#mad sweeney/reader

[bearwriting]

Gusset

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Summary: Bruised and bloodied, you end up with the last person you thought you'd turn to, and the kudzu is speaking.

Word Count: 5.5k

Warnings: Car crash, mentions of broken limbs

The wolf’s yellow eyes scrutinized her mistress before turning her gaze back to the water. “What will happen to them?”

Circe shook her head. “Would that I knew. I can only hope they get there in the end. We will need them for what’s to come.”

The journey from Circe’s island was even more oppressively silent than the trip there. In fact, the first time you or Sweeney spoke was nearly six hours after you’d left Florida and had passed into South Carolina.

Eventually, you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Why did you kiss me?” you blurted. “On the way to Circe’s.”

Sweeney, who was taking his turn in the driver’s seat, stayed quiet, but you saw his grip on the steering wheel tighten and watched a muscle in his jaw tick.

Your mind reeled as you considered his possible answers. What if—

“I heard somewhere that kissin’ someone, while they’re panicking, can help ‘em catch their breath.”

You stared at him. “You heard that? Where, Teen Wolf? What the hell is wrong with you?”

He glanced sidelong at you. “It worked, didn’t it?”

You wanted to backhand the smug expression from his face.

“If you don’t shut the hell up…”

Sweeney scoffed. “You’re just pissed because I’m right. An’ I didn’t see you complaining, besides.”

At that moment, you dearly longed to wrap your hands around his throat and squeeze, but, unfortunately, you were quiet for just a beat too long.

“You liked it, didn't you?” he said, a cheeky smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.

You could feel the heat in your cheeks and knew your face had to be beet red. Maybe, for once, the old man would turn up when you actually wanted him to and end this moment.

If only the Norns would bestow that luck upon you.

A hundred witty remarks and jabs raced through your head, but all that came out of your mouth was: “Fuck you, you old cunt.”

Sweeney cackled and slammed his foot on the accelerator and your beloved car screamed down the freeway.

Passing through Boone in North Carolina, you finally felt like you could breathe a little more easily. The first fourteen hours of your journey had gone by mercifully without any incident. You knew better than to let your guard down, of course, but it seemed like Circe’s wards were holding.

The peace didn’t last. It never did. You were about two hours north of Boone when your luck finally ran out. You were driving, the needle on the speedometer hovering just around the 80mph mark, when something slammed into your car, sending it careening into a ditch and pitching you hard against your seatbelt. The material bit into your chest angrily and your skull slammed back against the headrest. You blinked stars from your eyes in time to see Sweeney’s head crash into the dashboard and hear the nauseating sound of bone snapping when he tried to brace himself.

“I told you to wear a seatbelt,” you managed to wheeze.

A groan was all you got in response.

Black was creeping around the edges of your vision, but you knew you both needed to stay awake. One or both of you having a concussion was not unlikely, and while dying would most certainly solve most of the problems you were currently facing, you knew that even death wouldn’t bring you peace.

You untangled yourself from your seatbelt and dragged yourself to the other side of the car, bracing yourself as you dragged Sweeney out onto the blacktop. He moaned pitifully, crying as you jostled his broken arm.

“Shit, shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you mumbled, your mind racing as you tried to sort through your options. First and foremost, you needed to splint Sweeney’s arm and check him for a concussion. You patted his cheek.

“How’s your head, chief? C’mere, follow my finger.”

His gaze managed to follow your finger steadily as you moved it back and forth across his field of vision. You braced a thumb against his eyebrow and peered into his eyes with the penlight in your pocket.

He flinched away, rubbing his eye with his good hand and shaking his head to clear it. “What, are you trying to blind me?” The red mark on his forehead where he’d smacked the dash was already fading.

You snorted. “There are better ways to do that. But the good news is it doesn’t seem like you have a concussion. Looks like your luck’s holding.”

He looked past you. “Yours is too,” he said. “Look at your car.”

You whirled around and saw her sitting on a mess of tangled kudzu vines and greenery. Her front bumper was dented, but other than that, there wasn’t a scratch on her. Or on yourself, for that matter. By rights, you and Sweeney should have been grease spots on the road, especially Mr. Seatbelts-Are-For-Pussies, and your car should have been a twisted hunk of steaming metal. And yet, here you were. Granted, a little worse for wear, but you were alive and present nonetheless.

You stared, bewildered, at your companion. “I’m fine?”

He cocked an eyebrow but remained silent. You chewed on the inside of your cheek trying to come up with a workable hypothesis, but before a thought could form, the mass of leaves and vines under your car began to snake towards you.

You tried to haul Sweeney to his feet but only succeeded in falling into his lap. The two of you scrambled backward, Sweeney’s face turning a sickly green with the pain of his arm.

“What the fuck is that?” you demanded. At this point, you didn’t even have it in you to be properly afraid of whatever the hell was happening now. Mostly, you were just annoyed.

“Ah, for fuck’s sake.” Sweeney’s good hand reached out and took hold of your bicep. Even with his broken arm, you could feel his muscles coil, readying for a fight.

As you watched, the kudzu surrounded you and began to take a humanoid shape. As it did so, vines shot out and wrapped around you tightly, effectively freezing you in place. Before either of you could react, Sweeney was bound and gagged. He looked at you with wide, bewildered eyes. This was certainly a new one for you both.

“Mad Sweeney and his witch.” The seething mass of plant matter spoke with a voice that resonated through the concrete and up into your body through the soles of your feet. “My lucky day.”

“You’re lucky, he’s lucky, I’m lucky, we’re all lucky!” you muttered.

A kudzu vine crawled across your cheek, the pale green tip of the tendril hovering just above your cornea. It darted forward and you flinched, hard, but it only brushed your hair away from your face.

“You don’t know who I am,” the kudzu said, disappointed.

The vine wrapped itself around the shell of your ear and began to probe at your ear canal. Desperately, you wracked your brain for anything that might help. There was a name and it danced on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach.

“Please, Elder,” you gasped. “Forgive me. I know not your name, but I know you. I know you in the creeping dark, I know you on lands abandoned. You are the kudzu, what remains when all else is gone.”

The vine uncoiled from your ear. You took a deep breath.

“Please, hear us—“

A green shoot stabbed into Sweeney’s shoulder and he roared against the mess of plant matter crammed into his mouth.

“I care not. What could you have to say that would be of any import to me? No, I think I will consume your dear friend here.” The kudzu gag unfurled from Sweeney’s mouth and was replaced by a tendril snaking down his throat. You could hear him gag and choke and it made your palms sweat.

You opened your mouth to scream for your leprechaun when a name finally surfaced in your memory. You remembered lying on the parlor floor of Ibis and Jacquel with Bast curled against you, purring like an engine. You were reading a book on ancient East Asian deities. If you could just…

“Baku.”

The amalgamation of vegetation stilled. You pressed on, praying you were right.

“My lord Baku,” you said breathlessly, “forgive me. We meant no disrespect.”

The old god peered at you. Or at least, you thought it did. “You ought to be more careful,” it hummed. “The Black Druid has promised a great reward for the one to deliver you into his custody.”

Your mouth went dry. After everything else, now there was a bounty on your head? Was an asteroid going to strike you next?

“My lord, please, listen to me. The Dark Man will not deliver on his promises.”

The concrete vibrated with Baku’s voice. “Even if that were true, I could still consume you. Between you and your leprechaun, you would more than satiate the emptiness of being forgotten. Although, I suppose it would be a tragedy to lose such a legacy.”

