PotC – When It Rains
Title: When It Rains
Author: Atra Materia
Fandom/Characters: Pirates of the Caribbean – James Norrington/Will Turner
Rating/Warnings: Adult – Slash, dubious consent.
Summary: When the Captain (and the wife) are away, the Commodore will play.
Disclaimer: All content relating directly to Pirates of the Caribbean, including but not limited to its characters, events, and places, is the property of its original creators.
He suspected that in his efforts to wipe away the sweat on his brow, he’d done nothing more than smear it liberally with the soot on the back of his hand. When another droplet trickled down his temple and introduced itself to the corner of his eye, he was sure of it; it stung twice as bad as it normally did, and obscured his vision with a grainy grey haze. His other eye began to water sympathetically, and that just compounded the problem. When it rains…
The question, then, was did he want to seek instant relief – and risk grinding more of the damnable particles into his cornea – or endure the suffering for the few extra seconds it would take to stumble to the pitcher of three-day-old water on the other side of the room? By the time he’d decided pain was a lesser evil then rendering himself blind, he was already halfway to the latter, and the blackened hand batting about for a rag.
Will stared dumbly at the remains of the pitcher that lay shattered at his feet – or, at least, he assumed it was the remains of the pitcher he was staring at; there was every chance – despite the fact that he could come up with no logical reason for a very large red crab to be in the smithy – that he was staring dumbly at a very large red crab. His fingers finally closed on the rag, and he dabbed at the cleansing tears pouring down his cheeks; his vision beginning to clear at last. Yes, it was the pitcher.
Ah, summer in Port Royal. Hotter than a Tortugan harlot’s kiss, more humid than her cunt, and right about as pleasant as the rash spreading over her thighs. Not that Mr Elizabeth Turner would know anything about that, of course. No, he had the ol’ ball and chain to keep him safe from such things. The chain, invisible though it might be to the naked eye, ran from the ring ’round his finger to the ring on hers, and his balls –
Well, they were somewhere. He hoped. Else Jack would be off on that eunuch nonsense again.
Of course, Jack was off; the Pearl had lurched away from the docks just that morning, and Elizabeth with it. “Come along, Will,” they’d said. “You’ll have a grand time,” they’d said. “For God’s sake, Will, work can wait! Put down that poker; you’ll suffocate in there!” But he hadn’t listened, had he? No, he’d had to listen to that niggling voice in the back of his head; the one that kept attempting to convince him that Norrington and Swann were watching him like a starving hawk; waiting to swoop down on whatever gobbet of bait they managed to spot, and –
He wasn’t sure what would happen at that point, really. He’d said I do, she’d promised to love, honour, and obey, and the priest had pronounced them man and wife. Elizabeth, good Christian girl that she was, wasn’t the sort to have her name sullied by a divorce – and there certainly wasn’t going to be an annulment, given how many times the marriage had been consummated the first night alone. Still, he could never quite put his paranoia to rest; and that was why he’d stayed behind to stand here in this sweltering foundry, pounding out new blades for the Commodore’s men, while his good Christian wife sailed out with the pair’s illicit pirate lover.
…yes, Governor Swann and Commodore Norrington were just going to be thrilled.
Will suspected the voice in his head was a close friend of the devil on his shoulder; who was currently whispering in his ear about the medicinal properties of a cold ale. Generally, he had more success at silencing the latter; he’d watched as Mr Brown drank himself to death, and had no intentions of following the man to an apprenticeship in Hades. Port Royal was bad enough. Bad enough that for once, he was inclined to agree with the devil himself. He rubbed the rag over soot-coated fingers, decided they were clean enough for the tavern, and turned to retrieve the shirt he’d abandoned hours before.
“Calling it a day so soon, Master Turner?”
A hand clamped down on his shoulder; the firm, ‘friendly’ sort of grip that said clearer than words that its owner was neither a friend, nor terribly happy to see him, but was doing his best to pretend that at least one of those might have been the case. He straightened, shrugging the hand off, and spun back around with as benign an expression as he could summon.
“I’m well ahead of schedule, Commodore. Your men will receive their weapons as promised, regardless of where I spend the remainder of the afternoon. Possibly even before.” Since I have nothing else whatsoever to do.
