Lord Cutler Beckett

The Heart Asks Pleasure First ~ A Tale of Revenge and Murder (Sparrabeth music vid)

2008-07-15T23:05:08Z

Title: The Heart Asks Pleasure First ~ A Tale of Revenge and Murder
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sparrabeth
Characters: Elizabeth, Jack, Cutler Beckett, Tia Dalma, Barbossa, Will, Davy Jones

Summary: This is my entry to a contest that urged us not to use the cliché clips while making a vid about Sparrabeth/Willabeth/ or Norribeth. Follow the link to youtube, there is a long description. You'll need it. This is a proper, epic story that I would write if I wrote het.

Disclaimer: I don't own PotC.

(The Heart Asks Pleasure First)

Mah tragic Speckett Vid

2008-07-15T13:44:47Z

Cutler and Jack once swore that their love would be forever, but then Norrington brought Cutler the heart of Davy Jones, drowning their romance in the wild sea of Cutler's crazy power dreams...or something of that sort. Enjoy (as your ears bleed) my latest dubious piece of 'entertainment', as I leave you to decide upon the real tragedy...Cutty and Jacky's shattered love, or Kitty May's music collection...

Dedicated to spookyfbi

Triumvirate ch. 6

2008-07-05T03:01:40Z

And we are done. Huzzah!

Title: Triumvirate 6/6
Pairing: Meckett
Rating: R
Summary: Beckett is finally off to be married to the lovely Lady Kostova, Mercer is being..well..Mercer, the spirits are being obnoxious as usual, and then Beckett receives a letter, one that mentions a death from two years ago and threatens to expose him and make him as miserable as possible. Unless, of course, he is willing to pay.

Part I Part IV
Part II Part V
Part III

“How long have you been watching him?” Beckett asked over tea, watching with an amused expression as the steam rose giving the man sitting opposite him a hazy glaze.
    “Three weeks, I want to go one more before I am sure. If we make one false move he'll spook.”
    “Of course, do you need any more money?”
    Mercer shook his head and sipped his tea, letting the bitter taste roll about in his mouth. He continued to sip the steaming drink slowly before at last setting it down.
    “We have everything we need, everyone is in place. We know when Christie goes and I we have a good idea what he is bringing but I want to wait a week. When the plan goes it will be flawless.”
    “Good.”
    “Has Chantage been pressuring you?”
    “Of course, but I've promised him the money in a week and a half. I told him that I had a few shipments that needed to be taken care of before I had the money.”
    “I can go sooner if you'd like.”
    “No. You know what you're doing, I am loath to interfere.”
    “Very good m'lord. In little over a week we will have him.”
    Beckett picked up his still steaming tea, pressing the gold leafed rim to his lips he smiled.

    Christie passed by the butcher's on the way to Carion's rend-des-vous point. Cries of dying animals could be heard and a gush of fresh blood drifted down the gutters mixing with excretions and garbage. Turning left he passed by the perfume shop and watched as the man's apprentice swept the stairs leading up to the quaint building. Women jostled around him as they headed off, baskets in hand, for the morning market. The shrill voices of young boys rose above the murmur of the crowd as they cried out the morning news, offering the paper to anyone willing to pay.
    Mercer slowly followed him, making sure his movements were discreet, keeping eyes ahead and not looking too carefully at anyone he passed. Ahead of him he could see two of his men, one to the left and the other to the right of their intended victim. Christie continued to move through the crowd, oblivious of what was happening. At last he turned down an ally and Mercer's men sped up, making sure to keep decently close to Christie. At last Mercer caught up and reached out his hand, clutching Christie's shoulder gently.
    “Sir.” He said with a smile and small bow when the other man turned around. “Mr. Christie,” shock was evident on his face as Mercer said his name, dragging out the S into a hiss. “I believe you have something that my master wishes to see.”
    “What?” An ill-at-ease laugh. “I don't know what you're talking about. Who are you? Are you a copper?”
    “I am not part of the law enforcement, far from it,” he smile widened a fraction. “You need not know who I am. It is of little consequence. Kindly, come with me.” Mercer's arm swept to the side, indicating a small door in the ally wall. Christie stared dumbly for a moment and Mercer's men waited, tense. This was the moment that decided how the rest of the interview would go. If he submitted now then he would submit later, however the situation could bring out some hidden stubbornness. Mercer watched as Christie's eyes flickered between the men at last he straightened his shoulders and moved towards the door which opened on it's own accord.
    “Thank you Lucy.” Mercer said once he was in the hall. His sister gave him a tight smile and quickly bolted the door. “Coming all the way from Glasgow to help with this little endeavor.”
    “Missed London is all.”
    “Of course.”
    “Isn't there one more?”
    “Hm?”
    “One of your men, I only saw two come in. Weren't there three?”
    “Three? No, why?”
    “I swore I saw someone else, in the shadows behind you.”
    Mercer stared for a moment before turning and pushing the shutter in the door to the side. It revealed nothing, simply a slowly darkening alleyway.
    “Perhaps I imagined it.” Lucy said slowly, watching as her brother turned around with an irritated sigh.
    “No, I doubt you imagined it. Well,” there was a sequence of heavy thuds to be heard upstairs. With a weary sigh he glanced up at ceiling. “Best get this over with quick, before our friend decides to snitch.”

    Chantage scowled as he was let into Beckett's study. The small lord was sitting at his desk, a smug smile seated on his face as he watched the older man enter the room.
    “Good day Lord Chantage.” A hand was motioned to the chair by the desk. Tea was already prepared and two cups sat waiting to be filled with the dark liquid. There was a neat stack of papers before Beckett, Chantage eyed it warily as he sat down.
    “Good day Lord Beckett. Do you have the money?” The younger man's smile widened.
    “No.”
    “Very well, all of your connections will know what you have done and,” Chantage returned Beckett's smile, “the strange circumstances surrounding your marriage.”
    “You actually won't be doing any of that.”
    “What do you mean I won't be doing any of that? Of course I will, you didn't fulfill your end of the bargain.”
    “I have some interesting information in my possession that could ruin your career as well as the Prime Minister's. It would also destroy the party and all but destroy the government you and your men have tried to build.”
    Chantage scoffed as Beckett leaned forward and poured him a cup of tea.
    “I hardly think I have anything that disastrous on my record.”
    “Oh really?”
    “Quite.”
    They quietly raised their glasses and gave each other a curt nod before drinking.
    “Now,” Beckett set his cup to the side and began filing through the papers. “What I have on you Lord Chantage is quite interesting in nature. Quite lucrative as well I must say. As a businessman I am thoroughly impressed, supply and demand at it's best. But, I doubt the British public will agree with that.” At last he looked up, eyebrows raised at the older man seated before him. “Child slavery?” A paper was pushed forward to Chantage to numbly picked it up, letting his eyes all but fall over it. “Ingenious, as I said before. But hardly a moral thing. Not that I am admonishing you,” a soft chuckle. “I hardly have room to speak. But if you insist on pressing your charges against me then every newspaper in London will have a copy of that paper you are holding along with supporting evidence. But I hardly think it need go that far.”
    Chantage set the paper down and rested his hands on his knees, fingers white and palms suddenly sweating.
    “I was quite surprised,” Beckett went on, “to find out that the Prime Minister was involved. But after Mercer dug through his accounts and found that he was several thousand in debt well, I can't say I blame him. No legitimate business would earn him that much in such a short amount of time.”
    “What are you saying?” The older man's voice was gruff, tongue too thick and throat too small.
    “I want a cut of your profits. A ten percent cut to keep quiet. Your sins, in our moral society, far outweigh mine.”
    “Ten? Five, no more.”
    “Eight.”
    “Six.”
    “Seven.”
    “Very well, seven.”
    Beckett nodded and stood, offering his hand.
    “It was a pleasure doing business with you,” he said as he shook Chantage's hand. “Now get out.”
    Chantage gave a tight smile in response and strode from the room, unaware of the eyes that followed him from the shadows of the hall.

