"Pains of love be sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are."

John Dryden, 1669


"Tis not the drinking that is to be
blamed, but the excess."

John Sheldon, 1689

Jack rolled over and tucked his leg down between two longer ones.

It was a comfort to just lie here, cheerfully unmindful of the noose and the fact that he was clearly on enemy territory. Cozening up to the very enemy himself. Who was snoring ever so slightly.

He traced a finger down the other man's side, then palmed his belly. Warm between the sheets, still sticky in places, the lingering darkness and patter of rain outside the window told him that he still had time enough this evening to take advantage at least once more if needs be.

And since he had been long at sea these last six month, needs were, to be sure.

Not that he would have thought—not even he, Captain Jack Sparrow, buccaneer, pirate, and freebooter of the first water—that such a welcome would have been awarded him here in Port Royal. Most especially by the very man who had tried to make him dance a jig upon the gallows when last they'd crossed blades with each other. Well, blades of a different sort, anyway.

But that was not a memory he cared overmuch to dwell upon, especially when there were far more pleasing ones he could conjure up. Not the least of, the memories of what they had been about these past few hours.

Making free use of both the man's home and bed and body. While granting him his own illusions of capture and punishment with the very pirate he had spent the last six month in pursuit of it seemed.

Though, not to be hanging him this time. At least, not till dawn. The usual time to see scoundrels and blackguards to their doom.

Oh, aye, tis truth. Morning might yet bring doubts and regret and a renewal of adherence to King's duty back to the Commodore's mien and a wee trip down to the gaol for yours truly, but that was also something he didn't care much to dwell upon. And, to be honest, he did not truly believe that death was in the offing when the sun finally decided to put stop to this evening.

Especially since it turned out death had not exactly been in the offing earlier this night.

Not even when he'd found a sword suddenly at his throat, and cool green eyes staring right into his. A gaze fixing him firmly in place—as if he were about to run off with his damp boots still overturned and busily smoking themselves dry before a particularly nice fire, and the rain still coming down outside, heavy and wet and hard enough to dampen the spirits of even the most seasoned of seaman.

As the man demanded, the tip of that blade pricking him the whole time, what he was doing here, when it would have been clear to anyone, to even the lowest of cack-handed lads who'd ever been pressed into His Majesties' service after a tad too much drink in some less than reputable establishment, that he was clearly here to rob the man of his best brandy.

Even if that was by sitting in an ever so comfortable chair before that ever so nice fire and drinking it straight down from the bottle.

But then nothing tasted quite so agreeable as stolen pleasures.

As this night had also proved.

The other man mumbled something and Jack buried his face into the back of his neck, inhaling the scent of powder and spicy pomade and sweat and more of that very good brandy. His prick twitched, naughty lad that it was, and he tucked himself up tighter against the other's bare backside.

Smiling a little to himself as he found himself imagining what it might be like to do even more than that.

After all, it would only be fair. And the man he was sharing this fine bed with was a fair man, was he not?

And what was that? Was the most fine and fair Commodore dreaming? And, if he were, what sort of dream might it be? For cert, he was mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like his own good name.

He cocked his head to listen, gazing fondly at the sheen of sweat upon the man's face, glistening by the light of the single candle they had left lit on the beside table, but the other man had already subsided back to deeper slumber.

Leaving him free to take advantage of another sort.

All of which entailed him slipping regretfully free of the man's bed for the nonce, followed by a skulk down the stairs on the very tips of his toes, and a meander through the kitchen and past the locked cabinet which held the man's collection of rather fine brandies, porters, and wine.

To return with a loaf of bread and a round of cheese and his arms full of clinking bottles, somehow managing to just barely hold onto all of it as he angled his way back into the room and firmly closed the door behind him with the heel of one foot. Only to look up to find those self same green eyes open and fixed on him, though this time without a sword to back up their ire. Not that they couldn't strike him clear through just fine on their own, thankee.

The bottles clinked even louder as he clenched them protectively to his chest.

"Making free, I see," the Commodore said, and his voice was flat.

"I thought a bit of a midnight repast might be in order," he replied. "All things considered..."

"Ah," Norrington said. "Yes. I should have considered that to give you an inch, Captain Sparrow, was to grant you free license to anything in my home that may catch your fancy."

"'M not a thief," he mumbled in return. "Much."

