Warning: Suggestiveness abound!


Rainstorm


When he returns from Samarkand, it rains, and the water is sharp against the window pane of the Bloodstone Manor. Jasper and Walter speak with her in private, when the doors are flung open, and there he is, the Thief, his pistol brandished, a familiarly irritating smirk present on his lips.

Sparrow crosses her legs while Walter pulls out his sword and Jasper, his rifle. There's a playfulness in her red gaze as she tucks black hair behind her ear, and a smile that is old as time on her lips. Reaver doesn't shoot, and his eyes are on her in a second.

"Really," He says, and it's cheesy, the way his voice sounds. "We must quit meeting like this. It's growing bothersome."

He's talking about the time she returned from the Shadow Court and held him at swordpoint, about the time her eyes were alit with a fire not usually present in her ruby-red eyes.

"Walter, Jasper," She says, her voice is softer than her harsh looks. She is still sitting in that chair, and Reaver is still holding her at gunpoint. Her two mutts look at her with wide eyes when she says the next words, "It's fine. He's a friend."

She stresses the term, and it's a warning for all of them. Reaver still does not put away his gun, instead, he holds it up high, tapping the barrel against his temple. His hair is graying, Sparrow notices, but only slightly. It has been ten years since that day he tricked her.

"Come, thief," She gestures to the chair beside her. "Let's talk business. Jasper, get us wine, will you?"


His lips are on hers in that Manor. Their business is nothing more than an excuse to retry things that once held true. He likes the fact that she is sneaky, that she is evil, and cruel and all those delightful little words. And she likes the fact that he has no qualms with her nature, that he can trick her. His teeth dance across her lip as they lay beside the fireplace, her nails drag red lines across his spine.

"There's civil war about." She tells him, wrapped in a flimsy blanket, mile-long legs crossed as she leans in the chair. He's naked too, but makes no move to be modest about the fact. Reaver sips her wine, it's fine, obviously expensive.

"Is there, really?" He asks, pushing back his inky hair. There's laughter in his eyes. Chaos amuses him, just as it amuses her. She wrinkles her nose.

"I cannot sit and watch as these people squabble over putting a puppet on a throne." She has other reasons to fight for the throne, but she'll divulge none of these to Reaver. Sparrow doubts that he'll believe tales of seeing the future. She herself wondered if she had just gone mad. "They need a real ruler."

"I myself would volunteer for the opportunity," He sneers, rubbing a thumb over the lines of his mouth. "But I doubt I would be able to handle the weeping of those miscreants you call people. Truly, I find them most maudlin."

"I'm only asking for your help."


"You bastard." Are her first words upon reentering the Bloodstone Manor. She's got a Master Katana outstretched and she completely ignores the fact that Barnum is dead. She never cared for the man, with his cock-eyed schemes and lack of personal hygiene. Right now, all Sparrow has her eyes on is Reaver.

The tip of the blade touches his collar bone, and there's a certain dancing going on his brown eyes.

"Not a wrinkle on you," He praises, he pushes the blade away with two fingers, and Sparrow stands there, her shoulders tremulous with anger. Anger for this man. "I applaud you!"

She throws the katana across the room and pushes him into the wall of his Manor. He's still smirking, the bastard, and the smirk lasts when she bites at his neck and pulls at his hair with long fingers.

She has to pull away when the man announces Fairfax's arrival, but there's a promise in her eyes when she looks at him. A promise she knows she'll keep this time.


There is no love between them. There never has been. While they're fighting some of her competitors in Bower Lake, he does nothing to protect her from gunshots and she does nothing to protect him from sword slashes. All that is between them, all that ever will be between them is lust. Companionship. They're two people cut from the same cloth. While he focuses his own hatred on hedonism and decadence, she focuses on vengeance, murder.

When they screw behind a tree while Swift and Walter work out plans to seize Brightwood, he leaves the tackiest mark on the corner of her neck, and she leaves scratches on his lower back.


"What will you do when I've got the throne?" She asks. For some reason, she wants to grasp his hand, and the feeling she gets when he breathes against the nape of her neck is one so foreign to her. She needs to force it away, so she untangles herself from his embrace and he groans in agitation.

"Hmm… I've never been one for politics, if that is what you're asking, my sweet little minx." He purrs. "Perhaps I will go to some other desolate land, and be sorely disappointed once more. Or maybe I will return to Bloodstone and take back my estate."

She's looking up at the stars hatefully, her eyes closing as she shuts out the serenity of the darkness, and she says, "And? If I give you a new estate? Power? What then?"

"Hahaha," He chuckles, and he's pulling her towards him, shifting his hips in a most delectable position. "It almost sounds as if you want me to stay by your side."


The battle is over. Albion's Civil War has reached its climax. Around her, Sparrow can hear the cheers of the people, the roaring of those victorious. The newly-made crown upon her head is heavy indeed. As she looks around, she notices that there is a certain deviant missing.

"And Reaver?" She asks Jasper, when they are alone, as he reiterates their casualties. No one important has died. "What became of him?"

"Gone, Your Majesty." Jasper tells her, a certain lecturing frown on his lips. "I believe he set sail some time ago, I will tell the fleet to chase after him, if you wish."

"No." She tells him, closing her eyes. There's a certain pain in her heart. "He's gone. Leave him be."


Outside, the rain pattered against the glass windows of Bowerstone Castle, leaving behind a spiderweb of water. The Hero Queen, Sparrow leans into her throne, looking down upon the half-bowed man, with an expression of distaste. It's rightfully directed. This is a man who exemplified everything that was wrong with the human race. Sparrow's eyes, red like rubies and just as dangerous, glitter as she crosses her legs.

She supposes it makes sense that it would storm upon his arrival.

"Reaver," Her voice carries a tone of hate in it, and her nose wrinkles. "How very pleasant of you to grace Albion with your presence."

"Ah, my wonderful, august Queen," He rises from his half-bow, hand on his hip, the other waved around. He still wears silk, like a Lady of the Court. "The way your voice oozes with sarcasm, it's enough to bring a smile to my face!"

Brown eyes are crinkled with amusement, and his word is true for once, there is a wolfish smile twisting his cheeks. The guards stiffen. No one insults the Queen of Albion. She is harsh, and she is cruel, but Sparrow simply laughs. It's a high, very high laugh.

"We will convene in private," She tells the guards, rising from her throne with a casualness that would only be present in one not raised in a castle. "Begone."

They leave, and there's a certain tension between them as they shuffle out of the Throne Room, closing the doors behind them. Then, it is just Sparrow and Reaver. She watches him, those eyes of hers glittering as he approaches her. His hands are on her hips in a minute, and he stares up into her pale, ghostly face and she stares down into his. There's a certain spark between them, as he bites his lower lip and then,

"Welcome home, my King."


Snippets. Of Sparrow/Reaver.

Y U NO WRITE PRINCESS/REAVER, you may ask.

Because I ship both of those. And I felt like writing EVIL!Sparrow. And I went to this random word generator and got the word Rainstorm. Then ideas like, flew around.

Feedback is appreciated~!