Jack cast an eye over the captain's table. His table. Lamplight glimmered on the fine, ornate silver he'd acquired from a merchant vessel last month. There was mutton, and pork, and goat. The claret was uncorked, perfuming the air.

And Jack... Jack was clad in a lady's fine crimson silk dress.

He looked down at himself and grinned. The silk rustled stiffly. It had been difficult to lace the dress, but Jack was supple and nothing if not persistent. Even though he suspected that it wouldn't stay laced for very long.

A rush of heat went through him, head to toe, as he remembered Barbossa's promises. Threats? No, Jack preferred to think of them as promises, though Barbossa's sheer intensity might end up being too much, after all.

Jack was looking forward to finding out just how much of Barbossa was enough.

It was one thing for two men, two mates, to give each other a little help of a night; hands on each other's cocks, breath panting in identical rhythms, and a jug or two of rum afterwards to mark the occasion. Everyone did it. It was commonplace. But what his First Mate had been offering, there on the deck of the Black Pearl as the crew prised open chest after chest of loot from their latest prey, was something quite different.

One glance from Barbossa had been enough to remind Jack of the night when Barbossa had told him he was as pretty as a girl. He couldn't recall, now, whether it was rum or sheer recklessness that had made him lean up against Barbossa.

"Tell me what you'd do if I were truly a girl," he'd murmured.

And Barbossa had told him.

The thought had made Jack hard, out on deck with the Pearl's crew all around him and Barbossa, with an armful of crimson silk, sliding him that knowing sideways look. It made him hard now. There was a gilt-framed mirror nailed to the wall opposite the great stern windows, and it showed him the fey glitter of his own dark eyes, and the flush of colour in his face. He'd shaved again this evening, grimly scraping away at the beginnings of beard as he braced himself against the Pearl's gentle sway. Now he looked absurdly young, and... perhaps Barbossa had the right of it: pretty.

Jack blew a kiss at his reflection, and grinned at the sight.

Came a knocking at the door.

"Who is it?" called Jack, not bothering to affect a different voice.

"'Tis I." The rich, unmistakable voice of the Black Pearl's first mate.

Jack lifted the latch and let him in, then fastened the door securely. Wouldn't do to be disturbed, not tonight.

He turned back slowly, relishing Barbossa's gaze.

"Very pretty, Jack," said Barbossa, leering. Jack simpered again and the leer cracked into a broad smile.

"You're very kind, sir," Jack managed, in a passably boyish imitation of the lass at the Faithful Bride. He looked up at Barbossa from under his eyelashes. It helped that Barbossa loomed over him; easier to relax into the game, to let himself be mastered.

Barbossa chuckled. "Very pretty," he said again, drawing out the vowels. "Come here, pretty thing."

It wasn't the first time that Jack had dressed as a woman. With his slight build and good bones, he could pass for a girl—if only a tall, bony, awkward girl. Now he found himself thinking about how women moved; the sway and slide, the hesitancy. He went to Barbossa's side slowly, with the crimson silk dragging around his bare legs.

"How about a kiss?" said Barbossa, leaning down towards Jack.

"Aye," said Jack, and before he could raise his head Barbossa's mouth was on his, greedy and urgent, forcing his lips apart. Jack's hands came up, but Barbossa's arm was around his waist, and his other hand was pressing hard against the base of Jack's skull, pressing him into the kiss.

Jack let himself relax. They had kissed before, in stolen moments when there was no time for much else, but never quite like this. Barbossa was kissing him; he was being kissed. There was nothing equal or friendly about this kiss. It was about wanting, and taking, and claiming. Jack moaned into Barbossa's mouth, hardening under the crimson silk.

At last, too soon, Barbossa's mouth left him. Jack gasped for breath, leaning into the First Mate's surprising caress as Barbossa stroked Jack's smooth-shaven jaw.

"Pretty like a girl," he murmured. His thumb pushed against Jack's sore lips, and Jack let his tongue lap at it.

"Mmm," said Barbossa; then his other hand was on Jack's shoulder, pressing him down; and Jack, caught between thrill and outrage, knelt.

