Title: A Hand on the Hip
Author: MidKnight2501 (email@example.com)
Author's Website: www.angelfire.com/realm2/midknight
Summary: Will sets out to teach Jack a lesson but Jack teaches him a thing or two instead.
Warnings: Listen children. Guns are not sex toys. If you need to know why refer back to the episode of Witchblade where Ian Nottingham put a sniper rifle inside a sniper. The guy's head kinda disappered when he fired it. Very, very amusing, but don't try it at home.
Disclaimer: No, they don't belong to me, otherwise I'd be in bed rather than at my desk, savvy?
Written for: Zombiekitten
Request: Gun kink and Will topping Jack.
Restrictions: cryingwhiningwimpy!Will and overuse of the words "Savvy" and "that's interesting"
It wasn't enough, Will thought, that he was part of the crew, Jack's trusted second in command, that he'd fought sea monsters, undead pirates, and the British Navy. It wasn't enough that he now knew the name of every sail on the Black Pearl, that he could tie more knots than Gibbs had stories for, or that he'd left the beautiful Elizabeth Swann back in Port Royale (to marry someone of her 'high class', he'd say, with a derisive snort, when in his cups), or that when Jack had been so drunk during a hurricane that the pirate fell from the deck of his beloved ship Will had looped a rope about his waist and dove into the ravenous swells.
No. It wasn't quite enough.
In every flea-bag, rabble-roused, whore-filled port they stopped over at Will had to get pick pocketed. It wasn't even by the locals.
No, no, it was the crew lifting his purse with nary a stray touch. It was Anamaria who'd cut the strings he'd use to belt on his bag of coinage, or Cotton's Parrot who had a mean skill for biting through laces with his beak and catching the loot with a clawed foot, or Gibbs who's bump against him in a crowd just to get Will nervous and reaching for his purse. It was always the third or fourth time that Gibbs jarred his walk that he'd find his money gone.
It had happened in Singapore, and Tortuga (at least a dozen times), and the two times they'd snuck into Port Royal to terrorize Norrington, and Kingstown, and Will was progressively getting more and more steamed about it.
Sure, it'd been funny that first time or so, when he'd honestly believed himself nicked. He'd almost panicked, and run to the nearest tavern hoping to find Jack, only to learn the Captain had been sighted on his way back to his beloved ship. So he'd rushed back to the ship, confused by the wide grins of the crew or their clinked glasses as soon as he was to the door, only to find the ship under a skeleton crew (pardon the phrase) and Jack not aboard.
Instead his money purse was sitting on his bunk, as if Will had left it there.
And it had been so ever since.
Every port they stopped in Will found himself light of cash, knowing he'd find his misplaced money on his bunk and the crew grinning at him as if he were a fool. So what that he'd never learned the trick himself? Anamaria had tried to teach him the first summer on, with humorous results; his scarred and calloused fingers simply could not make a light enough touch as to be unnoticeable. He supposed it was their harmless joke; but he was well and truly sick of it.
He petted his new toy though the cloth tied around his waist, and imagined the look on Anamaria's, Gibbs', or Cotton's face. He not be taken for a fool after tonight, he was sure.
Jack watched his First Mate leap over the side and listened for the sounds of boot heels on the wooden planks of the Pearl's sides. The crew were wild and their shouts could be heard from the deck, though they themselves were down in the rowboats waiting for their First Mate to come aboard before venturing into town. He looked to the sweeping mountains and swaying palm trees that framed the lighted port, seeing first the other ships anchored nearby, then the taverns all a glow, and finally the whores and sailors who strolled the piers.
He'd be there soon, a pint of rum in each hand, perhaps a girl in each arm. He found himself smiling and stroking the spines of the ship's wheel, contemplating a night on the town, perhaps not with a girl of pleasure. Watching his hand for a moment he found he had to adjust himself; a month or so at sea with nothing so pretty to look at as Will Turner had left him with a hankering for the male whores of the port, preferably someone with soulful brown eyes and a skillful tongue, should Jack have any say in all of it.
