The Back of His Hand - Pirates of the Caribbean - Jack/Will
Title: The Back of His Hand
Pairing: Jack/Will
Word Count: 2600
Rating: NC-17
Includes: Spanking
A/N: For the "spanking" square of my kink_bingo card.
Summary: Jack finds himself aboard The Flying Dutchman. He makes sure to assert his questionable authority over the current captain.
The Dutchman is a fine ship, good and steady beneath his feet. She's no Pearl, but she'll do. Jack's feet sway and sashay over her as she sails, never losing his balance - it's hard to lose something you've never had in the first place. He never feels as steady as he does when the sea is skimming by beneath him.
There's a different feel to the ship than there was the last time he was aboard. Less mindless terror; fewer torn limbs scattered across the deck. The crew have fewer tentacles and starfish stuck to their faces. That's always a good sign in Jack's not inconsiderable experience in these matters.
The sea breeze is a welcome smack in the face, and he breathes it deep into his lungs. Aye, she's a fine ship - and if not for the price, he'd be happy to take her from her current captain's hands.
At the very thought, his eyes drift towards the captain's quarters. The good Will Turner hasn't made much of an appearance since Jack came aboard. Jack fancies he's sulking, locked away in those rooms of his. It's a damn shame to keep a pretty face like that hidden away - safer for Jack's freedom and well-being, mind, but a shame all the same. He's never been a fan of playing it safe; it makes for a terribly boring life, he's always thought.
With a happy swagger in his step, Jack makes his way across the deck, dodging immortal sailors and pretending he's busy when Will's second-in-command looks his way.
The door to Will's quarters isn't locked in a physical sense, which makes it easy for him to slide inside and close it behind himself.
It isn't the luxury that would come with the Pearl - there are no lavish furnishings or sparkling gold. Spread out over the thick-set wooden table is a map of no world that Jack has ever seen. The colours mix and move like wet paint, always shimmering. The ship's cursed captain leans over the map, his brow creased in concentration. Jack pauses, his arms outstretched at his side, to truly admire the view. 'twould be a shame, after all, to ignore the tightness of those breeches or the arse they contain. 'twould be doing the world a great disservice, in fact.
"What do you want?" Will asks without looking up from his unsteady map.
There's something about his tone that is unspeakably rude - dismissive, even.
I gave you this ship, Jack thinks. Should've been mine.
Yet it's Will's heart that beats in a locked-up box, and the seas are all the better for it.
"I've been aboard this fine vessel of yours for near-about three days now," Jack says, swaying forward as he speaks. Will still doesn't look up. "All this time, and I've still not had a personal greeting from my captain."
Will glances up at him, just a flicker from behind heavy eyelashes. "Greetings, Jack," he says.
Jack is sure Will never used to be quite so shirty.
Then he remembers their fight in the old blacksmith's, and he remembers being stabbed in the back several times by Will's pretty knife (metaphorically speaking, he's glad to say) and he knows that Will has always had more than a touch of the pirate about him. It's in his blood. It's in the empty spot where his heart used to beat.
Jack's footsteps jingle as he crosses the room and weaves around the table. Will rolls up his map in a hurry and Jack grins, wide and predatory. "I'm not here to steal your drowned little souls, mate," he promises.
There's nothing golden about souls. Nothing shiny about the work of the Dutchman. He'll give it a miss.
Will's eyes are doubtful all the same, the chocolate brown of them picked-out by a little black liner. Pretty. Jack likes pretty things. "Jack," Will says in warning. "Why are you here?"
"I needed a lift from A to Z," Jack answers as vaguely as he can. "You picked me up."
"It is the Dutchman's duty to ferry all drowned souls to the afterlife," Will says.
Jack, for all that people think he is mad, is not quite as forgetful as he seems. And he's certainly not bloody likely to forget when he's riding aboard death's very own vessel. He's been to the afterlife once. Doesn't much fancy returning.
