Rating R: Fairly offensive language, heavy twee factor, and mild slash. If you don't like men doing men, please do not read.
Summary: Will teaches Jack something and it's not about making shiny swords.
Notes: Many thanks to Haleth and Beth, especially Haleth, who I cannot thank enough for the many hours of pleasure I have enjoyed as I have followed her Jack Sparrow and Will Turner as they slashed their way through the Caribbean.
After six months aboard the Black Pearl, Will had learned a number of things:
Jack was an exceptionally fair person. He always divided up the swag evenly and often ended up shorting himself (not that anyone but Will noticed).
Jack never gave up. He nattered and nagged and peppered Will with endless questions for three solid months until Will told him what had happened between him and his "fair lass".
Jack wrote with his right hand but fought with his left. When Will asked why he replied, "Pirate, mate. Gives me an unfair advantage with my first swing."
Jack possessed the most elegant hands; his fingers moved constantly, alighting on everything and anything, one's shoulders, the back of one's head, a knuckle. They caressed the railing of the Pearl, the ship's wheel and, later, Will. When Will first appeared on board, he had nightmares every night. Nightmares that owned him, had him sweating and crying out in his sleep. Jack slung a hammock in his cabin and ordered Will to sleep with him. When Will protested, Jack said in a stern voice, "You're keeping me crew awake. Now go to sleep." And when the nightmares turned into fuzzy dreams of remembering Will's mother stroking his curls, it was several weeks before Will realized it was Jack's hand gentling him back to sleep with his careful touch and his "Sshh, love, it's all right." He had a touch he must have stolen from an angel.
Jack had thirty-two trinkets in his hair, not including the bone.
Jack was moody. At least once every two weeks he'd miss the evening meal with the crew. Will would find him propped up against the railing at the bow, whispering to the Pearl, a bottle of rum nestled in the crook of his left arm. Inching his way close enough to hear the soft rasping of Jack's voice, Will would keep watch. When Jack had finished the bottle, he'd sashay and stumble his way to his cabin. The third night it happened, Jack didn't even look over to where Will had hidden himself but slurred in his direction, "Don't jusshh sshutand there, Mishter Turner. Your arm, if you pleashh." After a couple of months, Jack invited Will to join him at the bow saying that the Pearl didn't mind if he listened in. Will sat there silently, one arm around Jack, waiting for the Pearl to work her magic on whatever demons plagued Jack's waking hours. When Jack would mutter, "'m okay now, mate," Will'd offer him a shoulder to lean on, pat the pirate's mop of twisted locks and baubles, and then haul Jack to bed.
Jack never knew his mother but her dark, sloe-eyed beauty and spirited character so captivated people that she was still talked of even ten years after her death. Jack didn't know whether people still talked about her. He went to sea when he was ten.
Jack was better educated than Will, even though he kept it well hidden. When Will asked him why Jack replied, "Nearly everyone assumes that just because I can't walk across the room without tripping over me own feet I haven't a brain in my head. Can't tell you how many times that's worked in my favor and saved my bloody arse."
Jack's father never forgave him for killing his mother in childbirth.
Jack had a sweet tooth. Which explained the gold teeth.
Jack spoke several languages: English, Spanish, French, Dutch, and German. He claimed to know enough Hindi and Russian to tell the whores what he liked. And although he bragged that he was also fluent in Japanese and Chinese, Will didn't believe him. Especially after the night in a tavern in Kobe when Jack was nearly sliced in two by an irate pirate because Jack intended to say, "You've got a nice sword there, mate," but actually said, "You've got the smallest dick I've ever seen, mate."
Jack swam like a fish. Every fine day saw him strip down to his skin to dive off the Pearl and swim along side the ship, his arms cutting effortlessly through the waves, the sun glinting off his wet shoulders. One of Will's most treasured memories was of watching Jack play with a school of dolphins, weaving in and out of them, barking back at them when they barked at him. When Will asked Jack jokingly what the dolphins had said to him, Jack replied without a trace of mirth, "We need to find a port. Hurricane's coming."
