A/n: So in case you hadn't noticed, I'm obsessed with Pirates now. Particularly Jack Sparrow and Will Turner. And how awesome it would be if those two did inappropriate things. Together.
This will definitely be a chapter story, and it's classified as somewhat AU. Will is the star attraction of Tortuga's favorite brothel, against his will. So it doesn't follow the movies every step of the way. I'm not even sure if I want Elizabeth to be a part of this little tale, but...we'll cross that plank when we come to it. This is going to be super mature, NC-17. Considering Will is in a brothel, there is lots and lots of very graphic sex. Because I'm a very graphic person, savvy?
Heh heh, Pirate talk.
Seriously though. I'm jumping into this with some very graphic stuff, the first scene. If you don't like it, don't bloody read it. Song of choice? Radioactive by Imagine Dragons. But wait until Will and Jack start to get freaky. Intense, man.
Claps of slapping flesh, jagged hitches of breath, quiet murmurs and throaty grunts. Skin meeting, lips pressing, teeth and fingers leaving their mark. Will crumpled into the sheets, his body jolting with every snap of hip and thigh. He felt fingers moving over his spine like infant snakes, and whimpered out some unintelligible curse. He swallowed down the bitterness, like acid and salt.
This was commonplace, an everyday occurrence. "So tight, boy. Fuckin' beautiful. So - Ungh!" Rancid words puffing at the backs of his ears, smelling so thickly of liquor and meat. Will flinched into the mattress, but large palms took him in a vice [wrenching him back onto a turgid column of flesh]. "Tighter than any bloo'y woman. Fuck - !" A tongue dragged over his shoulder blade, wet and uncomfortable. Will breathed through his mouth.
Impossibly hard thrusts, bruising. Louder, everything was louder and sharper. The bite of blunt nails, cracked moans, the ripping and tearing of his innards. Will garbled out a sob. It was almost over. "Tha'sa good boy!" Breathy encouragement, and Will felt sick. His belly was churning up an earlier meal, and he sucked in a mouthful of stale air.
He tensed, flexing his muscles and arching his back like a proper whore. There was a flood of liquid heat sloshing into him, filling him up and dribbling down the narrow vee of his inner thighs. His eyes burn, he squeezes back the rush of salty warmth. Sour disgust builds at the back of his throat. Will near chokes on the taste.
The room stilled. Chapped kisses sizzled into the back of his neck like brands he was long numb to. "Come away wit' me, Will. I'd take such good care of ye." Hands ghost down his sides, into the secret dips of his pelvic bones and purple mottled skin. Fingertips flutter like butterfly wings against his limp sex. "Open ocean, freedom." It wouldn't be real freedom, he thinks. He would still be chained to his past, to this man.
He stares at the jut of his knuckles, his face blank. "I believe your time to be up." Will says quietly.
"Now, love - "
"Leave. Now." He jerks out of winding arms, wincing as his flaccid cock slips free. He slides forward and twists around in one, easy flux [his body curled up like a pale chord]. Will ignores the stickiness between his thighs [for the sake of his sanity], and glares fiercely. The customer takes in his nakedness with dark and hungry eyes. He leans close, and smiles beseechingly. "Come now, Poppet. I could give you everything!"
"I said to leave." He grinds out. The customer makes a chastising noise. "William, love. You'd look right beau'ful in my bed, 's where ya belong." He purred, a flash of rotten teeth.
Will snarls. "What do you not understand - ?"
He'd say more if not for the abundance of tongue in his mouth. A muffled protest, and he's writhing about like a flounder on a treble hook. A hand clamps around the back of his head, tangling in his curls, holding him in place. His lip is caught between crooked teeth, and he whimpers at the savagery. He tastes rum and disease, and fights the urge to gag. "I'll be comin' back, boy." A promise whispered against his bruised and bitten mouth.
