HURRICANE JACK

He isn't the last person Jack Sparrow expects to see
walking through the door of The Three Tunns, not that
Jack ever expects to see anyone, really.  He prefers
not to, as he'd rather be pleasantly -- or not so
pleasantly, as the case may be -- surprised by the ebb
and flow of people of his acquaintance.

This does not mean that Jack is *unprepared*.  Except
when he is, and when he is, it's usually in some
fabulously spectacular fashion that results in a
short-lived marooning or being not-quite-hanged.
(Should he ever have the miserable misfortune to hang
in chains on Deadman's Cay, Jack firmly believes that
he will hang there more fabulously than any pirate who
has been hanged there before, simply because
everything Jack does is fabulous.)

Numbering among the last people Jack expects to see
inside The Three Tunns, if Jack were to expect anyone
(and we have established already that he most
certainly would not), are the son of God the Lord and
Saviour Jesus Christ, Jack's dear departed mum, the
Duke of Devonshire (whom Jack has never met, although
rumour has it the Duke has a healthy appetite for
scones), and one Captain Piet Heyn, owing as the good
Dutchman had been torn apart by cannonball fire before
Jack had ever come squalling out betwixt his mother's
thighs.

It is due to Jack's piratical profession, perhaps,
that if he *were* to think about it, he could think of
a few score more unexpected people before his mind
might turn to a certain pretty young blacksmith with
more bravery than the sense God gave a dog.  But
expected or no, Will Turner is standing just inside
the doorway, blinking the dark and smoke out of his
eyes, skin fair under the sun's kiss, and looking
about as defenseless as a newborn pup.  On the whole,
he's a vision in lightly soiled linen.

Oh yes, this is exactly the reason Jack likes
surprises.  (Unless, of course, the surprises involve
things like an ambush during careenage, for Jack finds
it horribly rude for someone to interrupt him whilst
he's scraping his barnacles.)

Clearly, the only solution to this new situation is
for Jack to cross the room, move straight up
alongside, slide his arm over the pretty whelp's
shoulders, lean in close with a shimmy and a bit of a
sidle, and say, "My, my, Master Turner.  What brings a
good boy like you to a naughty little place like
Tortuga?"

Will turns his head slowly, still blinking too much,
and Jack can see something ominous behind his eyes.
For a moment, it's like looking at a familiar port of
call in the wake of a hurricane.

"I wanted a drink," says Will finally.  His dark hair
is tangled and damp with sweat, and Jack takes a
moment to breathe in the scent of him.  He still
smells like blood and fire, and this makes Jack beam.

Jack squeezes his shoulder and guides Will to the
table he departed from only moments before.  "Then by
all means allow me to ply you with rum, son."

Will sits upon the stretch of wood and accepts the mug
Jack presses into his hand, tipping back his head and
taking a healthy swig.  Jack watches the boy's grimy
throat work with interest.  The owner of the not very
fine establishment in which they are sitting (or,
rather, in which Will is sitting and Jack is standing)
thins the rum with water, but Jack doesn't mind
because the water isn't rancid and the food has never
given him the flux like the fare at The Cheshire
Cheese.  Despite the watering down, there's
considerably more than a dram of rum in that mug, but
Will doesn't cough or shiver, and when he puts down
his cup, he wipes his mouth with the back of a hand.

"What of your bonnie lass?" asks Jack, and hides his
smile behind his drink.  The lad looks positively
tragic; Jack finds this positively delightful.

"I don't want to discuss Elizabeth," says Will, and
swallows more rum in the determined manner of a man
attempting to get himself thoroughly pissed.

Jack is never one to do the wise thing, and he's never
met a story he didn't like, so the temptation to poke
and prod the sordid tale out of young Will is nigh
impossible to resist, but his goal for the night also
involves the achievement of intoxication, and Jack
knows how to wait.

These days, the rumours speak of Jack out-waiting Old
Roger himself, and Jack thinks it's all bloody
marvelous.  The rum will loosen the lad's tongue, and
Jack will get his prize before the night is out, or
his name isn't Captain Jack Sparrow.  (Strictly
speaking, it isn't, but Jack fully intends for his
given name to be lost in the annals of time, if by
'lost' one means 'all traces erased and utterly
destroyed, never ever to be seen again by eyes human
or otherwise, and perhaps stomped on with a sturdy
boot for good measure.')

