Change in the House of Flies
folder
Pirates of the Caribbean (All) › Slash - Male/Male › Jack/Will
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
7
Views:
5,728
Reviews:
92
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Pirates of the Caribbean (All) › Slash - Male/Male › Jack/Will
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
7
Views:
5,728
Reviews:
92
Recommended:
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 Two
Important Link for all SLASH writers and those who wish to write SLASH accurately: (http://www.squidge.org/~minotaur) is by a gay man who is also a prolific slash writer. He offers an open minded and very informative opinion on what gay men can and cannot do sexually, fetishes, positions, kinks, et cetera. Plus there are many pretty (explicit) illustrations and reference materials. (It inspired me to buy several gay erotica anthologies).
::Change in the House of Flies::
*~Chapter Two~*
“There is nothing for you here, sir,” the ghost of the past tells Captain Jack Sparrow. The seeming nonsensical, lambent witticisms that normally flow from his lips in an endless deluge are noticeably absent, a verbal void.
Now, Jack has always dreamed, whether on land or on water. Most of the time his is the Pearl or some aquatic avian; other times his somnolent navigations take him to meet with people long since gone from his life or he revisits events that have left their scares but this time he doesn’t escape. Perhaps, then, these can be called nightmares. Barbossa and his crew of mutinous followers strand him countless times upon barren scraps of humiliated land without his effects, rumrunners or spitfire, abducted virgins. Some nights the noose cuts deeply into his neck as he dances in the air or a bullet strikes closer to a vital organ. Sometimes he relieves fragments of his time with Bill Turner and mor more recent years, with that of his earnest son, Will.
However, dreams of Will are the myriad of threads that could have been woven into their meetings, and none are so innocent as their original conceptions. There are hot, panting mouths and limbs wet with sweat, all tangled and inseparable. Innocent and untutored lips wrap around his aching cock or pale thighs spread to offer a greater sanctuary. But, for all of this, he never reaches the pinnacle of their physical congress. Living flesh turns cold and clammy, putrefies. Instead of his naïve and eager lover, a bloated, drowned corpse asks him ‘why’ with blue lips and milky, death-glazed eyes.
‘Why didn’t you come sooner?’
‘Why didn’t you save me?’
To this endless prosecution he has no exculpating words, no argument eloquent enough.
‘Why did you let me die?’
“Why are you here?”
It takes Jack a moment to realize that the lauestuestion has come from the living incarnation of his night time daemon. Painted with soot and gilded with sweat, the earnest face demands answers posthaste.
“Will?” The name passes the pirate’s sea-dried lips with the barest hint of a prayer, though to what blind and deaf God he cannot say.
Tension snaps taut all the muscles in the youth’s body. He vibrates with some primal urging, some inner tumult.
“Will, if you speak of Turner, is dead, sir. He died five years ago.” These harshly spoken words are a bloodied whip upon the man’s metaphysical flesh, flagellating the sudden blooming hope.
“Then who be you, lad?” Jack demands. His voice ism asm as a placid lake, yet a mighty tempest is brewing to stir up long settled silt and mud.
“I am a nothing: a ghost or a nightmare, whatever you choose.” The young man undoes the ties of his cow-hide apron and yanks it off. He flings the garment over a barrel at hand. Every motion speaks of great agitation and inner turmoil.
“And what if I choose to make you Will Turner, son of Bootstrap Bill Turner?” A rolling, convulsive shudder runs the course of the smith’s lean frame. For a moment Jack fears that the young man will shake himself apart, the tidy aggregate of limbs falling to pieces. Rationally he knows this to be impossible, but he knows the fantastical to be true.
“Then you’d be the greatest fool I ever met.” Jack cannot stand this useless verbal stand off a moment longer. Five years have healed the incorporeal wound left by Will’s declared death, but a deep scar remains to itch and bother him. Now a newly wrought dagger carves it open and threatens further injury as the lad denies his own existence. He won’t allow this! Not this time.
He grabs the youth’s arm and drags him close. He bodily invades his personal space and feels the reverberating tension leach into his own glass bones.
