Obsession, a
Pirates of the Caribbean follow-on by Glacis.
No copyright infringement intended.
Rated NC17. With thanks to Mona,
my German friend and editor. May the
next one come to fruition.
Jack : You know for having such a bleak outlook
on pirates you’re well on your way to becoming one. Sprung a man from jail,
commandeered a ship of the Fleet, sailed with a buccaneer crew out of
Will : That’s not true. I’m not obsessed with
treasure.
Jack : Not all treasure is silver and gold,
mate.
Long engagements
were a good thing, in Will’s view. He’d
been too busy staring at his boot buckles, and she too
busy picturing him in pirate’s garb, to truly see one another. Once his ring was on her finger… once he’d
finished making her ring and put it on her finger… it would be done.
As bedazzling as
she was, as true as his love felt, as pure as the passion they shared may be...
he stopped along the battlement wall and stared out over the water. Mayhap that was the problem. He wasn’t completely sure that passion was
supposed to be pure.
True, they’d
shared a kiss or several, and they’d all left him with his head clouded and his
limbs a-tremble. He’d seen her in
breeches and had fever dreams for days.
She stared at him as if the answers to all the questions in heaven were
clear in his eyes. But when he touched
her… aye, when he touched her…
“You pine for
him.”
Commodore
Norrington’s voice startled him nigh into leaping right off the wall. Cursing himself for an idiot, Will turned
with as much panache as a man who’d nearly wet his breaks could muster and
glared at his rival for
Well, not that
he was a rival so much now that she’d declared for Will, but there was a niggling
feeling at the base of Will’s brain that informed him on a regular basis that
while Norrington may have lost the battle he’d not yet lost the war. That voice sounded too much like Jack Sparrow
for Will’s liking. His glare
intensified.
“I’ve no idea
what you’re talking about,” he informed Norrington stiffly.
Norrington
smirked at him. With
evil intent. It wasn’t an
expression with which Will had much experience seeing on Norrington’s
face. It threw him. Giving Norrington all the opening he needed
to crowd Will so close against the stone wall Will
half-expected to be thrown off it at any moment. He chanced a quick, panicked glance behind
and below him. The water churned
hungrily on the rocks.
Will gulped and
turned back to find that Norrington was mere inches from him. His eyes widened and his hands came up
automatically to push at Norrington’s chest.
His wrists were caught firmly in a strong grip, not so strong he couldn’t
throw it off, but strong enough to give him pause.
Or perhaps what
stopped him in his steps was the light in Norrington’s eyes. He looked as hungry as the ocean had.
“I’ve been in
Her Majesty’s Navy since I was a lad,” Norrington said softly, staring intently
at Will, paralyzing him as a rabbit before a wolf. “I recognize the signs.”
“What signs?”
Will squeaked, then winced, refusing to believe he had, indeed, squeaked.
“Of a man
missing his mate,” Norrington told him, then made a
move that made Will’s jaw drop in shock.
Norrington
kissed him.
He also took
advantage of the fact that Will’s mouth hung open, and put a good deal of
effort into laving the entirety of the inside of Will’s mouth with his
tongue. Over palette,
across teeth, pressing upon tongue, until Will was out of breath, out of sorts,
and nearly out of his mind. He
was also stiff as a board, pushing up against his buttons until they were fit
to burst, his hands spread out now against Norrington’s chest and kneading like
a wanton cat.
The only satisfaction
Will had was that, when Norrington finally let him go, there was a flush
painted high on Norrington’s cheeks, and his eyes held a hectic flush to match
the excitement pressing Will’s own down below.
The two men stared at one another, Will in shock, Norrington in
satisfaction, until Norrington stepped back and Will remembered to breathe.
“You know what
you want. And it’s not
The arrogance in
his voice was marred by a huskiness Will found rather appealing. He then shook his head, trying to knock that
errant thought back out before it had a chance to sink in. Norrington reached forward and caught Will’s
chin in a tight grip, forcing Will to look at him.
“The Black Pearl
was taken three days ago and sunk to the depths. Most of the crew died in the battle. Two, though wounded, escaped the
carnage. A boat was last seen heading
away from the wreckage. Aboard that
board were Gibbs… and Jack Sparrow.”
