Birthday Wishes, Birthday Fic, and... State of Soreness
I am fairly sure I'm incapable of moving at any speed beyond a shuffle. Or a hobble when it involves stairs. We ran hills today in x-country running and there's not a spot on my legs that isn't sore. *painPaInPAINpain*
*sigh* And on top of that, my back is ridiculously sore from my riding lesson on the Sunday before last. We were doing a lot of canter work, and working on flying lead changes, which involves a lot of turning at the canter. Normally I'm pretty resilient - it comes of being tossed around and battered about by a horse who over-jumps like crazy (when she decides to actually go over the jump). It isn't my spine - I've had enough problems there to know that, its in the muscle. Which is odd. Cause I'd usually be healed up perfectly fine by two days (max) afterwards. So I'm sore. And uncomfortable. And my contacts are giving me headaches (usually in the middle of math). *grumps*
Sorry. Whining over now. *is happy again*
HAPPY BIRTHDAY Queenofspades89 !!!
And I am Proud to Present, for Your Reading Pleasure *drumroll please* . . .
Unprepared - Spawn Fic(let) the First
Rating: I dunno... PG14/15?? *shrugs*
Warnings: This fic may contain sexual innuendo and intimacy. Reader discretion is advised.
Disclaimer: None!! HA!! For all basic purposes, this is original fic - the first I've written in Lord knows how long. The very vague references to the PotC characters are... well... very vague. So thus, I do not disclaim.
Author's Notes: Written at my behest upon the request of queenofspades89 as payment for posting Angst!Fic spoilers and as a Birthday Present. For those who don't know- The Spawn are the three children of Jack and James. Wait, let me rephrase that. Sandy is James' kid. Henry and Morgan are Jack's.
There might possibly have been something poetic about the sunset that night. It was sinking slowly down into the horizon, luxuriating in all the colours possible. Reds and purples and golds painted the sky and highlighted the wispy clouds traced like furrows through the incoming darkness. If one was standing on the deck of a ship at the time, and facing west, it appeared that dark waves were drowning the orb of the sun. They washed off into the horizon, an inky blackness swallowing the golden heat of day.
Normally, Lysander Norrington, Lord of the Norrington Estate, would have noticed this. He might even have composed some poem or poetic prose of it in his head. But this sunset marked the beginning of the third night of all the time he had ever spent aboard ship. Lysander Norrington wasn't enjoying it.
He was seasick. Horribly seasick. Which was rather embarrassing considering his father was an Admiral of the Blue and most definitely didn't get seasick. For two days previous, Sander had been cooped up down below. He had huddled in the blankets of the cot he'd been given and moaned in agony. Any movement resulted in nausea. The world around him and bucked and tossed and down acrobatics with every twitch of his head. Finally, today, Captain Sparrow had forced him above decks, claiming that the air would do him good.
It had indeed done him good. Sander's head had calmed considerably; he no longer knew whether the bucking and tossing was from the ship or his head. Instead, it was aching from the temples to behind his eyes and just about every other bit of skull felt split in pieces. This in and of itself resulted in nausea if he moved very far at all. That was why he now stood at the rail at the back of the ship, swaying slightly and feeling very sorry for himself.
Considering that everyone else was elsewhere drinking and debauching as raucously as possible aboard a ship (which was surprisingly raucous), Sander doubted greatly than anyone else felt sorry for him. So, as he had for the past few hours, Sander moped and brooded on just how foolish this venture really was. He was also completely oblivious to the fine sunset and everything else.
"Lord Sandy! Here y'are!"
A heavy, slurred voice pierced his non-thoughts. Sander winced and slowly turned to face the man weaving towards him. Or in his general direction, at least.
Oh God Above have mercy. The man was drunk.
"Why're'n't ye joinin' in the celly-celly-celly... party?" Henry Sparrow stumbled up to him and peered into Sander’s face. His voice was heavily slurred and he smelt strongly of sweat and rum.
"Oh." Sander turned away, disgusted. "Go away Captain, you're drunk and you specifically told me yourself not to participate unless I felt like it."
"An' ye don' feel like it? But i's a party, Lord Sandy! An’ a birfday party on top o’that!" Sparrow pouted and swayed even closer, as though worried that Sander was ill (which he was, but that was a bit irrelevant in light of the intense closeness of the man).
Goddamn his eyes, why did the man have to be so infuriatingly good-looking? His pleading dark eyes were like that of a puppy and his curls hung loose in front of his face. Sander bit his lip clean through and looked away. He tried to forget that Sparrow was standing closer to him than anyone ever had. He tried not to notice the comforting heat curling off the small man. It didn’t really work.
"Don't call me Lord Sandy, Captain. I prefer Lord Norrington, or if you must address me by first name, Lysander."
