So I realize that Black Sails is supposed to be a prequel to Treasure Island, I do... but like, honestly fuck that lol. I like Treasure Island well enough (okay, if we’re being honest, I like Treasure Planet best) but I am so much more attached and invested in the versions of the characters in Black Sails and I just
I’m just so unwilling and uninterested to see the book canon play out for them.
I keep going in circles about the war and the revolution and Thomas being alive, and fix-it scenarios. I just want my happy little polycule of Madi/Silver/Flint/Thomas, okay? I just want these motherfuckers to communicate better.
I wrote before that Silver sacrificed a bunch of good things to keep the two people he loves safe, and in a lot of ways I understand that decision, even though it is objectively the Wrong one. But like, SON, PLEASE. I feel like it could have been so much MORE.
If Thomas was rescued from Savannah, he would have been such a valuable ally in the war and he would have tempered Flint’s rage at the same time. I don’t know where I’m going with this. The characters, as written currently in the text of the show, need a lot of work and wiggling to get to a place that would make me happy.
I guess I just wanted to vent. I love Silver a lot, but I knew from the very moment I set eyes on him that he was a Loki-type character and was chaotic and insecure and too clever for his own good.
More communication, less repression, more working together? What’s the answer here
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I once wrote a silverflint/gunnbones au fanfic about when your husband secretely starts knitting, instead of asking you, who’s the actual pro. 2016 was a good year.
From the prompt list - Silverflint + bakery au, please?
I’m sorry this took me so long! Last week was my spring break so I took it off to get some rest. I’m back in the game now tho.
I decided to take the liberty of expanding the bakery au! Say hello to tattoo artist Silver ;)
Every morning, Flint wakes up ridiculously early. He takes a shower, drinks a breakfast shake, and walks to work before the sun ever begins to think about rising. The small suburban store fronts are all dark as he moves past them, the glass of their windows smooth and ethereal as they reflect his quiet journey amongst a sea of shadows, highlighted only by the occasional street lamp.
He goes around the side of his building and unlocks the back door, propping it open. The delivery truck will be by this morning and he likes to keep an eye out for it as he goes through his daily prep.
The Bakery, while unoriginally named, is still pretty popular and Flint has a good flow of business day in and day out. Which is why he has to get there so damn early every morning, so he can try and bake as much as possible before the doors open at eight.
Hours later, he takes his dirty apron off and tosses it into the little laundry bag in the corner he takes home with him every night, and goes to unlock the front door. It’s his usual routine, setting up the display cases and the front windows, pulling all the little wrought iron chairs off the tables and setting out a few centerpieces, but his attention is caught and held when he happens to look up and glance across the street.
There’s another store front across the way, and for a long time it sold hardware. It was owned by an elderly man who came to The Bakery three or four times a week to buy treats for his grandkids, but he recently retired and the shop had lain dormant and quiet for a long time afterwards.
Until now, apparently. Flint can see movement through the window, but thanks to the rising sun, the dust accumulated from disuse on the glass, and a light on within, he can only make out the shadow of a single man. He’s moving around though, obviously setting the place up as he keeps disappearing into the back and then reappearing pushing large, dark shapes across the floor. Working with shadows alone Flint can’t really tell what kind of store it’s going to be, but he sits and watches the process for a good twenty minutes before a timer in the back goes off and he remembers he’s got things he needs to be doing.
It turns out to be a rather busy day, and Flint doesn’t remember the mystery of the new store until he’s closing up and once again he sees that shadow moving around inside. This time though, the windows are clean, and Flint can make out a few more details than before. Like the fact that the man has thick, curly, dark hair, and that it looks like he’s wearing flannel. But the setting winter sun and Flint’s own desire to clean up and get home keeps him from seeing anything else.
By noon the next day, a small group of workers has set up ladders outside the storefront and put up a new sign. Curling black letters that spell out ‘Silver Ink’. The entire time, the man with dark hair stands with his back to Flint and watches them work, giving brief instructions to move a letter one way or another. He’s got broad shoulders and a wide stance with arms crossed over his chest. When he turns his head, Flint can just catch the impression of thick scruff growing along his jaw.