Norrington took in a deep breath and then, to Jack's relief, his face softened and those eyes turned from slate-green to a far softer and more amenable jade. Which softened even further as he trundled further into the room, bearding the dragon in his own den as it were, and gave him a steady look from beneath lowered eyelids.

"An if I were to tell ye all proper an above board what I fancy most in this your dear home," he mumbled. "Might ye see your way to granting it then, eh? For though there be pleasures enough in a spot of innocent thievery, there be other pleasures that be better still if freely given. Man to man, as it were."

"And you are a man of many pleasures, are you not... Jack..." was the reply. Said with a look that recalled just what bodily joys they had already shared. Man to man, as it were.

"No more, it seems, than your own good self," he said, moving to deposit his horde upon the foot of the well-rumpled bed. "Though rather more surprisingly."

"What?" Norrington said, one eyebrow going up in cool mockery. "Did you think me but a cipher, a trumped-up puppet in gold braid and blue yardage, rather than a man of mere flesh and blood?"

"Not so mere," Jack muttered, sliding up onto the foot of the bed himself. He opened a bottle and took a drink, finding it a fair port, then offered it to the Commodore. "Or so me backside may readily attest to."

Norrington colored slightly for a moment, but then took the bottle and a drink and followed it up with a smile that was ever so slightly saucy. Almost as good as one of Jack's best.

"And what do you 'fancy' then?" he asked, though clearly he already felt he knew at least part of the answer to that. "For, Lord knows, I may actually be foolish enough this evening to grant it."

Jack opened another bottle and took a deep draught, of a quite good brandy this time. He wiped his mouth and then stared at the other man, right into those green eyes, and they were almost as he recalled them that day on the wall of the fort. Right before he'd fallen into the drink.

Warm eyes, a little bit perturbed and a whole lot kindly, and quite unlike when they'd first looked upon him, down on the docks and with him dripping saltwater all over his hopefully soon to be betrothed.

A woman who, as of Sunday last, was soundly married to another man, and a most grand one at that, being that he had the best sort of pirate's blood in his veins. And the gift of a good hundred gold guineas, as well—left upon their bed pane this past night, before he'd found himself creeping in through yet another window and to a gift all his own.

He had intended upon simple drink, a bottle or two to tide him over before his eventual rendezvous with the Pearl... and it had seemed a lark to take said drink from the good Commodore, the spurned suitor. And then even more of a temptation to fate—upon finding no one presently at home—to take his ease in the man's own chair.

And, perhaps, he had not truly meant to stay, at least not long enough to be caught at it. But, then again, mayhap he had. It was, after all, just the sort of thing men expected of Captain Jack Sparrow, and he so hated to disappoint.

"Tis not so much to ask really," he said, to which Norrington gave a long-suffering sigh. And took another drink. "It's just that ye bein' a most fair man at heart, it seems to me that since ye've had your wicked way with me this night, might not the same be well returned afore the dawn?"

Norrington glanced at the window, but as Jack followed his gaze, all he could see was grey and gloom and the rain growing even heavier if anything.

"I had thought it closer to morning than midnight," the Commodore mused. "But then wondered that you hadn't slipped away with the dawn... and a good deal of my best silver."

"Ah," Jack said. "Ye wound me." And he took a drink to salve the pain.

"As to that..." Norrington said, even softer, looking pointedly at the jumble of bottles on his bed. "Considering, did you really feel that you had to get me drunk in order for me to oblige?"

Jack swallowed, then swallowed more of that rather fine brandy. Rum would have been better for occasions like this, but no such common drink had been to hand. Something he might have to remedy in future. That is, if there was a future beyond this rather sullen morning.

Beyond this rather bemused Commodore. Who was now carefully contemplating the mouth of his own bottle. As if expecting a spirit of another sort entire to suddenly come leaping out of it, or perhaps the answer to his question.

A question which Jack was not thinking about—well, not seriously, anyway—even though it did remind him rather of his own accusation of the young missy who had burnt his last cache of rather decent rum, but that she had not gotten him smashed in order to get into his breeches, but rather to get off the damned island. As if even one night with him were too much entire.

"Would it have worked?" he asked at the last, instead of answering.

"I," Norrington said, drawing the word out a little. "Do not indulge, Mister Sparrow. Certainly, not to the point of inebriation. Let alone to the point of losing charge of my senses. Or my common sense."

