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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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Again, I�ve borrowed from the script of POTC: Curse of the Black Pearl. No foul intended.

Chapter Sixteen:

Isla de Muerta and Beyond

Year Nineteen

Tomorrow, The Black Pearl would sail again. He had a treasure in mind and he'd hired a crew---a crew that Hector didn't like or trust.

He'd bartered his soul to Davy Jones; thirteen years of captaining the greatest ship in all the Caribbean in exchange for a hundred years before the mast of The Flying Dutchman. The barter had come about through a fight; Davy Jones, the slimy git, had been offended at the death of a mermaid, and finally, after a few years of stewing in his own nasty juices, come seeking them. In the confrontation, Barbossa had lost The Victorious to the Kraken. He hoped to never see anything like that monster again. But, when dealing with Jones, he�d asked for another ship---his ship, The Wicked Wench, raised and restored from the sea in Indian Ocean.

He�d re-christened his lady The Black Pearl.

Since then, his matelot and lover had been sullen and angry about the loss of The Victorious...but, willing to take the job of his first mate.

Now, he was Captain Henry Morgan's heir, the pirate lord of these waters.

He was legend.

He'd heard a story from an old, blind man about a treasure what was lost in a cave on an island no one could find. The Isla de Muerta. Aztec treasure. Now, the compass swung in its direction every time he opened the wee black case, thinking on that huge stone chest full of 882 pieces of gold. Gold the likes of which no Englishman had clapped eyes to in two hundred years. It would be his---another spectacular story about his prowess as a pirate.

At the moment, though, he was living it up with Hector and Anamaria in the Faithful Bride. Rum, dice, and wenching. As it were, he was trying to convince their lass that she simply had to join up with them on this venture.

Grasping her by both hands, he leaned over the sway-back table and put on the Jack Sparrow charm. With a knowing smile. "Anamaria, love, we can't do this without you. They say a thousand ships have been lost, seeking this one particular treasure. Why would you condemn us to die? We need your sharp eyes and sure hands, aye? We need her, don't we, Barbossa?"

Hector wasn't saying anything, only drinking hard from his second bottle of the night.

He needed to do something to ease his matelot's mind about the endeavor. But, that would have to wait until they'd convinced Anamaria. He struck on an idea. Liar's Dice. A long shot, with their lass, but still...a chance.

"Play me for it." He picked up the cup of dice before him. "I win, you sail with us."

"I win, you leave me be and I'll see you again when you make port." The dark-eyed Creole demanded, mouth curving in a hostile frown.

Hector set his bottle down and ran a long fingertip around the edge of his own dice cup. "I'll play you both. If I win, I make th' final decision on whether missy sails with us an'...I get ye both for th' night with no more squabbling�...aye?"

He and Anamaria squared off, staring at each other, and then they both nodded.

Aye." The Creole rigger muttered.

Barbossa won; he was convinced that his lover had cheated, but he couldn't decide on how it'd been done. He simply knew Hector's ways. At the end of the game, he had to agree that Anamaria would stay in Port Royal, as that was Hector's side of it.

In Anamaria's squalid little room, at the inn some short distance down the sandy street from the Faithful Bride, the mood was one of sincere sobriety, despite the copious amounts of spirits imbibed. Three candles dripping on the floor and the room's single chair gave a glow to the night's communion.

The dark-skinned woman's eyes were closed; she held Hector's hips, voraciously sucking at the prick that had been thrust deeply into her mouth. Jack sat on the bed's side, watching; he pinched and rubbed at his nipples, enjoying the sensation of being half-numb from the rum. Whispering profanities, his lover was fucking into Anamaria's mouth and throat, jerking the lass onto him roughly. The heavy mass of long damp brown-black hair was caught between Hector's fingers, being used as a handle to force Anamaria to take more.

