# Author/Artist - whiskey_johnny
# Pairing - Jack/Bonden
# Rating (G through NC-17) UK 18 - I guess that's NC-17? (unsure)
# Warnings (E.g. rape, violence, underage sex) - AU, because it required Bonden to be a few years older than he is, and I've messed with the age Jack was when he was turned before the mast, too. And because I simply could not get my head round setting this fic ANY time within the M&C timeline/canon. >_< Some lines taken directly from the first book.
Friends demanded Jack/Bonden fisting fic (!), and they got it. I'm so sorry.
It's all the fault of Chapter 7 of M&C:
Running, running. Dump down into the dry ditch, pistols snapping through the embrasures, men swarming up the ropes on to the parapet, shouting, shouting; a bubbling scream. His coxswain's voice in his ear, 'Give us your fist, mate.' The tearing roughness of stone and there he was, up, whipping his sword out, a pistol in the other hand: but there was no one to fight. The gunners, apart from two on the ground and another kneeling bent over his wound near the great shaded lantern behind the guns, were dropping one by one over the wall and running for the village.
Jack had thought - in so much as he had thought at all, which he would acknowledge was not a great deal, given the quantity of alcohol heating his blood and the fact that he was here in this room at all - that he could not have come much further from his normal life at sea. Yet perhaps it was not so very different after all: a tiny stuffy room, smelling of male bodies and old sweat, his own muscles aching with exertion, and a not-unpleasant mix of fear and excitement roiling in his belly.
Fear and excitement both had increased sharply when he had rolled stickily over (not without a twinge of discomfort; he was not used to such a pounding as he had received), bringing his face thankfully out of the stale bedding, to meet an entirely unexpected request. He had supposed that his youthful companion might expect Jack to bugger him in turn, and he had not been adverse to the thought, given enough time to recover from his own climax; for all his youth, he was a fine, open-looking creature with the hard confidence and strong body of a seaman. He had not expected at all that the man, lying spent and apparently sated on the filthy cover, would roll over, pull his knees up to his chest and say easily, "Give us your fist, mate."
And so he had found himself here, kneeling awkwardly on the bed with his hand coated thickly in what he thought was lard as the other man instructed him: tucking his thumb in against his palm as carefully as he could, feeling his knuckles stick and then slip inside the slick warmth, his hand folding down of its own accord into a loose fist, and most of all marvelling, light-headed with the awe of it, that any man should trust him to much. The sailor's head was tipped back and eyes rolled whitely, his mouth opening in dog-like pants; Jack's other hand groped wildly for and found the man's limp fingers, gripped them tightly, locked his own fingers through them, as if he needed something to hold him to the earth.
He could feel that he himself was hard again, incredibly so, leaking against his own stomach. As he slowly moved his hand in the incredible tight heat he realised with a start that the other man's prick was flaccid: his pleasure (and there was no question that it was pleasure Jack saw in his expressions) seemed on some other plane entirely. Jack himself had never known a pleasure quite like this, without any touch to himself; time seemed to stretch and shrink, and he never knew how long they were there, never even knew quite when it was that he himself came off in sheer astonished sympathy.
He had pushed it to the back of his mind, afterwards, and told himself that he had been so drunk he had barely known what he was doing - drunk enough, certainly, that he didn't remember so much as his companion's face. He did not think on it again (or, if he were honest with himself, did not *allow* himself to think on it, or thought on it only when he had taken a little too much drink, or very occasionally when he was vaguely dissatisfied in the company of one woman or another) until that long difficult day aboard the Sophie, in between dealing with Sir Harry and the confounded merchantmen and the long slow coming of the dusk. His thoughts dwelt upon his coxswain, a fine seaman and captain of the maintop: how surprised he had been, there on the parapet, to find that it was his captain's hand he grapsed - and then abruptly the man's voice came back to him, the gritted words in all that terrible noise, and he knew where he had heard it before.
It was not for that reason that he offered Bonden the quarter-deck, not in the least, yet he found himself curiously disappointed. He thought perhaps that the man had recognised him (that flash of white teeth, when Jack spoke of having once been on the lower deck, and the lumpish embarrassment after), and he should have thanked any listening gods that Bonden was too decent to allude to it if he had. Still, he thought, half-wistfully, it was a shame that they should not meet again at any time as equals: a shame, and that was all; and if the captain was in less than the best humour for the rest of that tedious working in, surely there was nothing more to it than concern over the absent doctor.