"I see," Jack said, taking another drink himself. "But then ye know not what ye're missing then, eh?"

"Waking up the morning after with a pirate in my arms, perhaps?" came the reply, bland enough, but with a hint of a smile that made it more a jest than anything else.

Jack shuffled himself back up the length of the bed, close enough that he could have kissed the man. In fact, he made as if he was about to, but then pulled back at the last possible moment. Leaving the Commodore looking both puzzled and also a wee bit disappointed, if Jack read the expression on that face aright.

"An why did ye?" he asked. "Wake up this morn with a pirate in yer arms? If'n ye did not indulge enough to take leave o' your common sense."

"Well," Norringon said. "To be perfectly clear, I found myself waking up with a pirate in my cupboards, but as I had invited him into my bed earlier in the evening that was hardly surprising."

Jack frowned, then took another drink to lubricate his thinking. "Ye didna answer me question," he pointed out. Then hooked one of his legs back over the other man's, just to make sure he had no intentions of running out on him before he did so.

Norrington took the opportunity to gaze down up and down the length of his body, almost making a production out of it, before slipping his free arm around Jack's shoulders and, almost casually, pulled the rest of him back up against him. He took another drink of his own bottle, then put it away on the bedside table. Next to the slowly guttering candle.

"And you did not see fit to answer mine," he commented. "So we are equal in our eternal mysteries, Jack Sparrow."

Jack contemplated—both the man's body pressed up alongside his own, and the thought of secrets and the keeping of them—and then raised his bottle again. "I could drink to that," he said.

But Norrington cadged the brandy and set it aside next to the porter, ignored Jack's mumbled protests and flailing hand.

"Here, now," he said. "I wasn't done with that..."

"Yes," Norrington said, quite firmly. "You were."

Followed up by a hand slipping in round the back of his neck, and hauling his head straight over for a kiss that tasted of mingled brandy and port and wet grey mornings and savagely late nights. The Commodore's mouth soft, but firm on his, and his tongue tacking into the corner of his mouth, before returning to thrust deep.

Jack kissed back, hard as you please, feeling a heat running through his veins that had very little to do with drink, but everything to do with inebriation. But then, for a man all legal and aboveboard, Norrington could kiss like the very devil when he'd a mind to. Of course, for a man in his position, going about kissing pirates wasn't very legal or aboveboard, but Jack didn't think he'd be bringing that up anytime soon. If ever at all.

Better still, to make of it what he could and enjoy himself. Which was no hardship, truly. To be forced to remain abed with such a grand specimen as the Commodore, with such a fine turn of leg he had to him and all that smooth skin to fondle and those strong sword calloused hands to touch him in return. Hands even now stroking over his own flesh, moving down to close themselves tight on his arse. As if they couldn't quite help themselves.

Oh, he did fancy the man. He fancied him something awful. Probably always had, even when the Commodore had still been intent on seeing him to his death. But then who would not fancy a man who wore his heart upon his sleeve as much as all that damned gold braid. Truly, missy Elizabeth had gone with her own heart's desire when she'd picked Will over him—and that was the right thing to do, after all—but that didn't mean that Norrington was made a lesser man for it.

Just a slightly sadder one.

And perhaps a trifle less discriminating for the nonce, considering what he had just lost but this week past...

"Jack... Jack..." Norrington murmured.

Well, at least he was not denying who he was abed with. Nor that he had desire enough for being with a man, let alone this particular man. In fact, he was fair rampant with it. Not just that swollen prick betraying him, but the way he clenched and pressed his own body tight to his and how those green eyes gleamed as he gazed at him. Dazed by lust and glazed by need and not at all uncertain about just where he most liked that lust and need to lead him.

Then Norrington, as if aware of his regard, gave a little half shrug, half smile and bent to kiss Jack briefly on the lips, before mouthing his way across one cheek and down his neck—right where the rope had once burned him—until he could lap at the very hollow of his throat.

That wet tongue sent shivers rampaging through Jack, and he felt his prick tighten even further, his hips kicking helplessly upwards.

Begods, but Norrington had already chanced across his greatest weakness. A weakness he exploited quite thoroughly, as the Commodore ever so slowly began to lick and lave his way across his chest. That clever tongue teasing as much as it seduced, until it began to tenderly slake across the musket scars upon one breast.

