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

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Chapter Four:

London Wenches and Surprises of Many Kinds

Now

Jack staggered through the open door of The Faithful Bride tavern and down the garbage-littered path until he found the place he was looking for: the alley that was used by tavern-patrons for relieving themselves. He was sure that he remembered it being along here, somewhere. It had been a while since he was back in Tortuga, but not so long as to rob him of all his sense on where the streets laid. Stumbling, he tried to not breathe deeply as he used his elbow to feel the way along.

A part of him remembered seeing such places in Calcutta---as a boy on his brief, unchaperoned excursions in the sailor's side of the city. He had only seen the sailor's side of Calcutta once or twice before his first trip out to sea. Upon returning to India, he and Barbossa had burned up the remainder of their pay in one of the worst dens in all heathendom...a place made infamous for possessing the smelliest service alley.

He remembered a particular alley like this in London, an alley where he'd found himself being attacked by a fierce, drunken sailor who had decided that he might make a better wench than the ones to be found in the tavern. If not for Hector----no, no, not good----he refused to think on it, refused to think of the mutinous cretin who'd stolen his ship and----

Everything.

Alleys like this one, slimy and foul; he'd come close to a bad end, in an alley in London. He'd lived to enjoy a few more hours in the tavern and he hadn't minded the nasty filth on his clothes after not having to be forcibly used or killed. But, it hadn't made him feel better, either, the stinking effluvia. So, he drunkenly tried to oblige memory by not touching the wall with his flesh at all.

He managed to locate the tub with only a glimmer of firelight from some distance behind him. From all appearances in the early twilight, very few of the tavern's customers even bothered to try for the 'amenities'. Leaning on the wall with his shoulder---well padded with the coat he wore---Jack managed to undo both sides of his trousers' placket. As he pissled, he scratched at the hair on his lower belly. His deep sigh of contentment ended with a rum burp.

He did not look much like the Captain Jack Sparrow who'd sailed out of Tortuga with a crew on The Black Pearl two years ago. Being rescued by rum runners in the midst of a schedule for their island hops had given him something of an advantage. Bartering for passage with service as a deck hand, he'd started deciding just what he had to do, where his ship and its smug bastard of a 'captain' was concerned.

He'd not plaited his dark hair again, since being marooned. Now, it was starting to twist and knot and he had decided it wasn't at all a bad look for him...he certainly looked more of a pirate, these days. Perhaps it was his forthright manner and clean appearances which had done him in, with the crew. But, perhaps it was simply an elaborate scheme of Barbossa's, to seduce so utterly and destroy so finally. No matter, really; he was enjoying being a dissolute wreck...or appearing to be so.

When the first run with the rum smugglers was finished, he'd signed on for another; he needed time and money, to do what he intended. Somewhere, he'd heard it said that revenge was best savored when its trail was cold and that was never very far away, the cold, undying anger he felt. Time and tide wouldn't mend the animosity he felt; Barbossa had betrayed him and there would be a reckoning for that, if for nothing else. Friendly affection had already turned bitter---now, he just needed a ship. Finding the right ship would take work. If he could pull himself together enough to play the right man at cards or find a ship worthy of being commandeered.

Finishing up, he scratched a little lower at his ballocks and, satisfied that he couldn't pissle any more, Jack fumbled with the four wooden buttons. Even with the streets full of light and noise, a constant party at this point of dark night, he didn't miss the sound of another man's footsteps coming along behind him. He waited, on guard with lowered eyes and his hand resting on the hilt of his hanger.

The voice was not one he recognized, but it offered no threat. "Jack Sparrow? I heard you were looking for a ship."

He rolled his eyes, shifting quickly on the sandy grit, and faced the stranger he'd been waiting to meet all bloody evening. His frockcoat swished against the wall---regrettable, that---as he husked. "That's Captain Jack Sparrow..." His eyes crossed as the hammer behind that last mug of rum came down on his head. He swayed and blinked for a long moment, trying to decide which of the two ugly gentlemen he was meant to address.

