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7th Nut Out of the Locker: Goats and Monkeys
by Powdermonkey
Characters: Jack, Barbossa, Jack the monkey, Tia Dalma, Bill Turner
Rating: G or NC-17 with your choice of flavors!
Disclaimer: not mine
Originally Posted: 5/19/08
Beta: tessabeth
Dedication: This one's an unbirthday present to viva_gloria for persuading me to listen to the Imp of Pornography. Gloria, you can have him back now.
Catering: East India Trading Co.
Summary: Jack and Hector size up each other's positions. Missing scenes on the way to Shipwreck Cove. The seventh Nuts out of the Locker story, but all you need to read it is a passing acquaintance with AWE and openness to Jack/Barbossa as a pairing. Yes, the title is from Shakespeare. This is Literature.
Nuts now available in a choice of flavours!
It's true! Leaving concrit gets you the fanfic you want. You can now select the right Nut mix for you by using the almost patented Powdermonkey Interactive Rating Selector.
In response to a comment, I started thinking that some readers who've kindly followed me through the missing-scene adventures of Jack and Barbossa might have to miss out Nut 7 because of graphic slash.
I couldn't take out the slash. (Actually I could—see the Beginner Reader Version.) But I could cut back on the graphic close-ups. You can now read the whole fic without having the darker corners of naked Barbossa shoved in your face, as it were. I think I may like the soft(er) version best. Decide for yourself with the...
Interactive Rating Selector for Goats and Monkeys (Seventh Nut Out of the Locker)
Part One - Rated strong hard R for slashy, desperate pirates who, let's face it, aren't getting any younger. Part Two will be your choice, between the original hard NC-17 version, or the kinder, gentler soft NC-17 version.
I am willing to contemplate Jack/Barbossa as a pairing and I don't mind smut. Rush me to Part One!
Alternatively, for those who prefer easier, shorter, and more wholesome texts, Powdermonkey Productions proudly presents...
Goats and Monkeys, a Jack and Hector Book for Beginner Readers
Rating: entirely suitable for all. Anything that still looks dodgy is your own problem.
G is for Goat...
~ * ~
Part One
Barbossa puts down his sewing to savour a mouthful of Lord Cutler Beckett's finest French brandy. It's a wonderful drink—much too good to be letting Jack guzzle it—but he's sure the level in the leather cup has been dropping faster than his own consumption accounts for. Evidently, he needs to be more watchful.
Replacing the cup on the table, he returns to the task of mending the rent in his britches from going yardarm-to-yardarm with Jack Sparrow. Overall, he's rather pleased—privately cock-a-hoop in fact—at how that went: perhaps he let his own desperation show more than he'd have liked, but Jack gave away as much or more, so the damage to what remains of his dignity is slight.
The damage to his britches is another matter: the ancient fabric simply gave way under the strain, leaving a gaping hole that's taken all evening to darn. Now that's done, it's a relatively simple job to renew the seam. Even so, it keeps him from noticing the thieving fingers that reach towards his drink until the cup is lifted from the table.
Above the cup are two round dark eyes filled with guilt (or the well-founded fear of punishment at any rate). Wet gulping sounds suggest fine cognac disappearing at a rate of knots down that furry little throat. Barbossa snatches the cup back while there's something to save. Jack chirrs mournfully, hiccups and tilts her head to one side... his head! Just because Jack Sparrow—him and his insatiable interest in genitalia—has discovered little Jack's secret isn't going to stop Captain Barbossa's monkey being male, not if Captain Barbossa has anything to do with it.
"Ye be still Daddy's boy, bain't ye? Aye, o' course ye be!" he coos. (But quietly, for cabin walls are thin and Jack Sparrow's hearing sharp.)
Jack wobbles across the table, tail flailing for balance in a five-limbed drunken stagger. He aims for his usual perch on Barbossa's shoulder, but tumbles head first into his lap, barely missing the darning needle. Barbossa shakes his head, scoops up his britches in one hand, and Jack in the other, and deposits the latter gently on his cushion with a cup of water in easy reach. Then he resumes work on that seam, keeping a weather eye open for further mischief. He doesn't have to wait long.
"Avast, Jack!" he rumbles. "Ye've had more than yer fill already, ye thievin' drunk."
The monkey slinks back to his cushion. Jack Sparrow's head appears round the door wearing an expression of much-exaggerated hurt. "Don't think I've stolen anything all day," he protests, "an' I'm fairly sure I'm not drunk. Practic'ly sober, as a matter of fact—cert'nly very far from full." He mugs goggle-eyed naïveté. "Or are you still on about size, in which case..."
Barbossa doesn't want to hear it. "I were talkin' to my monkey! The furry one," he specifies, just for the look on Jack's face. The scowl lasts only until Jack spies the bottle.
"Oooh, brandy!" His gleeful grin vanishes again, replaced by a different—darker—scowl. "Beckett's."
"Aye," concurs Barbossa, "an' much too fine for the likes of you. There be a quart o' rum in the locker there."
"Ah!" exclaims Jack, sunnily seductive once more as he helps himself. "You know my tastes, Hector."
Barbossa tries not to gloat; loses the struggle when Jack comes to sit next to him. He bends over his sewing to hide his smile.
"Want any help with that?"
"Try to loosen the lace," suggests Barbossa. "It be stuck fast."
Jack picks at the stubborn knot that still locks the placket of Barbossa's britches tight shut. Suddenly, he slides to his knees, applying those glittering teeth to the lace and gazing up through kohl-clogged lashes.
Barbossa discovers all of a sudden that the trailing front of his linen shirt is quite inadequate for preserving his composure. But this is not the moment to be begging for more of sweet Jack Sparrow. Not unless he wants said sweet Jack Sparrow lording it over him for the rest of his life. (A part of him whispers that he's not got long, and there are worse ways he could spend his last few days. He tramples it.)
