May 272008
 

Crazy Crossover slash, inspired by Kirrily and Marna’s very entertaining epic Shore Leave

Title: Shore Leave II
Pairing:Sharpe/Sparrow/Norrington/Hornblower
Rating:NC-17
Summary: Jack Sparrow wanted what Richard Sharpe could give him, just for one evening.
Disclaimers:The characters in this work belong to C. S. Forester, Bernard Cornwell, and Disney and I’m only borrowing ‘em.
Warnings:graphic M/M sex, mild bondage and discipline, fist fights, Rum. A blithe disregard for time periods.

Thank you to the_stowaway for an awesome beta, I am your devoted servant!

*****

There was no sign on the door, nothing that singled it out from any other on the street. You either knew to knock on it, or you didn’t; Jack Sparrow did. There were not many members to this club; still, sailors, soldiers, aye, even a pirate or two– such as his own good self– stood at the bar in convivial conversation. The imperturbable bartender handed him a bottle as he came up.

Sparrow went on past, through the curtains into the inner room. There was less conversation here, and less clothing as well. There was a lot of skin; flesh that rippled with strength and ability; men entwined with one another, disposed over the thick carpets that cushioned the floor- there being no other furnishings within.

And there was James Norrington; why was he still standing, and why was he still clothed? And wasn’t that Richard Sharpe he was talking with? The two men glanced his way; Sparrow answered their wolfish smiles with one of his own, as they came towards him. “So it’s to be that game, eh?” he thought, and tugged at the rum to fortify himself.

“Pirate,” James said. He stood before Sparrow, looking him up and down.

“Commodore,” Sparrow returned, steadily enough. He could feel Sharpe’s presence behind him. “Captain,” he said over his shoulder, “It seems you are well, eh?”

“Quite well, I thank you,” Sharpe chuckled. His big hands closed over Sparrow’s shoulders. Sparrow shrugged him off, glaring at Norrington.

“Here, d’you mind telling me wot’s up, Jamie?”

Norrington smirked. “I’ve lost a bet, you see.”

“An’ wot’s that to me?” Sparrow said hotly. “Am I t’pay your gambling debts then?”

“Nay, Jack, you are the payment.” Norrington said. “I’ve promised that I would not interfere with Richard’s… interest in you, this day.”

“Ah,” Sparrow managed. “A moment, Captain Sharpe, if you please.” He put both arms around Norrington’s neck. “Christ, you’re th’best, Jamie,” Sparrow muttered into James’s mouth. “You threw that bet for me, din’t you– If I survive this, you’ll get anything you want from me, love– anything and everything.”

James shut him up with a tongue that tried to reach down Sparrow’s throat. “Enjoy,” he husked, and released him. Sparrow winked, and answered Sharpe’s possessive touch with an elbow to the stomach that made him woof in surprise. He spun to face the soldier and delivered a neat uppercut to the stubbled jaw.

“James might not interfere, but I might have somethin’ t’say about it, eh?” he remarked, and pulled a knee up– deliberately missing the man’s groin, and knocking his thigh instead. Sharpe grinned and shook his head, swung almost idly, and delivered a ringing cuff to the side of the head that sent Sparrow staggering. Jack made sure to stagger t’wards a cushioning rug– just as well, since Sharpe tackled him and put him face-first onto it, with all of the rifleman’s considerable weight atop him, pinning him most deliciously down.

“Now, pirate,” Sharpe murmured, “There ain’t no extra britches here for you– so you’ll let me remove yours with no fuss, eh?”

Sparrow managed a strangled chuckle. “I confess I were looking forward t’the fuss, but you’ve a convincing argument there.” Then his breath whooped into him, as Sharpe leaped to his feet. He felt himself rise by way of a handful of his shirt and the waistband of his breeches, was whirled and sent crashing back against a wall. He shook the stars from his vision to see Sharpe stalking towards him, and swallowed. A burly arm rested on each side of his shoulders, that gorgeous, feral face inches from his.

“Boots,” Sharpe commanded, his breath hot on Sparrow’s face. Sparrow toed them off and kicked them away. He wetted dry lips. A hand set itself squarely on his chest, pressing him hard against the wall. “Take off your britches.” Sparrow shuddered, set fingers to the placket, and they dropped away. Sharpe’s hand slid up under his shirt, stroking his skin. Sparrow feverishly tugged at the fabric, dragging it over his head and casting it aside, and suffered Sharpe’s full attention, being looked up and down, and handled with rough aplomb. He raised his hands to Sharpe’s green jacket, began to work at the row of buttons as best he could with both nipples being rolled and pinched mercilessly.

