Sanctified *COMPLETED*

Disclaimer: I don’t own the rights to the Pirates of the Caribbean or its characters, which solely belong to Disney, et al, but that hasn’t stopped me from writing about them. Additionally, I, in no way, shape or form, condone or approve all acts of the characters involved. Fact and Fiction are not synonymous. Use your own discretion.


WarniThisThis story contains the themes of consensual mutilation, male/male/male relationships, a.k.a. slash/yaoi, yaoi threesomes (double penetration = two cocks + one orifice), and implied chanslash. 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 help neither 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 ykindkind regards and any reviews (not flames) that you will allocate to me.

::Sanctified::


Commodore James Norrington inspects the contents of a missive as he awaits the arrival of a much anticipated guest, though he comports himself with indifference. In an elegant hand he pens his succinct response and signs it with a complex design of curlicues and loops. He blows the black ink dry and folds it up meticulously. His seal pressed firmly into the uneven circle of melted red wax completes it. Quickly he scrawls the intended address and sets the letter upon a growing stack to be sent to various important and unimportant personages.

A polite knock on the door heralds the presence of his manservant.

“Enter.” Slowly the door opens, as if the man on the other side is worried about startling the commodore despite his command to enter. The aged servant bows stiffly upon finally opening the door to its fullest extent. James suppresses a grimace as seemingly every vertebra in the other man’s back cracks. The man is constant reminder of his own inescapable mortality, but he is not so cruel as to cast him out for a fault not his own. The servant is loyal and discreet, truly rare qualities in this Fallen World. Such distinctions in character deserve respect and reward.

“Mister Turner to see you, sir.”

James ruthlessly represses the prickle of tense awareness that succeeds this dry announcement. He leans back in his chair, the picture of contemplative calm, and takes a moment to organize his darting thoughts. He does not want appear eager or particularly interest in this affair. After an appropriate amount of moments have elapsed to prove his due consideration on whether to admit the boy, he indicates that the servant should allow access to the visitor. With another bow and an aria of cracking joints the man exits, but not before carefully closing the door behind him.

A few more moments slip by, and a small plug of tension settles in James’ stomach. Young Turner is as punctual as always. It seems as though his latest adventures have not absolutely thrown him from the course of a proper man. This is of great satisfaction to the commodore; the time he has devoted to the lad’s upbringing has not been in vain.

William’s knock echoes with hesitance and uncertainty. James allows a minute to pass, listens to the boy’s anxious shuffling, and finally bids him to enter. The door eases open and the lad pokes his head in. James beckons him impatiently. Honestly, it as if the entire world believes him to sit upon a powder keg that will explode with the slightest provocation.

“Good evening, commodore,” William murmurs politely as he steps inside and bows nervously. The rigidity of his posture has nothing to do with age. He is youth. He is the promise of civilized masculinity bereft of the ichor staining so many.

The man finds himself pleased to note the cleanliness of his guest and the orderliness of his simple attire. Young Turner’s adherence to the code of gentlemanly conduct James set down nearly a decade ago gives him immense gratification. The tractable youth has done well to follow his instructions despite this year’s momentary digression. There shall be rewards for such behavior, but first the consequences for the failures in the area of conduct must be mete out.

His place must be reestablished

* * *

William Turner, stretched over Norrington’s large desk, hands gripping the edge, feet shoulder width apart, regulates his breathing as the commodore carefully sketches the design to be carved into his bare back. The recently cut quill nib draws delicate lines and curves of irritation on his skin with black ink. Each mark is the summary of his transgressions against the Holy Trinity. Each gives full recount of the wrongs he endorsed so recently. Eyes closed, he can visualize Norrington’s elegant script coming to life; the words being written are as clear as divine fire: ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ ‘Thou shalt not steal.’

Deep shame and repentance fills him for, by his own feckless actions, he has forced the good commodore to add two more sins to the growing catalogue upon his back. Norrington is the only confessor he can hold faith in. Only his absolutions truly purge the rankness from Will’s soul. From the first cuts when he was twelve and ignorant—he fought and screamed then—he has placed himself upon God’s mercy through the benediction of the commodore’s blade. Unremitting gratefulness suffuses him for the man who has allowed him to experience the blood raptures of God’s bountiful love.

“Begin,” Norrington commands as he removes a black lacquer box from a cabinet on the wall. Dutifully Will begins to recite the cause of this night’s absolution.

“‘Thou shalt not kill.’” His words falter at the first incision and he pants softly. Righteous pain flows up in a neat, red line. The commodore waits for Will to continue. “‘Thou shalt not steal.’”

