Title: Of Fault and Responsibility
Author: kHo (email@example.com)
Pairing: J/W, Will's POV
Summary: Will makes the first move, but it's all Jack's fault.
Notes: I seem to be in a smut frame of mind. I blame it on the time of month. (I know, too much information) Also, just to make sure no one's confused, this is not affiliated with either of my series.
I'm sure he'll tell you it was my fault, that I did it, I made the first move. Which, to be quite honest, I did -- I made the first move. It's his fault though. After all. Pirate! I never would have dreamed I'd do something like that, much less make the first move of it, but he just stands too close. I can't be held accountable for my actions when he's standing that damn close. No man could, or woman for that matter. Though, women are another matter. And one I'd prefer not to think of at this moment, if you'll forgive me.
I was standing there, innocently enough. Honestly, I didn't intend for it to happen. I was standing out there on the deck of the wondrously majestic Black Pearl, looking out over the railing at the ocean. Jack once said I had a pirate's blood running through my veins-- more than once, to be truthful-- and one day I'd have to square with that. I'm not sure I have fully, but I've begun to accept it. Perhaps, even, embrace it. Not sure if I'm square with it though. There seem to be rounded edges still yet.
But I'm digressing, so I shall get back to the point. I was looking out at the vast midnight black ocean, and smelling the salt air, and dreaming of things to come. Of being free, and alive, and unencumbered by English laws of society. Things which I'd never realized weighed so heavily when I lived in Port Royal, but being out at sea has shown me they did. Then I heard, or felt rather-- that odd kind of hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck sensing rather than feeling kind of feeling-- a figure behind me.
Odd sentence, I know, but I can't think of a better way to say it. I suppose I could have said 'sensed a presence' behind me, but now I've gone ahead and written it before thinking, so there you have it. Bloody damn ink.
And since I only seemed to ever sense it when it was Jack, I knew it was Jack behind me. His hands came on either side of me, gripping the railing at my sides lightly, and his chest pressed just barely into my back. His hair ticked the back of my neck as he leaned his head against mine, and he laughed lightly.
'Will, my boy,' he said, still using that infuriating habit of calling me a boy when clearly I'm a man. 'Are we dreaming of visions of grandeur again?'
I laughed, as I'm wont to do when it's Jack involved. I'm not certain he means to be funny as often as I find him to be, but he is. That, and his breath tickled my ear. The feel of him behind me wasn't unfamiliar by that point. As I've said, it's something he does on a regular basis: standing just a bit too close to me for what's considered to be proper etiquette for men. I found myself leaning back into him this time, though. I found myself thrilled at the contact. I found myself, quite earnestly, aroused by it.
In moments such as those, he doesn't speak in his regular jaunty manner. His voice drops an octave, just above a whisper, and he leans in close to my ear. I, and I alone, am to hear him when he speaks this way. Which is not to say he doesn't speak in similar fashions to Gibbs, or Anamaria, or any other crew member which he feels the need to. It's to say that when it's me, I am the only one to hear it. And, if I'm to be truthful, it's most often times me.
The hard part of it is, I like that I'm the one he speaks to like this most often. It causes my skin to prickle, and my insides to flutter ever so slightly. A warm flush floods my body, and my pulse rises to twice the regular beat. Sometimes I find my eyes drifting shut without my telling them to. It gives me a thrill to hear his voice, in that pitch, directed solely at me. At first I thought it was because it meant he considered me a true mate, but now I recognize it as it truly is.
I'm drawn to him. I'm attracted to him. I'm, and this is honest to God despite myself, falling for him bit by little bit. I even dream of him every now and again. I'm never able to control my dreams, though I've heard people can, and in my dreams he always makes the first move. Stands close as is normal, and then even closer than that. Lifts his hand to brush my hair back. Leans his lips centimeters from my ear and whispers something deliciously scandalous in my ear. Then, always, he is the one to kiss me. Always him first.
But that night, something seems to have made the situation of my dreams flip-flop. He buried his mouth in my neck, another thing he's done far too many times before to count. He didn't move, just stood there with his chest pressed into my back, his hands on either side of me, touching me from head to toe, with his mouth pressed softly against my neck. The breath from his nose wafted over my skin and made me shiver just slightly. I felt his mouth curve into a smile.
