? I don't know what I expect him to do, but whatever my expectations are, he does the only thing that it's in his nature to do, which is to let out a terrible roar, and swing at me, surprisingly fast really. I sort of see it coming, but I am weighed down with the wood, and can't get out of the way. His fist connects with my face, and it feels like a cannonball. My head snaps back against the wood that I'm holding over my shoulder, and I fall.

Well, I was angry before, but now, a red rage takes me. I drag myself back, and hurl myself at the big man's knees, bringing him down, and we fight, savagely. He's so much bigger than I, but then, he's been drinking rum all day, and I have utter hatred on my side, and that allows me to land a few blows, although not as many as I receive.

I can hear a crowd gathering round us, shouting encouragement. He knows that he has the advantage over me, standing, and so as we wrestle, he gets my head in a lock under his arm, and lurches to his knees, and then his feet, bringing me with him. My head is throbbing and spinning, my punches achieving nothing on this mountain of man. He lands a punch to my stomach, and lets go my head, so that I stumble backward, doubled over with pain. He stands and roars like a bull, clenching his fists, ready to come and finish me off, and I can see no way of stopping him, until suddenly, I hear AnaMaria call my name, and see a flash of silver, and realise that she's throwing me my sword. Pike does the same for Shadwell. And now we have a fight on, and not just a beating.

The circle of pirates widens, and we move slowly back from one another. I can feel blood on my face, from his first blow, and a thumping pain in my stomach, but now that I'm armed, those can be ignored. Now, I can prove myself.

Shadwell is easy to read, and slow to move. He thrusts hard, and often, but his thrusts are easy to parry. The clash of metal brings even more of the company to life, and within minutes, every face is there, and cheering, and do you know what the wonderful thing is?

They're almost all cheering for me.

I don't know if they realise why we're fighting. But if what AnaMaria had said was true, and they know the state of affairs between myself and Jack, they must clearly not mind it, or they would be backing Shadwell, wouldn't they? Which just fills me with a righteous fire, and strengthens and quickens my swordarm, and I can feel a spread of joy on my face as I drive my opponent backward, till he is close to the water's edge, and I have complete control, and can choose the moment when I flick his weapon out of his clumsy hands. The sword makes a graceful, glinting arc across the darkening sky before slicing silently into the waves. I place my blade at his throat, hard enough so that he jerks backwards, and falls into the shallow water.

We freeze, panting hard, in this tableau, and the cheering subsides, and they wait, to see what I will do. How pirate am I?

Not very. I should rather humiliate than harm him. I want him gone, not dead.

"Do you concede?" I ask him, poking him a little with the tip of my sword for the fun of it. There's nothing but a grunt in reply.

"You're no gentleman, Mr Shadwell, of fortune, or otherwise. But I tell you this," and I lean low, and try my best to look menacing. "If I ever hear another word from your mouth, or see another sign on your face or person, which in an ungentlemanly way implies anything bad about myself or Captain Sparrow, I will cut out your vile tongue. Believe me."

Then I realise what I've said, and say, "Oh, sorry Mr Cotton, I really wouldn't want you to infer anything from that."

Which makes them laugh at me. So much for menacing. But it seems to have worked well enough on its target, who scrambles and splashes away from my blade, and stamps up the beach, cursing, trying to keep some dignity intact.

A hand claps my shoulder, and it's Mr Gibbs. "Well done, lad," he says, and there's a warm twinkle in his eyes. "Now, let's get you cleaned up, you're a right mess."

"Oh, it's nothing, I'm alright," I say, although now that it's over, the cut on my cheekbone is pulsing with pain. "Mr Gibbs, may I... take a boat?"

*

I'm mostly asleep, well dozing anyway. It's going to be a warm night, and I've dragged me nice comfy straw mattress up on deck, and pillows and a blanket, and a bottle of rum. Which has helped with the dozing, but made me a little maudlin if you must know. Can't stand a missed opportunity, and here's today presenting me with two of 'em! First that damn Shadwell gets in the way, then dear William avoids a perfectly obvious opening, so here I am, let's count me, oh, one, I must be all alone then. Just me. No-one else. Not even any pictures of anyone else.

Why didn't he want to stay with me? I just don't believe he wasn't enjoying it, before. He was so fierce. I hear his voice again, rough edged, hot... "Yes, Jack, for God's sake, yes!" Ooh, shivers all down my spine. Makes me slide a hand down, wrap it round my aching cock. Since I'm all alone. Picture that glorious body, standing sunwarmed against the rock... ohh, yes, that's it...

