| |
Reciprocal Frocking
by Curiouslyfic
Pairing: J/N
Rating: R, probably. Smut, in some detail.
Disclaimer: I am not the Mouse. Alas.
Originally Posted: 2/01/08
Beta: By the fabulous porridgebird, who kept me from making a bit twit of myself, even while battling dental woes. You rock. Seriously.
Note: Blame/credit for this, as promised, to pearly_dreams, who put frocked!James in my head after James Norrington: Pirate Queen. Green silk it is, and thanks ever so for the bunny. He did not go gentle into that good frock, but by God, was it entertaining.
Warning: Crossdressing, rimming, smuttiness, etc.
Summary: James. Is. Frocked. He is not best pleased.
Sequel to James Norrington: Pirate Queen.
James tells himself there's nothing to worry about; Jack wouldn't let him make an idiot of himself. Not for this, not when he's begged Elizabeth's help and weathered Will's suspicion for it.
All the same, he can't meet his own reflection in the mirror.
***
He misses his neck cloth, which strikes him nearly as maudlin-misplaced as missing his wig, which he thinks he might do, as well. It's not any real love for the clothes he's left in his quarters, it's bone-deep fear of the ones he's presently wearing.
The things he does for Jack Sparrow continue to amaze him.
***
It pulls. He's not sure why, but he twists a bit to see if he can squirm into it and the more he moves, the tighter it pulls. Like it's suffocating him.
Had he foreseen this in his own future, he doubts very much he'd have offered that day's head start.
***
It's green. It's silk. It's bloody lace, which scratches at his throat when he moves to breathe, which he can't do regularly because it's got something Elizabeth's called a "stomacher" and James thinks that must be some new torture implement.
If not, it should be.
He says as much and she laughs. Pats his arm (and they're gorilla arms, he has knuckles to his knees, Lord, but he's an ugly bastard) and fusses maternally. He wants to point out her waspish glee at this ungodly turn of events, but he's sure she'll point out his waspish farewell and it's bad enough their clothing is trying to do them in, he doesn't feel the situation warrants further waspishness.
Enough for the moment that they've reached some measure of understanding. He sees past her blacksmith, she sees past Jack's brand, and in this forms a strange sort of friendship. Will drinks with Jack on the Pearl's rare dockings, and James sits with Elizabeth in comfortably familiar society, and when there are four, they are comfortably four, and that's more than James has expected in port by far, however awkward it's been to establish.
Awkward it remains, though in this, he can comfortably blame Sparrow. She can't honestly believe James is taking to the stage—or whatever ridiculous tale Jack's told by way of explanation, because James shudders to think of what Sparrow's said on James's behalf—but neither is she asking, which says more about how far they've come than he's expected.
Elizabeth clucks and fusses over him for a moment. He squeezes his eyes tight. Maybe he can meet his doom square, be it undead villainy or pirate curs, but he can not watch Elizabeth fuss over him again.
Not when he looks like he does.
She leaves him the capable (if snickering) hands of her maid, who prims, "And for the coiffe, mum?" in precise English clip.
James thinks he hears his mother's voice down the hall, which is just plain foolishness; the miserable termagant's been dead two decades yet, though he imagines she'd make a special trip up from whatever hell she's found to witness this.
***
He can't for the life of him remember why he's agreed.
"Because you love him," Elizabeth says, and James has a horrible feeling he's been rambling all afternoon.
Also, that he should apologize again.
He was very much an arse when he left last.
***
"No," Jack says when he sees him. James wants to say that's surprising, but he begins to believe Jack's going to muck with his head until the only surprise in his days is when Sparrow does the expected. He's practicing his sarcasm, just in case. ("What, ho! We're not about to violate basic tenets of the British Empire, several of her sister nations, and at least four theocracies? We can't have that, Sparrow, it's simply not fitting, however will the theocracies find new heathens to condemn to... heathenry... without you?") And yet, he's left speechless at the thought that Jack's knowingly left him with Elizabeth, by all that's holy, for this, which obviously isn't, and if this is some bloody trick of Jack's, James plans to kill him. Possibly by ingenious use of lady's fashions.
He quite nearly regrets declining her offer of a parasol, until he remembers he was once a Commodore in His Majesty's Service, that he's still a man, and that a Turner brolly will no doubt lack the intrinsic usefulness and craftsmanship of a Turner blade.