    “M'lord,” Mercer murmured as he entered into his master's room.
    “Yes?” Beckett glanced over his shoulder and watched the older man cross the floor. Coming up behind him he slid an arm down his chest and pressed his lips to his hair.
    “That was an interesting game.”
    “Was it worth it?”
    “Hm?”
    Beckett looked up and smiled, lips quirking at the end as he reached up and pulled Mercer's head closer to his.
    “Did you enjoy yourself?”
    “Immensely.”
    Their lips met briefly, then again and Beckett slipped his tongue into Mercer's mouth, fingers griping his hair tightly. Mercer moaned, his master's lips moving against his, fingers of their spare hands tangling briefly.
    “Mercer,” it was breathed by the younger man as Mercer pulled him from the chair, spinning him so they were facing. “Will you be staying with me tonight?”
    “I think I might be tempted to do so.”
    “Oh good. I was getting rather bored, all on my own.” A delicate sigh as Mercer tugged his master's night shift up, running hands over the pale thighs. “Whores are so boring.”
    “Whores m'lord?” The question was muffled against Beckett's neck as he kissed along it, sucking hard at the base, managing to force a moan from the younger man.
    “Was bored when you were off doing your espionage mission.” No reply and Beckett felt his shift pushed farther up, one arm around his waist, the other slowly tracing his pelvic bone down to the curls then up his stomach to spread flat on his chest, just below his diaphragm. Mercer's mouth had moved from his neck back up to his lips and he found the clerk's tongue pushing into his mouth, eager to explore and, if Beckett allowed himself to be selfish, claim. The kiss broke with a sharp gasp as Beckett found his hips jerked forward against Mercer's. He could feel the rough fabric of Mercer's breeches rubbing against him, forcing him resist the urge to push himself up and down the rather too available thigh.
    Pulling himself out of the daze he had fallen into he managed to maneuver them onto the bed, pinning Mercer beneath him. His fingers fumbled as he undid the buttons of the clerk's waistcoat. Once it was open he quickly pushed up the chemise. He felt Mercer's hands on his thighs, again tugging up his night shift, fingers brushing over his ass as they slid up to his back and over his shoulder blade. Moving his hands down he began unlacing Mercer's breeches, suddenly he found himself flipped over on his back.
    Mercer's lips were back on his, moving urgently and he found his legs being pushed aside and the familiar fingers tracing their way up his thighs.
    Beckett hissed as his hips jerked up, pain searing through his backside. Mercer's lips were quickly back on his, then his cheeks, nose, chin, neck, all alongside whispered words of apology. His hands had fallen from Mercer's hips to the mattress, sheets clutched in fists. A moment passed as he relaxed, sighing as the finger slowly moved deeper in him. Mercer's face was pressed against his neck, kissing him repeatedly, softly - just bare brushes against the heated skin.
    Raising his hands back to the clerk's hips he continued his blind struggle to shove off Mercer's breeches. At last he felt warm skin and the movement of Mercer's legs as he managed to kick them off.
    They lay still, neither moving till slowly another finger was added, Beckett's eyes closed and his breath hitched, a moment passed and they were moved, causing him to gasp softly, from pain then pleasure, both separate at first before quickly blurring together. At last a third finger and Beckett's arms wrapped around Mercer's neck as he hissed into the older man's ear. His lips formed words but his throat had ceased to work, the only noises escaping his parted lips being moans and gasps.
    Then he was empty and it suddenly felt cold yet the base of his spine was on fire. A cold fire licking softly for a moment, a brief transient moment.
    Head tilted back, lips parted, no sound yet there was a rushing wind all around him - loud and soft all at once. And it was over.

    “Mercer?”
    “Hm?”
    “You were dreaming again.”
    “Oh.”
    “Mercer?”
    “Hm?”
    “Your father left your family when you were young right?”
    “Was ten.”
    “Then who...who did that man work for? The one that used to be a slave as a child...You mentioned him earlier I think...”
    “Hm? Who? Oh...Blaney.”
    “Yes, what happened to him after your father left?”
    “Don't know...think he worked for some politician...Prime Minister maybe.”
    “Does he know?”
    “Probably.”
    “Was he the one who sent the letter with the powder?”
    “Don't know.”
    “Oh.”
    “Good night m'lord.”
    “Good night Mercer.”

    Illyria gave Lady Katherine a polite smile and led her ladyship into Beckett's study. Beckett was reorganizing his bookshelf from his chair, content to watch Mercer move the books from place to place, depending on what he desired and when.
    "I want Plutarch and Plato on the third shelf."
    "Not the second m'lord?"
    "No."
    "But the second has Thomas More, Livy, Aristotle, and Cranmer. Wouldn't it make sense to-"
    "Since when has anything in this house ever made sense?"
    "Never, but it doesn't mean you should conform to the trend."
    "I'll keep that in mind. Now I want the Bible on the top shelf somewhere in back. Out of siight, out of mind and all that."
    "Perhaps you should put it with your fiction collection?"
    "Hm, yes. That will do nicely. Next to Shakespeare do you think?"
    "My lord, Lady Katherine." Illyria said, making sure her voice was heard over the conversation of the two men.
    "Mother." Beckett spun around, a smirk on his face. "How charming. Mercer," a wave of his hand and the clerk slipped from the room followed by Illyria. "To what do I owe this visit?"
    "I received your letter."
    "And?"
    "You are not going to move this date."
    "No."
    "Why the sudden change?"
    "What do you mean?"
    "Your personal reasons for avoiding the marriage have disappeared?"
    "Heavens no, I simply decided to stop caring."
    "And your issue? Lord Chantage?"
    "Settled."
    "Are you sure?"
    Beckett smiled and tilted his head to the side.
    "Quite."

    The tea was stirred by the Prime Minister's maid, each cup in its proper place. Each had the amount of sugar each lord wanted. Lord Chantage's none, Lord Beckett's two, and the Prime Minister's one. The maid sighed as a bell was rung. Setting the teapot aside she swept from the room.
    A man emerged from the shadows of the kitchen and walked over to the cups. Taking a small vial from his cloak he carefully sprinkled its contents into one of the cups. Picking up the spoon he stirred it till all the powder was dissolved. A glance at the door and he disappeared back into the shadows.
    The maid returned shortly, muttering under her breath about her master's useless house staff and their inefficient training. Picking up the tray she headed into the study. A knock and she heard the call of “come in”. Opening the redwood door she carefully sat the tray down between the men, making sure each cup was in front of its proper lord.
    “Thank you Elsie.” The Prime Minister said with a smile as he watched the young woman curtsy and close the door behind her. “Well gentlemen,” he said picking up his cup shortly followed by Beckett and Chantage. “To the future.”
    “To the future.”
    And they drank.

---fini---

Yes, it's over. Hope you enjoyed?

And no, you'll never know who died or who did the poisoning in the first place. Though I am sure some of you will be able to figure out the last one. ^_^

Triumvirate ch. 5 (almost there, I swear it)

2008-07-02T02:04:05Z

Seriously, I am almost done plaguing you all with this story. After this chapter, only one more to go then I am done and will leave you all in peace. ^_^

Title: Triumvirate 5/6
Pairing: Meckett
Rating: R
Summary: Beckett is finally off to be married to the lovely Lady Kostova, Mercer is being..well..Mercer, the spirits are being obnoxious as usual, and then Beckett receives a letter, one that mentions a death from two years ago and threatens to expose him and make him as miserable as possible. Unless, of course, he is willing to pay.

Note: There are references to my past to two stories in this. It would help to read the first one (Deliver Me) as Beckett is being blackmailed over Follett's death. *it was bound to come back and haunt him*

Deliver Me
Asymptote

Part I Part IV
Part II
Part III

    “What took you so long?” Beckett hissed as Mercer slipped into his room from the window.
    “Was caught between a wall, orphans, the Prime Minister, Chantage, and a man who hasn't washed his hair in at least three years. His name was Carion I think.”
    “Apropos?”
    “Highly.”
    “Dead fish status of carrion?”
    “Yes, dead for over a month I'd say. But, the Minister is in on the business. They take orphans, street arabs, that sort of thing. Children no one will notice missing, and sell them at high prices.”
    “To who?”
    “They didn't say but I would guess Captains, Plantation owners, Lords, oh anyone who has a large business and needs cheap, long lasting labor. And a way to fulfill other desires I suppose. They're cheaper than what you get off the Ivory Coast in any case.”
    “Will I have to lower my prices then?”
    “I doubt it.”
    “Oh good. Now, I have one more thing I want you to do Mercer.”
    “Tonight?”
    “Two more things. The first thing is for tonight, and for that I want you to be in my bed in half an hour or there will be hell to pay.”
    “Yes m'lord. And the second?”
    “Tomorrow I want you to go through Chantage's accounts, letters, private papers – anything. Find proof of this ring and find proof of its connection to the Prime Minister.” Beckett smiled as he pulled Mercer into a kiss. “I intend to have both of them eating out of my palm.”

