#He knew it was the only way to start it…the resistance in nassau is now under way

[garashir]

Black Sails XXIII. // XXVII.

[fornassau]

Flint always ran away from him whenever he’d show the slightest bit of intimacy which just dragged Charles further down the rabbit hole. He was a sucker for someone who didn’t truly love him as history had shown, and for someone that wanted to be chased. This was their own clever game of piracy and which of the men was a hunter for the other changed on the day. The more this man denied him, the more he wanted him.

By the way he was moaning into his mouth at his choice to slowly kiss him, maybe Flint wasn’t going to run off this time. Charles had missed him. Nassau just wasn’t as interesting unless the ginger pirate was here in all his threatening and intimidating glory. But their periods of separation just led to more intense moments of reunification like this one. That first night they’d been together? It was a practical hatefuck. He let Flint get out all of his rage and pent up emotion by fucking him hard. They’d broken things and by the end of it Charles was raw. Sex with Eleanor had never been as good as sex with him.

This had started out a bit rough as always but this was becoming tender. It was hard to resist a heartthrob like Charles for too long. He knew that at least as unlike Flint he had self-esteem and confidence for days. Personally, he wouldn’t care what fucker knew what they were doing but Flint did and thus he’d agreed to keep it all a secret. But he’d needed him. For one, to show him the map. For two, because he simply needed him.

So Vane chased him toward the bed as he walked backwards, making sure to not once break that kiss. This man could fucking kiss unlike that treacherous cunt. Her kisses were messy and rushed while these were so deliberate and thoughtful. The kiss only breaks when shirts start coming off, sun-kissed flesh revealed to one another again. Charles was a muscular behemoth in comparison, each perfectly cut into his flesh like he’d been carved by god himself. Not to say that Flint wasn’t muscular and broad, but nothing like him.

It was utterly arousing the way he peeled both their shirts off and now so frantically wanted to just touch, to just be in that moment. But when he asked, Charles granted his wish, curling those ripped arms tightly around him in a damn near possessive hold, chest against chest. For a moment he let his eyes wander before speaking in that sultry growl of a voice. “ You know I’m starting to enjoy when you give me orders.. “ He pressed his fingers into his back, letting his head fall to a pale and freckled shoulder, lovingly kissing at the exposed skin. “ Never thought that would happen, but here we are. “ He let his hand wander upward to cradle the back of his neck, holding him steady as he went to repaying him for earlier with his own kisses and suckles to the throat. Fingers had pushed their way up a bit at the back of his skull, fingers pushing into that fire-kissed hair, breath hot over his skin.

Behind Closed Doors

Continued from here. @fornassau

The kiss was reciprocated instantly and Flint was grateful. He won't say it out loud, but he fuckin' missed him during the time he was gone. For... what? Three days? Far too fucking long for Flint's liking, but such was the life of a pirate. It took them from home, took them from each other, for days at a time, though they always came back. They always returned home to Nassau, but now they had something else to return to: each other. But again, Flint wouldn't say that out loud. It was too... intimate, wasn't it? Romantic was probably a better word and they weren't romantic. Or at least they were trying not to be, but there were some moments where it started to feel as such. Where touches, or even kisses, became too soft and gentle, where praises became almost sweet and sentimental, where feelings came into play that weren't just physical or sexual, where Flint almost said things he shouldn't. Where he wanted to, but he couldn't. Fuck, he wanted to, though.

And there were moments where he thought Vane did, too. Where perhaps he even tried but Flint stopped him either with a kiss or by cutting him off and talking instead or leaving wherever they currently lay. Things needed to remain physical and private, but that was becoming harder with each day. It was becoming harder with each kiss, with each touch of their hands, with each moment he was wrapped in Vane's arms feeling safer than he had in a long time, with each moment he was simply near Vane, wishing to be closer, wishing to be with him longer. Wishing to be with him.

Those thoughts, those feelings, changed how he was kissing at his neck without Flint even realizing. Kisses that, moments ago, were rough and dominating, were now soft, like he wanted to take his time with him and just feel him, just taste him, to drown in him, and he was practically clawing at his chest as though desperate to feel him, but when Vane speaks, it snaps Flint out of his daze. Fuck. He actually forgot about that damned map. The reason they were in this room in the first place. Well, one of the reasons.

He pulls away from his neck to look him in the eyes for a moment and then down at the paper in his hand. He actually got the fucking map. Not that he doubted he would. He learned long ago not to doubt him, and sure as hell not to underestimate him. "Took you long enough," His words sound insulting, but the smirk on his face conveys otherwise. He reaches for the map and gently pulls it from Vane's hand, but he doesn't unroll it. No. He moves to the table by the bed, sets it down and returns to the other Captain. "It can wait." It wasn't often Flint put aside the possibility of treasure and riches for something else unless he had no choice so it said a lot that he did so in this moment because he did have a choice. He made his choice. Though, the blood rushing south into his cock certainly played a part in that choice.

He undoes the belt looped through his trousers and sets it, as well as his weapons onto the table nearby, his eyes locking with Charles' again. "Doesn't feel much like I'm taking anything at the moment. You seem so willing to give it all." He smirks, feigning disappointment as he closes the distance so he can start on Charles' trousers next. His words were meant to challenge the other man, but he figures Vane knows that. After all, they were both all about the challenge. Whether out there or in here behind closed doors.

[witchthewriter]

 𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!  

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ

🌿ENTP 🍁Slytherin 📜Chaotic Neutral 🔮Sagittarius Sun, Capricorn Moon, Aries Rising

SFW🌿

⭑ You weren’t a fan of port. It meant leaving the ship and interacting with other ... people. 

⭑ The noises, the smells, people not moving out of your way. It drove you crazy. 

⭑ But that was where you met John, on the island of Nassau. 

⭑ He had become well-known throughout the plundering community. He was respected amongst his crew and worked well with Captain Flint. Their relationship created an almost impregnable barrier against enemies.

⭑ You were fearsome in your own right. 

⭑ You were born on a pirate ship; your mother the Captain and your father the First Mate. 

⭑ You carried a legacy. One that had been started by your parents, and as they had no other children, you had the sole responsibility. 

⭑ Luckily enough, the pirate life was for you. 

⭑ Although it was a difficult life - having people rely on you, you had grown up with it. Gotten used to it. Your mother died 10 years ago, your father not long after that. They were in love. 

⭑ Love ... they were the only representatives of true love. 

⭑ You didn’t think much about that. Much about finding a partner. You just wanted a good crew. Men and women you could rely on. Loyal. But they had to be loyal to a fault. 

⭑ And they were - 

⭑ Anyone who double-crossed you, or sold you out... well... they lost their tongue, and fingers. 

⭑ You didn’t like it; the savagery of it all. 

⭑ But it was the life you knew. 

⭑ John was a surprise though

⭑ And surprises didn’t go well with your line of work

⭑ You didn’t like him at first. There was an air of arrogance when you first met. But you had mistaken what it actually was; a barrier. A wall against another potential enemy.

⭑ Now, after 3 years of marriage, John still has moments of arrogancy. 

⭑ You lived relatively rich lives. The gold and jewels you had found funded a comfortable life.

⭑ It was away from the prying eyes of pirates, but not too far from civilization

⭑ It was just you two. And it had taken John a bit of getting used to. Well, as did you.

⭑ You still wanted to live part of your life at sea. And John was completely okay with that

⭑ But you were never gone for long though 

⭑ Although he was an awful cook when he stumbled into Flint’s crew, he’s actually developed his culinary skills and is great at whipping up an easy meal

⭑ Probably have a pet of some kind

⭑ Although John said it was nothing but another mouth to feed. But you couldn’t resist 

⭑ Most days John feels cold, even in the heat, he’ll feel the slightest chill in the air and wrap up

⭑ You like to trace to the scars on his body, and he shivers 

⭑ He never forgets your birthday, even though he doesn’t know his. He picks a random day every year 

⭑ Likes to hear you breathing while sleeping next to him 

⭑ Hums a lot. While bathing, tidying up, while doing yard work. He likes to sing too

⭑ You have hidden weapons around the property

⭑ And you both always have a gun and a knife on your person

⭑ Likes it when you braid his hair

⭑ And you give him haircuts

⭑ You absolutely adore his curly hair

⭑ Some days his leg hurts so badly that he has to lay in bed. You bring him tinctures and teas to ease the pain 

⭑ He doesn’t know what he’d do without you 

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈:

Wondrous Love by Bear McCreary

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔:

  ✧ Himbo Wife Energy 

  ✧ Bastard (John) x Likes The Bastard And Is Mad About It (You)

  ✧ Just A Hook Up > Crew Members > Friends > Lovers > Married

  NSFW🔞minors dni!

⭑ Oh he does love to be dominated. Without a doubt. 

⭑ He’d happily lay there as his wrists and legs are tied, completely at your mercy. 

⭑ Has both Mummy and Daddy issues... he likes to be coddled and told what to do

⭑ Likes to be pegged, but only if you call him a “good boy” 

⭑ When kinks/fetishes aren’t involved. Then the sex is very intimate and passionate. 

⭑ John won’t stop looking into your eyes, trying to capture some part of your soul and merge it with his. 

⭑ His movements are slow and deep, hitting parts of you that you thought you weren’t able to feel

⭑ John’s strong arms wrap around you, holding you tightly; all he wants is to show you how deeply he feels. These moments aren’t rare, but neither are they common

⭑ He’s very good at foreplay, and his seduction techniques are otherwordly

⭑ He can turn you into jelly by the way he kisses your neck

⭑ His hands are large, and when he fingers you,  you whimper shamelessly

⭑ Loves nibbling on your ear lobe 

⭑ Gets out of trouble by whispering sinful things in your ear

[itmeansofthesea]

Revenge: Part 3

Whooo Lord this is a long one. Couple of things: I decided on Revenge for the name, and I need to fix the masterlist so that this is all in one place. Other than that, enjoy this little ~*~flashback~*~ and let me know if there's anything else you want to see. Enjoy!

Warnings: language, mention of a nightmare, attempted murder (nothing major), mention of corporal punishment (?)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1701, the Revenge

She had been in the process of studying the charts for the umpteenth time when she heard her uncle bark her name from above deck. Suppressing an eye roll (it wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful to be on the ship, she was, but her uncle could be… trying, at times), she made her way to the top and narrowly avoided running into the lanky teenager at her uncle’s side. That may have been a slight exaggeration. She narrowly avoided running into the lanky, bloody teenager that her uncle held in a viselike grip around his skinny bicep. She tried not to smirk.

“Yes, Captain?” She eyed the boy up and down, willing herself to meet and hold his steely gaze. He was covered in blood that didn’t appear to be his, but how a shrimp like that could have gotten so much blood on him that wasn't his didn’t make any sense. He didn’t look like much, but he certainly had an air of defiance about him that would either serve him well or get him killed on this ship. Alex wasn’t sure which, and for some reason she couldn’t quite place, hoped it would be the former. She could feel the kid sizing her up in turn and in response straightened herself to her full height. Not quite to his nose, but close enough. She couldn’t decide whether or not to smile and be friendly, or be a hardass and call her bluff early. She settled for a middle ground and let her eyes sparkle while her mouth stayed in a firm line.

“This is Charles Vane.” Edward Teach shoved the kid in his niece’s direction, causing him to stumble. “He’s new to the ship. Show him the ropes.” Captain Teach turned on his heel and walked away.

Charles straightened himself and met her gaze again. “Who are you?” His voice was lower than she expected it to be, and she suspected that he did it on purpose to make himself more imposing than he actually was. She could understand that. She was, after all, a teenage girl on a ship full of pirates who only took her seriously because her uncle saw promise in her and allowed her on board.

“I’m Alex, the Captain’s niece,” she extended a hand in his direction and waited for him to take it. When he didn’t, she chuckled under her breath and motioned with it for him to follow her belowdecks. He didn’t seem too keen on talking, but she was determined to learn something about the only other person who could possibly be in her age range on the ship. “How old are you?”

“Does it matter?” he grunted as he followed her down the ladder.

“I suppose not,” she replied. Unperturbed, she continued, “I’m fourteen. You seem like you would be close to my age, and it would be nice to have someone to talk to. Unless talking is against your moral code or whatever.”

Another grunt.

“How did you end up here?”

“How did you end up here?”

“My mother was the Captain’s favorite sister. She was terrified of my father and wrote to my uncle begging him to come and take me in case something happened to her. It did. My father killed my mother, my uncle killed my father, I ended up here. Came on board when I was… eight? Nine?”

It was, of course, far more complicated than that. Alex didn’t mention that when Edward Teach arrived to avenge his sister and collect his nephew, Alexander, he found a nephew named James that he didn’t know existed and a niece named Alexandra. She didn’t mention that the only reason she was brought and not her brother was because he died of tuberculosis two days after Teach arrived. That, and the fact that her mother specifically mentioned Alex, not James, although she suspected that would have been considered secondary in the long run if not for the unfortunate demise of her older brother. She also failed to mention that she actually snuck aboard, was not brought aboard, and had she not eerily resembled her mother she likely would have been tossed overboard at best or put in a boarding school and forgotten somewhere at worst. Charles didn’t need to know, and Alex wasn’t particularly interested in disclosing. As they reached belowdecks, she turned on him and raised an eyebrow, “I told you mine, you tell me yours.”

“Escaped some shit. Learned to fight. Now I’m here.” Well, it was certainly succinct and to the point. Clearly the newcomer wasn’t one for many words. Then again, depending on the definition of “shit” she supposed she wouldn’t be too much for words either.

“Fair enough.” Alex guided him to the back of the ship where a hammock was strung between two of the beams. “This one’s yours. That one’s mine,” she pointed to a hammock a couple of feet to the right. “We’re stuck back here because we’re the youngest. It’s also a form of protection since the rest of the ship is fairly open and getting caught back here means getting the shit beat out of you by Mr. Hands.” Alex noted Charles flinch slightly at the mention of the beating and wondered what he had seen to elicit that reaction. “Long and short of it is basically just stay out of the way and do what you’re told. No fighting on the ship- that waits until we get back to land. We eat and take watch in shifts. Chances are you’re stuck with me until you get the hang of life around here.” She paused to look around and then back at Charles and whispered, “You’re more or less safe here. On the ship I mean. Whatever shit you escaped, it can’t catch you here.” Alex said it with more conviction than she felt, mostly because she hoped for her own sake that it was true. She resisted the urge to touch his arm- something her mother would have done. She suppressed her own disgust at the womanly reaction to the boy; that shit gets you kicked off a ship like this. She better hold it together. The last thing she needed was her uncle hearing she was going soft. Alex straightened her shoulders. “Do you want me to leave you to settle in, or do you want to just come on and get started?”

“Let’s go,” he motioned with his head toward the door. Apparently cleaning the blood off of him wasn’t too high on his priority list. Alex simply nodded and motioned with her hand for him to go first.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A couple of weeks passed and Alex was no nearer learning anything about Charles Vane than she had been the day he joined the ship. He was quiet, kept his head down, his shirt on, and his meals short. While Alex studied navigation, he was off doing manual labor wherever the ship needed him. She really only saw him once he crashed into his hammock at the end of the day. Some nights he seemed to sleep well, some nights he thrashed about and nearly hit the floor. He was clearly new to the hammock sleeping life.

They would be back in Nassau the next day and Alex was ready. Couldn’t be more ready, in fact. She longed for the sand under her toes, the market with all of its shiny things… just, Nassau. Sure, it was a bit disgusting and there was a corrupt governor in charge and Alex relied on her uncle’s reputation to keep something unsavory from happening to her, but she loved it. It was so unlike her home growing up with its rules about elbows on the table and keeping up appearances. Nassau was fully, completely, and unapologetically itself- flaws and all. She could almost feel it now, the excitement from the wind in her hair and the voice from the nest crying out that they were home…

Until she all of a sudden hit the floor. The drop woke her up and she opened her eyes to find Charles hovering over her, hands moving to tighten around her throat. She could feel the panic rise in her throat, but knew that if she called out Captain Teach would undoubtably have the boy killed for daring to touch his niece. She tried to shove him off, but he was heavier than he looked and apparently the two weeks on the ship had given him more muscle than he brought with him. His fingers tightened around her throat and it took everything inside her not to scream- at him, or for help. Instead her fingers grasped above her head for the knife she kept under her hammock. It must have slid somewhere closer to the wall because Alex couldn’t find it when her fingers found its usual hiding place. The edges of her vision began to darken when all of a sudden the ship pitched to the side and threw Charles off balance just enough for her to throw him off. The hit combined with the force from the roiling ship threw him into the wall behind him where he hit his head. She crawled under the hammock, found her knife, and crawled back to him, holding the knife to his throat.

His eyes flew open, quickly registering the facts: he was on the floor, he had a splitting headache, blood was coming from somewhere on his head, his back was to the wall, and his bunkmate was holding a knife a little too close to his jugular. He swallowed thickly and held his hands up in surrender, trying to think of what he possibly could have done to find himself in this position when Alex began to speak.

