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Second Chances	By : Chrysanthemum Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > Slash - Male/Male > Jack/Will Views: 7774 -:- 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
- 4
- 5
- 6
Chapter Four
Jack
The first thing I notice is sound � the seemingly distant swish of water against the sides of a ship, the quiet creaks and groans of wood and rigging, and a repeated, ringing scrape � the sound of a blade being sharpened carefully, lovingly. Then feeling returns. I have a pounding headache. My shoulder's sore even as I lie still; I expect it'll hurt like the devil to use that arm for a while. I hurt in other places, too, but all of that feels like the normal post-battle aches � maybe a pulled muscle here, a cut there. My head and my shoulder are by far the worst. I'm in bed, by the feel of it, and naked under the covers, but I'm not cold � then again, after the way I felt in the water, I don't think I'll ever be "cold" again by comparison.
Just for the pleasure of it, I take a deep breath. Nothing makes you appreciate air more than not being able to get any for a while. The room smells of metal and salt. I lick my dry lips, though it doesn't do much good; I don't have nearly enough spit in my mouth to moisten my tongue, let alone anything else. At my movement, whoever else is here stops sharpening his blade. I hear several wooden creaks and pops � the exact sound that the chair in my bedroom makes when I've been slouching in it and suddenly sit upright. And then Will's voice, low and a little rough: "Jack?"
"Aye," I say � or rather, try to say; seems my voice doesn't want to work. I notice that I can add a sore throat to the list of ways I hurt. I try again, and the word comes out this time, though it's raspy and half-choked. God, I sound like hell.
I open my eyes. For a minute everything is blurry; I blink a few times, and the fuzzy colors become actual things again: bunk, walls, pegs and effects, cabinets, night outside the windows, chair. And on the chair is Will. He holds a whetstone in one hand and his sword (which looks plenty sharp already, I notice) in the other; he's sitting on maybe the front inch of the seat, leaning forward, but before I can worry about his falling off our eyes meet.
Strange how even when you think nothing can be more beautiful, the people you love look even more breathtaking after you've near died. Maybe Will's always been so gorgeous with worry and relief chasing each other across his face. I doubt it, though. And his eyes... Like amber, like topaz, like tiger's eye, but more vivid and deep and alluring than any stone. Worry and relief there again, plain as day, but under that I think I see so much more lying half-hidden... Something new is there, badly concealed but mysterious all the same. I've never seen this look in someone's eyes before. I don't know what to make of it. But I sense that whatever it is, it's dangerous.
"Finally you're awake." His voice breaks me out of my thoughts. "How do you feel?"
I croak out something that sounds more like a cough than the laugh it's supposed to be. "Better than I sound, I think. But not by much."
He stands up, sets the sword and whetstone aside, and walks to the side of my bunk. One tentative, callused hand lights gently on my forehead. "Well, your fever is still gone," he says after a moment. "That's a start." His hand lingers for a few seconds longer; then he lifts it and turns away in one quick movement, fussing with his sword. "Are you hungry?" He almost manages to sound casual. "Thirsty?"
I realize that I'm very much both. My stomach feels like it's trying to chew through my backbone, and my throat is so dry that it must be cracking. But then I start thinking on what I'd like to eat... some fruit, maybe, or eggs, or a nice stew with biscuits... and my gut clenches violently. It might be good that there isn't anything in it; if there were, it'd all be coming up. "Both. �But I don't think I could manage more than gruel right now, as far as food goes."
He turns and looks at me worriedly. "Nauseous?"
"A little."
"Are you going to throw up?"
I roll my eyes. "I haven't got anything to throw up, lad."
He shrugs, half-smiling. "Good point. I'll go get you a drink and tell Cook to make you something simple."
"Thank ye, love," I murmur, but he's already gone. I settle a little deeper into the pillow, anticipating. Despite the nausea, I'm bloody hungry. And so thirsty... how lovely rum will taste, that smooth sweetness coating my tongue.
Soon Will returns, a mug in one hand. "Cook'll have something ready as fast as he can. Meantime-" he holds the mug out to me. I cautiously sit up halfway, propping myself up with my left arm, and reach to take it.
That, of course, is a mistake. My right shoulder is incredibly stiff on top of hurting like it's still got the sword through it. It's so painful to lift my hand by only two inches that I gasp and let it drop back to the bed.
"Careful-" in an instant Will has set the mug down and is carefully helping me to sit up all the way, propping me up with the pillow, checking the bandage on my shoulder. When he's done with that inspection, he finishes by lightly running his hand down my arm as if looking for other injuries. He gives my wrist a light squeeze, retrieves the mug, and with a pointed look sets it into my left hand.
"Your shoulder was infected," he says. "It's just starting to heal. The fever only went down last night. I expect you won't want to be using it for a while."
"Now you tell me," I grumble, taking a sip from the mug.
"Forgive me for thinking you'd be smart enough not to use your hurt arm," he fires back.
The liquid feels wonderful in my dry mouth and throat, but it's strangely tasteless. I drink again. Water. Frowning, I hold the mug out to him. "I don't s'pose you could find me a bit of rum?"
He looks distinctly smug. "You're not to be allowed to drink yourself silly until you're well enough to come up on deck again � that's a direct quote and an order. You've got a triple ration of water, and we'll give you some strong brandy to take the edge off the pain, but having you drunk and injured � well-" he gestures as if there's an obvious way to end that sentence.
"I would not get drunk-" I begin, a little indignant, but Will gives me a look so disbelieving that I roll my eyes and give up on that line of argument (not that I would get drunk, mind you, because I wouldn't) in favor of another. "On whose orders, I'd like to know? This is my ship!"
"On Anamaria's. She said you can take it up with her as soon as you're out of bed." That's it, the boy is too damn smug for his own good.
"Will..."
"I'm just following orders." His false innocence doesn't waver even under my glare.
I sigh heavily. "Sadists, the lot of you. Depriving a hurt man of his rum. What's Anamaria doing giving orders to her captain?"
"They weren't to you, they were to the rest of us. And, you know, someone had to take charge. I mean, it was pretty clear that you � I mean, that � that you'd be in no shape to � be captain � for a while."
A while... I pause, thinking. Yes, there's that, and my infection went down "last night," and I'm so hungry and thirsty... "Will, how long has it been since the fight?"
"Four days." He's obviously trying to sound casual, but he fails miserably; the shaking of his voice gives him away. But why is he so upset? Did I really come that close to-
"How bad was I?"
I see his jaw clench at that. "Bad," he whispers. "Really bad, Jack." He comes over and sits on the edge of my bunk, his back to me. "We weren't sure you'd make it," he says quietly. He's actually trembling a little; I feel my mattress shake along with him. "You nearly died, Jack. When we got you up on deck we thought you were dead."
"Ah." I don't really know what to say. This isn't the first time I've almost died, so I'm not too bothered by it. I've almost gotten used to it. But Will seems to be taking it hard... strangely hard, really, even given our friendship. I'm used to waking up to people who don't care at all or who laugh it off, who are glad just to have me back and don't bother thinking much about what happened. "Well, but I'm still breathing, aren't I?"
"Yes," he says thickly, and breaks out into breathless laughter. I'm starting to get worried in earnest here. The lad sounds near hysterical. He stands up suddenly, walks to the other end of the room and takes a few deep, shuddering breaths. When he turns around his face is calm, though his eyes are suspiciously bright. "Well." He sounds almost � almost � normal. "I should probably get you up to date with everything that's been going on since � what?"
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." There's just enough confidence in his voice to tell me that he's not at all fine. "Really, Jack, I am. It's just � It's � been a long four days, is all." He chuckles suddenly. "That chair really isn't very comfortable to sleep in."
"You slept in it?"
Will turns a becoming shade of red. "Someone had to stay in here to keep an eye on you."
"But � you could have taken watches." The boy never stops baffling me.
He shrugs, his gaze sliding to the left and away from mine. "Everyone else has their duties. I didn't have any other responsibilities. It was better for me to stay here so they wouldn't have to spend their free time watching you."
I narrow my eyes at him. If I know this crew, there'd be several people who would have wanted to be here. Why'd they just let Will keep watch for four days straight? But I don't think I'm going to get anything more out of him without effort, and I'm too tired to argue right now. I sigh and close my eyes. "How did I get out of the water, anyway? I don't remember much after I went in."