So instead of throttling the man who's so obviously earned it—and yes, in partial acknowledgement of his stomacher, because nothing as evil as corsetry seems should be easily dismissed—James dips his head for battle, a ram's charge, and ignoring the fact that he's jabbed himself on lace again, he drawls, "No?" as maliciously as he can.
Which, granted, is likely less menacing than it might be were he otherwise attired.
Jack blinks a bit. Shakes his head like a mad thing, like a man possessed, and waves his hands as though warding James off. Which, yes, would be call for that parasol, really.
"Strumpet," Jack hisses. "Wench. Not... that."
James's bloodlust approaches vampiric, stymied only by his reluctance to ruin Elizabeth's gown.
Or, ahem, smear his lip paint, which Elizabeth has assured him was part of Jack's request.
"Reciprocal frocking," James says, and oh, how he'd love to advance slowly, to give Jack Sparrow the right menacing he so deserves. He begins to see how the ladies he's known have become so adroit at speaking through flutters and cuts direct; there's no purpose in gratuitous motion, not when he's found an angle that both lets him breathe somewhat regularly and doesn't pinch beyond bearing. "Reciprocal frocking, hang you. And I. Am. Frocked."
***
Jack goes back to the blinking, a hazy sort of stare that's both intense and unfocused. James wants to think that's lust in those dark eyes but honestly, at this point, he's not sure the thumping in Jack Sparrow's future involves much in the way of lecherous touching.
"Don't look frocked," Jack speaks as a petulant child. "Me, I wear some bit of muslin you throw over me hips anytime you please but you, Christ," and Jack trails off. Swallows hard and looks away. It's long, breathless moments before he looks back and yes, it's only half the stomacher's fault James can't breathe because Jack sounds so... lost. When Jack looks back, that's precisely what James finds in his eyes. "James, I've a head of plans for what I'll do with you when I've got you frocked, aye? And I can't do any of them while you look like that, savvy?"
It is, James knows, his gorilla arms. Not much can kill Jack's enthusiasm for bedplay, James knows that from experience, but he has strongly suspected this might do it. He crosses his arms across his middle, careful not to prod at his bloody stomacher and accidentally wind himself, and angles his treacherous limbs so they appear somewhat less simian, tugging at the cloth at his elbows for good measure.
He hasn't expected to meet Jack's measure in this, has in fact explicitly explained his theory that he's not built for such things, but in the face of Jack's enthusiasm, he has caved. Cast his lot to the fates and Jack Sparrow's libido, which, alas, collides with James's unfortunate nature.
He wonders if it's the dress that makes him flush this hard, that makes him desperate to crawl back behind the changing screen and hide from Jack's disinterested eyes.
Christ, now he bloody sounds like the bloody Pirate Queen, which is horrid beyond belief.
"I told you," he says, caught between blame and shame, a combination he intends to drown on whatever disgusting swill he can next lay hands on. Especially if it's Jack's rum because for this, he feels himself owed. "I bloody told you, Jack. I am not built for this, you bastard, and I told you I'd look ridiculous, and you wouldn't bloody listen. And... and... I can't get myself out of this, you bloody ridiculous bastard, so if you're quite finished mocking me, get your Lord forsaken piratey arse over here and unlace me before I expire."
Jack pales. Gawps, which is oh-so-flattering, but before James can unleash another volley of humiliated venom, Jack's across the room, and doesn't that just figure?
"No," Jack says, but it's different. Pleading, almost, and when James really looks at the man reaching to hold his face, that's all he sees. "No, leave it."
James flinches. Tugs at his sleeves again and winces when he realizes how easily they'd tear under any sort of manhandling. He's half-surprised he hasn't destroyed this gown already in his lack of womanly softness.
"I understand, Jack, really I do. You wanted to... I ask this of you sometimes, and you always do, and you're beautiful that way, really you are. And you wanted to... you wanted your own back, yes? A chance to turn the tables, I suppose, and we are because how could I not? But it's not right, is it? Not what you thought it would be, so that's... " James sucks in a breath. Blows it out in frustration at how bloody difficult breathing is like this, and gives up his favourite fantasy in the interest of fairness. "That's the end of it, then. I won't ask again."