The noose had left no mark upon him, but death had many times before, and Norrington seemed almost intent upon seeking them out, every scar and seam upon flesh and skin and bone. That which he had seemingly ignored when first they had tumbled into each other's arms and up the stairs and into that wide cool bed. Scattering rich goose down pillows and their own clothing, will ye nill ye.

And Jack felt the ghosts of old pain as the other man explored the rough tangle of torn and badly sewn flesh upon the turn of one forearm as well, and then surrendered to the burn as he bent to the brand that marked him as what he was.

The tip of Norrington's tongue tracing out the letter. Once, twice, three times—as if imprinting the taste and texture of it upon his own mind—before he moved down to nip at his wrist, right where the pulse beat so strongly now, as if he might steal it away for himself, a thief in thought if not in deed, and finally sucked his own right thumb into his mouth. Tar and salt and stain and all.

Jack gasped, his prick jumping as a sharpish surge of sheer pleasure tore through him. Odd it seemed that so small a thing as this, a childish fascination surely... but that he could swear that Norrington's mouth was upon his privity rather than his own thumb, and then his forefinger, followed by each finger in turn, using each thoroughly indeed, as if to suck the very sea and scorn off him.

Only to turn and catch his other hand and do much the same, at least until he came at the last to the scar left across the palm. And then, without any warning, backed off entire.

Jack opened his eyes somehow—when had he closed them?—and gazed downwards. But Norrington was staring at that thin ridge of pale flesh, almost shockingly white against all the rest, and his expression was pensive.

"Commodore?" Jack asked, then swallowed at the curious hoarseness of his voice.

"With this you saved us," came the ever so quiet response, almost as if Norrington was talking to himself. "Myself and my men. That night."

Jack shook his head a little. "Twas Will's blood what broke the curse, as well ye now know."

But a narrow frown line appeared between Norrington's eyes and his grip tightened on Jack's hand, almost to the point of bruising it.

"It was you as much as he," he refuted, his voice still soft. "And I almost hanged you for it."

Jack drew in a deep breath, then reached down with his other hand to trail his fingers along the other man's chin, to gently but firmly lift his face until he could see again those storm and sea change eyes of his.

"If it helps matters any," he said. "I do not blame ye. I would not have blamed ye even if the noose had done its job."

"How can you not?" Norrington's voice was still quiet, but there was an even quieter anguish in it. As if this was a question he had asked himself, perhaps in the very dark of night, in this bed, many a time before.

Jack snorted, almost laughing, but as Norrington almost seemed to flinch, he smiled warmly instead. He tugged on the other man, guiding him back upwards on the bed until the good Commodore was lying half across him, imprisoning him upon those damp linen sheets, his smile growing even warmer as he felt the man's prick nudge wetly at his own stomach.

"Aye," he said, whisper soft, then brought their mouths close together. Near enough to kiss, but yet forgoing the pleasure. "But then I be what I am as much as ye. An if'n I do not regret overmuch, then how may ye? For in truth, Commodore, I may yet hang someday—at this very dawn mayhap, perhaps even at your own hands—and yet would think meself well served by life all the same, for the living of it."

"But how can you...?" Norrington started to say, his tone puzzled and his eyes seemingly almost haunted. As if the past six month had not even begun to erase the events of that day.

Jack shrugged, then stole a short kiss, lightly, sweetly, taking what he could take, as any pirate might.

"Death is... as well as life," he said quietly. "How may a man fear at the last what must be? What be inevitable?"

Norrington's expression grew even more pensive, even as he reached out to tweak away a tangle of braid and bead from Jack's face.

"Turner said you took the curse upon yourself. That you became for a time... as they were."

"Aye," Jack replied. "S' truth."

"You were not then tempted?"

Jack tilted his head slightly. "To remain as I was then? The immortal Captain Jack Sparrow? Aye, the thought did cross me mind when first I took the coin from the chest. But that I knew it would be no life at all, ye see. A thousand years of undying be not worth one single day o' living. Be not worth the loss of a single kiss, even from a cipher in blue an braid."

Norrington stared long at him at that, then dropped his eyes abruptly—as if somewhat embarrassed by that simple pledge—but when they came up again, there was such a fire and force within them that Jack felt himself quite warmed through and through.

"This can never happen again," Norrington said, his voice every bit as expressionless as his eyes were not.

"Aye," Jack replied simply.