"But Lord Norrin'ton's too stiff!" After a moments laborious thought, he added, "An' so's Lysander. ‘Sides, Lord Sandy suits ya. Ye need to loosen up some mate, get some drink in ye. Do you good."
Sander clenched his hands into the rail, splinters jabbing up under his fingernails. His voice was as cold as the rest of him as he said:
"Captain Sparrow. I believe I already explained to you that I am what you would call a 'tea-totaller'. I do not imbibe in drink."
He blessed his father for giving him the height required to look down his nose at the man.
"Oh. Oh. So ye did." Sparrow pouted, cocked his head to the side and then raised one finger that wavered dangerously close to Sander's eye. Every instinct screamed for him to get back, to step away, and to not trust the man. But he'd ignored those instincts a week ago anyway, so perhaps it was habit that made him ignore them again. Father had always said he was a creature of habit.
"Um, um, Captain-" He broke off and jumped backwards as the wavering finger quite suddenly poked him in the nose.
"Captain! Really!"
Sparrow's only response was a delighted giggle. He followed Sander and poked him in the nose again. Sander scrambled backwards. Another poke. Backwards several steps this time- perhaps Sparrow was drunk enough to fall over. But no such luck. This time it was two rapid pokes which made Sander blink twice in swift succession. Another poke and again a step- but no, Sander's back met rail.
They were on the far side of the back of the ship, everyone else around the front or downstairs. And Henry Sparrow was rocking in dangerously close to- to everything, really. Sander bit his lip clean through as he forced his attention anywhere but there. He leaned backwards, hands searching for the rail to give him that little bit of stability. Please God, no! He was thinking- what he was thinking ‘no’ too, he did not know.
Sparrow swayed up until their hips were practically touching. A curious heat was rising through Sander’s body; in company with his nerves. Sander twitched as one hand clenched his shoulder. His chest was heaving. No one had ever paid him this much personal attention before. Sander didn’t know whether to run and scream, or stay and… something. Sparrow was frowning in concentration, raising that wobbly finger again. Sander closed his eyes, hoping to spare them a drunken man's prodding. He gritted his teeth and wondered if he was strong enough to force the man away.
The finger ghosted onto his nose, paused and then was quite suddenly stroking his bleeding lip. Other fingers joined it. Sander's eyes flew open. Confused and shocked green met worried brown.
"Yer bleedin'."
"I- I kn-know." Oh bugger, the stutter was back.
"Tha's not good."
"N-no, I g-guess not."
Sparrow's fingers slid off his lip and onto his cheek, a warm, rough thumb coming up to rub the injured lip soothingly. Through his spinning head and pounding heart, Lysander noticed one thing.
Sparrow had soft fingers.
It went against all he'd thought. Yes, he felt the pads from years of hard work and fighting, but they felt soft. Gasping, Sander felt himself leaning into the gentle touch. It was as though he were feeling another’s body’s movement. Than Sparrow's thumb removed its presence and joined its mates on his cheek. A rough but adversely soft palm slid up his face, cupping his jaw line and tracing his cheekbone. Sander closed his eyes, the combination of a shattering headache and shattering nerves too much to take. He was grateful for the support. Grateful, oddly enough, for the body warmth Sparrow was exuding.
“Sandy? Y’alright luv?”
Sander moaned softly, leaning into the hand. He realized he was rubbing the hand like a cat would. In his exhaustion, he also realized he didn’t care. He was just glad someone else did.
Then something else was touching his lips, something singularly soft and pliable and warm. And slightly wet. His body responded instinctively, leaning into the tingling, welcoming-
"Erhhpp!"
Sparrow was kissing him! Him! Another man! He tried to pull away but Sparrow followed, tongue now licking lewdly at his lips. The rail digging painfully into his back was all that allowed Sander to keep his concentration. All pain in his head was forgotten as foreign, not entirely unpleasant sensations chased through him. Then Sparrow's hips swayed into contact with his own and Sander gasped. His body bucked and wriggled, unsure of whether or not to respond or flee. Sparrow's tongue plunged in, plundering his mouth. There was a coppery taste -his blood- and another, unrecognized taste.
Sparrow shimmied his body against Sander’s, and too his horror, Lysander felt blood rushing to between his legs. That shock alone- that he should find the distinctly masculine body rubbing against his own arousing- gave him enough strength to thrust Sparrow off.
"D-d-d-don't!" He gasped. Panic, fear and frightening arousal flooded through him. Staggering against the toss and buck of the ship and his own head, Lysander flung himself back down to the cabin and the cot he'd been relegated too.
Head pounding, chest heaving, and the taste of Henry Sparrow still lingering about his lips, Lysander groaned and buried his head in his hands.
Perhaps he really should take up Morgan's offer to go aboard that ship. Despite his initial revulsion to the man, surely he could be as... as... as wrong as his brother.
