Actions

Work Header

my heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it

Summary:

James Norrington has nothing. No title, no rank, no comrades, no place to belong. When the lord with the soft voice and the cruel eyes offers him salvation, James does what any man in his position would do - he falls and falls and falls.

Lord Cutler Beckett has everything, the means to bring the world under his thumb placed within his reach by the former officer with the sad eyes. To want to control and own the man is second nature, but Cutler is far too talented a liar for his own good.

When the lion goes to bed with the wolf, both shall devour each other in the end.

Chapter 1: 1.

Summary:

James Norrington heeds the siren song of redemption.

Notes:

I'm supposed to be hard at work on my multi-chapter omnibus fic revolving around Salazar and his crew but this idea wouldn't leave my mind. Norrington and Beckett are some of my favourite characters in the franchise: Norrington for his amazingly tragic story (seriously, the universe has it out for this man) and Beckett for being just...irredeemably evil, but in an incredibly fascinating and complex way. The characters are very layered and nuanced, and both have great performances by their actors to thank for their memorability.

You'll notice that I have tagged the work as mild dubcon. This is because both characters consume alcohol prior to engaging in sexual acts, and so it can be argued that their decisions are being influenced. However, while Norrington's feelings on the matter are left ambiguous (although, I personally see it as him being conflicted due to his emotional fragility rather than inebriation), Beckett explicitly points out that he had intended for things to go this direction before commencing drinking. Still, I left up the tag just to err on the side of caution.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

the devil pulls the strings which make us dance;
we find delight in the most loathsome things;
some furtherance of hell each new day brings;
and yet we feel no horror in that rank advance.

- charles baudelaire

 


To his great distress, James finds that he cannot discern the emotions and thoughts running behind the blue-gray eyes of the man in front of him in the intimate lighting of the parlour where they are taking their supper.

James had shaven, bathed himself aggressively until three layers of dirt and perhaps two layers of skin lay floating around him in the tub, trimmed and combed his matted hair, and exchanged his dirty, sweat-soaked old uniform for a fresh shirt and breeches.

And yet, despite being clothed in some of the trappings of his old life, cleaner than he has been in months, James feels…odd.

Lord Beckett observes him like a hawk, the shorter man's frock coat neatly folded and draped over a chair as he leans in and refills James' glass of brandy without blinking. James had met Beckett a couple of times, many years ago, but those encounters were so brief as to only leave him with a very rudimentary first impression. And that impression is so incongruous when compared with the lord's behaviour now that it makes James' head spin.

Cold-blooded, calculating, and ruthless, James had thought Cutler Beckett to be. Driven by an insatiable lust for money, status, and power.

Beckett's cloudy eyes are hungry, and the other man knocks back his brandy with a surprisingly sharp tip of the head. If James didn't know any better, he would say that the lord is indulging in an extra drink or two in order to celebrate, a reaction entirely beneath a man who goes to such lengths to cultivate his own image.

"You have given me the world, Admiral," Beckett murmurs, nudging James' glass towards his hand. "I understand it must have been traumatizing for you to lose everything, but you have regained it now. I promised to give you your world back, and I hold to that, but you must also be ready and willing to take it."

James swallows thickly and looks down at the amber liquid in his glass. He has drunk two glasses already: the first to stop the shaking in his hands from going so long without alcohol in his bloodstream, and the second because the near-childlike expectancy in his host's eyes had, for just a moment, put him under some sort of trance.

There is no denying that James wants his old life back more fiercely than anything before. But, at the same time, he knows that his most feverish dream is also his most unfeasible. Back before, it was James who was in control of military activity in Jamaica. Back before, James did not command from some remote pedestal but rather from amongst his own men, sharing in their workload and leading by example.

He will be sequestered away, now, an immeasurable gulf between himself and the men he once had the luxury of thinking of as comrades.

No matter - it is an entire year since James has been alone. What's a few more months, years, however long this quest to rid the Caribbean of piracy takes?

"Am I to command from afar, then, my lord?" It takes a conscious effort for James to steady his voice.

"No," there is a curling at the corners of Beckett's boyish lips, "you shall command from alongside your men, if that is what you would prefer. I want my admiral at his best, after all."

