SERIES: Follows "First Drink" and "What a Man Can Have"
WARNINGS: None I can think of.
DISCLAIMER:Um...nope...not...mine, that is.
SUMMARY: Barbossa gets his revenge, maroons Jack, and finds fulfillment is not all he had hoped it would be
DEDICATED: To Firesignwriter, who needs a pickmeup, though I doubt this story is one. Honestly.


By Garnet

He could see the tiny island, long after it had sunk over the horizon. As if it would ever be imprinted into his mind’s eye. Burning white sand. A curving strand of swaying green palms. Hot blue sky and warm salt waters, a sailor’s dream.

Except for the fact that there was no food, no water, no company, no hope to be found there at all.

That was all he had left him to at the last. Well, that and a pistol with a single shot. Not that he truthfully expected the other to ever make use of it.

Jack Sparrow was just not that kind of man.

Jack believed in himself too much.

Jack had believed in him too much.

Jack was a fool and now would meet a fool’s end, all alone and knowing his own dreams turned to dust. Like dry sand spilled between loosely cupped fingers. The same sand that would be his bed now, as the island it stood upon would prove itself his grave. And the gulls would have his eyes. The wind and waves, his bones at the last.

And Captain Jack Sparrow would be no more.

If ever, he had been more than a simple dream in the first place.

He turned away from the empty sea and found all eyes on his now, all hands waiting. A scurvy enough crew to be sure, but they had well seen the error of their ways. They had all listened when he had spoke to them of what little they had and what more they could have. Of whose fault it was they had not found the wealth they had long been seeking. And, by the time he was done, they had all known what had to be done.

Even if one pair of eyes still condemned him for that knowledge.

“Your orders, Captain?”

Captain…was he indeed the heir to all this now? The lord and master of this grandest of all ships? Of his own bright and rather impatient future?

“Back on course,” he said. “We’ve yet gold waiting for us, gents, and more to share now betides.”

“Aye, aye,” they chorused, as if they truly had no reckoning of anything but gold. As if they were not aware of what this moment meant to him. Of what he had always hoped it would mean.

Though black sails unfurled themselves quick enough to catch the wind and the Black Pearl picked up speed as if she were but born to run before it, her deck surging hard beneath his feet, and he found himself smiling at last. Gleeful at the thought that it was in fact all for him. The he would, indeed, be the captain that she demanded, that she deserved. The one to give her all the plunder a lady such as this was in need of, jewels and gold and blood and glory enough to drown them all.

And how could she not approve of that? She were a pirate ship, after all. The finest to have ever sailed these seas. Even if she seemed betimes but the most haunted as well. The most fickle of fortune.

But then she were like the sea, she was, and he loved the sea fair well. And knew her better than most. Except for, perhaps, the man who stalked past him the next moment, his brown eyes sharp as a blade, his normal good looks sour with displeasure, though he still said nothing. Nothing at all.

Though his gaze stabbed him hard all the same.

But it were too late, even Bootstrap knew that now. Even Bootstrap had pledged to him the Captain’s share. Grudgingly, but all the same. And all the regrets in the world could not alter that now. Could not salve what had been done.

Still, he felt the weight of those eyes, that accusation, as he stalked down the length of the ship, feeling each black timber beneath his feet as if it were the first time. The dimness of the great cabin—his cabin, now—like a soothing balm, like a priceless treasure all its own, as he closed and locked the door behind him.

Then turned to survey what he himself had plundered. Old black wood bearing carved fantastical shapes, each with their ancient watchful eyes, the scent of burnt honey from candles snuffed out but last night, the faint odor of rum and spice and sweat. The lingering scent of Jack Sparrow.

He walked around, trailing the tips of his fingers along the top of each chair, stroking the polished surface of the great table where they had once shared meals. Picking up object after object, each one found and stolen and cherished and forgotten at the last, only to set them back down again in their places. Jack had touched these things. They had once belonged to him. But no more, no more.

And finally he came to what he had but rarely seen, but long imagined. The smaller cabin off to the side, the true heart of the Pearl, the wood here seeming even more dark. The eyes more fascinated and fascinating. Eyes which did not accuse, but studied him carefully all the same.