The mattress groans under shifting weight as the customer stands. Will drags the sheet into his lap, and turns on his side. He listens to the rustle of clothing, klopping feet, harsh spells of breath. The door opens, then closes. Will is alone, and he feels the weight of everything. His life, his circumstances, his lack of a decent future. It flattens him, and he struggles to take in air. His arse is aflame, and his thighs are crusting together.
He wants to cry, but he can't.
The sprinkle of lights on the not-so-distant shore was something of a blessing to one Captain Jack Sparrow. Shouting, shattering, and sounds of drunken chaos were a dull roar midst the nighttime tide. He smiled a sideways smile, kohl-rimmed-eyes crinkling. "Tortuga at last." He raises a leather flask to his mouth, and savors every splash of rum as it slides down his throat. He shakes the flask, desperately coaxing out the last drops. "Need mo' rum."
He takes both oars in hand, and starts to row. Wood cuts through water in gentle circles, and the notorious pirate port grows ever closer. He hears the raucous of criminals and thieves, screaming and brawling and living the good life. A cacophony rising up around him, drowning out the crush of waves against his dingy. He laughs out loud, happy to be among his own [corrupt] kind.
The dock bobs into view, a dark shape before a dark background. He coasts alongside the moaning pier, and loops a rope around the nearest post. One bowline later, and Jack Sparrow is leaping from his dingy and swaggering down the waterfront. All manner of vessel, some enviable and some pitiable, sway to the precarious beat of the sea. He spies the Molly Dover docked next to the considerably less strikingFantasia, both reputable merchant ships.
However, the one ship he most longs to see could not be more absent. More of a myth than accepted fact, the Black Pearl was a phantom. Tattered, black sails never to be seen, cannon fire a mere echo rolling over boundless blue. Jack knew better. Huffing away such heaviness, he made way into the maelstrom of Tortuga. It was loud and untamed, men stumbling to the cobblestone and throwing out wild fists. Women, honest harlots, flouncing about in too much face paint and too little clothing.
It was fantastic.
Jack nodded at familiar faces, and sidestepped the occasional brawlers. He spied a favorite tavern [the Twelve Daggers] and quickened his jangling step. Inside was dim, shadows and wavering orange light, teeming with noise. Men and their women were laughing, loving, and fighting. He smirked at the familiarity of this place and these people. "'s good to be back, mate." He says in between a gold-toothed-grin.
Settling at the bar, he cracks a fist against the top and calls for a Bumboo. The bartender spares him a sour look, his white brows crinkling. Jack smiles a little desperately, and offers a shilling as compensation. "'m dyin' here." Taking pity on him and his sobriety, the bartender nods crisply. Ingredients are gathered on the quick spin of his salty braid [two ounces Navy Rum, one ounce cold water, two cubes sugar, a sprinkle of cinnamon, a dash of nutmeg], and Jack swallows.
The mug clinks down in front of him, and he cups the chilly sides as if greeting a lost love. "Thank you, my good man. I am in your debt." He says this very seriously. His first sip is slow and reverent, his second sip nearly drains the mug. He stares down into the sad remnants of his drink, and frowns. "Now where did all m' rum go?" He wonders aloud, earning a thin glare from the bartender.
"Aye, Gra' Solas."
Jack catches the quiet snippet of conversation, and pauses.
Two men, the burliest sailors he ever did see, hold their heads close and speak in conspiratorial whispers. Jack quirks a curious brow.
"An' it be as wonderful as they say?"
"Aye. It'll cost a pretty piece, but it be worth it. I'd give both m' legs, an' both m' arms-"
"Yer legs an' arms? You mus' be drunk, no whore is worth that."
"You could not be more wrong, mate."
Jack connects the dots one at a time, and smirks. Gra' Solas must be a brothel. He might have to pay this establishment a visit or three, if the women are truly so divine.
"I think yer a bit obsessed, eh?"
"Aye! Head o'er heels! I'd bloo'y kidnap the boy if I could get away wit' it."
