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Whispers of Redemption	By : GeorgieFain Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > General Views: 2243 -:- 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
- 16
- 17
- 18
Year Thirty-two

Jack Is Chafed

It was unsettling to wake in Hector's arms without a sense of being suffocated or squashed or otherwise unhappily reminded of what it meant to be the smaller man. Deeply unsettling to open his eyes and find Hector watching him with drowsy eyes and a genuinely pleased expression in those pale blue-green eyes. He wasn't exactly being cuddled up, but their bodies were touching in some definitely sensitive places.

So easy to remember, then, the gentle kiss on his forehead from the night before.

"Mornin' to ye, Jack." It was whispered.

"Morning, Hector." Jack stretched as far as he could without alerting the other pirate to the incriminating bulge of his morning erection. It was unnerving, the idea of touching Barbossa any more than he already was, in the moment. He felt suddenly shy at the thought of being touched intimately by a man he couldn't entirely trust.

Hector's eyes looked almost innocent in the scant light that reached the bed from the lead-mullioned windows. His matelot's hoarse voice was still a whisper. "Did ne'er expect to see ye this way again. T'is been too long, Jack...I feel as if I might burst."

He went motionless at the thought. Barbossa meant to have him.

And he wasn't so sure it was what he needed.

Even as his body was slowly warming to the concept---in theory.

"I'll be wantin' to see ye like this often, I think." Hector finished his offer.

There it was---the deal-breaker.

Alarm set up in his chest as his heart thumped hard, twisting in his ribs. It put him in motion as he remembered just what he had to fear. In one smooth slide, Jack rolled free as he swung his legs out of bed, his head pounding. He was still dressed, right down to his newly darned socks---even his scarf was still in place. He managed a mumble of protest as he slid both feet into the boots he'd left by the bed's side. "Don't count on it, mate."

He refused to look at Barbossa until he was buckling his sword on---neither of them had handed over their weapons to Lizzie the night before, considering mutual inebriation to be enough of a deterrent to violence and murder. Now, he turned to glance at his matelot with a face as closed as that of a stone statue.

Hector was still laying on his side, head at ease on the pillows. His long driftwood-ginger hair lay in loose whorls and sleep-mussed waves---there was actual pain to be found in the eyes that watched him. Barbossa hadn't moved and didn't seem inclined, as it were. The quiet hurt---visible!---only worried more at his brain. Had he ever seen such a mien on Hector's face before? Was it even a possible expression for the other pirate? But, there it was, unbidden and unwanted.

Now, he didn't move. Above them, on the quarterdeck, he heard Gibbs shout out for the anchor---the ship was getting under way. To the prow's end, he heard a call-back from Henriette, who commanded the deckhands to hustle and drop sail. All around the cabin, the world went on---their world. He didn't move and Hector didn't stop giving him the look of a boy who was suffering impossible martyrdom on the cross of heartache.

"Will Turner---" He grinned cruelly, narrowing his eyes as he picked up his battered tricorn. "That's who you remind me of, this morn. Blasted whelp, mooncalfing after Lizzie's every little step---as if she's not herself the Devil's own bold lass. You've the same look about you, now. Is it love, Hector, or just a bad megrim?"

The softness faded to be replaced by the thoughtful mask he was accustomed to seeing from Barbossa. The one that hid everything and revealed nothing, not even treachery, behind its dissembling smile. Like the smile that came now. Sly, knowing, dangerous. Hector rolled over to lean up on his elbows, the blankets pooling in the fork of his open thighs. The words were low, a husky reminder of what lay between them. "I only want what's mine, Jack me lad."

For a brief moment, he felt as if he was drunk again. He could imagine what it would be like, to strip himself once more and slide into bed, to give his body up to the luxurious---no, no, not good. He caught his legs before they obeyed the momentary lust. Straightening, he clapped the hat to his head and swung away, answering in a laughing growl of his own.

"Assuming I still want to be yours in all the ways you want, Hector ol' boy."

He didn't look back as he went out to greet the morning and the sea.

***

"Are you sure you want to sleep here in me surgery, uncle?"

Henriette was frowning at him from the shadows beyond the covered lantern and the short bottle that sat before it. She was reading one of her medical books, seated at the surgery table with a mug of grog in hand. Her short brown hair was standing up in cowlicks at the brow where she'd removed the faded black scarf; the lass' pale green eyes gleamed in the meager light, two reflections of gold in their depths. Anamaria's daughter's face had filled out with proper feeding---or what passed for proper feeding on a ship that needed rationing for the long voyage. She was healthy and well-washed, dressed in her fine gentleman's silks as she took her rest away from the crew.