- - -
Up on the quarterdeck Henry Sparrow was frozen in horror. He had kissed Lysander Norrington. Without meaning too. While drunk. Good God, the poor boy was never going to forgive him... or trust him.
*sigh* And on top of that, my back is ridiculously sore from my riding lesson on the Sunday before last. We were doing a lot of canter work, and working on flying lead changes, which involves a lot of turning at the canter. Normally I'm pretty resilient - it comes of being tossed around and battered about by a horse who over-jumps like crazy (when she decides to actually go over the jump). It isn't my spine - I've had enough problems there to know that, its in the muscle. Which is odd. Cause I'd usually be healed up perfectly fine by two days (max) afterwards. So I'm sore. And uncomfortable. And my contacts are giving me headaches (usually in the middle of math). *grumps*
Sorry. Whining over now. *is happy again*
HAPPY BIRTHDAY Queenofspades89 !!!
And I am Proud to Present, for Your Reading Pleasure *drumroll please* . . .
Unprepared - Spawn Fic(let) the First
Rating: I dunno... PG14/15?? *shrugs*
Warnings: This fic may contain sexual innuendo and intimacy. Reader discretion is advised.
Disclaimer: None!! HA!! For all basic purposes, this is original fic - the first I've written in Lord knows how long. The very vague references to the PotC characters are... well... very vague. So thus, I do not disclaim.
Author's Notes: Written at my behest upon the request of queenofspades89 as payment for posting Angst!Fic spoilers and as a Birthday Present. For those who don't know- The Spawn are the three children of Jack and James. Wait, let me rephrase that. Sandy is James' kid. Henry and Morgan are Jack's.
There might possibly have been something poetic about the sunset that night. It was sinking slowly down into the horizon, luxuriating in all the colours possible. Reds and purples and golds painted the sky and highlighted the wispy clouds traced like furrows through the incoming darkness. If one was standing on the deck of a ship at the time, and facing west, it appeared that dark waves were drowning the orb of the sun. They washed off into the horizon, an inky blackness swallowing the golden heat of day.
Normally, Lysander Norrington, Lord of the Norrington Estate, would have noticed this. He might even have composed some poem or poetic prose of it in his head. But this sunset marked the beginning of the third night of all the time he had ever spent aboard ship. Lysander Norrington wasn't enjoying it.
He was seasick. Horribly seasick. Which was rather embarrassing considering his father was an Admiral of the Blue and most definitely didn't get seasick. For two days previous, Sander had been cooped up down below. He had huddled in the blankets of the cot he'd been given and moaned in agony. Any movement resulted in nausea. The world around him and bucked and tossed and down acrobatics with every twitch of his head. Finally, today, Captain Sparrow had forced him above decks, claiming that the air would do him good.
It had indeed done him good. Sander's head had calmed considerably; he no longer knew whether the bucking and tossing was from the ship or his head. Instead, it was aching from the temples to behind his eyes and just about every other bit of skull felt split in pieces. This in and of itself resulted in nausea if he moved very far at all. That was why he now stood at the rail at the back of the ship, swaying slightly and feeling very sorry for himself.
Considering that everyone else was elsewhere drinking and debauching as raucously as possible aboard a ship (which was surprisingly raucous), Sander doubted greatly than anyone else felt sorry for him. So, as he had for the past few hours, Sander moped and brooded on just how foolish this venture really was. He was also completely oblivious to the fine sunset and everything else.
"Lord Sandy! Here y'are!"
A heavy, slurred voice pierced his non-thoughts. Sander winced and slowly turned to face the man weaving towards him. Or in his general direction, at least.
Oh God Above have mercy. The man was drunk.
"Why're'n't ye joinin' in the celly-celly-celly... party?" Henry Sparrow stumbled up to him and peered into Sander’s face. His voice was heavily slurred and he smelt strongly of sweat and rum.
"Oh." Sander turned away, disgusted. "Go away Captain, you're drunk and you specifically told me yourself not to participate unless I felt like it."
"An' ye don' feel like it? But i's a party, Lord Sandy! An’ a birfday party on top o’that!" Sparrow pouted and swayed even closer, as though worried that Sander was ill (which he was, but that was a bit irrelevant in light of the intense closeness of the man).
Goddamn his eyes, why did the man have to be so infuriatingly good-looking? His pleading dark eyes were like that of a puppy and his curls hung loose in front of his face. Sander bit his lip clean through and looked away. He tried to forget that Sparrow was standing closer to him than anyone ever had. He tried not to notice the comforting heat curling off the small man. It didn’t really work.
"Don't call me Lord Sandy, Captain. I prefer Lord Norrington, or if you must address me by first name, Lysander."
"But Lord Norrin'ton's too stiff!" After a moments laborious thought, he added, "An' so's Lysander. ‘Sides, Lord Sandy suits ya. Ye need to loosen up some mate, get some drink in ye. Do you good."