Jack knew verbatim all of Puck's lines from A Midsummer Night's Dream.
Jack's temper manifested itself: (1) Whenever a crew member did something stupid that endangered the life of another crew member; (2) The one time Will insisted Jack see a surgeon to have a boil lanced; (3) Every time the parrot swooped down on his head and attempted to steal a bauble from Jack's hair, which happened at least twice a day; and (4) The first four times Will asked Jack if he could set up a smithy in the hold of the ship.
Jack could talk to dolphins.
Jack was not petty. When Will was swept overboard and nearly drowned because he was a mediocre swimmer at best, Jack never once said I told you so. All he did was squeeze his shoulder as they both lay on the deck, gasping for breath and spitting out seawater.
...notwithstanding, Jack could be petty on the odd occasion. When Will insisted on writing letters to Elizabeth whenever they were in port, Jack hid the inkwell. Will bought his own inkwell, quill, and parchment; only to discover that Jack had taken to bribing postal clerks to destroy his letters. When Will demanded what in the hell he was doing trying to stop Will's letters, Jack smirked, "Pirate."
Jack did not like birds, specifically parrots.
Jack's body was all muscle and sinew. The tattoos and scars merely accented the beauty of his form.
Jack liked cats.
Jack had a laugh so hearty and rich Will smiled just hearing it. Will also liked Jack's smile. Not the leer, not the smug "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow" smirk, but the one Jack reserved for him when Will put him to bed after a night of carousing and drinking. Jack would whisper, "Thanks, mate," close his eyes, pull up the corners of his mouth, and then immediately fall asleep, the years wiped away in a single breath; he looked about fourteen years old. Will knew this because he watched Jack sleep.
Jack bedded both women and men and was considered a favorite customer by the madam of every whorehouse for a thousand square nautical miles. But he never brought a whore to their cabin on the Pearl.
Jack talked when he fucked. He'd call out the bawd's name, interspersed with loud pleas to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, a few "holy shites" and lots of "fucks."
Jack like to fuck. Very. Much.
Six months after Jack found Will pacing the docks of Tortuga waiting for him, he had learned the following things:
Will snored and had nightmares almost every night. The farther away from Port Royal they sailed, the less and less violent the nightmares became. Jack decided if he was to get any sleep within the next few months they'd better chart a course for Singapore.
Will didn't take advantage of his friendship with Jack but worked his arse off to prove himself to the crew. When he asked Jack what was his position on the ship, Jack quipped, "First Whelp." Will didn't speak to him for three days. Jack apologized. He earned Mr. Gibbs respect by sanding and varnishing the Pearl to Mr. Gibbs' too exacting standards. Which were naval standards—which the crew resented mightily because (1) anything naval was anathema to pirates, and (2) it was bloody hard work. But to save face and not be shown up by the newest crew member, they had no choice but to follow Will's example, which Jack appreciated because the one thing the naval gobs knew how to do was keep a ship afloat. He won Mr. Cotton's respect by fashioning a metal perch for the parrot, because Jack insisted on getting a couple of cats to keep the rats at bay. Truth be owed, Jack wouldn't be heartbroken if the cats decided to have fresh parrot for breakfast. Will's response to Jack's comment that the metal perch was too high was as follows: "Any lower and the cats will get him." Jack didn't speak to Mr. Cotton for three days. Will won Anamaria's respect by thanking her for saving his life when they'd come across a Spanish frigate and the idiot captain decided to fight it out. Most men would have been embarrassed by having their arse saved by a woman but not Will.
Will was clever and managed to set up a smithy in the hold of the ship with every precaution against fire so that even Mr. Gibbs was mollified. And the first thing he made was a sword for Anamaria in gratitude for saving his life. The second item he made was a sword for Jack. Jack's first Christmas present in thirty years.
