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The Devil in Disguise (The Diabolical Remix)
by Oneiriad
Pairing: Jack/James
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: PotC belongs to Disney
Originally Posted: 5/16/10
Note: Remix of Another Angle on the Problem, by Aris Merquoni.
Warning: Tentacle-rape
Summary: Dying is easy. Life is cheap. Returning from the dead is never easy and never cheap, as James Norrington is about to learn.
Death doesn't hurt.
Dying, on the other hand—dying is the cold burn of sharp steel sliding through soft, yielding flesh, dying is choking, gasping for a breath just out of reach, dying is thick, warm, coppery blood flooding your mouth, dying is limbs growing heavy, so heavy, even as you try desperately to hold on, dying is the awful, absolute certainty that all this was far too little and far, far too late.
Death is the moment it all stops.
Then the world rises, red and hot, and swallows you whole.
***
Hello, pretty boy.
***
He wakes up shivering, teeth chattering in the cold as he staggers to his feet—a surprisingly difficult process that leaves him wondering if he's drunk, but eventually he's upright, arms wrapped around himself, blinking blearily out at an azure sea that seems far too tropical for it to be this bloody cold.
For a while he stands, lost in no thoughts at all, but eventually, as the azure sea, white sand and verdant foliage stubbornly refuses to turn into something more arctic and the temperature just as stubbornly refuses to turn into something less so, he picks a direction at random and sets off along the coast.
He makes good progress. At least, he thinks he does, judging by the position of the sun and the speed with which he leaves any likely landmark behind. Yet it doesn't really feel like it, because he keeps stumbling and he can't recall it ever being this hard to just walk.
It's almosst as if your feet weren't your feet anymore, issssn't it?
Which is, of course, blatantly ridiculous.
***
The first sign of human habitation is the faint hint of smoke carried on the wind. Soon he can actually see it, a thin spiral dancing and twisting in the air, and he speeds up, because smoke means fire, means people, means oh-so-blessed warmth. Surely whoever has a fire going won't begrudge him a little warmt?
He's climbing across a small rocky promontory when the hut comes into view. It a ramshackle sort of place, made from driftwood and thatched with palm leaves, but there's something neat and inviting about, something homely. A boat is dragged high enough up on the beach to not get carried away by the tide, nets are drying in the breeze, and the smoke has acquired a hint of fishiness.
He's distracted from his perusal by the sound of chiming laughter and then a small child comes running around the corner of the hut, bright and lively and obviously unaware of being watched, until she turns her head and catches sight of him and stops laughing.
Sssso sssweet.
Somewhere a dog is barking, loud and furious, but he's not sure where, because the world has turned red and there are screams, rising and rising and abruptly stopping, and oh god, let them be his, let them be his screams, except they don't sound like his screams.
Delicioussss.
***
He's not quite sure how he ended up leaning against the side of the fisherman's hut. He's not even sure why he feels a need to lean, because strangely enough he feels fine, better than he has all day, and he's finally warm, but nonetheless, here he is.
Eventually it occurs to him that it's odd that nobody has shown up to greet him or challenge him or in some other way acknowledge his presence. In fact, the only other living thing around seems to be a dog hiding in a nearby bush. He caught a glimpse of it before and another one just now as he finally steps away from the wall.
Feeling curious and a little guilty about indulging said curiosity in the absence of the hut's owner, he pushes aside the bead-curtain and enters. The inside of the hut confirms his initial impression of homeliness, furnishings spartan, to be sure, but neat. Idly he wonders about the people living here,
Delicioussssss
about who they are, where they've gone. Perhaps they're slaves who've run maroon, hiding until the stranger has made himself scarce, though why they'd feel particularly threatened by a single, unarmed man is beyond him.
Idly musing, he doesn't actually decide to pick up the small mirror, is barely aware of having done so before he's hurling it away, heart racing at the impossible glimpse of something huge and red and...
No.
Annoyed with himself for overreacting to some trick of the light, he bends to pick up the largest shard, still chiding himself for breaking what is undoubtedly a small treasure to his absentee host, and frowns at the glimpse of a surprisingly neat and orderly man in a wig and a spotless, somewhat garish uniform.