The 'my' does not escape James' notice. It ought to frighten him, ought to send a warning shiver down his spine that before him sits a man who sees people as pawns for him to manipulate for his own gains, and that James is simply one such piece in a much greater game.

Instead, James thinks on his own loneliness, an aching, yawning, chasm in his chest, and something warm and possessive flutters in his stomach.

"Your admiral," he eventually agrees, and savours the thickness of the brandy on his tongue.

Beckett smiles now, a true smile, and James is struck by how very young the other man looks, his face smooth and soft. James has only had two glasses of brandy, the third not yet half-finished, but the lord has drunk nearly an entire decanter's worth, and as he leans closer to speak, James can see the pink dusting his cheeks.

"I would give you the world back, in recompense for that which you have given me," Beckett murmurs in hushed tones, and James is not nearly drunk enough yet for the implication to not give him pause.

Why is he doing this?

James grits his teeth. He has known for many years now that his own preferences are more…versatile than most, yet he has never bedded any member of his own sex before. Such a thought always frightened him, his career and reputation too important for James to be willing to risk discovery participating in such a taboo act.

And yet, here and now, in the privacy of Lord Beckett's chambers, James cannot help but wonder. He could count the entire depth and breadth of the sexual encounters he's had in his life on one hand and still have fingers to spare, and so his curiosity is not how a man would differ from a woman as a bed partner.

No, his curiosity is how it would feel like to be with someone like this, someone with unbridled confidence and likely impressive experience as well.

There is only one problem - while the lord has been inching closer and closer with the passage of time, James cannot help but suspect that there is some ulterior motive behind this smooth seduction.

Does he wish to bind me to him so that I cannot disobey, lest he reveal my proclivities to the world? Or are his actions simply the product of excessive drink and the thrill of victory loosening his inhibitions?

It is a struggle even to admit it to himself, but James is - fragile. His self-confidence, his assertiveness, his decisiveness, his very heart and soul have been shattered by the cruelty of the elements and of man over the past year, and to be used in this way would provide the final tipping point.

The smell of silken cloths and lavender pricks James' nostrils, and his heart thunders in his chest as Beckett's hand closes over his own, guides both it and his half-finished glass of brandy up to James' lips.

The other man is half-out of his chair now, leaning forward so as to box James in. James fights to suppress a shudder as he drinks and hears the soft gulp from Beckett as a thin line of brandy escapes James' mouth and runs down his chin.

Beckett's eyes are dark as he takes the empty glass and sets it back on the coaster. His hand hesitates only for the briefest of moments before coming to palm James' knee, nudging it slowly but surely outwards to make room between his thighs.

"I…" James' mouth hangs open, his mind spinning madly in search of a way to proceed. This is dangerous territory, uncharted waters where a single wrong move could spell disaster. Despite the extent to which lust has taken over his primary functions, the terrifyingly cold and calculating higher functions that Lord Beckett is renowned for the world over are still undoubtedly present in the other man's mind, and his eyes narrow threateningly.

"I do not know why you are doing this, my lord," James finishes weakly, and the second that a sliver of confusion flits across Beckett's expression, he knows he must continue speaking or risk his words being interpreted as an insult. "I…I would not wish for you to do something under the influence of alcohol that you might regret come sunrise. I would not wish to debauch you in this manner."

As if James were the one doing the debauching, instead of the other way around.

"Oh," Beckett huffs out a laugh and finishes sinking to his knees between James' now-spread legs, gingerly pushing his fingers underneath the hairline of his wig and running them along his scalp to remove the pins holding it in place.

"Don't fret about that. I must confess -," he removes the wig and sets it primly on his own abandoned chair, and James is struck by the boyish curls; the lord below him looks so young - "I had been intending on ending the evening like this from the moment I saw you cleaned and presentable."

The smirk on Beckett's face is far too lascivious to suggest a single motive other than sheer lust.

Heart leaping into his throat, James swallows with difficulty, the man between his legs making it impossible to press his thighs together and thus hide his rapidly-growing interest.

"Good," Beckett murmurs at the sight of it, hands coming forward to unlace James' breeches. The slight tremor in his fingers is unmistakable, and James feels light-headed at the sight of plump cheeks and plumper lips, sweat-dampened curls and fine clothing.

He's taken off his cravat, James notices, and his eyes nearly roll back in his head when he realizes why.

