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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.

Chapter List
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Chapter Twelve:

A New Sense of Accord

Year Twelve

There was a special ring of Hell for men like Barbossa, men who liked to torture mercilessly their wounded lovers. Mercilessly. Without mercy...that was the part he wasn't savvy to. Torture was fine. This kind of torture, he could accept under better conditions. Said better conditions being as when he wasn't sick as a poisoned dog.

He'd come out of unconsciousness to find himself already in the process of being ill, crouched on the bed's side, face down in the chamberpot he held between his knees. Hector, already awake and in the process of washing up in a bowl of sea water, smiled amiably enough when he managed to raise his head from the porcelain pot.

"Yer a lack-about, Sparrow. Ye'll not laze in me bed. Get up, ye great pulin' lass. Tis yer own fault. Four bottles."

He groaned and threw up again, his muscles contracting painfully.

Hector patted him with a voice that was nothing but oozing, slimy smirk. "I do believe yer pet cabin boy has made coffee. I'll be th' gentleman an' get ye a cup. How does that sound, Jack?"

Pushing his lover's hand away from the gargantuan throb that seemed to have replaced his head, Jack burbled hollowly into the foulness. His voice was strange, muffled, even to his ears. "Did you miss the part where I said---I believe I said---you weren't always right? Get the bleedin' hell away from me, you git---for the love of Mary. If you want to do something to help, then shoot me and get it over with---a real friend wouldn't let another---real---friend die a slow, agonizing death like this."

Hector laughed long and hard, leaving the cabin. Jack was glad to see him go.

But, the worst was still yet to come.

Hector returned with coffee and four sailors, who carried between them a fair-sized, heavy porcelain tub---an item they'd taken off the galleon and intended to sell at the first opportunity. As he sat on the bed-side, cursing Spanish wine and scurvy Creole cabin-boys what thought they were wicked and brave and piratical, his lover called out a warning to the men as they left.

"Do be careful with th' hot water, boys. Yer Quartermaster is sorely ill today an' while we not be in th' habit o' carin' for sick men, what sort o' Captain would I be to let such a fine sailor suffer?"

Jack muttered a laugh and lost the battle for bragging rights over his own inner strength when his stomach staged another mutiny and surged up his throat, past his heart and lights, and he gagged as much at the stench as the sour, hot feel of it. The bile soaked the sides of his hair, where it dragged in disgrace at the rim of the pot.

"Take that an' clean it, lad." Barbossa said to one of their cabin boys.

His numb fingers were pried away from the chamberpot by Wee Tam, who ducked his curly head in embarrassment and took it out to be emptied. Now, with nothing to hide his face in, Jack was forced to look at what the other two cabin boys were endeavoring to do, with the help of two brawny, scarred pirates.

The oval, white porcelain tub was being filled with hot sea-water, apparently heated over the galley's stove. It was unusual for anyone on ship to care about cooking, so not a lot of it was done. Few of the men bothered to bathe or shave, so hot water wasn't considered important. But, Hector had instructed the lads to heat great pots of brine water and haul them up the steps from the galley for him. Two sailors had been commandeered to assist with the water. It should've felt like an honor---but, he was too ill to care.

Hot was mixed with cold and, soon, the bath swirled with soap while their captain looked on with pride and nasty amusement. Once the chamberpot had been returned, scrubbed clean, and both cabin boys and sailors had ducked out---still red-cheeked with the effort of their labors---Hector boomed a laugh.

"Get yer poxy arse into th' water, Jack."

He couldn't quite force himself to his feet. Barbossa did the honors, dragging his limp carcass the last few yards. There, he was slung over into the tub, which splashed a bit out onto the rugs. He knew the tub and the water were a luxury, but the smell of hot seawater was nauseating; he bit back another sour lurch of bile as he allowed himself to be manhandled.

"Can ye bathe yerself or should I send for one o' th' lads, Miss?"

'Lads' here having found the designation of cabin boy.

He would ignore the 'Miss' part.

In fear of which lad Hector meant, Jack reached for the large swath of rag and shook his head mutely. He could bathe himself; he most certainly didn't want Andre sent in to help. He managed to whisper, his throat raw from vomit. "No, I'll do for meself. Thanks much, mate."

