Challenge fic 1: A Story Worth Hearing
Title: A Story Worth Hearing
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribean
Genre: Crack.
Summary: There are just some things that you would never expect to see, Norrington drunk being one of them. There is a reason why he doesn't usually indulge himself...
A Story Worth Hearing
Bartenders in pubs frequented by seamen were exposed to a lot of things. Tavern wenches, thirsty sailors with foul tongues, tales of supernatural occurrences that simply could not happen such as Kraken and undead pirates. However, it wasn’t too often that navy men wandered into the lower pubs, preferring to have their own keg parties closer to the barracks so the East Indian Trade Comp had to clean up their mess to save face.
That is why he watched the two men in the navy’s red and white uniforms talk to each other in the doorway. Alternatively, they cast their eyes upon a scruffy fellow who was entertaining himself with a large tankard of ale, one of many if the bartender remembered correctly. Angling himself closer to the door, he could barely make out what they were saying over the dim of common chatter.
“Do you see what I see?” One asked the other numbly.
“I think I do but it can’t be.”
“I think it is.”
“But Commodore Norrington would never do something so… so…”
“Un-commodory?”
“Exactly.” They both looked at the scruffy man dubiously. “The whole undead pirate thing with the Black Pearl and Captain Jack Sparrow makes more sense.”
“And that didn’t.” The other agreed.
“We should go see if he knows the commodore.”
“A brother.” The other nodded, and then they both entered the pub, their large boots making loud thuds on the wooden floor.
The bartender moved to the other side of the bar closest to the scruffy man, bringing a washcloth with him to mop up a spill some sot made earlier. The man they were looking at looked like he had been attractive before coming down on hard times, his fine features obscured in grime and his full head of hair stuck out in odd directions, wearing a well-made button-up shirt that probably used to be white, but was now some type of indescribable colour due to grease, beer, and earthy stains. Since it was half-open, the bartender could see that the scruffy man was in excellent shape, and the sword attached to his belt looked like one he would see among high-ranking naval officers.
“Commodore Norrington, sir?” One of them asked hesitantly.
“Don’t bother me now soldier.” The man said blissfully. “’Tis a good day.”
“Sir?”
“I gave them the heart of Davy Jones and now Sparrow’s finally going to pay.”
“Captain Jack Sparrow sir?” The other asked.
“Of course you fool!” Norrington took a deep swig of his tankard, some of the ale running down out of of the corner of his mouth.
Uncomfortable, one turned away and started poking through an abandoned plate on a nearby table. He picked up a turnip to examine the gooey substance underneath. “Hungry sir?” He asked politely, holding the turnip before the former commodore.
"How DARE you wave that thing at ME! Are you trying to blow us up?!"
"With a turnip, sir?"
".....YES! What else would it do?!...FOOL!"
Echoing the bartender’s own thoughts, the two men lifted the drunk man up by his armpits (apologizing all the while for manhandling their superior officer) and started to drag him out of the pub. For reasons unknown, James Norrington, former commodore of the Her Majesty’s imperial fleet, started fumbling with the man on the left’s belt, muttering about he had to check for pirate marks.
The man, preoccupied with trying to keep Norrington from falling on his face in drunken stupor, couldn’t do more than swat at the commodore’s hands, blushing terribly. “Sir!”
“Take off your pants soldier.” The scruffy man commanded in a loud voice and the most of the people in the pub stopped talking, their full attention on the developing drama.
“Sir!”
“Are you DEFYING an ORDER, soldier?” Norrington purred dangerously, finally managing to remove the buckle.
“No sir.” The soldier swallowed audibly as the cool night air hit his now-exposed privates.
“You too soldier.” Norrington started to handle the soldier’s penis, seemingly without realizing what he was doing.
Once he had them both nice and hard, he instructed them to turn around and face the people in the bar. Most of them stared at the trio in stunned stupor or disgust. “This is Her Majesty’s pride,” he announced as the two men at his side looked at each other and then at Norrington, not quite sure if they were just having a weird dream because of something they ate or if they were really awake. The cold around their nethers seemed to suggest the latter. “They stand proud before you in the cold and no man here could accomplish the same feat as well!” Norrington said proudly, swaying despite the two men’s best attempts to keep him steady.
And then he passed out.
“The smithy’s empty now that Turner left.” One suggested.
“It’s close too.” The other agreed heartedly. “We might as well do something about these while we wait.”
“Just like the old days before the Trade Company took over.”
“Have to do something at sea.”
As the bartender watched them go, he knew that he would have a tale worth telling the next time he and his fellows talked shop. Whether they believed him or not was a completely different matter.