Will was a piss poor swimmer, notwithstanding the fine job he did of flailing his arms when the Interceptor blew up, managing to reach the Pearl without swallowing too much water; although it was Jack's not so humble opinion that it was the sixteen kegs of gunpowder blowing up that propelled Will to within a foot of the Pearl's hull, not his prowess at swimming. Unfortunately, this revelation came on the heels of Jack's insulting comment about him being first whelp, which might have had something to do with Will's intransigence on the subject of improving his swimming ability. Jack should have pressed the issue, but thought, typical Turner. Usually dug their heels in tight about things and then came to their senses. Wouldn't have been a problem except they caught the very tail end of that bloody hurricane and Will got washed overboard when a particularly big swell hit the deck. Jack didn't think twice but dove in and brought him up, muttering the word "no" like a prayer until they'd been pulled up on deck, and he heard Will cough up what must have been a gallon of seawater. He reached out to squeeze Will's shoulder just to make sure it was true, that Will was here safe and alive on the deck of the Pearl. Then he said to himself once, "Yes," and began to cough up his own seawater.
Will liked to read. History, Shakespeare (the histories and the tragedies), and Marlowe were his favorites. Will told him that Shakespeare must have been prescient because surely Jack was Puck reincarnated as a pirate. Jack thought that was one of the nicest things anyone'd ever said to him.
Will was right-handed and his forearms were pocked with little scars from the hot shards of iron that spit off the anvil.
Will had more common sense than Jack initially gave him credit for, notwithstanding the stupidity he displayed during the episode with the undead pirates. If Jack had used that as a compass to chart Will's smarts he'd have been blown far off course. After nagging him for three solid months, Will finally told him why he left Port Royal. "Elizabeth and I stood there in front of the virtual hovel that I could afford as a blacksmith's apprentice, two miniscule little rooms, no money for a servant, one window, and a scullery that wasn't even attached to the house but on the other side of a muddy yard and I knew. You should have seen her, Jack. Lace gloves, silk parasol, her dress the latest fashion from Paris, slippers already ruined from the few steps from her carriage to the front door. She tried to put a good face on it but we both knew right then and there we were being the worst kind of fools. Fortunately, she had too much respect for me to expect me to live on her father's charity." When Jack asked him why he had sought out Jack and the Pearl, Will replied, "I wanted to be somewhere where class or privilege didn't matter. Where what mattered was how well you used your hands, or swung your sword, or even how intelligent you were. I wanted to be where the rules are what you make them, not what makes you." Jack called Will a pirate. Will didn't deny it. That night it was Will who whispered to the Pearl and Jack who had his arm around Will's shoulder.
Will was not a eunuch.
Will's muscles were sharply defined from years of working the forge, and he had an arse that looked like it might fit just perfectly in Jack's hands.
Will never knew his father and would sit for hours listening to whatever tall tales Jack could conjure up. Jack never for a minute thought that Will believed half of what he told him, but Will begged Jack tell him what sort of man his father was. Besides, the stories might not have been real, but they were true.
Will's hair was so silky and soft that when Jack gently coaxed him out his nightmares, the repeated threading of his fingers through the damp curls nestling around the boy's ears brought him to tears.
Will was good with a needle and thread. Jack realized one day that Will had mended all the tears in his clothes with tiny even stitches. You'd think those hands, calluses half an inch thick, would be too rough and large to ply a needle but not so. Came in handy when that bastard of a Spanish captain thought to separate Jack's arm from his shoulder. Hurt like a bitch that did, but Will did such a good job stitching him up that Jack had full use of his arm three weeks later. After Will had snapped the thread clean with his teeth, Jack said to him, "You've a toucshhh like an anshcel, mate." Jack had downed a considerable amount of rum to get through it without flinching. Wouldn't do to let Will see him flinch. "No, Jack. You do," Will replied and brought a finger up as if to caress Jack's cheek. Jack might have imagined that part because he was so stinking drunk.
Will insisted on writing letters to that strumpet Elizabeth Swann whenever they made port.
Will's laugh made Jack happy.
Will had a temper, which manifested itself when Jack called Elizabeth Swann a strumpet, and when he found out Jack was bribing postal clerks to scuttle his letters.
Will didn't fuck.
Will didn't fuck. Ever.
