#james delaney x oc

[justrainandcoffee]

Sinners (James Delaney x fem!oc) II

Masterlist - Part I

Summary: Agnes and James finally see each other after all those years apart. || Agnes can't leave her thoughts about Zilpha behind her and plan something to see her. || James starts to think that the truth behind Inés' new identity is bigger than he believed at the beginning.

Warnings: Manipulation. || Catholic themes.||

Words: 2.2k.

1813

“In nómine Patris et Fílī et Spíritus Sancti…”

Two days of fasting was what Agnes did after she saw James Delaney. Just water and praying. God listened to her in the past and she was sure he was willing to do it again. Her soul, after all, belonged to him.

It was well known that some nuns and priests whipped themselves because it was a way to clean the soul through the pain, but she didn't do that. Not this time.

She looked through the window and watched the city. It was raining, it was humid and it was also cold.

How she could forget that face? His face was the one to blame for all the things that happened. Him but also her own stupidity.

.

"What do you know about Inés Serra?"

Brace saw the younger man scrutinizing the rooms. Whatever happened to him in Africa, the man in front of him wasn't the boy he knew. Physically he was there, his eyes were there looking at everything but James' mind wasn't.

"I don't know, never heard of her again. Last time I knew something was when her father died at least a year and a half after you left. Yours, wanted to give her a place in this house but the girl rejected the offer. She was so young to be alone. Maybe she died."

"No, no, she didn't. She's a nun."

Brace nodded "probably that was the best choice. Young women almost always end in the streets as whores, she did a right choice."

James just hummed. "Did she stay here after I left?"

"No. Both of you left almost at the same time, maybe "just months of difference. That man, Serra, became an alcoholic after the girl left. A good man but his last years alive, he was violent. Your father didn't have the heart to kick him out of his company, not after the years of service, but he should have. One day, a boy found him dead in his bed."

"You didn't see her?"

"No. Your father told me she was in the funeral and then left after refusing his offer to stay here."

"Mmh."

"I always thought that girl was in love with you. You were almost the same age and she was always looking for you."

"Yes, she was and it was good that she left in time. I need to go, Brace, see you later."

.

Ten years passed since he left the country and in many aspects everything was the same, but in many others, not. When he left England he was a boy, barely a man. He didn't understand the world the same way he did it now and that caused him to make mistakes. And Inés Serra was one of those mistakes. He asked himself if he could do that again knowing the damage he caused. Probably not, but that didn't mean he couldn't be willing to try.

She, for sure, was pretty. He liked the colour of her skin eternally kissed by the sun and her brown eyes that in summer days seemed to be the same colour as the honey. Inés was pretty, that was a fact that he as a young boy couldn't deny. The problem was that his feelings towards her weren't strong enough to be considered love. Love was another thing. It was a feeling that only one person received from him in his life. Forbidden as it was.

His white horse was waiting for him and he mounted on him to return to St. Bartholomew's hospital. If the circumstances had been different, then he couldn't waste his time on her, and could have left the young woman alone. But he did need to talk to her.

"I'm looking for Inés Serra," he said to one of the nuns outside the hospital. "She's a sister like you. I want to thank her for taking care if my old mother," James lied.

"There's no sister named Inés Serra here, sir. But if she's new maybe I don't know her, ask the Sister over there. Her name is Agnes, she has been working here for almost a decade. She knew almost everyone here."

The nun pointed at Agnes herself who was looking at him. That moment she was helping a little kid but left him with another one and turned around to go to the small church there.

She saw him.

James thanked the old woman and walked after Inés. Or Agnes. Why did she changed her name?

The church was silent except for the sound of the raindrops knocking on the stained glass windows. The smell of candles was mixed with the humidity outside and Agnes felt the vitiated air in her lungs.

In her mind.

She began to pray again. God needed to listen to her.

“In nómine Patris et Fílī et Spíritus Sancti…”

But he wasn't to listen to her prayers. Maybe because he was busy, maybe because she didn't deserve to be listened to.

Heavy footsteps broke the silence inside the sacred place and she knew who the person was.

Agnes saw a shadow behind her and the sound of coins falling in the moneybox the church had.

"I thought you were dead," she spoke looking at the dark tiles. The first words in ten years she said to him.

"I am, Inés."

"Inés is also dead."

"That's what I imagined."

"It seems this is a meeting for the dead, then."

"What better place to reunite two souls than a church?" James took off his hat and put it besides him. "Long time, sister Agnes."

"What do you want, James?"

"I'm looking for forgiveness."

"Father John will be here at five. He can pray for your soul."

"No, I don't want that kind of forgiveness and you know what I'm talking about."

"Then forgiveness is what you have, James. Long time ago, right? Everything is forgotten."

"Is that so?" James could sense some anger in her voice. Resentful, maybe.

"I'm a woman of God. I learnt to forgive."

James nodded. "Okay, then. Everything is forgotten."

The smell of candles in the church, was now the smell of fish and rum behind that cantina. The sound of the raindrops was now the mumbling of the people passing by while they were fucking there. Agnes shook her head.

"I heard your father died. I'm sorry. I have nothing but gratitude words for him because he helped my father, my brother and me when we had nothing. I hope his soul can find peace in Heaven."

"My father isn't in Heaven. He wasn't the man you think he was, Agnes."

Neither of us is destined to be in Heaven, thought Agnes but remained quiet.

"He was the cause my mother died. But I'm trying to fix the things."

"You can't bring back dead people."

"You're wrong. Not bring them back in a way that you and I are alive, but you can. They talk to you if you know how."

"That's against God's rules."

"So is lying, Agnes. And you're fucking lying to me," James put his hat on again. She lifted her head to look at him. "You can find me in my old house. I have an use for you." He stood up and walked towards the door but before he can leave he heard her once more.

"Are you still seeing your damn sister?"

"Are you sure everything is forgotten, Agnes?" he asked crossing the door.

He was still seeing her and Agnes had no doubt about it. It wasn't Delaney Sr. who should have died but his daughter. Agnes could stop her own thoughts but didn't regret it either. Sinners should die.

.

The good thing about being a nun was that usually people was willing to help them. They were one of the closest things they had to be next to God and most of nuns had a gentle soul. Why, then, anyone could distrust one of God's most loved servants? Agnes knew that and took advantage of it. And when she asked for information that was what she got.

Zilpha Delaney lived in a beautiful house and wore the surname Geary now.

Slim and mysterious as ever that was what Agnes thought when she finally saw her crossing the enter of her house. She was still wearing black, probably mourning the death of her father. Next to her was a tall gentleman, no doubts that was Mr. Geary.

Zilpha Delaney was even lucky to get a husband, a nice house and now she also had her brother back and still in love with her. All those feelings that Agnes believed were behind her reappeared, but now the one carrying them was an adult woman and not a naïve young girl.

She walked towards the Geary manor when he was sure enough that the couple was already settled inside and then knocked on the door.

A young maid, opened the door and greeted her with a smile that Agnes correspond.

"I'm looking for donations for poor children," she said. "Is the man of the house here?"

"Mr. Geary just arrived, Sister. But I don't know if he's interested in this. But please, come in, and I'll call him."

"You're really nice, darling. God bless you."

The inside of the house as pretty as Agnes believed. Only one of those paintings or sculptures could feed a whole school for years, she thought.

Mr. Geary didn't make her wait for that long and before she could realise, the man was standing before her. He didn't seem to be a smart one, probably inherited his money from his own father and his marriage helped him to built the rest.

Yet, he was exactly who she wanted to see.

"Thanks for wasting your time in our cause, sir."

"We don't make donations to charity. You understand that if we help one, we need to help all."

"They're just kids. Orphans. I want to believe that good people still exist."

"My father-in-law just passed away," he said "we're not in conditions to waste our money in bastards, with all respect."

Fucking asshole.

"It's okay. I'm sorry for wasting your time, sir. Are you married? I'd like to add your name and your wife's name to my prayers, maybe god can illuminate your hearts."

Just say it, she thought. And Geary replied exactly how she wanted to.

"Zilpha." Agnes repeated "That's an uncommon name. Zilpha Delaney? I heard of her when I was little. Same as her brother, James. I know he died long ago, I'm sorry, she lost everything she loved in her life."

"James Delaney is alive," Geary said and couldn't hide his hatred.

"Really? Are you sure? In that case, I'll pray for him too. Thanks for your time, Mr. Geary."

But the man stopped her. "What do you know about James Delaney?"

"Very few things. I had a friend who lived in a house that not longer exist next to the Delaney's one. All I know is because of her. And she's dead now, so…"

"What did she tell you?"

"Mr. Geary. In this world exist something worse that greed. Things that are better to keep it in the dark."

"Like what? Murder?"

"Murder is not a secret for humanity, Mr. Geary. It's also unforgivable but very frequent. Others…" Agnes looked down. "Better don't ask. May God help the soul of your wife, Mr. Geary, because I can't. Goodbye."

Agnes' heart was racing when she left the house. If she managed to implant a doubt in Geary's head, then for now it was enough.

Those thoughts that caused the death of Inés and her ulterior reborn as Agnes, invaded her soul and this time there wasn't any salvation.

Agnes didn't care. Envy wasn't a strong word to describe her feelings towards Zilpha. She hated her and was determined to destroy her perfect world forever.

.

James wasn't sleeping, he never really slept. But he was thinking in bed. 10 years. Math was a perfect science.

But inside him, he knew it. That kid, Robert… he wasn't product of his father and a whore. His father couldn't care less if a whore got pregnant of his bastard. But Horace Delaney could care if his reputation was in trouble.

Robert was James' son. And the only two girls he fucked were his sister and Inés.

Why, why did Inés change her identity? Girls all the time ended with a broken heart but not because of that they hide from the world and pretend to be a new person. They didn't kill themselves figuratively speaking.

And why his father offered her a place in the Delaney's house after her father died? He had no obligation. She was no one but the daughter of his friend.

Unless she was also the mother of his grandson.

[lyralu91]

Oneshot: James Delaney

hoodeddreams13 asked:

"Hi! I'm not sure if you're requests are still open for James, but I was wondering if I could request something based off the following:

"Did you care?" + "I wanted everything."

From the prompts list: dialogue prompts: three words by @/promptsbytaurie

No pressure and thank you 🖤 (it does not need to be a James × reader fic if you do write it)"

A caring confession

James admits he has feelings for a childhood friend. ❤️ (James Delaney x Fem OC) Warnings: none (just a bit of intimacy and light sexual tension). Dialogue prompts are highlighted in red. Word count: 1951.

“He’s been lying to me this whole time! I cannot believe it!”

She stormed past James, leaving him to hold the front door open with a stiff expression. He stood there, pipe in hand, blinking like he wasn’t particularly pleased to have a visitor.

Saying that, he wasn’t at all surprised to see her.

He closed the door with a grunt and moved his head, far too slow, to follow her march into the front room. 

“I just met Clara for a walk and she told me the most awful things about him! Things I refuse to believe! But then there’s this, she brought me this,” she said, half shrugging her coat off, half waving the morning paper at James as he came to stand in the doorway. “Written proof of his bloody lies! Right there for everyone to see.”

About time, James thought but waved it over with an uninterested noise, brows drawn together, puffing on his pipe. He had already guessed what she wished to show him: the announcement of a certain engagement. 

Angelica claimed the old armchair by the fire, sighing hard as she sat, then leaned down to undo her boots, only to stop midway to pull off her “bloody hat!”. Her chestnut curls were heavy and wild around her face, her cheeks all rosy from the bitter spring cold.

“I hate hats, I hate gloves, and I hate men,” she said, tugging her gloves off and slapping them on the dusty footstool like she’d given all men in London a collective slap across the face. The poor piece of furniture was then shoved aside, making room for Angelica to kick off her boots, only she pushed it dangerously close to the fire. 

“Careful…” James muttered with a cautioning glance from where he was pouring them both a brandy.

Angelica carried on like she couldn’t care less if she set the whole house on fire.

“Clara even said she had ‘had her suspicions’. Can you believe that? All winter she kept it from me. And now he’s off to marry some Louise or Louisa I haven’t even heard of! She should’ve just told me!”

She stood up and nearly knocked the glass from James’ hand as he stood there, calm as ever, offering her a drink.

“And would you have cared?” he asked, composed amusement coming through his deep voice.

“Of course I bloody would - it’s all I’ve cared about for months! - all I’ve been able to think about!”

James watched her drink, nodding like he knew that to be true, while his grunt seemed to say “but that wasn’t what I asked”, then moved to sit on the sofa. He lowered himself with a groan, slurped around the rim of his glass and kept his eyes on her. Leaning back lazily into the seat, he sought her gaze with his head tilted to the side, blinking deliberately as if ready to prove a point.

“And did you care for all the things I told you about this man? Hmm?”

Angelica scoffed from where she stood by the fire, back towards him, cradling her drink in both hands.

“I was there, if you care to remember,” James said, voice lowered in a story teller’s lilt, eyes lit by something wicked and patronising. “On that very night…”

Angelica rolled her eyes at the way he clearly intended to mock her first meeting with Mr Homburg, the handsome Swiss merchant she had fallen in love with.

“Watching you dance… Acting as if you were already - ”

“Yes, James, I remember very well how you stared and sulked and followed me around, behaving like a right -”

“ - yees, like someone who cared for you,” he rasped, like it had been the right thing to do and like he’d happily do it again. “Yes,” he nodded. “I cared. And I tried to tell you. I did.”

This was concluded with another nod and a hefty swig of brandy. It burned its way through his chest and he sucked air through his teeth, lulling his head towards the fire.

He sighed. He seemed tired, but there was something restless in the way he studied the flames, eyes twitching imperceptibly, as if touched by hidden frustration. 

For a while he stayed quiet, then said:

“But did you ever care to consider why I was there in the first place?”

Angelica frowned, confused and caught off guard by the question. She knew he hated those parties, of course she did. So what - did he want an apology? Was he trying to make her feel guilty for going? 

As if his question wasn’t actually meant to be answered, at least not yet, James continued.

“The things I told you that night, and the things I did, I did because I could not stand the thought of you getting hurt.”

This only deepened her frown and she glanced in his direction, increasingly uncomfortable, as his voice had gone darker and his gaze suddenly felt like a physical hold on her. Like hands on her waist.

Angelica took a steadying sip of brandy. Swallowed hard. 

His words almost sounded like a confession.

“Why care for anything that was said or done that night…” she said, quietly into the fire, as if the flames had brought her back to something forbidden or pleasant, or something questionable in between. Something confusing. “None of it matters now anyway.”

“But it does,” James said, sweeping his glass of brandy through the air for emphasis. “Because you’re here, yes? In my house. Caring for a man who does not love you.”

Angelica snorted, knocking back the last of her drink, screwing her eyes shut. It angered her to feel a tear tumble down her cheek. She brushed it off like nothing had happened, turned around to face James and spoke with fragile conviction. 

“And what do you know of love?”

She eyed him stiffly up and down, chin raised like a shield of spite, then stomped past him to pour herself another brandy.

James caught her wrist and snatched her down on his lap. He ignored her half-hearted thrashing and the snappy “let go of me!”, holding her in place as he calmly set his glass down next to him, on the sofa.

Sprawled beside him, almost mockingly, was the morning paper. He crumpled it slowly into a composed fist and raised it in front of Angelica’s face, narrowing his eyes like she better listen carefully. 

“I know that this… this isn’t love.”

He lowered the paper a little, searched her face for a reaction, then grunted a nod and let it fall to her lap. Angelica didn’t flinch and kept her eyes forward, too stubborn and too startled by the way he held her. 

“I also know,” James continued, speaking close to her shoulder, very aware of the rise and fall of her chest, “- that whatever that man did to you… or however he made you feel -” now he loosened the grip on her wrist, thumbing the soft skin over her vulnerable veins, “- was not out of love.”

She could have sworn he glanced at her lips then, and the part of her that felt trapped seconds ago, no longer wished to move away from him.

“Power - and lies…” James whispered theatrically, so raw and soft at the same time, like he was relieved but sorry to tell her the truth about dear Mr Homburg. “That’s all it was, Allie.”

He watched her swallow, chin still raised as she refused to look him in the eyes, but the skin around her collarbones flushed at the use of her childhood nickname.

James kindly lowered her wrist onto her lap and withdrew his hand to lean back into the sofa. With a grunt he clasped his hands high on his chest, as if making a point of keeping them away from her. His eyes however, were locked on her. Unblinking, unwavering. Knowing.

Angelica didn’t move from his lap. Maybe out of spite or stubbornness. Maybe for other reasons. 

The sputtering of the fire seemed louder, closer, as if the room had turned into a giant hearth, enveloping them in teasing, flickering heat. James found himself contemplating - no… admiring - her beautiful curls. They suddenly looked softer, heavier, there for him to touch, as they moved up and down with her chest. 

His eyes shot to her hands as she scratched the spot on her wrist where he had touched her. James inhaled slowly through his nose and Angelica opened her mouth to say something, and when she spoke, her words were as breathless as she looked. 

“Why were you there, James?”

“Hm?” he grunted, deeply absorbed by her fingers, stroking her wrist now rather than scratching.

“Why were you there in the first place? At the party?”

He scowled and made a noise that suggested he wasn’t in the mood to answer. It made her feel like he wanted, and waited, for her to figure it out on her own.

She glanced at him sideways, his gaze flicked up to meet hers, and her neck flared up again.

This time James couldn’t help himself.

Head tilted slightly to the side, he reached out to brush a thick lock over her shoulder, humming a noise of approval when she visibly shuddered at his touch. 

“I think you know…” he said, letting his hand ghost along the length of her hair, so very tempted to swirl a lock around his finger. 

“James, you -” that’s when his other hand came to rest on her thigh, his palm all warm and heavy.

She closed her eyes and another unexpected tear rolled down her cheek, brimming with anger and relief at the same time. His touch had made her clutch her knees, as if she didn’t know what to do with her hands or needed support to sit up straight. 

“You should’ve told me,” she breathed, cursing the way her dress felt restricting with each rise and fall of her chest.

“But I did,” he said candidly, his right hand coming to rest on her upper back, thumbing her shoulder blade as if reminding her of all the years he’d cared for her.

It was a calming gesture that did nothing to calm her, as their eyes met briefly and James began to sit up. Eyeing her chest and neck, he claimed her space, weaving his head like a patient, curious snake in no rush to proceed. 

“No,” she said, gripping her knees and looking ahead of her, refusing to acknowledge how close he was and how she wanted him even closer. “It’s not fair, I’ve… I never knew what you wanted. How you felt or -”

“Oh I wanted everything…” he murmured in a dark lilt and slid a soft palm up the back of her neck. “Mhm?” He looked up at her under raised eyebrows, forehead creased as if asking for permission to continue, or to tell her there was no going back after this confession. “With you.”

James thumbed the back of her neck, nodded and added: “I still do.”