Will jumped,
starting forward instinctively. “Where?” he asked urgently.
Norrington’s
smirk broadened. It looked decidedly odd
on his kiss-swollen lips. Will snarled at him.
Norrington gave him the heading, and Will turned on his heel, running
for his maps.
The ensuing
justification for his departure was less difficult than he’d expected.
“Wounded,” Will
told her, “with only Gibbs to help, and Gibbs wounded
as well. I’ve marked where the tide
would take them, and there’s no help to be found. I’ve got to go rescue him.”
“You…”
Will cocked his
head and looked at her, uncomprehending.
She sighed.
“Of course you
do.”
He beamed at
her. Her answering smile was a tad
sickly, and he thought perhaps her corset was laced too tightly for
comfort. She touched his face, then turned away from him to call the maid for his hat and
cloak.
He’d kissed
Will had lost it
before he’d begun the fight.
It bothered him,
greatly, but not greatly enough to stop his mission. It would be all right.
And so he did.
All his life
Will had been told he thought too much.
He knew his place, aye, that he did, but his place kept shifting and he
didn’t fit it so well as he once did. Nor so well as
others said he ought. Becoming engaged
to marry the governor’s daughter was bad enough. Leaving her to search after a marooned pirate
should have been worse.
Except
none appeared the least surprised when he did.
He thought of
that, as he sailed the Merriweather, the small boat he’d borrowed with
Norrington’s blessing (and that in itself made him uneasy) through the choppy
waves to the deeper water. It was the
matter of a few days’ sail from
His
place. His future. His future wife and his
place in her life. The balance of
Jack’s need over his own; of
The overriding
consideration on his brain was to get to Jack.
To get to Jack and make sure he was alive. Right then, to get to Jack, make sure he was
alive, and keep him that way. Well,
moreso to get to Jack, make sure he was alive, keep him that way, and sail away
from the island upon which he’d been marooned.
And perhaps,
just perhaps, keep right on sailing.
The guilty
thought intruded, then refused to go away.
Since he couldn’t ignore it, he mulled it over, as he pulled and set
ropes, furled and tied sail, adjusted his course, stared at the stars. The more he thought on it, the more it came
to him that it wasn’t just Jack he was running to find.
It was
It made all the
sense in the world now, staring out over the endless ocean, listening to the
wind in the sails, the timbers creaking, feeling the pitch and roll beneath his
feet. She’d known he wasn’t coming back
before he even knew he was going.
He didn’t know
whether to be dismayed or relieved by this realization. He thought he should feel guilt, or
heartbreak, or any of a dozen different emotions, but he’d always been the
pragmatic sort, making the best of a bad lot.
When his lot suddenly turned wonderful, he’d not had the inclination to
linger, and he’d escaped it the first excuse he got. He shook his head in disbelief at his own
oddity, then looked up sharply at the first sight of
land in the distance. The glimpse of
smoke he saw rising from a fire somewhere inland shook
away all his distraction.
Deep thought
could wait for a more opportune moment.
Right then, he had a pirate to rescue.
Well, two,
though for some reason he kept forgetting Gibbs.
Perhaps it was
because all he could think of was Jack.
It was a tricky passage
finding his way far enough inland to drop anchor without breaking the hull on
the shoals, but he did it. For a man
who’d been landlocked most of his life it hadn’t taken him long to learn sea
ways. His first voyage to
It wasn’t until
weeks later, after kissing
Will shook off
distraction yet again and lowered a dingy alongside the boat. He rowed to shore quickly, eyeing the small
satchel of medical supplies, a water jug and a bundle of food wrapped in oilskin
at his feet. He’d gathered what he
could,
What he found
when he got to the makeshift camp was something in between the two extremes.
Gibbs
half-sat, half-lay against a rotting log, bottle of rum in one hand and bloody
rag in the other. He stared with dumb misery across the fire at
Jack, who lay curled on his side on a pile of wet rags that at one time might have been a greatcoat. Jack’s headscarf was torn and stained with
blood, as were what remained of his clothes.
Will dropped the bundle of supplies into the soft sand, drawing Gibbs’
attention.
“Mary, Mother of
God!” he gasped.