"I jumped in and got you out," he says with notable calm, considering how he was just acting. "I � was watching, obviously � I saw you fall. When you didn't come up I knew there had to be something really wrong. So I went in after you. When I got your head above water, someone threw us a rope." He pauses, then says in a low voice, "You gave me � all of us � such a scare, you know. You weren't moving. You weren't breathing." His eyes are distant, seeing something other than me, my bunk, this room. "Your shirt was soaked with blood. But you were still bleeding. That was the only way we could tell you weren't dead already. You were still bleeding. I thought-" he breaks off, blinks, seems to shake himself as his eyes refocus.
"You thought...?" Don't leave me hanging, lad. He looked as if he were about to say something important when he cut himself off. I want to hear it.
But he only shrugs and says, "I thought that you were going to die right there in front of me, and I wouldn't be able to do a thing about it. Then I thought � well, it sounds silly."
"Tell me."
He smiles, looking embarrassed. "I thought, 'Wait! This is Captain Jack Sparrow! He can't die!' Stupid, I know-"
"But I didn't, did I?"
He turns and looks at me so intensely that I feel like he's staring through me to the mattress. "No. You didn't." For minutes, we are both silent. I feel trapped and helpless under his gaze. Why is he looking at me like that? What happened in the past four days? Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe he's just rattled because I almost died. Everyone deals with that sort of thing differently. But again he shakes himself � shudders, really � and starts to talk as if nothing's out of the ordinary. "Well, you started breathing again, thank God, and we managed to stop the bleeding. Cook and Anamaria bandaged you and got you into bed, and you didn't wake up until just now."
"Hmm." I let that sink in for a minute. "And Anamaria took charge."
"Yes. And so you know � Gibbs said you'd want to hear this � we took on twenty-two captives from the Argo, the spoils haven't yet been divided, and we've kept on a course for England. And � we � lost Evans and Blackjack."
I close my eyes. Evans and Blackjack � of all the men to lose, it had to be them. "Blast." I sigh. "They were good men."
"Yes."
"How?"
"Evans got cornered by six or seven men. He couldn't handle them all. Blackjack was shot. He could've made it, but the wound got infected. He wasn't as lucky as you were."
There's a knock at the door just then, and Gibbs pokes his head in, then comes in carrying a tray that has a bowl of something hot and steaming on it. "You old dog, I knew you'd not leave us," he says, grinning.
"And let the Pearl go to the likes of you? I bloody well think not."
He only snorts and sets the tray on my lap. "That's from Cook. You're to eat it all or risk his wrath, he says."
"Aye, sir." I roll my eyes. Cook is a strange fellow, and this isn't the first time he's tried to mother me. He's made me a light soup, thin but very good. I have no trouble finishing it. Gibbs stays, and he and Will talk a little while I wolf down the broth. When I set my spoon down, they both look like they want to speak with me more. I do, too, but before I can stop myself I yawn hugely. We look at each other for a moment; Gibbs chuckles, I shrug with my good shoulder while trying to appear appropriately sheepish, and Will just smiles amusedly.
"I'll leave you to your sleep, then," Gibbs says, picking up the tray. "I want a word with you, but it can wait."
"Shall I go, or shall I stay?" Will asks as he helps me lie back down. I feel as if I should tell him I can do it myself � I'm not that bad off � but it's so nice to have his hands on me that I don't bother.
I don't really have to think about his question at all, but I pretend to just so he doesn't bet suspicious. "Well, I wouldn't want to keep you from anything else you need to do..."
"I haven't got anything," he says almost eagerly.
"Well, then..." I pretend to think again. "If you really don't mind..."
"I don't." He settles into the chair, smiling, his eyes alight.
"All right." I smile back and relax, sinking down into my pillow. I feel sleep tugging at me, and after one last glance at Will, I let it pull me into darkness.
*****
My strength returns quickly. Within a couple of days of waking I'm up and about, though now and then a bad headache � the lasting effects of getting hit over the head, I guess � will make me have to sit down for a while. Still, in less than a week I've taken full command of the Pearl again, and in a week I feel fine except for my right shoulder, which is still weak and sore, though it's healing.
I could have put Will's vaguely strange behavior when I woke down to my condition at the time. But he hasn't got that excuse now, and yet he's still acting oddly around me � and not in the way I'd expect, either. I would have thought that if he was going to act differently he'd treat me like an invalid on account of my injuries. But he doesn't. Though he never forgets my hurt shoulder (and is always discreetly ready to help me if I can't do something because of the healing wound), he never tries to coddle me. Instead � and for no reason I can see � he's strangely tentative, even shy, around me � but only when we're alone together. In a group he acts as though nothing's changed, but as soon as it's just the two of us... I can't make any sense of it. The only thing I can think of is that I must have said something or done something that made him uncomfortable. But I can't imagine what I could have said or done. His behavior changed only after that fight... but how could I have done anything between the fight and when I woke up? I was bloody unconscious, for God's sake.
Well, by now I've learned that Will is downright unfathomable at times. Though I'm confused, I don't say anything. I just don't want to deal with it right now. I've been dancing around my feelings for him this whole voyage, and these days I'm so confused by him and so in dread of having to let him go that if we got into any serious conversation I might well lose control and tell him everything, just from sheer exhaustion.
Luckily, when we're together, we don't talk much about serious things. I get the sense that he feels the same way as I do � we're going to part forever soon, so it's best to enjoy just being together. If we speak much, we chat about unimportant subjects and that's about it. But we spend a lot of the time just quietly standing on deck, leaning on the rail and watching the sea. Or we do physical things � I teach him to steer the Pearl and how to do some tasks aboard ship that are more complicated than what we were giving him before to keep him busy, or he shows me how to draw. (The boy really can draw; God knows when he learned or how he got to be so good.) Or we fence.
Since he's not part of the crew, Will usually has free time on his hands. So it makes sense that when I decided to use fencing drills to strengthen my shoulder, I asked him to be my partner. No sense in taking leisure time from my men when they have so little of it and someone else has so much � at least, that would be the obvious reason behind it. In truth, that's only part of why I asked Will to help me, but no one else needs to know that. So we've started to drill every few days. I parry, feint, and thrust until my shoulder can't take any more; then I'll switch to my left hand and we'll fence until one of us makes what would be a fatal mistake if this were a real fight.
We started today when the sun was maybe three quarters of the way to the horizon; now it is twilight. Will is little more than a shadow against the sky, his blunted practice sword a flashing line of light intermittently catching the sun's last rays, as he advances and shouts a challenge. He attacks, disengaging my parries and coming at me again and again, forcing me back nearly half the length of the ship. I groan � this is the fourth time he's done this since we started bouting, and my legs are getting damn tired, not to mention that I don't like having to retreat so much � and decide that I'm sick of playing fair. This has gone on far too long, anyway.
Angling my blade below his, I beat it upward. In the split second when his sword is pointing over my left shoulder instead of at me, I dive low at him, catching him about the thighs with my right arm. My shoulder twinges, but it's worth the faint pain to hear Will's comically surprised grunt and the thud as he flips over my shoulder and hits the deck. I push his legs up and over so that he'll land on his back, then straighten and spin left. No way he'll be able to react in time to keep my sword from his neck-
-but somehow he does. Steel rings on steel as my blade meets his; though flat on his back and probably winded, he's managed to parry. He thrusts awkwardly over my arm at my chest. I jump back and take his blade in six; he disengages somehow and rolls to the right, away from the direction of my parry. I let him break the engagement � ground fighting gets awkward if it goes on for very long � and step back so that there's plenty of distance between us when he climbs to his feet.
"That was low," Will says threateningly as he gets back en garde and advances on me. I'd almost believe he was angry if it weren't for the twinkle in his eye.
"Well," as soon as he comes in distance I make a beat-advance lunge that has him scurrying backward, "did you expect," I parry his attack and riposte, my blade coming within inches of his chest, "that you could just run me all � over � the � deck?" I punctuate my last words with lunges; every time he parries and retreats I recover forward and lunge again. Now I've almost got him backed against the aft railing. Excellent. I fake a parry in four as he attacks; as soon as he disengages I take six and lunge for his shoulder. His point passes harmlessly to the left of my left shoulder. My point makes contact. "Touche, William."
He raises his chin, a little smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and Lord I am in trouble if the sparks in his eyes are any clue to how things stand. "That's neither a fatal wound nor even a disabling one, as you've shown." As I roll my eyes, he steps back, disengages, shifts his sword to his left hand, and attacks.
Something about the bout has changed, though. Will usually plays things safe, with conservative and effective tactics. But now he's taking risks, stepping just inside my guard to threaten before backing out, practically dancing in circles around me. He's playing around, I realize. He's letting go of something and having fun in a way I've never seen him do before. Between that and the fact that he clearly hasn't practiced as much with his left hand as I have, he's not hard to beat. I end the bout on a parry eight-advance-thrust to his gut within a few minutes. He's almost laughing as we shake hands, practically glowing and happier than I think he's ever been in my presence.