“You have no right to declare me a fool, boy. If a fool stands in this room, then he be you.” The smith does not flinch under the seething glare or cow before the growled words. “Do you know how many people are hurting over you? Fair Miss Swann has gone back to bonny England to cry over you. Her father lives in regret of his actions. My God, even that stick of a commodore dwells on the past. None of them can move on because of you.”
“And you honestly believe that my miraculoppeappearance five years ago would have affected a change?”
“You selfish puppy! You have no idea—!”
“No, Jack, you have no idea,” Will shoots back as he jerks himself free. “If they knew I lived, if they knew what those…those poxy bastards left me as, they would be wishing I had been dead.
“Just leave now and forget about this, about I caI cannot go back. I cannot be the Will everyone remembers. I’m…Black.” He roughly pushes past the pirate and stalks to the door.
“You can’t run away from things, Will! I won’t let you.” The last is hissed dangerously, determinedly. It is no great feat to bound across the short distance separating them, but it is a slightly more difficult task to grab a hold of the resolute blacksmith and pin him against the door. Jack’s forearm braced against his windpipe finally forces docility in the struggling body. There is power in restraining such a one, but the pirate does not dwell on this as seething anger and ire dominate his mind.
“You think that whatever they may have done or made you do is so bloody terrible. You honestly believe you’re this king among sinners, a paragon of the damned.” Will glares impotently at him. Sweat carves shiny trails through the soot and grime on his face. It would be easy, too easy, for Jack to press more firmlyinstinst that helpless neck until the lad’s body fights for breath. He could crush the windpipe slowly, watch Will struggle for breath that would never come. He could do this; the urge is there. It tells him to extirpate that which causes him pain. Such a philosophy offers great facility of conscience. Sweet simplicity itself. He is used to lashing out and eliminating whatever roils him, but he fathoms such an action to be counterproductive.
He takes a cleansing breath, a susurration for divine guidance lacing the exhalation.
“You’re not a ruined man. As long as you live, you have a future.” For once Jack does not dissimulate with words. His jocular attitude is long gone and so too is the heated menace. Mere words cannot offer respite from the youth’s own self-loathing.
The pirate expects any number of reactions to his uncharacteristically earnest words, but hysterical laughter and desperate tears are not any of those. The throat beneath his arm works harshly as the discordant noise debouches stretched lips. Alarm surges through Jack, and he moves away lest he inadvertently stre the the youth, never mind that he been contemplating it mere moments before. There seems to be no end in sight for Will’s paroxysm. The pirate does the first action that comes to mind: he knocks the lad out with a well aimed fist.
*~*~*~*
Doctor Smith’s gaze is mild but disapproving. He has not said a thing since Jack entered carrying the youth’s insensible body, save to inquire upon the pirate’s choice of drink. Now he and Jack partake of the respective refreshments (coffee for the chirurgeon and rum for the pirate) and await a lull in the silence to speak.
The little man must know the reason behind Will’s unwillingness to reveal his continued existence, Jack decides. He just cannot conceive, being nigh well un-shockable, of what actions the pirates could have perpetrated against the youth to cause such reticence. , co, considering that the smith was still something of a stick during their last encounter, the pirates could have sneezed on him and he would have considered himself forever ruined. This last thought elicits a morbid laugh. The man gives him a questioning look.
“So.” He draws the word out while cracking the vertebrae in his neck. “How long have you known the lad?” Now the look Jack receives is considering. A profusion of carefully organized thoughts tick behind the man’s eyes in, the pirate imagines, trim ranks. He is being judged by the chirurgeon against some superlative standard. One would think he holds the vastness of the heavens in his mortal mind or a library of moldering philosophes.
“Around the advancement of five years,” is the decided upon answer. Jack nods his head with due gravity and considers his next inquiry with sly patience. He would like to believe himself clever and in possession of a pretty wit, but cleverness and wit warrant greater companionship when matched against like. He requires keen observation and knowledge of his oral sparing partner. What he does spreads out in bits and pieces like a street peddler’s wares displayed on a fine cloth for prospective customers.
