Unrequitted Norribeth Fic
ETA: Sad little unrequitted norribeth that still touches me. Poor James. This is the companion piece that was mentioned in the previous post.
A little Norrington!muse dropped in on me last night -- and I just couldn't refuse. It's around a hard PG-13 or a light R for rating. And is more of a character sketch, which rather stretches into a character what if?
For me, I get such an evil little delight at witnessing a character's interal conflict develop and how that internal conflict affects the character's outward actions. Because some people just bottle it all up on the inside, and nobody knows about how they actually feel except for his or herself.
I suppose I was inspired by the commentary on how Norrington's relationship with Elizabeth is what brings the character any sort of complexity. And so thus, I took that little bit of complexity and blew it up and made it nibble at poor Norrington's heart because he suffers so prettily. Perhaps that is the reason why I write a lot of Norribeth that is usually laced with some sort of angst -- perhaps Norrington defines himself by the internal struggles he goes through: good-men/pirates, jump/not-jump etc. etc.
And perhaps what makes Norrington such a beautiful character is that he is usually able to control whatever evil emotion that bubbles in him and what we see on the surface is restraint, restraint, restraint. And in some cruel way of the observer, it's fascinating and bitterly sweet to watch him have to control himself and his actions.
So thus. I suppose it's a major conflict of who you are and how you feel versus what you do. And lots of other subtleties which flew my coop a few minutes of go. ^.^; And as a final note, it's in its rough-hewn edges. The grammatics of it is making my head spin and if anybody wants to take a severe beta-ing to it, be my guest.
"She pains him in more ways than one"
---
He wants to kiss her at times -- like she's not a proper lady, like he's not an upstanding officer of the royal navy, like she's some passionate moaning whore-wench in the streets, and he's just a passerby offering all that she desires and hopes for, even if it is the shimmer that is gold.
He wants to kiss her at times -- as if they were both alone in the woods at night and were going to stay there forever, as if the sun would never rise tomorrow. And she would ache and writhe and he would make her love him in return, through soft kisses along her neck and inching downwards so unsubtly that she'll try to push him away -- but she really wants it inside, somewhere deep inside, she must.
And so he would rip off those skirts and that dress of hers, tear away that corset. He wants to see the woman underneath the pretty lace and silk, the female flesh of hers -- so pale and so smooth, and she's so virginal that she shudders when he slides his hands, rough hands, calloused hands across her belly and she squirms and arches that back, and then, then he can pretend that she is his and no one else's.
The images of that Turner boy would be ripped from her mind the way her clothes were ripped from her body -- and all that she would see and feel and experience would be him, and only him -- no one else, never anybody else. And her eyes would light with understanding and he would finally have her love.
Sometimes, he hates the way he sometimes looks at her, and she sometimes looks at him with sad wrinkles around her eyes, and he hates the way he feels near her. How somewhere inside him is a deep and ugly animal instinct to claim and mar and own this woman who had rejected him. How sometimes he feels a terrible urge to grab her arms, shake her and then kiss her and kiss her and kiss her, damn propriety and society, damn doting fathers and blacksmith's apprentices -- and how her perfect curls would dishevel, the red blush would fall across her cheeks and she'll start gasping because there isn't enough air in the world for the two of them.
And those are the times when he hates himself, turns away his eyes from her maddening and unobtainable beauty, and looks to something plain and boring and dull like the rock and plaster of a wall or a simple doily lying pressed on a wood table, calming his breathing and feeling that warm flush across his cheeks.
He won't look at her anymore, shouldn't. He shouldn't talk to her because he feels that nagging inside him -- a whirl of possibilities, the insistent begging of cruel and evil voices -- just pretend, pretend that there's no tomorrow, that there aren't any curious eyes or gossiping mouths, if you really love her, you'll do anything to have her, won't you?
And that would be when he would excuse himself from her -- sneak away shamefully, hearing the step of his feet against hard wood, and he'll find himself a little home away from the other guests, looking out the window and just seeing the window and nothing else.
He doesn't want to think of her anymore. But it's difficult, and she makes it difficult. Because she has not stopped frequenting the docks -- very unladylike of her, and he wants to forget how unladylike she acts, because to see her as anything less than a lady would be a dangerous mistake.
And sometimes, he thinks that the Turner boy knows, and he just looks away from the two of them. Doesn't want to know anymore. Doesn't want to feel a shameful need to strip her bare and naked and exposed and vulnerable, her hair tumbling down like it was when he saved her from dying on that little spit of land -- wonders how far she would go if he were stranded there with her, would she pretend to fall in love with him for how ever many days they would live?
Tries not to think about the way her wet clothes clung tight to her body -- that is how close he wants to be with her, plastered over her, wet and wet, with her jaw shivering imperceptibly from the cold, but he'll just kiss it away. Tries not to think about how she looked near naked and slender, without the confections of imported dresses or ribbons.