Cut. Cut. Cut. Every meticulous caress of the blade further completes the pattern of his sins. Steadily the foul taint of his misdeeds wells up in crimson tears. Sobbing and chanting he offers his soul up to the heavens and his body to the knife. Sublime agony chokes his breath and draws salty tears from his hazel eyes. His body urges him—nay, demands!—he twist and turn away from the injuries being inflicted, but his mind, heart and soul are resolute.

““Though shalt not steal.’”

Cut. Cut. Cut. God’s divine fire burns hotly in the newly engraved words. He can feel every letter as a different moist heartbeat. He is being cleansed; the impurities and flaws wash away in hot blood.

“‘Thou shalt not kill.’”

The liquid agony and his elegantly maimed flesh testify to the irrefutable proof of the Lord’s love and forgiveness, of Norrington’s. If Will can endure it, if he can rise above it, then he will be clean again.

He will be worthy of Elizabeth’s love.

““Thou shalt not steal.’”

“Finished. Amen.”

“Amen,” Will sobs quietly against the tear-splashed wood beneath his cheek. Chest heaving unsteadily against the surface, he searches for his equilibrium.

“Are you alright?” Norrington queries as he gently runs a hand through the youth’s fine hair. He nods shakily and stares into the lambent glow of the oil lamp reflected in the polished surface of the desk. He hopes the salt of his pain-coerced tears will not damage the finish. Behind him the pop of a cork being removed from the narrow mouth of a flask warns him moments before the commodore splashes a generous amount of ocean water upon his bleeding back. The young man’s breath debouches in one prolonged hiss. Each slice flares up anew and releases a swarm of imaginary wasps to sting and bite his spine. A strong hand squeezes his neck in a gentling rhythm till his breathing evens.

“You did very well, William. I am proud of you.” A warm glow blooms in Will’s stomach at the commodore’s kind praise. It is a balm to soothe the throbbing lesions upon his back.

“Thank you, sir,” he murmurs with a faint, pale smile. Stretched taut beneath the mutable surface of pain are infinite filaments coalescing into a net of primal stability. This extended moment—one among a progressive series lunging into past and future—establishes a comforting return to the familiar. This proves his brief association with the anarchy and disorder characterizing Captain Jack Sparrow to have been anomalous. His sins have not been so gras tas to sever him from God’s grace.

And almost as importantly the commodore does not hold his rash actions against him. He is forgiven.

* * *

Eight years ago the governor requested James to take young Turner in hand. ‘He needs to learn discipline,’ the elder man said. ‘He needs to learn his place in this world.’ James has taken this mandate to the core string of his heart and ever let it rule his encounters with the young smith, whether in the streets of Port Royal or here in his private demesne. Eight years of impressions have married themselves into the boy’s gentle face and manners, and the commodore takes pride in the truth of his own complicity in the matter.


“Sir?”

A fourteen-year-old William watches him with reddened eyes, cheeks damp and sticky with his tears. The child is only just beginning to understand why he must endure this. The gratitude has begun to leach away the anger.

“Yes, William?” The boy’s expressive brown eyes close for a moment and he takes a hitching breath.

“Thank you.”

He touches the flushed cheek, fingers sliding in the salt and water of Turner’s spent emotion. Then he leans down and kisses the trembling yet resolute lips.


A twenty-year-old William pants damply against the short hairs on James’ straining neck. Work-roughened fingers dig deeply into his shoulders as taut thighs flex and muscles pull.

“God…” the boy moans, riding the man’s throbbing cock as if racing towards salvation.

Sweating, grasping, pumping, they move together in harsh rhythm. So hot, burning from with. His hands slide up through the blood and balm. Turner groans and drives slim hips down, forcing him deeper, to the core, to the heart.

If only the boy knew…This is their greatest sin, yet the flesh is weak. James cannot give this up to save their souls.

“Oh…God!” Delicate internal muscles ripple about his yard and molten pleasure spills into his waiting hand. His own follows in painful raptures.

“God.”

William leans back, deep brown eyes partially closed. Gently he runs blunt fingertips across James’ face as he would memorize the man’s features through touch.

Would the boy hate him if he knew the truth? Would he ever receive forgiveness?

“Thank you.”

* * *

“How is Elizabeth?” Will shakes his head, a soft smile lighting his features. A small grimace twists his lips when the movement pulls the wounds upon his back.

“Excited. Every time I go to the mansion she has decided upon a new color scheme: one day hothouse roses, the next indigenous flora.”

