The Crooked Staff

Pairing: Gillette/(it's a surprise)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: The characters of POTC are under indenture to the Mouse. I just borrow them from time to time to amuse my friends.
Originally Posted: 10/30/05
Summary: Midshipman Andrew Gillette is looking for a little... relaxation. He finds it at The Crooked Staff.

There was no proper sign over the door, just a length of wood as tall as a man and as thick as your wrist that changed directions several times from base to tip. If you knew what you were looking for, it was enough. If you didn't—you probably didn't want to find The Crooked Staff anyway.

A glance around the darkening street showed no one in sight. Andrew crossed the last few paces and pushed through the door.

The interior was much as he remembered it from his last visit, several months ago. Ordering an ale, he claimed an empty table near the bar and considered his fellow patrons, trying not to be obvious about it.

Slightly more than half the men sitting at the battered but well-scrubbed tables wore Navy blue. The rest were pretty evenly divided between merchant seamen, Marines, and assorted landsmen. Almost all were older than him, but he was used to that. Still, it did limit his options.

A Naval officer—a lieutenant, tall, with dark hair—came out of the card-room in the back and collected another drink from the bar. Cup in hand, he leaned one elbow casually on the mantlepiece, a smugly confident half-smile on his face as he started a slow, deliberate study of the room.

Andrew lowered his eyes to his ale and kept them there. He knew the Lieutenant's sort: if he thought you were interested, he'd turn on the charm—and the next thing you knew, you'd be bent over a barrel in an alley with his prick up your arse. And his hand in your purse, like as not.

Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew saw the white-clad legs straighten from their slouch and move into the room. Even from this angle he could see the swagger in the Lieutenant's step that said he had a right to anything—or anyone—he wanted.

The Lieutenant drew level with his table, slightly beyond—and then he was taking the seat opposite Andrew, smiling, sure of his welcome. "Mind if I join you, lad?" His hand started to slide up Andrew's thigh.

Andrew stared straight into those smug blue eyes as his hand closed about the Lieutenant's wrist. "Yes, I do." He dug his fingers in hard, ignoring the sudden knot of tension in his belly. If the man didn't back down...

The Lieutenant's eyes widened an instant, then narrowed. He straightened quickly, cradling his bruised wrist. "Tight-arsed little prick, aren't you?"

One of the men at the next table choked back a laugh. Snatching up his drink with a snarl, the Lieutenant left.

Andrew didn't relax until he disappeared through the door to the card-room. Then he drained his tankard in one draught—and immediately regretted it.

His pockets weren't to let—not yet—but the ale at The Crooked Staff was half the size and three times the price of anywhere else in Portsmouth, and the rooms upstairs dearer yet. He'd no way of knowing how long the remains of his prize-money had to last, and so had meant to husband that one drink all—

A fresh tankard landed in front of him, sloshing a bit of foam over the side. "On the house." Andrew looked up to see the Staff's owner standing over him. "I like a young fellow can look after himself." He gathered his wits enough to murmur his thanks, and the landlord turned away with a nod.

When his nerves had settled, Andrew returned to discreetly studying the possibilities. Quite a few of the boys were with someone already, and half of the rest were obviously whores. As for the others...

Judging by their rough clothes and unimaginative faces, those two were common labourers. That diffident-looking boy was probably a clerk or shop assistant; too milk-and-water for Andrew's tastes. And the midshipman in the settle by the fireplace looked like he was having second thoughts about being here at all.

Andrew smiled, remembering their first night ashore after the Elphebe paid off, six months ago. He caught the other mid's eye.

Pritchard smiled back, but dispelled Andrew's hopes with a faint shake of his head before joining a captain sitting alone. A minute later he was following the man up the stairs.

Earning a berth on your knees, Geoff? It was a common enough practice, especially in peace-time, when berths were few and far between. The catch, of course, was that the man who'd given it to you would expect to keep getting what he'd already had. It wasn't a bargain Andrew would strike, given a choice, but he'd never been stranded ashore with an empty purse and no prospects. He silently wished Pritchard luck and returned his attention to his drink.

The crowd ebbed and flowed, some patrons slipping upstairs or into the alley out back, others simply sitting and talking. There was a steady trickle of new arrivals, but all were older than himself. A few of them made overtures, but took his refusals with good grace.

He was just beginning to think he might have to settle for the clerk when another new arrival caught his attention.

The boy was lanky, with a pleasantly bony face beneath his white wig. His midshipman's uniform, twin to Andrew's own, looked new, or nearly so, and he paid for his drink without prompting or protest, which suggested he'd been here before.

Andrew shifted his chair a bit and, when the movement drew the midshipman's attention, looked straight into his eyes and nudged the empty chair at his table with his foot.