Then, the family resemblance took him aback. "Oh. You've a twin, eh? I knew a lad once, his wife gave him a set of twins as was joined at the knee." He burped softly and frowned, forcing his eyes to focus and find the left twin. He tipped his head back, thinking, and then reached out to grab for the ugly git's coat. "Let's go talk ships, mate. Your twin brother can wait here, keep an eye out for...anyone who might want to interrupt said proceedings."

It was time to see about the Indian Ocean for a bit. Shine was to be had, there, for the man wily enough to reach out and take it. He would need a great deal of shine to buy the fastest ship in Cathay---a ship rumored to be faster than The Black Pearl.

***

Nineteen Years Ago

Watching the ship be unloaded was not one of his duties, so Captain Bushby and First Mate Bauer sent him to receive his pay from the Quartermaster with the instructions that he might return to the ship to sleep, if liked, or find accommodations elsewhere. No matter where he laid his head, though, he was to remember to check in with the First Mate every second day. Dressed in his best clothes, complete with frock coat and tricorn, he waited with all the other hands, powder monkeys, swabbies, and cabin boys, and received his first pay-out.

Almost half, he'd stashed in his sea-bag. He'd followed Barbossa's example, only bringing a portion of the money with him. His instincts had not run in that path, but it was good to know that he wouldn't return to Calcutta without a penny to show for his first work as a sailor. He would decide what to do about his father's house, then.

With jingle in his pocket, he'd set out with Barbossa to walk along the wide avenue from the docks to the warehouse district. On the way, he'd found himself fascinated by the large multitude of wagons that carried merchandise away from the ships. The wagons were pulled by the biggest horses he'd ever seen; he couldn't imagine using one of the beasts for a regular carriage. Barbossa called them drafthorses, said that they were used on farms more oft than not.

But, at last, the tall rigger led him away from the shipping yards to find a tavern where, as Hector put it, they might find a decent meal, drink, and perhaps even pleasurable company...for a price. It was, as his friend said, high time he learned the time-honored art of wenching.

There was, however, only so much he could spend on rum and food and have enough left over for a wench's coin. As of yet, he had not met one that didn't coo over him---but, they all seemed wrong, in one way or another. The one wench he'd thought he might make progress with even at his tender age, Barbossa had pushed away for some unknown reason. Wasn't he supposed to be getting bedded tonight?

Jack, cross-eyed with rum, got up from the table where he sat with his friend, who was heavily involved in a dice game called Deception. He needed to relieve himself and it was no trifling need. He bumbled through a crowd of sailors who'd taken their dice to the sticky, dirt-encrusted floor and then stumbled into a table, nearly upsetting it. Waving at the cursing men in an apologetically dismissing way, he pushed out the door and into the wet London air.

It was raining.

There was a lantern lit near, over the tavern's sign, and that gave him the light necessary to find the service alley. Down it, he weaved, humming to himself. Now, in this moment, he could forget the troubles he'd encountered on the ship. His belly was full of stew and biscuits and he was drunken and that was an altogether pleasant sensation. He fell into the wall several times and laughed, softly, pulling himself up. At last, he was in position, tentatively, and he raised his face to the cloudy, drizzling sky with a murmur of thanks as he let go the hot stink of pissle.

Finished, he buttoned up and adjusted his frockcoat, shooting his shirt cuffs as he turned to make his way back to the tavern and the table where Barbossa gambled. But, there was someone blocking his way; all he could see of the man was large bulk darkened by shadows and bristle on a face that looked like it'd been dragged over the streets of London at some point rather recent.

"'Ello, lad. Lookin' for me, was ye?" The tone was pure slime.

"No, not in th' least, sir." His heart was pounding; he went with his educated manners, thinking that he might outwit this sop the same as he outwitted the deckhands. But, the rum got in the way and he slipped half the way into the uncouth. "If ya don't mind terribly, I've ta see a man about a pair o' dice."

With that, he began to walk, intending to push past the living threat. He put some swagger on it; his father had told him that there were moments in a man's life when he must fake bravery in order to live long enough to become brave. And he wasn't going to think about Captain Teague Sparrow. Instead, he lifted his chin and swayed, his hand moving to find the wet, nasty wall for balance and tipped a finger to his forelock, which had slipped loose from its queue. "Ta, then."

