stem_the_tide | Rp for captjacksparrow

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Rp for captjacksparrow

As is his wont, James wakens just after sunrise. This is normal for him, as is the sight of the half-hearted sunlight streaming in through the windows, the smell of the sea in the morning. What is not normal, however, is the bed he's lying in- deep and soft- the plush blankets covering him. As his sleep-grimed eyes blink further, he notes that nothing in this room is at all normal, and for a moment he cannot recall where he is nor how he's got here. But then his eyes alight upon the chair he had sat in the night before and there, sprawled in drunken sleep is Captain Jack Sparrow, and with a rush, James remembers all the tumultuous events of the previous day, down to his unaccountable worry about Sparrow before he fell asleep the night before.

Somewhat comforted by this memory (but not much), he slides out of the bed, stretching and yawning cavernously. He can hear his spine crack loudly and winces slightly. It is still fairly quiet aboard the ship, and as James begins to get dressed, he regards the sleeping pirate across from him. The chair is closer to the bed than it was before, as though Sparrow had been watching him before he fell asleep (a notion which could be either disturbing or endearing- he cannot decide which), and Sparrow seems to have melted into it like a liquid; he's clad only in shirt and breeches, and James's eyes rest for a moment on the gaping V of golden skin exposed by the shirt before he looks away. The pirate's head rests on his shoulder, and a nearly-empty bottle of rum dangles loosely from his fingers, cradled in the crook of his elbow; his mouth moves slightly in nonsense syllables. He's as sloppy as ever sleeping, but the light of the rising sun on those high cheekbones and the black-painted eyes now closed give him a strangely feminine air. James shakes his head; he's not usually prone to such poetic rubbish- it must be prolonged exposure to Sparrow, he decides.

Once fully dressed, he ties his hair back in a queue (no reason to wear the wig now, and privately he rejoices that he needn't wear the itchy, hot thing) and seats himself on the bed once again, his legs crossed under him. He keeps his voice soft as he calls out.

'Sparrow...' it's almost sing-song, the way he says it, and he wrinkles his nose. 'Sparrow! Wake up, man. A captain should rise before his crew, should he not?'

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For the same reason you want me to call you Jack

That should make absolutely no sense at all and yet it does somehow. Someway. Jack furrows his brow. Why does he want Norrington to call him Jack? Because he is Jack. Because it sounds better than Sparrow when Norrington says it, pompously, as if Jack is nothing more than dirt he wants swept out of his quaters. Because... Because... It's a sign of trust, of friendship, of respect. Of understanding. Because he wants Norrington understand him.

And perhaps asking to see the compass reading is Norrington asking for Jack to let him understand.

That's... worse logic than even Jack can put a claim to. He grins stupidly at Norrington, feeling almost proud of the man. "Good! Clears is all up then."

He looks down at the compass in his hand. The thing to do would be to open it now. Open it and let Norrington read it. Or not. Jack is still wary for some reason, some little niggling reason that says to let Norrington see it will let out some great big secret that will come back to harm him, but he swallows and tries to shove that concern down. Norrington wouldn't take any heading the compass showed him and mutiny. Wouldn't marroon Jack by his lonesome someplace without any hope of rescue. He probably wouldn't even know what the compass pointed to, just as Jack doesn't know what the compass pointed out for Norrington apart from hisself.

Eyes shut, almost timidly, Jack flips the compass open. Feels it spin and stop and spin and stop in his hand. Opens his eyes and looks at it. It first spins to point to one direction, E by NE Jack quickly reads, and then spins again, to face Norrington. Jack isn't surprised at that at all, though he ducks his chin to avoid looking at Norrington to see any reaction there. And then the compass spins back, probably to the original heading, Jack guesses, which is out of the Caribbean. But it doesn't. It continues around to point SW by W. Back to Port Royal. To the Navy.

Um. What?