    Beckett watched from over the edge of the London Gazette as Chantage was shown into the room. He entered, clicking his cane on the floor, listening to the solid thud that emanated from the inlay. Illyria stood behind him and announced, in a grudging tone, the arrival of a Lord Thomas Chantage.
    “Good day Lord Beckett,” the older man said as he walked over to the desk. Beckett didn't reply, merely turned a page of his paper. “It's fine, I agree. Though a tad on the warm side don't you think?” The paper was suddenly folded and put aside and the small Lord stared up at Chantage with utter loathing.
    “What are you here for? Be brief, I'm a busy man.” Chantage nodded, bobbing his head a few times as he leaned forward on his cane.
    “Aren't you going to offer me a seat?” He asked, giving Beckett a too sweet smile.
    “No. Now, what are you here for?”
    “To see if you've decided to reconsider your position. ₤10,000 surely isn't that horrendous of a debt to pay for cold blooded murder. And look at it this way Sir Cutler, I could go and dig up your dear clerks history and fine you for that as well. I believe you condone most of his actions.”
    “The actions Mercer has committed under my command I will pay for. For what he has done before my time, that will be up to him to take care of. But I trust he was discreet enough so that you would have no solid evidence other than hear-say from the scum of English society.” The older lord was presented with a bland smile. “As for your demands, come back to me in three days and we will discuss them.”
    “Very good Lord Beckett,” Chantage gave a nod of his head. “Till then.”
    “Till then.”

    “I knew a man once who was sold as a slave when he was a child.” Mercer said as he lounged back in the settee, book in hand.
    “Did you?” Beckett glanced over from his desk.
    “Yes, William...William Blaney I think was his name. He worked with my father.”
    “Oh.”
    “Never talked about it. Not that I blame him.”
    “How did you find out if he didn't talk about it?”
    “He didn't talk about it but everyone else did. Small village m'lord, we have to talk about something.”
    “Poor sod.”
A sigh as Mercer's book shut and was dropped to the ground.
    “Yes, but...such is life. Mentioned it to him once, said he wanted revenge...something about it being on his to-do list.”
    “Sounds like a charming man.”
    “He was.”

    There was a letter placed on Beckett's desk the next morning. Swooping print spelled out his title and full name with “esquire” printed in small letters afterward.
    “Mercer?” The clerk appeared at the door dividing their two offices, a cup of tea in hand.
    “Yes m'lord?”
    “Did you get the mail this morning?”
    “No.”
    “Did Illyria?”
    “No.”
    “Thank you.” Mercer stared for a moment, took a sip of tea, stared some more then disappeared back into his office.
    Once his clerk was gone Beckett sliced open the letter and carefully dumped its contents into the waist paper bin. A small amount of white powder floated down along with the letter.
    “Mercer?”
    “Yes m'lord?” Beckett couldn't see the older man as he was bent over the waist paper basket but the voice was close so he reasoned that the clerk had crossed the floor.
    “Why would there be white powder in an envelope with a letter?”
    “Was there m'lord?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you touch it?”
    “No.”
    “Inhale it by accident?”
    “No.”
    “Good.”
    “Is that all you have to say?”
    “I thought my answer was quite clear.”
    “Yes, as clear as London in the early morning before the sun has risen.”
    “Of course m'lord. Well, if I hear a thump I will know that you have died and your head has slammed against the desk...just, if that happens, try not to get blood everywhere.”
    “I'll endeavor to do my best.”
    “Thank you m'lord.”
    “Can I borrow your gloved hands?”
    “Yes.” Mercer walked over and knelt by the basket, reaching in he pulled out the letter and unfolded it, more white powder falling to the ground.
    I know what you're doing.
    “Informative.” Mercer said as he showed it to Beckett.
    “Rather. Burn it.”
    “Yes m'lord.”

    “Spare any food ma'am?” A beggar was standing at the door, hat in hand. The cook sighed and muttered something under her breath as she went back into the kitchen. Arriving back at the door she tossed the bent man a piece of bread and some cheese.
    “Eat over there,” she said with a nod towards some of the gardeners. The beggar bowed, exclaiming his thanks and declaring her to be the sweetest creature ever made by God. “Sod off”, was her reply.
    “Who owns this place?” The man asked as he sat down by one of the servants.
    “Lord Chantage does.”
    “Oh. 'Ey, you look familiar,” he peered at the servant who glowered and looked away. “Ave I seen you before?”
    “I dunno.”
    “I think I 'ave! You used ta be an urchin right? By old man Barney's shop.”
    The servant gave a wary laugh and shook his head.
    “Got the wrong man, I ain't one of Chantage's brats.”
    “Eh?”
    “You know, the brats he brings in all the bloody time. Keeps 'em hidden way someplace special then sells 'em. Sells 'em real cheap too, cheaper than any nigger.”
    “Oh. Ne'er heard nothin' bout that.”
    “Spect not, no one really knows much about it. I do 'cause I run money to his associates." The man stopped then rounded on the beggar, grabbing the man's filthy lapels. "Look 'ere, you didn't hear none o' that.”
    “Course not.”
    “You keep mum and I'll get you more food.”
    “Oh! I promise all right sir, I'll keep mum. Quieter than any church mouse I'll be.”
    “Good. Wait here.”

    “One servant knows about it m'lord,” Mercer said as he strode into Beckett's office, pealing off the grimy clothes he had been wearing earlier in the day. “His name is Patrick Christie and he runs the money between Chantage and Carion.”
    “Would you know him by sight?”
    “Yes.”
    Beckett nodded and sat back in his chair, fingers steepled before him. A moment of silence passed as he pursed his lips, eyes focused on the engraved box at the edge of his desk.
    “Bag him. Next time he's carrying papers on him to Carion, bag him.”
    Mercer nodded and made move to leave but Beckett stopped him with a look.
    “But be careful about it,” he said voice low. “Lace curtain job or whatever the term is in your world. I want all precautions taken, get your men to watch him, get to know his habits and the habits of Chantage. No eye contact, never the same person watching him in a row etc. You know the drill.”
    “Yes m'lord.” Mercer bowed, pulling up to full height he caught Beckett's smile. A mirrored one soon showed on his face as well.
    “Have fun,” the Lord's eyes met his. “I know you like this type work.”
    “Far more entertaining than your finances.”
    “I can imagine.”
    “Lady Kostova will be visiting today m'lord. She will be here within the hour, thought you'd like to know.”
    “Than you. Oh and Mercer,” the clerk stopped, hand on the door. “Send in some tea.”
    “Yes m'lord.”
    “And chocolate.”
    “Yes m'lord.”

    Cutler
        I have heard no word from you these past few weeks. I hope everything is going well and that the situation hasn't worsened. I hear from Lady Isabel that you are quite happy, I am pleased to hear it. I hope that happiness stems from success in certain endeavors.
    Write me,
        Katherine

    Mother,
        Everything is going well, work has been smooth. My endeavors are going according to plan and you can expect them to be over shortly. If you wish to hear more about my work visit, it's rather too lengthy to write in a letter.
    Yours etc.
        Cutler

    Lord Beckett,
        The money has yet to appear. Shall I add something else to, well, convince you to hand it over? I would hate to go low as to include sordid things as a means to convince you but if I must I shall. It would, of course, include the details of your marriage. The outline of the simple fact that you only decided to wed the lady because she helped you save your clerk. That among other little things. If shown in such a light, well, they could be damaging.

    Yours etc.
        Chantage

    Mother,
        I will wed Lady Kostova on the 23 of August, the date is late because of her father. He has left the country and will not be back till the 20th. There will be no more delays I can assure you.

    Yours etc.
        Cutler

    Cutler,
        Good, now keep it that way or you will find yourself in a stickier situation than the present one regarding your in-laws.

    Stay out of trouble,
        Katherine

    Mercer walked between two houses, his Lord's and Chantage's. Each time he took a different rout and was wearing different clothing. The first week was spent quietly as he and his men slowly began assembling a basic dossier on Chantage's movements.
    Monday morning was spent at home, in his study or the library. Lunch was eaten on a small table set up in the south conservatory, afterwards he made his way to parliament. He was usually there from two till seven where he would join a few of his friends at their club where they would eat dinner and play cards. Supper was generally skipped.
    Tuesday morning and after noon was spent at parliament, again to the club for dinner and cards.
    Wednesday he met with Carion in his study for tops of five minutes. Chantage showed the man in and showed him out. Wednesday mornings where also the time that the servants had off so no one saw Carion enter or leave the house. A fire was usually lit shortly after the man left, papers were burned and numbers in ledgers altered. Afterwards he would go to the bank, speak with his man, then leave with a small packet in hand.
    Thursday he visited his mistress, went to parliament, ate lunch with the Prime Minister, visited his lawyer, sent Patrick Christie to visit Carion, went over the offers, then visited the whorehouse.
    Friday was a repeat of Thursday.
    Saturday he spent the morning at home, was caught actually speaking with his wife, played with his sons, went out on a walk with the Prime Minister, went to the theatre where he put himself on the book for the upcoming races, he then went home with his wife only to leave the house a few hours later and spent the rest of the night at the club gambling.
    Sunday he went to church.