He'd fooled around like this before, give-and-take with his mates between landfalls. Barbossa was different. He waited for Jack to fumble with the lacing of his breeches, hand petting the curve of Jack's throat as though he were a dog. When Jack pressed the heel of his hand against the bulge of Barbossa's erection, he sighed.

Jack wanted to touch himself, too: he wore nothing beneath the dress, and the silk was sliding against his own hard cock, an exquisite tease. That, and the feel of Barbossa's cock in his hand, as hard and hot and velvet-skinned as his own would be, was enough to make him moan.

The taste was both familiar and strange, and the press of Barbossa's broad hand against his scalp was like nothing else he'd ever felt. Jack moaned again, and licked along Barbossa's cock from root to head. He tried to pull back, just to feel the tightening of Barbossa's hand, holding him in place. Jack spread his knees wider—wished he'd thought to lay a rug on the rough boards—and leant in, hollowing his tongue against the hot shaft. Shouldn't be so aroused by doing this to someone else, and he was sure Barbossa had no intention of reciprocating: but the silk brushing his cock, the hard hand cradling his skull, the splinters in his knees and the taste and the push of Barbossa's cock against the roof of his mouth—everything felt too real, almost too much.

"That's good, Jack, good..." Barbossa was murmuring from somewhere above him. Jack steadied himself with a hand behind Barbossa's knee—easy, now, to bring him down; the thought came from nowhere and made him smile around the thick shaft in his mouth—and snaked his other hand into Barbossa's breeches, fingertips stretching to stroke his tightening balls.

Barbossa's fingers twisted a handful of hair, and Jack would have pulled back, would have yowled, would have—but Barbossa's cock was right down his throat now, and he could feel Barbossa coming, hot and slick and too deep to taste. Jack struggled, gagging, pulse thundering behind his eyes, and at last Barbossa's hold loosened.

He knelt and gasped for air, and the rank, salty smell of semen on his own breath made his cock twitch in sympathy.

Then Barbossa was pulling him up, stroking slowly down across Jack's chest and his ribs.

"Takin' to it very nicely," he said, voice low in Jack's ear, and Jack moaned again. "Slut."

Barbossa kissed him again, and Jack wondered how much of this was the game, and how much... Well. No matter. He undulated against Barbossa, painfully hard, letting the First Mate fuck his mouth with his tongue, still feeling the stretch of his cock.

"Well, Jack," said Barbossa genially, breaking the kiss at last. "Shall we dine?"

Jack narrowed his eyes and glared. "Is there something you're forgetting?"

Barbossa made a show of musing as he laced his breeches. "No, Jack, I don't think there is," he said at last, turning and seating himself at one end of the table. Jack, scowling, made to move past, but Barbossa's arm caught him around the waist and pulled him close. Jack had seen him do this to serving-girls in taverns; he'd done it himself, laughing. Never thought about that brief moment of imbalance, of panic. Never thought—

"Now, pretty thing, won't you sit here with me?" Barbossa invited, licking his lips.

Jack found himself swaying precariously on Barbossa's lap, one bare foot on the floorboards for balance. Barbossa had an arm around his waist, holding him in place, as his free hand pushed down under the lacy neckline of Jack's dress, sliding over his chest. Barbossa was sucking hard at the side of Jack's throat, and Jack moaned at the notion of that mouth on his cock. He was so hard it hurt, and every movement rubbed the cool silk against his arousal. Barbossa tweaked a nipple, and he gasped and arched against the small sharp pain.

"You're very pretty like this, Jack. All yielding and... sensitive." Barbossa leered, and swiped his tongue along the seam of Jack's lips. "Are ye sure you're not a girl?"

"Why don't you find out for yourself?" suggested Jack, wriggling provocatively. He cast Barbossa a sultry look from under lowered eyelashes, and the way the First Mate looked back at him made Jack swallow a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

A beaded lock brushed against the wet skin on his throat where Barbossa had licked. Barbossa's hand had left his waist—Jack swayed, and slung an arm around Barbossa's neck—and was making its way slowly around the curve of his hip, down along his thigh. He could feel Barbossa getting hard again against his hip, and he turned to kiss the other man, tongue pushing gently at Barbossa's lips.

Barbossa laughed into the kiss. "Never thought you'd be like this, Jack." He bent forward, almost dislodging Jack, and hitched his hand under the hem of the dress, lifting it higher as he sat back into his chair.