You blinked. “Legacy?”

Baku raised an eyebrow. “Your legacy. You’re ——— “ His next words disappeared under the sound of cracking static.

Never in your life had you been more confused. “Excuse me? How did you make that sound? What the hell are you talking about?”

Baku came closer. “Oh, now this is interesting,” it mused. “You can’t understand it, can you?”

“I can’t understand when I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Baku chuckled. “I think you will find out. Sooner rather than later, I should think.”

You stared at him and then shook your head, trying to clear your mind like an Etch-A-Sketch.

“I grow bored of this,” Baku announced. The vines around Sweeney began to squeeze and the vine in his throat twitched, making him gag again. You felt ill. Baku squeezed even harder and Sweeney’s face began to turn a sick shade of purple, his eyes rolling back in his head. If he hadn’t lost consciousness yet, he would soon.

“Wait!” you screamed. “My lord, please.” You had no earthly idea what you were going to say next, but the god’s attention was on you and the vines around Sweeney had stopped squeezing. You scrambled to find your words.

“Lord Baku, what if I told you I could give you something that the Dark Man never could?”

The vines around you yanked you forward until your face was inches from the silhouette that was Baku.

“What would that be?”

You swallowed. The next words from your mouth were going to be insane, possibly one of the stupidest things you could say, but you didn’t know what else to do.

“I can give you belief.”

A stillness swept over that stretch of highway. The god was listening. You could barely hear yourself think over the blood pounding in your ears. You had promised the one thing old gods like Baku craved. Power. Sustenance. Belief.

“How would a thing like you manage to keep such a promise?”

At this point, the inside of your cheek felt like it had been through a paper shredder, but you kept chewing on it.

“The people here, they don’t see the kudzu for what it could be,” you began slowly, grabbing the words one at a time, “only as something that consumes and suffocates. They don’t see the life it brings, the sustenance it provides. Please, give me a chance to show them what the kudzu could be.”

The old god tilted its head, considering you carefully. After a few moments, the kudzu around you loosened and set you down gently on the pavement.

“You promise me believers?

You swallowed. “Yes.”

“How many?”

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “I can’t promise an exact number. I can’t even promise that the number will be significant. But I can promise that I will find them.”

Kudzu snaked up your neck and around your ears again, probing gently at your temples and cheeks and lips as though searching for any ill intent.

“You have a deal,” Baku said eventually. “But do not tarry. The kudzu will give protection as far as my borders. When you pass Massachusetts in the north or out of east Texas, towards the west, there will be nothing more I can do for you.”

You knelt before the kudzu, bowing and touching your forehead to the ground.

“Thank you, my lord,” you said as you clambered to your feet.

The kudzu retreated from Sweeney and he collapsed on the concrete, retching and moaning.

You bowed again to the old god and then dashed to your car, pulling Sweeney’s bottle of Jameson from the glove compartment and sprinting back. “An offering, my lord,” you intoned as you let the whiskey spill onto the road and into the soil.

Baku hummed approvingly. “Do not forget our deal, witch,” its voice reverberated in your skull. And then the old god of the kudzu was gone, disappearing into itself in the brush on the side of the highway.

As soon as you were sure it was gone, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding and ran to Sweeney, who was barely clinging to consciousness as he lay in the dirt.

“Fuck, dude,” you hissed.

“I can’t believe you poured out my Jamo.” His voice was hoarse like he’d been gargling gravel.

“We were already pushing it, we needed an offering,” you told him.

“Can you just get me patched up please?” he rasped.

“Right, right.” You darted back to the car, digging through your duffel until you unearthed your first aid kit.

“Okay, let me just—“

“Splint my fucking arm first, I’m about to black out.” His voice was muddy and his words weren’t as clear as they should have been. You groaned and chucked a roll of gauze at his head.

“I should just let you bleed out,” you snapped.

“Hm.”

You rolled your eyes and went hunting for a stick that was the right size to splint his arm. When you found it, you first held it out to him. He looked at you with an expression that said What the hell am I supposed to do with this?

“Bite down,” you instructed. “I have to set the bone and it’s going to hurt like a bitch.”

He sighed and did as you said, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Okay, ready?”

He nodded.

“On three. One—“

Crack!

Sweeney snarled against the stick, his body jerking away from you. “You bitch,” he hissed, spitting the wood from his mouth. “That wasn’t on three.”

“You’re welcome. Now stay still, shitass,” you murmured as you set about placing the splint.

“Fuckin’ hurts,” he mumbled.

“Well, if someone had worn their seatbelt like I told him to—“

“Enough about the goddamn seatbelt!”

You glared at him. “Fine. Maybe next time I’ll get lucky and you’ll go flying through the windshield.”

He glowered right back. “Just fix my shoulder so we can go.”

“Ungrateful,” you muttered, but you still cleaned the jagged hole in his shoulder, gingerly picking out the leaves and plant matter that had been left in his flesh. You carefully taped a square of gauze over the wound on his front and his back and sat back, assessing your work. “Honestly, it probably needs stitches, but this was the best I could do. It’s gonna leave a nasty scar.”

He shrugged. “What’s one more?”

You snorted and hauled him up by his good arm, helping him into the car.

Back in the driver’s seat, you white-knuckled the steering wheel, wringing it nervously. The silence in the car was tense. He was mad at you.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Sweeney demanded eventually, his brash voice shattering the silence like a bowling ball thrown into a china cabinet. “Have you lost your mind? Where do you get off promising him believers?”

You slammed your palm against the wheel and pointed at him, anger and annoyance flooding your veins like lava. You’d had it.

“How about a thank you for keeping the kudzu from fucking consuming us?” you snarled. “What the fuck was I supposed to do? The Dark Man has a bounty on my head now, I had to do something.”

The leprechaun groaned in disbelief. “So you promised him believers? Are there worms in your head?”

You snapped your teeth at him before stomping on the accelerator, relishing the thwack of his head hitting the headrest as the car leaped forward. “I didn’t want to watch you become a shriveled husk on the side of the road or watch you get ripped apart from the inside, although I cannot for the life of me remember why,” you bit out. “Why are you picking a fight with me, anyway? Did you decide it had been too long since you got on my fucking nerves?”

“Because I’m worried about you!” he shouted. “You’ve got this thing in your head that no one seems to be able to figure out, you’re making deals that you can’t possibly hope to keep with beings that could obliterate you with a snap of their fingers. You’re wound tighter than a nun’s bunghole—“

“I’m wound up?” you shrieked. “You’re the one that’s about to snap like a goddamn rubber band!”

“You’re watching my back,” he snapped. “I need you to pull it together. I know all of this is shit and it’s scary, but if you get me killed, I’m—“

“You’re taking me with you,” you mocked. “I’ve heard that one before. Can you please just be quiet until we stop for the night in D.C.? I’ve got a connect there, we can crash with them.”

“Who? Charles Entertainment Cheese?”

“No, fucknut. Hester’s there.”

He blinked. “Now how in the hell did you make that connection? No one’s seen her in forever.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” You smirked.

He glared at you and pulled a clove cigarette from his shirt pocket, tucking it behind his ear. Then, he paused and stared at you with a petulant and mulish look on his face. You knew that look.

“Don’t you dare,” you growled.

Moving slowly and deliberately, he brought the cigarette to his lips and then put a lighter to the cigarette. The cloying odor of cloves and tobacco filled your car as he blew a thick cloud into your face.