Without startling her, he brushed the newspaper off her lap. There was nothing intimidating to the action, only conclusive, like it was no longer of any use and had been sitting there for far too long.

“Why don’t you, put that on the fire, then come back here, and sit with me.”

When Angelica didn’t answer, he pressed his palm against her lower back, urging her to stand up. To make a decision.

As if James had been waiting all this time to say it, he dipped his head towards her ear, so close she could feel his breath, and whispered:

“Go on now. Burn it.”

[lyralu91]

Can't believe I missed this! Found it for breakfast and it GIVES ME LIFE for the rest of the day of writing! 🥹❤️

Thank you sooo much @ravenclawboyy for sharing this! 👏🏻🤩 It's incredibly rare and absolutely amazing to find a James fic!

If you do a part two I am HERE for it! And could you please tag me in anything James related? 🥹❤️ (sincerely, his wife)

Here are my favourite parts! Also: I LOVE the moodboard!

“'Worship is a form of surrender, my dear', he whispered, his voice dripping with temptation. 'And in surrendering, we can find freedom from the burdens of this world. Will you worship with me?'”

"James reveled in the power he held over her, each whispered promise stewing inside him—a devil disguised as a savior."

"The candle flames flickered faintly against the oppressive gloom that had come to settle within her heart."

"With one final surge, she cast forth the whispers of the weeping woman, the tribe of forsaken souls, and the hope of the townsfolk into the depths of despair that James had created."

I adore your writing style! ✍🏻✨

— Shadows in the Sanctuary ഒ ｡ﾟ🕯️

—

- ✧ In the heart of a gray and desolate town, where the fog clung to the cobblestones like a reluctant memory, there stood a dilapidated church. The townsfolk whispered of its dark history but seldom ventured inside. It was a place where secrets seemed to linger, and the echoes of forgotten prayers filled the air On a particularly dreary Sunday, the congregation shuffled into the church, weary souls seeking solace in the dim light. Among them was a young girl , her innocence in stark contrast to the shadows that danced across the walls. With her long, flowing hair and wide, curious eyes, she looked as if she had stepped out of a storybook that had long been abandoned. James Delaney, a man who had wrapped himself in mystery and darkness, watched her from the shadows. With a past steeped in doubt and a reputation cloaked in fear, he had come to this forsaken town searching for something elusive—a sense of belonging, perhaps, or the thrill of power he had once tasted. That day, he donned the guise of a priest, an intricate facade built upon layers of deception. Draped in a tattered black robe, he approached the altar with a confidence that belied the turmoil within. He spoke words of redemption, his voice smooth and intoxicating. The congregation never noticed the glint of something sinister behind his dark eyes, nor the way he lingered a moment too long on A/N face.

After the service, when the townsfolk filtered out into the dreary street, A/N remained inside, drawn to the flickering candles that cast playful shadows. James seized the moment. He approached her with a soft smile, the kind that could easily be mistaken for warmth but felt more like an alluring invitation to a world she couldn’t yet comprehend. “Child, do you seek the light?” he asked, his voice low and persuasive, drawing her into an embrace of false safety.“I do,” she replied, her innocence shining through the shadows that loomed within the church. “I want to help people find hope.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to join me in a special prayer,” he suggested, the corners of his mouth curling into a devilish grin. “In this dark town, we must hold onto our faith, even when the shadows threaten to consume us.” A/N nodded, entranced by his charisma. She followed him deeper into the church, her heart racing not with fear but with naivety—an innocent curiosity that stirred within her soul. In the secretive recesses of the church, the true nature of their encounter was revealed; the sanctuary became a stage set for a dance between redemption and ruination.As he led her through murmurs of ancient chants that twisted the very essence of faith, she felt an odd thrill. Each word he spoke resonated within her, awakening something she didn’t understand. Yet, she remained blissfully ignorant of the darkness lurking just beneath the surface of his teachings.

“Worship is a form of surrender, my dear,” he whispered, his voice dripping with temptation. “And in surrendering, we can find freedom from the burdens of this world. Will you worship with me?” A/N felt her heart bloom with an odd mixture of warmth and trepidation. In that moment, as the flicker of candlelight danced around them, she believed she had found a kind of salvation, unaware of the perilous path upon which she was treading—a path that led deeper into the shadows where James Delaney thrived. As weeks passed, their secret meetings continued, the lines between worship and manipulation blurring as darkness seeped further into A/N once-innocent heart. James reveled in the power he held over her, each whispered promise stewing inside him—a devil disguised as a savior.

But in a town cloaked in gray, where the remnants of hope flickered like those fragile candles, the balance between innocence and evil was a precarious one. Little did they know that their destinies were entwined in an eternal struggle between light and dark, and that even the most innocent souls could harbor shadows of their own. In the sanctuary of twisted devotion, the question lingered—would A/N realize the truth before darkness consumed her? Or would she surrender to the charming facade of the devil, lost forever in his embrace?

As the weeks stretched into months,A/N once-gleaming spirit began to subtly tarnish. The flickering candlelight that had once brought her comfort now cast long, distorted shadows that danced ominously on the church walls, taunting her as if to remind her of the veil of deceit that surrounded her. James, ever the puppeteer, continued to weave his web of influence, ensnaring the young girl with teachings that felt profound yet sinister. He handed her sacred texts, each page imbued with his twisted interpretations. Through his eloquent tongue, he reshaped her understanding of faith, replacing innocence with a thirst for power cloaked in righteousness. "True salvation lies not in blind faith, but in the will to embrace darkness and bend it to your desires," he instructed one evening, his voice imbued with an intoxicating fervor. A/N listened, captivated as she hung on his every word, believing she was being granted secret knowledge meant for only the worthy. Yet, deep within her, a flicker of doubt began to grow—a tiny ember that threatened to ignite into a rebellion against the darkness that ensnared her. She often found herself staring into the cold depths of the church's stained glass, the images of saints and sinners juxtaposed, their faces reflecting the battle within her. She would think of her parents, of the joyful nights spent under starlit skies before the town succumbed to despair, and wonder if her path had truly veered so far from the light. One evening, it was a wintry chill that brushed against her skin as she entered the church’s hollow silence. The candle flames flickered faintly against the oppressive gloom that had come to settle within her heart. In the corner of the sanctuary, she glimpsed the figure of a woman—ghostly pale, with eyes like storm clouds—who appeared to be weeping. “Help me,” the specter whispered, her voice echoing with a sorrow that chilled A/N to the bone. “You must help us all.” A/N's breath caught in her throat as she recognized the woman’s features—the likeness of a long-forgotten townsfolk, rumored to have been a victim of James’ dark machinations. The stories whispered on the cobbled streets floated back to her, tales of misplaced trust and broken souls ensnared by the priest’s charisma. “What do you mean?” A/N asked, stepping tentatively toward the apparition, her heart pounding as apprehension coursed through her veins. “Who are you?”“I am but a remnant, a warning,” the woman replied, sorrow sinking into her words. “James is no savior; he is the harbinger of despair. You must break free from his clutches before the darkness claims you like it did me.”

But James emerged from the shadows just then, his presence oppressive and cold, a dark cloud that blocked the light of understanding. He grabbed A/N's wrist gently, yet possessively, and pulled her back into the fold of his embrace. “Do not listen to phantoms, my dear. They are mere tricksters, trying to draw you away from true enlightenment. The world is full of shadows, and only by embracing them can we transform them into our strength.” A/N’s heart raced as she turned to him, adrenaline coursing through her. The war within her waged on. Should she trust this man, this supposed savior, or heed the warning of the woman who knew the price of deception? In the days that followed, A/N wrestled with shadows and whispers that danced in her mind like restless spirits. With each secret encounter, she began to unravel the truth—James’ true powers seemed to derive from their bond, yet that power came at a cost. The more she surrendered to him, the more pieces of her own soul she lost.

She begun to seek out the townspeople, cautiously gathering snippets of their stories, shrouded memories buried under layers of fear. A/N discovered the dark legacy that had birthed that dilapidated church: tales of those who had disappeared, lives intertwined with tragedy beneath James’ predatory gaze. One night, as a storm brewed outside, A/N made her decision. She confronted James amidst the flickering shadows, the rumble of thunder the only witness to their confrontation. “You’re not a priest. You’re a thief, stealing lives and hope.” James’ eyes narrowed, a flash of anger igniting within him. “You dare speak to me in such a manner? I gave you a glimpse into a power greater than you can comprehend. You were meant to be part of something greater!”

“I don’t want your darkness,” A/N declared, her voice shaking but firm. “I want my life back—the light, the laughter, the love!” As storms raged outside, A/N sought to sever the ties of manipulation that had entangled her heart. In that moment of rebellion, she summoned all the courage she possessed, forcing the specters of doubt and intimidation into submission.The ground trembled beneath them as energy crackled forth; she reached for the remnants of her childhood innocence woven deep within her soul. Would it be enough to wrest control from the hold of a devil masquerading as a savior? As the confrontation reached its apex, a blinding white light erupted from her heart—a beacon of hope. James stumbled back, his darkness clashing violently with the strength of her newfound resolve. The congregation’s whispers of faith, once mere echoes, surged to life, amplifying her spirit. In that pivotal moment, A/N recognized that within her lay the capacity for both light and dark, and she wielded the power to choose her fate. With one final surge, she cast forth the whispers of the weeping woman, the tribe of forsaken souls, and the hope of the townsfolk into the depths of despair that James had created. And as the storm continued to rage outside, illuminating the night sky with flashes of brilliance, the church that once resonated with shadows trembled beneath the weight of her defiance, the old walls beginning to crack away, revealing a path toward redemption and healing.

In that gray, desolate town, a new dawn was breaking. A/N's journey was just beginning, but she stepped forward into the light, confronting her past while casting aside the allure of darkness, determined to reshape the world she had once believed to be lost forever. The struggle between innocence and evil had now sparked a fire of renewal—a flicker of hope transforming the shadows into a luminous beginning.

tags : @zablife / @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler / @xxanaduwrites / @tickettride / @justrainandcoffee / @raincoffeeandfandoms / @hecatemoon87 / @stvolanis / @lustnhim

[thatfooltheycallweaver]

In My Dreams it's Still the Same

Day 8 of @fluff-cember

Prompt: Sparkling Snow

Pairing: Meredith O'Connor [OC] x James Delaney

Fandom: Taboo

Word Count: 719

London had always been too chaotic, too loud, and too disconnected for Meredith to find peace within it. But that was nothing a strong cup of mugwort tea couldn’t fix. The fire in her room was beginning to die out, leaving behind the smell of wood-smoke that she enjoyed. Removing the corset and changing out of her chemise and into her sleepwear, she practically fell into bed and got comfortable under the blankets, allowing the warmth to envelop her, lulling her into a comfortable sleep. The next time she opened her eyes, she was nearly blinded by the sunlight. She sat up, feeling something other than the soft grass of her typical scrapped-together-from-memory meadow. It was powdery snow, cool to the touch, but not cold. She stood looking around. The snow shimmered in the light, and evenly blanketed the area as far as the eye could see. It had been quite some time since she had seen snow that hadn’t been tainted by the muck in the streets or by the smoke of the London sky, so it might have been brighter than it should have been. The snow was undisturbed, save for the stream that separated the banks, the large tree where the branches were covered in a thin layer of ice, and a set of footprints just at the edge of her vision. Outside of that, she knew by the shift in the air that she was not alone. But that didn’t frighten her, it had been an open invitation to begin with. It always had been, for him.

“I hope you’re not here for the reason I suspect…James.” She called gently. “You needn’t hide. I know your energy. I still recall, even after all this time.” She turned to see him standing parallel to her, shirtless, pants tied loosely at his hips. The tattoos were new to her. Decidedly tribal, they suited him.

“You and I have not spoken for quite some time.” He responded, tilting his head slightly. “I didn’t think it fair to approach you in such a way until we’d had a chance to…speak.”

“You and I have not seen each other for quite some time, either. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” She bowed, more as a joke rather than to mock him.

“I did not have time at the funeral, so I am making time now.” His eyes glanced over her as she decided how to react. She didn’t know if she was annoyed, upset, relieved, or what--but the happiness at seeing him again won out. She approached and hugged him.

“I was terrified you had died.” She admitted as she felt him hesitate. Meredith went to move away from him, but he pulled her in at the last moment, placing a kiss on her forehead. “Not a day went by that I didn’t think of you, and wish for your safety. I burned so many candles for your protection…”

“I know. I felt it.” His expression was unreadable, but his voice wavered just the slightest. His hold on her tightened.

“Why here, why now? Why after all this time?” She asked, looking up at him.

“I cannot tell you tonight. There is much work to be done.” He caressed her cheek. “The feelings I have for you have not diminished, Meredith.”

“Nor have the ones I hold for you. But ten years…doesn’t go away so easily.” He tilted her face up by the chin.

“It clearly can, if I have owned your heart for so long. You do not pull away from me, you do not banish me from your realm…” His lips brushed against hers. “You left the door open for me. Ten years can be mended, if you only let me.” It wasn’t much of a debate for her. She nodded.

“We can begin again, mo ghrá.” He smiled.

“My love.” He repeated. Her eyes fixed into his, her pulse quickening.

“You…you remembered.”

“It is not something I would easily forget.” She responded only by pressing her lips to his in a soft, almost tentative kiss. A welcome return, a reunion ten years in the making; marked by a growing fervor, a desire to not break the connection, to hold one another closer.

And to make up for lost time, in any way possible.

[gmsrrn98]

GEMMIFFERR'S MASTERLIST

Unlike one of my favorite MCs (Aera, I'm biased), I'm not as organized but here I am organizing my masterlist just so I can look back at my previous works and reference them.

These works are organized by worlds, stories, and creations. As of right now, I have only written fanfics and completed papercrafts for Choices but will definitely be branching out in the near future, and I'm sure I'll create more stuff once Candlelight's Project Spellstruck comes out.

Feel free to message if you want. Just please be respectful. I will not be answering anything that is rude, disrespectful, and bigoted.

I first started playing Choices back when they had three books being released. I joined the Choices tumblr fandom mid-2018 and I still remember the days when the playchoices tag was trending. If you're a fellow 2018-19 Choices tumblr blog, let's talk lol.

Below, you will find:

My MC and OC profiles

Fanfics

Papercrafts

The Freshman Series

Aera Amorette Chen (Tag: #MC: Aera Chen)

Character Profile Character Portrait (with other Choices MCs) Character In Development Aera's works Aera at Horror Mafia's shows Aera wearing glasses

With Every Heartbeat

Maeve Esperanza Delaney (Tag: #MC: Maeve Delaney)

Character Portrait (with other Choices MCs)

Perfect Match

Declan Axel "Dex" Carver (Tag: #MC: Dex Carver)

Character Portrait (with other Choices MCs) Character in Development Dex's 2024 Christmas List Bed, beer, bacon

Endless Summer

Skye Taylor (Tag: #MC: Skye Taylor)

Character Portrait (with other Choices MCs)

Desire & Decorum

Cecily Winslow (Tag: #MC: Cecily Winslow)

Character Portrait (with other Choices MCs)

America's Most Eligible

Kael Alexander James Sutter (Tag: #MC: Kael Sutter)

Character Portrait (with other Choices MCs)

Blades of Light and Shadow

Ghorlith Nagoni (Tag: #MC: Ghorlith Nagoni)

Character Portrait (with other Choices MCs)

The Royal Romance

Elyza Laurell Monroe (Tag: #MC: Elyza Monroe)

Character Portrait (with other Choices MCs)

Crimes of Passion

Ellix Rose (Tag: #MC: Ellix Rose)

Character Portrait (with other Choices MCs)

Across The Void

Alxavrion Quorvin "Xav" Krynthos (Tag: #MC: Xav Krynthos)

Character Portrait (with other Choices MCs)

The Freshman Series

Professor Vasquez (Non-Romantic)

Fallen Snow

Chris x Emily (Default TFS MC)

Touchdown

Kaitlyn x Emily

Happy Birthday!

Pumpkin Wonderland

Red String Series (Dormant, may or may not update) (last updated 07/30/18)

1, 2, 3, 4

Kaitlyn x Emily, Becca x Emily

Regret Series (Completed)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18.1 Kaitlyn's Ending, 18.2 Becca's Ending

Regret: Rewrite

Kaitlyn x Aera (My TFS MC)

The Annual Greatest Thanksgiving Scavenger Hunt

Perfect Match

Hayden x Kai Park (PM F!MC)

Shut Down

Shut Down: Rewrite

Endless Summer

Quinn Kelly x Taylor (ES Default MC, no gender)

Ever a Never After

The Royal Romance / Desire & Decorum

The Royal Romance x Desire & Decorum Crossover (Crackfic)

With Every Heartbeat

F!Dakota Winchester x Maeve (My WEH MC)

Where Forever Faltered

I make papercrafts when I feel like it. Feel free to request for papercrafts if you want, I can't make promises but will get to them when I have time. It takes me many hours to create one papercraft so please be patient. You will have to build the papercraft model yourself.

The Freshman Series

Chris, James, and Kaitlyn

Side note: PB reblogged this papercraft back in 2018 for the Choices Appreciation Week lol back when they were still active on tumblr.

Zig, and Becca

The Royal Romance

Asian King Liam

America's Most Eligible

Jen Espinosa

[ginevrastilinski-ocs]

Glee OCs Masterlist [L-Z]

Name: Leabeth Ayre

Pronouns: she/her

Story: Untitled

LI: Jesse St James; endgame Rachel Berry

Quote: Hate and love be closer cousin than like and dislike.

Pinterest: TBD

FC: Halle Bailey

Name: Lia Sylvester

Pronouns: she/her

Story: Untitled

LI: TBD

Quote: It takes strength to forgive, but I don't feel strong.

Pinterest: TBD

FC: Olivia Dejonge

Name: Linda Berry

Pronouns: she/her

Story: Untitled

LI: Jennifer Glynn

Quote: They can't order me to stop dreaming.

Pinterest: TBD

FC: Victoria Justice

Name: Luka Fabray

Pronouns: he/him

Story: Untitled

LI: Brittany Pierce

Quote: If it makes you happy it doesn't have to make sense to others.

Pinterest: TBD

FC: Austin Abrams

Name: Lula Delaney

Pronouns: she/her

Story: The Band And I

LI: TBD

Quote: All we needed were some good friends and a song to sing along.

Pinterest: TBD

FC: Lola Tung

Name: Lyra Wells

Pronouns: she/her

Story: Untitled

LI: Noah Puckerman; Mike Chang; endgame Jesse St. James

Quote: All I know is that I want to be on stage.

Pinterest: TBD

FC: Dove Cameron

Name: Mack Pierce

Pronouns: he/him

Story: Untitled

LI: Sam Evans & Blaine Anderson

Quote: I feel small but so are stars from a distance.

Pinterest: TBD

FC: Troye Sivan

Name: Manuel Navarez

Pronouns: he/him

Story: Untitled

LI: Sam Evans

Quote: He had those kind eyes that shone with the light of "everything will be ok".