“Is that so?” The corner of Norrington’s mouth twisted faintly; as if he, too, was struggling to keep his face under control. “I must admit, I have quite been looking forward to the delivery. It is always a pleasure to have an opportunity to put one of your fine creations to…suitable use.”
That was a veiled threat if Will had ever heard one, and he’d heard a lot of them. Granted, most of them had been patently unveiled; but a threat was a threat.
“You won’t be disappointed, sir.” Though Elizabeth might be, if you misuse one of them.
“I had not expected to be. Elizabeth is a lucky woman,” Norrington continued, as if he had read it straight from Will’s thoughts, “to have such a…reliable man. Give her my regards, when you see her.”
“Of course, sir.” Will dipped his head, hoping that would be the end of the current conversation. It certainly sounded like it was.
“Tell me, Master Turner…” Then again, perhaps not. “When do you expect to see her next?”
There was soot in his eye again; it twitched a bit as the dripping sweat built up just inside the lower lid. “I should assume when I go home, unless she’s gone to the market. She likes to do things for herself; I don’t know why we even have servants…”
“Really.” The Commodore stepped closer, unable to keep the smirk from his face this time. “How odd. I was informed by Murtogg this morning that he’d seen her boarding a certain vessel of…disrepute. Do you mean to tell me you don’t know the whereabouts of your own wife? Or are you simply a less honest man that you would have it believed? Tsk. Perhaps she is not so lucky, after all.”
Damnation! “Isn’t Murtogg the one who believed he’d seen the Pearl well before it ever docked at Port Royal, Commodore?” Brilliant, Will. Play off the man’s credibility by bringing up the one thing he’d ever been right about!
Norrington merely smiled; it was not a pleasant expression, and did more for convincing Will that the man was up to no good than all the surreptitious suggestions from the voice ever had. It also convinced him that listening to voices inside one’s head was rather likely to lead nowhere good, itself.
“Elizabeth is her own woman, sir, and always has been. You know that as well as I do.” Perhaps he should have apprenticed to the grave-digger; he certainly seemed to have a knack for digging his own.
“Oh, I do, Master Turner. I do.” The Commodore reached up to clap Will on the shoulder again. “You and I have a lot in common, Will. I am an ambitious man; you have shown remarkable ambition since returning from your little…adventure. My father was well-known in the colonies; your father was…well, he was known. I would have wed Elizabeth; you did wed her. I…am a lonely man, Will.” He leaned in closer. “And so are you, apparently. That I am a lonely man is your fault, and that you are…well, you have no one to blame but yourself; allowing your wife to run about shamelessly.” His fingers tightened. “In the company of pirates. Presuming she gives you a son someday, how will you even know whether or not he is really yours?”
His name sounded forced and unnatural coming off Norrington’s tongue the first time, and didn’t improve any the second. Will decided he preferred it when the man was being artificially polite to artificially familiar. Still, the discomfort in that was paltry compared to having the Commodore’s face in his own; he jerked away, yanking his shoulder from Norrington’s hand. “I’ll thank you not to speak of my wife that way, Commodore. Regardless of your hurt feelings, Elizabeth is a good and faithful woman.” Sure, she’s faithful to me and Jack. But Jack is faithful to me and she; and I am faithful to she and he. We’re all faithful to each other. My God, it’s like our own miniature brothel!
“Of course she is.” The smirk only grew colder; the underlying meaning as clear as that of the hand had been: I don’t believe a word of it. “Which leaves us, then, with you as the problem, does it not?”
“I fail to see the problem, Commodore. Elizabeth has never expressed any discontent to me. Quite the opposite, in fact. I don’t ever recall seeing her so happy.”
“The problem, Master Turner,” Again, Norrington closed the distance between them; leaving Will with no choice but to edge toward the wall if he wished to avoid having the man right on top of him. “Is that you have taken my bride, my good name, and any chances I had of furthering my career here on Port Royal. I am the laughingstock of the Fort! ‘Ah, Norrington? Didn’t his wife-to-be leave him for that pirate sympathizer? Why didn’t he simply throw them all in the brig? Questionable, that. Questionable motives, questionable man.’ I am a ‘questionable man’ now, Master Turner! It is a wonder I haven’t been demoted already – and you have never demonstrated that you are the slightest bit apologetic!”
