the Dalaverse

::points at monkeypuzzle:: This is totally all your fault.

The Jack/Will companion to Regarding Cowrie Shells and Rum. NC-17 up against a wall. Yeah, and it's not the happiest sex in the world. Just a warning. And then I'm going to do a Norrington/Groves and have myself a little trilogy. Never written commodore/lieutenant before, should be interesting. Anywho...



Regarding Back Alleys and Amnesty


“I don’t see Elizabeth,” Will complains, squinting into the dark alley.

“Swear I caught a glimpse o' her hair,” Jack replies. A dog whines somewhere nearby, nearly drowned out by the sounds of the tavern at his back.

Which suddenly become dim and muffled. Will spins around, seeing Jack’s hand on the newly shut door. At the look on the other man’s face, his throat goes dry and his breeches grow tight.

“Jack...” he says with a force he doesn’t feel. Jack ignores him, advancing until Will’s back hits the wall and he can retreat no further. He swallows hard, closing his eyes and cursing his body’s reaction to Jack’s proximity.

Jack’s breath puffs warm against his cheek. “Once more.” His voice is low and smooth, as seductive as the first time he took Will to his bed only two days after they set sail. “Just once more an’ then I’ll let you go.”

If temptation had a face, it would be Jack Sparrow’s grin, his twinkling eyes, the way his brow smooths out when he’s about to say something unexpectedly sincere. If a body then his body, hard and brown and lean-muscled, painted with scars and tattoos. Hands – hands roving surely all over Will, stroking him, shaping him into some new thing he never imagined he could be. And his mouth...God, his mouth is the gravest sin of all. Lips that not only kiss and suck and nibble, but know which Will needs at any given moment. Tongue that spreads to lap him or wraps itself wetly around him. Teeth clashing against his own, white peppered with slick gold.

That face hovers before his own now, body drawing close, mouth skimming the stubbled surface of his cheek.

“We can’t,” he says, opening his eyes and trying to keep them stern.

Jack cocks his head and shrugs. “But we have already, love.” The endearment, dropped less casually than is his custom, is accompanied by a hand slipping down Will's belly to cup him through his clothing. Will breathes in sharply though his nose. His hands scrabble at the rough stone behind him.

“This is different.” His voice cracks as Jack’s fingers squeeze around his hardening cock. He is aware of Jack intently studying the bob of his throat when he gulps. “Elizabeth –”

Jack interrupts him with a chuckle, though there is no humor in his eyes. “Wouldn’t the lass be cross if she knew what her swain’d been up to whilst she waited in her solar.”

Back stiffening, Will clutches Jack’s hand. “Is that a threat?” Panic makes him speak harshly and grip tighter than he means. Jack squirms, eyes shifting to the wall behind Will’s head.

“Heaven forfend I should interfere with young love,” Jack mutters. He frowns at Will’s fingers digging into the soft flesh between his wrist bones. “Turn me loose, dear William, or you will be returned to the lady’s arms a eunuch in truth as well as reputation.”

Will knows that this is as good an assurance as he’s going to get, and releases him. Jack leans back for a moment as though he intends to move away, then like a wave being drawn back to shore he settles himself against Will once more. His chin drops to rest on Will’s shoulder, and not even the thought of Elizabeth can keep Will from slipping arms around his slender waist. It would serve him right if Jack does tell her. Secrets so dark as theirs are no way to start off a life together, even if they never quite get around to a wedding.

He tries to think of something he might say, some excuse he might make. I was lonely. I was drunk. I would never sully my love for you by going to a brothel. I tripped, Jack kept me from falling overboard, and my virginity was the cost of the favor. Each is as close to the truth as he is willing to get, but he knows nothing he can say will explain his behavior, and nothing he can do will atone for it.

Over and over he has betrayed her, in body and – whispered in a quiet corner of his mind where he can almost ignore it – in heart. And Jack is looking at him again, eyes big and limpid, something fearfully young about the set of his mouth. His hands mold themselves to Will’s hips, still marked with fading bruises though it has been three days since Will left the captain’s cabin to sleep in the crew’s quarters. When need for the touch he’d had so regularly overwhelmed him and he took himself in hand, he tried to think of Elizabeth. But then he’d run his own fingers over the marks, imagine the man who left them instead of the woman he was meant to have, and he would bite his lip to shreds in an effort to keep from screaming.

Jack probes the still-tender flesh of his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue.

What’s one final betrayal, in the end? Will this surrender really condemn him any more than the others?

Shame freezes his blood in his veins, but Jack makes him thaw, makes him burn, as Will yields to the gentle pressure and kisses him.