"Where did that come from, may I ask?"
"What?"
"That..." I wave my hand, looking for a word. "That playfulness. And this," I add, gesturing toward him.
He shrugs. "You, I guess." Not quite meeting my gaze, and starting to blush a little, he says quietly, "You take such joy in everything. It's obvious just watching you. And it � makes me feel happy to see you happy." He swallows and looks out to sea. "It's been hell these past years. But I watch you, and I start to remember how to live again."
Coming out of the blue like that, his words leave me silent and stunned for a few moments. If only I could tell him how unimaginably precious it is to know that I can make him happy like that... But all I can say is, "I'm glad. I � I'm really glad, Will." He turns and looks at me with sober eyes; then he smiles. He has never looked more beautiful than he does now. And I realize with sudden clearness how very much I want him, and how impossible it is for me to have him. Sharp pain in my chest. I would give everything I have for this man.
"Well," he says after a while. "Anyway. Let's go take care of your shoulder."
*****
In one sense, "taking care of my shoulder" means cleaning the wound, making sure it's still not infected and hasn't torn open. It's too awkward for me to do it myself, and Will volunteered to help me awhile ago.
In another sense, "taking care of my shoulder" means torture. Having Will's hands on me, touching me gently and in almost the right ways, is enough to stretch my control almost to its breaking point every time. I can't help imagining him touching me elsewhere, with different intentions, and it nearly kills me to sit relaxed, keeping up a conversation as if I'm not consumed with lust. It takes me an average of thirty seconds to make myself come after he leaves.
As he gathers water, salve, and a clean cloth, I take off my shirt � ignoring the internal shudder, by now automatic, as I do; it's only Will, after all, and he's seen these scars before. I settle myself into a chair by my table, on which Will's set his supplies. As I relax, enjoying being off of my feet for the first time today, he crouches beside and slightly in front of me, reaching out to touch the scab that is fast becoming a new addition to my large and varied collection of scars. It's healing quickly; we were able to stop bandaging it a few days ago, and I can't imagine but that it'll be completely better in another few.
"Has it been bothering you?"
"Not much." I shift a little, still feeling the energy from our bout, and made more restless by his light touches. "It's more the muscle than the wound at this point."
He makes a soft noise of acknowledgment and continues to examine my shoulder. After a moment more, he pulls back. "Well, it does look better. I think it's almost healed." With that, he starts to clean the scab. It doesn't actually take long now that there's no bandage to rewrap; with in a few minutes he's done. But those few minutes seem an age. Every moment with Will's hands on me makes my heart beat faster; with every brush of his skin against mine, every time his breath ghosts across my bare arm or chest, I have to bite back a gasp. By the time he stands and moves behind me to lightly massage my shoulder, I'm aroused almost to the point of pain. But I haven't been pushed to my limit yet, thank God. I take a deep breath.
Will's thumb digs a little harder into a particularly tight spot. "For someone who seems so laid-back, you certainly are tense."
I chuckle weakly as I try not to say what I'm actually thinking. "It's just the North," I answer finally. "Cold weather, no sun, the Royal Navy out in force just waiting to find me, not much by way of plunder... it's enough to make any pirate tense up."
His hands still for a moment, then start the massage again. "It's very kind of you to do this for me," he says thoughtfully.
"I want to see you happy, Will." Careful, that may have been a little too close to the truth considering how hard it's getting to control yourself right now. Don't give it all away- "You're a friend. I like to see my friends well off."
He is silent. Then, after a minute or two, he says with careful deliberation, "If I ask you a question, will you give me an honest answer?"
"Of course," I answer casually as my blood turns to ice. I know what his question will be. Please don't let him say what I think he's going to say, let him ask anything else � anything-
"Why did you save me from Barbossa's crew?"
The question could apply to more than one occasion, but I know what he's talking about. For a long moment it hangs in the silence between us. I shrug his hands off, cold, knowing that he knows now that this still bothers me, but not totally caring. "Haven't we discussed this before?"
"Yes, but you haven't yet given me an honest answer."
"The answers I gave were honest!" Easy now, Jack, don't lose your calm. Keep control, unless you want him to know.
"Then you haven't yet given me the real answer."
I laugh bitterly despite myself. "The real answer." Stop searching for the damned truth, boy. It'll destroy us both. Sometimes half of the truth is better than all of it.
"Yes, the real answer." He comes around in front of me; I stand and stalk away, but not before I catch sight of a strange, desperate look in his eyes. And desperation is in his voice now as he says, "I know you've been holding out on me, Jack. I know that there's something you haven't told me. And I need to know what it is. I think � I think I might � but for all I know it could just be a � a figment of my imagination, a hope that doesn't have any base in reality-"
"I gave you the real answer when you asked me before." The lie tastes bitter as I choke it out.
"Bullocks." Bloody hell, he's not going to let it go this time, is he? He sounds angrier than I've heard him in a long while. "Tell me the truth!"
"Will-"
"Tell me."
Tell him. The idea might be funny if it weren't so damned frightening. But I feel my resolve beginning to buckle under his determination and my annoyance and exhaustion. It's a heavy burden of a secret to keep so safe for so long, and I'm so tired of bearing it... I struggle to keep the words back, but they come out anyway. "You have no idea what you're asking."
He is silent for a few beats longer than he should be. Shocked by the implied admission, perhaps? Or is he just thinking about how to weasel the secret out of me? "I'm asking you to be a completely honest man for once in your life," he says at last. "You want to see me happy? You consider me a friend? Then don't lie to me." When I don't answer, he presses, "Tell me, Jack."
"No!" I try to speak calmly, but against my will the word is torn from me in a pained shout. "I tell you, you do not know what you're asking!"
"I-"
"Don't." I haven't resorted to pleading with anyone for at least fifteen years. But I'm getting desperate. In the deepest part of my heart, I want to tell him. That's the trouble. Even though he'll hate me forever, there's some part of me that almost needs him to know. Yet at the same time I couldn't live with his hatred. It'd be like losing the Pearl forever. But after being around him for so long, growing closer to him than I've ever been, my defenses are almost worn through. If he keeps pushing, I just might break. "Just don't, Will."
"I have to." Damn the boy, he actually sounds apologetic. "Tell me. I let it go before, but I�m not going to this time."
"And what brought this on, exactly?" I snap, spinning on my heel to face him. I do my best to play the part of angry captain, which has never failed to cow even the toughest men I've led, but I falter at the look on his face.
"The same thing that brought it on before," he murmurs. "Only I didn't recognize what it was then. Don't change the subject. Why did you do it?" I can't look at him. I turn away again, planting my hands on the bulkhead as though I might push through it and escape. He's between me and the door, or I would've walked out already. "Jack." He comes up next to me, closer than he should. I turn my head so I don't have to see him. But I can still sense him there, hear him breathe, catch his scent, feel his presence tingling along my side. "Why did you let them rape you instead of me?"
I could pretend that it's that word, "rape," that finally breaks me down, that word that he's never been able to bring himself to say to my face before now. But it would be just that � pretending. Really, I snap under the weight of frustration and annoyance, his relentlessness, and the unbearable thought of having to do this anymore, keep this secret safe any longer. "Because I love you, all right?"
In the silence I think I can almost hear his shock. I brace myself for his anger, his hatred � but all he says is "Look at me," so quietly that I barely hear him. When I don't move, he repeats himself � "Look at me, Jack-" sounding as if the fate of the world hinges on it. And I find that even now I can't deny him anything. I turn to face him.
"I love you too."
That nearly knocks me over. I step back, staring at him, feeling anger mingle with the shame knotting my gut. I'd expected contempt, shouting, maybe even that he'd hit me... but ridicule?
"Jack?" he says as I turn away, perfectly faking confusion. "What's wrong?"
"I would've put you down as someone who'd hit me, not mock me." I don't bother keeping the hurt out of my voice.
"Mock you? Jack, I'm serious!"
"Sure you are." I'm so very lovable, after all.
"For God's sake-"
"You love Elizabeth!"
"No, I don't. Not in the way you mean." That's such a shock (and an obvious lie) that I spin and stare open-mouthed at him. He meets my eyes, but barely. "Sit down." I fling myself into a chair; he drops into another one facing me. Taking a deep breath, he runs his hand back over his hair. "I � loved Elizabeth, but I wasn't in love with her."
