Fic: The Proposition
Characters: James/Jack
Rating: R
Summary: It starts as a proposition.
Word count: 1452
Disclaimer: Not mine, and no profit or copyright violation intended.
A/N: For Prompt #034 at slashtheimage.
It starts as a proposition, as unthinkable, unexpected words from Commodore Norrington in an unthinkable, unexpected place. The depth of Jack’s surprise is matched only by the intensity of the sudden wave of desire that threatens to overwhelm his senses as he gazes at the other in the dim, smoky environs of the tavern. Norrington is bare-headed, his wavy, chocolate-dark hair tied back loosely, and is wearing a sailor’s simple, practical clothes. For all that he has roughened his appearance, he can hide neither the simple elegance of his posture nor the earnestness of his intent. Never one to resist the appeal of something pretty, especially when it offers itself to him in so sweetly and temptingly lovely a package, Jack rests his hand on the dark cotton of Norrington’s frayed sleeve, sensing the warmth of his skin and the tautness of muscles beneath the cloth, and knows at once, without a doubt, what he wants.
He wants to strip the other of his authority, to see him utterly naked, as only himself, as other than himself, as a beautiful, willing, pliant angel whom he can restrain and touch and stroke and tease endlessly until Norrington’s back arches helplessly, until those bright, bright eyes darken pleasingly in involuntary response to what Jack is doing to him. For Jack knows that he has just been asked to be the devil himself, to give Norrington what the Commodore’s genteel society will not afford him, to give him what is unlawful, transgressive, unrestrained... and absolutely essential. For a moment Jack is beguiled by the entire scenario, so unlikely and yet so credible, for whom else can Norrington trust with his secret, with his desire, with his need to relinquish control (if only for a little while), but an outlaw, a pirate? The appeal of relishing the moment is quickly pushed aside by the enchanting and completely distracting thought of doing to the other exactly what he has requested. Jack’s grip on Norrington’s arm tightens as he rises, pulling the other to his feet, practically dragging him to the stairs.
It is only once he has blindfolded his willing captive quite thoroughly with his scarf that Jack feels more in control of the situation. He walks Norrington backward to the only chair in the room, guides him to sit, and arranges his hands over his knees, ordering him to keep them there. Tugging the ribbon from Norrington’s hair with a little more force than necessary, Jack sends it spilling over his shoulders, gleaming against the dark coat that he is wearing. He wraps his hand in the smooth, dark strands and holds Norrington’s head in place, letting their breaths mingle, their lips an inch apart. ‘No pain,’ he says, making it unequivocal, wanting the other’s breathlessness to be caused by anticipation of pleasure, not pain. After a moment, Norrington nods, almost imperceptibly.
And yet, despite his usual disregard for the dominating impulse that causes some to inflict pain on others as a form of inducing arousal, Jack knows that tenderness is not what Norrington needs. For he has asked Jack to be the devil, to give him what he dare not ask of anyone else, and Jack’s damned if he’s going to disappoint him this first time. Already, even as he unbuttons the other’s waistcoat with steady fingers, his eyes never leaving Norrington’s face, already Jack is thinking of this as their first rather than only encounter. The fact that Norrington cannot return his gaze makes it so much easier to look at his slightly parted lips in much the same way as the Commodore had allowed himself to glance at Jack’s mouth that day at Fort Charles. It is this that he was rooting for, Jack thinks as he bares the Commodore’s chest and strokes his fingertips through the soft dark curls of hair. Norrington’s heartbeat seems faster even as he remains perfectly still beneath Jack’s wandering, claiming, possessive touch, but he has not made a sound. It’s time to remedy that; it’s time to resolutely push aside the aching need to plunge his tongue past those parted lips, for to kiss the Commodore now would be fatal to Jack’s control.
He seizes fistfuls of Norrington’s shirt and rips it completely open in a quick, fluid movement, and Norrington gives Jack the satisfaction of hearing him respond with a muted gasp at the suddenness of the gesture. Never one to give up a tactical advantage, Jack quickly makes short work of the buttons on Norrington’s breeches, his fingers almost reverent now in comparison with his treatment of the shirt. Questing voices grow louder in his head, and he quells them by letting his mouth and hands explore the delights in front of him. His gaze flicks up to Norrington’s face every so often, because perhaps the most delightful thing of all is the way in which the younger man is responding to his touch. After minutes of silence punctuated only by Norrington’s soft sounds of hesitant pleasure (almost whimpers, but not quite; almost the most erotic sounds that Jack has ever heard) and Jack’s murmurs of approval, Jack senses that Norrington is holding back, discerns the slight confusion that betrays itself in the hidden tenseness of the warm body that is otherwise so responsive to his touch.