"I'm a half-drowned soul, not a whole-drowned one. I reckon that's enough to get me a trip to a softer shore," Jack suggests, sliding closer to Will. Will watches his steps cautiously, as if he is a rabid dog that might need put down. Damn uncharitable fellow, he's always been. Untrustworthy too - and they're the worst sort, really. They make everything such hard work. "Y'see, I think you still owe me one, captain."
"Is that so?"
"Aye." Jack grins, eyes glinting in the dim light. "I'm the one that helped you put your heart in that lovely box. The way I see it, I'm the reason you're still standing at all."
"I had to cut out my own heart," Will states. He makes it sound like a bad thing. "You think I ought to be grateful?"
Jack presses closer, and a shiver sparkles up his spine when Will doesn't retreat. He can feel Will's body against his own, heated and radiating stubborn strength. "I gave up a chance at immorality," he reminds him. His hand skates up Will's side, over his upper arm, onto his tanned neck. "Grateful is the least you should be."
He pushes down hard against the back of Will's neck, the muscles in his arm tensing, and slams him down over his own table. Will pushes up against him, pushes hard, stronger than Jack had remembered, but Jack has the advantage of positioning, as he crowds in tight against him and leans all his weight down on Will's body.
It doesn't stop Will's arms from flailing, mind, and he's going to end up with a gut full of steel if he isn't careful. "Calm yourself," he grits out, holding Will as best as he is able. It won't last long; they're evenly matched if he doesn't fight dirty, which is why he pushes one hand beneath the table, past Will's hips, to grope at the bulge between his legs. Soft, but it'll harden with attention. Will freezes beneath him. "That's it - good lad."
"What are you doing?" Will demands, fury bursting through his words.
"It's high time someone taught you a lesson," Jack says, making it up as he goes along, "about gratitude and the like."
It doesn't help to calm Will's ire. "What are you talking about?" he insists.
Jack teaches him with the flat palm of his hand, swinging it down sharp against the curve of Will's rump. Even through layers of clothing it makes a distinctive slap. The sound is pleasing in the confined space, and Will's muscles tense and freeze instantly. "Savvy?" Jack asks, breathing the word into the silence.
Will doesn't answer, but he doesn't object - doesn't squirm away or try to hide. That's enough for him. He swings again.
His hand smacks into the meat of Will's arse, as hard as a punch. It slams the air from Will's lungs and heaves him forward against the table. The sea rocks around them as if displeased. He hits again before Will can say a thing, aiming for the exact same spot, gentler this time - keep it varied, keep him interested. His spare hand floats down Will's spine, no longer having to manhandle him into place.
He grunts with each blow, all his force behind each one. His hand aches and he swaps sides, rocking the opposite side of Will's body now.
He's hard within his breeches by the time he pulls his hand back and flexes it, trying to ease away the stinging. "Pull your trousers down," he asks. "I want you bare."
Will looks at him over his shoulder as if he is utterly mad, but that is the kind of expression that Jack is used to from just about everybody. He grins at him, polite as he can get. Doesn't seem to soothe Will at all.
Yet Will reaches down and undoes his belts and laces, releasing himself and then working his pants down his thighs. He pulls his shirt up slowly, a bloody strip-tease, as his skin is exposed inch by inch. His arse is well-reddened already and the sight of it is a work of art. Jack reaches out to skim his fingers across it, able to see the imprint of his hand painted in red, soon to darken into bruises that will haunt Will for days.
He upturns his fingers to scratch instead of stroke, and hears the shaking intake of Will's breath. "You won't be sitting for days," Jack crows, "not without thinking of me."
"That's not a good thing," Will complains - which is just what Jack needs.
Because a complaint means another punishment, and that means he gets to redden that sweet arse a little more.
The sound is louder this time, skin on skin, flesh on flesh, the smacking sound of meat in the otherwise empty room. Will buckles against the table, panting, while Jack curls his fingers against the mark, looking at the sharp colours where his rings have impacted.