“You tried to kill me,” her voice still shook a little, but she was doing her best to hide it.

“I… What?” Charles wracked his brain trying to remember when in the hell he’d tried to kill her. Sure, her chattering made it sound tempting on occasion, but he’d never actually done anything… he didn’t think.

“You tried. To kill me,” she repeated. “In your sleep just now,” she lowered the knife and placed it on the floor beside her.

Now it was his turn to feel the panic rise in his chest. He’d just tried to kill Blackbeard’s niece. Even if it was in his sleep, even if it was unintentional, he’d still tried to kill her. Word would get back to the Captain, which meant that Mr. Hands would handle the discipline- likely the lash from what he’d seen so far. Unless the Captain decided to handle this matter personally in which case-

“Hey, slow down,” Alex waved in hand in front of his eyes in an attempt to bring him back into the present. “I’m not gonna tell.” She moved from in front of him to sit beside him against the wall.

Charles felt the knot start to release from his chest. It would likely never fully leave- people who said they wouldn’t tell usually did after a while. The punishment may not be as severe as it would have been when it first happened, but he doubted that time would make too much of a difference in this case. He released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “What happened?”

Alex recounted everything to him and watched him stare straight ahead as she gave him the details. She didn’t think he would have a reaction until a couple of minutes after she finished when his shoulders began to quiver. Before long, his body wracked with quiet sobs as he curled himself into a fetal position on the cabin floor. Alex had no idea what to do, so she settled for rubbing his back like her mother used to when she was upset. Another womanly reaction, but something about this one felt different so she let it slide without too much self-loathing.

After several minutes, he began to straighten back up and lean back against the wall. “I’m sorry,” he sniffed. “I was just… back on the island.” He paused for a moment as if to gather his courage before pulling his shirt open to expose his right shoulder. “The island where I got this.” He revealed a scar burned into his shoulder, a square turned on its side with extended lines from each point.

She wanted to press for more information. How did he get it? Why did he get it? Was it because he stole something or because he killed someone? What was this island? It wasn’t New Providence Island, was it? It couldn’t be Jamaica, right?

But something told her that now wasn’t the best time, so she simply did her best to look sympathetic and give him some space. If this boy wanted to be her friend, it would have to be on his terms. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. She wasn’t sure why she apologized. She hadn’t branded him. And yet, whatever, whoever, gave him that brand gave him nightmares so terrible that he had tried to kill her in his sleep.

“Don’t be,” he put his hands on his knees and got up off the floor before extending a hand to help her up. Normally she would have shoved it away and refused to take it because it would make her look weak. This time she let her small hand fit into his to help her to her feet. Once she was steady, he dropped her hand and turned to his straighten his hammock.

“Don’t you want to clean the blood of your head?”

She received a grunt in response. She sighed and turned her back to straighten her own hammock before climbing back in to get settled. Dawn would break soon and she wanted to be as well rested as she could before landing in Nassau. Before she drifted back off to sleep, she thought she heard a quiet “thank you” from the other hammock.

[navigatrixnarrations]

Sometimes Always, Part 5: Thief In the Night

Catch up here

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, language

Word Count: 2841

The night is moonless and the road is blocked by branches and debris. From out of the gloom, a rasping voice rumbles “Stand and deliver! Your money or your life!” The coachman’s lamp reveals a broad-shouldered man standing beside the makeshift barricade before the stopped carriage, completely swathed in dark clothing, face hidden, a cutlass at his waist, aiming a pistol.

The adrenaline sings in Charles Vane’s blood; he’s missed the thrill of the plunder. This promises to be a rich prize, one that will assist in repairing the Adventure. One that may make Margaret see him as a partner rather than a burden, an obligation, or worst of all, an object of pity.

The coachman is older, with a soldier’s bearing, but seems disinclined to put up any resistance. In the coach, a man made rich off the blood and toil of those he claimed to own. His shaking hands are trying to load a pistol, which Vane snatches from his hand. To think this sniveling, scared weakling who would call him a scoundrel had the confidence to travel unguarded with this amount of coin — there’s the difference between those who dwell on land and those whose home is the sea, he supposes. The ocean is unforgiving and even wealthy men cannot stay sheltered in its domain.

Vane hoists the sack of coin over his shoulder. A pistol shot rings out, but misses, and despite the snow on the ground, he’s into the trees and out of sight before the coachman or the mark could reload. By the time he pushes his skiff from the riverbank, he almost feels like a proper pirate again.

The night is bone-achingly cold, even more so on the water. If he hadn’t botched things so terribly, he’d be warm in the West Indies. He’d be known and feared, not a thief in the night with his face and name hidden. He’d have a crew, and he’d be sailing under the black with Margaret at his side...

Can he pinpoint it, the moment he started to trust her? Perhaps it was when he awoke aboard the Revenge and she told him he was free.

“What kind of weapon made that?” She pointed at the brand on his chest.

“Hot iron.”

“Why?”

“So the person who owned me” -- he felt his face twist as he said it -- “could tell I was his slave. Find me and take me back there.”

“I won’t let him,” she said with a ferocious scowl, her voice surprisingly dark for one so young. “I won’t let anyone.” And he believed her. He was right to believe her.

He shakes himself from his reverie. He’s got to focus on the task at hand. There’s little traffic in the harbor tonight, but still enough for him to blend in as he sails around the horn of the Battery and makes his way back to the garret. With his hair tied back, a woolen cap pulled low and his laborer’s clothes, with the sack of coin slung over his shoulder he looks like any other longshoreman coming home from a long shift of loading and unloading cargo.

He imagines the look on Margaret’s face when he shows her what he’s robbed, and smiles as he climbs the stairs.

His smile fades as the door handle is jerked right out of his hand by her, her expression one of worry and anger. “Thought you’d have been back hours ago. Was out looking for you.”

“I told you I’d be back.”

“I was afraid someone recognized you! I was afraid you’d been captured or killed!” Her chest heaves under her coat, and he feels his body warm more than the small fire in the hearth should have allowed.

“Well, I wasn’t. And look what I’ve brought us.” She was worried? About him? He drops the sack on the table and opens it. “Coin, Magpie, more than enough to complete the repairs to the Adventure.” When she doesn’t respond, he repeats “It’s coin. We won’t even need to fence it.”

Margaret sits down heavily and wrestles her temper. “Where the fuck did you get all this?”

“A bit of highway robbery.”

“Charles. Next time, if there is a next time, take me with you.”

“Didn’t want to put you in danger.”

She narrows her eyes and her lower lip juts out stubbornly. “Says the man whose life I’ve saved how many times now?”

They stare at each other, neither willing to back down.

“I’ve got things to do besides make sure you don’t get yourself killed,” she informs him. And then, more quietly, so quiet as to be nigh inaudible, “I lost Sully. I can’t lose you too, not again.”

“You won’t.”

The table is between them, and he’s about to upend it, coins and all, just to get it out of the way, when Margaret gets up to stoke the fire. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful, Charles. But you’ve a recent history of getting yourself nearly killed to help friends.” She pauses. “They’d never say so, but Anne and Jack are beside themselves with guilt about what happened.”

“How the fuck do you know about that?”

“Idelle told me.” Margaret fixes Vane with a fierce stare as she returns to her seat across the table. “She loves you dearly, you know.”

“Idelle is a good woman.” He’d sensed sometimes that she did, and not only because she didn’t always charge him in full for her services, though at the time he’d mostly put that down to being one of the few who took care to make sure she enjoyed herself as well. And he respected her directness and sharp mind -- traits she shared with Margaret. Yes, there was the rub.

“She almost broke when you shook your head no from the gallows.”

Vane doesn’t reply.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be one to give up, regardless of your pretty speech about fearing death being a choice.” He can almost hear in her accusatory tone the words Margaret once cried out: I thought I knew you, Charles! More fool me.

“Didn’t want to risk more of us getting killed trying to save me. Thought my death would drive a rebellion.”

“It wasn’t at all because some part of you no longer wanted to live?”

Sometimes he swears the blasted woman has the ability to see into his mind. Though if that was the case, perhaps things between them would have taken a different path. “I was worth more dead than alive. Had to leave Nassau. Fucked over your father a second time to help Flint fight England. And…” he trails off and stares into the middle distance.

“And?”

“The woman I was in love with loved another.” Vane’s voice is low, confessional, but there’s an edge of challenge in it.

“The woman you were in love with loved only power. Control. Wrapping her soft, weak little hands around whatever bits of influence she could grasp,” Margaret says waspishly.

Vane’s thin lips curl back, baring his teeth. “I’m not talking about Eleanor.”

“No?”

“No!” Vane slams the palm of his hand into the table for emphasis. Fucking hell, why can’t she understand what he’s telling her? He’d stopped loving Eleanor well before her final betrayal, well before she battered his face in his cell as he awaited hanging, well before he saw the sickening, smug look on her face as he stood at the gallows, though that certainly drove the point home.

His arm tremors, and from the slight furrowing of Margaret’s brow, she noticed. He wonders if she takes any satisfaction in seeing him like this, broken and brought low. He can’t say he would blame her if she did. But her lips part in concern, and her eyes are worried. She wraps a hand, callused and graceful, around his forearm.

“I need you to know that I took the shot the moment I was able; I didn’t delay or let you hang any longer than necessary.”

“I never doubted that, Magpie.” And he didn’t. Margaret never struck him in anger, never lied or broke her word to him. The scar on his brow is his own fault for startling her when she was holding a marlinspike; as for the scars on his heart, well, perhaps those are his own fault too.

It was barely dawn when Sully staggered shirtless out of Margaret’s tent, reeking of drink. Vane, up all night on watch duty in the Revenge camp, wanted to gut him. How dare he go to her drunk like that? Vane felt sick to his stomach, as though he’d been sucker-punched while nauseous. Hearing him approach, Sully turned to him with a grin. “Morning Charles…” His smile turned to a look of surprise when Vane shoved him, knocking him over backward into the sand, his long plait flying over his shoulder as he fell.

“Charles!” Margaret yanked on his arm, spinning him around to face her. She was fully clothed, though she looked like she just woke up, and she was livid. “What the fuck did you do that for?”

“You’ve a right to fuck any man you wish to, Magpie, but you at least deserve one who isn’t stumbling drunk.”

“Charles.” Margaret’s voice was patient, as though speaking to an idiot or a recalcitrant child, “I didn’t fuck Sully. I’ve never fucked anyone, of any state of sobriety. I’m likely the only virgin in Nassau.”

He didn’t smell sex on either of them, it was true, and Margaret didn’t even smell of rum. But even so. “What was I to think, when he stayed the night in your tent?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but he decided to drink on an empty stomach, and I dragged him in there to sleep it off.”

Sully hauled himself to his feet. “I was a perfect gent to our Maggie-Pie, I was,” he announced. “And I’ll knife anyone who isn’t.”

Margaret whirled on him. “If you call me Maggie-Pie, I’m going to call you Mick.”

“I hate it when you do that,” Sully said cheerily. “Look sharp, here comes Hands.” The three of them straightened their postures; it was important to present a united front before that bastard.

******

The first year after Sully was killed passed in a haze of agony. The second year, Margaret was mostly numb. By the third year, the grief had become sneakier, creeping up to knife her when she least expected it. She could go days feeling what now passed for fine, and then something -- the scent of the tobacco he’d favored, a snippet of a song he’d liked -- would rip open the wound.

What a fool I am, thinking Charles might care for me, Margaret berates herself. Her flirtations the night of the skiff race went uncommented-on, unacted-on. Of course she should have expected that: the moment there was a girl fawning over him whose body was unscarred by blades and musket balls, whose hands weren’t roughened by rope and salt, whose face wasn’t bronzed by the sun, he’d stopped paying her any attention, hadn’t he.

He’s finally asleep, and she can weep. Quietly. She forces herself to stay silent despite the sobs wracking her body. Then a hand, Vane’s hand, reaches for her in the dark, finds her own, and holds it. She glances at him, crouched beside her bed so as not to loom over her. She hadn’t even heard him come into her room.

“Turnabout is fair play,” he says. She sits up, and he sits beside her, using his free hand to wipe her tears. Margaret tries to affect a steely dignity, but his voice, honey over gravel, cuts through. “You held my hand in the dark. I was a fool to have let myself ignore that. A man should never forget who held his hand in the dark.” She lets him gather her in his arms; it’s been so long since the last time she’d been held. She feels the stubble of his cheek pressed to the top of her head, his long hair hanging over her arm, the deep inhale he takes. She allows herself to lean into him, to nestle her face into the junction of his neck and shoulder and inhale the smoky scent of him. “Now,” he continues, “do you want to tell me what this is about?”

“Of course I fucking don’t.”

One of Vane’s hands is stroking her hair while the other rests between her shoulder blades, heavy and warm and anchoring. “I recall,” he says, his voice a purr reverberating through her torso, “a smart girl once telling me that there is nothing wrong with accepting help from people who care for me. That I’m not alone in the world.”

Margaret raises her head and looks at him sharply. Did he just say he cares for her? She had been telling herself that she’d laugh in Vane’s face if he showed any signs of being sweet on her. But here, in this moment, in his arms, she can’t bring herself to be cruel to him on purpose, not when his gaze is so gentle, so uncharacteristically unguarded. God knows they’d caused each other enough pain already, however inadvertently. “And turnabout is fair play, Charles?”

The strong shoulder that her cheek was just resting upon lifts in a shrug. “You ought to take your own advice.”

She leads him into the main room, where it’s warmer. Brings out the rum bottle. Vane is leaning toward her, letting her have her silence, but his own silence has a questioning quality to it.

“I’m thinking of the nature of promises. How to keep them. What it means to keep them.” Vane is simply watching her, waiting for her to continue. She takes a swig of rum; she wants liquid courage for what she’s about to tell him. “When Sully got killed, I threw everything he owned overboard. Any reminder of him was too much to bear.” She’d been certain she’d lose her mind with grief if she saw a shirt of his on someone else. She sees Vane trying to connect what she’s saying. “He once made me promise if he should die first, that I wouldn’t spend my life in mourning. That I’d find a way to be happy again.” And someone to be happy with, Sully had emphasized, though she’s not ready to tell Vane that part. “But I can’t see a way forward.”

“You were happy, though. With him.” He isn’t asking a question.

“Yes.”

Vane nods to himself and stares down at the coin he’s rolling back and forth between his fingers. “That’s all I ever wanted for you, Magpie. For you to be happy.”

For a moment, Margaret is afraid she’s going to burst into tears again, and she forces her expression into one of stoicism. “Were you happy? With her?”

The coin ceases its glittering dance across Vane’s knuckles. “I thought I was, for a time.”

“Do tell.”

He raises his face with a scowl to meet Margaret’s eyes, but his expression softens when he sees the real curiosity there. “In the beginning, she pursued me hard, lavished me with what I thought was love. Then she’d withdraw her affection, and I’d try to regain it. I see now that was her strategy.”

“To hear Idelle and some of the others tell it, Eleanor had you dancing like a puppet on a string.” Vane recoils as though she’d slapped him, and Margaret wonders if she pushed him too far, twisted a knife in him that she hadn't meant to insert, truly she hadn’t. “Charles, I…”

He cuts her off. “I assure you that I’ve got long-overdue clarity about the manner of woman she is.” He closes his eyes for a moment and sags slightly in his chair. He huffs out a short, mirthless laugh. “She’s a shit and everything you told me was correct.”

Margaret stands with an unstifled yawn. Damnation, but she’s exhausted. She considers telling him it took him long enough to figure out what she and Sully saw from the start, but what purpose would that serve? “I’ve got to be up early. Tide’s coming in about five, and the Adventure should be coming out of drydock with it. Got to move her to a proper slip.” Vane rises as well and they stand for a moment, looking at each other with uncertainty. He looks like he’s about to step towards her, so she simply says “Good night, Charles.” In response, he reaches out to squeeze her hand, ever so briefly.

As she settles herself back into bed, she smells him brewing coffee; he’s gotten in the habit of fixing a pot of it so that it would be ready when they woke, something she appreciates. If she could see through the door, she’d note him sitting before the fire, elbow on his knee and chin in his hand, staring into the flames, a man lost in thought.

Tag List: @whenimaunicorn @n3rdybird

[sometimes-i-write-4-you]

will u do number 19 off the romantic prompts for jj from outer banks 🥺🥺

thank you - JJ x reader

a\n: idk about this one but i hope you’ll enjoy it. it ended up shorter then the first one, but the first one is the longest fanfic i ever wrote so i was’nt expecting this one to be that long anyways.

trigger warnings: cursing, undeage drinking

19: “there’s… there’s only one bed”

word count: 1678

"this sucks" JJ sighed. We were all sitting on the beach: JJ, Kiara, Pope and me. "John B would want us to enjoy the beach" Pope insisted, and so we are going through with this stupid picknick". Kiara looked at him, "yeah, Pope's right" she said and took out of the freezer 4 beers. Each one of us took one can, "to John B" JJ said. "and Sarah Kamron" I added, clinging cans with him.

