Marooned, 14

In Which Norrington Dreams of Pirates

by

Gloria Mundi

Yet perhaps it wasn't so very extreme a notion after all. Elizabeth was more pirate than her husband would ever be, even though her father had been the respected Governor of Port Royal, and his (or so they said, in the taverns) a notorious pirate who'd sailed with Sparrow, back before the advent of Barbossa. Yet Elizabeth—striking accords with Barbossa, with Sparrow, with Norrington himself, like a pirate to the manner born—had that ruthless streak to her which had appalled Will Turner and attracted James Norrington. He remembered her as a little girl, fascinated by pirate-stories.

She and Anamaria would've liked one another, he thought, coming gradually awake. Maybe they'd met, back during that business with the curse.

There was more to the dream, and he clung on to the last shreds. That mouth, all hot and wet and delicious, and the flash of gold catching the morning...

But Anamaria didn't have gold teeth. He was nearly certain of that. And—oh.

Some of the dream, at least, was no dream at all.

Norrington opened his eyes and looked down over an expanse of fair skin (his own) and dark skin (hers) to where a wicked mouth was playing havoc with his sense of reality.

Anamaria winked at him, and Norrington tried to laugh, but she'd stolen his breath away. (Pirate!)

And really, he could hardly ask her to open her mouth so that he could check her teeth. Not now. Even if she was a pirate, a woman, a mulatto, she was still the captain (the pirate captain) of the ship on which he was, for the present, a mere passenger.

She was in his bed—in fact, he recalled, he was in hers—and her mouth ... her body ... her hands. He'd kissed her (oh, and more, much more) last night: he'd held onto her, sunken into her, spilled out in her, and watched her take as much pleasure from him as he'd had from her, equal and open and honest and happy. And oh, so long since he'd let himself be so overtaken by sensation: so long since he'd felt so free. Just for a moment everything that mattered, duty and history and rank and the war, dropped away, and James Norrington was simply and purely himself. It felt like a liberation.

He was trying to remember something about Jack Sparrow when his body overtook him and he spent, hard and noisily, in her mouth.

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