“No, it’s only
me,” Will answered absently, rummaging through the
bundle for the medical bag and hurrying to Jack’s side. He touched Jack’s shoulder gently, and dark
eyes popped open to stare at him. They
were distinctly glazed.
“Not
Mary, indeed,” Jack slurred, “but an angel nonetheless.
If it’s not our Will himself then I’ll be damned, not that I’m not
damned already, but damned if I’m not!”
With that incomprehensible though joyous greeting, Jack’s eyes rolled up
in his head and he passed out stone cold.
“Damnation,”
Will exclaimed, dropping to his knees beside the still body and turning it over
for his inspection. The damage was
neither as extensive nor as gruesome as he’d expected; rather, the strong scent
of rum wafting from Jack’s open mouth answered Will’s primary question regarding
the pirate’s condition. “That’s a
relief,” Will muttered.
“What is, young
sir?” Gibbs asked, then toppled over sideways, causing
a stirring of musty leaves and bark from the stump to break off and foul the
air.
Will wrinkled
his nose, and glanced over his shoulder at Gibbs, readying a stern reprimand
that died unspoken on his lips. Gibbs lay, eyes staring blindly at the night sky, passed out drunk
as, well, a sailor on the sand. Will
sighed and turned back to Jack. One
drunken sot was quite enough to handle at any given moment, and Jack was his
priority.
Quickly washing
and bandaging surface wounds, thanking a merciful God that none were
life-threatening, Will hurried to doctor Jack before
he could waken from his stupor. Rum was
good for many things, not least of which was making the handling of a poor
patient much easier.
When Jack was
thoroughly patched up, Will covered him with the tattered coat. Then he turned and added some wood to the
fire, making free of the rotting log. It
smelled terrible, but it warmed them up nicely.
By then, Gibbs was coming round.
“Young Turner?”
he asked, his voice thin and reedy. “Are you a dream phantom or are you rescue,
indeed, come to reclaim us from this godforsaken rock?”
“I have a boat,”
Will answered shortly, though his hands were gentle as he tended to the man’s
hurts. “Are you capable of helping me
stow Jack on the dinghy?”
“If ‘twill get
us away, laddie, I’m able enough to carry Atlas himself upon my shoulder.”
The first mate
was as good as his word, staggering only slightly as he took Jack’s arm over
his shoulder. Will took the other side,
trying and failing to ignore the fever-warmth of Jack’s body so close to his
own. By the time they’d settled Jack in
the dinghy, and Will had retrieved the bundle of supplies, he nearly had his
wanton arousal under control. He took up
the oars and steered them toward the boat.
Halfway there,
Jack slumped over. His shoulder slid
against Will’s thigh, his head coming to rest in Will’s lap. His cheek lay hard against Will’s stomach,
and despite the chill in the evening air Will could swear he felt the heat of
Jack’s breath ghosting across his groin.
The arousal he’d worked to suppress roared back to life with a
vengeance.
By the time they
arrived at the Merriweather it wasn’t merely Jack’s deadweight that made it
hard to move him. Will
found movement difficult in its own right, given that he was practically as
hard as if he’d forged his prick out of pure steel. The slide of Jack’s body against his own as
they hauled him aboard the boat tore a moan from Will’s throat.
“You all right
there, laddie?” Gibbs asked with concern.
“Oh, yes,” Will
answered, more breath than voice, then cleared his
throat at Gibbs’ astonished look. “Erm,
quite, yes, excellently well, thank you for asking,” he babbled, using Jack’s
body as a shield to hide his condition as he manhandled the unconscious man
toward the main cabin.
It was a very
long night.
Happily, Gibbs
passed out again shortly after helping Will settle
Jack. Will spent the waning hours of the
night hovering over Jack’s bedside, wiping the sweat and grime from his face
and body with damp cloths, pressing a fist against his own rampant arousal to
discourage himself from putting a leg over that delicious, if unconscious,
body, and in general doing his damnedest not to think about anything at all.
Eventually he
succeeded. The mindless routine of
washing and checking bandages, making rounds to check the boat (and Gibbs) then
returning to wash and check bandages again, led Will to a state of mind where
he could concentrate wholly on the body beneath his hands and the boat beneath
his feet. Dawn had broken when Gibbs
surprised Will by coming into the cabin bearing a food-laden tray.