Pinterest: TBD

FC: Taylor Zakhar-Perez

Name: Maya Puckerman

Pronouns: she/her

Story: Untitled

LI: Quinn Fabray; endgame Sam Evans

Quote: They whisper in the hallways, she's a bad, bad girl.

Pinterest: TBD

FC: Alexa Demie

Name: Melanie Jay

Pronouns: she/her

Story: Untitled

LI: Rachel Berry & Quinn Fabray

Quote: And I'm so sick of running as fast as I can, wondering if I'd get there quicker if I was man.

Pinterest: TBD

FC: Hailee Steinfeld

Name: Melody Wells

Pronouns: she/her

Story: Untitled

LI: Artie Abrams; endgame Santana Lopez & Brittany Pierce

Quote: Let kindness be the language of your heart.

Pinterest: TBD

FC: Dove Cameron

Name: Mirabelle Ryder

Pronouns: she/her

Story: Untitled

LI: TBD

Quote: I have spilt more blood and marked more bruises on the cheercourt than I will ever allow your hands to take from my thighs.

Pinterest: TBD

FC: Sofia Carson

Name: Nate Simmons

Pronouns: he/him

Story: True Colors

LI: Kurt Hummel & Blaine Anderson

Quote: You deserve the love you keep trying to give everyone else.

Pinterest: X

FC: Froy Gutierrez

Italian Squad: Betta Guidi - Davide Bernardi - Francesco Moretto - Lucia Bernardi

Name: Ramona Solomon

Pronouns: she/her

Story: Untitled

LI: Quinn Fabray

Quote: Women are considered fragile but i've never seen anything as easily wounded as a man's ego.

Pinterest: X

FC: Sarah Jeffery

Name: Ronnie Nell

Pronouns: she/her

Story: The Band And I

LI: Quinn Fabray

Quote: I let my music take me where my heart wants to go.

Pinterest: TBD

FC: Maya Hawke

Name: Susan Chaldar

Pronouns: she/her

Story: The Band And I

LI: N/A

Quote: I don't need a boyfriend to feel fulfilled.

Pinterest: TBD

FC: Auli'i Cravalho

Name: Waverly Jones

Pronouns: she/her

Story: Untitled

LI: Emmett Dove

Quote: Oh, darling, all of the city lights never shine as bright as you eyes.

Pinterest: TBD

FC: Ayo Edebiri

Name: Zeke Wright

Pronouns: he/him

Story: Untitled

LI: TBD

Quote: And this is the part where you find out who you are.

Pinterest: TBD

FC: Ross Lynch

[noladyme]

The Wife - Chapter 7

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. As rumors spread that Mr. James Delaney had returned to England – making a dramatic arrival at his father’s funeral – you might imagine mothers throughout London, rushing to present their marriable daughters to the man. They did not; and for three very good reasons. First; James Keziah Delaney was clearly damaged from his travels, and not a little dangerous. Secondly; it was the general opinion of the better society that Mr. Delaney had inherited his mother’s madness. Thirdly; Mr. Delaney was not single. In fact, he was very much married.

TW: angst, violence, blood, smut (6351 words)

(You guys, I did it! I finished chapter 7! Yay!)

Rosalind took some time to recover. Every day she would be kept warm in front of the fireplace; and the dog stayed near her, lifting its head and whining every time she shifted in her seat. Whenever she felt the inkling to stand, it would put its head on her lap, to get her to stay in place.

Most nights she would sleep next to James, in his bed in the attic. Sleeping in his arms, while unable to give in to lust due to her injuries, was frustrating beyond belief. More than once, she would let her hands wander towards his groin after they’d settled in for the night; but each time, James would grab her wrists. “You are still healing, Rose”, he’d say, and no matter how much she wanted him, and let him know both verbally and physically, she would always end up disappointed. One time she even straddled him as he sat looking over ledgers at his desk, and refused to get off his lap; whereafter he simply continued his work as she sat there. In the end, James refused to come to bed before she’d fallen asleep; sitting in front of the fireplace in the attic, telling her stories of his travels, until she dozed off. On the nights when James did not come home before she retired, she would go to sleep in her own bed, and wake to him watching her from the chair by the fireplace. Then he would carry her up to the attic, and she’d spend the rest of the night in his bed.

Different men would be stationed in the front yard during the days, while James was not in the house – off on one of his secret ventures, making the last preparations for their travels. There would always be at least two men in the yard, and one posted by the back door to the kitchen. Still, Rosalind only felt truly safe when James was there. She carried the knife he had given her, either up her sleeve, or strapped to her leg. She prayed that she’d never have to use it for anything other than opening her many letters; written by acquaintances inquiring about her health. She knew that gossip was running rampant; especially as some of the letters came from countess Musgrove, and her cohorts. Along with the countess, all of them were upper-class ladies, with not much to quell their boredom, other than sharing both true and untrue stories about people they knew; or at least thought they did.

Winter would visit with her almost every day, arriving with Pearl. She would insist she was there to protect Rosalind; even showing her the knife she would use to “carve out the heart of any man who dared enter the house, without an invitation”. Mostly, Rosalind thought the girl felt safe and happy in the house of the man she seemingly admired and held above anyone else. Also, having regular hot meals and cake was a bonus. Whenever James came home, Winter’s face would light up; and she’d follow him around like a puppy, until she had to go back to Helga with Pearl. James, in turn, would speak softly to the girl, continuously asking if she was treated right by Helga, and telling her to come for him if needed.

“There is goodness in you", Rosalind said one evening, after James had sent the girl away with a shilling in her pocket, for protecting what was his. “There is no darkness without light”, James replied, repeating the words she’d spoken to him, weeks before. Rosalind laid down the embroidery she had been working on, and let James take her hand to help her up, so they could go to the dinner-table. She was perfectly capable of getting up herself, by now; but was glad to accept these small tokens of affection, seeing as James was otherwise either too occupied with business, or worried Rosalind would get hurt if he let himself go with her. “Who told you that?”, she smiled. “A very clever, yet very foolish woman". “She sounds quite intelligent to me. You should marry her”, Rosalind said, and sat down in her chair. James poured her some wine, a slight smile on his lips. “I would, but she’s already married to a brutish, dangerous man”, he said, and placed a soft kiss to her temple, before going to sit down himself.

Atticus had managed to produce a fat salmon for them, and by sneaking in some herbs from the market, Brace had made the fish beyond edible – quite delicious, in fact. Even James slowed down his usual inhalation of his dinner, and seemed to take pleasure in the taste. His good mood taken in consideration, Rosalind thought this was as good a time as any to mention her letters. Before she even had a chance to open her mouth, James spoke. “Yes? What is this thing you’re afraid to tell me?”, he said, meeting her eyes. “How did you…?”, Rosalind began. “You were scrunching your nose. You always do, when you’re about to say something, you think I will disapprove of”. She looked down, and laid her fork gently on the plate. “I’m sorry. You have too much to think about already”, she said quietly.

James put down his own fork, and sighed deeply; his expression strangely hurt. “You said you did not fear me”, he said softly. “I don’t, James”, Rosalind replied. “Then why are you suddenly so meek? Have I made you doubt my affection? My love for you?”. “No…”, Rosalind said. “I only want to do everything you ask of me, so that there are no hindrances to your plans”. “Not knowing what is bothering my wife, will keep me unfocused. That will certainly come in the way of our plans”, James said. He inclined his head towards her, as if trying to dig her thoughts out of her mind. “I want you to have anything and everything you ask for, if it is within my power to get it. And if it is not, I will still find a way. So, what is it? Hmm? Jewelry? Silk for a new gown?”. “James! Do you think so little of me, that I’d want any such frivolous things?”, Rosalind exclaimed. James smiled softly. “No; but suggesting it made you speak to me in a tone I recognize better than the one you had before”, he said. “The one that reminds me that beyond being a fool for your choice of husband, you’re also a willful and headstrong woman”.

Rosalind sat silently for a moment, before deciding to live up to James words. She pulled one of the countess’ letters from her pocket. “I have been receiving inquiries about my health. My acquaintances pretend to worry for me… They’ve been sending invitations to social gatherings, tea-parties and the like”, she said. James’ expression darkened. “And you would like to attend these functions, I take it?”, he said. “Not so much want, as need. We need it”, Rosalind said. She put the letter on the table, and pushed it towards James; who reached out to take it. “Though we no longer have to pretend when it comes to our relationship and affections towards each other, we still need to make all your enemies believe that we plan to stay in London. Me hiding away here will cause suspicion as to that”. “How?”, James asked, glancing through the countess’ writings. “We are gentlepeople. I must take part in society; it is only proper”, Rosalind said. “You asked me to live with you again, be your wife, and keep up appearances. You said you had use for me, and this is what I can do”.

James took a moment, seemingly to think over her words, before getting up from his seat, and walking over to her chair. He went down on one knee, and took her hand. “Always speak your mind. You are warm, kind, patient and good. I need you to be those things for me, because I cannot be them myself. Do not ever think yourself below me, in any matter. I rely on you as an equal. As the part of me I am missing; do you understand?”. Rosalind felt a smile tug at her lips, and she nodded. “I will always listen to your opinions, even when they differ from my own”. “In that case, I will begin visiting again”, Rosalind smiled. James got on his feet, and returned to his seat. “No”, he said shortly. Once seated, he met Rosalind’s frown with a determined gaze. “I understand your worries about propriety; but I will not risk your safety for anything”.

Rosalind fought the urge to groan loudly at her husband; settling for a deep sigh. “James… I cannot stay cooped up in the bloody house! You just said that I am your equal. I should be able to…”. “You are my equal in everything but your ability to stay alive”, James said, his voice nearing a growl. “I will not take any chances, and neither will you”. Rosalind gritted her teeth, and gave James a short nod. “Of course, husband”, she sneered. She pushed away her plate, and got on her feet. “Pardon me. I’ve lost my appetite”.

She all but stormed up the stairs to her room, hearing James snarling foreign curses from the parlor. Closing the door behind her, she went to sit in front of the fireplace; staring in to the embers. After her ordeal in Bedlam, she knew very well of how dangerous her situation was; but at the same time, she wanted to keep doing her part. She felt like an invalid – a pawn pushed off the chessboard – and the thought of not taking charge of her life and future with her husband was frustrating beyond belief. She had been taken, abused and threatened; and for years before that, she’d been robbed of her love, because of rich and evil men’s dealings. Leaving London with James – being by his side as he claimed Nootka Sound – was the revenge she needed; but he would not let her do her part to make that happen. In spite of him claiming that she was his missing half, he once again seemed to have no need for her.

Her nails created crescent shaped marks in her palms, from her clenching her hands in anger; and when she relaxed them, a tingling sort of pain streamed across her skin. James entered the room, and walked up behind her. She knew he was there, not from the sound of his footfall, but rather the lack of it. When he decided to enter a room quietly, it was always as if there was a void of sound, and even the howling from the drafty windows would halt for a few moments, until he announced himself.

“I will not apologize for trying to protect what is mine”, he said, as he went to stand next to her chair. “And I will not apologize for wanting to be a part of claiming what is mine, either”, Rosalind retorted; struggling hard to keep her voice leveled. “Yours?”, James muttered, shooting her a confused look out of the corner of his eye. “My future… Our future”, she said. “I cannot simply let things happen tome, or be done for me. I am a grown woman, who has taken care of herself for years before you came back; with close to no help…”. A hint of shame ghosted James’ face. “You are still angry that I left you”, he said. “No… Well, yes. But I’m not angry with you about that”, Rosalind said. “Then why are you angry with me?”, James asked quietly. She turned to look at him, and his eyes flickered, as if he was afraid to meet hers. “I’m angry with you, because you’re treating me like a belonging to be kept in one of your coffers or safes”, she said. “I am yours, but you are also mine. You need to go to America, and I need to help make that happen”.

James crouched in front of the fireplace, and began poking at the embers with the fire poke. “You have nightmares”, he said. “I saw what they did to you… The darkness, and the pain”. She frowned, and shook her head. “No… I’ve slept perfectly well. No dreams of any kind”. “I’ve fought them off for you”. Straining to remember any dream she might have had in the last couple of weeks, Rosalind frowned deeply. They had all been dull and nonsensical, as if any event that might have occurred in them, had been cut short, or had been kept from happening at all. “You’ve been there…”, she whispered. “Hmm", James nodded. He stood up again, and turned to look down at her; his eyes piercing and serious. “I have spent ten years missing half of myself; but when I got you back, I felt whole once more. I will never let them touch you again; not out here, and not in there…”. He put his index-finger to her forehead. “You hurt; I hurt”.

Taking his hand, she kissed his knuckles; beginning to understand his point of view. James wanted to protect her, that was clear; but her fragile brute of a husband was also protecting himself. “You are kind, my love… But I cannot hide from what happened to me for the rest of my life”, she said. “I have to… feel”. It was difficult to find a better word for her need to process her experience. “You told me to grow strong from my anger… Let me remember why I am angry, and let me have my revenge…”.

James frowned for a moment, before nodding shortly. “I will let you have your dreams”, he said. “But I fear for your sanity”. “I’ve been mad with love, since I met you the first time at that ball”, Rosalind said softly. Taking both her hands, James pulled her up to stand, and ran his thumbs over the marks her nails had left in her palms. “I love you, my Rose”, he breathed. “And I love you”, Rosalind replied. James let a smile ghost his face. “I want you to be safe”. “I understand… But I cannot help but feel set aside”, she muttered. In an uncharacteristically tender movement, James wrapped his arm around Rosalind’s waist, and held her close to him; brushing his lips to her cheek. “I hold you to highly to set you aside, wife”, he said, and pressed a kiss to the corner of her lips. “But I admit I’ve been hiding you away; and maybe for too long. If you feel well enough, we can begin promenading again. But I don’t want you leaving the house without me”. Rosalind sighed, and nodded.

They stood for a moment in silence, before Rosalind spoke again. “I think I need to take to bed". “Are you unwell?”, James asked worriedly. “Just very tired”, she said. He nodded, and made to lead her out of the room. “No, James… I will stay in here tonight… alone". He looked at her warily. “Alone”, he repeated, as if the word was completely foreign. “Why?”. “Because, though I love you and understand your stance on all of this, I am still angry; and need some time to come to my senses”. “And you cannot do that in my bed?”, James asked. “No, I have to do it in my bed, alone… Please, don’t ask me to explain it further”. “Rose, your nightmares…”.

“James, please!”. Rosalind’s tone made clear she was serious. “I have to be able to handle myself. I must do this for me”.

James let out a deep, clearly agitated breath; before nodding shortly. He pressed a possessive kiss to Rosalind’s lips; the kind that made her already weak knees even weaker. It was all she could do, to avoid giving in; and beg for her husband to take her then and there. “Goodnight…”, she breathed. He held her even tighter, and seemed to be fighting some inner battle; before finally stepping back, with only a hand on her arm, to steady her, as she regained her composure.

“Goodnight”, he said, and walked quickly out of the room; leaving Rosalind to collapse on the chair, trying to remember how to breathe.

---

That night, her dreams were dark, and James was nowhere to be found.

Leering smiles from otherwise faceless figures, as strong hands held her down, and pulled at her clothes. Unwelcome fingers travelling up the inside of her thighs, and over her breasts, as she screamed for him. He never came. Someone grabbing her hair, and scissors cutting through it. “You’re mad, miss Beauchamp. He never came back. You imagined it all”. The collar around her neck was tight; strangling her. “He is gone. He has left you. He is never coming back. It wasn’t real”. A black room. The smell of stale piss and sick. Cold and shivering, she cried into the dark. Alone.

Her eyes blinked open, and she could hardly see for tears. Rosalind almost fell out of her bed, and stumbled out of the room; running up the stairs to the attic. James was seated on the floor, dressed in only his shirt. He didn’t look up as she entered, simply opened his arms, as she fell onto the floor in front of him, and buried herself in his embrace. “Say you are here. Say you are really here!”, she sobbed; her tears drenching the fabric on his chest. “I am here”, James breathed into her ear, while running his fingers through her hair.

After some time, Rosalind managed to calm down; by pressing her ear to James’ chest, to focus on his heartbeat. “I couldn’t do it alone. I couldn’t sleep without you…”, she whimpered sadly. “I’m too weak". “No, no", James said. Her tightened his hold on her. “But just like you are what I need; I am what makes you whole and strong as well. We cannot be apart, my love”. “You are here”, Rosalind said quietly. “Hmm", James nodded. “I am here now. And when I go, you will come with me���.

She fell asleep there, on the floor in front of the fireplace, as James cradled her still shaking body.

---

“You seem healthy”, James proclaimed out of the blue, some days later as they were strolling – very slowly – down the street in Wapping. “We will soon be able to leave”. Rosalind looked at him confusedly. “Do you mean to tell me that you have postponed our departure due to my health?”. She could not help but feel guilty at the thought of it. “Hmm”, James nodded. “Had you needed a doctor, we would not have been able to reach one, if we’d left already”. He led her around a pile of horse droppings. “I am sorry”, she muttered. “Don’t be…”, James smiled slightly. “I’ve been able to finish some business without rushing; and it gave me time to arrange for more comfortable travelling”. “How so?”, Rosalind asked, before nodding politely at some acquaintances they passed.

Another smile ghosted James face. “I had walls built in the hull. We will be able to have a private cabin”. He looked at her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Oh…”, Rosalind said, taking a moment to catch on. “Oh!”. She instantly blushed. “The journey will take a few weeks, and I do not want to spend that much time without being between your legs”, James said. “Your recuperation has been torture”. Rosalind cleared her throat embarrassedly. “I have been more than willing to let you…”, she said quietly. “Willing and able are two very different things. I told you; I do not wish to hurt you, and having my way with you would do that, while you are healing”. “I’m done healing, James”, Rosalind sighed; realizing how her voice sounded almost pleading.

James took her hand, and lifted it to his lips. “Are you asking me to fuck you, Rose?”, he asked hoarsely, and kissed her knuckles. Rosalind drew in a short breath, and the heat spreading throughout her core made it difficult for her to walk properly. “I… I should like…”, she whispered; her cheeks positively burning red. “Say it, Rose… Say what you would like me to do”, James demanded. She swallowed thickly, and stopped in her tracks. A couple taking an afternoon stroll as they were, passed them, and she hid her expression, by turning her head; embarrassed by her wantonness. James raised his brows at her, goading her to reply. “I want to be fucked by my husband”, she whispered. “Hmm”, James smiled, examining her with his eyes. “It will rain soon. Let us go back to the house”. Rosalind looked up. “There isn’t a cloud in the sky…”, she said, and looked at James again, meeting his bemused eyes. “Oh…”, she said in realization. “I suppose the air is becoming a bit heavy with… rain”. James nodded shortly, and sped up; half dragging her with him.