"I reckon you're needing put back in your place," Jack muses, slapping the side of Will's arse gently. "Need to be reminded you're a blacksmith, not a pirate."
Will's cheeks are the same sweet pink as his arse, and he snarls in anger. "I've never been a pirate," he spits.
"Just as vicious as one," Jack remarks approvingly, while he spreads Will's arse apart and looks down at the hole just waiting for him. "Aye, got it in your blood, don't you? Got it running through your veins - do you feel the sea calling you, even now?"
Will's face turns redder and redder as Jack's fingers dance across his exposed hole, pressing just a little inside. He won't say a word - so Jack pulls his hand back and slaps down, sharp and loud, right on that curl.
It's enough to make Will cry out; his crew must be able to hear it, even through those thick doors of his. "I want my answer," Jack insists.
"The ship," Will pants. "I'm hers, now."
He slaps him again, as much for the pleasure of hearing Will yelp as for any more serious purpose.
"I serve the ocean," Will growls.
"And she serves you," Jack agrees. While his fingers play over Will's vulnerable hole, he reaches up with his other hand to slick them in his own mouth, tasting the salt and work that covers them.
When he pushes his fingers inside of Will, no warning and no caution, he gets to hear the tight hiss of breath. Will doesn't ask him to stop or slow down, just presses his forehead against the table and silently offers himself to Jack, silently gives him anything he cares to take.
Lord, he'll take a lot if he's given the chance. He'll take everything.
He pulls his finger free in little time at all, because they've done this before and Will knows how to open up around him - knows his impatience and his desires. God but it's been a long time since he's had Will beneath him like this; it's been a short eternity since he first spread him open and took him good and hard.
He rips his breeches open, slicks himself up with a spit into his hand, and pushes inside Will's arse without waiting another second. Will makes a sound that is nothing like how it sounded when Jack was spanking him; this is real and animal, the way that no blacksmith would really sound.
There's no one in the world as tight as Will, no one Jack's ever had that feels as good wrapped around his cock. He pushes in all the way and steals the air from his lungs, makes the lad take it good and proper.
His prick slides between reddened cheeks and his hand swipes down, hitting the side of his arse to make him twitch and tighten around him. Will swears like a pirate when he's getting fucked - it reduces him to who he really is, makes him pant and beg and bugger.
Jack's hips thrash and the table shakes, but Will still taunts him. "You call that fucking me?" he asks, breathless and pink-cheeked.
Jack slaps the side of his arse again but slams in harder all the same, with hip-bruising strength that will leave them both aching. He grunts with every movement, wanting this desperately. His hand slips beneath the table and grasps hold of Will's hardened cock, his grip too tight to be comfortable. Will gives a shaking cry, as high-pitched as a woman, and it makes Jack grin in delight. Inside his shirt, beads of sweat roll down his spine and soak through the material. Feels like an hour-long sword fight. Feels so much better than that.
He digs the nails of his hand into Will's hip as his other hand strokes him fast and tight, making him cry and moan and shiver without language, all words lost to him, all speech stolen by Jack alone. He pulls him right over the edge and strokes him through it, milking him dry while Will's body tightens and tenses around his cock, clenching down to offer the kind of friction that could drive a man to madness.
Will's body goes slack and pliant when he's done; Jack takes the opportunity to hold him down and drive into him all the more, so close now that he can feel a tense tingling in his balls, calling him on. Will takes it, takes everything, until Jack gives a final, open-mouthed groan and still inside him as he finishes, spurting into Will's reddened arse.
He hangs over Will's back, trying to remember how to breathe. It's harder than it looks. He pulls himself from Will reluctantly and steps back like an artist observing his work, taking in the harsh red marks on Will's arse and the smeared hints of come over his skin. Beautiful.
"You are an utter menace, Jack," Will complains as he pulls his trousers up once more and attempts to make himself look presentable. It hardly works; he still looks fresh-fucked and glorious.