"On second thoughts," he splutters, thrusting needle and thread into Jack's face to fend him off, "ye can be tacklin' the seam whilst I loosen the knot meself."
Jack flashes him a wicked grin, but climbs back onto the bench and meekly continues the seam in a backstitch as neat as Barbossa's own. Barbossa takes an awl from his tool-bag and tries to ease it into the knot. For a while, they sit in silence, bent over their work, pausing from time to time for a sip of brandy or a swig of rum as the case may be. On the cushion in the corner, the monkey snores steadily.
"So how'd you get Sao Feng to want Elizabeth more than he wanted my ship?"
Trust Jack to hit on the exact question to ask. Barbossa ignores the "my" as just wilfully provocative and tries to construct an explanation that doesn't involve sea-goddesses.
"Told him she were yer twin sister."
Jack splutters and chuckles. "Truer than you know, mate—also admirably tailored to all old Sao's predilections. But really, Hector, what made him want her enough to rat on Beckett?"
"P'raps Beckett ratted on Sao Feng first."
"Well of course he did that!" agrees Jack, making Barbossa hope he's going to get away with it. But the smile plummets like a dropped anchor. "Not enough."
Damnation!
"It be possible I may also've mentioned somethin' as may've led him to suppose Calypso herself were on board, bound in human form."
A fine piece of improvisation, that was, though he dare not elaborate.
"Perfect! Because Sao'd never expect a self-respectin' goddess to be bound in a runaway slave when she could be a British governor's daughter, eh?" Jack grins fit to split his face, as well he should.
"Aye!" agrees Barbossa, spotting too late that Jack's swift deduction means he knows or guesses about Tia Dalma—knows for sure now because Barbossa's just confirmed it (not to mention revealed that he knew all along and kept it to himself). How does Jack always do this to him?
"Ah!" Jack pauses smugly. "Nice work!" he adds, apparently without sarcasm. "Has anyone else guessed?"
"About Tia bein' Calypso? She's been thick as thieves with young Turner of late, so there be no tellin' what he might know. The rest be still in the dark unless they've figured it out for themselves, which I doubt. As for Miss Swann bein' Calypso, Sao Feng were almost subtle. Like as not, they put his enthusiasm down to plain old-fashioned pirate lust."
"Aye, good stuff that," says Jack with an encouraging nod, though it's possible he's only talking about the rum. "Sao's got no chance 'gainst Lizzie, in my opinion. Care to place bets?"
"What did ye do with the whelp?" Barbossa inquires, less out of interest than to steer the talk away from deities, death, bargains, secrets, and potential prices thereof.
"Overboard. Sploosh!"
This seems improbable, but it's not like Jack to tell a verifiable lie point-blank.
"Did ye now? With no means o' stayin' afloat?"
Jack's face flickers—a fleeting trace of something (cunning? exasperation? guilt?) that most people wouldn't see at all.
"Rather depends on how you define afloat."
"Ah! So that'll be what accounts for ye fannyin' about with corpses an' water casks: ye sent 'im to Beckett. Care to tell me why?"
"Why d'you think?"
Revenge? On Turner? Or Beckett? Either way—or both—it doesn't quite work. But if Jack wanted to lead Beckett to Shipwreck Cove, he could have stayed on the Endeavour. Anyway, why?
"I think ye be wantin' Beckett to find Shipwreck Cove."
"Not Beckett." Jack shakes his head impatiently. "Beckett ain't important. I want Davy Jones to come to Shipwreck Cove."
Which Jones can surely find for himself, but has no reason to unless Beckett sends him there...
"Any particular reason?"
"Told you before. I am not going back to the Locker."
The youngsters would see resolution, but Barbossa can read traces of terror in the glint of Jack's eyes and that cruel little twist to his mouth.
"With Jones and Beckett at Shipwreck, ye be thinkin' to regain the heart?"
Barbossa finds himself almost believing Jack can do it. Plenty of leverage there for a new accord with Jones and a crushing blow against anyone afloat. It could be an attractive prospect, if it weren't so alarming.
"An' that be worth leadin' the East India Company to our door?"
"Bah!" Jack's hand flicks away the objection like so much dust. "The Company's all over the Pacific these days—Shipwreck won't stay hidden long, whatever I divulge or don't divulge."
Barbossa has to concede this, or would do if his own plans didn't require the Brethren at full strength for a while longer. (Though he can see how a full-on siege might provide him with leverage.) Unfortunately, these are plans best not shared with Jack Sparrow.
"You're not seriously intending to release her, are you?"
Ah! Jack shared the plans all by himself.
"Ye be not seriously suggestin' I've a choice, be ye?"
"You'd be sailin' into one hell of a storm, mate. Calypso was beguiled, betrayed, brought low, parted from all she holds dear, and she's had about an eon and a half to brood on it. She'll be out for revenge and plenty of it. I was only without the Pearl for a measly ten years, an' I still killed you for it. Think about that."
"I be thinkin' about it."
"Oh. On second thoughts, think about Calypso."
"She lets me live only so long as I be makin' headway t'wards her release. She's made that point with some force."
Jack studies him for a moment. "Question is, is she keepin' you alive, or threat'nin' to kill you?"
"It matters?" Only Jack Sparrow would split philosophical hairs on death's doorstep.
"It might. F'r'instance: if—for the sake of argument—she suddenly loses interest and wafts away, what happens to you?"
It's a good question, and one he's never thought to ask: if Calypso disappears, or forgets about him, will he live or die?
"I know not," he admits, tasting both failure and hope. Is it possible Jack's seen something he's missed?
