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Wi' A Wannion	By : GeorgieFain Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > General Views: 2357 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Chapter Nine:

Boredom Presents New Opportunities

Year Twelve

The trick was to get between the enemy ship and its potential destination in the bay.

Jack understood the idea better than most of the other men aboard; he'd seen battles go badly when a ship slipped past and escaped, only to turn and fire while the attacker was too busy attempting to catch up to mind the possibility of retaliation. He'd been on the winning ship, many times, hadn't he? He'd been the one to slip past the attacker and then turn to retaliate. And he knew that Hector had paid close attention to his maneuvers all those times they'd been forced to fight off pirates, in the Indian Ocean near Madagascar.

Between them, they came up with a few strategies that could work. The thing they agreed on, the most, was that it would be best if no shots had to be fired. A sneak-attack and boarding worked so much better than trading cannon-balls and risking damage to both ships. Even better would be a smooth approach; keep the flag flying, let the enemy know what was going to happen. Most captains would give up easily and raise the white flag in acceptance of Fate's vagaries. In that way, they might gain more swag and perhaps even gain men for the deck.

The biggest problem they encountered, in waiting, was keeping the men busy and pleasantly content with the amount of grog they were given. Jack took it upon himself to mix the grog by the barrelful every morning, so that the lime and sugar-cane would have time to soak in with the rum and water and make it particularly potent.

Bootstrap set the men to scraping and re-painting as much of the ship as they could reach, using a mix of black and white paint that had been brought on-board in small barrels at Jakarta. The two colors didn't mix well, seeming to have been created from different oils. The result was a speckled, wavy paint that was sometimes black, sometimes white, sometimes gray. It worked to their advantage. The color seemed to camouflage the ship better than the dingy white shades of before.

Barbossa sat with Wee Tam and taught the lad to sew, working on a number of flags and the sails. One flag was a Portuguese flag, another was Dutch, another was British. A black flag was sewn with two red swords crossed in the center field---their colors, the colors of a serious privateer. When raised, it would fly with the Union Jack, to show their tentative allegiance.

The guns were cleaned, sanded, primed. All the swords and flintlocks were treated to the same inspection. Even the anchor was scrubbed and sanded by hand, repainted. While in Jakarta, Barbossa had also picked up a pair of three-pounder swivel guns that were now installed and secured on the gunwales, one to either side. The capstan was oiled. Caltrops were made, using a small forge. The entire ship's interior from deck to bilge was swept, swabbed, and re-sealed with paint-tar. Music was played, songs were learned. Stories were told. Fish were caught, as were sea turtles and birds. An expedition to the island brought back meat and fruit.

Two weeks and then three went by, like this.

The men started to tell stories the first week and, by the end of the second week, Jack was convinced that Hector's choice in sailors was influenced by the potential for violence or skill at tale-weaving. But, then, that seemed a given; Barbossa had brought the majority of the current sailors on board at Singapore, in the interests of getting him pulled from the gaol. Bloodshed, apparently, had played a part in the fight his lover had been forced to, with Beckett's personal guard.

Now, after hearing a multitude of stories that made even his stomach turn, Jack began suggesting in quiet moments, that taking a ship by fright tactics was a much more effective method of pirating. Among the ship's stores, in the hold, he found casks of paint, the sort usually employed for painting signs and flag-colors...and suggested that they might paint themselves up as demons when preparing to take any ship. Many of the men seemed to think scary disguises would be a good tack to take with the enemy.

It might save their lives.

***

In the interests of beating the boredom of sitting still for weeks on end, waiting for prey, Jack had agreed that he would like to try something new. As he lay naked and blindfolded across the sail-cloth hammock currently strung in the captain�s cabin, he wondered if Hector understood the possibilities of what one could truly do with a piece of sail suspended between two hooks. Why, with an advantageous knife-slit here and there, all sorts of delights could be had by the jaded soul.

His head was hanging over one side and his legs over the other; he could feel the deck under his feet. He kept his hands folded across his belly, not really sure of what else he could do with them, besides rub himself. After what seemed like a small eternity, he began rocking back and forth on his heels. This had the effect of making his bum slide on the sail-cloth. Soon, he spit in his palms, and used both to hoist his spar.

Barbossa, who'd been sitting at the round, polished table, going over charts with a mug of grog, finally gave a heavy sigh of aggravation. "Jack...Jack, d'ye need restrainin'? Could ye not just wait without fidgetin', boy?"

He chose to not answer. It had been a while since he'd been called boy. He found that, while he might normally feel offended at the gibe when used by another man, when Hector said it the word took on several new meanings. One of which caused an instant cockstand.