It's then that I knew he does this on purpose, and it's that realization that makes me say that this truly was his fault. His flickering and fluttering fingers found their ways to my wrists, holding them in place as I wavered in and out of coherence. He said something about the delicateness of my wrists, his fingers brushing lightly over the inside of my left hand. He spread my fingers, and laced his fingers through mine, laughing lightly. He may have even insulted me at that moment, but I was too preoccupied to notice the words I'm sure he was saying the whole time.
I'm not sure what made the difference. Maybe it was the smile. Maybe it was the way his breath on my neck made me feel as though my knees would give out any moment. Maybe it was even just the wind, carrying the scent of him to my nose. Despite what you may think, Jack does not smell badly, at least not all of the time. Certainly not that night, for we'd docked in some undisclosed port and he'd had a good scrubbing down that very day.
No matter what it was, it didn't take much effort to turn my head and brush my lips over his. It was the barest of brushes, just a fleeting glance of one really. Two seconds, at the most. I pulled back to gauge his response and he looked at me with wide eyes and a smirk just waiting to happen. His tongue flicked out and licked his lips, an elegant eyebrow-- they really are elegant, aren't they?-- arching just barely. He remained silent, waiting. For me to apologize? For me to make excuses? Or was it for me to do it again?
I chose to ignore the first two and delve straight away into the third, pitching forward and kissing him again. This time I held my lips to his for the count of five, and just before I pulled back his lips began to move beneath mine. I heard him take a deep breath through his nose and his arms tightened around me, bringing my arms to my chest as he did. He progressed the kiss slowly, but when I felt his tongue flick against mine my knees truly did buckle.
He was leaning against me, though, and as I felt them buckle he leaned into me even more, pushing me flush against the railing. He's got amazing balance for someone who seems so unsteady, so it was unsurprising to me that he noticed the losing of mine. His hand slid slowly up my arm to my chest, and then down it even slower. His tongue was soft and delicate, winding slowly with mine before changing pace and quickening.
For all I know the hardness digging into my backside was a gun, but the feel of it as Jack rocked lightly into me, pushing me further into the rail, was intoxicating. I'm sure I gasped, or made some sort of noise, but the effect of whatever noise I made on Jack wasn't an unpleasant one. His hand lifted to my throat, fingers spread widely, almost possessively. He began to deepen the kiss, delving his tongue in deeper and more anxiously.
There was a low purr coming out of him at this point, and that's when my brain effectively shut down. From there on out all I remember is not being able to breathe properly, and the feel of his hands all over my body. I remember him pressing into me tighter as his hands slid down under my shirt to my bare chest. I remember shivering when his fingernail flicked over my nipple. I remember him pulling back from the kiss to bite my neck in a manner that should have hurt, but made me moan with a throat full of arousal.
I remember his hand delving under my pants, and mine reaching back to do the same. I remember him rocking into my fist as I did to his, and I remember his lips never leaving my body. Licking, biting, kissing my neck. Free hand winding in my hair and tugging downward as he ran his tongue up to my ear, nipping at my ear and growling into it. I remember feeling dizzy, and sick, and wonderful all at the same time.
And then I remember his heavy panting moans as he came. His breath stilted and coming out in spurts, grunts and groans filling my head with dirty thoughts I never knew I had the capacity to think. I remember the way his voice pitched higher just before his come stained my hands, and I remember that his hand never stopped moving as he did. I remember digging my nails into his thighs, my hands still in his pants, as I leaned into him and he whispered things I won't repeat until I too came undone.
So, yes, I started it. He'll be the one to finish it, if it's ever done. He has yet to put the stops on. When we had our wits about us that night he led me straight to his room and started it again, this time properly. He undressed me and himself, and accustomed me quite well to the feel of his tongue over every square inch of my body. He's done so every night since, and I can tell you that everyone should know what it's like to have those hands all over them, that tongue licking just behind them.
Though, should he try to show anyone else, I don't think I'll be able to be held responsible for my actions then either.
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