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Exsanguination	By : Sarryn Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > General Views: 3018 -:- 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
- 1-Exsanguination
- 1
Disclaimer: I don’t own the rights to the Pirates of the Caribbean or its characters, which solelyong ong to Disney, et al, but that hasn’t stopped me from writing about them.

Warning: This story contains the themes of graphic mutilation/torture, male/male relationships, a.k.a. slash/yaoi, and heavy angst. If any of these may offend you, then stop reading. If, however, you do read this, in spite of my warnings, and find it offensive, then I have to say it is your own fault. This scene is of an erotic nature, but I have attempted to write it as tastefully as my ability allows.

Note: I will not accept any flames, however, comments and criticisms are welcome. I am under the assumption that anyone reading this has a clear understanding of the difference between flames and criticisms so I don’t have to explain it. Here are some reason why I don’t accept flames: 1) they generally include an attack on the author’s character without regard to previous or future works that may or may not be in the same vein, 2) not only are they childish, but they make the writer of them sound immature and not old enough to read the material contained herein, 3) flames hneitneither the author nor the flamer to improve the work and, therefore, are not constructive, 4) if something is so offensive as to elicit the impulse to flame then it is better forgotten and not dwelled upon, 5) you waste time writing it and I waste time reading and then deleting it, 6) it won’t do you any good to point out my lack of scruples, morals, intelligence, sanity, etc., because not only don’t I care, but I won’t listen.

Thank you for your kind regards and any reviews (not flames) that you will allocate to me.

I would like to extend the warmest and sincerest of thanks to a wonderful beta and an exquisite writer, Beth, for putting up with the strange pieces I send to her to read (I took your suggestion for the title change!) and to Becky for the quick read through for glaring errors.

All mistakes found herein are now my responsibility, as I tend to putter around after the fact.

::Exsanguination::

Commodore James Norrington inscribes the first line delicately upon the dip of flesh between back and buttocks. Glittering jewels of blood well up and gleam with eldritch beauty in the lambent candlelight. Turner moans softly and arches almost imperceptibly into the knife’s violent mercy. James smiles tenderly and slices crimson paths to the cadence of the boy’s breathing. The knife’s edge presses firmly against pale flesh till it parts, like the Red Sea under God’s will, and rich wine spills over. A pulse of fire shoots deep into the man’s stomach as he continues his carving.

William shivers and his hips shift recklessly, almost jarring the commodore’s hand, against the crisp linen sheets borrowed from James’ bed—when he returns they will be reverently replaced. The man places a stilling hand upon the agitated youth to quell the need to buck his hips. The boy is truly beautiful like this, he muses as he crafts a bloody rose in the previously unmarked flesh. Curves and lines bleed together as if the flower is dripping carmine dew down the boy’s shivering side.

Small etchings ornament the sweet youth’s flesh, and all of them are conceived by the practiced stroke of James’ blade. When he looks upon young Turner he sees a canvas awaiting the delicate violence of an artist. The unblemished expanses of sun-tinted skin seem to plead for the touch of his imagination.

The same wordll ill in verbal showers from the boy’s full lips.

“Please, commodore, please.”

And who is he to resist the siren crawling beneath William’s flesh, awaiting its release?

His own cock throbs to his excited heartbeat; his own blood sings to flow out and mingle with that of the blacksmith’s. A shudder of unreleased pleasure moves through his body and the knife edge slips slightly, going deeper than intended.

“God!” Turner gasps and arches up. James feels an acidic moan working its way up his suddenly dry throat as a thick rivulet of blood oozes down the boy’s side. It is as if he can feel the moist warmth of the split flesh through the cold metal of the knife. The tool has become another appendage. His hips jerk unconsciously. He feels the first thrilling swells of orgasm racing in his blood.

He has never known such brutal ecstasy.