He didn't get any further than that. The man grabbed him by the coat and swung his body around hard and fast; the world was suddenly narrowed down to rain, hard stones, and something that smelled like human dung under his cheek. He nearly fell, his knees buckling, but the stranger didn't let it happen. Jack could feel the strength in the man's hands and arms, feel the heat of a hard, straining body under damp clothes. The only light in the service alley came from the lantern that hung from the tavern's sign. He couldn't see his attacker, now, with his face mashed under one open hand; his guts churned and he realized what was going to happen.

He'd heard stories of buggery, too.

"I strongly suggest ye keep mum, boy." The stranger said, his voice a deep, low whisper. The breath that struck his cheek was redolent of something stronger than rum or ale. "I don't want ta kill ye, but I've a mind to take my pleasure an' ye will do just fine."

He felt a thrill of horror and automatically tried to push the man away, but quickly found himself trapped. His coat was tugged halfway down his arms, effectively trapping him in his own garments. The strength and expertise of the stranger's moves instinctively told him that he was dealing with a professional, someone who had done these things before.

"Use yer hands, boy...bare yerself."

He didn't dare fight the order, but he found himself unable to keep silent as he worked on his trousers. Perhaps he could talk his way out of this dilemma. "Ya know what, mate? I bet ya like 'em younger than me, eh? I've got four lads on me ship---th' ship I came ta London with. We just picked 'em up in Cape Town. Lovely lads, virgins all four. I haven't quite gotten 'round ta checkin' for me ownself, but I heard it from th' Quartermaster that one o' these boys might very well be a genuine eunuch."

His bum was bare now and there was no going back; the stranger was moving around, pressing tighter to his stern-side. Suddenly, the man pushing on him went stiff and gave an odd wheeze; Jack frowned under the constricting hand and pondered. Was buggery supposed to be like this, with strange noises and---

The burly, bearded stranger fell backwards and made a terrible thump, landing on the garbage-strewn cobbles. Jack weaved back and around, trying to see what was happening. Now, all his hair was loose from the queue and he suspected his ribbon was lost. The man was laying on the cobbles, curled up on his side, clutching at his chest and blubbing streams of blood---he was fairly certain it was blood, though it was difficult to tell in the dark. He tugged up the sleeves of his frockcoat, staring at his fallen attacker.

"I asked ye to not go out alone." The voice came from a point decidedly higher than the filthy cobbles and seemed to belong to the boots that were standing to his port side. He raised his eyes and blearily looked at his friend, who, in this moment, seemed highly irate. Barbossa's stare was narrowed and his lean, freckled face appeared flushed and darkly angular in the shadows. With a nasty curve of his mouth, the rigger pointed a wicked sharp knife down at the dying stranger and snarled at him. "D'ye understand why, now?"

He opened his mouth, intending to explain the dire and irrefutable need to relieve himself.

Barbossa didn't give him a chance. All the warning he had was the low, muttering growl that his friend gave. The knife disappeared and he found himself being pushed to the wall by his shoulders. It startled him and he yelped in response, but then Hector was there, pressing him back with a fierce kiss, seizing his lips in a breath-stealing way. He moaned in his throat, thrashing about for a moment at the idea of being so vulnerable, but then gave in and sagged at the knee.

He tipped his mouth up, wet and needy for the kisses that were being given. It was the moment he'd been wondering about, since his Equator Baptism, when he'd kissed Barbossa's naked belly in the ancient mariner's ritual. The kiss didn't disappoint. He grew eager, pressing his face up for it.

He wrapped his hands in the front of Barbossa's coat, curious to know how far the older sailor would go with this new twist. He himself was curious to know if he would be willing at the last moment of choice; he was getting a ferocious ache in his cock. When they broke apart, their faces stayed close enough for him to whisper under his friend's harsh mouth, his tongue slipping along the widest part of Barbossa's lower lip for a moment first. "D'ya want what ya came for, Hector?"

That seemed to shake the blonde, lanky rigger. Barbossa pulled free of his fingers and gave a murmuring chuckle, all grog and hoarse rumble, while straightening both their coats. "Yer drunk, Jack me lad, and I'm no pretty lass for ye to be pawin�."