"Are you coming ashore with me, lad? Hear tell Madame Chang's got some new girls at her place." Wearing his best linen shirt, Jack wrapped a red silk scarf around his waist and cinched it tight. The sash emphasized the long, lean line of his waist, his slim hips. His whorehouse best.
Will accompanied Jack on these excursions. Not that Will ever indulged. He'd wait for Jack to pick his wench (male or female) for the night: sometimes Jack picked two if the swag that week had been particularly fulsome or if it'd been some time since they'd been in port. Then with a whore draped on one arm (or two, one on each arm), he'd toss a bag of coins on the bar, yelling, "Drinks on the house," or if they were in a proper whorehouse, "I love fucking, free fucks all around," and then he'd nuzzle the cleavage or nipple of the whore of his choice as they staggered up the staircase to a room. Will would nurse an ale for a couple of hours, ask the barkeep for a candle, and then follow Jack's path up the staircase and listen. Finding which room Jack was pleasuring himself in was never a problem. Will would prop himself up against a wall, close his ears to even loudest of the "Jaysus Christ"s or "holy fuck"s and read a book until Jack staggered out an hour later, face slack from both the fucking and the drinking, except for a lazy ear-to-ear grin.
"You sure, William?"
"Not tonight, Jack."
They repeated the following conversation often:
"Am beginning to think that you are a eunuch," Jack would sniff.
Will would remind him, "I'm waiting for someone."
"No harm in dipping your cock in someone else while you're waiting."
"No, Jack. I'm not interested."
And so it went.
After one year...
Will learned that the whores in Italy were very demure in the parlor and as loud as Jack behind closed doors, that Jack liked his women blond and buxom and his men tall and slender, with curly dark hair, and that French whores were the best bar none at sucking cock. Will told Jack that he would have to take his word on it.
Will became fluent in Japanese, learnt it from the bloke that nearly sliced Jack in half (who proved to be a damn fine crew member). Turned out he did have a small dick, which certainly explained why the man went half-cocked at Jack's unintended insult. The man's sword was twice as large as anyone else's, which made Jack wonder if there was an inverse correlation between the size of a man's sword and his cock. Big cock, little sword, little cock, big sword. He stopped wondering when he noticed that Mr. Gibbs' sword was not much bigger than a butter knife. Right there and then he decided that this wasn't a subject worth pursuing, his normally insatiable curiosity in abeyance for once.
Will learned that Jack was afraid of spiders.
Jack learned that Will loved taking baths. The first time they docked in Japan and Jack was happily up to his eyeballs in whores (they'd been blown off course and it had been an age since they'd been in port), the madam introduced Will to the traditional Japanese bath. Will insisted that Jack accompany him the next day. Since they were sharing a cabin, it wasn't an unreasonable request that the weeks of grime and salt and sweat come off. Perversely, while Jack loved to swim, he hated bathing. Several heated words were exchanged, culminating with Will shouting that since he'd accompanied Jack to every whorehouse in every port they'd docked in, the least Jack could do was visit the baths with him and, furthermore, the parrot smelled better than Jack. Jack bitched and complained the entire walk there. After that it was Jack who'd insist they go to a bathhouse any chance they could. Jack marveled at how absolutely fucking gorgeous Will was when clean and relaxed from the water's heat. This was the only time Will ever lost that tension he carried on the set of his shoulders. Sagging lazily against the back of the tub with his large hands resting comfortably on the wooden edge, Will's coppery-brown curls completely incorrigible no matter how many dousings of water were poured over his head, Jack couldn't resist reaching out and pulling back the wet curls from Will's brow. Will smiled and closed his eyes. Jack decided that as much as he hated taking a bath, he'd jump at every opportunity to see Will this happy. And not to mention absolutely stark bollocks naked.
Will learned that Jack was brown everywhere.
Jack learned that Will was definitely not a eunuch.
