Fic: Scars (Will/James)
Fandom: POTC
Disclaimer: I don't own POTC.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Will/James
Summary: Will and James share their scars aboard the Flying Dutchman.
Title: Scars
It’s cool comfort at first, though their bodies do burn with a fire that will not be satisfied. Neither would have been able to predict, when they were alive, that one touch from the other would one day be able to wreak such exquisite havoc on their senses, hands drawing sharp notes on the shallowness of their skins, louder than the thundering cords of the organ rising up against the bulwark behind them. Their undead bodies have no need for sleep or food, yet they hunger after something far more precious, a want that howls at them from the great emptiness that remained in their souls after loosing that fragile state called life. James's heart stopped beating long ago, his new body only an entity created to give him solid form. Will's heart still beats, but it’s an ocean away, leaving nothing but bone and ash to craft an emotion that has no sense without its core. Perhaps it's loneliness that draws them together. Perhaps it's simply lust. The two meld together as they let their bodies guide them, never talking. Actions have always worked better than words between the two of them.
James moans under Will's hands as his new captain instructs him in the ways of sodomy, an art learned from another captain in different waters. James proves himself an eager student, and soon they are intimately acquainted with every part of each other’s bodies, know every scar the other bears, each wound reawakening under the other’s stroking fingers, the pain it caused reflected in eyes that flash like mirrors for a brief moment. When Will strokes the cut that claimed James's life, he does so with the greatest care, barely brushing it with the tips of his fingers. James watches him silently, wondering at the softness of Will’s mouth as he kisses a spot just to the side of it, avoiding the scar itself. James mimics his hesitation when he touches the long, ragged ridge on Will's chest, lingering on the line just above where his heart used to be. This one is different, a short, straight cut, the place where James's sword ripped inside, and though it was driven by Jones's hand and not his own, the fact that the sword was his linked them together in a way that he would never have wished for.
They are marked men, cursed by fate to a life without end. They lose themselves, floating on an unfathomable ocean that thrums in their blood as their passion reaches its peak and they fall, each time collapsing into each other like a tidal wave breaking on the shore, sweeping away everything that had once stood there, leaving nothing but wet sand. Each time they separate with more hesitation, more unwillingness to leave that shared abyss that threads their souls together with each frenzied touch, each kiss holding just a bit more warmth than the last. They linger until the orange flame of the lamp fades away or the brilliant white rays of the unnatural sun glimmer through the stern windows.
Neither speaks of it, though each suspects that the other one knows. The sun no longer feels cold.
Disclaimer: I don't own POTC.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Will/James
Summary: Will and James share their scars aboard the Flying Dutchman.
Title: Scars
It’s cool comfort at first, though their bodies do burn with a fire that will not be satisfied. Neither would have been able to predict, when they were alive, that one touch from the other would one day be able to wreak such exquisite havoc on their senses, hands drawing sharp notes on the shallowness of their skins, louder than the thundering cords of the organ rising up against the bulwark behind them. Their undead bodies have no need for sleep or food, yet they hunger after something far more precious, a want that howls at them from the great emptiness that remained in their souls after loosing that fragile state called life. James's heart stopped beating long ago, his new body only an entity created to give him solid form. Will's heart still beats, but it’s an ocean away, leaving nothing but bone and ash to craft an emotion that has no sense without its core. Perhaps it's loneliness that draws them together. Perhaps it's simply lust. The two meld together as they let their bodies guide them, never talking. Actions have always worked better than words between the two of them.
James moans under Will's hands as his new captain instructs him in the ways of sodomy, an art learned from another captain in different waters. James proves himself an eager student, and soon they are intimately acquainted with every part of each other’s bodies, know every scar the other bears, each wound reawakening under the other’s stroking fingers, the pain it caused reflected in eyes that flash like mirrors for a brief moment. When Will strokes the cut that claimed James's life, he does so with the greatest care, barely brushing it with the tips of his fingers. James watches him silently, wondering at the softness of Will’s mouth as he kisses a spot just to the side of it, avoiding the scar itself. James mimics his hesitation when he touches the long, ragged ridge on Will's chest, lingering on the line just above where his heart used to be. This one is different, a short, straight cut, the place where James's sword ripped inside, and though it was driven by Jones's hand and not his own, the fact that the sword was his linked them together in a way that he would never have wished for.
They are marked men, cursed by fate to a life without end. They lose themselves, floating on an unfathomable ocean that thrums in their blood as their passion reaches its peak and they fall, each time collapsing into each other like a tidal wave breaking on the shore, sweeping away everything that had once stood there, leaving nothing but wet sand. Each time they separate with more hesitation, more unwillingness to leave that shared abyss that threads their souls together with each frenzied touch, each kiss holding just a bit more warmth than the last. They linger until the orange flame of the lamp fades away or the brilliant white rays of the unnatural sun glimmer through the stern windows.
Neither speaks of it, though each suspects that the other one knows. The sun no longer feels cold.