New POTC fic: "Get the Point?"
Title: Get The Point?
Pairing: J/W
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. I am making no profit from their depiction or representation.
Summary: Jack learns how to deliver a proper apology … and Will learns how to accept it. Which, they’ll probably forget the next time they quarrel.
Author's Notes: Written for heartofslash for the Summer Swagfest 08 at raise_the_dead (go over and read the others!). Thanks to my beta metalkatt.
Jack settled himself at the stern of a small boat, as usual, and waited for Will to climb in.
“You have to be putting me on.”
“Pardon me?”
Will rested his hands on his hips, feet apart on the pier, looking out toward the Pearl and not down at Jack this time. “You expect me to row?”
Jack gave a little snort. “You always row, mate.”
“I usually get to wear my own sword, too.”
“Let’s not confuse matters, William. You row, and-”
“I’m not confused, Captain. You lost me in a poker game.”
“Your services, sir - I wagered your services as a blacksmith.” He cleared his throat. “My ship’s blacksmith, if memory serves.”
Said blacksmith lowered his gaze to said floundering captain, brown eyes squinted even at night as they bored into Jack. “I had to give up my sword to save your neck.”
“For which I am eminently grateful and prepared to provide me own services,” Jack glibly answered, leaning back and grinning.
That made Will laugh; Jack wasn’t sure he liked the tone. “Services, Jack?” He hunkered down and eyed the oars, then slanted his eyes again at Jack. “You can start by taking over this odious duty.”
When it was clear Will wasn’t moving, Jack stood and moved to the fore seat; only after he’d taken up the oars did Will apparently satisfy himself and drop into the boat, taking the captain’s former seat. He stretched out his long legs, deliberately taking the bulk of the shared space between them.
Jack forced his feet into a couple of small spots where he could brace while rowing. “Would His Majesty be requiring a velvet footstool for the journey yon?” he asked, tightly.
Will’s expression was one of affected blandness, telling nothing. “Row, tar.” Jack picked up the oars, muttering a lot of nothing under his breath. “What was that?” Will asked, sharply.
“Nothin’.”
“Sounded like a lot of something.”
“If t’were something to hear, you wouldn’t have t’ ask about it, would you?” He pulled a couple of times, bringing the boat about into position. “You’d have heard.”
They went a distance, and Will casually said, “Must be much easier to row without a sword sticking in your side.”
Jack pointedly eyed the blade in Will’s baldric, that had been on his own hip less than thirty minutes earlier. When the smith had been informed Jack had gambled away his services for a fine sword, and that the dirty bugger and his chums were waiting around at the tavern for proof of said blacksmith’s existence upon Will’s arrival, he had archly reminded Jack they were sailing on the morrow and a sword took considerably more time than overnight to conjure.
“Could give me mine back and find out,” Jack now suggested.
“What ‘bout that one ‘aight there?” the dirty bugger had suggested, pointing at Will’s baldric. “Looks like just da kind I’d fancy.”
Jack had merely arched a brow and glanced coolly up at Will, who’d been standing at the side of his rickety chair. The smith had been borderline apoplectic. “What say you, Mr. Turner?”
“Could.” Will leaned back a bit, crossing his ankles. “Won’t.”
Despite himself, Jack appreciated the way Will’s shirt stretched across his belly and lower chest when his broad shoulders threw back. “You can make another sword,” he pointed out. “A better one.” He remembered Will’s pledge of the Interceptor to Anamaria - a ship that had not been his to give - now, with a certain glee.
Will’s jaw had worked, grinding for a moment before he looked down at Jack. The casual observer saw a confirming, tiny nod; Jack saw a whole lot of nights spent with the charm and company of his own right hand, which number notched up as soon as Will handed his sword over and grubby hands began smudging the painstakingly-tempered blade.
“True.” Will’s tone was equable, making Jack blink in surprise. “I am capable of better now.”
Feeling buoyed, Jack smiled. “Knew you’d warm up to th’ idea.”
“Of course, I’ll have to sketch it out, first,” Will continued. “Find a good pommel design. Gather the right materials.”
His tone was too calm, too agreeable. Jack could have sworn he heard the thunderclap in the background, and with a sinking feeling suddenly saw even more nights getting to know his own palm. “Don’t need that much time,” he muttered.
Will said nothing more, but Jack was sure he saw a slight smirk replace the bland expression as they approached the Pearl.
*****
That night, Will volunteered to take the watch while Jack slept. When he relieved the smith after dawn, Jack noticed he descended toward his forge in the hold, not toward the cabin. Through disembarking and catching the wind through that day, Jack only saw him long enough to help loose the lines and raise the sails. That night, presumably Will slept on his old pallet in the forge, the one he’d broken in long before he started keeping time in the captain’s bed.