An hour later, scrubbed and shaved and clean, Jack relaxed in the tub and let the still-warm water soak into him. The smell wasn't so bad, once he got used to it, and the Castille soap softened the scent. It was certainly helping with his aches and pains.

With eyes much clearer than before, he examined the cuts on his chest. Which stung from the soap and seawater. The mark was reddened, a bright color that, compounded with the itch of it, only made him want to scratch. He fought the urge, determined to not mess this one up. He didn't want to consider why Hector was giving him four bells to fix himself when all other men would've been dragged out at first light. Had the mark and the apology done what nothing else could?

The coffee tasted oddly, what with the scald in his mouth. But, it was the first coffee he'd had since those first days after leaving the gaol in Singapore. The single cup here and there was a boon...something to be treasured. Even if, as now, he couldn't really enjoy it.

Hector returned, in coat and hat, looking exceptionally smug. He hadn't noticed before, but his lover had even brushed his reddish beard and smoothed down his hair under the green scarf. Barbossa seemed intent on being loud, as before. "Still indisposed in yer bath, milady?"

He sipped the coffee and raised a brow at Hector in askance. He was hoarse. "You talk that way and it could bring a mutiny...the men shouldn't be thinking on how you'll coddle me every time I drink too much."

"Oh, aye." Hector's mouth curled up on one side and it pulled the scar under his right eye, making it stand out. "But, ye've done th' damage yerself, Jack. Ye complained so loudly last night, on deck, before comin' to me, th' men are rightly well aware o' th' nature o' our association. It'll be yer hard day's work to bring these dogs back into respect for ye. If they don't respect ye again by the time we reach Singapore, it be yer own fault. Ye great bloody mooncalf."

He had no idea what that meant, but suspected he was going to need to be the hard case today, with the men. He'd need to work as hard as them and perhaps even worse. It still didn't explain the bath. Hector, a man not given to niceties, was coddling him.

But, his lover wasn't finished. He watched as Hector moved around, dragging out clean breeches and shirt and coat from the deep wooden chest for him. A clean scarf for his hair, as well. A nice red one, taken from the galleon. His battered tricorn was added to the pile, on the bed. "Ye'll need to look evr'y inch th' sailor I know ye are, Jack, for th' duty I've set ye. Yer too pleasant a fellow an' th' men know it---clean or not, ye'll play th' rogue today. In fact, as I see this, th� cleaner ye are, th� better it�ll be. Me thinks th� confusion alone t�will be a delight to see."

That didn't bode well.

He learned, while dressing himself, what Barbossa was suggesting.

It was brutal and vicious.

Because he was by nature a clean and somewhat moral man who often still behaved as if he was a merchant captain with ordinary rules, today he would behave like a real pirate first mate---this imbalance would cause the confusion needed to ensure capitulation without mutiny.

It was just convoluted enough to work.

They had more men than they needed, to sail The Victorious into Singapore. Too many men, as Hector said. His duty was plain and clear. They were passing close to several trade islands now and that was good enough, for pirates. There was, at least, a modicum of civilization; the natives had done business with white men, before. With their shares, over half the men were ordered into the leaky boats and cast off from the ship with only enough food and rum to last them three days.

This caused an outcry. An outcry that he needed to put stop to.

Pistol in one hand and cutlass in the other, Jack squared off with the lot of them. "You will do it, gentlemen, and consider yourselves fortunate. It's a done deal, aye? Dead or alive, you leave this ship today."

"This goes against th' Code, it does! Ye can't set th' whole o' us adrift!" One of the remaining pirates complained loudly. "Ye wee filthy Sodomite!"

Jack aimed his pistol at the dissenter and gave a chilly smile. "We've room for one more. Thank you for volunteering, son. Into the boat, now."

The ragged complainer yelled a curse and started to rush him. Jack grit his teeth and pulled the trigger on his flintlock. It was loud, explosive, and the man fell dead to the deck, blood spattering quick to run into the caulking and rope that was stuffed between the boards.