Scurrying off below deck he disappeared into the Captain's Quarters to pour over some maps, check supply lists, and then delegate all the important, time-consuming tasks for refitting the Pearl to someone else; he's got things to be doing, as it were.
Three hours pass and Will still has his purse at his side. It's the longest he's had money in a port town since he joined the crew; but whether thats from five-fingered-theft or him spending it on supplies for his forge, we'll leave up to you to decide. Needless to say, past events have left him a little jumpy and on-edge. Nothing like months at sea with no pleasurable company, and then a few nights in port where he gets to spend every waking moment being paranoid, to leave you furious and snappy.
It seems the crew is taking their time tonight. Letting the sharks circle their prey in the water, as it were.
He strokes the hard wood under his make-shift sash and grins to himself.
Anamaria watches Will with an amused eye.
Seems the sea has finally cracked his mind, after all these months 'cause the boy is pacing the streets with a demented grin on his face, eyes feverishly wide, and a hand working in a libertine manner over his hip.
She elbows Gibbs, who snorts his rum at the sight.
'e can't even wait fo' the whores 'e's so ready, eh? Gibbs elbows her back, nearly unseating her at the bar. Yeh playin' hard to get these days, Ana?
She laughs, salutes him with her rum and roasts him back. Not I, Gibbs. Tis you I've heard 'e's pining fo'.
Raucous laughter fills the tavern for a moment, but Will is already far down the street, scaring whores and respectable women as he goes.
Jack finds himself full of rum and not very stable on his feet, but a scant hour later. He's swearing, and stumbling, and this time it's not just the sea legs. The tavern keeper wasn't lying about this new method of distillation; it's brilliant stuff and he's ordered a few barrels down to the Pearl in the morning. Mostly it's for himself, but he'll share one of the five barrels with the crew.
Maybe he'll invite Will to his cabin and order the boy to suck his cock.
He giggles, staggers into a door frame, and clings to the wall, all the while appreciating the unlikely image. His clothes feel hot and sticky from the heat and a rainstorm that happened just before they reached port, but suddenly it's a whole different kinda heat.
He's got to find a whore. Now.
A woman seems to be staring up at him, face scrunched up in anger, and about to draw her hand back. He knows this moment. He must have been speaking aloud again. It happens when he's drunk.
Not you, love. He tries, waving his arms and grinning. He can be quite dashing when he wants, but utterly drunk doesn't quite lend itself to the part. Not quite what I'm looking for this time of night. Though you're a right pretty bird.
She smiles and looks appeased.
At least until he opens his mouth again.
Have you got a brother?
It gets him that slap she's been holding her arm up for. In a way the pain is welcome; it helps him clear his mind, just a little. Thats right. He came to town to get drunk and find a boy with a face to compare to Will's; not stand around getting slapped by cute girls with no brothers.
He's been ignoring her scathing insults up to this point and doesn't deem them worth listening to. He staggers off her porch and into the night.
Twenty minutes pass and he finds himself better equipped to walk the streets and chose when to keep his mouth shut, though he's no closer to finding the part of town where the poor boys live. He finds the scent of charcoal on the wind, and it reminds him of Will. Unconsciously he choses that street instead of the one with the curious dark alleys and hidden alcoves, and wanders past two smithys before realizing what he's done. He walks all the way to the shore before deciding to turn back, and the sight of the ocean makes him feel calm and less awkward on land.
He takes the path toward the piers, hoping he'll find some pleasurable company there and not have to resort to women this night. It'd be terrible to have to ruin that image of Will on his knees at Jack's command he's been working on all night.
In fact. He might have said something about it, being he's so drunk.
Somewhere in the darkened fish market he sees the back of his First Mate, and reminds himself to keep his mouth shut. Two people look at him strange and he figures they've never seen a pirate before, or he must be talking aloud again. It's probably the latter.
