Swagfic for pigeongirl99
Title: Weathering the Storm
For: pigeongirl99
Author: sparrowhawk723
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Jack/Will
Summary: Jack and Will aboard the Pearl doing what they do best. A PWP in drabbles.
Likes/Requests: Jack/Will, slash, rated 15 or above
Squicks: J/E, graphic het-ness, m-preg
Prompts: squall, escapology, thaw
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, don't make money off 'em.
Notes: Don’t ask me why this is written in second person POV, or in drabbles. I just write what the voices in my head tell me.
A squall is building on the western horizon under a leaden gray sky. You watch the churning clouds, a little uneasy, and contemplate your life. Loneliness is no stranger to an orphaned boy and it's been many years since you belonged somewhere, had a home to call your own. Now you belong here on the Black Pearl an inexperienced sailor but capable enough with a sword. Though your hands still shape exquisite weapons in your sleep, the harsh ringing of hammer and anvil has faded from your ears, replaced by the gentler sounds of wind on sailcloth, waves on wood.
There is nowhere on earth you would rather be than standing at the bow with the wind in your face, the vast ocean before you, an arm's length away from the Pearl’s enigmatic captain. Like a lodestone he draws you irresistibly to him. He’s an even greater mystery than the leagues of tangle-prone lines that control the sails, the innumerable bits and bobs that make up the rigging. You know you can learn the ship inside out given enough time, but it would take more than one lifetime to learn him, were he to allow it. You wish he would.
From the corner of your eye you watch Jack as he stares out beyond the empty horizon where you cannot follow. It’s likely he sees something you cannot see; that much you’ve learned. He is water and air, capricious and changeable, while you are fire and earth, passionate and steadfast. Opposite elements, you two, conflicting or complimentary by turns. You don't understand him, but his understanding of you is unsettling in the extreme. He glances over, unusually thoughtful, and you wonder what he reads in your eyes. Surely he must sense the tension that stretches your nerves tight with anticipation.
He turns to face you, hip propped against the rail. You mirror his pose coolly as if this moment were of little consequence. In truth your heart is pounding a ragged counterpoint to the slap of line on canvas. You know he's been waiting for you all this time. You've followed him into danger before, more than once, although battle, or capture, or the impending storm seem far less dangerous than the steady regard of his gaze. Now you're ready to follow him into the unknown again and he knows it. When he moves toward you, you meet him halfway.
He kisses like he fights -- an unpredictable, calculated assault on your senses -- but the outcome of this particular battle was never in doubt. Without a second thought you allow him to take the lead as you always do, losing yourself as he lets the kiss go on and on until your jaw begins to ache but you would not stop for anything less urgent than cannon fire. You moan softly around his tongue and he answers with something just this side of a growl. If you'd had any remaining doubts, they would have gone up in flames in that instant.
Then he grabs your hand and pulls you toward his quarters. Raindrops have begun to spatter the decks and with a concerned glance at the skies you start to speak, but he interrupts: “Just a squall. No worries.” You’re puzzled by his certainty -- add it to the list of things you don’t understand -- but you’re in no condition to argue. Gibbs has the helm and apparently that’s good enough for Jack. Though you've seen the captain's cabin before, many times, its baroque elegance seems altogether different when the door closes behind you, the bolt shot, and you're alone with him.
While the look in his eyes is predatory, the grin that curves his lips is positively smug. With the careless grace of a hunting cat he advances, but you meet him with greedy mouth, bold hands and hunger of your own. You've surprised him, you think, feeling a little smug yourself, then all rational thought dissolves as he grasps your backside and fits your hips to his and his raw desire is every bit as evident as your own. If it was possible to die of lust, you'd be a dead man now but at least you'd go out smiling.
You want to cover his hands with your own and guide them to the place where all your longing has settled, but to your surprise he drops abruptly to his knees and it's all happening so fast you have to remember to breathe. His deft practiced fingers attack your buttons and he tugs your trousers down, then his hands are rough and intimate gliding up your thighs, making you tremble. You're harder than you've ever been in your life and his face is right there and you can feel his breath hot and humid on overheated skin and then -- oh.
The clumsy tumbles you've had with girls did not adequately prepare you for this. You want to tangle your fingers in his gypsy hair and fuck his mouth with abandon. You want to bury yourself inside him and never ever let go. Intoxicating he is, more than the finest aged rum, and already you know you'll never get enough. You have to close your eyes because the wicked sight of him like that -- lips sealed tightly around your shaft, a knowing smile lingering around the corners of his eyes -- is nearly enough to drive you over the edge too soon.