It was night once more and he'd decided that he couldn't face the cabin and its bed. Or Hector. Jack stretched out on the sailcloth pallet, at ease on the red, velvet pillow as he pulled at the smelly blankets, closing his eyes against the glow of the lantern. "Aye, lass, I'm sure. T'is best I let him have the cabin just the now."

She frowned even harder at him, her long mouth curling in a way that reminded him strongly of her mother. Her tone only doubled the resemblance. "You shouldn't let him get away with it. I wouldn't. Argument or not, I'd not let him run me from me own bed and table. It's your ship, Jack, not his. Even if he did captain her for ten years. You've the right to toss that ugly gent naked in a longboat and maroon his arse here in the mid of nowheres."

He rubbed a hand over his face and beard, massaging the sun-blasted skin. He'd washed up before coming to the surgery---t'was one of Henriette's strange habits, making visitors wash themselves before entering her sanctuary. She was most particular about clean hands. He had no kohl at his eyes and his fingers smelled of soap and salt-water---a foul combination.

With a groaning sigh, he tried to explain his stance to the lass he'd fostered as his own cabinboy. "Hen, love, it doesn't matter if you hate him or not. Hector Barbossa was my friend far longer than he was my enemy. In a spirit of diplomacy, I've agreed with him as how t'is for the best that we bury the hatchet and live by a mutual agreement of partnership for a time. Such an accord means that no one gets marooned...savvy?"

"Bury the hatchet." She muttered, lifting her spectacles once more from the book's pages, where she'd laid them down. Sliding them into place on her nose, she eyed him with an expression of genuine disgust. "I'd not mind burying me bloody hatchet in his skull, papa or no. Anyone capable of betrayal once shouldn't be trusted a second time, even if your so-called bleeding diplomacy keeps him in shackles of good behavior."

They never spoke of it, if they could avoid the subject---the nature of her relationship to Hector. He had been the one to tell her of it, when she was but ten years in age and petulantly demanding an answer to the question of her pedigree. She�d know he wasn�t her father, but never been told of any other options for the role. She had, at the time, been quite aware of the reason for his solitary life---as how he trusted no one and played his cards close to the vest when it came to all ventures. She had not been prepared to hear that she was the offspring of the man who'd stolen his ship, the Black Pearl.

To hear her refer to Hector as 'papa' was a little worrisome.

He lowered his hand and turned over onto his side, opening one eye to study her in the lantern's light. He spoke with care, knowing that he might be starting a fight with the volatile lass. "Darlin', this undying hate you have for Captain Barbossa...is it for who he is to you, or only because of how he was a mutineer to me?"

Henriette lifted her gaze from the worn, tattered book once more and peered at him through the lenses of her wee spectacles. Her slanted eyes appeared slightly magnified as she tilted her head to the side and raised a brown-skinned palm to cup her jaw. Her fingers curved up and over an ear. Hiding the golden earring she wore. She seemed to be contemplating the question, for there was no overt hostility now.

They stared at one another in the quiet for long moments and then, at last, she licked her lower lip slowly and shrugged. Her voice was low, hoarse, and it cracked like that of a growing lad. "I've not considered it awful much, Jack. If I must be telling the truth, I would say t'is both. I am not his child in nothing that matters as he makes no claim to me. To make no claim is a denial, by any standard you care to use. Anamaria claims me as child, even as she had not the raising of me. T'is abandoned I was, by him. Is that very different from what he did to you?"

He couldn't disagree.

Henriette offered him a weak smile, her teeth like pearls---she had a habit of cleaning them with salt and a rag when possible. She tapped her long, creamy-brown fingers on the page she'd left off reading. When he didn't answer, she continued. "Jack, I know you think him your comrade again, but I say be wary of any accord he sets with you. He's no man's friend."

T'was logic spoken from the mind of a lass who'd been captain of her own ship for nigh on three years. He could not argue with it, even as he understood something of the situation which she was not privy to. She didn't know the hidden side of his past relationship with Hector Barbossa or how that might shift his thoughts. He didn't intend to start telling her, at this late time. He had no intentions of arguing; not with the lass as would share her bed with a friend. To his mind, it mattered not that he was captain or she the ship's physiker.

They were friends, aye?