And Jack almost swallowed his tongue at that.
"Boy - ! You be speakin' of a lad?"
"Close yer goddamn mouth. 's no mere lad I be speakin' of, this lad be the best damn lay in all of the Caribbean! Better an' tighter than any woman, I swears it."
"An' I swears that you be drunk! I ain't portside all too of'en, an' I'd like to spend my time with a woman when I get the bloo'y chance."
Jack nods to himself, agreeing wholeheartedly.
"Tha's yer loss, mate. I s'pose you be doin' me a favor, since e'ry other sailor travelin' through Tortuga has to go an' take up all his goddamn time."
And Jack blinks slowly and uncertainly. What sensible sailor would choose to bed a lad, when surrounded by all too many busty-and-considerably-flexible maidens? The bartender flashes a toothless grin, and Jack hesitates at the expression. "You know of this brothel, old man?" He finally asks. The bartender plants another Bumboo in front of him.
"Aye. E'ryone knows of Gra' Solas." He says, voice like gravel.
"And this...boy?"
"Aye. E'ryone knows of that boy."
"I know nothing of 'im! I haven't heard the slightest whisper of this alleged brothel!" Jack huffs, thoroughly ruffled.
"It hasn't been 'round for too long, four months maybe. An' this boy, he be the reason e'ryone knows of Gra' Solas. As beau'ful as a woman, he is. Just as soft an' pale." He says this somewhat tender. Jack leans forward. His interest has been stirred and kicked up like swirls of sand on the seafloor. "How very curious." He murmurs into his mug.
"If you be thinkin' of payin' that boy a visit, might as well forget it. There be an awful long line in front o' his door."
Jack smiles, all gold and silver and calculation. "Is that a challenge?"
Gra' Solas is nothing of the crumbling shanty he had imagined [five floors of pearly marble and royal-blue-sunshine-gold drapery, broad stone stairway and ivory railing, cherry archways and low-hanging-silk, balconies swooping 'round the sides].
Every square inch looks of fine and expensive taste, carefully crafted and carefully placed. Classy and prodigious, more the palace of royalty than the brothel of pirates. Women [heart stoppingly beautiful] splay their arms wide and sing tempting songs to the weary passerbyer. They dance on the front steps, slipping in between colorful silk and smiling through scarlet paint.
Jack takes a moment to collect his jaw from the dirt. He stutters in place, fairly gobsmacked. "Forgive me, Father. For I am about to sin." He murmurs gleefully. With a spring to his step, he mounts the stairway. The heel of his boot clicks noisily against the polished stone, matching the quick-lurching-beats of his heart. The women flutter their dark lashes, stroking pink fingertips against him as he walks past. He swallows down a rasping sound, and pushes through sweeping curtains.
The air is thick with incense and perfume, a warm furling haze. Candlelight chandeliers hang low and cast rings of amber on the hardwood. His head spins on his shoulders, and his eyes widen appreciatively. Sprawling duvets not so hidden behind translucent tapestries, coiling framework, white lilac blooming in shadowy corners [and a grand staircase ascending higher unto heaven]. Women, clad in tinkling jewels and loose satin, prance about the floor like a dream.
And he thinks maybe this is a dream, maybe such a place is too good to be real. He hears laughter like bells and the strumming of an oriental guitar.
"If it isn't Jack Sparrow!" Jack starts at the familiar, Irish lilt. A tall gentleman, toweringly so, glides down the staircase. Tailored robes flutter in his wake, and he smiles white and potent. Fine lines pucker about his green eyes, and Jack scrambles for words.
"Carmine!" He calls out. Carmine, as calculating and charismatic as they come. Underhanded in the worst of ways, and just as cruel and unpredictable as the ocean black. The last he saw of this man was the smoky red end of his gun, as a bullet was tearing out his own back. The scar still ached as if it were made fresh. "Now wha' is an upstanding gentleman such as yourself doing in a place like this?"
