#ive been way too ill over servant lately

[wikoymi]

20 february 2024

[jackrrabbit]

Adversary /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You make a deal with the devil to save your life, but it turns out Overhaul’s not interested in your soul.

A/N: Remember when I said I was going to do a fantasy collab and then dipped for like 9 months? Hahaha…anyway…

@pleasantanathema @ present-mel @shadowworks—if it’s not too late, here’s my part for the Pleasant & Strider Fantasy AU Writing Collab from a million years ago. Go check out the masterlist and gorge yourself on these amazing pieces!!

Tags/Warnings: dubcon, demon fuckery & occult things, big heresy/sacrilege/perversion of religion, sex in a church ft. Catholic sex guilt, other than that it’s not that bad lol, inexperienced reader, mild degradation, shameless camp and demon-fucking clichés, Overhaul calls you “little girl” 👉👈

He doesn’t look like a demon.

Not that you really know what demons are supposed to look like. But…red skin, right? Fangs and claws and swirling masses of bad energy. Maybe cloven hooves for feet. Yes, that’s the Disney version—but even if you didn’t expect a cartoon personification of evil, you didn’t expect this.

He looks like a doctor, you think. Lab coat hanging open, surgery mask pushed down under his jaw, stethoscope draped over his shoulders. No, he’s a little young to really look like a doctor…an intern, you amend, shifting back in your hospital bed. He looks like he fits right in here, not a hair out of place. Except for, you know, the polished black horns curling out of the sides of his skull.

Overhaul. It was written in the book. That’s the only thing you have to call him in your head.

He’s standing in the center of the sigil you drew at the foot of your bed before midnight, surveying the room critically without meeting your gaze. He looks annoyed—that’s not a good sign, is it?—but then again, of course he’s annoyed. You’d be annoyed too if you got summoned out of your cozy hell dimension in the middle of the night. According to the book, you’re lucky he even showed up…although ‘lucky’ isn’t really how you’d describe yourself most days.

“So,” Overhaul says after a long moment of silence in which you question every choice you’ve made in your relatively short life. “You’re dying.”

You nod.

“And you don’t want to be.”

You nod again, wondering if you’re supposed to be contributing more to this conversation. It’s a bit difficult when your mouth is so dry it feels like you’ve been eating dirt, but you suppose being in the presence of an unholy servant of Satan will do that to a person.

“Fine.” He sighs, frowns, and then finally lowers his gaze onto yours—and you shiver.

Those eyes. No human has eyes like that.

“Make me an offer,” Overhaul tells you, and through his open mouth you catch a flash of sharp white teeth.

Okay. Okay. The chirping of the heart monitor speeds up (as if it weren’t obvious enough that you’re terrified) and you fold your knees up to your chest and fidget with your ring and think. He’s giving you a chance to establish parameters. You’re supposed to start with his end of the deal, the thing you want from him. That’s what it said to do in the grimoire, aka the 19th century demonology volume your creepy cousin brought back from her pagan anthropology research trip in rural France. The one you keep hidden under your bed because your mother would burn it if she knew you were reading about summoning demons.

Offer nothing to a hell creature without first telling him your price. You know the words by heart, both the winding calligraphy of the original French from the grimoire and the rushed scrawl of the English translation your cousin left for you in sheets of lined paper layered between the pages of the book for you to read. Really, this is her fault. She was the one who slipped you the book, who told you that it worked, who snuck you the ingredients for the summoning. She was the one who left a bookmark at the chapter on this particular demon, one that specializes in ‘Contrat pour Remédier au Déséquilibre des Quatre Humeurs’, which she said meant a contract to cure any illness. Even his ‘name’ is translated in her hand, practically an afterthought in the margins of the page.

‘Le Malin qui Ravage et Rebâtit’— Overhaul?

You looked up the literal meaning of this phrase on your own. It did not reassure you.

“Girl.” His voice is cold, irate. Your eyes snap back up to his and it feels like that burning gaze is laser-beaming into your skull. “Do not test me. My time is limited…as is yours.”

You swallow. “How long do I have left?”

“Less than a single human year,” he tells you without a trace of sympathy. “Seven months, twelve days, three hours. Or so. You’ll be too exhausted to leave this bed in four months, and the pain will become intolerable in six… By the end, you’ll wish—“

“Stop,” you breathe out. The heart monitor is beeping wildly and you squeeze your knees into your chest, trying to calm down your breathing. “Stop, I—I want to live.”

“Of course you do.” Overhaul’s lip curls. “How very predictable.”

Be specific, you remind yourself, doing your best to ignore the stifling disapproval from the man—the demon—in front of you. Something about him (maybe how clean-cut he looks, maybe the indisputable authority in his demeanor) makes you want to impress him. But you didn’t turn your back on your religion—you didn’t draw pagan symbols on the floor in chalk, fill silver cups with various questionable substances (including your own virgin blood), and turn the crucifix your mother hung over your bed upside-down so you could let a demon make you feel guilty for wanting to survive. “I want to be cured. I’m okay with whatever natural death I have instead when I’m older, I just don’t want to die of this illness. I want you to make me healthy.”

“Simple enough. What else?”

‘Simple’? Your heart surges with something you’ve felt very little of since your initial diagnosis—hope. “T-That’s it. Just the cure.”

Overhaul glares at you. “Humans… Every vice in the world available to you, and you limit yourselves to the basest priority of survival.”

“But you can do it? You can cure me?” you persist.

Overhaul steps forward (quiet, so quiet you wonder if he really moved) and holds a hand out to you past the foot of your bed—you hesitate, and a second later you can see the muscles in his hand flex, stretching the latex of his plastic gloves tight over his knuckles.

Just do it. You give him your hand. Carefully. Like you’re scared the contact will burn you. It doesn’t (although his skin feels warmer than yours), but after a moment his grip tightens, sliding down past your hand to circle the fragile bones of your wrist and squeeze.

“Ow?” You wince.

The demon’s eyes flicker closed for a second, lips moving silently like he’s talking to himself—and then he drops your hand unceremoniously back onto your lap. “You could be cured before the sun rises this morning. I doubt your stay in the hospital will extend past the end of the week.”

He sounds bored, voice as flat and passionless as it was earlier, but your heart is soaring. Cured. You’ve lived with this illness for so many years, you can’t remember the last time someone told you you could be cured. And getting out of the hospital that soon? You can just imagine taking down all the decorations from the walls of your room here and setting them up in your old bedroom at home. You could see friends on the weekend and not take an oxygen bag, you could get a job or—or apply to college, you could have a life—

“That is…assuming you have something to offer me in exchange for the cure.”

Your stomach drops. You’d almost forgotten about the other half of the deal.

“Don’t tell me I came all this way for nothing.” Overhaul steps back, and the orange light of the candles you set sends strange shadows over his arrogant face. The fires look brighter now, and you find yourself tracing the lines of those shining black horns. In an odd way, they look natural—so organically framing his temples that you can’t imagine him without them.

“N-No, of course not. I have some money—I mean, my mom has some, and I can get it for you…” Which is half the truth. If you know anything, it’s that your mother’s spent most of her savings on your treatment and care. You probably have more debt than you have money in the bank right now—you’d try to get rid of that, too, if you hadn’t read in the book how important it is to keep your request as simple and straightforward as possible.

…Although it’s apparently not enough. Overhaul’s eyes narrow, molten gold irises carved into slits. “Even if I had a use for human money, do you really believe your life is worth so little?”

“No—no,” you say quickly. “I just thought—in case you were interested—”

The air crackles with energy, the candle flames spark bright blood-red, and the hair on your arms stands straight up. “I am not.”

“Okay! I get it.” You wave your hands back and forth, pulling your IV line from side to side with the motion. The book was very clear about staying calm and rational while you work out the terms of the deal, but that’s easier said than done when you have a real live (live?) hell creature in front of you. You always knew this was going to be the hard part—all the stories say there’s only one thing that a demon would be interested in, and no matter how inviting the prospect of living past this illness is, you know you’d rather die than sell your immortal soul to the devil. “I’ll give you anything except my soul! And—and don’t hurt anyone I care about, or— just don’t hurt anyone, okay? Other than that, if there’s anything I can give you, I will.”

Overhaul’s lip curls, baring a thin strip of those unnaturally sharp canines. “And is your soul really so valuable?”

This throws you for a loop. Isn’t that the standard deal? A soul for a wish? That’s how it’s supposed to work—at least in this twisted version of reality where you can summon a demon to perform unholy miracles for you. But if you think about it, it doesn’t really make sense, does it? Why would your soul be valuable to him? You can’t form an argument, especially since you’re not willing to barter it away in the first place.

Your mouth is pursed open as you search for a response, but Overhaul doesn’t seem willing to wait. A gloved hand wraps its way around the railing at the side of your bed, and he leans in closer. “Little girl…what makes you think you possess anything I desire?”

Little girl. You’re not a little girl, you’re a grown woman—and yet there’s no untruth in the statement. In front of him you feel insignificant, immature, weak. You have nothing real to offer, and something tells you that you’re not going to get rid of the demon you summoned without a sacrifice you’re not willing to make.

You twist your ring around your finger—the nervous habit you haven’t bothered to break because you’ve always had more important things to worry about—and the glint of silver in the candlelight must catch Overhaul’s eye because before you even notice him moving, your delicate hand is trapped in his larger one to give him a better view of the tiny piece of jewelry. “What is this?”

“It’s—um, a ring. A purity ring.” Has he never seen one before? Well…actually, that makes sense.

Overhaul turns your hand over in his without touching the band of silver. He’s looking at it closely, inspecting the lovingly engraved cross in the design and the inscription on the other side. “Matthew 5:8,” he reads out.

“…Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” you recite cautiously. It feels wrong to speak the words in front of him, but somehow you can’t help yourself.

Overhaul’s hand doesn’t leave yours. “This ring is important to you.”

“It’s a symbol of a—a promise I made to God. To save myself for my future husband.”

“To ‘save yourself’? To save what?”

You can’t believe you’re explaining this to a literal demon. You close your eyes and inhale slowly and taste smoke. “My…virginity. It’s a promise that I won’t have sex until I enter into a biblical marriage.”

At this, Overhaul is quiet. You give him a moment to answer, half expecting him to question why you think God cares about your sexual status (honestly, you’d be lying if you said you haven’t wondered this yourself), but he stays quiet until you peek up at him to try and gauge the look on his coldly handsome face.

He’s still staring at the ring. He hasn’t touched it—maybe he can’t, because of the cross?—and through the latex, his skin feels hotter than a human’s is supposed to be.

“Is there…” you start, but you trail off when you realize you have nothing to ask. You give a little tug to try and take your hand away and you’re surprised when your wrist actually slides out of his grip to fall back on the nest of sheets in your lap. You didn’t think he’d let you go so easily.

Overhaul turns his head to the side, eyes drilling into you so you feel like you should lower your gaze. The candlelight flickers in strange shadows over his horns. “This will do,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“In exchange for your cure.” The demon taps his own left ring finger, the place where the purity ring sits on your hand, and your heart soars. He actually wants that? It’s just a simple silver band, not worth much, but you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it has some special significance because of the religious connotation. Your mother will be angry you’ve lost it, but you’re happy to cope with that if it means living to actually get married!

“Yes!” you blurt out before he has a chance to rethink his offer. Sure, you’ll miss the purity ring—you’ve had it since you were a kid, after all—but there’s no question you’re getting the better end of this deal. At least in your opinion.

Something flashes through his yellow eyes, something you don’t even want to try and identify. “The contract, then.”

You barely have time to notice that his voice has gentled, that it’s practically silken in comparison to before, when the candlelight flickers again and suddenly the contract is everywhere. Everywhere. Writing appears on every surface in the room, covering the walls, stretching over the ceiling, coiling around the sides of the hospital equipment and decorating your bedsheets until you and Overhaul are the only untouched surfaces in sight. The characters are inscribed in red, dark red like—don’t think about that, you tell yourself squeamishly. You can make out some of the letters, even a word here or there—French, you recognize, mixed with what looks like Latin and interspersed with what you can only guess are runes.

“I can’t read this,” you tell him, fidgeting with your ring for what you now realize will be the last time.

“I only need your name,” he purrs, and then you feel a fragile weight in your hand: a feather, pearl-black and glossy and too large to belong to any bird you can think of, its angled tip glistening with wet ink. There’s an empty space in the writing before you, and Overhaul’s gloved hand comes to yours again to guide you into place.

This feels wrong…then again, of course it does. Even if you’re getting off relatively easy and just losing your ring rather than your soul, you’re still making a deal with a demon. You sign your name, forcing yourself to think about the future you have ahead of you rather than a disapproving white-bearded caricature of The Man Upstairs wagging his finger at you for haggling with a literal servant of Satan. People have done worse things to survive, haven’t they? It’s just a ring.

You set the feather down and Overhaul sighs, thick black eyelashes obscuring his intense gaze for a moment—and then the contract is gone, leaving your hospital room as blank and sterile as it’s supposed to be (well, aside from the candles and all the other ritual stuff you threw together to summon a demon in the first place).

“Are you going to cure—heal me now?” you ask.

“…Patience, little girl.” He’s pulling his glove off, peeling it down his fingers to bare the pale skin of his hand. You catch your breath and wonder what this is going to feel like, and then the tips of his fingers meet your cheek and—

you stop breathing.

It doesn’t hurt.

Or if it does, you don’t remember the pain a second later when breath floods back into your lungs. What you do feel is energy. Strength in your muscles, blood pumping through your veins, every inhale and exhale as light as a bird and freer. You feel healthy. You’re surprised you even remember what health feels like but you do: it’s like you’ve only been half alive, and now life is surging into you and through you and around you, bubbling up in your core like a spring overflowing. You blink rapidly, thinking you might cry from the sheer pleasure of it, but when you open your mouth it’s laughter that comes out. You’re healthy. You’re alive. You barely notice the IV line literally falling off of your skin because the hole where it entered your vein is sealed shut and healed perfectly.

No more needles. No more hospitals. Even without all the monitors beeping out your heart rate and measuring your vitals, there’s not a shred of doubt in your mind that you’re cured.

“Thank you!” you laugh, looking up at Overhaul and for the first time, not caring that he’s evil incarnate. “I feel—I’m okay! It worked!”

“Of course it did.” His expression is inscrutable, but he lets you have a few moments to enjoy your newfound health.

You roll your shoulders back, flex each muscle you can isolate one by one to test, make fists with your fingers and then run them over your hair, which is already thicker and shinier than it was a moment ago. Your body thrums with energy—you want to run, to feel the ground against your bare feet and the cold night air on your face, and you think you could do it! Your legs are already swinging over the side of your cot, ready to run barefoot out of the hospital if that’s what it takes, but before you can stand up Overhaul’s pushing you back down onto the bed.

“Have you forgotten your end of the bargain already?”

Honestly you did forget, but only for a second, only because you were so excited to just be outside again. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” Your hand goes to your left ring finger, ready to slip the ring off and hand it over, but Overhaul shakes his head.

“Not here.”

“What—?”

You’re falling. Your hospital room is disappearing, the image of your walls and your window and your bed disintegrating into yawning black, and you’re falling through it into nothing, into emptiness, and Overhaul’s still-bare hand in yours is the only anchor you have so you clutch onto it and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to scream—that’s the sane thing to do when you’re falling through miles and miles of empty space, right?—but when you open your throat the sound is swallowed up just like the light was…

Overhaul’s hand burns into yours, an improbable lifeline that you pull closer more out of terror than conscious thought. The slick, empty air rushes around you and you think I am going to die like this and then, incredibly, as soon as you’ve accepted your imminent demise, you feel your back mold onto a chilled, flat surface, vertebra by vertebra up to the back of your head, as if you’ve been lain down onto it.

Your heart thuds in your ears and you brace for an impact because your body hasn’t quite accepted yet that it’s not falling anymore—but at the same time, you know you’re lying down on something. You pry your fingers away from their vice-grip on Overhaul’s arm and feel around blindly for what’s underneath you, and when it seems reasonably tangible you let yourself open your eyes.

Way above, vaulted dozens of feet over your head, is a ceiling studded with gilt-edged frescoes and stained glass. It’s raining (even though it wasn’t in the hospital, you think) but through the massive panes of colored glass there’s enough oily blue light to make out that you’re in a church.

You’re in a church, with a demon. Isn’t that against the rules?

You sit up stiffly and look over at Overhaul, who’s standing at your side and looking down at you…which is how you realize the soft, cold surface you’ve been deposited onto is the blanket on top of the altar in the sanctuary. “Where...did you take me?”

“You should know this place.”

And you do, when you look around. It’s empty now and you’ve never been here at night, but this is a church your mother would bring you to when you were little, back before the disease got so bad you couldn’t risk traveling to it anymore. This is where you took your purity vow…the ring feels heavy on your hand. “Why—why—“

“I can’t stand human hospitals. Filthy places… How that reek of illness and death doesn’t bother your kind, I’ll never understand.” Overhaul pulls his latex glove back on. He’s dressed differently now, no longer impersonating a doctor—black shirt, black pants, and a…bird mask in red leather and gold. So are you, as a matter of fact. Instead of your hospital gown, you’re in a gauzy white dress that’s already been pushed up to pool around the tops of your thighs.

The slip is too thin for the cold, and you can feel your nipples standing up under the cloth so you fold your arms over your chest and hug yourself. “Why did you take me here?” The sound of your voice echoes off the walls eerily and you wish you hadn’t spoken so loudly. The reflection of your words sounds girlish, nervous.

“I told you. Your side of our contract.” Even in this dark, the angular features of his face are clearly concentrating—on you. “Are you already having second thoughts? Such a fickle little thing…”

“You mean the ring?” You reach for it again, ready to tear it off and throw it at him if that’s what it takes to see your deal through, but Overhaul snatches your hand away, pinning it above you.

“Not the ring,” he says. “The promise.”

The…promise?

A chill makes its way down your spine despite the heat radiating off the demon’s body and onto yours. “I don’t understand.”

“The promise,” Overhaul repeats—and you hear a sound almost like wings flapping and then he’s on the altar with you, knees straddling your hips as a single hand holds both your wrists above your head. “To remain a virgin until marriage. Your promise to God.”

A streak of lightning cracks down on the other side of the stained glass window behind the altar, illuminating the room briefly in spectacular pits of red and orange and yellow…and then it’s dark again, and the only color you can make out is the gold in Overhaul’s eyes.

“I’m going to break it,” he murmurs, lowering his head toward your ear right as the answering thunder rolls through the sanctuary, up through the altar, up into you.

///

Méfiez-vous de son piège, the grimoire said. Beware of the catch.

Of course it wasn’t just a ring.

Overhaul’s fingers are in—inside you, his middle and ring finger pumping through the length of your cunt like they belong there, like you were made to be touched this way. A mixture of your juices and your own spit cling to the latex because he made you suck his fingers before he put them in you and he hasn’t bothered to take his gloves off—not that you asked. You’ve been too busy biting your lip to try and muffle the moans that he keeps forcing out of you. He’s bracing himself on top of you with one hand and fingering you with the other, so your own hands are free to push into your eyes and hide your face…until he yanks your arm back and stops.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes are screwed shut and you shake your head back and forth, the movement shuddering your whole body right down to your pussy wrapped around Overhaul’s fingers. He slows the movement and kneels back, pushing one of your thighs up into your chest as he does it.

“Look at me.”

And you’re not sure whether it’s some unearthly power he has over you or the plain old deterioration of your willpower, but you can’t refuse him. You crack your eyes open and he’s glaring down at you, skin pale as ice in the blue light. Once he’s satisfied that you’re watching, the demon leans back in to fuck your cunt with his fingers, slowly at first and then quicker when he hits something inside of you—a spot, a place on the inner wall of your pussy that makes you feel like you’ve been shocked— heat blooms through you like blood in water and you gasp and he curls his fingers up to pet over that spot again.

“Wait—wait, that’s—it feels—weird!” You’ve never felt like this before. You’re not supposed to feel like this, it’s wrong.

“I understand you’ve never touched yourself, but don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Overhaul says, voice as indifferent and calm as ever even though your cunt is dripping clear sticky liquid over the plastic of his glove.

He pushes back in and grinds his palm over the little button on the top of your pussy—your clit?—and you want to scream. “No, I—I don’t—nnhh...”

Do you like it? The demon’s body is so hot next to yours, like he’s running a fever except you’re the one going out of your mind… You’ve heard metaphors for sexual pleasure before (that it’s like having something to drink when you’re dying of thirst; or that it’s the ultimate act of intimacy, love in physical form) but all of that’s a fucking lie. There’s nothing to compare it to, no reference that makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense—you don’t even want him to keep going, do you? You’re only doing this because you signed your name on a devil’s contract, because you don’t want to die and there’s no alternative…but that doesn’t explain why you feel so warm from the inside out, why you’re squirming and your hips are rocking involuntarily no matter how much you try to keep still. This isn’t right. You feel like you’ve been lied to.

A good girl wouldn’t like this.

Overhaul isn’t going to let you close your eyes, so you don’t—but the sounds coming out of your mouth are so…indecent (and how can you think these things about yourself? the word feels like someone else is saying it when you hear it in your head) that your hand is drifting up to your mouth before you can stop yourself, trying to stifle all of it…

“Let your voice out. I want you to hear yourself moan.”

Long fingers slide their way out of your pussy and then move up to rub quick little circles around your clit and you moan, like a whore, like a girl getting her cunt rubbed by a demon— “Oh, uhhhn—something, it’s—coming—“ There’s something building up in your core—a peak, a climax, something that makes you fist your hands in the nightgown he put you in (so tight you’re surprised the thin fabric hasn’t torn) and tilt your hips up into him, begging without words because you don’t have any to express what your body is asking for…

But he doesn’t give it to you. Overhaul takes his hand away from your pussy and the shock of the cool air after his too-hot touch is almost enough to send you over that edge—almost. Not quite. And without it, you’re left shivering and quaking, thighs twitching as your baser instincts beg you to just put your hand between your legs for once and hump your fingers to completion if the demon won’t do it.

You’re not going to risk that, though. Not when Overhaul’s dragging your body closer, bunching up the blanket on the altar under your spine, so your pelvis is angled to his… He’s already shirtless and you hear him unzipping his pants but you can’t bring yourself to actually look at him, even when you feel something hard and hot nudging up against your inner thigh and then aligning to your sticky wet slit.

“This will hurt a bit, but I want you to look,” he says, and you don’t even understand at first until you make yourself feel it—his cock, pushing up against your tight cunt to finish this, this perversion of what your first time was supposed to be…

And what was it supposed to be? Roses and candles and soft kisses? A nameless, faceless husband unzipping your wedding dress and making love to you with the lights off? The way the demon touches you should be cruel in comparison but it isn’t, it’s lighting fires under your skin and turning your brains to mush, so how is your body supposed to tell the difference?

It’ll hurt, you know that, you’ve heard enough about sex to know that it always hurts the first time for girls…women. It was already a stretch to fit his fingers in your virgin pussy, so of course his cock is going to hurt. You turn your head toward the window at your side and try on look out at the rain drawing rivulets like veins over the glass, something to focus on instead of him.

“I said look,” the demon hisses, and his hips push forward a bit and you bite off a whimper of pain. “Watch me take your virginity…look at your tight little cunt swallowing me up just like it was made to.”

“N-No—“ you whine, even though it’s not like you can ignore it. “Don’t make me, don’t make me look, I can’t—“

“Then look at me.”

It’s what he wants, some kind of wicked satisfaction he gets off on, but you’re lucky enough to even get an option so you choose that one, shifting your gaze up into his face instead of the place where his cock is pressing deeper and deeper inside you. Overhaul’s eyes are half-lidded and it’s hard to tell from behind the mask but the look on his face is…pleasure? No, that would be too human. Restraint, at least. He could just thrust up into your body in one stroke, but he wants you to feel it for some reason.

Maybe because it’s a worse betrayal of your chastity if you want to get fucked.

Lucky for you, though, you can barely feel anything aside from the pain. The heat you felt building earlier is draining out of you even as Overhaul tilts deeper, layering his chest over yours. You’re almost grateful for the modest barrier the dress provides between your torso and the solid muscle of his abdomen. His cock in your pussy feels like it’s too big too deep too much and it’s the first time you’ve felt like your body wasn’t created specifically for this purpose so you hold it tight.

“Does it hurt?”

A second of clarity makes you want to snarl (of course it fucking hurts, I’m losing my virginity to a demon I summoned from hell) and you dig your fingernails into your palms to stop yourself from saying it out loud. Overhaul pulls out a fraction of an inch and then pushes back in and you feel like the breath’s being pushed out of your lungs. “Yes! Yes, it—it hurts—“

“I can make you enjoy it…for a price,” he sighs, settling into a slow rocking motion of his hips pushing into yours.

And you want to, every sore muscle in your cunt is telling you to give in and give up, give him what he wants so you can enjoy it like he says—but you’d rather hate every second of this than make another deal. You shake your head quickly and because you’re still too afraid to look away from him, you don’t miss the look of surprise that flits across his face before he tamps it down. “I don’t—I don’t want to—like it,” you gasp out between thrusts. “It’s better if—if it h-hurts…”

This time it’s obvious—his eyes really do widen, and you feel some petty triumph at having caught him off guard like this. Who’s predictable now? you think—and then he’s lifting one hand off the altar at the side of your head and tugging his glove off with his teeth, and you don’t even have time to be afraid of what he’s going to do to you because it’s too late, his bare fingers are already stroking over your mound and onto your core, massaging into the flesh of your stomach so he can feel his own cock sliding in and out of you—

and it doesn’t hurt anymore?

You only have a second to try and understand—he cured you, he healed the pain from your first time just like he healed your illness?—before he hooks his grip under your thigh and folds your legs into your chest so he can fuck into you harder than before. His cock slaps into your pussy and you can hear it, hear how wet your filthy little cunt is, smeared through with your juices. It’s sick—the sound of skin against skin, and the moaning you can’t hold back, you sound like a woman in a porno and you wish the pain would come back just so you could keep hating what he’s doing to you. “What—what did you do—“

The demon ignores you. “It feels good, doesn’t it.”

“Nn—“ It’s deeper like this…deeper and rougher and you can feel it. Now that the pain’s been reduced to the dull ache of a stretched muscle, you can feel everything—his cock sliding against that same spot in your cunt that makes you want to squeal, the friction of his body moving against your clit, all of it, everything you wanted to block out— he pumps into you and you hear your breath sobbing out a moan a second out of rhythm, the sounds of you bouncing on demon cock echoing over the walls. “Please—ah, ahhh…”

“‘Please?’ Are you begging—me, little girl?” Overhaul pushes your thigh up and drags his cock through you, excruciatingly slow, forcing you to feel the thick head slide over every gummy wall in your slick pussy.

You shake your head, mewl, try to force your hips to stop rocking back into his and grinding your clit against him. But you can’t. You’re a—you were a virgin, for fuck’s sake! Overhaul’s immortal. Probably thousands of years of experience on how to make you feel like you want this, like you’re only alive in the places he touches you… You’re at his mercy, if he has any. You never stood a chance.

“Then are you begging your god?” His body lowers directly onto yours and like you’re being controlled by puppet strings your arms fold around him and rake your fingernails uselessly into the smooth skin of his back. You can feel the vibration of his mirthless laughter through his chest. “It must hurt terribly…to know he isn’t listening.”

“Don’t—stop, please,” you sob. “Don’t say—don’t stop—please!”

“Listen to yourself, girl—“ Overhaul’s breath is faster now, but you don’t have time to question it because you feel your peak coming again, the tension rising up through your cunt and your abdomen, harsher and crueler than when his fingers were in you but you want it just as much. More. “Has he ever answered your prayers? Has he...ahh, fuck—who’s the one giving you what you need?”

“No— please, please just let me let me, please—“ You’re talking nonsense now, begging for the release—at least then it’ll be over, and you need it, you need it so badly you feel your muscles locking up, cramping, your ankles crossing each other behind Overhaul’s back.