Shaking his head in annoyance he carries the shard over to one of the window-holes to get some better light, then looks at himself properly. Well, neat he most certainly is not—unshaven, unkempt and the somewhat tattered blue-gold-and-white uniform is long overdue for an extended stay at a seamstress'. Sighing, he turns back to the room, searching until he finds first a razor and then needle and thread, deciding that he might as well impose that bit further on his hosts. Perhaps they might show up soon enough.
Do you really think sssso?
Night falls and he lights the candle at the table set with a half-eaten meal. He looks at the bread and fruit and cold fish, but no hunger stirs—actually, his tongue has been trying to loosen something stuck between his teeth for a while now, but he can't actually remember having eaten. Still, he isn't hungry, so he must have.
Eventually he concludes that his hosts aren't returning
Ever
tonight, so he might as well appropriate the hammock slung in a corner. Outside, the dog howls.
***
Red and hot and burning inside and out.
Echoing screams.
Promises, such promises.
Screams and screams and screams, then laughter.
Hissing.
Laughter.
Sibilant laughter.
Thisss is all less than you deserve, pretty boy. Issssn't it?
Yes.
***
Dawn brings no sign of his hosts, so he resigns himself to moving on, making sure to leave the hut in order and deeply regretting having nothing to leave behind to pay for the broken mirror.
As he exits the hut, he catches sight of the dog. It's a skinny, mangy beast, and at the sight of him it can't seem to decide between covering and growling, so it does both, as it slowly backs away from him, making its way around to the backside of the hut.
Its muzzle is covered in blood and he wonders where it's from.
Why not follow it? Sssee what'ss out back, pretty boy?
Tearing himself away from his musings, he sets out again. It's easier today, perhaps because he's adjusted to whatever the change is. Whatever the reason, it feels like the miles are just rolling away under him.
***
He can't explain exactly what makes him stop and turn consideringly, gazing at the trees inland. It's not quite a smell, not quite anything, but it's there and it's
Interesssting
familiar in some way he can't decide, so when he starts walking again, it's inland.
Dry land soon gives way to a swamp, teeming with life. It's harder to traverse than the beach, but not very, even though there's at least one point he has to cross knee-deep in mud. At least the native fauna doesn't bother him. In fact, once he steps on something he initially thinks is a log, only to feel something huge and scaly go very, very still under him. For the longest time neither one of them moves, but eventually he steps back down. The reptile slinks away, hastily hiding itself in the murky depths of the swamp.
Pathetic.
Resuming his journey, he soon comes across a group of people fighting their way through the swamp. He looks at them curiously from behind a tree as they struggle, fighting unbending branches and treacherous patches of quicksand, and finds a little satisfaction in seeing how slow and clumsy these people are.
There's something familiar about some of them, but it's not the right kind of familiar, not the right not-scent he's been following this far, so rather than draw these people's attention, he circles around them and heads on, soon leaving even the sound of them far behind.
***
He's been circling the familiar not-scent for the last ten minutes, slowly closing in, at once eager and nervous, because he can't for the life of him recall what it means, who it might be. Though he doesn't seem to recall much of anything lately, so that's not saying much.
Close, now, very close, not-scent mingling with the smoke from a fire it must have taken some skill to get started in the pervasive damp of the swamp. Closer, close enough to almost taste,
Oh yesssssssssssssss.
and then a voice breaks through the night, breaks through him and makes him stop, then carefully offer up an answer.
Then a miracle happens, because the voice speaks again, giving him a gift more precious than silver or gold.
It calls him Commodore and it is right
Liessss. Admiral, yes, pretty boy, isn't that so? Didn't you give up enough for it?
and it is true and it is so much more.
How could he not step into the firelight, to see and be seen, when the voice has given him such a gift? And as he does and as he sees the man, he remembers him—remembers this enemy-ally-captive-captain-rival-temptor, remembers Jack, a dizzying rush of emotion rather than anything exact, no images or details, nothing.
Just Jack.
It's enough.