"yeah, and her, whatever" Pope said, chugging his beer. The moonlight made the sea look like a hole of death. I never liked the way the beach looked at night, but this summer made me hate it even more. "hey guys" I said, "my parents have this house, not too far. We can go there on the weekend, they'll agree. We can drink, and smoke, and let out everything we feel". I stood up and kept talking as I cleaned the sand off my butt with my free hand. "plus, I think we have internet there, so…" I said, sipping on my beer. "yeah, sounds cool" Kie sighed. "it can be nice to have a weekend away" Pope agreed, but JJ had a different opinion. "guys, we can't go and have fun when our friend is dead!" he said, getting up. "and you'd rather stay here, where people ask you how are and the man who has John's blood on his hands pretends like he cares?" I asked, a bit upset to hear him resisting. "yeah, did you hear he declared on a prize to get the shipwrecks?" Kie asked. "he wants their bodies, promised to bury them together. 30K for the whole thing, 1000 for any clue if it leads to something, maybe even more" I contributed. "how come we didn't hear about this?" Pope asked. "it was on the Outer Banks Newspaper" I said, just as confused. "you mean, the one you get, and we don't?" JJ asks, bitter. "right, yeah" I say. Just like Kiara, I was technically a Kook, but I never got along with any of them. The only tolerable one was Sarah, and she's gone now. She's the only reason her brother's friends stayed away from me, but now they give me dirty looks every time we cross paths, and so me and Kiara stick together.

"so what do you think JJ, you in?" I ask, "we have a boat, we can look around, maybe we can get some money to pay your Compensation fees". He looks at me. "yeah, whatever" he gives up, and I knew a part of it was to be away from his dad.

The weekend is finally here. The Twinkie was now under JJ's possession, and he would often sleep in the house where John used to live. JJ was always a mess of a person – his moods, anger management issues, tendency to be irrational and irresponsible… always in the name of his friend and always with good intentions, but ever since John disappeared and presumed dead, it got worse. He became a bit colder, quieter. I missed the old JJ, but I knew his head was somewhere else.

We finally arrived at the beach house after a short drive. JJ would use any excuse to drive the twinkie, even though the beach house was close. My family is not Kamron rich, so it's a pretty simple place, half on the pogue side of the beach, which is why he wasn't that expensive.

"this place is nice" Pope said. "this place is crap" JJ corrected him. "hey, we're not the Kamron's, JJ" I said, a bit offended. "well, time for a tour" I say, ignoring JJ's comment. I know he's having a hard time, but come on, I am his… what am I to him?

"JJ, you're the best" I said, hugging him, "the fact you stole your dad's boat for John…" I laugh. I pull away from the hug, but our hands still hold one another. "well, yeah, he's my best friend" he says, smiling down at me. Pope and Kie are talking too. "Kie told me she's gonna go for it with Pope" I say. "really?" JJ asks. "yeah" I laugh, "I always thought she'd end up with you" I admit, my focus and my fingers travel to the collar of his shirt and fidgeting with the fabric. "I always thought we'd end up together" he confessed. "what?" I ask, and my eyes move from his shirt to his face. He leans down, but I didn't even realize the situation until his lips left mine. I looked at him, and I swear I've never seen him that red. I pull him back down and myself up with some help from his shirt, kissing him, and this time we get to feel the kiss. His lips moved against mine. "cool" he whispered, refusing to pull away until we have too. I peep behind his shoulder to see Kie and Pope kissing. "copycats" I whisper, pointing my chin at them.

Ever since the day John B left, JJ and I barley talked. Only when we were all together, but even then, he barley said anything, and when he did it was mean or rude.

"common" I say and start showing them around. "this is the kitchen, living room, and the rooms are down the hallway. My dad asked that we'll use the room that I sleep in and the room my brother sleeps in – their room is out of limit, it's on second floor" I said as I walked toward the rooms. "I figured Kei and I can sleep at my room, and you boys-"

"actually, I was hoping to share a room with Pope" Kei said, "if that's-". "no yeah, understandable" I smile at her, even though I really don't want to share a room with JJ. "My room had an extra bed for when I bring friends, so I can just share the room with JJ" I say, insisting it's fine and convincing myself while I'm at it. "well Pope, Kei, that's your room-" I said, pointing at the door, but before I finished my sentence they were already inside the room.

I walked into my regular room, but something was missing. "there's- there's only one bed" JJ pointed out. "yeah, no shit sherlock" I sigh. "I can just sleep on the couch" he says, "I left my bag in the living room anyway". "sure, yeah" I say. Normally I'd argue, but I'm not in the mood. He was being a dick for weeks now, so I don't mind. he can sleep on the couch. he left the room, avoiding being alone with me any longer. What a bitch. I should have invited Pope and Kiara and leave his ass back in John B's house.

I open the international paper on the computer in my room, hoping to hear something nice like, maybe somewhere in the world they found a cure for cancer or 2 specific teens alive. "Milkshakes with zero calories turns out as lie" I read the title. It's about this couple in Nassau that scammed people into buying their calories free milkshakes, but the reason they were so good were because they in fact included a lot of calories. "this is stupid" I think to myself, and just as I'm about to click of the report, the picture catcher my eye. "no way" I whisper to myself. Behind the couple there's a boy and girl. The boy has some familiar features, like long-ish brown hair, shorts paired with a button-down mostly open, jaw line. The girl looks like non-other than Sarah with her blond hair, short summer dress and the fact she was holding hands with a guy who looks so much like John B…

"guys!" I called, and they hurried to follow my voice. "look!" I point at the screen. "really? Wow, my family traveled from Georgia to taste that" Kie said. "no, I don't care about that, look!" I smile, zooming in on the mysteries couple. JJ's hand reaches for the desk, leaning over my shoulder. I'm trying not to blush. "no way" Pope says, looking at the picture. "(y\n), that's amazing" Kie says. "that's…" JJ starts, and the smile I missed so much appears on his face. I spin around in the chair to face them, and JJ grabs my hand to pull me up, right into his arms. I return the hug. "thank you, thank you so much" he whispers, and I swear I fell his warm tears against my skin. He kisses my forehead, and Kei pokes Pope and drags him away to leave us alone.

JJ's hands get comfortable around my waist as he pulled away. My hand stayed around his neck, and I looked at him, waiting to hear what he has to say. "I'm sorry I was a dick" he finally says. "it's okay" I whisper, but he doesn't let me talk, "you were nothing but nice to me since we met, and instead of letting you help me I pushed you away, and it wasn't very boyfriend of me".

"since when are you my boyfriend?" I ask, and he smiles awkwardly. "since this very moment, if you'll have me" he replies, removing my hands from his neck to take them in his. "are you asking me to be your girlfriend?" I ask him, laughing, "what are we, 12?". "shut up" he laughs.

"sure, yeah" I say. "sure, yeah what?" he asks, pretending to be naïve. "yes I will be your girlfriend" I say, "you happy?". "very happy, yeah. Actually, as your boyfriend, I'm gonna kiss you now" he says, and as he talked his hands cupped my cheeks, and the moment the last word left his mouth his lips crushed against mine, almost making me fall back into the chair. He spins me around to escort me to the bed and we break the kiss for a moment to sit down. The moment we're on the bed, his lips find mine again.

[banditthewriter]

Trust Is Earned - Charles Vane - 6

Here we are at part 6! Thanks to everyone for their reactions to this story. I’m enjoying reading your theories. 

Warning: Descriptions of violence and torture

*gif not mine*

Enjoy!

------

There had been plenty of noise from the front of the shop but you ignored it in favor of working on the dress you had bought the fabric for. As you started to work on the stitching around the hem, you heard voices rise sharply. One familiar voice brought you out of your rooms and into the shop immediately.

Just outside of the door to the shop, which was barely open a crack, was Billy Bones trying to strong arm his way past four of The Ranger crew.  

“What in God’s name is going on here? Release him this instant,” you demanded as you pushed past the men that were surrounding Billy. 

“The captain told us to stop anyone from coming into the shop,” one of the men said indignantly as you shoved at his arm.

“Oh did he? Well perhaps he meant anyone that means me harm and I promise that The Walrus boatswain does not mean me harm. Let him pass.”

The men obviously didn’t want to disobey Vane but you could be intimidating when you wanted to be. They must have collectively decided it would be easier to explain to Vane than it was to stop you because they released Billy and let him follow you into the shop.

They didn’t let you shut the door though.

With the four of them just outside of the shop, you directed Billy to follow you into your rooms. God help the man that tried to storm into your private living space without your permission.

“I thought The Walrus was out on a hunt.”

“We were. Caught an easy prize on the way to our lead, needed to bring the perishables back to Nassau before we go back out.” After a beat of barely there silence, “Why the fuck are four gunners from The Ranger repairing your front door?”

“Possibly because their captain was the one that originally broke the front door,” you said as you went over to where your dress was waiting for you.

“Never mind that. What the fuck happened to your face?”

Ever the eloquent gentleman. You reached up and touched the swollen skin around your eye before you turned back to Billy.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” you said evenly. “Would you like some tea? I might have some rum hidden somewhere if that’s–”

“Stop with the pleasantries and tell me what the fuck is going on Y/N.”

You rubbed the bridge of your nose as you turned away from Billy. This conversation had been inevitable but you had thought you’d have a little more time to figure out a way to put it succinctly.

“I was attacked. Captain Vane has loaned me some of his men until the culprits have been… dealt with.”

Billy marched across the room and grabbed your arm, pulling you around to face him.

“Did he do this to you? Is that why you’re scared? Is he holding you prisoner here?”

You shook your head sadly.

“That’s a lot of questions Billy,” you admonished softly, knowing you needed to get him to calm down before he made a serious mistake. “No, Captain Vane didn’t do this to me, no I’m not scared of him, and no I’m not being held prisoner in my own home. Like I said, they are keeping me safe.”

Billy reached up to touch your face, the corner of your mouth where the split lip was starting to heal. Then he reached down to check under the cloth around your neck. You watched as fury crossed his face at the sight.

“Who did this to you?”

You tried to push his hand away from your neck but he wouldn’t budge.

“I have already said that it’s being dealt with. I don’t need you to run off half cocked and make things worse.”

You hadn’t meant to say that, but the words came out in a rush anyways. Billy’s fingers tightened on the edge of the cloth around your neck until you could feel the strain of it against the back of your neck.

“This is his fault, isn’t it? Vane. No one would have a reason to go after you, you’re just a candle maker. It has to be his fault.”

A laugh poured from your lips at that. You weren’t sure why you were laughing, because he had called you just a candle maker or because he blamed Vane when the events of late could all be traced back to Billy’s decision to bring Silver to your shop.

Either way, you laughed until your lips hurt. Billy had loosened his grip on the cloth, surprised by your sudden onset of mirth. Then his hand went around the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair.

“I’ve heard what they’ve said on the beach about you and him. I know it’s bullshit, I just don’t know why you’re going along with it. What does he have over you? I can help you, you know that I can. I’ll take you to the beach, take you to The Walrus. We can have Eleanor Guthrie help us.”

You reached up and cupped Billy’s cheek, your smile sincere as you stared up at him. There had always been something so earnestly pure about Billy, pirate though he was. There was a softness about him that he let out around you, around anyone he cared about. It was that sweetness that you had attached to, to allow it to grow without realizing what it meant.

He was half in love with you and you didn’t feel the same. It wasn’t fair to him.

“What you’ve heard about us is simply how it is. I don’t need protection from him.”

Billy reached up to cover the hand you had on his face.

“He’s a monster Y/N.”

You opened your mouth to say that no, he was simply a pirate, but you didn’t have the chance. A different voice cut in instead.

“Is that right?”

Both you and Billy turned to the door where Vane stood. It probably wouldn’t have been such a shock if he hadn’t also been covered in blood with his sword still in hand. 

Billy immediately pushed you behind him, his hand going to his hip but finding no sword to draw. You knew that you probably only had a short time to diffuse the situation before there was bloodshed. That in mind you carefully walked around Billy to place yourself between the two pirates.

“Billy, you need to leave. The Walrus needs you, it’ll be leaving soon for the hunt. Come now, I’ll walk you out.”

You gave Vane a glare but he merely raised an eyebrow as you grabbed Billy’s arm and began to pull him from your rooms. Billy went along, but you could feel some resistance. You had done right to mention his ship and the fact that the men needed him. Hopefully he was more duty bound to them than he was to you at that moment.

“Y/N, he’s–”

“I’m well aware of what he is, Billy Bones. Now you need to get back to your ship and I need to… get back inside. Please,” you added when it seemed that Billy wasn’t going to budge.

Finally he nodded and turned to leave. There weren’t any men outside of the shop anymore so perhaps Vane had dismissed them when he got there. As Billy made his way down the road and out of sight, you let out a sigh and shut the door to your shop. It closed easily, more locks added to the inside for you to use.

Once that was done, you took a deep breath and made you way back into your rooms.

Vane was at the water basin against the far wall, his hands turning the water pinkish and then red as he wiped off the dried blood there. It was also on his clothes, but that was a lost cause.

You walked over and grabbed a cloth that was usually used to dry one's hands. You dipped it into the water before you reached up to start to wipe the blood from his forehead first.

“The boatswain come to save you from the monster?”

You gave him a baleful stare before you continued your work.

“Because of the attack and things he finds to be impossible,” you said softly as you ran the cloth over the bridge of his nose and then across his cheekbone. “He’s not sure how these things are happening to just a candle maker.”

Vane’s hand reached up to grasp your wrist. He didn’t use his grasp to pull your hand away or to guide the movements. It was almost as if he just wanted to touch you.

“You’re not just a candle maker.”

Warmth filled you at those words, but you didn’t react. Instead you switched hands so that you could ring the rag out and start on the other side of his face. 

“Am I to assume this is the blood of my attackers?”

“It’s not my own,” he said in a lilting voice, a tease. When you didn’t give him even a smile for the joke, he sighed. “It’s not Eleanor Guthrie’s either, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“It’d crossed my mind,” you admitted as you moved the cloth across his jaw and then down over his neck. “Do we know if it was her behind it?”

He pulled away from you at that. With a dry cloth in hand, he turned away and went over towards the fire.

“Found a promissory note on one of the men. Wasn’t signed, but it was her handwriting. I dropped it on her desk… in the hand of the man who had it.”

You closed your eyes at that confession. He’d dropped a severed hand on Eleanor Guthrie’s desk while standing covered in blood. It was a miracle he’d made it out alive.

Or maybe not a miracle. As much as Eleanor seemed to hate Vane, she never made the moves to actually rid herself of him. Perhaps you could understand why.

“I’m assuming that won’t end favorably.”

“I simply told her that an attack against you was an attack against me in my eyes and that if anyone else had concerns about my ability to lead my men, they would do best to bring those complaints to me directly.”

Days ago you had been assuring Eleanor that there was nothing going on between you and Vane and now he was dropping a bloodied hand on her desk and declaring the two of you to be some sort of unit.

You thought about how it was with Jack and Anne. They were both their own entities to be sure, Jack Rackham the quartermaster to The Ranger and Anne Bonny a feared and infamous pirate in her own right, but they were also a pair. It was Jack and Anne, Anne and Jack, rarely one without the other.

Is that what the future held for you and Vane? To be spoken of in the same breath even if you were alone. How many of your conversations or interactions lately had centered around your fictional attachment to the captain?

And that was the rub of it all. This was all happening due to a fiction that the two of you had created. You had a business partnership that was lucrative and profitable, but that was it.

You weren’t even sure you could consider Vane a friend.

“Thank you for what you did,” you finally said as you settled back down into the chair where you had been working on your dress. “I know that you didn’t do it for me but because it was a threat to you, but I’m still grateful that I won’t have to sleep with one eye open for now.”

Vane turned away from the fire and looked over at you. He tossed the cloth he had grabbed onto the table with the basin, not caring that it fell into the water. He took a few strides until he was in front of you. You watched as he reached out, those fingers gently caressing your cheek and down your jaw, much like you had done when you cleaned his face.

“Of course I did it for you.”

Those words were beyond unexpected. You could feel your body heat rising in reaction, butterflies erupting in your stomach. Before you had a chance to process the words, to even think about a response, he dropped his hand and headed over towards the door.

“I’ll keep at least one of my men here with you for a while, to make sure there won’t be any repercussions.”

He gave a quick nod in your direction and then he was gone.

And you? You were left with a mind swirling with things you weren’t sure you could ever truly figure out.

------

The garden had been long neglected so you decided to spend part of the day with your hands in the soil. The Ranger had been at sea for almost a week and it had been the most mundane week you’d had in months. People shopped, you made deliveries, you joined friends at the tavern for meals. 

One difference is that you had a shadow for these things. The man that Vane had left with you was named Edgar. He was large and looked mean, but you’d found him to be the most polite pirate you’d had the pleasure of dealing with in a long time. 

You refused to let him sleep outside and he refused to sleep on the couch in your front room so the compromise was a cot that he slept on in the shop. You made sure he ate, tried to make him leave your side to enjoy the whores at the brothel while you ate in the tavern, but he was a good sentry. 