He hates that, truly he does. Jack frocked is impossibly appealing, unmistakably male even in a jade's dress, and he moves like a whore anyway but it's so much better when he does it with his skirts up over his hips, his bodice pulled free at the neck so James can suck his collar, can bite his own pleasure into Jack's shoulder while Jack leans back and rides it out. Utterly convenient, too, just down James's breeches, up Jack's skirts, and to the bulkhead mostly, because yes, they've tried it on every surface in their quarters which might hold them but there's something impossibly right about fucking Jack through his skirts against the wall, like some manic sort of newlywed.
They've done it so often, done it so well, that it seems only natural Jack would want to try it from the other side of things, so to speak. Jack's a bloody cocktease in that skirt, all swift brushes of flirtation and sly, sidelong looks, and when James's control snaps, it does so without warning. Why Jack skirts up already slick, James supposes, and remembers with new regret something else he's neglected. Though honestly, it wasn't as though he could ask Elizabeth where she keeps her oil.
And... and...
And Jack's murmuring something, several somethings, which may involve the word, "pretty" and may involve the word, "lovely" and which most certainly involves the word, "lady". Only, in Jack's mouth, that word's not as obscenely wrong as James thinks it should be.
He frowns. "You're not unlacing."
Jack kisses him. Holds his face still, gentle as a lamb, and it's something soft and sweet, this kiss, nothing at all like James's frock-mauling.
James melts into it because it's Jack, who apparently still wants to kiss him even though he has gorilla arms and the inability to move.
"Wanted m' wenchy James," Jack says when he's tipped his forehead to James's. "Wanted an absolute trollop, because when I... I've seen you, Commodore," which is how James comes to believe Jack really means this; he only calls James Commodore when he's being sweetly solemn, as though it's a reminder to Jack of what James has given up for him. As though it's a reminder to James that Jack won't ever forget it. "I've seen you, luv. How fast it hits you, what it does. You're all hands, Commodore, in no way what's fit for company, savvy? And you... " Jack's mouth is smeared with too-red lip paint, which makes his swipe of tongue over said mouth obscene in a very good way. Hell, James thinks, must have Jack Sparrow and lip paint because it's pure bloody temptation. Then Jack mouths his jaw, likely smears the rouge there, too, and James doesn't care because it's affectionate Jack so the rest of the world can hang itself for all James cares. Jack's fingers tangle in James's hair, fist there in tension, and Jack licks a stripe of slickness up James's throat and when he gets to James's ear, he says, "You make me your whore, James, every bloody time, s'only right I get t' do it back, aye?" in a rasp that's all smoke-addled seduction.
***
Corset be damned, James's knees wobble.
***
"And I can't," Jack says between sucks on James's ear. "I bloody can't because y' don't look like a whore, do you, pretty?" Jack's hands are warm at his back, and James doesn't know when they left his hair but Jack's sucking and biting and Christ, James has to touch, too, to steady himself, so he drops his hands to Jack's waist with but a fleeting thought for how he's put his gorilla arms on display. "No, Commodore, you've got to be the only man I know who'd put on a bloody frock and look like a bloody lady."
"But I have lip paint." Surely even Jack knows society ladies don't wear that; Elizabeth has been quite clear on that.
"And you still look like a bloody lady," Jack insists. "Far too fine for the likes of me, savvy?"
James considers this, then peers a challenge at Jack's uncommonly earnest face. Jack Sparrow honestly earnest; the dress works miracles.
"Do you feel yourself beyond a rousing game of lecherous pirate and wanton society miss, then?"
And that... that's when Jack attacks.
***
"Bloody thing, s' an ocean of skirts you've got here, Missus Commodore," Jack swears, swatting the silk up with rather less finesse than James has assumed.
"Yes, well, they tell me that's what all the fashionable ladies of London are wearing," James says. Bats his eyes in blatant coquetry when Jack looks up, and the look on Jack's face must be glazed, unrelenting lust, because he falls on those skirts like they're the greatest scourge of his time. James feels he should save some of this vigor for the corset but honestly, it's all too endearing to interrupt. Jack Sparrow, sometime Pirate King, done in by skirts.
James raises his (gorilla) arms to give Jack space but does not offer to hold said skirts up, as he's both fond of Jack's manic batting and disinclined to aid until he's forced by request.
***
"I am not a girl," he says with disdainful clarity.
