the Dalaverse

Oh fabu! H/C for to cheer you up! AND IT'S PORNY.

J/W, set during the trip back to Port Royal. I'm kind of stick in the movie right now.



Last Request



It was dark in the little room – cabin, Will corrected himself – into which he and Jack had been thrown, and it smelled of mildew. But at least they weren't shackled, Jack had reasoned, rubbing his wrists, lip curling at the memory of cold steel chafing them. That had been in the daytime when a thin rectangle of light had stretched across the bottom of the doorjamb, enough at least to see the wall three paces ahead and Jack’s face turned to the side. Now he could see nothing, and as they hadn’t spoken in an hour, he only knew Jack was still there by the sound of his breathing.

“I saw a hanging once,” said Will, the silence finally snapping his last nerve. “When I was a boy. Two men accused of inciting a mutiny aboard a naval ship.” He closed his eyes purely out of reflex, for the darkness was so total he could already see the bodies jerking in the corners of the tiny space, their darkened faces, their wailing women, the stains across the seats of their trousers. “My mother slapped me when she found out I’d gone.” He touched a hand to his cheek, soothing a phantom sting twelve years old.

Jack said nothing, but a hand suddenly drifted over Will’s kneecap, closing lightly.

“It’s stupid, isn’t it?” he whispered, shifting his foot until his anklebone met the other man’s thigh. Of course it was – of course he was, as Jack was so fond of reminding him. “To so recently have had a knife at my throat, forty men screaming for my blood, and yet now...”

Now he saw a sea of faces gazing up at him, waiting for the drumroll with bated breath. Now he inhaled the stale air quickly and shallowly, imagining the wooden planks closing in like the coffin for which he was bound. Now he had his sweat-stained kerchief knotted around his wrist because it burned his neck like thick, rasping rope.

The hand traveled up his thigh until it found two mates clenched in his lap. “‘F you wish to repent, young William, I daresay you’ll find me more forgiving than any priest hereabouts.”

“No,” said Will, after a beat because he realized Jack couldn’t see him shaking his head. That was it, really – he didn’t regret how he’d gotten here, no matter how the thought of execution froze his blood.

Floorboards and worn-out leather creaked as Jack leaned forward, steadying himself by gripping Will’s shoulders.

He didn’t regret his actions because of Elizabeth – because Elizabeth –

“Easy, lad,” Jack murmured, stilling Will’s instinctive flinch and the faint trembling into which it subsided, along his limbs, deep in his chest.

Just the thought of her had kept him – not only kept him afloat when things looked worse, but kept his feet firmly on the ground that night in Tortuga when they’d gone looking for Gibbs down empty alleys, when he’d accepted a taste of rum and finally understood the look – the curious burnt spark in Jack’s eyes as he swayed just a bit too close and curled his fingers around Will’s around the flask. That had been the moment, and he had been tangled in it as surely as a piece of gilt rubbish tangled in black elflocks, until he’d thought again of Elizabeth and taken a hasty step back.

Jack was touching his face now, tucking bedraggled curls behind one ear, clucking his tongue.

Elizabeth, always Elizabeth – safe now, as he’d fought and bled and broken countless laws for. The governor’s precious only child, the commodore’s bride-to-be. Both posts requiring that she be present to watch him die beside the pirate who’d been a friend to his father.

“Will.” Jack’s voice sounded heavy and hollow, devoid of its usual rich color. “For what little it may be worth, I’m s–”

“Shut up,” said Will, his own voice rough. The tension coiled in his belly and he reached out in the darkness, knocking Jack in the head and finding his mouth in time to cut off his curses. For a moment Jack’s lips pressed flat against his own, immobile. He could feel a blink of surprise, dark lashes fluttering against his cheek. Then Jack’s tongue pushed into his mouth, slick and warm and he didn’t care about the taste because to his mind it was all ashes anyway.

Jack twisted like a serpent, shoving him back against the bulkhead as he interspersed kisses with nibbles and licks and soft moans that banished all thoughts from Will’s mind except those of his stiffening cock. Need as blind as his tightly-shut eyes guided his hands to Jack’s narrow hips, which twitched as Jack obligingly shifted closer. Give and take and want left them with a knee between Will’s thighs, an erection pressed down against him, fingers fumbling at the fastenings on his breeches. They’d been so thoroughly soaked recently that the buttons gave even nimble Jack Sparrow trouble, thus giving Will a moment to think.