He stayed nearby while you tended to the garden, listening to you as you talked aloud to the plants and discussed the different uses for the herbs that you usually grew. Your neglect of the garden meant a lot of the plants looked unfit for use, but you were determined to fix your mistake.

“Hasn’t been enough rain for those,” a voice said from the other side of the fenced in garden you were in.

You looked up and smiled at Captain Flint who was looking at the proof of your hard work. Edgar edged around the garden while you stayed on your knees in the dirt, his hand on his side where his pistol was. You gave a brief shake of your head to call him off but you knew he wouldn’t stand down until Flint left.

“I’ve been remiss in my gardening habits,” you admitted as you looked around at your handiwork. “Are you much of a gardener?”

“I like to learn a little about a lot of different things,” he admitted as he fingered one of the tomato plants near the fence. “Do you sell from the garden or is it just for you?”

You stood up and dusted off your skirt as best you could.

“I sell some, but mostly it’s just for myself. This is a large garden and I’m just one person. Usually,” you said as you shot a look over at Edgar. 

He didn’t seem to notice that you were talking about him.

“Your man. He’s one of Vane’s, isn’t he?”

You hadn’t had many interactions with Captain Flint, but the ones you’d had told you that he rarely asked a question if he didn’t have a good idea of the answer. You knew that no conversation with him was just one thing. He was always putting a double meaning in his words.

“He is.”

Flint looked from you to Edgar. You could see the calculating look on his face before he spoke next.

“Would he allow me to take you for a short walk?”

You were sure that he wouldn’t like it, but you had an idea. 

“Of course. Edgar, you’ll watch the shop while I walk with Captain Flint, won’t you?”

Edgar was already shaking his head but you hurried around the fence to where Flint was standing.

“Surely I’ll be safe with Captain Flint. It’ll be up to you to keep the shop safe in my absence.”

The men of The Ranger knew that you were the reason they were making the money they made currently so they knew it was in their best interest to keep you and your shop safe. Plus Vane had made the demand so it was to be followed to the letter.

In this case, you had boxed the man in. He couldn’t say no without causing a scene and he wasn’t aware that it wasn’t particularly necessary to keep the shop open.

Plus you didn’t think it would matter much if Edgar was with you or not. If Flint wanted to kill you or kidnap you, there was likely not much one man alone could do. Edgar obviously knew that because he gave a nod to you and stepped back.

Flint offered you his arm and you accepted it gratefully. He had an air about him, the same one that made you think he was part of the Navy before he came to Nassau. The residual air of a gentleman made him a good choice for Eleanor Guthrie’s favorite pirate. At least now that she wasn’t sleeping with Vane.

“Is there a reason that Vane is keeping one of his best in the vanguard here to watch your shop?”

You knew that accepting his offer to take a walk would leave you open to an inquiry like this. While you couldn’t be sure what he was planning, you were confident that you could keep up with him.

“I was attacked a week ago. He left his man with me for protection, but like I said, I’m sure I’ll be safe with you today.”

It was a pointed jibe that he didn’t respond to. Instead he directed you down the winding path that led from the store and towards the beach.

“It does make me wonder how you plan on continuing the act of being neutral if you’re sharing a bed with Charles Vane.”

Gone was that gentlemanly air, replaced by the steel of the pirate captain that everyone in Nassau knew and feared. You tried to subtly pull your arm from his grasp but he didn’t let you. Instead he tugged you down the path a little harder. 

“It’s not an act, Captain Flint, and who I’m sharing a bed with doesn’t change that. I think you’ll remember that I shared a bed with one of your crew for the last few years and yet you had no qualms about my ability to be neutral then, did you?”

It might not have been the best plan to antagonize the man, but you weren’t happy with this particular line of questioning. From others, maybe, but from someone on The Walrus? From this captain? It angered you enough that you forgot that you could very well be in trouble.

Your free hand went to your pocket where the dagger that Vane had given you sat. Hopefully you wouldn’t need to use it today.

“The difference as best as I can tell is that you were merely sleeping with my boatswain. This affair with Vane is a different sort.”

It wasn’t the first time you’d heard something like that either. What was it about Vane that made people think that this wasn’t just a casual thing between the two of you? People heard that you and Vane were intimate and they assumed wedding bells. Or something permanent at least.

“I assure you that what I have with Vane, while none of your business, is as casual as what I had with Billy.”

The two of you stopped and you looked forward to see where you were. You hadn’t noticed that you had been leading off the main path and towards the trees until that moment. In front of you strung from a large tree were two men, naked as the day they were born. 

Their bodies were starting to decompose, animals picking at the corpses. They were both beaten beyond recognition, their bodies mutilated horribly. Across each of their chests was carved the word ‘revenge’. 

You gasped and looked away.

“Casual. If this is what Vane does for a casual dalliance, I’d hate to see him seriously involved.”

Flint came in from behind you, but he didn’t hurt you. He simply gripped your chin and forced you to look at the bodies again.

“Recognize them? I’d understand if you can’t since their faces have been caved in. They were members of the crew of The Tempest. They’re the men that attacked you.”

You saw that one of them indeed only had one hand. The other had been deposited on Eleanor’s desk.

Flint wasn’t here for you. He wasn’t here for Billy or for the members of The Tempest, not even really here for Vane. He was here because of what happened with Eleanor. 

He needed to protect his source of income, just like Vane did with you. 

“Your concern has been noted,” you said fiercely as you pulled your chin out of his grasp. Then you did more and took a step away from him, from the bodies. “Perhaps this conversation would be better had with Vane instead of with me as I’m not in control of his actions.”

Not that you actually expected the two of them to ever sit down to talk. Flint and Vane were at odds more often than not. They had in common that they were pirate captains in Nassau, but that was the end of it. From there the two men were almost as different as night and day, if both were as dark as midnight and dangerous as a pit of vipers.

Maybe they did have more in common than you originally thought.

“I am going to go back to my shop before Edgar decides to see what is taking me so long on this walk. As always, Captain Flint, it’s been a pleasure.”

You didn’t want to turn your back on him but you didn’t have any choice. It took every ounce of your willpower not to turn and look behind you. Instead you walked with purpose back up the street and towards your shop.

Edgar was still where you had left him. When you walked past him with the intention of going into the shop for a moment to regain your composure, he grabbed your arm and pulled you close to him.

“If you do something like that again, I’ll lock you in your shop until the captain gets back.”

You glared up at him and yanked your arm out of his grip.

“You could try but I promise it would not end well for you. And if you put your hands on me again without my permission, I’ll gladly bury a dagger into your throat. That is the only warning you’ll get from me.”

You stormed away from Edgar and into the shop, slamming the door and locking it as well.

Then you fell to your knees in the middle of the floor, desperate to catch the breath that seemed to have been knocked out of you weeks ago. 

How had things gotten so out of hand?

X

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[whenimaunicorn]

The Heart of Admiration - Part 2

Charles Vane x Reader, slow burn adventure/romance, written in a series of short scenes.

Part One Here

This episode’s prompt: “ “I thought they’d killed you. I lost my temper.”

The sea spray leaves the taste of salt on your lips as the ship crashes through another unexpected wave. It feels good to be sailing again, even with a crew you were all but press-ganged to join, and even with the weather now threatening to turn dangerous.

You had pled for mercy for Captain Fisher’s life, and those of his men. They had been your crew for going on five years, and though the plan to steal the cargo from Vane’s ship had been a foolish one, you couldn’t just let them die for it. That moment in which you watched Captain Vane’s eyes smolder while he considered your plea had been the longest one of your life. “So long as they leave Nassau,” he had finally said. “They leave, and you stay.”

You watch your new captain now, down on the deck below, alternately barking orders at the men and peering up at the darkening clouds moving in from the southeast. His heavy brow and bold cheekbones give his face a rugged sort of handsomeness, like he was carved by gods more primal than the Christian one, out of tougher stuff than other men. No one in Nassau knew where Vane had come from, only that he rose through the ranks of Blackbeard’s crew and barreled through the island like a storm.

He catches you looking at him, and responds only by calmly staring back. He looks at you too much. He has not yet been crude, but you fear you know what it means regardless.

It’s hard for a woman to survive as a pirate without becoming somebody’s woman. It would be safer that way, too. Easier. Anne Bonny may be an absolute hellcat, but surely the place she’s carved out on this crew stays comfortable because everyone knows she’s the quartermaster’s woman. It would be easier to have that kind of protection yourself, too, but the idea rankles you. You joined the pirating life because you wanted independence. You made it on the last crew because of your quick wit, and because your skills with celestial navigation were unique and indispensable. Although it helped that the captain was married to your sister and treated you like kin.

You had assumed those skills were the reason Vane wanted you for his own crew, as well. Very few people in this life are educated enough to read the charts and almanacs, to decipher the celestial bodies and figure a precise location in the middle of the ocean. But he looks at you too much. This may be an uglier trap than you had thought.

A lock of hair that escaped your braid flies across your face. The prevailing winds are changing. Perhaps the only thing this particular long look signifies is Vane’s awareness that this storm means the course you’ve been marking out for him will have to be corrected. The course that, if the weather doesn’t blow you too far off from, will take you to meet the intended course of a merchant vessel, whose schedule just happened to fall into Vane’s hands, much farther out from land than most pirating crews would ever hope to be able to find.

You’re already up here to take the noon measurements, but the sun is not quite at its zenith. Once you have the number, a flurry of calculations will follow, and you’ll give Vane your course corrections based on precisely where on the open ocean this ship is located right now, and where the other ship is most likely to be. But you’re already feeling extra tension in your chest looking at those thick clouds; if they cover the sun before you’re certain it has reached its apex, your faulty measurements could throw your course off by miles. And if that storm catches the Ranger, all you can do is wait for the skies to clear to figure where the hell it has blown you. Your chest tightens further when you see the captain mounting the steps to come up to your deck.

Even though you had intended to wait a little longer to take the next measurement, you find yourself lifting the backstaff toward the horizon again while you listen to Vane’s boots approaching you from behind. It’s careful work, to line up the sun’s shadow as the deck rolls in the waves. And it’s only getting more difficult as the nearby storm makes the sea choppier.

“Nineteen point three, and…” You mutter the numbers under your breath as you get them, not wanting to forget the figures before you have a chance to write them down. “Eighty-two point four.”

“Is that what you were expecting?” Vane is standing so unexpectedly close behind you that you jump at the sound of his rumbling voice.

You step away from him, quite deliberately, as you answer his question. “I’m not certain that’s the precise number we’re looking for, but yes, I believe we are still on-course.”

Vane closes a little of the space you had drawn between your bodies. But not enough to be worthy of further correction. “You look worried.”

The last thing a woman trying to hold her own on a ship should do, is admit vulnerability. You roll your eyes at him. “Fuck off. This is not my first storm at sea.”

A smile cracks the captain’s stony face at your response. “Fair enough.” He looks to the south. “We should be able to skirt the edge of that one without much difficulty.” His heavy gaze falls back on you, a sudden gust of wind pulling at his long, twisted locks. “But it will take us off the course we’ve been plotting.”

Usually you have no trouble looking a man in the eye; it’s something particular to Vane that has you dropping your head. You draw your little notebook from its pocket to excuse the movement. “Now who’s the one that’s worried? It’s no problem. I can correct for that just as soon as we get another sighting after it’s passed.” You flip to an open page, and lift your pencil. 19.3, you write, and then… “Fuck me, what was that last number?” Normally you have a good memory. The captain is just being too damn distracting.

You hear Vane chuckle. You refuse to look up. “If I tell you, do I get to?”

It takes you a half a second to run back through the precise words you just said, and catch his meaning. Your voice turns acid. “If you are not going to be helpful, then get out of my way. I am attempting to do the very work you pressed me into service on this ship in order to perform.”

Vane rocks back on his heels. “Is that what I did.”

Your exhale is a sharp burst of irritation, on many, many levels. “You can’t say you gave me much of a choice, about joining this crew.”

You risk a glance directly at Vane’s face again. He looks pensive, behind the general air of aggressiveness that usually suffuses his features. “You’ll be happier here,” he growls out after completing his thought.

You arch an eyebrow at him, just about as high as it will go.

“You were wasted on the Starling.”

 ~*~

 Every pirating crew hopes to avoid violence. They ready themselves for it, bristling with threat and menace as they wait for the ships to close tight enough for boarding, but the most preferable option is negotiation, always, with a prompt surrender on the part of their quarry before any blood is spilt.

That ideal outcome is not playing out today. This merchant vessel’s crew must have been largely made up of former naval soldiers, given the competence with which they are resisting Vane’s vanguard, and the discipline you are observing in their ranks from atop the Ranger’s quarter deck.

“Get belowdecks,” Jack Rakham, standing by your side and watching the battle just as closely, suddenly urges you.

“What? Why?” you bristle on reflex.

Jack interrupts himself to bark orders across the locked sides of the ships: “Watch those riflemen! Aft!” Three men peel off the main fighting to interrupt the knot of sailors that Jack had spied franticly reloading near the back of the other vessel.

You raise your chin as one of Vane’s crewmen severs a man’s arm at the elbow with a deft strike of his axe. “I assure you, I am not squeamish.” You are accustomed to observing the fighting from one of the higher decks with your old crew. On just about every run, unless… Jack’s fingers close tightly around your elbow. With a little shove, he directs your gaze.

A knot of enraged seamen are pushing through the Ranger’s men, dangerously close to one of the gangplanks connecting the ships. “If they get across, you’re a target,” Jack says sternly. “Seeing as you are not disguising your sex. Hide yourself. Now.”

You’d been held hostage once before. It was not a pleasant experience, for you or for your crew. You forgive Jack for shoving you as you start to make your way down.

The fear starts to set in as you scramble toward the ladder that leads to the lower deck; enemy boots stomp onto the Ranger just before your head disappears down the hatch. You hope that Jack, or some of the other men still aboard, notice in time to resist them, but that officer’s eyes landed on you with heavy interest as you scurried away. It seems likely they are indeed intent on a hostage.

The long knife you keep belted to your waist is in your hand as you scurry through the belly of the Ranger. You whip your head and turn back and forth in the muted light belowdecks, changing your course more than once in a way that you are dimly aware signifies panic. This is not your ship. This is not your home. You don’t know where to hide in this unfamiliar place.

Booted feet are pounding somewhere behind you. No way to know if they are friend or foe. And would your new crewmen even care enough to defend you? You duck into the doorway ahead of you and then put your back to the wall beside it, clutching your knife to your chest and readying to ambush anyone that comes through after you.

Your eyes land on a bed, bolted into the bulkhead. You’ve somehow chosen the captain’s cabin in which to hide. Not that it means much more than that you ran straight to the back of the ship. You’re much more concerned with getting your breathing under control, until your great gasps are not making quite so much noise, so you can listen to the sounds of approaching feet.

A figure steps through the door, and your knife flashes out with barely any choice on your part. You bury it almost to the hilt in his chest. You may not be one to ever storm another ship in the vanguard, but you’ve been training to defend yourself for years. You wrench it out of him and blood flies as the startled man stares down at you, not even realizing he’s already dead.

His last earthly act is to attempt to grab you about the arms, which unfortunately means that when his body sags into dead weight, he’s falling directly into you. You had got the knife free to stab again, but that’s not going to help you against his two hundred pounds of inertia. You have to twist with him in a macabre dance, his life’s blood still spurting, in order to not be knocked directly to the floor.

Which, unfortunately, puts your back to his fellows, rushing into the room after him. You hear a couple of enraged voices screaming at you and then a sharp crack, which instantly creates a thundershock of pain reverberating up from the back of your skull before everything goes dark.

 You wake to shouting, then screams. Ugly, ragged, tortured ones, of men too far gone in pain to retain either sense or hope. You feel your body, laying flat on the deck, and a splitting headache that rouses you quickly to consciousness. The sun is harsh against your eyes. Somehow you’ve gotten abovedeck again.

You lift your head; you don’t quite feel ready to move anything else. Your eyes focus dully on a dead man’s face in front of you, his cheek wet in a pool of blood that’s slowly expanding. You don’t know him.

Somewhere past your feet, you hear a voice call “Mercy.” The only response is a bestial snarl and then the wet sound of something slamming over and over again into meat.

You know that snarl. There’s only one voice in the West Indies pitched like that, rasping over blown-out vocal chords. You push up on your hands and look over at the men fighting less than two paces away from you.

The fight is over. Vane hacks once more with his cutlass and the head of the man who was just begging for his life drops to the deck and rolls.

It looks like most of the crew is back on the Ranger. How long had you been knocked out? “Captain…” comes the voice of Jack Rakham, and he’s pointing at you.

Vane’s face is feral as he turns, his long hair matted up with other men’s blood, sweat glistening on his exposed chest. His eyes widen, and your name falls from his lips. He takes a long step toward you, and drops to his knees at your side.

“Are you wounded?” His voice is low, and you’re surprised at the concern you see in his steady gaze.

You push with your hands so you can sit up on one hip, then reach up to the back of your head. “Quite a lump here,” you report, wincing.