"Don't fret, love," says Jack.  He clinks his mug with
Will's and savours the warm, strong burn of the rum.
"Drink up."

Will peers at him suspiciously, and this only makes
Jack's smile grow wider.   "All right," says Will, a
line of worry still creasing his brow.

Jack swoops down next to Will and pulls him close.
"Now lad, have I ever led you astray?"

And *that* nets him the incredulous little smile Jack
is looking for, the one that makes young Will look
alarmingly like his father contemplating one of Jack's
slightly-less-than-cunning schemes.  Only Bootstrap
Bill never gave Jack a moment's worry when he hacked
away with his cutlass, and his temper was as
predictable as the tide.  Steady on, was old Bill, a
stubborn cuss and a good man.  His son, however, is
shiny and new, and burning with the need to prove
himself worthy.

Such an impressionable youth, Will is, and Jack just
*loves* making impressions.

"You really are touched in the head," says Will into
his mug.

Jack thumps him on the back, and the lad's solid
muscles absorb the blow.  "Lovely of you to say so."
Jack hums a particularly crude shanty under his breath
as they drink and they drink, and Will's suspicious
eyes grow softer and unfocused.  Jack eases things
along with a piece of eight for more rum, and a morsel
or two about Will's father that he slips into the
meandering conversation until Will turns his face to
Jack, painfully earnest and his mouth open for more
memories like a hatchling.

"I trusted old Bill with my life and my ship," says
Jack, "but he had no sense of humour to speak of.  I
suppose you get that from him."  (If, Jack wonders at
times, the lad didn't also get a second helping from
his dam.)

"I have a sense of humour," protests Will, sloshing a
trickle of rum over his knuckles.  The lad stares at
his hand blearily before licking the rum from his skin
with a pink tongue.

"Oh, aye," says Jack immediately, nodding assurance,
although his eyes widen of their own accord, and a
grin lives close behind the gold caps of his teeth.
(Anything that gets a man through the day, Jack often
thinks, ought to be encouraged, so long as Jack isn't
put out in the process.)

"I do," says Will.  He fiddles with his mug and nearly
sends it over the edge of the table before clutching
it closer to his chest.  "Some things just aren't so
amusing when they're happening to you."

"Hello," says Jack, flinging his hands wide and
sending his trinkets jangling, "rope around my neck
when you saw me last, remember?"

"How could I forget?" says Will, his expression
turning dreamy for a moment, and Jack has no doubt
that Will is ruminating on his spirited young lass.
"I taught her to fight, you know."

Jack drops his chin into his hand and makes a humming
noise, waving at the lad to continue. 

"I taught her the sword and she taught me to sail,"
says Will, shoulders hunching 'round his drink.
"She's the most beautiful creature, with a blade in
her hand.  I thought we were happy."

Jack can't resist, and doesn't even try.  "She found
you out as a eunuch, didn't she?"

"I'm not a eunuch," says Will.  The denial is instant
and almost without heat, and it's obvious that Will
has something else occupying his thoughts.  "She said
I was stifling her."

Jack drinks before saying, "Were you?"

Will looks aggrieved.  "I don't even know what it
means!"

"Then how do you know you weren't?" says Jack.

"You don't even know --" says Will, strangling on his
words until he swigs more rum.  "She sold all her
things and bought a ship.  She said she wanted to see
the world before she settled down."

"A lass of uncommon spirit, that Elizabeth," says
Jack.  "Merchant vessel, you say?"

"I think she plans to obtain a letter of marque from
her father," says Will absently, and then his eyes
narrow.  "Don't consider it for even a moment!"  His
gaze is so fierce that Jack inadvertently makes a fig
hand beneath the tabletop.  (Jack is a pirate, and
therefore he believes in superstition.  But unlike
most pirates, Jack's belief in the supernatural is
rooted in actual and extensive contact with the
accursed living dead, which Jack will grudgingly
admit, when in his cups, has had somewhat of an effect
on his landscape.)

"Pirate!" says Jack.

"Well, then consider it unconsidered!" demands Will.