"Tch, lift up," Beckett scoffs irritably, and James finds himself unsteadily lifting himself from his chair so the other man can practically tear his breeches away. James would laugh at Beckett's childish frustration if he weren't so wrapped up in the thought that one of the most powerful men in the world is about to suck his cock.

Fuck.

At the first waves of warm air just inches away from his head, James' breathing stutters. It's been so very long, and he really ought to say something, but he has no idea what. Somehow, it doesn't seem appropriate to say "sir" or "my lord" in a situation like this.

"What do I call you now?" He finally all but begs, and he feels the laugh his question elicits.

"Normally, one calls his lover by name, James," Beckett murmurs, and without giving James a chance to respond, he slips his tongue over the tip of James' cock.

"Fuck," James gasps, screwing his eyes shut. He ought to be embarrassed - he probably has the sensitivity and stamina of a fresh-faced cadet at this point. James is fairly confident that he partook in at least one sexual tryst during his time in Tortuga, but that sorry period was spent in such a haze of alcohol that he cannot recall for the life of him if the blurred-together images are even real.

James claps a hand over his mouth to stifle the pathetic whine that creeps up his throat as Beckett widens his lips and takes the head of James' cock into his mouth before slowly, torturously sinking lower and lower.

Christ above, how can he do this? James wonders to himself, not even registering the blasphemous sentiment as he ponders just how much experience the older man must have to be able to swallow bloody well all of him down like that.

The particulars do not really matter, of course, especially when the devil between James' legs starts to suck. James grits his teeth and strains not to make a sound, his thighs tensing and his hands finding their way into Beckett's hair of their own accord. As James fists his fingers in the loose curls, the other man groans, the vibrations coursing all around him like the sweetest symphony.

James cannot help himself - he does not try to stifle the moan that passes through his lips.

At this point, he can feel something moving against his legs, and it takes James a few moments to realize that Beckett is squirming, wriggling impatiently. James' addled brain searches and searches for the answer, but the other man fills in the gaps for him before he has the chance.

Beckett's body tilts, ever so slightly, lines up with James' leg, and James realizes that what the other man is seeking is stimulation.

He's…oh, fuck.

Beckett is hard. Hard because of him.

James gasps, his chest tight, and turns his foot inwards, situates it between the lord's splayed thighs, and presses up ever so gently. The result is instantaneous. Beckett whimpers around him and presses as close to James' leg as possible, his hips rolling in a desperate, jerking rhythm against the top of James' boot.

Beckett is so very warm against him, the bottle's worth of brandy sitting in his stomach making his belly a furnace where it presses desperately against James' shin. The warmth, the hardness pressing against him, the desperate rutting, not to mention that damnably perfect mouth

James feels as though he is on a knife's edge, a coil of tension in his belly winding up tighter and tighter until it will eventually snap and take everything with it when it does. He is bent over nearly double, the tension in his spine pulling him further and further with each bob of Beckett's head. The one thing that prevents James from shattering entirely is that he has kept his eyes closed, knowing that the second he opens them and takes in the sight that he imagines sits before him in the lewdest, most striking way, he will be a goner.

Beckett pulls back, briefly letting his hand take over the work his mouth has been doing, and the sound of his wet gasps for breath is addictive. "James," he pleads, voice scratchy and needy and wrecked, "I need to see you."

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

There is nothing in James' mind anymore. No thoughts of King and country, no memory of anything relating to either the navy or to piracy, or even his own identity. All that is left is the sound of Beckett's voice, pleading.

"Will you finish?" James gasps, raw instinct having completely taken over.

"With your eyes on me, I will," the lord says, and James' eyes immediately snap open.

The sight before him is devastating.

His cock, flushed angry red and dripping and slick with saliva in the candlelight. His hands, huge in Beckett's sweat-damp curls. Beckett's eyes, black with lust and sparkling. Beckett's lips, bruise-dark and swollen and shiny. Beckett's body, pressed desperately against his leg, the front of his expensive waistcoat wrinkled and ruffled.

James does not dare breathe as Beckett, without breaking eye contact, moves forward and takes James' cock back in his mouth.

"Fuck," James practically sobs at the sight, and he decides that, contrary to what he had thought earlier, he doesn't want his old life back, not when his new life includes a better certainty of success in his mission, a higher station, and above all this.