Jack learned that Will had spent his free hours secretly making a headboard for Jack's bed. An elaborate confection of wrought iron that Jack found so utterly beautiful that he was rendered speechless for ten minutes. All he could do was run his hands over every curve and curlicue. "Do you like it?" Will demanded. Jack could only nod yes. "Happy birthday, Jack," Will said and hugged him tight.
For Will's birthday, Jack presented him with an entire library. Will sincerely doubted that Jack had bought these books, they looked well thumbed through and obviously had belonged to someone else. Nevertheless, Will eagerly picked up each and every book, sighing with joy at seeing all of his old favorites, trying to ignore the fact that the flyleaves were inscribed with the initials JLN. Will wrote Commodore Norrington a five-page letter thanking him for the books and promised to remunerate him the next time he was in Port Royal.
Will asked Jack if he would mind if Will built some shelves for the books in Jack's cabin. Jack stalked off in a terrible rage and wouldn't speak to Will for three days. Finally, Will demanded what was the matter, and Jack snarled at him that it was their cabin and he could do what he bloody well pleased with his books.
On cold nights when the sea and wind were high and they'd dropped anchor at the first port they could find to wait out the storm, Will would read to Jack. It didn't matter what it was because Jack never paid attention to the words. He let the cadence of Will's voice roil around in his ear, his brain, his heart, and he'd say to himself over and over again, "This is what Will sounds like, mustn't ever forget. This is what Will sounds like."
When they'd docked in London, Jack discovered a letter addressed to Will. The feminine hand and the sealing wax stamped with the initials "ES" left no doubt as to the identity of the correspondent. Jack turned the letter over and over in his hands before shoving it in Will's direction. Jack's eyes were the darkest Will'd ever seen them. Without speaking, Jack immediately left the ship.
After one year, Will had learned that it was the times when Jack didn't speak when you should really listen.
The waiting was over.
Will found Jack in a nearby tavern. Sprawled across a table, his head hidden in his arms, a full tankard of rum on the table. Bawds of various ages and sexes slouched against the wall near the door, advertising their wares to passersby and potential customers. Will pulled two of them outside, the two whom he thought looked the cleanest and were least likely to give him a case of lice. Silver was exchanged and much whispering took place.
Jack had not moved from his stupor when Will pulled up a chair and clapped him on the back.
"It's a little early in the day, isn't it, Jack?"
"You packed?" Jack mumbled.
Will ignored him. "Barkeep," Will yelled across the room, "If you please, a rum here for my friend and an ale for me."
"Don't need more rum, haven't finished the one I got," he growled.
"Hmmmn. Drink up, Jack. And you know, I've decided you're right."
"La-di-da. About what?" Jack mumbled out of the corner of his mouth, not bothering to bring up his head.
"The waiting. Dipping my cock into someone," Will drawled. "You, with the red hair, how much for a fuck?"
Jack, completely gobsmacked by Will's question, flailed so wildly that he upended the rum and fell out of his chair.
"You didn't hurt yourself, did you?" Will extended a hand. Jack was too shocked to even acknowledge it.
Will turned back to the redhead, who'd by this time had parked herself on his shoulder. The neckline of her dress was cut below her rouged nipples, and it was all Will could do not to turn his head away or choke on her cheap scent.
"For me and my friend," she jerked her head in the direction of the young man lounging in the doorway, a slender blond with a fleshy mouth and green eyes, "it'll be six shillings. Yer friend can join us, if he wants. That'll be ten shillings."
Will cocked his head to the side (the part of Jack that wasn't gobsmacked thought this was a good deal) and then asked, "Will it be extra if I'm a virgin?"
Jack continued to stare. Jack'd assumed that Will had never bedded anyone, but whenever he tried to discuss with Will what exactly went on during those shouts of "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," and "Holy fuck," all he'd received for his pains was the standard, "I'm not interested, Jack. My experience in these matters is none of your business." The thought of Will baring his body to someone for the first time, those strong hands clenching and unclenching in desire, envisioning his body in rhythm with another. Christ. Jack brought a hand to his stomach and pushed on his guts.