Thump. A hard knock of wood on wood. What in hell is that? Came from the stern, which is pointed back at the beach, 'cause the tide's going in. Don't tell me some fucker's trying to board. If this is that damnable Mick Shadwell, I'm going to—

But no. When I get back, and look down, there's the object of my hot and steamy affections! Although he certainly looked a lot better when I saw him last.

"Sweet Jesus, William, what happened to you?" He's trying to climb up from the cutter with my drawing box under his arm, which is a bit of a challenge, and I lean right down and take it from him, then lean back to help pull him up. His face is a mess, there's a nasty split on his cheekbone and it's bled a lot, and he's starting to bruise, but I must say, for all that, he looks like a pretty happy fellow.

"Shadwell," he says, as he hits the deck. "But I won."

"Course you did," I say, pushing back stray curls to see the damage better, and pushing down the volcanic anger that threatens at the sound of that name. "But come below, and we'll clean it up."

"No," he says, and he puts a hand up, and takes my wrist. "I don't care about it, Jack." His gaze is suddenly very intent. Ohhh, yes. This is starting to feel familiar. In a very good way.

"No? What do you care about, right now, then?"

"Whether or not you're going to stop talking, and kiss me again."

Yes! Oh, yes, I am, I most surely am. So I do, and as soon as my tongue slips past those gorgeous lips, he seems to melt, a whimper comes out of him, and he's leaning against me, liquid. He kisses me this time with utter intent, no maybes about it, and it's beyond wonderful, warm and clashing, and it takes me a minute to register that the hot coppery taste of him has changed, and now it's salty and metallic with blood also.

There's something outrageously sexy about that.

"Come here," I say, and my voice comes out little more than a growl. Which is just how I'm feeling, frankly bestial. And I drag him up to my little bed in the bow. His eyes go wide when he sees it, and he laughs, and says, "Were you expecting me, then, Jack?" which is really a very calm response, from someone who'd apparently never kissed a man before today.

I lay him down, and lay beside him, and kiss him, more, more, more. His strong arms go round me and he's pulling me to him. Pulls me on top of him. Sighs with pleasure when he feels me hard against him (as if I could be anything else, with a body like this in my sights). But hisses and winces as I run my hand down his side. What's that? I shimmy out of the way, pull his shirt up.

Damnitall, he's taken a beating. I can't ignore it, can't. "Christ Almighty, Will, you've been hurt, haven't you, and I'd be a fool not to know why. I'm going to kill that bastard, I swear it!"

He just smiles, arches himself back towards me. "Leave it, Jack, I've sorted it out, he's nothing." So proud of himself.

"Then I'll just have to do what I can to make it better," I say, and very gently, lean down and plant sweet, gentle kisses on the livid marks, licking them and running my lips over their throbbing warmth. He takes a deep hitching breath, but I think it's the good sort. So I leave the sore places, and move across to his lovely navel, ringing it with my tongue, and dipping inside. He's certainly been working hard today, he's sweaty and salty and just beyond delicious, and what's more, he's reacting fit to burst, arching and twisting, his arms thrown up behind his head, the most gloriously wanton thing I've ever seen. God, I want more. More.

I push his shirt further out of the way, revealing his lovely chest, and hard brown nipples that were just made for my mouth, I swear, so I put them to their true use, and he gives a little squeak, and mutters, "Oh, Jack!" and can bear it only for a minute before he is pulling my face up to his and kissing me again, deep, sucking, demanding.

"Take your shirt off," he pants. "I want... I want to feel your chest on mine, again," and he pulls off his own. Unbelievable, he's really going for it now. What can I do, but comply? I whip off my shirt, and slowly, slowly, lower myself down to him, sliding warmly, and his stomach and chest rise and fall with his harsh breathing, and he feels like living heaven to me. I put my lips on his neck, his throat, licking up behind his ear, over his lobe, into the tiny canyons of his ear so that my nose is buried in his beautiful curls, and my hands wander over his arms, the strong muscled curves of his shoulders—oh, Christ, he's a lovely thing. And suddenly I think that I can't bear another missed opportunity today. If it ain't really an opportunity, I just want to know.

"Will," I murmur into his ear, "I need to know some things."