Jack opted for a soft retreat. Closing his eye again, he scooted back on the sail-cloth until his bum met the hull. Adjusting the pillow again, he pulled the blankets a bit tighter over his shoulder, ignoring how his hair caught in the tightness between collar and jaw. "I know, love...t'is why I'm here in your bed and not in my own. Between the two, I find you to be less of a threat to my sleep."

"Is that so?" She laughed softly and he heard the noise of her mug as she lifted it, drank, and then thumped it back to the wooden table. His protégé sounded honestly amused. "Jack Sparrow, mayhaps you're truly as mad as they say. T'was you who told me that blood will prove out when it comes to pirates. Aye? How do you know I'm not like me papa?"

That brought a smile to his face as he snuggled down and sighed, murmuring. "Lass, when I said those words to you, I was thinking of me and my own father, not you and yours. I tell you this, Hen darlin'---" Jack yawned hard; his jaw creaked with the force of it. "You're nearly as fierce as him. You're certainly as brave and as wily. There's much about Captain Barbossa as can be admired, in a pirate. You might've done worse for a father, if blood must prove out. You could've been the child of Bootstrap Bill Turner---then, t'would be you as what becomes the new captain of the Flying Dutchman."

Now, he could hear her moving around.

The cork was put in the bottle, the cup was drained with a slurp. The book was closed, the spectacles put away in the wooden chest somewhere near his feet. She laughed again, a snorting chuckle. "I'm not a bit like Miss Elizabeth's man."

Cloth rustled for several moments, unrecognized from where he hid behind his eyelids. Then, it was pitch-black as she blew out the lantern. Then, her bare feet came with a nigh-silent patter as she approached the pallet at last.

"Not even to save me?" He asked, his voice a whisper in the darkness.

Henriette curled up in front of him on the red, velvety pillow, her back a solid but slender curve that he could feel against his wrist and bared forearm under the blankets as she tugged them up. He could feel it, then, the difference---she wore her threadbare undershirt and patched, worn breeches, but the silk was gone. Odd how that worried at him, the lack of solid cloth between them. She�d grown up a bit since she had worked as his cabin boy.

She whispered back, sounding unusually---terribly---vulnerable. "Oh, aye, Jack. If t'was you stuck on that ship, I'd sell me own soul to save your life. Mind, you'll be the only one I'd sell it for." Henriette gave a strange little cough and, this time, as she went on, her voice was a bit stronger. "Mayhap I'm more like Miss Elizabeth's milk-sop of a man than I'd like to say, aye?"

Jack felt his blood run a little cold at the thought. He gnawed at the corner of his lower lip and then answered, hearing how unsteady his own voice came. "Don't be claiming such a thing, lass. Will Turner's a true pirate. One of my own ilk and color when it comes to what he will do and what he will not."

She had nothing to say to that.

Sleepy, he yawned again and broached the subject he'd been fretting over. "Henriette...the key you wear, you've not said anything of it to anyone? Just as I asked?"

"No, uncle..." She was close to sleep, relaxing against him. Her hair smelled of hyssop, the scent easily found even in the dark as she shifted on the sail-cloth before him. "Just as you asked."

"Good. That's good, lass." It was his turn to relax, to ignore and forget the fact of how close they were laying together in the pallet. T'was nothing. He could pretend it was nothing.

"Might I ask you why you're so worried of it?" She whispered, now, curious.

Jack thought on it and then decided that he could trust this much of a question. "Do you have a reckoning of what the key does?"

Her answer came with a murmur of amused laughter---more breath than chuckle.

It was so soft that he nearly missed the words. "Aye, uncle, I do know."

***

Elizabeth's Journal

The men talk of how fortunate we are, to have such good winds, and I must admit that we travel quick. There has been no sign of a ship of any kind, friend or foe. It has been a full fortnight and we have already passed the Cape with no sign of a storm or a lagging of the sails. I work beside the men, scrubbing and scraping and repainting. I have spent long hours working the bilge pumps and come out of the ship's belly stinking as badly as the head, for which the only answer is a dip in the sea. I have shared dinner with Captain Barbossa more than a simple few times, an event that never fails to surprise me. I always remember the first meal he offered me on the Black Pearl as we sit down to eat in the captain's cabin, our repast lit by candles and our company joined only by Jack the monkey.