Organization and tidiness rule the obvious characteristics of the chirurgeon. Everything has a place and is in it, which is an inverse of Jack’s own beliefs to which everything is happenstance. Books in dead tongues and not so dead tongues dwell in dark wood cases. The grisly tools of his trade are out of sight in marked cabinets. Dust and filth are unwelcome interlopers. The homes of kings and nobles cannot hope to compete with the chirurgeon’s home for cleanliness. No doubt his thoughts follow a course of orderliness to set rank officers and their companies to shame. Furthermore, his closed mouth responses concerning his assistant seem to indicate unwavering loyalty to others’ confidences. All in all the man is a case study in simplicity, yet impregnable because of that.
“How did you come to know him?” Again Smith weighs, measures and values his words upon a scale only he can see and against other words only he can give estimate to. Jack masks his impatience with a laconic façade that has ever served faithfully as he mines for information among his fellow human beings.
“His injuries recommended him to me.”
“What injuries?” The final question exits his mouth without receiving censure from his adept mind. The chirurgeon shakes his head to signal the dance to have ended. The pirate will not gain further confidence until certain, hitherto unspoken conditions are met.
“That is for him to discuss, if he wishes.” The man sips his coffee calmly. His eyes upon Jack are level and musing. “You seem to have known him before so I should warn you that to go about searching for the person you remember is folly. You might have been his closest companion or some such acquaintance before, but I doubt you now carry the same recommendation. All previous relationships are tainted by his present. He is tainted by the past.”
“So, somewhere in that rambling speech of yours, I got the feeling that I have to be catering to this new mood of his and earn his trust, or I might as well take my li’l ole self back the way I came, true?”
“Thereabouts,” the man admits with a bemused twist of his lips.
“What if I’m naught but the lad’s enemy? What sage advice then?” The gaze leveled at Jack is painfully pitying.
“Sir, I can very well see in what direction your profession lies. However, I sense that, like all men who are adherent to some manner of creed or system, you have honor insomuch as it is required and in your own fashion. It is the mandate of survival in a profession where truth is without fixed coordinates.”
“I see,” the pirate answers with a feral grin. “Always trust a dishonest man ‘cause his actions won’t surprise you.”
“That and the fact you could have killed the boy and left, and I wouldn’t have known till I called him in for supper.”
*~*~*~*
“I want a word or two with you, lad,” Jack announces grandly to a recently conscious Will. The youth’s glare is not as vitriolic as previous incarnations, back ack is still thankful that the eye cannot cause physical injury.
His heart is both a plug of lead slowly crushing his soft innards and a sphere of refulgent light. Here is the ephemeral phantasm of his dreams made flesh and bone, yet all that fills this husk is a miasma of self-loathing. A shattered simulacrum of a young man glares at him without the fire of old. The pirate has unwittingly stumbled upon a cache of unnamed treasure only to find it to be a reflection in a cracked mirror. Yet he still desires.
Where is the young, passionate Turner he knew? The youth says he is dead; the chirurgeon says he is tainted. Jack refuses the premise of the former on the grounds of his own obstinance to believe that, and fears the latter as an inspanable rift. Thus, he must needs seek a third option hitherto unknown.
“I will not go back,” the smith assures him coldly. The pirate nods his ornamented head in momentary acquiescence to this declaration. A burgeoning plan to catch that third option unawares percolates in his devious mind. All he needs is a net of suitably chosen words.
*&*&*&*&*&*
*stretches, vertebrae pop* This entire thing was handwritten in wonderful green ink by my favorite new pen. It has now been transcribed. I hope that this shall be as well received as the previous portions. If not, I shall ever endeavor to write something more suitable.
*
To those who have so
graciously reviewed:
JediGurrl, Thank you for your kind words and enthusiasm and the batteries!
Mercurial, Cashiel, Sharanesu, Violent Underscore! Rabbit, Jaimi,
Desertrain, Night, Dushu Maxwell, Anon, Lydia NightShade, leann,
~SilentOne~,
PJ,
your continued to support of this story is much appreciated and very well
received. It is truly inspiring to encounter a group of people who willingly
expend a few minutes to inform me of their enjoyment of my work.
