Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.
Summary: A broken Commodore Norrington falls into the hands of Jack Sparrow.
Warnings: Dark. Semi-non-consent, bondage. It has a happy ending, though. I swear.
A/N: My first Pirates of the Caribbean fic. The breaks (----) separate the story by hours, or even days, generally what I did not want to write. Use your imagination. I also do not often like to refer to the Commodore by name here, much less his first name. This is short, but I put a lot of love and barely-awake hours into it. Enjoy.
(Many thanks to my beta, Paul, who chose not to read the smut parts—I wouldn't either if I was a straight male. Haha.)
----
Explosions. Splintering wood. Bodies flying through the air, accompanied by faint screams.
He himself was forced overboard as a nearby keg of gunpowder exploded in a flash. There was a small moment of violent airborne wonder, and then he crashed and felt it, the icy depths of Davy Jones' locker threatening to claim him. Keeping his mind firmly on the task of staying alive, he treaded the cruel gray water as best he could.
Cannonfire was distant to his ears—and yet more distant as he failed to keep his head above. Water blocked his hearing. Iciness suffused his limbs. He vaguely watched his own blood make streaks in the water, and removed as well as he could his blue Naval wear. Head breaking the surface, he saw sailors cling onto bits of ship, and some, he knew, lay dead.
Cold…
Numb arms barely grasped the salvation that was thrown toward him from a familiar ship. He was hauled up, shuddering, fingers nearly frozen around the rope.
"Easy does it. Looking a fine fright without your dashing wig, Commodore."
----
For days he'd remained almost completely silent among the wretched riffraff of the Black Pearl, taking only offers of food, stumbling around on deck as the nights wore on and retiring to a small cabin at dawn. He was a ship's ghost that had somehow failed to die. The cold night air penetrated his skin; the ragged clothing they had found him offered no warmth. He knew, in the chilled depths of his completely sane heart, that they considered him crazier than their barmy captain—Sparrow's sauntering was less haunted than his own prowls… and the cold, the cold…
He looked up, as he always had, at the creaking of the masts, and around to where he knew the crewmen would be. The shadows watched him and muttered to each other.
He would usually have snorted at their butchery of the English language, but he himself spoke not a word, so not a word was spoken to him, though Cotton's parrot seemed to take a liking to him, one night fluttering from its perch upon its tongueless owner to rest upon his own shoulder. Its two silent masters rarely exchanged a glance.
The crew considered him mad, yes—until they knew he'd gone right into the realm of pure psychosis, when he grabbed a knife from the elaborate refectory of the ship and advanced upon Sparrow.
----
His head hung on his chest, where the proud colors of the Royal Navy had once adorned him, asserting him in its various medals and pips to the rank of Commodore. Alas, no longer. A puff of breath escaped, nearly unrecognizable as laughter.
He hadn't even attempted to break from his bindings. The ropes, he knew, were too expertly knotted, and the iron rungs, of course, were much affixed to the wall. His only difficulty was his aching back, and the hunger pangs that rumbled in his stomach.
The cabin door was opened, he lifted his head. Espying the plate full of food, he thought it an angel, until the bearded and be-braided visage of Jack Sparrow entered, glancing at his prisoner's drawn face.
"Now, mate," he said cheerfully. "You're having it easy, what with all this mooning around deck. It'd be the cat for most of these lads out 'ere, but you're a guest. Your own private place, and better than the brig! Almost makes a man consider attacking the ship's captain again… Anamaria suggested throwing you overboard, but parting is such sweet sorrow, is it not?"
He offered a slice of bread, and, after a few seconds of cold consideration, the man's head turned aside.
Sparrow was unperturbed. "Fancy this for a lark, eh," he said quietly. "So good to have you aboard."
----
Various crewmen visited him with food, and he accepted, humiliating though the finger-feeding technique was. Two days later – he paid close attention to the light that seeped through the cracks in the wood, to the shouts of the sailors – Sparrow was back.
"Good to see you're healthy, mate. Got to keep you up and about. Well, p'raps not about." He leaned against the wall. "Can't have you running amok, stabbin' the crew," he said conversationally. "Though I can't see why. Wasn't us that fired upon ye."
The man blinked.
"Aye," the pirate captain said softly. "Sorry."
A croak escaped dry lips. Eyes softened. Some resemblance of the previous Commodore returned, and Sparrow brought himself closer, giving a wild, dangerous grin. "Aye, that's what I like to see, mate."
Jack grasped a cup of wine. Wine. Raising it to the man's lips, he tipped it, and Norrington allowed the warmth of alcohol to course down his throat and through his body. He realized his eyes had closed. Opening them, he found the captain's face an inch from his.