Jack stitches at the seam, mortality-wielding gods seemingly set aside. Barbossa suspects this lack of drama stems from consideration rather than indifference, and is grateful.
"If I were in your overly large boots, Hector love," Jack pronounces at last, not looking up, "I think I'd try to find out. An' I'd play for time. They tend to take a bit of assembling, do the Brethren Court. As for getting 'em to agree on anythin'... I reckon you could keep good an' busy for a fair while before she spots that your heart's not exactly in it. When she does, that's when you can negotiate. Explain how the prospect of imminent demise is having a negative impact on your motivation, such that a spot of positive incentivisation would be of demonstrable benefit, if you get my drift. There—all done!" He bites off the spare thread and hands over the britches.
Barbossa knows he missed something at the end there, but he takes Jack's point (also the britches). The trouble is that he's been the best part of a year balanced on Calypso's whim. He's strung so tight with waiting and doubt that he'd rather die and be done with it than add to the tension.
"Nay, lad," he says, shaking his head. "I'd sooner make sail while I've a followin' wind."
He expected a shrug and a 'Your funeral, mate.' Instead, Jack lays a hand on his shoulder and says, "Aye, I can see that."
He nods, brusquely, and busies himself with the awl. There seems to be something in his eye and he wouldn't want Jack getting any of his daft notions. After a few minutes' concentration, the eyes return to normal and the knot eases open. Jack waits for him to arrange waistcoat sash, and belt over his restored britches.
"In that case, I wouldn't let her in hailing distance of our fellow Pirate Lords. A few moments with Tia's enough to put the willies up anyone with half a brain—between 'em, they might just be able to assemble a whole one."
"Ye'll not be standin' in me way?"
"So long as you don't stand in mine."
"Done!" He holds out his hand. "I'll be needin' yer Piece of Eight."
"Consider it yours, mate," says Jack, not making the slightest move to hand it over. "I pledged it to Tia years ago an' I'd be a fool to go back on that, eh? But I never promised to hurry the process. You talk the others into releasing her first. Once you've done that, my mystic pirate trinket's at your disposal—you have my word."
"I'd sooner have yer account of what it is I'll not be standing in the way of."
Barbossa, who wasn't seriously expecting to get the Piece of Eight at this stage, feels considerably encouraged, though he still wonders—more of less as a reflex—if pretty Jack could be stringing him along yet again. Either way, Jack's information is likely of more value than his word.
"Oh, you know." Jack waves a hand vaguely. "Jones, heart, pointed weapons, new roles and responsibilities for yours truly: responsibilities that happen to make me indispensable to any wrathful, recently-released sea-goddesses who might chance to manifest."
Glittery, shimmery Jack Sparrow ferrying dead souls aboard the Flying Dutchman for all eternity. He can see the logic, but it seems... a waste.
"It ain't freedom, lad."
"I'm working on that part," says Jack with the stubborn set of his jaw that says it's futile to argue the point. "It ain't the Locker. I'll have plenty of time to think of refinements once I've secured the basics."
"Time to think who ye'll be seein' on the Dutchman, besides Davy Jones?"
Jack seems genuinely startled for a moment, but manages a chuckle. "I suppose young William has mentioned him a time or ten."
Barbossa waits. He's in dangerous waters here.
"I met him, you know. Right there in the hold." Jack points down, forward, and starboard. "Brought me the Black Spot."
It's Barbossa's turn to be taken aback. He tries to picture how that unlikely scene played out, but nothing rings true.
"Said he was sorry. For his part in it." Jack swigs his rum and draws invisible patterns on the tabletop.
"Aught else?" Bill being sorry is hardly novel.
"Other than the Kraken was loosed an' I was doomed to eternal torment? Not a lot. Although he did imply he was more than a little put out by your trick with the heavy artillery and the bottomless depths."
"Jaack..."
This is not at all the direction Barbossa wants to take. Justifications jostle for expression, but he stifles them. Practical considerations always worked best with Jack.
"Ye know the troubles he brought ye the last time. There be no sense to be spendin' eternity repeatin' yer mistakes."
Jack's nostrils flare. He sits up straight and looks Barbossa in the eye. "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow! Wouldn't be much of a legend without some dramatic misadventures to spice things up." He fills his cup with rum; empties it. "This time around, I was thinking of devising an entirely new set of completely-understandable-yet-spectacular misapprehensions. No fun rehashing the same old same old, eh?"
"No Dear William, then?" inquires Barbossa carefully, unreasonably excited by the possibility of becoming one of Jack's new mis-whatevers. Since it seems he's not automatically disqualified for having been one of the more catastrophic old ones.
Jack shakes his head. "The hundred-year deal's with Davy. If I take over, W... Bill can do what he likes." Again, he meets Barbossa's gaze like a challenge. "Prob'ly go rest in peace with Peggy, I shouldn't wonder. That or hang around annoyin' the hell out of Elizabeth. I'm good either way."
Barbossa nods, and offers up a swift—but fervent—prayer that Bill will indeed have the sense to remove himself permanently from the scene. He rather thought he'd done it for him a couple of times, but blasted Turner has a way of bobbing up like a glum cork.
"An' ye'd give up the Pearl?"
He knows he's pushing his luck, but he needs the answer, and at least it moves them away from the topic of how Bill Turner wound up serving Davy Jones.
"'S a damn fine ship," murmurs Jack, trailing his fingers over the black wood of the bulkhead. Barbossa isn't aware of his own fingers doing the same until Jack slaps them away. "My damn fine ship."
Barbossa can't think of a reply that won't harm his cause.
Jack strokes the ship in silence a while longer. Then his hand stills as he whispers, "In the Locker, a ship's just a hunk of dead wood."