Will lofted a brow. “So that’s what’s got your knickers in such a twist, Commodore? Very well, then. I am sorry. I am sorry -” He could hear the little voice again, and chose to ignore it. “- that Elizabeth realized what a questionable man you were, and chose the better. I am sorry that you have spent every waking moment since – and likely most of your sleeping ones – wallowing in self-induced misery. I am terribly, terribly sorry, that you apparently have nothing better to do in the entire Port of Royal -” Pot calling kettle, Will. Pot to kettle! “- than dwell on your impotence, and take it out on men who have done no more to you than you so sorely deserved.”
Norrington’s eye twitched – it had been twitching during the grand majority of Will’s tirade, actually, and with nothing so comparatively harmless as a response to soot. The corner of his mouth joined it on ‘self-induced’, twisting unhappily, and by the time he got to ‘impotence’, the Commodore was displaying more emotion than Will had seen him do during his entire residency on the island. To his credit, perhaps, he managed to keep his hands under control all the way up to ‘sorely’; but once ‘deserved’ left Will’s mouth, he found himself throwing the blacksmith against the wall he’d seemed so eager to reach. Had the man been wearing a shirt, it might have been more successful a toss; as it was, he had to settle for a simple, rough shove and stalk over himself; rather than pinning the lad in place and beginning to loom immediately.
“That will be enough from you, Master Turner,” he remarked coolly. “If I deserve anything from you, it is not only an apology, but reparations for the damage done me by your little escapades.”
It took a moment for the thud of his shoulders impacting the wall to stop echoing in Will’s ears, and by the time he realized Norrington had indeed lost that much control, his wrists were already captured firmly in the Commodore’s hands and held down at his sides. Dazed, he shook his head; struggling to free his arms.
“What’s the matter, Master Turner? Cat got your tongue?” The smirk returned to Norrington’s lips. “Fortunate, that. I should hate to be forced to wash your mouth out with soap. You’re badly enough in need of it as it is.” He leaned down, squinting as he scrutinized the sheen of sweat on Will’s chest. Whatever cat was going about snatching tongues must have been sharing its curiosity with the ranking seaman; he was suddenly seized by a nearly irresistible urge to lick the blacksmith – and did; running his own tongue from just beneath one umber nipple to the fold of the corresponding-side armpit. Will sucked in a breath, squirming uncomfortably, and Norrington drew back, scowling as he scraped his tongue with his teeth. “Vile, that.”
“Well, what did you expect?” Will asked incredulously; unable to keep from shuddering at the thought that he was now covered not only in sweat and soot, but Norrington’s spit. “You knew before you did it what you’d be getting.”
“But did you? Do you now?” Norrington chuckled softly, and brought his face back to Will’s. “Listen close, boy. This is the way it’s going to be. You’re going to stand here and do exactly as I say, or I’ll have you up on charges of suspected piracy, a fresh bounty on the heads of your buccaneering brethren, and Elizabeth recorded as an adulteress. Hands at your sides.” Slowly, he loosened his fingers; hands moving from Will’s wrists to his waist.
Dark eyes narrowed; a growl rising in Will’s throat as he balled his own fingers into a fist. He got as far as cocking the hand back before Norrington tsked in his ear again.
“Do you really want to add a personal attack on an officer of the royal navy to that list, Master Turner?”
Impotent. He’d thrown the accusation at Norrington, but it was exactly how he felt himself now. Maybe Jack was right; maybe he was a eunuch who’d just never been cut; never needed to be. He was pussy-whipped, that was certain; if Norrington hadn’t included Elizabeth in his threats, he’d have gone right on and done it, and damn the consequences. But the man knew exactly how to get to him; he couldn’t, wouldn’t, take the chance that he might be able to do exactly as he’d claimed. Damn that little voice. The hand fell.
Impotent. Well, maybe not. There was something stirring down there as Norrington’s hands wormed into his breeches; forcing their way past the leather ties and flattening, fingers pointing down, over his groin; on either side of the stiffening shaft that was beginning to make him wish the other man would just go ahead and strip him. Not on it. Beside it. It had never occurred to him the Commodore might be a tease. Then again, it had never occurred to him the Commodore might like to bugger boys, either. This was getting to be a very educational afternoon.
“…wonder if you taste better anywhere else. Have you ever tasted yourself to know?”