Jack4Turner, I am most sincerely grateful that you found
entertainment in this story despite previous misgivings. Your review was most
encouraging and heartwarming.
ElvenEyes, your enthusiasm is positively addicting! Thank you for keeping
my spirits up.
::Change in the House of Flies::
*~Chapter Two~*
“There is nothing for you here, sir,” the ghost of the past tells Captain Jack Sparrow. The seeming nonsensical, lambent witticisms that normally flow from his lips in an endless deluge are noticeably absent, a verbal void.
Now, Jack has always dreamed, whether on land or on water. Most of the time his is the Pearl or some aquatic avian; other times his somnolent navigations take him to meet with people long since gone from his life or he revisits events that have left their scares but this time he doesn’t escape. Perhaps, then, these can be called nightmares. Barbossa and his crew of mutinous followers strand him countless times upon barren scraps of humiliated land without his effects, rumrunners or spitfire, abducted virgins. Some nights the noose cuts deeply into his neck as he dances in the air or a bullet strikes closer to a vital organ. Sometimes he relieves fragments of his time with Bill Turner and mor more recent years, with that of his earnest son, Will.
However, dreams of Will are the myriad of threads that could have been woven into their meetings, and none are so innocent as their original conceptions. There are hot, panting mouths and limbs wet with sweat, all tangled and inseparable. Innocent and untutored lips wrap around his aching cock or pale thighs spread to offer a greater sanctuary. But, for all of this, he never reaches the pinnacle of their physical congress. Living flesh turns cold and clammy, putrefies. Instead of his naïve and eager lover, a bloated, drowned corpse asks him ‘why’ with blue lips and milky, death-glazed eyes.
‘Why didn’t you come sooner?’
‘Why didn’t you save me?’
To this endless prosecution he has no exculpating words, no argument eloquent enough.
‘Why did you let me die?’
“Why are you here?”
It takes Jack a moment to realize that the lauestuestion has come from the living incarnation of his night time daemon. Painted with soot and gilded with sweat, the earnest face demands answers posthaste.
“Will?” The name passes the pirate’s sea-dried lips with the barest hint of a prayer, though to what blind and deaf God he cannot say.
Tension snaps taut all the muscles in the youth’s body. He vibrates with some primal urging, some inner tumult.
“Will, if you speak of Turner, is dead, sir. He died five years ago.” These harshly spoken words are a bloodied whip upon the man’s metaphysical flesh, flagellating the sudden blooming hope.
“Then who be you, lad?” Jack demands. His voice ism asm as a placid lake, yet a mighty tempest is brewing to stir up long settled silt and mud.
“I am a nothing: a ghost or a nightmare, whatever you choose.” The young man undoes the ties of his cow-hide apron and yanks it off. He flings the garment over a barrel at hand. Every motion speaks of great agitation and inner turmoil.
“And what if I choose to make you Will Turner, son of Bootstrap Bill Turner?” A rolling, convulsive shudder runs the course of the smith’s lean frame. For a moment Jack fears that the young man will shake himself apart, the tidy aggregate of limbs falling to pieces. Rationally he knows this to be impossible, but he knows the fantastical to be true.
“Then you’d be the greatest fool I ever met.” Jack cannot stand this useless verbal stand off a moment longer. Five years have healed the incorporeal wound left by Will’s declared death, but a deep scar remains to itch and bother him. Now a newly wrought dagger carves it open and threatens further injury as the lad denies his own existence. He won’t allow this! Not this time.
He grabs the youth’s arm and drags him close. He bodily invades his personal space and feels the reverberating tension leach into his own glass bones.
“You have no right to declare me a fool, boy. If a fool stands in this room, then he be you.” The smith does not flinch under the seething glare or cow before the growled words. “Do you know how many people are hurting over you? Fair Miss Swann has gone back to bonny England to cry over you. Her father lives in regret of his actions. My God, even that stick of a commodore dwells on the past. None of them can move on because of you.”