"Let's see what this lovely thing is hidin', shall we?" said Barbossa, still merry. Jack sighed at the feeling of Barbossa's hand, and the silk, sliding up his leg, up past his knee.

"Tell me what you want, Jack," Barbossa whispered into his ear.

Something about his voice sent a chill down Jack's spine, despite the heat radiating from both their bodies.

"I'd like to enjoy this as much as you're enjoying it," he said reprovingly, tilting his head back to look Barbossa straight in the eye. This was beginning to feel less like a game, more like...

Then Barbossa's thick, strong fingers met his cock, and Jack swore urgently, vision blurring.

"What is it that you want, Jack?" Barbossa asked him again, with a slow twist that made Jack moan.

"That," he managed, and, "More." His head was back on Barbossa's shoulder, sweat springing around his hairline, and Barbossa's left hand was roaming down the front of the dress again, pinching and teasing, making him writhe more.

"By all means," said Barbossa agreeably, and his hand was a hot tunnel that Jack could not help but pump into, even while a small cold part of his mind stood aside and mocked him for putting himself at Barbossa's mercy.

The lamplight was blurring and dazzling, and setting fire to everything, and he could smell the claret and the musky smell of his own sweat, and the distinct, raw smell of Barbossa's arousal. Suddenly all the desire coiled inside his belly unwound itself and surged out of him, and he was coming hard into Barbossa's hand, gasping for air, hiding...

Head down, his long dark hair a curtain to hide behind, because even at this moment he didn't quite trust Barbossa; he didn't want Barbossa to see him this open, this vulnerable.

Interesting, thought Jack, moaning softly as Barbossa let his softening prick fall. It was already too late to take control; but next time, next time he'd make sure that the game was fairer.

Then Barbossa's fingers were against his lips, warm and sticky and salty, and Barbossa was saying, "Best clean me up afore we dine, eh, slut?"

And whatever mistakes he'd made, this was still more arousing than anything had been for a long time. Jack stuck his tongue out and lapped at Barbossa's hand, tasting himself. He flicked a stray lock of hair out of the way. Barbossa's hand was stroking across his waist, the way he'd caress the Black Pearl's wheel or a fine piece of carving: learning the shape of it, over and over, with his hand.

"Nice," purred Jack, holding daintily onto Barbossa's wrist as he curled his tongue around each finger in turn. The corners of his mouth hurt from stretching around Barbossa's cock, and his throat was sore, but his body was still humming with Barbossa's proximity. And there was dinner. And wine.

"Some claret, Jack?" said Barbossa, pouring him a tumbler-full. There was mockery in that smile, but that wasn't all; there was the complicity, the shared joke, as well, and Jack smiled back.

He thought to stand up, but Barbossa pulled him back down, closer this time, so that Barbossa's renewed erection was rubbing against his arse. Jack thought of Barbossa's other promises, and suppressed a moan.

"D'ye fancy some of that, Jack?" said Barbossa, and there was no mistaking the eagerness in his voice.

"I do," said Jack, and he didn't try to hide his own enthusiasm. "But I'm hungry. What say—"

"What say you just sit there and make yourself ready," said Barbossa, voice not quite a growl, "and I'll feed you with me own fair hand? What say ye to that, Jack?"

His hand tightened on Jack's neck, and Jack swallowed. The thought of it set him hardening again, and—even mistrusting the man's reasons—he trusted the First Mate in this.

"Aye," he said softly, pushing back against Barbossa. "But give me more wine, first? My mouth's dry."

"Oh, I've a remedy for that," said Barbossa, grinning, and Jack couldn't help but smile back as Barbossa refilled his glass and handed it to him.

He had a feeling that Barbossa had outplayed him. It might take some time to live this down. But he'd be damned if he backed out now, nerves still ajangle with excitement. And Barbossa was excited too: excited enough that he'd be easy to play...

Jack took another swig of the claret, and watched Barbossa, one-handed, spear a morsel of meat in a sticky red sauce. One for himself, first: then one for Jack, who made sure to catch the dripping sauce with a swipe of his tongue. Barbossa fed him with his fingers after that, humming appreciation as Jack sucked and licked ever more elaborately, cleaning every trace of spice and wine from Barbossa's rough, salty, rope-burnt skin.