Anamaria moaned, swaying under the attack, and gripped at Hector, tightly sucking and devouring the prick that was being fed to her without mercy. From his perch, Jack stroked at his skin, unable to stop watching...he wrapped a finger around his ballocks and began squeezing, pulling at them as Barbossa used the brown-skinned lass. A dribblet of spunk leaked out of him; drawing back his foreskin, Jack fingered the slit of his own cock and then raised his hand to lick at the salt, his mouth watering. He started rubbing more lamp-oil into his skin, arching up off the bed's edge to reach his own bum...to tease and caress the tender muscles.

It was almost too much, to watch the wily, dangerous rigger take such abuse from Hector. But, she did; Anamaria gave herself to Barbossa, holding onto his hips with both deft hands. Their lass' eyes were squeezed shut and he could see that the only thing holding Anamaria up, keeping her from falling over on the dirty floor, was Hector...Hector's fingers.

His lover was red-faced and sweating harder; his voice was a dark, vehement rumble. "I'll be expectin' more o' th' same, missy, when we return---if yer ready for it then, I'll make ye a gift o' Jack. Think I'd like to see that, ye takin' Jack Sparrow like ye were a man an' him yer wench."

He didn't even want to start thinking of such things; his mind was too blinkered to consider it. Slipping a finger into his bunghole, Jack gave another moan, watching. The lean-bodied rigger went rigid, holding onto the tall, freckled man and he found himself wondering, for a bizarre moment, who they were...these two. Did he know them as he thought he did? Then, Anamaria's hands slipped up and around Hector's waist and hips in an erotic embrace as his lover gave another deep, tendon-popping thrust and started to sob in a familiar manner---the release, that heavenly second.

Anamaria, when she came to the bed, her rolling gait a slinking predator's approach. She was golden-brown, wiry with a sailor's muscles. Her long hair was clumped in places, where Hector had gripped at it, but she was lovely and she was theirs. Right on her heels was Hector, a different sort of predator altogether. Long-legged, freckled and tan, his lover had pulled free the green scarf he wore, revealing the lank waves of ginger-blonde that was a shade or two lighter than the beard he wore.

The thought of being taken by two feral animals might've frightened a lesser man, but he was Captain Jack Sparrow and he'd taken them before, aye?

He rolled back and onto the bed, stretching out in the heat that made him languidly hungry. Wide-eyed, he didn't blink, intent on seeing everything. His greasy hands roamed, sliding up his chest, pausing only a moment at the raised mark over his heart, and then back down over his ribs to run along his hips and then between his thighs with a whimper of appreciation for the feel of his own skin.

"I'm not waiting 'til you return." Anamaria stood before him, appreciation in her sloe eyes.

Hector wrapped his arms around her from behind, nuzzling in close to her throat as he laughed. "Then, ye'll have him, missy."

Then, they were both on the bed and Hector was pushing their lass to him.

Jack fought a shiver of need as he opened his arms to take the woman.

He reached out and gently stroked at her hair, right beside Hector's face, his heartbeat thumping hard and fast at the idea of what the two were suggesting. His fingers moved over her cheekbones and then into the sweat-dampened strands of dark brown hair that were stuck to Anamaria's throat. Lightly, tenderly, he whispered. "I'm yours. If you'll have me."

"You mean you're mine if I'll take you." The Creole woman gave him a saucy grin before fitting her mouth over his in a spiced, slick kiss.

Soon, he found himself facing Hector, with Anamaria at his back. In another room, somewhere else, he could hear bold laughter and singing, but he could only look at his lover, whose pale eyes were shining with dark glee and avarice. His flesh ached and throbbed at the places where they rubbed as Hector held him tightly, keeping him still for what the lass would do. He whispered a hiss of shock at the feel of her fingers moving inside him, greasy and sliding easily, but so different from the large-knuckled hands he knew.

Jack pushed his face in tight to Hector's, leaving no space between them. Nose to nose, he slitted his eyes and husked. "Let me have you, mate...it's been too long..."

His lover studied him with a dispassionate gaze that he knew very well. Then, when he was prepared for the answer to be 'no', Hector nodded and kissed him. One long, lean thigh slid up over his hip and he felt the hand that pulled his wrist down between them. This time, there would be no need to tie anyone down.