You coughed and slammed the brakes, the stink of burning rubber mingling with the miasma of the cigarette.

“Get out,” you snapped.

He stared at you. “What?”

“Did I stutter? Get. Out.”

His head kicked back. “You’re not serious.”

You reached across him and opened the car door. “Don’t make me repeat myself again. I’m sick of being disrespected. I’ll see you in D.C.”

Sweeney’s jaw hung open. “What, I’m s’posed to walk the three hundred miles?”

You shrugged. “Or take a bus. Might be faster.”

He spread his hands. “After everything I’ve done for you, this is what I get? You’re the most ungrateful—“

“Ungrateful?” you snarled. You climbed out of the car and circled to the other side so you were standing over him and stabbed a finger at his chest. “I barely wanted you to come in the first place!”

The two of you stared each other down, glares matching in ferocity and anger.

“And you’d be dead without me,” he spat. “Aside from everything else, haven’t you noticed your luck? You think that’s a coincidence? You think that doesn’t have anything to do with me?”

You didn’t answer and he scoffed, standing so he towered over you. “You know, you’re more like the old man than you want to admit.”

You shoved his chest with both hands, not caring about his arm or the kudzu wound. You’d absolutely had it. He stumbled backward and when he regained his footing, surprise was written all over his face. The two of you had fought and argued before, but you’d never actually laid hands on him.

“I thought something had changed after Circe,” you seethed. “I thought maybe you’d finally pulled your head out of your ass, but good to know you’re just as obnoxious and disrespectful as ever.”

“You’re the one that came to me for help in the first place!”

Your laugh was verging on hysterical. You’d been awake for far too long and you were dying to take a swing at him. “I wouldn’t have asked for your help if I’d known you would keep throwing it in my face.”

He loomed over you, but you refused to be intimidated. You’d had enough of his bullshit, friends or not.

“Get to D.C. on your own,” you said as you got back in the car. “Or don’t,” you added. “Fuck if I care.” And you sped off, leaving him alone on the side of the highway like an abandoned dog.

As soon as he was in your rearview, you let yourself burst into tears. You cranked your stereo, rolled your window down, and screamed into the night, all the fear, anger, and frustration you’d been feeling tearing from your throat.

Why was he like that? Why did he have to pick fights and antagonize you and argue with you like that? Although, come to think of it, why did you? You were no better than he was, the way you’d kicked him out of the car, an action that you were already regretting. He just had a way of burrowing under your skin and playing your nerves like a goddamn fiddle. It was infuriating that he’d gone and made himself important to you and it disgusted you, how much you relied on him. Because he’d been right. You would be dead without him, and you’d gone and left him and his luck on the side of a highway in the middle of the night.

You groaned. “Ah, fuck.”

You yanked the steering wheel, executing a U-turn that almost flipped your car, and sped back the way you’d come.

He was going to be insufferable. You’d kicked him out, only to immediately come back. You were never going to hear the end of it.

But he wasn’t there. You were where you’d left him, but your ginger giant was gone.

You cursed loudly, beating your palm against the steering wheel. That asshole.

Throwing yourself from the car, you walked in circles calling his name, but no answer came. You swallowed your growing panic and focused instead on your anger. Granted, you’d told him to walk, but you should’ve known that he actually would. Jackass. Fine. If he wanted to disappear, you weren’t going to look for him.

That didn’t stop you from sitting in your car for an hour and a half, hoping that he’d come stumbling through the trees.

“Fuck this,” you muttered. You turned the key and your car’s engine roared to life. You’d either see him in D.C. or you wouldn’t. No skin off your ass.

And yet…and yet. You couldn’t shake the regret, nor the expression of genuine hurt on his face beneath the surprise and outrage.

You flicked through the radio stations, but everything you landed on felt like nails on a chalkboard. Eventually, you gave up and spent the next few hours in silence.

Halfway between Mt. Airy and D.C., somewhere in Virginia, you stopped for gas. You leaned against your driver’s side as the tank filled. Two pumps down, a guy was filling his truck's tank. You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t look up. Regardless of who or what he was, you didn’t feel like dealing with it. You just wanted to get to Hester’s. If she’d even let you stay with her. Your relationship was…tenuous at best.

From the corner of your eye, you saw the guy moving towards you. You swore under your breath and fingered the cool metal of the knife in your pocket. You really needed to get a proper weapon for situations like this so you could defend yourself with more than just a dinky utility knife.

Especially now that you’ve chased off your bodyguard, said a voice in the back of your head.

You shoved the thought from your mind and turned to the stranger. “May I help you?” Your tone was polite but icy.

He held up his hands and stopped ten feet from you. “Actually, I was thinkin' I might be able to help you.” You arched an eyebrow. “You’re Wednesday’s gofer, right?”

You bristled. “I am not his gofer. What’s it to you, anyway?”

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and leaned against the gas pump. He looked you up and down, his gaze appraising. You hated it.

“I’m sure you know by now that everyone and they mama is out to get you for the Dark Man’s bounty.” His voice was smooth and rich, like butter tea, and he had a thick Appalachian accent.

“And you aren’t?”

He shrugged. “The guy hasn’t actually specified what the reward is. I don’t trust like that. And I don’t work for Wednesday either,” he added, seeing your mouth open.

You studied his face carefully. The guy was huge, easily several inches over six feet, with broad shoulders to match. His strawberry blond hair was carefully braided away from his face and his beard was also tidily plaited and finished with a silver bead. His gray eyes were sharp, taking in every tiny detail. He was beautiful, but he set your teeth on edge. Something about him, his eyes in particular, felt familiar in a way that made your skin crawl.

Sensing your unease, he inclined his head. “An unfortunate family resemblance,” he said mildly and doffed his Appalachian State baseball cap. “Miley O’Danson.”

That couldn’t be right. “So…son of the son of Daniel? What kind of name is that?”

He just looked at you.

Miley O’Danson. Miley O’Danson.

Meili Odinson.

The pieces clicked and you groaned. “God. Dammit.” You wanted to tear your hair out. “When will you people leave me alone?” you asked tightly.

Miley chuckled. “You know, you’re lucky my father didn’t find you first.”

The growing lump of unease in your throat was threatening to choke you. “What do you want?” You were proud that your voice came out sharp and certain.

“You’re traveling, aren’t you?”

"In a warded car.”

Miley tilted his head. “Doesn’t seem to be doing a very good job,” he pointed out.

For a split second, you wondered how he knew about the drive to Florida, but then you saw him looking pointedly at the kudzu vines still trailing from your car’s undercarriage.

“I’ve already got protection,” you said firmly.

He pointed to the kudzu. “A dying god and magic that’s spotty at best. And I notice your attack dog is conspicuously absent. Where is that thumpin’ gizzard anyway?”

You flushed a dull red. “I’m not his goddamn babysitter.”

He smirked. “Right, of course not. Look, Baku’s protection will only get you so far. What about when you’re outside of his boundaries? What then?”

“How do you know—“

He tapped his nose. “The roads are mine, kiddo.”

You grit your teeth. “What do you want?” you asked again. “I already promised the kudzu believers, am I doing that for you too now? Am I some kind of proselytizer?”

“I don’t need believers,” he said. “I have plenty. Everyone that prays for safety on their journey is praying to me, whether they realize it or not.”

You snorted. “So you’re what, the god of car insurance?”