"Now?" he says, and I think it comes out squeakier than he would like. His big warm hands are all over my back, working their way down my spine, very distracting.

"Have you ever done this before, Will?"

He squirms a little. "What does that matter?"

"Do you understand all that I want to do? All that I want from you? Be honest with me, now."

"I know..." he bites his lip, closes his eyes. Takes my hand in his own. "I know I want you to touch me... here." And he takes my hand, and slides it into the tight warmth of his breeches, and curls it around his cock.

I think my eyes just rolled back in my head. I know his did.

*

I can't believe I just did that, put his hand on me. But I'm so glad I did. I've never felt anything like it, and the look on his face was almost enough to make me come right then. It was like... well, like dreams I've had. His hand slides along me, his thumb rolls around, almost like I do myself when I'm alone. Oh, it's so good, isn't that all we need to know?

Apparently not.

"Well, I have to say I agree with you on that one, William," he says in that low growling voice that makes me want to quiver. "But do you understand what else?"

I have to be honest with him. In all ways. I want this so much, I will just have to show him my heart, and trust him with it. "Sort of, Jack. But sort of not, so tell me. Because I want... I want everything. All of you. In every way, and I... I'll do whatever you want."

His black eyes narrow and flash, and his hand moves faster, making me push up into him. I can feel him on my hip, he's as hard as I am. "Everything?" he asks, and a slow, unstoppable smile is spreading over his face. "You sure about that? Everything?"

"Everything," I say. "So stop talking, and do it."

"Right you are, mate." And his hand is gone—damn!—and he has disappeared below decks.

I lie there, my heart hammering. I don't know why he's gone. What does that mean? But he's back in under a minute, clutching a bottle of something. He puts it to one side, pushes me back on the pillows, and begins kissing me again, and undoing the ties of my breeches at the same time, which is rather clever, since he can't see what he's doing, and I think he might have done this before. And then he's pushing them down, over my hips, and I lift up to make it possible for him, and scramble out of them.

The night air is cool on my bare skin, and that makes the warmth of his hands and mouth as they move their unhurried way down my body even better. Oh god, I think I know what he's going to do, I think he's going to... ohhh. He runs his tongue up the length of me, once, and then turns his attention to my hipbones, licking his way across, and I cover my face with my hands, because even though I want to look I think it might just be too much to see, and then his mouth is back on me, so light and gentle and teasing that I twitch and twitch and it's hard to stop myself from pushing up towards him, which I know is... well, it seems obscene, but it only makes him groan and clutch me hard with his long elegant fingers.

I suddenly realise how free I am—there are no rules, no expectations, for I've already broken all the rules, and told Jack plainly that he can do anything. I'm his whore, flits through my scattered mind, and it's true, but it has no bad connotation for me right now. It means I can do anything. Anything. So I prop myself up on my elbows, and watch myself push up towards his clever, beautiful mouth, and he opens it, and his eyes meet mine. He watches me watching my shaft slide into his mouth, and the look on his face is... oh, god, I really can do anything, and he will only be happy about it.

The feeling of his mouth on me is indescribable. It's filling me, torturing me so deliciously, and he slides slowly up and down, tongue swirling, over and over. I'm writhing in a bed of sunshine, and it starts pouring out my mouth in a torrent of words. "Oh, Jack, oh, don't ever stop that, with your tongue, there, there, god yes... oh, this is what I wanted, Jack, you were right, I want it, I want everything, everything!"

But I shouldn't have said that, for his lovely mouth slides off me, and he looks up with a wicked grin, and says, "Oh, that ain't everything, William, far from it."

I'm shaking with desire now, and I say, but it comes out in an almost shout, "Don't stop!"

"I'm not stopping, love, I'm just... changing location."

My heart jumps. I'm not entirely sure what he means to do, but I have given myself over to him entirely, and I am like a puppet in his hands as he turns me over and begins to lavish his kisses all over my shoulders, my neck, down my spine. Truly, I had no idea that anything could feel this good... his warm, wet mouth is centred in a teasing, tickling maelstrom of hair, beard, beads, and it moves wonderfully down my back, with his clever hands working as outriders down my sides, till they reach lower, lower, stroking and squeezing my buttocks, and his mouth follows, now right at the base of my spine. It feels like his sucking kisses shoot straight through my body and out the other side, where, if I'm honest, I still want them to be, and he has to stop soon, doesn't he? He can't possibly want to put his mouth... there, and I'm squirming away, despite everything I've said about wanting everything, surely not that—but his hands grip fast, and I feel him spread me. A wave of shame hits me, mingling oddly with the desire and the pleasure and the pain from my injuries. He can tell. "Shh, lovely," he whispers. "Trust me, trust this, trust yourself." And his tongue slides down, down.