He rolled his hips against the touch of fingers that pulled and thrust into his bum, biting back a sob as he stroked at the Hector's prick...it grew only half-hard now, but he had other places in mind. Glad for the lamp-oil on his fingers, Jack brushed just the very tips of them over the tightened ballocks, slipping against the fur with a tease. Hector moaned a curse and tipped his head back, giving him access to the tender flesh of his throat as well.

As he bit into the stubbled skin, his cheekbone tickled by beard, Jack smiled and worked his hips in a rolling thrust back at Anamaria's hand. She was licking at his back and shoulder, chuckling in her low, husky voice.

"Are ye goin' to just tease me, Jack, or were ye goin' somewhere with this?" Hector said it, panting loudly. His lover was trying to shift, tip himself up and closer, to give him the necessary parts. "If ye be serious...then get to it, man."

Face buried into the slick flesh of his lover's neck, Jack obeyed. Using one hand to tug and torment the ballocks that pressed snugly to his belly, he slipped his other fingers down and under to find the waiting bum. Without niceties, he pushed one in and felt every muscle in Hector's body go tense. Even the other man's teeth gritted audibly. But, he knew...if he pulled back now and went gentle, his lover wouldn't forgive it. As long as he could bear it, Hector Barbossa was going to take what he had to give and not need ropes or scarfs to make him. There would be no quarter asked and none expected; it would be foolish of him to give mercy when none was wanted.

Behind him, Anamaria laughed in her devious way and snugged closer, her legs pushing his from behind. He lifted one and allowed her to slide between---he felt the way his bum opened at her touch now, how welcome her fingers were. She'd had much experience at this, it seemed. With wenches of her own, perhaps?

Then, there came a nudge of something that was not fingers. Jack stopped moving and started to look over his shoulder, but Hector caught his mouth with teeth and tongue and forced him to acquiesce. In retaliation, he pumped his oiled fingers in and out of his lover's bum with a deliberately cruel tug on the up-pull. Hector melted against him, hands holding him by the jaw; the tongue that took him was devilishly clever, distracting him.

It slid into his arse slow and gentle, in for a bit and then out, only going deeper by degrees. He didn't care what it was, now, as he wriggled, accepting the touch. It was a bit thicker than Hector's prick, but not nearly as long---from what he could feel---and it had been properly greased, sliding without effort. Anamaria was pressing her chin into the skin between his shoulder-blades.

Hector was watching him as they kissed, green-blue eyes hazy with desire. He tightened his grip on the other man's prick and it forced a gasp from between their mouths. But, in the same moment, his lover arched forward, giving him more contact. Tugging his fingers in a circle, he dug at the slick, blood-hot walls that grasped at his touch. It made Barbossa surge at his lips, urgent to muffle the cry that threatened to unmake him. At the sound of it, Anamaria gave a groan of her own and he felt the minute shift of her hands as they brushed his bum; the shaft in him pushed a little and found the right spot. Jack couldn't stop himself from hissing between his teeth, bucking at the lightening-hot sensation that forked through his bones.

"Turn over, love." When he was able to gather his voice, he whispered it into the open wetness of Hector's lips, sliding his sticky fingers free of the terrible heat. "I want you."

Barbossa's pale eyes closed as his lover did as he ordered.

Jack spit in his hand and ran it down over his hard length; then, sliding his arm under Hector's shoulder and neck to draw his lover's body closer, rolling his own hips against the driving pound that threatened to split him in half at the arse. He ground the words out, his voice breaking. "Open yourself for me, then."

Hector did it, lifting a knee to his chest. Guiding his cock, Jack began to inch his way forward, pushing into the arse that so willingly presented itself. He shook with the effort to control the urge he owned, the urge to drive himself deep within Barbossa's bum without any more waiting. He opened his teeth on his lover's nape, pushing his way through lank hair and the tiger's tooth earring that tickled his cheek.

He clenched his eyes closed and let himself go. There was no pain in what Anamaria did to him and he could tell, from how Hector arched and shoved back at him, urgent for his cock. It was heady, like walking drunk on the deck of his ship while it rocked under a storm. They rocked, all three, back and down, up and forward, creating a new pace...a new rhythm. With slow, deliberate thrusts, he fucked Hector and felt his heart jump with each new wailing sob that he felt his lover barely managing to hold back between gritted teeth.