Jack let his breath out in a slow exhale, leaning on the wall once more as he pondered the madness of what had just happened. The man at their feet was dead; he was fairly certain of it and that meant Hector Barbossa had killed someone and seemed to feel no regret. But, then, Hector had kissed him.

Hector had kissed him and he'd kissed Hector, back.

"C'mon, then." Barbossa nodded. "Ye need a woman."

A thousand different thoughts went his mind and fled on clumsy wings as he followed his friend back into the tavern and along the farthest side, away from the barkeep and the rickety, three-legged tables. Again, he needed the wall to support himself as he kept his eyes on the backs of Barbossa's legs; he didn't trust his head to stay in place on his shoulders any more. He felt as if he'd gone mad. He'd almost been forcibly taken in the service alley by a man whose face he could consider a living nightmare, Barbossa had killed a man over him, and then...

Hector had kissed him.

At the back of the tavern's main room, near the fire, Barbossa stopped walking and bent close to speak softly at a young woman---from what little Jack could see, she was the prettiest and cleanest of the lot. He swayed back and forth, bumping into the raw-boned rigger several times only to be pushed back by an elbow accompanied by a hissed warning.

"Wait, lad."

At last, an agreement seemed to reached and he found himself being cozzened by the whore. She took his arm and turned him to walk back toward the tavern's door. He glanced around puzzled to look with blurry eyes at Barbossa, who was following with a full bottle of rum in hand. "Hector?"

"Just go wi' th' lass, boy."

Out into the drizzling rain, they went. It seemed no time at all, stumbling along, that they were climbing stairs. His muzzy head didn't give him time to take in his surroundings. He saw a door, a dark room, and then he was dazzled by the quick flash of a sulphur as it lit a candle...which then illuminated the dark room with a yellow glow.

But, there, things went odd and swirling again. He was tugged at, pulled and turned, and then, he was naked and spread out on the rumpled bed that smelled of ale and men. Drunk, he had time to watch his friend and the whore they�d hired. He couldn't help himself---he breathed in and tasted the world as it narrowed down to a floozy, the candlelight, sweat, rain, and Hector.

Hector was lean-bodied and wiry, stringy muscle and golden skin, his swollen cock bobbing heavily every time it became visible. The wench was tending to his friend with a teasing laugh, her hands and mouth everywhere at once. Jack watched, his mouth hanging open as he went on, just breathing, almost lost in the bedding.

She was plump, with long dark hair that fell around her shoulders and breasts and nearly hid them from sight. Her hips were heavy, but seemed holy in the candle-light. His eyes were mere slits as he fought to keep his gaze straight and focused, watching as the wench went to her knees before Hector, who steered his hardness toward her open mouth. He couldn't look away; all sorts of strange things came into his head...lust and fear and a niggling touch of jealousy. Barbossa had the whore by the hair, using her roughly, but the woman took every inch over and over without hesitation or a peep. But, there was more to it than that and even woozy-drunk, Jack felt pinned to the bed by the hot, pale gaze of his friend...who watched him with a thinly pleased smile, the whole time.

He managed to lever himself up onto his elbows, staring with drowsy desire. The wench had her fingers dug into Barbossa's naked thighs, at the back. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks hollowed, and she didn't seem to notice or mind that the sailor she was pleasuring had no intentions of watching her. Barbossa was lazily thrusting himself in and out of the woman's gaping, wet mouth, head tilted to the side and legs firm in a steady stance; he felt as if he couldn't look away, now, his gaze pinned and held firm by the sight of the blonde rigger staring at him with such thoughtful hunger even while getting his knob polished by an accomplished whore.

Barbossa murmured something to the woman, almost inaudible, with a widening of that implacable smile. Jack shivered in the chilled air and rolled to the side, seeking out the bottle that waited on the floor. He managed to lift it, taking a deep swallow of the sweetly burning rum, gasping for breath as he closed his eyes against the sight of his friend being pleasured with such ease and without shame.

Doing so, he missed the sight of their whore rising to her feet and approaching the bed.