“And you honestly believe that my miraculoppeappearance five years ago would have affected a change?”
“You selfish puppy! You have no idea—!”
“No, Jack, you have no idea,” Will shoots back as he jerks himself free. “If they knew I lived, if they knew what those…those poxy bastards left me as, they would be wishing I had been dead.
“Just leave now and forget about this, about I caI cannot go back. I cannot be the Will everyone remembers. I’m…Black.” He roughly pushes past the pirate and stalks to the door.
“You can’t run away from things, Will! I won’t let you.” The last is hissed dangerously, determinedly. It is no great feat to bound across the short distance separating them, but it is a slightly more difficult task to grab a hold of the resolute blacksmith and pin him against the door. Jack’s forearm braced against his windpipe finally forces docility in the struggling body. There is power in restraining such a one, but the pirate does not dwell on this as seething anger and ire dominate his mind.
“You think that whatever they may have done or made you do is so bloody terrible. You honestly believe you’re this king among sinners, a paragon of the damned.” Will glares impotently at him. Sweat carves shiny trails through the soot and grime on his face. It would be easy, too easy, for Jack to press more firmlyinstinst that helpless neck until the lad’s body fights for breath. He could crush the windpipe slowly, watch Will struggle for breath that would never come. He could do this; the urge is there. It tells him to extirpate that which causes him pain. Such a philosophy offers great facility of conscience. Sweet simplicity itself. He is used to lashing out and eliminating whatever roils him, but he fathoms such an action to be counterproductive.
He takes a cleansing breath, a susurration for divine guidance lacing the exhalation.
“You’re not a ruined man. As long as you live, you have a future.” For once Jack does not dissimulate with words. His jocular attitude is long gone and so too is the heated menace. Mere words cannot offer respite from the youth’s own self-loathing.
The pirate expects any number of reactions to his uncharacteristically earnest words, but hysterical laughter and desperate tears are not any of those. The throat beneath his arm works harshly as the discordant noise debouches stretched lips. Alarm surges through Jack, and he moves away lest he inadvertently stre the the youth, never mind that he been contemplating it mere moments before. There seems to be no end in sight for Will’s paroxysm. The pirate does the first action that comes to mind: he knocks the lad out with a well aimed fist.
*~*~*~*
Doctor Smith’s gaze is mild but disapproving. He has not said a thing since Jack entered carrying the youth’s insensible body, save to inquire upon the pirate’s choice of drink. Now he and Jack partake of the respective refreshments (coffee for the chirurgeon and rum for the pirate) and await a lull in the silence to speak.
The little man must know the reason behind Will’s unwillingness to reveal his continued existence, Jack decides. He just cannot conceive, being nigh well un-shockable, of what actions the pirates could have perpetrated against the youth to cause such reticence. , co, considering that the smith was still something of a stick during their last encounter, the pirates could have sneezed on him and he would have considered himself forever ruined. This last thought elicits a morbid laugh. The man gives him a questioning look.
“So.” He draws the word out while cracking the vertebrae in his neck. “How long have you known the lad?” Now the look Jack receives is considering. A profusion of carefully organized thoughts tick behind the man’s eyes in, the pirate imagines, trim ranks. He is being judged by the chirurgeon against some superlative standard. One would think he holds the vastness of the heavens in his mortal mind or a library of moldering philosophes.
“Around the advancement of five years,” is the decided upon answer. Jack nods his head with due gravity and considers his next inquiry with sly patience. He would like to believe himself clever and in possession of a pretty wit, but cleverness and wit warrant greater companionship when matched against like. He requires keen observation and knowledge of his oral sparing partner. What he does spreads out in bits and pieces like a street peddler’s wares displayed on a fine cloth for prospective customers.
Organization and tidiness rule the obvious characteristics of the chirurgeon. Everything has a place and is in it, which is an inverse of Jack’s own beliefs to which everything is happenstance. Books in dead tongues and not so dead tongues dwell in dark wood cases. The grisly tools of his trade are out of sight in marked cabinets. Dust and filth are unwelcome interlopers. The homes of kings and nobles cannot hope to compete with the chirurgeon’s home for cleanliness. No doubt his thoughts follow a course of orderliness to set rank officers and their companies to shame. Furthermore, his closed mouth responses concerning his assistant seem to indicate unwavering loyalty to others’ confidences. All in all the man is a case study in simplicity, yet impregnable because of that.