Slow, slow, slow, and deeper...his cock was being strangled, each plunge taking further and closer to the heart of the flame. His lover writhed in his arms, pushing back to meet him with each bone-jarring thrust. It only drove him farther onto the shaft that sped up in his own bum, catching on the knot of his pleasure with each in-stroke.

He tightened his grip on Hector's shoulders and hip, mouth opening with a gasp on his lover's neck. Hector was whispering incoherent words, biting off each mewling sob. Faster, harder, he fucked into the fiery, grasping hole, groaning his desire and the possessive need he felt. His lover was shaking, breathing huskily at his forearm.

The fullness was too much to bear. He slipped his hand around the length of Hector's prick, tugging at its head with a teasing demand for what he could get. As he drove down into the arse before him, the shaft in his own bum pulled free---as he pulled back, it drove in over that sore pleasure in him.

Twice, they lost their pace, but caught it again like a second wind.

It forced heartbreakingly depraved noises from Hector's strong voice. The fire scorched, seared, left nothing but the primal knowledge. Deeper than conscious thought, deeper than words could go. Deeper than the sound of their voices catching in wordless noise. It was primitive, deepest knowledge...he need not be anything but this.

Jack felt it begin; Hector cried out, stiffening. He rolled his hips, pumping harder and faster, gaining a stroke in the effort. It wrung another gasping wail from his matelot. The muscles he fucked into went so tense as to nearly strangle him---in retaliation, he shifted to find a new angle. And the new angle set his guts aflame---a better fit, a sweeter tightness. The pressure made his guts boil.

At his back, Anamaria had stopped moving---the thing in his arse was still there, but it didn't move, either. It was as if she knew he needed this other, this edgy hellish dance. He pushed at Hector's shoulder, nearly rolling his lover under his weight as he leaned into the fuck---giving the prick he jerked an extra squeeze. Now, pounding for all he was worth, he bit down into Hector's neck, buried to the absolute hilt. Had anything ever felt so good? No, not even the first time---he hadn't lost his control, then, determined to ensure his lover enjoyed it. Now, he could not care. It surged up in him like an explosion, the anguished spasms.

He snarled his curse as he came, a tortured blast that felt like the top of his head was bleeding. He clenched his palm and fingers against Hector's prick and his lover screamed into the skin of his arm, now beyond caring. Hector wordlessly babbled, squirming under him. Jack felt his own arse thrash and tighten and then the thick shaft was gone, pulled away. He breathed relief as he bonelessly collapsed on Barbossa, twitching uncontrollably. He was spavined.

He was almost unconscious, still in this position, when Hector pushed up at him with his shoulder. "Are ye alive, Jack?"

Jack mumbled and let his breath out in a deep sigh, wriggling on his perch. Was there anything more glorious than to be so loved and wanted? He didn't think so.

It was Anamaria who laughed and patted him on the bum. "Aye, he's alive, then."

***

Year Twenty-Nine

He pulled the trigger while Hector was aiming at Miss Swann.

Barbossa's eyes were wide with disbelief and then narrow with disdain in the swirl of powder smoke when his old matelot and lover turned to stare at him and the pistol he held. The threatening rapier flagged, its point aimed at the ground, as Barbossa sneered. "Ten years ye carry that pistol and now ye waste yer shot."

"He didn't waste it." Will Turner called from the mound where the huge stone chest sat.

Clink. Clink. Both gold pieces, bloodied, landed. The opportune moment.

The rapier fell now and he watched, his blood frozen in the vein, as Hector met his stare over the smooth barrel of the smoking flintlock. Then, Barbossa looked down at the spreading flow of red that was seeping through both shirt and coat.