Jack shakes it, sure that it is operating poorly or somehow being affected by Norrington being so close, but the compass only repeats it's three points again. East, to Africa, to England, to wherever Jack wants to go; Norrington; and then back the way they came. To Port Royal. The Navy. Everything Jack wants to flee from. Disturbed and frantic that the compass is surprising him and that Norrington is here to witness it, Jack slams it shut.

James's first reaction when Jack opens the compass is to stifle a triumphant grin. It does point to him! Just as he had known it would, really, but something seems to sink inside him with relief when he sees it. But then, and this is very curious indeed, the needle spins, almost faster than he can track it, but it seems to him that it points to two of the very places to which it pointed for him; out east by northeast, to the open ocean, and then (and this is bizarre beyond belief), back west. And the only thing southwest by west in these waters is Port Royal.

His eyes flick up to Sparrow's as the pirate slams the compass shut, looking spooked. Yes, yes Jack is as thrown off by what the compass has shown as James is- moreso, he'd imagine. But what in blazes could he want in Port Royal? Commodore Norrington, of course, is no longer there, but the entire contingent of his Naval command is, all of whom have doubtless been informed that Jack Sparrow has kidnapped him. Elizabeth is back in Port Royal, but she's engaged to William Turner, and in any event, that's something James wants; there's no saying that Sparrow does as well. Something absurdly like jealously prickles within him at that thought, and he thinks vaguely that Elizabeth had better not be the reason Sparrow's compass pointed toward Port Royal.

That, however, they would doubtless figure out in time. For the moment, James meets Sparrow's eyes with a sardonic quirk of the mouth, a hint of flirtatiousness.

'I thought as much,' he murmurs. Panic from Sparrow will do them no good in finding a heading, and he thinks perhaps to calm him, ease him back onto ground with which he is slightly more familiar. Why he should want to he isn't entirely sure; after all, it's amusing to see Jack running scared, but he does regardless, and he reaches out slowly to push the compass down. Out of sight, out of mind. Or at least partially.

The first thing that springs widly to Jack head at Norrington's words is that he knows why Jack wants to head back to the Navy, to Port Royal and all its dangerous trappings. That Norrington somehow knows even when Jack doesn't and that makes him want to hatch a plan that will get Norrington to reveal the reasoning to him. But that is only a fleeting, immediate thought, before the rest of the scene sinks into Jack's mind.

The way Norrington said the words. The fact that his hand is now covering Jack's on the compass. The way he is looking at him. There is nothing there that speaks to haughty contemption and power plays, but a predatory guise there. A flirtatious one. And that somehow calms Jack. Makes the confusion and panic fade away some. There are better things to consider than why his compass is showing him three conflicting points instead of two.

Jack smiles softly. "Did you now? And do you propose to do anything about this thinking or are such thoughts not worth the effort to be put into action?"

It's quite easy to fall back into the pattern of flirting with Norrington. Reassuring, almost, by how second nature it's become in such a short time.

Sparrow's soft smile is reasurring; it tells James that he's succeeded, at least for the moment, in dragging his mind away from the apparently conflicting desires of his heart. This particular desire James can oblige, and enjoy as well while he's at it. Best for the both of them really, when it comes down to it, so he smirks and leans in a little closer to Sparrow.

'I am a man of action, sir,' he murmurs, 'I find that any thought one can have is generally worth being put into practise; it is merely a matter of finding the correct time and place to do so.'

Funny, really, how easy it is, flirting with Sparrow, teasing him. It's a back-and-forth that's really only slightly different from the banter they engaged in before James boarded the Pearl, each testing the other and taking enjoyment from the testing. James wonders for a moment if it is entirely healthy that it should be so easy before discarding that thought altogether. Now, after all, was not the time for moral crises.

Jack sways away from and then back towards Norrington when he leans into him. This he can do, and the steps to the dance are ones he knows very well. Almost on instinct. As long as he has a willing partner to follow his lead.

"And what would be the correct time and place, do you reckon?" he breathes, entering into Norrington's personal space.

He takes another step forward into Norrington, beginning to hopefully back the man up, away from the door and towards the bed.