“She has finally found her calling as a proper lady, I see,” the commodore replies with a companionable chuckle. The youth nods and idly draws his fingers across the arm of the burgundy ottoman beneath his elbow. Norrington’s clears his throat and Will clasps his hands in his lap.

“I believe she has had enough of adventuring and now appreciates the staid lifestyle of a governor’s daughter.” He shifts carefully and smiles ironically at Norrington.

“And you, William?”

“I am content.”

“No yearning for the rocking of a boat deck beneath your soles?”

“I come from fire, sir. The ocean is not so favorable to men of my persuasion.”

“I am glad.” Will feels his cheeks heat upon seeing the warm smile on the man’s face. The commodore’s approval is important to him. He has sought it by any means or sacrifices for the past eight years.

“Thank you.”

* * *

A passage of six months…


Captain Jack Sparrow sails through town on two mortal feet. The Black Pearl waits safe out of sight of Port Royal and Fort Charles (and any of His Majesties Ships) in the blue waters of the Caribbean. The sun is little more than a cadmium haze tinting the subtly curved horizon, clouds having long since been evicted. A wind from deep-ocean runs through the streets, sneaking between chinks in walls and trailing across exposed flesh to raise goose pimples in the land bound.

Jack’s reasoning behind this apparently—to any one with any grasp of sanity—suicidal mission is twofold. The first objective involves simply annoying the poncy commodore—always a favorite pastime—and perhaps nicking a souvenir. Something valuable and shiny would suit him just fine. The second and most important objective lies in the trading section of town among the buildings of roughhewn wood and casually tossed night-soil. He plans on taking another memento here, though he suspects said memento might resist being acquired.

Now, sitting astride the winill ill of the commodore’s private rooms, he once again acknowledges that, when other people factor into the equation, his plans tend to go awry. However, this rational—or at least partially comprehensive—portion of his mind is subsumed by the portion observing the spectacle before him; said portion is also itself divided.

The scene is as follows, two men couple upon a bed lambent with the dying sun’s caress; the bed’s dark canopy sweeps the floor and tangles with the musbed bed linens; a dark armoire of the bed’s same wood, a desk, bookshelves and chair and a polished table supporting reams of papers and maps observe mutely; gilt bordered paintings of lush maidens reclining upon satin cushions stare with sleepy eyes.

One part admires the beauty of muscle and sinew straining beneath sweat-dewed skin. Young Will convulses ecstatically, hair in damp ringlets, brown eyes opaque, as he splits himself upon an equally undone commodore. One strong hand braces him against the headboard while the other, tangled with Norrington’s, works desperately for orgasm upon his flushed cock. The other half of the division rages with the capricious fury of a squall lashed sea. A sense of betrayal less comprehensive than his loss of the Pearl to Barbossa surges through his tissues. What has been denied him has so wantonly been given to another.


“Stop it, Jack.” The lean blacksmith shoves him away, brown eyes sharp with indignation and flecked with lust.

He licks his lips to capture the lingering flavor of the lad then lunges at Will. The two grapple for a moment before Jack’s superior knowledge of unethical fighting prevails and he forces the boy to the floor.

“Get off, you bloody madman!” Will hisses as he struggles against Jack’s weight.

“Why won’t you let me have you?”

“It’s a sin and I wilve nve no part of it with you.” Displaying more agility than the pirate believes him to possess, the boy upsets Jack’s balance and scrambles out from under him.

“I’m already damned!” the pirate roars at Will’s back as the boy exits the captain’s quarters.


With a stuttered susurration to God Will releases his passion and arches up against the commodore. Jack watches with clenched teeth and tight britches. He has spent many a restless night with a vague image of the lad’s pleasure-flushed in his mind, and many a morning left to deal with the d’s e’s excesses. And now reality rears its pestilential head and bites him.

The lad slumps down, trembling and panting, his hips kept aloft by Norrington’s hands. The exalted commodore continues to thrust, eyes closed and jaw clenched in an expression that seems more akin to pain than pleasure. Jack watches him with growing anger. The room is so heavy with the musk of sex that he can feel it wafting against his skin. He cannot abide by this with silent tongue. He is not a man lightly crossed.

“Deny me, will you. Take what’s mine.”

* * *

Will groans quietly as Norrington continues to force entry into his spent body. Harsh pants pass his lips as he presses his face against the damp pillows and rides out the man’s continued thrusting. Everything is hot and sticky and drowned in the pungent odor of their conjugation. He cannot breathe. His breath is gone with the hot rush of pleasure over his hand.