Vane reaches to your chest, pinching up a bit of the fabric of your shirt. The whole front of it is soaked red with blood.

“That’s not mine.”

Vane lifts one scarred brow.

“You’ll find the first of the men that came after me belowdecks, with a hole in his chest.”

Your captain nods, looking pleased.

You notice that several sprawling corpses surround you on the deck, each one a red ruin, hacked more brutally than would have been needed to kill them. The would-be hostage takers? You look back at Vane for answers.

“When I saw them dragging you up here, covered in blood, I thought they’d killed you.” Now it’s your turn to raise an eyebrow at him. “I lost my temper.”

Your chest fills with some unexpected emotion that feels rather too complex for you to even attempt to sort out. “You can’t be losing the asset you just went to such lengths to attain for your crew,” you say wryly.

Captain Vane fixes you with eyes as blue and deep as the sea. “No one else could have guided us this far out to meet the prize,” he acknowledges. “But I have a feeling I’ve only barely begun to discover your worth.”

Part 3 Here

Notes: if you liked this, thank @acebreathesfire too, she’s my source on navigation facts and basically has been co-creating this OC with me. If not for her encouragement none of this fic would have happened!!!

Taglist is open: @acebreathesfire @kind-wolf @that-was-not-supposed-to-happen you are all pressganged into this ship but anyone else is free to request to be put on the list!! Also I am creating this series entirely out of prompt fill drabbles, so if you come across any dialogue prompts you think would inspire good chapters, please pass them my way!!

Link to More Vane Action

[popwasabi]

Civilization is coming: “Black Sails” and when rage is justified

(SPOILERS ahead! You’ve been warned...)

There’s a moment late in the first episode of the highly underappreciated series “Black Sails” that hints not only at the troubled past of its lead character Captain Flint but also describes the larger theme of the story.

Flint has gotten himself into trouble. Along with his crewmember Billy “Bones,” in an effort to secure the financing he needs to capture the gold from the Spanish warship known as L’Urca de Lima, his recklessness has gotten Nassau’s governor shot and injured and his plans all but evaporated. Billy feels they are now in too deep and they should not only turn back but perhaps new leadership is needed for Flint’s crew. It is here that Flint reveals a bit where his true ambitions lie.

(Toby Stephens, ladies and gentlemen.)

On the first viewing, Flint ominously declaring the pending arrival of “civilization” to the new world could mean anything from simply the imperialistic tendencies of the British and Spanish empire, to the draconian rulership of the crown or just “taxes” as he makes light mention of in this speech. But as the series progresses, especially in the second season, “civilization” begins to take a darker, more personal meaning.

The story begins to reveal that the dangerous pirates of Nassau are not at least inherently dastardly, although certainly violent, but victims of their various circumstances; a former slave turned prostitute turned keeper of secrets in Max, a neglected daughter becoming the bookkeeper of the pirates with Eleanor Guthrie, another former slave turned ruthless pirate captain in the vicious Charles Vane, and an abused woman turned deadliest pirate on the island Anne Bony, and none more painfully revealing than that of Flint himself.

You see Flint didn’t always go by this name, he used to be a prominent officer in the British navy named James McGraw until he met Thomas Hamilton, a wealthy proprietor tasked with solving the problem of the pirates of Nassau many years prior. Thomas had the radical idea of pardoning the entire island to bring them back into society, to avoid violence and bloodshed, and to better understand the people who would turn to piracy.

As James gets to know him more and his revolutionary philosophies of empathy and enlightenment the two unexpectedly fall in love and thus seal the fates of both their downfalls from “civilized” society.

With England unwilling to see any other way to end the pirates without exterminating all of them and looking to exploit weaknesses in Thomas to Parliament, he is outed and imprisoned. James along with Thomas’s wife Miranda, who lives in a polyamorous relationship between the two, are persona non-grata-ed and the two flee to Nassau to finish what Thomas started in an act of rebellion.

(This is seriously one of the most heart-wrenching, tragic reveals I have ever seen on TV. I totally knew it was coming at the time and I was still not prepared for how it was delivered.)

There are few things as personal as love and “Black Sails” uses this to show how far society can go to villainize people. Flint wasn’t born a monster, and he is not one for loving Thomas; he is a monster because “civilization” wanted him to be one.

As our own civilization enters a timeline that may promise great change, people who have been othered and victimized by society are finding themselves grappling with their pain and grief in the same way as Flint. People have tried peaceful reconciliation and conformity into society to avoid violence throughout history despite the labels they have been given for no other crime than being who they are, but civilization’s need for a monster always brings people down no matter how hard they try to do it the “right way.”

(Tell me if you see a justice system in this picture that looks interested in listening...)

Native Americans tried playing by the white man’s rules when America began moving west. Compromising over and over again and yet they were killed and still killed and neglected today for it.

African Americans tried becoming rich like their white counterparts in places like “Black Wallstreet” in Tulsa, Oklahoma  and were still bombed and massacred for it.

Asian and Latin Americans immigrated here to flee war and death largely caused by white imperialist countries, to survive and work jobs white Americans would not. Both are othered as foreigners, face violence from the state, and are deported everyday.

Poor working-class Americans try fruitlessly to keep their head above water as they become mired in debt, fighting a pandemic on slave wages essentially, all while our government cuts wealthy companies a fat paycheck annually with our own tax dollars. And anyone who fights back finds themselves without an income and health insurance during a recession and a pandemic.

And the LGBTQ+ community ask for the dignity to be left alone and treated normally but not only are they harassed for it but they are beaten, tortured, and killed for being different.

(Remember, Stonewall was a riot.)

Flint, himself, tries one last time, toward the end of season two, to peacefully resolve his vendetta with England and save Nassau from a war with them but instead finds himself facing the gallows anyways by the Charlestown government.

As they read out his charges, many of them real heinous things he did but also many that were fabricated, Flint stops them from proceeding any further and delivers a final act of defiance to the court.

“I have one regret,” he begins to the court of high society folks who are only interested in seeing him punished before the masses. “I regret ever coming to this place with the assumption that a reconciliation could be found. That reason could be a bridge between us. Everyone is a monster to someone. Since you are so convinced that I am yours, I will be it.”

It is at this point in the story that Flint, perhaps like other revolutionaries of the past, recognize that the system doesn’t want to reason with him, that these people aren’t looking to understand or empathize with him or even try for that matter. They wanted a monster, they made one in him, so he decides there that “civilization” as he had noted in the series first episode is not worth reconciling with and certainly not worthy of forgiveness.

And Flint spends the rest of the series in bloody war with them.

(From season 3. Again Toby Stephens, ladies and gentlemen)

“Black Sails” is about queerness, race, social politics, and the way conformity by force is used against it. It’s about the rage that boils underneath many of us as we are wronged over and over again by society, while being exploited to no end, and what happens when someone finally says “enough.”

Anyone who has experienced what it is like to be othered can find something deeply personal with the anger that Flint carries around with him in each scene of this series. We feel his pain of rejection by society, his grief for feeling ashamed of himself when he and the audience know he shouldn’t.

It's what makes the eventual reveal of his relationship with Thomas so cathartic, as we see the rage-filled guard of Flint drop as he reads Thomas’s words left for him in a book they both loved and shared.

(Again, I cannot emphasize enough how much of a gut-punch this reveal was watching this...)

"Know no shame” is so important to growth of this character and the message of this story. Civilization and those who wish to keep the status quo want those who do not fall in line with their authority and judgments to feel shame for who they are. They not only want monsters, they want you to feel like one and the reason Thomas line speaks so much to both Flint and the audience is that it reminds us there is no shame in who we are.

The country we live in is a powder keg right now experiencing the same rage that Flint feels and more specifically how he felt at the end of season 2. Though this country’s racist attitudes and subjugation of the vulnerable hardly started with this presidency it cannot be argued that it has brought all that hatred in our government and the people who support those views painfully to the surface. When people peacefully protest, peacefully assemble, and peacefully try to cast their vote and are still met with resistance, still met with hatred and violence, people have to start to wonder if operating within the system’s rules can actually affect change.

A lot has been made about the way protesters may have violently lashed out over the past three weeks, with media talking heads and privileged elites asking unironically why they couldn’t do things peacefully but more has been done as result of the rising tension than the previous 50 years combined. You can tell people to “#vote” all you want but it doesn’t change the fact that people have been trying that for decades and people are still getting quite literally killed for it.

(Again, I gotta ask, who is this protecting? Who is this serving?)

If there’s one takeaway I hope a viewer gets from “Black Sails” is that revolution, no matter how serious you are about it, should never be off the table when confronting systemic inequality. A racist, sexist, classist, and/or, in the case of Flint, homophobic power structure does not concede their power if you play to their convenience and when people are being put down, beaten, and often killed for showing their anger at this, calling for “law and order” becomes a slap in the face to the victims.

A government or system that treats you unjustly doesn’t deserve peace.

I’ll say it again.

A government or system that treats you unjustly doesn’t deserve peace.

No one wants it to get this far, I definitely don’t, and certainly not every peaceful mean has been exhausted yet in this fight perhaps but this country was literally founded on violent rebellion after being slighted all the same by out of balance power structures. I’m not advocating for violence or to take up arms against the state right now BUT no one should ever rule it out when the social contract keeps being broken and broken and broken again by those in charge who clearly don’t want to listen.

A government should always feel the threat of an uprising if it keeps wronging its people.

(See my blog post about “Do the Right Thing” if you need help understanding this quote.)

As the more fiery weeks of the protests seem to be in the rearview mirror and we find less activity and calls to action on our social media timelines, I want to remind you all to not let up with whatever you are choosing to do to help and keep fighting back out there. The people who stand to benefit from having angst of the general public leave and dissipate from our collective consciousness want us to forget how angry we are, they want us to feel fatigued and disinterested in continuing the push forward because “this is how they win” as Flint would say.

(Again, Toby Fucking Stephens, everyone.)

We have so much more power than we realize, just look at how much got done just by everyone uniting behind one marginalized group finally over the past three weeks. When we realize we are fighting essentially in the same battle for respect and dignity, justice in our society can be achieved. It can be done, and maybe just maybe we can finally change the world. Afterall who else has been as close to achieving it as we are right now?

Fight for your dignity and respect and stand in solidarity with others in their own fights as well, and always remember “know no shame.”

Raise the colors and Happy Pride, everyone! (credit: Luluxa on Tumblr)

[daeneryssansa]

It was the only way to start it. He knew it was the only way.  Start what?  Look at them. The resistance in Nassau is now under way.

[vowel-in-thug]

writing prompts Silver saying 80. “Teach me?

gjdrshgjdf this seemed like it could be such a sweet prompt, and then my brain went, “Porn? Porn?????”

anyway I wrote El Dorado porn like a monster, i’m sorry

Flint doesn’t know why he’s surprised, really. Of course the people of El Dorado wouldn’t know exactly how to build a seafaring vessel. They’d never bothered to navigate anything other than the winding river that runs through their home, never bothered to voyage beyond the rock walls that hid them from the rest of the world to sail further upstream to the ocean. It probably hasn’t even occurred to them that the river even ends.

Somehow, the vessel stays upright, and it seems to be moving in the proper direction. The magic the people use to conceal their civilization must be inlaid in the ship too, because Flint has spotted sails on the horizon a few times now, but they’ve yet to be hailed.

Still, it was designed by a people who only had a vague notion of what a ship looked like. On the outside, it all looks correct. The inner workings, however, left little to be desired.

Actually, it left a lot to be desired, as it had nothing to defend themselves, nothing to steer other than a wheel not actually attached to anything, and sails woven with gold that didn’t want to lift much with the wind. Below deck is just a cavernous space, filled with plunder, fruit, and pillows. Lots of pillows.

Flint isn’t worried, though. They’d only been out at sea for a couple days, and they would have had difficulty sailing a normal ship with only two men anyway. And two days isn’t enough time to reach Nassau with the lack of actual sailing they’re able to do, anyway. He can tell by the sky they’re on course.

He isn’t worried. He has pillows, and fruit, and Silver had lost his skirt a day and a half ago.

Night falls on the second day when Silver says, “You should teach me something new.”

“Like what?” Flint isn’t paying attention to him. He’s trying to peel an unusually shaped fruit that can only be described as looking like the exact opposite of a banana. So far it has been impenetrable to teeth, nails, and now a very sharp dagger. “How to cook something without killing us?”

“Lord Flint.”

Flint looks up.

Silver is leaning against a pyramid of shining candelabras. Several lanterns illuminate the slight spread of his knees, the way his chin rests on his bare chest. His eyes are shadowed, but Flint knows the look that’s there.

“Teach me?” he says.

After that first – lesson, in the bathtub, Silver’s education had been more… hands-on. More observation, more learning by example. Not a whole lot of formal instruction. 

Which is how Flint finds himself about half an hour later, face down on a mountain of pillows, panting, “Now… now slowly…. ease in… another finger…”

Silver hums in acknowledgement as Flint feels another blunt fingertip slide in next to the other two currently working him open. “Like this?”

Flint gasps, his hands gripping tight around sparkling satin. “Yes,” he says. “Give it… give it a minute….” He’s never noticed how big Silver’s hands are. They’re slick with oil, so warm and heavy as Silver takes him literally, his hand still as he allows Flint to get used to the thickness.

“Okay,” Flint says, unable to stop pushing back just a little. “You’ll still want to go slow –”

“Why?” Silver interrupts curiously, his fingers starting to curl just the right way. “You like it when I fuck you hard and fast.”

Flint groans, because Silver’s fingers keep curling until they find that spot inside him that makes all the candlelight melt in his eyes. “You–” he says as best he can, “you take it slow – now – so we can fuck fast later. You – fuck, there.”

Silver hums again, running his other hand up to Flint’s lower back, up his spine, then back down again to his ass. It’s almost enough sensation to distract Flint from his fingers, now slowly thrusting inside him. “I watched you prepare yourself before. You always looked so needy, fucking yourself on your own hand. So desperate for my cock.”

“Fuck,” Flint groans again, trying to muffle himself on one of the pillows, because he’s about this close to agreeing. He feels oil slick down over his balls, feels his cock wet and leaking onto the pillow beneath him. It takes him a moment to catch Silver’s rhythm, moving his ass up in short thrusts.

“You look even better fucking yourself on my hand,” Silver says lowly. He’s bent down over him, so the words travel over Flint’s hips. Then his hand stops, and Flint can feel Silver’s lip curve over his skin at the whine Flint can’t help but making. “You always looked like it wasn’t enough, though. Like you just wanted to be stuffed. Could I give you more, do you think? Could you handle it?”

Flint can feel Silver’s fingers inside him, pulling back and overlapped, and when they push back down inside him, there’s an additional finger pressing against his entrance. The tip of his pinky slides in with the other fingers with some resistance. Flint has never felt so full, and he lets out an entirely different noise.

Silver leans back again, his hand stilling.“Can you handle it?” he asks quietly.

Flint can’t help it, but he thinks of the Bible in this moment. He’s breathing hard, his body alive and aching and shaking in the way he imagines Jacob felt, wrestling with an angel all night. He holds tight to the pillows, letting his knees spread as much as they can. “More–” he pants, looking back at Silver with one eye. “More oil.”

He turns back into his pillow, mostly to avoid Silver’s pleased, proud smile. Partly because his other hand has left Flint’s back and is now upending the rest of the oil over his fingers, Flint’s ass, and the part where they are inexorably joined. Flint feels heavy and wet and so open, just like an ocean.

“That’s it,” Silver says, his fingers forming a point as they drive into him, all four of them in even, deliberate thrusts. Every time he pushes down, he squeezes Flint’s ass with his palm and his thumb tightly, making all of Flint’s body twitch. “I knew you could do it, you’re doing so well. Could you come right from this? Just my hand and your cock sliding on that soft silk? Is it enough, Lord Flint? Or do you need…”

With Flint’s legs as far spread as they are, he’s not able to do much else besides moan and writhe and let Silver do all the work. Which is why all he can do is groan, “Silver!” when his hand pulls back, and when he pushes forward again, there’s now the thick, wide addition of another finger, slick and slowly, slowly moving inside him. And then all Flint can do is come harder than he ever has in his life, his whole body spasming as his vision blacks out.

When he can see again, Silver’s fingers are no longer inside him, but Silver is still nearby. The pillows are keeping Flint’s legs open, and his whole lower body feels loose and wet and shivery. Made even more so as Silver groans behind him, as his come hits Flint’s exposed asshole in hot bursts.

Silver collapses beside him shortly after, but Flint isn’t ready to move yet. His face is still pressed into one of his pillows, but he manages to unclench one hand and reach blindly over to him. He finds Silver’s chest and pats it a few time.

“A good first effort,” he mutters into his pillow.

“Fuck off,” says Silver, tiredly but happily. “I’m top of the fucking class.”

“Yeah, you’re a goddamn prodigy.” Flint’s finally able to turn his head. He still can’t lift it very far or….at all, but he can look at him with one bleary eye. Silver is flushed and sweaty and utterly, utterly heavenly. “Are you ready for lesson two?”