"We've time right now, and as for place..." Jack lets the words drop off and takes one more step, pressing Norrington bodily to retreat or fall over. "We are in my quarters." He smiles seductively and strokes his thumb along the side of Norrington's hand around the compass. "My compass doesn't lie."

James's eyes flutter shut as Sparrow's body presses against his, his voice velvet-rough in his ears. He's pushing him backwards, forcing back towards- towards what? The bed, that sumptous confection of silk pillows and thick comforters. The thought sends a thrill through him, and he bites at his lower lip, allowing Jack to walk him back, back, back.

When his knees hit the edge of the bed, they almost buckle, but he holds himself firm and instead grins at Jack. 'It would indeed seem to be the opportune moment,' he murmurs. His voice has gone down almost an octave; it's rougher and throatier than normal, and he lets out a little exhale at the look on Sparrow's face upon hearing his voice.

'And your compass,' he continues, 'would certainly seem to be entirely correct on this point, at the very least.'

The hand holding the compass relinquishes its grip and instead traces a finger up Jack's arm, brushing a teasing, featherlight touch before clasping like a vise just above Sparrow's hand. He pulls toward himself, ever so slightly, an invitation for Sparrow to keep on pushing.

Jack shivers slightly at the sound of Norrington's voice and readily accepts his invitation. Leans farther, until there is no place left to go but down onto the bed. One knee on the bed, he twists out of Norrington's grasp to catch himself on both hands, one on either side. He stares down at him.

The mere notion of the image before him sends blood rushing down south, a smile twisting in and out of shape on his face as he regards Norrington beneath him. The compass is still in his hand. Jack removes his eyes of Norrington only for the split second it takes to scoot the compass to the side, away from Jack's hand so he will at least have one free while he hovers above like this.

Letting out a shaky breath in an attempt to control his breathing, speeded up as it is, Jack lowers his face over Norrington's until their lips are barely touching.

"Man of action," he whispers. "Will ye act now?"

It is more of a challenge than an invitation, but Jack likes nothing more than pushing Norrington to make the final move. To have this be his choice. All thoughts of headings, of articles, of compasses are gone from his mind.

Jack Sparrow is on top of him. Jack Sparrow is on top of him. James has a vague notion that he should perhaps be alarmed at this, that there's something not entirely right about the whole situation, but all he can think about is the heat spiralling in his veins, Sparrow's hands splayed on the mattress on either side of his head, his lips so very, very close to his own that he can feel the warmth of them.

Man of action, Jack murmurs, and something in James glows at the words. They feel like a title, like... gods, he doesn't even know what, and he draws in a shuddering breath through his nose, blinking up at Sparrow's face so close to his.

He pushes himself up on his elbows just barely, just enough so that their lips are touching properly, and he takes Sparrow's bottom lip between his teeth, biting gently, feeling the give of the soft flesh and the catch of Sparrow's breath.

'Aye,' he murmurs, only a hint of his usual dryness in his voice, and then with a diabolical grin, he hooks his knee around the leg that Sparrow doesn't have on the bed and twists, sending the pirate thudding onto his back, startled for just the moment that it takes for James to roll on top of him, knees planted on either side of his hips.

Jack smiles into the kiss, even almost lets out a little surprised laugh when Norrington nibbles on his lip, devilishly pleased that Norrington would initiate it. He moves his lips to meet Norrington's, prepared to retreat at any moment if just to keep Norrington chasing him.

Because that's what this is, all of it. It's still a chase. And Jack plans to run exactly to where he wants to go and then let Norrington trap him there. It's what Jack can do best. Jack runs and Norrington follows.

Except Norrington isn't following. Norrington is flipping him over. Well that's interesting.

Catching his breath, half out of surprise and half out of the image of Norrington hovering above him, stradling him, Jack stares up at him not a little wild eyed. Not really sure what to do now, with this role reversal.

But he doesn't want Norrington to know he's thrown him.

"And what do you think you're to be doing now? Teach you this in the Navy did they?"