James is right on the edge, and he's so close. He's so fucking close. And Beckett is close too, James can tell, because he's lost the steady rhythm that he was previously keeping around James' cock and the thrusts of his hips have grown both faster and far more erratic.

The thought that he might make a man cum fully clothed and virtually untouched just from getting to suck his cock is so heady that James finds himself voicing thoughts that he didn't even know existed within him.

"We'll do this often, won't we? The mighty lord and the admiral - the rest of them won't have a clue."

Beckett whimpers.

"You'd let me fuck you, wouldn't you? You'd enjoy it, wouldn't you?"

Beckett nods frantically, the up-and-down motion an exquisite torture with James' cock still in his mouth. It ought to surprise or even amuse James that being talked down to is not bothering the prideful lord but rather spurring him on, but James has one goal and one goal only in his mind at the moment, and he will do whatever it takes to get there.

"You call me your admiral, but by that logic, you are also mine."

Beckett jerks and then freezes, little tremors racketing through his body and tiny whimpers escaping his mouth, pulses of ecstasy around James' cock.

Fuck, he's -

A handful of moments later, Beckett pulls back and lets out a choked "James," before gathering himself up once more, determined to finish what he started. Now that his own body is satiated, Beckett has regained his ability to keep a rhythm, and the licks and sucks he applies are so precise that it seems he must have honed the technique over a period of years if not decades.

Those cruel, wonderful blue-gray eyes blink up at him under hooded lids, and the message they hold could not be more clear.

Come for me, James.

James has no choice - he obeys.

He will not disobey the orders of Lord Cutler Beckett again until his death.

Notes:

And now it's a series. Buckle up, kids.

Chapter 2: 2.

Summary:

The sea brings in a particular gift for Lord Cutler Beckett, one that he intends to take full advantage of.

Notes:

well, shit. I said I wanted to make this one-shot into a series, and here we are. There is just so much potential concerning the time gap between the second and third films, and I wanted the chance to explore the complicated headspaces of both Norrington and Beckett.

As I am already in the midst of writing a fic that updates weekly, I cannot promise regular updates for this one - trying to juggle two fics like that would be brutal. So updates will be sporadic, and I can't say how many chapters there will be, but there will be more.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

the devil's finest trick is to persuade you that he does not exist.

- charles baudelaire

 

Cutler Beckett wrinkles his nose as the former commodore is brought into his office.  James Norrington had been something, once, his uniform perfectly-pressed and resplendent with its shining buttons and his bearing every inch that of the consummate English gentleman.

Look at the wretched thing he has become, he muses to himself as Norrington lopes forward across the fine Turkish rug, tracking sand and mud and God-knows-what across it, a swagger in his step brought on either by a lingering hangover or, more worryingly, too much time spent among pirate filth.

"I took the liberty of filling in my name," Norrington drawls as Mercer presents him with the letters of marque, and the tiny stutters in the ink do not escape Cutler's notice.

So it's the alcohol, then.

As Norrington draws closer to his desk, Cutler can make out the layers of dirt caked in his skin, cheeks reddened by wind and salt and sun. The fact that the ribbon which once kept his powdered wig neat and tidy is still clinging onto the greasy brown strands of the man's real hair is nothing short of a miracle, as is the fact that he is still alive, to be honest.

Mercer had said they caught the man floating adrift after what could easily have been days at sea, after all.

Still, that sort of determination to live, to see his ambition bear fruit…I like that. Certainly, a useful card to keep in play.

Cutler beckons Norrington ever closer. "If you intend to claim these, you must have something to trade. Do you have the compass?"

At this distance, it is all Cutler can do to keep his nose from wrinkling in distaste. The man smells foul - unwashed human mixed with the tang of alcohol mixed with another, far more worrisome smell, a scent not unlike that of an abattoir.

Old, rotting flesh.

"Better," Norrington smiles with self-satisfaction, as he pulls back the lapel of his ragged coat and draws out something wrapped in wet cloth and sets it down on Cutler's desk with a meaty thump.