Captain Sparrow does not dine with us, but chooses to eat simple fare with the men. Most often, when the dinner is rationed out among the crew, Jack disappears down into the hold and to our physician's surgery. It does seem that he goes there on Henriette's heels, to share the meal with her, as she also goes to the surgery for a private supper. The accord between our captains does hold up, however. They do not argue in front of the men and they each take a turn at the quarterdeck and the helm, each careful to not denounce the other. But, Jack no longer shares the cabin with Captain Barbossa and has not since we left the coast village at Mozambique. I do believe that our good Captain Sparrow is sharing the privacy of the ship�s surgery with Henriette De la Hoya.

Dining with Captain Barbossa several times, I have daringly asked him of the situation, to see if I might discern the nature of this trouble between the two captains. Despite his naturally taciturn attitude, Barbossa tells me that it is but a small matter of destiny and redemption which he is currently arguing with Jack, an argument that is being conducted without words at the moment. I have found this confession rather poignant and yet disturbing to the mind; not the least of which is caused by the knowledge that Captain Barbossa might be so candid with me. I do believe he trusts me, in some measure, as he knows I will not spread lies and gossip among the crew. I do not, however, believe that this captain trusts me implicitly as he is not the man to trust to another.

My attempts at speaking with Jack concerning this same problem have been less than well received. He gives me only half-truths and riddles, the most coherent being in that he claims that the argument betwixt himself and Captain Barbossa is one of a spiritual nature and should not bother me in the least. I do not know what to make of such a thought. But, it would seem that they are both telling me something of the truth, as the answers are very closely linked in nature.

If they were indeed more to each other than merely friends, then the relationship is now strained and I do believe that, if Jack is sharing the physician's quarters, the problem will only be made worse. I do find myself hoping that our captains can work out the problem before it becomes a matter for weapons. A long voyage across the south Atlantic ocean is neither the time nor the place for war.

***

All day, he'd worked among the men, lowering himself down over the bowsprit to take his turn at painting---he had insisted it would be his duty to paint the fine lady who graced their prow. They were a month into the journey past the Cape and the weather was holding fine. It seemed that Calypso did favor Henriette's presence, after all. Which was fine by him; he had never been one to turn down good luck or the favor of fickle heathen goddesses.

He'd watched the lass climbing onehanded up the ratlines, carrying a bucket of tar-paint for the tiny perch the Pearl used for a crow's nest. His protégé seemed to be even quicker than she'd proven herself to be, when working for him on the Cathay Rose. It made him proud to know that she could go from tough rigger to ship's physiker within only moments, her callused fingers as delicate and gentle as any fine lady's but so much stronger---for in the last twenty-day, they'd endured a number of injuries among the men which required the physiker's care. Even he had sat on the bench in the surgery, wielding up a nasty cut he had gained on his ribs while suspended by naught but a rope as he was scraping at the ship's hull. The vinegar had burned and the mashed herbal poultice had itched, but the cut had healed double-quick with nearly nothing of a mark to show for it.

So, every day passed with work and songs and stories and he did what he could to be civil but distant with Hector Barbossa, who didn't look at him with wounded hunger anymore. Not that he couldn't feel the heat between them---how could he not feel it, even with the flat lack of expression his matelot wore for a face? He felt it---and, so, he slept elsewhere but the cabin that was rightfully his. T'was for the best, aye? No need to go courting trouble.

It was driving him dizzy, the aching heat of his own lust.

T'was difficult, sleeping in Henriette's surgery---in her pallet. He woke every morn with a driving hunger for the man he didn't dare stretch for. The warm, muscular body within hand's reach, in bed certainly didn't make matters easy. He did not mean to crave a touch of the lass, but his prick didn't quite believe him at first waking---every morn, he had to remind himself of how dangerous it would be, attempting the seduction of a lass like Henriette. His brain was always quick to stop his body with the knowledge of how fast she might gut him if he tried to take advantage of their sleeping arrangements. Even if he could offer up the argument of 'any port in a storm'. Henriette might not see it that way. It had been far too long---centuries, it seemed---since he'd had a wench and his hand was becoming useless in the fight against the more lurid and base part of his nature.

T'was only worse, with Hector watching him.

***

Year Thirty-two

A Dream

The bed dipped underneath him as his lover crawled up, straddling his legs with a growl. Hector's hair was completely loose from its plait and scarf, hanging free and ginger-graying. A sheaf of it lay against his brow. But, even as he laughed, his lover grabbed his hips and pulled him down the bed in a swift, fierce maneuver. Jack yelped in surprise, clutching at the bedding as the support of the hull disappeared from behind him and he fell onto the bed itself.