He tucked the pistol away, ignoring the heat from its metal. He grabbed a belaying pin from a notched brace of the mast and faced off with the crew that were listed to remain on board, his coattails swirling with the twist of his hip. "With that said, I've a mind to put several more of you ashore. Let's say...ten. Shall we start with the oldest and work our way down, then?"

They muttered among themselves, but only one dared.

Just as he was turning to watch the boats being lowered, the marooned pirates with their sacks ready to crawl over and down the side of the ship, the one last dissenter rushed him. He caught sight of the movement from the corner of his eye and came around with his cutlass. He felt its blade meet bone; the impact vibrated into him, but he stood fast, his feet planted. Blood spurted and the pirate screamed, stumbling backward.

He'd cut the man's hand off. Steeling himself against the headache that thumped behind his eyes, Jack growled. "Tie it up, you poxy idiot, and stow that womanish weeping. Get yer sack---you're finished here. If I see you again, I'll cut off the other and then your prick."

He was obeyed without question, this time. The ones being put ashore went without any more complaints and the men left aboard drifted off to find other things that needed attention. The only one left was Bill Turner, who watched him from the shadows cast by the shrouds with a knowing smile. Then, long curls swinging around his jaw, Bill too moved to drop into the hold, out of sight.

Once the leaky long boats were away, taking half the crew, Jack turned and stalked back to the cabin. He didn't need to look at the quarterdeck to know that Barbossa stood there with a wicked grin, pleased at how things had worked to their advantage and perhaps even pleased that he'd done a thing so reprehensible to half the crew---shooting a man dead and maiming another in the process.

There, behind the closed door, he sat and went over his inventory lists again. He tallied, made note of their relative place on the charts, and knew that they'd need to stop and take on fresh water---even if nothing else---before reaching Jakarta. They could stop at Timor...

An hour later, he laid his head down on the table and shivered, his new marks flaring up in sharp pain beneath the clean shirt he wore. Perhaps what he needed was a cup of grog. He certainly didn't want to think about the necessity of what they'd done, putting half the crew off to an island southwest of Guinea.

Getting to his feet, he collected the ship keys and went out, heading down into the hold. There, he unlocked the stores and pulled a bottle of grog from the case; he'd prepared several bottles in advance against need. In the quiet rocking and creaking of The Victorious, he went further along the hold until he found a cloth sack of limes they'd bartered for. The fruits were wrinkly and smallish, almost soft with spoil, but he selected one and went back up, locking the doors behind him.

He sat in the cabin, looking over the charts in silence, drinking, and pondered the choice they'd made to work for Beckett in exchange for Letters of Marque. After a moment or two of reflection, he decided that there was nothing for it and stripped himself of the heavy, restrictive clothing.

In only breeches and barefooted once more, he went out to work.

***

The Victorious had left Jakarta two days ago; they were currently heading into the straits which led to Singapore. The Java Sea was rough in this season and the rocking sway made Jack feel pleased with the world. He was feeling particularly at peace with the ship, the pirates, Barbossa...even the deal with merchant master Cutler Beckett.

He stood at the helm in slashing rain and stared out into the light storm they were steering through. It was a glorious one. Part gale, to be sure. He grinned into the wind, not fearing for the battered leather tricorn he wore---he'd had the hat long enough to have formed it to stay on his head even during bad weather. He'd chosen to run his watch in both coat and hat, taking Barbossa's advice---when working among the men, breeches and shirt might be enough, but when leading the watch, he needed to carry the look of authority. If he looked as if he knew how to handle anything---and he often did---then, the men wouldn't fear giving him that autonomy.

His watch was nearly finished. Then, he would be free to drink and get some rest. Not that he had rest on his mind. Far from it. His mind circled a particular idea, considering all the angles.

Barbossa had been particularly mellow with him, recently; ever since he�d been marked by Andre, in fact. It was time to change that. He liked Hector mellow, but there was something much more exciting and dangerous about the other man when he was sharp and edgy. If only to himself, he could admit that he much preferred his lover's bite over his bark.

Eight bells came. Bill Turner relieved him with the honorary passing of the guard. Ship's helm in exchange for a half-bottle of grog. With a hearty swallow, he grinned cockily at his friend. His mood was apparent.