~*~*~

Captain Jack Sparrow tugs thoughtfully at one end of his mustache and regards the dockside of Port Royal with glinting black eyes. Where should he direct his stride? To the mansion of fair Missus Turner, or to the humble blacksmith’s shop her husband still attends to? He cocks his head, sending the trinkets bound there to clatter against each other. If his memory serves correctly, and it usually sees fit to—though there have been a few lapses, which he can’t remember—Elizabeth was not the least bit glad to see his face the last time. In fact he had earned his first slap from her and a few more besides. She had a right interest going on between her palm and his cheek. To be fair, and he feels rather generous at the moment, he might have been deserving of them. After all, he’d been trying his wiles upon an oblivious Will on a regular basis during his last stay. Darling Elizabeth—smart woman that—was not ignorant of Jack’s less than pure intentions. She caught him licking a bit of honey off the bemused lad’s hand and promptly dragged him from the room for a slap and a lengthy monologue of warnings. In no uncertain words she banned him from plotting a way into young Turner’s bed or entering their abode again.

‘I won’t let you have him, Jack.’

She is quite protective of her claim over the lad.

The smithy it is, then. Will refuses to cease laboring there, apparently to the wife’s continued consternation, and the pirate suspects he will still be toiling away in the smoke and fumes. Jack turns his feet in that directiod nad navigates his way across the familiar stone bridge and along the packed dirt streets. Gamely he nods at passersby and grins just a touch evilly at any child bold enough to stare. Confidence trails after every movement and rolling sway of his hips. However, he is quick enough to duck out of sight upon seeing a flash of British red. It would not do to be caught and put under the rigid commodore’s rule; though the thought of Will once again unbridling his impetuosity to dash to the pirate’s rescue sends a thrill down his spine.

He must find the proper agency to steal the boy away.

For a moment, while surveying the area about Brown’s smithy for danger, he entertains a fantasy of seducing Will and convincing him to board the Pearl before he res ths those damnable senses. Of course, being so naïve and innocent as to be a virgin despite marital conjugation, the lad would have no conception of seduction—his obliviousness thus far is proof—and, therefore, would be immune. Also, he might not even knuch uch a thing between men to be possible.

A real pity that.

~*~*~

The skin where the ending concavity of buttocks blends into upper thigh is remarkably silken; fine, blonde hairs add a delicate, downy texture: silk and velvet. James traces a bloody finger along these tender ribbons of flesh. He wets it again upon the slowly seeping rose and then adds another stripe of red to each thigh. William twitches beneath his idle ministrations and releases a small plea for fulfillment.

His own blood feverish with want of completion, James picks up the crimson-dipped blade again and lays the edge upon one of his ciphered drawings. With breathless anticipation he adds pressure. The resilient flesh bows beneath the relentless metal; then the flesh can take no more, give no more, and surrenders, yielding up the precious fluid beneath. Turner whines softly, sweat dewing his bared body.

“Be still,” the man admonishes the boy as he feels the muscles tense in anticipation of instinctive motion. William issues a low moan and relaxes reluctantly. He wants to move, to writhe slowly against the cruel edge splitting his skin and spilling his blood. He craves the merging of metal into his own body.

‘I want to be penetrated by it.’ Brown eyes lower. ‘I want it to sink so deeply into me that it becomes a part of me.’

James knows this, understands it even amid his own strange desires. However, he cannot give Turner all that he yearns for. Oh, there can be no doubt that the stiff commodore would like nothing better than to drive the blade past the scant barrier of flesh and muscle and into the pulsing organs below, scraping against bone; but he knows the consequences of such. Unlike the boy, he knows to control his own impulses. Mortality stays his hand and prevents him from completing this macabre communion. He must only sever flesh and blood vessels.

He bends his head down and runs his tongue along the furrows he cuts into the tender skin. William sighs deliciously and squirms, and James allows this.

“Would you like a little more?” He must not do too much more. He cannot mark up the boy in the sanguine way he dreams about. His wife, the incomparable Elizabeth Turner, would bleed from her heart and soul to discover the evidence of such proceedings. A woman-in-love’s selective blindness will not permit infinite transgressions.

“Please, commodore, please.”

‘Cut me.’

~*~*~

Red on white. Red blood on white flesh. Red blood on white sheets. Jack’s mind fades for a moment and all he sees is an expanding circle of crimson before his eyes. Irrationality and rationality vie for the much needed explanation. And from some corner of his psyche, far darker than the sin permeating the rest of him, a black stirring rises to the surface. Or perhaps it should be called sanguine.