"Of course. That's why you went and married her-"
"It was only after the marriage that I realized it!" On the � wedding night-" he breaks off, blushing, then bursts out, "Do you know what it's like to try to bed a woman who you love as your sister? It was awful. And to make things worse, she really was in love with me." Dully, he continues, "Sometimes I wonder if that fall was an accident. If maybe I drove her to it. I couldn't give her what she wanted so badly." A single tear tracks down his cheek. It makes my heart ache to see him like this. A little voice whispers to me that he's not a good enough actor to be faking it... I tell it to go to hell. He has to be faking it. The only other choice is a complete impossibility.
"I felt like her blood was on my hands," he continues in a rough voice. "And everywhere I went in Port Royal reminded me of her, and I just felt more and more guilty... so I ran. I boarded that ship for England. And then the ship ran into you." The corner of his mouth lifts, despite the pain on his face. "And you were your old incorrigible self, of course, and I don't think you know how comforting that was. And you were so kind to me... I was always very fond of you, you know. Well, not always, but somewhere between Tortuga and the Isla de Muerta I got to like you." He pauses, looking at me almost shyly. I say nothing, giving him my coldest look � you think you can take me in, boy? He blanches visibly, but seems to muster his courage, for he continues, "At any rate. You helped me start to heal, and I was grateful. And then you got hurt." He bites his lip and rises, suddenly agitated. After pacing for a few moments, he turns to face me. Looking me straight in the eye, he says, "I thought you were dead when we got you on deck. You weren't breathing at all; you were turning blue. And I sat next to you, praying for you just to breathe. I would have laid down my life then and there if it would have meant that you would have started breathing again. And suddenly I realized why."
Too quickly for me to react, Will walks up to my chair, drops to his knees in front of it, and plants his hands on the armrests, trapping me in my seat. "I love you," he says. "I love you in a way that I never could have loved Elizabeth. But I was a coward, and I didn't want to tell you unless you loved me back. Please believe me, Jack. You're right. I'm not the type of person to mock you. I'm telling you the truth. I love you."
"I wish I could believe that."
"What do I have to do to make you believe it?" he cries. "Tell me. Whatever it is, I'll do it."
"There's nothing you can do." I can't believe you, love. If I do, and if you're a better liar than I suspect... and anyway, you can't possibly be telling the truth. What am I that you can love me?
"There has to be something."
"There's nothing."
"Jack Sparrow, you are a damn fool!"
I laugh. "I've been one in the past, and I swore I'd never be one again. Let me up."
Will moves aside and is silent as I walk away. I'm nearly at the door before he asks, "Will you let me try one thing?"
I stop with my hand resting on the latch. God, boy, can't you just stop? My guts feel like they've been keelhauled, and there's a deep ache in my heart that I don't think will ever go away. I'm tired, defeated, ashamed, and hurting; can't he just let me be? But still I hear myself ask, "What is it?"
"Come here." When I stop two feet away from him, he steps in so that our chests are nearly touching. "I want to kiss you."
I stiffen, but his arms around me keep me from stepping back. "Will-"
"Please." His grip tightens slightly. "Just one kiss, and then you can run for the door as fast as you like, and if you want you won't see me for the rest of the trip. But let me at least do this."
"Will � I-" Damn it, I really have to learn to say "no" to him. I growl. "Fine." I don't dare think on what flashes in his eyes before he leans in.
I expect a rough, claiming kiss, something that's supposed to prove to me that I'm his. But that's not what I get. Instead Will rests his lips gently against mine, making no effort to try to force his way into my mouth. One of his hands settles on my shoulder an instant before he steps in so that we're pressed up against each other. I bite back a gasp; only his arm around my lower back keeps me from pulling away. His tongue swipes softly over my lower lip; I stiffen, but he still doesn't force anything on me. His tongue retreats, and again there is only the light pressure of his lips on mine.
This is nice, but it isn't convincing me of anything. I'm surprised by how much that disappoints me, how much I really wanted to be convinced. Oh, what the hell. He's not going to actually hurt me with this any more than I've already been hurt, and we'll never do this again, and this will be my only chance to know how he tastes...
The noise he makes as I open my mouth to him, a moan that sounds part grateful and part achingly needy, goes straight to my cock. His tongue tentatively slides into my mouth, tracing the teeth of my lower jaw. When I do nothing to discourage him he grows bolder, exploring my mouth with more confidence and with a skill that makes my head spin. And yet he is so gentle. His tongue strokes along mine, laps at the insides of my cheeks, but always softly, never with the force that I'm used to. No one has ever kissed me like this before, with such tender consideration. This isn't possessing or demanding; this is sharing. Will kisses me sweetly, as if I'm worth something, as if he cares for me, as if-
Oh my God.
A quiet voice whispers to me that I'm a fool, he couldn't possibly... and anyway, he'll betray me, or he doesn't really understand what I am and when he comes to realize it... He'll only hurt you, it murmurs. You'd be an idiot to trust. But the voice disappears under the rising flame that kindles in my heart. I pull back, opening my eyes. The resignation on his face, the accepting pain in his eyes, feel like a sword through my gut. To think that I hurt him so, and all because I was stupid, untrusting...
"Tell me again." I hate how desperate I sound. Oh, you are weak, Jack, so weak � but I forget the thought as I see his eyes spark with hope.
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you."
"Again."
As many times as I ask, he repeats it, over and over until finally I can hear the ring of truth in the words. I feel hopelessly overwhelmed, swelled with too many different emotions at once, drowning in and anchored by his body, his hands, his face, his love. Looking into his eyes, I see the same thing that's been there all along, but now I can at last recognize it for what it is.
I don't realize that I'm crying until he reaches up to touch my cheek (oh, how just that light contact sets my skin on fire) and I see the dampness on his fingers when he takes them away. "Jack-?" he says, sounding half worried, half wondering, and there's nothing for me to do but kiss him hard. He responds with passion equal to mine, wrapping his arms around my back as I grip his hips like they're the only things keeping me from exploding with sheer joy, and I lose myself in the frantic collision of our lips. And I find that even when in a hard kiss like this, Will kisses me with a care and reverence that I could never in a hundred years deserve. I feel the last of my protections crumble under the force of this kiss. I know I'm trembling, but I can't stop myself, and it sends a strange thrill through me to know that Will is seeing me like this.
It's too much. It's more than I ever dreamed of having, and yet it's nowhere near enough. I want him so badly, and I have so much of him already, and still I want more... I break the kiss, my hands restless on his shoulders and back, and drop quick light kisses over his cheeks, his eyes, his forehead. "God � love you... I love you," I gasp, hearing a depth of feeling in the words that would have made me cringe half an hour ago.
"I love you too," he murmurs, and then suddenly cups my face in his hands, his eyes locking with mine. "Do you believe me now?"
"Yes," I answer, my heart soaring when he smiles. And then he's kissing me again, and with such love that I feel my eyes tear up once more. For a long time we just kiss and hold each other, giving and taking silent reassurance. I still can't entirely believe that this is happening; I feel lightheaded, quivering, as if I'm standing in the middle of a dream. We don't speak. I know, and I'm sure he knows, that we badly need to talk, that we haven't yet covered half of the ground that we'll need to if this is going to work. But that can come later. Right now I just want this, nothing more.
Gradually our kisses grow more heated. I have to fight with myself to keep the pace slow. I want to drag him into my bed and ravish him until he screams � which in itself is nothing new; what's new is that I could actually do it now. But he's not experienced with this, I'm sure, and I don't want to force anything on him or make him uncomfortable. So I hold myself back and stick to kissing for the moment. But though I can control how fast I take things, controlling certain parts of my body is another matter entirely. My cock stiffens; I know the exact moment when Will feels it pressing against him because he inhales sharply, his tongue stilling against mine for an instant. I pull back. "Is this all right?" I pray that it is; it might well kill me to stop just now.
"Yes," he says, though his eyes look a little nervous behind the (oh God, am I really seeing this?) affection and desire. "This � I want this."
"You're sure?"
"Jack," he says as if that was a stupid thing to ask, and he leans in and kisses me until I'm sure that he's sure. Just when my arms wind a little tighter around him, he breaks the kiss and adds, "You know that I don't really know what I'm doing? I mean, I know what to do for women � but-"
"Not a problem, love." I can't keep the sly grin off my face. "Some things are fun to teach." I wink; he blushes a little, then chuckles, then rolls his eyes and kisses me deeply, his fingertips lightly tracing patterns on the bare skin of my back. I arch into the touch, shivering a little when he finds a particularly sensitive spot. My hands start to move as well, skimming up and down his sides, and when he seems okay with that I stick my thumbs out at the top of one stroke to brush lightly over his nipples through his shirt. That gets me a gratifying response � his breath catches, his hands tighten on my back, and his hips jerk forward. For the first time his hardness brushes mine, and damned if that isn't so impossibly hot that I nearly come in my pants from sheer wanting him. Breathing deeply to get myself under control, I wind one arm around his back and pinch his nipple with the other hand, slowly increasing the pressure until he gasps and twists violently against me.