At last, his lover rose, pushing back the chair, and came to the hammock. He could feel the change in the air with Hector's approach. His hands were pulled away from his jewels and quickly tied with a strap and tugged up behind his head, where it hung off the sail-cloth. There, his fingers were tickled by the length of his hair and he couldn't help but smile at the sensation---his wounded wrist was healing and, while it would be scarred, the muscles weren't so badly damaged as to ruin his grip on a pistol or a sword. Now, he was effectively tied and at Hector's mercy. Another man might've quailed in terror at the idea, but, for him, it was the start of an interesting night.

"What did you have in mind, Captain?" He couldn't help but put stress on the title. Something in how he said that word always managed to irritate Barbossa. Which never failed in leading to new and exciting horizons. "This seems a bit tame for me, mate. Everyone's heard of using their hammock. It�s all the rage in Singapore and London."

"Ye stink o' fish an� tar." Hector mused in his gravelly, lilting voice. "D'ye not bother to wash, Jack?"

"I thought you didn't mind the smell of tar and paint and the sea---we're pirates, aren't we?" He tipped his lips up in a close-mouthed smile, being facetious. "What's a little stink between friends, eh?"

He wasn't going to comment on how clean Barbossa tended to be, compared to most sailors. It was something that others had said, only to have the words practically crammed back down their throats. He was much the same, really; but, after the long day he'd had, diving in and out of the water to scrape at the barnacles he could reach, he hadn't wanted to bother after they'd shared supper with the men on deck.

"Then, I'll be forced to remedy th' bits of ye that need care." His lover stole the flippant tone he'd used. "You'll be still, Jack me lad, or suffer th consequences..."

He wriggled in pleasure at the idea of being washed down by a hand that liked to tease and torment him in the process. "Fine by me, mate."

There was movement in the cabin and then he heard water being slopped into a porcelain bowl. The slosh of a chunk of soap and a rag being dropped in...and the clink of something he was unable to identify. The dragging scrape of a chair's legs on the deck. Soon, Barbossa was back in place between his thighs, seated on the creaking chair, and he shivered in delight at the feel of breeches brushing his inner legs. Then, he smelled the olive oil odor of Castille soap. He breathed in the scent, pressing his tongue to the inside of his cheek. Slap-slap, squish. The rag was being lathered.

When it was slapped into place on his groin, Jack fought a quake of laughter that quickly turned to a mewl of gratification when the rag began to stroke and pull at his erection. There seemed to be a lot of soap lather and he willingly slid his legs apart and arched up on his toes to let the cloth dive into his netherparts. The chair creaked. Soon, he was panting at the sensation of bubbles popping against his skin and in the crinkly hair on his ballocks.

Just as he thought Barbossa was going to rinse the soap away, he heard a tiny snick and then cold metal came down to rest lightly on his belly. His lover's tone brooked no argument, only a warning. "Be still now or I'll cut ye an' prove me cabin boy's fears to be th� reality."

Jack's breath froze in his lungs. Behind his blindfold, he struggled uselessly to open his eyes; he fought the urge to use his bare knee to emasculate Hector. His mind worked feverishly, rearranging the sounds in his memory, and identified the odd snicking noise he'd heard. He whispered, a bit worried. "What the bloody hell do you intend with that damned razor?"

It was a treat purchased for Hector, when he�d been given commission of The Wicked Wench and made the other man his first mate. Mostly unknown in England, folding knife-razors were not alien to Araby, India, or the Orient. He'd liked the look of the thing, with its silver handle etched to resemble a ship in fully rigged for sail. The sea, particularly, had captured his attention; the water around the ship was etched in such a way as to make the waves seem to dance upon the silver. The wide blade was naught but the width of his palm, but it was terribly sharp. The razor's design had the blade folding into the handle by a pin in its tang.

Upon first receiving the gift, Hector had said that it would make an excellent weapon.

"I be intendin' to shave ye, boy." Barbossa sounded genuinely amused, his voice lilting in a way that was both musical and malignant. Creak...the chair. "Now, ye be layin' still an' let me take care."

He let his breath out in a slow, gentle exhale and nodded, feeling the flush in his face like a fire. "Aye, just be sure you do take care."

They were both mad, it seemed.

Hector for thinking this was wise and him for allowing it.

Scrape. Every nerve in his body writhed under the skin and Jack fought a squeak of fear. Scrape. His lover was working on the hair that covered his lower belly, one hand wielding the blade and the other cupping his cock out of the way. Creak. Scrape...swish...ting. Scrape. Hector began humming and, despite the danger to his jewels, Jack felt himself hard-pressed not to laugh at the sound of it...Hector had a wonderful singing voice, but he could barely carry a tune when humming.

Scrape, scrape. Scrape...swish...ting. Scrape. Yet, the song was recognizable, now. Creak, creak. Perhaps because his focus was on the voice, to keep himself from thinking about the terrible sharpness of the razor that slid over his skin. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape...swish...ting. The blade was rinsed and then lightly tapped on the porcelain bowl, over and over. Creak.

