a POTC crossover for lizardspots
Author: greyathena
Recipient: lizardspots
Title: Things Harry Will Not Be Telling Hermione
Rating: R
Crossover Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Pairing: Harry/Jack
Warnings: Slash, obviously. Not underage.
Summary: Mostly it's because Jack makes him laugh.
He still hasn't told Hermione. This is, possibly, unforgivable, considering how much time she's spent trying to prove that there are other reliable ways to travel through time, aside from the use of Time Turners. And she doesn't even suspect that it's possible to travel through time and space at once. Or maybe it's only Harry who can do it. The power everyone else knows not. Ha.
The reason he hasn't told her, of course, is that she'd want to come along. In many ways he'd love to see this. For one thing, he does sometimes long for someone else to tell him that it's all real, that he's not dreaming or imagining the baking hot Caribbean sun, the creaking of the wooden ship beneath him, the taste of salt always in his mouth, the hard rope and the ship's biscuits and the crying of gulls. For another, he'd love to see Hermione trying to keep her balance on the rolling waves, fighting the moist salty sea air to keep her hair tamed. He can picture perfectly her studied approach to learning to fence - Will would teach her, and they'd rival each other in the intensity of their lip-biting earnestness - or the color draining from her face when Elizabeth would inevitably try to get her up in the crow's nest.
Less amusing, however, is the certain knowledge that he would like her. He likes everything that's different and interesting, and he'd be very interested to meet yet another painfully upright (to a point), unspoiled, just-waiting-to-be-unleashed English girl . . . and Harry's sorry to admit that he doesn't want the competition. Elizabeth of course isn't really competition - Jack would like to, certainly, but he won't. Because he likes Will and Jack has a strange moral code. There would be no such rule to keep him away from Hermione, though.
"Newt for your thoughts?"
Harry rolls his eyes slowly to the left to take in the reeling pirate, sliding down onto the deck to join him. He's wished more than once that he'd never tried to explain wizarding currency to Jack. The knuts have given them particular trouble. Instead of replying, he conjures a newt and holds it out to Jack.
"Well, bugger me." Jack holds out an unsteady, sun-leathered hand and watches the creature crawl onto it. "There was a time I wouldn't have believed this."
"You and me both," Harry mutters. The bright midday sun is making him sleepy. "Did you ever get a letter from an owl?"
"Got one from a monkey once."
"That's just weird." Lazily, Harry conjures a bowl of fresh water and scoops the newt into it. "It's too bloody hot out here, you know that?"
Jack slaps him on the side. "Then get off the deck, mate."
"And go . . . ?" The idea of being coy is only fluttering at the corners of his mind, but he likes the look of Jack's lazy smile.
"Angling for an invitation to the captain's quarters, eh?"
Jack tastes of rum. This is not a surprise. Jack always tastes of rum. Honestly, there's not much else to drink on the ship except for stale rainwater, and Harry's had enough of the stuff that by now everything tastes like rum. The inside of his own mouth tastes of rum. His sweat. Jack's sweat. The skin of Jack's throat under his tongue is rum and salt combined, and it makes Harry think of the time the twins dragged them to a Muggle bar and tried to convince Hermione to do body shots. Then Jack bites down on Harry's neck and he stops thinking.
The ship pitches and deposits them on the narrow bunk, and Harry wonders if maybe Jack knows a little more about magic than he lets on. Especially because the way Jack's fingers, suddenly fierce and firm despite their tremors, are framing Harry's face and smoothing his eyebrows make it seem as though he's looking into Harry's soul. His black hair is thick and lank and his eyes are probing and his expression is hard and Harry has a few uncomfortable moments where images of Snape invade his mind. But then Jack's kissing him again, and luckily - very luckily - Snape never did that. His shudder is swallowed by Jack's mouth, and the thought of Snape is finally thoroughly vanquished by Jack's hands fumbling with the front of his pants.
"Damn - bloody - buggered future-trousers . . ." Jack grumbles as he tries to figure out the metal button and the zipper, and Harry laughs until his stomach hurts. This is why he keeps coming back - not just for a world in which he isn't the Boy-Who-Lived, or a world in which he can, apparently, do this with whomever he wants and no one will mind - but because Jack makes him laugh.
Oh. And because of what Jack is currently doing with his hand. That too.
"Come on, lad," Jack urges, one hand stroking him to painful hardness while the other tries to rid him of his pants. Harry understands what he wants - he's been here before, after all - and lets his groan escape, lets it slide into the sultry air. He sits up and pulls his shirt over his head, trying to forget that his chest is skinny, pale, hairless, too boyish for eighteen. He thinks of Will and thinks, maybe, Jack doesn't mind that, anyway. And although Jack is doing incredible impossible things right now, Harry remembers what he likes and he pulls Jack down on top of him, not kissing him so much as biting his lip and suckling the salt from his skin. The rough fabric of Jack's pants creates an agonizing, perfect friction against Harry's bare skin and his pulsing erection. He digs his fingers into Jack's hips, pulling him closer, harder, rougher.
"You ever try it with a lass, mate?" Jack asks with a wicked glint in his eye as he slides himself down Harry's body. He's never asked before; for that matter, he's never asked about lads before either.
Harry shakes his head.
"Too bad." Jack's fingers slide in a twisting spiral around and up and down Harry's length. The pirate's kohl-rimmed eyes watch eagerly as Harry's hips arch from the bed. "There's a lot to like."
Harry's only response is to gasp, and Jack cackles and lowers his head into the crook of Harry's thighs. "Bit softer of course," he says nonchalantly. "But also -" His tongue darts out and takes a long lick. "- wetter." Harry cries out desperately as Jack's mouth closes over him.