And the commodore still strokes into him until flesh and bone prohibit further joining, hard length driving towards completion. Finally, when it comes, it draws forth deep shudders to reverberate in Will. He moans softly and imagines he can feel the man’s seed pulsing into his body. The youth murmurs a protestation as the full, slick weight of the commodore’s satiated form bears down upon him. Resignedly he allows the older man to smother him in the soft bed still reeking of their concupiscence.

Through all this, the initial execution and its continued function, God watches; Will knows this, must believe it or face a truth far too terrifying to acknowledge. He knows the Lord judges and writes the verdict in a cosmological ledger, but his atonement has already been inscribed. Besides, he also understands that Norrington needs this, a controlled loss of control. Only here in the dying light of day can he be merely human, a mortal of flesh like everyone else.

“And what sin have we here?” a voice of smoke and rum and honey husks in the growing twilight.

Jack?

Upon his back Norrington stiffens, muscles rippling into sudden tensity, and he jerks away. Will grunts lowly as the man’s softened member pulls free without the care required for an organ of that girth and length. Liberated from the commodore’s weight, he gathers the bedclothes to veil his nudity and turns his eyes upon the capricious pirate captain.

In all truth, Jack appears no different from their last meeting more than six months ago. The same fey air of irresponsibility and unrelenting chaos surrounds him even as darker purposes glow deeply within his smoky eyes—eyes that now hold him transfixed as if a very devil has manifested itself within human bones and skin and now attempts to draw forth his soul by simply gazing.

Dimly he acknowledges the cocked pistol pointed at Norrington’s proud head.

“What are you doing here, Sparrow?” the commodore hisses with indignation, but without admitting to the impropriety of their interrupted communion.

“You would do well to hold your tongue, commodore. You have no weapons—though I do not speak euphemistically—with which to support any threats. Insofar as it is yours to know, I believe my purpose is to address young master Turner at this point.” The pirate’s sharp eyes flicker over the composed and decidedly cold commodore. Then his stare returns to Will and his cruel smirk blossoms into a vengeful grin.

“What sin have we here, Will-lad?”

Fragmented and seemingly isolated images ofark ark cabin and rough hands flit through the young man’s mind. ‘Why won’t you let me have you?’ Jack growled, to which he replied, ‘It’s a sin and I will have no part of it with you.’ He had not lied in either of the two parts comprising his parting sentence. He knows his acts with Norrington are sinful; he has known almost since the man initiated them—after all, the commodore carved ‘Lust’ into his back the first time, and made no further mention, though never stopping. He refused Jack because he will not compound his acknowledged indiscretion by further insolence in Heaven’s face.

“It is of my consent,” Will answers softly, gaze unwavering and unafraid of the pirate’s dubious censure. The sudden burn of Norrington’s stare upon his still flushed face is unsettling. Unable to direct his attention from the pistol-brandishing rogue, he wonders if the proper commodore feels surprise in his complicity. Does the man truly think him ignorant?

“And what was one more, love?” Unvoiced questions commanding answers mantle him with tender violence from both men.

“I would not sin with you, Jack. I would not add myself to the transgressions you have already accumulated.” The spark in Jack’s eyes tells him that the pirate has cleverly picked through to the underlying meaning of his softly uttered words. The elegant hand upon the pistol clenches and then relaxes. Below the mustache the man’s full mouth twists into a predatory smile.

“Then it seems it was not for lack of…desire.”

Oh there was, and is, certainly no lack. Even now Will can feel a slow burn within his belly while observing the unrepentant sensuality of Jack Sparrow, but what he affirmed before, both nigh upon six months ago and just now, remains untransformed: he will not willingly sin with Jack.

“What do you want?” he asks resignedly. He can feel the answers pulsing from the pirate’s seemingly relaxed body. He knows what the insouciant degenerate craves, and said degenerate is the only one with ‘leverage’ in this situation.

“Turner,” Norrington hisses to his left. ‘Do not trust this creature’ is implicit in the man’s inflection. However, both understand that Jack now possess a weapon with which he can destroy both of them irreparably, perhaps one more than the other. The pirate hordes knowledge to his own advantage and advancement.

“I want many things,” Jack quips, igno the the commodore with blithe nonchalance. “But to be specific like, I want two things at this time and…place.” His hips roll, almost as if he is bowing, as he takes a step closer the bed, pistol still poised to deliver final sentence. “The first can wait till after the second, though.”

“And what exactly is the nature of the second?” the commodore demands. Jack finally turns his conflagrant gaze upon the man; he lowers his weapon and wets his lips with a practiced swipe of his tongue.