James grins breathlessly, the heat in his body rushing southwards, pooling at the point of connexion between himself and Sparrow. The pirate was not expecting that, he can tell, from the wide, blinking eyes and the sudden huh of breath he lets out. Oh, it's empowering, this, the sight of Sparrow splayed out beneath him.

Completely at your mercy, whispers that little voice in the back of his head, sounding now suspiciously like Sparrow himself, and James bites at his lip, moaning a little, low in his throat. He looks down at Sparrow, giving him a grin that he hopes is only slightly mad, and pressing their hips together. No motion, just a constant, steady pressure, as if to remind them both of the position they are in.

'Oh, there are many things I did not learn in the Navy, Sparrow,' he breathes, 'And in. Surely you should know... some regulations are not as strict as they are made out to be.'

He leans down then, propping his arms on either side of Sparrow's head, mimicking the pirate's stance of moments before, leaning close, close, and breathing wickedly: 'And as for what I'm doing? Well,' he snorts a little in derisive amusement, 'There are only so many things a man can do in this position.'

A pause, and then a sudden thought strikes.

'Savvy?'

Hearing "savvy" said back to him like that, in Norrington's deep voice, with their hips pressed together, Jack can't stop a moan from escaping. The idea that Norrington has done this before, because that's the only thing that talk of lax regulations can mean, sends whatever blood left in his body to one particular point. Rocks his hips forward because he can't stand the pressure without some friction, and throws his head backwards as another groan reverberates deep in his throat from that.

"Haven't tried hard enough then, love, if you think there's limitations to this," Jack pants out, tucking his chin to look back up at Norrington. "Just have to let ol' Jack show you a trick or two."

And because he is a man of his word after all, let no one say otherwise, Jack wraps a hand around the back of Norrington's neck to pull him into a proper kiss, opening his mouth immediatly to deepen it. His other hand runs along the side of Norrington's jaw and the tangles itself into his hair.

Sparrow kisses him. He kisses him deep and slow and hard, and James melts into it, putting into the kiss all the shuddering heat of the friction of Sparrow's hips against his. He wants to touch the other man with his hands, wants to run them down his body, tangle them in his hair, but he cannot, lest he fall and crush the breath out of the slighter man beneath him entirely. As it is, sliding of tongue against tongue, the occasional clack of teeth, Sparrow's breath hot in his mouth and fogging his mind... his hips begin to move, undulating slowly and firmly against Sparrow's, finding a rhythm that suits both of them.

The other man breaks off the kiss with a playful grin and James groans, groans aloud, swallowing down the need to crush his lips to Sparrow's, pin him to the mattress with more than just the sheer weight of his body. However, he smirks breathlessly, tilting his head to one side above Sparrow's.

'Lovely though that was, Sparrow, there's no trick there that I've not already learned.' He swallows again, closing his eyes as if for fortification against the image of Sparrow with his dark eyes and kiss-wet lips. 'You'll have to try harder than that,' he murmurs, allowing one eyebrow to drift up ever so slightly.

A challenge. That was what Sparrow wanted, clearly, and apparently what he wanted as well. James relished surprising him, loved the momentary shock in those dark eyes as they registered his move, his next play.

Check in chess, after all.

That Norrington would try to challenge him now causes a grin to spread across Jack's face, predetory and hungry. And if a kiss -- a good kiss at that but nothing surprising, nothing too exciting -- was what he thought Jack was playing at then the man had something coming to him.

Slowly, Jack stills his hips against Norrington's, biting back a groan at the end of the lovely friction, wonderful friction, and then leaning down to prop himself up on his elbows. Just watching Norrington.

"Try harder, eh?" The corner of Jack's lips twist up into a smile. "Didn't think I was trying yet at all, mate."

Jack suddenly sits up, bringing his face close again to Norrington's but he won't kiss him this time. Leans in instead near his ear to place a kiss there and then trace the outer shell with his tongue. Runs a hand up Norrington's chest and then down to where his shirt is tucked into his breeches. Pulls it loose to skim a few fingers along the skin of his belly before settling his other hand on Norrington's hip.