Once back at the house, Rosalind was swiftly transported upstairs to her bedroom. After he’d closed the door, James prowled towards his wife; who stood as if frozen in place. As she made no move towards undressing, he raised a brow at her. “You may remove your hat and jacket yourself. And your boots”, he said; more an order than a statement. Rosalind unbuttoned her jacket, and took it off; letting James put it over a chair. She untied her capote under her chin, and put it on the vanity. Her gloves went down next to it, and she tugged off her boots nudging them away with her toes. “Do you want me to take off…?”, she began, and reached for the buttons on the back of her dress. “No… no, I said that once we were to share this bed, I wanted to undress you myself, and I will”, James replied.

Rosalind felt her heart skip a beat, as her husband stepped up close to her, and glanced over her body. He put his hands on her waist, and gaged any possible pain reaction from Rosalind, due to the damage to her ribs, but she felt none. “Hmm. It’s not your wedding dress, but it will do”, he said. Spinning her around, he unfastened the buttons of her gown, and pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. “I love you”, he breathed into her hair, and hooked his fingers into the shoulders of the dress, and pulled it down; letting it pool at her feet. Rosalind stepped out of it, and began unfastening the laces of her stay. “No, let me”, James insisted. “Yes…”, Rosalind said with bated breath. With nimble fingers, James pulled the laces through the loops, and soon the stay was on the floor next to the dress. He quickly shed his vest and shirt, before grabbing the skirt of her chemise, and pulling it over her head.

Having her finally naked in front of him, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked at her. His fingers ghosted her ribs, and a furrow formed between his brows. “Are you in pain?”, he asked. “No”, she assured him, and took the examining hand; pressing his palm to her lips. James’ breath hitched, and his pupils dilated for a fraction of a second. “You said these last few weeks have been torture…”. “Hmm, I did”, James nodded. “So, you missed me?”, Rosalind smiled. The draft from the window made goosebumps form on her skin, and her nipples hardened. James noticed, and his eyes flickered. Rosalind felt a boldness like she’d never experienced before rise inside her. “Tell me, what did you miss?”.

James reached for her, but she stepped back, and walked slowly towards the small table by the fireplace, where James had left a bottle of port a few nights before. She let her silhouette cast a shadow over the floor; very aware of James observing her every move. “What are you doing, Rose?”, he said. She poured herself a glass, and lifted it to her lips. “I was thirsty”, she smiled. “You didn’t answer my question”. Her husband cleared his throat, and shifted in his seat; seemingly adjusting himself. “Rosalind…”, he said warningly. She took a sip of her drink, and raised a brow at him. “James…”, she replied, and slowly walked back towards him. “Tell me what you missed… What it has been like to be without my touch”. She licked her lips, and James furrowed his brows. “Are you wanting flattery, my love?”, he said. Rosalind shrugged non-committedly, and downed her drink, before walking over to reach for her robe. “If you don’t want to say what it is about me that it is such torture to be without, then…”.

Before she knew what had happened, the robe was torn from her hands, and she was pinned against one of the bedposts, holding up the canopy. James pressed his groin against her, and his eyes burrowed deep into hers. “This… your face when you’re just about to burst from lust”, he almost growled. “This has been my face every night for weeks, my love; wanting you…”, Rosalind breathed, and pressed her palms against James’ chest, to get him to step back. “What else?”. She took his hand, and led him to sit back down on the bed. He swallowed thickly. “Your breasts… how they fit perfectly in my hands”, he said. Rosalind put one of said hands on her right breast, and smiled in pleasure, as he squeezed it. “And…?”. James stroked his fingertips up the outside of her thigh. “Your legs… when they clamp around my hips, as if you want to keep me close to you, and never leave; while I move on top of you… inside you”. He moved his hand between her legs, and one finger stroked over her labia. “And this… Your perfect, warm and wet cunt…”. She felt her cheeks burn, feeling desired and needed.

James pushed two fingers inside her, and Rosalind gasped; throwing her head back. “So… it’s, truly been torture then?”, she whimpered. “Hmm”, James nodded. “I’ve been hard as a rock every night, having to sleep with you pressed against me”. He curled his fingers forwards, and stroked them against the spot inside her that always made her see stars. “Really?”, she squeaked. He let his thumb massage the hardened nub hidden by her curls. “I’ve wanted to fuck you; feel you tighten around me”, he said. “I’ve dreamt of burying my face between your legs and feast on you. I would have gladly given up every meal, if I could only have your taste on my tongue”.

His words reminded Rosalind that she had in fact never tasted James in that manner. The thought was intriguing, and yet her newfound boldness came short, and she felt herself blush. This man had protected her and loved her deeply; and he’d wanted her as much as she had wanted him. Yet, he’d kept himself from acting on his wants, to avoid harming her. She wanted to give him all the pleasure in the world, as a way to thank him. Feeling James’s ministrations of her privates driving her closer and closer to the edge, Rosalind grabbed his wrist, and pulled his hand away from her warmth; leading his fingers to her lips. Taking them into her mouth, she hummed softly as she tasted herself on them. James eyes were wide, and his lips twitched, when she released his fingers with a small pop. “Would you like me to… use my mouth on you?”, she asked timidly. “Hmm. Mouth. Yes”, he said, flushed and with a ragged voice. Letting out a small, nervous breath, Rosalind leaned down, and kissed James deeply; letting her tongue find his, and brushing wantonly against it. He let out a guttural moan when she moved her lips down his neck, and kissed her way across his chest.

Kneeling in front of him, Rosalind began unbuttoning his trousers. He pulled the combs from her hair, and ran his fingers through the tangles, to let it fall down her back. She slipped her hand under the waistband of his trousers, and found him hard and wet at the tip. James lifted his bottom, and let Rosalind pull his trousers and pants all the way off; leaving him as naked as her. She folded her left hand around him, and smiled as the light from a candle caught in the garnet in the ring on her finger. She stroked him a few times, and heard him gasp as she opened her mouth and closed her lips around him. She let the tip of her tongue stroke against the back of his member, and made a swallowing movement. “Have you, uhm… have you done this before?”, James asked. She lifted her head, suddenly embarrassed. “No… Am I doing it wrong?”. “Ahh, no… No, that is just… It is perfectly correct… good”, he croaked.

Rosalind lowered her head, and took him in her mouth again. Moving her head up and down, she relished in the taste of her husband. He was salty and sweet, all at once, and she couldn’t help but let out a moan; which must have felt pleasurable to James, who in turn let out a deep wanton sigh. He took her hand, and placed it on his testicles. “Gently…”, he said. She softly stroked the skin there, before gently squeezing them in her palm. Sucking in her cheeks, she quickened her pace on his hardness, and let out muffled whimpers. If she’d been able to smile, she would have been doing so, ear to ear.

James played with her hair as she went, and soon fisted it; guiding her pace. He pushed her down as far as she could go, before she had to pull back. She raised her eyes to meet his, and saw his strained expression, from trying to hold back his climax. Sucking even harder, James suddenly let out a guttural groan, and pulled her off him. “I’ve ruined you”, he said, not looking guilty about that fact in the slightest. She got back on her feet. “Ruin me more”, she breathed. For a long agonizing moment, James just looked at her. “My sweet fool of a wife. I will”.

James grabbed her by the waist, and pulled her down to kiss her. Rosalind let out a small whimper of glee, when, with an arm around her back, he made her lay on the bed. Pressing a knee between her legs, he lapped at her right nipple with his tongue, and sucked hard at it. Rosalind began moving her hips to create friction against her warmth; and felt her slick spread on his thigh. James lifted his head, and attacked her mouth with deep kisses. Fisting his short locks, Rosalind held his head there, so she could reciprocate accordingly. Soon, she was shivering in pleasure from the pressure of James thigh, and the hair growing on it tickling against the sensitive skin in her groin.

Suddenly, he dove down between her legs, and sucked her lower lips into his mouth. When she reached for him, James took her hand, and their fingers merged. At first, he gently nibbled her labia, but then began ferociously flicking his tongue against her nub. Her legs began shaking, and James used his free hand to soothingly stroke her thigh, and up her side. Within a short while, everything went white, and Rosalind moaned loudly as her climax hit her.

“James…”, she whimpered. “Hmm”, James said – slight smile on his face – and crawled up her body, kissing her again; her slick still covering his beard. He gingerly stroked her side, where the guard had kicked her. “Any pain?”, he asked “No. I am alright. Please, James… I want you". James smiled mischievously at her. “Well, you will have to wait”, he said. “No… Why?”, she whimpered. “Because I want you clenching when I enter you”, he replied. “You’re going to come again. Turn around”. Her heart in her throat, Rosalind did as she was told, and went to lay on her stomach. With strong hands, James lifted her hips, so she was on her knees, while her chest rested on the bed.

He entered her with two fingers, crooked them, and began stroking against her front wall. Rosalind cried out, while his fingers pushed harder, and a tidal wave of pleasure spread through her body. It was becoming too much, and a tear escaped her eye. “Please… I can’t, James…”, she said. “Yes you can. Just let it happen, my love”. Kneeling behind her, James leaned down, and pressed a soft kiss between her shoulder blades, and sped up his movements inside her. A fire spread from her loins, and down her legs. “James…”, Rosalind whimpered. “Come, Rose”, he demanded. At his words, she lost control of her limbs, and every muscle in her lower body tensed up. It was like an explosion in her abdomen; and she buried her face in the pillow, screaming out his James’ name. When all air had left her lungs, she collapsed against the mattress.

James turned her around as gently as he was capable of in his current state. Placing himself between his wife’s thighs, he looked at her tear-stained face with wary eyes. “Did I hurt you?”, he asked. “No…”, she sniveled. “It was just… so much”. She couldn’t help but laugh a little at her own words. They didn’t even come close to describe the intense pleasure she’d just felt. James gave her a slightly confused smile, before brushing his lips against hers; and then kissed away her tears. “Good… good. Because I can’t wait any longer”.

Rosalind cried out when suddenly she felt James enter her with a hard thrust of his hips. He searched her eyes for any sign of discomfort, and when she simply gave him a blissful smile, he began moving. “My love…”, James panted, and pressed his lips to hers. “My Rose…”.

---

They did not share many words during dinner, only looks and slight smiles. Rosalind’s were properly demure and flustered; whereas James’ were smug, and his occasional hums were satisfied ones.

The post had come while Rosalind and James had been otherwise occupied, and after finishing their meal, Rosalind began to sort her way through invitations for tea and private concerts. “You should begin saying yes to invitations again”, James said abruptly. “But you said… Aren’t we leaving soon?”, Rosalind asked confusedly. “It would be impolite to accept invitations we have no intention of honoring”. “Quite soon, yes”, James said. “Which is why it is especially important that we are seen socializing”. “Giving away no motive to leave”, Rosalind said. James nodded.

She sighed, and threw the stack of papers in the table in front of her. “Take a pick”, she said. “Part for a few of them, they’re all for the both of us”. James picked up a few of the perfumed letters, and frowned. “Mrs. Collins seems quite insistent that you join them for supper this Thursday”, he grunted. “That we join them”, Rosalind corrected him. “You’ve made it clear you don’t want me leaving the house alone, and I cannot stand the thought of sitting through a dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Collins on my own. The man is flatulent beyond belief!”. “I have no intention of leaving you alone with anyone”, James said. “Unfortunately, you will have to reply negatively to the invitation, as we have other plans”. “We do?”, Rosalind asked. “Yes. Another ball at the Musgrove estate”, James replied.

Rosalind instantly blushed. “What is wrong?”, James asked. “I’m afraid I will have to ask for something I swore I never would…”. “And what is that?”. She met his eyes hesitantly. “A new gown”. A smile ghosted James’ face, and Rosalind clenched her fists to keep her temper down. “Do not laugh at me, James. The red gown is the only one I have for such an occasion, and I cannot wear it twice in such a short period”. “I am not laughing at you”, her husband said. “I am smiling because I have already thought of that. One will be delivered in the morning”. “You picked a gown for me…? Will you be dressing me as well?”, Rosalind scoffed; a little agitated about the fact that James would not let her pic her own clothes. “I prefer undressing you, Rose. You should know that”. She couldn’t help but smile at this scandalous reply.

She cleared her throat, and decided to get the conversation back on track. “Will it be like last time? When you left me to fend for myself?”, she challenged. James lit his pipe, and sat in the chair across from her. “No, not the whole time. But we will be leaving separately”, he said. “At 9 pm. you will feign a headache, and leave the ball. You will go to the harbor, where Atticus will look after you, until I arrive an hour later; having told our hosts that I am worried about you”. “Why?”, Rosalind asked confusedly.

James huffed at his pipe, and looked at her through the smoke. “Because on Thursday, we leave England”.

---

tag: @justchillin-inhell

[justrainandcoffee]

Sinners (James Delaney x fem!oc) I

Summary: Sister Agnes Hill wasn't always who she claimed to be. There was a time when she was Inés Serra, a Spanish girl that went to London with her father and brother when the patriarch lost everything he had. It was there that she also met James Delaney. "Stay away from him" her father warned her. And she should have listened to the man.

Series warnings: Everything that Taboo is, including incest. || Religious theme. || Dark themes, like murder. || My oc is a nun. || Unrequited love, for now at least. || Angst. || Not fluff at all in this series.

Words: 2.8k.

Author's note: The name Inés Serra is the Spanish version of Agnes Hill. They mean the same. All my ocs are named after flowers and there's one called "st Agnes" || I wrote some dialogues in Spanish but their translation is next every line.

1795-1803.

Inés Serra arrived at London with her father Fernando and Felipe, her eldest brother from the coast of Cantabria, Spain. Specifically, the city of Santander after the patriarch lost absolutely everything making business with a Portuguese man who stole from him. But it was legal and Fernando Serra couldn't do anything about it. He put his signature not knowing the consequences of it.

Fernando Serra was a traveller merchant sailing through the seas where he met Horace Delaney. It couldn't be said that both men became friends, but they had a mutual respect for the other and a relationship based on trust. Something that it wasn't usual those days. Not in times of constant wars, at least. Both men, collected several enemies but the other weren't one of them. Widower and without places to go, Fernando sold his last possessions and bought three tickets to England, hoping that Horace Delaney could help him. Maybe his children could have a future in the Capital city. Perhaps his daughter could marry a rich man, even that could help. But Inés was still a little girl and was only 8 years old. Felipe Serra, his son, probably could work for Delaney trade company as well, he was 13 years old was old enough to work.

Horace Delaney received them and same as Fernando. Their respective children were more or less the same age. Delaney was weird man, but Fernando couldn't complain about it. He never asked him anything and Fernando didn't bother him at all, except for the times that they talked about job. Felipe, few years older than James, preferred to work at his father's side instead of focusing on his studies. On the other hand, Inés was admitted in a school for girls.

For the next seven years, Inés studied in London where she learnt the local language along with Latin and French as it was usual. She learnt history and art. They taught her how to sew and to paint. And they taught her to respect the King and God like they were the same person.

But when Inés was 14 years old tragedy knocked on the Serra's door. Working on the docks, Felipe cut his hand with an old knife. It didn't seem to be that serious at first. It bleed but they put bandages on his hand and the young boy could keep working. But few days later he got fever and couldn't move from his bed. In less than two weeks, a terrible infection affected his whole body and Felipe, only 19 years old, died a summer night. His body was buried in the cemetery in a funeral that only his father, sister and Mr. Delaney assisted.

Inés left school a year later to stay with his father that never seemed to recover from his Felipe's death.

It was there that she started to pay attention to Delaney's son.

James was a young boy that never seemed to talk too much, but he was well educated and courteous. As far as Inés knew, he was always polite to her and her father. It wasn't until Inés started to live with Fernando that she really got to know James. The past years, he was just the firstborn of her father's boss: the heir of their fortune.

And there was also Zilpha, his half sister. Inés loved her poor brother, he was a good boy and always protected her but the relationship between the Delaney siblings, in her eyes, was totally devotion the one with the other. Zilpha was the same age as her but they studied in totally different places. Her social status allowed her to go to a better school so Inés didn't know her at all. And to be honest, the Delaney girl didn't seem to be interested in being friends with her at all.

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" Inés said once to James when she found him in the city. She started to work as governess for a rich family not long after she left school. She was still young but her education was enough to do an acceptable work teaching and taking care of those kids.

"It is, Ms. Serra," he said, smiling.

Inés confirmed that moment, that she was falling in love with James the instant his blue eyes met hers. Even when he was an impossible dream. The few last weeks, she had spent her free hours looking at him through the distance.

"Aléjate de James Delaney," her father said once he caught her looking at him. "Su madre murió en un asilo. Rumores dicen que alucinaba y era un peligro para los demás y ella misma. Y Horace no está cuerdo del todo tampoco. Si ambos padres están enfermos, sus hijos también". (Stay away from James Delaney. His mother ended in an asylum. Rumours says that she was hallucinating and was a danger to the rest and herself. And Horace isn't completely sane. If both parents are insane, so are their children.)"

Inés nodded.

"Vas a encontrar un buen hombre algun día." (One day you'll find a good man)

And yet despite the warnings, Inés couldn't stop looking at him.

Inés probably could never forget the day that everything changed. It was an afternoon that seemed to be night because a heavy thunderstorm. She was returning home after work when she saw them even when at first she thought it was her imagination, but it wasn't. There, under a tree and believing there were no one, James and his sister were kissing. They were kissing in ways that the church and also society forbade.

Maybe she was young, just 15, but she was old enough to know that everything about that absolutely wrong. The closeness between the siblings was darker than she, innocently thought at first. Inés ran inside her bedroom and thanked the rain that disguised her tears.

Her father was right: the Delaneys were sick.

Inés, that usually found an excuse to talk to James now started to avoid him completely and that didn't go unnoticed by him.

"Are you going to work?" he asked days later. "I have my horse, if you want to."

"I'm fine. Thanks, I prefer to walk this morning."

"Is everything alright?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, Mr. Delaney I've to go."

James looked at her, walking fast and disappearing from his view as soon as she turned the corner.

Inés thought about telling her father what she saw, but she was afraid of the consequences that the revelation could cause inside the family and Fernando Serra still depended on Delaney generosity to keep working. So she said nothing, but the girl started to resent Zilpha. Her money, her education, her last dress and her relationship with James. World wasn't fair and it wasn't Zilpha's fault that she couldn't afford those dresses or the professors she had, but the envy started to grow inside her like a cancer. But it was especially because of James. Maybe it wasn't Zilpha's fault that she was poorer, but it was that she had James' attention. Because it was wrong, it was forbidden and Inés was sure both siblings knew that. In top of all the things Ms. Delaney had and Inés didn't, the other girl also had the love of the only person that Inés felt she could give her heart.

.

Maybe his sister didn't notice anything because Zilpha never really paid attention to Inés, but James did notice the way the teenage girl who used to greeted him every time they saw each other, suddenly didn't do it anymore. And it was clear now that she was avoiding him. If James' suspicious were right, then it was better to him to talk to her. His life, after all, was going downhill no matter what. His insubordination against the East Indian Company could cost him his head and his love for his sister already condemned him to hell, and he was barely 16 years old.