Strange how it hurts to see that beaten look in Jack's eyes, but Barbossa's too much the pirate for pity.
"So ye'd trade her for immortality."
"Aye." Then louder: "But not for less, so don't go gettin' yer hopes up."
So Barbossa's future could hold Jack or the Pearl, but not both. A pity that, but he'll settle for either one. Assuming, of course, that he has a future. Best be getting back to more immediate concerns.
"What did Cal...? What did Tia Dalma trade ye fer yer Piece of Eight, Jack?"
"Life, of course. In the form of drink and a heading. Mind you, the fact that I was on the open ocean in a small boat devoid of said amenities was not unconnected to a chart she'd seen fit to provide me with."
So Tia Dalma outmanoeuvred Jack Sparrow. This is not comforting information.
"But she ne'er went back on the bargain. Could it be she's a fondness for ye?"
Hasn't everyone? Calypso seemed to have a fondness for Barbossa too, at one time, though he'd not count on it to stay her hand. There's been little sign, anyway, since she clapped eyes on the Turner whelp.
Jack chuckles again. "If you're after a precedent, all I can say is she wanted me to come safe to shore almost as much as I did. Seeing as the shore in question was Shipwreck Cove an' I was headed there to reveal my Piece of Eight and claim my place among the Brethren, a state of affairs she'd gone to some lengths to contrive."
"Aaah!" says Barbossa, wishing he could make his own continued existence necessary to a released sea goddess.
It's a mark of his desperation that he neglects to pour scorn on Jack's admission. What matter if Jack owes his place among the Brethren to Calypso's scheming? All that really counts is coming out of the deal with a whole skin—and Jack's is not merely whole, but fairly blazing with restored life.
"As for fondness, mate, she tried to kill me later on—impatience or breakdown of trust, maybe, or just a change of plan. Fortunately for all concerned, I was able to snatch a last lungful of air, which I used to clarify the small print of the transfer rules."
Barbossa knows the clauses backwards, having spent many sleepless nights scanning them for loopholes. He recites:
Pieces of Eight to be passed on only with the free and unfettered blessing of the current holder, said holder being in full possession of his faculties and not labouring under any delusion, misapprehension, intimidation, or compulsion. Transfer deemed invalid if Piece was obtained by thievery or deceit, traded for drink, tobacco, opium, sexual gratification, or suchlike inducements.
Jack nods. "Cap'n Teague'd be proud o' you." His laugh is almost, but not quite, casual. His accent has veered into the gutter. "Amazin' they ever get passed on at all, really, innit? An' I used to think bein' a pirate was about freedom!"
"The way we do it, it be," says Barbossa. "An' we be the ones as be doin' it right."
Jack sighs. "I'm beginnin' to wonder how long we'll be doin' it at all..."
He broods for a moment, then, as so often when he hits bottom, bounces up cheery.
"Now I think about it, Tia's scenario for purloining my Piece ran aground on almost all counts—though I don't remember much tobacco being involved..." He shakes his head to dispel the memories. "You know, for a goddess, she can be uncommonly inept at times."
They glance round for signs of divine wrath, catch each other doing it, and shrug.
Barbossa sips the last of his brandy, scarcely tasting it. He's still left with two options: either persuade all the Pirate Lords to help him free Calypso, or convince them to entrust their Pieces of Eight willingly to his keeping. He's never put much faith in either plan. Now, with confirmation of Tia's readiness to murder, even the remote prospect of success offers scant hope. He sighs and runs a hand over his bandana.
"Hector?" Jack's voice pulls him back to the present. How long has he been brooding? The rum bottle's half empty, but with Jack that could mean seconds or hours.
"For what it's worth, I reckon Tia picked you for a reason. If anyone can get the Brethren to stop bickering and actually do something, it's you. You possess just the necessary blend of brutality and flattery."
"I believe the words be 'heroism' and 'charm'."
"Buggered if I can tell 'em apart."
Barbossa is still working on a reply (to the effect that he'd be happy to explain the distinction and then ensure that Jack is), when Jack continues.
"Either way, if I'm in a position to offer you sanctuary on the Dutchman, you've only to ask. Just don't go tryin' to call yourself captain. More to the point, if I succeed in stabbing the heart, or in any other way cease to be mortal, you'd be my first choice to take care of the Pearl."
This takes Barbossa's breath away; luckily, Jack hasn't finished.
"Always assuming, of course, that said cessation of being mortal was not in any way brought about by you or your treacherous machinations."
This is more like it. (When did recrimination come to feel like safe ground?)
"Of course," agrees Barbossa, with a smile he hopes is sardonic.
"Of course," Jack repeats, leaning in close enough for his breath to ruffle Barbossa's beard, "I won't be in a position to offer said sanctuary unless you leave me time to carry out my plan..." (He presses his palm to his chest.) "...before you proceed with yours..." (The hand moves to Barbossa's chest, where it plays with his necklace briefly before sliding inside his shirt.)
Barbossa chuckles. "Aha... leverage!"
"Of the very pleasantest and most mutual variety."
"What if I've the longest lever?"
Jack rolls his eyes. "One day, Hector love, I'll figure out what you're compensating for. In the meantime—since I'm still acutely conscious of the exact dimensions of whatever you're currently calling your equipment—might I suggest a little reciprocity? Something to square accounts?" He grabs a handful of Barbossa's left buttock and squeezes.
Barbossa turns his moan into something more like an exasperated growl as he frantically works out his response. For as long as he's used the name, he's made it a rule that Hector Barbossa plays touchhole to no man's linstock. But rules have a way of disintegrating in the presence of Jack Sparrow. Struggling's a waste of effort. Much easier—and more pleasurable—to surrender—so long as no-one ever finds out.