Bootstrap chuckled into the rain, already soaked to the skin, and nodded at him. "All's well here, Jack. Go enjoy yourself, then."

"I intend to, mate. I intend to." He gave Bill a wink and swaggered down the steps from the quarterdeck.

He entered the cabin to find Hector Barbossa in a stained sark and patched breeches squinting at a small, leather-bound book by the light of a candle. With the pitch of the ship's roll, he went on the prowl, all serious mien now. "Reading in this weather? How do you do it, I wonder? You look like a little aged there, mate. Trade you."

Deftly, he snatched the book and thrust the bottle into Hector's hand.

"Damn ye---" Barbossa snarled from his chair, reaching for the book he'd taken.

He danced back out of the way and lifted the tome to his face. The print swam in and out of focus, it was that small. "Surely you can't read this, with your ol� eyes. We've got to get you into port and quick---what you need, mate, is a girl, not a book. I don't think you remember what to do with one---a girl that is, not the book."

"Old?" Hector rose now, coming at him like a panther; the dark look in his lover's freckled face was enough to make the hair on his body stand on end. Tormenting Barbossa about age or virility was a sure way to get trouble. He'd come looking for trouble. And here it was, bearing down on him with a distinct look of disgust and annoyance on its long face. "Old, is it then? At least, ye wee bratling, I've had enough wenches to know how it's done."

"Aye?" Jack smirked, holding the book behind his frock-coat as he swung out of his lover's reach again, nearly dancing backward around the cabin now. "Old and hoary, you think? Be you the Beast of the Deep, then? I knew I recognized you from somewhere, mate."

Neither of them were old; he was yet twenty-five and Hector, twenty-eight.

Well, twenty-nine now.

Barbossa roared at him, lunging.

Jack tossed the leather-bound novel toward the chair and held out his hands in offering. "Look, then, I don't have your book. You just go on and read, mate---I expect it's the best anyone can expect from a doddering old gent of your years. I'll just go and have a word with Andre, let the 'lad' know that you'll be needing nothing but porridge for your breakfast...porridge with a wee bit of broth, maybe."

He turned, as if going to the door once again. He didn't make it; not that he'd expected to. Hector's large hand found him before he could get more than a step in that direction. Tangled in the back of his hair, the fingers closed tightly and jerked him back and into the arms of the man he'd been teasing. With one hand buried in the long strands of his dark hair and the other closing around his jaw, the other man's voice was a rumbling threat pressing at his ear.

"Where ye goin', Jack?" It was almost a purr. But one so feral as to make him instantly hard behind the placket of his breeches. Hector laughed, lips moving against his ear and throat, pulling him along. The beard scratched at his neck and made his skin stand up in gooseflesh. Stumbling in his boots, he went with the moment and let himself be dragged. "Porridge can wait, me thinks. My appetite's much improved for a gent o' me years, thank ye. In fact, Jack me lad, I did notice there was no' enough meat at supper tonight---as Quartermaster, yer possessin' th' keys to ship's stores. Maybe ye'll be rectifyin' that shortage now?"

Jack Sparrow swallowed against the hand that held him by the jaw, knowing he could take it either of two ways. He could be the pirate or...he could be the pirate. He knew that Hector couldn't see his face as his plan came into focus. He couldn't resist a devious smile.

All he needed to do was play 'the lad' for a moment or two...

He let Barbossa draw him into the center of the cabin; he was forcibly turned around and his face was pulled up. He gave a moan as Hector's lips closed on his and his upper lip was caressed by his lover's mustache. The difference was like day and night; he'd been drinking grog, his lover had been drinking coffee---staying awake against the storm. But, tonight, with the ship rocking steadily, they could keep each other awake.

The taste was perfect; Jack gave into the kiss, growing urgent with it. Greedily, he pushed himself harder against his lover's lean body, his blood quickening. He grew clumsy with the kiss as he used the sway of the deck to push Barbossa backward to the table. Hector's hands were still holding him by the hair and the throat and the growl that vibrated on his lips was enough to make him chuckle. Biting at the lips that threatened to swallow him whole, Jack ran his hands down along Hector's sides, needing to make love, needing to do so much more.