He stared up at Hector in breathless shock. "You ruthless bastard..."

It came out half in gasp, as he tried for a smarmy grin.

He didn't think it was entirely successful.

"Ruthless, Jack me lad, is, I've been told, a matter o' perspective." Hector smirked down at him, smugly feral; his lover's pale green-blue eyes gleamed with a dark hunger that made his whole body go chilly with gooseflesh. "I mean to use ye hard, boy---I will own ye, body an' soul."

He took a breath, putting his hands flat on the bedding to lever himself up. "I, um...I should..."

"Shh...I have a better idea." One large hand came to brush at the side of his face, stroking back over the tangled strands of his dark hair. He gave a shuddering breath, letting his eyes fall shut at the sensuality. He couldn't fight this...he wanted it. Hector's voice continued in a husky whisper, his weathered face a study in desire. "Will ye let me?"

Not like Barbossa to ask for anything he already considered his own property.

He nodded blindly, overly aware of the slide of warm fingers through the length of his thick hair to the back of his neck. He leaned his weight on his elbows as the bed dipped and changed under the other man's weight as his lover leaned down; he tilted his head back against the hand that cupped his neck and skull, surrendering against the drumming of his heart.

It was what he wanted.

Hector's lips brushed his cheek, softly tender. Then, his mouth. Slow, sweetly offering. Light fingertips snuck over his hip to stroke the bare skin of his belly. He shivered at the faint, delicate touch. His lover's mouth caressed his, suckling at his lower lip, tracing it with a flicker of tongue. Rum and biscuits. He opened to the kiss, lowering his weight to the bed. Sliding a hand up into Hector's hair, to keep him close, he let his senses fill with the weight of his lover, the warmth and the scent.

Releasing his mouth a moment, Hector Barbossa gave a rough, breathy sigh. "Jack...I could devour ye, yer skin...yer mouth...damn ye..."

He opened his eyes to gaze up into the vibrant, slanted eyes that looked down on him. Whispering a wordless oath, he moved both hands to slide along Hector's stubbled cheeks.

It was breathtakingly erotic.

Hector gave a handsome, seductive smile, moving to nuzzle at the side of his neck with a hot-breathed whisper. "Ye'll be mine?"

He groaned at the lips that began to suck wetly at his skin. Clumsily, he fumbled at Hector's shoulders, lifting the heavy mass of the other man's wavy hair between both hands. It slid like silk, strands of it sticking to his fingertips.

"Mmmm..." His lover's mouth lifted from his skin, but he could hear and feel Hector inhaling his scent, right at the place where shoulder joined throat. "Me boy...mine, aye?"

"Yours." He sighed in pleased agreement.

Barbossa shifted over, sliding two callused fingers to the placket of his breeches, undoing it slowly enough to give him plenty of time to object. He lay still, watching silently, waiting. His breeches were undone, unbuttoned. He held his silence, unblinking, as Hector gently worked them down and away from his hips. Then, as he watched, his lover opened the bottle of rum with a pop of the cork. His breath quickened in sudden realization. He swallowed, watching the slow tilt of the green bottle...the golden trickle of liquid that hit his skin with the tiniest hint of air-cooled chill. Then, Hector's firm and deft tongue, lapping it up like a cat. A cat with a taste for blood and rum---and not necessarily always separately.

Jack gave a groan, trembling at the feel of Hector's mouth on his exposed, furred belly.

He was already so hard he might go off like a badly packed cannon.

"That be it..." Hector whispered, kissing through the sparse black hairs at the tight flesh. "That be me boy. What do ye want?"

He shivered, watching the rum bottle that hovered over his skin, tilted just a fraction so that spirits lapped at the edge of the rim. What did he want? He wanted it all.

The other man tilted the rum, dribbling more on his belly, making his skin jump. He closed his eyes, making a low-sensual noise. All he could think---it wasn't a complete thought, aye?---was how Hector's wonderful mouth ought to be outlawed. All of life's true pleasures were somehow criminal. This was exquisite.

Finally, that mouth---those lips and tongue---they lifted from his flesh. He arched, moaning against the disappointment. There was another sloshing sound...like mayhaps Hector was drinking from the bottle. He took a breath to ask for some, opening his eyes just in time to see his lover's head dive down on him again.