“Christ, let me breathe,” he groaned, and was thankful when Sharpe lifted his hands so that Sparrow could rid him of his jacket and shirt, exposing a broad chest that glowed with health and strength. Sharpe put an arm about Sparrow’s waist and pulled him in.

“Thought you wanted a fight,” Sharpe said into the ear his teeth were worrying at. Sparrow twisted in to grab the rifleman’s flesh in his own teeth.

“A battle, love,” he purred. “An’ I’ll give as good as I get, I promise you.” He slid his hand between their bellies, cupping the bulge there for a moment before he got to work on the tight breeches– mightily distracted by the hand squeezing his arse and the growling voice saying; “You’re on.” And the moment Sharpe was denuded, before Sparrow’d even the chance to look (not that he didn’t already know this body from watching the show in times past) he found himself hugged tight against Sharpe’s chest with his cock snug against the other man’s hardness, his wrists gripped behind his back, being moved willy-nilly like a girl in a waltz till he felt soft carpeting under his bare feet.

“I’m going to take you down, Jack,” Sharpe promised. Sparrow craned up and ran his tongue across the firm, finely drawn lips, which parted with an indrawn breath.

“I’m going to go down, Richard,” he said, curving against the other man. “And let’s see how long you can remain standing, eh?” He grinned at Sharpe’s slightly flummoxed expression, and set his mouth against the pulse in Sharpe’s neck, tasting his salt. Glorious, it was. Sharpe stood firm, while Sparrow explored the scars and muscles before him. He tongued at a nipple, sucked it in and felt the grip on his wrists grow reflexively tighter. Sparrow grinned against the golden skin, and hummed, and delivered a long stroke into the crease of one deliciously-scented armpit, eliciting a pleasurable grunt. As he bent towards Sharpe’s tight stomach, he shrugged against the restraint. “You ought to move me hands t’the front, love– I ain’t quite so limber as that, if I’m t’go to me knees for you.”

“Hah! Aren’t you a cheeky beggar! Your friend suggested this.” Sharpe brought one hand forward, showing the length of white stuff that he held.

“Did he now,” Sparrow said sharply. “I fear I don’t owe my friend nothin’ no more– bein’ as the bastard knows how partial I am to a bit of rope.” He jerked free and stepped back, bringing his fists up. “That ain’t a handicap I’m willin’ t’give ye fer free.” He shot a punch into Sharpe’s ribs and danced away, just ahead of the soldier’s return. But he wasn’t fast enough to duck the left that came at him from, it seemed, behind. Cursing, Sparrow got close enough to sweep a leg behind his opponent’s, in an effort to kick him down, and he blocked the swung elbow with the palm of one hand, only to find Sharpe had turned his whole body into him, thrusting a meaty thigh between his own, and that the hand attached to that elbow now had hold of the same hand that’d blocked its blow. The two men hung in a perfect balance, grinning with it, for one moment before the stasis dissolved once more into a sweaty, gasping wrestling match.

“Might I offer a hand?” Norrington said suddenly. Sparrow, panting and swearing and half bent over, looked up at the Commodore’s query. As he’d expected, it was addressed not to himself, but to his persecutor. “He’s quite a bit stronger than one would assume.”

“You’ve got that right, sir,” Sharpe said. “My thanks.”

“Jamie!” Sparrow wailed, as he was borne down under two bodies. “Have you no loyalty, mate?”

“I owe my allegiance to His Majesty’s men, not to pirates.” Norrington dodged a flailing arm. Sparrow felt himself flip over, and hands like iron pulled his wrists across the small of his back.

“Bugger,” he whispered into the carpet. The rope wound around a wrist, making his pulse stutter. He felt it being tied off, and slipped under his elbow, and writhed for the sheer pleasure of capture. James’s deft hands looped the ends around both forearms together, and then around his left wrist, tethering that to the right elbow. Sweat sprang prickling to his brow and between his shoulder-blades.

“I mean to ensure that you get everything you deserve,” the Commodore said with an edge of laughter in his voice.

“Bugger, bugger!” Sparrow twisted his head around to look in James’s direction. “Tis quite embarassin’, t’be seen in such straits, love.” He wriggled, unable to keep still; the pressure of his own arms’ weight across his back was incredibly erotic. James bestrode him, hauled him to his feet. Sparrow tried to support himself with some measure of dignity, but could no more keep himself from rubbing back against Norrington’s groin than he could stop breathing. Sharpe stood before him; Sparrow endeavoured to stop his head from lolling like a drunk’s, and did his best to focus his eyes.