But Will is a good distance off and it's three streets of taverns and drunken sailors before he catches up to the man.
Trying for a friendly gesture he walks right up and lays a hand on Will's hip, pulling him close and smiling brilliantly.
It does not have the effect he's hoping for, which is mostly a blush, a demure of Jack laying hands on Will's spectacularly muscled body, or perhaps a lewd joke after a congenial salutation.
Instead, Jack finds himself dragged into and alley and shoved face first against a wall.
Too late he hears the cocking of the gun.
Will glares at the back of Jack's head, disbelieving. His captain reeks of rum (some days it wouldn't surprise Will to find out Jack bathes in the stuff), Will has him by the arm he's twisted behind the man's back, and Jack was the one who's been pickpocketing him?
He's more outraged than he expected.
The crew he could somewhat understand. Jack, whom he's risked his life for dozens of times; not at all. The hand that slid across his lower back before coming to rest on his hip felt like betrayal.
He cocks the gun and presses it to his Captain's head. Jack seems to take no notice, muttering under his breath and Will leans closer, wondering what the man could be whispering at such a moment.
You were trying to pickpocket me, just like the rest of this flea-bitten, whore-son crew! Will hisses after realizing Jack is merely mumbling some sea shanty about dark alleys and men on their knees. Will takes no notice of the song, nor it's significance; his fury is a little blinding. He jerks Jack around and slams the man back into the wall, pressing the gun just below Jack's jaw. He can feel the words of the song in the palm of his hand.
I was not! Jack grunts, eyes glazed.
He can barely see in this darkness, with no proper moon to light the alley. He knows it's Will, knows that Will isn't really going to shoot him, but other than that he's wondering where the boy got the weapon and what else they're going to do in this nice little alcove. It's so cozy and dark in here, just begging to be used.
The gun presses hard again, and it brings him back to the point. Will is angry about something.
He thinks really hard and realizes it probably has something to do with what the boy said about pickpockets. Possibly the crew. Maybe whores, or was that what Jack was thinking about?
I was... He starts and then isn't sure what to say.
Maybe something along the lines of 'I was just touching you', or 'I've always wanted you', or 'How do you like your sea biscuit in the morning?'.
I was, um. He grins suddenly, and throws his hands up in the air. This trick has worked on the British Navy before. It's not what it looks like!
Will looks unmoved. Perhaps he's drunker than he thinks he is. Perhaps he's saying his thoughts again, and for a second he remembers the shocked look on the tavern master's face, the one he bought the new kind of rum from, when he'd been elaborating on his vision of his First Mate.
Will jerks him away from the wall, and Jack does his best not to fall to the ground; instead he finds himself plastered to Will's hard body and his hands are in some very interesting places and suddenly he realizes he's hard. And he might just be rubbing himself against Will.
Will glares down at his Captain as the man all but falls into his arms, and lets the pistol fall to his side. It's not like Jack is much of a challenge this drunk and he peels the man off his side, intending on marching him back to the Black Pearl.
Jack follows docilely enough, and Will tucks the gun back into his sash, and together they make their way back to the Pearl, Jack humming like a fool. The man seems extra bouncy tonight, as if nervous. If he only knew what was going through Will's mind he'd have right to feel a lot more nervous.
It's in the row boat that Jack finally opens his mouth. He's leaning over the side, hand trailing in the water, prominent erection visible in his pants, if Will were to be looking, which he honestly isn't. It just doesn't occur to the boy. What are we doing? Jack asks, head keeled back to look at the stars. His tricorn hat is resting next to him on the seat.
Will eyes his Captain, weighing certain things, like trust and friendship and betrayal. This pickpocketing is just a game, but it's a game he's rather be left out of and after catching one of the perps he's not quite sure where the punishment lies.