“Get this down
yer gob,” he told Will kindly. “Ye look
like ye’ve been chewed up by a sea snake and spat back out again.”
Will grinned at
the imagery, but took the tray and tore into breakfast like a starving
man. Gibbs leaned against the door and
stared from Will to Jack, lying asleep in a cocoon of blankets, then back to
Will again.
“Ye’re a good
man, Will Turner,” he said softly.
“Jack’s needed that for a long time.
Never truly had that before.”
“Not even from
my father?” Will asked involuntarily, then choked on
his bread.
Gibbs gave him a
knowing look. “Not quite the same thing,
no.” With a sly grin, he nodded
respectfully and left the cabin.
Will stared at
the closed door for a long time before rousing himself to drink his by-now
stone cold tea. Was it written on his
face somehow? Rather like
A stifled
whimper came from the bed, and Will immediately set
his cup down and turned to see to Jack’s needs.
Only after he’d soothed the restless sleeper, checked the bandages and
resettled the blankets around Jack’s shoulders did he smile ruefully at how
quickly he’d jumped to Jack’s slightest movement.
Perhaps there
was no need for it to be written on his skin; it must shine from him like a
beacon.
Oddly, it didn’t
bother him nigh as much as it probably should.
He perched on the side of the bed, staring down at Jack, and let his
mind wander.
The day passed
peaceably enough. Thankfully, there was
no fever, and Jack slept more soundly than Will might
have hoped. Gibbs spent most of the day
on-deck, stopping in a few times to look in on Jack, and once to share luncheon
with Will. Talk
was quiet, comfortable, and Will felt a peace he’d only felt once fleetingly
before, on the first voyage out to
Jack woke fully
about sundown, his dark eyes lighting as they rested on Will. Will found himself
grinning back for no reason he could name, ridiculously happy simply to be in
Jack’s company again. Will placed a tray
of stew and biscuits across Jack’s lap, and Jack tucked in like the
nearly-starving man he was.
Will perched on
the side of the bed and, for want of anything better to watch, stared at
Jack. Jack, intent on his food, ignored
Will’s regard until the plate was scraped clean, then leaned back against the
pillows with a luxurious stretch that would have done any pampered cat
proud. It also nearly upset the tray,
and Will leaned forward quickly to rescue it.
Turning back
from placing the dishes to safety on the table, Will opened his mouth to scold
Jack for everything from getting into trouble as soon as Will’s back was turned
to being so careless with the crockery.
What he saw when he faced the bed smothered the words in his throat.
Jack had kicked
the cover away and lay sprawled, as wanton as could be, one leg crooked at the
knee and the other stretched straight out.
His shirt lay open, the bandages dotting his torso stark against his
swarthy skin, and he’d unlaced his breeches.
His right hand dipped inside and Will’s eyes were riveted by the slow,
steady movement he could clearly see over the flesh straining at the material.
“Why are you
standing all the way over there, when you’d be put to much better purpose much
closer in?”
Jack’s voice
sounded rough, low, inviting, making Will’s fingers itch to touch him, much the
way finely-wrought metal-work tempted him to touch. He’d gotten in trouble for this in the past,
but he had an inkling Jack was made of stronger stuff than the candelabra at
the Mansion.
His body made up
his mind for him and Will found himself crawling
across the bed to straddle Jack’s hips before his mind got past gibbering at
the absolute seduction that was Jack en déshabille.
Moving as if mesmerized, Will dropped his hand to rest atop Jack’s,
following the movement, up, and down, then up, and down again.
“Mustn’t hurt
you,” Will muttered.
Jack
whimpered. It didn’t sound as if it was
from pain.
Will leaned
forward, hoping for a clearer view, when Jack’s free hand looped round the back
of his neck and pulled him forward.
Startled, Will opened his mouth to exclaim, only to find it filled with
Jack’s tongue. A
tongue which, by the nature of its actions, might be considered prehensile.
By the time Jack
finished with him, Will had been most thoroughly kissed, was utterly out of breath,
and had maneuvered himself between Jack’s thighs. Somewhere along the line Jack’s hand and
Will’s hand upon Jack’s hardness was replaced by Will’s full weight, thrusting
deliciously against Jack, tearing whimpers from them both.