He was a needy thing, desperate for kisses. With one hand, he reached up and pulled the green scarf from Barbossa's hair as he slid his covered hardness along the older man's hip, to not-so-subtly show how very needy he was. As he did it, he urged his own mouth along Hector's lightly before diving back in for a battle with teeth and tongue.

There was a bump and they both stopped moving; he'd pushed Hector all the way to the table. The jostle thrust them harder together and he groaned quietly into his lover's mouth, enjoying his attentions. Lips vibrating together, he whispered, eyes slitted with desire. "I want you, you know."

Hector nodded, smiling; they were nose to nose. Still holding onto the scarf, he urged his lover back until he was laying on top and they were flat on the table. Perfect. There, flat between Hector's legs, he nuzzled at the other man's throat, just below his reddish-blonde beard, making happy sounds of his own. Laying the scarf on the table at Barbossa's shoulder, he reached to take his lover's hands in his own. Lacing their fingers, he stretched until the backs of Hector's wrists were on the wood high above their heads.

"Yer bold tonight, Jack." Hector whispered, chin lifted for his attack at the bared throat.

"Aye. I�ll be bolder still, before I finish." He murmured it, biting down into salt-pungent flesh. It caused his lover to roll under him, from hip to ribs, squirming. This was as he wanted, aye? Oh, aye. He'd have to move quickly, now. He rolled himself back and forth, rubbing their cocks together through the breeches they wore. Distraction...

He lifted his hands from Barbossa's fingers and...they stayed in place. He saw, with a shifting glance up, that Hector's eyes were closed to mere slits of passion. Now. With one hand on the wrists of his lover, Jack snatched up the green calico scarf and quickly wound it around both hands, effectively tying them in the strong cloth; as he did so, he rose up enough to get at the knife he wore, switching hands fast.

Hector's eyes opened, fuzzily, and stared at him with a split-second's recognition just as he drove the blade as hard and deep as he could into the table, pinning the knot. His lover's hands were tied, pinned, and twisted upward in a way that made it nigh impossible to be gotten loose with any ease.

Jack smirked, now rising from the table and his lover. "There, mate...at my leisure, then."

Barbossa jerked at the knot and the knife and then colored darkly, roaring. The force of it was startling. Jack leaped forward again, snatching off his own red scarf. He tied it around the opened mouth, teasingly chiding. "Now, none of that. We don't want the men to know you're at my mercy, aye? It wouldn't be good for you, as Captain..."

His lover stared at him with absolute rage in his pale, slanted eyes, still howling behind the hank of ragged cloth. Jack gave another chuckle and began undressing, aiming a running commentary at his captive audience. "You're fond of telling me I'm not immoral enough for the work...well, what can I say now? For that matter, what can you say now?"

He was down to just one piece; he watched as Hector almost succeeded in turning the table over, trying to get free. He pondered the thought, hair swiping back and forth against his cheeks as he fought to take off his salt-bleached breeches. "If you flip the table, Hector, we'll have to explain to Bootstrap...at the very least. You don't want that. Now, where was I? Oh, yes...your lessons on thievery and general bad behavior. As you can see, I've become a sneaky git what would double-cross his own man. What can I say? Pirate."

Naked, he snagged the unlit lantern from its hook on the main beam. They would make do with the candle lit, but he needed lamp-oil for what he wanted. He pulled the metal casing apart and lifted out the glass bottle within, showing it to Barbossa. "See, mate...you taught me. I'd never do for only spit. Or rum, like you did that once."

With the oil on the edge of the table, well out of the reach of flailing legs, Jack stood back and cupped his chin with one hand, contemplating the sight of his lover raging against him. At least Hector wasn't trying to flip the table anymore. But, there was a good chance that he'd be sorely kicked if he attempted to approach again. Ah, well, there was always the side.

Or...

Quick, he feigned to the left and then dodged into the fork of Barbossa's legs when his lover attempted to kick him. Now, Hector squeezed, snarling at him from behind the gag, eyes narrowed down in absolute ire. He could imagine what the other man was trying to tell him---in fact, he could almost hear the words. But, a good plan was a good plan and he wasn't about to ruin his chance.