Ah, there was the freedom! His member sprang up as Norrington shoved his breeches down to his knees; jutting…straighter than he cared to admit, really, considering who was getting it straight in the first place. Straight. Ha. “Afraid I’m not quite limber enough for that, Commodore,” he muttered. “If you’re that curious, you’ll have to find out firsthand.”
“Oh, I plan to,” Norrington assured him swiftly, eyeing his chest again. “For all I knew, though, you might have been lapping it up from that milk-dish bride of yours. Some people are perverse that way.” He set his head once more next to that rosy nipple and seized it between his teeth; biting down savagely on the little nub as it swelled within his mouth.
“Said – the pot to the kettle,” Will hissed, tilting his head back to rest against the wall. Bloody hell, he hadn’t expected the man to take him up on it.
“What was that, Master Turner?” Norrington paused briefly, glancing up.
“Nothing.”
“I thought not.” His mouth closed on Will’s nipple again; tugging it until it stretched away from the blacksmith’s chest, then releasing it to watch as it shrank back – though it did not go down entirely, remaining raised and red; moreso than its twin across the way. He drew his tongue over it once, slowly, then swirled the tip around it, then appeared to lose interest; instead taking a tiny fold of areola in his teeth and nipping just as harshly.
Will groaned. Elizabeth is faithful to me and Jack, and Jack is faithful to me and she. I wonder if they’ll forgive me for being raped by her ex-fiancé while they were off rogering each other without me? His hands curled, nails cutting into his palms in his efforts to divert the pain. He suspected Norrington was smirking again, though he couldn’t bring himself to glance down and confirm it.
Norrington, at least, seemed to have no problem with the concept of ‘down’; he gave the abused nipple a final swipe of his tongue before pulling away to nibble on chest proper. His bites were less fierce there; brief instants of tickling pressure that sent shivers up and down Will’s spine; small strokes of his tongue, as if to soothe in the wake of his teeth. He did not linger on any one spot even as long as he had the nipple; taking, releasing, and moving on; a zig to the left here, a dash to the right there; but always, always, down.
His mouth reached Will’s navel, and one of his hands pulled away from Will’s waist; coming to rest beside his face and trace with his fingertips the contours of the younger man’s abdomen; the lines of muscles well-defined by long years of constant working. He prodded the indentation with his tongue; there was sweat and dirt pooled there, too, and he relented quickly after the first taste; again opting to sink the point of a canine into the lower edge, and tease it with a tugging nibble.
Will shifted, his eyes closing more tightly. His lips moved, but no sound escaped them; fortunately, Norrington was too occupied with his own mouth to notice, or question the shape of the silent words – You bastard, you bastard, you bastard. There was a crossbeam on the wall, and his hands found it; clenching as tightly on the wide edge of the wood as they had on themselves. He used it to prop himself somewhat; his legs had begun to shake, and he feared he might collapse if he didn’t lock his knees; though he’d heard that locking your knees would do it to you just as quickly. He did it anyway; his hips rocking up ever-so-slightly as his legs straightened. His prick ached. Don’t stop, you bastard.
Norrington didn’t stop; probably wouldn’t have even if Will had let himself fall to his knees and beg. His kisses, such as they were, had drifted to the sparse hairs just above Will’s groin; and when they settled next, did so on the fuller thatch beneath. He breathed in the scent of the blacksmith; soot and sweat and hot iron, all mixed with the musky scent of man and his lust. Still, he tormented the younger man; he did not let his mouth so much as brush the shaft that sprang from it, though its head nudged and slid past his neck as he leaned in to nibble at Will’s thigh – nibble down it, just as he had Will’s chest; when he reached the knee, he switched to the other leg and begin to nibble up; the underside of Will’s cock drifting across the top of his head. He heard what might have been a whimper. It encouraged him, though he did not really need the encouragement; when he arrived at the top once more, he sank his teeth in as he might have had he been feasting on the leg of a pheasant. It did not tear flesh, nor draw even speckles of blood; but it would leave a bruise, to be sure, and it eked from the man a startled, airy cry – too vocal to be a gasp; too breathy to be a shout.
The Commodore grinned.
The cock beckoned him; it bobbed lightly as Will fought the urge to writhe and failed; it seemed to strain for him, begging where Will would not. He let his other hand leave the lad’s waist and rubbed at it with the tips of two fingers; beneath it, where it joined to the sac.