His eyes narrowed. “Do you want my help or not?”

“You still haven’t told me what you want,” you pointed out.

He pouted. “I can’t want to help from the goodness of my own heart?”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

He sighed. “I s’pose that’s fair.” He paused. “Nothing, for now.”

Your eyes narrowed. “But later?”

His expression was inscrutable. “If you ever get your memory back, give me a call. We’ll talk then.”

His words made no sense. Gods always wanted something and you knew better than to accept a vague deal.

“Nothing about this feels like it’s going to end well for me.”

Miley scuffed at the ground with his heavy work boots. “Think whatever you want. I’m just a guy with daddy issues trying to throw a wrench in his father’s plans.”

You snorted. “See, now that I believe.”

He spread his hands in front of you in what you assumed was meant to be a pleading gesture. Not that Odin or any of his sons would ever plead with anyone.

“Look, I’ll give you whatever protection I can. All I ask is that when I call, you answer.”

You still weren’t convinced. “Sounds like the job I already have with your dad.”

Miley’s jaw clenched and he flexed his hands like he was fighting the urge to swing on you.

“Christ, you’re spending too much time with that leprechaun,” he muttered.

“Watch it.”

Miley scrubbed his hands over his face. “This is getting us nowhere. Look, I’m not asking you to be at my beck and call, all right? This is a one-and-done deal.”

“So I’ll owe you a favor.”

He groaned. “Call it what you like. You can take my offer or you can spend your days constantly looking over your shoulder waiting for the Black Druid to break into your head.”

He was right, you both knew it. You needed all the help you could get.

You considered the man in front of you carefully. “You promise he won’t be able to find me?”

Miley shook his head. “As long as you’re traveling, he’ll have a hell of a hard time of it, but I can’t promise he won’t find you at all. Your magic will still act as a beacon, so use it sparingly.”

You said nothing.

“Do we have a deal or not?” he asked.

This was a bad idea, you knew it was, but what was the alternative? You held out your hand.

He grinned wolfishly and shook it. “And that’s the deal.” As he spoke, electricity raced up your arm from where his hand clasped yours. Whatever reservations you may have had, there was no backing out now.

Miley handed you a small amulet with a spoked symbol carved into it. “Wear this.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a protection sigil. You need as much help as you can get.”

You hung it around your neck. The amulet lay on your sternum right below the pendant Sweeney had given you, which laid snugly in the hollow of your throat. Your chest tightened.

“Take this, too,” he said, handing you a business card. It was a sleek matte black with three figures sitting cross-legged side by side, each holding a slender needle and what appeared to be an ink pot. Each figure was dressed in elaborate costume and their skin was decorated with ornate ink. The words Tatū Maya were embossed in metallic gold across the top.

“You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”

“Oh, I hate this. No, I’m not afraid of needles.”

He tapped the card. “How do you feel about getting some ink?”

“Excuse me?”

He spoke to you like you were an idiot. “Swing by this place and ask to speak with the owners. They owe me a favor, so just tell them I sent you and I’m cashing in.”

You stared at him. “You’re cashing in a favor for me? Why?”

“Same reason I offered to help in the first place,” came the response.

You clenched your jaw. You hated these stupid games, but once again, you found yourself backed into a corner. He may have been presenting it as a choice, but he wasn’t asking.

You ran your thumb over the raised letters on the card. “How will I…” Your voice trailed off as you looked up and realized Miley was gone. You hissed and kicked one of your tires. “I have got to start thinking this shit through better,” you mumbled to yourself.

You examined the card, searching for an address that would give you your next location, but there was only a phone number. Of course. It was nearing four o’clock in the morning, there was no way anyone would pick up. You briefly considered ignoring Melli’s request, but something told you that choice would not be well received.

Annoyed, you approached the payphone tucked near the air compressors and dialed the number on the card, cringing at the stickiness of the plastic receiver.

As you predicted, your call went unanswered, but the soothing voice on the recorded message, after thanking you for calling Tatū Maya, read off an address in Richmond, Virginia. Two hours south, when you needed to go north. It would throw off your timing to meet Sweeney in D.C., but you supposed it wouldn’t be by much.

You let your forehead rest against the casing of the payphone as you tried to steady your breathing.

“Well girl,” you said to your car, “I guess we’re headed to Richmond.” You threw yourself into the driver’s seat and revved her engine. “This should be interesting.”

Tagged: @kind-wolf @imaginethatneathuh @cosmiccandydreamer

[weisshapt]

i follow rivers

pairing: mad sweeney x reader

warnings: explicit. bathing and sex as forms of worship.

summary: It was as though your quiet exaltations, in tandem with the way your hands moved across his neck, shoulders, and back called to him, to his godhood, reaping the same effect as if you’d put out a plate of bread and cream. It told him, instinctively, that there was an offering to be had, and strength to be gained in its having.

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Disgruntled banging against your door sometime in the afternoon had you shooting up like a bullet, tossing the book you’d been attempting or pretending to read carelessly onto the coffee table. 

You’d been up all night, all morning, nerves too spiked to have even tried to sleep, despite having made a valiant, though undeniably distracted effort. You’d done as asked, even if it had been one of the hardest tasks you’d ever endured. But you did it, because he asked. You’d half—more than half, really—expected him to show up in the middle of the night, and you’d been ready, first aid kit set out and a whole list of questions prepared, questions you ran through again as you all but sprinted to the door. They vanished from your mind in an instant, however, when you saw him. The damage the fight had done to his face was bad enough, but it was the look in his eyes that silenced you. 

He looked furious, that was for sure. But he also looked worried, and there was even a glint of defeat. He appeared almost vulnerable. It wasn’t an expression you were used to seeing, and not one you’d hoped to see again. It wasn’t as bad as it had been a few days ago, but that knowledge did little to lighten the weight that was settling into your chest. 

You didn’t say anything, despite having so much you wished to, and simply moved out of the way so he could enter. When he did he was careful, like he thought one wrong step might cause the entire building to come down on your heads. Every move he made appeared to be second-guessed or weighed, even the way he looked at you, when his gaze brushed you at all. Sweeney was skittish, and it scared you. 

He wasn’t bleeding anymore, you noticed, as he let himself fall onto your couch. Even if he had been, you knew you wouldn’t have said anything. Not this time. Having him here in the day at all was strange on its own, especially under this circumstance. 

Your body moved without thought until you were sitting across from him on the coffee table, too wary to do anything other than stare at him. 

He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees and head in hands, but then he moved back, fists clenching and unclenching in his lap as he finally really looked at you, one hand reaching for yours and holding it tightly. He stayed that way for a moment, but then, before your brain had a chance to process the movement, he was tugging you forwards, pulling your body onto his lap. Your forehead smacked with an audible crack against his. Ouch. He shut his eyes and let out an angry breath through his nose, lips pinched together like this was just one more in a line of unhappy accidents.

Instead of leaning away to rub at the now sore spot, you left your forehead against his, noses almost touching and your hands coming to his neck. You wanted to bandage the cuts on his face, but Sweeney didn’t need you as a nurse right now. He needed you as a believer. He needed you as just a figure of care and calming physical contact. Calloused hands came to rest one on your waist and the other in the crook of one elbow. 

“I fuckin’ lost it.” His voice was rough like sandpaper when it broke the silence. 

“Lost what?” Thumbs mindlessly moved back and forth beneath his jaw, your own voice was quiet when you responded. 