Letting his hand replace his mouth, he moves from between Norrington’s thighs to kneel beside the chair, thrusting his other hand into Norrington’s hair and making a fist, tugging his head back, baring his throat, tracing the outline of his ear with the tip of his tongue. Norrington’s fingers are digging into his own thighs now, his breath coming in harsh pants through his still-sweetly-parted lips. His body is still taut with tension, and Jack thinks he knows why: he had expected to be used, not pleasured in a way that would focus only on him. ‘Let go,’ Jack murmurs into his ear, tightening his hand just a little as he keeps up his steady stroking. ‘It’s all right. Just give in.’ And Norrington does, unable to maintain his resolve any longer, one hand abandoning its assumed position to clutch at Jack’s shoulder as he arches into Jack’s hand, the remnants of his composure shattering under the unbearably sensual obscenities that Jack is murmuring encouragingly into his ear, under a single clever flick of Jack’s wrist. ‘Good lad,’ Jack grins, loosening his grip on the Commodore’s hair to rub gently at the nape of his neck. Norrington laughs, the sound like music.
Maintain the tactical advantage, Jack reminds himself, because he really wants to kiss Norrington now, and that is an intimacy that just will not do. He pulls the scarf off and Norrington blinks at the sudden brightness, his expression faintly stunned as their eyes finally meet, and Jack is shaken by the way in which the other’s eyes have darkened with a vulnerable sensuality that leaves him feeling unexpectedly guilty, as if he has taken something that was not his to take. Now that some semblance of trust has been established - No pain - Jack uses the scarf to bind his new lover’s wrists in front of him and takes him facedown over the wooden table, not yet certain that he can fuck this man if they are face to face.
It is a little past midnight when Norrington finally pulls on his ruined shirt and the rest of his sailor’s outfit. Jack leans back in the chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, his lips caressing the mouth of a bottle of rum as he watches Norrington pull his boots on, sitting at the edge of the bed that they have not used. He gets to his feet, throws his folded coat over his arm, and nods in farewell. Now is the time to ask him to stay, to find out what it would be like to kiss that mouth. But Norrington is so unlike any lover that Jack has had before, so overwhelmingly good in every way that Jack is overcome by a startling, invading sense of beauty that threatens to ruin the equilibrium that they have found, threatens to expose the angelic and the devilish as, after all, human underneath.
‘Same time next month?’ Jack says, too lightly. There is only a moment of hesitation before Norrington nods, and is gone. Jack lets him go, gives him five minutes, and then flees to the Pearl himself, yearning for the taste of ocean spray on his lips to help him forget the imagined taste of something so preciously rare that even Captain Jack Sparrow has not been able to bring himself to claim it. Yet.
*
Rating: R
Summary: It starts as a proposition.
Word count: 1452
Disclaimer: Not mine, and no profit or copyright violation intended.
A/N: For Prompt #034 at slashtheimage.
It starts as a proposition, as unthinkable, unexpected words from Commodore Norrington in an unthinkable, unexpected place. The depth of Jack’s surprise is matched only by the intensity of the sudden wave of desire that threatens to overwhelm his senses as he gazes at the other in the dim, smoky environs of the tavern. Norrington is bare-headed, his wavy, chocolate-dark hair tied back loosely, and is wearing a sailor’s simple, practical clothes. For all that he has roughened his appearance, he can hide neither the simple elegance of his posture nor the earnestness of his intent. Never one to resist the appeal of something pretty, especially when it offers itself to him in so sweetly and temptingly lovely a package, Jack rests his hand on the dark cotton of Norrington’s frayed sleeve, sensing the warmth of his skin and the tautness of muscles beneath the cloth, and knows at once, without a doubt, what he wants.
He wants to strip the other of his authority, to see him utterly naked, as only himself, as other than himself, as a beautiful, willing, pliant angel whom he can restrain and touch and stroke and tease endlessly until Norrington’s back arches helplessly, until those bright, bright eyes darken pleasingly in involuntary response to what Jack is doing to him. For Jack knows that he has just been asked to be the devil himself, to give Norrington what the Commodore’s genteel society will not afford him, to give him what is unlawful, transgressive, unrestrained... and absolutely essential. For a moment Jack is beguiled by the entire scenario, so unlikely and yet so credible, for whom else can Norrington trust with his secret, with his desire, with his need to relinquish control (if only for a little while), but an outlaw, a pirate? The appeal of relishing the moment is quickly pushed aside by the enchanting and completely distracting thought of doing to the other exactly what he has requested. Jack’s grip on Norrington’s arm tightens as he rises, pulling the other to his feet, practically dragging him to the stairs.
It is only once he has blindfolded his willing captive quite thoroughly with his scarf that Jack feels more in control of the situation. He walks Norrington backward to the only chair in the room, guides him to sit, and arranges his hands over his knees, ordering him to keep them there. Tugging the ribbon from Norrington’s hair with a little more force than necessary, Jack sends it spilling over his shoulders, gleaming against the dark coat that he is wearing. He wraps his hand in the smooth, dark strands and holds Norrington’s head in place, letting their breaths mingle, their lips an inch apart. ‘No pain,’ he says, making it unequivocal, wanting the other’s breathlessness to be caused by anticipation of pleasure, not pain. After a moment, Norrington nods, almost imperceptibly.
