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salmon_pinkTitle: Sealed
Fandom: Pirates Of The Caribbean
Pairing: Davy Jones/Jack
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1216
Timeline: Pre-Curse Of The Black Pearl
Notes: Inspired by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alita_b_angel's review of Dead Man's Chest. Tentacles.
Summary: Davy Jones, Ruler of the Sea. Not to be taken lightly, on any account.
Captain Jack Sparrow is fearless.
“So, we have an accord?” He tries not to look too hopeful, tries to school his features into his most serious expression, an expression that means business. Narrowed eyes, a flash of gold teeth, sharp canines under upturned lips.
Davy Jones stares back and smiles. Jack thinks it’s a smile; the most accurate description would be a synchronised twitch of those ever-moving tentacles and a look of greed flashing across blue eyes.
“Shake on it?” Jack extends his left hand, glances down at the claw on Jones’ left hand. Drops his raised hand, holds out his right, gives a sheepish grin, hopes it looks charming.
Jones raises his right arm, one long tentacle twisting out instead of a finger, sliding wetly over Jack’s palm and curling tightly around his wrist.
“For a deal of this nature,” he purrs, rolling every syllable. “I believe something more personal than a handshake is required.”
Jack blinks at him, repressing a shudder at the tone, determined to seem unflappable, to seem completely aware of himself and the gravity of the deal he’s managed to coax the other man into accepting. Determined to seem in control, determined to seem like a man who cannot be tricked.
“Eh?” he manages.
*
Captain Jack Sparrow is a little afraid.
It’s certainly not the first time he’s found himself on a strange ship, not the first time he’s found himself in another Captain’s quarters. It’s not even the first time he’s found himself on a strange ship, in another Captain’s quarters, and in a state of undress.
He’s poured enough rum down his throat that he can actually feel the boat moving, which is unusual for him. He’s so attuned to the ocean that he rarely feels the waves, only ever feels unbalanced when he has to walk on land. Now his vision wavers and the room rocks around him, and when Davy Jones holds out another bottle to him it seems to shiver and float in front of his face.
It takes Jack several attempts to manage to wrap his hands around it. Jones twitches and laughs.
Jack brings the bottle to his lips, tilts his head back and wonders when he’ll pass out.
*
Captain Jack Sparrow is rather terrified, actually.
It’s not supposed to happen like this. It’s not supposed to happen at all, frankly. But when it does happen, which it is, since it’s happening right now, it’s not supposed to happen in the way that it’s happening. Which it is.
Jack’s head is reeling and he still has the empty bottle clutched in his hand and he can’t let it go.
It’s not supposed to happen like this. It’s not supposed to feel good.
And it does, and it shouldn’t, and Jack’s words often get away from him, but the noises he’s making aren’t words. Yet he can’t control them.
Davy Jones moves between his spread thighs, and Jack has long since let his body fall back against the bench. He’s not sure if it’s better or worse that he now can’t see what’s going on, but he can’t sit back up, even if he wants to.
It’s like having countless fingers wrapped around his aching cock, slick and oily and constantly writhing, finding new places to touch, finding new methods of friction. Thin ends of tentacles stroking the veins along the underside, pressing into the slit, drawing out everything he has before it can spill over, every drop of evidence of the way his body is enjoying itself.
Davy Jones is going down on him, and Jack is groaning and thrusting his hips up and hating the fact that he’s loving every minute of it.
Slippery tendrils slide lower, circling his balls, tugging and stroking and cupping, and that makes Jack shout something, something that makes Jones laugh. Each tiny sucker takes the time to stick to his skin, pull at the flesh, draw away with a noise that’s a parody of a kiss, and Jack knows he’s going to have some interesting marks down there tomorrow.
It’s like there’s something caught in Jack’s throat, thick and heavy and disturbing; a sensation he hasn’t felt before, like sorrow, or shame, or sobriety. He curses and swallows around it, grits his teeth and reminds himself that everything’s an experience, and when was the last time he was this hard anyway?
Jones makes a strange clicking noise, and the tentacles lock around him, shifting against each other and against his flesh, and Jack needs them to stop caressing him and start getting more aggressive, but he’s not stupid enough to say that out loud.
Not stupid enough to try and fight when a few stray tentacles slide further back, behind his balls, and, yes, he knows where this is going, and, no, he shouldn’t be feeling this titillated.
He hisses at the first brush over his entrance and the tentacle draws back for only a second. Then it’s back, with reinforcements, only this time it’s sticky with something, and Jack hopes hysterically that it isn’t ink because, bugger, that’s going to leave a stain.
He arches off of the bench when the first tentacle slides inside of him with surprising ease, gasping and shaking. Jones’ claw thumps down awkwardly on one hip, pressing him back down, managing to impale him deeper, and even though the tentacles aren’t long or particularly thick, it’s as if he can feel them moving inside of him with every part of his body, from his feet to his hair.