The whore, whose tittering and practiced sultry glances heretofore had seemed to Jack no different than every whore he'd run across in his many years of frequenting brothels, widened her eyes as she canvassed Will's broad shoulders and finely drawn features. Licking her lips in sincere appreciation, she cooed, "No extra charge. Could say I have a secret hankering fer virgins."
Jack studied her face. Studied her breasts. Measured the length of her cleavage. Sniffed the air and smelled the acrid odor of what Jack would loosely call her perfume. Jack studied the sodomite lounging against the door. The size of his goods. The young man grabbed his crotch, fondled a nipple through his shirt, and stuck his tongue out and licked his top lip. Slowly.
Jack pushed himself up off the floor and onto his feet. With a grip that nearly broke Will's wrist, he dragged Will out of the tavern, into the street, and back down to the dock. Jack didn't say a word the entire time. Ignoring Will's protests and resistance, he pulled him up the gangplank, kicked open the door to their cabin, and despite the fact that Will was much bigger than Jack, Jack gripped both his shoulders and threw him into the room. Then he slammed the door behind him.
The sounds of two men panting filled the cabin, one outraged as all hell, the other not knowing what he felt, although it felt strangely like fear.
"Never," Jack growled, pointing a menacing finger at Will, "go into an establishment like that again. What were you thinking?"
Will barked a laugh. A nasty laugh, one with edges on it, no mirth. "How dare you say that to me? I've gone to hundreds of brothels with you. Hundreds. Listened to you fuck in every port around the globe. Men, women. God, you've probably had goats in those rooms for all I know. And I waited for you to finish doing exactly what I wanted to do back there."
"I never asked you to wait. And it's different with you!" Jack shouted.
"I wanted to wait. And why is it different with me?" Will shouted back.
Jack's knees almost buckled underneath him. "Because you're mine. I don't want to fucking well fucking share you with fucking anyone. Fucking hell!" he yelled at the top of his lungs and kicked a chair over.
Jack started pacing from one cabin wall to another. Something was eating at him. Something tearing up his gut. "What does it matter?" he muttered. "Going back to your fair lass, anyways, right, lad? Saw the letter. Begging and pleading for you to come back home, no doubt." Jack pulled open the drawer that housed Will's clothes and upended it. The clothes fell in a heap on floor. Then he ran a hand along the backs of Will's books and everything tumbled to the floor, the books splayed open, spines cracked.
"There!" He held out a hand in triumph. "I've packed for you."
Will clenched his fists tight and closed his eyes. Jack thought, Hit me, lad. Just haul off and give me one good, I deserve it. Will opened his eyes.
"Jack, the letter from Elizabeth. You're right, she wants me to come home. Her father's agreed to build us a house and buy the forge from Mr. Brown. The advent of war with Spain will ensure plenty of work for me. Elizabeth won't be living in the lap of luxury but it will be enough. Read it." Will nodded in the direction of the desk, his voice calm, but his shoulders tense, rigid.
Jack started to panic, absolutely panic. His eyes flicked from Will to the letter, back to Will, over and over again. And all he could think of was the word, "no." A "no" that encompassed several things. No, I will not do that bitch the favor of reading her letter. No, don't go. No, don't walk out the door. No, you're a pirate. No, that strumpet can't have you. No, don't leave me. No, you're mine. He could feel his mouth and teeth and tongue wrap around the word, but he wasn't sure he actually said the word.
Will kicked the clothes out of his way and walked over to Jack. With one hand he threaded his fingers through Jack's hair to cup the back of Jack's head. With the other hand, he reached for Jack's wrist. The something gnawing at Jack's gut ceased, replaced by a tight heat that threatened to scald his insides.
Will leaned over Jack's shoulder, pulled Jack's head to him, and placed his lips to Jack's ear. "I'm not going anywhere, Jack. Not back to Elizabeth or that tavern. I wanted to teach you a lesson. I paid those whores to say and do those things so that you would feel what I feel every time I watch you go up the stairs with someone. A whore or tart on your arm who doesn't care about who you are or what you feel or whether you are sick or well or happy or sad. All the things I care about. I wanted you to know what I feel hearing you fuck someone else when I want you to fuck me, savvy? I want to stay with you. Here, in our cabin. Our cabin, Jack. With the commodore's books and your charts and our scent on the sheets. You've spent the last year teaching me to love Jack Sparrow. Have I taught you to love William Turner?"