"Seems to me," Jack whispers into his ear, skating the tips of his fingers into the waistband of Norrington's breeches before cupping Norrington's erection through his trousers. "Hardness isn't exactlty the concern here."

Oh. Ohhh. A tongue, then, running along the shell of his ear, and Sparrow's breath so very hot against his skin, and it seems to James that he has turned suddenly entirely to liquid. Every inch of himself is hypersensitised to the touch and sensation of Sparrow's rough clothing, the tiny, tickling brush of his hair against the side of his face, the throbbing, insistent pressure between his legs, and he moans again, this time almost more of a whimper, leaning at once into and away from Sparrow's touch. A hand runs down his chest, brushing little electric sparks of heat as it goes, and his body moves entirely without his permission, rubbing wantonly- and gods, he hates to say it, but that's what it is- against Sparrow, the heat of his own arousal very evident indeed.

The heat twists violently as Sparrow's hand cups him through his breeches, and he fairly cries out, his hips twitching into the touch, wanting more more more-

Wait.

His mind freezes suddenly, though his body does not; Jack Sparrow has his hand on James's prick, and he's straining for it, Sparrow is cupping, massaging, and no. Yes, he's the man's first mate now, yes he's aboard his ship for what he's sure is going to be a very long time, yes he's attractive and yes James wants him beyond all his better sense, but no. He's overwhelmed suddenly by a fear of the force of his own desire, and he fairly leaps back, stumbling and tripping off the bed, staring at Sparrow and blinking hard.

'No,' he mutters, and with some difficulty he straightens, schooling his posture into the ramrod-straight Commodore. He feels utterly ridiculous, with his hair dishevelled and his shirt untucked, and a very obvious erection in his ridiculously tight Naval breeches, but he hastily tucks his hair behind his ears, garnering what dignity he can.

'I'm sorry- I cannot. I mean, no, I- I cannot deny that, ah' he looks down at the prominence in his trousers, then looks up again, cheeks flaming. 'However, regardless of my- I cannot. It would be-'

Would be what? Most improper? He cannot say that; everything about this is improper, and to point it out would surely only spur laughter from Sparrow. He cannot, however, think of a more suitable adjective, so he says nothing, save a rather desperate 'You understand.' It's a question and a plea and an assertion all at once, but he does not know which of these it is foremost. His brain is in too much confusion.

"No?" is all Jack can think to repeat in a very unassured voice. Wants to say What do you mean, no? and Come back but of course he can't because he knows what "no" means -- though his body is having quite the struggle to understand it -- and to ask Norrington to come back into bed when he clearly doesn't want to would show too much of how much he wants this himself.

So he just flops backwards into the sheets and throws an arm over his eyes. Gives out a groan of frusteration as he abstractly listens to Norrington stutter his way through an excuse.

When he asks Jack if he understands, Jack mutters, "Not bloody really," but it's so quiet that he doesn't know if Norrington heard him or not.

This is really entirely unfair and with his erection still containing most of his attention, Jack is a bit distracted from acting immediately. If there ever was a time he wished he was the type of man to care naught about a willing bed partner, this is it. And he still wants to ask what Norrington means by "no".

But he won't. So instead he just mumbles out a bit bitterly, "This isn't one of your strict Naval regulations is it?"

Because teasing Norrington is about all his mind can can up with at this moment.

James groans to himself, running a finger over the brow of his nose and up through the crease in the centre of his forehead. God, he wants this, can't Sparrow see it? But he can't allow it, not... well, not yet. At least. He isn't sure what the qualifier is for when, but it's not now. There is one, maybe two reasons to do this with Sparrow, and though they are both eloquent and persuasive, there are millions why he shouldn't, and he feels positively flooded with them at the moment. He looks somewhat guiltily at Sparrow.

His entire body is still thrumming with heat and lust, and he looks pointedly away from the body on the bed, willing his erection to go away. Gradually, it obeys, at least partly, and he is left merely in a decidedly uncomfortable sweat, strangely cold in the hot Caribbean air. He gives a pained smile that's more of a grimace at Sparrow's half-hearted jibe, and pulls a chair to himself, picking up the first item to come to hand which might be a distraction.