Jack refused to let himself feel anything, not even an acknowledgment of what he'd done, previously, when such lifeblood had flowed between them. Hector had run him through earlier and neither of them had known that he would survive it---he'd been betting on the stolen gold's curse, but Hector had sincerely meant to kill him. Death for death, as it were. A repaying of the debt between them. He wouldn't let himself feel anything; he would stand as the pirate that Barbossa had forced him to become.

But, now Hector's eyes went a little wider as they lifted to meet his again. It was an awed whisper, the sound of a man who was caught between heaven and Hell. Wonderment in that voice he'd heard in every possible temperament. "I feel...cold."

He lowered his pistol as Hector went to his knees and then fell to the pile of swag they'd been stomping over in their battle. The curse was lifted at last, but at such a cost. Jack watched, steely-eyed and unmoved, as a green apple, whole and shining, fell from his dead lover's hand. A symbol for sin and immortality, a symbol of what they'd shared between them for so many years of service as matelots.

He couldn't find it in himself, the sense of justice he'd expected to feel in this moment. How long had he thrived at the idea of this day? Ten years, eight months. Some odd days. He'd imagined this unholy minute, over and over, whenever he thought he might give up and let himself fall by the wayside, a drunken deadman in the gutter outside some tavern in a distant port.

Sword tossed aside, the pistol tucked in his belt, Jack knelt by Barbossa's side. He knew that, behind him, Miss Swann and Will Turner were skirting each other in all proper shyness. Let them be polite in their moment of relief. He could, he knew, warn them to be careful of ignoring the opportune moments. Letting things stay unsaid only brought regret, aye?

Once, he'd found himself unable to look on Hector's death; he'd carried with him all these years a knowing of what his lover looked like, dead. Now, the pirate lord of the Caspian Sea was gone, having not declared an heir. He found himself unable to care about that much, either. He would leave Hector's piece of eight alone; let the loss stand. But, he could not bear to see those familiar eyes in such a weathered face, still open and staring at him with an accusation of disbelief. He'd done the one thing that Barbossa doubted he would be capable of. He himself had wondered if he'd have the stones to commit such a murder. Now, he knew the truth of it.

Reaching out a dirty hand, Jack pushed the other man's eyelids closed. He couldn't have Hector look at him that way, with such honest surprise and pain. Had he worn a similar expression, the day he was betrayed and mutinied upon? He thought he might. In his mind, he could still see Hector's face and hear Hector's voice...the many years they'd sailed together, the good and bad times they'd shared.

Before him, as he knelt with one hand dangling over his knee, Jack imagined that it was his remembered lover that lay before him. The man that Hector had once been. The younger face, the younger voice and laughter...now, he replaced the hoary old pirate that lay dead with the younger man, the one he'd loved. Could this man be the same lanky and freckled boy who'd sat on the barrel, on deck of The Flaming Sword, chewing on an unripe apple and swinging his bare legs with unconscious pleasure? How could that boy have become this?

'I feel cold.' Hector had said. It only reminded him again of what Barbossa had said to him when, all those many years ago, he'd asked about death. 'I was lost.' Now, the truth lay bare before him, naked and grotesque. Death was not a relief, not to his mind. Hector had been lost, waiting for him then, and he suspected the chill of the loss he'd felt was nothing when compared to the icy grip of being on the other side. 'I was lost...I feel cold...I was lost...Ifeelcold...Iwaslost..."

There was nothing he could do now, to warm up the man he'd once loved so hard. Hector looked aged beyond his years. Nearly old enough to be his father, true enough. Jack found himself pondering it...could the premature aging have been the curse or the long years at sea without respite or the bitterness Barbossa had professed to feeling? Perhaps all, in turn.

He had his life back, now. He had his ship. He had won everything he'd come to fight for. But, he felt nothing. He realized, with a bitter smile, that he'd give it all back if only he could feel something so simple and ugly and completely honest as the chill of death gripping at his skin.

Pulling himself to his feet, he went to the stone chest and pushed its lid up and back into place, struggling to do so by himself. Let Will Turner enjoy the prize won, in Miss Swann. The lass was probably going to break the lad's heart---she had promised to marry the peacock, after all. But, maybe Turner was more of a pirate than he allowed for. True, the lad was rash, yet there was a strong and dark strength lurking under the surface. He'd seen it a time or two, in their days together. Perhaps the whelp would show himself to have ballocks and take what he wanted, in the end.