“Good girl,” the demon breathes, and then he lifts off you so he’s kneeling upright with the two of you still connected, his thick, heavy cock still speared in your pussy, and his fingers come down again to rub at your clit. Everything’s so wet you can hear the motion of his fingers slicking themselves through your juices, sliding up and down the little button over and over and it feels so good that a tiny part of you almost wants to drag it out, to savor it, but the rest of your body is going to die, is going to go crazy if the demon doesn’t let you cum right now, right now, right now!

And he does. Praise the Lord. The pads of Overhaul’s fingers pass over your clit one last time and your head rolls back, your throat moves but you can’t even make a sound, your legs shake and you cum.

You didn’t know it was like this.

Your cunt squeezes down on his cock, throbbing and pulsing and your toes literally curl (you didn’t think that was a real thing!) and your vision goes black for a moment and—oh fuck oh fuck i want this i want more how is it possible that i’ve never felt like this—you understand, more intimately than ever, why sex is wrong:

because nothing that makes you feel this good could possibly come without a cost, could it?

///

It must take longer than you thought for you to come back to your senses, because when you regain awareness of your body you’re in your hospital bed. You’re clean, too, and you wonder for a second if Overhaul bothered to clean you up? Or no…he probably just snapped his fingers and transported you back to your room. You’re not really sure how it works.

What you are sure of, however, is that you just got fucked by a demon. You’re sore in places that you didn’t know it was possible to be sore, and there are already bruises forming on the flesh of your thighs from how tight he was holding you. You don’t really have time to inspect these, though, because apparently your…ordeal (if you can call it that) isn’t over.

Overhaul’s still here.

He’s facing the hints of sunrise through the east window, dressed again in the immaculate lab coat and surgeon’s mask. “You’re awake,” he says without looking at you.

You nod hesitantly. You’re not really sure what the protocol is in this situation, but at least you’ve finally held up your side of the contract, right? And so has he. Despite having been up all night doing sinful things, you’re still itching to get out of this bed and test the limits of your healthy body. “You’re…going to leave, right?”

“Yes—”

At that, you sigh in relief and settle back into your starched bedsheets.

“But there’s one more thing you owe me.”

“Goddamnit,” you swear for the very first time in your life. After what you just did, taking the Lord’s name in vain seems like a relatively minor sin.

Overhaul’s mildly irritated expression doesn’t change, but he holds his hand out to you, palm up, the way you imagine someone would if they were helping you out of a car or requesting a dance at an old-fashioned ball. And really, you want all of this to be over—you want to get out of this hospital, you want to taste what the air outside is like, you want to distract yourself from what you just gave up in exchange for a future. At this point you’re just going to have to hope God isn’t as picky about the whole premarital sex thing as you grew up believing.

So you put your hand in Overhaul’s.

Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid it’ll burn him, he slides your purity ring down your finger and balances it in the palm of his bare hand. It sizzles when he touches it, glowing orange until it eventually burns down into a ash-black circle in the center of his palm. Once he’s satisfied that your pretty little ring has been reduced to nothing more than a scorch mark, he closes his hand around yours and you feel something sharp, painfully hot, etching onto your finger.

It’s over in a second, but you still yelp and yank your hand away from him as soon as he lets you. “Ah—ow, what was that?”

He burned you, he literally burned you! He’s already healed it, but there’s still a thin, pale scar, an intentional one left wrapping around the skin at the base of your left ring finger. Like a wedding ring.

When you look close, you can make out a symbol on the back of your finger where the cross used to sit—and even though your conscious mind doesn’t recognize it, the sight of it rings out something inside your ribcage, deeper and truer than flesh and blood. It’s the devil’s mark, you think. It’s his.

“…A promise,” Overhaul says softly, and even though it’s a chilly morning, you can feel the heat of his hands on yours a long time after he vanishes back into the dark.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

for anyone curious, my newest book is about the Salem Witch Trials! it’s at the point of view of Mary Warren and how she went through trials, ultimately ending in her downward spiral into madness as the trials deteriorate her mental health. it’s called Servant of Evil.

here’s the first segment of the first chapter!

— — —

She was gathering crops the first day she caught wind of the hysteria.

It was late January and sunny, the last warm day in what would soon feel like forever. The sickle in her hand was wickedly sharp and gleaming in pale yellow light, and the stalks of the corn she was cutting away were rough and sharp beneath calloused fingers. Already, the skin on her hands was shredded, oozing ruby droplets of blood and staining bright green stems. Her legs ached from crouching in the dirt, muscles locked up and tense. Somewhere beyond the pillars of corn stretched out before her, she could hear her master’s children talking in high-pitched voices, dogs barking, and horses neighing. Even closer than that, however, she could hear heavy footsteps tramping through the field, and she knew the owner of this land would not enjoy such galumphing through his crops. But she also knew that the one who appeared through the stalks wouldn’t care much for the fiery point of John Proctor’s scorn.

“Something weirdish is going on in Salem.”

Without looking up, Mary Warren answered the unexpected visitor, “Something is always going on in Salem.”

That much was true, at least right now. Salem was a town of rich trade and sea salt, characterized by a sparkling harbor that was bested only by Boston’s and a habit of fighting with itself. For years, Salem had been split between two forces: the nobles up in Salem Town and the farmers down in Salem Village. The two territories were never not fighting with each other; they were always mad about something the other did, and it was easy to lose track of who hated who and for what reason. Salem Village didn’t like the control Salem Town held over it, while Salem Town was annoyed by Salem Village thinking it was its own settlement, but they all detested the British church, which was mutual. Salem Town often pulled men from Salem Village to be a part of the national guard, which made Salem Village nervous because then they would have nobody to protect them, and Indian attacks were a regular fear throughout the civilization. Aside from its harbor, the other thing Salem had to owe to its popularity was its unfortunate position in front of frequent ambushes. And if it didn’t suffer ambushes first-hand, then it suffered ambushes through the survivors of such raids, many of which populated the city and would soon help with the grisly events that turned the community over on its head.

But the only other thing Salem Village and Salem Town could agree on was that the Indians were an issue. Unfortunately, that was where agreements ended and arguments began- Salem Town wanted more men to train, promising protection; Salem Village refusing, saying they knew how Salem Town lied, and if they didn’t, then they only saved them because of their bountiful trade and not because they were their people. It wouldn’t be long until the yelling broke out, testaments from the Bible were quoted, and grown men argued like two children fighting over who was their parents’ favorite kid.

However, Salem as a whole had fallen silent recently. Things were peaceful. It was as though a grace period were opening up before them all--or, perhaps, it was actually ending.

Except for right now, in the Proctor corn field, of course. Because her visitor would only bring silence if she were dead, and she had proved to be too slippery for death’s fingers three times over after surviving several Indian attacks throughout her young life.

“This is different.”

Wiping a sagging green sleeve over her damp brow, Mary looked up and squinted through sweat and sun to look at none other than the Putnam’s maid, Mercy Lewis.

Mercy was a fine example of everything the Puritans didn’t want. Despite her name’s sake, she was stubborn, brash, and spitfire, though she was smart enough to never act in such a way in front of the church. And she was, indeed, smart. She was more clever than a fox, easily outwitting several situations despite the minimal education women had in their lifetime. The only thing she was merciful to was her younger cousin, Ann Putnam Jr. Her parents were better off naming her Big, Loud, and Vulgar.

Mercy was nineteen-years-old, two years older than Mary, and built like a small bear. She was short, compact, and sinewy, her muscles and joints well-honed from rough maid work. Her temper was black and her teeth were sharp. Her curly dark brown hair was tucked up in her blindingly white bonnet, and she was dressed in a nondescript dress of purple. Storm cloud grey eyes bore down on Mary with bright amusement.

The two of them met three years ago in Elizabeth Proctor’s tavern. Mary had been struggling to wipe away a sticky stain on one of the tables; Mercy was looking for fresh meat. They both were in the right place at the right time.

Mary hadn’t heard her come in. It was as though the shadows of the tavern itself had unfolded the sixteen-year-old before her because she was suddenly there, towering over the front of the table, and Mary ended up spilling the bowl of soapy water she was using all over herself upon noticing her.

“My, are you jumpy,” the strange girl had observed, peering over the edge of the table. She didn’t offer Mary her help or even an apology. Mary didn’t ask for one. “Were your parents murdered by savages, too?”

“What?”

“Ooo, no, then. Got it.”

Mary blinked up at her for a moment, then carefully got up out of the sudsy puddle and retrieved a dry rag to clean up the newest mess. The entire time, the strange girl watched her as she dripped droplets and beads of white soap from the bottom of her old lavender dress.

“Can I help you?” Mary asked as she got back down on her hands and knees to clean the floor.

“Oh, no,” the strange girl answered. “I just came to say hello. Introduce myself. You work for the Proctor’s, yeah?”

“Yes,” Mary nodded.

“Interesting, interesting. I work for the Putnam’s. Thomas is my cousin, actually.”

Mary nodded again. She looked back down at the puddle, trying to focus on that. The girl didn’t move.

“Mercy.”

Mary looked back up again. She blinked. The strange girl blinked back. Was this a game?

“Pity.”

The girl stared at her for a moment, then burst into loud laughter that seemed to shake the walls. Mary was startled; she had never heard anyone laugh so hard in her entire life. Especially in a town as strict as Sakem.

“No, that’s my name,” the girl said after calming down. “My name is Mercy. Mercy Lewis.”

“Oh,” Mary’s ears heated up. “Right. Your parents were feeling pretty creative, weren’t they?”

Another bout of laughter. “Yes. Yes, they were.” She squinted at her. “And you are?”

“Mary. Mary Warren.”

“Well, Mary ‘Pity’ Warren, I think we are going to be very good friends.”

And she was right.

Mercy, as menacing as she could be, made life in Salem a lot more bearable, especially when Proctor’s whip frequently began lapping at Mary’s bare back. Together, they formed a cohort of sorts, sneaking away into the woods with other village girls, hiding away from the Lord’s watchful eyes to discuss the most sinful of things.

And today, Mercy wanted to carry on with their long-running traditions.

“Different in what way?” Mary asked.

Mercy rolled her eyes. She kicked a cloud of dust at Mary, and Mary sputtered, nearly falling backwards into the corn.

“Different-different,” Mercy answered. “Something is wrong with Abigail. Betty, too, I hear. We’re gonna go up to the Reverend’s house and see them. They’re ill, you know?”

“No,” Mary shook her head. “Mister Proctor didn’t tell me anything. They’re sick?”

“Yeah. Real sick. Ain’t wakin’ up. The Reverend has been throwin’ a huge fit over them.” Mercy explained, “I’m surprised you never heard him howlin’!” Then, doing a horrible imitation of Reverend Samuel Parris’s voice, she wailed, “Oh Betty, Betty! Wake, my sweet daughter! Wake! Why won’t you wake?!”

She clung to Mary’s arm dramatically. “God! God! Why have you forsaken me?! What have you struck my little girls with?!”

Mary couldn’t help but giggle softly. Still, her mind was made up on the whole ordeal.

“Tell them my pardons and prayers,” she said, grabbing the fallen sickle. “My master said I gotta tend to the crops. Then I can go to town. But I am not spendin’ my free time meddlin’ in someone else’s affairs.”

Mercy groaned loudly and snatched the sickle away from Mary, making her yelp.

“Live a little, will ya? Let’s go see poor Abby and Betty!” Mercy urged. “To Hell with your master right now. You can’t let him lead you around by a leash all the time. Deal with the consequences later. Let’s go!”

Mary stared into the older girl’s eyes and then sighed, giving in. She stood up- Mercy was taller than her, as she always had been. “Lead on, Mercy.”

Mercy brightened.

Together, the two of them snuck out of the Proctor property, careful as to not get caught by one of the many children roaming the plantation.

Technically, the Proctor’s had eighteen children, though four were dead and eleven were brought forth by two different women, both of which had also passed over the seasons. The only living child of John Proctor’s first wife, Martha Giddens, was Benjamin, a tall, lanky man who could never seem to grow a beard, yet had hair down to his shoulders. He was thirty-three and didn’t talk to Mary very often, but when he did, he greatly critiqued her work in the field. That farm was his pride and joy, and it was a challenge to not roll her eyes when he would go on about the importance of their crops and proper plant care.

Elizabeth II was the second oldest at twenty-nine, and helped Elizabeth Proctor run the tavern with her other siblings: Martha IV, twenty-six (the first two Martha’s had died when they were both infants, along with the woman they were named after); Mary II, twenty-five; John II, twenty-four; Mary III, twenty-three; and Thorndike, twenty. Why Proctor decided to have TWO daughters named Mary was beyond Mary herself, but it wasn’t uncommon for things to become confusing when their name was shouted for whatever reason.

Elizabeth Proctor’s children stayed on the farm, helping clean and take care of the livestock: William, eighteen; Sarah fifteen; Samuel, seven; Elisha, five; Abigail, three; and Joseph, one. Mercy often made jokes that Elizabeth had obviously been the one to name the kids, as they were actually creative and not repeating several times over.

But with so many watchmen on the property, Mary was surprised about how easy it was to slip away unseen.

The road was loose and crunched loudly beneath their footfalls. Mercy kept kicking a rock, and Mary watched it bounce across the ground.

“So, what’s wrong with Betty and Abby?” Mary asked.

Mercy smirked widely.

“There be witches about, Mary.”

[shhh-no-ones-home]

noir 1/2 bucky barnes x vampire!reader

+++++++++

part 1 part 2

i had thought about making a part three with smut in it so if thats something you would like to see please let me know and ill finish it lol

Song: my name is human by highly suspect

tag list: @cynic-spirit

+++++++++

I sat at the table across from James and watched as he looked around nervously. We had already ordered drinks but not much conversation had gone on yet.

"This isn't really your scene is it?"

I asked and he finally looked at me, brows raised like I'd caught him off guard.

"Uh, my uh, last date didn't go so well."

He said and I nodded.

"I'll drink to that."

I raised my glass to him before taking a drink. He let out a short laugh before looking away again.

"So, James, why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself."

I said and he cleared his throat.

"Well for starters uh you can call me bucky, that's what my friends call me."

I nodded slowly, he seemed like he was reminiscing for a moment.

"Um I'm a hundred and six."

He said lightly and I laughed. He looked nervous again.

"If you're a hundred and six then so am I."

I quipped back and he seemed shocked.

"Right."

A nervous laugh. Cute. I took another drink.

"No seriously."

I said and he nodded.

"I'm not really one for mockery."

He said stoically and I shook my head.

"No, no, don't take it that way! I'm not either. I'm sorry it came off that way."

I said quickly and I could see him shift to rub his gloved hands together under the table.

"In all actuality 1917 was a pretty interesting year, if I'm doing my math correct."

He drew his brows.

"It was?"

He asked and I nodded.

"Well it's not every day America joins a world war, late to the party as usual but still. Don't get me wrong there was a lot that happened that year but that was probably the most memorable. My husband at the time was drafted that September."

He looked even more confused than he did earlier, his brows almost touching at this point if it weren't for the frown line between them.

"I know it's impolite to ask a woman her age but exactly how old are you?"

He asked quizzically and I looked up to think for a moment.

"Uh, this year on my actual birthday I will be two... Hundred and... Eight? I think?"

He laughed before taking a drink, finally smiling.

"Great."

He said before leaning over and pulling his wallet out of his back pocket.

"This was fun."

He said, slapping a twenty on the table and moving to stand.

"Bucky wait!"

He paused and looked back at me.

"Can we talk... Somewhere a little more private?"

I asked and he sighed, looking to the ground.

"Fine."

I stood quickly to match him, grabbing my bag off the back of the chair and following him outside. When we made it out the door I saw him tense a little bit, glancing to me a few times as we lazed down the sidewalk.

"Are you cold?"

He asked, reaching for his jacket zipper and I stopped him.

"No, no, I'm perfect, thank you though. You probably need it more than me."

There was the confused look again.

"You're probably trying to figure me out aren't you?"

He sighed, half shaking his head as he looked to the ground ahead of us.

"I guess I'm just trying to figure out why you would lie to me? Forgive me for being blunt but that's at least how it seems, even after I told you I didn't like being mocked."

I laughed a little.

"Bucky I didn't lie to you. My situation is - complicated."

He looked over me again.

"I am two hundred and eight, that wasn't a lie. Or, at least I don't think it was, it's hard to remember after all these years the exact number. But I was born in 1815 in new York after my mother immigrated to the states. It was a rough childhood and an even rougher lifestyle growing into my teens."

We kept walking. He was listening intently but seemed like he still wasn't so sure about me.

"I was engaged to be married by my seventeenth birthday but the night before my wedding I was kidnapped."

He looked to me in surprise.

"I was placed as an indentured servant in a trading charter, seen by many of the soldiers stationed on the coast of the capitol. That went on for a while and when I had reached my twenty fifth birthday I had earned my freedom."

He motioned to a small cafe on the strip and I nodded, him holding the door as we stepped in, the warmth engulfing both of us.

"Do you want a drink?"

He asked and I nodded.

"How about I get this one."

I offered, ordering before him and paying after him. When we had gotten our drinks we took to a booth in the very back of the cafe.

"So, you were free..."

He started and I let out a short laugh.

"Nice to know you're listening."

I said and he raised his cup to me. I cleared my throat.

"I was free, finally. It felt like forever to get there. But by then I was seen as too old; too old to Mary, to have kids, to live a life on my own. Many assumed I was a widow at this point, even moving back to new York with as progressive as it was still didn't feel right. It didn't feel like home anymore. Until I met him."

He raised a brow and I smiled to myself.

"My first real love, the one who made me."

"No pressure."

He said and I laughed, taking his one hand in mine. His body tensed.

"Don't worry, he's been dead a while."

I said, letting him go and he nodded once.

"Right."

I side nodded.

"Well to make that long story short, he proposed to me after two weeks of courting, we got married the following spring, and on our honeymoon he revealed to me what he really was."

"A crime boss?"

Bucky said and I laughed, him finally loosening up a bit as he took another drink.

"I think that would've been easier to live with but no. And I ask that you please don't laugh at this next part but rather, hear me out."

He rested both his hands on either side of his cup and gave me his full attention.

"Cross my heart."

He said and I sighed.

"He revealed to me that he was undead, that he was a vampire of sorts."

When I looked to him he looked like he was going to crack.

"I'm serious."

I said light hearted, hitting his shoulder as he started laughing.

"He turned me before our trip back to the city."

He nodded, rubbing his eye as he settled down, the smile still prevalent on his features.

"Sure."

I crossed my arms over my chest.

"Now who's mocking who?"

I asked and he shook his head.

"It's just a little hard to believe is all. You seem like such a normal young woman. Maybe a history buff who digs this old man but still."

I snorted at his words, taking a drink.

"You are young in my eyes bucky, believe me."

He shook his head.

"Okay, this is what, 1840?"

"Forty two i think, but yeah."

He sent me a look.

"Let me just get back to the story okay?"

He held his hands up in defense.

"Please, by all means."

I playfully rolled my eyes.

"Thank you. Now we were home, I was a newby and was so hungry all the time. He was terrible at taming a new vampire and I did eat a few of our neighbors but we lived in a bad part of town so people didn't really question it much when residents went missing. But what I didn't realize is that we were being watched and one day when I came home from work I found my husband decapitated on our living room floor."

His eyes went wide.

"I cried like a maniac but when I had heard someone still in the apartment I attacked them. They told me they were assigned to kill me because I was too dangerous. I ended him and I've been on the run ever since. After that I was desperate to find new love again. I've had courtships over the years but the early 1900's were pretty rough. Every husband I ever had was drafted into a war that shouldn't have happened. And I don't fear for my life as much anymore since I've lived in almost every state in this stupid country,"

We both laughed a little at that.

"But I do think of it often. The later years, the eighties and nineties were much easier as far as life and lovers went but even then I couldn't stay with them long."

He seemed empathetic.

"Why not?"

"Well, many people don't employ the idea that you'll live longer than them, it's a losing game. And even those I was open with, they begged me to turn them but I always refused. It didn't seem worth it to put the hurt I felt onto anyone else. And I don't say this to scare you off bucky but I've lived, and I mean really lived. I had one husband murdered, three drafted and lost to war, and three divorces; two of which ended with my exs dying of natural causes shortly after getting into new relationships. One had a heart attack and the other passed during a surgery."

I paused, looking to the table as his eyes tried to study me.

"Ive heard about you, I've been to the Smithsonian exhibit and honestly it all seemed like a myth. But then your friend saw me and pushed you to ask me out I actually saw hope for the first time in a long time. It's not often I can find someone with as much... Uh, life experience."

He cleared his throat, looking away when I looked back up to him.

"I'm not perfect."

He said and I could feel my features soften.

"It's seems I've lived just as much but I don't know if I'd exactly call it living. I was an experiment, an assassin, and a broken man. I've got a troubled past and I'm trying to work through that. Hell I wasn't even sure I'd get through this date given how my last one went."

I half smiled at him, reaching for his hand again. He wasn't as hesitant as last time but was still tense as I took it away from his cup. I looked over his face before pulling the glove off, holding the cool metal against my palm and tracing the fingers of my other hand over it.

"I wasn't blipped, I saw the news, and I saw what was lost. And I think part of you got lost with it but at the end of the day you are trying to get better. You are a hero bucky, even if it doesn't feel like it."

I watched as his jaw clenched and tightened. Then he turned his hand over and held mine. It wasn't hard or uncomfortable but it was firm, like he meant it.

"I haven't had the luxury of opening up to many people in recent times but you feel different. And don't take this the wrong way but you do feel like home."

He said softly and I couldn't help the smile making its way to my lips.

"You wanna get out of here? Maybe go back to my place? The coffee is much better."

I joked and he smiled, intertwining our fingers.

"Yeah, I think id like that."

[blackboar]

Journey to Bosworth: Participants and their motives at Bosworth field: Henry Percy, the failed fence-sitter.

Hello! I wrote this piece as I had  numerous sources on the War of the Roses at hand thanks to my master. I hope folks who enjoy reading about this period would like it!

At Bosworth Field, August 22th 1485, the last Plantagenet king was killed. Richard III died on a last, desperate charge against a rival whom little foresaw as a viable contender for the throne. With him died the longest ruling dynasty in England's history. Except for this symbolical conclusion, Bosworth field's importance was magnified by Tudor propaganda, as an ultimate fight between good and evil and the end of the Middle Ages. It forgets that the battle lasted at best for an afternoon and was quite ill-documented, to the point where the battlefield was inaccurately identified at first. It is thus fair to say that Bosworth mostly holds importance in retrospect. If Henry Tudor had been defeated or killed before he could uproot his new dynasty, Bosworth would have been seen as one of the many sterile struggles for the Crown in XVth century England.

Today, I would like to share some informations about one of the major participants of this battle. One whom, not by his actions but by his inactions, changed the outcome of this day.

The powerful Henry Percy, the fourth earl of Northumberland. Henry came from a family traditionally considered as one of the major power players in Northern England. The famous saying: ‘the North knew no Prince but a Percy’ was quite self-eloquent, even if exaggerated. During the 1400s, the Percies opposition to Henry IV almost led to the king's destruction at the battle of Shrewsbury. After their attainder, Henry Percy’s grandfather (another Henry) did reconcile with the House of Lancaster but lost many lands and prestige. Even after those losses, the Earl of Northumberland was one of the major supporters of the House of Lancaster in the War of the Roses, their current Earl dying at Towton against the newly crowned Edward IV.

Edward IV had counted on their rival: the junior line of the Nevilles, which was one of the mightiest Houses in English history. Through marriages, alliances, and shady maneuverings, the Kingmaker Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, and Salisbury hold the inheritance of houses Montagu, Beauchamp, Despencer, and also the bulk of the Neville inheritance in the North, against the senior line who retained the title of Earl of Westmoreland and less important holdings.

Richard Neville and his family were quite ambitious, and as the leading supporter of the burgeoning  House of York, they were lavishly endowed by the new king. Richard’s brother took in 1464 all the lands of the House of Percy, with the title of Earl of Northumberland, thanks to his service in the North. However, for Henry Percy’s fortune, Edward IV and the Nevilles had a falling out, as it often happens between king and Kingmaker. Richard Neville opposed Edward IV’s marriage to Elizabeth  Wydeville, from a modest, noble family, and his policies in favor of Burgundy. Likely worried about the rising star of the Nevilles in the North, Edward IV decided to clip their wings by giving back his titles and lands to Henry Percy, which would be formalized solemnly in the 1472 Parlement.

This decision was a disaster for Edward IV, as the loyal John Neville, unhappy with the compensations, decided to join his brother in his attempt to restore the House of Lancaster. As for the new grantee, he seemed to have become a cautious man, conscious of his predecessors' tragic end, and seemingly determined not to reproduce their mistakes. It can be seen in the events of 1470-1471. Henry Percy didn’t help the Lancastrians in their effort to resurrect their rule on England in 1470. He also didn’t try to stop Edward IV when he landed in Yorkshire the following year while he was on the first line.

After the Yorkist victories of Barnet and Tewkesbury, the civil war was over. The destruction of the lines of Lancaster and restored peace in England. Henry Percy, confirmed in his lands and titles despite his fence-sitting, was prepared to restore the House of Percy to its rightful place after a decade of unrest and absenteeism.

The conditions were seemingly favorable to prepare an extended Percy hegemony in the North. Hadn’t the Kingmaker died and his holdings taken back by the Crown? Wasn’t the Earl of Westmoreland mad and the Cliffords at odds with the king? Percy seemed in favorable conditions to fill a region partially poked power vacuums. It was without another newcomer: Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester. The twenty-year-old duke was originally granted extensive estates and offices in Wales, the Welsh Borders, and East Anglia. However, the Nevilles' demise gave Richard a unique opportunity to replace them. From 1471 onward, Richard secured from his brother the bulk of Neville’s northern estates. By his marriage to Anne Neville, the youngest daughter of the Kingmaker, he could pretend to be the heir of the deceased Earl and not someone put on by royal authority. Richard constantly tried to accrue his northern estates at the expense of other regions. By the demise of his brother Clarence in 1478, he trades with Edward IV several northern holdings, including the Honour of Richmond, for other estates he had in the south. By the many offices he was appointed and the leadership of the Council of the North, Gloucester was the natural hegemon in the North. Henry Percy became one of his retainers and obtained the preservation of his traditional hegemony in Northumberland. Was Henry Percy happy with the arrangement? He did follow the Duke of Gloucester in his main activities as local ruler of the North, especially the war against Scotland in the early 1480s.  Henry Percy also supported Gloucester’s usurpation of the throne in 1483, although it’s quite possible that he wanted to get rid of his influence in the North for good. If so, he was sorely misplaced, as the Council of the North continued with his heir, the Prince of Wales and after the Earl of Lincoln. Worse, the Duke of Gloucester now had the full power of the Crown for his patronage. His brief reign was marked by extensive and heavy-handed trade in favor of northerners. The Earl of Northumberland did profit from this situation, as he was granted the reversal of the attainders of his ancestors during Henry IV’s reign and the lordship of Holderness.

But Richard III also started to infringe on Henry Percy’s indenture of retainers. He needed loyal service in times of treason, and the new king seemed to have placed enormous trust in northerners. Richard III began to employ and endow many Percy retainers. This was a threat for Percy’s base of power, as he couldn’t match a king’s patronage. Even the death of Anne Neville and his only son Edward of Middleham during his reign didn’t seem to waver northern loyalty toward Richard. His ‘good lordship’ and the lavish grants he gave to his retainers made him simply paramount in northern politics.

Henry Percy was threatened on the very basis of his power. His retainers were becoming broadly too loyal to Richard III to allow the Earl to join the Tudor cause, even if he willed so. His ‘good lordship’ necessitated him to represent his affinity, and his numerous retainers wanted to keep Richard III on the throne. Henry Percy was on the verge of becoming a non-entity, with no true autonomy as his servants would become Richard’s.

There is evidence that Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, tried to sabotage Richard III’s war effort. He showed up with only 3,000 men at Leicester for the confrontation with the rebels. It seems that the Earl deliberately forgot to recruit men in several key northern areas, even though Richard III had given him the commission of arrays to do so in Yorkshire. He notably didn’t try to recruit soldiers from York, who upon their own authorities would raise eighty men to join Richard III at Bosworth. They would arrive too late. Richard III knew Northumberland’s guile as he had received messengers from York. Perhaps Northumberland brought, as a justification, the fact that the city was enduring an epidemy of plague. Or maybe Richard III was overconfident upon his forces and eager to show by chivalric prowess his right to retain the Crown. Those petty moves didn’t interest him in front of the upcoming battle, which was God’s judgment. In any case, Richard III put him in charge of the rearguard, but close enough to the immediate action.