I think the crew need an example made. Will says, voice monotone. He's not sure what he's thinking, but a plan is beginning to come together in his mind and he's not sure he likes it. Or that he can do it.
Jack snorts and closes his eyes.
Jack finds himself in his cabin abruptly, the climb up the side of the ship a haze, as well as the walk across the deck. The first thing he clearly remembers is the hard snap of the lock falling into place under Will's hand. The boy is staring at him. Eyes wide. Angry, unsure.
Ah. Jack knows what to do about that. He reaches for a bottle of rum and pours two glasses, knocking his back, and then pouring another before handing the untouched one to Will. He's never seen the boy's hands not-shake before. This time they do a damn fine job of grasping the glass and throwing it back. This is also the first time he's seen Will slam his glass down with quite that much lusty spirit.
Perhaps he'll make a pirate of Will Turner yet.
The thought warms something inside of Jack. Something almost paternal. Except paternal thoughts don't really allow for hand-jobs given to the Ship's Wheel while thinking of said First Mates.
He fills Will's glass again, and then once more.
Well. Must have been a hell of a night, he thinks, grinning. He can barely remember his own evening of wandering the streets and being slapped by girls while in search of a skilled mouth and a whore's body. From the tightness of his pants he suspects he didn't quite find that combination.
Eying the nearly empty bottle (it was none too full when he picked it up), he turns to the wall rack to select another.
Will takes his chance. He can't do it with Jack watching him, those dark eyes that see everything, and while Jack is not looking he comes around the table. He's got the gun in hand again, and then he's got Jack's hair in his hand, and Jack goes suddenly hard against him at the familiar press of a gun to the back of his head. It defies all logic, because Will can smell how drunk Jack is and for all intents and purposes the pirate appears to be sober.
Will? The voice comes back not quite as steady as Jack usually is; it betrays his inebriation.
Yeah. Will hisses, pressing his body into Jack's, pinning him to the wall with force and weight. He's surprised at how hard he is, how much he wants to do this. Jack shifts back questioningly and freezes again.
What the hell do you think you're doing?
I'm going to teach the crew a lesson. The first mate says, using his free hand to yank his shirt off over his head. I'm going to teach you never to pickpocket me again. He tugs at the sash around Jack's waist, finally realizing he's going to have to pull the belt loose before he can even get to the knots for the red cloth. Jack's sword clatters to the floor by their feet, and is quickly followed by the length of red cloth.
The second the gun is displaced by Will tugging his shirt off over his head Jack ducks out of range of the weapon, reaches for his red scarf and grabs Will around the waist, bodily throwing the younger man onto the sturdy wooden table occupying the center of the room. The move knocks the air out of Will's lungs and while he's stunned Jack disarms him of the gun and loops the cloth around Will's wrists, then under the table around one of the legs.
By the time Will can breathe normally again he's lost control of the situation. Jack's making a mess of his shirt, cutting it off with the knife that used to be in Will's boot. He wiggles his toes realizing his feet are bare, and that his pants are open. He's half hard, as well.
Jack grins down at him, a little too self satisfied.
Thought you could pull one over on ol' Jack, did you? The pirate asks. He twirls the knife in his fingers, making it flip end over end and leans back reaching for another bottle of rum. Evidently the one from earlier was broken when Jack swept him back onto the table. Will slips off the table sideways, nearly yanking his arms out of socket with the move and attempts to lift the table up far enough to get the scarf out from underneath.
Jack sits on the table top obligingly, blocking Will's attempt to escape and for a second this is exactly like the sword fight in the forge. Except for the part where they're both hard and half dressed.
God damnit, Jack, Will howls. You god damn, three sheets to the wind, monkey brained sow! Get off the table!
Such language, Love, The pirate purrs, slipping off the table and pinning Will. He presses against the boy's back, making Will lean into the table leg for support. He imagines he might be suffocating him, but can't bring himself to care. You shouldn't speak to your captain that way. Jack's nimble fingers find their way into Will's pants, slipping them off sweat slicked hips, pulling him to his knees, positioning him.