No, he won't be telling Hermione about this.
Recipient: lizardspots
Title: Things Harry Will Not Be Telling Hermione
Rating: R
Crossover Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Pairing: Harry/Jack
Warnings: Slash, obviously. Not underage.
Summary: Mostly it's because Jack makes him laugh.
He still hasn't told Hermione. This is, possibly, unforgivable, considering how much time she's spent trying to prove that there are other reliable ways to travel through time, aside from the use of Time Turners. And she doesn't even suspect that it's possible to travel through time and space at once. Or maybe it's only Harry who can do it. The power everyone else knows not. Ha.
The reason he hasn't told her, of course, is that she'd want to come along. In many ways he'd love to see this. For one thing, he does sometimes long for someone else to tell him that it's all real, that he's not dreaming or imagining the baking hot Caribbean sun, the creaking of the wooden ship beneath him, the taste of salt always in his mouth, the hard rope and the ship's biscuits and the crying of gulls. For another, he'd love to see Hermione trying to keep her balance on the rolling waves, fighting the moist salty sea air to keep her hair tamed. He can picture perfectly her studied approach to learning to fence - Will would teach her, and they'd rival each other in the intensity of their lip-biting earnestness - or the color draining from her face when Elizabeth would inevitably try to get her up in the crow's nest.
Less amusing, however, is the certain knowledge that he would like her. He likes everything that's different and interesting, and he'd be very interested to meet yet another painfully upright (to a point), unspoiled, just-waiting-to-be-unleashed English girl . . . and Harry's sorry to admit that he doesn't want the competition. Elizabeth of course isn't really competition - Jack would like to, certainly, but he won't. Because he likes Will and Jack has a strange moral code. There would be no such rule to keep him away from Hermione, though.
"Newt for your thoughts?"
Harry rolls his eyes slowly to the left to take in the reeling pirate, sliding down onto the deck to join him. He's wished more than once that he'd never tried to explain wizarding currency to Jack. The knuts have given them particular trouble. Instead of replying, he conjures a newt and holds it out to Jack.
"Well, bugger me." Jack holds out an unsteady, sun-leathered hand and watches the creature crawl onto it. "There was a time I wouldn't have believed this."
"You and me both," Harry mutters. The bright midday sun is making him sleepy. "Did you ever get a letter from an owl?"
"Got one from a monkey once."
"That's just weird." Lazily, Harry conjures a bowl of fresh water and scoops the newt into it. "It's too bloody hot out here, you know that?"
Jack slaps him on the side. "Then get off the deck, mate."
"And go . . . ?" The idea of being coy is only fluttering at the corners of his mind, but he likes the look of Jack's lazy smile.
"Angling for an invitation to the captain's quarters, eh?"
Jack tastes of rum. This is not a surprise. Jack always tastes of rum. Honestly, there's not much else to drink on the ship except for stale rainwater, and Harry's had enough of the stuff that by now everything tastes like rum. The inside of his own mouth tastes of rum. His sweat. Jack's sweat. The skin of Jack's throat under his tongue is rum and salt combined, and it makes Harry think of the time the twins dragged them to a Muggle bar and tried to convince Hermione to do body shots. Then Jack bites down on Harry's neck and he stops thinking.
The ship pitches and deposits them on the narrow bunk, and Harry wonders if maybe Jack knows a little more about magic than he lets on. Especially because the way Jack's fingers, suddenly fierce and firm despite their tremors, are framing Harry's face and smoothing his eyebrows make it seem as though he's looking into Harry's soul. His black hair is thick and lank and his eyes are probing and his expression is hard and Harry has a few uncomfortable moments where images of Snape invade his mind. But then Jack's kissing him again, and luckily - very luckily - Snape never did that. His shudder is swallowed by Jack's mouth, and the thought of Snape is finally thoroughly vanquished by Jack's hands fumbling with the front of his pants.
"Damn - bloody - buggered future-trousers . . ." Jack grumbles as he tries to figure out the metal button and the zipper, and Harry laughs until his stomach hurts. This is why he keeps coming back - not just for a world in which he isn't the Boy-Who-Lived, or a world in which he can, apparently, do this with whomever he wants and no one will mind - but because Jack makes him laugh.
Oh. And because of what Jack is currently doing with his hand. That too.
"Come on, lad," Jack urges, one hand stroking him to painful hardness while the other tries to rid him of his pants. Harry understands what he wants - he's been here before, after all - and lets his groan escape, lets it slide into the sultry air. He sits up and pulls his shirt over his head, trying to forget that his chest is skinny, pale, hairless, too boyish for eighteen. He thinks of Will and thinks, maybe, Jack doesn't mind that, anyway. And although Jack is doing incredible impossible things right now, Harry remembers what he likes and he pulls Jack down on top of him, not kissing him so much as biting his lip and suckling the salt from his skin. The rough fabric of Jack's pants creates an agonizing, perfect friction against Harry's bare skin and his pulsing erection. He digs his fingers into Jack's hips, pulling him closer, harder, rougher.
"You ever try it with a lass, mate?" Jack asks with a wicked glint in his eye as he slides himself down Harry's body. He's never asked before; for that matter, he's never asked about lads before either.
Harry shakes his head.
"Too bad." Jack's fingers slide in a twisting spiral around and up and down Harry's length. The pirate's kohl-rimmed eyes watch eagerly as Harry's hips arch from the bed. "There's a lot to like."
Harry's only response is to gasp, and Jack cackles and lowers his head into the crook of Harry's thighs. "Bit softer of course," he says nonchalantly. "But also -" His tongue darts out and takes a long lick. "- wetter." Harry cries out desperately as Jack's mouth closes over him.
No, he won't be telling Hermione about this.