When two more days passed with only casual looks from Will and no words beyond those necessary for reporting minutiae, he knew it was on his head to smooth this over. Dipping into his own private stash, he gave some to Maxi the cook to concoct hot chocolate, which he poured into a beautiful stolen silver urn and left in the forge with a small bead from his hair as its calling card. He then waited to graciously accept Will’s apology for distemper.
Instead, Will brought the urn to mess that evening and announced he was giving each crewman a small cup for their assistance in helping him fashion a new blade, by keeping their own repairs until he was done. He said nothing of Jack’s contribution as each man took his share with a nod or a hearty “aye, thank ye, lad” to Will himself. The smith beamed, pleased to please the crew; Jack left the galley halfway through, rolling his eyes and heading back to the helm.
That night, he found an empty urn and an empty bed in his cabin.
The next day, he belatedly remembered Will hadn’t been so fond of the chocolate the one time Jack had been in possession to share some. Determined, he took a lantern into the hold and went through inventory until he found the crate of freshly-picked oranges. Selecting a few of the very best, he wrapped them in his sash for carrying and took them to the forge when Will wasn’t there - once again, he left them arranged in a shallow dish on Will’s pallet, with a blue bead this time.
That night, Jack found empty fruit peels in the center of his still-empty bunk.
“Whelp has a sense of humor,” he muttered to himself, getting undressed. “Mebbe that’s the trick.” He yanked off his second boot; instead of dropping it to the floor, he held it up, scrutinizing it. He glanced at the table on the other side of the cabin, remembering another set of boots, the only thing a certain blacksmith had worn one very memorable evening far too long ago while in the company of his eager captain.
The next afternoon, after Jack had made another trip to the forge and actually left a note this time bearing a single word, he was discussing sail-mending with Benjamin when Will burst up on deck, Jack’s worn boot in one hand and a small piece of parchment in the other. As he crossed, Jack’s breath caught, hopeful. It had been days since they’d spoken more than punctually, and he’d noticed his own mood on a steady decline for lack of companionship. Besides, too, his palm was beginning to chafe something awful.
Will shook the paper at him. “Booty?” he repeated.
A crooked, fond smile on Jack’s part as he tilted his head. “Just a suggestion, mate.”
“This is what I’m worth?” Now he shook the boot. “Your old pair?”
“That’s my favorite pair!” Jack was sore now, dammit; he was wearing the stiffer, newer black boots Will had made him actually pay for from a cobbler.
“One boot?”
You need two to make a pair, you arsehole! he wanted to holler. Bloody damn stupid tradesman who couldn’t see romance if it whacked him in the head … “It’s symbolic,” he said instead, through gritted teeth.
“Of what? Your dirty feet? Wait.” He held up a hand. “Foot, sorry.” He held it to his nose and made a show of inhaling the interior, pulling a face. “Sorry, Jack. It, like you, needs a bath.”
“Mr. Turner-” But Jack was cut off as Will crossed to the rail several feet away and dropped the boot over the side. “WHAT?” Jack ran over, skidding into the rail, seeing the tiny splash made by the boot before it bobbed down by the hull. “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO THAT FOR?”
“I told you, it stinks.” Will’s jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed.
Jack’s mouth worked, and he finally belted out, “That was my good boot, you idiot! The ones I like!”
“Well, you still have one left, don’t you?” Now Will had raised his voice, as well. “That’s one more sword than I have!”
Jack ignored the surrounding crewmen, thoroughly fit to be tied into a rage. “This is insubordination!”
“What? A spurned gift?” Will snorted, nostrils wide. He tossed his head, and it was a mark of Jack’s horniness that a couple of flying curls escaping Will’s hair tie sent him into mental paroxysms of imagining them trailing along his balls.
“You can make another sword! Where th’ achin’ hell am I supposed to pick up another pair of boots like that?” he demanded.
“I don’t know! What dead body did you scavenge that off of?” Will grinned ferally. “Maybe he’s got a brother you can run through for another pair!”
Jack pulled himself to his full height - still shorter than Will, but imbued with a silent, dangerous air. Will and the rest of the crew knew this was a sore point, that Jack would never kill anyone for their possessions - throw them over the side into a longboat, yes. Knock them out, yes. But they’d all seen Jack leave gentlemen their wigs and ladies their pendants, when other pirates would murder them on the spot for a bauble.
Coldly, Jack gave the order. “Mr. Turner, you will check the bilges and pump them completely dry.” When Will opened his mouth to protest, undoubtedly preparing to trot out his lost sword once again, Jack turned away, dismissing him and perversely satisfied to see uncertainty and perhaps a little fear on his blacksmith’s countenance. “Disobeying a direct order means the brig, sir.” He strode off, not waiting for a rebuttal.
His cabin was empty again that night, and he suspected it might be a good while before his covers graced another body besides his own. Sighing, Jack fell back on his bunk, fully dressed - well, except for the hated boots he was now stuck with unless he wanted to hop around on deck - and closed his eyes. He remembered the warmth of Will’s nose tucked into his jaw, a sure, strong blacksmith’s calloused hand rubbing his belly and side, a low-pitched voice talking about the work of the day on the ship they both loved - and had to inhale a deep, steadying breath as his cock sharply hardened with both desire and overwhelming sentiment.