Yes, the knot-hole in the cabin wall is plugged; the window is curtained (though you'd have to shimmy down a rope); he just needs to lock the door... His hand is on the bolt when an especially loud snuffle reminds him of little Jack on his cushion.
Barbossa realises with a sigh that he's not going to be able to do this in front of the monkey, even unconscious. He dare not explain this to grinning Jack Sparrow.
"I'll just be takin' little Jack to Cotton," he stutters. "I know how ye hate interruptions."
Pretty Jack's grin is pure evil. "Interruptions?" he asks sweetly, "Or witnesses?"
Barbossa splutters and picks up the cushion. (Little Jack snores on unknowing.) He withdraws before things can get more confusing.
*
As soon as he hears Barbossa's returning tread, Jack arranges himself in an heroic pose in front of the stern window. He's not entirely sure what he's after. Distraction and pleasure, certainly, and he's not above using his body to endear himself to a potential ally (if Barbossa wasn't too much the pirate ever to set affection above advantage). He's even willing to admit—though only to himself—that he can share some of his terror of the Locker with Hector because Hector's been there too (or somewhere fairly similar). And Hector is one of very few people (other than Jack) who remembers the old days and is still—if only on a technicality—alive.
None of which makes them exactly allies, still less friends. Jack has no intention of repeating his deplorably needy (albeit stylish and gratifyingly voluptuous) performance on the island—and not just because anatomical elasticity has its limits.
"Britches off first this time, eh Hector?" he prompts. "As a matter of fact, why not play safe and take all of it off?"
Barbossa flushes a rather satisfying shade of plum, but complies without demur. Jack observes him, narrowing his eyes to hide his appreciation as the heavy belt clangs to the floor, followed by that glorious waistcoat. Once the bulky garments are shed, the body beneath looks suddenly long and lithe. It seems cruel that Hector aged during his years of undeath, but he's pretty well preserved, all things considered, especially if you discount—and Jack intends to—the faint aura of zombiedom that lingers around him.
Jack's always harboured a fascination for Hector's secret skin, ever since he worked out that the heavy clothes, even the vast hat, were stratagems in a losing battle against the sun that turned Hector's exposed surfaces freckled, crimson, or cracked and oozing, but never, ever brown. (Bill's skin was near as fair, but would turn gold at the first kiss of sunlight.) After thirty (forty?) years at sea, he suspects the damage to Hector's face and hands is beyond all healing, but—aside from a sprinkling of freckles on the arms and a highly respectable assortment of scars (a few due to Jack)—the protected skin is still fresh as virgin snow.
"And that manky glove."
Hector obediently peels said article from his left hand.
"Leave the rest," whispers Jack, always of the opinion that Hector's jewellery and hair-fastenings are more embellishment than impediment. Still fully dressed himself, he strokes the coiled snake pendant (warm from snuggling against Hector's chest) and trails his fingers downwards, tasting the old, savage thrill of fingering Barbossa's hidden weakness: the most fearsome pirate on the ocean is sheathed all over in a substance as tender and pale as a woodland mushroom. He falls to his knees and nuzzles where the skin is softest—on Hector's belly and the insides of his thighs. It's irresistible, as is the way it makes Hector moan and tangle his fingers in Jack's hair.
But they're drifting off course. Jack stands and takes two steps back, ignoring the silent plea in Hector's hands and eyes.
"Reciprocity," he pronounces with calmness and precision that a governor's daughter might be proud of—especially under the circumstances. (Although why he should be thinking of Elizabeth at this juncture he can't for the life of him imagine.) "On the bunk, Hector—unless, of course, you'd prefer the table..." (He really hopes not because Hector's legs are significantly longer than his. There are ways of managing that, but it's liable to detract from the desired effect.)
Hector sighs. "I'll be takin' the soft option."
Good old Hector!
~ * ~
Part Two
Choose!
Part Two – The original, hard NC-17 version. For those who always wanted to see more of Hector Barbossa.
For reasons I may not fully understand, I wish to take the full tour of Barbossa's anatomy and damn the consequences. Rush me to the hard NC-17 version!
Part Two – The new, soft NC-17 version. They're at it like the slashy old pirates they are, but you can draw a veil over exactly who puts exactly what exactly where.
I know what they're doing, thank you. I do not need full anatomical particulars. Waft me gently to the soft(er) version. (Yes, I know it's still NC-17.)
~ * ~
Part Two (Hard)
Jack makes a point of undressing slowly and staying on his feet for a while, although, in point of fact, it's becoming tricky to walk much, and trickier still to keep his hands from drifting to his taut prick. He downs another cup of rum, surreptitiously bumping against the chair-back as he does so—mmmm! Then he strolls—stiffly—to take a flask of lamp oil from the recess, and leans back against the bulkhead, devouring Hector with his eyes as he (bless whichever gods made lubrication necessary!) rubs it on.
Hector has so far managed to keep his hands beside the pillows, albeit twitching and clenching. But then he has the mattress to thrust against. (He's a fool if he thinks Jack can't see his hips rocking). Jack licks his lips, and Hector—finally!—slips one hand under his belly.
"None of that!" Jack leaps gratefully forward and pulls the offending hand away. Hector snarls quite deliciously and snaps at him to get on with it himself then.
Jack applies the oil first to his fingers, then to Hector's backside, probing into the tense, grasping hole he suspects hasn't seen action since before Hector started calling himself "Captain" Barbossa.
He finds the spot. Hector moans and gibbers into the pillow, white, mushroom buttocks thrusting upwards to meet Jack's hand. Another finger—curled just so—almost has both of them undone. Jack withdraws it hastily and declares preparation complete.