Now, for Hector's clothing. "You're wearing breeches, mate...that won't do."

He lifted the sark shirt up as far as it would go. This meant drag-pushing the worn, stained cotton up the length of his lover's body. For good measure, he pushed it over Hector's head so that it more neatly pinned his arms. This left every glorious, scarred inch of Barbossa's chest exposed for his use. And he would be doing that, aye.

Once the shirt was out of his way, he attacked the double buttoned placket. Out of his way, he wormed the breeches down and off Hector's hips. On the way further down, he pulled off boots. They thumped to the deck under the table, out of his reach. Naked, Hector raged something at him that he couldn't understand. He waved it off, reaching for the bottle of rum that had been left on the chair. With a drink, he eyed his prize.

Hector was half-hard and straining against the scarf and knife still yet. He couldn't help but tease. "You've told me I should try to do this, if I had the nerve. Stop struggling, mate...you know it can't possibly hurt. I've enjoyed the feel of your prick up my bum for years. It's only fair that I return the favor."

Now, he hunkered low, almost on his knees, and began lapping hard between his lover's scrote and thighs, snuffling his face into Barbossa's sweaty groin, licking and sucking at the low-slung stones. Instantly, Hector relaxed with a strange noise that was half-sob and opened his legs further.

When he'd properly tenderized the other man's ballocks, he turned his attentions to the prick that bobbed and slapped at Hector's belly. First, he lapped upward from the base and then licked around the tapered knob, using his tongue to push the foreskin back and down. At last, he slipped his lips around the tip and went down, slowly. He managed without so much as a gurgle. Hector, on the table at his mercy, wriggled and jumped at every new thing he tried---and he'd thought of a few, over the day's work. At last, he was nuzzling at the ginger and rust colored curlies with his nose, but didn't care that it tickled. He was too busy slurping and twisting his throat around the tender landscape of his lover's thick shaft.

Jack hummed while he sucked, knowing from previous experience, that this was a sure method of driving Hector into trembling, weak-kneed spasms. It worked and he was rewarded with a trickle of early spunk, sweeter than sugar to his throat. He brought his mouth back up and let it pop off the head with an audible sound; he was dribbling spit, his tongue working in circles faster at the tip. Behind the gag, Barbossa almost choked with clenched eyes and bearded jaw tightened perceptibly.

He could feel the head of it touching the back of his throat as he worked back and forth. In his mind, Jack could imagine the prick making contact with the very softest flesh of his mouth. He turned his head sideways and took Hector at another angle. Again, he licked up the side and then ran his tongue around the slicked head; Barbossa was straining, bursting---he could tell---and ready to blow like a powder magazine.

He swallowed it whole one more time and then brought his hand onto the shaft. He sucked up and down as his hand worked its way in perfect tandem with his mouth. He pumped and sucked, first smoothly and slowly, to tease Hector with the sweet tension of it all. Soon, his sucking became longer, faster, more intense. His lover responded by grinding it into his mouth, shoving up at the hips, making the prick force its way through his hand in its effort to reach deeper into his throat.

Clearly, Hector was determined to get his way, even while tied down. Letting his eyes fall almost shut, Jack retracted just enough to torment. Whining in a way that he'd never heard Hector whine before, his lover pushed through his hand and into his sucking tongue, and then again. Finally, he let the prick's smooth head make contact with his throat---he swallowed against it, convulsively, and was rewarded by a salty spurt and a muffled scream of torment as Barbossa released, his shaft throbbing once, twice, and then again into his mouth.

Licking his lips, Jack pulled back and whispered at the red-faced man whose chest and belly heaved, trying to catch a breath. "Now, I've a question for you, Hector...a tricky question. Have you ever had a man up your bum before? Did you indulge in acts of sodomy before ol' Jack came on board?"

From the flat, quiet look in his lover's pale eyes, he knew that he wasn't going to get any answer. Not an answer so simple as a shake or nod of the head. But, there was something in Hector's gaze that told him what he wanted to know. Regardless of which way it went, Hector Barbossa didn't want him to do this.