Oh, God, it feels nothing but good. I can't believe this, I can't believe it. I am so far beyond rules and normal, now. My body can't decide what to do, it wants to push and thrust into the mattress, but that takes me away from his circling tongue, so I'm more or less pinned, writhing, helpless. And when a hand slides between my legs, and underneath me till it grips me again, and that slippery tongue actually pushes inside me, there's nothing I can do but tremble and sob for the glory of it. I'm going to come, his hand on me is too much, I can feel it gathering, oh yes, yes—

The hand, the tongue, the hair, all retreat from me.

*

I know it ain't nice, but I stop anyway. I don't want him to come just yet. Fact is, somehow and against every law of probability, we're closing in on my favourite fevered imaginings; in which, he comes with me buried up to the hilt inside him, and that's what I want, more than anything right now. Thought for a moment there I was on the wrong track, he was a bit funny about me going down south, but seemed to get over that in record time. Seems to be adapting to everything in record time, actually, he's a bit of a natural.

Soon as I stop, he rolls to his side, looking up at me with an expression that's just one big question. My eyes widen just to see his face like this... eyes dark and swimmy with lust, all flushed, lips swollen, dry blood smeared down one cheek, he's very far removed from the nice civilised blacksmith that came aboard a week ago. Makes me feel positively proud of my wicked self to have wrought such a change.

"Jack, why do you keep stopping?" he pants.

Oh, there's a question, d'you think I should answer it true? I distract him by standing, loosening my trousers and letting them drop. He bites his lip and I see his breath catch, and he reaches up for me. I lie down beside him, and slowly, slowly, bring our churning bodies together, never taking my eyes from his. He throws his head back as our cocks touch, lightly at first, but then he mashes himself against me, curves a leg over my hip, and I slide a leg between his, feeling his balls against my thigh, insinuating it between his gorgeous pale cheeks.

I lean over and lick the blood on his face, cleaning him, wanting to eat him. I whisper, as he rocks against me, his strong leg pulling me onto him. "I've dreamt of this, Will. Dreamt of your face as you come. And in my dreams I can always see your face, for you're under me, with your long legs wrapped around me, and my cock's deep in you. That's everything for me. And that's how it's going to be."

He's kissing my neck as I tell him this, and when I get to the part about fucking him rigid, his sweet mouth freezes for a second, which ain't a good sign, but then he gives a muffled groan, and thrusts his cock against my hip ever harder, and the kiss turns almost vicious, as he sinks his teeth into my flesh. Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes.

"It might hurt a little, alright? But I'm going to get you ready, and it's going to be, oh, love, so good, I promise..." I gentle him along as I reach for the bottle of oil, and pour it onto both my hands. One goes back to his pretty straining cock, which is already so swollen it's shining, and so gorgeous that I'm tempted to take him in my mouth again, but restrain myself, for haven't I a more important target right now? That's just to distract him while I'm busy elsewhere. I slide an oily finger down the sweet cleft of his arse, still slick from my spit. Christ, it's lovely. He's very still as I slip a finger slowly inside, and I look at him, make sure he's alright, 'cause he's gone very quiet. He's biting his lip.

"Will? Will, are you fine there, love? Do you want me to stop?"

His eyes fly open, and he says violently, "If you stop again, I will kill you, Jack."

Oh, God, I love it when he's fierce with me. "No worries," I murmur, "and no stopping, then. But you tell me if it's too much, hear?"

"Fuck off, Jack," he says, and I've never heard the word from his lips before. "I want it, d'you hear me? Shut the hell up and do it."

Could this be any better? Here's glorious Will Turner, covered in blood from fighting to get here with me, naked, wriggling, erect, and gagging for it. I'm hard put not to lose it all over his golden belly right there and then.

I don't say another word. I just work my finger further and deeper into his tight channel and search for that sweet spot of different flesh, and am rewarded for my efforts with a clutch and a mewl and a panted, "What...? Jack, what did you do?"