Well, what do you know. Not a eunuch, after all.
Will gave another groan, again pushing his hips forward so that his shaft moved along Norrington’s hand. He was screwed, either way; might as well enjoy it. He should have expected the “Tsk” that followed his doing so; perhaps he had, on some level, and simply no longer cared.
“How quickly you give in, Master Turner. What would Elizabeth say if she knew?”
“Fuck you, Commodore.” Was he answering for Elizabeth, or himself? Did it matter?
“With pleasure.”
He should have seen that coming, too; at this rate, he’d miss himself coming until he had. Norrington’s mouth closed over the head of his cock; it was warm and moist and felt – amazingly like a woman’s. Well, a mouth is a mouth, isn’t it? A welcome mouth, regardless of how unwelcome its owner might be. He shuddered, his hands tightening on the beam. His soul might not be white, but his knuckles certainly would be.
The tip of Norrington’s tongue pressed against the ridge that separated head from shaft; starting on the underside and slithering its way around, though it did not finish its journey back. It dragged across the head itself; poking into the tiny slit there and tasting of the few droplets that had already welled up. The seaman shivered, then; shivered at the taste of semen and seemed hungry for more; sliding down Will’s cock until the fleshy pad at its end bumped the back of his mouth.
Then he stopped.
Yet another heavy groan escaped Will; his entire body heaved with the overly-vocal sigh, and sent his hips forward further still. The Commodore drew back, scowling.
“Something the matter, Master Turner?”
The blacksmith let his head roll forward, glaring at the man kneeling before him. “If you’re going to throw me up against the wall and ruin my marriage, the least you can do is give me a decent throating.”
The Commodore merely chuckled again, softly, and shook his head. “I believe the arrangement was that we would do as I said, Master Turner. Not as you demanded.”
“…you can’t do it, can you.”
Norrington lofted a brow. “My abilities in the bedroom are really not the matter at hand here, Will.”
Infuriating, how he switched from one state of forced acquaintanceship to the other. Will wished he’d make up his mind. “Aren’t they? You can’t do it, and you just don’t want anyone to know.”
“And what would you do about it, even if such was the case? Run amok through the Port shouting, ‘Commodore Norrington can’t get a cock down his throat’? I really would be shamed at that point, I’m sure.” He smirked. “Can’t have that, now.” Once more, he leaned in to envelope Will’s member with his mouth; nearly gulping it down in his haste to resume where he’d left off. The bulb at its tip struck the back of his throat; he hesitated only briefly before forcing it on. He shuddered once –
Oh, Barbossa’s balls – if he vomits on me – Will cringed.
But the moment passed; and Norrington continued the slow devouring of Will’s length; his tongue curling still about the shaft on its way down. He paused again; then the motion reversed and the head of the cock slipped free of his throat, though it did not this time leave his mouth. His lips sealed just beneath the ridge, and he began to suckle on it, though it did not yet produce more of the seminal milk.
Will released a long, slow breath; the air itself shuddering as it left his lungs. His head fell again to the wall; fingers clenching and unclenching on the board. Hands at your sides, Master Turner… Best be glad you gave that order, Commodore, or I’d show you what I do with them when I have Jack down there. His shaft stiffened, the sac beneath it growing tight as it prepared to release its burden; he wondered idly, briefly, what would happened if he yanked it out of Norrington’s mouth at the last second and let it go on his face instead. The thought alone was nearly enough to cause his to lose control; combined with the gradual forward nudge of his hips that eased his prick back toward the Commodore’s throat…he simply didn’t have enough time; a hoarse cry suddenly filling his head as tremors racked his body. His cry. His coming.
He felt Norrington move back so that the head of Will’s cock was on his tongue rather than down his throat; but it was a faraway sensation, one that didn’t really register as having any possible meaning. Shaft and sac spasmed, emptying themselves in a series of short, hot bursts of seed; his prick gave a final twitch or two, then lay limp in the Commodore’s mouth; already shrinking back on itself as if it had just now realized where it was and wanted to escape as swiftly as possible. “Well, Commodore,” he gasped, his chest heaving as he panted for breath – if he had breasts, they’d look wonderful in a corset right about now – “how’s it taste?”