Jack thunks into the wall beside him, a lecherous swoop which perfectly matches the hellbound waggle of the man's brow and the saucy quirk of his lips. "S'half the fun right there, innit?"
"You, sir, are an appalling influence, and I'll thank you to keep your distance from the impressionable young ladies of decent society."
"And leave me all by me onesie?" Jack clucks mild chide. "Where's the fun in that, I wonder?"
"I'm sure you'll find something else to occupy your time here. You seem—" James's breath catches as Jack strokes a finger over his cheek, rubs a thumb over his lower lip's paint which begs for a mutilated kiss. Jack chuckles. Licks the spot of wetness on his thumb and offers a bloody-coloured smile.
"Aye?"
"You seem most resourceful," James finishes, and he flattens himself as much as he can to give Jack room to play.
***
Jack explores the curious barings of James's borrowed neckline, fingers and lips and secreting tongue. James finds it all quite disconcerting, how easily he angles his face to give greater access, how gently Jack sweeps over such familiar terrain. James winds his fingers in under the thick fall of hair covering the base of Jack's skull, and when Jack sucks softly, ignores a history of bites and gnaws and bruises between them, James curls in to claw.
Jack lifts from his mouthing and when James looks down, there's those big, glassy eyes to meet, and Jack says, "S'good, aye?"
James nods, ever-cautious of their position. "Good, yes."
***
"Y'said there'd be wantoning," Jack accuses, pointed finger and all. "Not a girl, aye, but not much of a wanton yet, either, savvy?"
James rakes him with the cool, coy speculation he's seen on many a society jade. "Perhaps, Captain, that's because there's not been much rousing as yet."
There is no way Jack can resist that, no way at all, and James is not surprised when the man's face shadows intensity, eyes light conviction, hand pressing James's bodice and sliding down oh-so-lamentably-slow on an obvious course to proof of James's lie. When Jack finds him hard through his skirts, Jack cups through them, holds in possession, and James's eyes flutter closed all of their own. No coyness, not like this, and he thinks Jack knows it because Jack breathes heavy against James's neck, just leans into him in unrelenting heat and inescapable promise.
"Too many bloody skirts," Jack says again and, "Moan for me, Commodore, like t' hear when it's working, aye?" and, "Christ Jesus, you're so fucking hard already, y'must like the skirt after all, aye?"
There are, perhaps understandably, a litany of things James wants to say back, most of them presently impossible in the bind of his frock, but moan he can do, so he does.
***
James recalls the delight in unlacing something of a lady's bodice, freeing her chest as pivotal step in seduction. He recalls it's less a thing done with ladies, per se, than with willing tumbles, who aren't precisely ladylike in nature by tradition, and he knows what he does with Jack frocked bears little resemblance to anything he's done with the softer sex because with Jack, it's all fast, flurried pulls and sharpness, the delicious contrast of the roughness of men against the softness of feminine attire.
It's that he can yank up Jack's skirts without apology or anything approaching civility, that he can shove back and thrust hard and just bloody enjoy careless use because he knows Jack won't break under it, won't even think less of him for it, even if he tears the frock to shreds in his impatience.
Perhaps he's wrong in this—statistically, he must be—but he's yet to meet a woman as capable of enjoying a stringless fuck for its own sake without seeking romance or repayment for it.
He knows no one as carelessly hedonistic as Jack Sparrow in sex and he prays to all manner of deities he's not required to search one out.
Jack, apparently, has other ideas of the appeal in their situation, because he's not tearing at James's gown so much as he's carefully pulling at it, prying it down and away and off, and where James not so attuned to the wandering play of Jack's hands pressing against his corset as they skim his spine, he might well think it magic when Jack's beard scrapes his nipple.
Jesus, that's good. Better than it has any right being, he's certain, he's absolutely never this sensitive.
He squirms into Jack, tries to push and grind and something, some kind of pressure on his cock pleasegodplease, because he'll be damned if he's making these sorts of noises and embarrassing himself with early release over nothing but Jack's devilish mouth on his chest, of all things. His honour requires at least some attention paid his prick, even if only in passing.
"Easy, Commodore—Missus Commodore," Jack says, then bites careful over his nipple and bloody tugs in what might be the prelude to pain were it not so infernally good.