“And that’s all it takes?” Sharpe grinned. He ran a finger along Sparrow’s chest, making him whimper and buck against Norrington’s grip.

“You can do anything with him now,” Norrington said, and thrust with his yard so that it slipped between Sparrow’s thighs. Sparrow yowled.

“Aye, anything, by God,” he gasped. “Only don’t ask me t’stand alone, me legs won’t hold me.”

“You’d be welcome to join us,” Sharpe said courteously as he took possession of his victim.

“I thank you, but I’ve custody of young Hornblower, and I must be returning to his side, I’m sure.”

“Oh Christ, the babe. I don’t want to be affrighting th’lad, Jamie…”

“By all means, frighten him if you wish, Jack– I’ll be there to offer him comfort,” Norrington laughed. He tucked a finger under Sparrow’s chin, and leaned in to kiss him. “You are hardly terrifying at the moment, my beloved pirate,” he murmured.

“Damn you, Jamie,” Sparrow returned feebly. Then Norrington was gone, and Sharpe’s blue eyes were all that he could see, and Sharpe’s mouth covered his. Sparrow fought to get his knees steady, while his mouth was being ravaged by the soldier. But Sharpe wrapped him about with one arm, and continued his methodical destruction of Sparrow’s equilibrium. He was, Sparrow thought wryly, right back where he’d begun. Even more so, when Sharpe clapped one hand over Sparrow’s arse and gripped tight. A thumb sliding into the cleft left Sparrow panting open-mouthed– unable to kiss– arching back into the touch and then grinding against Sharpe’s hip.

“You made a promise,” Sharpe said, and removed his thumb.

Sparrow whimpered at its loss, and tried to think of what promises he’d made– or indeed when he’d had the chance to. Then he felt himself being lowered, and remembered. He mouthed at the skin passing before him as he went, and got his knees spread enough to steady himself once he rested on them, with Sharpe’s cock, standing thick and proud before his face, reeling him in. He mourned the loss of his hands now, what with everything that was there to caress and handle. He made do with what he had, rubbing his face over the furred thighs and silky belly, gusting his breath over Sharpe’s twitching yard. He tasted his own humors, where his own cock had been pressed against Sharpe’s leg. A scar caught his attention; “Christ, mate,” he said looking up, “a few inches t’the left…”

“You wouldn’t be opening your mouth to me right now.” Sharpe agreed. His fingers dug into Sparrow’s hair. Sparrow ducked under Sharpe’s cock and nudged with his chin to encourage a wider stance, then took control of Sharpe’s nutsack, rolling the sweetly resilient globes about with his lips and tongue. The man smelled good, and tasted better; Sparrow savoured the tang of his sweat, breathed it back into his throat. He ran the tip of his tongue as far back as he could reach, over that smooth vulnerable flesh, and relished the strangled groan that he drew forth from its owner. He pulled back to attend to Sharpe’s yard, bouncing against his tongue since he had no hands with which to capture it, until he learned to apply suction with his lips as he worked it over. The fingers tightened most gratifyingly against his scalp, and painfully so when he pulled the flared head into his mouth and began sucking in earnest, bobbing his head showily. His cock twitched and leaked, untouched; he arched his back to be assured of the constricture of his arms. His skin tingled with imaginary slaps, his arsehole with the craving to be stretched, split and filled, and the sooner the better. He moaned around his mouthful. But when he tried to pull away, Sharpe wouldn’t let him. His head held in a vice-like grip, Sparrow shrugged mentally and opened his throat just in time to take Sharpe’s battering thrust. The groan over his head matched the one that Sparrow voiced; Sharpe thrust strongly until he pulled halfway out, shuddering for a drawn-out moment before he shouted and spilled himself into Sparrow’s mouth, salty, and copious and blood-warm.

Sharpe stepped a pace away, to survey his kneeling captive. “Still standing, Jack,” he said, and smirked, but Sparrow reckoned it’d been a near thing; the rifleman’s chest was still heaving, and his eyes were gloriously hot. For his own part he felt only selfish despair that the sensation he craved would be denied him for however long it took the man to recover.

“O please, mate,” he whimpered now; “O, please…”

“Are you asking for drink?” Sharpe grinned. “I see your rum just over there, hang on–” and he was away. Sparrow twisted himself half-way round to watch the delicious arse moving like a fine horse’s quarters, and winced at the scarred ruin of the man’s back. He let himself fall to the carpet, rolled onto his stomach and ground against the silken pile, panting in relief. He heard Sharpe laugh above him, grinned secretly and wriggled more, until he felt– as he’d hoped, as he’d been wanting, needing– a hard, heavy wallop to his buttocks that made him arch like a bow and cry out.

