Lieutenant Andrew Gillette has waited a long time to be made captain, and he celebrates accordingly. On any other occasion his commodore might feel obliged to frown upon such displays, but for a myriad of reasons he is in the mood for rum tonight, so he joins the party and drinks his fill. In the early hours of the morning, he wanders home to find a pair of boots by his fireplace and a pirate fast asleep in his bed.

Raising an eyebrow, James picks up a boot to inspect it. The leather is polished and stiff, the soles solid. He slides a fingertip beneath the roll at the top, where the leather has caressed itself against muscled calves until it is already butter-soft. Both boots are smaller than one might expect, considering the legend which fills them.

The pirate in his bed grunts and turns over, sheet slipping down his tanned bare chest. The skin is pink and puckered into a finger-length curve on his right shoulder, framing an old musket-ball wound.

James purses his lips and considers his choice of weaponry.

He has quite the arsenal at hand, so he is still mulling it over while he removes his civilian garments, dropping them onto a chair already draped with clothing in a somewhat less fine condition than the new boots. Jack stirs as the commodore climbs into bed, blinking sleepily before his dark eyes clear and he smiles.

"I thought we agreed that this would stop," says James, settling on his side as Jack curls an arm around his waist, "your sneaking onto my property and coming upon me in my bedchamber."

Jack's hand comes up to stroke his hair out of the pins binding it beneath his wig. "But y'see, you've snuck up on me in the bedchamber I have adopted as my own." James lets out a sigh, nudging into the touch. Jack kisses the top whorl of his ear and adds, "So the shoe is on the other foot, as it were." He kicks the boots James dropped at the foot of the bed, pulling away to appreciate his own wit. James rubs the smirk from his mouth with both thumbs and holds him still for a proper welcome. He is still making up his mind, and he's good at stalling.

"When did you get them?" he asks in the starved breaths between kisses. Always when, never where, or how. He doesn't ask about the new scar either, only brushes his lips against it as he moves down Jack's torso.

Wriggling until James is resting on an elbow between his legs, Jack twirls his mustache around a fingertip and says, "Oh, few weeks back. D'you like them? I could get you a pair."

"Very gracious of you, but where would I wear them, hmm?" He's grateful for that, even though Jack could be lying—in that case, he's grateful that Jack would tell him such a lie. And he has settled on full volley, beginning with the hands.

"In bed, I'm thinking—oh Christ," Jack finishes with a gasp as James wraps long fingers around his shaft. He strokes up, a bit roughly, closing his other hand so that the callused palm cups over the head of Jack's cock. Twisting and sliding both hands in a counter rhythm, he makes Jack swear violently in several languages, knees lifting to clasp his ribs.

Tongue next, but slowly, slowly—shallow taunting licks until his hands and Jack's flesh are slick. Jack's fingers splay out on his head, shaking with the need to grip and urge. He succumbs and thrusts his fists into the sheets when James finally brings his mouth to bear (with a bit of teeth for good measure). James discourages him from doing likewise with his hips by pinning his wrists down. Jack takes the hint and lies still but for the rise and fall of his chest, which grows more labored as James sucks him, massaging his cock between tongue and palate, playing him out like a fishing line. He twitches like one, thrashing once at the first bump to the back of James' throat before James shifts to hold his legs and hips down.

"You wicked devil," Jack pants, hunching his shoulders to glare down at James, who ignores the pleasant irony and the ire in favor of the throbbing cock in his mouth, which attention does wonders for dissolving that selfsame ire into fervent moans. Just as he feels Jack's desperation begin to coalesce he disengages, earning himself a frustrated whimper. He rises to his knees, hooking Jack's ankles over his shoulders, satisfied by the wild, wide-eyed look of comprehension Jack gives him along with the little jar beneath the pillow. Enough priming; they are both of them ready for the final volley.

Jack's lids flutter to half-mast and his nails dig into James's shoulders as James pushes into him, torturously slow, perfectly deliberate. There is a hum in his head, demanding that he take his pleasure in haste after being so long denied, but James grits his teeth against that rush of need. Too easy a victory. He keeps his own eyes open in order to watch Jack's expressive face vacillate between canvas and battlefield. He is only ever sure of the pirate's utter sincerity at times like this.

"Go on, Jack." He traces Jack's cheekbones with his lips, drifting down to bite at his open mouth.

Jack twists under him, around him, grip of his arms slipping not a whit despite the sweat pouring off them both. "James," he cries, over and over, couched in filthy exhortations and breathless pleas. James fucks him with a singularity of mind and purpose, and Jack shivers at the sound of his voice before his words even register.

"Tell me," he whispers into Jack's ear, slowing the rocking of his hips just a bit, just enough so that he remembers this is part of it too. He kisses the corners of Jack's eyes, prompting them to open.

Watery gaze locked on him, unfazed, Jack breathes, "Yours, Jamie—I'm yours."

James grins in triumph and bends to kiss him, but Jack lets go his braced arms to take his head in both hands. Now Jack's face is steel beneath the surrender. James goes almost still, quivering above him.

"But you are mine as well, love, beholden t' me alone. Don't you go forgetting it, savvy?" This last rolls from his throat in a growl, prompting a grunt from James as Jack tenses every muscle and pulls him back down. James buries his face in Jack's neck and leans on one arm, reaching between their bodies to take Jack in hand again.

"Yes—yes," he says frantically, pumping Jack's cock and his body with all the passion of his accession. Jack's groan echoes in his ears as wet heat spills over his fingers. Scarcely knowing what he is saying, hoping Jack is too far gone to hear him, James comes blindingly hard while sinking words into his skin.

He lies atop Jack, spent and sprawling, for God only knows how long. At last Jack squirms beneath him, grumbling, "All right, all right." Limbs still jellied, James rolls to the side, watching him with puzzlement as he gropes over the foot of the bed.

"What did I say?" he asks, voice a hoarse croak.

Jack flicks his bedraggled hair out of his eyes, tossing a coy look and a boot over his shoulder. "That I'll be wearin' these next time you have me, o'course."