Jack leans closer, Will's body a warm press at hip and
leg and shoulder.  "I'll consider it unconsidered if
you will consider that as a pirate, it's in my very
nature to consider it."

Will frowns.  "You do that on purpose."

"Do what?" says Jack, spreading his hands.  Will makes
a frustrated noise in his throat.

"I would very much like to strike you right now," says
Will.

"Why don't you?" asks Jack.

Will blinks.  "I can't decide which one of you to
hit."

Jack pats Will's thigh.  "That's all right then."

Will peers at his lap with the intense concentration
of a man seeing rather more legs attached to his body
than strictly belong.  "You have nice hands."

Jack's grin at this quite possibly resembles the
expression of a shark scenting blood in the waves.
"What *does* bring you to Tortuga, mate?"

"Elizabeth set me down here some time back, and I
signed on as a gunsmith with the *Revenge*," says
Will.  He upends his mug.  A drop or two rolls from
the bottom and lands on his tongue.

"Mm," hums Jack.  "Tried to catch up with her, did
you?"

"I didn't want to believe she was gone," says Will.
His aspect is bleak.  "She was everything I ever
wanted."

He waves his hand.  "Ah, young love.  So tragically
stupid and stupidly tragic," says Jack, and then pulls
his face into a moue. 

When they first met a year past, Will would have
already drawn his sword to defend his wounded honour.
Now he simply puts back his head and laughs.  This son
of Bootstrap Bill, it seems, is finally growing up,
and in Jack's opinion, it's about bloody time.

"I think I've actually missed you," says Will.  "I
must be very drunk."

These words are a siren song to Jack's ears.
(Excepting, of course, the being-lured-to-one's-death
part, although Jack certainly wouldn't say no to a
little death or two before the night is out.)

"Tell me, Will Tanner," says Jack, "would you be
interested in signing a new set of Articles?"

Will turns to stare at him quickly.  Too quickly,
because Will overbalances and drops his head and
shoulders onto the table, peering up at Jack.  "You
want me aboard the *Pearl*?  Why?"

Jack drops his head to the table, too.  "Why what,
love?"

"Well, it sounds suspiciously as if you're helping me,
that's all," says Will.

"Helped you before," says Jack.

Will nudges Jack's shoulder with his own.  "Yes, but
that was to regain your ship."

"Very well, then.  I'm helping you because I like
you," says Jack.

"But you're a pirate!" exclaims Will.

"Pirates can't like people?"

Will frowns.  "Past experience suggests that it's
uncommon."

"I am an uncommon pirate," says Jack with a flourish.

"You're an uncommon *everything*," insists Will
exasperatedly, but his eyes are fond.

Jack feels uncommonly flattered.  "I do like you.  I
liked your father, too, although I like you how I
liked your father, but I didn't like your father how I
like you.  Savvy?"

"Words came out of your mouth just then," says Will,
nodding, "I'm fair certain of it."

"Up, up," says Jack, standing and hauling Will to his
feet.  The lad is tall and lean, and always stronger
than he looks.  "And you have also helped me twice, if
you'll recall," says Jack.  "You must like me, too."

Will sways against him, his body warm and loose as he
hooks his arm around Jack's neck.  "I do believe
you're more coherent than I am.  I ought to mark the
occasion."

"You like me," says Jack.

Will sighs, and his breath is humid with rum.  "To my
eternal shame, yes."

"And do you know why?" asks Jack.

He presses his nose to Jack's temple and laughs
quietly.  "Because you're Captain Jack Sparrow?" mocks
Will.

"For once, love," says Jack, "you have the right of
it."

Walking out of the tavern proves difficult, as Jack
has a sway to his walk, and now so does Will, causing
a tangle of legs and caroming hips.  Clearly, the
sensible thing to do is to separate themselves and
attempt to walk freely, and clearly, Jack thinks the
sensible thing is utter bollocks.

They make it through the door, something which Jack
considers a smashing success, and stagger out onto the
cobblestone street.  Some lengths down the street
betwixt a step and the next, Will matches Jack's
rolling gait, and the odds against them actually
reaching the harbour are less daunting almost
immediately.  Jack enjoys having someone sturdy to
lean on, as he's never felt entirely comfortable on
land since he first shipped out as a boy.  (In fact,
the only times the land feels as comfortable to Jack
as does the sea is when the land is quaking, and when
the land is quaking, Jack is rather too preoccupied
with avoiding imminent death and destruction to savour
the feeling of comfortableness.)

