[Fic] Nights & Days, Part 1
Sep. 5th, 2010 01:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fairieloreTitle: Nights & Days, Part 1
Author: fairielore
Recipient: sunsetdawn20
Word Count: 1, 655
Pairings: Elizabeth/Beckett
Warnings: Rape.
Rating: Soft R.
It was always in the eyes. What the lips would not whisper and the face would not divulge – but the eyes said all, bloody little traitors.
Cutler Beckett could see it in her eyes how she so cared for the man that she clung to, and even a couple of guards were hardly enough to tear the young Mr. Turner away from her. But to restore equilibrium he ensured that she was given the same treatment.
“What are the charges?” She barked, like there was some dignity in the way she was acting. It was quite curious how she had turned out, considering her father was Weatherby Swann, a man of honour but for the most part spineless. Perhaps she got it from her mother?
But he had every intention of showing that she was not the one with the power, and she would be foolish to think so. The question was evaded and he instead turned his attention to Mr.Swann for the whereabouts of one James Norrington.
No such luck.
What a useless lot these people were.
“We are under the jurisdiction of the king's governor of Port Royal and you will tell us what we are charged with.”
And so the impatient girl would get her wish, but he would let her father do the honours. Surely it would not be the first time he had read a death sentence. Or likely the last.
“The charge... is conspiring to set free a man convicted of crimes against the crown and empire and condemned to death, for which the...”
Cutler Beckett finished off the trailing sentence, figuring that any more stalling would mean that the moment would lose its theatricality. The rain would probably stop by the time the Mr. Swann blubbered out the last few words. “For which the punishment, regrettably, is also death. Perhaps you remember a certain pirate named Jack Sparrow.”
“Captain.” As if dear Jack Sparrow needed any defending – but it seemed his charm seemed to even work on beauty and the beast.
“Captain Jack Sparrow.” A reiteration, but her eyes gave away that it was more than that. Her heart may have belonged to Mr. Turner but her soul was clearly claimed by the flighty Captain.
“Captain Jack Sparrow. Yes, I thought you might.”
* * *
She came to him on a chilly autumn night, confident of what she wanted and how she was going to get it.
But a frail woman with a gun was no more powerful than one without.
She hid in the shadows but he could sense from a mile away, like she was some dirty, mangy cat.
“I expect then that we can come to some sort of understanding. I'm here to negotiate.”
Weren’t they all? But for her to believe she had any leverage at all…
She strides across the room as if she owns it, and I entertain her little notion that she does.
“I'm listening.”
Not soon after the barrel of a gun was nearly placed against his temple. But cold metal did not pale skin and he knows it is because she couldn’t pull the trigger, she couldn’t take a life. No matter what he may have done and what he was going to do.
What a silly, silly girl.
“I'm listening intently.”
She even goes so far as to warn him of the horrors and darkness that would engulf him if he were to continue on his venture – a lack of knowledge on her part as to what the compass can reveal, but it’s touching nonetheless. She may not be obliged to kill him, but it doesn’t mean she wasn’t within her right not to save him. Naivety was dangerous in these sinister times.
But at the very best she’s trying to play the card of a woman scorned, hell bent on her mission.
“You're going to great lengths to ensure Jack Sparrow's freedom.” Dear Jack, one couldn’t even trust him not to work his charm on a woman in love. But arguably, that was the best time to strike. A puppet being pulled by two strings.
“These aren't going to Jack.” There’s more bite in that single sentence than anything he’s heard all night. He’s touched a nerve and he knows it, and he wants to make it known. But it’s not a message to her, but a whisper to a pirate on the sea.
“Oh, really? To ensure Mr. Turner's freedom, then? I'll still want that compass. Consider that into your calculations.”
She rips the letters out of his hand and scampers across the room with a shifty glance, though she only makes it as far as the door before she’s been subdued with a few quick sleights of the hand. It had certainly taken Mercer long enough to get here – how much trouble could one old man do?
“And how is the Governor?” Cutler asks his esteemed assassin, holding Ms. Swann in his arms though watching his Lord expectantly as what to do with her. Half of him wanted to drop the lass on the floor.
“He’s found himself with new accommodations.” Mercer said, dragging Ms. Swann to the sofa once he was motioned to.
“We’ll let him enjoy his new home before he comes for an appointment.” Beckett said before ushering his right hand man out. Weatherby would bend to his will after but a day in a cold cell, but the man needed to learn that there were consequences for trying to cross him. As did Ms. Swann.
What a pretty sight she was in slumber compared to in vigour. Long dark blonde hair and soft, luscious skin. His hand caressed her neck softly, before his fingers clasped around it, wondering what it would be like to see her gasping for her last breaths. Would she plead, would tears well up in her eyes? Or would she struggle and hiss, clinging onto to that last bit of pride and dignity? Jack Sparrow could learn a thing or two about that. But no pirate had dignity in death, really. And while Beckett allowed himself whatever he pleased, he knew that she still had some purpose on this earth, and he would not watch the colour drain from her face.
Yet.