He wrote a letter to her asking Inés to find him at the port. There were always people there and none were going to pay attention to two young friends talking.

The wisest thing to do was not going there. It'd have been clever if she'd have listened to the voice in her head, but she didn't. First, because she was just 15 years old and then, because she was madly in love with the boy who sent her the letter asking her to meet him.

James saw her coming, she was wearing a blue dress and a hat with a veil covering part of her face. James was sure that boys did pay attention to her because she was pretty and her Spanish accent help her to be more captivating. Sadly, for him, the only thing he noticed looking at her was that she wasn't Zilpha.

"Am I late? I couldn't leave in time the house where I work because one of the kids is sick. Poor boy, but I guess he'll be fine soon."

"No, you're just in time, don't worry."

"I'm glad then. What do you want? Your letter said it was urgent, but you didn't say anything else."

"Mmh. Yes. Inés, I know that you know. I know you saw us- my sister and I. I don't know exactly what did you see, but I know you're avoiding me because of that."

Inés stared at him for a moment before looking down, playing with her gloves.

"Under the tree. A thunderstorm months ago, you and her were kissing."

James sighed. Yes, he remembered now. It was Zilpha's idea and he accepted because he didn't know how to say no to her.

"Inés-"

"No. Don't. I know enough to know that it's bad and I don't want to be involved in that. I don't want explanations… Mierda- fuck." Inés felt her eyes filling with tears and hated herself. "Te amo," she finally said to him.

She shouldn't have said that, but if she didn't say it, the envy, the hate she felt towards Zilpha it was going to be the end of her. Tomorrow morning she was going to ask her father to send her to Ireland, or maybe back to Spain to start a new life far away from James and his sister because the only thing that Inés was getting of all that was corrupting her heart.

"You don't love me," James said. "Give your love to a good man, because you're a good woman, Inés. I don't deserve it."

"Don't tell me what do I deserve or what I don't. And I do love you, so bad I love you. My father is waiting for me, James. I have to make dinner for him."

She hated her weakness in that moment. She hated her voice trembling and her tears running down her face.

The boy that James was back then, wasn't the cold man that he was destined to be and even when probably he was just motivated by pity and a bit of compassion, he kissed her. Inés felt his hand first on her waist and then him bringing her closer to him. She let him guide her. Inés felt she was dreaming, because she dreamt about it but even there it wasn't that good as it was now. Her hands were caressing the back of his neck, as James pushed even closer to him.

She loved him, so it happened that she offered him her virginity when the kisses weren't enough and James took it. It was behind a cantina, while she was sitting on a barrel. Probably, Inés thought, Zilpha was even privileged enough to be in his bed and never where they were now. Not where probably people passing by, and ignoring them, just believe she was a cheap whore. Another one of the dozens that were there.

At least he didn't hurt her and it was as gentle as he could. She hid her head on his neck when both of them climaxed. They kissed again, slower this time.

"Te amo," she repeated. But he didn't answer back, just tucked her hair behind her ear.

James pulled up his pants and helped her to get off the barrel.

"Goodbye, James." Tears were burning her eyes, but the girl didn't gave him the chance to do nor say anything because ran away from there.

Her father wasn't there when she arrived to the house and Inés was grateful for that. She cook something for him and left a note saying she didn't feel good and didn't want to eat.

Alone in her bedroom, the girl hugged a pillow to muffling her sobs, while she remember what happened.

She couldn't bear to see him next to his sister. Or watching her clinging to him, while she whispered something to him. Inés couldn't bear the idea of them pretending to be siblings during the day when they were lovers during night.

James sought her the following days but not avail. He wanted to apologize but didn't know how. Even when he didn't force her to do anything, the barrel, the cantina felt so bad to him. She was a good person, she didn't deserve what he did.

But destiny was ready to play its cards and the apologies should wait ten years, if the man he was about to be was still willing to apologize to her.

Ten years later: 1813.

Inés Serra was dead as her brother was and also her father. Fernando Serra died seven years ago probably because his liver failed after drinking just rum for over a decade. But Inés died two years before him and in her place was now Agnes Hill.

Sister Agnes, specifically, the one who worked in st. Bartholomew hospital, helping people and near the American man surnamed Dumbarton.

She didn't trust him but the hospital did and she was there just to follow orders. So far, the doctor besides being a weird man who loved chemicals never bothered her or the other sisters ever. Yet, everything about him didn't like her.

Agnes started her day as always. Her little and modest bedroom faced the streets and the morning workers always woke her up. She prayed before having her breakfast and after cleaning her space, went like always to the hospital.

"Thanks, sister," a man in wheelchair said to her, after she helped him to sit there and wheeled him outside to enjoy the sun.

Agnes heard the voice of sister Clarice, telling a man "just follow the smell." She saw his back and hat but not his face. She didn't care, probably another one looking for Dumbarton.

Agnes forgot completely about the unknown man, the American and even Sister Clarice, because she was talking to her patient. He was a funny grandpa always talking about his son and granddaughters and he made her laugh, but it was getting cold and he should return inside.

It was when she was heading to another wing, when Agnes saw the man wearing the top hat and she felt her heart stop. Ten years passed, she knew that. She even could say how many days passed since he left.

James Keziah Delaney is dead. She heard the rumours about his death one time she left the monastery to visit her father. James Delaney died in the sea.

Or he was alive, or he was the devil visiting her.

James' eyes caught a nun staring at him and for a moment he didn't pay attention to her until he looked at her again.

It was her. Clearly older, but it was her.

James turned to walk towards the nun but she wasn't there anymore. James looked around but didn't see her. He was busy, he couldn't stay there for a person who escaped from him once again. Through a peephole of one of the many doors that the hospital had, she saw him walk away.

And Agnes knew that even when Inés was dead, the feelings she believed dead as well, were still there. Burning her like the infernal flames around the Devil.

NEXT

[inkwolvesandcoffee]

Claddagh (F!Irish Human Reader x Werewolf Antiquarian!James Delaney)

Genre: Fluff, Romance, Angst

Pairing: F!Irish Human Reader x James Delaney (M!Werewolf Antiquarian)

Word count: 2.2K

Warnings: Very light angst, allusion to smoking, past violence, and discrimination, tooth-rotting fluff

Summary: Infuriating is one way of describing London-based antiquarian James Delaney. Distant and cold with a tendency to cruelty is another. However, on a sunny day, he allows you to look beyond the darkness around him.

To see the one light he has allowed in.

You.

Author note:

Your modern filí is back! A round of applause for finally finding the motivation to finish and edit this piece, please!

Now, I know James Delaney is a character from Taboo (which is a splendid series, btw, so I highly recommend checking it out), but I have given my own spin on him by lowkey fusing him with Leo Demidov from Child 44 and Tommy Conlon from Warrior. Thus, he has become one of my OCs... this is totally not me trying to justify my decisions. Anyways, he’ll be tagged as one from now on.

Cracking on! Claddagh! What is it?

The Claddagh ring I have inspired this wee piece. It is a traditional Irish ring depicting a crowned heart that’s held by two hands. The heart represents love, the crown stands for loyalty, and the two clasped hands symbolize friendship.

According to Irish author Colin Murphy, the way the piece of jewellery conveys one’s relationship status and is worn with that intention. 

On the right hand with the point of the heart toward the fingertips: the wearer is single and might be looking for love.

On the right hand with the point of the heart toward the wrist: the wearer is in a relationship; someone "has captured their heart"

On the left ring finger with the point of the heart toward the fingertips: the wearer is engaged.

On the left ring finger with the point of the heart toward the wrist: the wearer is married.

(Also, it goes without saying I do not own the pictures used in the moodboard and that the credit for them goes to their respective owners)

Story masterlist

Summer days are made for reading and classical music, to be perfectly enjoyed from your balcony while the city lives on in the background. Slivers of conversations over the phone drift on the dry wind as people walk past, some of them seemingly talking to themselves thanks to their earphones or AirPods. If not holding a water bottle, they have a cup in their hands, fueling the ever on-going silent conflict between Costa, Starbucks, and Café Nero. The occasional jogger raises the question of how sane one actually is to go out running when a single minute outside will have your clothes sticking to your skin.

But days like these are also to continuously have the shadow of the man the whole city seems to condemn in the corner of your eye.

“You’re staring.”

“Mhm.”

“Am I really that interesting?” I ask without looking away from the page.

“Mhm,” comes the same gruff answer.

I clench my jaw at his usual lack of response, the rest of my body following suit by growing rigid. Nevertheless, the irritation is blatantly noticeable in the way my fingers briefly dig into the cover of the book, imagining it’s his throat.

Don’t kill him. You’re in this together. The bloody buffoon needs you as much as you need him. 

With an exaggerated sigh, I let out the breath I’ve been holding, slip a bookmark between the pages, and throw the novel into my lap. Arms crossed and chin held high, I lean back while keeping my eyes trained on the burly figure making his way over. Likely having missed the weather report yet unbothered by the summer heat, he has opted for the usual dark attire. To be fair, the antiquarian has marched to the beat of his own, admittedly righteous, drum since the moment we met at the auction in Mayfair. So it’s not surprising to see him dressed in a neat black shirt shirt, a matching waistcoat and long trousers. However, the rolled up sleeves are a subtle sign the weather is affecting him. All the same, I do have to give him credit for maintaining a consistent style.

I wish I could say the same for his actions.

“You could at least use words, James. D’you know how- what- what are you doing?”

The torrent of harsh words dancing on the tip of my tongue dies down with each step that closes the distance between us. The low gust of wind carries a whiff of the intoxicating mixture of nicotine, sandalwood and musk, which provokes the side of me that is like putty in his crude hands. By the time there is a single step left, there is no sliver of determination to go against him left, only the willingness to submit and repeat last night.

Although, it would be a repeat of most nights.

It’s shameful and hypocritical to long for the one man who has been nothing but a pain in the arse. Yet, I am guilty of enjoying the sex even if it leads to nowhere. All the same, I try.

Try to find the crossroads.

The place he’ll meet me halfway.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

A silly endeavour, isn’t it? 

A pointless silent hope.

The days in the army and those spent shortly as a port labourer at the port of London when not getting involved in cage fights have left his palms rough and callous. Action is in their muscles, threaded through with violence. As deft and strong like a bear catching a salmon, they envelop mine, which snaps me out of the melancholy reverie. Normally, the warmth and feel of his big hands would make my heart somersault, but that’s only during the rare times.

The moments when it isn’t like walking around the walls of Jericho.

The moments in between.

They occur during the late night cigarettes he smokes while I trace his peculiar tattoos, curious about the stories behind them, or he allows me to trace the deep gash running from his neck to his chest, the skin raw and rigid. They are the mornings or evenings of an auction, when he tells me to dress nice before kissing my forehead and getting ready himself. They are even there in the midst of darkness, created by the midnight ghost-like walks around London he sometimes permits me to accompany him on. They also tend to take on the form of the afternoons he spends at the desk at the back of the shop, immersed in inspecting whatever antique he has acquired and thus forgetting all about his tea. 

Without milk, strong, dark, preferably darjeeling. 

I flinch, but blink in surprise at the ease with which I retract my hand from his. Nonetheless, unwilling to submit to our usual dynamic of me putting in most of the work and him being infuriatingly stoic, I let the sharpness of my tone speak for itself. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

James lets out a gruff sigh and reaches out again. Catching on quickly to the tactic of backing away every inch he comes closer, his rough fingers shoot forth like a rattlesnake and entwine mine in the familiar iron grip I had expected the first time.

Hardly anything turns out alright when the antiquarian is involved, his mere touch meaning violence and darkness are not far behind. Regardless of the lull in our search for the Sturluson text supposedly containing the ritual to enter Valhalla as a living mortal, I refuse to have a part in what lurks in the shadows he has taken with him today.

It’s almost comical, the effort put into trying to pry his bear claw of a hand loose. However, the pushing and pulling nor the wrangled curses are much of a concern, if a bother at all, for the man. Ignoring, as per usual, the struggle to break free from his touch, he calmly rummages in the pocket of his waistcoat.

“I swear by all that is holy and all that is not, if you don’t let go of me right fucking now,” I pick up the book in my lap and hold it up, ready to strike, “I’ll send you to the Devil himself. You could give him a book recommendation as soon as you see him.”

Because I really do like the novel he bought for me during the small trip to Foyles earlier this week on a dreary Monday: The Club Dumas by Arturo Pérez-Reverte.

Not that I would ever admit it because James Delaney is absolutely not worth granting an easy victory. I do have my pride, after all.

The pleasant warmth of his palm falls away as his fingers unfurl to casually pluck the novel out of my hand and plonk it on the glass side table. Then he nods to indicate something below, a note of curiosity in the short grunts he thinks constitutes a proper question.

On my ring finger there’s a thin silver band depicting two hands holding a crowned heart inlaid with my birthstone. 

A slight smile spreads on my lips as I slowly raise my hand to admire the piece of jewellery in the sunlight. The wave of nostalgia fully crashes over me as memories of my Nan float to the surface, of the stories she used to tell me as we hiked in Coole Park, the place where the greatest folklorist of our family once resided. What I would not give to return to those days, free and careless.

Away from London.

Away from… James.

Strangely, despite the rocky relationship with the big, burly eejit, the thought of returning to a life without him erases the nostalgic happiness. We are here, in the ever-expanding, all-devouring heart of a broken empire.

And, somehow, there is a part of me that would not have it any other way. Because if there is someone who might know it best, it’s the bloody bastard whose stormy greyish  blue eyes are sparkling with rare delight. A sliver of a smirk tugs at the corners of his full lips, barely restrained.  

So this was your master plan all along, was it?

A pleasant warmth expands in my chest, moving up in a flush across my neck and face. Various emotions are at war with one another, though none of them know how to adequately express themselves. So, I lower my head to hide the effect the gift and, essentially, he has on me. Nevertheless, the way I twist the band around my finger should provide James with ample evidence to imagine how I truly feel even though neither words nor my tone convey a genuine sense of gratitude. “Uhm, I mean… thank… you?”

A sonorous, gravelly purr rises from the depths of his throat. I snap up at the sound, but awkwardly clear my throat at the sight of the eyebrow cocked in surprise. If there is one thing I refuse it’s granting James the pleasure of detecting any hint of fragility in me. He might be a wolf, but even a human woman has her pride and being to protect, which she can very well do herself. “Don’t think I’ll let you off because of this. Do you always have to be so fucking difficult?”

“Like it?”

Lips pursed, I raise my shoulders in a vain attempt to shrink and hide myself from his annoyingly proud scrutiny. “Yes.”

“Good.”

“Why, though?”

His expression falters and he remains quiet, holding out on providing an answer. After all, why would there be a reason for him to give a gift as intimate as a promise, especially one embodied by a band around a specific finger?

I mimic his expression, a response which causes him to roll his eyes. Nonetheless, he briefly glances to the side and licks his lips, sitting on the answer yet unable to voice it. 

After another moment of silence, he finally answers. “You’ve been missing home, but have been unwilling to talk to me about it. My contact in Ireland procured this ring for me, telling me I-’’

He leaves the sentence unfinished and swallows hard, hesitant to share his weakness.

“What? What did they tell you?” I probe, wilfully forgetting how often it has led to nothing. If James is one thing, it’s a man of few words and a lot of bottled up feelings.

However, much to my surprise, there is an actual response.

“That I should be open with you. Sit down and talk. Try to be less…” he lets out a deep sigh and looks down at his fiddling fingers, uncertain now that they no longer have a ring to hold.

The silence returns and lingers for a moment while I patiently wait for him to continue. A strange remorse mars his features when he looks up again and locks his gaze with mine. Barely audible, he finishes the sentence. “Savage.”

The barely audible word drops a heavy stone in my stomach and tugs heavily on the strings holding my heart together, usually so tightly woven yet now almost tearing apart for perhaps one of the most infuriating men I have met throughout my life. And yet, here I am, hurting for, no, with him. 

Despite the usual hesitance to touch him, never knowing whether he’ll allow it, I extend a trembling hand to cup his cheek. James leans into the touch, his lashes slowly fluttering shut as he, perhaps unconsciously, emits another appreciative purr as my fingers glide over the stubble lining his jaw. 

My throat thick with sorrow and pain, I try to offer him solace as best I can. “You might not seem to understand basic etiquette at times, which drives me up the bloody wall, I won’t lie to you. But, all the same, you’ve never been savage in my eyes.”

“Good.”

“Thank you for the ring.”

“Mhm.”

Ah, we’re back at noises for answers.

Although the wolfish communication is normally a point of contention, it isn’t now. For James to open up like this is a big feat, an massive effort, so it’s only fair of me to leave him be instead of chastising him for who he simply is.

Feeling a little brave and foolish enough to test the waters, I ask him a question I had never thought I would. “Can I hug you?”

Nose pressed into my palm to nuzzle it like a wolf scenting something, warming the skin with the friction caused by his coarse but neatly trimmed beard, he nods in consent. “Mhm.”

I get up from the chair, crouch down, and carefully embrace him. True to his word, James returns the gesture. However, my heart skips a beat when he lifts me into his lap and tightens the hug, burying his face in my neck like he had with my hand a moment ago. 

I don’t ask questions. Instead, I remain silent and live in the moment.

Thus we sit on the tiles as London roars and carries on without a care in the background, arms entwined.

And though the timing might be right and I could for once push my pride aside, the three words that have crossed my mind nowadays remain sitting on the tip of my tongue. 

The sunlight reflects off of the Claddagh ring.

On my left ring finger.

The point of the heart turned towards the wrist.

[ravenclawboyy]

— Shadows in the Sanctuary ഒ ｡ﾟ🕯️

—

- ✧ In the heart of a gray and desolate town, where the fog clung to the cobblestones like a reluctant memory, there stood a dilapidated church. The townsfolk whispered of its dark history but seldom ventured inside. It was a place where secrets seemed to linger, and the echoes of forgotten prayers filled the air On a particularly dreary Sunday, the congregation shuffled into the church, weary souls seeking solace in the dim light. Among them was a young girl , her innocence in stark contrast to the shadows that danced across the walls. With her long, flowing hair and wide, curious eyes, she looked as if she had stepped out of a storybook that had long been abandoned. James Delaney, a man who had wrapped himself in mystery and darkness, watched her from the shadows. With a past steeped in doubt and a reputation cloaked in fear, he had come to this forsaken town searching for something elusive—a sense of belonging, perhaps, or the thrill of power he had once tasted. That day, he donned the guise of a priest, an intricate facade built upon layers of deception. Draped in a tattered black robe, he approached the altar with a confidence that belied the turmoil within. He spoke words of redemption, his voice smooth and intoxicating. The congregation never noticed the glint of something sinister behind his dark eyes, nor the way he lingered a moment too long on A/N face.