In the heat of the battle, Henry Percy refused to support Norfolk against the assaults of the Earl of Oxford. This decision had a fateful consequence, as it prompted Richard to led a personal charge against Henry Tudor in the hope he would slain him. After Richard’s demise, Henry Percy surrendered to the triumphant Tudor king. He was briefly jailed by Henry VII, who kept him as his lieutenant in the North in place of the Council. Northumberland wouldn’t be more loyal to him, as he didn’t genuinely commit force during Lambert Simmel’s rebellion in 1487. Neutrality, once again, might have been the best thing he has to offer to Henry VII, as the North was sympathetic to the yorkists and Richard III’s heirs. However, Northern hatred against his behavior was ostensibly shown in the uprising of 1488. Initially a popular revolt against taxes, the rebels would have Henry Percy as their sole victim. The Earl, who was murdered in front of his retainers during a meeting with the rebels. His retainers simply didn’t defended him. Thus ended the fourth earl of Northumberland, abandoned by his retainers the same way he forsake his sovereigns.

     Sources:

Chris Given-Wilson, Paul Brand, Seymour Phillips, Mark Ormrod, Geoffrey Martin, Anne Curry and Rosemary Horrox. Parliament Rolls of Medieval England. Woodbridge, 2005. British History Online: http://www.british-history.ac.uk/no-series/parliament-rolls-medieval.

Great Britain. Public Record Office. (1891). Calendar of the patent rolls preserved in the Public record office. London: H.M.S.O.. HathiTrust: https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/009029274.

Hicks, Michael. Bastard Feudalism. Longman Group, 1995.

Hicks, Michael. Edward IV. London; Oxford University Press, 2004.

Hicks, Michael. The Fithteenth Century, Volume II: Revolution and Consumption in Late Medieval England.  The Boydell Press, 2001.

Hicks, Michael. Richard III and his rivals: Magnates and their motives in the War of the Roses. The Hambledon Press, 1991.

Hicks, Michael. The Political Culture in the Fifteenth Century. London, Routeldge, 2002.

Hicks, Michael. The War of the Roses. Yale University Press, 2010.

Lander, J.R. “Attainder and Forfeitures, 1453 to 1509”. The Historical Journal Vol. 4, No. 2 (1961), pp. 119-151.

Kendall, Paul Murray. Richard III. Traduction d’Eric Diacon. Fayard, 1979

Kendall, Paul Murray. Warwick, le Faiseur de Rois. Traduction d’Eric Diacon. Fayard, 1981.

Wolffe, Bertam Percy. The royal demesne in English History, Alden Press, Oxford, 1970.

[therealcalicali]

White Lies II

Matters of the Heart: After taking your little sister for a second wife, Ivar believes he has solved his problems. But when King Alfred arrives in Kattegat, the Gods decide to stir the waters.

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Betrayal

Part I here

Part III here

Part IV here

Part V here

Part VI here

Finale here

Deleted Scene here

White Lies AU - Bitter Fruits  here

The next few days were difficult at best. 

As Eiriana was being settled into the estate, you were being neglected. Ivar gave his Coin Master instruction to let her spend to her hearts content. Naturally, this meant a steady stream of servants and merchants moving about the place.

Still, despite your sister being busy with her shopping, your so-called husband hardly found time to be around you. And you knew it was intentional. He knew very well that you had a great deal to say about his actions and even more questions.

However, when you ran across each other other, he always waved you off. 

Stating that he had much to work on his hands.

This was an amusing lie. Because when he did manage to free himself from his Kingly duties, he always sent for Eiriana, not you. Even at evening meals; with each of you seated beside him; he hardly gazed in your direction. Sure he would fill you in on the happenings of Kattegat, but he never said anything of substance.

Ivar may have told you that you were still his first wife, despite taking a new bride. But it was clear for all to see that the writing was on the wall. 

Eiriana was the apple of his eye and there was no point in denying it.

“Ivar.” You said, tempering your words since there were guests at the table. As you pushed rice about on your plate, you paused before looking at him. “If, it’s possible, may I please speak with you about something?”

“What?” He replied flatly, his eyes never leaving his food. 

As he chewed, Eiriana glanced at him and then you. However, she said nothing. Perhaps picking up on Ivar’s body language and changed expression.

“I would like to ask it in private. The table is no place for us to talk, is it?”

Glaring at you, he popped a piece of roasted goat into his mouth. 

In spite of his attempts to not look at you directly, you could see it. The guilt and the anger in his eyes. 

Which emotion was stronger, was unclear.

However, you knew that you also had many emotions bottled up . Emotions that would require you to get away from the estate sooner than later. It was difficult being restricted to a home you now felt was not your own.

Sure, it was a massive estate, yet you now felt like a visitor. 

The Thralls and other servants were constantly fawning over Eiriana. Treating her like a fragile egg despite all her tantrums and demands to be left alone.

As for you, it had become necessary to remind Thralls to even draw your bath. It was as if you had suddenly become invisible.

“Whatever it is you wish to say to me, Y/N, just say it.” Ivar insisted, his tense expression catching the attention of King Harald. Your husband’s dear friend continued eating as he watched the two of you. “I grow tired of your constant pestering. If you truly want to talk, make it now or keep it to yourself.”

You stared blankly at him a moment before shifting in your seat. Thankfully his tone hadn’t raised enough to draw anyone’s attention.

“I wish to spend time volunteering at the orphanages.” You began. “Perhaps I can even help collect herbs for the Seer, if he is need of such help.”

Ivar scoffed, before taking a sip of mead. Then finally looking in your direction, he raised a brow. 

“For what?” He asked as if you had asked for the silliest thing in the world. “Do you see any other Queens scrounging about like commoners?”

“It’s not really as bad as you make it sound. I would be helping the less fortunate. Something Queens and Princesses are expected to do.”

“Oh? And what would you know of royal expectations? You were a farm-girl!”

“Don’t yell at my sister.” 

You were stunned. 

Eiriana had leaned over after hearing some of your conversation. Though his eyes cut to her, Ivar didn’t reprimand your sister. Instead, he simply looked back at you and said he would not allow such foolishness.

“If I may add my portion...” King Harald interrupted. He was seated quite close to your side so he had overheard all. Being a diplomatic man, he had chosen to intervene. “I think it’s honorable for Queen Y/N to serve the people. Think of how it will make you look in the eyes of the common man.”

Ivar mulled over his friends words - not really wanting to allow you any free reign. That wasn’t his only reason for the hesitation. He didn’t want people to think he no longer cared for you just because he had taken a second wife.

“Tell me, would you allow Astrid to do such things?”

“She does it already.” Harald replied with a hearty laugh. “She is esteemed as the Guardian Mother of the poor, widowed and orphaned. The people of our Kingdom adore her.”

In spite of his apprehensions, Ivar respected the his friend’s advise very much. 

So with a nod, he gave his permission for you to do your work about Kattegat. Asking only that you stay away from tending to the sick for at least a year.

“I do not wish for any illness to enter this home and befall my son.” Ivar added. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, my King.”

With that finally out the way, you felt somewhat better. It was almost as if you could breathe again.

After mealtime, Ivar exited the Great Hall with you sister at his side. As you held your skirts to cross the courtyard, he eyed you before calling your name.

“Yes, my King?” You managed to say despite your heart breaking at the sight of them.

“I will come to your chamber tomorrow night.” He said in a strange manner, almost as if he was asking.

After that, there was an awkward silence between you. 

Wanting to get some rest, you eventually cleared you throat and stated you would see him then. But just as you were about to take your leave, King Harald approached. 

“Y/N, my dear, off to bed already?” He asked after noticing Ivar holding your sister’s hand. “The night is still young and I’m full of tales.”

“I know. But I haven’t been feeling myself lately. Perhaps I can be of better company tomorrow.”

“Wonderful.” Harald replied. “It should be quite the day. Especially since we are also welcoming King Alfred’s ships.”

You were surprised. 

Typically you knew of the impending visits from important guests. But not this time.

“I forgot to tell you of the letter that arrived some time back.” Ivar interjected. “He is coming as part of our newfound treaty. We shall also visit Wessex in return, as a show of friendship.”

“Oh, that’s exciting.” Eiriana said with a gleeful smile. “I cannot wait to meet him and his wife.”

With a chuckle, Harald informed her that the young King was quite unmarried. Adding that he was also known to be very religious and immune to sins of the flesh.

“Oh, how strange.” She exclaimed. “Now, I really can’t wait to meet him.”

Ivar smiled at her before bidding you and King Harald a good evening. Unexpectedly, Eiriana embraced you the best she could with her large belly being in the way. 

As they departed, you watched as she began talking Ivar’s head off about something or another. Whatever it was, he seemed entertained, giving her his undivided attention. 

Turning to look at you, King Harald suddenly asked how you were faring.

“I.........I am well, thank you.”

“I do not mean, in health.” He said, correcting your assumption. “How are you coping with this situation?”

Your heart fluttered and you felt the sting of tears that now threatened to fall.

Fortunately, you managed to keep a brave face. Though you admitted being stunned at the revelation, you added that you were content knowing that Ivar would finally have what he wanted.

“It is good to have children, if one is so inclined.” Harald said with a twinkle in his eye. “But it is the Gods who choose the time. You are a good woman, Y/N/, that I know more than anything. Take heart, the they may still bless you yet.”

You nearly burst into tears. 

His words were exactly what you needed to hear in that moment. Someone, saying something of comfort when you were at your lowest point emotionally. 

After kissing the back of your hand, King Harald bid you a good evening.

The following day, you still didn’t feel too well. 

Possibly due to all the stress of the week. From being in a new chamber to not eating properly, you were not having a great time. Still, you had to get up and start the day. 

Not only did you have things to attend to for the estate, but royal guests were arriving.

As you waited for your bath to be drawn, you began hearing muffled sounds emanating from your former marital chamber. It wasn’t as if you had to strain to hear anything- after all it was just next door.

Apparently, Ivar had chosen to pass on his morning meetings to engage in activities with your sister. Eiriana moans were not too loud since the walls were quite thick. 

However, it was audible enough for anyone to know they were having sexual relations.

Even the Thralls that were waiting to help you with your bath couldn’t help eyeing each other before staring at the floor. 

It was simply humiliating.

Naturally, you understood the tradition of sister-wives. But it was not done in the manner in which Ivar had gone about it. 

“Come, let us go to the bathing room.” You commanded the Thralls.

Despite the women stating that the water was likely not ready, you informed them that you didn’t care. Truthfully, you preferred to wait there than your bedchamber. 

And it was a good decision too. 

If you had to listen to Ivar making love to Eiriana a moment longer, you would have likely murdered everyone in the estate.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” King Harald exclaimed with a huge smile as he approached. “Someone decided to take my words to heart. Look at how beautiful you looks today. A vision.”

You couldn’t help giving him a shy smile, feeling encouraged by his compliment. 

Though you had been somewhat neglecting your appearance since Ivar’s revelation, you had decided to get back to your old self. He could dote on Eiriana all he wanted, but it didn’t mean you had to walk around looking dejected.

“Do you think I overdid it?” You asked as Harald walked around you, taking in your entire outfit. “To greet the Christian King, I mean?”

“Not all.” He replied as he continued inspecting your deep purple gown and silver jewelry. “Trust me. One thing these foreign royals like is show of wealth and beauty. And you look ever the part, if I may be so bold.”

You let out a giggle, surprising yourself. 

It was a genuine show of your mood getting somewhat better. Thanking King Harald, you took the arm he had extended. To your annoyance, he informed you that Ivar and Eiriana had already departed for the docks. 

However, he would be honored to escort you.

“I am the one who is honored.” You replied. “Shall we?”

At the docks, you fixed your furs while King Harald waited patiently by your side. The covered wagon pulled off to await your return as you finally gazed at the massive crowd.

“It seems as if all the important people in the Kingdom are here.” You commented as you adjusted your skirts.

“That, they are. King Alfred is a very, very important man.” 

With that, the two of you made your way to where your husband was awaiting his guest. 

Once you reached where Ivar was standing with Eiriana, he glanced at you. His gaze faltering somewhat as he took note of how you were dressed. Though he never made mention of it, he too noticed that you had neglected your appearance. However, it seemed that you were now in a better frame of mind.

“You look very beautiful today, Y/N.” Ivar said almost in a whisper.

You gave him nod before looking away - refusing to hear any more of his empty words. 

Despite this reaction, he reached over and pulled you closer to his side.

“Stand here beside me.” He said. “You are my first wife after all.

“Sister.” Eiriana practically sang. “You look very lovely as always. Who braided your hair?”

You wanted to tell her to leave you alone, but instead, you took a deep breath. 

After telling her that a new Thrall named Sophia had done it, your sister asked if she too could use the woman. Shrugging, you stated that it was fine, after all she was Ivar’s wife as well.

His blue eyes instantly went to your face, almost as if you had insulted him. 

Straightening his posture, Ivar instead chose to remain quiet and gaze over the ocean. 

As you looked out as well, you saw that seven ships had already docked. Men busied about the row boats that were being boarded, preparing to bring them ashore.

“What do you think, Queen Y/N?” Harald asked as he stood to your other side. “Give me guesses of how you expect King Alfred to be.”

“Oh, a game?”

“Aye, something to pass the time until he shows.”

You smirked.

If anyone knew how to make you forget your troubles, it was the King Harald and his wife. Oh, how you missed Astrid. Now that Ivar was preoccupied with Eiriana, perhaps he would actually allow you to pay her a visit.

“I think he will be tall.” You began. “Also, he will likely have brown or raven locks since I hear that is common amongst his people.”

“Go on” Harald encouraged, smirking at the guesses you had made thus far.

You pondered, but then suddenly added that King Alfred would likely be pale. 

One thing you knew was that Christians liked keeping their sicklers indoors. Which of course, was odd since fresh air was best for people with weak constitutions. 

But they were a very strange people with even stranger beliefs.

“That I can attest to be true about his complexion.” Harald said with a hearty laugh. “Are you cheating me, Y/N?”

“I cannot lie.” You confessed with a satisfied grin. “I have heard it said that he was a bit............fragile of health.”

“I see. A little bird told you. In that case, no points for that one.”

You rolled your eyes but went back to thinking again. 

As you and Harald busied yourself with your little game, Ivar was trying his best to keep Eiriana happy. Though she had both arms locked around his free one, she didn’t look pleased. 

Your sister looked like an expensively dressed doll - wearing the same colors as Ivar had donned. Dark blue with black and silver embroidery and embellishments. Still, she was moody.

“How much longer must we stand here?” You heard her whine, distracting you from your game momentarily. “My feet are starting to hurt.”

“It won’t be long.” Ivar replied. “The boats are nearly at shore. See?”

“You said that an hour ago.” She replied, barely allowing him to finish his sentence. “Besides, I hate standing in the sun. It’s not good for the baby.”

Ivar’s jaw tensed. 

It was protocol that wives be present to welcome guests. However, Eiriana was very heavy with child. Thus, he couldn’t expect her to stand around like any other woman would.

Motioning to some of his men, Ivar instructed that she be escorted back to the estate for rest. King Harald nearly scoffed aloud, however, he managed to contain himself. 

Instead, he just shot you a look with his expressive eyes.

“That is only the start.” He whispered as the two of you watched your sister leave with an entourage to rival any great King.

You almost wanted to laugh at her expense. It seemed Eiriana now realized that being a royal was more than just pretty dresses and eating sweets in bed.

“Y/N, come closer, he is approaching.” Ivar said, his eyes fixated ahead of him. 

Doing as he asked, you inched to his side. 

However you made certain to clasp your hands before you in order not to touch him. Looking in the same direction as your husband,you finally saw him. A young man with looks that could rival Ivars any day. 

Despite all you had had believed, King Alfred was striking. 

From his long dark locks, to his fine features and full lips, he was a sight to behold. Despite his lean frame, he was actually imposing in the manner in which he carried himself. 

His intense eyes scanned everything as he walked over. 

Suddenly, Alfred’s gaze fell on you. He stared briefly, perhaps due to the rich color of your dress. But oddly enough, he did not smile nor did he make any other expression as finally took his place before your party.

“King Alfred, the sea has been kind and brought you safely.” Ivar said with a loud voice. “Welcome to Kattegat. We are very pleased to welcome you to our lands.”

As the two men shook hands, the applause and cheers rang out, signaling a successful docking of an honored guest. Again, the young King looked at you which inspired Ivar to make the formal introductions. 

“This is my wife, Y/N.” He said as Alfred took your hand in his. “We were wed not long after I saw you at the meetings in Mercia.”

You expected a weak grasp. However, the young King’s appearance was misleading. After kissing you hand, he gave you a reserved smile.

“It is very nice to meet you, your Majesty.” You said, trying to say it just as you had rehearsed. “I hope that your time here will be much to your liking.”

“Indeed.” He replied, finally allowing you to hear his voice. 

Turning to King Harald, Alfred and his advisors continued with the formalities.

In the evening; after everyone had rested properly; the welcome feast began. 

As you were having your hair re-braided into a different style, Ivar burst into the chamber. He entered so abruptly, he nearly scared the Thralls half to death.

“Y/N, you must open the feast with me.” He said, his brow drawn in frustration.

“I’m confused.” You began, looking at him with an unreadable expression. “What of Eiriana? Are you not the one who said you had to walk with her always? Something about her condition requiring your attention.”

His jaw tensed before taking a seat nearby. Looking at you, he shook his head.

“She............refuses to come out of the chamber. Though she is dressed, she keeps saying that her clothes aren’t fitting properly.”

You looked away, not wanting to show your anger. Did he really expect sympathy or something of the sort? 

“Well, that is to be expected of women who are with child. Her body has changed significantly I imagine. You must go and convince her to attend the feast.”

“No!” Ivar replied firmly. “I am a King not an errand boy! If Eiriana wishes to sulk, I shall let her. I will escort you into the Hall as usual.”

“Thank you, my King. I will do my best to please until my sister is ready to retake her position.”

His eyes met yours.

You could tell Ivar wanted to say something vindictive. However, he stopped himself. 

Most likely because King Alfred was under your roof. So instead of being cruel in word, he rose to his feet. Making his way to where you were sat, Ivar drew close until the Thralls stepped aside.

“You are angry, Y/N. That I know.” He said, his rough hand caressing your cheek. “But my love for you has not changed. So please, let us stop this unnecessary war.”

You stood before you even realized it. Staring Ivar down despite being quite shorter, you were practically boiling with rage.

It was too much. 

He had avoided the conversation for nearly two weeks, now had the gall to ask for the entire thing to be swept away. Without you even getting so much as an explanation?

No! You were not going to take it anymore.

“I am your wife!” You said, poking him in his chest. “You have embarrassed me in front of everyone we know. Not that I would ever stop you from taking a second wife.........that was always a thought in the back of my mind. But to entice my own sister?”

“Y/N, this is not the time.”

“No, it is the perfect time, Ivar. Or should I wait until you seed Eiriana again?” You asked as your temper got the best of you. “You hid this from me all while I was going through mourning from losing my third baby. While I was beside myself with grief, she was already with child! My own little sister!”

You tried to slap him, however, his reflexes were keen. Grabbing hold of your wrist, he kept his eyes on yours. 

“Y/N, stop it!” He said almost too calmly. “If you keep exploding with fits of this nature, I will have the Healers provide herbs to sedate you.”

“Have them do whatever you wish! I will not keep silent about what you have done to me! I will say it no matter how you much you hate hearing of your actions. It is your shame Ivar, not mine!”

“My shame?” He scoffed. “Y/N, you cannot hold a child in your womb. Yet, you speak of shame?”

You winced at his insult. 

Trying to wriggle free, you asked that he leave you alone. But Ivar persisted, keeping his grasp firm.

“Tell me? How many children was I supposed to watch the midwives bundles into tiny parcels to be buried? Four, seven...ten.......”

You shouted for him to stop with the counting, but he continued. After getting to two hundred, Ivar looked down at you with disdain.

“It would have been endless.” He said. “That is what the Volva in the woods told me. Yes, I went to seek the truth behind our problem.”

“You went to a witch to speak about me?” You asked, your eyes wide with shock. 

“I did. And you know what she said? Hmmm? She told me that you can never birth anything! Not for me or any other man for that matter. You have been made barren by the Gods.”

Finally managing to wriggle free, your heart raced from his revelation. 

How could Ivar constantly keep things from you? Taking a seat, you looked at the floor, unable to look at the Thralls or him again.

He exhaled loudly, wishing he had not divulged the Volva’s prophecy the way he had. Unfortunately, there was no way to take back words once they were uttered. 

And since the damage was already done, Ivar hardening his heart. 

Though he wanted to apologize, he had other matters to think of. Gazing at you, he asked that you hurry with the hair preparations.

“We must make our entrance before the feast can start.” Ivar added. “I do not wish to keep King Alfred waiting on his first night.”

As you sat beside Ivar in your lavish blue gown and gold jewelry, you kept your eyes on the performers. 

All you wanted was for him to let go of your hand. However, he was likely trying to show everyone in attendance that things were fine between you. Despite all your issues with keeping a child in your womb, most of the people liked you a great deal. 

After all, you were a Queen who rose from amongst their ranks. 

Still, it didn’t mean that their affections wouldn’t soon fall to Eiriana. Peasants were simple minded. As long as the King told them who to love, they would oblige. 

In fact, your sister already had many women in Kattegat treating her like a fertility Oracle.

Whenever they were in town, people would ask Ivar’s permission to rub her belly in hopes of conceiving. Naturally, he refused these requests. But he did permit the ones that came from the wealthiest of Kattegat’s citizens.

“They can build their cozy life, but I refuse to be part of it.” You thought to yourself as you sipped wine.

“Tell me, Queen Y/N..” King Alfred suddenly said as his intense gaze met yours. “Do you also play chess like your husband?”

“Actually, your Majesty, I do. He taught me.”

“That is good to hear. When I am in need of a challenger, I shall ask for you.”

You smiled, liking the gentleness of his demeanor and tone.  

But the one thing you could not shake was his eyes. There was something in them that said there were allot of secrets. Much like Ivar, there were stories buried in Alfred’s blue pools. 

Hopefully, you would hear some of if a friendship every blossomed. 

As you were regaling Alfred and Harald about the things you had heard about North Umbria, the attendees on the floor level of the Great Hall began parting.

As you watched, none other than your sister made her grand entrance. 

She was quite the vision of radiant beauty in her gold gown and adornments. Yet, you could feel Ivar become tense at the sight of her.

“Who is that woman?” King Alfred asked, his attention leaving Eiriana and falling on you. 

“That.....................that is my sister.” You said nearly choking on the words. “And, Ivar’s other wife.”

His eyes nearly doubled in size. 

Alfred looked in her direction again, his jaw open from shock.

“I see.” He managed to say.

Despite his calm response, the thought of such a thing quite foreign to his mind. Before you could change the subject, Eiriana made her way to the head table, forcing an Earl to depart from the seat on Ivar’s other side. 

As she carefully took her seat, he glanced at King Alfred.

“My apologies, but I must make a late introduction. This is Eiriana , my second wife.

“I must apologize for not greeting you at the docks but I wasn’t feeling too well. But rest assured, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.” She said with an eager smile. Though you hated to admit it, your sister had a childlike charm that put everyone at ease. Even when she was being irritating. “So, tell me, King Alfred, how was your journey?”

Ivar actually looked proud as he listened to the conversation. 

He had expected some type of tantrum, but it appeared Eiriana was going to behave for the moment. As she chatted with King Alfred, you sat there looking straight ahead.

Before long, she had engaged nearly half the table in her talk of wanting to see Mercia and North Umbria. She kept making sure to keep King Harald in the mix as well. 

Indeed your sister was being the life of the festivities.

It was clear. She had not only taken over your husband, but now, she meant to converse with anyone who found interest in you.

“Pardon me a moment.” You whispered to Ivar as you hastened to your feet.

Too distracted by his food, he nodded as you left the head table and walked down the small steps. 

Were you ever glad to be a Queen.

Feeling quite lightheaded, you were relieved that everyone cleared a path as you made your way through the Great Hall. And thank the Gods too. You couldn’t have held it in any longer.

As soon as you had exited the double doors and walked a few feet, you began retching behind some bushes. Every last bit of food you had consumed that day vacated your body until nothing but bile remained.

With shaky legs and a convulsing stomach, you made your way to a bench in the courtyard.

“Please......” You prayed. “I cannot go through this and fall sick on top of it all.”

Later that evening; after all the festivities had concluded; Ivar entered your chamber. 

You had not gone back to the Great Hall after vomiting. Instead, you sent word through a Thrall that you were unwell and retired to your bed. Sitting down beside you, he gazed at your sleeping form. Typically, he was so sure of what to say.

But now, he could only debate whether to wake you or not. 

Finally, as he was about to shake you awake, the door to the chamber opened. In sashayed none other than Eiriana.

“Is she feeling better?” She asked, fiddling with her silk nightdress.

“What are you doing in here?” Ivar asked with the meanest tone he had ever used with her. “I told you already. Tonight is Y/N’s night.”

Eiriana looked at the floor, almost as if she was apologetic. However her words were anything but.

“But she is asleep already.” She protested. “Besides, you told me yourself that she is not feeling well. Why can’t you wait until she is better?”

“Because, I have deemed tonight her night!”  He snapped. “Now do as I have asked. Get some rest and I will see you tomorrow.”

Your sister was utterly beside herself.

Never had Ivar refused her anything. From the moment he paid for her rites, he had given in to her every whim. But now, he refused something as simple as to sleep beside her?

“I will go!” She replied with a venomous bite. “And you know what? I don’t care if you ever return to our bed”

Ivar could only watch as she exited the chamber in a huff, practically slamming the door behind her. Sitting for a while in the dimness, he eventually shook you by the hip. 

It took a while, but you stirred and sat up.

As your vision adjusted and you soon realized it was Ivar who had interrupted your slumber.

“What do you want?” 

“Is that how you greet me now?” He asked. “I’m your husband, yet you act as if a prowler has entered your chamber.”

“Do not touch me!” You replied. “If that is why you are shirtless, then I am sorry to inform you I am unwell.”

Ivar’s nostrils flared, however, he didn’t reply with his usual bite. 

Instead, he stated that he was aware of the fact. Adding that he had only come to watch over you.

“You are no Healer!”

“I know that!” He replied before running a hand over his braided hair. “At any rate, you said you had allot to say to me. So in the morning, I will listen.”

“No! I have nothing further to say about this situation. You said enough for both of us.”

After that, you laid down, turning your back to him. 

Ever the stubborn one, Ivar slid into the bed beside you. Scooting so close that you could practically feel him breathing against your neck.

“I will not open my legs for you, Ivar!”

“Have I forced myself on top of you? No, I have not. So please, stop fighting with me.” He seethed, having enough of both you and Eiriana being at odds with him. 

You closed your eyes, grateful that Ivar was not going to push the issue. However you did feel his arm fall over you as he positioned himself comfortably.

The next few days were strange. 

Ivar became preoccupied with plans for an upcoming war against his Uncle Rollo. Since his brothers wanted their share of wealth, many letters kept arriving on a daily basis.

But even worse than war, was Eiriana.

Perhaps it was due to the Healers saying that she was only a month away from giving birth. Which of course was known to be the most uncomfortable of times for women.

Yet, it was something else. She behaved as if you had to coddle her just because Ivar was busy.

“Where are you going?” You heard her ask as you fixed the saddle on your horse. 

Your father had taught all his daughters how to ride well. And since you were headed into town to give coin to the orphanages, you wanted to do it horseback.

“I’m going to visit the poor houses and orphanages.” You said without glancing in her direction. “Should you not be resting?”

Eiriana nodded but added that she was bored being alone in the chamber with no one to talk to. Rushing to your side, she grabbed hold of your arm tightly.

“Let me come along.” She begged, her eyes large in an attempt to garner sympathy. “I promise to help you with whatever your duties are. I can even cook.”