But Hector somehow twists round before Jack can straddle him, pulls off his bandana (damn letting him keep it) and has Jack two-thirds gagged before he can raise an objection, after which the objection is somewhat muffled.
"Hmmpghffff!"
"I know, lad, but we'll not be be wantin' a din." Hector finishes the knot. Bastard ties a damn good gag.
"E-i-o-i-i?" asks Jack (though he hopes it's more a demand than a question), brandishing his own bandana.
"Aye!" agrees Hector leaning forward to make things easier. "Reciprocity."
"Oo!" says Jack, and makes sure, as he ties Hector's gag good and tight, that he snags some of those straggly whiskers in the knot.
Then he has to admit (although obviously, for several reasons, he doesn't say anything) that the gags might have been a good idea. For one thing, he's breathing concentrated essence of Hector, which, while not exactly fragrant, is noticeably exciting. For another, Hector's raising quite a racket, even through a mouthful of Jack's bandana, and it's possible Jack's not entirely silent himself.
Because having "Captain" Hector Barbossa, Pirate Lord of the Fucking Caspian Sea (hah! Jack's is bigger!), Undead Terror of the Caribbean, and Plunderer of the Locker, spread out quivering and thrashing beneath him while he plunges right inside said "Captain" Hector Barbossa, Pirate Lord etc, etc... really requires some noise.
Of course, Jack doesn't care if they're overheard. Let 'em listen! Better still, let 'em talk. Captain Jack Sparrow, came back from the dead, seduced the man he killed for trying to steal his ship... Had the smug, scheming, mutinous, ship-stealing traitor whimpering and begging...
Jack growls and tries to sink his teeth into Hector's shoulder, though all he gets is a mouthful of soggy green cloth. With a savagery that startles him, he rakes his nails across Hector's stomach, feels them tear into that fragile skin. The body beneath him shudders and writhes towards rather than away—Hector always did like a bit of pain. (They've never played the game quite like this before but, even in the old days, things tended to be more reciprocally complicated than sweet, formerly protective William could comprehend.)
Then he's licking up and down Hector's spine as far as reach will permit, thrusting and moaning, and wrapping his hands round that frankly bloody massive, marvellous prick. Hector bucks and clenches, and Jack rides him until it's all sparks, gunpowder, and surf. Then they fall back onto the mattress, slick and slidy from sweat, oil, and juice.
Jack locates the loose end of the green bandana and pulls it upwards. Hector having considerately tied a slipped sheet bend, the gag falls away. Untying his own bandana from around Hector's mouth takes rather longer, because Jack—who was feeling justifiably annoyed at the time—tied a tight double fisherman's knot.
He expects some remark on this when the gag at last comes off, but Hector just flops onto his back and catches his breath, giving Jack a clear view of red stripes across his belly. He bends to kiss them in a way intended to convey thanks, apology, and a willingness to do it again sometime.
Hector just breathes.
"You alright?" checks Jack.
"Aye, lad. I be just fine now. The morrow be what ails me."
"If it helps, I could let on that you were the one doin' the rogering," offers Jack, though he knows that's not what has Hector worried—not as much as the other thing anyway.
Hector chuckles. "There'll be no need to be tellin' 'em," he says. "They'd ne'er give credence to aught else."
This, thinks Jack, is a poor response to a generous offer. Perhaps he preferred worried Hector.
"Was your idea—goin' to Shipwreck. Don't blame me if the Brethren give you the runaround."
Hector makes a sound more like "harrumph" than Jack has ever heard before in actual speech.
"Aye," he says, "an' don't ye go blamin' me if ye find the Dutchman not to yer likin'."
After which there's not a lot to be said, really, so they just wrap their arms around one another. Jack's face is squashed into Hector's chest; Hector's is buried in Jack's hair.
There's a lot of breathing—not heavy or ragged or anything other than nice, calm, steady, not-at-all-anxious breathing. It's just that Jack's unusually aware of them both doing the breathing, and he has a feeling Hector's noticed it too. As if that wasn't bad enough, his arms seem to be trembling; if he wasn't Captain Jack Sparrow, he'd be mortified. Since he is, in fact, Captain Jack Sparrow, he simply informs everything between shoulders and fingertips that it's drinking rum on a beach.
When this is only partially successful, he belatedly notices that at least two of the shaky arms belong to Hector. This joyous discovery gives him the courage to massage all four arms back to stillness.
"D'ye recall the lagoon at Pulicat?" asks Hector, for no apparent reason.
"Mmmm..." murmurs Jack, remembering a gibbous moon, naked skin, arrack, and flights of crimson flamingos at dawn (less one, roasted to perfection over a driftwood fire).
After that, there's more perfectly fine, contented breathing accompanied by assorted loud and tiny ship and ocean noises, unfortunately including the particular, insistent beat of swell against hull that says "headed for Shipwreck Island".
No sense trying to run the passage in the dark: Gibbs'll heave to in a while, and wake them when it's light. In the meantime, any sensible pirate with the Brethren Court, Davy Jones, Cutler Beckett, and possibly a family reunion ahead of him should be getting some shuteye.
But several bells later, Jack's still awake to hear sails being reefed, the splash of the sea anchor. As the Pearl slows and swings round, Hector mutters, "Shipwreck? So soon?"
"Aye," Jack tells him. "Reckon we're lying off a ways nor'nor'west."
"Aye," repeats Barbossa softly. "Well, ye'd know, lad." He strokes Jack's hair reverently, as if the sea-sense were wound into his dreadlocks. "Best sleep while we may, then."
To his own surprise, Jack does in fact fall asleep, still wrapped in strong piratey arms, for the next thing he knows, Hector's gently nudging him awake. (His face has left a flat, red print on the white parchment of Hector's chest.)