Jack hums under his breath as they sway along toward
the sea, and soon enough the smell of home reaches his
nose.  The smell of home for Jack vaguely consists of
the following things: dead fish, sweat, rotting water,
pitch, brine, black powder, pomegranate.  (There is no
satisfactory explanation for the pomegranate.)

Will doesn't protest when Jack steers them toward the
*Pearl's* berth.  Indeed, he even hums along to Jack's
rousing verse of "Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho!"  Jack
takes this for permission even though it's not quite
apparent that Will actually knows where they are right
now, let alone what Jack plans to do with him once
they get to where they're going.

If Jack is in possession of conscience, right now is
an opportune moment for it to twinge.  (And we may
safely say that the conscience is most definitely not
located in the places where Jack is currently feeling
twinges.)

The air wraps around them like damp velvet when they
reach the pier.  Jack welcomes the slap of waves,
flapping canvas, and the creak of wood and rope.  He
can see Cotton on watch on the forecastle deck,
passing underneath the fore staysail and his parrot
squawking out nonsense from his shoulder.  Only a few
men on his crew are aboard the *Black Pearl* at this
hour, judging by the lack of bodies sprawled upon the
gun decks, but it's early yet for the carousers to be
returning from gambling and drink, not to mention the
women.  Jack would still be out there with them and
the women, but an overwhelming proportion of the
available women on the island still seem keen on
slapping Jack's face when they meet, and Will is by
far prettier than any Scarlet or Giselle.

In short, Will is a very nice armful of warm flesh,
and Jack is not complaining.

***



It's a chancy business getting over the rails and onto
the main deck, and by the time they do, Will is
doubled-over laughing, with one hand clutching at
Jack's belt for balance.

"I could still let you drown," says Jack.

Will's hands climb up Jack's clothes as the lad
attempts to stand up.  "I'd take you with me over the
side," says Will.

"Promises, promises," says Jack.  Everything has
righted itself beneath his feet as it always does when
he sets foot on a ship, and the world is back to a
roll and lift, and a familiar expanse of planking.

Will's still hanging onto Jack, but now his head is
thrown back as he stares up into the rigging.  "I
wasn't aboard for long, but I missed her, Jack."

"Nothing else like her on the seven seas," says Jack,
stroking his hand along the rail.

"Nor like you," says Will with a flash of teeth.

"Careful," says Jack, starting toward his cabin.  And,
seeing as Will hasn't yet released his grip on Jack's
lapel, he takes Will with him.  "I could take that as
a compliment."

"Causing you to think even more highly of yourself
could prove disastrous," agrees Will.

Jack is tempted to swing Will out on the main boom
again, but dismisses the idea in favour of opening the
door to his cabin and squeezing them both through the
doorway.  Due to their proximity, it's child's play to
accidentally trip Will, an action which sends them
both tumbling onto the bed whilst thoroughly tangled
together.

"Oof," says Will, jabbing his elbow into Jack's ribs.

"I second that exclamation," says Jack, twisting away
to avoid the unpleasant connection of Will's knee with
his nether regions, yet still somehow ending up with a
mouthful of Will's linen shirt.  He lies there for
some time, the room spinning about lazily, before Jack
realises he's uncomfortably warm and still wearing a
brace of primed pistols.  In spite of the fact that
delirium rides Jack's shoulder like a parrot, he is
not a stupid man, nor is he desirous of blowing his
weaselly black guts out.  This situation must be
remedied.

Jack flips over as best he can and tosses his hat,
because the direction doesn't matter so long as the
floor's still there.  Next he unbuckles the belt and
drops his cutlass with a clatter, although the brace
of pistols he lowers somewhat more gently, and follows
it with his compass.  For jacket removal, however,
Jack finds it absolutely necessary to roll back over
onto Will whilst he wriggles it off.  After all, the
bunk is narrow, and Will is not.

"Hello," says Jack, smiling nose to nose with Will,
who is regarding him curiously, but not, Jack is
pleased to note, indicating that Jack's behaviour is
at all objectionable.