Which just meant that he'd have to do it...and make sure that his lover so thoroughly enjoyed himself that all shame and embarrassment would be instantly forgiven.

Tall order, that.

"Where do you want to go, after we get our Letters?" He asked, conversationally, standing up to reach for the grog again. On his feet, he scratched at his hard erection, at the sparse curlies of his ballocks, and took a drink. The tang of lime and the sweetness of sugar in the rum washed away the peppery tasting burn of spunk in his throat. "I heard from Bill that you did a fair bit of pirating in the Caspian, most of the last year while I was in prison. We could go there or...the Spanish Main. Your call, Captain."

Hector's eyes were pinned to him, a quiet promise of retribution in their darkening depths.

Setting the grog back on the deck, Jack rubbed his hands together and grinned. "We've got time to decide...no need to rush, mate." Then, he studied the table with a practiced eye. "Good thing this ol' bugger�s sturdy as the deck itself, eh? It'd be a shame if we broke this. Still..." He leaned over, between Barbossa's thighs, and, through the strands of his loosened hair, blew a kiss against his lover's belly---a loud, raucous noise. "Could be fun."

He found himself wanting to kiss Hector from head to toe, to decorate the other sailor with his scent. It was a strong need---the sudden rising ache to mark Barbossa the only way he could...with love, sweat, and devotion. Lightly, he licked his way back up Hector's chest, pausing only to kiss each of his nipples tenderly. He slid his hands up the length of the wiry, straining arms to clasp his lover's fingers. Now, he covered Hector with his body, pressing his lips to stubbled cheek and sweating throat. He even kissed over the scarf he'd used as a gag, cutting a line across mouth and jaw.

"If I take this off, do you promise not to scream down the storm?" He licked the stretched curve of Hector's upper lip.

He got a nod.

Carefully, he pulled the red scarf away. The pressure of the cloth had reddened lines against his lover's cheeks. He held his breath for a moment, perfectly motionless, and waited for the shouting to begin. It didn't happen. Hector watched him with more bemusement than what was appropriate for a man whose hands were tied and pinned.

"Yer gettin' yer chance, Jack." Hector murmured, licking at the chapped line of his lips speculatively. "But, ye will pay. Tit for tat, boy. Best be watchin' yer back, after...aye?"

"Aye." He agreed to the terms.

Kissing at Barbossa's face, he felt the needy, pleased sigh against his chin and neck and it made his heart soar. He nudged his cock at the hipbone he was nearly straddling, rubbing himself against the soft, hairless skin. He closed his eyes and found Hector's mouth blindly, seeking to make love to his tongue as he brought his hands down and over his lover's cheeks and throat. He stroked, marveling at the ginger-blonde stubble, the stiff bristles of beard. It was a new thing, to hold Hector so tightly under him; it brought out his possessive side.

This...what he had wanted to do, the night he'd taken the mark from Andre. Only, he'd gotten too drunk. Now, mostly sober, he could see that it wouldn't have worked that night. Hector wouldn't have allowed it---only by an act of piracy could he dare to take what he hungered for. For the first time since burning the galleon and marooning two different groups of men, Jack felt warm right through to his bones. The heat of his lover's body seeped through every bit of him.

With his lips, he made wordless promises. Promises he intended to keep. If Barbossa needed him to stay on as only first mate and Quartermaster, he could. He could give up his desire to be a ship's captain again. At least, for now. He murmured, rubbing his nose against Hector's, breathing shallowly in the heat between them. "I'll never sail without you, love."

Not very pirate, but now it was said.

Opening his eyes, he found himself lost within the blue-green seas of his lover's gaze. He forgot to breathe, staring into the sleepy depths that now watched him without guile or hostility. Sliding his nose against Hector's, face to face, with his arms extended once more, he used his thumbs to caress the sides of Barbossa's bound hands.

Hector whispered, huskily. "Jack...Jack, I would be better able to touch ye if I was but free."

"No deal, mate." He whispered back, lips moving against Hector's beard. "This is revenge, savvy? I'm taking what I want for all those times you tied me up and had your wicked way."

