FIC: Chapter 7 of Chachapoya Pachamama
Title: Chachapoya Pachamama
Style: Prose
Genre: Crack
Words: 518
Rating: PG - 13
Length: Ficlet
Pairings: Beckington
Warnings: Language, MPreg, Crack
Authoress:
cassiopaya
Characters: Cutler Beckett, Mercer, Norrington, Groves, Tia Dalma, Saunders, etc…
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Dedication: madame_doodle and touchofviolet
Notes: I cannot seem to write anything serious, so I will write something silly: Beckington MPreg. I blame lady_elizabeth2 for egging me on and an old discussion about MPreg on rnotc that inspired galadhir, aka potboy, to write a Gillington MPreg fic.
***
Norrington was able to drink his very weak tea and eat some biscuits once all the lavender had been removed from the room. Afterwards, he slept, and when James woke again he had kept the food down. Rolling gently to the center of the bed, he put his head down again and was able to sleep once more. No dreams troubled his brow or set a pleasing smile about his lips. Darkness and deep breathing filled the sickroom and it was not disturbed until the next morning when Saunders came in to see to Norrington’s breakfast of very weak tea and ship’s biscuits.
“Saunders,” James whispered from the bed. “Yes, Admiral?” “I want a bath.” “Yes, Admiral,” Saunders replied. “Aye-aye, Admiral,” James reminded. Saunders smiled; the Admiral must be feeling better to tease him for not speaking like a tar. Saunders shook his head, as though he would speak in such a manner, and then ordered the Admiral’s bath. Footmen brought in the hip bath and a string of maids came from the kitchen with pitchers of warmed water. After James had sipped his tea and nibbled on his biscuits, he was helped out of bed and out of his nightshirt and placed in the warm bath.
Norrington relaxed as much as he could with his knees drawn up to his chin. The bath was truly relaxing and he was more than happy to use to pearlash soap instead of Cutler Beckett’s scented monstrosities from the Ottomans. James could not wash himself; he was still too exhausted, and was grateful for the help from one of the houseboys with his back. If not for his illness, Beckett would have been at his back and his soap slicked hands would be doing unmentionable things to his prick, bollocks, and fundament.
While he was in the bath, his linens were changed on the bed, and the new rule of “no lavender” was abided. Sachets of the indifferent tonquin beans were left to stew about the room and did much to erase the smell of sickness by the time new linens had arrived. Norrington was helped to stand as an ewer of clean water was poured over his shoulders to send the suds sluicing down his legs and into the bath before stepping into a simple cotton dressing robe. There had been a time, while he was nibbling on biscuits, when he had contemplated requesting a book from Beckett’s library, but now sleep beckoned him like a siren.
James crawled back into bed and drowsed while the hip bath was removed. Saunders came in and asked if there was anything else the Admiral might require. “Tea,” Norrington replied and, after a moment of internal debate, continued, “…and a book.” Several selections were brought to him, mostly works by Daniel Defoe. “At least you left out A Journal of the Plague Year,” James commented. “Lord Beckett insisted that I bring it to you and I insisted that you would not find the humor in it,” Saunders clarified and the Admiral smiled in appreciation. Norrington fell asleep with Eliza Haywood’s Love in Excess.
Style: Prose
Genre: Crack
Words: 518
Rating: PG - 13
Length: Ficlet
Pairings: Beckington
Warnings: Language, MPreg, Crack
Authoress:
cassiopaya
Characters: Cutler Beckett, Mercer, Norrington, Groves, Tia Dalma, Saunders, etc…
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Dedication: madame_doodle and touchofviolet
Notes: I cannot seem to write anything serious, so I will write something silly: Beckington MPreg. I blame lady_elizabeth2 for egging me on and an old discussion about MPreg on rnotc that inspired galadhir, aka potboy, to write a Gillington MPreg fic.
***
Norrington was able to drink his very weak tea and eat some biscuits once all the lavender had been removed from the room. Afterwards, he slept, and when James woke again he had kept the food down. Rolling gently to the center of the bed, he put his head down again and was able to sleep once more. No dreams troubled his brow or set a pleasing smile about his lips. Darkness and deep breathing filled the sickroom and it was not disturbed until the next morning when Saunders came in to see to Norrington’s breakfast of very weak tea and ship’s biscuits.
“Saunders,” James whispered from the bed. “Yes, Admiral?” “I want a bath.” “Yes, Admiral,” Saunders replied. “Aye-aye, Admiral,” James reminded. Saunders smiled; the Admiral must be feeling better to tease him for not speaking like a tar. Saunders shook his head, as though he would speak in such a manner, and then ordered the Admiral’s bath. Footmen brought in the hip bath and a string of maids came from the kitchen with pitchers of warmed water. After James had sipped his tea and nibbled on his biscuits, he was helped out of bed and out of his nightshirt and placed in the warm bath.
Norrington relaxed as much as he could with his knees drawn up to his chin. The bath was truly relaxing and he was more than happy to use to pearlash soap instead of Cutler Beckett’s scented monstrosities from the Ottomans. James could not wash himself; he was still too exhausted, and was grateful for the help from one of the houseboys with his back. If not for his illness, Beckett would have been at his back and his soap slicked hands would be doing unmentionable things to his prick, bollocks, and fundament.
While he was in the bath, his linens were changed on the bed, and the new rule of “no lavender” was abided. Sachets of the indifferent tonquin beans were left to stew about the room and did much to erase the smell of sickness by the time new linens had arrived. Norrington was helped to stand as an ewer of clean water was poured over his shoulders to send the suds sluicing down his legs and into the bath before stepping into a simple cotton dressing robe. There had been a time, while he was nibbling on biscuits, when he had contemplated requesting a book from Beckett’s library, but now sleep beckoned him like a siren.
James crawled back into bed and drowsed while the hip bath was removed. Saunders came in and asked if there was anything else the Admiral might require. “Tea,” Norrington replied and, after a moment of internal debate, continued, “…and a book.” Several selections were brought to him, mostly works by Daniel Defoe. “At least you left out A Journal of the Plague Year,” James commented. “Lord Beckett insisted that I bring it to you and I insisted that you would not find the humor in it,” Saunders clarified and the Admiral smiled in appreciation. Norrington fell asleep with Eliza Haywood’s Love in Excess.