"Am I to sleep here, then?" asks Will, grunting as
Jack rolls off him and then levers himself up with a
hand pressing against Will's flat belly.

"You're welcome to bunk with the rats, mate," says
Jack, "but word of warning, we both bite."

"It's absolutely manky below," murmurs Will as Jack
wrestles with the knots on his sash.  "Even your odour
is preferable."

Once Jack unwinds the long length of cloth from his
middle, he makes short work of his vest.  Jack strips
off his shirt, trinkets jangling in his hair, and
turns to see Will staring avidly.  He forgets at
times, does Jack, that the shiny scars and the inky
whorls worked into his sun-dark skin are exotic to an
orphan boy like Will, shut in for years with nothing
but steel and a snoring drunk to keep him company.  As
a lad, Jack had seen so little unmarked skin that for
a time he had believed men possessed tattoos from
birth.  His logic was rather sound for a boy of three,
considering tattoos didn't wash off when one was given
the heave to.  (In point of fact, Jack still believes
men possess tattoos from birth, only they don't show
up right away, until one day they do, accompanied by a
determined and often very large man armed with both
needle and ink.) 

Jack lets Will to look his fill and contemplates
removing his boots, forearmed with the knowledge that
come morning, he may not remember to check them for
scorpions.  Their sting hasn't managed to kill him
yet, so Jack bends down and begins tugging at his
boots whilst Will traces a tattoo on Jack's shoulder
with one work-roughened finger.  Will's curious hand
trails to where Moses' Law is written upon Jack's
back.  Will doesn't ask about those scars, and Jack
doesn't tell.  (Although the tale of it isn't quite so
dire as it could have been had the quartermaster
delivered the required number of lashes, rather than
the number of lashes he was capable of counting to,
and to Jack's good fortune, that number had been
something less than fifteen.)

Jack drops his boots to the floor and turns to see
Will sprawled across the bunk, his limbs loose, and
watching him closely.  Sweat beads on Will's upper lip
and at his hairline, and if Will isn't inclined to
remove his clothing, Jack feels more than capable of
performing the task for him.  Jack rolls and ends up
sitting on Will's belly, reaching out to untie the
scarf knotted around his throat.

Will peers down at Jack's hands with a frown, and then
reaches out to help.  "You needn't undress me like a
child."

"Oh," says Jack, batting away Will's fingers, "that
certainly isn't my intention, love."  The knot proves
stubborn, so Jack swoops down to have a go with his
teeth.  Will makes a noise like a gasp, and for a
moment, presses one warm, broad palm to Jack's
shoulder blade.  The knot finally loosens and Jack
tugs it free from around Will's neck.  The fabric is
damp from its contact with Will's body.  Jack tosses
it somewhere behind him and dares to swipe his tongue
over the hollow of Will's throat, tasting the sweat
collecting there.  The lad is salt and sting in his
mouth.

Underneath him, Will very carefully stops moving.
Jack sits up and makes a strategic shift downward to
unbuckle Will's sword belt, nudging the belt and short
sword off the edge of the bunk with his knee.  He
tackles the buttons on Will's vest and shirt next,
slowly uncovering the smooth expanse of skin beginning
to turn bronze from living in the sun.  Jack ponders
the situation for a moment before coming up with a
solution to something of a logistical problem.

Jack rolls over onto his back, and brings Will with
him, sending him sprawling between Jack's legs.  Will
looks dazed, and Jack takes advantage of the moment to
pull off Will's shirt and vest, and then turns them
'round once more so Will is again on his back.

Will stares up at him.  His large eyes overflow with
questions, but his mouth is unable choose which one to
ask.  This makes Jack want to touch him like Jack
touches his *Pearl*, and so he strokes his fingertips
down the curves of Will's strong arms.  Will's
breathing kicks up a notch and his hands open and
close on the bedding, so Jack licks a stripe down the
center of Will's chest, his trinkets chiming and
dragging behind his mouth.

Jack can feel Will's muscles contract beneath his
tongue, and he presses his grin against Will's navel.

"What are you doing?" asks Will faintly.