After the service, when the townsfolk filtered out into the dreary street, A/N remained inside, drawn to the flickering candles that cast playful shadows. James seized the moment. He approached her with a soft smile, the kind that could easily be mistaken for warmth but felt more like an alluring invitation to a world she couldn’t yet comprehend. “Child, do you seek the light?” he asked, his voice low and persuasive, drawing her into an embrace of false safety.“I do,” she replied, her innocence shining through the shadows that loomed within the church. “I want to help people find hope.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to join me in a special prayer,” he suggested, the corners of his mouth curling into a devilish grin. “In this dark town, we must hold onto our faith, even when the shadows threaten to consume us.” A/N nodded, entranced by his charisma. She followed him deeper into the church, her heart racing not with fear but with naivety—an innocent curiosity that stirred within her soul. In the secretive recesses of the church, the true nature of their encounter was revealed; the sanctuary became a stage set for a dance between redemption and ruination.As he led her through murmurs of ancient chants that twisted the very essence of faith, she felt an odd thrill. Each word he spoke resonated within her, awakening something she didn’t understand. Yet, she remained blissfully ignorant of the darkness lurking just beneath the surface of his teachings.

“Worship is a form of surrender, my dear,” he whispered, his voice dripping with temptation. “And in surrendering, we can find freedom from the burdens of this world. Will you worship with me?” A/N felt her heart bloom with an odd mixture of warmth and trepidation. In that moment, as the flicker of candlelight danced around them, she believed she had found a kind of salvation, unaware of the perilous path upon which she was treading—a path that led deeper into the shadows where James Delaney thrived. As weeks passed, their secret meetings continued, the lines between worship and manipulation blurring as darkness seeped further into A/N once-innocent heart. James reveled in the power he held over her, each whispered promise stewing inside him—a devil disguised as a savior.

But in a town cloaked in gray, where the remnants of hope flickered like those fragile candles, the balance between innocence and evil was a precarious one. Little did they know that their destinies were entwined in an eternal struggle between light and dark, and that even the most innocent souls could harbor shadows of their own. In the sanctuary of twisted devotion, the question lingered—would A/N realize the truth before darkness consumed her? Or would she surrender to the charming facade of the devil, lost forever in his embrace?

As the weeks stretched into months,A/N once-gleaming spirit began to subtly tarnish. The flickering candlelight that had once brought her comfort now cast long, distorted shadows that danced ominously on the church walls, taunting her as if to remind her of the veil of deceit that surrounded her. James, ever the puppeteer, continued to weave his web of influence, ensnaring the young girl with teachings that felt profound yet sinister. He handed her sacred texts, each page imbued with his twisted interpretations. Through his eloquent tongue, he reshaped her understanding of faith, replacing innocence with a thirst for power cloaked in righteousness. "True salvation lies not in blind faith, but in the will to embrace darkness and bend it to your desires," he instructed one evening, his voice imbued with an intoxicating fervor. A/N listened, captivated as she hung on his every word, believing she was being granted secret knowledge meant for only the worthy. Yet, deep within her, a flicker of doubt began to grow—a tiny ember that threatened to ignite into a rebellion against the darkness that ensnared her. She often found herself staring into the cold depths of the church's stained glass, the images of saints and sinners juxtaposed, their faces reflecting the battle within her. She would think of her parents, of the joyful nights spent under starlit skies before the town succumbed to despair, and wonder if her path had truly veered so far from the light. One evening, it was a wintry chill that brushed against her skin as she entered the church’s hollow silence. The candle flames flickered faintly against the oppressive gloom that had come to settle within her heart. In the corner of the sanctuary, she glimpsed the figure of a woman—ghostly pale, with eyes like storm clouds—who appeared to be weeping. “Help me,” the specter whispered, her voice echoing with a sorrow that chilled A/N to the bone. “You must help us all.” A/N's breath caught in her throat as she recognized the woman’s features—the likeness of a long-forgotten townsfolk, rumored to have been a victim of James’ dark machinations. The stories whispered on the cobbled streets floated back to her, tales of misplaced trust and broken souls ensnared by the priest’s charisma. “What do you mean?” A/N asked, stepping tentatively toward the apparition, her heart pounding as apprehension coursed through her veins. “Who are you?”“I am but a remnant, a warning,” the woman replied, sorrow sinking into her words. “James is no savior; he is the harbinger of despair. You must break free from his clutches before the darkness claims you like it did me.”

But James emerged from the shadows just then, his presence oppressive and cold, a dark cloud that blocked the light of understanding. He grabbed A/N's wrist gently, yet possessively, and pulled her back into the fold of his embrace. “Do not listen to phantoms, my dear. They are mere tricksters, trying to draw you away from true enlightenment. The world is full of shadows, and only by embracing them can we transform them into our strength.” A/N’s heart raced as she turned to him, adrenaline coursing through her. The war within her waged on. Should she trust this man, this supposed savior, or heed the warning of the woman who knew the price of deception? In the days that followed, A/N wrestled with shadows and whispers that danced in her mind like restless spirits. With each secret encounter, she began to unravel the truth—James’ true powers seemed to derive from their bond, yet that power came at a cost. The more she surrendered to him, the more pieces of her own soul she lost.

She begun to seek out the townspeople, cautiously gathering snippets of their stories, shrouded memories buried under layers of fear. A/N discovered the dark legacy that had birthed that dilapidated church: tales of those who had disappeared, lives intertwined with tragedy beneath James’ predatory gaze. One night, as a storm brewed outside, A/N made her decision. She confronted James amidst the flickering shadows, the rumble of thunder the only witness to their confrontation. “You’re not a priest. You’re a thief, stealing lives and hope.” James’ eyes narrowed, a flash of anger igniting within him. “You dare speak to me in such a manner? I gave you a glimpse into a power greater than you can comprehend. You were meant to be part of something greater!”

“I don’t want your darkness,” A/N declared, her voice shaking but firm. “I want my life back—the light, the laughter, the love!” As storms raged outside, A/N sought to sever the ties of manipulation that had entangled her heart. In that moment of rebellion, she summoned all the courage she possessed, forcing the specters of doubt and intimidation into submission.The ground trembled beneath them as energy crackled forth; she reached for the remnants of her childhood innocence woven deep within her soul. Would it be enough to wrest control from the hold of a devil masquerading as a savior? As the confrontation reached its apex, a blinding white light erupted from her heart—a beacon of hope. James stumbled back, his darkness clashing violently with the strength of her newfound resolve. The congregation’s whispers of faith, once mere echoes, surged to life, amplifying her spirit. In that pivotal moment, A/N recognized that within her lay the capacity for both light and dark, and she wielded the power to choose her fate. With one final surge, she cast forth the whispers of the weeping woman, the tribe of forsaken souls, and the hope of the townsfolk into the depths of despair that James had created. And as the storm continued to rage outside, illuminating the night sky with flashes of brilliance, the church that once resonated with shadows trembled beneath the weight of her defiance, the old walls beginning to crack away, revealing a path toward redemption and healing.

In that gray, desolate town, a new dawn was breaking. A/N's journey was just beginning, but she stepped forward into the light, confronting her past while casting aside the allure of darkness, determined to reshape the world she had once believed to be lost forever. The struggle between innocence and evil had now sparked a fire of renewal—a flicker of hope transforming the shadows into a luminous beginning.

tags : @zablife / @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler / @xxanaduwrites / @tickettride / @justrainandcoffee / @raincoffeeandfandoms / @hecatemoon87 / @stvolanis / @lustnhim

[noladyme]

The Wife - Chapter 1

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. As rumors spread that Mr. James Delaney had returned to England – making a dramatic arrival at his father’s funeral – you might imagine mothers throughout London, rushing to present their marriable daughters to the man. They did not; and for three very good reasons. First; James Keziah Delaney was clearly damaged from his travels, and not a little dangerous. Secondly; it was the general opinion of the better society that Mr. Delaney had inherited his mother’s madness. Thirdly; Mr. Delaney was not single. In fact, he was very much married.

TW: angst, violence, blood, smut (6573 words)

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. As rumors spread that Mr. James Delaney had returned to England – making a dramatic arrival at his father’s funeral – you might imagine mothers throughout London, rushing to present their marriable daughters to the man. They did not; and for three very good reasons.

First; James Keziah Delaney was clearly damaged from his travels, and not a little dangerous. Strange reports were made of late night magic rituals, and more than once the gentleman had been seen with red stained hands – though it was unclear whether the stains stemmed from blood, or the powders he would use to draw markings on his face.

Secondly; it was the general opinion of the better society that Mr. Delaney had inherited his mother’s madness; and no one wanted to risk a familiar connection with a woman who ended her days in Bethlem Royal Hospital – in common tongue, Bedlam Insane Asylum.

Thirdly; Mr. Delaney was not single. In fact, he was very much married.

---

Rosalind was seated in front of the small fireplace in her room at Mrs. Owen’s boarding house, fiddling with the garnet ring she wore on the long finger of her right hand. The fire had long since gone out, but she hadn’t the stamina or even will to get up and feed the dying embers with more wood. As it was, the cold she felt streaming through her veins went well with the chill of the room.

In her hand, she held a letter sent by Mr. Thoyt; the lawyer of her late father-in-law. She’d read it twice; and then once more, just to see if she had not been mistaken.

To; Rosalind Beauchamp c/o Mrs. Fanny Owen

Dear Madam, I sincerely hope this letter finds you well, as I received information that your absence from the funeral of your late father-in-law, was due to an ailment of some kind. Had you attended, I had a seat saved for you in the front pew, where it would have been proper for the heiress of Mr. Horace Delaney to be seated. Alas, I had to take the seat myself, as to not leave it unused; and make the fullness of the pews in the church seem uneven.

Rosalind rolled her eyes at this. There was no doubt in her mind that Thoyt would have filled the seat right next to her, if she had been there; claiming that would be proper, as he was the executor of the elder Delaney’s will.

I should like to extend the well wishes of Mr. Thorne Geary, who has asked if it would be in your wish to promenade with him one of the coming days. I counsel you to accept his visit; as you know he has only your well-being in mind, and bears warm sentiments towards you.

These sentiments Rosalind was well aware of; and was in fact doing her best to avoid the man, so she would not have to spend another drawn out visit, avoiding the topic of widows and widowers remarrying.

It is my hope that your ailment is not of the heart, for I fear I have rather disturbing news to pass on to you; and would not want to make you even more frail. I must inform you that James Keziah Delaney has returned to London. He arrived at the funeral service shortly before the minister began his sermon. These past ten years have changed him much, but it is indeed him.

James. After 3 years as a scorned wife, with a runaway husband, and then 7 more as a widow; he’d returned. A hard knot had formed in her stomach as she read on.

My dear, I urge you to avoid any contact with Mr. Delaney. He is, I reiterate, very different than the gentleman you knew; and from the looks of him, more beast than man. I will be happy to offer any legal aid you might need to separate from him, and fight for your inheritance. James Delaney was proclaimed dead 7 years ago; but as he has been gone for so long, I am sure we can find some legal way to proclaim you continued sole heiress of the Delaney fortunes – among them, the rights to the area in America known as Nootka Sound. I should like to call on you at your earliest disposal. With regards; Robert Thoyt, solicitor.

Rosalind’s hands were shaking, as she held on to the letter. She got on her feet, gazing at the intricately decorated chest in front of the bed in her small room. It had been a gift from her father-in-law; one that he had purchased on one of his many travels. It was the only gift she had ever received from the man, that hadn’t been given out of some sense of responsibility to her. She laid down the letter on the bedside table, and walked over and opened the chest. Moving around gloves, fabrics, unfinished embroidery works, and small boxes of beads and trinkets; she reached the bottom of the chest, where a for years untouched muslin gown lay, next to a veil of fragile lace. She pulled out the delicate dress, and laid it on the bed. It still had a dark stain on the front, from where the minister had spilt wine on her, as her husband and she had taken communion together after being wed. Once outside the church, James had stroked his index finger over the red stain – which was just over the left breast, and smiled. “It matches your lips, Rose”, he’d said; and her distress over having her wedding gown ruined in such a manner, left way to happiness. The way any woman should feel on her wedding day. She hadn’t realized she was crying, until another stain disgraced the muslin; one from a tear.

It was all too much to believe. This man, whom she’d cherished with a naïve and young heart, had suddenly reappeared, after being proclaimed dead. She had to see if it was true; if it was truly him.

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Owen stepped inside; her large figure filling the doorway. “Lunch is ready, miss Beauchamp”, she said. “Thank you, but I will be going out”, Rosalind said. Mrs. Owen smiled brightly. “Will you be meeting Mr. Geary, then?”, she asked. “I will not”. “Mr. Thoyt?”. Rosalind had become a master at keeping her composure in regards to her nosy landlady; but today she was a little less inclined to be polite. “It is a private matter. Please call a carriage for me”, she said shortly, and the stout woman recoiled slightly at her tone. “Right away, miss”.

After the door closed again, Rosalind stripped off her plain, cotton day dress, and put on a dark blue gown; more suited for an afternoon visit. She shrugged off her inclination to wear the red gown. That would be too much. Her dark grey jacket, a purse and a capote to match, finished her ensemble. Her boots weren’t much to speak of, but they kept her feet mostly dry; though the soles were wearing thin.

The carriage was waiting for her outside the boarding house. She asked the driver to take her back to her former home.

---

Chamber House was even more dreary than when she’d been there last. The smell from the river running behind the house struck her nose, and Rosalind felt a chill go through her body. Trying to open the metal gate, she had to lean against it; putting her whole weight on the rusty thing. It made a loud screeching sound, when it finally opened.

The garden in front of the house was unkempt, and the windows on the bottom floor had been boarded up. For a moment, she considered leaving, as the building seemed abandoned. Maybe Thoyt had been mistaken, and the man at the funeral was an imposter. Smoke from the chimney let Rosalind know that someone was inside, but she had also heard stories of mudlarks roaming empty houses for warmth and the occasional cat that could be made in to dinner. This wasn’t a place for proper ladies, as countess Musgrove would say, but the countess was hardly a proper lady herself, and Rosalind had business to attend.

She went up the few steps to the door, and took a deep breath, before knocking on the door. There was the sound of a dog barking, and then some shuffling around, followed by a voice muttering at the dog. The door opened, and a slight, tired looking man appeared in front of her. “Brace…”, Rosalind greeted him quietly. The old butler stood seemingly dumbfounded at her arrival. She looked up at the sky. “It seems about to rain. May I please come in?”. “Of course, ma’am", Brace muttered, and stepped aside.

The grand hallway was less grand than it had been, years before. The house seemed dark and cold, and Rosalind did not feel inclined to take of her hat or jacket, when Brace reached for them. “I won’t be staying long”, she said. “I just came to see… Is it true? Is he back?”. “He is…”, Brace said with a nod. “This last week". “And you didn’t feel it necessary to inform me?”. Brace looked at the floor in front of him, and fidgeted with the hem of his tattered jacket. “He is changed, Mrs. Delaney…”, Brace began. “Miss Beauchamp”, Rosalind corrected him. Brace recoiled at this, but kept his expression as indifferent as possible. “Yes, miss”.

Rosalind walked towards the sitting room with as much calm as she could muster. “Is he here?”, she asked. “No”, Brace replied. “He is… on business. I don’t know when he’ll return”. “I’ll have to wait, then”, Rosalind sighed. Brace stepped in front of her. “Ma’am… Miss”, he said. “You shouldn’t. James isn’t… He is not the young man you knew”. “And I’m not the girl he knew either”, Rosalind retorted. “In any case, I need to speak with him…”. Brace must have seen the determination on her face, because he stepped aside, and let Rosalind enter the room.

It was dark, and smelled of a mixture of spices, whiskey; and wet firewood and ashes – only slightly taking away from the smell of the river. The furniture was the same, though damaged from the moisture seeping through the walls from the Thames. A large grey dog rested by the unlit fireplace, and lifted its head slightly as she entered. Though it had made its presence known earlier, it seemed to be more bark than bite; and simply let out a huff, as she seated herself on the sofa. It raised its eyes to look at her, and she smiled slightly at it; feeling like she got a sort of smile in return. “Tea, miss?”, Brace asked. “No, thank you”, Rosalind said. “Good. We don’t have any”, the butler smiled. “And from what I remember, you prefer coffee”. His expression had warmed, since he’d apparently accepted that Rosalind had no intention of leaving. She suspected he was trying to soften the blow of whatever she was about to face. “That sounds lovely. Thank you, Brace”.

After the butler had disappeared, Rosalind took some time to get reacquainted with the room in which she’d spent many hours, years before. Seated on this same couch, she’d kept her father-in-law company, as he rambled about his business and how everyone was trying to cheat him. She’d had tea with uninteresting ladies from all over town, who all came with well wishes after the wedding, combined with insincere regrets upon the departure of her husband, so soon after. The same night, in fact. A whole year she’d managed to keep her sanity in the house, which became draftier and drearier almost by the second. When his son had up and left suddenly, the elder Delaney had gone into a strange bout of melancholy; almost seeming to feel guilty about the fact. Rosalind did her best to keep up the façade of a good wife and daughter-in-law, but found it harder and harder to keep up with Mr. Delaney’s moods, and when the letters from her husband stopped, she found no reason to stay in the house any longer. She would visit weekly, but never for long, as the old man seemed rather indifferent to whether she was there or not, and mostly stared into the fireplace, and muttered to himself.

Horace Delaney had made sure she received an allowance to keep up with expenses; but 4£ a month did not stretch far. In the end, Rosalind had taken up work as a chaperone and occasional tutor to young ladies in the south-east of England – never straying too far from London.

Two years after leaving the Chamber House, Rosalind received a letter, letting her know that her husband was suspected dead in a shipwreck. The news hit her painfully hard. Deep down, she had always hoped that James would return to her one day, even after he was thought of as dead; though rationally, she knew better. She’d dreamed of him often. He was always at a distance, always out of reach. It was agony to miss him so. Now, he had returned, and as it was, clearly not for his wife.

Soon after, her visits became rarer. The elder Delaney more or less ignored her when she came, and more than once, he’d asked Brace to tell her to leave, while she was still in the room; so he could get back to work. She’d attended Zilpha's wedding, but the two had never been close; merely friendly acquaintances, with a dead brother and husband in common. Once Zilpha had passed, after a sudden disease that made her seem old beyond her years in just weeks, Horace made it clear he had no wish to see any kind if family; so for two years, Rosalind had stayed away from Chamber House.

Until today.

Brace returned with a tray of coffee and biscuits that looked hard enough to crack a tooth on. Out of sheer politeness, Rosalind picked up one, and dipped it in her cup of coffee, to soften the treat. Brace threw a biscuit at the dog, who gulped it up without much trouble chewing it. Rosalind dropped her biscuit on the floor herself, and the dog got up, and slowly walked over to eat it. It lifted its head, and looked at her; and she timidly scratched it behind its ear.