Silver’s eyes widen. “Uh…” He gives Flint’s body a sweeping glance. “Are you?”

“Lesson two,” Flint says with a sigh, closing his eye. “Be a decent human being and go get a wet cloth to clean me up.”

“I’m not a human being, I’m a god,” Silver mutters, but then he rolls over to press a scratchy kiss into Flint’s temple before standing up. “Everyone says so. I have amazing, earth-moving powers and everything.”

Flint turns his face into his pillow, because he’s about this close to agreeing again. And when Silver returns, running a cool, damp rag between Flint’s legs, he doesn’t move like a god at all. He’s gentle in the way only a human can be.

[monabela]

for the claim, ‘Early Republic of the United Netherlands, 1588-1609′, I present my (first) contribution to @aphabriefhistoryoftime aaaand I know it’s not the best thing I’ve ever written but I just wanted to give my Dutch provinces OCs some time in the limelight and talk about what I think the Origin Story of the Netherlands is. he is still Holland in most of this fic. I called places by the names used in English... for consistency I guess.

for some background; at this point in time, the Dutch Revolt/Eighty Years' War is going on - largely speaking, the fight for independence from Spain. it started in 1568, and at the point this fic starts, the seven northern provinces have formed a sort of union and are fighting to gain control of the southern provinces, which are under Spanish control. it's almost the modern-day Dutch-Belgian border, if you want an easy way to visualize it. here's a map!

title is from the national anthem's original text, meaning "loyal to the fatherland I will remain until I die".

den vaderlant getrouwe/blyf ick tot in den doet

characters: The Netherlands/Holland, the (other) Dutch provinces

word count: 3558 summary: A series of seven meetings Holland has from 1588 to 1609, while he and the other provinces solidify their stance as the Republic of the Seven United Netherlands - which is far from free of internal struggle.

also on AO3

I. The Hague, 1588

They had run out of options.

In a rare turn of events, all seven of them were present in The Hague, scattered in various stages of exhaustion on Holland’s furniture, coats and hats and even shoes discarded.

Guelders and Overijssel were leaning their backs against each other, Zeeland and Friesland were bent together and whispering, Groningen was eyeing them warily, and even Utrecht wasn’t looking his usual put-together self, his hat lying next to him and his dark hair falling across his eyes.

Holland sighed. The United Provinces were mostly united in exhaustion at this point.

Well, at least that meant he’d possibly be able to speak without being interrupted for once. He stood.

“Spain no longer has an armada,” he started, because honestly, that was the best news in a long while. “Thanks to England. We, however, no longer have a monarch.”

“No thanks to England,” Friesland added, her eyes flashing. She looked much like England, at many times, but he never had such fire in his gaze.

Holland only nodded at her. They were on speaking terms now, but fighting towards a common goal, but their last war was still fresh in his memory, and undoubtedly in hers as well. Friesland wasn’t the forgetting type. She looked away again.

“Our people have given up trying to find a monarch, the English sent here are returning to England, the Spaniards are going to France to fight there, and none of us have seen Spain since—when was it?”

Raising his eyebrows at Holland, Zeeland was the one who replied, “I saw him about, oh, three years ago. He was going to Flanders.” With a dark note to his voice, he added, “That man has too many fingers in too many pies.”

“Yes, I—”

“Holland, why are we in The Hague?”

He took a very deep breath and wondered he ever let Zeeland say anything. He was worse than Friesland in many ways.

The other five started chattering as well, and Holland couldn’t tell if they were defending him or Zeeland or if they were just being contrary for the fun of it. He sat back down, pressed his fingertips to his temples, and waited.

It wasn’t as though he was in charge of them; the seven provinces, united in their desire to be free from Spain, were all equal in their arrangement as it stood. Whoever was available could represent all of them to their people—could speak as the United Netherlands when seeking aid from England, when trying to convince Brabant to help them because some of her lands were in their hand after all, when meeting with Flanders, who was now by the grace of Spain the representative for all of his territories in the Low Countries—but Holland knew his stadtholder had him pegged to be their only personification abroad, to further the sense of unity.

He hadn’t told any of the other provinces this—just having Zeeland and Friesland nagging him about everything was enough.

Eventually, everyone quieted down again.

Groningen, ever the calm one, turned to the group at large.

“If we don’t have a monarch,” he started, and everyone leaned towards him to be able to understand his breathy voice, “that means we’re a republic.”

And wasn’t that just strange? How could something like that just happen, without intent?

“We have a prince,” Zeeland said.

“The prince lives in Spain and he’s Catholic,” Friesland retorted. “And your stadtholder isn’t a legitimate prince until he dies, you know that.”

They were all silent again.

Holland and Zeeland had the same stadtholder, the young Maurice of Nassau, who had also been appointed Captain-General of the army the previous year. Maurice was a smart man, and Holland liked him for his keen eye for warfare. It reminded him of his father, with whom he had started the revolt against Spain.

Groningen spread his hands forward and tossed his lovelock over one shoulder, which made Friesland roll her eyes at him. He, as usual, ignored her.

“So we’re a republic, be that we like it or not.  And we’re still at war.”

“We should go to Flanders,” Zeeland interjected, then actually recoiled when Groningen shot him a dirty look. Overijssel and Guelders snorted as one.

“What we need to do is stop being petty about where we meet and get ready to assist our stadtholders in their next move.”

Holland shot him a grateful look. Not all of Groningen’s land was part of the Dutch States’ territory, but he was on their side with more conviction than Friesland was.

“He’s right,” Utrecht added, having regained some of his composure and straightening his doublet. “We need to learn to work together, and not—Zeeland, will you stop making that face, please.”

Zeeland was pulling the most innocent face possible when Holland exasperatedly glanced his way, and leaning an elbow on Friesland’s shoulder. His mustache was twitching at one corner, betraying the look.

“Don’t make fun of Utrecht’s poor eyesight,” Holland sighed.

“Don’t rub it in!” Utrecht said, angrily picking up his glasses and pressing them to his nose.

And just like that, they were all off again.

Holland resolved to make sure no more than three of them would be in one room at any given moment from now on.

-

II. Leeuwarden, 1593

Holland was so tired of Friesland.

He shouldn’t even be here. He should be with his stadtholder on his own ground—he could feel Maurice’s troops gathering around the last city on them that was still in Spanish hands—but Friesland was just…

“I’m staying here,” she said again, crossing her arms. She was wearing a man’s doublet, her hair tied back from her face so that her dark eyebrows seemed to take up the largest part of it. Green eyes were hard. This was the way Holland knew her best, the stubborn, headstrong woman who’d resisted him for so long, resisted anyone who came near.

 “You know we voted in favor of this,” he said, glancing forlornly at Groningen, who wasn’t contributing anything whatsoever. “The Spanish are expecting us to go to Groningen when the troops return from Luxembourg.”

The past few years had been hectic; Maurice of Nassau was now also stadtholder of Utrecht, Guelders and Overijssel, and had booked significant successes for the United Provinces—that Friesland still vehemently refused to call anything containing the word ‘republic’ or ‘Netherlands’. They were now centrally governed from The Hague, with each province getting a vote of their own in the States General. Well, except for Drenthe, but she somehow didn’t seem to mind much.

Even as everyone agreed on making sure all of Holland was truly theirs, Zeeland kept nagging about Flanders—but at least he eventually agreed to help—and Friesland refused to go anywhere else than Groningen, insisting they had to get all of that province in hand. She was staying on her own territory for now.

Groningen didn’t seem to have an opinion one way or another.

Which brought Holland here, hours away from his own home, to the north of the Republic, to “try and talk some sense into her before the Spanish realize that Luxembourg is a diversion”. He still liked Maurice, but he hadn’t been dealing with Friesland and her stubbornness for as long as Holland had, and it showed.

He spared a thought for Luxembourg, who was an unwitting victim in all of this. He never seemed very interested in what Holland or Flanders were getting up to.

“So, Holland,” Friesland was saying now, snapping him from his thoughts, “run on back to your stadtholder and tell him I’ll be waiting here with my people until he realizes he needs us and comes to help.”

Groningen had swung both his legs over the armrest of his chair and was writing something with an inkwell precariously balancing on his knees, cushioned by his hose. Holland obviously shouldn’t expect anything from him. To be honest, none of the other provinces were ever inclined to get between him and Friesland, not even Zeeland.

Holland bit the inside of his cheek, picked his hat up from the table, and put it on his head. Friesland made no move to see him out, so he left on his own, without as much as a goodbye. He’d see her again soon enough. Groningen was to be taken next year.

-

III. Groningen, 1594

It was official now. They were, the seven of them and Drenthe, the Republic of the United Netherlands. Friesland could keep complaining all she wanted, but that was how the world would know them.

Holland sat on the steps of a building in the sun, listening to the noise that was Maurice of Nassau arriving in the city to celebrate their victory. The seven provinces were once again complete now that Groningen was all theirs.

“I thought I’d find you here.” The breathy voice was expected, and Holland merely nodded up at Groningen himself as he sat down next to him. His pale hair still shone in the sunlight, glinting nearly painfully, but he looked weary. There were dark circles under his brown eyes, and he was squinting down the street. Holland remembered how drained he’d felt after sieges in his own home—Leiden the most immediate one coming to mind—and patted the man’s knee.

Groningen huffed a laugh.

“Thank you, Holland.” Swiping his ever-too-long hair out of his face, he turned to him shrewdly. “Although I suppose we’ll be calling you Republic of the United Netherlands before long, isn’t it?”

Holland leaned back on his hands and looked down the street unseeingly.

“It makes sense,” Groningen continued. He seemed unperturbed, but he nearly always did. “And that’s not saying I like it, but if a new nation were to appear to represent us, they would have been found by now. I’ve heard the Holy Roman Empire appeared before anyone could even start to argue about representation. The situation was different, of course, but if anything is comparable, that would be it.”

Holland knew this; he’d been part of the Holy Roman Empire himself at the time, just a child and unaware of much that was happening on the rest of the continent. He’d explained what he could of the appearance, the duty, of nations to Maurice, and the man had concluded there was no other option than for one of the seven provinces to become the Republic of the United Netherlands. Holland reluctantly agreed, knowing it would be him and knowing the other provinces would hate him for it.

“Maybe we can rotate,” he said feebly, and Groningen laughed again.

“Oh, Holland. Once you are the Republic, you will forever be the Republic.”

“I know.” He sighed. “But, actually, I think I’m going to go with just ‘The Netherlands’.”

“Friesland will hate that even more.”

“I know,” he repeated. “There’s no helping it.”

They sat silently for a long time, a summer breeze lifting Groningen’s hair and threatening to upend Holland’s hat, and Holland reflected that even amid all the chaos of the revolt—had it really been almost thirty years already?—it was nice to do nothing sometimes.

-

IV. Flushing, 1596

“England, Holland!” Zeeland was coming after him. “England?”

“Stop saying my name,” Holland snapped, halting abruptly and spinning on his heels. “We’re in public. And, listen, I know you don’t like him—”

“Don’t like him?” Zeeland made an expansive gesture, almost knocking his own hat off. “I hate him, and now he’s in charge of one of my main cities!”

“He’s not—it’s just a lease.”

“Hol—Maarten, I can see that. It was important for us to have allies, and to be recognized as an independent nation by England and France is great, but why Flushing?”

Holland has explained this time and time again already and knew that Zeeland understood it perfectly well; he was a smart man. England had been an immense help even before he, France and the Netherlands officially vowed their triple alliance against Spain, and he’d needed compensation. Just two cities on lease, Flushing in Zeeland one of them.

Of course, it was never that easy when Zeeland was involved. The second-richest province, the second-most important port, second anything, Holland could understand where his feelings of betrayal came from, but he could hardly have let England take over Amsterdam, could he?

They stalked through the streets of the city; Holland could hear the sea rushing close by, an autumn storm building. He imagined, if he stood on the docks and the weather was clear, he’d almost be able to see Flanders on the other side of the sea, could feel the pull of its personification. He felt strangely close to her now, now that they had the same role of being the representation for all the provinces in their sphere of influence, even if Flanders was only so because Spain decided she should be.

“Why Flushing?”

They had actually reached the shore now. Holland sighed.

“I don’t know everything, Marinus,” he said, addressing Zeeland by his human alias in turn. Some humans passed by behind them, on the way to the market. Despite everything, trade in the whole Republic was flourishing. “You know none of us have much power over our people anymore.”

“I know. But your people have a lot of power over mine.”

They were back to the familiar argument, and Holland was tired of it. He whirled on the province.

“I didn’t ask to be the Netherlands, Marinus! I never wanted to pretend to be more than any of you!”

The humans stopped and stared at him; Zeeland did as well, holding on to his hat, his coat flapping in the wind as it picked up. He was used to storms, Holland knew, was used to feeling the water and the wind tear at his islands. In that way, he was maybe the strongest of the seven of them, but Holland didn’t envy him for it.

“There’s nothing we can do about it now,” he said through clenched teeth. “Maybe after we’re free, but—”

“No, you’re right, I know you are.” Zeeland rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It will take time to get used to it, but I know you’re the best choice. And don’t make me repeat that. Can I ask one thing?”

Holland nodded, flummoxed by the turn of events. Zeeland of all people, recognizing him as the Republic of the United Netherlands?

“Let me represent us on the water.” He grinned in that way only he could. “Name some newfound land after me, maybe.”

That sounded quite all right. New Zeeland would be a good enough name for a country.

“We can work something out.”

“Thank you, Maarten.” He tilted his head. “The Netherlands.”

-

V. Utrecht, 1598

“Oh, Holland.” Utrecht stood up behind his modest desk, resting his fingertips on the dark wood. “I was told you’d come.”

Holland smiled tightly and let himself flop down on the chair on the other side of the desk. He felt as though he hadn’t sat down for weeks now. Utrecht would at least not bother him; he was like that. None of them were as organized as he was, and in the face of Holland’s own neatness, that was impressive indeed.

So he sat there, listening to the scratch of quill on paper as Utrecht wrote something down, and had almost drifted to sleep when the province finally spoke.

“How is Flanders?”

Holland looked up, blinking.

“She’s fine.” He huffed. “We’re supposed to call her the Austrian Netherlands now, I presume.”

Utrecht shook his head. Holland had no idea what he was trying to say with the gesture, because his expression was unreadable. It tended to be. He pushed his own hair away from his face. It was getting too long.

“You’d think we’d be used to it,” Utrecht said calmly. He marked something off on his paper. “The humans treating land as if no one lives in it. I suppose that’s what we’re supposed to be for, to remind them.”

Holland had never thought about it like that, which just went to show that they were better off together. Utrecht thought about things.

The Spanish Netherlands were now the Austrian Netherlands, just because the King of Spain decided to give them to his daughter when she married the Archduke of Austria. It went like that. Holland himself had been gifted back and forth a lot in the dark ages.

They sat in silence for a while longer.

“I’m tired,” Holland eventually said.

“I know,” Utrecht replied. “But we aren’t there yet. We will have to keep going.”

But for how much longer? It had already been thirty years, and neither the Republic nor Spain was ready to give up. The triple alliance had all but fallen apart now that France made peace with Spain. Holland was feeling the pressure all around him.

“We’ll get there.” Utrecht’s ice-blue gaze was steady on Holland when he looked. “With or without Flanders.”

-

VI. Nijmegen, 1604

Holland knew he was fleeing, this time. He knew he couldn’t face the damage wrought on Flanders quite yet. He’d have to face her sometime, but for now, it was enough to feel the loss of his own people like an ache in his chest.

His people were getting quite desperate; now that the triple alliance was definitely done with after the reconciliation of Spain and England, and attempts to make peace were not getting anywhere, even if the Austrian Habsburgs were marginally better than the Spanish, all the focus was on the Republic again. For months now, there had been a siege going on in the only city in Flanders still under their control, and it wasn’t pretty.

So here he was instead of in Flanders, where his people were losing to Spain’s.

Guelders and Overijssel—and really, did those two ever go anywhere without the other—were both milling around the room restlessly. Holland hadn’t seen either of them for a while. They weren’t as annoying as the other provinces tended to be. Guelders took his role as being the first one allowed to cast his vote in the States General quite seriously, and he was always ready to help other people when none of the other six were.

Well, except for Drenthe, who was really the nicest one.

They kept forgetting about her.

“How are things in Amsterdam?” Overijssel asked.

“Same as ever,” Holland replied, pretending everything was all right. “Busy above all else.”

“Of course, of course!” With a sweep of his arm and a snag of his sleeve, Overijssel had sent papers flying everywhere. Guelders shot him a flat look and went about gathering them. Holland watched them with faint amusement.

Things weren’t well at all, and he was actually hoping to come to at least some sort of truce by now even if his stadtholder was unwilling, but at least these two didn’t change.

-

VII. Antwerp, 1609

And then there it was. The first time all seven of them were together again for the first time in year and years, and Drenthe was there too. And Spain, and Flanders, and there was a truce.

There was a truce.

“You don’t really think this means we’ll get a reprieve, do you?” Utrecht asked, pressing his glasses to his face, cheeks sunken in the flickering light in the hall.