If only his mind could wrap itself about the tableau of young Will eagerly offering his sun-tinted flesh to the commodore’s knife, then maybe his feet would move him from the threshold. A primal force saturates the smoky shop, as if the two before him are in the throes of some ancient and libidinous deity and Will is the delectable sacrifice. The white sheets beneath the lad’s trembling body are spattered by spots of deep red. Jack thinks that it has become a strange and unholy altar cloth.

And he fervently wishes to be the one performing this profane ritual.

“Ja-ack?” the lad’s soft voice drifts into his mind. The fog of strange thoughts lifts and he finds sweet Will watching him with glazed eyes—and Norrington as well, only his eyes are sharp and angry.

“Sparrow.” If a name and a look could be so full of vitriolic rage as to smite a man where he stands…well, Jack is supremely glad that neither can.

“Will. Commodore.” He pauses, head cocked to the side. “And that’s ‘captain,’ if you please.”

“I don’t ‘please.’” Jack raises an eyebrow and glances at the lad’s nude form. He licks his lips and can almost taste the salt of his thick blood. Norrington catches this motion and his narrowed eyes widen slightly.

“You want to mark him,” he murmurs, eyes darkening to a deeper blue. Will gasps and then moans softly. His velvet brown eyes bore into Jack’s and speak of nothing but invitation and guileless desire. The first step the pirate takes is without his conscious volition, and the second comes while he is surprised by the first. Then, as if a flood of activity possesses him, Jack steps off the uneven stone stairs and lands amid the dust and dirt of floor. From the stairs to Will and Norrington is only a few more paces, and he is a helpless thrall pulled closer by the dark promise offered by the lad.

There should be unfettered, unrestrained animosity in the commodore’s gaze. There should be confusion, humiliation and indignation in Will’s. For the former there is; for the latter there isn’t. With sudden clarity, as if some great light has plunged down into the very core of his mind, he knows that it is the lad’s will that stays the commodore’s rage. Without words, without proper articulation, with only breathy little ejaculations of sound, the has has imposed his will and pulled both man and pirate into his power.

A shudder runs the course of his lean form as he gazes upon the crimson wounds and silver scars ornamenting the lad’s back. A surge of fluid heat washes through his body and small, prurient voices exalt the sight before him. If the damned commodore is allowed to touch and mark the young smith in such a way, he should have the same privilege. The commodore only plays at the edges of humanity’s darkness; Jack plunged into the inky depths ages ago.

“Give me the knife.” The man glances between the bloodied blade in his hand and the pirate brooking no argument. Then his gaze settles on the patient, vulnerable form between them. Strong muscles twitch beneath young flesh in anticipation. A single prayer without religion breathes from Will’s glistening skin. Enraptured by the play of light upon the soft gold and brilliant red of the lad’s body, Norrington yields up the weapon to Jack. A jolt of deceptive power burns into the pirate’s rough palm as he grips the knife. His pulse picks up and his ever eager cock throbs beneath the faded cloth of his trousers.

In his darkest dreams there are no tender words or patient reassurances. Wide brown eyes fill with uncertain fear and pale limbs flail in a pathetic bid for freedom. Pleasure is one-sided, thick and hot, and everything is ruthlessly controlled. Bent but not yet broken, Will writhes under Jack’s deliberate tortures and begs for mercy that will never be granted. Screams rend the air and die in the rasping gasps of air starved lungs.

Delicious shivers move through Jack and he sighs softly, eyes perusing the lad’s prostrate form. He trails a grimy finger down the elegant spine and pauses at the coagulated bloom. Even the lightest touch elicits a low moan and a rippling shudder. Fascinated by the reactions, he presses his fingers in till new blood wells up. The cry that escapes Will’s throat sings along the surface of Jack’s body and dives deep into his groin. He finds his breathing oddly stilted.