He tries to erase these images of her from his mind -- thinks of her instead as the lady -- because she is a lady no matter how she acts -- with that beautiful cream and gold dress with embroidery -- the way she looked when he proposed, right before she fell into the water and was stripped down by a certain Jack Sparrow.
At night when the candles are out and there is no moon hiding among the curtains, he stares to the black ceiling and refuses to admit that he is jealous of Jack Sparrow for having saved her, for having had his hands on her body, for his strength to have been the one to keep her afloat, for slicing and peeling away the corset with his knife, for his hands to have tugged away that dress now rotting to pieces in the sea.
He's jealous of Jack for having been alone with her for two days and a night on that little island. He wishes he were the one stranded with her with the stores and stores of rum. He wonders if Jack kept his hands to himself, and he wonders what he would have done had he had Jack's luck. He wonders how she would taste with rum on her lips, rum running through his blood even though he loathes the drink itself.
Would she share a laugh with him, tease him and flirt? Bat her eyelashes, tilt her head down and pout her lips -- so not like a lady -- and on that little island, would he forget her as a lady and kiss her and love her as if she were a woman and only a woman, as if he were a man and only a man, as if there were nothing more god ordained that to join the two of them together beneath the sanctity of the stars?
Instead -- he'll smile carefully to her, speak his words so delicately -- and she'll never know, never know that there is a man so close to her who wants nothing more than to steal her away forever like a pirate of hearts and emotions. He wonders if it's worth it all -- worth the pain and suffering that claws his insides until he feels like he’s going mad. Maybe he should leave Port Royal, return to England and settle down with a nice girl. Maybe he should become a pirate and join Jack Sparrow just to be with the man who had been so close to the woman he loved. Because the Turner boy would never consider it, and Jack's a pirate.
He thinks about writing to her, a long confessionary letter, thinks about telling the minister at their church -- but how can he tell another when he can hardly face his own thoughts. Sometimes, he finds himself staring at a blank piece of parchment, quill in hand and nearly dripping with black ink, the candle sinking so low -- and he sits there until there isn’t any candlelight left and he’s just a lonely man alone in the darkness and left with his own prison of thoughts.
This is why he doesn't want to think of her anymore. She pains him in more ways than one -- stripping him down to the ugly of his own character, and he questions if he really is as fine of a man as she says he is. But no, she would never lie -- ladies never lie after all - but, she never acts like a lady.
And he fears that if he's with her any longer, he'll no longer act like a gentleman -- though he never was one, can’t be one with these half-voiced, half-conscious desires dissolving the little scream of resistance that just dies and dies.
A little Norrington!muse dropped in on me last night -- and I just couldn't refuse. It's around a hard PG-13 or a light R for rating. And is more of a character sketch, which rather stretches into a character what if?
For me, I get such an evil little delight at witnessing a character's interal conflict develop and how that internal conflict affects the character's outward actions. Because some people just bottle it all up on the inside, and nobody knows about how they actually feel except for his or herself.
I suppose I was inspired by the commentary on how Norrington's relationship with Elizabeth is what brings the character any sort of complexity. And so thus, I took that little bit of complexity and blew it up and made it nibble at poor Norrington's heart because he suffers so prettily. Perhaps that is the reason why I write a lot of Norribeth that is usually laced with some sort of angst -- perhaps Norrington defines himself by the internal struggles he goes through: good-men/pirates, jump/not-jump etc. etc.
And perhaps what makes Norrington such a beautiful character is that he is usually able to control whatever evil emotion that bubbles in him and what we see on the surface is restraint, restraint, restraint. And in some cruel way of the observer, it's fascinating and bitterly sweet to watch him have to control himself and his actions.
So thus. I suppose it's a major conflict of who you are and how you feel versus what you do. And lots of other subtleties which flew my coop a few minutes of go. ^.^; And as a final note, it's in its rough-hewn edges. The grammatics of it is making my head spin and if anybody wants to take a severe beta-ing to it, be my guest.
"She pains him in more ways than one"
---
He wants to kiss her at times -- like she's not a proper lady, like he's not an upstanding officer of the royal navy, like she's some passionate moaning whore-wench in the streets, and he's just a passerby offering all that she desires and hopes for, even if it is the shimmer that is gold.
He wants to kiss her at times -- as if they were both alone in the woods at night and were going to stay there forever, as if the sun would never rise tomorrow. And she would ache and writhe and he would make her love him in return, through soft kisses along her neck and inching downwards so unsubtly that she'll try to push him away -- but she really wants it inside, somewhere deep inside, she must.
And so he would rip off those skirts and that dress of hers, tear away that corset. He wants to see the woman underneath the pretty lace and silk, the female flesh of hers -- so pale and so smooth, and she's so virginal that she shudders when he slides his hands, rough hands, calloused hands across her belly and she squirms and arches that back, and then, then he can pretend that she is his and no one else's.