"Shift yerself, Jack. They'll be wantin' both cap'ns on deck soon. Let me up an' I'll fetch us a bite o' breakfast."
"Thank you very much," says Jack, not sure if he's more surprised by the breakfast or by being acknowledged as (admittedly joint) captain. Either way, he's not going to argue.
He's up and ready when Hector comes back with (rather appropriately) captain's biscuits, ham, Oxford marmalade, and what smells like perfectly excellent coffee, all served in fine blanc-de-Chine porcelain.
"S'pose we've the East India Company to thank for this elegant repast, or did you plunder a passing manor house?"
"Yer friend, Cutler Beckett, keeps a fine pantry. But not even he can ship fresh milk—that be from Nanny."
"No friend of mine," counters Jack automatically, savouring the aroma of dark-roasted coffee and resolving that—if he can survive the next few days—he's going to make some changes.
He figures he's ready to try the sort of life where people remember the last time they had coffee more distinctly than the last time they had goat.
~
The next Nut will be at Shipwreck Cove.
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~ * ~
Part Two (Soft)
Jack makes a point of undressing slowly and staying on his feet for a while, although, in point of fact, it's becoming tricky to walk much, and trickier still to keep his hands from drifting downwards. He pours another cup of rum, surreptitiously bumping against the chair-back as he does so—mmmm! Then he strolls—stiffly—to take a flask of lamp oil from the recess, and leans back against the bulkhead, devouring Hector with his eyes as he (bless whichever gods made lubrication necessary!) rubs it on.
Hector has so far managed to keep his hands beside the pillows, albeit twitching and clenching. But then he has the mattress to thrust against. (He's a fool if he thinks Jack can't see his hips rocking). Jack licks his lips, and Hector—finally!—slips one hand under his belly.
"None of that!" Jack leaps gratefully forward and pulls the offending hand away. Hector snarls quite deliciously and snaps at him to get on with it himself then, which Jack is more than willing to do.
Hector moans and gibbers into the pillow, white, mushroom buttocks rising towards Jack's hand. Jack'd stake his effects that Hector hasn't put himself in this position since a time both of them remember—a time before the old rogue took to calling himself "Captain" Barbossa. He grins at the memory and briefly considers offering a wager, if only for the faint chance of tricking Hector into a confession.
While Jack is thus distracted, Hector somehow twists around, pulls off his bandana (damn letting him keep it) and has Jack two-thirds gagged before he can raise an objection, after which the objection is somewhat muffled.
"Hmmpghffff!"
"I know, lad, but we'll not be be wantin' a din." Hector finishes the knot. Bastard ties a damn good gag.
"E-i-o-i-i?" asks Jack (though he hopes it's more a demand than a question), brandishing his own bandana.
"Aye!" agrees Hector leaning forward to make things easier. "Reciprocity."
"Oo!" says Jack, and makes sure, as he ties Hector's gag good and tight, that he snags some of those straggly whiskers in the knot.
Then he has to admit (although obviously, for several reasons, he doesn't say anything) that the gags might have been a good idea. For one thing, he's breathing concentrated essence of Hector, which, while not exactly fragrant, is noticeably exciting. For another, Hector's raising quite a racket, even through a mouthful of Jack's bandana, and it's possible Jack's not entirely silent himself.
Because having "Captain" Hector Barbossa, Pirate Lord of the Fucking Caspian Sea (hah! Jack's is bigger!), Undead Terror of the Caribbean, and Plunderer of the Locker, spread out quivering and thrashing beneath him while he utterly undoes said "Captain" Hector Barbossa, Pirate Lord etc, etc... really requires some noise.
Of course, Jack doesn't care if they're overheard. Let 'em listen! Better still, let 'em talk. Captain Jack Sparrow, came back from the dead, seduced the man he killed for trying to steal his ship... Had the smug, scheming, mutinous, ship-stealing traitor whimpering and begging...
Jack growls and tries to sink his teeth into Hector's shoulder, though all he gets is a mouthful of soggy green cloth. With a savagery that startles him, he rakes his nails across Hector's stomach. The body beneath him shudders and writhes towards rather than away—Hector always did like a bit of pain. (They've never played the game quite like this before but, even in the old days, things tended to be more reciprocally complicated than sweet, formerly protective William could comprehend.)
Then he's licking up and down Hector's spine as far as reach will permit, thrusting and moaning, and wrapping his hands round that frankly bloody massive, marvellous prick. Hector whimpers and moans, and Jack rides him until it's all sparks, gunpowder, and surf. Then they fall back onto the mattress, slick, slidy and out of breath.
Jack locates the loose end of the green bandana and pulls it upwards. Hector having considerately tied a slipped sheet bend, the gag falls away. Untying his own bandana from around Hector's mouth takes rather longer, because Jack—who was feeling justifiably annoyed at the time—tied a tight double fisherman's knot.
He expects some remark on this when the gag at last comes off, but Hector just flops onto his back and catches his breath, giving Jack a clear view of red stripes across his belly. He bends to kiss them in a way intended to convey thanks, apology, and a willingness to do it again sometime.
Hector just breathes.
"You alright?" checks Jack.
"Aye, lad. I be just fine now. The morrow be what ails me."
"If it helps, I could let on that you were the one doin' the rogering," offers Jack, though he knows that's not what has Hector worried—not as much as the other thing anyway.
Hector chuckles. "There'll be no need to be tellin' 'em," he says. "They'd ne'er give credence to aught else."
This, thinks Jack, is a poor response to a generous offer. Perhaps he preferred worried Hector.
"Was your idea—goin' to Shipwreck. Don't blame me if the Brethren give you the runaround."
Hector makes a sound more like "harrumph" than Jack has ever heard before in actual speech.