In his mind, he followed the tune. It was an old ballad that he could remember hearing when he was much younger, when they'd sailed together under Captain Bushby.

'It was of a comely young lady fair who was walking out to take the air. She met a sailor upon her way, so I paid attention...I paid attention, to hear what she might say. Says he, fair maid, why walk alone when night is coming and day is gone? Says she, while tears from her eyes did fall, my dark-eyed sailor, my dark-eyed sailor is proving my down-fall. Tis two long years since he left this land, a ring he took from off his hand. He broke the token, here's half with me, the other lies rolling, the other lies rolling at the bottom of the sea.'

Scrape, scrape. Scrape...swish...ting. Scrape. Creak.

Hector's hand was steady, following the hummed tune. Jack let his mind wander, forcing himself to relax now as the hair on his lower belly was shaved off. Scrape, scrape. Creak. Scrape...swish...ting. Scrape. He only jerked once, when his lover's hand pulled and tugged out taut the skin of his ballocks and he felt the chilled blade come down upon them.

Scrape, scrape. Scrape...swish...ting. Creak. Scrape.

'I'll be true to my own dear love, and my dark-eyed sailor, my dark-eyed sailor still claims this heart of mine. But a dark-eyed sailor I would never disdain, and I would always treat the same. To drink his health, here's a piece of coin, but my dark-eyed sailor, my dark-eyed sailor still claims this heart of mine...'

Creak. Scrape, scrape. Scrape...swish...ting. Scrape.

The smell of Castille soap was in his nose and seemed to fill up the whole of his world. Lost in the rhythm, Jack was only vaguely aware when the hair from between his arse-cheeks was taken off.

Scrape, scrape. Creak. Scrape...swish...ting. Creak. Scrape.

And, then, it was finished. He slowly came back to himself, aware that the razor wasn't moving on his skin anymore. Creak. Swish, swish, swish...ting. Swoosh. There was the cloth drying the blade. Snick. It was closed. Creak. Tak. The razor was dropped to the rugs near his toes. A large, callused hand closed over his cock and ballocks and he gasped at the feel of it. A wet cloth ran over him, rubbing away the remains of soap and hair.

"There, lad. It be finished." Hector's tone was soothing, as if he'd been brave and endured some horridly painful surgery. He took a deep breath and wriggled again, now that he didn't need to fear being sliced open by the wickedly sharp blade. Creak, the chair crackled louder. He listened as bootsteps told him what was happening.

Barbossa took the effects away, leaving behind the chair, and returned with something else that swish-sloshed. Creak. Before he could prepare himself, the hand returned. It was sopping wet, slick as it rubbed at his freshly shaven flesh. The sting came a moment later and he only barely managed to bite off his howl of outrage as he struggled at the sensation of spirits being applied to him. Rum. The bastard was putting rum on his cock and ballocks! A perfectly good waste of rum!

"If ye like, I can stop now. I'm feelin' a wee bit tired, after th' day's work. Ye could sleep on deck, if it pleases ye." The way Hector said it made him growl behind his teeth.

"Damn you." Jack muttered, settling down.

He could do something about the shave and rum-burn, true enough; he could get up, but his hands were tied. He'd get free, in some way, and...then what? Go out on deck to sleep?

Hot, soft, wet. He recognized this, but yet his lover's mouth felt so different, what with the lack of hair on him. He moaned, feeling as if he'd been broken. Hector murmured his approval. "Aye, better. Much...much...better."

It was a strange feeling, to be so weightless at such a vulnerable moment.

"So...glad." He panted, biting at the corner of his lower lip. "You approve, Captain." He threw the title as an insult, now. "Bastard...I'll see you hurt for this, Hector." He hissed. Teeth raced along his length and he squirmed, almost coming off the sail-cloth. "I'll catch you asleep and...I'll...I'll...oh, damn you to Hell..."

"I could gag ye, Jack." It was a threat. "But, I think I be enjoyin' th' sound o' ye complaints. For once." Hector chuckled, mouth almost touching his ballocks---it was a hellish torment. "But, I'm sure ye don't need yer lugs."

Creak. More movements, bootsteps that came around the hammock. Then, he felt his lover's hands on either side of his head. Dexterous fingers moved against his ears and then, he was deaf. Swinging his head back and forth against the edge of the sail-cloth, he protested.

"Hector---" His voice sounded strange, distant.

Was it cannon wicks, pressed in?

He received no answer. After a strange lack of sensation, the hands returned to hold his head, lifting. Hector's thumb pulled at the side of his mouth. It tasted of soap and rum. Once he gave up and let his mouth be pried open, he found his lips being pushed at by familiar meat. Ah, so that was it, eh?