“My lucky coin. I fuck-I gave that cunt my coin. I didn’t mean to. It was the wrong coin. It wasn’t meant to be that coin. Grimnir. He was too close to you, and I-“

You leaned back to look at him. “Did he know? I tried not to think about you. I sang a fucking song in my head the entire night to keep you out of my thoughts and I didn’t look at you, but then the fight started and I couldn’t not look. I’m sorry.” 

A pang of guilt shot through you and you closed your mouth. He was the one who was upset and in need of comfort. Not you. Your nerves could wait. 

“You did beautifully, lass. As best as I could ever have asked of ye. I just didn’t like him being so near you. It distracted me.” 

You opened your mouth to apologise, but he was quick to cut you off. “Not yer fault. It’s mine.”

You wanted to ask if he was okay, but that felt stupid, given the situation.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I have to find the bastards. Get my coin back, and my luck with it. Until then I’m a disaster waiting to happen.”

“I could give you a ride-“ His grip tightened considerably and he shook his head once, and hard, cutting off any further offer you might have made. 

“No. No you fuckin’ can not. Last man who tried that didn’t make it two miles. You’ll stay here.”

“Sweeney.”

“Don’t argue, lass. Not this time. Please.”

Please. He never said please. He just made his demands and you willingly acquiesced. But the concern and almost fear in his voice, in his eyes, and in his touch had you nodding. 

“Okay. Okay, I’ll stay here. But without your luck, how will you manage to find them without getting hurt?”

“Finding ‘em won’t be the issue. Can’t do much about the getting hurt. Not without my coin. Don’t have the power.”

You thought for a moment. Power. He needed power. Worship was power, he’d said. Worship, you could do. 

“Maybe I can help.” You tipped his head up to look him in the eye before rising, with as much grace as you could manage, and tugged at his hand. 

His tired eyes darkened in understanding, and the side of his mouth twitched upwards, just barely, as he let you pull him to his feet. 

He followed you slowly, feet not quite dragging as he allowed himself to be lead through the small apartment, turning at the door to your tiny bathroom, made only more ridiculous once he was standing in it. You smiled softly to yourself at the sight as you pivoted away from him to draw back the shower curtain and turn on the water. It would take a good minute or two to warm up, maybe longer. 

Returning to face him, you frowned faintly at the conflicted, confused, and cautious expression painted across his features. You raised one hand to brush a thumb over one of the cuts in the side of his face, and for a moment, his eyes closed. It was only just a moment though, and then they were back on you, waiting. Watching. 

Both hands were working now, smoothing down the fabric covered planes of his chest, and then underneath the soiled denim of his jacket, slowly pulling it back and off down his arms. When his arms came free, you folded the jacket over itself once, then twice, then set it down atop the lid of the closed toilet seat. The flannel shirt came next, unbuttoned just as slowly, patiently, before it came off and joined the jacket. Onto the suspenders, then the wife beater, slightly awkward as his arms raised and you had to stand on your toes to pull it up and off. 

Out of the corner of your eye you noticed, as you sank down to your knees to unlace his boots, the way his fingers twitched, but his hands weren’t shaking as much anymore. You meant only to glance up to ask him to lift his leg so you could pull off his shoes but the intensity of his gaze held yours and you felt a hum somewhere in the air. 

You stayed like that for longer than you meant to, looking up at him, before the feeling of steam gathering on your arms brought you back and, finishing with his boots, you stood up again to focus on the fastening of his jeans. When it came undone you slid the fabric down his legs until finally he was completely bare before you. The sight was enough to make your skin warm and your head light. How fierce your god was in his beauty, how wonderfully made and worthy of worship.

Reaching a hand back to the water, you determined it had reached an appropriate temperature and stepped back as much as you could and motioned for him to squeeze past you to stand in the tub. His head came up above the curtain rod. It might have been comical if the moment were open to comedy.

His head fell back as he stood under the stream, letting it run down his neck (he’d have to bend at the knees for it to reach his head) and again, the sight of him immobilized you temporarily. How long? How long since someone, anyone, had cared for him, tended to him like this? The hum in the air seemed to settle against your skin as you pulled off your own clothes and stepped in behind him. Your hands ran up, then down his arms, back up and over his shoulders before descending down again. Moving them around his waist left you in a mock embrace which turned true as you let your forehead rest against his back and held him there for a moment. 

One breath, two, and you pulled away, reaching towards the small hanging caddy of bath supplies, fingers closing around a half empty bottle of body wash and an exfoliating net. As you squeezed out some of the soap he was turning, carefully, moving his body so you stood face to face. Or, face to front, seeing as you were nowhere near tall enough to put you at his eye level. Still he said nothing, content to watch you and let you do what you would, hands at his side. This might have been the longest he’d ever gone without touching you, especially given your shared states of undress. Perhaps it was the trace of disbelief in his eyes, the minute way his brows knitted together, that kept them where they were. Or maybe it was just curiosity.

With the net lathered you brought it up to his chest, and from there you set to your task, slowly working the soap into every inch of his skin. Up his neck and across his torso, down each arm, against his palm and between his fingers. Another squeeze from the bottle and you descended to give the same treatment to his legs and feet. With one hand gripping to your arm he helped you stand again, and thankfully, mercifully, despite the slipperiness of the tub, the both of you remained steady on your feet. Pushing him to turn around again, you scrubbed at his back, following after the net with your other hand, pressing against the skin in a way you hoped passed as soothing. He didn’t complain.

You let him stand there under the water for a moment, rinsing off the bubbles that had gathered across his skin while you poured out a dime or two of shampoo and rubbed it between your hands, and when you reached for his head he leaned back against you to let you work it into his hair. You noticed then that his eyes had closed, when you did not know, but they remained shut even after he leaned away momentarily to rinse out the shampoo, and as he came back again so you could follow it with the same amount of conditioner.

You spent more time than was probably necessary on this particular step, but with  the way every breath left him in a slow, heavy sigh as your fingers massaged and your nails softly scratched at his scalp, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. When you eventually did, he moved again, first to rinse the conditioner from his hair, and then to bring water up to his face. 

You stepped out of the shower first, walking around to shut the water off and to grab a towel to dry him with. His clothes stayed on the toilet lid. You’d wash them later.

No words passed between you as he let you drag the soft fabric of the towel over him to dry his skin, and you only looked back up at his face when you took his hand to pull at him again, to lead him again, this time to your bedroom.

Standing there in front of your bed, you trailed your fingertips over his face, the touch just barely there and he stared at you the whole way. 

Pulling his chin down, your lips pressed against his gently. The kiss was chaste, one of Sweeney’s hands hovering over before settling at your waist, not quite pressing and not quite pulling. Yet. 

Finally, you spoke, low and quiet, staring up at him with your hand still cupping his cheek.

“I believe in you, Sweeney. You have my prayers. And my offerings. You have me.”

Now did he act, a groan leaving his lips before they closed over yours, and the way he hauled you into his body and held you close caused your breath to hitch. The grip on your hips tightened, as though he thought you might change your mind and walk away, even now.

Backwards he walked you until you felt the foot of the bed hit against the back of your legs, and down you tumbled, the full heft of his body knocking the air from your lungs as he settled there in the cradle of your thighs. With what breath you did have you continued to whisper praise and prayer into his ear, delighting in the visceral, physical reactions the words elicited as he buried his face in your neck and you your fingers in his still wet hair. 