Holland closed his eyes and held his hands up. He knew there was too much internal tension for there to be peace in the United Netherlands, but at least they wouldn’t have to fight Spain while hashing it out. Moreover, after the truce, they could go to Brabant, maybe even Limburg, maybe even Flanders.

Spain called him the Netherlands, albeit in French and with a condescending twist to his voice, but he recognized that they were one. He recognized that he spoke for all of the provinces.

“I still hate it,” Friesland said.

“We know,” said everyone who heard her, although it wasn’t all that clear whether she was referring to the name or her ostentatious dress.

“I’m going to sail,” Zeeland announced, and Flanders looked as though she’d be happy to be rid of him for a while. Holland—the Netherlands—smiled helplessly at her and found his own eyes reflected in hers. She smiled back equally helplessly through the throng of people, humans and nations alike. It seemed as though all the southern provinces—the Spanish, the Austrian, the Habsburg, whatever anyone called them—were all in Antwerp for the signing of the truce as well. Luxembourg was loudly complaining to Spain about the food of all things. He was a weird guy.

Maybe they wouldn’t go to Flanders. Maybe, Flanders should be on her own.

No one would agree with him, Netherlands thought.

Well, when did they ever?

Brabant was looking at him from her corner of the room as if trying to seize him up. They’d done quite some damage to her largest cities while trying to advance, and she seemed to be trying to stay out of everything as much as she could. Netherlands nodded at her. She nodded back and turned away to talk to her people.

The future was looking less grim now; time to make some money.

Netherlands was going to sell so many things to Spain.

[least-among-hamiltons]

His heart is a suspended lute; As soon as you touch it, it resonates. [ GIVE ME FREEFORM SHIT ]

i.

the first time you see a boy and think want somewhere in the vicinity of your throat you are only four and he’s the son of a friend of a friend of your father’s, and you kiss him behind the curve of the stairs. it’s what you’ve seen parents do, a sign you want to align yourself with someone forever, and after a bright moment when it feels like the world is set arights, you tell him it’s part of the game of romans that you’ve been playing, a show of partnership, of brotherhood. you’re very clever when afraid, and he accepts it when you say it was to show venus was acting through you. you stare into the mirror with hatred at the excuse after he leaves, and wish acutely you’d been brave enough to say nothing. he never comes back to the house, but it must be for some other reason because your father would lash out if he knew. (you are four and you know this).

ii.

the second time you feel the fire in your throat and in your lungs you are nine and you have accepted that this is a part of you, and you have started to hide because of how people treat you for it. your father pays attention to your younger brother over you now, and the new lady hamilton pays you little mind. a few of the teachers worry, but you think it’s just that they know, so you avoid them. one of your teachers speaks and gesticulates with fire and surety, and somewhere in your mind it registers that you want to be like him someday. you think back on the time you kissed the boy behind the stairs and flush with shame and self-assuredness. there is nothing where other emotions will arrive later, but there is a fire of surety that this is what you want to be.

iii.

you are eleven and children are cruel. it’s easier if you call your peers children, it makes the hot tears you cry over their words seem less permanent. there is no respite, only pockets of quiet, and you find yourself seeking out an absence of human contact. your only respite is in fencing, and you can hide behind the netting of the masks, in rigid practice of form and self-discipline create something for your mind to lash out against. your instructor notices your skinned palms and, in your frustrated anger, you tell him the truth, that a classmate pushed you. he asks gently if you want to know what to do if they try that again, and you fall in love on the spot. you know the emotion now, and it shivers strangely through you.

iv.

you are thirteen and you’ve just been told miranda barlowe is to be your betrothed. you try and breathe around the chalky panic in your lungs, but you cannot. you’ve never met her, but your father assures you that she will be a good match, in spite of your… shortcomings. for a blinding second, you think that your father knows, but there is none of the familiar loathing in his eyes as when he talks about the… the people like you… the people like you he’s put up on the scaffold. you breathe around the panic, and think of how there must be a way out of this.

v.

miranda is a genius. staging a fight to get him sent to an all-boys’ school takes the brilliant anger and sharp wit you’ve never dared have, but living outside of london and in the countryside suits you like nothing else. you’re fifteen and the boys here are gorgeous, and you think there might be unwritten rules that you don’t know yet but you will. you’ve always been a quick study.

vi.

boys here are cruel, and sometimes even the boys like you are cruel too. you have just turned sixteen and you are learning that you and all the other boys like you here are so angry. you know exactly how inhospitable the world outside of the school is, and even inside the school, it pays to be brilliant, charming, and as sharp-tongued as a snake. you try and keep your softness, it’s the best part of you, miranda said, but between that and the cruelties of those boys who are unlike you, it’s getting hard to stay.

vii.

you are eighteen and london would be better than this. anything would be better than this. anything would be better than this. miranda says she’ll throw a fit to get her father to move the marriage to christmas to get him out of the school, and he cries over the letter until the ink runs before burning it. the other boys think the letters are from a lover, and he doesn’t tell them otherwise. when one of his horrendous schoolmates steals a letter and finds that it’s a fiance, all of a sudden he is even more alone. he spends his last few months buried in books and study.

vii.

you’ve just turned nineteen and miranda has known since the beginning. she has supported him, and he has come to love her as his dearest friend. nothing he says during the wedding rings false, but he shares secret smiles with her, ignores the sad twist of her mouth. they both know he cannot and will not love her how she would hope, but he’s devising a scheme to make it possible not to trap her in the gilded cage that is his security.

viii.

he’s twenty-two parliament is easy, god it’s nothing compared to the games of boarding school, except that each adversary is more wrong than the other. he raises his voice too much, he knows, and the first time he’s branded a radical it feels like a death knell, but he and miranda are brilliant and tenacious and determined to be happy, so he continues on through it, and turns the gauntlet of fire into a reputation. the salons fan the flames of it, and he finds likeminded others. when he sees boys from boarding school, they never speak unless it’s pleasantries, but sometimes they’ll come sit in the back of the salons. thomas tries to quell the sick-sweet taste of regret and horrendous memory when he sees them. he is still kind, in spite of everything, and a bit of a fool, but he’d rather be a fool than dead. and it really was that choice, in the end.

ix.

he’s twenty-seven, and he makes a friend of peter ashe. he’s not surprised, at this point, that staying the course has proven to be a workable strategy, but he’s gotten good at making it confusing to track his successes back to him. some of the foolish men who were cruel boys at school stand across the room from him now, and he’s making a name for himself for making unworkable strategies workable. and he’s caught the eye of a star. peter debates with him openly in the salons about things that are obvious enough not to draw attention, but his attendance doesn’t waver. he tells thomas to stand behind a project (peter’s project) and to trust the weight of his name to carry him. thomas doesn’t believe him, but he tries it. and instead of the ridicule he expects, he is faced with respect and a degree of applause. it shocks him to his core. has he at some point become a politician? (it makes sense, since that is what he’s devoted himself to) his father sends him a letter of congratulation, and thomas burns it. the letter that follows, offering thomas the house (his brother had gotten a governorship across the sea, and his father had purchased a richer one) he is more hesitant to burn. he shows it to miranda, miranda who’s had next to no space to conduct her life in the small house they’ve been sharing, and in the end, he responds.

x.

he is thirty-four, and he manages to put his foot in his mouth the second he meets the man he’s destined to fall in love with. he’s abrasive where he should be quiet, he doubts where he shouldn’t question, and he misses every step on the pleasantries ladder, but lt mcgraw answers him honestly. castises him easily and doesn’t deny his compliment, but he answers honestly. thomas hasn’t looked in a very long time, at least not in any substantial way, but when lt. mcgraw dismantles his nassau plan and thomas has to struggle to dismiss his dismissals (none of which are anything other than pointing out the resistance of third parties, no resistances of mcgraw’s own, at least yet) thomas thinks he might be a little bit taken. if he permits himself. miranda is taken with him too, and he thinks james mcgraw might be someone special.

xi.

he learns that it’s not that easy, and that even after all this time he falls hard and falls easy and falls fast. he has miranda and peter, though, to keep him from doing anything stupid. also james is special. more special than he can know. more special than he can ever dream. quicksilver and virtuosity hover in the air around him like light, and, even after all this time, thomas’s heart is a suspended lute; as soon as you touch it, it resonates

[phenomenal1500]

The Blood In My Veins | Black Sails

Chapter 47: Forced To Be Someone I'm Not

For Chapter 46: Right Time, Right Place click here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I will."

"Good luck, Jack." I patted him on his back before letting go and there he went, away from me, leaving me all alone in a civilised world.

~~~

Right when the next day started, I was pulled into a small bedroom and was ordered by the governor to dress myself as a proper formal woman.

Immediately, maids were measuring me to probably make a dress or find one that would suit me and they had against my will undressed me and dragged me into a hot bath. The hot bath wasn't such a problem though. It felt nice to relax for a moment and being clean felt refreshing too. I had a moment to think and hope Flint, Anne and Charles would manage to save Jack from his hell as I laid my head back. Eventually the maids came back and I got handed over a normally common red dress when I was commanded to come out of the relaxing bathtub and cocky I shook my head towards the maids.

"If I have to blend in your 'perfect' civilised world. I want it more.... uncommon, more my style." Without hesitation the women nodded at me and they left the room with me in it, all alone.

Sighing, I almost crumbled to the ground, still naked and wet.

I had been forced to live a life I didn't want to live so many times and I finally thought I was free from it the day I decided to become a pirate. I had fought for the freedom to be my own person, but it seemed like all that effort was thrown away just like that.

I knew when this was all over, I could go back to who I was, but it felt like what I feared was coming true. Becoming one of those judging, fancy whores under a governor's or king's command.

After an hour of trying to keep the tears at bay because of all the bad thoughts, one maid walked in on her own. She laid a beautiful long 'Circassian-like' white dress with gold embroideries onto the bed and held out her hand to help me raise to my feet.

"I'm sorry if the girls are picking on you. They simply hate pirates-...."

"And you?" I raised an eyebrow at the black haired woman.

She didn't look like one of the governor's maids, she was rather very familiar to me.

"I don't, I'm working with a resistance.... and when I heard you were here, it was better to pay you a visit." She slowly smiled at me and I nodded back.

"What kind of resistance?"

"I work together with Captain Vane and Augustus Featherstone. I told them where the exchange was taking place, my name is Idelle."

"You spoke to Charles?"

"Yes, he was worried. Sadly, the time the three of us spoke, I didn't know about you being here so that's why I couldn't reassure him you were safe."

"I hope they find Jack so he can give the message I'm unharmed, but being mentally tortured by this island." I weakly laughed.

"Well, put it on." She stared enthusiastically at me. "I don't know if you like the feeling of a dress though."

"Dresses have a lot of disadvantages.... that's why I don't wear them, but they aren't that bad." I explained to Idelle and straightened my back as I covered my body with a blanket. I was getting cold.

"Well, this one doesn't have a corset."

My head shot up.

"Look, that sounds way better, doesn't it?" My mood had cleared up a bit seeing a face that is in the same 'resisting civilisation' state as I was and with effort tried on the dress.

~~~

(POV Charles Vane)

Shooting the last man standing, he stumbled back and bled out on the ground before I and Anne hurriedly made our way to the carriage which had crashed on the hand of our unannounced attack.

Anne had kneeled down before the window and I quickly followed, spotting Jack laying lifeless under a few wooden beams. Taking a deep breath, I saw that Anne had also removed her face cover and concerned watched Jack covered in blood. When she almost lost hope, her eyes grew wide and I smiled when we heard Jack groan in pain and move his fingers. With speed, Anne had taken action and gasped before she made her way through the carriage to Jack, kissing him desperately.

"Ow." Jack complained and Anne just chuckled while I climbed in as well, handing the cache over to Flint and Bones so they could bring that somewhere safe.

As Anne tried to get Jack free around his wrists I instead had put an iron stick between the chains and the place where it was bound to, pulling the stick towards me with the hope I could break it.

"We need to move, now!"

"Go!" Grunting, I shortly responded.

"Go?"

"Take the chest to the beach. We'll be right behind you." I groaned, putting all my force behind trying to get my friend free.

"Right behind us?" Flint didn't trust me and was worried about us, I could hear it in the way he spoke up and I stopped pulling, jerking my head the way Flint was standing.

I knew he didn't want to leave someone behind, but we came here for Jack as well and he needed to be released.

"Yeah." I reassured and continued my work, a terrible sound hearable.

In the corner of my eye I could see Flint nodding at us before he left us behind in the carriage.

"I thought you said you and Nassau were through."

"Got worried you two'd be lost without me. Glad to see I was wrong about that."

"I was locked up with Naida. She's safe now. I helped her regain her freedom inside Nassau without her having to take the pardon." My head shot up and suddenly my face started to automatically smirk. I must say that was the best news I heard in a couple of weeks and out of a sudden all my rage was gone, except for the one towards Rogers, still for capturing my woman and taking Nassau from us.

Man, hearing she was unharmed eased my mind a bit.

"Thank you."

"You love her.... and she has been nothing but a good friend towards me and Anne." He smiled, probably happy to not see me terribly stressed anymore. "And Teach? How has he taken your change of heart?"

"Couldn't say. If you see him, I suppose you could ask him." I spoke through my grunts as my arms were getting more exhausted as the seconds passed. From the distance I could hear Flint and Bones disappearing by the fading of their horses' sounds and I started to work harder and faster. Time was running out after all and when I was almost there, Jack clamped his chains so it would break easier and within a small amount of time afterwards, he broke free. I climbed up the carriage to jump from the top to the floor so I could help Jack to get out from the outside of the carriage and he groaned in pain as I supported him with walking.

"Look." Jack stated and then we heard it, the horses whinnying and redcoats sitting on top of them.

[flinnybillymoonexplosion]

I'm still salty about what they did to Billy's character in season 4... "he betrayed his brothers because ANGER" GAH WHY

2nd message:

vincisomething ha dicho:  I mean how can you take the ship's mother and then be like "he's angry now and doesn't care about anyone anymore" ?? ??? He still sided with Flint for the sake of his brothers, but I guess nvm??        

Hi there!

I know how you feel. It’s been almost a year since the show ended and I still can’t get over Billy Bones’ fate in season 4 nor understand the hate he gets in the fandom.

This morning I was talking with my bf about this message you sent me and how I haven’t been very active in the BS fandom lately. Every post of BS  in my dash is about Silverflint or Flinthamilton (which is great for the people who like their relationships or who are in love with those characters, but it’s not my case) and I got bored of having them in my dash. When I see a post about Billy I am skeptical, I mean, I am like Billy (as honorable as they come) so if I see that someone has said something bad about him, or are rude to him, I simply avoid them, I don’t like to have verbal fights (after all everyone has their right to give their opinions) so I just act like a ghost and let them be. It wasn’t until I saw the post  “how to fight a BS character”, or something like that, where they  suggest to push Billy again to the sea, when I had enough. I had enough of people joking about him, enough of people being rude to him and enough of people not understanding him, that’s why I made the comic post. I needed to show my support for  Billy, and I needed to let people know that he’s not the villain of the story. My bf has told me that if it wasn’t for all the character interpretation or explanations I gave to him about Billy during the 4th season, he would had seen him as the villain of the story too and not as the victim he is. He also understands his motivations and everything that he’s been through the show, and he doesn’t get why people can’t see it too. We both believe that Billy deserved better.

During the last season, and even though I was (and still I am) a  Billy and Flint shipper, I only wanted one thing: Flint and Billy to have a proper conversation about their situation and truest intentions. I didn’t care about Blint or Flint anymore, I just wanted someone to thank Billy for everything he had achived and I wished there was someone who could listen and respect Billy the way he deserved. But then again none did, not in the show and even less in the fandom (well there were some people who were defending Billy too, but then again we were very few).

In my opinion, as I told in the comments of my last post, I think the writers screw Billy up for the sake of Silver and Flint’s relationship. I don’t know if it’s bad wrtiting or not, I am not going that way. But I think that the writers wanted to make Silver the hero and free Flint and they needed  a close or familiar villain to do so, and there enters Billy.

On the contrary to Silver’s character, Billy is always in the wrong place at the wrong time, he's unlucky. He gets to know things too early or too late, or never at all. His thoughts and actions are misunderstood by his context. Even though he’s pure at heart and believes in the good side of people and cares for his crew, his dark side, his traumas, had made him very paranoid and straightfoward when there's something that he doesn't see as right or that is going on without his consent. I am the first to say that Billy is a cinammon roll and that he's just a puppy, but the truth is that Billy is a man who has gone through so much trauma and physichal pain that he can act too bitter and cold hearted when the tension explodes. The fact that we've never seen him that way before season 4 doesn't mean he's not a dark character. The reason why he hadn't explode earlier in the show is because he hadn't had the time to happen. I mean, he has been left for dead in season 1-2 after he discovered Miranda's letter. Then he disappears and we never get to know if Flint pushed him or not from the ship, he doesn't even care about it. He comes back changed.