“I am going to take what you have, commodore, but do not fret that I’d deprive you of the same pleasure.”

“I don’t understand.”

Will, unlike Norrington, has long since given up all attempts to comprehend the mechanics and intricacies of the pirate’s convoluted logic.

“You will, mate.”

* * *

“Commodore Norrington, if you would be so kind as to switch places with young Will, I would be much appreciative.”

This is the scene, the commodore, ussedssed, retains impeccable composure; the lad, clutching white linen sheets to his chest, appears flushed and delectable; they sit at opposite ends of the generous bed; shadows fill the room.

“I do not take orders from caitiffs such as yourself.” Jack shakes his head at the man’s unfounded impertinence. With a shrug he raises the pistol and idly traces a line between the man’s brows and his heart. Back aorthorth he moves it, as if unable to decide the best place to lodge the lead plug. The pirate must give Norrington some credit as he does not appear perturbed in the least. So he resorts to other weapons, though no less lethal for their incorporeality:

“Does the fair Elizabeth know about this little tête-à-tête?” An almost insensible flush of pink tints the commodore’s pale cheeks. His pale eyes narrow by degrees.

“She does not,” honest Will answers. Jack has not ceased grinning or smirking since his entrance and sees no reason to now. Thank the fickle heavens for innocently corrupted youths.

“And, not being one to presuppose anything, I would hazard a guess that knowledge of this arrangement—whatever it is—would not sit well with the lass.”

“She would never believe you.” Jack winks at the commodore as if the two are in on some larger joke or part of some greater drama. They aren’t, but the pirate never passes up an opportunity to agitate the man.

“It’s the seed of the reason that does the trick, mate. Once planted, it never leaves, and slowly it grows larger and larger till there’s room for nothing else.” He illustrates this process with wild gesticulations, though he maintains care so as not to accidentally put a hole in anyone or anything at the moment. “She might dismiss it, but she’ll not be forgetting—nor wondering. ‘Could ole Jack have spoken the truth?’ She’ll never look at the two of you the same, I know.”

Jack tenses as Will suddenly gains his feet and stands there looking cock-stirringly delicious—if the evidence in the pirate’s britches is to go by—while holding the bed linens to preserve his physical secrets. With precise and slightly hampered movements he inches towards the commodore. Jack feels a low growl rising up his throat as the lad leans close to the man and whispers urgent words into his ear. Though he cannot hear the soft sentences, he can see the resignation in the commodore’s eyes. The man nods curtly and composedly moves to the head of the bed, watching Jack with untrusting eyes. Will takes his place and awaits further directions. There are banked flames in the velvet brown depths of the lad’s eyes.

Jack could get used to this.

“Are you hard, commodore?” A derisive quirk of an elegant eyebrow is his only answer. The man seems quite unwilling to play with him, which is quite saddening, sort of—well, not really, it’s more mildly amusing than anything else. “Will-love, would you be a dear and make sure he’s of proper rigidity.” The lad gives him an utterly scandalized look. Jack might have more sympathy for the boy’s propriety if he hadn’t just witnessed him mewling for cock like a professional lady-of-the-night. This is his revenge, and what an utterly, incontestably delectable one at that.

“What now?” The lad shifts with discomfiture and cuts looks between the two men.

“I-I’ve…ah…never…” One of Jack’s brows wings up in dhtedhted surprise. Will is still virginal in other areas of love-play. A pulsing shaft of fire stabs deep into the pirate’s groin. He bets that the youth’s pretty pink mouth has never been wrapped around a yard before. Jack will have to make sure to further his education in that area, most certainly.

“I do not see how this will accomplish anything, Sparrow,” the commodore growls.

“I think you do, but your hypocritical adherence to decorum prevents you from admitting to this.” He lowers his eyes in demure mocking. “Don’t forget about ‘Lizabeth.”

“Hush, both of you,” Will grouses, cheeks flaming. Holding the bedclothes to obscure as much of his marmoreal flesh as possible, the lad scoots over to Norrington and lays a trembling hand upon one bent knee.

“You don’t have to do this, William.” The smart lad turns to look at Jack, who inclines his head with low purr. Now if onlywoulwould let the linens slip down…

The pirate observes the commodore’s face for signs of agitation as the youth edges between his thighs. There! A tiny shock seems to traverougrough the man’s proper form and his high cheeks take on a darker hue. Will’s countenance is a study of mortified and aroused concentration. Jack suspects his own to be dark and predatory, perhaps even a touch mad.