It was as though your quiet exaltations, in tandem with the way your hands moved across his neck, shoulders, and back called to him, to his godhood, reaping the same effect as if you’d put out a plate of bread and cream. It told him, instinctively, that there was an offering to be had, and strength to be gained in its having. 

His mouth overtook your own again as his hips ground against you slightly, your lips parted in a moan and he took full advantage, tongue tangling with yours until you could taste the full warmth of him that was still always somehow so fresh, like lying in a field on a summer day. 

Each drag of him against you pulled a whine from your throat, which only seemed to spur him on more, to take him deeper and deeper into the sensations your pliant body offered up to him. Where before, when he’d first come in, he’d appeared scared to touch you, now his hands couldn’t get enough of your skin, trying to be everywhere at once. 

It almost pained you to push those hands away with how good they made you feel, but you’d had a plan when you came in here. He needed to be patient. 

His confusion at being pushed away was helpful in that it gave you the opportunity to roll him onto his back, legs settling one on either side of his hips, his hands coming back to run up and down the skin of your thighs. That you could allow. You leaned forward slowly, languidly, movement like molasses as you slid one hand up his broad chest, the heat of his skin sinking into your palm.

“Why the rush, Buile Suibhne?” You could feel him jerk up into you at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue in such a husked whisper, so close to his ear your lips brushed its shell. It was the first time you’d said it, having practiced rolling it over your tongue for days in a desperate hope you wouldn’t butcher it when the right moment finally came. Practice, it seemed, that had paid off. “I want to take my time with my worship.” 

You looked at him then, the look in his eyes burning straight through your mind as much as your body. With a smile you placed a kiss, simple and quick, on his lips, moving down to mouth at the thick column of his throat before he could pull you back for more.

You felt him moan more than you heard it, vibrating against your lips and your teeth and, while he was distracted, you moved lower, making your way down the sun-kissed skin like you were playing Connect the Dots with your lips against each of the freckles that dotted his chest. When you came across a scar you paid it special attention, but kept moving, further and further downward. Eyes flitting back to his face you found him staring you down. The connection of your gazes set something to trembling inside of you and you held him there, watching him watch you as you continued your descent, kissing along the trail of fine, fiery hair.

One hand moved to smooth up the length of his thigh. You could feel how the hard muscles roiled and rolled beneath your touch. Another kiss to the skin just above his pelvis and you looked back up again to admire for a moment the beautiful flush that had spread across his chest and up his neck as you took his hard length in your hand. 

Still you could feel him staring. The weight of his eyes felt like a physical blanket over your body. It was a shot of opium pouring straight into your veins. 

Your touch was gentle as you ran your fingers along him, pressing gentle kisses along his shaft. 

“We have all night. I want to take care of you. Will you let me?” The words weren’t as much a question as they were a plea. There was prayer on your tongue and his eyes shut as it washed over him. Rather than wait for a verbal response, you lowered your mouth over him, gathering the liquid at the tip of his already weeping head with slow kitten licks. The salt of him in your mouth and those bottom notes that brought to mind morning dew and the electrically-charged air that preceded a storm were heavy and intoxicating, perhaps even addictive. Closing your mouth over him you gave a long suck, wanting more of his taste, more of his pleasure, more of him. 

He hissed above you, one hand coming to rest on your head, not pressing or pushing but just touching running softly, almost affectionately, over your hair.

You sunk down further on him, taking in more and more with each pass of your lips. He was heavy against your tongue and you revelled in all of it. Your nerve endings were thrumming and you thought you just might be getting as much out of this as he was. Taking a man in your mouth had never been something you’d been particularly passionate about doing, but Sweeney was no ordinary man. He changed everything. 

His chest was heaving, every breath in and out full and hard. Still, you wanted more. You needed more. Hollowing your cheeks and relaxing your throat, you took him as deep as you could, feeling him slide against the back of your throat. 

“Fucking fuck, lass. That’s good.” His voice was rough and his fingers had tightened in your hair but the sharp pinpricks of pain were in no way unwelcome. 

You kept him where he was until oxygen became crucial, until you just started to heave, lights beginning to dance at the edges of your vision. When you pulled away with a gasping intake of breath, you glanced upwards to his eyes and the look he was giving you would have knocked you on your ass had you been standing. Flushed and drunk on sensation as a result of your actions, he was truly beautiful. But it was the look behind the mossy green of his eyes that pulled at you. The adoration, the disbelief, the ardent desire. Sweeney always made you feel wanted. But this look? This look made you feel worshipped. Was this what it was like for him? This electricity singing beneath your skin and setting your blood ablaze like you held a forest fire in your veins? It was a head rush of epic proportions and it was delicious.

You could see the way he restrained himself from bucking his hips and just fucking up into your mouth. You wanted him to finish like this. You wanted to taste him. Your nails dug into the curve and cut of his hips, the bite of them a sharp contrast to the soft, constricting heat of your mouth. Your movements sped up slightly, still on the slower side but the intensity of it all was pressing harder and harder. For a split second you wondered if it was a sin to pray to one’s god for said god to cum in their mouth, but by the low whine he gave, you didn’t think he minded.

His resolve was breaking. You felt it in the minute motion of his hips. You felt it in how he began moving your head back and forth in small, faint pulls. You felt it in the way he twitched against your tongue. God but you wanted it. It was as though the continued beating of your jackhammer heart relied entirely on watching him come apart beneath your ministrations.

When he finally let go, he did so with a quiet shout of your name, and it was beautiful in a way nothing else in the world could hope to match. He filled your mouth and you drank from him greedily, savouring every drop and reluctant to let even one go to waste. To do so, you thought, might feel like sacrilege.

Pressing a kiss to the side of his hip, it was with a pleased expression that you slowly crawled back up his body to bring your lips back to his. His tongue was reaching for yours before your mouths had even fully connected. When you pulled away he made to follow, but with a hand on his chest, you pushed him down again. 

“Bad luck to interrupt a ritual before it’s finished.” 

Sweeney sighed beneath you. “You’re too good for the likes of me, little bird.”

You knew it wasn’t just a compliment. He really believed it, and it grated on you, tugging at your heartstrings. 

“You deserve so much more.” He wouldn’t believe you, but you’d say it anyways, on the off chance that one day he might. 

He wanted to argue. Ever the fighter. So you distracted him. Bringing your arms together, your hands sat side by side on his chest. Pushing your breasts together to win a not-quite-argument was probably playing dirty but it was effective. Your chest immediately had his attention and you nearly laughed. A shift of your hips over his had you both inhaling sharply. He was still hard. Or was he hard again.

As his hands travelled from your thighs to your waist and back again, you snuck one hand behind you, lifting to line him up beneath you and slowly—agonisingly, painfully slowly—lowered yourself down, feeling every inch of him as he filled you to the brim and then some. Sweeney’s head was thrown back and his hands, which had moved up your breasts, gave a hard squeeze. It was hardly the first time you’d taken him like this, but that feeling when your bodies fully connected, that pressure as you adjusted to him never got old.

The rhythmic roll of your hips started slow, remained that way for a time, but as the air seemed to swell and swirl around you as he moved with you, the dizzying feel of him lead you to speed up, wringing mewls and whimpers out of you that you might have been ashamed of any other time.

The slide of him inside you felt better than could possibly be healthy, and already you could feel the coil begin to tighten low in the pit of your stomach. But he was holding back, waiting for you. Such a gentleman. That wouldn’t do. You pulled at him until he sat up, carded your fingers through his damp hair and trailed your lips up his neck to suck at the spot just below his ear. 