His dark eyes narrow and he twirls the sharp blade between his fingers of his other hand. The rose is not of his craftsmanship, not his brand upon the lad. His eyes meet Norrington’s across Will’s offered body as he brings the knife to the silken skin. He lowers his gaze, a dark smirk upon his lips, and watches the bloodied edge dimple the flesh. Harder and harder he presses. He imagines he can feel the skin ripping in one short hiss, like rent silk, as the blade splits Will’s tender flesh. Tingles of excitement race up his arm; his cock pulses eagerly. Deep crimson fills the indent about the penetrating knife and leaks over. He raises the blade and looks upon the shallow gash, throat dry and breath escaping in short pants.

“More, Jack.” Will’s soft voice drifts up to his ringing ears. He grins at the commodore and slashes unrepentantly, slicing deeper with each stroke. Beneath his mastery Will arches and drives his slim hips against the cloth covered table. Norrington’s harsh breaths bleed into the background of the lad’s delighted cries and Jack’s own ragged breathing.

“God!” With that single intonation and a gush of sweet crimson, Will convulses in the tortured throes of maddened ecstasy. Jack steps back to watch the gorgeously painted form writhe and twist as if on the very threshold of final death. Strangled little wails pour from his red lips and he finally stiffens. The two men issue a strained exhalation as the thick scent of the lad’s spent seed fills the air.

Jack’s unsatisfied cock aches with unbearable sweetness. He meets the commodore’s smoldering gaze and finds an odd accord therein.

~*~*~

Sweat beading upon his brow, James licks his parched lips and feels his heartbeat pulse within the confines of his breeches. Displayed upon the swarthy face of the rogue captain is the same knowledgeable intent. Desire, thick and cloying, strangles them with honeyed wires. As if of one mind and one purpose, they take hold of the limp boy and drag him off the table.

“Bedroom?” the pirate snarls, grimy hands moving across expanses of blood-smeared skin. James needs no words to convey his affirmation of the suggestion. His own vital fluids surge through him and drive him relentlessly, with overbearing fury, towards the small room young William has called his own since his arrival at Port Royal. The progression there is a blind moment of lust saturated intensity. All he feels is the downy silk of the boy’s flesh and the sticky wetness of his blood, metallic and spiced with lust. The weight of Will does not register, only the dark pleasures awaiting at the destination matters.

James releases his hold when the pirate, clasping a weakly struggling Turner, falls onto the poor pallet comprising the boy’s bed. From his supine sprawl he gives James a look of challenge: “Come and take him,” it says. And he will. The mutilated back of the boy calls him in on carmine cravings. Sweet young body for his own regulated perversity.

He drops to his knees and grabs the damp chestnut curls of the boy’s hair and pulls him onto all fours above the pirate. Swaying weakly and voicing dazed complaints, William allows the commodore to pull his head back, neck arched, and take possession of his lips. He breaches the tender mouth with his tongue and violently laps at the moist recesses and passive muscle within. He ignores the pained spasms in his neck from the uncomfortable position and devours the whimpers filling the boy’s mouth. Cock bloated with his own vitality, he moulds his clad body against Turner’s and exalts as the seeping wounds glue him to the other; he cannot find it in himself to care if this causes the boy discomfort. Teasingly he grinds his hips against tight buttocks and groans deeply, tongue unceasing in its rapid thrusts.

It is only when the pirate growls, “Clothes off, now!” that the commodore remembers him. For the second time that night they are in patent agreement. Reluctantly he releases William’s lips and draws back enough to work at the fastening of his own clothes. Jack scoots back and sits up, fingers already working upon the length of cloth about his waist. The two men trade curses as they divest themselves with startling alacrity, while Turner kneels dazedly, bleeding from the lacerations on his back and upper thighs. Had he tried to run James and Sparrow would have wasted not time in dragging him back. Events have gone too far and there can only be one conclusion.

We need to slow down, James thinks even as he jerks off his shirt and hurls it away with unnecessary violence. But he can’t, neither one of them can. A drug laces the air, drips into their hearts and it goes by the name of William Turner. Sweet boy, succulent and ripe, and the instigator in this salacious farce.

“I want you to cut me. I want to feel the m.”

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Exsanguination