"Glad to see you don't bite, Jack," said Barbossa, bringing another scrap of mutton in pale, creamy sauce to Jack's lips.

Jack licked, swallowed, and bared his teeth. "I'll bite if you ask me nicely," he murmured.

"Oh, you'll be the one beggin' me for what you need."

Barbossa's chuckle set Jack's spine tingling with apprehension. "I'll beg you for more wine," he said sweetly, plastering a smile over his reaction. "And I'll trouble you to pass the butter."

"The butter," said Barbossa slowly, frowning: then the frown became a broad toothy smile, and he slid the silver dish across the table until it was just within Jack's reach.

"The wine?" Jack reminded him. The claret was beginning to blur the edges of his vision, a lovely warm glow that was the colour of candlelight, and he could feel his muscles lengthening and relaxing.

Barbossa laughed, and refilled his glass again. "Second thoughts, Jack?"

"Not at all," said Jack archly, rocking forward to shake free the crushed silk between himself and Barbossa. Now he could feel the rough cloth of Barbossa's breeches against his own bare skin, and he writhed a little, just for the sensation. "I have every intention of enjoying myself. To the... full," he added, shooting a hot look at Barbossa from under his lashes.

Barbossa blinked slowly, and gulped more wine. His face was flushed, and his hand slid back up across Jack's hip, pulling him closer. He watched Jack from half-closed eyes, and his expression sent the blood rushing to Jack's groin.

This was easy.

If he let himself relax too much, though, he'd never regain the upper hand. And there were plenty of reasons for going ahead with this, not least of which was sheer desire. Jack could feel the heat of Barbossa's erection pressing against him through Barbossa's breeches and the crimson silk, and even the press of Barbossa's hand against his waist was more erotic than repressive. And, damn it, he'd dreamt of this, ever since that night; dreamt (waking or sleeping) of giving it up, letting his First Mate take control...

That thought, that memory, made the slight pain pleasurable when he pushed the first buttered finger inside himself. One, then two, opening and stretching: not too much, not too soon, and he bit his lip at the feel of tight muscle rippling around his fingers. Barbossa's mouth was slightly open, tongue stroking along his lips, and Jack wanted to lean forward and tease that tongue with his own, forcing Barbossa to watch while he slid his own fingers up and around and in, making Barbossa wait while Jack took his own sweet time. But that would be too easy, and they were both aroused and ready. Jack's cock was starting to ache, and his body wanted something bigger than a finger to stretch and tighten around.

Wanted to be taken, boarded, manned. Just like a Tortuga whore.

Jack grinned, and slicked his fingers again—more for show than anything—and hitched himself up until he could swing a leg over and straddle Barbossa's lap. Barbossa's hand slid across the crimson silk, across Jack's body, and Jack let himself push against it: because, after all, he did mean to enjoy himself tonight, and Barbossa was looking at him hungrily, almost as though this was the first time he'd had anyone at all.

"Jack..."

Jack smiled and leant in to swipe his tongue across Barbossa's neck, where sweat gleamed in the soft light.

"Something you wanted?" he asked, swaying upright again as Barbossa moved to kiss him. His hands were busy again at Barbossa's waist, and his right foot was firmly on the floor: safe. He freed Barbossa's cock, hands still smooth with butter, and gave it one long stroke.

Barbossa made a deep rumbling noise, almost a growl, and brought his other hand up to Jack's waist. "Turn around," he suggested.

"I'm good here," said Jack, with a conciliatory smile.

Perhaps it hadn't been merely a suggestion. Barbossa frowned, and his hands tightened on Jack's waist.

"Wait!" snapped Jack. Quickly, before Barbossa could tip him onto the floor, he swayed up above Barbossa, one hand on his shoulder for balance, the other hand holding Barbossa's hot erection steady as he let himself sink down onto it.

He bit his lip at the first sudden, shocking stretch. He wasn't ready, and it hurt, it hurt... But Barbossa wasn't pushing: he was waiting, head back, breath all ragged and quick, and the sight of him made little threads of pleasure spin themselves into the ache. Jack exhaled, tasting blood, and lowered himself a slow scant inch more.