And he pulled the man down to him, closing his mouth on his, stopping up breath and further protest and claiming life and hunger direct from the source. He ran a hand down along the long line of the Commodore's spine and pressed his fingers into the hollow of his back, touching him there in light circular strokes, making Norrington shudder a little.

Jack rubbed his whole body along the other man's, then broke away from the kiss to gasp for air, air which seemed much too heated to bear. The man felt entirely too good; it was a ruddy shame that he had not thought to creep into his home before this night. And even more of a shame to have to let him go again.

Ah, but knowing that, s'truth that it did make the moment all the sweeter. That pale expanse of skin which was all his to touch, the dew of the man's sweat, the port and musk taste of his mouth. The flex of honed muscle over sturdy bone, as the Commodore stirred atop him, beginning to thrust against him. His prick swollen red and hard as steel, a fair match to his own.

Then Norrington's mouth descended on the juncture of shoulder and neck, wet and wanton and demanding, teeth scoring at his own skin, near hard enough to draw blood, and Jack almost, almost, considered letting the other man have him again as pleasure melted into sharp pain and then merged into an even sharper pleasure.

Need surging through his veins, his heart pounding dreadful fast, and this ache inside him turning keen and vivid as the blade of a knife. He arched up against the Commodore's greater weight, then rolled and wrested him over the width of the bed until they fetched up near the edge. Until he lay atop the other man, panting slightly, shuddering a little, wanting so very badly to have him inside him once more, or to be inside him at long last. In that moment, it didn't seem to matter so very much which it was, as long as it could appease that ache, as long as it was begun.

But Norrington's eyes were flashing abrupt uncertainty and he had tensed ever so slightly beneath him. He lifted his chin slightly the next moment as he clearly took command of himself again, hiding his reaction, but Jack felt a fondness stir in him at the sight and bent down to kiss the man on the tip of his nose. Lightly, teasingly, with a waggle of his eyebrows that made the corner of the other man's mouth curve up a little, almost as if he couldn't help himself.

"Be ye sure ye needs not want a drink?" Jack asked.

"I have had quite enough this evening, thank you," Norrington responded. "And clearly did not need to have any to take leave of my senses."

Jack kissed the corner of his mouth, this time, but pulled back as the other man turned his head to try to catch his lips full on.

"Aye," he said. "All it took, I daresay, was but a single kiss from ol' Jack."

"Who chanced getting himself run through for his pains," came a taut retort, but the returning warmth to those green eyes took any sting from the words.

"Well worth it, methinks," Jack said. "An ye did not prick me then, did ye? At least not with that lovely little blade that young Will made ye. But then ye needs not a sword o' gilt an steel to prove yer a man to the likes o' me, for I much be preferring a more earthly blade an the sheathing of it, an the little death that it may bring."

"You are quite the unredeemable rogue, are you not, Jack Sparrow?" Norrington said, and it was hardly a question at all and almost, almost, it sounded as if there was a shade of indulgence in his tone.

Jack wet his lips with his tongue, slowly and deliberately, and then smiled as the other man's breath caught a little.

"A rogue, aye," he replied. "But perhaps not completely unredeemable."

"Perhaps," Norrington conceded. "But I doubt it."

"Do ye now?" Jack asked, and bent once more, this time to kiss the man fully and without reservation. Taking his time of it, deeply exploring every last bit of Norrington's mouth, and only then withdrawing a little to brush their lips together lightly. To nudge at the other man's nose with his own. To slip up quietly to feather kiss his eyes shut.

"A rogue," he whispered, kissing his way downwards then, from nose to lip to chin to the hollow of the other man's own throat. "An a pirate and a scoundrel and a scallywag... an in your bed, me good Commodore."

Norrington's hand rose to take hold of his shoulders, clenching tightly as Jack continued downwards, taking the grand tour of the other man's body. Kissing briefly, licking long, his fingers stroking across rib and hip and stomach, which flinched every so slightly, before he let them slide down to the softer skin between the man's thighs and part them ever so cautiously.

And then Jack lowered his head and did what he had never before done in his life. He took the prick of a Commodore of the King's Navy into his mouth and suckled upon it, gently at first, tasting salt and bitter musk, before swallowing it down almost entire.

Norrington's hips rose and a small sound escaped him, half moan and half gasp.