Suddenly, it turned its head, and looked towards the hallway. The door opened, and a gust of wind blew through the house; making it sound like the building was whimpering, as it passed through the cracks in the walls. A dark figure stepped into the hallway; the sound of his boots loud as canons. A long coat covered his broad frame, and he wore a hat; pushed forward on his head, and hiding his face in shadow. “Brace! Coffee…”, he ordered; his hoarse voice leaving very little trace of the raspy, warm one Rosalind remembered. Brace hurried to greet his master, and took his hat and coat. Rosalind sat very still, with bated breath and beating heart. “In the sitting room, but… sir, you have a guest”, Brace said. “I’m not inclined to receive anyone. Tell them to go away”. “You will want to see her… Maybe”. Rosalind got on her feet, and slowly turned to face the doorway.

James Delaney had indeed changed. Gone was the young gentleman, with the boyish charm and nervous smile; and instead, there stood a bearded, brute man, who had danger and darkness written all over his expression. A scar ran from his brow, and down over his eye and cheek.

Yet, she could not find a flaw on him. He was even more striking than the day they’d met. Love and pain streamed through her body. James took one look at his wife; nodded, and let out a breathy grunt. “Rosalind…”, he said. “James…”, she breathed; trying to keep her composure. Rosalind felt as if she might faint at any moment. She regretted coming to see him, and unsure what had been her reason. But now she was here, as was he; and internally, she struggled not to throw herself into his arms, or attack him with the fire poke.

Rosalind sat back down, and James took his place in what had been his father’s chair, opposite her; looking at the dog. He took a biscuit, and threw it in the air. The dog caught it, and gobbled it down. Brace went over to the samovar, and looked at Rosalind. “More coffee, miss Beauchamp?”, he asked. James eyes flew towards Rosalind, and then down at the ring adorning her right hand; and something hard ghosted his face. She immediately regretted not having worn gloves. “Yes. More coffee for miss Beauchamp, and then maybe a cup for your master, hmm?”, James said. “Of course, sir. And I’ve prepared a cod for dinner. Atticus brought it”. James replied with a grunt, and Brace poured coffee for them. “Will you be staying, miss?”. “No, thank you Brace. My landlady is expecting me at the boarding house”, Rosalind said. Once again, James gave her an unreadable, hard look.

Brace stood uncomfortably by the fireplace, before finally pretending to remember something he had to see to, and scuttered off. James and Rosalind sat in silence for a long moment. Trying to calm herself, Rosalind took a sip of her coffee. “I was told you died”, she said quietly. “I did”, James replied, and drank the entire content of his cup in one go. “You’re a widow, miss Beauchamp”. Rosalind’s cheeks flushed red. “It was easier to use my maiden name…”. “To separate yourself from my father, or me…?”, James grunted. Rosalind looked down. “To start anew”, she whispered. “I had to start over, after you left”.

James seemingly ignored that last sentence. “You did not attend my father’s funeral”, he said, his eyes fixed on something on the far wall. You did not attend our wedding night, Rosalind wanted to reply; but thought the better of it. “I felt indisposed”, she said meekly. “Too indisposed to say a last farewell to the man who has been keeping up your expenses these last 10 years?”, James challenged. “Whom you were set to inherit this house and the rest of his fortune from?”. “I am not kept”, she retorted. James eyes flickered. “I felt indisposed to sit through a sham of a service set up by a lawyer, who had no love for the deceased; and to then have to avoid the wandering eyes of every man in the room, hoping to get his hand on said fortune. And me”.

James raised his brows at her, making the scar on his face even more prominent. “You’ve had suitors, then?”, he asked. “I’ve been a widow, not a nun”, Rosalind retorted, an angry edge to her voice. James’ lip twitched into a slight smile, which was gone as soon as it had arrived. “But never remarried…”, he said. “You know I didn’t…”. “You could have gone to France. Stayed with relatives there. They could have found a suitable match for you”. “I have no family to speak of in France. And I’ve never met any of the few I have”.

With a loud bang, James put one foot up on the ottoman in front of his chair, and pulled off his boot. “So, is that why you are here? Because you want to be married?”, he asked, and took off the other boot. “You said my husband was dead. It seems that is not an option”. Rosalind did not understand why uttering the words brought her as much pain as it did; but she felt something break inside her when she did. “Then why?”. “I need to know where I stand. Dead as you may be, here you are; and my situation is much different than I thought it to be”, she said. “It is clear that I am no longer the heiress of this… grand house, and your father’s holdings. To add to that is that, legally I am bound to you; and you to me…”. “I will keep up with your expenses”, James said, interrupting her. “How much was my father providing?”. Rosalind bit her cheek, and looked down again. “4£ a month”, she whispered.

James eyes widened. “My father only granted you 4£ a month?”, he said. “That is not much money for hats, lace gloves and whatnot”. “Don’t insult me, James”, Rosalind said. “You know full well that I couldn’t care less about hats and gloves”. “Do I? I have not seen you in ten years”, James shrugged. “And who’s fault is that?”, Rosalind hissed. “Hmm”, James muttered. “How have you been making a living? I take it you have had to take on employment? There aren’t many ways for a gentle woman to make money. I hope you have not been forced to solicit yourself”. His voice was cold, and his eyes traced her figure. “You are cruel…”, Rosalind said. “And you are not first to have uttered those words. Though; vicious and evil are more common, when I am spoken of". James took a sip of his coffee, and studied her face for a reaction. Rosalind kept her composure, surprising even herself at her ability to do so.

“You should know I have received a letter from Mr. Thoyt, your father’s lawyer", she said. James met her eyes again, narrowing his own. “He has offered me legal aid in regards to claiming your inheritance”. “Which you will accept, of course". James said. “No. I will not. It is not my inheritance. I didn’t even truly want it, when I thought you were dead". He looked down at her feet, and she instinctively pulled them backwards, and tried to cover them with her skirts. “You could have used it", James said. “I don’t want your family’s money. That was not why I married you".

James got on his feet abruptly, making it clear it was time for Rosalind to leave. She stood up, and walked towards the hallway; clutching her purse. “I will provide you with 15£ a month. I do not want you taking on employment with anyone anymore… no matter what it is”, James said. “Why do you care? Very few people know I am your wife; and I do not use your name”, Rosalind replied. “I will not be dragging it through the mud”. “Call it taking responsibility for my mistakes”, he said. “Is that what I am?”. Her voice was shaking at this point.

James met her eyes, and let out a short, audible breath. “Take yourself to a shoemaker, and have him make you some better boots”, he said. “The ones you have on, are almost worn out. Have them send the bill to me”. “No, thank you. I shall mend them”, Rosalind replied. She went to leave, but James put a hand on the doorhandle; and blocked her exit. “You will buy new boots, and I will see that your current accommodations are suitable”, he said, looking seriously at her. “You don’t know where I live”, Rosalind said. “I will find out”. There was no doubt in his voice, he was merely making a statement of fact.

James opened the door for her, but before she could exit, he stepped outside, and looked across the garden, and turned his head to gaze down the road; almost as if making sure no one was watching them. When he finally stepped aside, Rosalind walked down the steps; and turned to face him one last time. “James…”, she said. “Rose…”, he replied; making her breath hitch. His eyes warmed for a second, before he stepped back inside, and closed the door.

---

Rosalind had a strange dream that night.

She was walking along the shore of a muddied lake. A way out in the water, with his back to her, stood a broad-shouldered man with markings on his skin. He wore no clothes, save a cloth to cover his privates. A dark gravelly voice was speaking strange words she did not understand, and when she called out to the figure in the water, he turned around. He was the one speaking, but the words were sounding as if they were coming from somewhere very close; not from where he was standing.

She closed her eyes in fear, and when she opened them again, he was standing right in front of her. It was James, but he had a painted face, and his eyes were black. She closed her eyes again, and covered her face. A strong pair of hands grabbed her wrists, and pulled them down. “Look at me”, James said. “No… You’re dead”, Rosalind said. “Am I? I am here now…”. “You left me. And then you came back as someone else”.

She opened her eyes again, and saw James as she had seen him earlier that day. No paint on his face, and bright blue eyes. “I was always here”. He put his index finger on her forehead, and then just over her left breast. “And here…”. When he removed his hand, a red stain marked her nightgown. “It matches your lips, Rose”.

She woke up in a jolt, and held her hand to her chest. Looking down, she saw a red stain on her nightgown, just over her left breast.

Getting out of bed, Rosalind walked over to the washbasin, and splashed her face with the cold water. She rubbed at the stain with a moist finger, but all that did, was make it more prominent, and her nipple harden from the cold, damp fabric now covering it. She walked over to the window and looked outside. Across the street, she saw a dark figure; looking up towards her. She didn’t recognize the face, but the menacing glare she thought she could see from under the rim of the persons hat, made her instantly move backwards, and out of view of the window.

The bed felt cold and unwelcoming when she got back under the sheets.

---

As she finished her breakfast the next morning, Mrs. Owen came into the dining room, holding a medium sized parcel. “This came for you, miss. Might you have a secret admirer?”, she said. She handed Rosalind the parcel, and a letter. “And your mail”. Rosalind thanked her, and went up to her room, to examine the parcel, and read her letter in private.

Inside the parcel lay a pair of half boots, in soft, yet sturdy leather. They would keep Rosalind’s feet dry and warm, and it was clear they had not been cheap. There was no note attached to the gift; though gift might be the wrong word, as James seemed to see her more as a responsibility to take care of, rather than someone to bestow presents upon. She threw the boots in a corner, unable to define her emotions – anger or sadness, she was not sure. After a few moments of frustrated groans and a few stray tears, she walked over, and gingerly picked up the boots; dusting them off with her hand. She set them down on top of the chest.

Rosalind turned her attentions to her letter. The writing was in the blunt and crude, yet feminine hand and wording of countess Musgrove.

To; Rosalind Beauchamp c/o Fanny Owen

Dearest friend, It has come to my attention that you have recently been made aware of some rather disturbing news. An acquaintance of mine has informed me that your apparently not so late husband has returned to London. It seems to come at a terrible time, as you were so close to inheriting somewhat of a fortune; at least enough to attract a new husband. Am I mistaken in thinking Mr. Thorne Geary has taken an interest in you? In any case, please call upon me for tea this Friday afternoon, so we might play a round of cassino, and discuss your plans for your now much changed future.

Sincerely; Genevieve Musgrove, countess.

Rosalind let out a very unfeminine and impolite noise. She would rather take an ice bath of lime, than sit through another afternoon of the countess and her friends gossiping and filling their gobs with sweets. None the less, she was obliged to attend, to stay in Musgrove’s good graces; and have a chance for another employment with her. And it was not like she had a husband, who could give her a good excuse to stay away.

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Owen stepped inside. “You have a visitor, miss”, she said, a mischievous smile on her plump face. “Perhaps the green gown, for a promenade?”. “Mr. Geary, then?”, Rosalind sighed. “Indeed. And he has mentioned on many occasions, how lovely the green goes with your ten”. Rosalind cocked a brow at her landlady. “May I trouble your maid for help with preparing? I am finding myself out of sorts”. Mrs. Owen nodded, and left the room. Soon the young maid entered. “Please, will you fetch my blue gown?”.

---

Thorne Geary was waiting in the sitting room, politely smiling at Mrs. Owen; when Rosalind entered. “Miss Beauchamp! I came to enquire upon your health, after your absence from the funeral service”, he said. “Mr. Thoyt let me know you wished to call upon me; but I am quite sure I did not respond affirmatively”, Rosalind said. A dissatisfied expression ghosted Mr. Geary’s face. “Alas, I believe we have matters to discuss”, he said through an insincere smile. “Will you do me the honor of promenading with me?”.

A little while later, Mr. Geary and Rosalind were strolling along the lanes of Hyde Park. “Your gown is quite fetching, miss Beauchamp”, the gentleman proclaimed. “Almost as fetching as the green you wore when I last called upon you”. “I am unsure whether that is a compliment, or an insult”, Rosalind replied. Geary cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable about her response.

“It was quite a shock to see James Delaney at the funeral”, Geary said. He was holding his arm in such a manner, that Rosalind was invited to take it. She ignored the gesture. “I am sure it was”, she muttered; and moved her body to put a little more distance between them. Geary stepped after her, and the smell of the herring he had obviously eaten earlier hit her nose. Rosalind detested herring. “I am sure it came as an even greater shock for you, my dear Rosalind”, he said. “Please, Mr. Geary. I do not think we are quite close enough acquaintances for pet names”. “Are we not family? In-laws?”, Geary smiled. “Now, more than ever, it would seem, as you… husband has reappeared”.

He gestured for them to walk down a smaller lane, away from curious ears. “Ever since we first met, I’ve felt a close connection to you”, Geary said. “And, then when my dear Zilpha passed… well, I must admit, I hoped we might build on that bond”. Rosalind felt bile rise in her throat. “Mr. Geary…”, she began. “Thorne, please…”, Geary insisted. “Mr. Geary!”, Rosalind said firmly. “This conversation is highly improper, and I beg of you to stop”.

Geary sighed, and looked down. “You know of my sentiments towards you. Those have not changed, merely because that savage, who forced matrimony on you years ago, is back”. “You do not know him”, Rosalind said quietly. “Neither do you. From what I am told, your courtship was very brief. There were even rumors of you being in unfortunate circumstances…”. Rosalind stopped in her tracks. “Gossip mongering, Mr. Geary? So much for close connections”, she said.

Geary stepped over to a bench in an alcove, and gestured for Rosalind to sit. “Please, miss Beauchamp… for I insist on still calling you that, and not Mrs. Delaney, if you will not let me call you by your first name”, he said. They sat down together; Rosalind aiming for sitting as far from her companion as she could. “I, of course, am well aware that your chasteness can never be questioned. You are beyond doubt the kindest, most virtuous woman I have had the pleasure to meet. Even as my betrothed walked up the aisle to become my wife, I could not take my eyes off you…”. “You should stop speaking”, Rosalind said. “Please, let me get this off my chest!”, Geary said. His voice was not pleading; but hard – and Rosalind was reminded of how her sister-in-law had wilted from a lively and smiling favorite in London society, to a grey ghost of her former self, after she married. In this moment, Rosalind knew that Mr. Geary had been the one to make his wife such.

Geary took a firm hold of her hand, and when she tried to pull it away, he grabbed her wrist; and continued his speech. “Delaney is mad. I have spoken to more than one sailor, who have told me stories, I cannot repeat in present company”, Geary said. “He should have stayed dead, and let you keep the inheritance. You and I could…”. “There is no you and I, Mr. Geary”, Rosalind tried.

Geary’s hand around her wrist tightened. “I know I am not a very wealthy man, but you and I… we both married in to the Delaney family; and we saw how that mad old bastard brought shame on the name”. “Perhaps we should have helped him, instead of standing by?”, Rosalind muttered; trying to keep herself calm, as the man held on to her. He leaned in closer, and his hot breath hit her face. “No… He got everything he deserved; and sired two wretches, who continued to do the same”. “How can you speak of your wife in such a manner?”. “She was a barren fool…”.

Rosalind finally pried herself free from Geary’s grasp, and stood up; but he grabbed her by the arm, and forced her to sit again. “Let me go”, Rosalind whimpered. She was sure to have marks on her arm after his manhandling her. Geary looked at her intently. “I can do much with the money I can make from selling that plot of land in America; and with you as my wife…”. “I am already married, sir!”, Rosalind sneered. “Are you? Delaney was back for more than a week, without letting himself be known to you. It wasn’t until Thoyt wrote you, that you knew. He hasn’t taken you in; you are still living in that boarding house”. A vile grin, which Geary clearly thought came across as calming, spread across his lips. “But, never mind that. That can all be taken care of”. “What is that supposed to mean?”. A knot had begun forming in the pit of Rosalind’s stomach, and she was shaking.

“You speak ill of my dear sister, and now you have intentions on my wife”. James appeared in front of them; a dark look about him. “Let her go”. “You interrupted our conversation, Mr. Delaney”, Geary said. “Is that what you were doing? Conversing? Or plotting my demise…”, James retorted. “In any case, you have your hands and mind on what is still mine. Release the lady”.

Rosalind tore herself from Geary, and got on her feet, moving away from the bench; and towards James. He gave her a look of dissatisfied confusion, and she went to stand next to him, her eyes on the ground. “You should have stayed dead”, Geary sneered, and got on his feet. He stood taller than James, but in no way seemed as dangerous as him. “Is that what you tell my sister, when she haunts your nightmares?”, James asked. Geary recoiled at James’ words; and James half turned towards Rosalind. “I will escort you back to your lodgings”, he said, and turned his back to Geary. Rosalind followed his lead, and they walked down the path. She felt Geary’s eyes on her back as they went.

---

They walked in silence. Rosalind struggled to keep up with James’ long strides; and after a while, she stopped, and went to sit on a bench at the side of the lane. “I have things to do. If you need to catch your breath, then be quick about it”, James said. “You don’t have to escort me. Go about your business”, Rosalind retorted. “And risk the predators setting on you? Come now, we have eyes on us”. Rosalind looked around her, seeing no one but ladies, gentlemen, and the occasional governess taking a child on a stroll. “What eyes?”.

James narrowed his eyes for a moment, as if making a decision of whether to tell her more, or hold his tongue. In the end, he settled for continuing. “Your Mr. Geary made it clear”, he said. “He is not my Mr. Geary. I’d prefer to avoid the connection all together”, Rosalind retorted. “Hmm”, James grunted. “He made it clear, as I said. I am to be taken care of. There are evil men who are out to kill me”. “And my sore feet put you in danger?”. James seemed taken aback, and slightly amused at her retort. “Perhaps you should have worn your new boots”, he said, and stretched out his hand for her to stand. Rosalind was about to take it, when she saw that James had removed his glove. “Come…”, he said; and with her heart in her throat, she took his hand.

It was as warm as she remembered, and his touch sent the same shivers down her spine, as it had those many years before. As she stood in front of him, everything around Rosalind disappeared; and all she could see, was the man in front of her. She breathed him in. Musk, fresh tobacco, grass, dirt, coffee – and that undefinable thing that was merely him. “James…”, she whispered. James expression hardened, and his eyes became dark. “No… None of that. Do not make yourself a weakness”, he said. “And do not let me become one, either. You are too good for that”. “But you…”. James let go of her hand, and his face grew almost saddened. She looked down at his hand, and saw that the tip of his index finger was red. Rosalind let out a soft gasp; and when she opened her mouth to speak, he was already walking down the path again. He slowed his pace, so she could keep up; but did not speak to her for the rest of the walk.

Once back at the boarding house, Mrs. Owen met them in the door. “Going out with one gentleman, and coming back with another… Really, miss Beauchamp”, she said in a chiding voice. “Not a common occurrence, then?”, James said. Rosalind had to will herself not to slap him. Mrs. Owen raised a pair of cold eyes. “I beg your pardon… This is a proper establishment, sir!”, she exclaimed. “And who are you?”. “Her husband”.