“Again,” he demanded, and Sharpe obliged, sending needles of pleasure-pain through his legs all the way down to the soles of his feet– and up though his groin till he feared he’d burst with it. He pulled his knees forward, cocking his arse for the blows that fell inexorably, and thanked whatever godlet that might have been looking his way. Again. Again. Again.

Hands pulled him over, onto his back. Sparrow blinked at hazy figures above him, acutely aware of the way his chest arched over his pinioned arms, and his buttocks numb for the nonce– although he knew well (with whatever portion of his mind remained lucid) that the feeling would roar in soon enough, and he’d be tingling, burning hot, exquisitely sensitised to every touch, be it the merest fingertip.

“Jack?”

“Eh?” he managed.

It was Horatio, kneeling at his side. Sweet, earnest eyes peered into his. That mouth that made Sparrow want to bite asked; “Did you really want that?”

“Aye, more than you can possibly imagine, lad,” Sparrow husked. He looked to Sharpe, who was grinning at the exchange, and added; “An’ more t’come, as well.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Eh?”

“I didn’t know…” The gentle fingers trailed over his neck. “Last time, you know.”

Sparrow rolled his head to the touch. “I, mmm, got I wanted last time, love.” Horatio’s hands were warm and firm, and– ooh– stroking, now, at his nipples. “I’ll tell you what I’d like now though, a mouthful o’ me rum.”

Sharpe settled himself cross-legged and hauled Sparrow into his lap, propping him against the broad chest. “Drink, sir,” he said, and tipped the bottle to Sparrow’s mouth, letting him gulp greedily. Sparrow could feel the chuckle deep inside Sharpe’s chest; he jerked the bottle so that the sweet, stinging liquid ran down Sparrow’s chin and over his torso.

Sparrow yelped obligingly, and Horatio tsk’d. “Sloppy,” he said, and swiped at the runnel with a finger. Sparrow’s captor loosed a second trickle, and the lad leaned in to chase it with his tongue, down Sparrow’s heaving stomach. Sparrow wriggled and sprawled, all put-upon and helpless and open-legged, and Sharpe gurgled in amusement and made sure the rum spilled into Sparrow’s pubes; and with a wicked flash that Sparrow could hardly credit from the lamb, Horatio suckled and nuzzled all around the area, his cheek nudging against Sparrow’s aching cock.

“Bugger,” Sparrow breathed.

He tilted his head up to see the rifleman’s fierce smile. “Quite soon now,” he was promised, and Sharpe took his mouth, brutal and unstoppable, until Sparrow was whimpering and babbling muffled threats and pleas, scrabbling with his legs in an attempt to push back into the man. At some point, he realised that Horatio had been carried off by the Commodore, and that they lay entwined not so very far away– a sight Sparrow would gladly immerse himself in on any other occasion. But Sharpe was running his hot, dry hands over Sparrow’s corpus and that raw and punishing attention was exactly what was wanted. His arse was burning now; so sensitive that he could feel each separate wiry curl that surrounded the revived prick that was snugged up against his cleft. Sharpe released his mouth, and Sparrow drew shuddering breath. Then he watched as the bottle of sweet oil was hefted before him, and tilted, and poured out into Sharpe’s other hand– and a push toppled him forward, chin and chest and knees to the floor, arse hoisted high.

“Untie my hands, love,” he begged, while the rifleman moved behind him and nudged his legs apart.

“Why?” Sharpe rumbled, and passed an oiled hand over his tight-stretched buttocks.

“So that I can push back for you when you take me– ” Sparrow groaned long and low with the entrance of one thick finger. “Oh god, oh god, Richard– let loose my hands.” But he was sorry he’d asked that, for Sharpe needed two hands to work the knots, swearing genially when his greasy fingers slipped, and Sparrow’s arse mourned the loss. He cautiously unfolded his arms and got them underneath him, while Sharpe went back to his previous activity of working his hand halfway to Sparrow’s throat. This was sheer pleasure sparking within him, and Sparrow moaned, hissed and writhed in appreciation, unable to think of any better thing until– god yes– the clever fingers withdrew and took hold of his hips and Sharpe slowly worked his blunt and authoritative cock into Sparrow’s trembling body. Sparrow keened as the fat head stretched him, popping past the ring of muscle and burned its way deep into him.