When their eyes met again, Andrew slowly licked a wholly-imaginary bit of foam from the corner of his mouth.

The boy's mouth curved faintly upward. Crossing the distance between them, he set his cup on the table before dropping into the seat. He had light brown eyes and his right coat-sleeve had dust in the elbow-creases.

The brown-eyed boy looked faintly surprised. "Yes, on the mail coach. How...?" He followed Andrew's glance, and laughed ruefully as he brushed the pale smear away. His hands were broad for their length, with strong, capable fingers.

Andrew took a gulp of ale to wet his suddenly dry mouth. When he lowered the tankard, the brown-eyed boy's gaze followed his hands.

Andrew smiled back, absurdly flattered. "Shall we...?" He indicated the back wall with a jerk of his chin.

"I was thinking of a room." When the boy hesitated, looking away, he added, "I'll pay."

The brown eyes met his again, narrowed slightly as they added in this new factor. "All right."

They finished their drinks and climbed the stairs. The doorkeep at the top took the two crowns Andrew had ready and muttered, "Room six."

The room was small, but the bed that took up most of the space had clean sheets and the whitewashed walls and bare wooden floor were spotless.

There was a row of pegs in the wall next to the door. Andrew hung up his hat and wig as the brown-eyed boy followed him inside and closed the door. When he turned back, the boy was staring at him.

"Nothing!" The boy flushed. "I just didn't expect you to have red hair." He turned away to remove his own hat and wig. His hair was dark, and even closer-cropped than Andrew's.

By the time he turned around again, Andrew had already discarded his cravat. The boy started to reach for his, but Andrew stepped forward and caught his wrist. "No." His heart was pounding.

Their eyes met. Andrew could feel the muscles in the boy's wrist tense; he pressed his lips together and lifted his chin.

Andrew realized he'd been holding his breath, and let it out slowly as he opened his hand. He felt as giddy as if he'd just had a double ration of grog.

He twitched the knot out of the boy's cravat and slipped his fingers under the linen band, against his throat. A pulse fluttered against his fingers. He put his thumb under that sharp chin and pushed.

An instant's resistance, and then his head rose. When Andrew tugged on the cravat, the boy stepped forward at once.

His lips, dry and slightly chapped, parted at the touch of Andrew's tongue. As he deepened the kiss he felt the boy's tongue move against his own, hesitantly at first, then more boldly.

Andrew maneuvered them both backward until he felt the wall against his shoulders. Only then did he work the cravat the rest of the way loose and let it fall to the floor. As fingers brushed his hips, Andrew's hand slid slowly down, over the boy's chest and belly. They broke apart, gasping for air, and as they did his hand closed over the bulge in the boy's breeches.

The dark head fell back with a half-choked cry. Continuing to rub the hard flesh through the thick fabric, Andrew nuzzled at the expanse of newly-exposed throat, tasting sweat and dust as he moved down the tight arc of muscle with teeth and tongue.

Andrew's mouth reached the join between neck and shoulder. He pulled his hand back an instant before he tongued the soft hollow there, probing hard. The boy moaned, staggered—a small push downward, and he was on his knees, Andrew's hands on his shoulders.

The boy's breathing was ragged, his eyes wide as they met Andrew's, then those broad, strong hands were reaching for the fall of his breeches, tugging the buttons free. Andrew had to bite back a sigh of relief as the too-tight cloth fell away. The boy glanced down, then up to meet his eyes again, and licked his lips.

The nex moment, Andrew's hips were pinned to the wall as the boy's lips closed over his cock.

Yes. Andrew kept his eyes on the boy's face, easing his grip for a moment when he choked, then renewing the pressure until the boy had taken all of him in. His face looked even bonier when he began to suck, his cheeks hollowing with each breath. Andrew moaned, stroking the boy's shoulders in time to the sweet, sweet pressure, until he could bear it no more and his hands came up to pinion the sleek dark head.

The boy stilled; the pressure of his hands disappeared. Three hard, quick thrusts into that warm, welcoming mouth, and he was crying out as he slipped over the edge.

The boy stared up at him blankly a moment. Then he pushed to his feet and backed until he could sit down on the tidily-folded coverlet.

Andrew followed, nudging the boy's knees apart so he could stand between them. The boy had to lean back a little, bracing himself with his arms, to meet his eyes.

Shifting to straddle one of his legs, Andrew rested a knee on the bed and curled a hand around the boy's neck, tilting his head to make kissing him easier. When the boy kissed him back, Andrew used his other hand to unbutton his breeches.

His fingers brushed the boy's cock, and the boy pulled away from the kiss with a gasp. He didn't speak, but the aching need on his face was as intoxicating as uncut rum.