It was a fitting place for Barbossa, this cavern with its gaudy piles and hillocks of swag and shine. By now, the cursed pirates knew they were no longer cursed; he hoped that the peacock made out well enough. They were on opposite ends of the law, aye, but it would be a shame for such a scallywag as Commodore Norrington to die on the blade of a worthless dog's cutlass. And they were, all of them, those men who had mutinied on him, ten years ago. Worthless, every last one. Only two had ever stuck out as being true pirates, good men, and dangerous to boot---Bill Turner and Hector Barbossa. Hector was dead, no longer a good man. He imagined that Bootstrap must be, too, at the bottom of the sea...thankful for the final respite.

He staggered under the weight of his old lover's corpse, slipping several times on the coins that lay everywhere nilly-willy as he carried Hector to the carved stone chest. It was large enough, he imagined, and so it was. Carefully, he lay the limp pirate out on its flat, arranging hands and booted feet. Hector's hat had fallen off; the scarf was sliding free. With cold fingers, Jack tugged it back into place at his dead lover's brow and then smoothed down lank waves of hair gone the color of driftwood.

He moved away and began seeking something he wasn't entirely sure of, yet. He couldn't bear to leave Barbossa's face uncovered like this; time and tide would eat away the skin and muscle there and eventually, the reality would resemble the curse, and he didn't want to consider it. Like before, so many years before, when Hector had died in the East Indies, he didn't want to see. Sail-cloth then, something finer now.

He found it, in what seemed to be someone's pirated luggage. Fine linens made of damask and brocade and silk. He carried the slick, soft cloth and used it to cover Hector from head to booted toe. Now, he walked back over the coins and traced his path until he found the fallen sword and hat and apple. The markers of the pirate that Barbossa had become. He dusted off the ridiculous hat, almost able to smile at how Hector had raged at him when he cut the feathers in their battle. Something so simple, done to infuriate. It had worked to his advantage. But, even enraged, Hector had fought with the same bold skill and talent.

He would miss that.

Jack laid the hat down on Hector's unmoving chest---the blood wasn't seeping through this time. Small blessing, that. He wondered, as he placed the rapier and the apple on either side of the stone chest's flat, what he could tell Anamaria. Would she feel the loss? Would she care, after hating Barbossa a decade for what had been done to him on the Black Pearl?

Finished, he stood at the starboard side and glanced up to see that Will Turner and Miss Swann were talking quietly, standing close together. He found himself unable to even smile at the idea of their stilted courtship. Jack pulled the spent pistol from his belt and laid it next to the apple. He didn't want it anymore. He'd carried the weapon for ten years and eight months and some odd days, constantly cleaning and priming it for the day. This day.

Stretching the fingers of his right hand, he rubbed at the leather that covered his palm. He whispered, speaking to the dead pirate who lay before him. "They're both rather pretty...tis a shame she's promised to marry that peacock. She's a wily one, our Miss Swann." Swallowing hard at the dry lump that offered to strangle him for his troubles, he put one hand on his belt and used the other to draw back the slippery cloth that covered Hector's face. He didn't want to see, but he did need a final glimpse.

He let that hand fall to Hector's covered shoulder as he cleared his throat and tried again. "It had to be, love, and I�m not sorry. You challenged me, you did...said I was no good to you until I could do the thing. Well...I've done it now, but I�m not sorry. Now, you're no good to me. Made a pirate of me at last, you did, Hector. But, I still feel. When I'm not feeling nothing, I feel...cold. That's all I'm feeling."

Impulsively, he leaned close and kissed the closed, weather-reddened eyelids. He didn't dare to kiss Hector's mouth. It wouldn't be right, to not have those lips just the same as they were in his memory. At the last, he drew the cloth back up into place and gave an accepting nod. He wasn't saying he could forgive, but he could let the matter drop.

Nothing for it, was there? It was done.
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Wi' A Wannion