---TBC---

One more chapter then we are done. Huzzah!

Part VI

Worst Enemy ~ Beckington Music Video

2008-06-30T00:04:57Z

Title: Worst Enemy
Pairings: Beckington, Speckett, Pullington
Rating: R/NC-17

Music: Poets of the Fall: Save me
Clips: Potc (1,2,3), Master and Commander, Wives and Daughters (thanks Liv :D), Cambridge Spies, Don Juan de Marco, Défense d'aimer

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the movies used in this video.

Summary: Beckington in all it's angsty glory but mainly telling what made these two man become what they are. Both have lost the one they loved but in different ways. James to death, Cutler to hatred. (longer summary inside)

James and Tom have been lovers for a while and happy but Tom died in that hurricane. And James is not only plagued by grief and pain at losing his great love but also guilt for having insisted on chasing Sparrow.

Cutler and Jack had been together long years ago, as young men. But Cutler had to learn that Jack can't be tied down to one person. Jack would always be the kind of person who just has to have everything even if he has no use for it. Cutler knew of course that Jack was cheating on him but he tried to ignore it because he was afraid of losing the one he loved. It didn't turn out well, of course (P).

The rest should be pretty obvious. Pain drives James and Cutler into each other's not so gentle arms.

Meridian--chapter ten (AU: Jack, Beckett, Norrington, et al, PG-13)

2008-06-28T16:23:06Z

Title: Meridian
Chapter: Ten
Author: pink_bagels
Characters/Rating: Beckett, Norrington, Jack, et al, rated PG-13
Summary: Sequel to Chronometer. The third installment of the trilogy. Having escaped Siberia, the unemployed trio of the Endeavour head to Larry's 'quiet' island only to find it overrun with pirate squatters, a savvy Pirate King Elizabeth and Mother's latest odious employee. Beckett's plans for opening up a pub are seriously overshadowed by Larry's own business plans with the Pirate King, but all face potential ruin thanks to the dread pirate Ned Lowe, who has come to Shipwreck Cove in a mad bid to create an unholy monopoly of his own.

chapter ten

Previous chapters-- one // two // three // four // five // six // seven // eight // nine

Triumvirate ch. 4

2008-06-27T17:45:22Z

Here we are with installment four. Hope everyone is vaguely enjoying. ^.^

Title: Triumvirate 4/6
Pairing: Meckett
Rating: R
Summary: Beckett is finally off to be married to the lovely Lady Kostova, Mercer is being..well..Mercer, the spirits are being obnoxious as usual, and then Beckett receives a letter, one that mentions a death from two years ago and threatens to expose him and make him as miserable as possible. Unless, of course, he is willing to pay.

Note: There are references to my past to two stories in this. It would help to read the first one (Deliver Me) as Beckett is being blackmailed over Follett's death. *it was bound to come back and haunt him*

Deliver Me
Asymptote

Part I
Part II
Part III

“Do they approve?” Lady Katherine asked as a servant poured her tea. She and Beckett were seated in the gardens, a table of white painted iron with a table cloth of lace spread across it, was between them. Beckett leaned back into his seat, watching as his own glass cup was filled. He could see tea leaves floating through the amber liquid as they settled to the bottom. A bow and the young servant removed himself from the gardens, stationing himself by the door of the house.
    “Approve of what?”
    “Your marriage to Lady Kostova.”
    “Well enough I suppose.”
    “I heard from Illyria that there was some trouble the other night, guests wandering off where they shouldn't have.”
    “Yes, but that had nothing to do with my marriage. That was them having fun.” His speech turned musing as he laced his fingers, “they've been quiet of late. Abnormally well behaved.”
    “Indeed?”
    “Indeed.”
    “Do you have a date set?”
    “A month from now, the thirteenth I think.”
    “Fourteenth, or the twelfth. Yes, Monday the twelfth.”
    “One day my anniversary will fall on a Friday.”
    “And you will not think about it when it does, besides it will be in quite a few years from now.”
    “It will end one day. Why not get it over with and start it on an ending?”
    “And have bad luck follow you? I think not.”
    “Mercer was born on Friday the thirteenth and he has great luck.”
    “Does he?”
    “He survived if that's what you're thinking about.”
    “Unfortunately.”

    “Allo Joseph, what are you doing here?”
    “Have a few questions that I need answered Phillip.”
    “Very well, what is it?”
    “Chantage, what do you know of him? Apart from what Moorhouse knows.”
    “Nothing, it's all the same. Why?”
    “No reason, he just strikes as a man that one ought to have information on.”
    “You're in trouble.”
    “Ha, you would think that.”
    “As your older brother, yes, I would say it's an automatic response. For both you and Anne.”
    “And Lucy?”
    “She's always in trouble. Her job is trouble.”
    “I suppose, whoring can be risky business.”
    “Yes. Good day Joseph.”
    “Don't take it personally, you had nothing to do with her...decent. You weren't here.”
    “I had everything to do with it, because I wasn't here. And you left.”
    “Do you blame me?”
    “Yes. As much as you blame me for leaving.”
    “I don't blame you.”
    “Yes you do, there's no point in denying it.”
    “Phillip...I don't blame you. I did back then, I'll not lie. I hated you, hoped someone would off you in India. But looking back, no, I don't blame you at all. I would have done the same.”
    “How is Lucy?”
    “Fine last I heard, about a year ago. Still in Glasgow. “
    “Well...she's safe?”
    “Yes, she's safe.”
    “Good. And Anne?”
    “Fine.”
    “The boys?
    “Fine, well, arguing constantly but I suppose that's expected for brothers.”
    “Yes, I suppose it is. Look, Joseph, before you go...Try Kruger. But-”
    “I didn't hear it from you.”
    “Yes.”
    “Good bye Phillip.”
    “Joseph. Who was it that father left with?”
    “Thomas Dessay.”
    “Who was that?”
    “You don't want to know.”
    “Was it debt?”
    “No.”
    “Then what was it? What made him leave?”
    “Misery I think, misery and love.”
    “Love?”
    “Yes.”
    “I wasn't aware he had a mistress.”
    “I wasn't either, till later, and I thought back on it...Good day Phillip.”
    “Yes...I suppose it is, sun is still shining.”
    “Poetic justice.”

    Mercer winced as a man went flying out the door as soon as he opened it. He hit the ally wall with a thud and slid to the ground. Yells of “bloody bastard deserved it” could be heard from the room beyond the door. Ducking inside Mercer made his way to the bar, squeezing himself in alongside drunks and other scums of society. The bar tender looked at him and said something in a welsh accent that was so thick Mercer reasoned he could cut it with a knife.
    “Whatever is cheapest.” He said and slid a few coins across the counter. “Is Kruger here?” He asked when the large man set the drink before him. The man eyed him for a moment before shrugging and pointing to a man making rounds between the tables.
    Taking the drink Mercer slipped into the crowd, meandering his way over to the circling man. Standing beside him unoticed, Mercer let himself be pushed into the man and managed to spill some of the ale onto him.
    “What the bloody fuck man!” Was the angry response as the man turned from the group he had been speaking to.
    “I'm sorry,” a bow and the drink was set down. “I was bumped.”
    “Well, fuck off before I make you.”
    “I actually made my way over here to speak with you sir.”
    “Oh, did you?”
    “Yes, is there a private room we can go to? It's a business matter.”
    The man eyed Mercer for a moment before muttering and motioning for the younger man to follow him. “Need to get a new shirt on anyhow,” he said by way of explination as Mercer was led to the back of the tavern, up a set of stairs and into the man's room. “What sort of business matter? My ale not good enough for you?”
    “It concerns a certain Lord.”
    “Get a lot of Lords here, stuck up pricks the lot of them.”
    “Yes, quite. Does Lord Chantage ever frequent here?” The older man looked over from his wardrobe, shirt in hand.
    “What do you want with him? Are you a copper?”
    “No, I'm not a copper but I have heard that Chantage is opening a business and a friend said I might be interested. Mentioned it involved the transport of...goods.”
    “Oh, right. Well, you're a bit late. Chantage already has all the help he can get. The ring's been running for oh, six months now. He says he has room for one more but that the spots going to be filled by a friend of his.”
    “Of course. Well, thank you anyway. I'm sorry about spilling my drink on you.”
    “Watch out next time, now get out you bloody fuck.” The man turned around to add a glare to his threat but found the man gone from his room.