His eyes flutter open in surprise as you carefully pull away and sink to the floor next to him. His lips are wet and reddened and you kiss him till you're both breathless. He sucks your tongue into his mouth and your cock throbs in empathy, but he is still fully dressed and you haven't so much as touched him and that must be remedied at once. He watches with the faintest trace of amusement as you pounce and eagerly strip off his shirt, then boots and trousers, and he lays himself out on the worn Oriental carpet before you.
His wiry body is a patchwork of scars and tattoos and sun-bronzed skin. You want to learn every inch of him, the taste and texture of each mark and the stories behind them -- but later. First you want to learn what makes him cry out your name. You straddle his lean thighs as your fingers wrap around his stiff yard as if they had a mind of their own. You've never touched another man thus and it's strange and familiar at the same time, less guesswork involved than with a woman because at least you understand what he might like.
Judging by his half-closed eyes and breathy little moans, he likes thrusting up into your tight fist well enough, but you suspect he'd like your mouth on him even more and you waste no time in finding out. It seems you're right and he's quite vocal about it, but you can't spare a thought for his words when you're absorbed in the feel of him on your tongue, silk over steel, and his musky sweet scent. Though you've had no practice at this particular art, you manage well enough and for a while he lets you do as you please.
Then he's tugging at your arm with more than a little urgency, pulling you toward him. You don't know what he wants but you follow, as ever, and let him turn you around, let him take your shaft in his mouth again while you do the same to him. And this, oh this is better yet and you feel as though you'll shatter into a thousand brilliant fragments of lust any second now. He's tonguing you slowly, taking his time, and you hold your breath and manage to hold back somehow. This is almost more than you can stand, almost.
His hands on your hips insist that you move with him, insist that you let him lead and you couldn't resist if you wanted to. You match your rhythm to his in this awkward dance, and although you can't take him as deeply as he's taking you, his soft muffled sounds of pleasure say he's satisfied with your efforts. If you let yourself think about what you're doing, really think about it, you'll lose what little control you have left and so you try not to think about his mouth on you, his cock hot and slick between your lips.
Impossible not to think about it when all you want is to make him come screaming and he's doing his damnedest to make you shoot first. Somehow he's managed to wedge your whole length down his throat, his nose nudging your balls, fingers digging into your arse, and he's not being slow or gentle, not anymore. He pulls back enough to graze your shaft with his teeth and suddenly it's too much. You try to grit out a warning, try to pull away but he won’t let you, and then you're buried deep in his throat again, coming obscenely hard.
You’ve completely forgotten about the rising storm outside, you think, and laugh.
For: pigeongirl99
Author: sparrowhawk723
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Jack/Will
Summary: Jack and Will aboard the Pearl doing what they do best. A PWP in drabbles.
Likes/Requests: Jack/Will, slash, rated 15 or above
Squicks: J/E, graphic het-ness, m-preg
Prompts: squall, escapology, thaw
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, don't make money off 'em.
Notes: Don’t ask me why this is written in second person POV, or in drabbles. I just write what the voices in my head tell me.
A squall is building on the western horizon under a leaden gray sky. You watch the churning clouds, a little uneasy, and contemplate your life. Loneliness is no stranger to an orphaned boy and it's been many years since you belonged somewhere, had a home to call your own. Now you belong here on the Black Pearl an inexperienced sailor but capable enough with a sword. Though your hands still shape exquisite weapons in your sleep, the harsh ringing of hammer and anvil has faded from your ears, replaced by the gentler sounds of wind on sailcloth, waves on wood.
There is nowhere on earth you would rather be than standing at the bow with the wind in your face, the vast ocean before you, an arm's length away from the Pearl’s enigmatic captain. Like a lodestone he draws you irresistibly to him. He’s an even greater mystery than the leagues of tangle-prone lines that control the sails, the innumerable bits and bobs that make up the rigging. You know you can learn the ship inside out given enough time, but it would take more than one lifetime to learn him, were he to allow it. You wish he would.
From the corner of your eye you watch Jack as he stares out beyond the empty horizon where you cannot follow. It’s likely he sees something you cannot see; that much you’ve learned. He is water and air, capricious and changeable, while you are fire and earth, passionate and steadfast. Opposite elements, you two, conflicting or complimentary by turns. You don't understand him, but his understanding of you is unsettling in the extreme. He glances over, unusually thoughtful, and you wonder what he reads in your eyes. Surely he must sense the tension that stretches your nerves tight with anticipation.
He turns to face you, hip propped against the rail. You mirror his pose coolly as if this moment were of little consequence. In truth your heart is pounding a ragged counterpoint to the slap of line on canvas. You know he's been waiting for you all this time. You've followed him into danger before, more than once, although battle, or capture, or the impending storm seem far less dangerous than the steady regard of his gaze. Now you're ready to follow him into the unknown again and he knows it. When he moves toward you, you meet him halfway.