"Still all right?" I murmur, breaking the kiss.
"Yes."
"Can I take your shirt off?"
"Yes." He gasps as I lick slowly up the left side of his jaw, my fingers toying with his nipples. "If I don't � Jack, stop for a minute so I can think enough to talk � if I don't like something I'll say so. I'll tell you to stop. All right?"
"Sure, love." My hands are itching to touch him already, and they haven't been off of him for more than fifteen seconds. "That all you want to say?"
"Ye-" I swallow the rest of the word, my tongue sliding along his again as I stroke down his chest to the top of his breeches and start tugging at his shirt. He helps me to untuck and lift it; as he pulls it over his head and lays it over the back of the nearest chair, I kneel and unlace his boots. I help him out of shoes and stockings, then stand, pulling him to me. His chest feels wonderfully smooth and soft against mine, though really there's nothing soft once you get past the silkiness of his skin; as I run my hand down his back from shoulderblade to hip, hard, well-developed muscles twitch and shift under my palm. It's a perfect moment � his lips opening to my tongue again, our bodies pressed up against each other, bare skin against my chest and under my fingertips, his hands resting lightly and almost tentatively on my waist... I need him more and more with every near-gasping breath I take. He steps back slightly. "Bed," he says, making it half question and half command. I don't bother trying to keep the grin off of my face as he takes my hand and leads me to my bedroom.
I don't let him turn around when we're in the room. Holding him still with my hands on his shoulders, I kick the door shut behind me and lean in to place a kiss at the base of his neck, teasing for a moment, only touching him with my lips and my hands. He exhales a little shakily and reaches up to cover my left hand with his, squeezing slightly, in a gesture so affectionate and somehow intimate that I'm overcome with emotion again for a moment. I pull him back against me with my free hand, clinging to him with all my strength as I whisper fiercely in his ear, "Love you!"
"Love you too," he murmurs, and then "Oh � Jack-" as I trace the outside of his ear with my tongue, at the same time twisting his nipple gently. I chuckle as I trail kisses down the right side of his neck to his shoulder. I'd fantasized that he might be this sensitive, this responsive, but I'd never actually expected that the lightest brush of my fingertips across his belly would make him shiver or that he'd moan if I nipped gently where his neck meets his shoulder. I start to stroke his nipple again and he sighs, his head falling back; I take hold of his chin and turn his head toward me so that I can kiss him. His hand tightens on mine as the kiss deepens, his other hand cupping the back of my head. Then he spins, bringing us chest to chest again; I moan as I feel him against me from belly to nipples. Without breaking the kiss, he walks backward; I come with him for one step, two, and then he turns us a little and pushes me back.
Something solid presses into the back of my thighs; drugged as I am with the smooth stretch of his back under my hands, the metal-smoke taste of his mouth, and the heated glide of his lips on mine, it takes my addled mind a moment to realize that he's steered us to my bunk. I get up onto it, sitting with spread legs so he can come in close enough to keep kissing me. He doesn't, though. Instead he kneels to take my boots and stockings off. I lean back on my elbows and watch him. He is beautiful from every angle, but especially from this one: eyes downturned and focused on the task at hand, brows drawn inward and lips slightly pursed in concentration; the reason for such concentration on such a simple job is clear both in the trembling of his hands and in the obvious erection tenting the front of his breeches. A stray wisp of hair has fallen into his face. I use the pretense of brushing it away as an excuse to stroke his forehead lightly. He glances up at me, looking uncertain for a moment � but he must see something in my face that reassures him, for he smiles as I cup his cheek, running my thumb over his lips. He kisses the tip of it gently as my second stocking comes off, and then he's rising, pressing in close, and my thumb is trapped between our lips for one long moment before I get it out of the way and we're kissing again.
He's trembling; not strongly, but enough that I feel even his lips shaking a little against mine. I debate � lust, nerves, or fear? � and when I can't settle on an answer, I pause to ask, "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine."
"You know we don't have to do anything you don't want to-"
"I'm fine, Jack." When I look at him critically, he turns his eyes down and admits, "I'm a little nervous. But that doesn't mean I don't want this." His cheeks are already slightly flushed in a way that makes my cock throb; they redden more as he takes one of my hands in a soft grip and guides it to his crotch. I think I gasp a little at how hot and hard he is, even through his breeches. He raises his eyes to meet mine again as he says, "You see?" Leaning in, he whispers, "I want you. I'm not going to let a little nervousness keep me from having you, not after all we've been through."
I close the half inch left between us and kiss him deeply for a moment before pulling back. "I don't see � yet." Before he can get discouraged, I add, "I only feel," giving him a squeeze that draws a quiet, needy moan from him. I rest my hands on the buttons for his breeches, watching his face. For a moment he's obviously anxious, but then he smiles, blushing, and as he leans in to kiss me I feel him working at the fastenings of my own pants. I'll take that as permission, I think, grinning.
We're both overeager, to say the least, and shaking to boot, so we don't actually accomplish much of anything beyond getting our hands tangled. After a few minutes of hopeless fumbling, he sighs (though I can feel him smiling against my lips), steps back, and starts unfastening his own breeches. I take the hint, strip myself, and lay down on my side, settling into a comfortable position and watching as he bends over and steps out of his pants. He straightens, looks at me � and freezes. He doesn't look frightened, though; more overwhelmed with contemplation. It's the sort of look I imagine I'd get if I stepped into the hold of a just-captured ship to find that the whole thing was full of the choicest rum. His eyes travel over my body slowly, his mouth dropping open just a little.
Since he's so clearly ogling me, I take the same liberty with him. I start with his feet � lovely, well-formed feet, smooth-skinned � then let my gaze move upward, over his legs. The time he puts into fencing practice, particularly footwork, is evident in his plump but taut calves, his smooth, defined thighs. I try to linger here and prolong a sort of visual tease, but I can't stop myself; my eyes are drawn upward along those powerful thighs (don't think of them clamping around your hips as you take him slowly; you won't last another five seconds if you do), where his cock stands erect. My lingering worries about how ready he is for this disappear completely at the sight of his dick, both because he's so hard and because it's so gorgeous that I can't think enough to worry. It's long and slender, rosy pink, with a slight upward curve that gives it an air of dignity. Like Will, it seems at once sturdy and graceful. It makes my mouth water and my own cock throb desperately.
Reluctantly, I drag my attention further up, studying Will's narrow hips and slim belly, noting for the first time the pinkish birthmark just above his navel, the faint freckles on his chest. They're tantalizing; I want to kiss them, lick them until he moans and writhes, then trail my tongue down his chest and take his cock into my mouth.
I must have gotten distracted for a moment, because suddenly I feel Will's fingertips grazing my cheek, and when my eyes refocus I see that he's moved to the side of my bunk and is looking down at me. "You left me for a minute there," he says. "What were you thinking about?"
I smile as I pat the space beside me, scooting over to make more room for him; he climbs up on the bunk, the hand that was on my face trailing down my neck and side to my waist. "Oh, nothing of much import, love. Just considering how best to make you scream with pleasure."
I don't miss the flash of heat in his eyes, even as he replies in a coy tone, "I've never been known to scream in the past, you know."
"Well, we'll have to do something about that, won't we?" I cut his laugh off with a kiss, dragging his head down to mine. He moans faintly into my mouth as my hand gently massages the back of his neck; his hand squeezes my waist, by chance hitting a particularly sensitive spot that makes my hips buck. He chuckles, then pulls back, pressing me down when I try to follow and keep kissing him.
"I want to look at you," he says simply, quietly, but with such underlying seriousness that I give in without complaining. I watch him as he looks me up and down slowly, appreciatively. I shiver under his gaze as if it were an actual caress. My cock feels like it hardens even more, if that's possible, when his eyes settle on it for a long moment. He looks fascinated, nervous, and greedy all at once; his mouth is slightly open, his face flushed. Before I can tell him how beautiful he is, though, his hand skims up my side and comes to hover a little above my collarbone. He glances up at my face, clearly uncertain. I suppress a chuckle � he's adorable right now, but he'd probably take laughter in the wrong way. "Go ahead, love. I'm all yours."