"Ahh---" He gave an open-mouthed cry at the shock of a mouthful of rum slipping down over his hardness. The stinging chill quickly ebbed, swallowed away, and Hector's bearded face lifted with a grin for his reaction.

"No fair..." He protested feebly.

With a grin that quirked into smugness, Hector took another mouthful of rum, green-blue eyes gleaming with mischief. He shuddered in anticipation, watching with his breath in his throat. Sexy, sexy Hector...hard to believe one man could be such a hot-blooded lover and such a cold-blooded pirate at the same time.

Jack thought he was ready for it, when Hector's mouth descended on him again, but...at the first shock, he broke out in a sweat, his skin prickling. Then, the rum was swallowed as his lover sucked at him, tonguing his foreskin and the head of his prick, teasing. He gave a new sob, clutching a handful of the soft, driftwood-graying hair.

"Damn you---" He protested.

Hector went on sucking, pulling his breeches away; he bent his legs helpfully to allow the clothes to be tugged off his bare feet. He pushed at the bedding, kicking the blankets to the foot of the bed with the other pirate's help. Hector set the rum down on the rugs to crawl up his body with predatory grace. He pulled his lover's mouth down to his, kissing hungrily, diving into the strange mix of tastes there.

Growling into his mouth, Barbossa cradled his face in both hands once more, straddling his nude body on the bed. Aye. This was Hector. Fierce, hungry Hector. He knew how to deal with this. He tugged now at the shirt his matelot wore, breaking the kiss just long enough to tug the worn linen over Hector's head. Then, the thin undershirt, yes, while plundering his co-captain's mouth and making him whimper just like that...and if he could spare a moment to think, he'd undoubtedly admit that this was the only recourse for the problems of their sharing the ship's captaincy. But, he really had much better things to do right now.

Breeches, out of his way. Then, pulling Hector's hips down to his, their pricks rubbing together, hands chasing and exploring and teasing and touching and why, why had he taken so long to give in to this? He drew one hand up to hold Hector's head close to his, fingers tight in that silky-rough hair, while he fumbled with the other under the pillow.

Not there. The lantern-oil wasn't there.

Ah, it had been, the last time they'd done this---

Barbossa broke loose from his mouth long enough to crawl from the bed and open the unlit lantern, retrieving the fragile glass within it. Yellow, slimy, stinking, but the best thing for making things slick. Hadn't he used lantern-oil to break loose of manacles? Aye. But, he wouldn't think on that, either, and had no time to consider. He stretched out, pulling his legs up on either side of Hector's strong hips, feet wide. Open and willing.

He was trembling as Barbossa greased two fingers and his bung-hole with a fast touch. He was forty-four this year---how did Hector still manage to make him feel so damn young, like an untried lad?

Smiling ferally, his lover started pushing those two fingers inside of him. Rolling and pushing the oil against the snug muscles inside; it was tight to the very edge of pain, but not quite...it didn't hurt, no. He was just...aware. Jack shifted his legs further apart as Barbossa's fingers cork-screwed inside him and he felt a twinge, then an unmistakable burn of pleasure as something was rubbed inside his body.

"Easy..." He muttered, squirming, wanting to prolong it. "Easy..."

"You think?" Hector smirked, rubbing at the knot again.

Slick and hot and inescapable no matter how he bucked and shoved his arse at the bed.

"Hector---" He groaned, breathlessly. "Don't---don't---oh, damn you---please, mate---"

"I'm confused, lad." Hector kissed at his mouth teasingly, the bristle of his beard scratchy. Those fingers went on, mercilessly stroking at his insides, making him melt and burn. "Please do or please don't?"

"Please, Christ---don't be a bastard." He made a sound that even he wasn't sure of, laugh or moan. He didn't know whether to grab Barbossa's hand and pull it away or urge it on.

"Ah, mmm...well, Jack...is this better?" Hector's fingers drew out just enough to thrust in again, driving in against the knot over and over. He squirmed and sobbed as his lover nuzzled at his ear, brushing through sweat-dampened hair, whispering. "Ye like that, Jack? Ye like me fuckin' ye wi' me fingers? Or d'ye want more? Ye want me prick in yer arse, mayhaps?"

"Please...please..." He begged, tears in his eyes, skin hot and trembling as he tried to urge himself down onto the plunging fingers and their thick knuckles. The rough, long fingernails tore at his skin, but he didn't care---he didn't have the mind to care, now.