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribean
Genre: Crack.
Summary: There are just some things that you would never expect to see, Norrington drunk being one of them. There is a reason why he doesn't usually indulge himself...
A Story Worth Hearing
Bartenders in pubs frequented by seamen were exposed to a lot of things. Tavern wenches, thirsty sailors with foul tongues, tales of supernatural occurrences that simply could not happen such as Kraken and undead pirates. However, it wasn’t too often that navy men wandered into the lower pubs, preferring to have their own keg parties closer to the barracks so the East Indian Trade Comp had to clean up their mess to save face.
That is why he watched the two men in the navy’s red and white uniforms talk to each other in the doorway. Alternatively, they cast their eyes upon a scruffy fellow who was entertaining himself with a large tankard of ale, one of many if the bartender remembered correctly. Angling himself closer to the door, he could barely make out what they were saying over the dim of common chatter.
“Do you see what I see?” One asked the other numbly.
“I think I do but it can’t be.”
“I think it is.”
“But Commodore Norrington would never do something so… so…”
“Un-commodory?”
“Exactly.” They both looked at the scruffy man dubiously. “The whole undead pirate thing with the Black Pearl and Captain Jack Sparrow makes more sense.”
“And that didn’t.” The other agreed.
“We should go see if he knows the commodore.”
“A brother.” The other nodded, and then they both entered the pub, their large boots making loud thuds on the wooden floor.
The bartender moved to the other side of the bar closest to the scruffy man, bringing a washcloth with him to mop up a spill some sot made earlier. The man they were looking at looked like he had been attractive before coming down on hard times, his fine features obscured in grime and his full head of hair stuck out in odd directions, wearing a well-made button-up shirt that probably used to be white, but was now some type of indescribable colour due to grease, beer, and earthy stains. Since it was half-open, the bartender could see that the scruffy man was in excellent shape, and the sword attached to his belt looked like one he would see among high-ranking naval officers.
“Commodore Norrington, sir?” One of them asked hesitantly.
“Don’t bother me now soldier.” The man said blissfully. “’Tis a good day.”
“Sir?”
“I gave them the heart of Davy Jones and now Sparrow’s finally going to pay.”
“Captain Jack Sparrow sir?” The other asked.
“Of course you fool!” Norrington took a deep swig of his tankard, some of the ale running down out of of the corner of his mouth.
Uncomfortable, one turned away and started poking through an abandoned plate on a nearby table. He picked up a turnip to examine the gooey substance underneath. “Hungry sir?” He asked politely, holding the turnip before the former commodore.
"How DARE you wave that thing at ME! Are you trying to blow us up?!"
"With a turnip, sir?"
".....YES! What else would it do?!...FOOL!"
Echoing the bartender’s own thoughts, the two men lifted the drunk man up by his armpits (apologizing all the while for manhandling their superior officer) and started to drag him out of the pub. For reasons unknown, James Norrington, former commodore of the Her Majesty’s imperial fleet, started fumbling with the man on the left’s belt, muttering about he had to check for pirate marks.
The man, preoccupied with trying to keep Norrington from falling on his face in drunken stupor, couldn’t do more than swat at the commodore’s hands, blushing terribly. “Sir!”
“Take off your pants soldier.” The scruffy man commanded in a loud voice and the most of the people in the pub stopped talking, their full attention on the developing drama.
“Sir!”
“Are you DEFYING an ORDER, soldier?” Norrington purred dangerously, finally managing to remove the buckle.
“No sir.” The soldier swallowed audibly as the cool night air hit his now-exposed privates.
“You too soldier.” Norrington started to handle the soldier’s penis, seemingly without realizing what he was doing.
Once he had them both nice and hard, he instructed them to turn around and face the people in the bar. Most of them stared at the trio in stunned stupor or disgust. “This is Her Majesty’s pride,” he announced as the two men at his side looked at each other and then at Norrington, not quite sure if they were just having a weird dream because of something they ate or if they were really awake. The cold around their nethers seemed to suggest the latter. “They stand proud before you in the cold and no man here could accomplish the same feat as well!” Norrington said proudly, swaying despite the two men’s best attempts to keep him steady.
And then he passed out.
“The smithy’s empty now that Turner left.” One suggested.
“It’s close too.” The other agreed heartedly. “We might as well do something about these while we wait.”
“Just like the old days before the Trade Company took over.”
“Have to do something at sea.”
As the bartender watched them go, he knew that he would have a tale worth telling the next time he and his fellows talked shop. Whether they believed him or not was a completely different matter.