Hungrily, she fell on him, her dirty fingers slipping down his hairless chest. Nuzzling the hardness that bobbed at her lips, the woman breathed words at him that only vaguely made sense. "Mother Mary, yer a lovely lad. I could almost do ye fer no pay, I could. Not ev'ry day a woman can say she gave pleasure to a lad th' likes o' ye---an' ye out fer yer first time, aye?"

He tried to say something, but strangled on it.

He felt dizzy with the rush of blood to other parts.

The woman wrapped her lips around the very tip and licked at the foreskin, pushing it back. Jack groaned quietly, his hands clenching at the ruffled, torn blankets as she took him, exploring the length of his cock, licking at the weeping drip of it.

Her mouth was all liquid heat, sweet and deep, and the breath from her nostrils scorched as she sucked him down, moaning in her throat. His ballocks were in her hand and she bobbed up and down on his cock. Looking at her with surprise, Jack found himself ready to explode at the sight of a woman slobbering over his hard member. For a long, eternal moment, he forgot about Barbossa watching. He forgot everything. He put his head back on the bed and gave himself over to the workings of her mouth. Seeing the wench's face gorging on his cock, her nostrils flared, brows knitted in concentration, the spit streaming out on either side of her mouth, was more than he could take.

Sobbing, he grabbed at her hair and tried to pry the whore's tongue up from his skin----he had to escape that terrible, sharp pleasure. But, as she let go of him, the young wench lay down at his side. He was too drunken to protest, to stop the flopping adjustments. His body ached and burned and he was more than ready for this----

The bed shook and he opened his eyes enough to see that Barbossa had joined them, bottle in hand. Now, the whore was in front of him, touching and stroking his chest and hip, and his friend was lounging behind him, offering the bottle. Hector's voice held genuine amusement. "Here, lad. For courage. She's ready an' willing and it be time that ye were bedded."

After several long pulls from the bottle and a hurried re-capturing of his nerve, Jack met his friend's gaze and gave a wicked grin, handing the rum back; he could feel it in his blood, the need to put his boyhood behind him. This fine young wench was willing and pleased to have him and it was only right that Hector bear witness to the goings-on.

He grabbed the woman by her arm and rolled until he was laying flush between her legs, thrilled to the sensation of her hairy cunt laying under his hardness; she gave a giggling squeal as he buried his face between her round, heavy breasts. He used his fingers to cup them, testing the feel of each. They were beautiful, responsive. He blew on a nipple, watching it crinkle up. The whore arched under his touch, letting her head roll to the side as her eyes closed with obvious happiness.

"Ye want 'im, don't ye, Ellie?" Barbossa whispered it, calling the floozy by name. "Ye want to feel 'im deep between yer thighs..."

"Yes...Mother o' God." The woman whispered back, nearly wordless as her fingers came up to clutch at Jack's sides and back. It felt as if she was digging her claws into him. "I do."

The woman made him flip, giving her the top. He didn't have to do anything more. Ellie, on her knees, straddled him, enclosing him in a delicious heat that seemed to bathe his cock. Her nether-hair crinkled and rubbed at him. He groaned and immediately felt her lips on his throat, nipping and rubbing and sighing with salacious pleasure. There seemed to be an unspoken prohibition; he wouldn't be kissing this lass and she wouldn't be kissing him, not on the mouth.

"Aggghhh---!"

Their whore suddenly tensed and rose up on his cock, but she kept her lips pressed to his chest, where she'd been licking at his nipples with a kittenish delight. Then, he could see Barbossa kneeling behind her and realized what his friend was doing. The rigger was greasing the woman up; there was a bottle of some coarse oil---probably used for lanterns---in one of Hector's hands. The other hand was suspiciously out of sight. Then, he could feel the tender brush of knuckles against his ballocks and his thighs; his partner in crime probably had two fingers palm-deep in the whore's bum.

He started to protest, to push at the woman who moved on him, driving his brain and cock over the edge and past any sane discourse. "Hey---"

"Let yer friend be." Ellie, her black hair falling around his ribs and his throat, murmured. "He's paid for both an' more---"

Barbossa laughed and it sounded rough, punctuated by the slick noise of grease and flesh. "That's right, aye. I don't want much here, do I? I came fer ye, Jack me lad. I just want what's mine."