The woman standing at his counter turns to see what Flint is watching and then makes a thoughtful hum, drawing Flint’s attention. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a tattoo parlor here before,” she muses and then smiles sunnily at Flint. “I’ll have two of the apple turnovers. Glazed, please.”
For a month, Flint watches the new tattoo place quietly from across the street. There are two other employees besides the dark-haired man, a bigger, buffer dude with a bald head and a full beard, and a dark-skinned woman with tall boots and an intelligent air about her. The three argue sometimes, but they seem to work well together, each of them with their own little ‘stations’ set apart from each other by waist-high walls. The town is small, but not tiny enough that Ink doesn’t receive its fair share of business that first month, people filtering in and out of the glass front door with regularity.
Flint is just getting ready to tidy up The Bakery for the night after that one month mark, when he looks up and happens to see a familiar face going through that door. He doesn’t know the man personally, but he does recognize him as someone who has been to Ink on several different occasions, and who storms out each and every time in an angry huff.
He’s a short guy with close cropped hair and odd round glasses, and tonight Flint knows that there’s only one person over at Ink, the dark-haired man, because it’s early in the evening and it’s the weekend, meaning Ink is on a nocturnal schedule.
The Bakery isn’t technically closed yet, Flint’s got an hour to clean up the front and see to any last minute customers. But rather than clearing out the display cases, Flint ends up watching as the two men across the street start arguing, gesturing widely and with anger.
And then suddenly the shorter man is swinging, connecting a solid punch that Flint swears he can hear all the way where he’s standing.
He’s moving before he even knows it, pausing only to flip the sign on his door from Open to Closed, and then he’s marching across the pavement, off one sidewalk, up onto the other, and then right into the store he’s been observing for so damn long.
By now the dark-haired man has collected himself and backed off, holding his cheek in one hand and looking like he’s two seconds away from returning the blow. The shorter man is yelling, on and on about something Flint can’t even catch, but the whole room falls silent when he slams the door shut behind himself with an over loud bang.
The shorter man turns around, eyes narrow and cruel behind his odd little glasses as he eyes Flint up and down. Flint belatedly realizes he’s still wearing a black half-apron, the one he puts on in the afternoon when he’s not cooking as much, and that it’s got a few batter smears on it. With his hair in disarray after an almost full day of work, and his stance aggressive, he probably looks like a lunatic.
“Can I help you?” The dark-haired man recovers first. This close Flint can see that his eyes are a beautiful bright blue, but they’re also rather wary.
“I think he needs to leave,” Flint responds, nodding at the shorter man. The man’s eyes narrow further, and his lips part like he’s planning on speaking.
A firm voice cuts him off. “Dufresne. He’s right. You should go now.”
There’s a thick, tangible silence hanging in the air. But after a second, the shorter man, Dusfresne Flint is guessing, turns on his heel and stalks angrily out of the store. The dark-haired man follows, but only to watch him until he turns the corner, and then to flip his own sign from Open to Closed.
He sighs, slumping against the closed door. With one hand he rubs tiredly at his face, and then winces when he presses where his jaw is starting to swell, unattractive purple visible beneath the coarse hair of his scruff.
“Are you alright?”
The man jerks his head up, obviously caught off guard. He blinks wide, blue eyes at Flint, and then grins crookedly although there’s not a lot of humor in it. “Yeah, I’m alright. Thanks for storming in like that. I could have handled him on my own but it wouldn’t have been fun.”
“You’re welcome.” Flint shifts his weight awkwardly, unsure of where to go from there until the man winces again, cupping his jaw gingerly in one palm. Must’ve started throbbing. “Do you have any ice here? Or a cold pack?”
“Can’t say that I do, unfortunately. And I can’t leave the shop unattended.”
Glancing out the window at his own store, Flint considers the option and then shrugs mentally. “I can get you some ice. I’m just across the street there.”
The man glances over his shoulder and then looks back at Flint, both eyebrows raised. “Huh. You didn’t strike me as the baker type, not even with the apron on. Makes more sense than a weird fashion statement though. But yeah, if you wouldn’t mind, some ice would be great. Thanks, man.”