Being under Will on this death ship might not be so bad after all.
Pairing: Jack/Will
Word Count: 2600
Rating: NC-17
Includes: Spanking
A/N: For the "spanking" square of my kink_bingo card.
Summary: Jack finds himself aboard The Flying Dutchman. He makes sure to assert his questionable authority over the current captain.
The Dutchman is a fine ship, good and steady beneath his feet. She's no Pearl, but she'll do. Jack's feet sway and sashay over her as she sails, never losing his balance - it's hard to lose something you've never had in the first place. He never feels as steady as he does when the sea is skimming by beneath him.
There's a different feel to the ship than there was the last time he was aboard. Less mindless terror; fewer torn limbs scattered across the deck. The crew have fewer tentacles and starfish stuck to their faces. That's always a good sign in Jack's not inconsiderable experience in these matters.
The sea breeze is a welcome smack in the face, and he breathes it deep into his lungs. Aye, she's a fine ship - and if not for the price, he'd be happy to take her from her current captain's hands.
At the very thought, his eyes drift towards the captain's quarters. The good Will Turner hasn't made much of an appearance since Jack came aboard. Jack fancies he's sulking, locked away in those rooms of his. It's a damn shame to keep a pretty face like that hidden away - safer for Jack's freedom and well-being, mind, but a shame all the same. He's never been a fan of playing it safe; it makes for a terribly boring life, he's always thought.
With a happy swagger in his step, Jack makes his way across the deck, dodging immortal sailors and pretending he's busy when Will's second-in-command looks his way.
The door to Will's quarters isn't locked in a physical sense, which makes it easy for him to slide inside and close it behind himself.
It isn't the luxury that would come with the Pearl - there are no lavish furnishings or sparkling gold. Spread out over the thick-set wooden table is a map of no world that Jack has ever seen. The colours mix and move like wet paint, always shimmering. The ship's cursed captain leans over the map, his brow creased in concentration. Jack pauses, his arms outstretched at his side, to truly admire the view. 'twould be a shame, after all, to ignore the tightness of those breeches or the arse they contain. 'twould be doing the world a great disservice, in fact.
"What do you want?" Will asks without looking up from his unsteady map.
There's something about his tone that is unspeakably rude - dismissive, even.
I gave you this ship, Jack thinks. Should've been mine.
Yet it's Will's heart that beats in a locked-up box, and the seas are all the better for it.
"I've been aboard this fine vessel of yours for near-about three days now," Jack says, swaying forward as he speaks. Will still doesn't look up. "All this time, and I've still not had a personal greeting from my captain."
Will glances up at him, just a flicker from behind heavy eyelashes. "Greetings, Jack," he says.
Jack is sure Will never used to be quite so shirty.
Then he remembers their fight in the old blacksmith's, and he remembers being stabbed in the back several times by Will's pretty knife (metaphorically speaking, he's glad to say) and he knows that Will has always had more than a touch of the pirate about him. It's in his blood. It's in the empty spot where his heart used to beat.
Jack's footsteps jingle as he crosses the room and weaves around the table. Will rolls up his map in a hurry and Jack grins, wide and predatory. "I'm not here to steal your drowned little souls, mate," he promises.
There's nothing golden about souls. Nothing shiny about the work of the Dutchman. He'll give it a miss.
Will's eyes are doubtful all the same, the chocolate brown of them picked-out by a little black liner. Pretty. Jack likes pretty things. "Jack," Will says in warning. "Why are you here?"
"I needed a lift from A to Z," Jack answers as vaguely as he can. "You picked me up."
"It is the Dutchman's duty to ferry all drowned souls to the afterlife," Will says.
Jack, for all that people think he is mad, is not quite as forgetful as he seems. And he's certainly not bloody likely to forget when he's riding aboard death's very own vessel. He's been to the afterlife once. Doesn't much fancy returning.