"Shut the hell up, I'm doing it," I tell him, and do it again, and again, for the joy of watching him twitch. He surely can't last much longer, I've got to get on with this. So gently as I can, I push inside with two fingers. He sucks air through gritted teeth. "Shh, shh, wait," I tell him, and I'm very gentle, and he relaxes. Make him twitch again. More oil.

He's moving against me now, no more frozen stillness, and muttering my name, and imprecations to various deities, and oh, it's hard to be patient. I'm rubbing up against him where he's still oily from my hand and the world is starting to blur with my own pleasure. Slow, slow. I kiss him, long and languid, holding back, only sliding my tongue inside his delicious treacly mouth as my third finger joins its mates, reading his response through his lips and tongue, and the response is all good.

"You ready, then?" I murmur to him. "You ready to let me take you, and let you come?"

For an answer he rolls onto his back, and pulls me between his knees. Beautiful, beautiful, wanton boy, laying there in front of me, with a red flush at his throat, covered in a salty sheen of sweat, that bruise still growing, nearly as purple-dark as his deliciously desperate cock, which I can't resist a last taste of before I lift and spread his knees, and his legs fall open—divinely flexible—and I'm fighting a tremble as I position myself at his entrance, and fighting a rush of blood that threatens to faint me as I push slowly inside, into the tightest, hottest, most fuckable flesh this world has ever known.

*

My mind is not my own anymore, my body is some strange thing I don't even recognise. Filthy mantras fly through my head. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me! Jack has unleashed some version of me that has been buried deep, and I've never seen this me before, he's a wild shameless creature of pleasure and want, and I love being him. I should be afraid when I look at Jack, poised between my spread legs, see him look at my abandoned self, see his hard demanding erection, and know what he's going to do to me. But I'm not afraid. It's almost a challenge, and I can do it. I've done so much. I've left home, and Elizabeth, I've found him, I've sailed with a pirate company, I've vanquished a giant, I've made Jack Sparrow want me. I can do anything, and there are no rules anymore. When I look at him, all I see is unreasonable beauty, and I know that's what he sees in me too. I stare at him for long moments, trying to burn it into my memory, this vision of him, his lovely face in the bright moonlight, the muscles in his arms flexing as he moves my willing limbs, his narrow supple body, the glinting metal hidden all about him.

Oh, God, just do it, Jack, please.

And he does.

It stretches me so wide, makes me suck in a noisy breath, and his eyes bore into me, filled with lust and wonder. He's inside me, he's inside me, he's inside me, he's fucking me. It hurts a little, but I don't care. He pulls back, sliding in the oil, and drives forward again, further this time, and his eyes flutter back in his head. His hands clutch my hips, holding me, helping me, and I remember what he said before, and wrap my legs around his waist. It makes him smile, wide and open, and a sound that's half a laugh and half a groan comes from him. "You are un... fucking... believable," he tells me. With each word he pushes further into me, till he reaches the place his fingers found before, and a shudder of pleasure pulses through me and my hand, of its own volition, slides down my belly and takes hold of my yearning erection.

"Oh, mate, let me, let me," whispers Jack, and he holds himself above me on one trembling arm, and his other hand slides warm and firm along me at exactly the same time as his cock slides and pushes into me, and I love it. I love it. I reach up to his shoulders, take some of his weight for him, which frees his sinuous hips to curve and rock into me in the most wonderful way, and he frowns as if it pains him, but I think it's pleasure. My own pleasure is mounting, mounting, mounting, and I don't care about the places that burn and hurt, all I care about is the hot delight.

I'm pushing and thrusting into his hand, onto his cock, against his shoulders, like a savage, and I don't care, I just want, want, want, and everything goes red and there are sunbursts behind my eyelids as I come scaldingly, into his hand, over my belly, arching... arching. No longer me, no longer human, just a pulsing point of pleasure.

As the last shudders pass through me, I can feel him twitch inside, and he cries out, and freezes above me, his stomach taut as he finds his release. Oh, to watch his face as he comes... eyes shut tight, lips drawn back against his teeth, head thrown back. That's Captain Jack Sparrow, my Jack, and I can't believe I have been given this.

He collapses down on me, panting, and there's a strange silence for a moment. I certainly don't know what to say, in fact I'm not sure if I can speak just yet; I'm still breathless, and I'm still dumbfounded by what I just did. Was that me? Will Turner?

I must be a little bit hysterical (it has been rather an exceptional day, after all) and I start, helplessly and shakily, to laugh. Which isn't easy, given that I'm pinioned under Jack's limp form, and my bruised body is complaining bitterly. He sits up at once, pulling out of me, and the sensation of that just makes me laugh more.