“No. Ivar would lose his temper and I do not wish to be chastised. You and I both know that he expects you to remain on the estate, and that is where you will remain.”

Your sister let go, angered that you would not help her find amusement. 

Bit how did she expect you to take her along anyway? Even if you could do so, she was dressed as if she was attending a grand feast. 

Truly, Eiriana loved fine clothes and jewelry and made sure to dress up every day. Even as Queen, you rarely wore your crown. But here she was with her golden one atop her head.

As she was going to beg you once more, you heard footsteps approach.

“Are you headed into town?” King Alfred asked, noting your steed.

“Why yes, your, Majesty.”

Clearing her throat, your sister eyed the handsome King, forcing him to take notice of her.

“Apologies.....Eiriana...” He said, confused at how to address her.

She may have been a second wife, but even Alfred knew your sister couldn’t share the same royal title. 

After all, there was only one Queen.

“Are you going for a walk or something, King Alfred?” She asked, hoping to find something to do.

“Actually, I’m not.” He replied. “I wanted to take in Kattegat. And who better to show me and my escorts around than the Queen herself.”

Alfred looked at you, his blue eyes smiling but his face remaining stoic. More than delighted at the prospect of getting to know him better, you nodded. 

“It would be my pleasure to give you a tour of my homeland.” You said with a smile.

Realizing that she was not going to be able to join, your sister frowned. She then bid you both a good afternoon before walking off toward the gardens.

“Are you scared, King Alfred?” You asked as the two of you reached the top of a meadow.

“Me?” He asked with an odd smirk. “I may be many things, Queen Y/N. But I most certainly am not afraid of a little challenge.”

“So, does that mean you will race me?”

He tried to hide his emerging smile but failed. Glancing at you, he asked what was on the line. 

Thinking a moment, you remembered that his lands required a delegate from Kattegat. You may have not been the most politically savvy person, however, you knew the fine art of being diplomatic and gaining friends.

“Do you suppose that if I win......” You began as the King eyed you curiously. “it would be possible to request me as an Emissary? I know that it is rare for a woman to do so where you reside. However, it is common in our culture.”

Alfred seemed intrigued as he pondered your request, his eyes fixated over the ocean of flowers before you. 

“I haven’t met many women like you.” He confessed still gazing over the meadow. “You work nearly as much as your servants and are capable of  saddling your own steed. I would truly like to get to know more about you.”

“So, is that a yes?”

His finally gave you his attention, locking his eyes on yours. With a rare smile, he cocked his head slightly, his long hair blowing wildly in the wind

“Don’t you have to beat me first?” Alfred asked.

Without warning, he began riding for the treeline in the distance. He may have gotten a head-start, but as you kicked your steed into action, you knew you could overtake the King.

You spent the entire day with Alfred and his Advisors, tailed by guards from both kingdoms. Still, it was such a wonderful day, you nearly forgot all about your sister and Ivar.

The young King not only came along on your visits to the poor houses and orphanages, but he stood nearby as you read to the children. As you made your way home, he commented that he would start such things in his Wessex.

“There are some services, however, I hardly know how they are even operated.” He confessed as your convoy entered the gates of Ivar’s estate. “I truly couldn’t tell you if they are even of any use.”

“It is important to know such things, is it not?” You asked. “How else would you know how the poorest of your people is faring? Besides, my father always says that a nation is only as strong as it’s weakest members.”

Alfred smiled.

For the first time, he felt like he had met someone who could keep his interest. He knew many wise men but they could be a bore after a while. And most ladies of his court were dull and even dumber than the average peasant. 

But you............you were different.

A Queen who didn’t have any airs and truly cared about her people. He knew he could learn allot from you and vice-versa.

“I cannot wait for you to come to Wessex.” He said as the two of you dismounted with the help of Thralls. “I think there is more to you than meets the eye.”

You couldn’t keep from smiling at his assertion. A foreign King actually found you interesting?

That was something to tell your siblings.

That evening, the Great Hall was not as lively as normal. Ivar had taken King Alfred, King Harald and some other dignitaries to an even at a wealthy Jarl’s estate.

Despite her condition, Eiriana was the one selected to accompany your husband. She had been ignoring Ivar ever since their argument in your chamber and thus, he was attempting to appease her.

As you sat eating with a few of the important guards and some of King Alfred’s clerics, your father entered. His eyes fell on you and instantly, you saw the regret.

“Apologies for coming uninvited, my Queen.” He began, however, you asked him to desist as you rose to your feet.

“Father, there is no need to stand there. Come.” You beckoned. Relief instantly washed over him as he made his way over and embrace you. “It is good to see you. How is mother?”

After stating that she and the rest of the family was fine, he asked to speak with you in private.

“Of course.”

After excusing yourself from you guests, you held your father’s arm as the two of you exited the Great Hall. Once outdoors, you walked to the gardens and sat down.

Almost immediately, his eyes began to water. With a trembling hand, he wiped the tears.

“I am sorry, Y/N.” He said, patting the back of your hand. “I don’t understand Eiriana at times. Perhaps all of this is my own doing. I spoiled her so much, I cannot advise her any longer.”

You sighed, knowing he was apologizing for what had occurred. 

However, you didn’t feel it was his fault. 

Ivar and your sister were adults. If they wanted to keep from hurting you, they very well could have. Resting your head against his shoulder, you took hold of your father's hand, studying the well worn palm.

“Father, it is no one’s doing but their own.” You began with a composed tone. “Ivar knew she was my little sister when he took her for a wife. Eiriana was also aware. I will not put their guilt on others.”

He nodded before asking how you had been faring. 

Though you pretended to have accepted everything, your father knew better. He followed your words by stating that Ivar displeased the Gods.

“I don’t know, father. He tells me that he sought out a Volva that resides in the forest.”

“And?”

“The woman said.............she said that I am of no use to any man.” You swallowed hard before as you repeated the prophecy. “That I can never birth a child for any man, not just Ivar.”

Your father spat on the ground and cursed both Ivar and the Volva. Adding that he didn’t believe a word of it. With his arm around you, he went on to explain that not every prophecy was accurate. 

They were only given to true Seers.

“Not every person that claims to have a gift is a genuine. That you must know.”

You agreed. However, you confessed that it didn’t really matter anymore. Ivar was finally getting his son and you feared things would only get worse.

“ Eiriana has already taking everything just being with child. Once the baby actually arrives, I will cease to exist.”

Your father shushed you. Promising that hope remained, even in the darkest of times. 

“I know that the Gods always listen to my prayers. You will have children, that I believe.”

And it sounded wonderful.........his words.

But you felt the prophecy was true. So in spite of your inability to think beyond the Volva’s revelation, you allowed your father to think he had comforted you.

King Alfred’s three week visit practically flew by. 

Whenever Ivar was busy with his war planning, the two of you spent a great deal of time playing chess and racing steeds. Through these activities, you got to know him rather well. 

And it was a good thing too. 

Despite your initial impression, Alfred was not as uptight or arrogant as you had thought. In fact, he was possessed a sarcastic whit that often left you laughing uncontrollably. 

With his departure only a day off, the young King decided it was time to bring up the subject of Royal Emissaries. As he and Ivar sat in the courtyard after last meal, Alfred rested his elbows on the table.

“I must tell you, I am leaving with fond memories of this place. I may not understand all your ways, however......” He confessed. “You have hosted me well.”

“I’m very glad to hear that. It is a shame that my own visit will be delayed due to the birth of my son.”

Alfred raised a brow but kept listening. 

“You see, Eiriana is due to deliver in a week or so. And as you know, I cannot leave her side so soon. Neither can she travel.” Ivar said as he leaned back in his seat. 

Agreeing that family was of the upmost priority, Alfred stated that it actually made his request that more sensible.

“Regardless of reason, your inability to return the gesture would seem odd to many in my court.” He further explained. “However, what of Queen Y/N?”

Ivar’s gazed at the young King from the corner of his eyes. 

He may have been preoccupied with your sister. However, the mere mention of your name by other men made his blood boil like nothing else.

“What of her?”

“The Emissary position.” Alfred replied, meeting Ivar’s gaze without wavering. “I think she would be a perfect representative. All the Clerics and Advisors I arrived with like her greatly. I am certain the people at court will too.”

As he was about to reply, Eiriana approached. Without even asking, she took a seat upon Ivar’s lap, much like a spoiled child.

“Why are you two drinking out here?” She asked, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Is it not more comfortable indoors?”

“We are enjoying the warm weather.” Ivar replied, somewhat annoyed that she was not resting. As he caressed her rounded belly, he looked back at Alfred. “I don’t think Y/N would adjust well. After all, she has hardly traveled much.”

Alfred shrugged, stating it had no bearing on your ability to do so now. 

“Truthfully, she is quite wise as well as charming.” He continued, matter-of-factly. “She would be of great help with the Kings of Northumbria, Gaul and East Anglia. Of course, the choice is yours.”

“Is there really a rush to decide such a thing?”

“I will only say this. You cannot expect these men to hold up diplomatic exchanges just because......” Alfred trailed off, glancing at your sister before looking back at Ivar.

He made his words clear without even speaking them. 

If your husband thought the whole world was going to stop because of one baby, he was taking a huge gamble. 

And it was the truth. Ivar had failed to designate Hvitserk as he had intended. Now, the flaxen-haired Ragnarsson was off raiding with some other Viking King.

“I’m pressed for time.”

“Ivar, you knew of this a year ago. How will you explain this to our allies?” Alfred said, pushing him to make a firm decision. “I do not see why you cannot allow Queen Y/N to represent your kingdom.”

“Y/N is traveling?” Eiriana asked.

Ivar explained that you were not going anywhere. 

Adding that he and the King were merely discussing prospects to be the Emissary. But to his surprise, your sister insisted that you be selected.

“Why?” Ivar asked in confusion. “Do you not need her around? She can help you and also bond with the baby.”

“Ivar, I have all the help I need. Let Y/N go and see a new country. Besides, it would only depress her to be around when the baby arrives.”

Ivar’s eyes flickered with agreement. 

Eiriana was right. If you were around when the baby was delivered, it could break your spirit. Especially with your history. Smiling at your sister, he gave her a look of approval before turning to Alfred.

“It’s agreed. I will make Y/N my Royal Emissary.” Ivar said with a pleased expression. “And furthermore, you may take her along on your departure.”

Alfred was taken aback. 

He had not expected him to make you travel so soon. However, he graciously accepted the duty of being your escort to his kingdom. 

With a pleased clap of his hands, Ivar looked the happiest man on earth. He would give you the break from Kattegat you desperately desired, all while having his son arrive into a peaceful home. 

The journey aboard the ship was not an easy one. 

You had departed Kattegat four days prior and still had another week and a half to go. But the travel time wouldn’t have been a problem if had not been hit with the worst bouts of seasickness ever. 

You felt guilty for spending most of your time in bed, however, King Alfred was very understanding.

He not only sent his personal Healer to attend to your needs, but he stopped by briefly to tell you of his own issues with seafaring. Alfred assured you that if you traveled more, it would soon be a thing of the past.

Fortunately, the King’s ship was as comfortable as one could get away from land. You had your own private cabin and servants to tend your need. Which was good because that’s where you spent most of your time. 

Sleeping off the seasickness.

Meanwhile back at Kattegat, thoughts of you were far from Ivar’s mind.

As he sat in a chair beside the bed where your sister lay, his heart was in his throat. He could only stare as your mother, three midwives and your eldest sister Kristina entered. 

“Are you sure you wish to stay?” Your mother asked, knowing he already looked far too faint.

“Yes.....I want to be here.”

Sitting up, a sweaty Eiriana demanded more pillows. 

She then glanced around the room, wondering why no one was heading her words. Knowing that women in labor often became delirious from pain, your elder sister demanded that she lay back down.

“You can’t tell me how to feel!” Eiriana countered. “You..........have never had a baby before! My back................and everything else hurts.”

Ivar nervously ran both hands over his head.

After looking at her a moment, his eyes went back at the floor. It was then he suddenly wished he had not allowed you to leave Kattegat. He was never good at personal dilemmas. 

Thankfully, you had always been his emotional support. Always knowing the right things to say when something went wrong. But now, he had to face this alone.

And he was terrified.

Strange for a man who enjoyed bloody battles and never flinched at the thought of people out for his head. Yet, mere family issues could send him off the deep end.

“Ivar.........come and.............” Eiriana demanded between contractions of pain. “sit beside........me.”    

“No! He would only be in the way.” Kristina snapped, tired of her incessant talking. “Now lay down and focus on breathing through the pain.”

Though she laid down, your little sister did so with curses and groans. 

Which naturally made Ivar even more tense. Having felt personally slighted by what had been done to you, Kristina walked to him.

“I hope you can now see that it is not easy.” She said in a gentle but firm manner. “Though the delivery is difficult, just making it through the nine months is much harder. I........I hope this will remain in your thoughts.” 

With that, she walked away to run the clean cloths through hot water. 

Ivar could only look out the window as the noise of the chamber echoed in his ears. You had gone through similar pains three times Each time producing nothing but a blood mess for the midwives to bury.

Could it be that he had been too hasty with the Volva’s prophecy?

No, he thought. The woman spoke truthfully. And your Eiriana’s ability to hold his seed proved that you were indeed the problem.

Looking back at the bed, he could hardly see her any longer. The entire view of the bed was blocked by the women. Ivar could however hear your sister struggling to push.

She sounded quite tired, not her usual bossy tone of voice.

“I cannot!” Eiriana exclaimed.

To which your mother replied that she was nearly done.

“Two more pushes, and he will be out. Just give us two more strong ones.” The elder midwife coaxed.

Ivar shut his eyes tightly, his breathing nearly halted. It seemed like everything went silent.......but then.

It finally came. 

The sound he had been waiting to hear. The strong cry of a newly delivered baby. Within second, the cries were drowned out by the women happily going about.

“What is it?” Ivar asked, his voice almost inaudible. 

“It’s a boy.” Your mother announced with tears in her eyes. “A beautiful little boy with lots of hair.”

“What about his------”

“Perfect. Everything on his little body is as it should be.” She added.

Ivar could hardly make his way to the bed.

It took the assistance of the beefier of the midwives to guide him to Eiriana’s side. Taking a seat, he looked at his son who was laid across her chest.

“I cannot believe it.’ He whispered against your sister’s ear. She likely heard none of what was being said since she was halfway asleep. “You have made me the happiest man in the world.”   

With shaky hands, Ivar gently picked up the newborn, causing him to cry for a moment. As the women looked on, he proceeded with the birth rites.

Unlike everyone else, your sister Kristina felt mixed emotions. 

Though she was happy to have a nephew, she still detested what had been done to you. She blamed not only Ivar, but Eiriana as well. She hoped that wherever you were, the Gods were watching over you. 

This recent development would be too much for anyone to handle. No matter how strong.

As soon as the ship arrived in Wessex, everyone was relieved to see dry land. After settling in the castle, the entire envoy spent almost three days recuperating from the arduous journey. 

However, you were not as fortunate. In fact, you were still bedridden when Alfred called on you on the fourth day.

Entering your chamber, he gazed at you. Though you were freshly bathed and dressed, Alfred could see that you were still far too sick. Which concerned him greatly because you should have shaken the seasickness by now.

“Y/N, how do you fare today?”

You gave him a weak smile, trying your best to seem upbeat. However, you were unable to hide your fear.

Taking a seat in the chair beside the bed, he looked to one of the Handmaidens.

“Fetch, the court Maesters.” Alfred commanded. “Tell them that the visiting Queen is in need of them immediately.”

The woman curtsied and left to do his bidding straightway. Satisfied, he looked at you again.

“I think I may be dying.” You confessed weakly. “I feel so utterly drained.”

Dismissing your words, Alfred insisted you likely had one of the minor illnesses that often plagued large kingdoms. Adding that he himself had been sick numerous times over the years.

“Besides, who would I play chess against if you were to leave me so soon?” 

Realizing what he had said, Alfred quickly corrected, “me” to “us”. His cheeks becoming flushed by the slip-up.

You giggled in your mind, thinking him adorable for his shyness. As you were about to speak, he stated that a letter had arrived from Kattegat.

“You can always read it later.” Alfred suggested as he motioned to one of the servants who had entered with him. 

In your heart, you knew exactly what the letter was about. Still, you took it from the man’s hand.

Alfred watched with concern as you nervously broke the seal. It was from Ivar, that you knew by the crow’s skull. With your hands practically shaking, you began reading. 

And it was even worse than expected. 

As you read the last line, you couldn’t help it. After all you the ill-treatment you had endured, it was the ending of the letter that caused you to burst into tears.

“Forgive me for being an awful guest.” You said, your voice trembling and your hands covering your face. “May I be alone?”

Without thinking, Alfred was instantly beside you. 

When he moved your hands away from your face, you looked down at the blanket. But though you begged him to go and leave you to your tears, he refused. 

Instead, Alfred embraced you, holding you firmly against his chest. He didn’t force you to say a word. After all, it took no mystic powers to know that at least one of the main points had to do with your sister giving birth. 

“He said.............that.....” You could hardly get the words out. “Ivar says there is no need for me to rush home. That is how he ended the letter.”

“If that is how he feels, then I am most fortunate.”

You couldn’t help feeling utterly dejected, despite Alfred’s kind reply.

Ivar had the nerve to not only announce he was the father of a healthy boy. But added some random information about the new longhouse being built. All before ending the entire thing by stating you need not return soon. 

That was cruel, even for Ivar.

As Alfred was still comforting you, the Maesters arrived. The three men glanced at you and whispered amongst each other. After asking all the male servants to exit, they approached the bed.

“See that you take good care of the Queen.” Alfred said as he got to his feet. “If anything happens to her, I shall hold you all responsible.” 

With that, he departed the chamber. 

After you had been thoroughly examined, the Maesters left you resting in your chamber. Of course they gave you something to help with your sleeplessness. 

For that you were grateful. 

You took evening meal in your chamber, kept company by the six Handmaidens the court had assigned you.

Once you were done, you actually felt good enough to have a second bath. You actually used the time to luxuriate more than anything else. After getting dressed, you were about to go for an evening stroll when someone knocked on the chamber door.

Giddy with curiosity, one of the Handmaidens answered. There stood King Alfred, looking quite dashing in his formal clothing.

“Why are you so dressed up?” You asked. “Are all the eligible Princesses at the castle?”

His gaze faltered as he entered, his hands clasped before him. When he did not speak for a long while, you couldn’t take the suspense.

“What is it?”  

“I’m curious.” Alfred replied, looking at you with a peculiar expression. “Do you realize you are standing on your own two feet right now?

You laughed at his jest. 

It was true. Only earlier in the day, you barely had the energy to sit up in bed. Now, you were dressed and ready to take fresh air.

“I nearly forgot myself. Thank you for having those Maesters come to my aid. Whatever they gave me, it truly worked. I feel so much better.”

Alfred smiled, his face so close to yours, your heartbeat went erratic. 

You gazed at his lips, wondering what it would be like to kiss him. The King may have been your friend but you sensed there was a tension between you.

“Come, Y/N.” 

Taking you by the hand, Alfred led you onto the great balcony of your chamber. Now out of earshot of the servants, he looked at you again. 

“Do you know what this is?” He asked before pulling out a parchment from his vesting pocket. 

You looked at it before shrugging and asking if it was a letter. With a nod, Alfred added that he would hand it over if you answered one burning question.

“Alright.” You said. “I’m listening.”

“Why did Ivar take your sister as a wife?”

The question nearly made you lose your smile. However, you knew there was no malice intended. In fact, Alfred had commented many times that he had found the entire situation quite bizarre.

“Well, if I must tell you, I shall start from the beginning.” You replied.

The two of you took a seat on the long bench and you regaled him with the entire tale.

“I was deeply hurt. Actually, I still am.” You confessed as you played with the fabric of your skirts. “It would have been kinder to have divorced me first. But what can I say? The Volva was right about my bareness. The fact that Ivar is now a father through Eiriana is proof of that fact.”

Alfred stared at you for a long while. 

You weren’t sure if it was pity, confusion or shock. But eventually, he handed you the parchment. Oddly enough, as you tried to read it, you couldn’t make any sense of what was written.

“What is this? Another dialect of your people?”

“It’s Latin.” Alfred replied. “The Maesters only do their work in that language.”

Realizing that it had to do with your examination, you asked him what they had concluded. 

“Y/N.......” Alfred said with a shake of the head - his serious expression turning into a smile. “You are utterly wrong! So is Ivar and that so-called Mystic you spoke of.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, however his expression kept you calm.

“The Maesters say you are with child.” He said. “Around three months along. If not a little more.”

You could hardly breathe as you studied Alfred's expression - wondering if there was any jest in him. 

But what were you thinking? He never played with matters. The King only made dry observations about everyday life. With trembling hands, you allowed him to read the Latin aloud, translating each word for you.

You didn’t know whether to be happy or worried. After all, your history was quite dubious.

“Alfred, please do not tell anyone. I beg of you.”

Taking both your hands in his, he reassured you that he would do as you wished.

“I am very afraid.” You confessed. “I do not wish to............”

“Don’t say it.” He said, putting a finger to your lips. “My people believe that negative words can invoke bad spirits. For that reason, let us speak only good things over this unborn child.”

You nodded, but then panic set in again.

“I don’t know if Ivar will send me coin in a timely manner now. He will be preoccupied with.........his family life. And what of------”

“Y/N” Alfred interrupted, cupping your face with both hands. “Who am I?”

“Pardon?”

He couldn’t help smiling, amused by your panicked expression. Answering the question for you himself, Alfred reminded you that he was the second wealthiest leader next to King Charles the Bald of Italy, West Francia and the Carolingian.

“Do you suppose I would let you go without anything?”

“I.......suppose not.” You replied with hesitation. “But I will not take advantage. I will pay back anything spent on my upkeep. In fact, I can even work it off.”

Alfred dropped his head, trying to prevent you from seeing his laughter. 

Annoyed, you moved his long hair out of the way, causing him to laugh even more. You couldn’t believe your eyes. The somber King Alfred, laughing? 

Pretending to be irritated, you left him on the balcony. 

After sitting on the bed, you laid back, gazing the artwork on the ceiling. It didn’t take long for Alfred to join you. Laying on his back as well, he asked if you appreciated the Arts. 

You confessed that didn’t really know what it entailed, however, you liked what you had seen thus far. Some of the servants in the room smirked to themselves. 

Especially the Handmaidens. 

They had never seen their King so relaxed as long as they had known him. As you described and pointed to the mural, Alfred reached out and took you by the hand. 

“You have callouses.” He remarked, caressing your palm gently. 

“My parents are farmers, Alfred. I told you this.”

“Y/N, these are not from the past. These are recent.” He countered. “You will not work again.”

You sat up and stated that you enjoyed working. After telling you to calm yourself, Alfred clarified that he had something in mind that was better than working with your hands. 

Something that would put your great mind to use. 

“It will also give you the ability to do what you seem to enjoy.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

“Maester of Charities.” Alfred replied. “I want you to oversee the formation of services for the poor, widowed and orphaned.”

You felt hopeful for the first time in a long while. If Wessex was to be home for the foreseeable future, you would focus on those less fortunate.

That would be your escape from whatever was occurring in Kattegat.

It had been four long months since you had left Kattegat. 

At this point, you had settled into the routine of being the Maester of Charities. At first, the Clerics and Councilmen assigned to your council resisted your authority. However, those who had met you during their stay in Kattegat soon convinced them of your good intentions. 

And despite not hearing from Ivar after a fourth letter, you had great reason to be elated.

You made it to your seventh month!

There was no denying you were very much with child. The Maesters reassured that you were far along enough to cease worrying. And even better, the child was strong and moved around considerably.

In your heart, you felt your good fortune was all thanks to King Alfred. 

Not long after you discovered you were with child, he left Prince Aethelred in charge and took you on a pilgrimage to an ancient church in West Francia. Though the Abbot was made ware of your Heathen heritage, he felt compelled to have his Monks bless you.

After that journey, your mind rested easier. 

In the brightness of the early afternoon sun, you sat underneath a canopy busily practicing Latin. Though it was a difficult language to grasp, Alfred felt it would be of benefit.

“My Queen.” An excited Handmaiden said as she rushed over. The others were already seated nearby, reading and sewing. “King Alfred says there are foreigners here to see you.”

Your eyes left your books and papers. Putting the quill back into the inkwell, you asked if she knew who it was.

“No. However, he said you would be happy to see them.”

As you tried to get to your feet, one of the guards rushed over and helped you.

“Careful there, you Majesty.” He said with a warm smile. “Can’t have the King or Prince Aethelred hearing that you hurt yourself.”

You thanked him, causing him to smile even more. 

Truly, the people of Wessex had come to adore you. Not just because of your work as the Maester of Charities, but because of your actions.

Were they ever shocked to see a Queen, heavily with child toiling dirt by hand. But you had to do it. After all, how else would you teach the farmers the tilling techniques of the Heathen. 

Your lands were far harsher on crops, thus you knew you advice would be very useful.

After that, it didn’t take long for word to travel that the foreign Queen was not only kind, but was not above actual work. This earned you the moniker of ‘The Lady of Hearts.’

“Are you excited, your Majesty?” One of the Handmaidens asked as they followed you into the east wing of the castle.

“I am. But I can’t even begin to guess who could be awaiting me.”

You were led to the Great Hall by a page whilst your Handmaidens followed closely. There by the double doors, you spotted the King’s brother.

“Aetherlred, how are you? When did you return from the Salisbury district?”

After giving you a kiss on the cheek, the Prince informed you that he had returned that morning. After briefly telling you of his stay, he took you by the arm and walked to one of the massive windows.

“I suppose you know there are visitors awaiting you in the Hall.”

You nodded, but confessed that you weren’t told who they were. After admitting that he knew their identities already, Aethelred asked if you wanted him to tell you.

“I would prefer to know before I enter.” You admitted. “I’ve never been fond of surprises.”

“Neither have I.” He said in agreement. “The ships docked here were on their return voyage from Francia. Does that hold any meaning to you?”

You shook your head, still confused as to the identity of the visitors. 

Leaning against a pillar, Aethelred added that the main ships belonged to Ivar, Bjorn and Ubbe.

“Ivar?” You repeated as if the name was foreign to your mind. “Here?”

Aethelred studied your expression before asking if they should be sent away. 

“I can’t do that.” You said.

“Of course you can. As our ward and Maester, you can do as you please. You don’t have to hold audience with anyone that will upset you.”

You thanked him but said you didn’t wish to hide. 

One thing you regretted was your habit of avoiding things that upset you. It was the easy thing to do. However, it never resolved any of the problems.

“I will see my in-laws. After all, they have done nothing to me..”

“And what of your husband?”

You looked at Aethelred with confidence.

“I will see Ivar as well.”

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@hi-there-x

[nessaiscute]

A high school confession

AN: This is an experiment might make a bigger thing bout of this also its time for some fluff

“Try not to embarrass yourself.” Stated Mab as I left the Castle.

Same old bs, never a ‘good luck’, or, ‘do your best.’ Always about the kingdom and my eventual inheritance, I will rule the Ice court, I will make descions that will affect millions of people. Knights will depend on me, servants will want guidance. Other courts will want to challenge me. Seems…. A lot for someone like me. A teenage fairy, but it is the life I have to lead once i graduate. But thats not till a long time down the road at least a year. 

I got on the carriage and we went to the human world, to the high school I attend.

 The carriage pulled up to Fallbrook high school, not too bad of a school. I mean we have our bully issues and teachers don’t really care but we don’t have to worry about Gangs. The leaders of the nevenever make sure of that. It's a red brick building with a flagpole in the middle.When I got out of the carriage, I was greeted by a red haired boy. A summer fairy but a treasured one.

“Hey ice boy. Have you seen the princess?”

My nerves were instantly shot, “Do you not know where she is?”

“I… I saw her at breakfast but then i heard a welp and she vanished.”

Son of a bitch!!

I bolted straight into the building, people moving out of my way as I bulldoze into hall, Puck going after me.

“Ice boy! Slow down! You don’t know if shes in trouble!”

But I did, i knew exactly what happened. I knew that she was hurting her. I swer this time I’ll kill that freak!