The images of that Turner boy would be ripped from her mind the way her clothes were ripped from her body -- and all that she would see and feel and experience would be him, and only him -- no one else, never anybody else. And her eyes would light with understanding and he would finally have her love.
Sometimes, he hates the way he sometimes looks at her, and she sometimes looks at him with sad wrinkles around her eyes, and he hates the way he feels near her. How somewhere inside him is a deep and ugly animal instinct to claim and mar and own this woman who had rejected him. How sometimes he feels a terrible urge to grab her arms, shake her and then kiss her and kiss her and kiss her, damn propriety and society, damn doting fathers and blacksmith's apprentices -- and how her perfect curls would dishevel, the red blush would fall across her cheeks and she'll start gasping because there isn't enough air in the world for the two of them.
And those are the times when he hates himself, turns away his eyes from her maddening and unobtainable beauty, and looks to something plain and boring and dull like the rock and plaster of a wall or a simple doily lying pressed on a wood table, calming his breathing and feeling that warm flush across his cheeks.
He won't look at her anymore, shouldn't. He shouldn't talk to her because he feels that nagging inside him -- a whirl of possibilities, the insistent begging of cruel and evil voices -- just pretend, pretend that there's no tomorrow, that there aren't any curious eyes or gossiping mouths, if you really love her, you'll do anything to have her, won't you?
And that would be when he would excuse himself from her -- sneak away shamefully, hearing the step of his feet against hard wood, and he'll find himself a little home away from the other guests, looking out the window and just seeing the window and nothing else.
He doesn't want to think of her anymore. But it's difficult, and she makes it difficult. Because she has not stopped frequenting the docks -- very unladylike of her, and he wants to forget how unladylike she acts, because to see her as anything less than a lady would be a dangerous mistake.
And sometimes, he thinks that the Turner boy knows, and he just looks away from the two of them. Doesn't want to know anymore. Doesn't want to feel a shameful need to strip her bare and naked and exposed and vulnerable, her hair tumbling down like it was when he saved her from dying on that little spit of land -- wonders how far she would go if he were stranded there with her, would she pretend to fall in love with him for how ever many days they would live?
Tries not to think about the way her wet clothes clung tight to her body -- that is how close he wants to be with her, plastered over her, wet and wet, with her jaw shivering imperceptibly from the cold, but he'll just kiss it away. Tries not to think about how she looked near naked and slender, without the confections of imported dresses or ribbons.
He tries to erase these images of her from his mind -- thinks of her instead as the lady -- because she is a lady no matter how she acts -- with that beautiful cream and gold dress with embroidery -- the way she looked when he proposed, right before she fell into the water and was stripped down by a certain Jack Sparrow.
At night when the candles are out and there is no moon hiding among the curtains, he stares to the black ceiling and refuses to admit that he is jealous of Jack Sparrow for having saved her, for having had his hands on her body, for his strength to have been the one to keep her afloat, for slicing and peeling away the corset with his knife, for his hands to have tugged away that dress now rotting to pieces in the sea.
He's jealous of Jack for having been alone with her for two days and a night on that little island. He wishes he were the one stranded with her with the stores and stores of rum. He wonders if Jack kept his hands to himself, and he wonders what he would have done had he had Jack's luck. He wonders how she would taste with rum on her lips, rum running through his blood even though he loathes the drink itself.
Would she share a laugh with him, tease him and flirt? Bat her eyelashes, tilt her head down and pout her lips -- so not like a lady -- and on that little island, would he forget her as a lady and kiss her and love her as if she were a woman and only a woman, as if he were a man and only a man, as if there were nothing more god ordained that to join the two of them together beneath the sanctity of the stars?
Instead -- he'll smile carefully to her, speak his words so delicately -- and she'll never know, never know that there is a man so close to her who wants nothing more than to steal her away forever like a pirate of hearts and emotions. He wonders if it's worth it all -- worth the pain and suffering that claws his insides until he feels like he’s going mad. Maybe he should leave Port Royal, return to England and settle down with a nice girl. Maybe he should become a pirate and join Jack Sparrow just to be with the man who had been so close to the woman he loved. Because the Turner boy would never consider it, and Jack's a pirate.
He thinks about writing to her, a long confessionary letter, thinks about telling the minister at their church -- but how can he tell another when he can hardly face his own thoughts. Sometimes, he finds himself staring at a blank piece of parchment, quill in hand and nearly dripping with black ink, the candle sinking so low -- and he sits there until there isn’t any candlelight left and he’s just a lonely man alone in the darkness and left with his own prison of thoughts.
This is why he doesn't want to think of her anymore. She pains him in more ways than one -- stripping him down to the ugly of his own character, and he questions if he really is as fine of a man as she says he is. But no, she would never lie -- ladies never lie after all - but, she never acts like a lady.
And he fears that if he's with her any longer, he'll no longer act like a gentleman -- though he never was one, can’t be one with these half-voiced, half-conscious desires dissolving the little scream of resistance that just dies and dies.