He always does. @kelofthesea explains it very well in this post (please take a look at it and then continue):

Then again, when he comes back from his second time being tortured by the English Navy, he still sides by Flint, by his crew. He wants to protect all of them, even the Captain. What he wants in season 3, and Silver also does, is to get Flint aside of the power, they don't like what James "suicidal mode" Flint is making to the crew after Miranda's death. He believes that Silver, for the sake of the crew, wants the same as he, that's why he creates the legend of Long John Silver. He stays in Nassau for the sake of the resistence. Vane dies, but it wasn't Billy's fault. Vane wanted to die and he tells Billy not to rescue him. Vane valued and respected Billy as a pirate like no one did, and he knew Billy would understand his will. So we can't blame Billy for Vane's death, that's for sure.

When season 4 starts,  Flint and Silver are already friends, and Billy doesn't have a clue about it. Flint has told his story with Thomas to Silver (and Billy is still clueless, and it's funny becauise Thomas is the reason why Flint fights for) and, as we end up seeing at the end of the show, he has shared some fighting strategies with Silver too (while Billy was maintaining the plan in Nassau). In those scenes Flint asks Silver about his past. Silver tells him that it's not important, maybe because the trauma doesn't allow him to speak about it. But Flint realises about one important thing when Silver tells him that he was born in Whitechapel: "I remember when you first told me, it sounded like an invention. About one story that bled into others I’d heard told elsewhere to the crew. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I suppose I assumed that if you ever became somebody worth knowing, I’d learn the truth of it eventually. Only in this moment, I’m realizing that never happened. And what is of some concern to me is that despite how invested we each are in the future of the other you just told me that story again". Flint wants to know the truth about Silver, his truest backstory, he has entrusted his. He knows that one story was just a ticket for Silver to survive in the crew, Flint might thought that after the traumas Silver has gone through in the Walrus (loosing his leg, witnessing Muldon's death...) and most importantly his frienship with him, Silver would have told him a more intimate and truer backstory. But he doesn't. Why? because he's a liar. He's always been. I am not sayig that Silver's relationship with Flint is fake. Just saying that I've never trusted Silver cause he uses the stories (his or anyones) for his own benefits, and even if the trauma of his past doesn't let him talk, we never ever get to know were he comes from (or any kind of anger caused by that trauma).

Billy case is similiar but different. He never gets to talk about his past, we learn about his childhood when Flint tells Abigail about it. Flint knows the truth, knows how the life of Billy changed when he was just a kid. He witnessed how Billy changed again when he killed his first man and he realised he couldn't go back home to his parents because he became a murder. Trauma changes people, and Billy has change from trauma to trauma. We have witness it. He doesn't talk about what they did to him, or complains about it, he acts as if nothing had changed in him. But the truth is everything has change, and then he gives that powerfull speech to Dufresne about the tortures effetcs. He's showing his backstory without showing us what really he went through.

In season 4 Billy goes from one misunderstanding to another. First one when Flint's ship is attacked and Silver falls to the sea. Flint inmidietly blames Billy. But then again it wasn't Billy's fault. He gave the alarm and sent Featherstone to tell them. Then we learn that Max was behind it all the time, was she ever condemned by it? No. When they are at Miranda's house, Billy is having enough of mainsplaining from Flint and he faces him telling him that Flint is not the one in command in Nassau. Billy is the responsible of the resistance and he has fight and bleed along the men, not him. And he's right. He's also fucked up because of the disappearance of Silver, cause he was his friend too, so he continues to act according to the plan, get Flint out of the war. But he doesn't count with Madi, so now he has Madi as Flint's ally so there's not much he can do to continue with his plan other disobeying Flint's commands.

What happened in Underhill was Billy's fault, ok. But he was done with the situation of having everyone against him, having Flint telling him what to do. As I understand it wasn't a racist attack to the slaves. Billy knows what it feels like to be treaten like a slave. He was kidnapped when he was a teen, so he knows how this people must feel, being parted from their family, just like him. In my opinion he wanted in one hand to continue with the plan, not hearing Flint's advice (though this time Flint was right) and in the other hand he wanted to rebeal to Flint, just to show him that he wasn't under his control anymore. I understand his acts and I support him, why not?

When he gets the crew killed (I can't remember very well the plot cause I'm still unable to rewatch season 4, so tell me if I am wrong please) in the first episodes of the season, everyone started to hate him, cancelling him and stuff like that. And I was like, why are they condemning Billy now and not other charaters who did similar things before? Didn't Flint killed Gates because he was revealing againts him after Billy's death? Didn't Flint killed two crew members when they all were going through a rough time in the ship when they were adrift? Didn't Silver planned to steal and played Flint with the Urca's gold (and someone who was working in his plan got killed in the way)? Didn't Anne Bony killed Longan and then Charlott (a pure and inocent gilr who created Jack's flag image) in the burdel? Why is it so difficult to forgive Billy? He was the leader of the resistence and did what he had to do, they were collateral damage, and he is responsible of that, yeah, but he is not the only one who has taken bad decisions in the show, but it seems like he's the only one who people can't forgive, and that's something that I can't understand.

Then, when Flint is in the fort and they are about to "give" Eleanor the treasure, Billy stands and tries to get Flint alive and the treasure back, but what he doesn't know is that Silver is playing him, bringing him to a rat trap. And it's funny cause that's what at the end Silver ends up doing: setting Flint free (letting him become James McGraw again). At least that's my opinion. Billy didn't want to kill Flint, he wanted to restrain him, cancel him. But then again, I guess Billy's next moves made him untrusted again when he goes to Rogers and claims to be Long John Silver himself.

But what did people expect Billy to do when he has been tortured for the third time in his life by his crew and his friend? How would you feel if you had a plan with your best friend (or co-worker friend) and you both wanted to get your crazy boss out of your way, but then you realized that during the time you were bussy creating and maintaining the plan they both become close friends and then they blame you for everything, never revealing you the truth? How do you think Billy would feel in that situation, being tortured for the third time (I repeat)? That moment was what made him change compleatly and made him go to Rogers. I was glad when he went to him and told him the whole truth. He is Long John Silver, he has being fighting and scaring Nassau with the resistance. He was the one behind that legend, and nobody thanked him anything the whole time. He screwed up creating that persona, yes, but it was necesary for the resistance. So yeah! I was glad about it, and at one point I thought that maybe Billy was planning to play Rogers for the sake of a plot twist, where we could find that Billy was good all along... but it didn't happend. What we got was, once again, an ally who was going to use and abuse Billy and who was not going to listen or respect him. So yeah, it's sad, very sad.

At the end, when he fights with Flint, I truly don't know what to say... it's painful for me to remember it, and even harder to get a conclusion. The only thing I know is that Billy is one of the greates characters I've seen. Too dark, and to too pure. When he gets up in the beach and realises that he's left alone in the island we can clearly see all the shit he has gone through.

For me it feels like both Billy and Silver are like the most hard working kid in class and the cheater one. When the hard working (who's backstory seems kind of dark) gets good marks and compleats every homework or task the teacher asks it's always fine. Everybody kind of envies and admires him cause he's never ever gave any problem before and they know what to expect from him. The cheater copies, tells jokes, is charismatic but everything he does is always wrong (we don't know for sure his backstory but we know it must be kind of bad). He sometimes blames others or makes up stories to get away with punishmients, he's unexpected. But what happens when the hardworking starts to rebeal and the cheater makes one right thing (hen the hardworker has had enough of dealing with his traumas, and the cheater who has suffered too, redeems himself or another)? That they all punish the hardworker for his behaviour, not expecting it from him, and prize the cheater for the only good thing he has done, that was also unexpected! That's not fair. They both need to be treated in a more equal way. Yeah, the good guy made a mistake, but pay close attention to that mistake and find the truth behind it, help him to get it from his chest. And yeah the cheater is great too, we can encourage him to be that way, but not forgeting all the things he has done before.

I don't know what kind of metaphore I came up with, but what I want to say is that I understad Billy and his actions, in fact I understand every BS characters decisions and acts too and I also support them. I think that what I really mean is that Billy has gone from being the mom of the Walrus to the reek of the Walrus because they wanted to prize Silver. I mean, I think that Silver is a very complicated and interesting character and I love his arch, but I still believe that he's a liar and I still can't believe the ending of the show, cause it's a story told by himself, and we all know that stories could be true or not, so I mantain my instincts. And about Billy, who knows, maybe he didn't end up that way... and season 4 never happend! ;)

Thank you so much for the ask. It's been a long while since I wrote something about Billy and his character arch in season 4! As I told before I haven't rewatched the 4th season, so maybe I am wrong in somethings, forgive me for that in advance an let me know if so. I don't know if I answered your question, but it all came to me as I was writing it (I spent the whole afternoon in this). Thank you again!

[daphner20]

Sean Allen

Redemption

Prologue

“ Ladies and Gentlemen, please help me congratulate Mr. Sean Allen, on his appointment as Judge of our new Drug Court,” said Attorney General Kenneth Hall.

As they were clapping and applauding, Sean reflected, on his journey to date.

35 years ago, my mom, at the age of 21, was on her 4th pregnancy. She had 3 daughters already. She knew that my father loved his girls, but she saw the disappointment in his face, every time the doctor will say “it’s a girl.”

Also, she was tired, she has been pregnant for the last 4 years, and she wanted this to be her last pregnancy.

So she made a vow to God. If God will bless her with a son, she will give him back to God. His upbringing and education, will be founded on Christian principles. His life work will bring honor and glory to God. He will also be a blessing to his country. Also no wine or strong drink, will ever touch his lips.

And on the 7th of July, Sharon Allen, brought forth  a 8lb, baby boy, and he was named Sean Samuel Allen.

My parents we elated. Especially my mom. She never forgot her vow to God. She made sure, I didn’t forget either.

I went to Catholic primary school, and at 11, I was sent to a Jesuit Boarding School, in Florida. II also attended a Jesuit University, in New York, my mom, kept her vow. However, I didn’t want to be a priest, but a lawyer. She was fine with that, as long as I honored God and I was a blessing to the country.

I attended law school at home, in The Bahamas. At 24, I started working in the Attorney General Office,  as a Prosecutor, in various courts, but eventually specializing in drug cases.

And here I am at 35, one of the youngest judges, to be appointed in a specialized court in my country.

So, as they lift their glasses, with Champagne, my glass had ginger ale. I have never had a drop of alcohol in my entire life.

Chapter 1

Shortly after, with a substantial increase in drug convictions, I was asked to be apart of a Special Joint Task Force.

When the United States declared a war on drugs, it seek several Caribbean Countries to partner with them. The Bahamas was in a unique position for several reasons. Firstly, because we are an archipelago country, with over 700 islands, rocks and cays. We were considered a trans-shipment point. We are the closest Caribbean Country to the United States. We also had one of the largest  container port in The Caribbean. 

Our first Task force meeting was held, in Miami, Florida. All the relevant agencies were there. The DEA, DEU, CIA,  FBI,  judges and prosecutors from 18 Caribbean and South America Countries. I felt a since of honor, to be apart of a prestigious organization.

Later that evening, a cocktail reception was held and we were encourage to mingle with each other. 

“ Buenos noches,' said this beautiful woman, “ I am Carmen Reyes, Attorney General of El Paseo.”

“ Good Evening,” I am Sean Allen, from The Bahamas,” I said, smiling.

“ Oh don’t be modest Justice Allen, I know who your are, actually every one here knows who you are, “ she said graciously.

From that moment on, we were inseparable. On the last night of the meeting, seven days later. 

I asked Carmen four little words, “ Will you marry me?”

Chapter 2

“ Why the rush Sean,” asked Sam Allen, my father.

“ I am not in any rush, I know what I want, and I want Carmen,” I said.

“ What is wrong, with a Bahamian girl?” asked Sharon, my mom.

“ There is nothing wrong with Bahamian woman, I was raised by one, and I am related to three wonderful Bahamian women (sisters).” Sean said lovingly.

But his mom will not be deterred.

“ What do you know about her or her family?” asked Sharon.

“ I know enough, that I want to spend the rest of my life with her,” said Sean annoyingly.

“ Sean, you could be compromise! She is from a country that is known for drugs, and you preside over a drug court, isn’t that a conflict of interest?” ask Sharon .

“ What is the conflict? Carmen and I are on the same side, when it comes to the drug trade. She know it’s my life work, and she supports me!” exclaimed Sean. He was truly angry now. He had never been angry with his parents, ever. What’s going on here he thought.

3 months later, we were married in El Paseo, Texas, it was a beautiful day, except for the Father giver, Raul Reyes Mendoza, the Head of Mendoza Cartel. I was in shock, Carmen never revealed this to me.

As soon as the reception was over, I went home that night, to The Bahamas.

Over the next 6 months, every one of Carmen, country man, that enter my court their sentence was double. After awhile, I felt bad about the way I treated Carmen, so I decided to visit her, but I was told she had move back to Colombia. When I got there, her father told me with such relish, that Carmen had remarried.

He told me that I brought disgrace and dishonor to his house.  Can you believe it? This monster, who has wreck havoc on some many countries. Who has murdered thousands, he has made widows and orphans in the thousands. How dare he?

Chapter 3

So armed with righteous  indignation, Justice Sean Allen, became a one man army against The Mendoza Cartel. Everyone knew that, if you came to his court, your chances of getting off, was so slim.

He was also very active in the Task Force. Sometimes he participated in search and seizure missions. 

In the legal community, Sean Allen, was know as a champion for the people. In the underworld, he was a threat to their way of life, and he to be dealt with.

As time went on, Justice Allen, had numerous attempts on his life, and he prevailed each time. The Lord was with Sean.

Shortly, afterwards Sean was summoned to a special meeting with the Task Force.

“ Good morning Justice Allen, I will be brief, we have credible intelligence, that there is a million dollar bounty on your head. We would like to put you in protective custody,” said Special Agent James Smith.

“Thanks, but no thanks, but I will not be run of my job or country,” said Sean, “ the Lord will prevail.”

Several months later, while having dinner with some fellow judges, in Nassau, 

“We will like to thank the chef,” said Sean, to their waitress.

“ I am the executive chef and owner, I hope you enjoy your meal,” my name is Dedra Jones.

Sean was speechless, he loved her instantly.  It has been 5 years since Carmen, an at 40, it’s time to settle down. However, this time, he will do a thorough back ground check.

Chapter 4

Dedra Jones, was born in California, she attended UCLA, where she majored in Business Management, but her passion, had always been food. So she enroll in Culinary school, and the rest is history.

We were together, every chance, we got. She will cooked for me, food I had never tried in my life. Another first, she encourage me to drink. I resisted at first, but she was so persistent, that I gave in. She convinced me, that she cooked with wine, so me drinking it, was basically the same thing.

The changes in my life were not subtle. Firstly, I knew, my parents didn’t approve of Dedra, so I barely spoke to them. I quit the Task Force, because they were constantly telling me I was in danger. Then finally my job, there were no more passion or zeal.

I only wanted Dedra, I became obsessed. If I didn’t hear from her, I became jealous and paranoid. It was so out of character, I didn’t know what to do. Dedra encouraged me to try one of her sleeping pills, because I had developed insomnia. Over a period of time, I needed pills just to get through the day. I was drinking as well,, vodka was my liquor of choice.

Then one fateful night, while driving home I fell asleep at the wheel. Three days later, when I regained consciousness, it was on every news outlet, locally and internationally. “Bahamian Drug Judge is a Junkie.”

Chapter 5

When I taken to the hospital, they ran the routine toxicology test. I had every illicit drug in my system. The report was leaked to the media.

The first person I asked for was Dedra, only my family was there. She had left the country.

I was asked to step down as a judge (fired). Ostracized, by my colleagues, all of my convictions were being investigated. My drug court was disbanded I was ruined, the Lord had departed from me.

The Cartel, finally had succeeded in destroying me.  This time, the weapon they used was older than time itself, it was Dedra! She was consistently lacing my food and wine with drugs. Hence my paranoia and erratic mood swings. It had also affected my health.

Sean never practice law again. He was never disbarred. But the humiliation was too great, he was a prisoner in his mind. The only people he saw, were his family. He had let his country, his family, and God down.

Two years later, he had a special visitor, who came a calling.

“ We have put together a Special Covet Operation, and we want you to be a part of it,” said the now Director James Smith.

“ Are you the only person, who haven’t heard what I have done,” said Sean.

“ I know who you are and what you stood for, the Cartel is becoming stronger, and they need to be stopped, and you are the man for the job,” said James.

“ I don’t know James,” said Sean sadly.

“ Think it over, a just man falls seven times, but he gets back up,” said James as he left.

Sean, then prayed to the Lord saying, “O Lord God, remember me, I pray! Strengthen me, I pray, just this once,  O God, that I may with one blow take vengeance on the Cartel for destroying my life.”

This time, the Covet Operation, that Sean was a part of resulted in the conviction and the death of many members of the Cartel. Also every drug field, and lab was burnt to the ground. Millions of their assets were confiscated.

Justice Sean Samuel Allen died a few months later, he was given a state funeral.

The Bahamas had rest for 20 years.

The End