    “Well?” Beckett hissed as he slipped into Mercer's room in London. The clerk glanced up from the small desk that occupied a corner of the room, a single candle was lit and cast most of the room in shadow.
    “M'lord, what are you doing here?” He was across the room in seconds, pulling the younger man in and quickly closing the door.
    “I don't want any of your information traveling through mail. I'm in London on business anyway, Sir Charles wont stir from the city walls if his life depended on it.”
    “Yes, I know.” A wry smile was flung at Beckett as Mercer pulled the thin drapes across the window. “He was here during the quarantine.”
    “What have you found out?”
    “That Lord Chantage's ring has been active for six months and that he frequents an establishment called the Red Pony and that he is friendly with the owner. Free handed as well, judging by the state of the man's clothes.”
    “Is he...”
    “I don't know, probably not that picky, though why the tavern keeper when he could easily get himself someone handsomer I don't know...”
    “Anything else?”
    “No names yet. It's going to be a bottoms up operation anyway, I have my men on it. I'm expecting at least three names tomorrow.”
    “Good.”
    “You're staying in your house?”
    “Yes, should I not?”
    “No, stay there. We need the appearance of normalcy to last us as long as possible.”
    “Then should you not join me? Everyone knows that I don't go anywhere without you.”
    “Has your luggage arrived?”
    “I traveled with it, I'm only here for a few days.”
    “Then say I stayed back in the country for business reasons.”
    “Very well, should anyone ask,” Beckett smiled and leaned forward, pressing his lips to Mercer's. “It's a bit late to be heading back, isn't it?” His arms twined around Mercer's waist, pulling him closer. The clerk dipped his head for another kiss, tugging at his master's frock coat, slowly edging the two towards the almost too small bed.

    Mercer managed to huddle himself into a back corner of the room before the group arrived. It was small, with wooden floors covered in dust and bits of hay and dirt. The clerk found himself pressed in a nook that used to be a coat hook before it was wretched out of the wall.
    The first of the group to arrive was a middle aged man with a grizzly beard and hair that hung matted about his face. He lit a few candles around the room then turned and motioned at the door. Another man entered carrying a rope, attached to it were children ranging from the ages of five to seventeen. They were jerked into the room and told to kneel on the floor. Behind the train of children was Chantage and the Prime Minister.
    “Here we have, prime examples of English breeding.” Chantage said as he waved his hand about the room.
    “I'm assuming you're referring to the poor children,” replied the Prime Minister as he held a hankerchief to his nose. “God it reeks in here.”
    “We do the best we can brother. Now what we do is give them their number, attach it to their clothes and get them all on the books. Once they're on the books they will be kept here till they are all sold. They go for high prices too, name it and the customers will pay it.”
    “Wont people come looking for them?”
    “No, they're foundlings, street urchins, gypsies etc. No one notices when they disappeare.”
    “True, I suppose.”
    “Of course it is. Now normally Carion here runs the show,” a hand waved in the direction of the man who had first entered. “I'm never seen around them, seen around here – nothing. I just right the checks and arrange it so that the transaction and transportation will run smoothly. All you have to do is make sure this stays hush-hush.”
    The Prime Minister nodded as he looked at the children, crumpled on the ground at his feet. A sigh and he looked up to his brother-in-law and shrugged. “Very well, they'll all die eventually right?”
    “That's the spirit.”
    The men stayed for another hour, drinks were offered and pipes produced from coats. A table was pulled from the side room and chairs made out of old crates and barrels. At last, when the men heard the toll of the bell ringing out twice they began heading out.
    “I will see you tomorrow Thomas, same time as usual.” The Prime Minister said as he and Chantage shook hands.
    “Yes, though I might be a tad late. I have an urgent meeting with Lord Beckett.”
    “The little Company brat?”
    “The same.”
    “Good Lord, well, good luck. I wouldn't want to be in a room for more than three minutes with him.”
    “Why's that?”
    “People who do usually end up dead.”
    Chantage smiled and tilted his head to the side, “do they indeed?”

---TBC---

Hope you enjoyed?

Part V

Triumvirate ch. 3

2008-06-26T05:43:49Z

Chapter 3 is up and the story is finished. I will be slowly posting the entire thing. It was quite a thing to kind of just plunge on through it. One note on the ending, when we finally get there: please don't kill me.

Title: Triumvirate 3/6
Pairing: Meckett
Rating: R
Summary: Beckett is finally off to be married to the lovely Lady Kostova, Mercer is being..well..Mercer, the spirits are being obnoxious as usual, and then Beckett receives a letter, one that mentions a death from two years ago and threatens to expose him and make him as miserable as possible. Unless, of course, he is willing to pay.

Note: There are references to my past to two stories in this. It would help to read the first one (Deliver Me) as Beckett is being blackmailed over Follett's death. *it was bound to come back and haunt him*

Deliver Me
Asymptote

Part I
Part II

Moorhouse stood when Mercer entered the room, giving a sly smile and a mocking bow which Mercer returned. They quickly exchanged greetings and Moorhouse offered the younger man some refreshments.
    “Cognac, Mercer?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “Sherry?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “Tea?”
    “If you please.” Moorhouse gave a nod to the man waiting by the door, it was quickly opened then closed and Mercer seated himself opposite his companion.
    “So, how have you been since London and the outbreak?”
    “I recovered as you see.”
    “Lived to fight another day.”
    “Yes.”
    “But you didn't come here for a social call.”
    “No.”
    “What do you want?”
    “Two things, Larson's papers. I know you have them. Your men went through his shop after the quarantine was lifted.” The older man nodded and made a motion for Mercer to continue. “And the second, what do you know about Lord Thomas Chantage?”
    “Chantage?”
    Mercer nodded and watched as Moorhouse stood. Slowly making his way over to a shelf of old volumes he hummed, taping fingers to thighs. At last he pulled out a volume and began rifling through it, muttering names under his breath.
    “Aha,” he said, looking up with a successful grin. “Chantage. He is married to the Prime Minister's sister, he is in house of Lords, holds quite a bit of stock in both V.O.C and the British Company...gambles, but not enough to put him in debt...goes whoring, but discreetly and at credible whorehouses. If such places can be called credible. That's all I have.”
    Mercer's lips had turned down into a slight frown and he tapped his forefinger on the arm of his chair.
    “That's well and good, but what do you know?”
    “Depends on the inducement.”
    “How much?”
    “No, information for information. I tell you about Chantage and you tell me about...Lady Kostova's brother, Robert.”
    “Why do you want to know about him?”
    “He's a new player on the field, I need to know as much as possible if I am to stay useful.”
    “Someone else.”
    Moorhouse's grin turned to a smirk as he took he seat as a servant appeared with the tea.
    “To close to home, eh? I don't blame you. Lord Beckett is a powerful enough man, I wouldn't want to cross him. Very well, remember old Mr. Patrickson?”
    “Yes.”
    “What can you tell me about his son?”
    “Not much, but what I know is useful.” He held his hand up before Moorhouse could add any sugar to his tea. “You go first.”

    Rolling over Mercer sighed as Beckett sipped into his bed, promptly pressing his cold feet against him.
    “Master,” he hissed as he pulled away. From the dark came Beckett's chuckled as he maneuvered closer to the older man, tugging on his hips, trying to pull their bodies together.
    “You didn't come to my bed tonight.” Beckett muttered as he nuzzled against his clerk. “Why?”
    “If you are being blackmailed then it's best if we are discreet.”
    “True.” The younger man's voice was remorse. Hands slipped lower, trailing from hips to thighs. “Shall I head back to bed then?”
    “I'm afraid it would be for the best.”
    “Tell me these things before you decide.”
    The clerk nodded and reached forward, pulling Beckett's lips against his own.
    “I will, next time.”
    “How long will this last?”
    “I don't know, but I'm not in the mood to be blackmailed for sodomy on top of murder.”
    “Very well.” A sigh slipped between lips that were quickly kissed before being pulled away and disappearing into the darkened hallway.