He pulled back and reached for the oil he'd set on the table's smooth edge. With it opened in his hand, he began kissing at Hector's ballocks, pausing only to pour oil on his fingers and the furry skin below his mouth, right at the cleft of Barbossa's bum. He felt more than heard the swift inhale of breath; responding, he sucked hard at the stone under his lips. It caused Hector to shove up at him. He took advantage of the movement, sliding the tip of a dextrous finger into the snug bunghole. His lover growled, futile at trying to pull away, so he withdrew his finger, replacing it with his tongue. The lamp oil was sour, heavy, cloying.

He pushed in on the pucker, making it spasm. The growls turned into a whispering moan. He tightened his tongue, eyes slitted at the sound of his own breathing on Hector's skin. His world became the simple noises---breath, hoarse moans, the slick squish of his fingers as he rolled Barbossa's egg-sized ballocks in circles.

Jack urged his tongue deeper, forcing his way past the tight muscles that rippled under his mouth and, then, pulling free from his ministrations, he attempted the finger again. This time, there was no resistance...no complaint. He found his way back to the head of Hector's prick; sucking at it, he pushed his oiled finger in over and over, rolling his wrist with the motion. Fast, he flicked his tongue over the foreskin he sucked at, tasting the remains of spunk.

Now, Hector pushed his hips up at him, his breath coming in rough spurts. He had a wild moment of wishing he could watch his lover's face as it changed---going from trepidation to hunger. From where he worked at the prick in his mouth, he managed to raise his gaze enough to see that Barbossa was staring at him from across the flat plane of his chest.

The pale eyes that watched him were hazy, not from pain, but surprise and lust. The flush he could see, in his lover's freckled cheeks, was dark enough to suggest sunburn. Hector's lips were opened, working silently, as if to say something---but no words came. Feeling mischievous, Jack twisted his finger around and up, pressing at the knot he could feel there at the front. The results were instant---the hips under him jerked hard and fiercely. Hector's eyes flew open wide and there came a noise of absolute panic, something close to a yelp.

He used that moment to add a second finger. Now, he pulled them in a circle, tugging at the impossibly tight, resisting muscles. It earned him a squeak. A bloody honest squeak. He snickered into the hair he was snuffling, his throat closing convulsively around Hector's prick. He knew that there'd be hell to pay for this, later, but for now...ah, the rewards were marvelous, though fleeting. Perhaps he could make sure that this didn't become an isolated incident of ambushing.

Satisfied that he wouldn't be hurting Barbossa's body even as he plundered the man's pride, he pushed up and away from his conquest. Slicking himself, he winced at how hard and achey he was---too much need. Carefully, he positioned himself between Hector's thighs and pulled the other man's long legs up to rest on his shoulders. Then, he discovered the problem. Barbossa's arse wasn't close enough to the edge.

"Hold on a bit, mate." He tugged, dragging his lover the last distance to him. This stretched Hector's arms to the straining point and it showed in the man's face. Now, things were rightly set. Using his thumb as a guide, he pushed the tip of his cock into the opened arse that now tensed up at his touch. "Easy there, son, you do that and this'll hurt us both. I don't fancy being skinned---you won't fancy being forced."

"I'll skin ye, Jack, when yer least expectin' it---" Hector spat.

Jack slapped the palm of one hand down on the thigh he held against his left side. The crack of it was a shock---but, it did the job. Instantly, with the pain of being struck, his lover's body relaxed the necessary bits. He began pushing in, rocking on his toes to gain a purchase.

"Damn ye---" Barbossa hissed it at him, face reddened.

The struggling started anew, and the tightening spasms on his cock only made him push faster. Once he'd reached the very deepest he could go, Jack breathed an endearment, clutching at Hector's knees. It was a heady sensation, hotter and tighter than any quim he'd taken. "Now, love, you know it's not a bad thing. Think of all the times you've done this the very same to me. Did I fight you on it, eh? No..." He bent his head to the side and kissed Hector's naked, hairy ankle. "You had to know I'd get myself up your arse someday...I'm Jack Sparrow, aye?"
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Wi' A Wannion