"What?" he asks, and he does look a little hurt. Oh, god, I don't want him to think I'm laughing at him.

"Jack, I can't believe I just did that. We did that. That was mad."

"All the best things are, mate," he says, as he throws himself down beside me, "Told you that before. Madness, brilliance... much preferable to boring, predictable old sanity." And I suppose that's true, really, because he's certainly mad, and he's certainly the best thing that I know of.

"So that was 'everything' then?"

"Well, yes and no," murmurs Jack, and he rolls to his side, so that a hand can trace lazy circles over my chest. "There's plenty of variations on 'everything'."

"Good," I say, "because you may have done everything, but you must admit that I actually did remarkably little."

He pulls a tragic face, and utters a deep and heartfelt sigh. "I suppose I'll let you get away with it this time, but you're right, William, you will need to start pulling your weight. No free rides on the Pearl, and not on her captain neither."

That puts an interesting picture in my head. Besides which, it implies... a lot. I'm not entirely sure that this is, as Jack would say, the opportune moment, but I plow ahead regardless.

"So you've no objection to me staying on?"

I'm not certain what the myriad things flickering over his face might mean.

"Depends," he says finally. "Have you any remaining objection to being part of a pirate company? For that's what we are, and always will be. And you must accept that in staying, you agree to live, and to die, pirate. Which ain't always a pleasant thing."

He's right. I have to accept that as a starting point. Do I want to hang alongside Jack?

Not particularly.

Do I want to stand spectator as he hangs alone?

Never, never, never. I want to be with him, and do whatever I can to keep him from the noose.

"My place—as always, Jack—is between you and... well, whoever wants to kill you on any given day, I suspect," I tell him, and kiss his smile. "But you've not answered my original question."

"Let's just say you'd positively swoon at the size of my objection should you try to leave."

I can't keep the smile from my lips, my eyes, my entire face.

"Dear William," he says, and yawns, "this evening has been one of the high points of my entire villainous life so far, believe me, and you were... are... beyond compare. And next time you must promise me that I can draw you, straight after, with your face, your mouth, looking just like this... but, well, don't think me rude if I fall asleep now," he says. "Just be right here when I wake, eh?" He leans over me, and kisses me, languorously, licking my lips, and runs a finger tip over my bruised face. "I'll fix that in the morning, before I go and beat the bejaysus out of that huge Irish imbecile."

"I already did that, Jack."

"Mmm, but I'm hoping he'll manage to make me look as irresistible, feral and immorally sexy as he made you look," says Jack, yawning, and somehow managing to look all those things already.

He wriggles and turns, ending up sprawled on his stomach, his face turned to me, and sleep overtakes him so fast, I suppose because of his sleepless night last night. I wish it hadn't, I wanted to hear his voice more. I don't really want to sleep, yet; I don't want tonight to be over.

I lie back, and stare up at the furled shrouds, the moonlit rigging, the scudding silver-rimmed clouds above. I've changed everything. Jack's changed everything. I'm so completely relieved that I did this unthinkable thing, so grateful to Elizabeth for knowing me better than I knew myself. How will I ever thank her? Ever pay back the debt I owe her now?

That is, presuming that tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, Jack doesn't change his mind... I shouldn't have let him be the only one who was doing things, I should have pulled myself out of my self-obsession and touched him, and kissed him, like I want to now.

I prop myself up on one elbow (wincing only a little), and touch him, gently, carefully, so as not to wake him.

I touch his thick black hair, and can't wait till he's awake so that I can crush my fingers through it properly.

I trace down his spine, and can't wait till I can run my tongue down it, just as he did to me.

I look, properly for the first time, at the clean curves of his backside, so much lighter in the moonlight than the rest of his sun-darkened skin, and the muscular lines of his thighs, and his long narrow calves, and his elegant feet.

I drag my gaze back up to his sleeping profile, the sharp nose, the full lip, the thick eyelashes on his cheek, and my mouth actually waters from the thought of kissing him, licking him... but I must wait till he wakes.

I pull a blanket over us both, and lie close, so that my face is only inches from his and I can breathe in his warm exhalations, and I whisper, "I don't believe for a moment that that was everything, Jack."

The corner of his mouth twitches up. Not really asleep at all. The pirate to end all pirates.