He wasn’t sure how far he was into dozing, finally, when a knock at the door jerked him awake. Jack sat up, hand on the butt of his pistol that he’d forgotten to take off, and exhaled calmly as he heard the door rattle again. “What d’ you want?” he called out in a grumpy growl, rubbing the corners of his eyes.
There was obvious hesitation, and then a familiar, muffled voice. “I have something of yours.”
As he swung his legs over, Jack realized his erection hadn’t completely flagged even with sleep, and the sound of that voice drew renewed interest from the traitorous organ. “What?” he snapped, as he crossed the room and unbolted the door. “You returnin’ all the orgasms I gave you, now?”
He yanked the door open, and Will held up a familiar boot. In the lamplight, Jack could see it was still dark with water. He blinked. “You jumped in after a boot?”
Will’s conciliatory expression shifted to truculent. “Are you complaining?” Without waiting for an invitation, he pushed his way around Jack, toward the table.
Turning, Jack shut the door behind him, watching the other man. “It’s a bloody stupid thing to do,” he explained, tone still grumpy. “For a boot.”
Will gave him a wry look. “If I’d left it there, you wouldn’t have talked to me until you had another pair you liked.”
“Not sure why that should be a problem for you.”
He sighed. “Jack, can we knock off this horseshit? You wagered something that wasn’t yours to give away, and so far, have offered absolutely no apology or regret for it.”
Jack waited for more, but Will was silent then, watching him pointedly. It wasn’t a hostile expression, but neither could he term it precisely friendly. “You make weapons all the time,” he finally offered. “Quality weapons; I didn’t’ think it’d be any trouble to fill a lost wager.”
Will shook his head. “You just cannot admit you’re wrong, can you? I don’t want an explanation; I can guess your reasoning well enough. I want an admission of mistake.”
Pursing his lips, Jack felt just churlish enough to refuse, until Will dropped his head back and let out a small growl of frustration, and the Little Captain eagerly saluted beneath Jack’s waistcoat at the familiar sound. “I’m sorry,” he said, realizing how insincere he sounded as soon as the words were out. Licking his lips, he attempted to divert attention back into his brain. “You weren’t there t’ ask … but I should’ve waited, anyhow,” he finished, at the sudden furrow between Will’s eyebrows. “He was bettin’ his physic,” he reached to explain. “We could use a good sawbones aboard, William.”
Sighing, Will diverted his gaze off to a corner of the room. After a few seconds, he said, “I’m sorry I dumped your boot in the ocean.”
“How’d you get it out, anyway?” Jack’s need to know overran his irritation, as usual.
“Tied a thin line to the inside of it, and my wrist, before I ever left the forge.” Having the grace to look sheepish, Will continued. “While you were dancing around-”
“I wasn’t dancin’.”
“I slipped it over my hand and tied it off to the rail,” the blacksmith continued as if Jack hadn’t interrupted. “I went back up later for it, after you were gone. After I was done with the bilges.” He shot Jack a dirty look. “From which I’m still filthy.”
“That so?” Jack moved closer, reaching up for the neckline of Will’s shirt and pulling it aside to check the skin for dirt. He saw a smudge of black on the lad’s forehead, beneath a fall of curls, and resisted the urge to rub it away and lick the spot. He could smell muck and brine on Will, but beneath it were sweat and skin, and it enflamed Jack. He noticed perspiration beaded beneath Will’s moustache on his upper lip, and leaned in, on his toes, to run the tip of his tongue along it, eyes closed. He was pleased to hear Will inhale harshly, quickly. “Maybe we should get you cleaned up, you dirty, dirty pirate.”
Will lifted one eyebrow as he opened his eyes - then to Jack’s surprise, he smiled broadly. “Why yes, Captain,” he replied equably. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“I think ye should remove- The HELL?” Jack squeaked as Will bent and tackled his midsection with his shoulder, tossing him in a rough carry over it while he stood back up. Jack was hanging down Will’s back, the air shoved out of his lungs through his gut, as he felt a strong arm wrap around his legs and bobbing that meant he was being carried. “Mr. Turner! Put me down! I am your captain, god damn it!”
“Just following orders, sir.” Will’s voice wafted back to Jack, and he had to drop when he felt the top of the doorway hit the middle of his back, as he had tried to lift himself to wrench away. He quieted as Will carried him up on deck, grateful it was nighttime and only a couple of crewmen were around, one at the helm and no tongue to speak of what he saw. He wondered if Kotter in the crow’s nest could see from that high down on the black wood of deck, but determined to keep quiet and not give him a reason to look.
He figured Will would set him on deck, but he was surprised to feel himself literally given a toss, falling through the air instead. Jack bowed his back and curved his body, throwing up (or down, depending how one watched) his arms so that he effected a backwards dive into the water; when he broke the surface, he shook his head and opened his eyes just in time to get a briny splash in the face from another object hitting the sea.