Carmine laughs, and drags a hand through swarthy hair. "I happen to own this fine establishment. That means I can have you removed from the premises, if I feel so inclined." His mouth thins into a meaningful line. Jack holds up placating palms.
"Come now, what have I done to warrant such hostility?"
Carmine is not impressed with his feigned innocence. "Nothing, not yet. But I know you well." And he does. They know each other well, too well. There is no shared trust or camaraderie between them, only impassioned dislike. Jack shrugs off the barbed words.
"I'll be taking' that as a compliment, mate." He says with a smirk.
Carmine exhales through flared nostrils. "You haven't changed in the slightest."
And they stand in silence, staring and flexing and sniffing out any weakness.
"On to business than. Any of my lovely lassies catch your fancy? I pride myself on variety; whatever your preference, Gra' Solas will provide." Carmine puffs out his breast, and sweeps an arm in grand gesticulation. He is proud, and rightfully so. Jack nods unsteadily, hesitantly.
"Aye. I've heard plenty of your...extensive selection." He clears his throat of its sudden thickness.
Carmine frowns impatiently. "Out with it, Sparrow. You are not my only customer."
Jack jolts. "A boy! Er, man. Male. I...I wish to inquire after your...male employees." He stumbles and stutters, awkward in his every breath.
Carmine raises an incredulous brow. "Male? Jack Sparrow, notorious womanizer and breaker of the female heart, inquiring afterthe company of another man?" He sounds far too amused.
Jack huffs. "Well, when you say it like that." He grumbles. "I'm looking for somethin' specific." Jack stresses the word, fighting for redemption.
"Specific?" He repeats lowly.
Jack gains a morsel of confidence, and presses onward. "Aye, specific. A boy, I've heard much of 'im. He is rather popular among your clientele, or so rumor would have me believe." He watches Carmine closely, searching for a noteworthy reaction.
"I know of the boy you speak. Unfortunately, he will be occupied for the remainder of this evening." Carmine is curt, clipped and formal. Jack grins. He pulls a velvet pouch from an inner pocket, and holds it out for Carmine to take. He does, and loosens the tattered drawstrings.
Inside are countless medallions, shining and sparkling up at him.
"I suppose he will be occupied for the remainder of this evening, aye?"
The fifth floor is the smallest and most lavish. It is spread out in a hollow triangle, three sets of doors on either side of a full circle balcony. Big columns encircle the ledge, and reflect the tawny, wavering corona of mounted candlelight. Silk lolls in between every column, spilling on the dark wood in splashes of color. Jack appreciates the sultry setup. "Fancy place you got here, mate." He whistles.
Carmine doesn't bother with a reply. He motions to the last set of doors, wordless in his displeasure, and turns to leave. "Ah, wait!" Jack calls. Carmine pauses, and tilts an acknowledging ear. Jack frowns. "'s he worth it?" He's spent an awful penny on this boy, a boy he has yet to see. This could all be some elaborate hoax, the next room could very well be empty! Mistrustful as he was, Jack doubted that be the case. Carmine, if nothing else, is not dishonest. The boy could still be damaged goods, all smoke and mirrors.
Carmine hums softly. "Worry not, Jack. He is worth every coin." Then, Jack is alone.
He huffs. "Tha' wasn't very informative."
With nothing more to say and no one left to listen, Jack makes for the polished handles. They're cold in his hands. He imagines what lay beyond, whether it be beauty or fraudulence. He can only hope. With a silent breath, he pushes into the room and takes a quick glance about. The room is open and extravagant, the suite of a king. Wild, dark skins warm the floor, mahogany furniture pushed against crimson wallpaper, white curtains whispering in from the balcony.
And a four-poster-bed, see-through-satin rolling down the sides. Jack can see the subtle outlines of a body, but can discern no specific detail. They lay still, tangled up in the sheets, and breathing evenly. He closes the doors and steps forward, taking care to keep quiet. Slight trepidation rattles through him. Jack steals up to the bedside, and squints through lucent drapery. Pale skin and sinew peek from beneath wrinkled linen, and Jack swallows.