Still
not from pain.
“Better…” Jack
panted against Will’s neck, “were there less between
us…”
He then
untangled his hand from Will’s hair, leaving Will to wonder when that had happened, and tore at Will’s
laces. Realizing that Jack was quite
right, and these sort of movements were really intended for bare flesh, Will
unwrapped his own hands from their finger-cramping grasp on Jack’s buttocks and
skinned Jack out of his breeches with as much alacrity as Jack skinned Will out
of his own.
Yes.
Quite
right.
Hot naked flesh
and sweat and slickness spreading between them… a definition of heaven Will could actually believe.
Will lost what little control he had left at the feel of Jack writhing
beneath him, hands once more clamping with bruising strength on Jack’s now-nude
buttocks as Will arched into him, spending life and will and strength all over
Jack’s belly.
“Sweet God,”
Jack whispered, sounding awed. Will
opened his eyes to find Jack staring up at him, face lit with a grin, an
expression so tender and amused Will couldn’t hope to be anything but
entranced.
Then he relaxed
completely atop Jack. The grin was lost
as Jack’s face went slack and he pushed up desperately against Will, his
completion seeming to take him by surprise.
His eyes fell shut and his mouth fell open, as he panted for breath and
shuddered beneath Will. The expression
of ecstasy warring with pain Will saw prompted him to
draw a bare inch away. Jack’s hands
tightened convulsively on his shoulders, and Will dropped a kiss on Jack’s
nose, then his lips, then his chin, then his throat, then left a trail of them
down Jack’s chest.
Reassured that
Will was going nowhere, Jack’s hands relaxed until they could stroke across the
top of Will’s shoulders, running along the sides of his face and petting his
hair. Will enjoyed the sensation of
Jack’s hands roaming over him as he leant down and began to lick the combined
spill from their lovemaking from Jack’s skin.
To Will’s surprise, considering the fact that Jack had been
marooned, hurt, and drunk off his gourd in the past few days, his ministrations
caused Jack to harden again. He glanced
up, eyebrows rising as he looked a question up at Jack.
Jack grinned
down at him with an expression that could only be called wicked. “Strong constitution, mate,” he purred. “Takes more than a gallon
of rum, a pesky shark or two, a double-handful of sand crabs and a run-in with
Her Majesty's finest to get me down.
Takes only the application of my Will to get me up
again!”
Up he was,
indeed. Will snorted at the bad pun, the
rush of his breath over Jack’s erection causing it to jump. He found that rather entertaining, so did it
again. Jack growled.
“Never thought
I’d see the day when I’d be calling you a prick-tease, Will Turner,” he
mock-snarled.
“’Tis not a tease
if one delivers on one’s promises,” Will told him primly, then ran his tongue
the length of Jack’s flesh, ending by taking the head in his mouth and giving
it a good strong suck.
The shout that
elicited would have brought Gibbs running if the first mate hadn’t known
precisely what the lads would be getting up to as soon as Jack was fully
conscious. Will shrugged off the thought
and licked, then sucked again, rousing another shout from Jack. Things continued on in this vein for some
time, until Will himself was hard and leaking, and Jack was close to spending.
Hands that were
both fierce and gentle tugged at Will’s hair, drawing him reluctantly away from
the prize in his mouth. Jack then
claimed his lips for another consuming kiss, curling a leg around Will’s hips
and pushing their bodies together. This
time when they reached completion, they reached it together, their kiss
breaking only so they could draw air to starving lungs and expel it in twin
cries of pleasure attained.
In the
aftermath, they lay twined together.
Will reached over and pulled the discarded cover over them, as the chill
of the night air crept through the cabin.
He tightened his hold on Jack as the other man began to mutter and
occasionally sing, nonsense that Will wouldn’t have
been able to follow completely even if he wasn’t worn to the bone with the most
pleasant exhaustion. He let the words
wash over him, surrendering to sleep, his face tucked into the curve of Jack’s
shoulder, his body blanketed with Jack’s warmth.
A few thoughts
surfaced as he slipped away to sleep.
Decisions made at the level of primal instinct, with no need for
rational argument, for when did love ever yield to logic?
He’d not be
going back to
END