"Mmm...good boy, ye are." Hector kissed at his earlobe, sucking it into that lethally sensual mouth for a moment as the fingers fucking into him rolled and pushed, stretching him open. He could feel the sigh his matelot gave, against his throat and jaw. "Yer lovely, Jack, squeakin' like a lass thisa way."

Then, that dangerous mouth found his lips again. The fingers eased free, only to be re-applied with a bit more oil. Now, they disappeared and Hector shifted, going up onto his knees---the bed rolled and pitched under the movement. Never once did his lover stop licking at him, tongue spiced with rum, offering pleasant oblivion.

He was blind, under Hector's warm mouth. He let the other man pull his hands up to rest on the bed on either side of his head, fingers loosely curled and almost tangling in the spill of his hair. He felt the slow, sweet push of Hector's prick, filling him, and then the hands that moved to cover his, fingers intertwining with his own, holding and loving him. His matelot kissed his eyes and his mouth, gentle and chaste, devastatingly tender. So unlike what he remembered best of Hector, but not unremembered---these mercies did fall to him, did happen. Here and now, he was being given a new chance to let himself be taken, body and soul.

He wanted to drown, to forget the whole world outside of the shiveringly beautiful way Hector made love to him. The rock of his ship, the feel of nothing but the hands that were clasped to his, the acceptance his lover showed him. In these arms, he was holy and he was just Jack. How long had it been since he'd lived in a world where he could believe anything was holy? Let alone himself.

"That be th' way o' it, Jack..." Hector whispered, brushing against his lips. "Let me...t'is what we are, aye? Mmm, aye..."

"Aye..." He arched against the hips that rocked into him so slowly and carefully, opening his eyes to stare up at the gentle green-blue gaze of his matelot. "Oh, aye..."

Hector's breath came out in a little rush from between wet, kiss-swollen lips that seemed only the redder for the mustache that curled above them. Thrusting a little stronger, his lover nuzzled against his jaw, murmuring in a gorgeous, golden voice. "I've missed ye, Jack me lad..."

He shivered, tilting his head back to expose his throat to the silky mouth that slid over it. Letting his eyes fall closed again, he curled his fingers more firmly between Barbossa's, tightening his grip. He didn't want to let go. He could feel it...the hips that slowly pumped into him as Hector pressed promises and kisses of devotion to his skin. The way his hands were clasped so gently and safely, to never let him fall away again. Eyes closed, he surrendered to the offer of being loved, giving soft cries into the air. Pleasure that was as sweet as a single drop of blood on the tip of a knife...edged solace.

Whispers, incoherent, breathed into his skin to soak in and fill his blood and his heart.

Trembling moans into the blindness around him. "Please...please..."

The slow, gorgeous slide and push of the prick that filled him...he was loved. Wanted and cherished and loved. All the things no self-respecting pirate would claim to need, but things which he had shared without hesitation with the man who rocked into his body just slightly faster than the roll of their ship. Once, he'd thought it was worth anything...worth his heart and his life, just to be made to feel this way. Long, lonely nights when he'd searched for a way to get revenge for the mutiny even as his soul burned to take back what had been stolen from his skin. This sense of safety in the arms of a trusted friend.

Hector shifted, pushing into him at a new angle, making his insides tug deliciously.

He murmured his pleasure. "God...god...Hennie..." Then, his eyes flew open with realization and he stared up at Hector, in a panic, as his lover stilled. He whispered, his throat tightening in horror at what he'd said. "I didn't mean it---I wasn't thinking, Hector---"

Ominously motionless, his face a mask of thoughtful consideration for what he was claiming, Barbossa watched him until his babbling hiss trailed off. Then, his matelot spoke in an eerily deliberate tone. "T'isn't me name."

"I know...I know..." He blinked, suddenly trembling under the body of the larger pirate. Hector was heavier and stronger than him and already holding him down. Betrayal could be only a suffocating hand away. "T'was a slip, Hector, nothing."

Hector nodded and there was a dangerous look in his lover's sea-bright gaze that made him want to flinch back. Letting go one of his hands, the older man slid a finger along his face, fingernail dragging on his cheekbone. He struggled to not twist his head to the side. "Lass isn�t here, Jack. I am. It be me bed ye came to. Aye?"

"Aye." He whispered, staring up at Hector. He couldn't quite stop shaking.

He'd put himself in a tenuous position, here.