My heart was beating faster then I thought it ever could, why am I reacting this way? Its not like this is the first time its happened. But I could barely keep track of her glamour, It was getting weaker and weaker. Gods no, please if there is any beings of higher power out there protect her. Please protect her…

Sure enough As i turned to the gym, a Black teeanger had blonde teenager in a choke hold. The blonde teeanger had tears forming in her eyes, my rage erupting like a volcano. My ice glamour exploded freezing everything around The black teeanger, she stepped on ice and fell on her butt letting the blonde go.

“Meghan!” I shouted and rushed towards her.

Meghan fell to the ground and I caught her, i scooped up her fragile body in my arms.

“Meghan! Talk to me!”

I heard a growl from behind me and Puck sheriked as I felt a fist lunge at me.

I tanked the blow,  everyone told me stories bout Tyras monster strength. Gangers won’t mess with her cause of how scary she is. But she didn’t impress me, her punch hurt but it was nothing I haven’t handled before. I shot an ice spike to get her to jump in the air. Tyra landed gracecfully on the ground.

“I’ve had enough of you getting in my way of beating retard!” Tyra snarled.

I told Puck to come over he did, I handed him Meghan and told the two to get out of here. They left. But by this point a crowd had gathered.

“Tyras gonna fight the ice prince!” Said a student.

“No, Tyras gona destory the ice prince. No one can handle Tyra.” Said a teacher.

Tyra cracked her knuckles grinning, “I’ve been looking forward to this, youre hot but youre too nice. Im going to fix that.”

“Is that right?” I smirked.

I slowly walked around, in a slow mocking matter. Bending my knee, her brown eyes glaring at me. People asked what I was doing, I walked around her slowly. Finally she shouted and lunged

I blocked her punch and pushed her off me, I did not strike her. She got ready for another punch, and she went through with her attack, this time she missed. I leaned out of the way, Tyra tried to bear hug me but I slide under her. 

“FIGHT ME!!” Tyra roared.

Suddenly an ice blast froze Tyra solid, I looked around and there was the principle. He glared at me.

“Mr. Johnson?” I asked surprised.

“What happened young man!” Mr. Johnson snapped.

“Tyra attacked Meghan Chase sir,”I replied, “I was defending my friend.”

Mr Johnson was trained by my mom to use Ice glamour, he takes no crap from any of the students and hes very strict. He puffed and singled for a cop.

“Take Miss Tyra away she will be expelled if Ash is…”

Suddenly Mr. Johnson’s phone rang, it was the nurse.

“What is it miss bells?”

“What? Miss Chase is unconscious?”

Everyone gulped.

“Everyone get to class! NOW!”

We all scattered.

I went straight to home room, I was sure I was going to get jumped Tyra was very popular. I know people were going to be pissed. In fact I got sneers and glares as I walked through the halls. I expected someone to try and deck me.

But I was greeted by Puck, who looked sad.

“Hey, how is she?”

“She won’t wake up ice boy. They called in an ambulance.”

Darn it!

I patted Pucks shoulder, “She’s been through hell before, she’ll get out again.”

Puck touched my hand and smiled at me, “Youre right.”

We both sat down, and class started. It seemed like nothing changed, Meghan was gone but no one seemed to care. Meghan was a huge part of all of our classes too. The teacher didn’t seem to notice that no one was answering questions besides me. Its normally me and Meghan.

“The left index.” I answered.

“Very good Ash.” The teacher replied.

A student laughed, “Man, I can’t believe that rere was holding Ash back.”

Bile rose in my throat, Meghan has had mental illnesses for as long as I remember. Its been the number one reason for her being bullied.

“Meghan wasn’t holding back anything I-”

“Rere!” The student snapped, “Gods how long have you been here? Learn the terminology fairy!”

“Meghan is not a ‘rere’ or whatever you call her. She's just as important to this class as I am.”

“Ugh, what is she? your girlfriend or something??” The student yelled

Everyone gasped like he just dropped an F bomb.

The teacher jumped in, “Anthony leave Ash alone. Theres no way he would date Miss chase. Now lets get back to the lesson.”

The class went on without a hitch though that accusation never left my mind.

What is she? Your girlfriend or something?

Did I see Meghan like that? She's been my friend for as long as I remember. She's my best friend. I feel content when shes around, when we’re cuddling and I can feel her heartbeat. When we’re watching a movie, when I’m fighting off bullies for her. I even defied my mom to be her friend, it was the one argument I ever won against my mom. Even as a king I will never abandon Meghan, I’ll run away from the throne if I have to I-

Oh. I am in love with her.

The class ended and I was called to the nurse’s office. I power walked there, my heart racing as I opened the door…

“You’re late.” Greeted Meghan.

The smile ran across my face before I realized it, “It took forever to get out of class.”

She opened her arms and I took her in mine.

“When Tyra grabbed me that time….I thought it was over.” She sobbed.

“I took care of it. Shes expelled.”

“Isn’t that only going to make things worse?” Meghan asked.

“Nope.” The nurse shook her head, “The students have gotten a clear warning. Anything happens to you over her jail will be next. Now, I have lunch to grab, you two stay here.”

The nurse left and it was just me and Meghan, my heart going into over drive. I wanted to tell Meghan how I felt. That I’m in love with her, I sat down next to her.

“Did you sleep well last night?” Meghan asked.

I nodded.

“Are you okay?”

“I… I need to tell you something.”

Now or Never.

“What is it?”

I took a deep breathe gathering my thoughts, It was time to face this.

“I love you.”

The words didn’t register right away, she just said, “huh?”

“I really love you.” I repeated.

Meghan gasped, her eyes smacked with shock. Did I make a mistake?

She looked down, my heart was bout to fall into the depths of hell when she said, “Um…. Can you give me some time to think Ash? After school, meet me at the front gate. I’ll see you then.”

Meghan then ran away and I just went to class.

“Man youre lame.” Puck stated.

“Shut up Summer shit.” I snarled.

“Seriously that was the best you could come up with? Although I’m honestly shocked this didn’t happen sooner.”

“Whats that suppose to mean?” I asked.

“Ive known you both for bout 5 years and from the moment I met you… Ive had to deal with the soft stares and cuddling and couple fights. I remember when Tyra first started bullying her, and she cried that no one was going to care if she died. And You got really mad at her and you both started yelling until you screamed ‘if you died I’d rip out her heart myself’ and you both stared at each other mouths agape till I had to bring up the newest book coming out.”

Puck was right, although it was embarrassing to hear him bring up the past.

“So, were you joking?”

I swatted at him, “Of course I wasn’t!”

Puck Patted my head, “Good luck lover boy!” 

He ran away before I could kill him.

I went to the front gate and Meghan was waiting for me.

“Hello Ash.” Meghan Greeted.

“Hey, Um, can I have your answer?”

My whole life hangs on this.

Meghan smiled softly, “I… was so happy when you told me. Thank you. But here is the thing…. I can’t believe you actually said it. and...I’m wondering if you made a bet with Michael. To see if it would be funny…. So i have to ask… were you joking?”

Tears were forming in her eyes when she asked if I was joking, what exactly do people take me for.

“No i meant it.”

“You… do know im not normal right??” Meghan asked shocked, “I’m not pretty like the other girls. I like dumb things and I can barely do anything right. And then there is the fact I'm on adhd medication. People will always judge me for that, I just doze off and I get mad quite easily; I annoy people very easily…. One of my favorite thing bout you is how patient you are with me. If…. we start dating that patience will be tested to its limit. You’ll have to deal with that stuff all the time. I… don’t want to be a pest to you.”

This foolish…

“You aren’t a pest Meghan!”

Meghan gasped and i kept going.

“Hell I love you doing those things, do them all the time. I don’t get those anime cartoons you watch nor do I understand shipping and all of that but I want to be with you every step of the way. As for your mental illness I love you, all of you, especially those parts. There's nothing you could do to make me lose my patience in you. Hell, I don't even consider it a test of patience. Being with you is a choice I make. I make it every day, and I’ll keep making it till the end of time.”

“Ash….” Meghan gasped, “Has anyone ever told you… that you're dangerous to a woman's heart.” her face was flushed.

“Do love me Meghan? Cause I can’t stand the thought of not being with you. I can do anything but losing you would destroy me.”

“Yes. I love you, Ash Please be my boyfriend.”

I walked towards her, took her face in my hands and kissed her. She coiled her arms around me and I crushed her to me. She was mine, Nothing will ever change that.

[fan-art-ic]

THE PRINCIPLES OF BEING AN UNTETHERED ZEALOT by @fan-art-ic

[id under cut]

THE PRINCIPLES OF BEING AN UNTETHERED ZEALOT

if you stopped telling people it's all sorted out after they're dead,

they might try sorting it all out while they're alive.

I.

I grew up in a small room with white walls and grey floors, with plastic tables where I sat, making a cross from craft foam and a glue stick. An older lady named Mrs. K, or Ms. Z would tell the room about a man named Jesus, who died for our seven-year old sins of lying —about if we brushed our teeth— stealing —a french fry off a plate, and cheating —at monopoly.

I grew up in church after church after church, in car rides ten twenty and eighty minutes long, told that something holy exists, and how my mom may have cried out in pain as my head crowned, but there was a man in the sky who created me. I learned to recite words of punishment, the same words that the angels spoke at gomorrah, to earn pieces of candy and pocket-toys.

Until I was ten, I went to church. Then the bed called louder in the early morning hours, so I never went to Sunday school again. For over half of my life, I was told there was something righteous in the air, and something revenant in the water, and if I pried open my feral child heart to let the Lord in, I would not be damned, tortured, and abandoned to eternal agony in death.

II.

I’m not sure exactly, of how to explain this: I don’t believe in God, I believe in GOD in People. I believe in the pain of kneeling before something Bigger. I believe in how sunlight burns my skin like a cherub’s sword. I believe in the community of Same Heart and Faith. I believe in how hair glows like a halo under streetlights. I believe in the ineffability and complexity of a Humanity.

Does this make sense?

Does you witness the way my heart is bruised before you?

The LORD is my SHEPHERD, I shall not want— but I shall need and do need. I need so desperately. I own a gaping, aching need to fill myself with a Truth, a Truth that’s been left unfilled but created from hours of study, hunched over silk-thin paper and imprinting into my child mind the grief of Mary, the faith of Abraham, and the belief of Paul.

I ask myself —the hole asks itself— what about the tragedy of Emmanuel? Carpenter, friend, son, and Son? Whispered to by a man who called Himself “Father”, who ordered young Emmanuel to bleed and strip himself —hanging bone-splintered above his mother and city— humble to save his neighbors, his heroes, his mother and father?

I ask myself —the hole asks itself— what about the tragedy of Job? Faithful, beautiful Job, ever servant to his God, and suffered endlessly and countlessly as a test of his belief. His children dead and friends’ backs turned on him —blaming words like knives under his shoulder blade— now a man with nothing, toyed with by his God, who already knew Job would remain to any length in His name.

I ask myself —the hole asks itself— what about the tragedy of Lucifer? God’s right-hand, most beloved as all? Wings that glimmered and made sinless —for sin was not yet invented— angels shiny with awe? Lucifer Morningstar, named so for being full of light, bright and beautiful as the dawning sun painting color across the brand new sky, who God designed to have the tint of pride, to have thoughts God would not like, and who was destined to burn from curiosity into something dark, twisted, ashen, disturbed?

I cannot believe in God, for He would take my belief and grasp it with both hands and twist and yank and distort me into another story for a seven-year old child to be told in a room with white walls and grey floors.

III.

Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines religious as: ‘relating to or manifesting faithful devotion to an acknowledged ultimate reality or deity // a religious person // religious attitudes 2 : of, relating to, or devoted to religious beliefs or observances //joined a religious order 3a : scrupulously and conscientiously faithful b : FERVENT, ZEALOUS’

I have faithful devotion to: -Doodling on tests and quizzes and legal documents -Staying up late to read yet another chapter -Finishing shows (unless I get bored mid-episode in which I never finish it) -A love of cats -Respecting my mother -Disrespecting my father (subtly though, I don’t want to get smacked again) -Writing bad poetry -Writing half-bad prose -Ordering the same food every time (because experience has taught me that the familiar is better)

I wouldn’t call myself [SCRUPULOUS] or [CONSCIENTIOUS], but I will accept, defend, and fight for [b: FERVENT, ZEALOUS]. I am this quiet, barren thing, dull as the metal hull of Oppenheimer’s pride. In my third eye I am Powerful and Strong and Shiny new like the metal glint of a knight with armor polished, my sword strung at the hip.

My child heart rests dormant in my chest and feral in my memories. Memories of bashing a head against a church floor, of a heady violent form taking hold of my dirty, grubby fingers.

IV.

The LORD became God when Man forgot to write about how the LORD wept for his Children on the Eighth Day.

V.

I haven’t touched the ground today. I was too busy noticing the angels who sat on the park bench talking about deadlines and soul quotas. The same cigarette touched their not-lips and the one with muddy shoes flicked the doggend onto the sidewalk, grinding it into ash with his heel.

I heard one say that love isn’t Love —I could hear the capital in his voice— and the other snorted, a strange trill echoing from his inhuman fleshy throat. “What’s the difference, then?” he asked. “love is a service, a loan with one-hundred-and-ten interest.” My toes brushed the dirt and the first angel kept talking: “Love is a selfish act mangled and chewed and torn, it hurts worse than a Fall and is worth more than Grace.”

“I don’t get it, both sound fucking awful,” the other angel said.

“It’s called free will.”

They began a new cigarette and I started to walk again. I think I learned something there, in the park, near those angels. I think I saw the ash grey halos and heard human things for ethereal beings, and understood how the wine-dark of the sea crashes so brutally over the cliffs, drawing artists and writers to its beat, begging to be seen in its violent shores.

VI.

When I was twelve, I tried to touch God. I rode in tense silence, ten minutes there, ten minutes back, to a youth group at a big, white church that had a parking lot so big, I would collapse racing kids one end to the other. I stood in the gym where other twelve-year olds threw footballs and frisbees and free advice, before the pastor would give God’s advice after we all stood for five songs of worship to God, blessing him for shelter, food, water, life, for the absence of pain and presence of joy.

My feet ached and my baby soul hurt, wretched from the inability to embrace the Word of God from the mouths of people who preached kindness and then placed me in groups of kids during activities, where I became a specter: a disheveled, nail-chewing, hair band-snapping, too-solid ghost.

I abandoned church at age sixteen. I tried to find God in the evergreens and mountain air and streaking skies. When my counselor asked if everyone in the tent believed in God, I said maybe. I wanted to be honest and brave, knighted in Truth. What I got was an interrogation, a smiting on those wooded hidden paths, with commands of faith poured down my gasping throat and my pinched nose.

God is the name of justification, and I could not find Him for my own Justice.

VII.

When I was a child, I was told of a resolution, solution, dissolution of all worries, fears, trappings of the human sickness. I was told of Something not greater, but Bigger then my whole world —granted, a seven-year old’s world is the size of an oyster, with them as the pearl— that dealt in a hand of cards with each suit a different type of miracle. My mind was imprinted on with the imagery, the shining glory, of angels and wings and chariots, who swept man off his feet to spit Words of Truth, handpiece to God and examples to look up to —but no one ever mentioned how Moses was buried in the sand.

The neural pathways for divine faith have been ordered, constructed, red ribbon cut, all for no crowd to show up. I have an illness that requires an intervention of a LORD on HIGH, but all I have are the echoes of a Man’s God being read to a group of children in a white room with grey floors.

[chimcharstar]

1-100 TELL ME ALL

Get To Know Me Uncomfortably Well

1. What is you middle name?

Jesse

2. How old are you?

22

3. When is your birthday?

dec 9

4. What is your zodiac sign?

sagittarius

5. What is your favorite color?

purples

6. What’s your lucky number?

9

7. Do you have any pets?

no

8. Where are you from?

bc canada. my great grandparents are from russia

9. How tall are you?

5 something

10. What shoe size are you?

7?

11. How many pairs of shoes do you own?

3 that i actually use

12. What was your last dream about?

i dont remember my most recent one but i had a banger of a dream i described in another post

13. What talents do you have?

i think expressing myself, or music, i have some talent that needs discipline

14. Are you psychic in any way?

well i am a spiritual person, in a way. and growing up in a toxic drama filled family, i have Developed the Skill of guessing how people are feeling and what they are gonna do. and i analyze dreams. so not psychic but i am really interested and intuitive whats goin on in there

15. Favorite song?

for some reason https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oilVq8-F4_Q colours by roosevelt ive been obsessed with lately i just loop that shit. loop loop loop. blaringit into my ears and speedwalking down thestreet. the beat.!!!! i feel like I  took all the colours

16. Favorite movie?

spiderverse. i really enjoyed always be my maybe.

17. Who would be your ideal partner?

someone who doesnt make me feel like im Too Much

18. Do you want children?

not RIGHT NOW

19. Do you want a church wedding?

i have no idea actually. id want a special wedding definitely.

20. Are you religious?

yes, i honestly feel like i just come like this, i dont go by any books and i dont want to be associated with christians. if i be too religious i start getting the Bad Feelings

21. Have you ever been to the hospital?

yes visiting sick relatives. and one in a psyche ward.

22. Have you ever got in trouble with the law?

i got a parking ticket

23. Have you ever met any celebrities?

no. maybe i did and i had no idea who they were because id never heard of them

24. Baths or showers?

showers.

25. What color socks are you wearing?

alien socks that are green and black

26. Have you ever been famous?

no. what does that even mean !!!!

27. Would you like to be a big celebrity?

yes because money but noooooo. its hard when one person definitely doesnt like me. if im famous some people just wont like me and theres going to be more of them

28. What type of music do you like?

stuff with electric guitars in it. funk. bops. i cant get enough lately

29. Have you ever been skinny dipping?

no

30. How many pillows do you sleep with?

one. and sometimes NONE. i dont fucking know why its just more comfortable. id lie down on a floor and pass out

31. What position do you usually sleep in?

i usually cant fall asleep unless im on my face with my arms tucked under me for warmpth and general log shape. after that though its chaos. dreamin

32. How big is your house?

BIG!!!!!! so many rooms. so many people. 

33. What do you typically have for breakfast?

on a Functional day, cereal. not because its my favourite thing but it doesnt require a lot of attention and its easiest to tolerate. my appetite is just. like this

34. Have you ever fired a gun?

HELL no.

35. Have you ever tried archery?

in my child days i shot my hair elastics around and pretended i was fighting aliens. this is definitely archery.

36. Favorite clean word?

i dont really think about words like that. pizza is a nice word.

37. Favorite swear word?

bitch. its really fun to say.

38. What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sleep?

not all that long. if i was up the entire night i am usually sleeping in midday no matter where i am. ive disappointed many teachers. its called not caring.

39. Do you have any scars?

yes, but theres no dramatic stories to them, just me not leaving scratches and bites alone as a kid. they look kind of cool though. and theyre so mysterious. youd think id have scars from self harm but no.

40. Have you ever had a secret admirer?

i believe so...

41. Are you a good liar?

yes, when i am 100% like morally committed to lying.

42. Are you a good judge of character?

NO. my thought process is: its rude to assume someone is going to behave badly, and they will be offended and have hurt feelings if you anticipate that. i have to like. treat everyone with exactly the same respect unless theyre a dick. otherwise its being judgmental. and it ends up as naïveté. but im okay with that . the price of being a good person

43. Can you do any other accents other than your own?

i could do a british one once i guess LOL and it looks like now ive Absorbed a mexican accent but i never really try to talk in other accents

44. Do you have a strong accent?

i dont know how to answer this

45. What is your favorite accent?

idk i like new things i havent heard before. and thinking about how other languages work. theres a lot of different accents at my work and i honestly enjoy listening to them

46. What is your personality type?

that.... INFJ. see. psychic

47. What is your most expensive piece of clothing?

one of the gay jackets

48. Can you curl your tongue?

dont think so

49. Are you an innie or an outie?

innie

50. Left or right handed?

left

51. Are you scared of spiders?

depends. i had these big house spiders in my dungeon at my parents house, and id just be “hi” and set them free. but if i see one where im not expecting it i might yell a lot and tell everyone and run around and then set it free

52. Favorite food?

tacos from my old work. i was indeed. screaming, lost in the sauce. i waited until i was away from the restaurant because i knew all my dignity would vanish

53. Favorite foreign food?

idk... i need to eat more curry. i need more curryin my life. bring it on.

54. Are you a clean or messy person?

clean

55. Most used phrased?

“this slaps” i feel like ive been saying that a lot

56. Most used word?

I

57. How long does it take for you to get ready?

a whole entire fucking hour (when i wake up) otherwise 5min

58. Do you have much of an ego?

i do, but i hide it. 

59. Do you suck or bite lollipops?

chomp chomp. i am not a patient man.

60. Do you talk to yourself?

yes, when i know no ones around, or when im not worried about seeming like a crazy person at work

61. Do you sing to yourself?

nah

62. Are you a good singer?

no. i can sing and it sound okay.  nice even. but good??? like beautiful?????? no.

63. Biggest Fear?

someone dying, natural disaster, new illness

64. Are you a gossip?

maybe. i feel like i have the Tendencies and then im like “am i being a bad person right now”. i want to know the deets though.

65. Best dramatic movie you’ve seen?

i Simply Dont Have the Attention for Those

66. Do you like long or short hair?

BOTH . long hair is more fun to draw. short hair is hot

67. Can you name all 50 states of America?

fuck no. why would i. fuck off. i dont care about your states.

68. Favorite school subject?

ART ART AR T

69. Extrovert or Introvert?

introerverte

70. Have you ever been scuba diving?

no

71. What makes you nervous?

people who are not Definitely Cheerful

72. Are you scared of the dark?

no. unless i think about things to scare myself on purpose

73. Do you correct people when they make mistakes?

no unless they need to know. because im not a fucking ANIMAL

74. Are you ticklish?

depends. i can be not ticklish if im determined.

75. Have you ever started a rumor?

i dont think so... i started a rumor i was from mars

76. Have you ever been in a position of authority?

maybe i was supposed to train some girls and then i probably didnt do a great job and they didnt listen. they say my job now is somewhat authority and im like...... ok...... 

77. Have you ever drank underage?

no

78. Have you ever done drugs?

no

79. Who was your first real crush?

someone whos OUTTA MY LIFE

80. How many piercings do you have?

two? i got them pierecd at claires lmao and i didnt get an infection because im  so salty. then i took them out because they were from claries

81. Can you roll your Rs?“

hell yes

82. How fast can you type?

so fucking fast. faster than my work finder helper. im fast im very fast

83. How fast can you run?

IM VERY FAST

84. What color is your hair?

orange

85. What color is your eyes?

green

86. What are you allergic to?

im still trying to figure that out. whatever it is gives me hives

87. Do you keep a journal?

yes. so i can get better at handwriting and just talking in general and hear what my voice sounds like. and to have a space away from other peoples needs and pressures

88. What do your parents do?

my mom is a stay at home mom and my dad shoots pop bottles into the sky

89. Do you like your age?

sure

90. What makes you angry?

everything. cabbage. i swore about cabbage for a long time the other day. i am just full of anger. 

91. Do you like your own name?

YES. i mean i chose it i better. honestly my first name ......... i feel self conscious about it sometimes. i think it was the only name for me though. it wasnt the ideal most wonderful namei could find because those didnt fit, it was MY name.

92. Have you already thought of baby names, and if so what are they?

im going to have two sons and im naming them brick and rusty.

93. Do you want a boy a girl for a child?

yeah, i want a boy a girl

94. What are you strengths?

my strengths doing all 100 questions, this is serious muscles

95. What are your weaknesses?

the exhaustion of jumping from one question to the next especially when they are vague. im not complaining this was my idea

96. How did you get your name?

i pfound it in the baby name book and i was lie  “hey yyy, i saw that name in black beauty, lets use it for my gay coded villain what the hell!”

97. Were your ancestors royalty?

no but i did have some ancestors who lives i a mansions andhad fucking SERVANTS. before you call me problematic my other part of family was like sewing things and not going to school 

98. Do you have any scars?

weve been over this. when im older im going to get a cool scar fighting a dragon

99. Color of your bedspread?

pink, white, blue

100. Color of your room?

white

[olivia-longueville]

Coronation of Anne Boleyn

Anne Boleyn emerged from the Tower of London at 5pm on Saturday the 31st of May 1535.  She had spent the previous days in the queen’s chambers in the Tower.  According to contemporary sources, the last day of spring was bright and warm, and the sky was an unbroken azure, spreading out above Anne in a serene canopy.  It must have seemed to her that nature itself foreshadowed her success as the soon to be Queen of England and Henry VIII’s wife.

Anne was dressed in the French fashion.  The coronation procession from the Tower was en-route for Westminster.  It was headed by twelve servants of the new French ambassador to England – Jean de Dinteville, who was King François I’s maître d’hôtel.  This illustrates Anne’s pro-French preferences, which her numerous foes considered unpatriotic, calling her a Frenchwoman.  This, nevertheless, was true in many aspects because Anne loved France, French culture and fashions.

Then appeared the gentlemen of the royal household, who were by tradition the eyes and ears of the reigning monarch whom they served.  Next came the nine judges clad in their scarlet gowns and hoods, followed by the Knights of the Bath.  Then moved the state council, the ecclesiastical magnates, and the peers of the realm.  At last, behind them emerged the queen’s fabulous litter.

Eric Ives describes Anne’s appearance and her attire:

“She {Anne} was dressed in filmy white, with a coronet of gold.  The litter was of white satin, with ‘white cloth of gold’ inside and out, and its two palfreys were clothed to the ground in white damask. In ravishing contrast was the queen’s dark hair, flowing loose, down to her waist.  Over her was a canopy of cloth of gold held up by the barons of the Cinque Ports.  Then came her own palfrey, also trapped in white.  Twelve ladies in crimson velvet rode behind.”

Several more riders and carriages, as well as thirty gentlewomen on horseback, each of them richly attired, were followed by the king’s guard in two files, one on both sides of the street.  All of the servants in the livery of their masters or mistresses were at the end of the long procession.  Most definitely, many of them did not support Anne and viewed her as the usurper of Catherine’s place in the king’s affections, but they participated in the coronation out of duty and fear, for they would find themselves on the receiving end of the king’s wrath.  And Anne was truly magnificent!

Observers reported that some notable people were missing in the cortege.  Neither the king’s sister, Princess Mary Tudor, nor her daughter, Frances, was present, nor Lady Elizabeth Stafford, Duchess of Norfolk.  Anne’s step-grandmother – Agnes Howard née Tilney, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk – rode in one of the carriages, along with either Anne’s mother, Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, Countess of Wiltshire, or Margaret Wotton, Dowager Marchioness of Dorset.  However, the absences of the king’s sister and her daughter, Frances, can be easily discounted: Princess Mary Tudor had suffered from consummation for months and was very ill at the time of the coronation, while her daughter was barely out of childhood.  The Duchess of Norfolk could have chosen to stay away from her ruthless husband, from whom she had separated in 1534 after their notorious quarrel.  Thomas More, another doubter, was also missing, as he deliberately refused to attend.

For the inhabitants of London, this was their first glimpse of the scandalous, extraordinary woman who had changed the life of the country.  For Anne, the coronation procession was her first chance to see the reaction of the English people to her new station.  Hostile accounts disparaged everything: according to a report that reached the Imperial court in Brussels, the crowds did not cheer and take their hats and toques off when Anne passed.  Some say that later, Anne complained to Henry about the cold reception with gloomy throngs on the streets.  At the same time, Eric Ives thinks that spectators were ‘more curious than either welcoming or hostile’, so perhaps the most negative things from the coronation reports should be given little credit to.

Disappointed by their reaction, Anne must have felt a blend of dejection, anxiety, pride, and triumph.  Regardless of their opinion of her, her beloved Hal chose her to be his queen, and soon she would give the country a long-awaited male heir.  Anne was heavily pregnant at the time of the coronation, and I can imagine her placing a hand on her swollen stomach, hidden by her gown, as she thought of a Tudor prince she presumably carried.  Defiance was one of her most controversial qualities, and she had committed her first act of defiance of social norms years ago, when she had accepted the monarch’s marriage proposal while Henry was still married to Catherine of Aragon.  As she contemplated the sullen people who did not want her to be their queen, she probably decided that if defiance was her destiny, she would be defiant again against all the rules if necessary.