Strangely enough, it's the little grey book of Italian that Sparrow had offered him earlier, and he blinks at it bemusedly before opening it up. It's no less difficult than it was before, but he struggles gamely through about a page and a half before he closes it with a snap and looks back at the pirate.

'I-' he begins, but what is there to say? 'I'm sorry,' he settles with, and he truly is, though he's unsure as to whether Sparrow will believe it or not.

'Perhaps,' he offers tentatively, suddenly recalling what they had been talking about before they had tumbled into Sparrow's bed, 'the ship's articles might be... in the offing now. I must sign, after all, if I am to be the chief mate.'

He doesn't get up from the bed. Doesn't raise his head to look at Norrington to see what he's doing even though he can feel Norrington's eyes on him. Jack doesn't feel much obliged at all to do anything right now because as far as he's concern Norrington started this and Norrington should have finished this.

And didn't. And Jack doesn't know why. Ideas of reasons run through his head but they all mean very little when his body screams out want and the relief that could be given for it is denied him.

Maybe he's pouting. He doesn't really care.

Jack grunts when Norrington apologies but can't think of anything else to respond to that. He doesn't want to talk about what almost happened at the moment. Not when he's trying to will his body to forget it.

Thinking about the articles though is distracting enough and Jack latches onto it. "Aye, signing. Best to be done. I'll draw them up."

He rises slowly off the bed, stretching languidly and perhaps more provocatively than necessary as a taunt to Norrington. Walks past the chair where Norrington is sitting, the book in his hand catching Jack's attention.

"Going back to your reading then?" he asks disinterestedly, putting on his scabbard to go below deck to find blank parchment and a quill. And rum. Rum would be really good right now.

There's a quick, disarming flare of arousal in James as he watches Sparrow stretch, slow and entirely indecent, like some kind of cat, and James can feel a scowl twisting about his lips. Determinedly, he stares at a point on the wall somewhere to the general left of the door until Sparrow's left, at which point he allows himself to slump in his chair, one hand raking through his hair in a gesture of impotent frustration.

What the hell, asks the little voice in his head, was that about? You had the man spread out beneath you- you wanted it-

Viciously he silences the voice. He will not be second-guessed by his own subconscious. He does, though, feel a bit guilty for leading Sparrow on, encouraging him, and then panicking. Only he hadn't given the thing any thought to begin with; it was just teasing, flirting, and then very suddenly it had been very much more than that, and James was not ready for that. Either it was impersonal- a quick, good fuck- or it was something... meaningful, and Sparrow had already shown himself to be straddling that line in a most disturbing fashion.

He looks down at his lap, at the outline of his now-flagging arousal against his breeches and curses it vainly. That, right there, is the bane of all men, he thinks, and all men know it, but they don't give a damn, because it feels so bloody good.

Irritably he picks up the book again, wanting something to distract himself from his own thought until Sparrow returns.

Once outside the cabin, Jack feels a bit better. Less annoyed at the turn of events. Calmed with the shift of the Pearl beneath his feet. The wind on his face. He looks up at the sky to spot the sun from earlier this morning but it's disappeared behind gathering storm clouds. He knew a storm was on the way and the give of the wind seems to say it's coming. And it's big.

Getting out of the Caribbean for the time being might not be a bad idea for many reasons.

The crew eyes him with too much interest as he swaggers past and Jack bellows at them to get back to work in his most Captain-ly tones. He finds Gibbs by the foredeck, hauling ropes and is about to request him to head for Hispanola when a part of his mind reminds him he left his compass in the cabin. With Norrington. Who is waiting to sign the papers to become his first mate.

Er... He can wait a bit longer.

Jack stays standing with Gibbs before going to take over the helm himself, directing them to the way he hopes Hispanola lies. They can gather supplies there before setting out across the Atlantic. Whatever Norrington does locked in the cabin Jack has no real interest. Or if he does, he pushes it away. The Pearl needs him right now. She comes before anyone.

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