Anti-Valentines Fic Exchange
Title: Dirty Shame
Characters: Cutler Beckett, Mercer, James Norrington
Rating: PG
Prompt: You'd think he were a vampire.
For: Shytan
Notes: This is not as angsty/crazy/as long as I wanted it but I hope it's alright! I've had a severe lack of muse mojo in the past three weeks. Forgive me. D:
The man looked like a beggar, the tattered Navy coat dulled by the layers of mud coated on it, and you wore but rags of a shirt. He drops a dirty, pungent smelling bag on his desk as a smile appears on his face. In that small bag is the one thing that could make anyone a force to be reckoned with. But to Cutler Beckett it’s only another piece of the puzzle, one more precaution. The heart holds more meaning to the former Commodore, for him, it grants him his life back, restoring him to his former glory.
And once the bargaining chip has passed hands the Commodore had just as little grasp over his destiny as he had before. But James Norrington was slowly figuring out that control of his fate was something that was always just out of reach for him. With a slow movement Cutler Beckett rose, and took in his hand a letter opener and a paper and navigated around to stand in front of the man composed of rags, patches of clothes, fragments to make a broken ensemble.
“Do you solemnly swear to be loyal to me, and to the East India Trading Company?” He gives a nod, assuming to this to merely be formalities. Just like how there is a signature on an execution. Mere formalities.
“Your hand.” The Lord asks and he obliges, lending out his hand, palm up. With one swift movement the blade cuts his skin, blood pouring out and dripping down onto the blank piece of parchment.
In the corner of his eye he could see that man, the one he’d heard about that stalked silently in the night. And from the way he was fixated on his blood dripping down you’d think he were a vampire. It took every ounce of the will he had left to not shiver under the gaze.
He doesn’t know what to think of this scene, his heart beating loud against his chest and it’s likely the reason why the blood flow won’t cease. He feels frozen as he lets a pool of blood form on the paper. He finally manages to retract his hand and hold it against his heart, the cloth drenched in the same red. Red like the inferno and like the Navy’s coats. He meets the Lord’s eyes which had not moved from him the entire time. He takes a step back and walks out of the room but he finds himself running by the time he’s made it to the door.
Unwittingly he’s made a deal with the devil.
And if he hadn’t fled from the scene he would have noticed that the blood on the parchment had made a perfect circle. A perfect red spot. His fate had been sealed, his judgment made upon him already. Even the devil knows that he cannot completely control a man in love, but only to puppeteer his moves as he leads him right to his grave.
Characters: Cutler Beckett, Mercer, James Norrington
Rating: PG
Prompt: You'd think he were a vampire.
For: Shytan
Notes: This is not as angsty/crazy/as long as I wanted it but I hope it's alright! I've had a severe lack of muse mojo in the past three weeks. Forgive me. D:
The man looked like a beggar, the tattered Navy coat dulled by the layers of mud coated on it, and you wore but rags of a shirt. He drops a dirty, pungent smelling bag on his desk as a smile appears on his face. In that small bag is the one thing that could make anyone a force to be reckoned with. But to Cutler Beckett it’s only another piece of the puzzle, one more precaution. The heart holds more meaning to the former Commodore, for him, it grants him his life back, restoring him to his former glory.
And once the bargaining chip has passed hands the Commodore had just as little grasp over his destiny as he had before. But James Norrington was slowly figuring out that control of his fate was something that was always just out of reach for him. With a slow movement Cutler Beckett rose, and took in his hand a letter opener and a paper and navigated around to stand in front of the man composed of rags, patches of clothes, fragments to make a broken ensemble.
“Do you solemnly swear to be loyal to me, and to the East India Trading Company?” He gives a nod, assuming to this to merely be formalities. Just like how there is a signature on an execution. Mere formalities.
“Your hand.” The Lord asks and he obliges, lending out his hand, palm up. With one swift movement the blade cuts his skin, blood pouring out and dripping down onto the blank piece of parchment.
In the corner of his eye he could see that man, the one he’d heard about that stalked silently in the night. And from the way he was fixated on his blood dripping down you’d think he were a vampire. It took every ounce of the will he had left to not shiver under the gaze.
He doesn’t know what to think of this scene, his heart beating loud against his chest and it’s likely the reason why the blood flow won’t cease. He feels frozen as he lets a pool of blood form on the paper. He finally manages to retract his hand and hold it against his heart, the cloth drenched in the same red. Red like the inferno and like the Navy’s coats. He meets the Lord’s eyes which had not moved from him the entire time. He takes a step back and walks out of the room but he finds himself running by the time he’s made it to the door.
Unwittingly he’s made a deal with the devil.
And if he hadn’t fled from the scene he would have noticed that the blood on the parchment had made a perfect circle. A perfect red spot. His fate had been sealed, his judgment made upon him already. Even the devil knows that he cannot completely control a man in love, but only to puppeteer his moves as he leads him right to his grave.