“You son of a bitch!” he yelled as Will’s head came up seconds later. “Could’ve drowned us both!”
“Not very likely!” Will turned his head as Jack slapped water toward him, and reached back to blindly try the same in retaliation. They did this for a while, until both were blindly slapping the surface, and their hands kept hitting each other’s. Finally, Jack grabbed those slender wrists and yanked his lover forward, tilting his head and kissing him hard, holding the position when Will made noises and tried to wrench away. It wasn’t long before he gave in, their tongues wrapping around each other, and Will was pushing away Jack’s headscarf.
He practically climbed Will, curling a leg around his hip, and the blacksmith wrapped his arms around Jack, pressing him tighter. “Your legs ought t’ be the ones around me,” Jack breathed, panting wildly over the softly choppy water.
“I’m still wearing my boots,” Will answered breathlessly, though crankily.
“Whose fault is that?” Jack pointed out, licking his right eyebrow. “Jesus, you taste great.”
“Hold still a minute.” He felt Will fumbling at his placket, then shoving his breeches down - and down.
“Oi, I’d rather not lose those!” Jack exclaimed.
“We’re not going to.” Will got a hand beneath Jack’s thigh and then pushed at the material; Jack complied until the material had been pushed off the one leg, whereupon Will pulled them up so they hung off one hip and thigh, still. “Get mine,” he ordered.
Jack balanced himself with one hand on Will’s strong shoulder, shoving the other down between them to loosen his breeches. He wrapped a hand around the taut cock and fondled the bollocks, and felt Will gasp. “That’s it,” he whispered, rough, getting both feet around Will’s backside, still gripping his cock and moving to mount it.
It was clumsy maneuvering, and Jack ended up kicking Will in the back of the leg a couple of times, but when he finally felt the man up inside him, he moaned and affixed his mouth to Will’s. Their kisses were shallow and quick, like their movements, and he braced his elbows on Will’s shoulders, clutching his wet hair, cradling his head. “Fuck me,” he breathed, picking around for the nickname he hadn’t gotten to use in a while. “Harder, dove.”
“Is this what you were after all along?” Will demanded, hands gripping Jack’s ass, steadying him as their hips pumped underwater.
“What, you?” He grunted against Will’s temple. “Always … Damn, you can fuck …”
They strained and heaved, and groaned and growled at one another; he felt Will bite at his neck, and let his head fall back as he rode those slim hips, his arms going out every so often to paddle and try to keep them upright, just as Will had to pause every little bit to tread water with his legs. Jack’s hands flew out and grabbed something rough - it was a rope leading down the hull of the ship. Turning them so Will’s back was to it, he wrapped both hands around the rope, keeping them upright, and pushed Will into the Pearl’s wood. “Harder,” he ordered.
With the proper leverage at his back, Will braced himself as Jack lifted his knees high, nearly up under Will’s arms. The blacksmith thrust, finding a steady rhythm, and Jack nearly fainted with the force of it. This was what he’d been missing, a hard, familiar prick and even more familiar hands. Lips at his throat and jaw, words of rough, brutal affection in a breaking tone as Will claimed his body anew. Jack’s cock rubbed between their clothed bellies, and his breath quickened as he felt orgasm approach.
It was too much, and he tried to speak, to warn Will to slow down because the pleasure hurt too hard, but Will was pounding up into him, his knees up behind Jack’s backside to hold him, and Jack licked into Will’s mouth, fucking his tongue thoroughly as Will fucked him. “No, no … don’t, don’t go … Will, fuck, yeah …” He felt the first spurt from his own member, and pounded into Will’s stomach as best he was able, emptying his balls between them, his groans mixing with Will’s stuttered yell, coming hard inside him.
They hung there for a while, Jack still holding the rope, his forehead dropped on Will’s shoulder, Will’s arms holding him up as he pressed kisses into the side of Jack’s throat. Presently, he heard Will chuckling, low and raspy, coughing a couple of times from what was probably a sore throat by now - Jack had no illusions the crow’s nest and helm had managed to hear them over what sounded down here like a deafening slap of water on wood.
“Guess I got my booty,” the smith managed to yawn. “And you got a bath.”
“Maybe I shouldn’ forgive you for that,” Jack answered tiredly, turning his head enough so his lips brushed the shell of Will’s ear.
“Since when did fucking the captain clean become a flogging offense?”
“Depends what’s being flogged,” Jack fired back, and was gratified to feel the man against him shake with laughter. He, too, gave in to a very unmanly fit of the giggles. He was lightheaded and dizzy, bare knee scraped up, and altogether content.
Presently, Will spoke. “Jack.”
“Hmm?” he murmured.
A couple of fingers gave Jack’s bare ass a hard pinch. “You pull a trick like that again, you’ll be in the boot.” He pinched twice, making Jack yelp. “And I might forget the line.”