    “What do we have on him?” Lady Katherine asked as she reclined back in the morning room. Tea and biscuits were laid before them, steam rising from the delicate china.
    “He plays both fields concerning the Company, both us and the Dutch. But that's not illegal or very damaging reputation wise so I can't do much with it. He spends time with loose women but only at fashionable establishments, and he's discreet. Mercer had some of his men follow him – he's not a deviant so no one really cares. Um, what else...” Papers were ruffled as Beckett sipped his tea, setting it aside with a small sigh.
    “Isn't he a bit of a lush?”
    “I don't know,” a snap of fingers and Mercer appeared from the shadows of the room. “Find out if Chantage is a lush, a bad one. Also, find out what you can about his marriage.”
    “Yes m'lord.” Mercer gave a small bow and slipped from the room. Lady Katherine's lips pursed as she perused her son's notes.
    “We don't know much, do we?” She mused as she exchanged the papers for tea. Beckett shook his head, fingers tapping a pattern on the arm of the chair. “There has to be something, other than the fact that he makes some extra pocket money from blackmail. But that's common knowledge. Well, common enough knowledge.”
    “What if it were circulated? It would certainly impact the PM. How could he let himself be associated with such a man? How could he trust a man who is willing to blackmail such honorable people? Etc.”
    “What honorable people Cutler? I'm sorry my dear son, but you hardly qualify as honorable.”
    “Shoot me if I ever do. I was thinking more along the lines of the time he blackmailed Lady Nurse.”
    Lady Katherine set the tea cup down and stared blankly at her son, clearly shocked. “Lady Nurse?” She managed at last. “I wasn't aware.”
    “Not many are, Mercer did a bit of digging and that was the worst he found.”
    “What's the source?”
    “Moorhouse.”
    “He's friends with him?”
    “Acquaintances...business partners more the like I think. In any case, he spoke to Moorhouse two days ago and that was the worst he had and well, if there is something to know Moorhouse knows it.”
    “Yes, yes...well, follow up the gambling trail, see who he has made bets with, see if who's books he's on etc. The whoring...well,” she gave Cutler a tight smile as she stood, “there are those of our class who have worse vices.”
    Beckett returned the smile with a nod and a mutter of “indeed madame”.

    Lord Chantage sighed as he seated himself opposite the prime minister. Brandy was poured for both of them by a man in white gloves who carried a dour expression.
    “Charming house you have brother,” Chantage said as he lifted his glass in toast to the man before him.
    “I thank you, though I am sure that it is nothing compared to Fallsway Hall.”
    “Perhaps not, but it is a nice house, I don't flatter.”
    “Of course you don't. Why are you here? It's not social, that I know.”
    “Can't a man visit his dear brother-in-law?”
    “Not when they are Thomas Chantage who only visits a man if he has some need of him. I am not going to take one of your bills again. Sarah must have told you that.”
    “Yes,” a dry smile and a caustic laugh. “My wife has made it clear your feelings on that. But I am here on business, I have a deal that you might be interested in. The party, I believe, is suffering financial, yes?”
    “Some say, though that hardly makes it true.”
    “I've seen the ledger, you're in debt. I have a way out of this debt. More brandy.” The servant appeared from the shadows and filled the man's glass, watching carefully so that no amber drops spilled onto the maple table.
    “What are you suggesting?”
    “My friend's and I have a bit of a company we're running. A little, on the side, sort of thing.”
    “Illegal.”
    “I wouldn't go that far my dear man, but certainly a little shady. I hope you don't mind, I would prefer this matter to be private.” A discreet glance was cast towards the servant. The prime minister stared at Chantage for a moment before sighing and giving a small nod to the younger man in white gloves who bowed, left, and smiled as he closed the doors.

    “It's a business m'lord. He's running something underground.” Beckett looked up from his book as Mercer entered the library, breathless.
    “What on earth are you talking about Mercer?”
    “Chantage, heard it from one of my people, Tony Marks.”
    “The prime minister's man?”
    “The same, he heard Chantage and the minister talking.” Mercer's voice dropped as he took a seat opposite Beckett and leaned forward, resting elbows on his knees. “Apparently the minister's in debt, so is the party. Chantage is offering him a way out by joining in on a little, underground, business venture. Marks wrote down their exact words, here.” A slip of paper exchanged hands and was read before being tossed to the fire.
    “Anything else?”
    “No, though Marks is still on the look out for any new development.”
    “How long before the egg is hatched?”
    “A fortnight at most, at least till the minister backs it, but I think it's already begun. I need to go to London.”
    “Do you?”
    “Yes m'lord, my brother knows people who are vastly more informed than I am about the underground businesses.”
    “I thought you were well versed in that area of life.”
    “I'm in the business of death and information m'lord, I think Chantage is in the business of life.”
    “Life?”
    “Yes, young life, young, white, life.”

    Illyria winced as another shriek of laughter echoed across the ball room. It was filled, as usual. Music was playing, echoing off the walls and paneled ceiling. In the center glittered a chandelier, brought over from Germany by Beckett's great grandmother. It had come with seventeen candles, she had felt that there were not enough so she installed an eighteenth one in the center. Illyria stared at it every time she entered the ballroom, wondering why Lord Beckett hadn't had it removed. It was far too crooked for his tastes. But then, he had always been strangely superstitious.
    Beckett floated amongst the guests, ignoring their prying looks and whispered lies. They spoke of unnatural things happening at his house, strange things that couldn't be explained, deaths, murders, debauchery, every sort of filthy thing their grasping minds could produce. And through it all Beckett himself both amused and annoyed, annoyed by their searching glances and lingerings gazes, yet amused at how close they were to the truth yet how little they knew.
    People took to venturing from the reception hall, dining room, and ball room. They strayed into the house, taking themselves slowly up the main staircase passing by a magnificent window of a rose crucified to a piece of wood with the sun rising behind it. Some turned right and drifted into the linen rooms, servants quarters, or down the Y shaped stairs, went down the first flight only to have to go up more to get to the next rooms. Strange animals carved from ivory and wood stared at them, captured forever in that single pose. The carved bamboo around the fire place would catch the light of their candles and cause millions of eyes to stare back at them. Noises would follow them, invisible breezes would rustle the leaves in the conservatories, the draperies hanging from the walls, and even their own coats and shawls, gowns and hats.
    “It's peculiar,” they would remark as they tried to wind their way back to the ballroom, intent on asking the Lord of the House about a certain item, a carved box with hyacinths, or an ebony horse rearing back, it's rider on the ground, but all forgot their mission and found themselves inexplicably dragged into another room, then another. Some laughed and smiled, trying to make light of their incessant curiosity, others shivered and clung to each other for warmth in the unnaturally cool night.
    Finding the ballroom suddenly quieter than it had been an hour before Beckett glanced around, ignoring Lady Kostova as she rattled on about new curtains and the many shades of green presented to her at the shops. Illyria's eye met his and an eyebrow tilted up. With an irritated sigh he stood, muttered that he must go, and strode from the room leaving Kostova mid-sentence, her mouth still open.
    “Stop,” he hissed, leaning against the door to his study. The darkness seemed to beckon him in farther but he merely smiled at the emptiness. “Stop. Stop or I'll tell Jane.” And they did.

---tbc---

will update another chapter soon. ^_^

notes on the use of the title Prime Minister: This story takes place in the mid to late 1720's. The term "Prime Minister" has been around since the Glorious Revolution in 1688. But there usually was never one person ruling, normally a joint of two or three. In 1721 that changed when Sir Robert Walpole came to office as he is considered the first modern prime minister.
For the sake of the story the PM is not Walpole, it's some other person...yes. Anyway, just letting ppl know that PM did exist back then ^_^

Part IV

Song in Red and Gray ~ Anything But Love (Music Video)

2008-06-25T19:21:07Z

Title: Song in Red and Gray ~ Anything But Love
Pairing: Cutler Beckett/Rose Gillette/James Norrington
Rating: R/maybe NC-17 (just to be on the safe side)

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the movies used in this video.

Summary: The story so far... :) You have read it, anyway, haven't you? Haven't you!!! :-P

For ophelivia, I hope I could do your story justice. :):)

Speckett - among other things.

2008-06-25T10:43:16Z

Title: A Fascination with the Lower Classes
Words: 1288
Rating: Um… R-16?
Pairing(s): Speckett, Meckett
Summary: Some further words needed saying as to the state of Lord Beckett’s sheets. Cutler attempts to write what he feels (again), takes a hot bath, and mixes with low company… all in one night.

For

kittymay

A Fascination with the Lower Classes

Naturally this might be seen as something of a confession – it is no such thing. After the ink is dry on the last word I intend to crumple the entire document and cast it into the fire. I have no desire for posterity to bear witness to my sins – my history will be written by those other than myself. Those who are made famous by their memoirs have no conception of true greatness – that is for those who have no need of petty scribbling, whose deeds are written in… in…

Lord Beckett paused, pulling at his lower lip with his front teeth. The fire crackled – even then he could feel the cold inside his boots, shivering up his legs – perhaps a hot bath would loosen his quill? He scrunched up the expensive parchment and threw it into the fire unfinished.

There are things that cannot be confided to another individual, things which should not be witnessed or spoken, the very sentences so utterly depraved that I fear anyone upon hearing them would be so thoroughly disgusted as to be unable to continue. A man in my position, in any case, has not the luxury of a confidant, for there is nothing the ignominious love so much as the ruin of those greater than themselves.