What shall this day bring to me, June?

A brilliance with every summer hue:

The cloud-white dream of happiness,

Shot with the primrose sunshine through…

Or shall my coronation bring me pain,

People do not want me, their stillness say it,

The day will see me crowned despite them,

Yet, making ancient rhyme of lovers sore,

As if my joy is dead, my sadness lingers yet.

Oh, Henry!  They love you, their dear prince,

Will you work to make them favor me too?

Some say your love is like a flight of doves –

With wanton wings, with promises and ways,

But flashing white against the sky only to die.

You may love, and sigh, and soon forget?!

I do not believe!  You are my Hal forever!

A thousand roses will blossom red for us,

And a thousand hearts will be gay, I pray,

For the summer of love lingers just ahead,

And our boy is on his way to a Golden age,

Fate will have him born in autumn for us.

The moon and the stars will weave new spells

Of love – for my Hal, for me, and for our boy,

The music of marriage bells will sound to us.

Oh, sadness – stay behind and die in May!

I’ve started writing a lot of poetry as of late, and I cannot explain why I need it. Now I can write both prose and poetry, and it is not difficult for me at all.  In this poem, which I composed to describe Anne’s feelings during her coronation procession, I strove to stress her strong faith in Henry’s love and in her happiness with him, and to remind of their expectation that the child in her belly was a boy.  The reference to England’s Golden Age foreshadows Elizabeth I’s glorious reign, but at that time, Anne and Henry could not know about it.  I hope you like this poem.

Soon the coronation party made its grand entrée into the City of London.  During the reign of Henry VIII, this historical place was mostly confined to that small area with a population of about 100,000 people.  The City was the center of business and finance, where trade guilds and livery companies elected the Lord Mayor every year.  Since the days of William the Conqueror, the City has retained its independence from royal interference.  Thus, Anne’s coronation procession was a significant event aimed at showing the king’s second spouse to the population of London.

There were 6 traditional points for pageants through the city and additional 3 locations, each of them opulently decorated for Anne as a sign of King Henry’s undying devotion to her.  On the 1st June of 1533 after what must have seemed an eternity of waiting, the coronation procession entered Westminster.  The witnesses began assembling in Westminster Hall from 7am, but it was just minutes before 9pm that Henry’s wife appeared there.

Anne must have breathed out a sigh of relief as they approached Westminster Abbey, where she would finally be crowned; she was in a family way, so she must have been tired, in spite of her exhilaration.  Climbing down from her litter, she and her ladies set out along a route carpeted with cloth of blue ray all along the several hundred yards between the dais of the hall and the high altar of the abbey.  Anne was watched by all the peers of the realm and foreign ambassadors, aldermen and judges in scarlet, the monks of Westminster and the staff of the Chapel Royal, all in their sumptuous copes, as well as four bishops, two archbishops and twelve mitred abbots in full pontificals.  The abbot of Westminster had his complete regalia.

Ives describes Anne’s appearance in Westminster in these moments:

“Anne was resplendent in coronation robes of purple velvet, furred with ermine, with the gold coronet on her head which she had worn the day before, though it is not clear that she followed tradition by walking barefoot.  Over her was carried the gold canopy of the Cinque Ports, and she was preceded by the sceptre of gold and the rod of ivory topped with the dove, and by the lord great chamberlain, the earl of Oxford, bearing the crown of St Edward…”

On the way to the high alter, Anne was supported, according to custom, by the bishops of London and Winchester.  The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk carried her long train, and a myriad of her ladies and gentlewomen, each of them accoutered in scarlet with appropriate distinctions of rank.  Perhaps having an enigmatic expression on her face, Anne seated herself into St Edward’s Chair, draped in cloth of gold.  The grand chair was situated on a tapestry-draped dais two steps high, which was itself set on a raised platform carpeted in red.  For a few moments, Anne sat there before she stood up, and the official ceremony of her coronation started.

A solemn mass was performed by the bishop of Westminster.  Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer, who supported and adored Anne, prayed over her as the royal wife prostrated herself before the altar, despite her pregnancy.  She was anointed by Cranmer before she walked back to St Edward’s Chair, where the archbishop crowned her and handed to her the sceptre and the rod of ivory.  It is remarkable that Anne was the first female monarch who was crowned with the crown of St Edward, which was previously used to crown only a reigning ruler.  This was King Henry’s obvious attempt to make others see the significance of his marriage to Anne.

A bit later, the heavy crown of St Edward was replaced with a lighter one, of course for the queen’s convenience.  The service continued: Anne took the sacrament and made the offering at the shrine of the saint.  As his beloved cemented her place in history as the new Queen of England, King Henry watched the ceremony from the special stand from behind a latticework, which had been erected in the abbey so that the sovereign could see everything incognito.

This mystique of monarchy belonged to Queen Anne Boleyn.  At that time, she could not predict that in about three years, she would die on her husband’s orders for crimes she did not commit.  Her emotions must have alternated between celestial delight, unutterable joy, and a feeling of unprecedented triumph.  It seemed to Anne that a golden future stretched before her, a future composed of nothing but hope, new victories, and contentment.

The sun has shone upon all of me and fed

My heart and soul’s rhythms with light,

Raised me from dust to a rose, big and red,

Now I’m Henry’s queen, my life is bright!

A white star-flower of joy I will encounter

As sweet darkness envelops the earth

This night – no, not my wedding night,

But the first night of me being a queen.    

In the dark, my Hal is still my sun of life,

He will guard my body and sleep tonight,

Holding all the starts in the sky true to us,

Reassuring me that we will defeat any foe.

In the morning, as I will open my eyes again,

From heaven, Hal’s sun will stoop to breathe

A flower of our love into the air in our room.

Surely, my life is now not beneath my Hal’s,

For I became his true queen in Westminster,

Beloved forever and feeling his kindness,

His care for our son growing inside me.

All make me believe it will last forever.  

So, from the ashes of my odd sadness,

That lingers in my bosom like a dirge,

Will beauty and hopes grow in my life.

I’ve also written the poem describing Anne’s feelings after her coronation.  I may be wrong, but I do not think she had any fears about her future at that time.  I believe that Anne loved Henry, perhaps not from the very beginning of their romance, but she fell in love with him somewhere along the way.  The long way to their wedding and Anne’s coronation.  Nonetheless, the mentioned “odd sadness” foreshadows that Anne’s happiness with Henry would not last long.  The “odd sadness” lingers “like a dirge”, which foreshadows her tragic death after an awful lot of unhappiness Anne would experience in her marriage to the king after his passion for her cooled off.

And so far, the nobility of England saw Anne being crowned and accepted or were forced to accept her as queen in the sight of God.  Whatever Anne’s fate would be, the mystique of a queen was unbreakable even after her death.

William Shakespeare would declare a generation later:

“Not all the water in the rough rude sea

Can wash the balm from an anointed king.”

_________________________________________________

“Two poems were written by Olivia Longueville

All images are in the public domain. Text © 2019 Olivia Longueville

[oblio-k]

ANYWAYS ive been working on a mila fic whenever im exhausted and here it is. whether it’s love or manipulation is up to the readers

Invitation

As Mila pulls a weed from the little garden she’s started behind her employer's mansion, she finds it hard to keep her mind from wandering. From thinking about how her life is so different now.

She forces herself to use the word different because if she uses another word she fears she may start crying. And if that happens, someone would undoubtedly see her, and her employer would take her aside and ask her if she was alright in a way that would sound kind but could drag any answer out of her that he wanted. She likes working for him and vastly prefers this life, this job to her old one. Crying will just make things difficult.

Master Tain had been cruel and treated her as if she was nothing if he noticed that she existed at all. She’d been on the receiving end of his wrath quite frequently and had been left with bruises more than she cared to admit.

Agent Tain is cruel, but never to her. To her, he’s careful and kind, respectful. He goes out of his way to spend time with her and never raises a hand to her. When he looks at her, he doesn’t look through her, and she’s glad to be acknowledged.

She knows he’s only so kind because she knows who he really is. Who he isn’t, rather. But she likes to think it’s also because they’re friends. Or, at least, are becoming friends.

But when she looks at him when he’s working, she’s reminded of how they met, and she can’t stop her hands from trembling just a bit. Before meeting Agent Tain, she’d only ever seen people die from old age or illness. She’d never seen people be murdered. She’d never seen people be or had been interrogated, never had to learn how to use a weapon-

“Miss Garak.”

When she stands and turns, Enabran is behind her. At first, his ability to sneak up on her, to appear out of nowhere, had scared her. Now, it still frightens her, but she doesn’t worry he will hurt her. He’s had so many opportunities to get rid of her, to eliminate the last person besides his superiors that knew his secret, but he’s never taken them. She is alive and unharmed, save for a scratch on her palm from a tool she’d grabbed the wrong end of while gardening.

Before she can greet him, she sees the wound cutting across his abdomen. It’s as if someone had slashed him with a sharp knife. One hand presses tightly against the large wound, like he’s keeping himself from spilling open, though it does nothing to stop the flow of blood. A smaller puncture wound by his clavicle bleeds profusely. She forces herself to get over her shock after looking at each injury and takes his free arm around her shoulders. He leans against her and she helps him inside.

It’s not the first time he’s come to her with injuries, and she can never tell if he is in pain. Enabran is silent as they walk to the master bedroom, and his breathing is steady. It’s not typical for an Obsidian Order agent to appear immune to any injury, from what she’s overheard and seen.

She’s not entirely sure she knows why that is. Mila suspects he’s not a normal agent, that these assassination and interrogation attempts come so frequently because he is proof of something his superiors would very much like to erase.

He sits on the edge of his bed and she washes the dirt from her hands and retrieves the medical kit he has hidden away. It takes a moment for the wall panel to open when she lets it scan her palm, and when she turns around, Enabran is pulling off his bloodied, torn shirt. There are no wounds on his back, and he lies down as she opens up the kit next to him.

Mila doesn’t understand why he trusts her. Still, she dutifully heals him and when the medical scanner picks up an odd substance in his system, she asks, “Have you been poisoned, sir?”

“It’s a truth serum,” he replies, an odd smile on his face. His voice is completely level, as if he hadn’t almost bled to death.  “A very strong one.”

“But it doesn’t work on you.”

“Of course it d-doesn’t.” His voice cracks, and he closes his eyes. But he’s too late to hide it when she’s looking directly at him. His pupils dilate. Bizarrely, he begins to laugh. “Why would it work? I’m Cardassian.”

It means something, that. An inside joke that she’s not privy to the context of. But Enabran glances at her, an invitation for her to investigate. He won’t be upset if she finds out what that means- he wants her to, she’s almost sure. The secret she knows could destroy everything he’s worked for, what’s another?

“Miss Garak, are you finished?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you. Would you get me a cup of tea?” Master Tain had never thanked anyone. Agent Tain never thanked anyone unless he was manipulating them, and even then, only rarely. Enabran always thanks her. She likes to think it’s genuine. He rubs his eyes as she turns, and sits up.

He has a small tea set in his bedroom, a little burner and a few boxes of the different teas he’s collected on his travels. It’s an indulgence of his, and he’ll get a distant look in his eyes for a moment when she hands the cup to him.

She’s thrilled and worried about noticing and knowing these little details about him. It’s an exposure of that part of him from before.

A weakness he would cease if she dared to point it out.

“Make a cup for yourself,” he adds.

“Yes, sir.”

She picks an herbal blend with a pleasant taste she knows will help with his recovery and help relax her nerves. Blood still isn’t something she’s very used to, especially not large quantities of it. Perhaps in a few years, it won’t faze her.

A few years. She’ll be lucky if he lets her live that long, and she’s not sure what she’s feeling when she realizes she only ever thinks about her future being here, serving him.

By the time the tea is done, he’s changed into fresh clothing, a garish orange turtleneck covered by a drab green shirt, with black pants that don’t match the rest of the outfit at all. Fashion is not something he’s good at, but then again, he seems to be good at everything if asked. She’s sure if she requested it, and he was so inclined, he could choose an outfit fitting of his position as heir to the Tain fortune.

As he takes the cup from her and doesn’t even check it for poison, she thinks to herself that he would very likely be inclined to do what she asked. But she won’t. She knows her place.

“Miss Garak, how is your garden?”

“It’s doing quite well. My brother sent me some seeds to try growing, and they’ve finally begun to sprout.”

“Tolan, correct?”

“Yes, sir.” She’d never told him her brother’s name before. “I’m afraid I’ll never quite meet his skill for flowers.”

“I never understood why people enjoy flowers so much.”

“They’re beautiful. People like to look at nice things.” He opens his mouth to say something and hesitates. Perhaps the truth serum is affecting him more than he wants to admit, though she doesn’t know what he could possibly say about flowers that he wouldn’t want anyone to hear. She asks a question that she thinks will be inconsequential, “If there’s anything you would like to see in the garden, I would plant it for you.”

“No. I’m sure whatever you grow will look beautiful.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Though perhaps you should grow more edible plants than flowers. It’s been quite some time since I was last able to eat something that I’d picked myself.” That distant look. Then his pupils grow large and he looks down at his tea as he says, “When I was a boy, my caretakers would take me on walks around the estate grounds after I’d finished my studies for the morning. We’d eat from the garden until lunch was ready. It was nice.” They’re as wide as she’s ever seen on anyone as he finishes.

Before she can offer her own story about her and her brother enjoying fruits and vegetables from their father’s garden, he asks her, “Miss Garak, do you know how to play kotra?”

“I’m familiar with the title, not with the rules,” Mila answers, dropping the sir to see what he hopes to gain by teaching a servant a complicated game.

A smile tugs at his lips, and he gets up and pretends not to have noticed. “It’s a game I quite enjoy. I believe you would be a good player.” He retrieves a board from within his desk and brings back to the bed. “I was taught how to play when I was young.”

She expects to find a knife at her throat in an hour, then. “I don’t expect you to play any way but your best, sir, despite my inexperience.”

“Kotra is a game about bold tactical strategy…”

Sure enough, after having quickly lost two games against him and arguing with him after she realized he was allowing her to win their third match, a disruptor is pressed against her throat, her wrists held tight in his other hand. She hadn’t even seen him grab it.

“I think I need to get back to work, Miss Garak,” he tells her, voice cold.

Enough was enough. He couldn’t risk appearing close to her so soon after an incident. Quietly, she agrees, but he doesn’t let her go.

“You understand, don’t you, Mila?” It was too dangerous for them to be friends. To be whatever they were. Mila wonders which one of them he’s afraid for.

After all, why should he care if something happens to her? Attachment was a weakness. He’d said so himself to another agent, and for once, she was absolutely certain he had been honest. “Yes, sir.”

It’s even more likely that he’s not worried at all, that all this is a game to keep her quiet. Still, she enjoyed their time together and will look forward to the next, if it comes.

Agent Tain releases her, lowering the disruptor.

[littlebitoffanfic]

Bizarrely Perfect

Fandom: The Rocky Horror Picture Show Characters: Riff Raff, Magenta, Columbia Relationship: Riff Raff/reader Request: I have a strange request. You don’t have to do it if you don’t want. But can you write one for riffraff from rocky horror picture show where the reader stumbles on the castel because shes been in an accident or something. And riff raff doesn’t want Frank to see her because he wants to keep her for himself? If you can, can you add in that the readers just broke up with someone and is lonely and wants him? Hi, im the one who requested the riffraff x reader. I was wondering if I could add another little detail? The reader meets magenta and the two become really close friends cause the reader decides to stay with them cause she doenst have anyone else and the two adore her and want to take her back to their home planet? Riff Raff never thought he would come face to face with angel on this god forsaken planet. But as he walked to the main door and opened in, he came face to face with you. You were nearly completely drenched from rain, some rain drops clinging to your long eyelashes. Your bottom lip was quivering slightly from coldness and your cheeks were red. You were wearing a tight, black dress which flared out at the bottom. It was shoulder less and hugged your body in the most sensual way. You had a black coat draped over your shoulders and matching black heels. There was a several small cuts on your body which he could see. One on your forehead, a couple on your neck and shoulders and on your hands. it was really late at night and, if Riff Raff hadn’t need to finish cleaning the stairs, he would have begrudged having to get up. “I am so sorry to bother you, sir, but I was just in an accident and the other car drove off.” You explained, your voice shaking slightly. You didn’t know if it was because you were still in shock, because of the coldness or because of the mans gaze on you. He seemed transfixed with you, like he had never seen a more beautiful woman before in his life. “come in.” Riff Raff stepped aside, letting you step inside. He closed his eyes briefly as you walked by him, your sweet perfume sending his world to heaven. “Thank you, I really appreciate it. My cars completely wreaked. And even if I do manage to get in contact with a towing company, they wont come out in this weather.” You crossed your arms over and rubbed the skin, trying to stop the numbness. But Riff Raffs mind was racing. he knew he couldn’t let the master know you were here. The second the masters sinful gaze fell upon you, there was no escape. And, while Riff Raff couldnt argue his thoughts were any purer, he was selfish and wanted you to himself. The master had went to bed hours ago with a bottle of drink in hand, so he would be dead to the world until late tomorrow afternoon. But Magenta and Columbia were still up. Riff Raff doubted if Columbia would be able to keep you a secret from the master, due to her feelings for him. But he knew he could trust his sister. Riff Raff began to take your coat from your shoulders, making you shiver with chill and look at him in confusion. “The water will only make it worse.” He explained, offering you a crooked smile. He didn’t hang up the coat, but draped it over his forearm. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” You turned to face him properly, very aware of how his gaze made your heart flutter. “Riff Raff.” He answered. “Im [y/n].” you smiled, noticing the way his lip twitched at your name. “Beautiful, much like yourself.” He mumbled, walking past you. You felt your cheeks flush red at the comment. “Please follow me, mistress.” He nodded to a door. “Please, don’t call me mistress. Im not above you in any way. [y/n] is fine.” You smiled sweetly, although a lustful part of you enjoyed it. Riff Raff didn’t respond to you but smiled and guided you through the large house and down some stairs. “Where are we going?” You asked, suddenly feeling less and less safe on every step. Riff Raff paused for a moment, debating something before signing and turning to you. “The master, he is…” he paused again. “Strange. Much like many in this house. But I have known him to take advantage of women in destress, much like yourself.” He saw your eyes widen and you took a step back up one of the steps in fear. “But, I am not going to tell him you are here. We are the only place for miles. And in this weather, you shall no doubt become extremely ill, or worse. So I am taking to our quarters.” He explained, and you let out a sign of relief. You don’t know why you trusted this stranger, maybe your heart was more powerful than your mind at this point in time. But you were cold, shocked, scared and all you wanted was a warm embrace. You nodded and stepped back down. “our?” You asked, seeing him smile once again. “The servants quarters. My sister can attend to your wounds.” Riff Raff reached out and gently ran his finger close to the cut on your forehead that was no longer bleeding. “T-thank you.” You smiled, shaking from the cold. ------------timeskip----------------- The area Riff Raff had labelled as the servants quarters was a small corridor with a few rooms either side and a set of stairs up the other side. Riff raff had lead you into one room to a lovely and incredibly seductive woman called Magenta. She smirked at him when he entered her room with you at his heels. She smirked even more when Riff Raff told her not to tell Columbia and especially not their master about you. But she never said anything about it. She took your hands in hers and pulled you over to her bed, sitting you down so she could tend to your cuts. She had an incredibly sexy accent that you wished you had. She referred to you as Darling and Sweetie, which made you smile. Magenta insisted she dry your hair for you, so you sat in front of her with your back to her as she blasted your locks. Every now and then, she would move the warm air across your back and shoulders. Warming you up. Now, the two of you were sitting on her bed, chatting. “So, where were you going?” She asked as she idly played with your hair, braiding some parts only for them to fall out. “I was coming back from breaking up with someone.” You told her, shrugging. “And you wanted him to know was he was missing?” She smirked, raising and eyebrow as her knowing gaze flew to your dress and what was left of your makeup. “Exactly.” You giggled turning to her. “Thank you for everything.” You took her hand in yours and squeezed it. “Darling, it is okay.” She brushed away a strand of hair from your face. The door to the room opened and you couldn’t help but jump until your gaze fell on Riff Raff and you smiled. “Feeling better?” He asked, his eyes running over your now clean cuts. “Much.” You answered. “why cant we let her meet Columbia?” Magenta asked as she wrapped her arms around your shoulder and rested her head on your shoulder. “In case she tells.” Riff Raff replied sharply. “She wont, though. You know of her feelings for him. Why would she risk him getting eyes for another woman?” Magenta argued, frowning at him. “I shall think about it.” Riff Raff shook his head at his sister. “[y/n], ive prepared you a room just down the corridor.” He beckoned you. Magenta let you go, but not before kissing your cheek and promising to speak to you in the morning. Before you left, she called for you to wait before going to her cupboard and pulling out some clothes and giving you them. A night gown, a day dress, some tights and other clothes which you thanked her for. “You seem to get along well with my sister.” He commented as he closed the door behind you. “Yes, shes lovely.” You smiled, thinking that if your relationship with her progressed, you could easily see her as a sister. Riff Raff showed you to a room only a few doors from hers. You stepped inside and your mouth fell open. The room was lit with candle night in the most romantic way. It was a large room with a high ceiling. In the centre of the room was a 4-poster bed with a stunning crimson cover and matching throw. In the corner was a desk with a mirror on it and on the other side was a door which you could see led to a bathroom. “Is this to your liking?” Riff Raff appeared by your side frowning as he mistook your shock for disgust. “I cant stay here. Its too beautiful and grand for the likes of me.” You shook your head, smiling as you took a step back till a hand rested on your lower back. “Then its perfect for you.” He said in a soothing voice. You turned to him with wide eyes that began to water. “Mistress?” He asked, frowning at your tears. “Oh im sorry. God, what must you think of me?” You giggled, fanning your face with one hand as he guided you to the bed and the two of you sat down. “Its stupid, me crying like this. Its just, I was driving back from breaking up with someone. and I realise that you have done more for me in the last few hours than he done in 3 years. Your sister took care of me better than my own family.” You confessed to him, looking at your lap as you shook your head. Riff Raff reached out and took your chin between his thumb and index finger to guide your gaze to meet his. “Then he is a fool.” He told you, his voice genuine and heartfelt. “As are your family.” You threw your arms around him and pulled him into a tight embrace as you mumbled ‘thank yous’ in his ear. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. Why did this feel to natural with him? “Rest now. The storm does not look to lift for the next few days, so you may stay here for as long as you need.” He mumbled in your ear. You were surprised he didn’t take advantage of you. You were practically throwing yourself at him but he was more concerned about you getting rest. “Will I see you tomorrow?” You asked, pulling back as he stood. “Of course, my sweet.” He mused, his fingers running over your cheek before leaving. --------------time skip--------- Over the next few days, the storm only got worse. And within a week and a half, it was a blizzard. Not that you minded. Magenta had proven to be a joy to be around and had introduced you to Columbia, who instantly wanted to dress you in sparkly clothes. You loved the two women and the three of you could sit for hours enjoying each others company. They loaned you clothes while you stayed which you were grateful for. In the servants area, there was 3 bedrooms, all of equal size but Magenta and Columbia shared so instead of the 4 poster bed were 2 singles. There was a staff kitchen, a living area and a shared bathroom despite all the bedrooms have their own personal ones. the place was like a large flat. the stairs led to a small garden and on the other side of the garden was woods and a road from what Riff Raff told you. He had showed you to the door, but the second it opened, you both were nearly soaked. You thought you might feel like a prisoner here, but you loved it. During the day, you decided to clean your bedroom, the living room and the kitchen. You washed the clothes you borrowed and busied yourself with making sure your presents wasn’t a burden on them. They loved what you did because they spent the whole day running around after ‘frank’ that they really didn’t like cleaning their quarters. Riff Raff seemed to like your company the most. The second he finished his work, he would come to you. The other evening, you and he had sat in front of the fire as you read a book and he sat in a comfortable silence. You must have been here about 3 weeks now and you felt like you belonged here. It was more homely than your own home. tonight, you sat between Magentas legs with Columbia lying across yours. You smiled down at her as you used and eye brow pencil to fill hers. The last few mornings she had come through to you to help her do some of her makeup, even though she was amazing at it herself. Still, you liked feeling helpful. “How long are you staying?” She suddenly asked, her voice a little higher than normal which was a hard to do. “I don’t know. Till this storm clears, I think.” You shrugged, ignoring the dread that filled your stomach at the thought. “Do you have to?” She asked, sitting up. “I have to. I cant burden you forever.” You giggle, shaking your head at her. “You are no burden, my darling.” Magenta brushed your hair to the side as you looked back at her. “Come on, stay here with us?!” Columbia started to bounce on her knees like a child. “You- you really want me to stay?” You asked, looking over your shoulder to Magenta. “Of course! You are like a sister to me.” She smiled widely, wrapping her arms around your waist. “Franks away in a couple of weeks to a party. Me and Magenta have to go but Riff Raff has to stay and watch the house. You could move your stuff in then. And you can help with cleaning down here.” Columbia divulged a plan to you that you suspected she hadn’t just come up with. “and what if he finds out im here?” You asked, looking from Columbia to Magenta. “I’ll protect you. He would not dare cross me. Plus, my brother cares deeply for you and would fight to protect you. The master would be outnumbered.” She smiled, a little menacing but you liked it. “Or, you could meet him.” “No.” you instantly said, making the girls laugh. You had heard him screaming at the top of his lungs. “He is really a sweetheart.” Columbia said, lying back down on your lap. For some reason, she didn’t meet your eyes. you then heard the door being thrown open and Riff Raff stormed in. He was limping, badly and had blood on his clothes. His gaze fell on Columbia. “You told.” He growled, moving towards her as she scrambled to her feet. “Now, it isn’t like that!” She put her hands out as you and Magenta stood up. Magenta wrapped her arms around you. “What do you mean?” Magenta asked, looking between her brother and Columbia. “The master knows [y/n] is here.” Riff Raff spoke in a dangerously low voice. “What?” You gasped, cuddling into Magenta from fear. “Columbia!” Magenta scolded as she pulled you closer. “How could you?” “I just wanted her to stay with us.” Columbia pointed at you, frowning. “Franks fine with her staying.” She huffed. “Really?” You looked to Riff Raff, who looked like he was in a lot of pain. “Yes, he wishes to meet you first. Tomorrow for lunch.” He didn’t look at you. “Will you be there?” You asked, leaving Magentas arms to walk over to. He looked at you, meeting your eyes for the first time. “Of course.” He bowed his head slightly to you, making you smile. “Then I’ll be fine.” You assured him. Magenta said she wanted to ‘speak’ with Columbia and you said you were tired anyway, so you and Riff Raff left. you walked into your room, Riff Raff following you. He walked over and took a seat in one of the 2 arm chairs. His face contorted with pain as he sat. “what happened?” You asked, walking over to him and kneeling in front of him. “punishment. The master likes to flog.” Riff Raff mumbled, looking to the side of you. “I am so sorry, Riff Raff.” You shook your head, resting your hand on his knee. “Why?” Riff Raff asked, looking at you in confusion. “If I have never darkened your doorstep, you would never have gotten hurt.” You mused, guilt running through your body. “I am so glad you did, mistress.” Riff Raff mumbled, reaching out to run a thin finger down your cheek, setting fire to your skin as he did. He never did drop the ‘mistress’ although it comes and goes. Sometimes, he would call you by your name, and some times mistress. “Columbia was asking me to stay before you came in. she said I could be like a maid to you all.” You smiled slightly. “so, technically, that would make you my master.” You giggled, looking up at him. You saw a spark in his eyes as the words fell from your lips. “That is, if Frank lets me stay.” you looked down, but Riff Raff didn’t miss that flash of fear in your eyes. He took you by the chin, making you look back up at him. “He wont hurt you. Magenta and I will make sure of it.” He vowed, moving himself to sit on the edge of the seat. “Riff Raff?” Your voice was barely more than a whispered as you realised how close his face was to yours. You could feel his breath on your lips and it sent a shiver down your spin. “Mistress.” Riff Raff purred. “Do you want me to stay?” you asked, your eyes begging him for the answer you needed to hear. You saw his lip twitch into a smile before he answered you. “yes.” You couldn’t control yourself as you leaned up and pressed your lips to his. You kissed him, desperately. You didn’t know why you were so drawn to him. Why you needed him. But it seemed he was as eager to kiss you as you were to kiss him. He kissed you back, taking control and dominating the kiss. You moved yourself up, desperate to feel more of him. But he didn’t mind. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you up. You were quick to straddle his lap, your arms around his neck as you kissed. you pulled back, panting slightly as you looked at him in the warm glow of the fire. “I don’t care if its insane, me wanting to stay with people ive only known for a month.” You couldn’t help but giggle, more at yourself but Riff Raff smiled. “you belong here.” He mumbled, reaching up and twisting a strand of hair around his slender finger, not realising the impact his words had on you. “You think?” You couldn’t help but smile. “Of course, my sister is incredibly fond of you and Columbia, while misguided, enjoys your company. As will our master, so long as he doesn’t hurt you.” Riff Raff mused, his eyes half closed and a small smile now playing on his lips. “And you?” You leaned close to him, your hands running up his neck and back down. “I adore you.” Riff Raff half growled as he pulled you close and back into a dominating and passionate kiss. a small small part of you wondered about leaving. But then what did you have to go back to? Your ex was a disgusting pig, your family was non-existent, your ‘friends’ were nothing compared to Magenta. You had never felt so at home than you were here. You never felt so loved and wanted than when you were with the siblings. As you sat on the lap of Riff Raff, you knew you couldn’t leave. You knew you were tied to this house, to the people, to him. you ran your hand across his back and felt him wince. You instantly pulled back and saw blood on your finger tips. you climbed off his lap and went around to inspect his back. You made him take off his coat and vest. His shirt was stained with blood. But once removed, you could see the wounds weren’t deep, only just breaking the skin and had stopped bleeding. “You need to rest.” You mumbled, your heart aching to see him in pain. Riff Raff stood up, pressed a kiss to your forehead and started to leave, until you grabbed his hand. “You know, you should really stay here. So I can make sure you don’t lie on your back while you sleep.” You knew it was a weak excuse, but when you saw the smirk on his lips, you knew he knew too. The two of you went over to the bed and crawled under the covers. His arms found your waist and he pulled you into his chest as he lay on his side. You smiled, cuddling into his chest. As you started to drift off, you heard the door open. You look over to see Magenta stepping inside your room with a guilty looking Columbia at her heels. a couple of times, they had come through to you and the three of you slept in the massive bed. You smiled, allowing your heavy eyes to close as you felt the bed behind you dip. You moved to lie on your back, Riff Raff fast asleep now. His hand moved to rest on your hip bone. Magenta wrapped her arm around your arm as she lay her head just above yours and Columbia lay her head on your stomach, sniffling slightly. You reached down and ran your hand over her hair while she mumbled an apology. You couldn’t help but smile as you drifted back to sleep. And as bizarre as it seemed, you felt safe and loved. This was perfect. Bizarrely perfect.