Will pulled back to look at Jack, those deep brown eyes searching for an answer. "Have I?" he whispered.
Jack went numb trying to understand what had transpired in the last five minutes: begging letter from Elizabeth Strumpet Swann; Will paying the whores to come to the table; but then Will saying Will didn't want the whores, saying he wanted Jack; and does the lad know what he's saying although it's hard to misinterpret "I want you to fuck me"; and again Jack thought of Will in motion with someone, underneath someone, those long legs wrapped around someone's lean brown waist, that someone having scars and ink on his shoulders and arms, kissing someone, coppery-brown curls threaded in between black tresses. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. He opened his mouth to say something, god knows what, but he felt Will deserved some sort of reply. Didn't know what to say, shut it, but then opened it again because, dammit, he should say something. Something monumental. Jack hadn't been in too many situations where monumental was called for, but he reckoned it didn't get any more monumental than this.
Will took his hand out of Jack's hair, ran a thumb slowly around the "oh" of Jack's mouth and then pulled on Jack's wrist in the direction of the bed. Will lay down first and then tugged Jack to him. Wrapping his arms around him and throwing a leg over Jack's hip, he rested his forehead against Jack's shoulder and squeezed him tight.
"Jack, don't make me wait any longer," he whispered, grazing his lips on the soft patch just below Jack's right ear. "I won't go back there if you promise me no more whores. Just me. Accord?"
Jack tried to clear his head, which was no mean feat because he couldn't remember when his cock had ever been this hard and it seemed that Will's cock was following suit quite nicely. Jack slowly reached for Will's arse and squeezed one firm round buttock. Will moaned into his ear. Damn it all if his cock didn't get even harder. Will arched his hips and rubbed Jack's erection with his own. Jack hissed. Will chuckled softly before the laugh was choked off by a moan as he rocked against Jack again.
"Will?" Jack's voice, low and heavy, asked, "Don't mean to seem dense, but are you trying to seduce me, lad?"
Will trailed one hand slowly down over the curve of Jack's back to the swell of his arse, to give Jack's balls a gentle caress before moving to return the favor and give Jack's backside a thorough squeeze.
Jack could have been wrong but the damp sigh that escaped Will's mouth sounded very much like "blacksmith" before Will began to lick broad wet stripes over Jack's collarbone with his tongue.
Over the course of two lifetimes:
Will learned that Jack tasted like cinnamon and rum.
Jack learned that Will tasted of smoke and nutmeg.
Will learned that the joy of having a pirate suck your cock was only surpassed by that of having a pirate fucking your arse with his tongue.
Jack learned that Will was very partial to having his nipples pinched and twisted when Jack sucked his cock.
Will learned that Jack liked to be buggered very slowly very deeply. From behind. While Will whispered in his ear how much he loved him.
Jack learned that the wrought iron headboard that Will had fashioned was not only beautiful but absolutely perfect for tying up and ravishing a certain blacksmith.
Will learned that Jack would beg for mercy if Will suckled his toes.
Jack learned that Will yelled "fuck" even louder than Jack when Jack laved Will's balls with his tongue while working Will's arse with his fingers.
Will learned he liked to fuck. Very. Much.
Jack learned that there was one other activity in addition to bathing that caused to Will to lose temporarily that habitual tension he carried on the set of his shoulders.
Will learned that if he told Jack he loved him every morning when they woke up that Jack wouldn't need to get stinking drunk every so often and take solace on the deck of the Pearl in the dark of the night. Unfortunately, he still got stinking drunk every so often just because Jack liked to get stinking drunk every so often.
Jack learned that if he told Will he loved him every night before they went to sleep that Will wouldn't have nightmares. Unfortunately, he still snored.
Will learned that they did indeed have an accord.
Jack learned his lesson well.