He closed them again. Mercy. No reason to go cross-eyed.
They flew open once more as he felt the insistent pressure of lips against his own. He tried to turn his head, but the captain's hands held it in place, and there was no escape – Norrington brought a knee up, but somehow, Sparrow seemed used to this tactic. He dodged it, broke free, fleetingly looking for all the world as if it had made contact, and left.
----
He was back an hour later, a feral look in his eye, and did not bother with any conversation before he pressed himself flush against the bound man. The beads and coins in his hair jingled maddeningly closely, and the Commodore caught a whiff of rum in the captain's breath. The taste was forced onto his own tongue as his mouth was assaulted, and he stood stiffly, breathing heavily through his nostrils as the pirate plundered what he could.
Sparrow undulated against his prisoner, clutching the back of his head, thrusting lightly and making the most obscene noises in the back of his throat. And the Commodore stood fast, ramrod stiff, as though he were on duty, not having his mouth pillaged by a bloody mad pirate, not being raped by tongue and felt up in the most wicked and carnal manner. He forced his mind elsewhere, struggling to maintain dignity and sanity. Nothing more than heated flesh and a rapid heartbeat. But now the man was slipping downward—clutching at the Commodore's ripped clothing, moaning in that odd manner against now-bared flesh, opening his mouth wide—good god.
A strangled sob ripped from the Commodore's throat. This was too much. The rest of his body would not betray him, but that one thing that so often seemed to have a mind of its own… and what was the man doing? How, exactly, had he learnt to swipe his tongue around the head in—ohgod—in that way? The Commodore could not remember the last time he had experienced such a contrast in sensation, not the effect of these damning chains and stiff back in distinction to that damning pirate and the Commodore's own stiff organ, suckled delightfully into that warm, wet mouth, and not a scrape of teeth, not even of gold, though not even all the gold on the Isla de Muerta could compensate for this feeling… Oh, lord—lord, yes.
The Commodore shifted and growled, body engaged in a furious mutiny. Sparrow murmured his response around the man's cock. One moment he was sucking enthusiastically, the next pressing the sweetest spots… perfect, but just not enough. The younger man was feverish, chilled but sweating, eyes shut tight against reality and wrists chafing against their bonds, and he could feel the white-hot explosion swooping down his spine, gathering in his groin, he held on with the final feeble remnants of his restraint—
It hit with a pulsing, rhythmic crash, washing over him, lights flashed before his eyes, leaving him weak and shaking as the last waves of pleasure spurted from him. Sparrow leaned back on his heels and tucked the spent cock back into shabby trousers, ignoring the twitch and groan from the man in front of him. He stood.
"Want a taste, mate?" The drunken grin would have been less menacing on Barbossa. The Commodore hadn't the energy to turn away—the pirate once again met his lips, though gentle, a smooth caress rather than the previous mouth-ravaging he had suffered. The bitterness was there, and immediately, Jack broke away.
And the man stood, head bowed, trying to feel nothing, as Sparrow alleviated his own need in front of him, stifling a groan, spraying him finally with his pleasure.
"Commodore." When Sparrow had regained the use of his body and put all bits into their appropriate places, a slice of bread was once again offered. The man bit into it, savoring the taste as if it was his last—and, as he concentrated on the feel of the morsel inside his mouth, his bonds were cut, his arms fell free, and he collapsed.
----
The lurch of this ship was… unfamiliar. These bedsheets were not his. Even the patterns of light on his closed eyelids were alien. He forced them open and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, wondering vaguely at the pain in his wrists, and, as everything came into focus, his eyes took in a length of rope on the floor, two iron rungs in the wall, and a figure that slept in a chair with its hat over its face.
"Sparrow," he croaked. "Sparrow, awake."
The hat fell into the pirate's lap, revealing a pair of wide, dark eyes that stared directly into the Commodore's soul.
Thousands of years passed, interrupted only by blinks, and finally, it was Sparrow who spoke.
"Morning. Fancy a walk out on the deck?" He stood, stretched stiffly, and moved to stand by the man's bedside. "Daresay you need some fresh air, eh?"
The man sat up, grabbed the pirate violently by the collar, and tugged him close, nearly close enough to blur his vision if he tried to focus.
Another few decades flashed by, and with the slightest intake of breath, two pairs of lips met again.
The motion of the Pearl sent its captain into the arms of a broken, forgotten, decrepit officer, and the only sounds to be heard on the entire ocean were, perhaps, the soft moans of two men entangled in the captain's bed… and both were tenderly swept overboard.