Jack chuckled, gleefully enjoying the feel and texture of the other man's member, as he also enjoyed how Norrington was writhing beneath him now, those long legs flexing and pulling against the jumbled sheets and his fingers clenching a forgotten pillow. The Commodore's eyes still closed—as if his last kisses had sealed them shut—and his face growing flushed. A high color that lent him but greater appeal.

Such fair English skin... seemingly untouched by the unrelenting sun and weather of these more torpid climes. For even though his hands yet bore the marks of a sailor and swordsman, the rest of his body was pure and clean and fresh, untouched by any scars that he could see. As if the man had walked in a more rarified air his entire life.

Well, at least until he fell into the sphere and under the bad influences of one Jack Sparrow.

Who now let his hands continue with sparking the length of that fine prick, even as he lapped his way along the base of it and to the tender flesh of those thighs. There to put his mouth to work once more, nipping and sucking one small spot until it had taken on a more rosy aspect. One that would likely last a few days and remind the man of what had transpired this night, even if the powerful fucking he intended to yet treat him to did not.

He urged the Commodore's legs even further apart and then lifted them a little, enough to reveal what was about to be plundered. And then he bent to lave that as well, pressing his tongue neatly into that tiny knot and twisting, which caused such a sudden bucking and protestation in the other man that it near on took the both of them right off the edge of the bed. Several of the bottles he had left abandoned at the foot of the bed did fall, one of them shattering, and the smell of expensive red wine filled the air around them.

"Oh, fuck," Norrington hissed, moaned, choked out, lurching upwards to catch hold of him, half to keep him from falling to the floor and half to shake him himself, as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd just done to him. "Jack... bloody hell... what are you... you... you can't mean..."

Jack smiled as much at the incoherent string of words and curses as at the rather shocked and befuddled look in those green eyes.

"Ye didna like it?" he asked in all innocence.

Norrington blinked at him. As if the question made not the least amount of sense.

"It's..." he said, shaking his own head now, still panting a little, seeming almost as discomfited by conversation as much as by the act itself. "It's not a question of... like..."

"Then ye did like it."

With an effort, the other man gathered himself a little, obviously trying for even a faint shade of his normal state of composure. "I simply can't imagine... honestly, Jack, how could you even think to... to..."

"Put me tongue up yer arse?" Jack asked, his tone sweet as treacle.

Norrington lowered his voice. "It's obscene."

Instead of answering, Jack ran a hand down the other man's chest, then flicked a finger pointedly at the tip of his still hard prick, which clearly had an another opinion on the matter.

"Manys would think the same o' an innocent spot of buggery," he said musingly. "However, if ye would, Commodore, be so kind as to indulge me, I swears as it will be the best spot o' buggery that ye'll ever have occasion to indulge in. Can ye not trust me, even a little?"

"That, Mister Sparrow," came the reply. "Is what you might call an impossible question."

"Ah, well, then have another drink, mate, an don't worry your pretty head about it," Jack said. And reached up to take the nearest bottle from the bedside table. It was the brandy and he took a long pull, himself, before obligingly handing it off.

Norrington paused, but then did finally take a hefty gulp or two without any further encouragement—as if fortifying himself against any future surprises—but as he leaned over to set the bottle aside, Jack took the opportunity to catch him off balance and pressed him back against the sheets. Pinning his wrists down and using his full weight to keep him there.

The other man struggled, but then abruptly subsided again as Jack moved to stare straight into his eyes from just an inch or two away. Watching with amusement and no little wonder as they seemed to shift from green to grey.

"I would not hurt ye," he said softly. "Do ye, at least, trust me in that, if in no other?"

Doubt and desire warred in those eyes, along with a hint of actual fear, and Jack began to worry if the other man was about to order him out of his bed and home—or even send him packing to a rather dark and damp cell up at the fort—but then Norrington ever so slowly relaxed and a hint of that rather sardonic good humor returned to his face.

"For tonight," the Commodore replied. "I shall promise to try."

"All ye can really ask for, mate," Jack said, sober serious for once. "'Cept maybe that the dawn be a long time in coming."

And, with that, he released his hold and sat up again, moving off the man a little. Norrington took the opportunity to push himself up against the headboard, gathering his legs close to him and surreptitiously massaging his wrists. Not looking at him at all now, as if he already regretted that promise.

"Do ye wish me to go?" Jack asked at the last, even though it was not something that he wished at all, nor found it easy to offer.

There was a long pause, but finally Norrington shook his head. "No, I don't want you to leave. At least, not until you must."