“My god. I am yours. I am for you. Everything I have, everything I am, everything I will ever be.” The words just seemed to pour from your lips and you knew as they did how truly you meant them. They were a bone-deep truth, making their home in the marrow of you. “My worship and my warmth. My bread, my belief, and my body. Every breath I take, I breathe in your name. You have my pleasure as you have my promise. I am yours, always, to do with what you will.”

His choked cry was muffled as he buried his face into the skin between your breasts, pressing hungry kisses to your sternum.

“Let go. Please. I want you to.” You wanted him to finish first, wanted to watch him break one more time, but if he didn’t hurry up you’d beat him to the punch and that just couldn’t happen. Hands moving to his face, you forced him to look at you.

“Suibhne.” His name on your lips was drawn out into a long whimper, a moan, a plea, low and breathy and it seemed to do the trick. His hips were jerking, thrusts erratic until they stilled, and you pressed down, wanting to feel every inch and when you did it was heaven. The sight of him, the feel of him erupting inside you, it was everything you needed to push you that final step over the edge and you came with a cry, arching your back in a sharp angle and holding him as close as he held you, as though the tight press of his skin against yours was still an unbearable amount of distance. Sweeney’s arms, locked around your waist, muscles like tectonic plates and nearly as strong, reminded you even now of the divine nature of the being beneath you, and of the ease with which he could crush you. The danger in the knowledge was more thrilling than it should have been, but there was also some semblance of comfort in it. In such strong arms as his, how could you be anything but safe?

When he laid back onto the rumpled sheets you followed, collapsing on top of him, head resting on his heaving chest and with your ear pressed against his skin you could hear his heartbeat. Above your head, Sweeney was muttering something in some old tongue, the words lost on you, but you could feel his voice, his full, usually booming voice, vibrating against your cheek.

He was stroking your hair away from where it stuck to your face, skin slick with sweat, and the kiss he placed on the crown of your head had your heart doing a funny sort of flip, as though despite everything, it was still the most intimate thing either one of you had done tonight. Coupled with the overwhelming feeling of safety and security you felt as he held you, and you knew you were in trouble. 

Rather than ruminate on that, however, you simply lay there with him in silence, letting the slow rise and fall of his chest lull you to sleep.

[dw-writes]

The Invasion...Chapter Twenty-Two

Summary: Mad Sweeney could not recall the last true believer he had. Sure, he’d been brought over as one of the Fair Folk, but it was different. A sliver of the truth, a dim shadow of what he was really owed. The belief of someone who followed traditions, not him.

That changed when he arrived in Cairo.

That changed when he laid eyes on you and he found that one didn’t have to believe in the myth to believe in the man.

A/N: I am.... SO SORRY. this chapter really shouldn't have taken me [checks calendar] LOL ALMOST A YEAR TO WRITE HOLY SHIT IM SO SORRY. i hope you guys enjoy this chapter, please let me know what you think!!! And i'm sorry ahead of time for the pain :3 (not really yall were expecting it) also enjoy the latest crossover to happen in this series. i hope you enjoy!!! :D

Chapters: Chapter One || Chapter Two || Chapter Three || Chapter Four  || Chapter Five || Chapter Six || Chapter Seven || Chapter Eight || Chapter Nine || Chapter Ten || Chapter Eleven || Chapter Twelve || Chapter Thirteen || Chapter Fourteen || Chapter Fourteen-ish || Chapter Fifteen || Chapter Sixteen || Chapter Seventeen || Chapter Eighteen || Chapter Nineteen || Chapter Twenty || Chapter Twenty-One || Chapter Twenty-Two Requests: Mad Sweeney and The Holidays || The Invasion and the Stressful Blows One Shots: The Invasion and That One Thankful Holiday || The Invasion and the Weight of Change || Eyes On You

The Invasion and the Big Easy

Beautiful Aphrodite had only ever felt rage twice in her long life - once, thousands of years prior, as she watched the carnage that unfolded to retrieve the prize that she had given young Paris, and second, when she saw you.

You, sitting in an empty room, eyes glassy from too much alcohol and manufactured self-doubt. She knew what it was from, had felt your heart chip throughout the night from across the country while you fitfully slept under the concerned gaze of a new friend. Whispers of a voice filled the corners of the quiet room.

She turned to them, her incorporeal form non-existent to your unfocused gaze and the man who sat on the floor near you. The face of a young woman filled the unplugged television. Rose didn’t recognize her – it was some different form of Media, a newer one, a viral one. The young woman stopped whispering and met the goddess’s furious gaze.

The television cracked, the image disappeared, and the room fell silent. She turned back to you and watched your exhausted eyes close. The man mumbled, lifting his head to check you, then settled back against the wall with a sigh.

She made a note to learn his name and remembered how love existed in so many forms.

Elsewhere, Rose slumped into the arms of her two loves. They exchanged worried glances above her head as she mumbled to herself, “My poor messenger.” She sighed. Her concerns traced the cracks in your heart through your long day to the point she remembered last speaking to you, when you were happy, and the events of your day played out against her eyelids.

You stood at the edge of a cliff, overlooking a large and bustling Athens of a different age. Your bare feet were cradled by plush, green grass while a cream-colored toga fluttered around your legs.

“We haven’t talked in a long time,” said fair Aphrodite as she stepped up next to you. You tried to look at her, but her face kept changing, as did the rest of her. She cycled through so many features like an ever-changing portrait, each paint stroke melting into the next, all trapped beneath a pale pink robe that brushed the ground.

“Have we ever really sat and talked?” you asked.

She smiled. It lit up the world. “You know what I mean.” She nodded at you. “Nice toga.”

“I’m liking the breeze,” you replied with a smile of your own.

“Yeah? It’s nice, isn’t it?” she teased. You laughed, and she watched you, her features melting and solidifying into a face that was familiar to you. You cleared your throat and looked up at her.

“Sweeney?” you asked.

She shrugged broad shoulders. “Yes and no,” Rose answered with a voice that wasn’t hers. “I’m the goddess of love, remember?” She lifted a hand into the air. “Funny, I never would have guessed this, though. Not in a million years.”

“Which part?” you whispered.

She shoved her hands into her pockets. “All of it,” she replied, “None of it. You know, I thought I had a grip on these things, but you keep surprising me.” She smiled. You longed to see that smile on his real face. “Tell him soon, okay?”

“I will,” you promised.

You opened your eyes as easy as a blink, staring ahead into the purple black haze of the dark room. Sweeney snored behind you; a hot arm thrown over your shoulders. You gingerly wrapped both hands around his wrist and frowned.

Was it a warning? A piece of advice? It could’ve been anything – your friends weren’t always so forth-coming in their intentions.

You stared at the room, thinking over everything that had recently happened, watching the darkness become blue, then gray, and a watery white as the sun started to rise. Your phone buzzes with the alarm for your meds, and you squirmed out of Sweeney’s grasp to take them.

You washed your face in the attached bathroom, brushed your teeth, changed into different, cleaner clothes. You woke Sweeney and insisted he stay quiet to not wake anyone else in the house. As you two left, you wrote a thank you note for the parents, and folded up Mitchel’s number for the sisters.

“I hope they get in contact with each other,” you sighed as you followed Sweeney across the large yard. He grunted, yawning, and continued towards the water’s edge. His lit cigarette brunt orange in the faint morning daylight, glinting off a key in his hand. “Sweeney?”