He feels them spreading him, pulling him open, and it might be the slightest bit painful, but Jones chooses that moment to start pulling at his cock, tentacles wringing him, twisting and tugging, and Jack whines continuously and decides that he never wants to hear himself make such a noise again, although he’s thoroughly enjoying it at the moment.
Jones shifts, moves further down, and Jack feels his cock pulled down slightly, angled lower, and he’s never had anyone do that to him before. Of course, nobody has ever performed oral sex on him using tentacles that sprout from their octopus-like face before, and today appears to be a day for new and pleasant surprises, because it’s like having the tension in him pulled even more tightly, like being manipulated in the best possible way.
He grunts his approval, and then breath leaves him as Jones finds something inside of him and attacks it as fiercely as he attacks all battles.
Jack shrieks, no other word for it, and his eyes roll up and everything turns white and every nerve sizzles and sparks; sweetest, most perfect pressure inside of him, churning tentacles milking his cock, odd angle making everything seem more frantically violent, and the bottle smashes in his hand.
*
Captain Jack Sparrow is fearless, and he’s never rowed faster in his life.
He’s not even sure where’s he’s going, just pointed the longboat in the general direction from which he’d come. Suddenly finds himself very eager to be on land.
The Flying Dutchman gives a great roar as it submerges, waves from its wake rocking his boat, and he’s certain he can hear Davy Jones laughing, right up until the mast disappears under the water.
Jack needs a drink.
Fandom: Pirates Of The Caribbean
Pairing: Davy Jones/Jack
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1216
Timeline: Pre-Curse Of The Black Pearl
Notes: Inspired by
alita_b_angel's review of Dead Man's Chest. Tentacles.Summary: Davy Jones, Ruler of the Sea. Not to be taken lightly, on any account.
Captain Jack Sparrow is fearless.
“So, we have an accord?” He tries not to look too hopeful, tries to school his features into his most serious expression, an expression that means business. Narrowed eyes, a flash of gold teeth, sharp canines under upturned lips.
Davy Jones stares back and smiles. Jack thinks it’s a smile; the most accurate description would be a synchronised twitch of those ever-moving tentacles and a look of greed flashing across blue eyes.
“Shake on it?” Jack extends his left hand, glances down at the claw on Jones’ left hand. Drops his raised hand, holds out his right, gives a sheepish grin, hopes it looks charming.
Jones raises his right arm, one long tentacle twisting out instead of a finger, sliding wetly over Jack’s palm and curling tightly around his wrist.
“For a deal of this nature,” he purrs, rolling every syllable. “I believe something more personal than a handshake is required.”
Jack blinks at him, repressing a shudder at the tone, determined to seem unflappable, to seem completely aware of himself and the gravity of the deal he’s managed to coax the other man into accepting. Determined to seem in control, determined to seem like a man who cannot be tricked.
“Eh?” he manages.
*
Captain Jack Sparrow is a little afraid.
It’s certainly not the first time he’s found himself on a strange ship, not the first time he’s found himself in another Captain’s quarters. It’s not even the first time he’s found himself on a strange ship, in another Captain’s quarters, and in a state of undress.
He’s poured enough rum down his throat that he can actually feel the boat moving, which is unusual for him. He’s so attuned to the ocean that he rarely feels the waves, only ever feels unbalanced when he has to walk on land. Now his vision wavers and the room rocks around him, and when Davy Jones holds out another bottle to him it seems to shiver and float in front of his face.
It takes Jack several attempts to manage to wrap his hands around it. Jones twitches and laughs.
Jack brings the bottle to his lips, tilts his head back and wonders when he’ll pass out.
*
Captain Jack Sparrow is rather terrified, actually.
It’s not supposed to happen like this. It’s not supposed to happen at all, frankly. But when it does happen, which it is, since it’s happening right now, it’s not supposed to happen in the way that it’s happening. Which it is.
Jack’s head is reeling and he still has the empty bottle clutched in his hand and he can’t let it go.
It’s not supposed to happen like this. It’s not supposed to feel good.
And it does, and it shouldn’t, and Jack’s words often get away from him, but the noises he’s making aren’t words. Yet he can’t control them.
Davy Jones moves between his spread thighs, and Jack has long since let his body fall back against the bench. He’s not sure if it’s better or worse that he now can’t see what’s going on, but he can’t sit back up, even if he wants to.
It’s like having countless fingers wrapped around his aching cock, slick and oily and constantly writhing, finding new places to touch, finding new methods of friction. Thin ends of tentacles stroking the veins along the underside, pressing into the slit, drawing out everything he has before it can spill over, every drop of evidence of the way his body is enjoying itself.