Pulling the canopy aside, he looks upon this boy for the first time. He isn't disappointed.
White and smooth, simple curves and subtle chords of muscle. Pink lips, parted and wet. Thick lashes fluttering against high cheekbones, umber curls spilling over pale shoulders. Yet undeniably masculine. Long fingers wrought with callouses, and a smattering of coarse hair along his jaw. He lay on his side, his spine strong against his skin and his muscles rippling like cresting waves, the sheet draped precariously over his hip. Jack has to catch his breath, momentarily overwhelmed. Beauty and raw in his own skin, like the sun rising from vermilion waters. "Dear God, the old man was right." He murmurs.
He reaches out, but thinks better of it. "Better to let the boy rest a bi'." He stands and smiles a bit giddy. "'m sure he'll be right exhausted by morning." He shrugs out of his jacket and plucks the hat from atop his head. "Might as well get comfortable, eh?" He says to the sleeping lad. Carefully sitting at the edge of the bed, he shucks his boots off one at a time.
The boy stirs, rolling onto his stomach with a soft keen. Jack is startled, and studies the lad for signs of waking. His eyes flicker beneath pale lids, but then he slackens into the mattress with a soundless sigh. The sheet has slipped lower down his back, and Jack shamelessly admires the round definition of his arse. "My, my. Undiscovered booty?" He decides to take the liberties for which he has paid, and places a hand low on his back [warm and smooth under his palm]. Jack stifles a sound.
He presses against the warmth. He curls his hands into the linen, on either side of dark curls, and brushes his mouth over hot skin. It feels different, better. The stink of sweat and perfume is absent, he smells only soap and something masculine. Instead of delicate dips, there are powerful angles and hard lines. He delves down to further appreciate -
A skull suddenly clatters into his face, sending his nose back into his throat.
"Ah! Bloo'y hell!" Jack reels back, clapping a hand over his nose. The boy scrambles upright, and clutches the sheet to himself as though it were a shield. "I - You - What are you doing?" He gasps out, pitchy and short in his distress. His eyes [essential honeypots] widen and dart. Jack blinks. "Uh...rousing you with my irrefutable charm?"
A few panicked breaths, and the boy seems to calm. His face is full of mistrust. "You...You're a customer then?" He asks nervously.
"Aye, don' sound so disappointed." He says this lightly, a little comedic relief, but the lad doesn't find it quite so funny. "I'm not! I'm not disappointed, I was just startled!" He hurriedly assures Jack. "I...Did I hurt you?"
It takes Jack a few seconds to remember the clobbering he suffered. He grins, riddled with gold teeth and bravado. "I've suffered much worse, don' worry yourself." He makes a show of nonchalance.
The lad inhales too sharply. "I'm sorry!" Jack hears the honest fear in his voice.
"Let me...just..." He bends forward, his hands slipping low and fast. Jack feels his trousers loosen, and fingers wrap around his fleshy need. "...make it up to you."
The sheet falls away, and Jack jolts at the sight and sensation. His length is freed from its cotton prison, and cradled like a treasure. Nails scrape gently along his pulsing veins, and lips meet intimately with his ruddy head. It's too quick. "Oi, woah! What do you uh - think you might be...doing?"
Lips and fingers come to pause. Honeypot eyes flicker up to him in confusion. "Is this not what you paid for?"
"Well, obviously, but - !" A hot mouth engulfs him. "Ah! Bloo'y - ! Stop, jus'..." He takes the lad by his biceps, and hauls him onto his knees. "Stop. Only for a moment." He pants.
"But...why?" Suspicion, fear, confusion. Jack sees this pool of feeling, and it tugs at him.
"Don' you think we should maybe...slow down jus' a smidge? Proper introductions an' all that." He says by way of explanation. He isn't sure why himself. The boy is frowning something fierce. "Introductions? What purpose...?"