Norrington said nothing; only clenched Will’s waist and thigh, and pulled himself to his feet. His curiosity roused nearly as strongly as his lust had been, Will tipped his head forward once more, and quirked a brow – just in time for his mouth to be met with Norrington’s own. The Commodore’s tongue shoved through Will’s lips, forcing them to part; his mouth was suddenly flooded with the bitter, salt-laden taste of his own emissions. He nearly choked on it twice – once from the shock and sheer unpleasantness of it; once from gasping a breath at the wrong moment – before managing to get part of it down; and spat what was left to the side once the other man withdrew.
“You know as well as I do,” Norrington remarked with a smirk. “Turn around.”
“What, you don’t want me to return the favour?” If nothing else, he could return the smirk.
A foot set to tapping. “I believe I gave you an order, Master Turner.”
“And the last time I checked, I was a blacksmith, not a sailor,” Will grumbled. His fingers protested their removal from the beam, having grown accustomed to gripping it like a rope in a stormy sea. A very strange, stormy sea. “Let alone a navyman.”
“And yet, you do so like to play at both. Hands at your sides, Master Turner. Or on the wall, yes; whichever you prefer.” He felt Norrington’s return to him, then; brushing first at his waist, then sliding down to cup the curve of his arse. “So long as they aren’t interfering with me.”
“Yes, we all know how well you take to being interfered with.” Will smirked again.
“I’m disappointed. I rather thought you would understand better than almost anyone. What’s that philosophy of Captain Sparrow’s? ‘Take what you want, give nothing back’? At least I am giving you something back.” His fingers slipped into the cleft between Will’s buttocks; prodding tentatively at the hole buried there.
Will grunted. “What, a sore arsehole?”
“Oh, right. I’m sorry; I should have warned you.” Norrington’s hand fell away, though Will could feel it moving about just behind him. “This is probably going to hurt a bit. A lot, really.”
Untying his breeches; that must have been what Norrington was doing back there – because it certainly wasn’t a finger that rode up the crack now. Will rested his forehead against the wall this time, and closed his eyes. “You might be surprised. Particularly if you weren’t shoving whatever pompous little poker passes for your prick up dry passages.”
Norrington chuckled; his weight was suddenly against Will’s back, though he didn’t yet push forward. “Perhaps you’re right, Master Turner. Your bed is, after all, far less barren then mine.”
“Oh, don’t tell me you never had a whore or three.” Will snorted. “You certainly couldn’t have been waiting for Elizabeth all that time. She was a child when you met her!”
There was no reply from Norrington; Will wasn’t sure if that made him feel better about the possibilities of the man lusting for underaged girls, or worse. The weight abruptly left him; only to be replaced by the slow slide of a tongue down the ridges of his spine and – Dear God, he can’t mean to do what I think he’s going to –
His legs were shaking again, and he couldn’t get into a good position to lock them, this time. He bit down on the inside of his lower lip as Norrington spread his cheeks and flicked the tip of his tongue across the puckered hole. He was going to fall over for sure; fall over, fall down, end up in a puddle of quivering Will on the foundry floor. Jack and Elizabeth were going to come back and find him there and wonder what happened; and then they’d probably take advantage of him, too.
He wondered what they’d say if he suggested inviting the Commodore over for a round or two of Private Brothel.
The tongue was like a little worm, working its way into the unyielding ground – it wriggled this way and that; it flicked up and down; it poked and prodded and nudged and finally widened itself just enough of a fissure to start slithering in. Was this what it felt like for Elizabeth when he went down on her? Will gritted his teeth, his nails digging into the beam so hard he’d be surprised if there weren’t grooves later. His cock was hardening fresh already, and he spent a moment debating whether or not to grab hold of it and start stroking – “So long as they aren’t interfering with me,” Norrington had said; and they’d still be in front of him there.
Just as quickly as it had come, though, the sensation stopped; Norrington stood and leaned on Will’s back again, one arm wrapping ’round the younger man’s waist. “This is still going to hurt,” he murmured; Will thought he detected a great note of pleasure in the tone of the warning, though it was softly spoken – a warning that might as well have not even been given, for all that it mattered; ‘hurt’ was an understatement. The first night Jack had followed the as-yet-unwed-couple to a spare room on the Pearl, that had hurt; they’d slathered their hands up with butter until none of them could hold onto another and then done the same to their pricks, and it had still burned during and after. It had taken quite some time for Will to grow accustomed enough to the sensation to move past it and simply let it happen, and it still gave him a twinge now-and-then. This, this was simply agony; perhaps he shouldn’t have used the poker analogy in reference to Norrington’s member, because that was about what it felt like. He gasped as the Commodore’s cock shoved its way into his arse with a single rough thrust; a wave of dizziness rising up and threatening to overwhelm him.