But that didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to teach her a lesson. A lesson she wouldn’t remember, but one that would be ingrained in her forever. A seed of hate, of pain, of sorrow. Then maybe she and the esteemed Captain would finally have something in common.
The sofa is not an ideal place for what he has in mind, but any attempt at moving her might awaken the sleeping beauty. So he makes do with his circumstances, a hand running up her leg, feeling the luscious and virgin skin that sets his soul aflame. Finally his hand feels fabric, and he restrains himself from tearing it because he knows that hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorn and after all, she still has a job to do. But he very much doubts that the mission would change, knowing what was at stake. Even if she knew she was no better than a whore.
He carefully slides the feeble fabric down, the only thing that is protecting her from his lust, from his need to break her once and for all, even if she will ever know. But he will know, he will know that she was his, so unconditionally and without protest, how he was her first and would then always be his. It would not be the blacksmith or even Captain Jack Sparrow that would claim her, bind their poison and their insecurities to her. It would be him, and she would forever carry one more piece of darkness that he could do without.
Beckett takes her roughly, without restraint, without any consideration for any feelings but his own. He does not care that she doesn’t moan, doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch as he feverishly robs her of her innocence. It’s better this way, better than all the whores who are so bent up on theatrics and making a show for him, for getting a small tip, a few more galleons that won’t matter in the long run. But it angers him, makes his blood boil and his hands find their dainty little necks until their faces change from a cherubic red to an ill fated blue.
Mercer, as usual, is tasked to clean up the mess. Tonight is no exception.
***
In the morning, she wouldn’t remember a thing, at least nothing further than the moment of her rushing out of the Lord’s room in haste. She does not know why she is lying face down in an alleyway, her body throbbing with pain, but her mind does not search for an answer to that question. The only thing that mattered, the only thing she cared about was the letters of Marque. And there they were, in her hand, a little worse for the wear and dirty, but there they were. Her ticket to freedom.
***
As the Governor – soon to be former Governor stood in front of his beautifully crafted desk he found that he did not have much intention to talk business with him. Instead, there was only line of conversation that appealed to him.
“Sit.
Please sit.
Yes, over there on that sofa would do fine. Isn’t it beautiful? It’s Parisian, like a few of the other pieces in this room. Isn’t it comfortable? You could lie down without a second thought.
Then, a respectable pause, perhaps sipping at some tea from one of his fine china teacups.
"I defiled your daughter on that sofa.”
But as long as the Governor had a breath in his body that would ensure he was loyal to him then he would say nothing. And after all, he was a gentleman.
He would get Mercer to tell him when the time came.
Author: fairielore
Recipient: sunsetdawn20
Word Count: 1, 655
Pairings: Elizabeth/Beckett
Warnings: Rape.
Rating: Soft R.
It was always in the eyes. What the lips would not whisper and the face would not divulge – but the eyes said all, bloody little traitors.
Cutler Beckett could see it in her eyes how she so cared for the man that she clung to, and even a couple of guards were hardly enough to tear the young Mr. Turner away from her. But to restore equilibrium he ensured that she was given the same treatment.
“What are the charges?” She barked, like there was some dignity in the way she was acting. It was quite curious how she had turned out, considering her father was Weatherby Swann, a man of honour but for the most part spineless. Perhaps she got it from her mother?
But he had every intention of showing that she was not the one with the power, and she would be foolish to think so. The question was evaded and he instead turned his attention to Mr.Swann for the whereabouts of one James Norrington.
No such luck.
What a useless lot these people were.
“We are under the jurisdiction of the king's governor of Port Royal and you will tell us what we are charged with.”
And so the impatient girl would get her wish, but he would let her father do the honours. Surely it would not be the first time he had read a death sentence. Or likely the last.
“The charge... is conspiring to set free a man convicted of crimes against the crown and empire and condemned to death, for which the...”
Cutler Beckett finished off the trailing sentence, figuring that any more stalling would mean that the moment would lose its theatricality. The rain would probably stop by the time the Mr. Swann blubbered out the last few words. “For which the punishment, regrettably, is also death. Perhaps you remember a certain pirate named Jack Sparrow.”
“Captain.” As if dear Jack Sparrow needed any defending – but it seemed his charm seemed to even work on beauty and the beast.
“Captain Jack Sparrow.” A reiteration, but her eyes gave away that it was more than that. Her heart may have belonged to Mr. Turner but her soul was clearly claimed by the flighty Captain.
“Captain Jack Sparrow. Yes, I thought you might.”
* * *
She came to him on a chilly autumn night, confident of what she wanted and how she was going to get it.
But a frail woman with a gun was no more powerful than one without.
She hid in the shadows but he could sense from a mile away, like she was some dirty, mangy cat.
“I expect then that we can come to some sort of understanding. I'm here to negotiate.”
Weren’t they all? But for her to believe she had any leverage at all…
She strides across the room as if she owns it, and I entertain her little notion that she does.
“I'm listening.”