As usual, Jack has no incentive to fight fairly, and
so he very much does not.  He slithers up Will's body,
touching as many places as possible with his hands and
mouth.  Will's waist just under his ribs, the inside
of one wrist, dragging both his thumbs along the soft
inside of Will's elbows.  With one palm pressed over
Will's rapidly beating heart, Jack leans close to one
ear.

And then performs lewd acts upon said ear with his
tongue, whilst below he grinds his hips against
Will's, sparking a whimper from the lad that washes up
Jack's spine like a hot breeze.  That's no folding
gully in Will's pocket, Jack knows, and this pleases
him so much that he bites at Will's throat just below
the corner of his jaw.  Will's breath hitches and his
hips rise up like a wave.

"Do you wish me to stop?" asks Jack, when Will's hands
grip Jack's waist hard enough to leave bruises in the
shape of fingertips.

Will's poleaxed expression turns thoughtful, giving
the question a long moment's consideration while Jack
continues to cheat.  "I -- oh *God*."

His speechlessness might have something to do with
Jack's hands unfastening his trousers and slipping
inside, but the whimpering noises sound encouraging,
so Jack sees no reason not to continue.

"Don't -- what -- oh hell," says Will breathlessly,
and obligingly lifts up so that Jack can tug down his
trousers, leaving them in a tangle at Will's knees.

Jack sits back on Will's thighs, and slowly -- because
he fully intends for Will to pay attention -- licks
his palm.  Jack tastes himself along with the faint
tang of brine soaked into the leather strap of his
wrist guard, and then he wraps his hand around Will's
blood-filled length.  And squeezes up.

"You're mad," gasps Will, rising up on his elbows, his
hips following Jack's hand.  His cheeks are flushed
and skin damp all over with sweat.

Jack leans close enough to feel Will's hot breath on
his face.  "Just a little," says Jack, and then kisses
him.

It begins as a clash of teeth and tongue, so Jack
angles his head to make it something more carnal and
wet, his tongue chasing after the lingering, sweet
taste of molasses in Will's mouth.  Jack threads his
fingers through Will's hair, strands catching on his
rings, and kisses Will long and deep until the lad is
making hurt noises in the back of his throat.

Will's lips are rosy when Jack pulls back, his hand
still lazily stroking betwixt their bodies.

"A little participation at this point," says Jack,
"would not go amiss."

Jack's aim is, as always, good enough to suit his
purposes, and his words hit the lad right where he
lives.  Bless his competitive little heart.

"Oh, it wouldn't, would it?" says Will, his eyes
flaring to life.

"Aye, mate," says Jack, "that it wouldn't."

Will lifts his chin defiantly as his hands struggle to
unfasten Jack's trousers, and when he finally
succeeds, Will pushes at the fabric impatiently.  Jack
is about to intervene out of concern for his person
when Will instead tugs him down for another kiss, the
lad licking into Jack's mouth in a way that proves
he's quite the fast learner.  Jack, however, is an
agile man, and thus perfectly capable of wriggling out
of his trousers whilst biting and sucking on Will's
lower lip.  Jack learned said agility as a boy in the
rigging of a sloop, working there in all manner of
ill-favoured weather, and a mother would turn in her
grave should she learn of the uses Jack puts it to.
(Although certainly not Jack's mother, as she never
would have made such a spurious claim to virtue.)

One change in circumstance begs for another, so Jack
moves swiftly in order to take the quick little bugger
by surprise, circling Will's strong wrists with his
fingers and pinning them above Will's head.

Will looks worried.  "What are you doing?"

"This?" asks Jack innocently, lining up their hips.
"'We doubt not now but every *rub*," says Jack,
twisting his hips and earning a moan from Will's
mouth, "is smoothed on our way.  Then forth, dear
countrymen: let us deliver our puissance into the hand
of God.'"  (Jack's education was less formal and more
patchwork, but in his life he was frequently idle and
more frequently curious, and as a pirate, not above
threatening scholarly types for their books.  However,
Jack *is* still a pirate, and it should surprise no
one that Jack firmly believes Dante's _Inferno_ is, in
fact, a comedy.)

"Will you be quiet?" says Will desperately, the cords
in his neck straining, "and bloody *move*?"

Jack grins for a bit too long, or perhaps it's just
long enough, because Will breaks Jack's grip on his
wrists and lunges, one hand clutching a fistful of
Jack's hair at the nape, and the other pressing hard
just below the small of his back.  The time for
teasing has passed.