Well, on the bright side, Jack would probably kill Norrington if he ruined Will’s arse – and if he didn’t, Elizabeth would.
Norrington paused once he was past the boundary, though; the hand that had guided him coming ’round to rest on Will’s chest, and toy with that same nipple. He remained still for a moment longer, breathing heavily into Will’s ear; when his motions resumed, they were far gentler; little more than a faint rocking that shifted his length about inside the man. He shuddered, the other hand dropping to wrap around the once-spent prick; sliding along it with firm, fast strokes that ran from base to bulbous tip, and back again.
Well, at least he’s got that much down. No doubt, there was a reason the Commodore was so familiar with the technique behind a hand job; but whatever it was – and Will could both take a guess, and bet he’d be right – he was grateful for it, as it gave him something to devote his attention to other than the stinging in his rear.
He dropped his head down to hang between his arms, letting another shaky breath leave him at length now that Norrington semed to have settled into some sort of rhythm – thrust, stroke, withdraw, backstroke, thrust. Perhaps if the man would let him get a word in edgewise next time – next time! Where did that come from? – he’d give him a lesson or two on a proper backdoor rogering. God knew he could use it – hell, Will would have even felt sorry for any woman that happened to offer him a hole, if this was any indication of what she’d be in for. Still, there was something to be said for the contact, ungentle as it was; physical attention – affection – of any sort – and it didn’t seem as if it would last much longer, anyway; he could feel Norrington’s balls draw up, and within seconds, the hot rush of the Commodore’s seed spilling into his arse; well, it was better than in his mouth.
Norrington withdrew slowly, grunting as the head of his cock slide free of Will’s arsehole. His fingers trailed away over chest and hip, apparently unconcerned with whether or not the younger man got off a second time, or not. One of his own hands planted on the wall, and he leaned heavily on it for several moments; not looking at Will.
“As I said, Master Turner…” He exhaled slowly. “Always a pleasure to put you to…suitable use.” He pushed himself straight, and headed for the door. “Pull up your pants, Will.”
The click of the latch catching after Norrington exited echoed loudly in the nearly-empty smithy. Will took advantage of sudden the lack of company to take his time about complying with the last of the Commordore’s commands, though eventually, he did; he would have done it even had James – he could be on a first-name basis with Norrington now that he’d had a commissioned cock up his arse, couldn’t he? – not suggested it; it wouldn’t do to be walking around in a foundry without pants. There were sharp things and hot things and…well, Will happened to be rather attached to his own cock. He didn’t intend to be there much longer, anyway – he did have plans before he’d been interrupted, after all – and walking around the streets of Port Royal without pants would probably be an even worse idea. His fingers fumbled on the ties once he had the breeches back in place; it could be worse, though – at least his legs had stopped shaking. Mostly.
Though low on the horizon – lower than he’d expected, in fact – the sun was still bright when he pulled open the door, and he squinted as he wobbled into the street – just in time to see Governor Swann storming around the corner, apparently hell-bent on reaching the smithy before the blacksmith closed shop. Will heaved a long-suffering sigh, and stepped back inside.
Yes, when it rains, it pours.
Author’s Notes: ‘When It Rains’ was written prior to the release of DMC and AWE, and is obviously not DMC/AWE-compliant. In its own universe, ‘When It Rains’ takes place an indefinite time after the wedding of Elizabeth Swann to William Turner. The previous owner of the smithy has died, and Will has taken over. It is assumed that Jack has been given a pardon on Port Royal, and docks there from time to time.
Norrington’s use of ‘Master’ rather than ‘Mister’ for Will is an allusion to the days when it was used not only for one adept at his craft, but to address a young man not yet considered to be a ‘mister’. It’s therefore both an acceptable title, and a veiled insult.
The use of butter as a lubricant in the days before modern conveniences was discussed on a fetish board I peruse on occasion. Other suggestions included lard and other animal fats, various vegetable oils, and apothecarial concoctions.