“Is the commodore hard?” Slowly he sets the pistol upon the smothered table and begins the process of removing the rest of his accessories and apparel; all the while his black eyes watch the lad’s hesitant hand upon the unraveling naval officer. Norrington’s lids droop and his thin mouth opens upon irregular breaths.

With the threat of pretty Elizabeth for protection, Jack approaches the two upon the disordered bed, one hand empty and one hand holding a clay bottle of oil. They have become too involved in themselves, and the pirate has no intention of allowing himself to be excluded—not now, not ever. Young William will not deny him pleasure again.

The soft bed dips beneath his weight and he takes a moment to wonder about the integrity of the furnishing, but all concern flies away in face of the tight pulse between his thighill ill glances at him briefly before turning back to Norrington.

“This exercise is best done naked,” he breathes as he grips the lad’s coverings. Will sends him another look, this one rife with surfacing panic.

“Don’t, Jack.” Lazily the pirate draws a hand up and down the youth’s heated back. He can only imagine the fire inside sweet Will. And soon reality shall supplant imagination. Oh yes indeed.

“But I want to, love, and I don’t think you to be in the position for demands.” He pulls the sheets away and savors the lad’s stilted gasp.

* * *

Sticky night air sweeps across his suddenly exposed back. Hand still upon the commodore’s turgid flesh, Will arches and shudders. God, Jack is looking at him, at his sins. Now he’ll know every dirty little thing the young man has ever done. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Elizabeth was never to be brought up until afterwards when he and the commodore could pretend to a simple social visit. This is a wicked deviation.

“What is all this, darlin’?” Jack’s molasses voice demands as rough fingers trace the scarred words upon his vulnerable back. He meets Norrington’s eyes and sees something disturbing flicker therein, but the man keeps his lips sealed.

“My improprieties,” Will answers ashamedly. Desperately he seeks reassurances in the commodore’s blue eyes, and finds a strange, incalescent fervor. The composed and staid gentleman seems to be breaking off in tiny bits.

“Your ‘improprieties’?” The pirate chuckles darkly and breaths hotly across the marred flesh. The young man trembles at the first scrape of a bearded chin and lick of a wet tongue. With all the conscientious care of Norrington’s blade the pirate follows the calligraphy of Will’s sins. Every word flares with phantom pricks, as if a shadow of the knife still slices away at his skin. Sea-roughened hands clench and relax upon his hips as Jack follows the course of the pale words.

A smooth-skinned hand cups his cheek and he opens eyes that he does not remember closing. Through the power of his gaze and the gentle hand, Norrington draws the young man to him and takes possession of his soft lips while the pirate nibbles his way back up. The tumescence beneath Will’s untrained hand pulses as the commodore’s tongue pushes deeply into his mouth. The slick muscle explores meticulously, undulating against his own before sweeping boldly across his palate. Norrington has never kissed him like this, not since he knew fourteen years.

God, this is not how it is supposed to be. This is not penance for his failings. It feels too good, too wicked.

“God!” Reflexively he clenches down upon the slick digit penetrating him. “Stop it, Jack,” he hisses as he breaks away from the commodore’s prurient kiss. He has never enjoyed the intimacies of someone touching such a sensitive and secret area. It has always felt shameful and dirty in away the true act never has. There should be pain in intercourse, a mortal burning that edges the unholy rapture in divine pain: true religious ecstasy. Such preparation prevents that.

“You’re still too tight for what’s to come, though I’m sure the gracious commodore gave you a good ride.”

“Do not speak so boldly of our acts, Sparrow,” said commodore growls, stroking Will’s hair tenderly. The pirate laughs loudly and reaches over Will’s shoulder to tap Norrington on his aristocratic chin. At the same time he crooks the finger inside the young man’s passage. Will grunts as a spike of sensation pierces his loins, his hands releasing the commodore to grip his thighs. A treacherous heartbeat pounds in his swelled member. This isn’t how it is supposed to be!

“Once again, mate, you’re in no position to be impertinent.” Will twitches away from Jack’s probing finger with small whimpers, and presses himself as far against Norrington as flesh and bone allow. Oh God, what profane operation has struck the pirate’s fancy?

“Jack…” A second finger presses in beside its brother and together the two work his guardian ring loose. He cries out sharply, burying his flushed face against the commodore’s sweaty neck, as the digits thrust in sharply to strike that indecent patch of sensation. The commodore continues to pet him.

“Is the commodore still hard, Will?” Jack hisses as he drapes himself over the young man’s back. Skin aching with stimulation, Will shakes himself loose of his passion-thrall and obediently returns his unsure hands between Norrington’s spread thighs. The man issues a strange little noise, half growl and half curse, and grips his hair.