Pairing: J/W
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. I am making no profit from their depiction or representation.
Summary: Jack learns how to deliver a proper apology … and Will learns how to accept it. Which, they’ll probably forget the next time they quarrel.
Author's Notes: Written for heartofslash for the Summer Swagfest 08 at raise_the_dead (go over and read the others!). Thanks to my beta metalkatt.
Jack settled himself at the stern of a small boat, as usual, and waited for Will to climb in.
“You have to be putting me on.”
“Pardon me?”
Will rested his hands on his hips, feet apart on the pier, looking out toward the Pearl and not down at Jack this time. “You expect me to row?”
Jack gave a little snort. “You always row, mate.”
“I usually get to wear my own sword, too.”
“Let’s not confuse matters, William. You row, and-”
“I’m not confused, Captain. You lost me in a poker game.”
“Your services, sir - I wagered your services as a blacksmith.” He cleared his throat. “My ship’s blacksmith, if memory serves.”
Said blacksmith lowered his gaze to said floundering captain, brown eyes squinted even at night as they bored into Jack. “I had to give up my sword to save your neck.”
“For which I am eminently grateful and prepared to provide me own services,” Jack glibly answered, leaning back and grinning.
That made Will laugh; Jack wasn’t sure he liked the tone. “Services, Jack?” He hunkered down and eyed the oars, then slanted his eyes again at Jack. “You can start by taking over this odious duty.”
When it was clear Will wasn’t moving, Jack stood and moved to the fore seat; only after he’d taken up the oars did Will apparently satisfy himself and drop into the boat, taking the captain’s former seat. He stretched out his long legs, deliberately taking the bulk of the shared space between them.
Jack forced his feet into a couple of small spots where he could brace while rowing. “Would His Majesty be requiring a velvet footstool for the journey yon?” he asked, tightly.
Will’s expression was one of affected blandness, telling nothing. “Row, tar.” Jack picked up the oars, muttering a lot of nothing under his breath. “What was that?” Will asked, sharply.
“Nothin’.”
“Sounded like a lot of something.”
“If t’were something to hear, you wouldn’t have t’ ask about it, would you?” He pulled a couple of times, bringing the boat about into position. “You’d have heard.”
They went a distance, and Will casually said, “Must be much easier to row without a sword sticking in your side.”
Jack pointedly eyed the blade in Will’s baldric, that had been on his own hip less than thirty minutes earlier. When the smith had been informed Jack had gambled away his services for a fine sword, and that the dirty bugger and his chums were waiting around at the tavern for proof of said blacksmith’s existence upon Will’s arrival, he had archly reminded Jack they were sailing on the morrow and a sword took considerably more time than overnight to conjure.
“Could give me mine back and find out,” Jack now suggested.
“What ‘bout that one ‘aight there?” the dirty bugger had suggested, pointing at Will’s baldric. “Looks like just da kind I’d fancy.”
Jack had merely arched a brow and glanced coolly up at Will, who’d been standing at the side of his rickety chair. The smith had been borderline apoplectic. “What say you, Mr. Turner?”
“Could.” Will leaned back a bit, crossing his ankles. “Won’t.”
Despite himself, Jack appreciated the way Will’s shirt stretched across his belly and lower chest when his broad shoulders threw back. “You can make another sword,” he pointed out. “A better one.” He remembered Will’s pledge of the Interceptor to Anamaria - a ship that had not been his to give - now, with a certain glee.
Will’s jaw had worked, grinding for a moment before he looked down at Jack. The casual observer saw a confirming, tiny nod; Jack saw a whole lot of nights spent with the charm and company of his own right hand, which number notched up as soon as Will handed his sword over and grubby hands began smudging the painstakingly-tempered blade.
“True.” Will’s tone was equable, making Jack blink in surprise. “I am capable of better now.”
Feeling buoyed, Jack smiled. “Knew you’d warm up to th’ idea.”
“Of course, I’ll have to sketch it out, first,” Will continued. “Find a good pommel design. Gather the right materials.”
His tone was too calm, too agreeable. Jack could have sworn he heard the thunderclap in the background, and with a sinking feeling suddenly saw even more nights getting to know his own palm. “Don’t need that much time,” he muttered.
Will said nothing more, but Jack was sure he saw a slight smirk replace the bland expression as they approached the Pearl.
*****
That night, Will volunteered to take the watch while Jack slept. When he relieved the smith after dawn, Jack noticed he descended toward his forge in the hold, not toward the cabin. Through disembarking and catching the wind through that day, Jack only saw him long enough to help loose the lines and raise the sails. That night, presumably Will slept on his old pallet in the forge, the one he’d broken in long before he started keeping time in the captain’s bed.
When two more days passed with only casual looks from Will and no words beyond those necessary for reporting minutiae, he knew it was on his head to smooth this over. Dipping into his own private stash, he gave some to Maxi the cook to concoct hot chocolate, which he poured into a beautiful stolen silver urn and left in the forge with a small bead from his hair as its calling card. He then waited to graciously accept Will’s apology for distemper.