In the very middle of the room was a real bed, o’ course. An indulgence of the first water. The sides and head and foot of the same black carved wood as the rest of the ship and the bed itself easily large enough for half a dozen men if truth be told. Still made up with only the best linen—if rather worse for wear in places, it must be admitted—and a velvet throw laid out atop that, a throw edged with fine gold stitching and even the odd jewel or two and so very lush that it could easily have graced a King’s rest. Red as blood as well, it was. Another royal color, and he could easily see Jack Sparrow at rest on top of it. Sprawled out in wanton abandon, naked as the day he was born and twice as sinful.

As if he were like to a King’s ransom as well.

He undid the front of his breeches savagely, then roughly grasped himself.

His mind black, his thoughts reeling, his own breath already sounding ragged in his ears.

As he reached down to touch black braids, white bone and worked silver, letting it all ebb and flow through his fingers, before he climbed upon that lush bed himself. Before he climbed upon the other man. Smiling to himself as browned skin quivered to his touch. As browned thighs opened to him without any urging at all. The other man’s eyes widening almost comically beneath him as he immediately thrust home, as he thrust hard. Before sea and rope roughened hands moved to touch him in return, long almost graceful fingers fitting themselves to his hips, stroking and grasping and encouraging him to greater force. To even greater efforts.

“Jack, oh Jack…”

The words were also forced from him, between gasps, between moans. Cool velvet rucking up beneath them now as they writhed upon it and warm velvet clenching him tight inside, and the man himself twisting and straining beneath him now. Bare heels kicking against his back. Strong legs clasping him close and closer. A scarlet prick throbbing relentlessly against his belly, stiff as iron. Hard as his own and all from this moment caught in time between them.

A moment all for him.

Those black eyes moving at the last to fix themselves upon his own. A tongue flicking out to wet that open mouth. A mouth he wished to taste, to bite, to make himself owner of, even more than he had wished to own this body. For it was a charmed mouth and angelic and wicked in turn, so very sweet and wicked, as if it knew things that no man had ever before known and would never know again.

And he had not the words himself. There could never be words enough for this. As he bent down and claimed that mouth all at once, and this time was received with pleasure, with a need to match his own, that tongue licking out again, this time to wet his own lips. To tempt and tease, before he made to slip his tongue inside, and found more velvet there, even more heat, the hint of his own name a whisper upon those swollen lips. As if ready at the last to share all those hard won secrets.

All he’d ever truly needed, and couldn’t bear at the last to have denied him.

Even as he stabbed his aching prick in harder, faster, deeper and ever deeper. And the other man wrenched his mouth away all of a sudden, as if quite unable to help himself, and instead threw his head back against that worn linen, that plush velvet, his body arching high and hard beneath him. Mutely demanding that he increase his pace, daring him to go as far inside him as he could. Giving over to him all the dark places within him which matched his own and freely giving of the light as well, of that untouchable purity of spirit and honest joy for life which he had longed for since the first moment he’d laid eyes upon it.

Upon this man. Upon his heart’s desire.

So that the brilliance within those black eyes now as they looked at up at him once more was a treasure far greater than gold. Greater even than any dream of gold he’d ever known. For though it bore a sheen as if of tears, clearly it was from delight not pain. No, not pain.

As if the other man, too, had finally found what he wanted.

Those long fingers moving to frame his face then, to draw him back down for one more lingering kiss, even as he ravaged and hammered and honed himself upon that taut body below. His own pleasure rising like the tide now, unstoppable, unbearable, hot upon the surface and like a savage black current beneath.

Sinking fast and freely into the other man’s eyes at the very last, even as he sank down within him all the way to the core and finally let himself go.

The resultant pleasure arching across his mind like liquid fire, like lightning, searing his veins and turning all his senses to drunkenness, to madness, to an ecstasy he had never before known. The fire going down deep into his soul, until it had quite burned everything away. Everything but the restless dark at the very bottom, which rose in its stead to fill the emptiness the fire had left in its passing. A cooling dark, bleak and cold and eternal as death. A poisoned cup. Which had not passed. Which he had drunk deep from, only to find it wanting. Only to find that it was not and never could be enough.

And he watched mutely now as white pearls not black spilled out across that fine red velvet. Claiming it. Staining it. Each lost and unlamented drop making it look even more like blood than it had before.

Old, dried, long dead blood.

And the next he knew, he found himself on his knees on that black floor, his forehead pressed hard to the edge of that great black bed, shivering and shivering, quite unable to stop, quite unable to help himself. Crying. Unable to cry. Screaming. Unable to scream.

Unable to find the strength to even face his dream anymore. Which had somehow turned to naught but sand and dust and salt.

What had he done? What had he done?

Return to Archive | sequel | prequel