the Dalaverse

Complete and total PWP, and all hannahrorlove's fault. Set in the affectionately named Kiltverse of Brilliant Disguise and Make You Mine

Unrelated: I hated this song until I saw "In America" and now I love it.



Too Many Cooks In the Kitchen


“How, exactly,” said Jack, lifting the paper bag up to eye-level so that he could squint at it, “did we get to this point?”

Will stooped down to run his fingertips across Captain Kidd’s spine. “We were shopping,” he said helpfully, sidestepping to keep from tripping as the cat twined around his feet. “You were very insistent about buying me something, and it turned out to be a gorgeous, way too expensive bomber jacket, for which I’ll be thanking you profusely later tonight –”

“Not that I’ll turn down the thank-you sex,” said Jack, pausing in the kitchen doorway to admire the drape of soft brown leather over Will’s shoulders, “but seeing you in that thing is more than worth it.”

Will’s mouth twisted in pleased embarrassment. “And then we stopped by Mrs. Fields, and that was when you said the impossible.”

“What’s impossible?” Loretta wanted to know, glancing up from where she was scrubbing her hands at the industrial-sized sink.

Jack scowled, dropping the grocery bag onto the island in the middle of the kitchen. “He’s exaggerating.”

“I am not,” said Will. He raised his arm and pointed at Jack’s head. “This man,” he intoned dramatically, “has never made cookies before.”

Loretta did a double-take at her employer. “Haven't you, Mr. Sparrow? I mean, I’ve never seen you do it, granted, but still –”

Perching himself on a stool, Jack crossed his arms over his chest, a mulish look on his face. “What’s the big deal? You cook better than I ever could, and on your days off, I eat out or I order in.”

“It’s un-American,” said Will, shrugging his new coat off. “It’s downright inhuman. Something fancy or from scratch I could understand, but cookies from a mix? Toddlers can handle that, Jack.”

Loretta winked at him. “The kid has a point.”

“I’ve gotten through thir – a good number of years without knowing how to bake,” Jack argued, correcting himself delicately, “and I seem to be doing okay.”

Will hid a smile behind his hand. It wasn’t easy to wound Jack’s pride, but he was so cute when he got offended that Will couldn’t keep himself from pushing. “Well, I want cookies, and I want you to help me make them. Is it okay if we use one of the ovens, Loretta?”

The woman nodded, rolling her sleeves back down. “I’ve got a roast going for dinner in the bottom one, but the rest of the kitchen’s yours. Try not to make too big a mess.” She plucked Will’s new coat from his hands and stage-whispered, “The fire extinguisher’s in the pantry.”

“Oh, ha-ha,” Jack grumbled, slouching in his seat.

Will flicked a dish towel at him. “Shut up and let’s get started. Now, we need a big mixing bowl, and some cookie sheets...” At Jack’s blank look, he sighed and flung open a random cupboard. Just glasses and plates – lower down, maybe.

“Hey,” said Jack, studying the back of the box, “you have any idea how many calories are in a single serving of these puppies?”

Striking out again with the cupboard next to the dishwasher, Will quoted his mother over his shoulder. “Calories in baked goods don’t count if you’re baking for somebody else.”

“But we’re baking these together.”

“Right,” said Will brightly, bending over to pull open yet another drawer, “you’re baking for me and I’m baking for you, so we’re both in the clear.” He waved between his legs to Jack, who was predictably checking out his ass. “Cookie sheets found. Make yourself useful and track down a bowl while I get the stuff from the fridge.”

Five minutes later, the powdery mix was dumped in a stainless steel mixing bowl with the rest of the ingredients spread out next to it across the butcher block. Jack peered at the stuff and poked at a chocolate chip. “Does it taste good like that?”

“It’s not very sweet,” said Will with a shrug.

Jack licked his finger and dipped it into the bowl.

“Jack!” Will protested. “That’s gross!”

“It’s just you and me going to eat them,” Jack said, lifting his hand to his mouth and grinning at Will. “Don’t go squeamish on me now, Turner.”

Huffing, Will glared at him as he flicked out his tongue to taste the cookie dough powder. “Not bad,” he said, studying the ceiling in contemplation. “Now what do we do with it?”

“Follow the directions,” said Will, nodding at the big, cheery panels on the back of the box. “I’ll do the water and the oil –”

Jack cast a significant glance toward the bottle of vegetable oil. “I can’t cook, true, but I’m definitely familiar with that.”

He snickered as Will’s cheeks turned pink, both of them remembering more than one incident of underestimating how dire a late-night snack craving could turn and thus forgetting to take provisions. Busying himself with measuring out the proper amounts, he tried to ignore the broad hand at the small of his back, the chin resting on his shoulder, the warm breath against his ear. Cookies in the oven, then Jack in the bed, if they made it that far.

“Okay, you add the eggs,” he ordered, sidling away from Jack’s attempts to kiss his neck.

Jack took the rebuff as gracefully as he took so many things, Will included, and he hefted one large grade A egg in one hand. “Whatever you say, mon petit cuisinier.” Will watched his browned fingers crack the egg over the edge of the bowl, catch falling bits of shell, toss the remains in the trash. He didn’t wash his hands right away, but stood rubbing the viscous yolk residue between forefingers and thumbs.