Then, those greasy fingers closed over his ballocks and gave a light, rubbing squeeze, and he almost went mad, bucking his hips under the whore's body. Ellie winced and stifled a groan and pulled him tight against her so that her tits pressed hard to his chest and he knew that the blonde sailor had shoved another finger in the wench's bum and was twisting them around, stretching her. Ellie's brow furrowed and she gasped, her breath hot on his neck, as Barbossa's fingers turned loose of him and he found himself agonized at the loss of hot flesh on that tender part of his anatomy.

"Slide down a bit, Jack." Hector told him and he did it, squinching his hips to move. "Now, lad, open her up for me---spread the woman's arse."

The crack of the wench's bum was greasy, smeared with oil, and he had to wipe his hands on the blankets before he could get a grip. He spread her apart and Ellie took her weight off his body so that the only place they were pressed tight was at cock and cunny. The woman's mouth was right at his ear; he could hear her every breath as Hector got his prick in place and started pushing into the waiting bum.

She yelped, her body jerking as if she'd been struck; she hissed over her shoulder, black hair slinging in his face like a whip. "Ow, damn ye---slow!"

His eyes went wide; he could see Barbossa's face over the whore's right shoulder, tense and furious with concentration as he pushed his greased pole in. He felt chilled; Ellie's nipples were like nubs of glass against his chest.

With a wicked, predatory grin, Hector whispered an oath. "Bugger---she's good back here, mate---"

As he tried to adjust, tipsily amused and worried at the same time, Barbossa tensed. He could feel the tightness being communicated through Ellie's cunt. The rigger tensed again and then it was his turn to cry out, because he could feel Barbossa's prick sliding in. He could feel it in the way it made the huzzy's cunt tighten on his own cock. He could feel the thick, muscular shaft directly, plowing into Ellie's insides, and wondered at what kept them apart, that miniscule difference of skin.

"Jesus---" He moaned, unable to stop the curse. "Bloody hell---Hector---"

Now, it seemed that Ellie was set and ready. She growled at Barbossa, her voice that of any ordinary fishwife. "Fuck me, ye bastard! I can take it! Do it, if ye be any sort o' man!"

He wanted to protest, to suggest some care. And failed to get his mouth opened enough; it was all he could do, to keep breathing. Barbossa squatted behind her on the bed, his callused hands on the whore's shoulders. His face was a mask of avarice, his gaze locked with Jack's, once more. The brutal scar on his right cheek seemed darker, now, with the flush of his freckled skin. He could feel Hector's prick screwing around inside the whore, every move he made. He could feel the hard mass pressing against him through the paper-thin wall of her cunt. It was almost as if...as if...

He was getting fucked, too.

Jack gritted his teeth as Barbossa began to pump into the wench, the head of his hardness pushing against the bottom of his own shaft, and it was more than he could stand. He grabbed hold of Ellie's thighs and began to join in, fucking up into the tightened slit with a need for release. Hector must have felt his acceptance and acquiescence, for the rigger began to fuck their paid woman hard, growling and grunting with the effort. Ellie collapsed over him, seeking his throat once again even as her body bucked and jerked with each savage thrust.

All he could see, though, in this crazed moment of freedom and pleasure was Hector Barbossa's face. His friend's cheeks were dark with suffused blood, on the edge of release; his mouth twisted with a snarl. "Ahhh--hell! Wee fuckin' bitch----take me!"

Ellie squealed, rose up on her knees, and pressed her breasts against him.

He felt Barbossa's release; he felt the big, hard prick pressing against his own cock throb and jerk, felt Hector's last, frantic thrusts. Jack bared his teeth and went motionless, feeling it swell---he felt cold and hot and shaky all at once and then, his eyes blurred in a new and unusual way---it felt as if he might turn inside out, the rising heat that burst from him. He refused to close his eyes, refused to look away from the blonde sailor who'd dragged him to this point.

He didn't look away, not until his body gave a silent scream---he squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head to the side on the bed, wailing with shock at the tightness, the flash of pained pleasure. He came and it was hot, tight, impossibly good---

Jack's mind faltered and went dark and he whimpered at the last as his body relaxed.