“Y-Yes,” he moans into the side of Norrington’s neck.

“Good lad.” His reward is a long, wet lick about the curved circumference of his ear. The young man shudders with illicit delight and muffles his whine against the commodore. The fingers withdraw to leave him subtly aching and restless. “Take him in you, Will. Take him deep.”

Oh God.

Two sets of strong hands guide him to straddle the commodore’s waist; for once both men are in accord. One pair of hands spreads his buttocks, fingers occasionally brushing his opening, while the other holds steady the weapon of his impalement.

“Ready, love?” Will shakes his head, but none seem to care. The question is, apparently, rhetorical.

He keens brokenly as Norrington’s member slides into him, once again stretching his inner walls. A hand playfully pets his erection, which is nearly crushed between him and the commodore. Grunting lowly in a way Will has never heard, the man shifts his hips and forces into him that fraction of a distance deeper. Cruel hands dig into his waist and prevent him from moving, and he wants to, needs to.

“How long has he done this to you? Was he your first?” Jack’s hoarse voice tugs him from the blinding sensation of penetration and delicate shocks as the commodore’s length pulsates with the man’s frenetic heartbeats.

“F-Fourteen. He…God…was my first…My o-only.” Wicked pain blossoms in the side of his neck as the pirate bites him.

“Not anymore. You’re mine, and soon you shall be wearing my brand upon you as well.” Dimly Will senses that Jack has just issued a challenge to the panting commodore. God, this is not over, is it?

“Time for a little more, I think.” A choked scream is cut off by Norrington’s hot mouth as Will feels his opening being further stretched by the return of Jack’s fingers. First one and then another, both slick with oil, work in beside the hard member within. Such pain as he has only felt under Norrington’s blade rides deep into his tissues. He shakes his head and gnashes his teeth against the commodore’s mouth as his body is coerced to greater dilation.

“Easy, darlin’. It’ll feel good. So good.” Jack’s breathless voice eases him through the glorious burn, and he no longer knows if it is pain or pleasure he seeks from this strange union. A large hand (Norrington’s?) cups the back of his head and draws him into a fierce kiss while another (Jack’s?) runs up and down his own wilting member. Desperately he chases the man’s tongue between their joined lips, seeking his reassuring flavor.

Everything burns. Pain and pleasure intertwine like mating vipers in his shaking body. When the horrible, wonderful fingers pull free, he convulses violently and feels his organ swell with hot blood. His body likes this, this sin, this violation of God’s law. And he is too weak to master himself. Releasing his conscience to the shadows of overburdening ecstasy, he throws his head back and cries out, tears streaking down his cheeks.

* * *

Aching to plunge within the hole clasping the commodore’s generous cock, Jack smiles at Will’s echoing cry of surrender. He did not lie when he said he would brand the lad. He will carve his name above the young smith’s heart so deeply that time will be unable to erase or fade it.

Meeting the commodore’s glazed blue eyes over the trembling lad’s shoulder, the pirate deliberately licks a line up Will’s straining neck, savoring the warm flavor of salt and sex, and gives his full cock a tight squeeze. Let the poncy naval officer try and stop him. His claim upon the youth is far older: Bootstrap ordered him to watch out for the lad. Though this might not be what the deceased had in…Well, Jack is a pirate after all.

A pirate about to be buried within the tightest, hottest place on the globe. Oh yes he will. Hmm…Will.

The scene is as follows, the commodore shifts, buried deep within the lad; the lad pants and moans brokenly to God and to the pirate; night paints the room in sheltering darkness; the scent of sex and sweat is nearly suffocating.

Kneeling behind Will, Jack guides the swollen and oiled head of his shaft to the lad’s filled opening. Carefully, gently he breaches the guardian ring, shuddering as his sensitive flesh rubs sensually against the satin of the commodore’s cock. Will issues a mournful keen and arches back, spine bending almost alarmingly, as he works himself inside. And, ooh, the heat, the tightness. A dazed look at Norrington shows that he feels the delicious constriction as well.

“So good, Will-lad. So good.” He grabs the youth’s slim hips while Norrington finds his own, and thrusts fully in. “Yes…”

The three lean against each other, attempting to regulate their harsh breathing. Will whimpers softly and inadvertently clenches about the twin invaders. The pirate and commodore shudder in unison, slick cocks rubbing within the confines of the youth’s hot passage.

“Get on with it, Sparrow!”