Andrew's fingers curled around the top of the boy's breeches as he knelt between his legs. He bent his head slightly, eyes still on the boy's face, and flicked his tongue over his cock.

A gasp, an upward thrust—Andrew pulled, and the breeches slid over the boy's hips.

He was panting now, with a hint of unease on his face that hadn't been there before.

He licked the full length this time, and the boy's whole body arched as he cried out.

His breathing was ragged now. He swallowed, then shifted until he was supported by his elbows.

Andrew bent his head, shielding his mouth as he wetted two fingers thoroughly, then met the boy's eyes again.

He kept his eyes on the boy's face as he worked slowly down his length, noticing what made his breath catch, when the hip under his hand twitched.

The brown eyes widened as Andrew's fingers pressed against him. Then they were inside. As he pushed deeper the boy threw back his head and moaned, a low thread of sound that sent shivers through Andrew's belly.

Andrew slid his fingers in and out as he began to suck, matching one motion to the other. Slowly at first, then faster as the moans turned into short, sharp gasps.

The boy cried out as his body spasmed, the salt-bitter taste of his seed filling Andrew's mouth.

Wiping first his mouth, then his fingers on his handkerchief, he took a seat on the bed, back to one of the posts.

The boy's chest was still pumping like a bellows, his face was flushed and his eyes closed. Andrew felt giddy, triumphant; he'd never felt like this before, save after a battle. But this is a victory, oh, yes.

As his breathing eased, the boy opened his eyes. "Christ," he gasped. "That was... was..."

Andrew stood up, his back to the bed, and began to tidy himself away. Noises behind him indicated the boy was doing the same. When he turned back to find his cravat, the boy was still buttoning his breeches.

The boy looked away as he tugged the last button into place. "Are you in town for the lieutenancy exams Friday?"

Andrew pulled his cravat from its peg. "No." If he was eligible for the exams, he must be at least a year older than Andrew; he'd only turned eighteen last month. "Are you?"

The midshipman was on one knee, retrieving his cravat from where Andrew had dropped it. He nodded.

"First time?" Andrew pretended to be absorbed in the intricacies of tying his cravat.

"Second." He stood up. "A board was called at the Horn, seven months ago. I made a right bollocks of it." Smiled wryly. "I panicked. Couldn't remember a thing."

At least eighteen months older, then. If he's only in town a few days... Andrew slipped his wig into place. "Where are you putting up?" He lifted his hat from its peg, not daring to watch the older boy's reaction.

The refusal, tactful as it was, stung more than he'd expected. Andrew bit back disappointment and kept his voice level. "I beg your pardon. I shouldn't have asked."

He wasn't laughing. "The mail was late, you see. Later than usual." He grimaced, chin in the air as he wrestled with the folds of his cravat. "And my inn gave my room away when I didn't turn up. So I left my luggage at the Crown and—" the folds fell into place and he lowered his chin "—came here."

Then the older boy was looking away, taking his wig off its peg. "I don't suppose," his tone was a bit too carefully casual, "you know of a clean, cheap inn with an empty room?"

"You could share my room at the Drake's Head, if you like." He spoke without thinking, and immediately wished he could snatch the words back.

The older boy turned and studied him intently, warily. "Share your room," he repeated slowly.

Andrew suddenly remembered Pritchard following the captain upstairs. I didn't mean—He couldn't say that. "The place is clean, and the food's not bad." I wouldn't expect—Nor that. "The room's small, but there's space for another pallet." He drew a slow breath, and looked straight into the other mid's eyes. "I make the offer because a half-room is cheaper than a whole. To own the truth," he attempted a smile, "my purse is in such a state that a chance to share expenses would be most welcome."

The wariness left the older boy's eyes; his shoulders relaxed a fraction. "I see. Well, in that case," he settled his wig and lifted his hat from the peg, "I accept with thanks." He held out his hand. "Theodore Groves. My friends call me Theo."

Andrew suddenly found it easier to breathe. He took Theo's hand. "Andrew Gillette. Of the Dauntless," he couldn't resist adding.

"The Dauntless!" Theo gaped at him. "You lucky bastard. She's barely out of the blocks!"

Andrew grinned, and reached for the door. "Come on," he said. "If we walk slowly, the Drake's Head will be serving breakfast by the time we get there."

Author's note: I have no idea what a room in a molly-house would actually cost, but I figured it'd be pretty pricy, and chose accordingly. Two crowns is exactly half a pound, at a time when a lieutenant's salary was 100 pounds a year. Midshipmen didn't receive a salary, but they did get a share of prize-money.

Men Must Work

The Groves/Gillette Series, Chapt. 1

The Crooked Staff