He steps out of the way so Flint can get through the door, and Flint gives me a little nod and a promise to be back quickly. Once inside The Bakery, he hunts down a Ziploc baggie, empties some ice into it, and then wraps the whole thing in paper towels. He also grabs his keys though, and locks his front door on the way out just in case his Closed sign isn’t enough of a deterrent. He’ll have a late night tonight, since he’s barely started cleaning, but he can’t bring himself to mind too much.
Back across the street, the man has collapsed onto a black leather…couch thing, but with no arms or back. Must be where clients lie down so the artists can work on them. But he sits up when Flint comes in and smiles when he hands him the ice pack, pressing it gently against his face with a mixed sigh and wince.
“Thanks again. Dufresne‘s such a prick, I swear.”
Also while Flint was gone, the man rolled up the sleeves of the blue button down he’s wearing (with his ripped, dark jeans, he manages to make it look casual) to reveal sturdy forearms covered in swirling, black ink. Flint finds himself staring, trying to make out all the images intertwined with one another. He’s pretty sure there’s an old fashioned wooden ship, and the Jolly Roger on one arm, and on the other a series of increasingly detailed roses that start out minimalist and become more realistic as they trail from the back of his hand, around his wrist, and disappear under the folded band of his shirt towards his bicep. Flint is struck with the distinct urge to follow them, to see if their designs are hyper realistic by the time they reach the man’s shoulder.
“Who are you anyways?” The soft question breaks Flint out of his reverie, and he returns his wandering gaze to the man’s curious one. “I mean, I get you work across the street and you bake, but that’s about all I know about you.”
Oh, right. “James Flint,” he says, and holds out a hand to shake.
The other man smiles that crooked smile again, this time with genuine amusement. “John Silver. But just call me Silver.” His hand shake is firm and warm, but brief, and oddly enough Flint finds himself missing the connection as soon as it’s over.
“So is the store named after you then?”
“Yup!” Silver responds happily, popping the ‘p’ at the end. “Bit narcissistic, I know. But hey, it was my idea so Max and Muldoon can suck it up.”
“And those are the other two, the bald man and the woman?” Flint asks, and then has to fight the urge to wince at the odd look Silver gives him, obviously wondering why Flint has been spying on his store.
“Yeah, that’s them. They’re both artists here, but Max, the woman, she also handles the money and the books. Muldoon usually scares off the debt collectors like Dufresne. We’re all co-owners.”
On the wall behind Silver are sheets upon sheets of art, skulls and roses and wings and all the typical paraphernalia of tattoo artists. The designs are unique and beautiful, the style an odd mixture of thin and thick lines, of shading and white space. But a foot to either side, the art changes. Everything to the left of Silver’s working space is flowing and thin with an impressive depth of detail. To the right the art feels more traditional, blocky and wide.
“Which is yours?” Flint finds himself asking.
Silver follows his gaze to the wall, and he points to the collection closest to him, the first pieces Flint had been admiring. “This is all mine. That’s Muldoon’s,” he points to the right, “and that’s Max’s” to the left.
“It’s beautiful.”
He hadn’t specified what he was talking about per say, but Flint had definitely meant Silver’s art more than anything else. And when Silver turns around, there’s a faint blush under his tan skin and he’s smiling, so obviously he knew what Flint hadn’t said explicitly.
“Thank you,” he says sincerely, then his lips quirk up and he tacks on a sarcastic little, “I’ll let Max know she’s got a new secret admirer, she likes to keep track of all of them.”
“It’s not Max who has a secret admirer,” Flint responds bluntly. He only realizes what he’s said after he’s said it, and when Silver’s eye fly wide.
They regard each other silently and with surprise for one, long terrible moment, and then Silver is grinning impossible wide.
“Oh, Mr. Darcy,” he coos, eyelashes fluttering dramatically, and then the door to the back is opening and Max and Muldoon are coming through, already in conversation. They don’t even pause at seeing Flint in the store, but he doesn’t stay to meet them.