Instead, Will brought the urn to mess that evening and announced he was giving each crewman a small cup for their assistance in helping him fashion a new blade, by keeping their own repairs until he was done. He said nothing of Jack’s contribution as each man took his share with a nod or a hearty “aye, thank ye, lad” to Will himself. The smith beamed, pleased to please the crew; Jack left the galley halfway through, rolling his eyes and heading back to the helm.
That night, he found an empty urn and an empty bed in his cabin.
The next day, he belatedly remembered Will hadn’t been so fond of the chocolate the one time Jack had been in possession to share some. Determined, he took a lantern into the hold and went through inventory until he found the crate of freshly-picked oranges. Selecting a few of the very best, he wrapped them in his sash for carrying and took them to the forge when Will wasn’t there - once again, he left them arranged in a shallow dish on Will’s pallet, with a blue bead this time.
That night, Jack found empty fruit peels in the center of his still-empty bunk.
“Whelp has a sense of humor,” he muttered to himself, getting undressed. “Mebbe that’s the trick.” He yanked off his second boot; instead of dropping it to the floor, he held it up, scrutinizing it. He glanced at the table on the other side of the cabin, remembering another set of boots, the only thing a certain blacksmith had worn one very memorable evening far too long ago while in the company of his eager captain.
The next afternoon, after Jack had made another trip to the forge and actually left a note this time bearing a single word, he was discussing sail-mending with Benjamin when Will burst up on deck, Jack’s worn boot in one hand and a small piece of parchment in the other. As he crossed, Jack’s breath caught, hopeful. It had been days since they’d spoken more than punctually, and he’d noticed his own mood on a steady decline for lack of companionship. Besides, too, his palm was beginning to chafe something awful.
Will shook the paper at him. “Booty?” he repeated.
A crooked, fond smile on Jack’s part as he tilted his head. “Just a suggestion, mate.”
“This is what I’m worth?” Now he shook the boot. “Your old pair?”
“That’s my favorite pair!” Jack was sore now, dammit; he was wearing the stiffer, newer black boots Will had made him actually pay for from a cobbler.
“One boot?”
You need two to make a pair, you arsehole! he wanted to holler. Bloody damn stupid tradesman who couldn’t see romance if it whacked him in the head … “It’s symbolic,” he said instead, through gritted teeth.
“Of what? Your dirty feet? Wait.” He held up a hand. “Foot, sorry.” He held it to his nose and made a show of inhaling the interior, pulling a face. “Sorry, Jack. It, like you, needs a bath.”
“Mr. Turner-” But Jack was cut off as Will crossed to the rail several feet away and dropped the boot over the side. “WHAT?” Jack ran over, skidding into the rail, seeing the tiny splash made by the boot before it bobbed down by the hull. “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO THAT FOR?”
“I told you, it stinks.” Will’s jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed.
Jack’s mouth worked, and he finally belted out, “That was my good boot, you idiot! The ones I like!”
“Well, you still have one left, don’t you?” Now Will had raised his voice, as well. “That’s one more sword than I have!”
Jack ignored the surrounding crewmen, thoroughly fit to be tied into a rage. “This is insubordination!”
“What? A spurned gift?” Will snorted, nostrils wide. He tossed his head, and it was a mark of Jack’s horniness that a couple of flying curls escaping Will’s hair tie sent him into mental paroxysms of imagining them trailing along his balls.
“You can make another sword! Where th’ achin’ hell am I supposed to pick up another pair of boots like that?” he demanded.
“I don’t know! What dead body did you scavenge that off of?” Will grinned ferally. “Maybe he’s got a brother you can run through for another pair!”
Jack pulled himself to his full height - still shorter than Will, but imbued with a silent, dangerous air. Will and the rest of the crew knew this was a sore point, that Jack would never kill anyone for their possessions - throw them over the side into a longboat, yes. Knock them out, yes. But they’d all seen Jack leave gentlemen their wigs and ladies their pendants, when other pirates would murder them on the spot for a bauble.
Coldly, Jack gave the order. “Mr. Turner, you will check the bilges and pump them completely dry.” When Will opened his mouth to protest, undoubtedly preparing to trot out his lost sword once again, Jack turned away, dismissing him and perversely satisfied to see uncertainty and perhaps a little fear on his blacksmith’s countenance. “Disobeying a direct order means the brig, sir.” He strode off, not waiting for a rebuttal.
His cabin was empty again that night, and he suspected it might be a good while before his covers graced another body besides his own. Sighing, Jack fell back on his bunk, fully dressed - well, except for the hated boots he was now stuck with unless he wanted to hop around on deck - and closed his eyes. He remembered the warmth of Will’s nose tucked into his jaw, a sure, strong blacksmith’s calloused hand rubbing his belly and side, a low-pitched voice talking about the work of the day on the ship they both loved - and had to inhale a deep, steadying breath as his cock sharply hardened with both desire and overwhelming sentiment.