Sander clenched his hands into the rail, splinters jabbing up under his fingernails. His voice was as cold as the rest of him as he said:
"Captain Sparrow. I believe I already explained to you that I am what you would call a 'tea-totaller'. I do not imbibe in drink."
He blessed his father for giving him the height required to look down his nose at the man.
"Oh. Oh. So ye did." Sparrow pouted, cocked his head to the side and then raised one finger that wavered dangerously close to Sander's eye. Every instinct screamed for him to get back, to step away, and to not trust the man. But he'd ignored those instincts a week ago anyway, so perhaps it was habit that made him ignore them again. Father had always said he was a creature of habit.
"Um, um, Captain-" He broke off and jumped backwards as the wavering finger quite suddenly poked him in the nose.
"Captain! Really!"
Sparrow's only response was a delighted giggle. He followed Sander and poked him in the nose again. Sander scrambled backwards. Another poke. Backwards several steps this time- perhaps Sparrow was drunk enough to fall over. But no such luck. This time it was two rapid pokes which made Sander blink twice in swift succession. Another poke and again a step- but no, Sander's back met rail.
They were on the far side of the back of the ship, everyone else around the front or downstairs. And Henry Sparrow was rocking in dangerously close to- to everything, really. Sander bit his lip clean through as he forced his attention anywhere but there. He leaned backwards, hands searching for the rail to give him that little bit of stability. Please God, no! He was thinking- what he was thinking ‘no’ too, he did not know.
Sparrow swayed up until their hips were practically touching. A curious heat was rising through Sander’s body; in company with his nerves. Sander twitched as one hand clenched his shoulder. His chest was heaving. No one had ever paid him this much personal attention before. Sander didn’t know whether to run and scream, or stay and… something. Sparrow was frowning in concentration, raising that wobbly finger again. Sander closed his eyes, hoping to spare them a drunken man's prodding. He gritted his teeth and wondered if he was strong enough to force the man away.
The finger ghosted onto his nose, paused and then was quite suddenly stroking his bleeding lip. Other fingers joined it. Sander's eyes flew open. Confused and shocked green met worried brown.
"Yer bleedin'."
"I- I kn-know." Oh bugger, the stutter was back.
"Tha's not good."
"N-no, I g-guess not."
Sparrow's fingers slid off his lip and onto his cheek, a warm, rough thumb coming up to rub the injured lip soothingly. Through his spinning head and pounding heart, Lysander noticed one thing.
Sparrow had soft fingers.
It went against all he'd thought. Yes, he felt the pads from years of hard work and fighting, but they felt soft. Gasping, Sander felt himself leaning into the gentle touch. It was as though he were feeling another’s body’s movement. Than Sparrow's thumb removed its presence and joined its mates on his cheek. A rough but adversely soft palm slid up his face, cupping his jaw line and tracing his cheekbone. Sander closed his eyes, the combination of a shattering headache and shattering nerves too much to take. He was grateful for the support. Grateful, oddly enough, for the body warmth Sparrow was exuding.
“Sandy? Y’alright luv?”
Sander moaned softly, leaning into the hand. He realized he was rubbing the hand like a cat would. In his exhaustion, he also realized he didn’t care. He was just glad someone else did.
Then something else was touching his lips, something singularly soft and pliable and warm. And slightly wet. His body responded instinctively, leaning into the tingling, welcoming-
"Erhhpp!"
Sparrow was kissing him! Him! Another man! He tried to pull away but Sparrow followed, tongue now licking lewdly at his lips. The rail digging painfully into his back was all that allowed Sander to keep his concentration. All pain in his head was forgotten as foreign, not entirely unpleasant sensations chased through him. Then Sparrow's hips swayed into contact with his own and Sander gasped. His body bucked and wriggled, unsure of whether or not to respond or flee. Sparrow's tongue plunged in, plundering his mouth. There was a coppery taste -his blood- and another, unrecognized taste.
Sparrow shimmied his body against Sander’s, and too his horror, Lysander felt blood rushing to between his legs. That shock alone- that he should find the distinctly masculine body rubbing against his own arousing- gave him enough strength to thrust Sparrow off.
"D-d-d-don't!" He gasped. Panic, fear and frightening arousal flooded through him. Staggering against the toss and buck of the ship and his own head, Lysander flung himself back down to the cabin and the cot he'd been relegated too.
Head pounding, chest heaving, and the taste of Henry Sparrow still lingering about his lips, Lysander groaned and buried his head in his hands.
Perhaps he really should take up Morgan's offer to go aboard that ship. Despite his initial revulsion to the man, surely he could be as... as... as wrong as his brother.
- - -
Up on the quarterdeck Henry Sparrow was frozen in horror. He had kissed Lysander Norrington. Without meaning too. While drunk. Good God, the poor boy was never going to forgive him... or trust him.