"I'm a half-drowned soul, not a whole-drowned one. I reckon that's enough to get me a trip to a softer shore," Jack suggests, sliding closer to Will. Will watches his steps cautiously, as if he is a rabid dog that might need put down. Damn uncharitable fellow, he's always been. Untrustworthy too - and they're the worst sort, really. They make everything such hard work. "Y'see, I think you still owe me one, captain."
"Is that so?"
"Aye." Jack grins, eyes glinting in the dim light. "I'm the one that helped you put your heart in that lovely box. The way I see it, I'm the reason you're still standing at all."
"I had to cut out my own heart," Will states. He makes it sound like a bad thing. "You think I ought to be grateful?"
Jack presses closer, and a shiver sparkles up his spine when Will doesn't retreat. He can feel Will's body against his own, heated and radiating stubborn strength. "I gave up a chance at immorality," he reminds him. His hand skates up Will's side, over his upper arm, onto his tanned neck. "Grateful is the least you should be."
He pushes down hard against the back of Will's neck, the muscles in his arm tensing, and slams him down over his own table. Will pushes up against him, pushes hard, stronger than Jack had remembered, but Jack has the advantage of positioning, as he crowds in tight against him and leans all his weight down on Will's body.
It doesn't stop Will's arms from flailing, mind, and he's going to end up with a gut full of steel if he isn't careful. "Calm yourself," he grits out, holding Will as best as he is able. It won't last long; they're evenly matched if he doesn't fight dirty, which is why he pushes one hand beneath the table, past Will's hips, to grope at the bulge between his legs. Soft, but it'll harden with attention. Will freezes beneath him. "That's it - good lad."
"What are you doing?" Will demands, fury bursting through his words.
"It's high time someone taught you a lesson," Jack says, making it up as he goes along, "about gratitude and the like."
It doesn't help to calm Will's ire. "What are you talking about?" he insists.
Jack teaches him with the flat palm of his hand, swinging it down sharp against the curve of Will's rump. Even through layers of clothing it makes a distinctive slap. The sound is pleasing in the confined space, and Will's muscles tense and freeze instantly. "Savvy?" Jack asks, breathing the word into the silence.
Will doesn't answer, but he doesn't object - doesn't squirm away or try to hide. That's enough for him. He swings again.
His hand smacks into the meat of Will's arse, as hard as a punch. It slams the air from Will's lungs and heaves him forward against the table. The sea rocks around them as if displeased. He hits again before Will can say a thing, aiming for the exact same spot, gentler this time - keep it varied, keep him interested. His spare hand floats down Will's spine, no longer having to manhandle him into place.
He grunts with each blow, all his force behind each one. His hand aches and he swaps sides, rocking the opposite side of Will's body now.
He's hard within his breeches by the time he pulls his hand back and flexes it, trying to ease away the stinging. "Pull your trousers down," he asks. "I want you bare."
Will looks at him over his shoulder as if he is utterly mad, but that is the kind of expression that Jack is used to from just about everybody. He grins at him, polite as he can get. Doesn't seem to soothe Will at all.
Yet Will reaches down and undoes his belts and laces, releasing himself and then working his pants down his thighs. He pulls his shirt up slowly, a bloody strip-tease, as his skin is exposed inch by inch. His arse is well-reddened already and the sight of it is a work of art. Jack reaches out to skim his fingers across it, able to see the imprint of his hand painted in red, soon to darken into bruises that will haunt Will for days.
He upturns his fingers to scratch instead of stroke, and hears the shaking intake of Will's breath. "You won't be sitting for days," Jack crows, "not without thinking of me."
"That's not a good thing," Will complains - which is just what Jack needs.
Because a complaint means another punishment, and that means he gets to redden that sweet arse a little more.
The sound is louder this time, skin on skin, flesh on flesh, the smacking sound of meat in the otherwise empty room. Will buckles against the table, panting, while Jack curls his fingers against the mark, looking at the sharp colours where his rings have impacted.