There is absolutely no dignity in how much James likes hearing that tone speak those words, or the, "Easy, luv, easy, just starting, wanton, not strumpet, aye?" which follows.
***
"Good Lord, Sparrow, the paint's made an awful mess." James has no immediate recollection of it being so... transferable... on the mouths of the tawdry and tarted, though he doubts Jack can say the same. They have apparently graduated from a different class of hookers to their present position, and he has to wonder who saw this coming. If not Elizabeth or Anamaria, then no one, he suspects. "Whatever possessed you to include it?"
He anticipates Jack reminding him of his unexpected missishness, but instead, he receives a leering, "Thought it'd look nice ringed about me cock," which startles a snorted laugh from him.
"Oh, did you?"
There's a certain appeal in the image, but there'll be no such bending in the bloody stomacher, and while he searches a way to explain as much, Jack says, "Now, I'm thinking, s'not you who'll be bending," and before James can process the change, Jack's disappeared under too much skirt.
And, Christ, they'll bloody ruin the gown before they're done, because Jack's mouth is on him so fast and James needs to see it and there's bloody skirts in the way, and even James lacks this sort of patience.
He pulls at the silk hard and focused, stops to whine and thrust when Jack uses teeth to jolt him, then starts again until he's at least bared the dip of Jack's back.
The noises he makes aren't ladylike at all.
***
Jack's tongue is wicked, which anyone who's met the man already knows, but Jack's mouth is filthy, damnedably nigh-depraved when he chooses, and James's hands fall to the bobbing bulge of fabric which must be Jack's head when Jack so obviously chooses.
There's soft and wet and warm and suction, the threat of teeth and the prod of tongue, and it's so calamitously Jack in sentiment that James arches into nothing and groans. In lieu of direct visual, James's mind provides memory, Jack's mouth stretching, the slick of saliva and his own clear fluid when Jack draws back.
It's glorious and he's so close, Jack's sucking his restraint and his misgivings and his bloody thoughts about his bloody gorilla arms right out of him, and obviously it's not meant to stop.
So, of course, it does.
James feels it perfectly acceptable under the circumstances to curse unladylike and wobble his protest.
Jack's head darts out from beneath too much bloody silk and he grins yet more wickedness. James attempts rebuke because honestly, so close, but Jack says, "You'll want t' find yourself a wall, then, Missus Commodore," and James thinks, thank Christ, the frocking, and Jack says, "Face first, if you please," in a way that's not request at all, and swats James's arse for good measure.
***
James lacks words; he's apparently fallen to incomprehensible babbling, his vocabulary ripped from him upon the realization that Jack has far greater self control than James does himself, because James is sure there'd be fucking by now were their positions reversed—frocking, Jack's taken to calling it, always with that impossible leer which speaks volumes in a single look about Jack's opinions on the matter—but Jack, having finally acquired himself one reciprocal frocking, has not as yet deigned to said frocking.
No, he has instead prolonged his teasing, licked wide, wet stripes along James's crease and brushed sweet, delicate kisses over James's arse and lapped kittenish James's ring. Said things like, "Not wet for me yet, luv? M'losing m' touch with the ladies then, aye? Givvus a minute," and bloody gone at the hidden skin of James's hole as though it's territory to be claimed.
Like Jack doesn't already own that skin.
James wants to bear down on Jack's tongue when it probes, wants to bite bloody moons into his gorilla arms—currently folded and bracing against the wall, elbow-to-wrist, fists clenched, as meager protection from knocking himself silly on said wall when he can't keep himself up properly—and snap, "Bloody hell, Sparrow, I am not self-lubricating, I am not a woman."
Only, well, he's lost his vocabulary and his ability to keep himself reliably from mashing his forehead against the wall when his elbows refuse to lock for their shaking, and there's sucking at his arse and tongue and fingers and he's already stretched and soft, ready for the taking, and Jack's not bloody taking, he's bloody sucking, and James has clearly lost his grasp on sanity, as well, because this is not new, this is not a thing which should dissemble him so.
And yet.
So he tries to snap, "Jesusfuck, Jack, just do it already," but it sounds like, "Nngh, unnnh, guungh," and he tries to reach down to stroke himself because he needs it, he's so close, and all he accomplishes for his efforts is that his head slips from its tenuous stop on his gorilla arms to hang limp resignation.