"Aye," he says, "an' don't ye go blamin' me if ye find the Dutchman not to yer likin'."
After which there's not a lot to be said, really, so they just wrap their arms around one another. Jack's face is squashed into Hector's chest; Hector's is buried in Jack's hair.
There's a lot of breathing—not heavy or ragged or anything other than nice, calm, steady, not-at-all-anxious breathing. It's just that Jack's unusually aware of them both doing the breathing, and he has a feeling Hector's noticed it too. As if that wasn't bad enough, his arms seem to be trembling; if he wasn't Captain Jack Sparrow, he'd be mortified. Since he is, in fact, Captain Jack Sparrow, he simply informs everything between shoulders and fingertips that it's drinking rum on a beach.
When this is only partially successful, he belatedly notices that at least two of the shaky arms belong to Hector. This joyous discovery gives him the courage to massage all four arms back to stillness.
"D'ye recall the lagoon at Pulicat?" asks Hector, for no apparent reason.
"Mmmm..." murmurs Jack, remembering a gibbous moon, naked skin, arrack, and flights of crimson flamingos at dawn (less one, roasted to perfection over a driftwood fire).
After that, there's more perfectly fine, contented breathing accompanied by assorted loud and tiny ship and ocean noises, unfortunately including the particular, insistent beat of swell against hull that says "headed for Shipwreck Island".
No sense trying to run the passage in the dark: Gibbs'll heave to in a while, and wake them when it's light. In the meantime, any sensible pirate with the Brethren Court, Davy Jones, Cutler Beckett, and possibly a family reunion ahead of him should be getting some shuteye.
But several bells later, Jack's still awake to hear sails being reefed, the splash of the sea anchor. As the Pearl slows and swings round, Hector mutters, "Shipwreck? So soon?"
"Aye," Jack tells him. "Reckon we're lying off a ways nor'nor'west."
"Aye," repeats Barbossa softly. "Well, ye'd know, lad." He strokes Jack's hair reverently, as if the sea-sense were wound into his dreadlocks. "Best sleep while we may, then."
To his own surprise, Jack does in fact fall asleep, still wrapped in strong piratey arms, for the next thing he knows, Hector's gently nudging him awake. (His face has left a flat, red print on the white parchment of Hector's chest.)
"Shift yerself, Jack. They'll be wantin' both cap'ns on deck soon. Let me up an' I'll fetch us a bite o' breakfast."
"Thank you very much," says Jack, not sure if he's more surprised by the breakfast or by being acknowledged as (admittedly joint) captain. Either way, he's not going to argue.
He's up and ready when Hector comes back with (rather appropriately) captain's biscuits, ham, Oxford marmalade, and what smells like perfectly excellent coffee, all served in fine blanc-de-Chine porcelain.
"S'pose we've the East India Company to thank for this elegant repast, or did you plunder a passing manor house?"
"Yer friend, Cutler Beckett, keeps a fine pantry. But not even he can ship fresh milk—that be from Nanny."
"No friend of mine," counters Jack automatically, savouring the aroma of dark-roasted coffee and resolving that—if he can survive the next few days—he's going to make some changes.
He figures he's ready to try the sort of life where people remember the last time they had coffee more distinctly than the last time they had goat.
~
The next Nut will be at Shipwreck Cove.
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~ * ~
Goats and Monkeys, a Jack and Hector Book for Beginner Readers
For readers of all ages who like their stories short, wholesome, and told in simple English.
Hector is sewing. He hears a noise.
Look out, Hector! The monkey is taking your drink!
"Naughty monkey!" says Hector.
The monkey goes to sleep.
"Hello, Hector," says Jack Sparrow.
"Hello, Jack," says Hector.
Jack helps Hector sew. Hector gives Jack some drink. Jack is happy.
Hector is happy too. He likes sewing with Jack.
Jack wants to know how Hector got his ship back.
"I tricked Sao Feng" says Hector. "I am clever."
"So am I," says Jack. "I know Tia Dalma is really a goddess called Calypso."
Calypso wants to be free, but Hector is frightened of her.
Jack wants Davy Jones to come to Shipwreck Cove.
Jack and Hector are both frightened. They promise to help each other.
"I saw Bill," says Jack.
"Is Bill your friend?" asks Hector. Hector wants to be Jack's friend.
"Not now," says Jack.
Jack and Hector's ship is called the Black Pearl. Jack and Hector love the Black Pearl very much. Sometimes they fight over the ship. But today they are sharing it.
Hector needs Jack's Piece of Eight.
Calypso tried to take Jack's Piece of Eight. But Jack still has it.
Jack and Hector are frightened of Calypso.
Jack and Hector are sad because they are frightened.
"Let's be friends and help each other," says Jack.
"I will if you will," says Hector.
Now Jack and Hector are friends. The are still frightened, but they are not so sad.
Sometimes, Jack and Hector tease each other. Sometimes they fight.
But they want to be friends because they are frightened.
Jack and Hector eat breakfast together. It is a good breakfast.
Jack likes coffee.
"I like coffee better than goats," says Jack.
Read more about Jack and Hector in Jack and Hector go to Shipwreck Cove.
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______________________________________________
Nuts Out series:
First Nut out of the Locker
Second Nut Out of the Locker: Like Nuts for Bananas
Third Nut Out of the Locker: Intense, with a hint of Kraken
Fourth Nut Out of the Locker: Two's Company
Fifth Nut Out of the Locker: Small Island Paradise
Sixth Nut Out of the Locker: Madness and Brilliance
Seventh Nut Out of the Locker: Goats and Monkeys
(Almost) Eighth Nut Out of the Locker:Sibling Rivalry
Ninth Nut out of the Locker: Last Men Standing
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