"I reckon you're needing put back in your place," Jack muses, slapping the side of Will's arse gently. "Need to be reminded you're a blacksmith, not a pirate."
Will's cheeks are the same sweet pink as his arse, and he snarls in anger. "I've never been a pirate," he spits.
"Just as vicious as one," Jack remarks approvingly, while he spreads Will's arse apart and looks down at the hole just waiting for him. "Aye, got it in your blood, don't you? Got it running through your veins - do you feel the sea calling you, even now?"
Will's face turns redder and redder as Jack's fingers dance across his exposed hole, pressing just a little inside. He won't say a word - so Jack pulls his hand back and slaps down, sharp and loud, right on that curl.
It's enough to make Will cry out; his crew must be able to hear it, even through those thick doors of his. "I want my answer," Jack insists.
"The ship," Will pants. "I'm hers, now."
He slaps him again, as much for the pleasure of hearing Will yelp as for any more serious purpose.
"I serve the ocean," Will growls.
"And she serves you," Jack agrees. While his fingers play over Will's vulnerable hole, he reaches up with his other hand to slick them in his own mouth, tasting the salt and work that covers them.
When he pushes his fingers inside of Will, no warning and no caution, he gets to hear the tight hiss of breath. Will doesn't ask him to stop or slow down, just presses his forehead against the table and silently offers himself to Jack, silently gives him anything he cares to take.
Lord, he'll take a lot if he's given the chance. He'll take everything.
He pulls his finger free in little time at all, because they've done this before and Will knows how to open up around him - knows his impatience and his desires. God but it's been a long time since he's had Will beneath him like this; it's been a short eternity since he first spread him open and took him good and hard.
He rips his breeches open, slicks himself up with a spit into his hand, and pushes inside Will's arse without waiting another second. Will makes a sound that is nothing like how it sounded when Jack was spanking him; this is real and animal, the way that no blacksmith would really sound.
There's no one in the world as tight as Will, no one Jack's ever had that feels as good wrapped around his cock. He pushes in all the way and steals the air from his lungs, makes the lad take it good and proper.
His prick slides between reddened cheeks and his hand swipes down, hitting the side of his arse to make him twitch and tighten around him. Will swears like a pirate when he's getting fucked - it reduces him to who he really is, makes him pant and beg and bugger.
Jack's hips thrash and the table shakes, but Will still taunts him. "You call that fucking me?" he asks, breathless and pink-cheeked.
Jack slaps the side of his arse again but slams in harder all the same, with hip-bruising strength that will leave them both aching. He grunts with every movement, wanting this desperately. His hand slips beneath the table and grasps hold of Will's hardened cock, his grip too tight to be comfortable. Will gives a shaking cry, as high-pitched as a woman, and it makes Jack grin in delight. Inside his shirt, beads of sweat roll down his spine and soak through the material. Feels like an hour-long sword fight. Feels so much better than that.
He digs the nails of his hand into Will's hip as his other hand strokes him fast and tight, making him cry and moan and shiver without language, all words lost to him, all speech stolen by Jack alone. He pulls him right over the edge and strokes him through it, milking him dry while Will's body tightens and tenses around his cock, clenching down to offer the kind of friction that could drive a man to madness.
Will's body goes slack and pliant when he's done; Jack takes the opportunity to hold him down and drive into him all the more, so close now that he can feel a tense tingling in his balls, calling him on. Will takes it, takes everything, until Jack gives a final, open-mouthed groan and still inside him as he finishes, spurting into Will's reddened arse.
He hangs over Will's back, trying to remember how to breathe. It's harder than it looks. He pulls himself from Will reluctantly and steps back like an artist observing his work, taking in the harsh red marks on Will's arse and the smeared hints of come over his skin. Beautiful.
"You are an utter menace, Jack," Will complains as he pulls his trousers up once more and attempts to make himself look presentable. It hardly works; he still looks fresh-fucked and glorious.
Being under Will on this death ship might not be so bad after all.