Jack's hand, spit-slick from its time in James's arse, no doubt, pushes over the soft flesh betwixt arse and balls, then it's ringing his cock like it's meant to and jesusgodyes there's to be stroking.
But that there isn't.
Instead, there's a tight ring of fingers clamping down, stopping him, and he jerks his hips in protest because if the Good Lord has maintained his omnipotent survey of the scene, He's well aware James's vocabulary has fled and, "Nngh, unnnh, guungh," may be expressive but clear it is not.
Through his bloody haze of frustration, he hears Jack laughing.
***
"Easy, luv, easy," Jack says as he curls into James's back. "I'm not going to hurt you, you know that, aye?"
James feels Jack's alignment, feels him sink in, and James can't do more than press his cheek to the wall, palms flat beside him, and let it happen.
Jack noses in over the crook of his shoulder, nose-tip to cheek, and hitches his hips to seat himself fully. His hands hold James's waist, fingers splayed under that fall of silk between them, and were they both naked, James can't imagine feeling closer to the man. They're not, though; James's impatience has seen to that, because when Jack offered a proper unlacing and a turn on the bed, James thought of how long it took Elizabeth and her maid to help him dress, which proved too much.
For Jack Sparrow, James has precious little patience.
***
It is not the most pleasurable sex they've had, as it's hardly the most comfortable position and there is still the corset to consider.
***
So instead of Jack's warmth behind him, James feels solidity and cloth, a sweatless form that sometimes rubs wrong against his corset, which remains loosened but present.
The stretch, though, there's no mistaking that.
***
It is not the most eager sex they've had, as it's hard to top the manic days after James joined the crew, when all it took was a shift of breeze to send them both scrambling.
***
"S'alright, this?" Jack asks, and James nods. Shaky, but there. Jack drops his face to James's shoulder, rests his mouth there. It's not a kiss. James thinks they're beyond that, anyway, kissing.
"S'fine. Mmm. S'good, actually. Nice."
He watches Jack's mouth until he realizes he can watch Jack's eyes instead. Only just and even then, sporadic; he strains to do it, but he can't look away.
***
It's not the fastest or the roughest or the best; not the slowest or the sweetest or the worst.
***
Jack quickens his pace, squeezes James's hands in some strange, Sparrow protection, and dimly James knows this but he's too busy thinking about how Jack's gaze hasn't moved, not in ages, how he's still watching James.
***
It is quite clearly atypical, as there's been lip paint and no sign of their Pearl, James in a frock and Jack rendered speechless. Any of these things is markedly different, but the combination, James feels, is nigh-unimaginable.
***
He's surrounded in silk and stroking, Jack's hand at his cock, Jack's cock in his arse, Jack's nose at his cheek, Jack's chest at his spine. They are so very neatly slotted, such a precise fit, and that's certainly their own doing, because it doesn't appear to matter who's frocking whom to achieve it. James's every thrust, smallish on account of the close confines between Jack and a hard place, pushes him deeper, warm solid body molding to his, and when Jack sinks in counterpoint, James's whole front rubs the wall through his silks.
There is, he decides, not so much atypical about this, after all.
***
Nor, he imagines, is it their most inventive endeavour, as it's Jack Sparrow, who plots as he breathes, though James thinks it's certainly likely to make the list.
***
"Suitably wench for you?"
"Queen," Jack corrects.
"Queen Missus Commodore?" There's not much room to move, not for how he's pinned, but he tries because it's Jack, so it's never enough, not close enough or hard enough or long enough. "That's a stretch, even for you."
***
What it is, what the frocking really is, is Jack being Jack and James being James, as different and normal and perverse and enthralled as ever they are.
It's Jack speaking softly and James leaning back, hands finding each other as they build to breathless, whimpering break.
It's ridiculous things which make too much sense, Jack's Commodore in silk and James's pirate in patience; it's slow and awkward and endearing despite all that.
And somehow, it's pretty bloody perfect, despite the gorilla arms and the blasted stomacher.
It is, in a word, reciprocity.
~fin~
Leave a Comment
Read Comments
Disclaimer: All characters from the Pirates of the Caribbean universe are the property of Disney et al, and the actors who portrayed them. Neither the authors and artists hosted on this website nor the maintainers profit from the content of this site.
All content is copyrighted by its creator.
|
|
|