[letterfromtrenwith]

The Proper Attire

A Francis/Demelza fic.

This fits in with my AU fic ‘The Old World’. It’s not necessary to have read that one to understand this one, but I would very much appreciate it if you did! :D

Francis met and fell in love with Demelza while Ross was away. They’re now married, and Francis comes home from a business trip to find his wife’s got some new clothes, although they’re not exactly what you’d expect the mistress of Trenwith to wear....

----

“For to hear the fond tale, Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in the valley below…”

Francis smiled to himself as the melodious tones of Demelza’s voice reached his ears. While spending a few days in St Ives on business, he had been surprised by how homesick he felt. Of course, it was not really his home that he missed, but the woman he now shared it with. His marriage to Demelza had made him even happier than he could have possibly imagined – more than worth every obstacle they had had to overcome to be together.

He had been delighted, therefore, to conclude his business the day before expected and return home early. He was looking forward to surprising her, so had been pleased to hear her voice floating out of the stables as he led Bess toward them. Demelza was fond of the horses, and often spent time with them. Rounding the corner, he opened his mouth to greet her and immediately stopped short.  

“Pray sit yourself down, With me on the ground, On the bank where the primroses grow…Oh, Judas! Francis!” She had turned from where she was brushing her own horse, Liddy, and startled at the sight of him. Obviously, she had not been expecting to see him – he in turn had not been expecting to see her like this.

She was dressed in his clothes – a pair of breeches and an old shirt, open part way down her chest, exposing the almost indecently fine material of her chemise underneath. With this she wore a pair of her own riding boots, and her hair flowed loose around her shoulders. She looked magnificent, and horrendously embarrassed.

“I weren’t expectin’ you back until the morn! I’d never ‘ave – Not if I thought that – Oh!” She dropped the brush and darted out of the stables, rushing past Francis and towards the house without so much as a by your leave. He stood in shock for a moment before recovering himself and leading Bess to her stall.

~

By the time he returned to the house after taking care of his horse, Demelza had changed into a simple green day dress and tidied her hair somewhat. She still looked beautiful – she always did – but not quite as…alluring as she had before.

“Welcome home, Francis. How were St Ives? If I’d’a known you was comin’ back early, I would’ve ‘ad a proper welcome arranged. Are you hungry? I’ll ‘ave something made, and let me get you a brandy…” She rambled, coming to take his coat and hat, acting so much like he had just arrived that he almost wondered if he had entirely imagined her appearance at the stables. Demelza obviously did not wish to discuss it, so he decided to let it lie for now.

“Demelza, slow down! Will you not at least let me kiss my wife hello?” He asked teasingly and she blushed before coming back to him for a kiss, ‘hmm’ing softly as he pressed his lips to hers.

“I did miss thee,” she said eventually, after they broke apart.

“And I you, Demelza, very much indeed.” He was about to suggest that they retire to their chamber, where he could show her just how much, when a voice floated out from the sitting room.

“That you, Francis? Well, don’t leave an old woman waiting…” Agatha. Francis and Demelza smiled at one another, before he kissed her on the forehead and made for the doorway.

“Coming, Aunt.”

~

As Demelza was clearly determined to act as if it had never happened, Francis tried to put their brief encounter at the stables out of his mind, but was completely unable to. He imagined she was embarrassed at having been caught wearing men’s clothes, and under ordinary circumstances, she had every reason to be. Such a thing was quite scandalous, especially for a woman who occupied the position she now did in society. She may have been a miner’s daughter once, but she was now the mistress of Trenwith, and a Poldark. There had been enough gossip about her when they married; a revelation of that sort would increase it ten-fold.  Not that anyone was likely to find out – Demelza had obviously attempted to avoid him seeing her, had doubtless avoided Charles and Agatha also, and their servants were trustworthy.

It was not Demelza’s embarrassment which kept the incident in his mind, however, as much as he wished she did not feel it. He could not forget the sight of her – finding his mind wandering back to it often, and not only when he had an idle moment.  The way the breeches had hung loose on her slim hips, the material of the shirt seeming to somehow both skim over and cling to her body. He had seen her in men’s clothing once before – not long after they had met, he had run into her in Truro, disguised as a boy, dressed in her brother’s clothes. It had intrigued him, then, as had her later admission that she often went abroad dressed in such a fashion – but this was different. It had inflamed him.

He could not get the thought out of his head, and was finding himself distracted at the most inopportune moments. This had led to a rather awkward interlude a few days previously when George, noticing his preoccupation during their lunch at the Red Lion, had asked him if all was well. Francis had stuttered something about simply being concerned with the fortunes of the mine, which was not entirely untrue. George had obviously known that he was dissembling, but had not pushed it further. Even if he had, Francis could hardly have told him that he was unable to concentrate on their conversation due to salacious thoughts about Demelza wearing breeches. There were certain things which one simply did not share, even with one’s closest friend. George was not easily perturbed, but Francis imagined even he had his limits.  

~

About ten days after Francis’ return from St Ives, he and Demelza were left alone in the sitting room after dinner. She smiled sweetly at him over her embroidery as they sat by the fireplace, unlit in the warm late-spring weather. They had been silent as she worked, and he skimmed some accounts, which gave him little better news than usual; it was not quite as comfortable a silence as they generally shared, however.  Since his arrival they had acted quite normally with each other –as gentle and affectionate as ever, but there had been a slight undercurrent of awkwardness.

Demelza had seemed a little on edge with him, almost as if she were expecting him to scold her. He hoped she knew him better than that, but he also knew that she had lived on eggshells in her old home, forever doing all she could to avoid her father’s wrath, but learning to expect it anyway. She knew that he was nothing like her father, of course, but he supposed it was difficult to break the habits of a lifetime. After all, he had no little experience with ill-tempered fathers himself.

That last thing he wanted, however, was for Demelza to feel embarrassed, or to have any secrets from her. So he took the bull by the horns.

“Demelza…”

“Yes, Francis?” She looked up from her sewing, the candlelight illuminating her pale blue eyes.  

“About the day I returned from St Ives…” Her face coloured and she dropped her sewing, looking distraught.

“Oh, Francis, I be ever so sorry! It were only for lookin’ after Liddy, I swear! An’ you never wear those things…I never would ‘ave done it if I’d know you were comin’ and I’ve never let anyone see me. I’ll never do it again, I promise!...I know it not be fittin’.” Her words came out in a rush before trailing off to her conclusion, and Francis rushed to reassure her, seeing unshed tears pooling in her eyes.

“Oh, Demelza, do not distress yourself, my love. When have you ever known me to concern myself with what is “fittin’?” Even in her upset, she could help but laugh at his deliberately poor imitation of her accent, which had been his intention.

“You are…not cross, then?” She frowned slightly, as if she could not work out why that might be. Francis smiled.  

“Come here,” she took his outstretched hand and allowed him to pull her onto his lap, slipping his arms about her waist. Her hands settled on the lapels of his waistcoat, and she looked at him from under red-gold eyelashes as he spoke. “I am quite the opposite of cross. Demelza, ever since that day I haven’t been able to forget the sight of you dressed in my clothes. Indeed, I found it very pleasing.”

He gently slid his hand up her back, hoping to emphasise his meaning. Judging by the silent ‘o’ of surprise and understanding formed by her lips, he had been successful.

“I see,” she began, speaking low and soft. “Well…I be glad we got that settled. I’ll be off to bed, then. Don’t work too late. Good night.”

A quick kiss, then she was off his lap and out of the door, leaving Francis bewildered. Later, after around half an hour of futilely attempting to concentrate on his papers, he made his own way upstairs. Pausing outside Demelza’s chamber, he prevaricated for a moment – they spent most nights together, but after her abrupt departure, he was not sure that he had not offended her. Except, he had felt the quickening of her breath at his admission, and noted the flush on her cheeks. In truth, he was confused. It was best, therefore, to simply ask. He tapped on the door.

“Demelza, may I come in?”

“O’ course, Francis.” He entered, and opened his mouth to ask her…Well, upon catching sight of her, he clean forgot what he had been going to ask. She sat on the end of her bed, dressed much as she had been in the stables – in a pair of his breeches, and a shirt. However, this time she wore, as far he could tell, nothing else. Her legs were bare below the knee, and the shirt, which was open almost to her waist, exposed nothing but pale skin. She had let her hair down and regarded him with a saucy glint in her eye.

“I be sorry for runnin’ off so sudden like, but I ‘ad to make some time t’get ready.”

Francis was aware he probably looked an idiot, gaping like a fish, but confronted with this vision, he was entirely lost for words. Demelza took pity on him and stood, approaching him with what he was certain was a deliberately exaggerated sway of her hips. He settled a hand at her waist, wondering at the strangeness of feeling the distinctly feminine curves of her body under the material of his own clothing. He trailed the fingertips of his other hand down the bared skin of her chest, making her shiver and gasp, before kissing her, passionately.

“You know,” he said, finally finding his voice as their kiss broke, “I’ve never removed a shirt from another person before.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everythin’, I suppose. I misdoubt it’ll be the last, ‘owever.”      

[richard-of-windoor]

naknaknakadile

Tell me about your ocs!!!!!!!

imagine. i launched myself through your window rn 

ive been having a lot of oc feelings lately but i also have a sort of writers block and i  w anna cry. im gonna do a read more tho bc im scared itll get really long. also i want my series to eventually be a video game s o some elements may sound very game like for that reason

okay!!! s o the setting is high fantasy so expect magic and fantasy races. i also rework a lot of things out of the blue but this is what theyre like right now

*last name subject to change one day maybe

Davorin Mors - vampire and necromancer. i still cant decide if i want vampires to have lived hundreds of years or regular human years s o his age rn is either 16 or 1698 (every hundred years equal one year for vamps). The Mors family is related to Agatha the goddess of death and ruler of the underworld which is how Dav got his powers bc vampires sometimes dont have magic. Davorin’s older brother Vladimir is very upset Dav got powers instead of him which causes a lot of tension between them. 

Davorin is quiet and observant but can also end up being very reckless. he was forced into being a sort of servant to Agatha bc she feels he owes her for giving him powers that he didnt even ask for. so he is very very jumpy around her bc shes a god so. very powerful. Davorin still doesnt have great control over his powers bc necromancy is the darkest magic and even with being a vampire one wrong spell could kill him so he has to hold back  a lot (which is also sort of an excuse for him not to be too overpowered in the series). as a vampire he used to be okay with sucking blood from people bc it was what all vamps did, but he feels disgusted with his past self and refuses to drink blood from unwilling people now. he almost always wears an enchanted coat (it grows with him so it always fits) into battle that his uncle gave him before he was killed. he uses a scythe mainly but likes to use knives/daggers. i love him dearly. 

Vince Solastice* - vampire and bard. comes from a long long line of bards so music is literally in his veins. 15. he loves being center of attention and loves the stage. hes sort of the yin to davorin’s yang while Dav is very quiet, Vince is very loud. he was born with albinism so he grew up bullied for it in school. he ended up dying his hair and wearing colored contacts for a long time. he puts on a very confidant, tough act but hes actually kinda insecure. hes very good at hiding it tho bc not even Davorin has picked up on it yet. he picks a lot of fights in school bc people accuse him of stealing their boyfriends a lot. hes very flirty and loves making others flustered. he loves teasing others esp nate bc nate gets super riled up. hes flamboyant and pretty open about his sexuality (which flusters Nate a lot who Vince calls a prude).

he sometimes works with Dav to do stuff for Agatha but she really hates him. shes snapped his wrist before but he’ll do anything to help Dav. he wants to get Dav away from her but doesnt know how. 

he was born and raised in France, but then moved to Romania and then to California. the Solastice and Mors family are good friends which is how Dav and Vince met. ive been playing around with the idea of giving him older sisters but as of now hes an only child.

Nate Ryder - human and wizard (dont have a term for his magic yet). 14. a young boy who grew up in a village that was filled with ancient magic and culture. but then the Serpents attacked them. 

the Serpent King is an evil king basically. i need to work on him more.

anyways the Serpents took Blake and Nate and pillaged and destroyed the village. Blake and Nate were made to become servants to the Serpent king. Nate is more heavily focused on magic and uses a staff. his magic and combat was taught by other Serpents so its going to be better than others. the Serpent castle also had a huge library of (stolen) books so Nate knows a lot about history and cultures. since he was very young when he was taken he doesnt remember much of his own, he cant even recall his parents faces. eventually Blake and Nate escaped (they realized just how cruel it is and what they were doing) the Serpent castle and run as far away as they can. after that they dedicated their lives to helping others. they know they cant fix what theyve done but they can at least work towards redemption. the big problem is that they were both branded when they were brought to the castle. so they have a big white serpent going along their arm (left for nate, right for blake) and people easily recognize it so they dont get treated that greatly.

Nate is very stubborn and aims towards perfection. hes a believer of “if you want something right do it yourself”. due to the way he was raised he was forced to grow up fairly quickly so hes mature for his age so to speak. but he does have moments of childlike behavior which pleases blake a lot. Nate is also very tactical and wants to always have control of a battle (which is why he clashes with Dav’s reckless behavior). hes esp protective of Blake in battle since hes the only family he has left. hes willing to lose a battle for Blake’s sake. he has a lot of issues with trusting others and looks down on friendship. i always wanted to have Nate be THE character who changes the most overtime. while i want everyone to have development i want nate to grow the most for some reason

Blake Ryder - human, half dragon, and fighter. 18. Nate’s older brother. same backstory as above but instead of focusing on magic when he was younger Blake focused more on combat. a master with the swords. a slightly different aspect of his backstory was that the Serpents experimented on him when he was younger. (tell me if this sounds dumb btw) they put dragon DNA into him which caused him to become half dragon. he still has no idea how to control it or what he can even do, but he does know he has to keep it a secret (except from Nate). he appears fully human s o nothing does ticks anyone off. he does have a bad habit of smoking bc he says he needs to feel some sort of fire in his lungs to feel right (Nate refuses to believe him and hates the habit). he does eventually learn how to use his powers but theyre obv much less powerful than a real dragons (which have been extinct for a long ass time. also another way to not make him op).

he doesnt talk much. Nate does the talking for the both of them. when he does talk though, hes very calm and patient. unless its concerning Nate. since they dont have parents his become Nate’s in a way. reprimanding him when he gets to hot headed, making sure hes taken care of himself, etc. he also didnt get to have much of a childhood but he just wishes Nate could have one. like Nate he also has a very tactful mind and aims for the best solution to victory so the two work extremely well together. 

Kristen Masuda* - human, fighter. an upbeat, energetic transgirl. 16. wants the best for everyone and wants everyone to get along!!! loves her friends and would do anything for them!! fun fact: was the second oc i ever made!!!

growing up her mom taught her that teamwork is the recipe for success so tries her ultimate best to work well with others. can be naive and easily  trusting which puts the team at risk from time to time. she gets very upset after these times and feels she isnt a good leader at all for her team and shes just going to lead her friends into danger. 

shes been trained in close combat so mainly uses swords. she can use magic but i havent decided what her magic should mainly be. i think what ill have her do is enchant her sword.

she gets upsets during friend fights and tries to patch them up. she gets told that she should let them patch things up but she just cant stand seeing her friends fight and be mad at each other.

Valerie Perxina* - fairy, fighter, and magic user. 16. loves fashion and always looks her best. she thinks of every day as a new fashion show. she fights with Nate and Vince mostly for that reason as shes self titled herself the prettiest of the group

she grew up in the forest with other fairies as is the usual. but she hated them all and was considered weird for wanting to explore the outside world. she eventually got fed up and left in the night. she hasnt gone back since. shes extremely edgy around other fairies for that reason and doesnt like them. she met Kristen one day while looking for a place to settle and the two became quick friends

she knows what she wants and prefers it when things go her way. she questions anyone since Kristen is so easily trusting with people. Valerie’s sharp tongue can get the group in a lot of trouble. also wont tolerate anyone who sees her as just a pretty face. 

she uses a cutlass for close combat and magic for distance. i havent been able to think of a lot of fairy magic so as of right now its not much.

Luke (no last name yet :( ) - element (ice), magic user. 15. a happy boy who loves cracking jokes and making the mood lift!!! 

quick explanation of the (probably dumb) element thing: basically a person who is made of a certain element. in Luke’s case his body is made of ice and he has ice powers. so his body is always freezing and he loves the cold more than anything. 

anyways!! Luke grew up in a village in the snowy mountains with other ice elements but he never found himself becoming long term friends with anyone. so he left to go on his own. he later found Max and the two found Valerie and Kristen and the four became fast friends. Luke is the youngest of the group so hes the most immature and doesnt like it super serious long meetings. he does know of course when to act serious but he just likes making people happy esp Nate who he feels is always serious and unhappy. 

he can use ice powers and walk on water by turning it to ice. he can also breath underwater (due to the fact that hes sort of made of water) so underwater quests are up to him. his preferred weapon is an ice sword he creates.

his original concept had him and max growing up in britain so they have english accents and you can pry that concept from my cold dead hands. their accents are strong

Max Ignis****** (I know dumb last name so its def getting changed) - element (fire), magic user. 18. laid back and just wants to play guitar. if only he would stop burning his strings :(

grew up near a volcano with little population. so he mostly grew up alone. he met Luke (who was wandering aimlessly around the world) and decided to join him. he likes relaxing and when things are calm but his temper can fire up sometimes. he doesnt like fighting and will try to keep things peaceful if able. but hes ready to protect someone when needed

his favorite thing to do is smoke with blake (and davorin at times) since max is literal fire. he enjoys smoking and filling himself with smoke. he also likes playing guitar with vince, but he feels like vince is too strict about music sometimes.

his uses his fists when fighting and launches fire balls.  sometimes hes able to melt a weapon but he has to get close and ahold of it to do it

Cameron Green - human, magic user, probably crying as we speak. 16. didnt want to be the chosen one and doesnt know whats going on.  FIRST OC EVER CREATED BTW

Cameron and Andrew are the big plot people. theyre the reason the plot happens and arguably the most important two. but i still want everyone to have an equal spotlight. 

Cameron is a space wizard. which means he can do things such as star bombs which causes a blinding flash, change the gravity for a small area, and have meteors fly down. the space wizard hasnt been heard of for a long time and is considered an ancient magic. the only problem is Cameron is wielding it.

Cameron is clumsy, cautious, and terrified. hes terrified of what he can do and what could happen if he messes up (will he hurt his friends, will he fail the world, will he disappoint everyone). he was unknown to the magic world growing up due to not knowing his real parents. he and his brother were dropped off at a orphanage one night after it was deemed too dangerous from an attack for their parents to keep them. he grew up being considered an outsider and a loner in a small town in Nebraska. he loves creating art and drawing and painting is his speciality. while Andrew may be the opposite of Cameron, he still loves him and protects him the best he can. Cameron can be mouthy but quickly shuts up if someone stronger than him shows up (which is. most people). Next to Nate I want Cameron to have a lot of growth as well. him growing used to his powers and being able to wield them and him growing confidant in himself. 

i love Cameron dearly since he is the first oc ever made by me. i bought platform boots bc of him and im pretty sure he helped me realize i was always goth bc hes always had those big platform boots for some reason. 

Cameron likes to uses a staff summoned from the galaxy to fight with. it sounds very extra but its just a staff that has the sun on one end and the moon on the other. very sick.

(this pic is tiny but u can see the platform boots a bit)

Andrew Green - human and magic user. 15. wants to protect the earth more than himself. this kid will slap you if you dont recycle. 

Andrew is an earth wizard which is very generic in fantasy but i plan on having it as rare as the space wizard in my world. i wanted something to connect them as brothers so i decided to do the earth and space thing. basically an earth wizard is always accompanied by a space wizard and vice versa. the two are always blood related also. 

Andrew’s powers are kinda generic in fantasy bc earth is always used. he can make vines appear, shake the earth, form rocks, etc. his sword is summoned from the ground and has a very earthy appearance. 

Andrew is seen as the perfect boy. popular, outgoing, friendly. people refused to believe he was related to Cameron. When Andrew found out about magic it was estatic , he was a huge fantasy fan and was more than ready to take whatever it threw at him. which ended up being a lot. Andrew tries his best to keep up with whatever is happening but sometimes. life just gets too much and he loses it. when stressed he tends to go to places with lots of nature and trees. 

When Cameron cant stay motivated Andrew tries his best to keep him up. 

beep beep this ended up being way longer but!!!!!!!!!! this helped me get lots of shit straight so thank u for asking!!!!!

[alexandralyman]

Fic Update

Summary:  A Hook/Emma angel/demon AU. They hide in plain sight, the servants of heaven and hell. The angels and the demons, who can save your soul or damn it. They stand on opposite sides, they are the bringers of light and the agents of darkness, they are enemies in an eternal war, but what happens when an angel and a demon are inexplicably drawn to each other?

Read this chapter on ff.net here or on AO3 here

                                               Part Nineteen

Saint Luke's was lit up against the night sky like a Christmas tree, the bright red EMERGENCY sign followed by an equal sided cross that was the universally recognized symbol of first aid across the Western world were both clearly visible from across the wide street as Emma parked her Bug in a miraculously open spot behind a van emblazoned on the side with the logo of a local news channel. Two more news vans were parked a little further down the block and white floodlights pierced the darkness, each coming from atop a TV camera aimed at the hospital. Emma stood next to her old yellow car for a moment and watched, taking in the stone-faced security guards who had come outside to hold the clamouring reporters at bay just outside of the entrance to the ER. They were like a flock of vultures, swooping down to pick apart the latest juicy carcass that had crossed their path until there was nothing left but the bones.

"-unconfirmed reports that Caroline Spencer, wife of longtime city councilman and mayoral hopeful Albert Spencer, was brought here to Saint Luke's by ambulance from the Prince Hotel approximately an hour ago. A source has told us that Mrs. Spencer was found in a suite at the hotel in considerable distress and hotel security called 911. It is not known if Albert Spencer was with his wife at the time or the exact nature of her medical emergency, hospital representatives are refusing to confirm if she even is, in fact, a patient, citing confidentiality laws. We'll remain on scene as this story continues to unfold, now back to you in the studio."

The light on top of the camera switched off as the burly cameraman stopped filming and the reporter was on his phone almost immediately, still holding his microphone in his other hand. "Have we found Spencer yet? Tim's on his way to the house and I've got Niri and Dan staking out the other entrances at the hospital so he can't slip in without us seeing. Wait...a drug overdose, are you serious? Caroline fucking Spencer OD'd at the Prince Hotel? Who's the source on this? Is the maid willing to appear on camera?"

He was whispering furiously, obviously trying to keep his voice down with his network rivals standing so close by but Emma heard him anyway, eavesdropping on his conversation easily with a flick of her fingers that made it sound like he was speaking right to her. While Ecclesiastes strictly forbid eavesdropping, warning not to take heed of the words of others, lest you hear them curse you, angels were not subject to the same rules as man and she needed all the information she could get right now. When the conversation turned to the amount of money they would be offering their "source" under the table to spill all the dirty details - and bribery was illegal by both divine and secular law, but she wasn't in the mood to enact punishment for the sin, the reporter could answer for that one to Saint Peter, eventually - Emma stopped listening and pulled out her own phone from inside her jacket. The picture Elsa had sent filled the screen when she tapped on it and she stared down at it with a frown, Caroline Spencer, the elegant society hostess and potential new queen of City Hall if her husband managed to unseat Regina Mills in the rapidly approaching election, was lying on a gurney with a bloody track mark in her elbow and a demon's brand on her skin. It appeared that the Heaven's Gate heroin had claimed another hapless victim, but this one made no sense.

Hospital security could keep the reporters out, but they couldn't stop an angel. She could bypass entire armies, and had, in the past, during ancient battles in the Holy Land and more recently when all of Europe had been laid waste by a madman whose name was as reviled now as Lucifer himself. Emma stepped into the ER and strode through the crowded waiting room without a single questioning glance from a nurse or an orderly thrown her way. Another set of doors required a hospital ID badge or for someone at the triage desk to open them by pressing a buzzer that was mounted safely out of public reach - but that didn't stop her either. The doors parted like the waters of the Red Sea with a mechanical screech as they swung open, but it wasn't the Promised Land of milk and honey that awaited her on the other side. She was greeted by the Angel of Death herself, with flecks of dark blood drying on her snowflake-patterned scrubs and a halo of fluorescent light shining down on her from above. Death was the final step on the earthly path and when a mortal soul went into the light, they were looking into Elsa's eyes. She too had followed armies once upon a time, walking the fields of battle in their wake, entering the cities devastated by plague. The final visitor to the nursery, the sickbed, the sinners and saints, both old and young, healthy and ill, rich and poor, she came for them all, in the end. Hearts ceased to beat and skin went cold, so cold, under her divine hand. Had that been the fate of Caroline Spencer tonight with the mark of a demon on both her flesh and soul?

Damn you, Killian.

His silky voice immediately answered back in her head, "Too late."