"Well, then," Jack said, mellow and mild as you please now, more relieved than he cared to let on. "If'n it would take another kiss to warm yer heart to me, then I would give it ye, even though it pain me most dreadful to do so."

The other man looked up at that and, after a heartbeat, he smiled. That lovely droll little smile.

"I wouldn't want you to have to put yourself out," he said dryly.

"So I shall put meself in then," Jack replied, and gazed intently into those storm-green eyes until the other man flushed that fetching shade of rose once more.

"Unredeemable and incorrigible," Norrington commented.

"Aye," Jack said softly. "All that an more."

The Commodore's gaze flickered down to the crutch of his legs, then back up again.

"Am I due that kiss then?" he asked.

Jack smiled broadly, then joined him near the head of the bed, making himself at home between those long legs once more. Guiding the man back down beneath him, entirely relaxed this time, except for a lingering frown line upon his brow and the still three quarters hard prick dodging against his stomach.

"If ye like," he said, even softer, then kissed him lightly as feather down.

On the bedside table, the candle finally sputtered and went out, leaving them only the wavering dim light of the rain continuing to come down outside the window. More grey out now than black, but it seemed most like that dawn would be late coming this morn, for which Jack said a swift little prayer to whatever heathen God had seen fit to grant him this singular evening.

As if in answer, thunder abruptly shook the roof over their heads and Jack laughed, before returning to serious perusal of the other man's mouth. As he coaxed those firm lips until they yielded willingly enough to his own, and then agreeably tucked his tongue inside. Thieving what remained of the taste of the brandy, and eagerly taking the man's own taste away with him, as well.

He threaded his hands into the damp hair at the back of Norrington's neck and kissed him deeply, longingly, uncaring of lost breath or lost hours or the man's own lingering hesitation and fears where bedding a pirate was concerned. And the Commodore kissed him back, just as deeply, as if he would aid in putting to bed those concerns.

As if he really did, at heart, trust him. Just a little.

Lightning flashed, and the sound of rain increased, as Jack slowly rolled them towards the middle of the bed again, as he buried his face in the crook of the other man's neck and licked away the sweat gathered there. Little of the powder and perfume remained, but he could swear to taste his own self upon the Commodore's skin and it was a heady feeling indeed. Almost as heady as the thought of spending himself inside him.

Damp sheet and damp flesh and the sound of the other man's soft moans... and Jack felt his own skin grow heated and his prick impatient and he moved downwards to tickle the hollow of Norrington's stomach again, to part those pale thighs, to lay a tender kiss to the very tip of his prick.

And the Commodore let him turn him over then until he lay facedown beneath him. One hand taking hold in a fold of sheet and his legs parting even further. The other man making no protest now, but simply breathing his name there in the gathering dark as the storm increased itself, the rain coming down even harder, fair beating against the near windowpane.

"Jack..." Was it a plea, at the last? And, if so, what mercy was the man begging for...

Jack did not ask, but leaned down instead to rub the side of his face up the middle of Norrington's back, to nuzzle at the line of his bared neck. Whispering but two words into the other man's ear, a name he had never dared use before now.

"James... love..."

The oil the man had used on him was still on the bedside table, and Jack leaned over to take it. He opened the jar and stroked the cool gold liquid within liberally upon his prick, shuddering a little as it sent an answering heat lancing clear through him. He set the jar aside again and when he looked back at the man before him, Norrington had turned his head a little, enough to be able to see him, as well. Before, slowly and deliberately, those green eyes closed and an ever so small smile graced his face.

Jack moved back atop the taller man and slid an arm down and around his ribs—feeling the quickness of his breathing through his splayed fingertips—and, at his silent urging, Norrington lifted up a bit more. He positioned himself, his well oiled member slipping easily down the man's backside, even that tiny portion of friction causing him to shake and gasp. Then the other man was gasping, as well, when the plum of his prick found its place and settled there.

Jack held his breath for a long moment, anticipating, recalling the moment this night when he had been in much the same state—his face in one of those soft pillows and his heart thundering in his chest and the other man's prick tucked up tight against him, a little unnerved by how much he wanted this, and more than a little mazed by the sheer force of lust in his veins—and then he gently, but firmly, pushed himself inside.