"I'm quite famous, y'see. It'd be a shame if you were to wake up 'morrow morning, and be to'ally unawares of just who it was that brought you such earth-shattering-pleasures." He exclaims grandly. The lad looks skeptical. "Famous? I rather doubt it."
Jack makes an indignant noise. "I am famous! More famous than Davy Jones 'imself!"
"Your name then?" He asks, disbelieving.
"Captain Jack Sparrow, at your service." Jack feels the inclination to bow, but settles for a sultry smile.
"Never heard of you."
Jack meets the dry stare with a jutting pout. "Now tha's just cold, mate. You hurt me feelin's a bit."
Again, cold fear tightens his face and he reels back. "I'm sorry - !" He chokes, but Jack is quick to silence him. "You don' need to apologize, I was only makin' a funny!" He says quickly and awkwardly. This boy is brimming with fear, it bubbles just under. It sits in the dark shadows of his eyes and the fine tremble of his hands. Jack wonders, his curiosity growing with the seconds. Quiet stews between them for a long moment.
"Your name, lad. You know mine, 's only fitting tha' I know yours." Jack finally says.
The boy seems torn. "I - My name is...Will."
Will. Simple enough, rolls off the tongue easy. Jack immediately decides he likes it. "Short for William, I imagine. I knew a William once, you remind me an awful lot o' him." Jack feels the burn of curious eyes. He looks, but tries not to stare. The lad sits before him just as naked as the day he was born, all long limbs and pale grace. His head is tilted, dark coils of hair spilling into the dips of his clavicle. "You are very strange." He says quietly.
Jack creeps forward a hairsbreadth. He itches to touch, but holds himself rigid. "'s that a good thing?"
A moment of hesitation. "I - I suppose it is." His cheeks burn in the low light. "I'm just...confused, is all." Will is searching his face intently. "Do you not find me attractive?"
Jack is stunned at such a question. Will is the single most enticing creature he'd ever laid eyes on. He flounders for a crucial second, his lips flapping mutely. "Tha' could not be farther from the truth, I assure you." It scares him, how serious he is. He gives in to the slow fire, and reaches out to touch. Pink skin warms under his hand.
Their eyes meet, kohl and honey. Will frowns. "Then why - ? You do not wish to..." He cannot finish his sentence, and shame colors his face rogue. Jack does the only thing he can think to do. With startling passion, he takes Will in a kiss [slow and hot and wet]. Their lips are searing together like brands, sizzling and popping. His fingers entangle in downy strands, his palm settles in the shallow pitch of a strong back. Their tongues twine like old lovers, and their fronts fuse on a molecular level [or so it seems to him].
Will is caught up in these cracked lips and shiny teeth. His body arches inward, his mind leaves him. This hasn't happened before, this tingling and tightening. He can do little more than breathe and feel something new, because this is new. Jack plunders his mouth with a tender ferocity, claiming yet caring in the same stroke. It's over too soon, and their breath mingles. Will is left wanting.
"'s that what you were waiting for?" Jack murmurs against his mouth. Will shudders at the wash of warm breath.
"I...Yes." He was barely audible and pink in the face.
Jack chuckles. "Bit flustered, are we? Glad to know I 'aven't lost me touch." He puffs up like a peacock. Will closes his eyes, and sucks in a trembling mouthful of balmy air. "I - I have never been...kissed like that." He sounds almost mystified.
Jack blinks. "Must be a trifle better than I gave myself credit for, aye?" He can hear his own ego inflating. Will doesn't open his eyes. "It felt very good." He touches a fingertip to his bottom lip, as though discovering some unexplored territory. Jack frowns at this. "You say that like 's a surprise, mate."
Will very slowly opens his eyes, and the bright pits have gone soft and foggy. "I...Thank you." He says with such heartfelt sincerity, and Jack is rendered mum. He stares and blinks and thinks of something to say. "For what?"
