Ficlet: Special, Part 2
Title: Special
Style: Prose
Genre: Revenge
Words: 676
Rating: Hard R
Length: Ficlet
Prompt: Mercer/Norrington
Pairings: Mercer/Norrington
Warnings: Explicit Non-consensual Sexuality, Violence, Crude Language
Authoress: cassiopaya
Characters: Mercer and Norrington
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Dedication: life_of_amesu (This is what happens when I ask for Mercer/Will.)
Notes: Mercer feels the need to impress upon Norrington just how “special” he really is. It’s not pleasant. Seriously, it's NOT.
Part: 2
***
James was hot on one side and his back ached, he tried to roll over onto his side but there was pressure on his chest holding him down. Moaning, he opened his eyes and blinked at the dark ceiling. Turning his head towards the heat, Norrington saw a fire in his hearth burning merrily. His tongue reached out to lick his split lip and he realized that his numb arms were the uncomfortable articles under his spine. James tried to move, but his wrists were bound beneath the small of his back and his biceps were bound to his side. The cordage was neat, tight and Norrington wriggled his feet to find his ankles, knees, and thighs were similarly bound together. Swiveling his head, James looked at his chest and found the weight pressing down on him was a pair of black boots.
His eyes trailed up the black boots that bloomed black breeches, sliding up the naked torso and into a face etched in firelight and glower. Mercer sat in his chair, in one hand his stiletto and in the other Norrington’s own decanter of brandy, using the Admiral as an ottoman. A white patched was wrapped around his middle, hiding from sight the torn and burnt-edge flesh wound. Mercer took a swill of brandy directly from the mouth of the decanter and James grunted in protest.
“Awake, are we? Care for a drink, Admiral?” the assassin asked.
“Untie me,” Norrington said in the most authoritative tone he could manage with his bruised throat. Mercer ignored him and extended the hand that held the decanter and upended it over James’ face. The liquor burned his cut lip and stung his eyes. He sputtered as he tried breathe, tried to keep the liquid from blazing up his nose.
“Rude one, you are, spitting out such fine brandy,” Mercer said as he righted the decanter with yet a quarter worth of alcohol left in it, “although, as you are not in the company of a gentleman, I could let it be. But I think not.”
James held his head to the side and breathed in choking gasps through his mouth that he blustered out through his nose. It became a little easier when Mercer moved his feet off Norrington’s chest, embedding his knife in the wood of the chair arm. It was short-lived as the assassin grasped him by the hair and forced his head up. Crouching over him, Mercer sipped from the mouth of the decanter and then spit the Brandywine full force into James’ face. He laughed as Norrington spluttered enraged noises at such mistreatment.
Letting go of the man’s hair and raising himself up, Mercer drank the last f the fine wine and admired the crystal decanter in the light of the fire. It was a pretty thing, no doubt from Waterford and cut by a master with such exquisite precision. Even in the dim light it managed to sparkle. Mercer wondered if it had been a gift from the Governor.
“Such a fair thing, Admiral. Too bad. Life ain’t fair. Think of this crystal as a metaphor,” the assassin said. James did not understand, but then Mercer hefted the decanted and sent it smashing into the fire with all his might.
The crystal shattered into a million pieces and the fire blazed in an explosion of vaporized alcohol residue - sending those sparkling shards sprinkling onto the hearth and the floor and the men. Norrington screamed and his whole body flinched. Mercer laughed like a madman.
Aghast, James vaguely wondered why he had not caught fire, drenched as he was in brandy and nicked with hot slivers of crystal. Panting through his pain, he turned his head towards the fire and watched as splinters of crystal turned red and viscous. The globules in the fire dripped down onto the stones of the fireplace where they shone in liquid little puddles. James knew that if he were thrust into that fire he would not be destroyed so appealingly: he would be reduced to ashes.
Style: Prose
Genre: Revenge
Words: 676
Rating: Hard R
Length: Ficlet
Prompt: Mercer/Norrington
Pairings: Mercer/Norrington
Warnings: Explicit Non-consensual Sexuality, Violence, Crude Language
Authoress: cassiopaya
Characters: Mercer and Norrington
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Dedication: life_of_amesu (This is what happens when I ask for Mercer/Will.)
Notes: Mercer feels the need to impress upon Norrington just how “special” he really is. It’s not pleasant. Seriously, it's NOT.
Part: 2
***
James was hot on one side and his back ached, he tried to roll over onto his side but there was pressure on his chest holding him down. Moaning, he opened his eyes and blinked at the dark ceiling. Turning his head towards the heat, Norrington saw a fire in his hearth burning merrily. His tongue reached out to lick his split lip and he realized that his numb arms were the uncomfortable articles under his spine. James tried to move, but his wrists were bound beneath the small of his back and his biceps were bound to his side. The cordage was neat, tight and Norrington wriggled his feet to find his ankles, knees, and thighs were similarly bound together. Swiveling his head, James looked at his chest and found the weight pressing down on him was a pair of black boots.
His eyes trailed up the black boots that bloomed black breeches, sliding up the naked torso and into a face etched in firelight and glower. Mercer sat in his chair, in one hand his stiletto and in the other Norrington’s own decanter of brandy, using the Admiral as an ottoman. A white patched was wrapped around his middle, hiding from sight the torn and burnt-edge flesh wound. Mercer took a swill of brandy directly from the mouth of the decanter and James grunted in protest.
“Awake, are we? Care for a drink, Admiral?” the assassin asked.
“Untie me,” Norrington said in the most authoritative tone he could manage with his bruised throat. Mercer ignored him and extended the hand that held the decanter and upended it over James’ face. The liquor burned his cut lip and stung his eyes. He sputtered as he tried breathe, tried to keep the liquid from blazing up his nose.
“Rude one, you are, spitting out such fine brandy,” Mercer said as he righted the decanter with yet a quarter worth of alcohol left in it, “although, as you are not in the company of a gentleman, I could let it be. But I think not.”
James held his head to the side and breathed in choking gasps through his mouth that he blustered out through his nose. It became a little easier when Mercer moved his feet off Norrington’s chest, embedding his knife in the wood of the chair arm. It was short-lived as the assassin grasped him by the hair and forced his head up. Crouching over him, Mercer sipped from the mouth of the decanter and then spit the Brandywine full force into James’ face. He laughed as Norrington spluttered enraged noises at such mistreatment.
Letting go of the man’s hair and raising himself up, Mercer drank the last f the fine wine and admired the crystal decanter in the light of the fire. It was a pretty thing, no doubt from Waterford and cut by a master with such exquisite precision. Even in the dim light it managed to sparkle. Mercer wondered if it had been a gift from the Governor.
“Such a fair thing, Admiral. Too bad. Life ain’t fair. Think of this crystal as a metaphor,” the assassin said. James did not understand, but then Mercer hefted the decanted and sent it smashing into the fire with all his might.
The crystal shattered into a million pieces and the fire blazed in an explosion of vaporized alcohol residue - sending those sparkling shards sprinkling onto the hearth and the floor and the men. Norrington screamed and his whole body flinched. Mercer laughed like a madman.
Aghast, James vaguely wondered why he had not caught fire, drenched as he was in brandy and nicked with hot slivers of crystal. Panting through his pain, he turned his head towards the fire and watched as splinters of crystal turned red and viscous. The globules in the fire dripped down onto the stones of the fireplace where they shone in liquid little puddles. James knew that if he were thrust into that fire he would not be destroyed so appealingly: he would be reduced to ashes.