Will pulls Jack into a kiss both sloppy and
sharp-edged, their bodies pushing and sliding together
in tight, slick circles of pleasure.  Jack drags his
uneven fingernails down Will's chest, sucking kisses
into Will's throat with his lips, teeth and tongue.
Will's reaction is wordless and broken, and he
breathes in harsh pants.  And then Will tilts Jack's
head in order to bite his way up Jack's jaw line and
down the side of his neck, all sharp teeth and humid
breath, and pushing hard and wet into Jack's hip.

Hands shaking, Will begins to clutch and press
randomly all over Jack's skin, his mouth so wide and
desperate that Jack feels like he's being devoured.
Jack raises up on one elbow as Will squirms beneath
him, breathing hard and his eyes shut fast.  Will's
face begins to crumple and Jack takes him in hand,
watching avidly.  Will's fingers clench around Jack's
arm on the up-stroke, with a grip so fierce Jack knows
he'll feel it in the morning.  Jack can't look away
and doesn't want to; he's been waiting to see this
since the day they first met in that dingy smithy and
Will truly took him by surprise.  Will's eyelashes are
wet and spiked, sticking to his skin, mouth open and
glistening.  He looks to be in the best kind of pain,
silent now but for his harsh breath, lifting them both
off the bunk with an arch of his back, and abruptly
back down as warmth spreads over Jack's hand.

Jack rocks against Will lazily and continues to watch
as the lad drifts into a loose-limbed sprawl, the
expanse of his skin coloured with a sated flush.
Eventually Will's eyes slit open and he licks his
lips, boldly reaching for him.  For a moment, Jack
wonders if he's created a monster, because if he has,
it's a very neat trick and one he'd like to repeat as
often as possible.  (Or perhaps, Jack also wonders, it
isn't that his luck with women has worn off so much as
changed its venue.)

Will's palm is broad and callused, and Jack rolls into
it, meeting Will's eyes and seeing a new confidence
and satiation there.  Jack's body prickles with heat
from the knowledge that he is the one who put that
sinful, sleepy look on Will's face.  However chaste
Will purports to be, from this day forth, Jack will
know the truth of it.  The mere thought of it causes
him to ache with want.

The cabin is sultry with them.  Jack slides his cheek
along Will's and tastes their sweat and sex on the
moist skin of Will's neck.  Jack presses his face
there under Will's jaw and speaks words he doesn't
hear over the blood rushing in his ears like a stout
wind, words that make Will tighten his grip, and so
Jack knows the words must be good ones.  He continues
to speak until his head spins from lack of breath and
his elbow trembles from holding his weight.

"Jack," says Will, and it's time for Jack to give into
the sensation that lurks hot and bright just within
his reach.  His eyes close and Will's hand is tight,
and when he comes, he can feel the throb and wave of
release from the soles of his feet to the tip of his
spinning head; it feels almost as good as the first
time Jack boarded the *Black Pearl* as her captain all
those years ago.

Jack doesn't move far, not that there's far to move;
the bunk is small and their limbs entwined.  Will
succumbs to the draw of sleep first, one arm trapped
under Jack and his other hand draped over his flat
belly.  The lad will doubtless wake with a sore head
on the morrow, and the sun will disagree with him.  It
is the work of moments to apply a remedy, and Will's
eyelids barely twitch as he smoothes the kohl into
place with a finger and thumb.

He never expects to see anyone, does Jack, but he
wonders if Elizabeth will return for the lad once she
realises the value of a loyal man at her back.  He
doesn't doubt her ability to privateer, for if there
ever existed a girl who could make a go of it,
Elizabeth is it.  (Jack finds the minds of women to be
unwelcoming foreign ports, and does not wonder long.
Indeed, Jack often gives thanks that the only female
he needs to understand is his ship, and she has always
whispered to him all of her secrets.)

Elizabeth would make a fine pirate, but it's Will he
has, and Jack in no way regrets it.  The lad argues
just as much, but also knows when and how to move as
the situation requires it, and Jack can't deny that
it's exhilarating to fight by his side.

He'll need an earring, Jack thinks, and falls asleep.

***

                    
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