Clearly, he needs no further encouragement. His hand immediately lowers to my skin, his eyes following it downward. He seems spellbound by the sight of his fingertips tracing the line of my collarbone. The caress is feathery, almost too light to even tease, but still it sets me on fire; just knowing that he's touching me like this, so carefully and hesitantly, and that this is real life and not another dream, is more than enough for me. He flattens his hand against my chest, stroking down to my belly button in one smooth movement, then sweeping up my side, his touch growing firmer and more confident. I draw a sharp breath when he palms my nipple; he looks up at me, a smile growing on his face as I lick lips gone suddenly dry. His finger circles my nipple slowly, making me squirm; when he begins to lightly stroke the nipple itself I have to struggle to keep my eyes open against the wash of pleasure.
Will pinches me gently; I gasp, then say, "Harder, love." He obeys, sending a jolt of pleasure through me that makes me arch up into his touch, crying out quietly. The cry turns into a long moan when he leans down and drags the flat of his tongue across my other nipple. I move one hand to the back of his head, gently holding him there; he continues to lick at me, occasionally nipping a little. I'm oversensitive, already on the edge of coming, and even if he claims to not know what he's doing Will is incredibly good. Soon I'm squirming beneath him, moaning and humming with pleasure, my hips bucking but not quite managing to find the contact my cock is so desperate for.
Finally he pulls back, chuckling. "Well, this is easier than I thought."
"You seem to have a natural talent for it." I give him my wickedest smile. "And it doesn't hurt that just looking at you makes me hard as steel, love."
His eyes flash again � truly lovely, that � and he leans in to lick a damply burning trail from my nipple to my earlobe. "Love you," he whispers fiercely into my neck. The emotion in his voice drives it home. In this instant I feel more totally loved than I have ever felt before. I try to speak; I can't. So I let my actions speak for me: dipping my head, I catch his mouth in a hard kiss, trying to put everything into it that I need him to know. He kisses me back with equal passion and a sort of possessiveness that strangely makes me feel safe instead of trapped. When we have kissed ourselves breathless, he pulls back and almost immediately starts kissing a trail down the right side of my neck to my shoulder. But when he gets there he abruptly stops and sits up, furrowing his brow and frowning slightly as he looks over my torso.
"Will?" I don't like the look on his face. "What's wrong?"
He looks up, seeming almost startled, as if I'd broken him out of a trance. "Nothing," he says. Then, with a sober expression, "I... was just thinking about how close I came to losing you." Delicately, he reaches out to touch my healing wound. His hand wanders over my chest, pausing over each of the scars that I carry there. "And how many times it seems you nearly died before." His touch returns to my shoulder; he strokes the pinkened, scarring flesh lightly for a few moments before he leans down and kisses it softly, tracing the outline of the wound with his tongue. It feels almost overwhelmingly intimate and tender, and at the same time it is searingly erotic. I feel cradled in his love even as I gasp and heat races through me.
When he pulls back to look over my battered body again, I think that I can make out the gleam of tears in his eyes. "You've been through so much," he murmurs. "You don't deserve this kind of pain." Finally he looks up, meeting my gaze. "I would take every one of these scars from you, if I could."
I shake my head. "I wouldn't let you." He looks confused, so I go on. "Every one is a lesson and a memory, and part of who I am. I wouldn't be the same without them, love." I don't know if he truly understands, but when his fingers and then his mouth find the scar that was a bullet hole just a few inches from my heart I know that our time for talking is past.
He moves over my body, treating every scar the same, tracing each with fingers and tongue. None, however faint, escape him: every knife mark, sword cut, and bullet hole (I have two to date) gets its due. Once finished with my chest, he moves to my legs, finding the two scars on my right thigh. One of these is quite high on the inside of my leg; my cock jumps when his fingers start to stroke the old wound, and when I feel the first brush of his lips on the scar I can't hold back a long moan. He chuckles, which only increases my torment as his warm breath wafts against my balls, and spends a few minutes there. Licking, kissing, and nibbling what I am rediscovering to be a very sensitive spot, he teases more and louder sounds from me. Then he moves up to my arms (earning a disappointed groan) to find the six or seven scars there. Not even the tiniest of these � a small mark on my right hand where a fellow gambler pinned it to the table with a knife, accusing me of cheating at cards � is neglected.
When he comes to what is probably the ugliest and most painful-looking scar I have (the result of an accident with a whaling hook; my flesh was pulled partway off of the bone), he pauses. Gently, as he has before, he traces its outline with his fingertips, but I can tell that his mood has changed, grown more somber again. Still, I can't contain a shudder and a gasp at his touch; by now his attentions have made me so sensitive that the slightest touch goes straight to my cock. But my reaction was apparently the right one; he glances up and smiles, then bends his head and gently, delicately, retraces the path just taken by his fingers with tongue, lips, and teeth.
Somewhere in the midst of this I finally tip over the edge of sanity into a free-fall through the emptiness outside of organized thought. I burn uncontrollably, writhing as the fire rages in me, and it is at once a torment and a deep pleasure to feel it lick through my body. His lips, his hands, his tongue at once soothe the burn and feed the flames wherever they touch. My awareness shrinks until I know little beyond that hot mouth, those clever fingers and the fire that consumes me. My heartbeat and my harsh breaths are loud in my ears. But I hear Will's voice clearly as he says, "Turn over," his hand a pleasurably red-hot brand grasping my shoulder. I follow his instructions and am rewarded with the barest brush of a kiss between my shoulder blades before he moves on to the scars on my back. There aren't very many; most are exit wounds where a sword or bullet left my body. He does these first and then turns to the three long, thin scars that run from the small of my back up to my shoulders (reminders of the worst and last disciplinary whipping I ever received). Will's callused fingertips and then the flat of his tongue slide up each scar and off over my shoulders � and then his touch is suddenly, entirely gone. I cry out, shaking with loss and need, and am reassured only a little when he murmurs, "Just a moment." But then I feel his hand on my shoulder, pulling up and backward. I move with the touch, rolling back and into Will, who's lying behind me. He's arranged it so that we're spooned snugly together, his chest against my back, his thighs beneath mine, his cock nestled into the crack of my ass. This last, coming on top of the hot shock of feeling his body pressed against mine from shoulder blades to knees, tears a wanton moan from my throat. For a second I imagine having him in me, filling me completely, the heat of him surrounding me inside and out � but I have to pull my mind from the thought before the mere idea makes me come.
Will's arm slides under mine and around my chest, pulling me back into him. His hand strokes down my chest, starting at my collarbone and ending on my belly, inches above where I most desperately need his touch. I'm so far gone that the caress makes me buck and gasp as if he'd reached down and grabbed my cock. He chuckles behind me, but his amusement seems tinged with something more serious. "You are incredible," he murmurs, in a voice full of love colored faintly with something like awe. I would answer him, but just at that moment his hand slides down those last few inches and wraps itself around my cock, driving breath and speech from me. He strokes gently once, twice, as I arch my back and squirm in pleasure so intense that I can't get enough air to scream with the joy of it.
"Is this good?" Will whispers in my ear. I nod frantically, and then by some miracle I actually find my voice.
"That's � wonderful. Oh, God, oh � Will � love � I'll come if you don't stop."
"Come, then," he says smoothly, moving his hand a bit faster. "Go ahead. Come for me, Jack."
Just hearing him say that nearly topples me over the edge; I cling to it with all I've got, knowing that there's no real choice now but wanting the blinding pleasure to go on forever. But then his hand does something particularly clever, and his teeth fasten gently on my earlobe and tug, and I'm falling and calling his name and when the first wave of white-hot ecstasy pulses through me from my groin outward, I convulse and let go.
The next thing I'm aware of is that I'm lying on my back. I open my eyes and see Will lying on his side next to me, head propped up on his hand, looking down at me. "Was that all right?" he asks, and to my shock he actually sounds uncertain.
"William Turner." I do my best to look and sound stern, but it's hard to not just grin at him like an idiot in the wake of an orgasm like the one I just had. "I come harder than I have in years, shaking and screaming your name, and then you ask me if it was 'all right?'" He blushes, lowering his eyes, and I take pity on him; I manage to move enough to get a hand on the back of his head and drag him down for a long, thorough kiss. "That was spectacular, love," I murmur when our lips part. "As soon as I can move again, I'll repay you in kind."