Emma followed Elsa to an exam room at the end of the hall, where another security guard was positioned outside, eyes forward, thumbs in his belt, oblivious to them both when they passed right in front of him. It looked like the most private space available for a high-profile patient in the busy ER, where worried parents sat with fevered children still dressed in their footie pyjamas and what looked like an entire bachelorette party in skimpy clubwear were all huddled around a woman with a rhinestone tiara sitting askew on her head and a ripped sash that read BRIDE-TO-BE slung over her shoulder who was dry-heaving over a plastic basin. A woman in a matching MAID-OF-HONOUR sash with dark makeup smudged under her eyes was rubbing her back and talking to the same doctor that Emma remembered from her last visit, looking even more tired and worn with another paper cup of coffee clutched in his hand as he nodded and listened to whatever had gone wrong on what was supposed to have been a night of celebration.

"I think it was one of the paramedics who tipped off the press that she was brought here instead of City General or Mount Sinai, I'm going to pay him a little visit later," Elsa said, shutting the door behind them, "I always knew Hans was an asshole and his whole modest, first responder, "don't thank me I'm just doing my duty" routine with the new nurses was nothing but a big phony act. Let's see if he can still keep it up with the flaming sword pressed right against his neck."

She waved a hand over the door handle while she talked and it shimmered under her silver light, looking like it had just frosted over with a thick covering of ice. The room had no lock, but no one would be able to enter it now and Emma quickly looked around. There was the usual stainless steel carts laden with supplies and instruments, a box of latex gloves, a canister of swabs, more of those kidney-shaped plastic basins. Machines beeped, and a black silk robe was lying in a haphazard pile on the room's lone chair with a red lace bra peeking out limply from between the folds of fabric, she supposed they were the clothes Caroline Spencer had been wearing when she was brought in. The robe had been swapped for a plain hospital gown and plush hotel lines for a thin blanket that was faded from constant washings in industrial machines. There was an IV needle taped into the back of her left hand, folded on top of her right and both resting on her stomach. Her wedding and engagement rings were still on, a large diamond solitaire and channel-set band that together took up half her finger all the way to the knuckle. She had more diamonds in her ears, a pair of large, square-cut studs that could easily have been a birthday or anniversary gift from her wealthy, older husband.

Or from someone else who was both wealthy, older, and had a keen eye for fine jewellery.

Black pearls hung from round diamonds the size of cherries, delivered to her in a velvet box several lifetimes ago at Versailles with a note written in elegant script and signed with a single K.

His first attempt, but not his last.

"She's still alive," Emma whispered, both surprised and relieved. The blanket was not pulled over Caroline's face but her eyes were closed, slightly sunken in their sockets. Her cheeks too, had both seemed to collapse inward and feathery lines stood out around her blue-tinged lips as if she'd lost twenty pounds and aged ten years overnight. She was virtually unrecognizable from the polished political wife in designer suits and perfect French twists who'd stood next to her husband and smiled for the cameras while he gave speeches and shook hands all over the city during the last few weeks of his high-profile campaign.

Elsa huffed out a breath, pushing back an errant lock of hair that had escaped from her braid with the back of her hand, "Barely. She was seizing when they brought her in and I could feel that her soul was about to slip free, but they managed to stabilize her at the last possible second. If she'd been brought in even a minute later she probably would be dead, but-"

"What?"

Emma looked up and met Elsa's gaze across the bed while the machines and monitors quietly hummed and recorded each fragile heartbeat, every sluggish breath. Caroline Spencer looked like she was asleep, but it was clear that something else was going on. If she was aware of the two angels above her she gave no sign, there was no flicker behind her eyelids or twitch of her fingers at the sound of their voices. She lay unmoving except for the slight rise and fall of her chest, tucked underneath the blanket with her hands folded atop it like a child's discarded doll.

"They're pretty sure she had a stroke," Elsa explained, dropping her voice below what mortal ears would be able to hear, "The neurologist on call wanted to consult with the head of the department in person before confirming it officially, he's on his way in now. Even if she pulls through, there's no telling how much damage has already been done."

Alive, and not. Emma knew that a stroke nowadays could mean anything from a near-total recovery to major impairment, it all depended on so many factors like the speed of treatment, the patient's age and general health. She was caught in a shadowy limbo with her ultimate fate hanging in the balance, in more ways than one. The sin was like perfume, invisible to the naked eye but clinging to her ashen skin and filling the air in the small exam room. But it wasn't the scent of flowers or vanilla of Chanel No 5, it was dark, insidious, and all too familiar to Emma.

Both Spencers had been present at the mayor's gala. Albert had even danced with Regina Mills, Emma had seen them together in the middle of the dance floor, all practiced smiles and ostensibly putting their differences aside for the evening though they'd stood as far apart from each other as possible and barely managed to make it through one song. And while her husband had his hand on his rival's back and was probably wishing for a knife to plunge into it, Caroline had been dancing with someone else.

"We had to pump her stomach before we could even do the MRI, her blood alcohol level was dangerously high. Hans said that in the hotel room the whole minibar had been emptied and there was bottles all over the place, vodka, champagne, scotch, you name it. He was probably sneaking pictures of it all on his phone that'll be plastered online tomorrow, the prick."

"Scotch," Emma repeated, feeling hollow and empty, "There was scotch."

"And then there's this," Elsa continued, completely oblivious to the significance of what she'd just said as she reached for Caroline's folded hands, "It's why I called you."

The mark was even uglier in person, a jagged knot of dark, twisted tissue on the inside of her left wrist that seemed to pulse along with every beep of the heart monitor next to the bed. Mortals might only see a mole, a harmless blemish or birthmark, but to their eyes it was like a tiny curled serpent that had sunk its venomous fangs deep into the delicate skin and blue vein and was draining the lifeforce from its victim more than any physical wound ever could. Neither she nor Elsa dared to touch it directly, and for the first time in a long time Emma felt a sense of cold apprehension along with the suspicion that was clawing relentlessly at her heart. It was unmistakably a demon's mark, and it was fresh.

Elsa's eyes flashed silver as she carefully placed Caroline's hands back on top of the blanket, her own palms filling with light. She was clearly furious, and an Angel of Death's fury was more dangerous than any other's. The temperature in the room dropped as she clenched both hands into fists, her face pale as snow and her lips thinning to a tight line.

"Daemoniacus!" she practically spat in disgust, the light glowing bright through her fingers. Demonic. "They're behind this somehow, all these overdoses. Men, women, even children! The one who was here that night, with the dark hair and blue eyes, the Corrupter-"

Killian. Let me be damned to the rest of the world, but I am Killian to you.

He couldn't be Killian to her now.

"-he's not just corrupting them, he's killing them! They are dying before their time and I can't stop it, it's like a new, unnatural plague has taken hold and it's only getting worse by the day. I'm going to find him and he will pay for this."

"No."

Her voice was colder than ice and a shard of it seemed to have lodged somewhere in her chest where her heart should be. She smoothed back the tangled hair from Caroline Spencer's brow and calmy met Elsa's surprised look. Emma squared her shoulders and felt her own hands fill with golden light. He might have been born from infernal flame with the soot of it on his lashes and the reflection behind his eyes, but he could still burn like the succubus had. She'd spared him once in Paris, and this was the price she had to pay for that mercy.

"If the Corrupter was the one responsible then I will destroy him myself."

It was more than a promise, it was a holy vow that echoed in the tiny room as if it was the grandest cathedral even as someone began to pound on the other side of the door. The handle rattled but refused to turn, Elsa's seal held fast. But she couldn't keep it locked forever. Her head whipped around to look, her thick braid bouncing over her shoulder. Voices rose in consternation and they were clearly out of time.

"Emma-"

Elsa grasped her wrist, her light eyes narrowing as she searched Emma's face. She felt like she was made of stone, as much a sculpture as the marble angels that decorated Saint Raphael's. Cold and forbidding, and yet capable of shattering into a thousand pieces if she fell.

"Vale, beata angela Elsa."

Farewell, blessed angel Elsa.

The light enveloped her and the exam room disappeared in a blink, Elsa's snowflake-patterned scrubs and silver-blonde hair turning into the starry sky and the silver moon as she reappeared outside, hidden in the shadows next to her car. She leaned against the driver's side door and tipped her head back, staring up at the heavens above and wondering if she'd ever see Elsa again. The choice she'd been trying to avoid for centuries suddenly loomed in front of her like a mountain, forcing her to face what she could no longer ignore.

Killian answered on the first ring, probably wondering why she had called him directly instead of sending a text. They were supposed to limit their contact unless absolutely necessary until he'd taken care of the demon he called the Dark One, but this wasn't a conversation they could have with abbreviations and silly emojis.

"Emma, what's-"

She cut him off before he could finish, not bothering to beat around the burning bush, "Are you having an affair with Caroline Spencer?"

His silence was her answer and she huffed out a frustrated breath, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose, "Killian."

"Audistis quia dictum est antiquis non moechaberis," he quoted, softly, in Latin. The seventh of the Ten Commandments, thou shalt not commit adultery. "You know it's still a sin, and you know what I am."

Emma sighed, she did know what he was, knew it intimately, and the word slipped past her lips, "Damnate."

Demon

Damned

"That I am, beata. But I won't lie to you."

She wondered if that was really true. "So your answer is yes."

Another moment of silence passed before he whispered, "Yes."

The lights of Saint Luke's continued to twinkle across the street, virgin white and blood red. Even more reporters had shown up while she was inside, eager to pull back the curtain and expose the human frailty behind the polished surface. Caroline Spencer had been found guilty, and the world had come to judge her for it. She'd join the long line of fallen women stretching back to Eve, even in this day and age an unfaithful wife was punished more severely than a cheating husband in the court of public opinion, at least. The madonna/whore complex was still alive and well, and Emma wasn't naive enough to think that anyone would believe she'd been in that hotel room taking drugs alone. Not with the red lace lingerie and demolished minibar and any other juicy details that were sure to make their way onto the front page.

But just who had she been with tonight?

Killian was either innocent or trying to play dumb, she could hear the confusion in his voice but she couldn't trust it, couldn't trust her own instincts when it came to him.

"Why are you asking me this now, Emma? Do you want me to break it off? Do you...do you want sexual fidelity from me? You've never asked-"

"You're not capable of that," she interrupted, scuffing the toe of her boot hard against the curb and trying to ignore the burning knot inside her stomach that was making her cheeks flush hot in the cool night air. The feeling was unsettling, the sudden flash of anger and something else that she couldn't quite put her finger on. Something that made her voice bitter and her eyes burn.

"Of course," Killian agreed, but it came out tight and clipped and sounded almost...hurt, "Demon, as you said. And who am I to ask that of an angel, the next time a starving young artiste prays to you for inspiration and you deign to answer him."

Emma felt her back go straight against the Bug, "You're not...you are not still jealous of Auguste, are you? Seriously, Killian? It's been almost three hundred years!"

His voice dropped even lower and took on a dangerous edge, "I watched you cry because of that man, Emma, and he was not worth your tears."

The memory washed over her where she stood, a vision of the single tear that shone brighter than any diamond falling to the hard-packed dirt at his feet on the road outside of Paris and the rose that bloomed from it. She shook her head, feeling a shock going through her at the realization that Killian was still holding a grudge against the man after all this time. Sure, he would occasionally toss off an insult about Auguste's paintings that usually included some kind of dig at his obvious lack of skill between the sheets as well as on canvas...but they were getting wildly off track and she needed to steer the conversation back to the present, not the past.

"Look, just forget about Auguste for right now, okay? I need to know, were you with Caroline tonight, at the Prince Hotel?"

She could sense the shift even through the phone, as he suddenly realized that she wasn't asking the question just out of the blue.

"Yes, I was. Why?"

Emma chewed on her lip and when she didn't reply his voice got even more urgent.

"Emma, tell me what's going on."

"I take it you haven't been watching the news," she finally sighed, "Killian, she overdosed on heroin tonight. At the Prince Hotel. She's currently at Saint Luke's."

"WHAT? But….how? That's not possible...she's not...is she?"

The shock and surprise in his voice certainly seemed genuine, but the devil lied. She quickly explained about the seizures and the stroke and Elsa's suspicions.

"Tell me you had nothing to do with this."

It came out as more of a plea than a demand and she heard his sharp intake of breath.

"You think that I….that I what? Held her down and forced her to shoot up?"

"Well what am I supposed to think, infernal one? You just admitted you were with her tonight and I don't think heroin was on the room service menu along with the thirty dollar salads!"

"Oh, you'd be surprised, darling," he drawled back, suddenly dark and knowing, "Grease the right palms and anything is on the menu. Of course they don't advertise it openly along with the free wifi and continental breakfast, but every concierge in this town has a little black book of contacts, including the Jolly Roger's address. I am sin, angel, and you, out of all people, have always known it. I'll confess every last one to you and flagellate myself bloody at your feet in penance, but I swear to you I am not guilty of this!"

Her own breath caught in her throat as her vision swam at the edges and the lights swirled together, crimson and alabaster. The fork in the road, the eternal choice, sin or salvation.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

She wanted to believe him and that scared her more than anything, that even in the face of all the evidence to the contrary she still thought there was a chance he could be redeemed. Not by Him and His grace, but by herand her alone. Her own sin was the sin of hubris, for thinking she could keep playing with fire and not be burnt. He'd consume her long before she could ever save him - it was his nature. Like the old fable about the scorpion who'd stung the frog carrying him across the river and drowned them both because he couldn't help but strike down his own saviour, they couldn't change what they were.

"Emma? Emma, are you still there?"

She heard him but she didn't answer, pressing the phone to her ear and listening to his ragged breathing coming across the line. Telephones had been hailed as a miracle once upon a time, a wonder of science that bridged oceans and crossed impossible distances in the blink of an eye.

Emma.

She heard that too, even more miraculous than the small device she held in her hand that was now so ordinary and commonplace. Despite everything, despite every reason why she shouldn't, she still wanted to answer him.

"I'm still here, Killian."

Why did she keep answering him?

"Give me one more night and I will end this, I will drive the Dark One and his fucking heroin out of the city no matter what it takes but I need more time. Please, blessed one, please put your faith in me for one more night, I know it's asking a lot, but I swear I won't let you down."

It could be one more night to cover up his tracks, to make the Dark One into his scapegoat and wash his hands clean of the sin. She should say no, she should stop pretending they could be anything other than enemies and whatever was between them had to end before it drowned them both, she should keep her vow and do what she should have done when she'd found him held prisoner by the Holy Church in Spain.

"Have you come to dispatch me properly then? Well, just do me the courtesy of making it quick."

He hadn't resisted her then...and he wouldn't resist her now, if she went to him. At least, not until it was too late.

"One more night, damnate."

She hung up before he could say another word and the phone slipped from her numb fingers, bouncing off the curb and landing on the street with a thump. When Emma bent down to pick it up she was startled to see a large crack had appeared on the screen from the fall, a lightning bolt that cut diagonally across the glass. It cut her shadowed reflection in two when she angled it in her hand and stared at it. Above her head the whole row of streetlights started to sputter and pop while across the street the reporters all stopped, frowning as they tapped their suddenly unresponsive earpieces and shook their dead microphones. An ambulance pulled into the emergency room bay, sirens wailing, lights flashing, turning their skin red and their eyes black while the noise drowned them all out. It looked like they were screaming into the flames, lost and tortured souls crying out for someone to listen.

But for a moment that lasted for the eternity between heartbeats, everything inside her head was completely silent.

                                               -------------

His rage flared almost incandescent, white-hot and boiling under his skin. Killian could feel his eyes turn crimson, his teeth sharpen, his face and form shifting from man to demon and back again. Even the worst of the Inquisition's torture hadn't revealed his true face, he'd maintained the facade and laughed at the pain while his bones were shattered to powder and his infernal blood was spilled was spilled in that vile dungeon all those years ago. But the thought of losing her had snapped his control and his fingers turned to talons around the phone in his hand, cracking the screen clear in two. He flung it across the room and watched it smash against the wall, bursting into flame from the force of his anger. The acrid stench of melted plastic filled the air and he slammed his palms down on his desk, dropping his head and catching a glimpse of his own reflection in the polished black marble.

Damnate

Killian

The pull inside was almost too strong to resist. Every instinct was screaming at him to go to Emma, answer her summons the way he was really meant to and mark her indelibly as his. If he did then she'd have no choice, his brand would bar her from Heaven from the rest of eternity and she'd be unable to return to the one place he couldn't follow. He'd come close in the past to doing it...so close...one night in particular when he'd sensed that she was teetering on the edge of surrender and wouldn't try to stop him, but he'd forced himself to hold back. He could bring her right to the brink and he'd spent centuries trying his best to do just that, but he couldn't push her over. She had to take that final step on her own and fall willingly, if she didn't want it of her own volition, didn't want him both not-human body and damned soul...it had to be her choice, no deceit, no trickery, none of his usual tactics, or she'd despise him forever. Literally. Eternity was a very long time and while he'd openly sneered in the faces of priests and popes, boldly told saints to go fornicate with themselves and gleefully thumbed his nose at the Holy Inquisition itself, wearing their disdain as proudly as a king wore a crown, but if she turned her back on him-

Smoke curled out from under his fingers and started rising towards the ceiling in thin spirals like stairways that dissipated long before reaching heaven while a single tear fell from his eye, landing right on the glowing, pinprick reflection of his pupil with a tiny splat. But no perfect red rose sprang to life from the heated marble, as he'd told Emma once nothing grew in Hell and he was incapable of miracles. He bought her the flowers he couldn't grow, and all he could do was watch while the tear etched into the stone like acid, destroying the perfect and expensive slab in one fell swoop.

"Dark One."

The moniker fell from his lips as a bitter curse and his reflection showed that his eyes were twin flames, burning from within as he dug his claws into the ruined desk and slowly dragged ten parallel lines across it. He'd been so close to getting the one thing he coveted above everything else and now it was slipping through his fingers like sand thanks to the oily dealmaker. All the years of waiting patiently for his angel to fall, biding his time across Europe, the West Indies, the New World...and now his carefully laid plans had been shot right….

...to Hell.

"DARK ONE!"

He wanted the other demon's head on a silver plate, to lay at her feet as the spoils of war and to hear the last confession from the shrivelled lips that would prove his innocence before he burnt his offering to his divine lover and took what he wanted in front of the smouldering pile of ash. But he had to be careful, and Killian forced himself to take several deep breaths instead of overturning the desk completely. Rumpelstiltskin was clearly taunting him, there was no other explanation as to why he would have gone after Caroline Spencer. He'd told Emma the truth, he'd been with her earlier that night at the same hotel where they'd had their first tryst after meeting for lunch to "discuss" the heritage building preservation project she was spearheading with the local historical society. It had gone exactly as he'd expected from the moment he'd received her email, money, power, sex, she had the first and wanted the third, probably knowing full well that her husband was also getting some on the side. Both Spencers played the game, but Caroline's drugs of choice were Botox and skin fillers, not heroin. There was no earthly reason for her to just suddenly decide to start shooting up out of the blue.

No, Killian was certain that the Dark One was sending him a message, just like he'd sent his imps into the Jolly Roger to cause a bit of chaos without getting his own hands dirty. It could be payback for insulting him in Paris, these kinds of petty spats between demons could go on for centuries, spawn entire wars and topple kings in their wake. Rumpelstiltskin had no scruples, destroying one human soul to enact revenge wouldn't even register with the demon who'd been right in the thick of the French Revolution making deals with everyone from the nobility to probably even Napoleon himself. The strike on Caroline was a taunt, a goad, and the vibrating bass from the music playing downstairs was like the ticking of a clock in his ears.

Your move.

He didn't have time to play Rumpelstiltskin's sadistic games, he needed to end this, now, before he lost his angel for good. She was on the verge of leaving him, he could sense it like a shark that smelled blood in the water, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it with the Dark One skulking around unseen in the shadows. He'd carelessly led the other demon straight to Emma once, he wouldn't make that mistake again. The threat to break her wings echoed in the back of his mind and if he so much as tried to touch her, then Killian would destroy him, no matter what the consequences. Even demons could be killed, as Zelena had discovered in Paris under a shower of holy water that melted her right into the sewers with the rats. Rumpelstiltskin was much more powerful than the succubus had been, but he didn't care. He'd risked Heaven's wrath and seduced an angel, he didn't fear anything or anyone. Not the Dark One, not the Angel of Death, not his own unholy master or even the one who'd banished him to Hell.

Except...but he refused to even think it. She'd come back to him, she always did. At the end of every Lent, every time he called...she always answered.

Always.

The thought was his anchor, the only thing keeping him from flying off the handle completely. Killian rolled his shoulders back under his suit jacket and straightened up, ignoring the damage to the expensive desk as he fussed with his silver cufflinks. Jefferson was still analyzing the heroin sample and the cops were still searching fruitlessly for the dealer while continuing to keep the existence of the new drug a secret from the press, but he was done with waiting. He wasn't after the Dark One's minions, he needed to cut the head off the snake and the rest would take care of itself. It was time to summon him and finally settle this face to face.

When he opened the door and stepped out of his office not a single soul in the Jolly Roger would be able to tell that anything was amiss just by looking at him. His eyes didn't glow, his nails were short and clipped, his teeth were blunt behind unsmiling lips. To the naked eye he was human, body, blood and soul. He'd burn anyone who tried to touch him, but one look at his dark expression should warn anyone from trying to get too close.

Scarlet pushed off from where he'd been leaning against the wall, clearly debating on whether to open his mouth or not. He'd driven Killian to the hotel and back to the club afterwards in silence, keeping his head down and staying a step behind, not drawing any attention to himself, but he was entirely focused on his employee now and he gave Scarlet a hard look, eyes narrowing with sudden suspicion. His first assumption was that the Dark One was having him tailed, learning about his affair from whoever he'd engaged to follow him around. It wasn't like he'd been particularly discreet about it, she was the one who was married, not him. Caroline had even visited him at home more than once, although she'd been somewhat put out by his refusal to fuck her in his own bed. Emma's scent still clung stubbornly to his sheets, her presence imprinted right into the silk. He'd slept in the other bedroom to keep it off him, unwilling to let go of even that tiny little piece of her.

"Do you believe in sin, Mr. Scarlet?"

The music continued to thump under their feet like the beating of a guilty heart while he stared Scarlet down, watching his face carefully. The man's eyes were normally very expressive, large and open with every thought in his head passing behind them. Windows to the soul, indeed. At the question they went hooded, his head jerking back a fraction and his fingers twitching at his sides. Will Scarlet knew about Caroline Spencer, knew Killian had been with her earlier at the Prince Hotel. Will Scarlet knew about Emma, even if he had no idea what she really was.

He knew far too much for his own good.

"Sin?" Scarlet repeated, sliding his twitching hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

"Yes, sin. You know...sloth...wrath…lust...greed."

He'd felt it from Scarlet, felt the heat of his lust when he looked at Lacey or Ana up on stage, felt the simmering anger hidden behind the blank poker face when he purposefully needled the man, felt the greed that wrapped around his heart and soul with grasping fingers and whispered in his ear that he deserved more.

"Yeah," Scarlet said at last, with a cocky defiance that few dared show him, "You know what, Mr. Jones? I do."

Killian smiled, but it was far from pleasant, "Do you pray for forgiveness from your sins?"

"Do you?" Scarlet shot back.

He clapped a hand on Scarlet's shoulder and gave it a hard squeeze that made the other man's eyes water and his face twist in a grimace. Killian leaned forward and spoke directly into Scarlet's ear, "I pray for one thing and one thing only, and it isn't forgiveness. I know I'm too far gone for that."

If Scarlet was secretly working for Rumpelstiltskin behind his back then it wouldn't be forgiveness he'd be praying for, it would be deliverance from the Hell he'd discover hidden underneath the world he thought he knew. But no angel would come swooping down to save him, Killian would make damn sure of that.

The club was full, drunk, nearly-naked bodies writhing like a pit of vipers everywhere he looked when he entered the main room. It reeked of the deadliest of sins, the teeming mass was indulging in them openly right under his watchful gaze. Gluttony in the form of endless bottles of champagne, the sloth of the soft-bellied men who sat on their asses and leered at the lithe dancers with lust glittering in their eyes. They were oblivious to the flames that licked unseen at their heels, the creeping darkness behind the pulsing lights. Killian moved in shadow, crossing the floor while the flashing strobes from the stage hit everywhere except where he stood.

"Shut it down."

Peter paused halfway out of his seat, shock crossing his face at the order, "Boss?"

"We're closing early. Kick everyone out within the next twenty minutes and tell the employees not to come in tomorrow, cancel all deliveries and call everyone on the schedule. The Jolly Roger is closed until further notice."

"But-"

At Killian's glare Peter shut his mouth and swallowed heavily, giving him a nod. He turned to the DJ booth and made a slashing movement across his throat, pushing through the throng and getting swallowed up almost at once. Killian glanced towards the bar and saw that the thief was working tonight, probably with a wad of pilfered bills stuffed into her low-cut bandage dress. She caught his eye and her face immediately flushed with guilt, liquor sloshing over her hand as she missed the shot glass in front of her.

Non furtum facies

Thou shalt not steal.

He didn't say a word, he just wrapped his hand around the bartender's elbow and pulled her through the kitchen and into the storage room. The music suddenly shut off, followed by faint exclamations of surprise from the dancers and customers as he threw open the door that led down into the basement.

"Mr. Jones, sir, listen, I can explain!"

It was clearly dawning on her that the jig was up, her heels scraped loudly on the stairs as she twisted and tried to pull free of his iron grip. Killian ignored her pleading, quickly punching in the code on the keypad with his free hand, one eight one two. The door swung open and revealed the secret room where the imp was still locked up in a steel cell. He looked up with a grin as Killian pulled the cord to turn on the lightbulb.

"Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate," the imp intoned, sticking out his tongue. It split into two long forks that wiggled and waved obscenely and the bartender jumped almost a foot in the air, losing a shoe and falling back against the bars of the empty cell behind her.

"Shut up!" Killian ordered, rolling his eyes at the reference. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

"Oh, Corrupter, have you brought me a friend? Fi fi fo fum, I smell the blood of a sinner."

The imp giggled to himself while Killian pried her fingers from his sleeve and pushed her gently into the cell. She made a mewling noise in the back of her throat and he grasped her chin, tipping her head back so that she was looking right into his eyes.

"Stealing from me was not a good idea, Jacqueline."

Her face was ashen under the heavy makeup and she tried to shake her head, "I..I didn't, I swear!"

She was only compounding her own sin with the denial. Killian glanced down and saw the outline of something square under her dress, he tapped it with a finger and she paled even more.

"Try that again."

His suspicions had been correct, Jacqueline pulled out a damp wad of cash and handed it over with slumped shoulders while the imp hooted and hollered.

"What the fuck is that?" she cried, glancing at it over his shoulder. Killian thumbed through the money, counting it quickly before slipping it into his pocket. She had been getting bolder and bolder with her thefts, there wasn't anything under a fifty.

"What the fuck are you?"

He ran his own tongue over his teeth and lifted his head. Jacqueline had her arms wrapped tightly around herself, gooseflesh prickling over her bare skin. Killian smiled and watched her shiver even more.

"I am your employer, and you didn't read your contract closely enough before you signed it."

She opened her mouth, probably to scream, but he laid a finger over her lips before she could make a sound and whispered, "Shhh."

The effect was immediate as her pupils dilated wide and her hand crept to her throat. She stumbled back to the wall and slid down it, her legs folding under her as she stared up in mute horror. Killian stepped out of the cell and slid the door closed, locking her in. He didn't want her to scream herself hoarse even if the room was soundproofed, he would have need of her voice tomorrow.

"Say your prayers, Tweedledee."

He watched the imp snort with derision, the tattoos on his arms rippling and moving under the light. A snake uncoiled along his forearm and the gates of Hell swung open, the tiny sinners inside struggling to break free. Killian reached up and pulled the cord again, plunging the room into darkness. One more night and it would all be over.

Scarlet was waiting out front with the Escalade, sitting in the driver's seat with the engine running and his phone pressed to his ear. When Killian emerged from the Jolly Roger he quickly ended the call, his face turned away from the darkly tinted window. The leather seat creaked when Killian sat down in the back behind him, pulling out Emma's miniature from his inner jacket pocket. He flicked it open with his nail and stared down at the faded paint.

One more night….and he would have what he wanted. The Dark One...the Angel of Death...no one would stop him.

Killian lifted his head and met Scarlet's gaze in the rearview mirror. He slipped the portrait safely back into his pocket, over his heart.

"Drive."