Familiar meat, but with a new taste. Sugar-cane? Jack hummed in the back of his throat at the flavor and gave himself up for lost. It was bizarre, unlike anything they'd ever done before. His tongue worked in mad ways, trying to lap at the prick that thrust at the back of his throat from a new angle. The sugar-cane made his mouth water and, soon, he was slobbering like a crazed wench. He felt it dribbling out at the sides and sliding down his cheeks to drip off, onto the rugs.

Not that he particular wanted to care. He couldn't hear anything, but he felt the tense muscles that pulled and pushed, tugging him back and forth by his jaw and neck. Barbossa was thoroughly immersed in the act of fucking his throat---and Jack let himself fall into a swaying, easy rhythm. The hammock rocked, carrying him up and back, up and back. He used his naked toes to rock faster.

Feeling a little evil, Jack used the edge of his teeth. Scrape, scrape. The results were like lightening; Barbossa said something he couldn't hear because of the cannon wick in his ears, but the action explained. The prick he sucked gave a hard thrust and stopped, gagging him at the very back of his throat. He lost his breath and pushed with his tied hands at the leg he could reach. Hector's laugh was muted, but the vibrations could be felt---and he was choking. Revenge. With a deep breath through his nose, Jack began to hum against the large, swollen head of it. He hummed the same tune Hector had hummed while shaving him---the leg he was touching with his fingertips nearly buckled.

He couldn't resist grinning around the shaft of his lover's prick.

All was fair in love and war.

The question did remain, unanswered. Which was it, for him and Barbossa?

***

Hector's lips traced a line from his throat to his nipples, which reacted by hardening and standing out straight. Then, the hot wetness of tongue returned and sailed down his ribs to his navel---which quivered, out of his control. He could see nothing, hear very little. Touch even less, now that Barbossa had moved around to the other side of the hammock again. His body tensed and relaxed over and over, over and over as his lover licked down over his belly to his hardness.

He sighed with sharp relief when Hector's mouth opened over his weeping cock. Jack let out feral sounds as his lover's teeth grazed him on the way down to the very root. The licking, sucking, and hot blasts of breath on his ballocks made him feel as if he might lose control.

Then, the older man's mouth lifted and the guttural whisper made every last hair remaining on his body stand at attention. "Jack...I must have ye, Jack."

He didn't need to give consent; his body did it for him.

Hector took his naked legs and pushed them up until the heels of both his feet were nearly resting on his own under-thighs and then the hot wetness landed on his arse, first the right and then the left. Lick, suckle, bite. It sent shivers through his body. His lover's tongue made a circle right into his bunghole. Hector began humming again, a mindless little tune. It made his entire body tingle and seize up, as if he was made of naught but tight bowlines.

When he passed muster, wet and thrashing on the sail-cloth, Barbossa took his ankles and pulled his legs back until they now rested on soft, worn cotton that moved smoothly with obvious strength. Shoulders. As he eagerly pushed his hips up at the air, Hector slipped the thick head of his prick in---it popped past the muscles there, making him yelp with surprise and a rush of pained pleasure. With an open-palmed smack at his arse, his lover's hand found home at his hip-bone and he grunted at the first deep thrust.

He felt as if he'd been possessed by a devil; Hector's ballocks slapped at his bum with each grinding plunge. Rocking, being pulled along to meet the prick that impaled him, Jack worked and bucked his hips in response, trying to drive himself harder onto the shaft---he was truly bare-skinned and the feel of Barbossa's short curlies scratched an itch he hadn't realized he had. Hector pulled all the way out, then plunged in once more, to the hilt. Jack's ballocks went into spasms.

With a shift in position, his lover leaned over him and now those strong hands found his head, lifting him for a kiss. A long, seductive kiss designed to destroy his mind and scorch his heart. He held his head up, pushing back at the tongue that ravaged his lips. Hector turned loose of his face and took his ankles, again, pulling his legs wider apart as if to break him in half. His arse-muscles grabbed tightly at the flesh that pummeled at him. His lover was making sounds into his mouth that only made him burn hotter. The core of his bowels felt as if it was molten, sparking with fire. It rushed over his nerves and bones each time Hector hit the aching knot of hunger in his arse.

When the prick in him throbbed, his lover stopped moving and gave a cry that he swallowed with his kisses. Hector collapsed on him, now licking into his mouth with a slowing, gentling passion.

At last, Barbossa shifted and a hand moved at his ear. With a pull of cannon wick, he could hear from one side. Under his lover's weight, Jack sighed, still hard and aching and needing relief. But, that changed into frustration quickly, like the turning of a storm at sea, when Hector chuckled darkly into his throat and whispered his intentions.

"Ye won't mind, will ye, Jack, if I go take th' watch? Ye can have th' bed. If ye can get yerself free."
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Wi' A Wannion