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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: R
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Pairing: Jack/Will, Jack/Bootstrap
Feedback: Yes, please.
Disclaimer: Mine? Yeah, right. Still pretty
Notes: For darkeyedwolf. Sorry it's depressing, but my other, funnier PotC fic is going to be awhile.
Summary: For the contrelamontre 'regret' challenge. Also from the saying, 'ships passing in the night.' Written in 22 minutes.
***
Will's there because he thinks he misses it. Him. All.
Jack's there because he's always there. He never leaves now, not after so long a separation. She's leeched out of him, and he needs to sink her back in, bind all that he's lost and regained with unbreakable chains, because he's learned his lesson. Take what you can, and give nothing back.
It's a tempest, the homecoming. And it is a homecoming, because Will's nothing left. He can't live as a divided man, and so he's burnt out half his bridges. When he comes to Jack, the ashes still cling to his cheeks and the charred ruins darken his eyes.
It's a hurricane, the gathering. And it is a gathering, because Jack's only missed one thing, one thing now out of the million scattered shards Barbossa'd made of his life. He's spent a decade recollecting, and he'll not have this last piece slipping away.
Will kisses fiercely; his hands draw pleasure and bruises over Jack's skin. He's spent his practice in the fencing ring and the seaside brothels, neither of which are schools of gentleness. He's grasping, searching. He rips the motley finery off Jack's body and drops to his knees, sucking in the stiff reddened cock as if it were his mother's tit. But for all that, he's still a young man, lacking subtlety and self-assuredness, and when the long callused fingers sink into his hair and pull, he bobs forward. When they clutch, he tightens his lips and works his tongue faster. When they dig, he eases back. And when they yank up, he rises.
Jack takes the boy bent over the table, mouth on the olive nape, one hand feeling the old burns of the forgery while the other dabbles oil from a lamp. His hands have done this before; their muscle memory guides them to the spots of whimper, of whine, of screams. He slicks up and plunges in, scoring skin with teeth as his own brand on the writhing body beneath him. But for all that, he’s still uncertain, stumbling pauses jerking his sail around. His fingers linger where now there are no scars, scratch accidentally where now there are. His lips come down and find long sweaty hair where there should be skin. And when he comes, his scream is too long for ‘Will.’
When they come to a rest, Jack thinks: he’s missed this.
When they stop, Will thinks: he’s missed it.
***