Will looks up sharply, and their eyes meet with a hot sputter. He leans forward, their lips so close, and makes a desperate sound. "Will you touch me? Like that?" He breathes. He takes Jack's hand in his own, and places it over his pounding heart. His red organ beats loud and fast, they can feel it through layers of skin and muscle. Jack feels his own black heart beat a little louder and a little faster.
"You don' need to ask."
They meet like waves and clouds at the precipice of the world. Jack flattens him into the mattress, his hands and mouth searching and tasting and feeling. Will is pliant under him, melting into the sheets like butter. Their lips collide harshly, as though trying to devour. Stubble scratches into soft skin, and teeth draw up sweet blood. Jack fits in between pale and parted thighs, and their hips are crash and roll.
"Hah - nngh! Jack - !" Their groins are nestled close, and Will is teetering. Cotton clothing and cold buttons scrapes over his nakedness, like dry ice. Jack latches onto his neck, mouthing a necklace of purple ownership. Will breathes a wordless plea, and Jack is grinding into him. More, they need more. Jack rears back on his haunches, and tears the elaborate top from his chest. It flutters to the floor, tattered and forgotten. His pants soon join the miserable garment.
Their bodies align and slide. Hardness and the sense of right fills the space between them. Will throws his head back, and cries out that singular name. Jack answers the call with a searing kiss. They're desperate to feel, they rush for more.
"Oil." Jack says gruffly. "Need it."
"Don't need it. Please, just - !" Will is begging him for the ache and fire. Jack pauses, suspended between need and concern. He looks into wild eyes and pink cheeks, and reaches a decision. "Fuck, kid." He grunts, and spits into his hand. Slickening himself with a tight fist, he holds those honeypot eyes. They breathe in the moment, and gaze into the other, searching for a thing neither can name.
Jack lines himself up, throbbing head come to tease that quivering pucker, and stops. He looks for permission, and Will gives a jerky nod. They want this, more than anything. Lacing their fingers like scarlet thread, Jack pushes. Inch by inch, impaling, and Will is in sweet agony. His back bows off the mattress, and a sharp sound escapes him. Jack is there to swallow it up. Their lips meet wetly, slipping and sliding. Jack wraps his arms around Will, and settles within tight heat. It consumes him, sucks him in, and he wants to stay forever.
They join as one, unified and synchronized. "J - Jack!" Will gasps. His eyes shine with tears, and his mouth trembles. He hurts and burns, but it feels like glory. His hands find purchase on tattooed shoulders. "Please move." A whispered plea. Jack blinks back the fuzzy warmth. On instinct alone, he starts to move.
Out. In. And out again. Slow and tiny movements, a gentle rock, because that's all they need. They just want to feel and know and be. It's more than forced obligation or satisfying an urge. It has meaning. Jack thrusts a little harder, and Will cries a little louder. His cock is flushed with fever, sandwiched between their bellies. The friction grows and morphs like something sentient. It seems like hours, lost to each other and this creeping pleasure. Quiet gasps and small moans, butterfly touches and kitten licks.
No words are exchanged. Their tongues and fingertips speak for them. Jack presses desperate kisses to the fine cut of his jaw. Their hips stutter together, as tension builds. A chord pulled taut, stretching and coiling, itching for the explosive slack. Jack buries his face in the juncture of neck and collar, and Will laughs breathily at the tickle of dreadlocks. So close, they're so close. Jack dives in deeper, fucks like a force of nature. The bed smacks the wall, and Will bites back a scream.
Rational thought has abandoned them, as raw emotion floods in shattering splashes. Building and building, they kiss like it will be their last. Tightening in their guts and white lights behind their pupils.
And they fall quietly. Silent sounds and wide eyes, bodies held together by unseen strings. Jack empties himself, and Will feels the warmth splattering his insides. Their chests are sticky with sweat and seed. Satisfaction has never tasted so sweet. They breathe in the afterglow, and stare softly. Lazy kisses and caresses are shared, if only they could stay. Very reluctantly, Jack pulls free.