“How did you come to know him?” Again Smith weighs, measures and values his words upon a scale only he can see and against other words only he can give estimate to. Jack masks his impatience with a laconic façade that has ever served faithfully as he mines for information among his fellow human beings.
“His injuries recommended him to me.”
“What injuries?” The final question exits his mouth without receiving censure from his adept mind. The chirurgeon shakes his head to signal the dance to have ended. The pirate will not gain further confidence until certain, hitherto unspoken conditions are met.
“That is for him to discuss, if he wishes.” The man sips his coffee calmly. His eyes upon Jack are level and musing. “You seem to have known him before so I should warn you that to go about searching for the person you remember is folly. You might have been his closest companion or some such acquaintance before, but I doubt you now carry the same recommendation. All previous relationships are tainted by his present. He is tainted by the past.”
“So, somewhere in that rambling speech of yours, I got the feeling that I have to be catering to this new mood of his and earn his trust, or I might as well take my li’l ole self back the way I came, true?”
“Thereabouts,” the man admits with a bemused twist of his lips.
“What if I’m naught but the lad’s enemy? What sage advice then?” The gaze leveled at Jack is painfully pitying.
“Sir, I can very well see in what direction your profession lies. However, I sense that, like all men who are adherent to some manner of creed or system, you have honor insomuch as it is required and in your own fashion. It is the mandate of survival in a profession where truth is without fixed coordinates.”
“I see,” the pirate answers with a feral grin. “Always trust a dishonest man ‘cause his actions won’t surprise you.”
“That and the fact you could have killed the boy and left, and I wouldn’t have known till I called him in for supper.”
*~*~*~*
“I want a word or two with you, lad,” Jack announces grandly to a recently conscious Will. The youth’s glare is not as vitriolic as previous incarnations, back ack is still thankful that the eye cannot cause physical injury.
His heart is both a plug of lead slowly crushing his soft innards and a sphere of refulgent light. Here is the ephemeral phantasm of his dreams made flesh and bone, yet all that fills this husk is a miasma of self-loathing. A shattered simulacrum of a young man glares at him without the fire of old. The pirate has unwittingly stumbled upon a cache of unnamed treasure only to find it to be a reflection in a cracked mirror. Yet he still desires.
Where is the young, passionate Turner he knew? The youth says he is dead; the chirurgeon says he is tainted. Jack refuses the premise of the former on the grounds of his own obstinance to believe that, and fears the latter as an inspanable rift. Thus, he must needs seek a third option hitherto unknown.
“I will not go back,” the smith assures him coldly. The pirate nods his ornamented head in momentary acquiescence to this declaration. A burgeoning plan to catch that third option unawares percolates in his devious mind. All he needs is a net of suitably chosen words.
*&*&*&*&*&*
*stretches, vertebrae pop* This entire thing was handwritten in wonderful green ink by my favorite new pen. It has now been transcribed. I hope that this shall be as well received as the previous portions. If not, I shall ever endeavor to write something more suitable.
*
To those who have so
graciously reviewed:
JediGurrl, Thank you for your kind words and enthusiasm and the batteries!
Mercurial, Cashiel, Sharanesu, Violent Underscore! Rabbit, Jaimi,
Desertrain, Night, Dushu Maxwell, Anon, Lydia NightShade, leann,
~SilentOne~,
PJ,
your continued to support of this story is much appreciated and very well
received. It is truly inspiring to encounter a group of people who willingly
expend a few minutes to inform me of their enjoyment of my work.
Jack4Turner, I am most sincerely grateful that you found
entertainment in this story despite previous misgivings. Your review was most
encouraging and heartwarming.
ElvenEyes, your enthusiasm is positively addicting! Thank you for keeping
my spirits up.