“Wait,” he breathed, searching for the gleam of Jack’s eyes even when there was no light to reflect.

Jack huffed with impatience but drew his hands away, sent them tapping up Will’s torso to clasp either side of his face. “Don’t want t’ go out a virgin, d’you?” Despite the warning bells clanging in his head, something in Will’s throat clenched at the note approaching a plea. To see someone like Jack need something like this, even with all his bravado, all his madness...

Will had started this, after all – tonight and back in Port Royal. You reap what you sow, the good book said, among other things he chose to ignore at this particular juncture.

So he kissed Jack again, helped him get both their breeches open, and sucked in a ragged breath when Jack’s hand closed around his hard flesh.

“Shhh, don’t want you drawin’ company,” Jack hissed, stroking him with an expert flick of the wrist. Every nerve in Will's body went taut with pleasure, but it hardly seemed like it would be enough, given Jack's history. Will had only the vaguest idea of what might be expected of him now, an inkling of spread legs and drawn-up knees, but Jack didn’t seem interested in moving him into a more suitable position, only rocked against him in the same sure rhythm. In a way it was a relief, because carrying things further would surely be painful, yet at the same time he suspected he might not have minded so much. He thought back to that moment in the alley and found himself wishing he’d taken the not-quite-proposition, even with the certainty of being sore and guilt-ridden afterwards. It hardly seemed to matter now.

He bit down on his tongue at a new sensation – Jack thrusting hot and hard against him, his hand squeezing them both. The ache in his body started to pulse faster, stronger, and his heart beat so loudly he couldn’t hear his own gasping breaths, though he could feel the burn of Jack’s exhalations against his mouth, his ear, his neck.

Always before he’d sought this edge alone, with thoughts of pale creamy thighs and soft breasts but no one’s face. He wouldn’t have dared. Now he rubbed frantically against Jack and pictured his head thrown back, his mouth fallen open, his throat working. He couldn’t see it, but he could raise his hands and touch Jack’s face, trace with his fingertips the transition from grin to grimace and back again. And he knew Jack was beautiful even if he’d never thought of him quite as such, and that was enough.

Whenever he fantasized about Elizabeth, she smiled at him and she said, “I love you, Will,” or “How can I possibly thank you, Will?” or “Don’t ever leave me, my darling Will.” She said his name often, because he thought she said it so gracefully, but she’d never said it like this before – drawn out and velvety and almost a purr – a growl as Jack’s hand tightened convulsively and his hips rolled faster.

Then – then very quiet and plain, just “Will,” just like that, assurance that he was here and he was breathing and he was coming with whimpers tucked into the corner of Jack’s mouth; he was making Jack gasp hard and shudder and spill more wetness between their bodies.

“Oh,” Will whispered. So that was what it was like.

Jack slumped against him, fingers still wound around their spent cocks. He didn’t move for what felt like a long time, long enough for the chill of memory to seep back into Will’s bones.

“Jack,” he said, swallowing past a suddenly dry throat.

“Hmm?” Jack replied fuzzily, but he lifted his head. Untying the scarf from Will’s wrist, he swiped them both clean and tossed the soiled bit of cloth into the corner, which was all of two feet away.

He settled down next to Will, propped comfortably against his side. “We should reach Port Royal on the morrow,” he said in a conversational tone.

Will nodded, his eyes hot and grainy as if he’d been ill. He’d let his head fall onto Jack’s shoulder and was dozing when Jack spoke again.

“Did that help, mate?”

He answered this question by hooking an arm around Jack’s waist. The pirate chuckled and kissed the top of his head.

When he woke in the morning, Jack was once again sitting against the opposite side. Before Will had time to do anything more than squint at him through the gloom, the door opened and a lieutenant helped him to his feet, drawing him up before Governor Swann, Commodore Norrington, and a strangely gleeful Elizabeth. Will stared at the three of them in confusion.

“Knew you’d get off,” said Jack smugly. Will glanced over his shoulder. Jack winked, pulled his bandana over his eyes, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Jack hummed when they told Will he was free, but all Will wanted to do was sink to the deck and bury his head in his arms. He stood at the rail until he could get himself under control again, gripping it with white-knuckled hands.

It was simple, really. He'd just gotten a day or so of respite, and a whole new motivation.