He wasn’t sure how far he was into dozing, finally, when a knock at the door jerked him awake. Jack sat up, hand on the butt of his pistol that he’d forgotten to take off, and exhaled calmly as he heard the door rattle again. “What d’ you want?” he called out in a grumpy growl, rubbing the corners of his eyes.
There was obvious hesitation, and then a familiar, muffled voice. “I have something of yours.”
As he swung his legs over, Jack realized his erection hadn’t completely flagged even with sleep, and the sound of that voice drew renewed interest from the traitorous organ. “What?” he snapped, as he crossed the room and unbolted the door. “You returnin’ all the orgasms I gave you, now?”
He yanked the door open, and Will held up a familiar boot. In the lamplight, Jack could see it was still dark with water. He blinked. “You jumped in after a boot?”
Will’s conciliatory expression shifted to truculent. “Are you complaining?” Without waiting for an invitation, he pushed his way around Jack, toward the table.
Turning, Jack shut the door behind him, watching the other man. “It’s a bloody stupid thing to do,” he explained, tone still grumpy. “For a boot.”
Will gave him a wry look. “If I’d left it there, you wouldn’t have talked to me until you had another pair you liked.”
“Not sure why that should be a problem for you.”
He sighed. “Jack, can we knock off this horseshit? You wagered something that wasn’t yours to give away, and so far, have offered absolutely no apology or regret for it.”
Jack waited for more, but Will was silent then, watching him pointedly. It wasn’t a hostile expression, but neither could he term it precisely friendly. “You make weapons all the time,” he finally offered. “Quality weapons; I didn’t’ think it’d be any trouble to fill a lost wager.”
Will shook his head. “You just cannot admit you’re wrong, can you? I don’t want an explanation; I can guess your reasoning well enough. I want an admission of mistake.”
Pursing his lips, Jack felt just churlish enough to refuse, until Will dropped his head back and let out a small growl of frustration, and the Little Captain eagerly saluted beneath Jack’s waistcoat at the familiar sound. “I’m sorry,” he said, realizing how insincere he sounded as soon as the words were out. Licking his lips, he attempted to divert attention back into his brain. “You weren’t there t’ ask … but I should’ve waited, anyhow,” he finished, at the sudden furrow between Will’s eyebrows. “He was bettin’ his physic,” he reached to explain. “We could use a good sawbones aboard, William.”
Sighing, Will diverted his gaze off to a corner of the room. After a few seconds, he said, “I’m sorry I dumped your boot in the ocean.”
“How’d you get it out, anyway?” Jack’s need to know overran his irritation, as usual.
“Tied a thin line to the inside of it, and my wrist, before I ever left the forge.” Having the grace to look sheepish, Will continued. “While you were dancing around-”
“I wasn’t dancin’.”
“I slipped it over my hand and tied it off to the rail,” the blacksmith continued as if Jack hadn’t interrupted. “I went back up later for it, after you were gone. After I was done with the bilges.” He shot Jack a dirty look. “From which I’m still filthy.”
“That so?” Jack moved closer, reaching up for the neckline of Will’s shirt and pulling it aside to check the skin for dirt. He saw a smudge of black on the lad’s forehead, beneath a fall of curls, and resisted the urge to rub it away and lick the spot. He could smell muck and brine on Will, but beneath it were sweat and skin, and it enflamed Jack. He noticed perspiration beaded beneath Will’s moustache on his upper lip, and leaned in, on his toes, to run the tip of his tongue along it, eyes closed. He was pleased to hear Will inhale harshly, quickly. “Maybe we should get you cleaned up, you dirty, dirty pirate.”
Will lifted one eyebrow as he opened his eyes - then to Jack’s surprise, he smiled broadly. “Why yes, Captain,” he replied equably. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“I think ye should remove- The HELL?” Jack squeaked as Will bent and tackled his midsection with his shoulder, tossing him in a rough carry over it while he stood back up. Jack was hanging down Will’s back, the air shoved out of his lungs through his gut, as he felt a strong arm wrap around his legs and bobbing that meant he was being carried. “Mr. Turner! Put me down! I am your captain, god damn it!”
“Just following orders, sir.” Will’s voice wafted back to Jack, and he had to drop when he felt the top of the doorway hit the middle of his back, as he had tried to lift himself to wrench away. He quieted as Will carried him up on deck, grateful it was nighttime and only a couple of crewmen were around, one at the helm and no tongue to speak of what he saw. He wondered if Kotter in the crow’s nest could see from that high down on the black wood of deck, but determined to keep quiet and not give him a reason to look.
He figured Will would set him on deck, but he was surprised to feel himself literally given a toss, falling through the air instead. Jack bowed his back and curved his body, throwing up (or down, depending how one watched) his arms so that he effected a backwards dive into the water; when he broke the surface, he shook his head and opened his eyes just in time to get a briny splash in the face from another object hitting the sea.