Will’s breath caught in his throat. He turned his face away from Jack’s knowing smirk, nudging him over to the sink.

“Now you beat it,” he said when Jack returned, brandishing the whisk. Jack’s eyes lit up, but before he could open his mouth, Will snapped, “No Michael Jackson.”

Jack pouted, tapping the whisk against his chin. “You’re so mean.” He started batting ineffectually at the dough, smearing the egg across the top.

“With some force,” Will said. “It has to be mixed well, or we’ll have weird lumpy cookies.”

“Show me?”

Sighing in exasperation, Will started to reach for the bowl. Jack nabbed each hand in midair, directing Will’s arms around himself, and turned his head to display a perfectly innocent, mock-studious expression.

“You’re the devil,” Will told him. Jack grinned, already well aware of that. He snuggled close as Will’s embrace tightened. Together they cradled the bowl against Jack’s chest, fingers laced together on the handle of the whisk. “Like that,” Will whispered in Jack’s ear, making a firm, smooth circuit around the mess. The movement caused their bodies to rock slightly, Will’s groin pressed to Jack’s backside.

Yeah, they definitely weren’t going to make it to bed this time.

“Let me do it,” said Jack petulantly, and Will released bowl and whisk, sliding his hands down to Jack’s waist. He closed his eyes, tensing as Jack curved sinuously against him. Jack’s hair smelled like flour and warmth.

“Harder,” he murmured, catching Jack’s earlobe between his teeth. Jack obeyed, his narrow hips twisting beneath Will’s fingers. “Till the dough forms – uhhh – stiff – peaks –”

“That’s not on the box,” said Jack out of the corner of his mouth.

Will pushed forward until they were flush against the counter top and he could get some decent leverage. “I’m improvising.”

He whimpered with frustration when Jack turned in his arms, planting the mixing bowl squarely between them. “Want a taste?” Will gazed dumbly at him, erection straining his jeans and his concentration. Jack rolled his eyes in a ‘do I have to do everything around here?’ manner and dragged his finger through the dough. Will’s lips went slack at his prodding, then closed over the sticky digit.

“I want one too,” Jack purred, watching him suck until the sweetness was gone. Spinning them around so that Will was backed up to the island, he thrust the bowl into Will’s hands and sank to the tiles. In a second he had Will’s fly down and his cock out of his boxers, though he didn’t do anything more than hold it lightly. Disappointed, Will hugged the bowl to his breast and trained pleading eyes downward.

Jack chuckled, bracing himself against Will’s thighs. “This shit’s good in ice cream, but I bet it tastes even better this way.” Reaching up, he took a small scoop from the bowl and slathered the dough over Will’s rigid cock.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Will chanted, his voice rising and falling with each swipe of Jack’s tongue, the hint of pressure from his teeth. Through the fog of sugary pleasure, he wondered if anybody have ever used cookie dough as lube before. Sure, it was unsanitary – if raw egg was bad to eat it was probably really bad to put it anywhere else in the body – but the dough got so slick and – “Jack, you bastard –” Chocolate chips, before they melted from the heat of Jack’s mouth and the blood pulsing beneath Will’s skin, went skimming over his shaft like pebbles skipped across a pond –

Sound rumbled deep in Jack’s throat, probably signifying the amusement that struck him whenever he got Will to swear during sex. Will’s knuckles turned white on the rim of the bowl. He clutched it for dear life as the brightly-lit kitchen splintered behind his eyelids and he came with a low cry.

Jack’s mouth softened, gently cleaning the last traces of batter and semen away before he tucked Will back into his pants. Rising, he pried the bowl from Will’s stiff-fingered grip and set it on the counter.

“Think I’m getting the hang of this baking thing?”

Will sagged against him for a moment, reveling in post-coital lassitude. “Not bad, but you could definitely use some more practice.”

“Oh yeah?” Jack nibbled curiously at his neck, tasting the sweat at the edges of his hair.

Fuck salmonella, Will thought, and he grabbed a spoon from the drawer to his left. “Well, we start with cookies –”

“If there’s enough dough left from this batch to make half a dozen,” Jack mumbled around the sweet, sticky mouthful Will was feeding him.

“We’ll save a little. After cookies, though, the possibilities are endless. My grandma’s got a mean shortbread recipe, and there are muffins –”

“Blueberry?”

“If you like. Be quiet, I’m making a list. Muffins, brownies, cornbread –”

“I want to know how to make challah.”

“We’ll look it up. Cake, cupcakes, strudel, pie...” He trailed off, lost in contemplation of Jack painted with cherry pie filling, red stripes across his abs, coating his cock, cherries on each nipple and tucked into his bellybutton...

Jack shifted restlessly against him, knee sliding between his, so he felt the twitch of fresh arousal. Pressing a grin to the corner of Will’s mouth, he bent him back over the counter and wagged the spoon in his face. “As long as you’ll be fucking me instead of the pie.”

“You can pretty much bet on it,” said Will, pulling him down for a Tollhouse-flavored kiss.