"Mmm, Jack..." said Barbossa, low and lewd, and his hands were busy at Jack's throat again; one hand pushing down under the crimson silk to spread itself over his hot bare skin, one hand curved around Jack's neck, thumb caressing the hollow beneath his ear, and for a moment it was a pity that none of it would mean anything past tonight.

Jack's erection had softened with the discomfort of impaling himself on Barbossa's, but he was hardening again at the ungentle pressure of Barbossa's touches. Barbossa was teasing him, pinching nipples that were still sore from his earlier attentions, and spreading his wet thumb along the seam of Jack's mouth. It tasted of wine, and sauce, and a muskier salt that might have been semen. Jack's cock twitched underneath the crushed crimson silk, and he wanted to touch himself; but he was bracing himself, one-handed, against Barbossa's shoulder, while his other hand stroked, feather-light, along the part of Barbossa's hard cock that he hadn't yet taken inside.

Barbossa could feel the easing of Jack's muscles as well as he could himself. He was beginning to frown.

"Move, damn you, Jack!"

Jack rocked forward very slightly, so that Barbossa's thumb slid away along his cheek. He smiled at Barbossa, and this time it was that special smile, the smile that persuaded the most intransigent of opponents to come around to Captain Jack Sparrow's way of thinking; the smile that saved lives, won battles and blinded justice.

"Move!"

Jack narrowed his eyes, but he didn't stop smiling. Sometimes it took a while to have an effect.

"Jack..." Barbossa's hips jerked under him, trying to get deeper, and Jack braced himself and rocked back and up, lifting himself almost off Barbossa's cock.

God, he ached for it...

"Ask me nicely," he said, beaming. "And—" leaning closer "—I might."

Barbossa made an indistinct noise, somewhere between a roar and a yell; but Jack kissed him then, and the sound was lost between them.

The effort of keeping his muscles taut was making him ache as much as the need to have Barbossa's cock all the way inside him. He needed to feel Barbossa's hand—hell, his own hand—on his erection; the feeling of silk brushing and rubbing and sliding against him was torture. But Barbossa was moaning when Jack broke the kiss, and at once Jack felt steadier.

"Jack... do I have to beg ye?"

Jack slid his hand from Barbossa's shoulder, slowly, pretending to consider the question. He tightened the muscles around Barbossa's cock, and felt Barbossa twitch. Another moan.

"Yes," said Jack thoughtfully, at last. "I think you do." He was still smiling, though it felt more like a grimace; his pulse was hammering through his body, hammering so hard in his cock and his arse that he felt bruised.

But Barbossa was at his mercy. That felt very good.

"Then I'll beg ye, Jack." Barbossa sounded desperate now. "I'm beggin' ye. Move, damn you!"

Jack threw his head back, gasping, as he let himself slide onto Barbossa's erection. He couldn't fight back the groan as it filled him up, all at once, hot and broad and solid; but he could turn his face away from Barbossa, hiding, as the feeling overtook him, rushing through every inch of his body like the strongest rum.

And Barbossa was still moaning, even while he held Jack's hips still and pounded into him. Somewhere inside the bliss it hurt, and it was going to hurt a lot more tomorrow: but this was what he'd wanted, the sheer abandonment of giving up, giving in...

Jack hooked his ankle around the chair-leg and pulled himself up, away from Barbossa, for a long moment; long enough for Barbossa's hands to tighten, trying to drag him back, and for Barbossa's eyes to fix on his, and for Barbossa to gasp his name. Long enough to haul the bloody crimson silk far enough out of the way for him to put his hand on his aching cock. Long enough to slam back down, taking Barbossa deeper than before, as he pulled roughly at himself, thumb rubbing over the head, Barbossa's fingers digging into his buttocks as he pushed Jack backward, changing the angle of his thrusts, cursing as he pushed in, and in...

Jack let himself slump forward when he came, and he buried his head in the curve of Barbossa's shoulder, gasping. All his joints had turned to water, with flashes of fire where he'd already begun to ache. Barbossa's breath roared in his ear: Barbossa's hands stroked up, unnervingly gentle, across his back.

Something wrong about that. Something wrong.

He'd think about it tomorrow.

-end-


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