My personal life, such as it is, can never be a matter of public knowledge. I find it difficult even to commit to paper. I have a… a fascination with the lower classes. And by that I mean the filthiest, most horrid, ignoble denizens who inhabit this wretched earth. Their eyes are greedy, their mouths more so, their bodies fouled, their skins rough and their language so convoluted that it is not fit to be uttered in polite company. But something about them compels me – their very degradation is so absolute that they are perhaps a more truthful expression of human nature than the false pretenses by which we live. Be assured, I have no illusions, my world is merely theirs on a much grander scale, where we cheat each other for so much more than horrid drink and petty coins, such transactions we dress up in fine words, but greatness is not nobility, loyalty or honour, but the courage to grasp what fortune offers.

These truths I fear no man of my standing apart from myself can ever understand. That I am some monstrous abomination: born to such nobility, with the soul of the commonest beggar, I fear above all things. Yes, I fear for my soul.

He lay in the bath, steam rising, his knees slightly above, the soapy water pooling around them, his head lolling back on a tasseled cushion, his short hair prickly against the silk, the back of his neck wet, his fingers tracing patterns up and down his thighs, shivering when they reached his knees and hit the air; bowed mouth open, his gray eyes wide and glazed over, lost in memories.

Because I can’t just stare at them from my privileged remove: I have to let them touch me, and I them. And I can’t leave evidence of their touch – I cannot afford to have them talk and I will not endure blackmail. I have a black creature with long knives, who cares for my reputation, among other things. I can see my soul in his eyes sometimes in the candlelight. He was my first, a monster of the gutter, he promised me his service and our contract is written in blood. He does my bidding in return for being close to my skin; running his gloved hands down my shuddering flesh.

He leaned a hand over to ring a bell, before rising from the water, wincing as cold breached his body, even though it was a warm night. Hands reach from behind him, wrapping a thick robe around his shoulders as Cutler Beckett stepped from the bath. Neither man said anything as the lord slipped his wet arms inside the long embroidered sleeves, shuffling into a pair of waiting slippers.

We do not speak of his one failure. Of the one savage that escaped him, the scum that teased me to abstraction for four nights and five days, who put his filthy hands all over me, pinched me, wrecked havoc inside me, sprawling, in the most intimate ways, and then spat in my face. And the night I waited for my creature to return – the blood of that sea-scum on his hands; waited for the knowledge that my secret was safe, that the quivering inside me would never be revealed, never escape the confines of my power. And in due course my creature returned and assured me of the death of my tormentor.

So when I heard his name again – you can imagine my surprise. My poor creature, how I punished him – those scars will be with him forever, I fear.

A figure whistled from the window and the writer looked up, his pupils dilated. “Jack…”

“Shush, luv – that loathsome, yeasty cunt ‘o yours ain’t around is he?”

“I hardly see why I should divulge the whereabouts of Mr. Mercer, if that’s who you were referring to.”

The pirate lurched over the lord, whose hair was uncovered, still drying, body naked but for the robe, almost ready for bed. The bed sheets clean and warm and waiting, fresh this morning. He bent over to whisper in Beckett’s ear, “Indeed it was, mate. Don’t know ‘ow you put up wif such a sour-faced ol’ bugger. Now ‘ows about a nice welcome, eh? Fer ol’ time’s sake.” And he slipped the robe from the lord’s shoulders, pulling his head back by the hair and kissing him hard, while a finger twiddled a nipple. “Say it!”

“Mmmph!”

“Say it!”

“Cap… tain… Ja-ack… Spar…row…” Beckett jumped away, falling backwards onto the bed. “I knew you would come.”

“Did you now?”

“Yes.” And there was a click behind Jack, who turned to meet the gun pointing at his head, which in itself was not nearly as terrifying as the cold eyes of Mr. Mercer behind it.

Mercer leered, “Long time no see, Mr. Sparrow.”

Jack made a face, “That’s Captain Sparrow, teh you, ye snot-faced git. ‘Sides…” Suddenly he ducked behind a bedpost as the shot rang out, grabbing Beckett and drawing a sword across the lord’s throat. “…I got summin’ you don’t. Aw… ‘e’s a perky little lad, ain’t ‘e? Wouldn’t want teh do anything… irreversible, now, would we?” He put his lips close to Beckett, “would we, your nibs?”

Beckett closed his eyes, eyelashes quivering, the cold steel pressing hard against his throat.

Mercer glared: his body a rigid mass of repressed fury, his arm perfectly still.

“Now, luv, I want you to order this here ugly bastard teh get – savvy?”

Moistening his lips, Beckett was silent, his Adam’s apple bobbing on against the edge of the sword.

“I don’ think ‘e ‘eard you, luvvie.”

“Mercer… ah… out…”

The clerk ground his teeth: “Sir…!”

“You ‘eard the bloke – out! Otherwise I ain’t ‘oldin’ meself accountable fer ‘is pretty little ‘ead. Ain’t that right, luv?”

The gun was grudgingly lowered and the clerk backed out of the room, glance shooting murder at the pirate captain, while the hostage stared glassily at him, willing him to do something.

“Now then, sweetheart – where was we ‘afore we was so rudely interrupted?” Beckett was about to speak when, Jack spoke again, as if he’d just remembered something, “Ah, but naughty luvvies don’ get rewarded, do they?”

“I…”

“Be seein’ you!” And with two strides Jack was at the window and out: gone.

Beckett looked at the open window and then at the pages which should have been on this desk: they were gone.

Preview of 'The Wager' 1/1 (Beckington, NC-17)

2008-06-24T14:17:11Z

So I've been feeling like a bad mother recently as I have been neglecting my duties as a Beckington writer. Rest assured that I have started a new modern ifc, since my last one got such a good reception. It's called "The Wager" and really and truly has nothing to do with the other fic other then it gives me an excuse to write about fast cars and hot guys. So here's a short preview of what I am writing until I get to finish it.

Title: The Wager
Author: Who else would think of this shit? Yours truly with help from the Muse
Rating: NC-17 (or will be)
Warnings: PWP. very much PWP. Very hot cars.
Summery: Beckett makes a wager regarding a little race-the first to the beach gets to claim the loser as their own. But does is the outcome what Beckett thought it would be?

“The wager is this: The first to reach the beach is the winner and gets to claim the loser as his own,” Beckett said, putting on his pair of Armani shades. He brushed a strand of dark hair out of his face and crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back against the front fender of his Diablo. “What say you, James?”

James sat up on the crotchrocket he was on and put his hands on his hips. “It seems too simple. What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch. Just try to keep up James.” Beckett pushed himself off the car and opened the scissor doors and sat down on the driver’s seat, with one foot firmly planted on the ground. He put the keys in the ignition and looked back to James. “So do we have a deal?”

James turned the key in his ignition as well. “I think it is you who will need to keep up with me. Perhaps I should give you a head start,” he replied with a grin as he put on the steel grey full-faced helmet that matched his bike.

Cutler laugh a bit and pulled his other leg into the car. “On the beach then.” He reached up and pulled the door shut, then threw the car into reverse and backed up a bit, then threw the car into its lowest gear and floor boarded the accelerator, taking off down the thin street that circled the hill down to the beach.

Beckington Crackvid

2008-06-23T10:20:23Z

Okaay... This is something I've been wanting to do for a while and never finished until now. It's just taking the piss out of Beckington as we have come to know it in this depraved day and age - ie: Beckington Bondage. Enjoy!

Triumvirate ch. 2

2008-06-22T02:27:55Z

Yes, I renamed the story, the title is now more appropriate as you will see later on. ^_^

Title: Triumvirate 2/6
Pairing: Meckett
Rating: R
Summary: Beckett is finally off to be married to the lovely Lady Kostova, Mercer is being..well..Mercer, the spirits are being obnoxious as usual, and then Beckett receives a letter, one that mentions a death from two years ago and threatens to expose him and make him as miserable as possible. Unless, of course, he is willing to pay.

