Commodore Norrington leaned his head back against the sun-warmed stones of the garrison at Port Royal and closed his eyes. A breeze rushed in off the ocean, carrying a welcome night coolness over his fevered skin.

Never one to shirk duty, his or anyone else's, he'd volunteered for an extra shift manning the ramparts atop the old fort. The day had been long and filled with strife, but then again, that was what they were made for. Struggle for King and country.

But the evening found him uneasy and unsettled in his skin. Norrington turned desperate eyes to the night sky, hoping for answers from the vast, dark firmament.

It was that bloody pirate.

Ever since he'd laid eyes on Jack Sparrow, Norrington had been assailed by the most wicked thoughts imaginable. Visions of sinewy, sun-browned limbs twined with his own pale ones, hallucinations of being forced facedown on his rough pallet and subjected to the most undignified and salacious activities.

Norrington hardened at the thought. It had been like this all day, with no relief. What was it, he wondered, about Jack Sparrow, of all men, to conjure these feelings in him? These forbidden and treasonous longings, the almost palpable need to have his regimental trousers round his ankles and his arse high in the air, exposed and needing and—

Norrington bit his lip, stifling the groan as he vividly pictured Jack ravaging him, thrusting his way roughly inside, grasping his slim hips and pounding into him with a savage, wanton rhythm.

A gasp escaped Norrington's lips and frightened, he looked around the battlements.

His lone companion had succumbed to the siren call of sleep and sat snoozing against the crumbling rock some ways away.

Norrington slipped into the cooler shadows and, with trembling hands, undid the buttons on his trousers, freeing his engorged cock. The hot skin throbbed against his palm, and the tip was already pearled with moisture. With his free hand, Norrington shoved his trousers further down, out of the way, then worked the slick pre-cum along his shaft. Oh, that pirate.

In his mind, Norrington watched Jack's lewd and knowing eyes take in the sight of him, cock in hand and all other duties neglected. Jack's leer as he approached, then sunk to his knees before the Commander, and applied his full, ripe lips to Norrington's eager cock.

Norrington bit his own lip at the thought. He could nearly feel Jack's wet, warm mouth on him, taking him deep, drawing him in, down to the root. He sped up his stroke in time to Jack's imaginary ministrations. Nothing had ever felt so perfect, so right, even while he knew how wrong it was, and that they'd both hang if they were caught.

Warm seed splashed over Norrington's hand, spattering his thighs and trousers, sliding over his fingers as he muffled his anxious cries of pleasure, still conscious of Jack's clever tongue, taking him to heights he'd only ever dreamt of.

And then it was over.

Just like that, the vision faded, and gradually, conscious thought returned. Hot on its heels was the knowledge that he was standing in the darkness with his softening cock in hand, sticky and quickly cooling.

And he was alone.

A few moments of self-recrimination and futile swabbing and he was redressed, if thankful for the cover of darkness. And after that, only duty and the night remained.

Commodore Norrington leaned his head back against the sun-warmed stones and stared out over the deep, indigo sea, and waited to be relieved.