Davy Jones is going down on him, and Jack is groaning and thrusting his hips up and hating the fact that he’s loving every minute of it.
Slippery tendrils slide lower, circling his balls, tugging and stroking and cupping, and that makes Jack shout something, something that makes Jones laugh. Each tiny sucker takes the time to stick to his skin, pull at the flesh, draw away with a noise that’s a parody of a kiss, and Jack knows he’s going to have some interesting marks down there tomorrow.
It’s like there’s something caught in Jack’s throat, thick and heavy and disturbing; a sensation he hasn’t felt before, like sorrow, or shame, or sobriety. He curses and swallows around it, grits his teeth and reminds himself that everything’s an experience, and when was the last time he was this hard anyway?
Jones makes a strange clicking noise, and the tentacles lock around him, shifting against each other and against his flesh, and Jack needs them to stop caressing him and start getting more aggressive, but he’s not stupid enough to say that out loud.
Not stupid enough to try and fight when a few stray tentacles slide further back, behind his balls, and, yes, he knows where this is going, and, no, he shouldn’t be feeling this titillated.
He hisses at the first brush over his entrance and the tentacle draws back for only a second. Then it’s back, with reinforcements, only this time it’s sticky with something, and Jack hopes hysterically that it isn’t ink because, bugger, that’s going to leave a stain.
He arches off of the bench when the first tentacle slides inside of him with surprising ease, gasping and shaking. Jones’ claw thumps down awkwardly on one hip, pressing him back down, managing to impale him deeper, and even though the tentacles aren’t long or particularly thick, it’s as if he can feel them moving inside of him with every part of his body, from his feet to his hair.
He feels them spreading him, pulling him open, and it might be the slightest bit painful, but Jones chooses that moment to start pulling at his cock, tentacles wringing him, twisting and tugging, and Jack whines continuously and decides that he never wants to hear himself make such a noise again, although he’s thoroughly enjoying it at the moment.
Jones shifts, moves further down, and Jack feels his cock pulled down slightly, angled lower, and he’s never had anyone do that to him before. Of course, nobody has ever performed oral sex on him using tentacles that sprout from their octopus-like face before, and today appears to be a day for new and pleasant surprises, because it’s like having the tension in him pulled even more tightly, like being manipulated in the best possible way.
He grunts his approval, and then breath leaves him as Jones finds something inside of him and attacks it as fiercely as he attacks all battles.
Jack shrieks, no other word for it, and his eyes roll up and everything turns white and every nerve sizzles and sparks; sweetest, most perfect pressure inside of him, churning tentacles milking his cock, odd angle making everything seem more frantically violent, and the bottle smashes in his hand.
*
Captain Jack Sparrow is fearless, and he’s never rowed faster in his life.
He’s not even sure where’s he’s going, just pointed the longboat in the general direction from which he’d come. Suddenly finds himself very eager to be on land.
The Flying Dutchman gives a great roar as it submerges, waves from its wake rocking his boat, and he’s certain he can hear Davy Jones laughing, right up until the mast disappears under the water.
Jack needs a drink.
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Date: 09/07/2006 20:45 (UTC)no subject
Date: 09/07/2006 20:48 (UTC)no subject
Date: 09/07/2006 21:10 (UTC)::is ded::
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Date: 09/07/2006 21:14 (UTC)no subject
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Date: 09/07/2006 21:24 (UTC)*dies and is dead*
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Date: 09/07/2006 21:29 (UTC)no subject
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Date: 09/07/2006 21:55 (UTC)no subject
Date: 09/07/2006 22:53 (UTC)But I loved this line: "Jack hopes hysterically that it isn’t ink because, bugger, that’s going to leave a stain." Very funny, mate. Bien fait!
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Date: 09/07/2006 22:58 (UTC)*fans self*
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Date: 10/07/2006 00:03 (UTC)I had a dream that was quite like this back in October. I knew the moment after I saw the movie that this sort of thing was on the way. I'm rather happy that this is the first Jones/Jack fic that I've seen.
This new post-PotC2 fandom is off to a promising start if you work is any judge of it. ^_^
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Date: 10/07/2006 00:08 (UTC)no subject
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Date: 10/07/2006 02:02 (UTC)no subject
Date: 10/07/2006 02:20 (UTC)OMG.
OMG.
OMG.
YOU HEATHEN.
YOU ARE A WOMAN AFTER MY OWN SOUL.
OMG.
THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I WANTED AND NEEDED MOST IN THE WORLD.
DAVY JONES> TENTACLE BLOW JOB EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
*flail*
ITS LIKE YOU CAN READ MY MIND.
*hands soul over on a silver platter*
YE GODS.
AND YES>
ABSOLUTELY YES>
*keyboard mashes incoherently*sjkabfkdba.
*love*