Jack looks down at the mess they've made, and wants to taste. He saddles down between splayed thighs, and eyes the driblets of glossy white with some savage hunger. He takes Will in hand, exploring the velvet column as though it were precious and new. Pulsing pink, strong veins, bulbous head shining in the candle flame. Will sits up quickly, and makes to stop him. "Y - You don't...have to do that."
Jack bats his hands away. "I wan' to."
He is careful and curious, having never done this. Long licks and a loose grip, but then his confidence swells. He swallows down the spongy head, swirling his tongue and grazing his teeth. Will chokes out his name. He contorts and spasms, and Jack wants more. He pins the narrow hips under a forearm, and sucks the rigid flesh into his throat. "Go - Ahn! Fuck, nngh!" Will throws back like a man possessed. His eyelids flutter, and his thighs quiver. His fingers tear into the sheets.
Jack is in a state of sensory overload. The taste, the smell, the sight, the sound [they crowd around him, and he thinks he might be drowning]. He pumps faster and sucks harder, just to hear his name in that cracked pitch. "Jack! I - I'm - !" And Will is at the edge, but he doesn't stop. He wants more and more and more. Will is pale drug.
Will feels the earth shatter for a second time. His vision is peppered with white and black, and his nerve endings fizzle like stars. He explodes into a hungry mouth, draining him dry. Jack drinks him down, savoring every driblet of bitter warmth. The softening need slips from his mouth, and he chuckles into the crevice of pelvis and inner thigh. Never in a million years would he imagine himself here, in between the legs of another man. There was no regret, only contentment.
"Thank you, Jack." Will says quietly, an arm slung over his red face. "This encounter means very little to you, I imagine you'll have forgotten most of it by morning, but it meant a great deal to me." He peeks out from beneath his arm, and Jack holds his breath. "My body is something to be used, not cherished. I've had many customers, and none have - " He closes his eyes. "I have never felt so - so...good. You were kind, in a place where kindness is rare."
Jack feels his heart breaking. "If you hate this place so much, why stay?" He asks. Will looks at him curiously.
"I am not here by choice. The man who owns this brothel, he owns me just as well. I cannot leave without suffering punishment."
Jack stiffens, his blood promptly icing over. He feels sick, and goddamnit, he needs rum. His teeth grind audibly.
Will curls forward. "Are you alright?" He sounds concerned, and it hurts, because Will doesn't have a choice.
"No! Why didn' you say something? I jus'..." He is stricken and strangled, guilt sloshing in his stomach like seawater.
Will frowns. "I thought you knew! Please do not be upset. Didn't you hear what I said?" He cradles a browned cheek. "You were gentle and kind. You cared about my pleasure, not just your own. That is all I can ask of you, Jack."
"You don' deserve this.T' be trapped in this place, used an' left behind." He spits. Jack is teeming with feeling, and it rocks him. Will shrugs. "Life is not fair. I've learned to live with it." He laughs bitterly. "If only my father could see me now."
Jack shakes his head, and beaded dreads slap his shoulders. "You're father would be right furious, but no' with you. You 'aven't done a damn thing wrong."
Will smiles a little broken. "Maybe. I haven't seen him since I was young." He reaches for the bedside drawer, bruised skin stretched taut over his ribs. Jack feels an inkling of temptation, but shock is quick to prevail. Will pulls a familiar golden trinket from the drawer, and holds it out to him. Jack stares, for lack of anything more coherent. "He sent this to me when I was just a boy. It's all I have left of him."
The medallion plunks into his palm. Jack blinks. The final piece of cursed Aztec treasure, Bootstrap Bill's piece. "Your father, wha' was his name?" He asks.
Will raises a brow, but answers. "William Turner. I was named after him."
Jack suddenly has an idea. "I'm going to rescue you, dear William."