They talk and he sit and wonders at his own answers and comments, because each time he opens his mouth he finds new knowledge, rising to the surface and settles, tantalizing fragments. He'd love to sit all night with him, with Jack,
Coward. Traitor. Pirate.
and just talk, but it's night and Jack makes it clear that he is to sleep and so the Commodore lies down and does.
***
Red.
Red and hot.
Wet.
Slick tracks of moisture running down his body.
Red and salty.
Eternity is red and hot and shuffling, pushing bodies.
Pushing him forward, him pushing forward.
Red and dry and burning.
There's something huge out in the horizon, something terrible.
Something alive.
Red and hot and sharp, sharp pain and hissing laughter and getting pushed toward it.
Looking up.
Seeing it looking down.
Then pain.
***
The Commodore almost wishes that Jack had let him sleep, even if his dreams are frightening him. Somehow it's worse to be awake, Jack sleeping on the other side of the fire, and he should be looking away, away from the fire and out in the dark, keeping watch, but he keeps glancing at the gently snoring man.
Ssso, why not just take him, my oh ssso tight, so deliciousss boy? Taking is sssso sssweet...
It's hard, forcing yourself to not glance back, to swallow the saliva and not reach out and touch and take, to not give in, no matter how very easy, hot tempting it is. It would be better if Jack was awake, aware, it would be easier, but Jack deserves his rest, and so the Commodore sits and keeps watch and forces himself not to stir.
***
Morning arrives with birdsong and more conversation, more tantalizing gifts of memory. Names are spoken and people dance behind his eyes, a fierce young woman, a painfully earnest young man.
Might be fun later, my precioussss.
Traversing the swamp with Jack is far slower going than on his own, the man continually rechecking his glittering compass and constantly having to go around places the Commodore is quite certain he could have easily traversed on his own.
Considering how slowly they've been moving, perhaps it shouldn't be so surprising when they find themselves surrounded, ambushed. Oddly enough, it is.
He would have expected violence, but instead there are words—an unfamiliar man with a great beard making demands, offering threats. When the threats fail to bring about the desired result, the man throws something at Jack.
The Commodore moves before he even has time to think, putting himself between Jack and danger. Not sure why, except that Jack is important, Jack matters, and he's not quite sure that he himself does.
Smoke rises, black and thick and smelling of a thousand things and nothing at all. Somewhere he can hear Jack, coughing and choking on it, and somehow he manages to get to him, manages to wrap an arm around him and start to haul him out—but there's something in the smoke with them, something moving, slithering, grabbing at them,
Easier to jussst hand him over. Give him back to usss, my ssssweet, tight toy.
something moving inside him, twisting, hard and soft and throbbing, nearly bringing him to his knees with a jolt of obscene pleasure-pain, making him stumble as he desperately tries to get Jack out of the smoke, pushing against the almost solid, filthy stuff and trying not to scream at the cutting, throbbing, thrusting thing tearing him apart,
Jussst let go of him. Give usss him and I'll let you go, my ssweet, ssssweet catamite.
and they're stumbling out of the smoke, no energy left to stand and barely enough to not let Jack hit his head on a rock on the ground.
Safe outside the smoke, he allows them a rest, looking down at Jack as Jack looks up at him, frowning at something. Then Jack asks why he's got wings and he finds himself turning his head to find that so he does, huge bat-like appendages, but when he turns back Jack's eyes are closed.
***
It is an awkward thing to be actually seen by a man, particularly by Jack, particularly because he has quite possibly fewer answers than Jack himself does. He sincerely wishes it was otherwise. Mostly Jack settles for staring, before they finally stagger to their feet. As they set out, the Commodore feels a shiver run down his spine,
Sssilly boy. Should have just handed him over when you had the chance, yessss?
but forces himself to ignore it.
So they manage to stagger through the swamp and find a tiny waterfall, just in time for their pursuers to catch up with them once more. The water looks clear and cool, inviting, and he almost wishes that he was thirsty. He ought to be. He can't remember the last time he had anything to drink.
