the Dalaverse

A tease of a ficlet for "North and South of the River." James loves his imagination, yes he does.

Disclaimer: Disney and U2 rule the world, la-la-la, I own nada because I'm a dirt-poor college student, boom shaka-laka-laka-lak. Come on people, you know the words!


NaSotR: Dream Beneath a Desert Sky



James had never understood daydreaming.

He found few things more frustrating than watching an officer’s eyes glaze over as his mind wandered. It was so obvious, and it happened even though they knew he was standing right there. Discipline was something no man was incapable of learning, so why was it so difficult to keep one’s mind on the task at hand, even if it was something as menial as paperwork?

“Commodore Norrington? You’re, ah, spilling ink on yourself, sir.”

With a muffled curse he leapt to his feet, the bottle of ink dropping from his lap to shatter on the floor.

Gillette immediately called for someone to clean the mess up as James tried to shake off the paper stuck to his hand. The lieutenant frowned at him. “You look rather flushed, sir. Have you been feeling ill?”

Ill. Yes, that was it. Better to be sick with some tropical disease than to be unable to go ten minutes without falling into a fantasy of being bent over his desk and...

He could feel his face coloring even further as he fidgeted, quickly stepping behind his chair to conceal the bulge below his waistband.

“Now that you mention it, Gillette, I have been a bit...under the weather.”

“You ought to take the rest of the day, then, if you don’t mind my saying so. We will manage the fort without you.”

“Yes,” said James with a weak smile, “perhaps that would be best.”

He managed to make it home, and he even got to the bedroom. For a second he congratulated himself on his self-restraint and postulated that perhaps he didn’t need release so badly.

Then he set eyes on the left corner of the room, where Jack had once taken Will while James lay sprawled on the bed, too exhausted to do anything but watch and wonder how they managed to not fall down.

It was something, he supposed as he hastily undid his breeches, he would have to ask them when they got back. If there was time spared for anything other than frantic shagging.

He closed his eyes as he stroked himself roughly, too far gone for niceties. There would be two pairs of hands again, not just his own, and two mouths, and two wicked tongues, and two bodies to warm him, to writhe beneath him or above him, to...to...

He thought he could make out the faint outline of two faces against his eyelids as he came, but perhaps it was only his imagination. He’d become very, very appreciative of his imagination in the last three weeks. It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do for a bit longer at least.

When they came back again, he could parch his thirst and let his overused imagination free. Evocative as it could be in solitude, it tended to have trouble keeping up in an occupied bedroom – about which James was not going to complain, because he intended to take full advantage of the experience of Captain Sparrow and the creativity of his young first mate. And he had commissioned a pair of irons to provide inspiration if none was forthcoming.

Never let it be said that James Norrington could not learn from example.

Psssst...my disclaimer needs a disclaimer. Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal. Christopher Moore. Go. Read. Instead of seeing "The Passion of the Christ."