“That’s it, oh Christ, yes,” he choked out, and Sharpe’s pelvis came to rest against his nethers and his body came down over Sparrow’s back, and a hand swept Sparrow’s tangles away, and a sucking mouth and sharp teeth closed over Sparrow’s neck. After that it was merely a matter of holding on, holding back the rising conflagration within him, while Sharpe slowly built his own fires– slowly, because, Sparrow knew, he’d slaked himself once already in Sparrow’s collusive mouth. Oh, yes, just what he wanted. More than he wanted, that might be enough. He pushed, as he’d promised, back against the rifleman’s thrusts, matching speed and rhythm, and spread himself wider, and took it and took it; one thunder-bolt on top of the next.

An arm was holding him close, Sharpe’s voice gasped profanities next to his ear. Sparrow returned invective and incitement in battered, fractured phrases. Sharpe’s weight drove him down, as the whole of it lay on him; the hand that wasn’t convulsing against his flank was coming down to take hold of his cock. A rough fingertip stung against his slit and then Sharpe’s ungentle stroking pulled all the sparks and and flickers and flares into one flame that grew and grew– near to terrifying. “Are you comin’ to’t, Richard?” he gasped, “Don’t bring me off wi’out you.”

“Aye,” Sharpe said, and that syllable became a drowned-out, formless growl. He slowed, his breath ragged and rasping. Sparrow waited for a trembling endless moment, feeling the man above him gathering himself. “Christ, oh Christ,” he whispered, and heard a sweet, soft whimper just before Sharpe stiffened, tried to push himself all the way in, and roared out his pleasure. Sparrow heard himself wailing, as if from far away, his arsehole spasming around Sharpe’s pulsing cock, and spent long and hard into Sharpe’s hand.

For once, Sparrow had no words. He lay still, glad to be pressed into the floor by the rifleman’s weight, timing his panting breath to Sharpe’s heaving chest, Sharpe’s sticky hand still cupping his member– gentle, now. The other hand moved, softly exploring the ribs under his arm. Sparrow’s arse tingled and burned around the twitching bulk still driven deep into his guts.

Above him, Sharpe emitted a long, sighing breath. He clutched tighter, and rolled himself off, and brought Sparrow over with him, so that they lay on their sides, slipping out of Sparrow as they moved. “Look,” he murmured; Commodore Norrington and Lieutenant Hornblower were not far away, rocking slow and strong together, sharing a gasping, open-mouthed kiss, each with a hand slid into the space between their bodies. It was gorgeous and mixed right into the tremors of pleasure that were even still ringing through Sparrow’s body. Through heavy lids, Sparrow watched his man throw his head back, pushing hard into the lad’s grasp, and saw Horatio arch towards James in response.

“Jesus Christ, Richard,” Sparrow said at last.

“Your Norrington gave me the tip, y’know.” The arms tightened gently. “That little trick of yours with the rope, and you a pirate captain? Can’t be safe, can it.”

” ‘S got to be the right piece of rope…” Sparrow muttered. “An’ in the right hands.” Sharpe was exhibiting a post-coital tenderness that Sparrow found rather surprising, given the way he’d torn into Major Edrington the last time they’d met here, and the ruthlessness with which he’d handled Sparrow’s corpus. “An’ mate, your hands were very right.”

Sharpe leaned over and pulled Sparrow around. “That was fine. That was… ” He grinned and rolled his eyes, and in that moment Sparrow saw how young the man was– younger than Norrington. He came down over Sparrow for a kiss, leisurely and explorative. Then he pulled back, looking quizzical.

“What’s on your mind, love?” Sparrow wanted, more than anything to surrender to sleep, right there on the floor.

“Can you give as good as you can take?”

“B’lieve you’ve seen me do it, eh?” Sparrow grinned. “Care for another round, then? Only– not today, for mercy’s sake.”

“Next time, aye.” Sharpe sat up. Sparrow shook his head at the proffered hand.

“Thank’s love, I’m jus’ goin’ to res’ here awhile.” He smiled and let his eyes close.

**

“Come, Jack, let’s be off.”

“Can’t come again, too tired…” Sparrow pushed at the hand that was shaking his shoulder.

“The floor may be fine for pirates, but I would prefer a nice soft bed,” Norrrington chuckled. “Here are your clothes, and I have a hansom waiting.” Sparrow was glad of the hand supporting him, and the fingers that took over for his fumbling ones to close his shirt and breeches. “I shall order a bath, I think–you reek, and I’m sure I do too, albeit to a lesser extant.” Sparrow swayed in and buried his face in the Commodore’s shoulder.

“You smell of the boy, ‘s lovely.” He shuffled his effects into place and tipped his hat exactly right. “Ah, Jamie, t’see you with him– like a picture, it was…”

Norrington, who had one steering arm about Sparrow’s shoulder, squeezed hard. “I watched you, too,” he said, and they went out of the nameless door into the evening.

400

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