Norrington made a small sound, but didn't otherwise flinch. Instead, after a deep breath, he actually pushed back a little. And, to Jack's bemusement and relief, he felt himself go in several more inches, only to be forced to hold himself still and there as the Commodore suddenly made a second sound, more of pain this time, and his fingers turned and tightened on the sheets.

Jack laid his head against the other man's back and waited, even though the warmth and tightness of the flesh surrounding him felt near to undoing him in that moment. Especially knowing who it was he lay half buried inside. And how difficult it must have been for a man such as the Commodore to surrender himself like this. Let alone to his own good self.

Aye, he was a pirate, but in this he would not take what was not freely offered. Even though his prick pleaded its own case quite heartily, in terms which made it somewhat hard to catch breath or clarity.

But then Norrington was relaxing again, even as part of him clenched tighter still, and then released ever so slowly. As if making his own self entirely aware all over again of what he had chosen to do, and with whom. And Jack laughed once more, soft against the other man's skin, and eased himself in deeper, hearing thunder overhead again, lightning playing across his half-closed eyes.

Like a ghost of his own captivation.

He was shivering slightly by the time he was all the way in, his breath shuddering in and out of his lungs. Good, he had expected, but not this. Especially when he slid his hand up along the bed to touch the back of Norrington's, and felt it turn and clasp his own. Their fingers intertwining, even as their bodies were melded tight together. Palm to palm and back to back and flesh to flesh, with only a thin sheen of shared sweat and oil slick between them.

Jack slowly slid part way out again, and Norrington's hand flexed on his own as he pushed back in, still gentle, but sure for all that. He did it again, and again, his prick feeling impossibly swollen now, throbbing a little with each beat of his heart. Or with Norrington's heart. He could not make compare.

"Jack..." came a quiet voice, more breath than word.

"Aye," his own was equally soft, equally strained.

"More... please..."

He smiled against the man's shoulder blade, then did as he was bade. He slid out slow again, but thrust in hard. Then harder still. Those fingers clutching his own tight and the rain coming down outside as if it might never stop, even as Norrington was pressing back up to meet him, welcoming him in the same fashion that he had once been made welcome. The bed creaking slightly now beneath them and glass chinking from a bottle or two what hadn't fallen to the floor.

And it seemed to go on forever, but it couldn't... the storm would break soon enough, or Jack's own heart falter, and so as he pulled the man tight against him, matching them up as perfect as he could make it, he began to push in and out even more deeply, working them both hard, feeling like a bit of blood and thunder himself. Taking what he could, giving what he could, feeling a blissfully bright light building up right behind his eyes. In his chest, his stomach, in his prick.

The light of a new dawn, perhaps... or the moment before the fall would break a man's neck.

And then a keen pressure pushed up through him and his throat closed, the house shaking around them yet again, and he slipped his free hand down the other man's stomach, slipped his fingers round his prick, rough stroking, and Norrington groaned and broke himself, just like that. As if it was an easy enough thing. Blood-warm liquid spilling out over his hand, his hips thrusting forwards hard and then back even harder. As if to claim his own release at the same time if he could.

But Jack held on, held on for just a few heartbeats longer—out of sheer perversity, perhaps—and then finally did let himself go, thrusting brusquely inside the other man, all pretense to any gentleness or rhythm lost in the furies of the moment. For need was sharp and ecstasy sharper still and it had been too long, left too late, and he never should have come here, never should have kissed him, never should have...

Ah, Gods... fingers caught his hard and held him, flesh took his pain and transformed it, turned it back upon itself, sending him right to the edge of the deeps, where it was hot and cold and black and bright and impossible to breathe. Where naught mattered anymore but the keen leap of his prick inside the other man's body, the juddering sense of relief and red pleasure as his own seed poured out. Taking with it most all his senses, let alone the more common ones.

Lightning flared again as he cried out, almost a word, but not quite.

And then darkness surged behind his eyes, darkness overlaid with faint traceries of lingering light, and he could breathe again, even if he didn't want to. Even if it seemed like entirely too much effort.

Only then did he dimly feel that hand take his own and bring it to a set of warm lips. Did he feel them kiss his tar and salt stained fingers and know that there would be no dawn today, nor even perhaps one tomorrow. Not if he could help it, anyway.

Not as long as he could lay even a pirate's claim to this wide bed, and the man who lay quivering ever so slightly beneath him.

For what was chance or pretense of any other death, when compared to this. When but a single kiss could alter an entire world.