He kisses like he fights -- an unpredictable, calculated assault on your senses -- but the outcome of this particular battle was never in doubt. Without a second thought you allow him to take the lead as you always do, losing yourself as he lets the kiss go on and on until your jaw begins to ache but you would not stop for anything less urgent than cannon fire. You moan softly around his tongue and he answers with something just this side of a growl. If you'd had any remaining doubts, they would have gone up in flames in that instant.
Then he grabs your hand and pulls you toward his quarters. Raindrops have begun to spatter the decks and with a concerned glance at the skies you start to speak, but he interrupts: “Just a squall. No worries.” You’re puzzled by his certainty -- add it to the list of things you don’t understand -- but you’re in no condition to argue. Gibbs has the helm and apparently that’s good enough for Jack. Though you've seen the captain's cabin before, many times, its baroque elegance seems altogether different when the door closes behind you, the bolt shot, and you're alone with him.
While the look in his eyes is predatory, the grin that curves his lips is positively smug. With the careless grace of a hunting cat he advances, but you meet him with greedy mouth, bold hands and hunger of your own. You've surprised him, you think, feeling a little smug yourself, then all rational thought dissolves as he grasps your backside and fits your hips to his and his raw desire is every bit as evident as your own. If it was possible to die of lust, you'd be a dead man now but at least you'd go out smiling.
You want to cover his hands with your own and guide them to the place where all your longing has settled, but to your surprise he drops abruptly to his knees and it's all happening so fast you have to remember to breathe. His deft practiced fingers attack your buttons and he tugs your trousers down, then his hands are rough and intimate gliding up your thighs, making you tremble. You're harder than you've ever been in your life and his face is right there and you can feel his breath hot and humid on overheated skin and then -- oh.
The clumsy tumbles you've had with girls did not adequately prepare you for this. You want to tangle your fingers in his gypsy hair and fuck his mouth with abandon. You want to bury yourself inside him and never ever let go. Intoxicating he is, more than the finest aged rum, and already you know you'll never get enough. You have to close your eyes because the wicked sight of him like that -- lips sealed tightly around your shaft, a knowing smile lingering around the corners of his eyes -- is nearly enough to drive you over the edge too soon.
His eyes flutter open in surprise as you carefully pull away and sink to the floor next to him. His lips are wet and reddened and you kiss him till you're both breathless. He sucks your tongue into his mouth and your cock throbs in empathy, but he is still fully dressed and you haven't so much as touched him and that must be remedied at once. He watches with the faintest trace of amusement as you pounce and eagerly strip off his shirt, then boots and trousers, and he lays himself out on the worn Oriental carpet before you.
His wiry body is a patchwork of scars and tattoos and sun-bronzed skin. You want to learn every inch of him, the taste and texture of each mark and the stories behind them -- but later. First you want to learn what makes him cry out your name. You straddle his lean thighs as your fingers wrap around his stiff yard as if they had a mind of their own. You've never touched another man thus and it's strange and familiar at the same time, less guesswork involved than with a woman because at least you understand what he might like.
Judging by his half-closed eyes and breathy little moans, he likes thrusting up into your tight fist well enough, but you suspect he'd like your mouth on him even more and you waste no time in finding out. It seems you're right and he's quite vocal about it, but you can't spare a thought for his words when you're absorbed in the feel of him on your tongue, silk over steel, and his musky sweet scent. Though you've had no practice at this particular art, you manage well enough and for a while he lets you do as you please.
Then he's tugging at your arm with more than a little urgency, pulling you toward him. You don't know what he wants but you follow, as ever, and let him turn you around, let him take your shaft in his mouth again while you do the same to him. And this, oh this is better yet and you feel as though you'll shatter into a thousand brilliant fragments of lust any second now. He's tonguing you slowly, taking his time, and you hold your breath and manage to hold back somehow. This is almost more than you can stand, almost.
His hands on your hips insist that you move with him, insist that you let him lead and you couldn't resist if you wanted to. You match your rhythm to his in this awkward dance, and although you can't take him as deeply as he's taking you, his soft muffled sounds of pleasure say he's satisfied with your efforts. If you let yourself think about what you're doing, really think about it, you'll lose what little control you have left and so you try not to think about his mouth on you, his cock hot and slick between your lips.
Impossible not to think about it when all you want is to make him come screaming and he's doing his damnedest to make you shoot first. Somehow he's managed to wedge your whole length down his throat, his nose nudging your balls, fingers digging into your arse, and he's not being slow or gentle, not anymore. He pulls back enough to graze your shaft with his teeth and suddenly it's too much. You try to grit out a warning, try to pull away but he won’t let you, and then you're buried deep in his throat again, coming obscenely hard.
You’ve completely forgotten about the rising storm outside, you think, and laugh.