Not soon after the barrel of a gun was nearly placed against his temple. But cold metal did not pale skin and he knows it is because she couldn’t pull the trigger, she couldn’t take a life. No matter what he may have done and what he was going to do.
What a silly, silly girl.
“I'm listening intently.”
She even goes so far as to warn him of the horrors and darkness that would engulf him if he were to continue on his venture – a lack of knowledge on her part as to what the compass can reveal, but it’s touching nonetheless. She may not be obliged to kill him, but it doesn’t mean she wasn’t within her right not to save him. Naivety was dangerous in these sinister times.
But at the very best she’s trying to play the card of a woman scorned, hell bent on her mission.
“You're going to great lengths to ensure Jack Sparrow's freedom.” Dear Jack, one couldn’t even trust him not to work his charm on a woman in love. But arguably, that was the best time to strike. A puppet being pulled by two strings.
“These aren't going to Jack.” There’s more bite in that single sentence than anything he’s heard all night. He’s touched a nerve and he knows it, and he wants to make it known. But it’s not a message to her, but a whisper to a pirate on the sea.
“Oh, really? To ensure Mr. Turner's freedom, then? I'll still want that compass. Consider that into your calculations.”
She rips the letters out of his hand and scampers across the room with a shifty glance, though she only makes it as far as the door before she’s been subdued with a few quick sleights of the hand. It had certainly taken Mercer long enough to get here – how much trouble could one old man do?
“And how is the Governor?” Cutler asks his esteemed assassin, holding Ms. Swann in his arms though watching his Lord expectantly as what to do with her. Half of him wanted to drop the lass on the floor.
“He’s found himself with new accommodations.” Mercer said, dragging Ms. Swann to the sofa once he was motioned to.
“We’ll let him enjoy his new home before he comes for an appointment.” Beckett said before ushering his right hand man out. Weatherby would bend to his will after but a day in a cold cell, but the man needed to learn that there were consequences for trying to cross him. As did Ms. Swann.
What a pretty sight she was in slumber compared to in vigour. Long dark blonde hair and soft, luscious skin. His hand caressed her neck softly, before his fingers clasped around it, wondering what it would be like to see her gasping for her last breaths. Would she plead, would tears well up in her eyes? Or would she struggle and hiss, clinging onto to that last bit of pride and dignity? Jack Sparrow could learn a thing or two about that. But no pirate had dignity in death, really. And while Beckett allowed himself whatever he pleased, he knew that she still had some purpose on this earth, and he would not watch the colour drain from her face.
Yet.
But that didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to teach her a lesson. A lesson she wouldn’t remember, but one that would be ingrained in her forever. A seed of hate, of pain, of sorrow. Then maybe she and the esteemed Captain would finally have something in common.
The sofa is not an ideal place for what he has in mind, but any attempt at moving her might awaken the sleeping beauty. So he makes do with his circumstances, a hand running up her leg, feeling the luscious and virgin skin that sets his soul aflame. Finally his hand feels fabric, and he restrains himself from tearing it because he knows that hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorn and after all, she still has a job to do. But he very much doubts that the mission would change, knowing what was at stake. Even if she knew she was no better than a whore.
He carefully slides the feeble fabric down, the only thing that is protecting her from his lust, from his need to break her once and for all, even if she will ever know. But he will know, he will know that she was his, so unconditionally and without protest, how he was her first and would then always be his. It would not be the blacksmith or even Captain Jack Sparrow that would claim her, bind their poison and their insecurities to her. It would be him, and she would forever carry one more piece of darkness that he could do without.
Beckett takes her roughly, without restraint, without any consideration for any feelings but his own. He does not care that she doesn’t moan, doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch as he feverishly robs her of her innocence. It’s better this way, better than all the whores who are so bent up on theatrics and making a show for him, for getting a small tip, a few more galleons that won’t matter in the long run. But it angers him, makes his blood boil and his hands find their dainty little necks until their faces change from a cherubic red to an ill fated blue.
Mercer, as usual, is tasked to clean up the mess. Tonight is no exception.
***
In the morning, she wouldn’t remember a thing, at least nothing further than the moment of her rushing out of the Lord’s room in haste. She does not know why she is lying face down in an alleyway, her body throbbing with pain, but her mind does not search for an answer to that question. The only thing that mattered, the only thing she cared about was the letters of Marque. And there they were, in her hand, a little worse for the wear and dirty, but there they were. Her ticket to freedom.
***
As the Governor – soon to be former Governor stood in front of his beautifully crafted desk he found that he did not have much intention to talk business with him. Instead, there was only line of conversation that appealed to him.
“Sit.
Please sit.
Yes, over there on that sofa would do fine. Isn’t it beautiful? It’s Parisian, like a few of the other pieces in this room. Isn’t it comfortable? You could lie down without a second thought.
Then, a respectable pause, perhaps sipping at some tea from one of his fine china teacups.
"I defiled your daughter on that sofa.”
But as long as the Governor had a breath in his body that would ensure he was loyal to him then he would say nothing. And after all, he was a gentleman.
He would get Mercer to tell him when the time came.