The confrontation turns out to be astonishingly anticlimactic and soon enough he finds himself standing next to a soaked Jack, watching the men depart. As soon as they have left, Jack springs into action, compass in hand and unrolling a glittering map, searching and searching and finding. The stalactite practically shines, as does the single drop of water dangling from its tip.
Maybe that could sssave you? Waterssss of life itself, my ssssweet toy.
The Commodore manages not to reach out and take the tiny cup of water out of Jack's hand, manages to let him drink it, because he's Jack and he gave him a name and he'd wish he could remember why he's so certain that Jack deserves it. Wishes it more fervently as he shivers—just once.
***
The trek out of the swamp and back to the sea takes several days of mostly uneventful walking, the Commodore following as Jack leads. At night they sleep on opposite sides of the fire, taking turns taking the first watch. In the loneliness and the dark he looks at Jack, looks at how sometimes something small and bright moves just under the surface of his skin, there and gone in moments. Sometimes he'll shiver
Ssssoon.
and stir up the fire to get what little warmth it has to offer as he tries not to think about what it means.
The boat waiting for them isn't right. Oh, there's nothing wrong about it—a fine little sloop with the name of "The Seraph" inscribed near the bow—but part of him was expecting something else, something bigger, something...
Oh well.
Still, the vessel proves perfectly seaworthy and soon they are far from shore, alone together the way you simply can't be on dry land, the Commodore and Jack. So of course that's the moment Jack chooses to finally turn to him and demand some answers.
Not that he has many answers to give. Not really. Not when he himself isn't clear on the how, doesn't even know how long—although the shivers are almost regular by now and for the last couple of days there's been a feeling, akin to ropes being stretched taught, and he fears that whatever is going to happen, it will happen soon.
Then Jack asks about the why and the strange thing is, he still doesn't have an answer, except he thinks he does, at least part of it, so when Jack asks again and again he just—lets go. Just a little. Just grabs hold of Jack and kisses him.
It's like a revelation and the bitter irony almost makes him laugh.
Almost.
They make it below-deck, which is easier said than done, since managing the ladder with hooves is difficult enough to begin with and not exactly made any easier by an enthusiastic armful of Jack. Not that he really wants to let go of him, even if he has to. Really, it's a miracle they make it down without any broken bones.
Clothing is practically ripped off in the haste of reaching skin and he gasps as their chests touch, because Jack is warm, so blessedly warm, and part of him just wants to burrow into that wonderful heat, wrap himself in it, drink it down, chasing the cold away forever and ever...
Ssssso do it, ssssweet boy, ssssweet toy, jusssst do it.
Then Jack says his name.
For a moment James doesn't move, mouth barely an inch from Jack's, one hand buried in his hair, the other clutching at a not-yet-naked hip, as he feels himself settle, a lifetime flooding in to fill all the nooks and crannies of his being. For a moment he just looks at Jack, at this infuriating pirate that never made sense and always made too much sense.
He feels his lips quirk and almost gives in to the urge to say "caught you". Almost.
Then he yanks Jack's head forward to reclaim those lips, curling his fingers around the edge of his breeches to yank them down, pressing them together until there's nothing in their way and they're tumbling down on the bed.
He straddles Jack, there in the dark cabin, gazing down on his pirate, laid out like a feast, just for him.
Just for usss, my ssweet. Sssoon, and oh, how sssweet it will be.
Licking his lips he leans down, wrapping them around Jack's warm, hard prick, and he can't help but smile around it when Jack almost arches up off the bed as he spends.
He climbs up Jack's body to lie on top of him, curling around him like a cat, feeling wonderfully relaxed and satisfied even before Jack's calloused hand reaches out to guide him to his own climax. He buries his face in Jack's neck, breathing him in, filling his lungs with his scent. Lying there not shivering, safe in the arms of his pirate, tiny drop of heat in his belly warming him up from the inside, he falls asleep.
***
Red.
Red and hot and filling the horizon.
Towering.
Burning.
Wrapping itself around him, around arms, around legs.
Burning.
Lifting.
Moving.
Considering.
Sliding over him, top to bottom.