You bastard. Will mutters as Jack gropes around on the floor for something. Something slick probably. He's been living on a pirate ship nigh on two years and knows what pirates and sailors do when bored and between ports, though he's never tried it. Looks like he's getting his chance tonight.
He smells coconuts suddenly and remembers the jar of salve he'd seen Jack buy two ports back for cracked skin. It's thick stuff, oily, but he's seen it heal rope burn without a scar. Jack's fingers press against him, slick and cool, and Jack makes a noise, pressing his entire body to Will's back. A mouth nuzzles at the back of his neck, under his ear and the rum makes Will tip his head to the side and he feels Jack's facial hair tickling his skin. Fingers sink into him suddenly, up to the knuckle and Will hisses at the feeling. Jack explores him, twisting his fingers this way and that and Will starts cursing again, just as they hit something inside of him that makes his muscles go limp and he slumps between the table leg and Jack's body.
Thats it, Will, just let me do this to you. Jack licks him just as he touches Will again, and this time the First Mate moans. A thumb slips inside him and Will jerks forward, barking his collar bone against the table. Pretty, pretty Will, on his knees in my cabin, Jack purrs. I'm gonna make you feel so good, gonna make you forget about pickpocketing.
Fuck you. Will hisses, feeling Jack's thumb dig into whatever that thing is inside his body. The next few seconds are total white out, and when he comes to he's on his knees and begging for it.
Jack laughs and gets to his own knees, pressing his cock against Will's hole. He can see his gold ring glittering in the faint candle light and imagines how it's going to feel in Will's body; he's been fucked with one before and knows the interesting feel of hard metal pressing against certain things. He grabs for Will's cock, fisting it hard and hears the boy hiss in a breath.
He's fully seated in Will's body before the boy can even contemplate tensing up, and then spends a few breathless moments rocking against the warm body thats griping like a vise. It's no surprise to him that Will's a virgin; he's kept an eye on the boy since he joined the crew and knows just about every move the boy has made.
Will whimpers when Jack rocks the right way, feeling something press against him the way he can't imagine flesh doing. What... He gasps. What is that?
My ring. The pirate answers, tugging at Will's hips so he can pull out and finally start thrusting. Will clutches the table leg with white knuckles as Jack really starts to fuck him, slamming him into the table with every move, encouraging Will to thrust himself back and take part in what they're doing.
Will eyes the red cloth binding his wrists and contemplates getting loose again. Jack is pretty involved in what he's doing, and Will fights a moan, trying to concentrate. If he can just flip the table he'll be free, he thinks. Jack's hand slips around his waist, calluses catching at tender flesh and making him see white again, as Jack rides over that spot inside him with that ring.
God, Jack, please. He hears himself sobbing and wishes he could just shut up. This is not going the way he wants it to. He's supposed to be teaching Jack a lesson, after all, not getting his brains fucked out.
Orgasm sneaks up on him and for a second he wonders if his eyes are ever going to work again. The room goes black this time, and he barks his collar against he table again as he collapses; Jack's fingers dig into his hips as the pirate thrusts harder and faster, wanting to finish inside his First Mate's body. Jack slumps forward suddenly, breath coming hard and fast, and his hips jerk in little spasms as he comes. They lay there a few minutes, sweating, and sore, and when Will hasn't moved at all Jack rolls the boy over and finds that he's asleep.
He smirks and pulls himself out, reaching for the nearest piece of cloth on the floor to clean himself and the boy off. Staggering to his feet Jack eyes the deconstructed cabin with a certain amount of amusement, then kicks the table away and lifts Will to the bed, leaving his arms tied. He suspects the boy is going to be a bit of trouble in the morning.
As he throws himself down on the bunk he begins planning some sort of speech to give to the crew over their pickpocketing practice.
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