He chuckles faintly and kisses me again. "I'm � rather looking forward to that," he says almost shyly. I'm suddenly reminded that, knack for making me scream in ecstasy notwithstanding, Will has no real experience with another man. The thought makes me feel special and a little awed. I will be the first (and, if things go my way, the only) man to have him like this. It's amazing that he's willing to take such a risk with me. Well, Jack, you'd better make it worthwhile for him, hadn't you? That thought sets me grinning. Leaning up, I catch his lips with mine and kiss him slowly and deeply, at the same time pushing him gently onto his back and moving onto all fours above him. When I'm satisfied that no corner or crevice of his mouth has gone unexplored, I break the kiss so that I can watch his face as I carefully lower myself to lie stretched out atop him. We both gasp as his cock presses against my belly; he reflexively bucks up into me.
"Am I too heavy?"
"No," he murmurs. "You're perfect."
I can't stop a smile at that, but before I start grinning like an idiot I lean in and kiss him for one more heated, lingering moment. He moans softly when the kiss ends, and suddenly I find that I am grinning like an idiot despite myself. Before he can see it I bury my face in his neck, kissing and nibbling until he moans again and tangles one hand in my hair. Then, tease that I am, I pull away, smiling as he shifts restlessly beneath me. "I believe that I said something earlier about making you scream with pleasure," I say in between kissing along his collarbone from his right shoulder to the hollow of his throat.
"Ye � mmmm. Yes," he answers in a husky voice that sends a shiver down my spine and starts a new heat in my groin. God, the man sounds like sex. My fingers clench on the sheets for an instant before I regain at least a little self control.
"Shall I do that, then? Make you scream?" I run my tongue along his left collarbone, then slowly kiss down his side to his nipple.
"Please." One of his hands slides over my shoulder and down my back, leaving a trail of spreading heat in its wake. He cries out when I gently flick my tongue over his nipple once, his nails digging into my skin. I look up at him as I wrap my mouth around his nipple, suckling gently. His eyes lock with mine and hold. His gaze is hooded, dark and lustful, but in its depths I can still see a flare of love and affection behind the needy pleasure.
I shift my mouth to his other nipple, biting it lightly as my fingers pinch the slick nub of flesh that my lips just abandoned. He doesn't scream, quite, but the cry that breaks from him is close, and sudden enough that I would wonder if it was pain or pleasure if he wasn't arching up into my touch. "You like that?" I ask, though I know the answer before he nods breathlessly. I smile, tracing small circles around his nipple with my fingertip and feeling him squirm beneath me. "Harder?"
This time he finds his voice, though it's breathy and half an octave or so higher than usual. "No, that's � oh � that's about right."
Grinning, I bend my head to his chest again. I spend several minutes toying with his nipples, switching between light, teasing strokes of fingers, lips or tongue and pinches or nips. His low moans rumble into my ears; his skin is smooth and hot, tasting of smoke and sun overlaid with the seawater tang of sweat that slickens his chest. He begins to pump his hips up into me, sliding his cock against my belly.
And it is his cock, finally, that draws me away from his nipples. Left to my own devices, I could be content to linger where I was, teasing him to his breaking point. But every thrust of his hips reminds me of other things awaiting my attention, and the watering mouth, itching hands, and stiffening dick brought on by those thoughts leave me no choice but to move down his body, toward that beautiful and tantalizing cock. I take my time as much as I can, letting my hands and mouth roam his chest and belly. But he and I can only take so much teasing. Just as the thought of feeling him fill my mouth grows irresistible, his hands settle on my shoulders and gently push. I chuckle into his hip; he draws a shaky breath. "Something you want, love?"
"You." He growls the word in a tone of voice that makes me shiver. "Don't tease."
"I'm not." Teasingly, I lick from his hip to the upmost part of his inner thigh, pausing when my mouth is only inches away from his cock. "I'm taking my time to better appreciate the experience. There's a difference." Before he can respond to that, I place a single light kiss at the tip of his cock, flicking my tongue out to taste the liquid gathered there. I roll the flavor around my mouth, savoring the smoky and faintly metallic undertones to the otherwise salty tang. Then, slowly, I kiss softly down his length. By the time I take one of his balls into my mouth, his hips are moving insistently under me and his moans are desperate.
"God, Jack � please-" he finally gasps. Out of the corner of my eye I see one white-knuckled hand tangled in the sheets, squeezing so tightly that the veins are popping out of it. That, more than anything else, tells me that he's really had enough. Well, then, time to take pity on the lad. I raise up and take the tip of his cock in my mouth, tracing the underside of the ridge with my tongue. He cries out, then moans as I slowly move my lips down his shaft. When I get about a third of the way down I pull off until just the head is in my mouth, then start to take him in again. Up and down I move, going a little further down each time, until finally I feel his cock pressing against the back of my throat and know that I've taken all I can.
"Oh-" his voice is broken and trembling, unraveling at the edges. His thighs quiver under my hands with tension held in check; I realize that he's trying not to thrust, and love him all the more for the consideration. I swallow, making him moan, and then let my tongue play along his length, finding two or three sweet spots and earning more delightful noises for my efforts. As God is my witness, I swear that the sound that breaks from his throat when I squeeze his balls is nearly a squeal. I chuckle � making him gasp and twitch � and keep my hand there for a time, stroking and massaging, until curiosity and desire get the best of me. Gently, and with extreme caution, I begin to caress the soft patch of skin just behind his balls. When his only reaction is a squirm and a gasp, I let my fingers move a little farther back, and then a little more.
He seems fine up until the first stroke of my finger over his entrance. Even then, his reaction isn't strong, but his breathing catches anxiously, and his thighs tense. With disappointment but not surprise I take my hand away, resting it on his hip and squeezing in what I hope is a reassuring way. Though I'd love to bury myself in him and take him lovingly until he screams, it's not a shock that he isn't ready. I'll have to introduce him to that particular pleasure at a later time. I don't mind all that much, anyway; right now, having him buried in my mouth is more than enough.
And it stays more than enough as I set about making him come hard enough to forget anyone else he's ever bedded, sucking him with all the expertise born of long practice that I can possibly muster. It's more than enough to feel his hands clench in my hair, to taste his sweat and skin and precome, to hear his increasingly high-pitched moans � until he gasps, "God... oh, God � Jack � love you... oh-" and suddenly this is nowhere near enough. My guard is down; I hadn't expected to hear those words now. I'd thought that this had turned from lovemaking to sex, that other emotions didn't belong with desire this fierce. I was wrong. And the wave of desperate love I feel in answer to his words shocks me to my core. I am frozen, shaking, nearly undone; I look up, and the tender adoration in his eyes takes the last of my control from me. I surge up and kiss him hard, shocked to hear myself growl as our lips meet. He responds heatedly, his tongue tangling violently with mine as his arms wrap around my back and hold me to him.
My lungs feel tight and tense, as if I've been underwater for too long; I pull back to take gulps of air, still shaking inside and out with his words and his love and the force of that kiss. Will leans up and catches my lips again, but more tenderly this time, soothingly even. I let him kiss me, his tongue sliding against mine in time with the thrusting of his hips against my own. For a moment I'm caught up in slick heat, but it's not enough, not quite. I want to feel claimed by him, taken as his and his only. It's hard to tear myself away from his lips, but I manage to muster enough self-control to do it.
"Will," I gasp, and then lose the ability to speak as one of his hands slides down my spine from neck to ass. When my head has stopped spinning from that caress, I try again. "Make love to me."
He looks confused for a moment, but he quickly understands: his eyes widen, his mouth dropping open slightly as he stills. "Jack. Are you sure?"
"Yes," I can't keep myself from wriggling against him a little. I'm already imagining him deep inside me, filling me in a way that I haven't felt in years.
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't."
"Jack." His voice is heated � and with anger, not passion. He pauses, seemingly to get himself under control; when he continues he speaks a little more gently, though with no less force. "I don't know what your reasons are this time, but you can not tell me I won't do you harm. Damn it, I saw � I-" he breaks off, trembling beneath me as he turns his head away.
I could kick myself. How much of an idiot am I that I could forget, even in the heat of the moment? Of course he'd be frightened, unwilling; he doesn't know any better. He only saw that night, that hurt. And like a mule-headed fool, I had to go and touch on the touchiest subject I could possibly have chosen. "Will. Look at me, love." I force myself to meet his eyes as he turns his head. "That wasn't..." Deep breath. "That was-" it shouldn't be so hard to say, but it is. "That was rape." The word leaves a foul taste in my mouth. "This is not. I didn't want that, except to save you from it. And � it hurt. I won't lie to you about that. It hurt like hell. But that's because I didn't want that. I fought them. This is worlds away. I want this, love. And I trust you to make it good. I'll help you make it good. I promise you won't hurt me." I lean down to kiss him lightly. "I won't make you do anything you don't want to do, but if you're only worried about hurting me, you needn't."