Giving a rumbling growl that was danger and lust and sheer territoriality all rolled into one, Barbossa dropped his roaming hand into the depths of his dreadlocks, tugging them. Jack started to protest the roughness, but the look in Hector's eyes silenced him. The words were a dark whisper, spoken with narrowed eyes and through tightened lips. "Ye came to me, aye? Yer mine, again, an' I'll not be sharin' this time."

The voice was as possessive as the kiss that followed as his lover's free hand cradled his face while his mouth was raped. His heart thumped at it; Jack raised his head, ignoring the strain from how hard his hair was being tugged as he opened eagerly to the fierceness of it.

Settling down over him once more, Hector Barbossa hooked an arm under his thigh, holding his leg up and out of the way. He felt the push of his matelot's prick and, then...nothing more. Just that much. Rocking and teasing at his arse.

"Well, Jack?" Hector's long mouth curled in a ferociously sensual way. "D'ye like this? Ye want me to coddle ye or d'ye want me to fuck ye?"

He squirmed at the prick that refused to move any farther in. "Fuck me."

"I'm sorry...who were ye talkin' to?" Hector's eyes gleamed at him, shadowed by the graying hair that fell in sheaves over his handsome, weathered face.

"Fuck me, Hector---please!" He groaned, straining at the hand that held his head to the bed by his hair. He was going to hurt his shoulders this way, but he didn't care.

With a low laugh, his matelot shoved in with one deep, breathtaking thrust. Jack cried out, spasming around the invasion. Then, Hector pulled out only to plunge in again, driving into him repeatedly, making him sob and beg.

"God, Hector, Hector, please...need you, God, fuck me..."

Pounding into his arse, Hector kissed up the line of his bearded jaw to his ear, to whisper hotly at him. "What be me name, lad?"

Just as if he was only a sprog again.

"Hector, God, oh, damn, Hector---" He wailed, pulling at the hand that held his head down, not sure if he wanted to shove the other pirate away or only tug him closer.

"An' who d'ye belong to?" Hector's breath was warm on his jaw, voice growly and hungry.

"You---you, Hector---" Jack rolled his shoulders against the bed, tightening and releasing them as he shoved his hips up to the hammering thrust. His breath came in sporadic bursts, his untouched prick throbbing needily at the way he was being fucked open, claimed once more.

Swear it, swear it to me---" The prick in his bum slammed deeper, fierce and dominant.

"I swear, Hector---" He sobbed, shaking and spasming, his skin flushing with a rush of fresh heat. "Dammit---I swear it, Hector, please---" He clutched at his lover with his hands, digging his fingers into Barbossa's naked and sweating back. His voice rose to a mindless, chanting howl as his body was plundered. "Fuck me, fuck me---"

Hector shouted in agreement, back flexing under his tight-gripping fingers, reaming harder into him. His guts caught fire, his skin and his blood...he was close, now, thanks be to the chafe of their bellies as his own prick bobbed and jerked between them. Jack wailed, raking his fingernails over the older man's back as his body went tight, knotting up with heat. It made Barbossa shout in passion, jerking his hips close to fuck him harder. He writhed, crying out at the punishing sweetness, the ferocious pleasure.

He sobbed wildly, gasping, shaking violently now. Then, the dizziness came; he clenched around Hector's prick, guts wrenching, as he came with an incoherent howl. Long eternities broke around his head and he lost sight and hearing for what seemed to be a century. But, his matelot went on fucking him; Barbossa was breathing fast and hoarsely, absolutely pounding his arse. He dug his fingernails in harder and was rewarded by an urgent, fierce shout. Catching his breath and becoming aware of himself once more, Jack managed to speak; he pushed his head back into the pillows and whispered cruel things, shoving and rolling his hips at the willy that hammered him. "Didya try, Hector? Mmm, aye...harder, ye bastard! When ye were cursed an'---ohhh, fuck---didja tug yer own tassel an' wish for me? When didja realize I wasn't somethin' so easily replaced? Didja miss me, love? Do it, Hector...fill me. Mark me as yours, on the inside...where it bloody well counts---"

Hector ground into him, sweating and flushed and sobbing curses in a long, endless mutter. He couldn't see his lover's face; it was buried in his throat, soaking him with words and wetness and the scrape of beard. At last, with a muffled shout, the other man's grip tightened on his hips; he felt the shudder that ran through Hector's long body and the jerky spurts that brought things to a halt with a harsh sob from the mouth that moved on his skin---a sob that was nothing so much as pain and held his name.

"Jack---Jack, aye, Jack me lad---"
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Whispers of Redemption