“You son of a bitch!” he yelled as Will’s head came up seconds later. “Could’ve drowned us both!”
“Not very likely!” Will turned his head as Jack slapped water toward him, and reached back to blindly try the same in retaliation. They did this for a while, until both were blindly slapping the surface, and their hands kept hitting each other’s. Finally, Jack grabbed those slender wrists and yanked his lover forward, tilting his head and kissing him hard, holding the position when Will made noises and tried to wrench away. It wasn’t long before he gave in, their tongues wrapping around each other, and Will was pushing away Jack’s headscarf.
He practically climbed Will, curling a leg around his hip, and the blacksmith wrapped his arms around Jack, pressing him tighter. “Your legs ought t’ be the ones around me,” Jack breathed, panting wildly over the softly choppy water.
“I’m still wearing my boots,” Will answered breathlessly, though crankily.
“Whose fault is that?” Jack pointed out, licking his right eyebrow. “Jesus, you taste great.”
“Hold still a minute.” He felt Will fumbling at his placket, then shoving his breeches down - and down.
“Oi, I’d rather not lose those!” Jack exclaimed.
“We’re not going to.” Will got a hand beneath Jack’s thigh and then pushed at the material; Jack complied until the material had been pushed off the one leg, whereupon Will pulled them up so they hung off one hip and thigh, still. “Get mine,” he ordered.
Jack balanced himself with one hand on Will’s strong shoulder, shoving the other down between them to loosen his breeches. He wrapped a hand around the taut cock and fondled the bollocks, and felt Will gasp. “That’s it,” he whispered, rough, getting both feet around Will’s backside, still gripping his cock and moving to mount it.
It was clumsy maneuvering, and Jack ended up kicking Will in the back of the leg a couple of times, but when he finally felt the man up inside him, he moaned and affixed his mouth to Will’s. Their kisses were shallow and quick, like their movements, and he braced his elbows on Will’s shoulders, clutching his wet hair, cradling his head. “Fuck me,” he breathed, picking around for the nickname he hadn’t gotten to use in a while. “Harder, dove.”
“Is this what you were after all along?” Will demanded, hands gripping Jack’s ass, steadying him as their hips pumped underwater.
“What, you?” He grunted against Will’s temple. “Always … Damn, you can fuck …”
They strained and heaved, and groaned and growled at one another; he felt Will bite at his neck, and let his head fall back as he rode those slim hips, his arms going out every so often to paddle and try to keep them upright, just as Will had to pause every little bit to tread water with his legs. Jack’s hands flew out and grabbed something rough - it was a rope leading down the hull of the ship. Turning them so Will’s back was to it, he wrapped both hands around the rope, keeping them upright, and pushed Will into the Pearl’s wood. “Harder,” he ordered.
With the proper leverage at his back, Will braced himself as Jack lifted his knees high, nearly up under Will’s arms. The blacksmith thrust, finding a steady rhythm, and Jack nearly fainted with the force of it. This was what he’d been missing, a hard, familiar prick and even more familiar hands. Lips at his throat and jaw, words of rough, brutal affection in a breaking tone as Will claimed his body anew. Jack’s cock rubbed between their clothed bellies, and his breath quickened as he felt orgasm approach.
It was too much, and he tried to speak, to warn Will to slow down because the pleasure hurt too hard, but Will was pounding up into him, his knees up behind Jack’s backside to hold him, and Jack licked into Will’s mouth, fucking his tongue thoroughly as Will fucked him. “No, no … don’t, don’t go … Will, fuck, yeah …” He felt the first spurt from his own member, and pounded into Will’s stomach as best he was able, emptying his balls between them, his groans mixing with Will’s stuttered yell, coming hard inside him.
They hung there for a while, Jack still holding the rope, his forehead dropped on Will’s shoulder, Will’s arms holding him up as he pressed kisses into the side of Jack’s throat. Presently, he heard Will chuckling, low and raspy, coughing a couple of times from what was probably a sore throat by now - Jack had no illusions the crow’s nest and helm had managed to hear them over what sounded down here like a deafening slap of water on wood.
“Guess I got my booty,” the smith managed to yawn. “And you got a bath.”
“Maybe I shouldn’ forgive you for that,” Jack answered tiredly, turning his head enough so his lips brushed the shell of Will’s ear.
“Since when did fucking the captain clean become a flogging offense?”
“Depends what’s being flogged,” Jack fired back, and was gratified to feel the man against him shake with laughter. He, too, gave in to a very unmanly fit of the giggles. He was lightheaded and dizzy, bare knee scraped up, and altogether content.
Presently, Will spoke. “Jack.”
“Hmm?” he murmured.
A couple of fingers gave Jack’s bare ass a hard pinch. “You pull a trick like that again, you’ll be in the boot.” He pinched twice, making Jack yelp. “And I might forget the line.”