“That is the first…ah…smart thing to come from your mouth.” Gritting his teeth, Jack withdraws slightly, allowing the commodore to follow a moment later, and then pushes deep in again. Norrington growls and begins to work on his own thrusting rhythm, just enough off from the pirate’s to create the most delicious friction. Crushing an incoherent Will between them, they stroke against each other deep in and out of the lad. Their cries intermingle as they work towards release. Jack has enough presence of mind to continue to roughly stroke Will’s leaking cock, which causes his interior muscles to clench so sweetly around Norrington and Jack.

Saccharine bliss, Jack thinks dazedly as he thrusts into the lad’s heated depths. He never expected to find heaven so soon.

“God…God!” Will chants as he thrashes and rides down onto their working cocks. Jack can feel orgasm racing through his blood and coiling tightly within his bollocks and rigid length. From the flushed, slack-jawed face of the commodore, he knows the man to be close as well.

“Come undone for me, Will. Come on, lad,” he urges feverishly as he bites the youth’s ear and frantically pumps his shaft. The lad’s head falls to his shoulder as he arches up and clenches violently upon Jack’s eager cock. Norrington groans and shoves himself deeply into Will.

“God!”

“Oh, that’s it.” Liquid heat pours over his jacking hand in rapid spurts. Moments later, as Will’s muscles give one last punishing squeeze, he feels the commodore’s thick seed file pue pulsing channel they share.

Jack grabs hold of the man’s lean hips and drives himself as far into Will as he can, as if he can reach the lad’s red heart with his cock head. Agonized pleasure shudders through his body and he throws himself into the crimson waves rushing into his throbbing sack and shaft. With one prolonged groan, he strains into the lad and releases his semen.

“God,” he mutters ironically as he slumps, sticky with sweat, across Will’s lax form, no doubt smothering the commodore. Both men are still held snugly within the lad’s warm body, but neither can find the energy to react to this state.

Their ragged breath fills the air and Jack cannot help but smile with fatigue. With more tenderness than he has shown previously, the pirate kisses the lad’s damp temple and inhales his smoky scent.

“Your place, indeed, love.”

* * *

In the sticky darkness of a quiet Caribbean night, Commodore James Norrington listens to the soft whispers of William and Jack. The boy lies complacently between them, James against the elegant curve of his back and Jack on his front. He has not thrown the caitiff out yet, though that had been his intention when the pirate instigated this wicked farce. The reason is not only due to his disconcerting lack of strength, but also because a vague sense of loss pervades his wearied limbs.

The obdurate pirate captain has already spirited away once with Turner’s propriety and impeccable moral convictions. He induced the boy to fly pell-mell after Miss Swann on a dangerous and morally skewed endeavor. For all that the commodore has done to purge from the boy the innate yearning for risks and train him to appreciate his position in life, the pirate simply must place his person in the same room to break William free of James’ carefully nurtured doctrines. Sparrow has some magical hold on the boy and nothing the commodore does will ever sever it.

James thought he knew where the youth belonged. He thought Turner knew as well. Now he has chosen a new place to exist: between James and Jack, and yet uniting them in a way only he can. The fresh memory of rutting alongside the pirate in the boy washes through him and leaves him shaking.

Turner has known that this is a sin all along…Yet he never spoke out, never gave any indication. The commodore does not know what to make of this. There are depths to William that he never suspected and it took a damned pirate to discover this.

“Now for the second part, love,” he hears Jack murmur to William.

“Hmm?”

“Why?” James feels his breath catch as he awaits the boy’s reply. The soft cadence of their inhalations and exhalations fill the room as William thinks. All three of them comprehend the magnitude of this question and its subsequent answer. Why, indeed?

“He was the only one to give me concrete limits and”—Turner shifts till he can just meet James’ eyes over his shoulder—“a sense of stability.”

Compelled by the honest and open eyes barely discernable in the darkness, he kisses the boy’s smooth shoulder. A weight of melancholy settles in his stomach. Did he hope for the answer to contain something more? Something ethereal and beautiful?

On the other side Sparrow is uncharacteristically silent. Perhaps he too senses that there is a fundamental part of the boy that neither of them can possess or even touch; and perhaps this part dwells solely in the gentle light of Elizabeth Swann, or in the hallowed grounds of the Divine. Wherever it is, commodore and pirate will only be able to look upon it from afar with wistfulness.

“You’ll not deny me again, will you?”

“No, Jack. You may have what the commodore has.”

And no more.


*~*~*

This whole story is basically an excuse to write about double penetration, which this fandom needs more of! I don't think I have yet come across a fic involving this type of sexual act. So I have taken it upon myself to remedy this deplorable paucity. I have set the challenge, now who shall answer?