And yet, despite his usual disregard for the dominating impulse that causes some to inflict pain on others as a form of inducing arousal, Jack knows that tenderness is not what Norrington needs. For he has asked Jack to be the devil, to give him what he dare not ask of anyone else, and Jack’s damned if he’s going to disappoint him this first time. Already, even as he unbuttons the other’s waistcoat with steady fingers, his eyes never leaving Norrington’s face, already Jack is thinking of this as their first rather than only encounter. The fact that Norrington cannot return his gaze makes it so much easier to look at his slightly parted lips in much the same way as the Commodore had allowed himself to glance at Jack’s mouth that day at Fort Charles. It is this that he was rooting for, Jack thinks as he bares the Commodore’s chest and strokes his fingertips through the soft dark curls of hair. Norrington’s heartbeat seems faster even as he remains perfectly still beneath Jack’s wandering, claiming, possessive touch, but he has not made a sound. It’s time to remedy that; it’s time to resolutely push aside the aching need to plunge his tongue past those parted lips, for to kiss the Commodore now would be fatal to Jack’s control.
He seizes fistfuls of Norrington’s shirt and rips it completely open in a quick, fluid movement, and Norrington gives Jack the satisfaction of hearing him respond with a muted gasp at the suddenness of the gesture. Never one to give up a tactical advantage, Jack quickly makes short work of the buttons on Norrington’s breeches, his fingers almost reverent now in comparison with his treatment of the shirt. Questing voices grow louder in his head, and he quells them by letting his mouth and hands explore the delights in front of him. His gaze flicks up to Norrington’s face every so often, because perhaps the most delightful thing of all is the way in which the younger man is responding to his touch. After minutes of silence punctuated only by Norrington’s soft sounds of hesitant pleasure (almost whimpers, but not quite; almost the most erotic sounds that Jack has ever heard) and Jack’s murmurs of approval, Jack senses that Norrington is holding back, discerns the slight confusion that betrays itself in the hidden tenseness of the warm body that is otherwise so responsive to his touch.
Letting his hand replace his mouth, he moves from between Norrington’s thighs to kneel beside the chair, thrusting his other hand into Norrington’s hair and making a fist, tugging his head back, baring his throat, tracing the outline of his ear with the tip of his tongue. Norrington’s fingers are digging into his own thighs now, his breath coming in harsh pants through his still-sweetly-parted lips. His body is still taut with tension, and Jack thinks he knows why: he had expected to be used, not pleasured in a way that would focus only on him. ‘Let go,’ Jack murmurs into his ear, tightening his hand just a little as he keeps up his steady stroking. ‘It’s all right. Just give in.’ And Norrington does, unable to maintain his resolve any longer, one hand abandoning its assumed position to clutch at Jack’s shoulder as he arches into Jack’s hand, the remnants of his composure shattering under the unbearably sensual obscenities that Jack is murmuring encouragingly into his ear, under a single clever flick of Jack’s wrist. ‘Good lad,’ Jack grins, loosening his grip on the Commodore’s hair to rub gently at the nape of his neck. Norrington laughs, the sound like music.
Maintain the tactical advantage, Jack reminds himself, because he really wants to kiss Norrington now, and that is an intimacy that just will not do. He pulls the scarf off and Norrington blinks at the sudden brightness, his expression faintly stunned as their eyes finally meet, and Jack is shaken by the way in which the other’s eyes have darkened with a vulnerable sensuality that leaves him feeling unexpectedly guilty, as if he has taken something that was not his to take. Now that some semblance of trust has been established - No pain - Jack uses the scarf to bind his new lover’s wrists in front of him and takes him facedown over the wooden table, not yet certain that he can fuck this man if they are face to face.
It is a little past midnight when Norrington finally pulls on his ruined shirt and the rest of his sailor’s outfit. Jack leans back in the chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, his lips caressing the mouth of a bottle of rum as he watches Norrington pull his boots on, sitting at the edge of the bed that they have not used. He gets to his feet, throws his folded coat over his arm, and nods in farewell. Now is the time to ask him to stay, to find out what it would be like to kiss that mouth. But Norrington is so unlike any lover that Jack has had before, so overwhelmingly good in every way that Jack is overcome by a startling, invading sense of beauty that threatens to ruin the equilibrium that they have found, threatens to expose the angelic and the devilish as, after all, human underneath.
‘Same time next month?’ Jack says, too lightly. There is only a moment of hesitation before Norrington nods, and is gone. Jack lets him go, gives him five minutes, and then flees to the Pearl himself, yearning for the taste of ocean spray on his lips to help him forget the imagined taste of something so preciously rare that even Captain Jack Sparrow has not been able to bring himself to claim it. Yet.
*