Mrs. Owen looked stunned, and for once, she didn’t seem to know what to say. “You are… Well, that’s… You are recently wed, then?”, she asked. “No”, James said shortly. He looked at Rosalind one final time, before turning around, and walking away.

---

[fevervisions]

Oh-hoh that was one crackling hot n heavy tension between James and Angelica! They totally deserve to be with each other and have hot passionate sex with each other by the fireplace.

Literally felt James's powerful and intense presence down to my deepest core. I was thrashing and giggling on me bed 😌 @lyralu91

Oneshot: James Delaney

hoodeddreams13 asked:

"Hi! I'm not sure if you're requests are still open for James, but I was wondering if I could request something based off the following:

"Did you care?" + "I wanted everything."

From the prompts list: dialogue prompts: three words by @/promptsbytaurie

No pressure and thank you 🖤 (it does not need to be a James × reader fic if you do write it)"

A caring confession

James admits he has feelings for a childhood friend. ❤️ (James Delaney x Fem OC) Warnings: none (just a bit of intimacy and light sexual tension). Dialogue prompts are highlighted in red. Word count: 1951.

“He’s been lying to me this whole time! I cannot believe it!”

She stormed past James, leaving him to hold the front door open with a stiff expression. He stood there, pipe in hand, blinking like he wasn’t particularly pleased to have a visitor.

Saying that, he wasn’t at all surprised to see her.

He closed the door with a grunt and moved his head, far too slow, to follow her march into the front room. 

“I just met Clara for a walk and she told me the most awful things about him! Things I refuse to believe! But then there’s this, she brought me this,” she said, half shrugging her coat off, half waving the morning paper at James as he came to stand in the doorway. “Written proof of his bloody lies! Right there for everyone to see.”

About time, James thought but waved it over with an uninterested noise, brows drawn together, puffing on his pipe. He had already guessed what she wished to show him: the announcement of a certain engagement. 

Angelica claimed the old armchair by the fire, sighing hard as she sat, then leaned down to undo her boots, only to stop midway to pull off her “bloody hat!”. Her chestnut curls were heavy and wild around her face, her cheeks all rosy from the bitter spring cold.

“I hate hats, I hate gloves, and I hate men,” she said, tugging her gloves off and slapping them on the dusty footstool like she’d given all men in London a collective slap across the face. The poor piece of furniture was then shoved aside, making room for Angelica to kick off her boots, only she pushed it dangerously close to the fire. 

“Careful…” James muttered with a cautioning glance from where he was pouring them both a brandy.

Angelica carried on like she couldn’t care less if she set the whole house on fire.

“Clara even said she had ‘had her suspicions’. Can you believe that? All winter she kept it from me. And now he’s off to marry some Louise or Louisa I haven’t even heard of! She should’ve just told me!”

She stood up and nearly knocked the glass from James’ hand as he stood there, calm as ever, offering her a drink.

“And would you have cared?” he asked, composed amusement coming through his deep voice.

“Of course I bloody would - it’s all I’ve cared about for months! - all I’ve been able to think about!”

James watched her drink, nodding like he knew that to be true, while his grunt seemed to say “but that wasn’t what I asked”, then moved to sit on the sofa. He lowered himself with a groan, slurped around the rim of his glass and kept his eyes on her. Leaning back lazily into the seat, he sought her gaze with his head tilted to the side, blinking deliberately as if ready to prove a point.

“And did you care for all the things I told you about this man? Hmm?”

Angelica scoffed from where she stood by the fire, back towards him, cradling her drink in both hands.

“I was there, if you care to remember,” James said, voice lowered in a story teller’s lilt, eyes lit by something wicked and patronising. “On that very night…”

Angelica rolled her eyes at the way he clearly intended to mock her first meeting with Mr Homburg, the handsome Swiss merchant she had fallen in love with.

“Watching you dance… Acting as if you were already - ”

“Yes, James, I remember very well how you stared and sulked and followed me around, behaving like a right -”

“ - yees, like someone who cared for you,” he rasped, like it had been the right thing to do and like he’d happily do it again. “Yes,” he nodded. “I cared. And I tried to tell you. I did.”

This was concluded with another nod and a hefty swig of brandy. It burned its way through his chest and he sucked air through his teeth, lulling his head towards the fire.

He sighed. He seemed tired, but there was something restless in the way he studied the flames, eyes twitching imperceptibly, as if touched by hidden frustration. 

For a while he stayed quiet, then said:

“But did you ever care to consider why I was there in the first place?”

Angelica frowned, confused and caught off guard by the question. She knew he hated those parties, of course she did. So what - did he want an apology? Was he trying to make her feel guilty for going? 

As if his question wasn’t actually meant to be answered, at least not yet, James continued.

“The things I told you that night, and the things I did, I did because I could not stand the thought of you getting hurt.”

This only deepened her frown and she glanced in his direction, increasingly uncomfortable, as his voice had gone darker and his gaze suddenly felt like a physical hold on her. Like hands on her waist.

Angelica took a steadying sip of brandy. Swallowed hard. 

His words almost sounded like a confession.

“Why care for anything that was said or done that night…” she said, quietly into the fire, as if the flames had brought her back to something forbidden or pleasant, or something questionable in between. Something confusing. “None of it matters now anyway.”

“But it does,” James said, sweeping his glass of brandy through the air for emphasis. “Because you’re here, yes? In my house. Caring for a man who does not love you.”

Angelica snorted, knocking back the last of her drink, screwing her eyes shut. It angered her to feel a tear tumble down her cheek. She brushed it off like nothing had happened, turned around to face James and spoke with fragile conviction. 

“And what do you know of love?”

She eyed him stiffly up and down, chin raised like a shield of spite, then stomped past him to pour herself another brandy.

James caught her wrist and snatched her down on his lap. He ignored her half-hearted thrashing and the snappy “let go of me!”, holding her in place as he calmly set his glass down next to him, on the sofa.

Sprawled beside him, almost mockingly, was the morning paper. He crumpled it slowly into a composed fist and raised it in front of Angelica’s face, narrowing his eyes like she better listen carefully. 

“I know that this… this isn’t love.”

He lowered the paper a little, searched her face for a reaction, then grunted a nod and let it fall to her lap. Angelica didn’t flinch and kept her eyes forward, too stubborn and too startled by the way he held her. 

“I also know,” James continued, speaking close to her shoulder, very aware of the rise and fall of her chest, “- that whatever that man did to you… or however he made you feel -” now he loosened the grip on her wrist, thumbing the soft skin over her vulnerable veins, “- was not out of love.”

She could have sworn he glanced at her lips then, and the part of her that felt trapped seconds ago, no longer wished to move away from him.

“Power - and lies…” James whispered theatrically, so raw and soft at the same time, like he was relieved but sorry to tell her the truth about dear Mr Homburg. “That’s all it was, Allie.”

He watched her swallow, chin still raised as she refused to look him in the eyes, but the skin around her collarbones flushed at the use of her childhood nickname.

James kindly lowered her wrist onto her lap and withdrew his hand to lean back into the sofa. With a grunt he clasped his hands high on his chest, as if making a point of keeping them away from her. His eyes however, were locked on her. Unblinking, unwavering. Knowing.

Angelica didn’t move from his lap. Maybe out of spite or stubbornness. Maybe for other reasons. 

The sputtering of the fire seemed louder, closer, as if the room had turned into a giant hearth, enveloping them in teasing, flickering heat. James found himself contemplating - no… admiring - her beautiful curls. They suddenly looked softer, heavier, there for him to touch, as they moved up and down with her chest. 

His eyes shot to her hands as she scratched the spot on her wrist where he had touched her. James inhaled slowly through his nose and Angelica opened her mouth to say something, and when she spoke, her words were as breathless as she looked. 

“Why were you there, James?”

“Hm?” he grunted, deeply absorbed by her fingers, stroking her wrist now rather than scratching.

“Why were you there in the first place? At the party?”

He scowled and made a noise that suggested he wasn’t in the mood to answer. It made her feel like he wanted, and waited, for her to figure it out on her own.

She glanced at him sideways, his gaze flicked up to meet hers, and her neck flared up again.

This time James couldn’t help himself.

Head tilted slightly to the side, he reached out to brush a thick lock over her shoulder, humming a noise of approval when she visibly shuddered at his touch. 

“I think you know…” he said, letting his hand ghost along the length of her hair, so very tempted to swirl a lock around his finger. 

“James, you -” that’s when his other hand came to rest on her thigh, his palm all warm and heavy.

She closed her eyes and another unexpected tear rolled down her cheek, brimming with anger and relief at the same time. His touch had made her clutch her knees, as if she didn’t know what to do with her hands or needed support to sit up straight. 

“You should’ve told me,” she breathed, cursing the way her dress felt restricting with each rise and fall of her chest.

“But I did,” he said candidly, his right hand coming to rest on her upper back, thumbing her shoulder blade as if reminding her of all the years he’d cared for her.

It was a calming gesture that did nothing to calm her, as their eyes met briefly and James began to sit up. Eyeing her chest and neck, he claimed her space, weaving his head like a patient, curious snake in no rush to proceed. 

“No,” she said, gripping her knees and looking ahead of her, refusing to acknowledge how close he was and how she wanted him even closer. “It’s not fair, I’ve… I never knew what you wanted. How you felt or -”

“Oh I wanted everything…” he murmured in a dark lilt and slid a soft palm up the back of her neck. “Mhm?” He looked up at her under raised eyebrows, forehead creased as if asking for permission to continue, or to tell her there was no going back after this confession. “With you.”

James thumbed the back of her neck, nodded and added: “I still do.”

Without startling her, he brushed the newspaper off her lap. There was nothing intimidating to the action, only conclusive, like it was no longer of any use and had been sitting there for far too long.

“Why don’t you, put that on the fire, then come back here, and sit with me.”

When Angelica didn’t answer, he pressed his palm against her lower back, urging her to stand up. To make a decision.

As if James had been waiting all this time to say it, he dipped his head towards her ear, so close she could feel his breath, and whispered:

“Go on now. Burn it.”

[justrainandcoffee]

SINNERS (fic)

“Shall we pray?”

James Delaney x oc!nun.

Ok, so. If I manage somehow to write this it will be miracle. But I'm trying to activate my braincells and I've been thinking a plot that it's barely a concept now.

But the idea is there.

I saw several nuns in the background when I re-rewatching Taboo. Especially in st. Bartholomew. Yes, imagination! Give me something dark according to that world.

I tried to choose several other options: neighbours, daughter of a member of the East Indian Company, a prostitute etc. I was stuck... I'm still stuck 😂, but I like the idea of writing something dark and the idea of religion mixed with "The Devil" Delaney is tempting.

For now is just this. James x catholic!nun.

Unrequited love? I don't know yet. Forbidden? Yes. All around James is forbidden.

Shout-out to @lyralu91 because she wrote really encouraging words regarding a my previous post about this man. And maybe you could be interested @hoodeddreams13 .

This can be written tomorrow, next year or never but just the fact I could think a possible plot for him is enough 😅.

[dreamlandcreations]

Moodboards masterlist

This is my graveyard for the moodboards I will not write about... no, I will not... well... maybe...

• Moodboards masterlist #2 • Main Masterlist •

Adrian Chase

Vigilante (Adrian Chace x Kryptonian!Reader)

Aemond Targaryen

The Bastard Princess (Aemond Targaryen x Daemon’s daughter!Reader)

Phantom of the Opera AU (Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon (Strong)!Reader)

Aleksander Morozova

see moodboard masterlist #2

Alfie Solomons

see moodboard masterlist #2

Bane

Stolen - Bane x warlord’s daughter!Reader

Bane x mayor!Reader (LP version)

Bane x mayor!Reader (GG version)

Catwoman - Bane x Fox!Reader 

Catwoman - Bane x Fox!Reader (Joker version)

Heist AU - thief!Bane x hacker!Reader

Billy Russo

see moodboard masterlist #2

Bishop Losa

Zombie Apocalypse AU

Boba Fett

Stargate AU - goa'uld!Boba x SG team member / tok'ra!Reader inspired by this?

Professor AU

Supernatural AU - hunter!Boba Fett x Reader (hunter!Fennec Shand)

RED AU - ex CIA agent!Boba x CIA agent!Reader

Brother Day

Day & Night

Bucky Barnes

Neverland AU - Captain James “Hook”!Bucky x Tigerlily!Reader x “Crocodile”!Namor

Caspian

Caspian x witch!reader

Daemon Targaryen

The dragon has three heads - Daemyra x Targaryen!Reader

The Pirate Queen AU - pirate!Daemon Targaryen x Pirate Queen Rhaenys’ daughter!Reader

Eddie Brock/Venom

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo AU - Eddie Brock x hacker!Reader inspired by @fabuloustomhardy's edit

Eddie Munson

Three - Eddie Munson x powered!Reader

The Banished - fox fae!Eddie Munson x Reader

Eddie Munson x dark genie!Reader inspired by @harrywavycurly's not genie

Éomer

Immortality/The choice - Éomer x Reader x Haldir

Feyd-Rautha

Fae AU - dark fae!Feyd-Rautha x light fae Atreides!Reader

Dream of a lifetime - Feyd x Atreides!Reader

Feyd-Rautha x Earthling!Reader

Haldir

Immortality/The choice - Éomer x Reader x Haldir

Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Star Wars AU - Rebel pilot!Jake Seresin x Ren!Reader

Pen Pals

The Proposal AU - Jake Seresin x doctor!Reader

Epic(ish) AU - fae!Jake Seresin x Reader

James Delaney

James Delaney x blind!Reader

Biker AU

Maliksi

The Other Trese - Maliksi x Alexandra’s twin!Reader

Namor

Alliance - Namor x Killmonger’s cousin!Reader

Neverland AU - Captain James “Hook”!Bucky x Tigerlily!Reader x “Crocodile”!Namor

Nathan Bateman

Altered Carbon AU

Poe Dameron

The Pink and Blue Ribbon made for @the-little-ewok's Poe x Reader fic

Robb Stark

The Wolf and the Lion - Robb Stark x Lannister!Reader

Sesshōmaru

Sesshōmaru x cat yōkai!Reader

Tommy Shelby

Men (modern AU) - Tommy Shelby x Reader x Alfie Solomons

What Dreams May Come AU

Treadway

Succession

FIREFLY-GRAPHICS MOODBOARD CHALLENGE

(Billy Russo/Darkling, Bucky Barnes, Sherlock Holmes, Tony Stark, WandaxVision)

500 FOLLOWERS MOODBOARD CHALLENGE

(Daemon Targaryen, Valyrian OCs, Darkling/Aleksander Morozova, Eddi Munson and other Stranger Things characters, Hangman and Coyote, Alfie Solomons, Eames)

[onbrokenglass]

Hello there!

This blog is mainly for finding roleplays. I roleplay exclusively on Discord (I love making private servers) and am 21+, so minors please DNI. Style-wise I can adapt to my partner, though my favourite way to write is lit for those juicy, introspective moments. NSFW friendly, and I like all sorts of pairs from fxf, mxf, mxm, to any nb pairs. Platonic and found family are fun too!

My messages are always open for people interested in writing with me! I promise I don’t bite, even if some of my muses do.

Under the cut is a list of characters I’ll thread with (who I’d like to play is bolded, if both are bolded I can do either or), though it’s by no means exhaustive. Regardless of how old this post gets, you can message me at any time for those on this list.

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Ships (Canon)

Anakin Skywalker x Obi-Wan Kenobi

Atton Rand x Female Exile

Aviendha x Elayne Trakand

Beatrice x Battler Ushiromiya

Billy Loomis x Stu Macher

Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin

Bruce Wayne x Selina Kyle

Carmy Berzatto x Sydney Adamu

Chloe Frazer x Nadine Ross

Dale Cooper x Harry Truman

Daniel Solace x Maura Franklin

Dick Grayson x Wally West

Dracula x Mina Harker

Elend Venture x Vin

Emma Larsimon x Marianne

Enid Sinclair x Wednesday Addams

Erik Lehnsherr x Charles Xavier

Ethan Winters x Karl Heisenberg

Harley Quinn x Poison Ivy

Harry du Bois x Kim Kitsuragi

James Delaney x Lorna Bow

Joe Goldberg x Forty Quinn

Joe Goldberg x Love Quinn

John Constantine x Bruce Wayne

John Constantine x Lucifer

Jon Kent x Damian Wayne (either aged up or still young, but if they’re young absolutely no NSFW)

Jonas Kahnwald x Martha Nielsen (any iterations)

Kaz Brekker x Inej Ghafa

Kaz Brekker x Jesper Fahey

Kyle Hyde x Brian Bradley

Kevin x Ilonka Pawluk

Laurent of Vere x Damen of Akielos

Leon Kennedy x Ada Wong

Leon Kennedy x Chris Redfield

Marius Josipovic x Julia Bowman

Marius Josipovic x Taylor Bowman

Mat Cauthon x Elayne Trakand

Mat Cauthon x Rand al’Thor

Mat Cauthon x Tuon Paendrag

Matt Murdock x Foggy Nelson

Matt Murdock x Frank Castle

Mike Ross x Harvey Specter

Moon Knight (all/any of them) x Layla El-Faouly

Moon Knight (all/any of them) x Peter Parker (adult Peter only)

Nate Fick x Brad Colbert

Nate Jacobs x  Maddy Perez

Nathan Prescott x Max Caulfield

Percy Jackson x Nico di Angelo

Phoenix Wright x Miles Edgeworth

Rob Ryan x Cassie Maddox (book verse)

Roman Godfrey x Peter Rumancek

Ronald Speirs x Carwood Lipton

Sherlock Holmes x John Watson

Stephen Holder x Sarah Linden

Steve Harrington x Eddie Munson

Thomas Shelby x Alfie Solomons

Tomas Ortega x Marcus Keane

Tyrell Wellick x Elliot Alderson

Wade Wilson x Peter Parker (adult Peter only)

Will Graham x Hannibal Lecter

Wolfgang Bogdanow x Kala Dandekar

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Ships (OC)

Alcina Dimetrescu x OC (female)

Atticus O’Sullivan x OC (any, supernatural or mythological)

Francis York Morgan x OC (any)

Holden Ford x OC (male, serial killer and/or detective)

John Constantine x OC (any)

Jonathan Reid x OC (any)

Peter Pan x OC (male, lost boy - no NSFW, though would feature dark themes as my Peter is inspired by the book The Child Thief. Would love platonic friends or enemies for this as well.)

Vanessa Ives x OC (any)

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Platonic

Carmy Berzatto & Richie Jerimovich

Dexter Morgan & Harrison Morgan

Five Hargreeves & Any Hargreeves Siblings

Hank Anderson & Connor

Jesse Pinkman & Walter White

Joel Miller & Ellie Williams

Kratos & Atreus

Moon Knight System (any against any)

Norman Bates & Dylan Massett

Peter Pan & Hook