The smell is so overpowering that normally, Cutler would be fighting with himself not to gag, but he finds that his breath has gotten lodged in his throat. The smell of old meat emanating from this curious object, the smugness in Norrington's bearing and words, the fact that the man was sailing with none other than Jack Sparrow, who was himself the target of the Flying Dutchman

"The heart of Davy Jones," Norrington finishes, and Cutler feels as though he has been struck by lightning.

He had left luxurious accommodations and untold wealth behind in Bombay to come here for this exact purpose. For years, he has been dreaming of this day, the day when he might finally seize upon the one object that would grant him unlimited power over the ocean and those who sailed upon it. Cutler had thought it might take him months, that he would have to struggle to find it, bring every last ounce of cunning and manpower he could muster to bear in searching for this legendary artifact -

And yet James Norrington has, without so much as a sliver of prompting from him, stolen it from underneath the noses of Jack Sparrow and Davy Jones themselves and risked life and limb to bring it here to him.

As a gift.

Cutler's heart is in his throat as he stands and leans forward, peering into the bag from which an audible beating can be heard. It's real, he thinks giddily, finally laying eyes on the key to mastery of the ocean. It's real, and it's mine.

"I take it I've won my commission as a privateer?" Norrington ventures, and Cutler cannot help the hungry smile that steals its way onto his face.

He had met James Norrington once, many years ago. The man, still a youth at the time, had been determined to use his upcoming posting in Port Royal to put an end to piracy in the Caribbean, and that much certainly remains, but Cutler had seen none of the ruthless ambition in the youth that he sees now in the man.

Yes, not only can Cutler make James Norrington his man - he can make him his man.

"Oh, I think better," he murmurs, making his way to the great glass double-doors that lead out onto the balcony.

Cutler knows men like James Norrington - honour and status are pillars to live and to die for, for types like him, and give him a structure within which he can achieve both, and a man like James Norrington will practically enslave himself.

He allows his face to soften into an expression of respect, the sort of admiration a superior would give a close subordinate whom he wishes to have by his side through thick and thin.

The collar, slipping around that vulnerable neck.

"Reinstatement to your former rank and status, all rights and privileges attendant."

Yes, James Norrington is in his present state exceedingly vulnerable - he is a man who has lost everything that he used to define himself by, a man who has spent far too long floundering in the deep, murky waters with neither purpose nor reason.

"And I think a promotion is due as well."

Cutler turns to face his newest charge just as Norrington unsheathes his old sword, the agonized remembrance and longing plain in his eyes.

Give the body a purpose, the mind a mission, and the soul a home.

"Wouldn't you agree…Admiral?"

It is almost comical how easily Cutler can pinpoint the moment that James Norrington breaks.

Make him owe you, and he will never betray you. Make him need you, and he will forever obey you.

As the serving-men usher Norrington from the room to be tidied and trimmed for dinner, Cutler contents himself with images of expressive hazel eyes and a strong jawline.

Yes, there is no doubt that James Norrington is a very handsome man, and what's more, he has quite literally given Cutler the power over life and death itself. Even if he didn't need to be absolutely certain of the man's blind loyalty, the first simmering embers of excitement flickering in Cutler's gut tell him that he would probably take Norrington to bed anyway.

Cutler stands and makes his way to the liquor cabinet, fine brandies and ports and wines from half a dozen countries lining the cherry-wood shelves. He presses his thumb into his lip as he eyes the bottles, and grants himself the rare indulgence of giddily contemplating which particular vintage or spirit he will allow to loosen his inhibitions and his tongue this evening, which will coat his throat and warm his belly and encourage his guest, his salvation, his Admiral to spread his legs…

The collar already sits snugly around that handsome neck, Cutler thinks as he chooses a particularly fine brandy, savoring the bottle's weight in his hand, now all that's left is the leash.

And what a lovely submission it will be.

Notes:

For those of you who've seen it, you'll notice that I've based this chapter off of the deleted alternate ending ofDead Man's Chest. If you haven't seen it, go and do that right away - it's absolutely phenomenal, and it kills me that they cut it out. I understand that it clashes with the scene in At World's End where Norrington receives his sword, but hey: if he's been Beckett's admiral for months at this point, then it seems weird to me for him to just be getting his sword back now. So, I've moved that particular event up to here, and I'll deal with that future scene when we get there.

Anyway tip for the fellas (or anybody, really); seduce your man by giving him a sword