Note: There are references to my past to two stories in this. It would help to read the first one (Deliver Me) as Beckett is being blackmailed over Follett's death. *bound to come back and haunt him*

Deliver Me
Asymptote

Part I

    The tea was served at three on white china with ivy leaves painted along the edges and highlighted in gold leaf. Lady Kostova smiled as she accepted her cup, letting the steam rise up and bathe her face.
    “This smells delicious.” She said, gracing Beckett with another smile as she carefully set it aside to cool.
    “Thank you, I hope you enjoy it.”
    “I am sure I shall.” She licked her lips, letting her fingers play with the lace on her gown. “M'lord.”
    “Hm?”
    “I must put this to you, and I fear I must be forward while doing so.”
    “Very well, what is it?”
    “Our marriage, you've delayed it. Again. Why?”
    “Personal reasons.”
    “Have I done something to earn your disapproval?”
    “No, it's just...there are some things I am working out. It has nothing to do with you, do not worry, we shall be married.”
    “When you get around to it.”
    Beckett shrugged and sipped his tea, resting his eyes on the fireplace behind her. He traced the etched vines as they made their way up the side, slowly turning themselves into leaves and daisies. Some were in mid bloom, others fully mature with their thirteen petals displayed proudly.
    “How have you been of late m'lord?” Asked Lady Kostova as she sipped her tea at last, wincing at the bitter taste. Reaching over to the table she added some sugar to it, stirring counter clockwise three times then clockwise three times till it was dissolved.
    “I have been well, and you?”
    “Well enough.”
    “Very good.” Beckett gave her a tight smile and took a sip of his tea. “You've been keeping busy I take it?”
    “Oh yes. I have been to town this past week looking at dresses.”
    “For the wedding?”
    “Yes m'lord.”
    “So many shades of white to choose from.”
    “There are, honestly,” her voiced dropped to a whisper, “I am thinking of going for an off white. But,” a secretive smile appeared. “You can't know anymore than that.”
    “Glad we're following tradition.”
    “Of course. Oh, but there is more than colour to choose from. I must decide on the pattern as well! Why there is one with lace at the edge and I am quite fond of it.”
    “I see. Such life changing decisions to make.”
    “I know!”
    Beckett smiled and tilted his head before draining his cup of tea. “Indeed, madam, indeed.”

    “M'lord?” Illyria stood at the entrance to Beckett's study, mail in hand.
    “Hm?” He didn't glance up.
    “Mail m'lord.”
    “Give it to Mercer.”
    “Of course m'lord,” a bow he hardly noticed as she left to find the clerk.
    “Mail Mercer.” Illyria announced as she dumped it on his desk with a smile. “Our most gracious Lord is too busy doing the puzzles in the paper to look through it.”
    Mercer sighed and looked up from the document he had been working on and eyed the stack of envelopes wearily. “Very well,” he said, reaching forward and picking one up at random. “I shall read them all then dump them on him to read.”
    “Sounds like a charming plan.”
    "Isn't it?”
    “Standard.”

    The letter was read once, a sigh of frustration, then read again. A scrape of wood on wood and Mercer stood, irritation evident on his face.
    “M'lord.” He strode into Beckett's office, thrusting the letter in his master's face. “Read. I can guarantee you, it is more important than your crosswords.”
    “Nothing is more important than my crosswords.”
    “I have it from a good source that you didn't do a single one while I was in London during the break out of the plague, or whatever it was.”
    “Different situation Mercer,” Beckett said with a sigh as he set the paper aside and picked up the letter. Reading it over a small crease formed between his eyes as he frowned. “Most interesting.”
    “Indeed.”
    “I thought we had the Follett affair cleaned up.”
    “As did I m'lord.”
    “It appears you missed one Mercer.”
    “If I remember correctly, you told me to let him live because you needed his connections in India.”
    “No, you missed him.”
    “If you insist.”

    The grounds were in full bloom, flowers spreading their petals and filling the air with their sweet scents. Beckett wandered through them, lost in the book he was reading. Stalling by a statue of a cherub he turned a page, licking his fingers before he did so. Once again involved in the story he began he meandering pace through the gardens. Tucked under his arm was his cane, every so often a fly would land on it only to quickly leave once the young lord started walking again.
    “Cutler?” Lady Katherine appeared before her son with a scowl engraved in her features reminding Beckett of the saints he had seen painted in the village church.
    “Yes?” A piece of fabric was shoved between the pages and the book closed. He quickly exchanged it for his cane which hit the stone with a small tap.
    “Something has come to my attention, something very grave and I wish to speak of it with you.”
    “Of course.”
    “I shall be blunt.”
    “I expected nothing less.”
    “You are alone?” They took to following the stone path, making their way deeper into the gardens, the trees growing larger as they did so.
    “Yes.”
    “Your clerk isn't hidden away in the shadows here?”
    “No, he is away, visiting his sister or something along those lines.”
    “Good. What I have to say is for your ears alone.”
    “Then it would be for Mercer as well,” Beckett cast a sidelong glance at his mother, smirking at her expression of slight shock. “You must know by now mother, Mercer is my ears.”
    “This is a private matter, one that is not to be spread around in the local taverns.”
    “He's very close mouthed, but do not worry, he is not here. Do go on.”
    “A year ago, well, more along the lines of a year and half ago I believe you had some trouble concerning a man by the name of Follett? A distant relative of ours.”
    “An illegitimate distant relative.”
    “Yes, well...his relations are of no consequence. But, Cutler, what happened to him?”
    “He was taken care of.”
    “I thought as much.”
    Beckett stopped and turned to face his mother, eyes narrowing as he did so. “Where are you going with this madam? I believe you said you would be blunt.”
    “You're being blackmailed over it, why?”
    “Because someone wants money. Why else to people blackmail? Besides,” he laughed, smile cold and eyes suddenly sea-grey. “Blackmail is the only thing that holds currency nowadays.”
    “Indeed. Cutler, you're playing a dangerous game. Who is blackmailing you?”
    “Lord Chantage.”
    “Christ's blood!”
    “Mother, language.”
    “You can't just kill him, you do know that right? He is the brother-in-law to the prime minister.”
    “I am very well aware of this fact.”
    Lady Katherine sighed and turned away from her son, staring into the trees around them. At last she turned back to him, her face just as cold as his.
    “Very well,” she smiled. “When your man gets back we'll start digging.”
    Beckett's face changed as his lips formed a smirk. “Indeed we shall madam, indeed we shall.”

    “That was quite interesting.” Mercer said as he emerged from the shadows behind Beckett once Lady Katherine finally excused herself. “Visiting Anne was I?”
    “It was the first thing that came to mind. But, I am in agreement with my mother, Chantage cannot be killed. The aftershock of such a death would swamp boats even greater than ours.”
    “I quite like his name.”
    “Oh? You speak Dutch as well?”
    “No, but it's the same word in French.”
    “Yes, quite. He changed his last name once he gained his father's title. Said he wanted nothing to do with the man.”
    “Does he know what it means?”
    “Probably.”
    “When shall I start digging?” They turned around and began heading slowly back to the house, Beckett's cane still tapping on the stone.
    “As soon as you get back from Anne's.”
    “And when will that be?”
    “Tomorrow, luncheon.”
    “Very good m'lord.”

    Lord Chantage smiled at Mercer as the younger man showed him into is master's study.
    “Wait here, he will arrive momentarily.” Chantage nodded and watched as the clerk disappeared into a corner of the room.
    “Lord Chantage,” Beckett said with a curt smile as he entered the room before the taller man had a chance to seat himself. They quickly bowed and exchanged the usual greetings.
    “Now, we are both busy men Lord Beckett so I shall be brief.”
    A wry smile from Beckett and a murmured of “Brevity is the soul of wit.”
    “Quite. Now, you know why I am here. The most unfortunate circumstances of the late Mr. Follett's death have been concealed far too long. But,” a cold smile. “I may be persuaded to conceal them even longer by some well placed money. Otherwise,” he shrugged, his long arms settling themselves on the arms of the chair with languid grace. “Justice will have to take it's course.”
    “Justice? Is that what they're calling it now?”
    “Well, it is. But, I doubt very much that you feel that Follett deserves justice so, the placement of money...”
    “How much?”
    “₤10,000.”
    “Come now, don't you think that a bit excessive?”
    “For the cold blooded murder of a fine, upstanding, young gentleman like Mr. Follett? No, in fact I think it too little. But in consideration of your finances, I have lowered it.”
    “How kind of you.”
    “I know. Now, I want it in hard currency. Not paper.”
    “By when?”
    “I'll give you a month.” Chantage gave another smile and stood, holding his hand out to Beckett. “Shall we shake on it?”
    “No, I have no desire to touch any part of your anatomy.”
    “But we have a deal.”
    “Get out.”
    “I will take that as a yes.”
    “Mercer.” The clerk materialized behind Chantage and placed a hand on the older man's shoulder, squeezing it.
    “If I were you, Lord Beckett, I would think before I acted.”
    Beckett laughed, standing as well. “Do not fear for your life Chantage, I am merely having him show you out. Why, you don't think he's capable of anything more drastic than that do you?”
    Chantage glanced behind him at the tightly smiling clerk then back at the small lord standing placidly before him. “No,” he said at last.
    “Good.”
    “But there are times when men have been known to do drastic things in drastic situations...”
    “Good day Lord Chantage.”

---tbc---

Well then, part two is up. *huzzah* I hope you all enjoyed it. The plot showed up early in this one.

There will be more coming soon I hope, depends on how my brain is functioning over the next few days. Perhaps there will be an update by my birthday. That would make me very happy ^_^

Part III