Um, my wigfic had a baby?
Title: No Means No
Style: Crack
Genre: Dramedy
Raiting: PG - 13, R
Cameos: Guess for a prize!
Pairings: Sohpie/Norrington, Sylvester/Beckett, Sylvester/Sophie
Warnings: Nonconsensual Relations, Violence, Naughty Language, etc…
Authoress: FF.Net, AFF.Net - Sat-Isis/Suten Net -- LJ -
cassiopaya
Summary: Sylvester is a pig, Sophie retaliates, Norrington gets angry, and Beckett is disappointed.
Sylvester perked up when Norrington entered the room, immediately growing alert; this was someone important to his Master. Previously, Norrington had been filthy and wretched hardly worth paying attention too, but he had exceeded Cutler Beckett’s expectations and thus was a valuable piece in the game. From toe to top, he was examined, and Sylvester coiled his large curls convulsively in shock when he reached Norrington’s head.
There sat the most enchanting creature Sylvester had ever seen: delicate curls and so very, very white -- like snow. He shifted slightly on Beckett’s head and began to purr ever so slightly at the thought of touching such a beauteous thing. Cutler Beckett felt his head grow warmer and gazed up pointedly at the point of his wig. Sylvester rustled his curls obsequiously and settled once more against his Master’s head.
Much talking ensued and Sylvester paid not a whit of attention to it, but was rather mesmerized by the bounce of curls when Norrington punctuated his speech with a move of his head. Cutler Beckett had instilled within his wig a taste for the finer things in life. Utter elegance and refinement; he would have her this night.
The conversation came to an abrupt end and Sylvester was suddenly confronted with the back of Norrington’s head, the tail of his wig swishing as he left his Master’s office. He felt his own curled tail twitch and his sharp mind was already creating scenarios as sharp and sweet as his Widow’s Peak.
* * *
A wraith move among the Moonbeams, skittering and slithering across the flagstones of Fort Charles in search of pleasurable company. Sylvester came to the edge of a door and pressed, it opened slowly before him and he squeezed inside. After pressing the door shut behind him, he made for the dresser and scurried up the drawer handles to a conspicuous wig case. Smelling the faint fumes of lavender, in a near frenzy Sylvester tried working the latch on the case.
* * *
Sophie had been having the rather unpleasant dream that Jack Sparrow was attempting to remove her from the case and dye her blue. Then she realized that she was awake and there was someone playing with the latch on her door.
“Oh, dear, is it morning? I hardly feel as though I have slept at all!” Sophie thought as she gradually worked towards coherence and then quiet suddenly her door flew open. This was rather unusual, it was still night and there was a strange wig on her threshold. Not wanting to be impolite, she summoned up a short greeting, “Oh, hello. Do I know you?”
“Ah, my dear,” the rogue wig replied, “I hope to know you very soon. I am Sylvester.” He began to slide inside her box. As a matter of course she replied, “I am Sophie, pleased to make your acquaintance; however, what brings you to my box this night?”
He pressed his curls against hers, marveling at the softness, “Sophie, my dear Sophie, I have come to make love to you sweetheart.” She recoiled on her headrest, her hair rising in unease; she hissed “I beg your pardon, Sylvester? This is quite unseemly!”
But already he had come around and was trying to mount her, his tail twisting round hers. With an indignant shriek, Sophie tried to slough him off of her, “Stop that! Stop that, I say!” Growling, Sylvester replied, “Will you be still?!” as he tried to work his curls over hers. Sophie shrieked again when his sharp Widow’s Peak pressed into her back and then the sound of ripping hair filled the night.
* * *
“Did you see that?” the thin man asked.
“I think I did,” the fat one replied.
“It looked like a Ghost! A Dog Ghost!” the thin one exclaimed.
“There are no such things as Ghost Dogs,” the fat man said with a chuckle.
“Dog Ghost,” the other corrected, “one of those little yappie ones, too.”
“Now, now, I am sure it was just a cat, nothing to be worried over,” the larger man replied.
“Oh, well, I suppose you could be right. It could have been a Ghost Cat,” the slim man acquiesced.
“Cat Ghost. Oh! Now you have me saying it!” the other replied angrily.
Their bickering was interrupted by the high pitch screams and yowls that floated on the night breeze.
“You were right, it was a Cat Ghost, two of them!” the thin one whispered astonishedly to his fellow. There was much eye rolling in reply.
* * *
The morn in russet mantle clad awoke Norrington the next morning and he shrugged on a dressing gown over his nightshirt. Padding over to his dresser in bare feet, he was greeted with a most terrible sight: the wig case splayed open, the headrest spilling out, and his poor Sophie drenched in the red of the rising sun, torn and limp amid the fading scent of lavender.
“Oh! My Sophie! What has been done to you?!” he cried in anguish, grasping her and clutching her to his chest. Just as suddenly he thrust the wig back upon the dresser where it twitched slightly after impact.
“You are not Sophie!” Norrington had observed the torn ribbon that was not, could not, be his. He took a step back, green eyes darting frantically for any sign of his beloved. There - in his unmentionables drawer - a familiar ribbon peaking out the top of the closed drawer. Slowing pulling on the handle he slid the drawer out. Inside was Sophie, trembling all over and a little mussed, but otherwise unharmed.
“Oh, my Precious!” Norrington crooned as he gently picked up his terrorized wig, “Whatever has happened?” She pressed herself tightly against his chest, reveling in the warmth and gentleness of his hands, the rumble of his voice as he used nonsensical words to soothe her.
“Oh! James, it was terrible!” Sophie began in a shaking voice, “He came into my case last night…and, and…and,” she continued sobbing, “And he tried to force himself on me! I was so scared! He, he would not stop! I had to defend myself!”
With one hand continuing to hold and stroke his wig, he used the other to pick up the twitching wig; much like one might pick up a dead rat. James Norrington observed the Widow’s Peak and his mouth creased downward, his face full of rage and thunder. He mouthed one word like it tasted terrible along his tongue, “Beckett.”
Long, purposeful strides carried Norrington to his previous suites, now occupied by Cutler Beckett, and kicked the door in. The lock splintered the wood and Cutler screamed like a child as the door rebounded off the wall. Wide eyed, mouth gaping open, he observed Norrington coming towards him as if in a dream, or a nightmare. He felt a mere mortal in the presence of rampant Zeus. Truly, he expected to be hit with a thunderous bolt of lightning and Beckett flinched when Norrington threw something at him. He did not catch it, and it flopped off of his chest onto the floor.
“I suggest,” Norrington growled between clenched teeth, “that you keep that bit of filth from ever leaving your sight again. Another trespass such as this will not be tolerated!” With all the grace of a military man, Norrington spun on his heal and stalked out of the room, slamming the broken door behind him.
Cutler Beckett blinked and the glanced at his feet. Bending down he picked up his much abused wig and contemplated with a slight moue. The wig twitched in his hand and Beckett sighed, “This is why we do not shite where we eat, Sylvester. That was a Navy Wig and she had a few ounces on you; you should have known better. I am very disappointed in you.”
Trembling at the disapproval in his Master’s tone, Sylvester tried to muster an apology but only ended up whimpering. Next time, next time…he would do better…if there was a next time.
The End