Forehead.
Eyes.
Mouth, slithering in and out, once, twice.
Trailing lower.
Circling hard nipples.
Right.
Left.
Lower.
Always lower.
Circling his prick, wrapping around it.
Pulsing.
Hot.
Burning hot.
Lower.
Legs wrenched apart.
Open.
Vulnerable.
Lower.
Then in.
Up.
Filling him.
Huge.
Throbbing.
Burning.
Thrusting.
Sssso ssweet, pretty boy. Ssuch a ssweet treat, jussst for me.
Fighting, twisting, struggling. To no avail.
Deliciousss.
Pulsing.
Burning.
Squirming.
Taking.
Deeper.
Always deeper.
Ssuch a ssweet, tight toy. Beg me, pretty toy. Beg.
Screams.
Screams.
Screams.
Then a touch against his forehead, almost gentle.
Sliding lower.
Eyes.
Mouth, thrusting in, out, in, out.
Pulsing.
Throbbing.
Lower.
How many, my preciousss? How much fun will you be, sssweetling? Maybe four?
Sliding lower.
Lower.
No, at least ssseven, I think. At least ssseven, pretty boy.
Lower.
Then up.
In.
Deeper.
Throbbing.
Twisting.
Thrusting.
Fucking.
Taking.
Taking everything.
Or maybe nine, yessss?
Another touch.
Forehead.
Eyes.
Mouth.
Sobbing around it.
Screaming around it.
Nine for the ssssweetest toysss, yessss?
Struggling.
Finding an arm free.
Flapping.
Grabbing.
Grabbing something.
Something hard.
Something sharp.
Twisting.
Fighting.
Ready for another one, my lovely toy? Ready for your next treat, my preciousssss?
Throbbing.
Pushing.
In.
Screaming.
Fighting.
Cutting.
Falling.
Falling.
Scrambling.
Running.
Pain and pleasure and throbbing and thrusting and sobbing and screaming and hot and red and running and running and running.
Oh, thisss isss going to be fun, pretty boy.
***
James wakes shivering, freezing, trying to wrap himself around Jack, but finding precious little warmth there, nor in the blankets and coats Jack gathers for him, nor in the sunlight on deck. He moves slowly, sluggishly, every move like fighting against ropes growing tighter.
Ssssoon, my sssweet. Ssssoon.
Sitting under the tropical sun, wrapped in every piece of fabric aboard and still shivering, James looks at Jack, as the pirate hauls anchor and gets ready to get underway, looks at him and tries desperately not to think about what comes next, what must come next,
Very ssssssoon.
because there's only two ways he can see this go and both are too horrible to even contemplate. Except he has to, because either he'll have to let those tight, tight ropes hail him in, haul him back
Ready for your next treat, sssweet boy? Ready to beg for it?
or he'll keep getting colder until.
Until.
He looks at Jack, standing in the sun, smiling down at him, encouraging, worried.
Until.
Yessssss.
He swallows.
Looks away, out at sea. Doesn't really listen to Jack's words, just trying to soak up as much of his presence as he can, before having to make his choice between Scylla and Carybdis. Except Jack's insisting on something, gesturing at the sea. Repeating something.
A name.
Calypso.
Oh.
Think you can essscape usss, ssssweetling? Think you'll ever get away?
She comes, fury and power incarnate, looking at him like he's so far beneath her, as if he's nothing.
Think she'll sssave you, pretty boy? Wassssssh you clean of me?
Inside him something stirs, twisting, throbbing. Something obscene.
Never, pretty toy, never free. Not of me. Not of ussss.
Thrusting, fucking, nearly driving him to his knees, eyes watering.
Only nearly. Somehow he manages to stay upright. Manages to answer the goddess before him.
Somehow he even manages to answer well.
Then she smiles.
A sensation like water runs over him, through him, filling him, cleansing him.
Warming him.
Then she's gone and it's just him and Jack under the Caribbean sun, and for the first time since he died he feels clean.
Feels free.
***
I'll be waiting, ssssweet boy. I'll be right here, waiting for you, yessssss.
***
The end.
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