There’s little else to the preamble, only sharp nips at his neck, his exposed throat. Inflaming though they are, Will manages to remember the dark purple color they’ll turn. Fingers threaded through Jack’s hair, he gives a short tug. Jack kisses his collarbone in apology before grabbing onto his waistcoat for leverage and sinking to the ground. He gets Will’s breeches open with fumbling fingers. Will lets out a gasp at the speed of it; before he can so much as move, Jack has taken him all the way in. His throat works a whore’s rhythm, tongue pressed flat against Will’s shaft. They’ve taken their time doing this before, often until somebody is jabbering senseless pleas, but Jack is clearly uninterested in such deliberation tonight. Will trembles and jerks and tries not to choke him, biting down on the knuckles of one hand to keep from making too much noise. His other hand twists into Jack’s black hair. The long white bone pokes the calluses at the bases of his fingers, making him flinch. Looking up, Jack gags once on his burden before he can adjust to the new angle. Will relaxes his grip, slides his hand down to frame one side of Jack’s face. The cheek beneath his palm hollows as Jack sucks harder, his eyes narrowed to watch Will lose every last vestige of control he has ever fought to possess. Will’s lids fall shut and he comes, stifling his own cries, fingertips stroking the soft patch of skin behind Jack’s ear.

Dazed, he is barely aware when Jack finishes swallowing and hauls himself to his feet. He captures Will’s mouth in a quick, messy kiss that tastes of rum and tears and Will’s own seed, before turning him around.

He braces himself with his arms, letting his head fall forward against the cool brick. Jack drops his own breeches to his knees and presses briefly against Will’s backside, moaning, then bares him from the waist down as well. Will is relieved when he pulls the familiar flask of oil from a pocket, though in truth he’d have let Jack take him without it. There isn’t much he wouldn’t do right now, as long as it means he doesn’t have to leave this embrace just yet.

Jack pushes into him with a few dampened fingers, not quite carelessly, but as if he finds it difficult to concentrate. His breathing is likewise impatient, restless like his hips shifting behind his hands. Will spreads his legs, saying hoarsely, “Jack, now - you can –”

With a growl Jack takes hold of his old finger-bruises and thrusts in. His first few strokes are too rough, too hasty, but he catches himself at Will’s involuntary whimper. With a shudder he goes still. Resting his cheek between Will’s shoulder blades, he reaches to grasp Will’s spent cock, closes his fingers around it like it’s a holy relic.

“All right?” His voice is hushed.

Will can only nod, chest heaving, head throbbing. Jack starts to move again, tiny precise undulations of his hips, while his open mouth melts against Will’s neck. Gradually the burn fades. Swelling again from Jack’s hand on him, Will turns his face to the side and says his name. Jack groans low in his throat, speeds up, rubs against that precious spot deep inside. Will pushes up onto the balls of his feet with each thrust, dropping down again when Jack draws back. His hands get scraped by the stone as he clutches at it, but he doesn’t feel the pain. Doesn’t feel it, doesn’t think about it, doesn’t think about anything except Jack and how this is the last time he’ll ever get to feel this way. He gave his word – his word to Elizabeth, and his body must belong to her as well, no matter that Jack has stolen it for the moment.

Commandeered, he thinks, and his burst of laughter turns into a dry sob that tears his throat. Jack wraps his free arm around Will’s waist and whispers soothing things to him. It takes him a few heartbeats to realize that he is saying just one word and that his voice is so raw and desperate he might as well be pleading. He might be praying, for that matter, but Will can’t think of a god who’d listen to either of them now.

He lays one forearm against the wall, letting the other one drop to cover Jack's at his middle. He laces their fingers together as he spills into Jack’s hand. Jack presses him forward, a final “Mine” escaping his lips before he bites down on the nape of Will’s neck.

“Yours,” Will mouths against his own sweaty arm, tasting grit from the alley wall. Jack’s hips give one last twitch. Then he doesn’t move for long, long moments. Will swallows the blood from his bitten lips.

Finally Jack pulls out with a hiss through his teeth, though he still leans most of his weight on Will. “Sorry,” he says softly.

Will can’t even begin to think of how he should reply to that.

“Now you’re gonna smell like me when we meet her,” Jack explains, running a hand up to his chest and back down his belly. “Taste like me.”

“I’ll have a bath,” Will answers thickly, though he is thinking that he’ll never manage to get Jack out of his skin.

Elizabeth, to Will’s eternal surprise, greets them bearing a few marks of her own and a scent nothing like the French perfume she used to wear.

Hours later, the filth of Tortuga has washed off from a dip in the ocean but a new sheen of sweat is making him stick to Jack wherever they touch. The heat slowly encroaches upon his pleasant torpor and he fidgets in Jack’s arms. “Jack, love, let go for a moment.”

Jack responds by wrapping both shaky legs around him. Chin set firm, he shakes his head. “Not a chance in hell, whelp.”

Will sighs in mock resignation, having no real aversion to being the focus of Jack’s stubborn monkey-like clinging. In the spare cabin next door, a woman’s voice soars in a triumphant yell, overcoming the sound of creaking springs.

“Goddamn noise-makers,” Jack grumbles just before he abruptly falls asleep and starts up an abominable snore.