***

He woke and realized that the sun was trying to get through his eyelids and it was a most unpleasant thing. He couldn't even moan; all that came out of his throat was a noiseless sob. Shifting, he coddled his head against the bed, pushing it harder in. He remembered where he was and how he'd gotten here---and he remembered the last thing he'd seen last night.

Barbossa had paid their whore and she�d left the room. As he'd laid curled on his side in the stained bedding, drowsing, his friend had come back, naked and glorious even when seen through rum-soaked eyes and a darkness cut only by candle-light. There, Hector had clucked at him softly, laughing now and then, as he let the rigger turn his body the right way around. Soon, he'd found himself being held in the dark, the candle extinguished. The arms that had held him were strong, warm, and comfortable. He couldn't have, in that moment, said if there was a better way to sleep.

Jack forced one eye open and gave a painful sigh, tasting soured rum. There was a window and the curtain there was ripped and too thin to be of any use. The sun was coming in and it cast dappled light across the naked body that lay beside him. Barbossa was relaxed, sleeping it off.

He slipped from the bed, sideways, and stumbled to find the chamberpot.

Finished there, he went searching for a pitcher---there had to be water.

The water wasn't as cold as he wanted, but it worked for cleaning out his mouth. He swished a mouthful around and then spit it into the floor, uncaring. God, was this what it felt like to have survived being keel-hauled. He imagined it might be. Wiping water over his face, Jack Sparrow sat down on the bed and then rolled back, laying on his side. There, he watched as Hector slept. They'd shared a wench between them; Barbossa had kissed him, had fondled his body.

That changed things, didn't it?

Daringly, he reached out a grubby hand and touched Barbossa's hair; unbound, it was tousled and messy. His head thumped in time with his heart, which went faster with a lurch as Hector opened his pale green-blue eyes and studied him in the silence. The mouth which had been, moments before, pressed into a thin line, now curled up in a welcoming smile. Something he hadn't seen on his friend's face in more than a month, at sea.

"Mornin' to ye, Jack." Barbossa's voice was a hoarse whisper.

"Morning, Hector." He answered, keeping his own voice down to a whisper.

"I'll be wantin' to see ye like this often, I think." His friend's eyes moved in consideration over him with slow care.

"I wouldn't be minding you seeing me like this often. I think." Jack agreed.

Barbossa's hand slithered down along the bed and under the covers for a scratch and it was obvious that his friend was sporting a fresh cockstand. Hector's smile went sly, noticing that he'd noticed. "Aye, lad, an' I think ye'll want to be doin' somethin' about that, now?"

"Aye. I'll be wanting to be doing something about that directly." He felt his own fervor returning; he could definitely remember what he'd wanted to do, last night, when the wench was leaving. What he'd not had the strength or sobriety to do. Rubbing back his dark hair as it tangled at throat and cheek, he scooted closer and offered his mouth to the smiling devil who shared this bed. Their lips vibrated as he spoke, managing to force his creaky voice into compliance. "Do ye mind terribly, then?"

"Of course not, boy." Hector's lips tasted like rum, but not soured. Hands wrapped around his ribs and hips and tugged him closer until there was nothing between them at all. "I be thinkin' it time to show ye a thin' or two about what ye seem to be wantin' from me. Ye might be sorry, lad, before I'm finished...ye can say nay or aye, now, but this be yer last warnin'."

There was really only one answer; he'd been considering all the angles last night, when things were finished and he'd laid sated in the arms of his friend. To his own mind, the wench had been a wondrous thing, but...not entirely what he'd been wanting. While the girl had served the purpose---any port in a storm---she hadn't captivated his attention as much as Hector had. All the little pieces fell into place, as he thought it over; from the very start, he'd found himself wanting to be something more than the son of a merchant captain. The rigger pressed against him now was offering a full share in what he'd only tentatively understood until this very morning.

"What say ye?" Barbossa's lips brushed his, not teasing but simply an offer.

Jack didn't have to think anymore. All the thinking had been done.

He lifted the side of his own mouth in a cocky grin and declared himself. "Aye."
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Wi' A Wannion