He stares at me hard for what feels like an age, his eyes seeming to pierce me clean through. I force myself to keep meeting his gaze, even though my guts are in knots and I want nothing more than to drop my head, hold him close, and make both of us forget that that night ever happened. "You're sure?"
"Yes. I want this. I want you."
"You're absolutely sure?"
"I am." At another time I might get annoyed with him; right now I understand why he keeps asking all too well. "You won't hurt me, I promise. If you just don't want to do this now, that's a different matter."
"I think I'm okay with it, if you really want it." He strokes the back of my head gently, his voice bemused. "It's strange. I never thought I'd even consider this sort of thing..."
"Well, I can be persuasive." I raise my head to look at him again, giving him a cocky grin.
He laughs softly. "You certainly can." There is a pause, and then he starts, "How do I...?"
"I'll talk you through it."
There is always a bottle of fine, lotus-scented Egyptian oil in the drawer closest to my bed � kept there out of habit more than need these days, but I'm glad to have it now. I get it out with as little fumbling as possible and hand it to Will, then roll onto my back beside him. "Open that up � careful, don't spill; it's not easy to come by oil of that quality, y'know � and slick up your fingers. Good." I take the bottle from him, cork it securely, and set it down within easy reach. "Now-" Giving him as reassuring a smile as I can manage, given that my heart is pounding, my cock stiff and throbbing, and if I could I would just pounce on him and beg to be taken, I spread my legs and raise my knees, then take his oiled hand and guide it to where I need it. "One finger to begin with, love, and we'll work our way up."
The feel of that first finger sliding hesitantly into me is amazing beyond belief. Will looks so serious that I might find it funny if I weren't totally absorbed in the pleasure of having him in me. Though I haven't done this in a while, wanting him has made me loose, and his finger easily slips all of the way inside me. "Is that all right?" he asks, clearly concerned.
"It's � lovely," I answer, suddenly breathless. "Could you slide it in and out... ooh, Christ, Will, that feels wonderful-"
He chuckles, though there's a note of anxiety in it. "You're a hedonist."
"Mmm. Give me another finger." When he does, I can't hold back a gasp.
He stops immediately. "Did I-"
"Good sound, love." I squirm a little, wanting him to move again. "Mnh. Don't stop."
"Sorry." He starts to move his fingers again in a way that makes his voice echo and ring in my ears. "Nervous."
I smile, reaching up to slide a hand around the back of his head and pull it down to mine. "No need." I kiss him thoroughly, moaning at the feel of his gentle, careful penetration. "I'll tell you if something's wrong, love, I promise." I can't resist adding with a wink, "But I'll give you a hint � squirming, moaning, gasping, and clutching at you are usually good things, savvy?"
"Insolent." Will smirks, reassured for now at least, and slides another finger into me; I inhale sharply as the burn overpowers pleasure and desire for a few moments. His brow creases. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"That's � a bit of a stretch," I admit. "Do something for me, love � slide out a little... now curl your fingers up � ah! Right there. That's a... a sweet spot."
"A 'sweet spot?'"
"Yes." It's getting hard to form sentences since Will, being a fast learner, is now massaging my insides in a way that makes me writhe, but I manage to get something out. "Not sure I � I can � Christ, Will � explain without � showing. It feels like � God � like � no, no words � for it."
"I shall have to trust you then, I suppose." Even in this state, I don't miss the amusement in his voice.
"Yes. Mm. Faster." When he does as I ask, the pleasure rises so suddenly that I find myself arching off the mattress, toes curling into the sheets, hips rising into his thrusts, before I have time to draw another breath. I gasp, trying to get enough air, trying desperately to keep myself from coming too soon. Never thought it would be like this. Never thought he'd have me so high I almost let slip the reins on my control. Never thought that he could touch me in the same way that dozens of other men have and have me crying out, moaning, squirming, clinging to this side of coming with all my will, when I used to get little out of this act, when I used to only tolerate it as a prelude to the fuck. But I want him to take me, don't want to come now though it feels so damn good. Want to come with him in me. It's hard to pull myself back from the edge enough to move in any coordinated way, but I do it. I fumble for the oil, find it, open it, slick my fingers, cork the bottle, and wrap my oiled hand around Will's cock. He gasps beautifully as I stroke him, arching into my touch, and then he's kissing me with an intensity that leaves us panting when he breaks away.
"Now?" His voice is low and wanting, with an edge of desire keener than any blade. The way he sounds nearly undoes me; I know suddenly that he wants this too, wants this as badly as I do, and the thought and his eyes and his voice nearly push me over the edge, will I or no. I don't know how I hold back, but I manage to somehow, and though my voice is gone I nod frantically, and then there is unbearable emptiness as his fingers pull out of me.
But not for long. He shifts and I feel the tip of his cock pressing into me, breaching me. "Slowly-" I gasp, less because I need time to adjust to him and more because I'll come in an instant if he takes me too fast. "Oh, Lord, Will-"
"Good?" he grunts, looking up so that our eyes meet.
"Yeah." I try to grin, but lose it in a moan as he starts to hit places that haven't been touched in years. "I'm sorry, love, I won't last long-"
"S'okay," he exhales with a half-chuckle. I swear his eyes grow two shades darker when he adds, "I don't think � I will � either."
A moment later, his hips meet my ass. We cry out in unison; Will throws his head back, his neck taut, and I reach up to stroke the tense line of his throat. He shudders at that, dropping his head back to a level where we can look at each other. Our gazes meet and hold, and then he slowly begins to pull out of me. He doesn't go far before he thrusts back in with just as much slow deliberateness. Then out again, a little farther, and in all the way, and once more, and again, and over and over until he's pulling almost completely out of me on each backward stroke. But still the pace is slow. The head of his cock hits that spot inside me and drags deliciously over it with every thrust, sending me ever closer to the edge. I breathe deeply, trying to make this last as long as I can.
I'm rarely quiet in bed; in fact, I'm usually anything but. But this moment is so intense that any sound I might make catches in my throat. Will, too, is silent; his eyes are locked on mine, utterly serious though a smile plays somewhere in the corners of his mouth. He strokes into me in rhythm with the sound of the waves on the side of the Pearl, thrusting slowly and gently but with forceful intent, and in a moment of surrender unlike any I've known I give myself over to him completely, moving loosely with him as he drives me higher. He sees it, has to see it, because something shifts in his face; he looks almost surprised for a moment, but then he grins widely and leans down to brush a light kiss over my lips, murmuring, "Love you."
That undoes me. The first shock of pleasure whips through me like lightening. I take in a shuddering, thunderous gasp; on the exhale I try to scream "Christ, Will-" just to relieve some of the pressure caught in the base of my spine, but my throat locks and I can't make a sound. Then the next wave hits and I'm gone, lost in pleasure so intense that the only other thing I can feel is his cock pumping more quickly and slightly less steadily into me. My vision goes black except for a pinpoint spot where I see his eyes, steady and fevered and still locked with mine. Even as they widen until I can see the whites all around, even as I feel the hot pulse of his come deep in me, he holds my gaze, and I manage to hold his until he collapses on me, limp and sweaty. Then, finally, I let my eyes close. I wrap my arms loosely around him and hold him to me, loving the closeness, letting myself drift into drowsy contentment.
I don't know how much time passes while we lie entwined, his head pillowed on my collarbone, my arms around his back, our legs tangled together. It's long enough that I nearly fall asleep, lulled by his nearness and warmth and by the strange sense of safety I feel with him so close. I'm roused from a half-doze when he shifts, slowly taking his weight on his arms and pulling out of me. With the emptiness comes a surprisingly deep feeling of loss � but then he brushes a tender kiss into the hollow of my throat, and everything's all right again.
We stick slightly when he rolls off of me, reminding me that we've made a fair mess of ourselves and probably of the bunk, too. I rummage through my drawers and find a couple of soft rags. Gently, I wipe the traces of oil and come from Will's groin and belly; then I clean myself up. When that's done, I drop the rags on the floor � I'll pick them up later � and return to Will's waiting arms.
We haven't said a word since he took me, but the silence is so comfortable that I don't feel like I need to speak. As far as I'm concerned, Will's smile, the way his arms hold me as if I'm a precious treasure, and the light brush of his lips against mine as we share a soft kiss say all that needs to be said right now. As I drift off to sleep, I can't help thinking that I probably haven't felt this happy in years.
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Second Chances