His boots clomped over a rickety pier just out of sight of the house. A boat swayed at the end of it.

“You’re joking,” you called after him. He waved you off without a word. You groaned, looking back up at the house behind you, and followed him. “You’re stealing their boat.”

“Borrowing,” he grunted, placing the cigarette between his lips, “’m borrowing – we’re—” he corrected, looking up at you as he crouched, “We are borrowin’ their boat.”

You crossed your arms. “Do you intend to mosey on back up the river with it when we’re done in New Orleans?” you asked. He climbed into the boat. You looked back at the house again and scrambled after him, pinwheeling your arms to keep your balance in the small craft. “Put out your cigarette,” you wheezed, “Before you blow us up.”

“’m not gonna blow us up!” he argued.

“You have the shittiest luck on either side of the Mississippi, Sweeney, so I’m sorry if I don’t trust you saying that,” you snapped. He sat back, glaring at you, which you returned. When you didn’t budge, he slowly pulled the cigarette from between his lips and flicked it out into the water. You took a deep breath and sat down. “Someone’s gonna get back at you for that,” you mumbled.

“You were so nice yesterday,” Sweeney mused as he sat back, “What happened? Hm?”

“You decided to steal the boat of a family that wanted to help us,” you shot back with a shrug, “And it’s not even theirs! This isn’t even their house!”

Sweeney groaned loud enough to drown out your complaints, twisting around to start the motor. You braced against the sides of the boat as it started down the river, glaring all the while at his smug smirk. You settled in after a while, watching the trees pass along the riverside. “What was that about my luck?” he said as he carefully steered the craft.

“You have shit luck,” you repeated, “The only reason you’re not dying some wildly fiery death is because I’m here and I don’t have shit luck.”

He snorted, shifting on the seat, and absently twisted his warped coin charm around his neck. “Ya know, maybe you made me another lucky coin,” he muttered absently, “Ever think of that?”

You watched him before you spoke. His eyes were trained on the river behind you and he carefully steered down the gentle curves, keeping away from other boats and suspicious shallows. You didn’t answer him for a long time. You balled the sleeves of your denim shirt in your palms and pulled it closer to you, wishing it was just a bit thicker to keep out the cold air coming off the water.

“Maybe I did,” you finally said as the river became more crowded with boats. He hummed as he looked up at you, slowing the boat down and threading it through the crowd to the dock. “Maybe I did make you a lucky coin,” you repeated.

He snorted as he climbed out of the coat. He held out his hand to you. “Bein’ facetious, luv,” he grumbled.

You took it, swinging your bag onto your shoulder as you climbed out. “Big word,” you teased. He tugged you hard against his side. “But really,” you said with a small smile, “Always told you that it was about belief. And I really think those coins were pretty lucky if they stopped a bullet and saved your life.”

“We’ll see,” he mumbled. He squeezed your hand, then led the way out of the marina and into the crowded streets, keeping you close so that the two of you wouldn’t be separated. You eventually found your way to a less crowded area of shops. Sweeney slowed down. “Ya hungry?”

“A bit,” you sighed, “We didn’t really eat anything at the house since someone stole their boat.” You looked up at him.

He rolled his eyes and looked around, tugging you behind him to a food truck on the corner. He huffed, lip curling in a teasing sneer as you pulled out your wallet and paid. He took the food he’d ordered, and yours, and tucked a bottle of beer in the crook of his elbow as he started to walk. You followed him, taking your food with a sigh as you kept pace with him. He stopped at a statue of the Virgin Mary, then smacked the top of his beer against its stone pedestal to pop the metal top off, and chugged half of it.

You watched him, slowly eating your food, leaning against the pillar across from him. “Sweeney?” you asked once he finished his beer.

He buried his face in his elbow as he released an ugly burp. You whistled slowly. “Whut?” he grumbled, taking a large bite of his meal.

“Are you okay?” you asked. You set your food down, worry twisting at your gut, and moved closer to him. “You’ve been a little weird since we got here.”

“Just got here,” he grunted.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” you shot back. You crossed your arms, staring up into his face. He scratched his chin, then down his neck as he watched you in return. “I’ve known you too long for you to pull this shit and not expect me to ask you about it,” you gently said.

He continued to stare, his blunt fingernail scratching at the label on the bottle until it started to peel. He didn’t say anything, though. His eyes grew dark the longer they traced over your face, until, finally, they fell away. He sniffed and looked at the crowd shuffling past you, scratching the growing stubble on his chin again. “Just don’t wanna see ‘em,” he grumbled.

“Hey strangers,” came the call of a familiar voice. Sweeney groaned, dropping his head back with the sound, and turned away while you smiled and spun around.

“What a sight for—” the words shifted in your mouth as you took in Laura Moon’s new, fresh face and glowing skin, “Sore eyes, holy shit Laura.”

She smirked and twirled, holding out her arms. “Guess that old man doesn’t lie, huh?” she said.

Sweeney rolled a hand in the air, tossing the empty bottle behind him. “Then what, pray tell, are ya doin’ here, huh?” he sniped, “What, you figure that the quick ‘n easy don’t last?”

You looked up at him, struggling not to roll your eyes. “Really?” you whispered.

He shrugged. “Just pointin’ out the obvious,” he muttered.

“In a really asshole-ish way,” you replied.

He lowered himself against the pillar, leaning into your space. “Never heard ya complain before,” he murmured.

You narrowed your eyes, arms crossing over your stomach. “I call you an asshole a lot, actually. Pretty sure I use it more than your name,” you argued.

“It ain’t bad enough that it kept ya from kissin’ me though, ain’t it?” he asked with a smirk.

You snapped your mouth shut.

Laura’s voice was far too loud in the crowded street when she shouted, “You what?!” followed quickly by, “Holy fucking shit,” and, “It’s about time!”

“Excuse me?” you scoffed, turning to her. “No?”

“Yes!” she countered.

“That’s not the argument here, the argument is how he’s an asshole for getting on your case,” you tried. Behind you, Sweeney started to snicker.

“Uh, no, fuck that, I’m over it,” Laura said with a wave of her hand. She closed the gap between you. “You kissed this sasquatch? Seriously? What, was it against your will, or did you actually want it?” She gasped, her face alight with joy at the first taste of gossip she’d had since she died. It really gave you a glimpse of who she had been before. “Did he tell you that he—”

“Ya here for the Loa, yeah?” Sweeney cut in, coughing on ill swallowed spit.

“That’s not important right now, is it?” she countered, glaring, “Is it really?”

“Course it is,” he replied, pushing away from the pillar. It was your turn to stare at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes as he walked past. “Second longer without my coin is a second too long, Dead Wife. Let’s get this over with.” You followed after him. He tossed the bottle into the nearest trash.

“What crawled up his ass?” Laura grumbled as she walked next to you.

You shrugged. “He’s been like this since we got here. I don’t think he wants to deal with the Loa at all.” You tilted your head, then leaned towards her. “Do you know anything about the Loa? I haven’t read anything, just know what he’s told me.”

“Not a fucking clue except that they can bring me back,” she said.

“Huh,” you sighed.

Sweeney led you both around a corner and stopped in front of a small building. Above the door was a sign that swung in the humid breeze, displaying the black rooster that had started to fade in the sun. He paused at the door, rubbing his neck, then he turned to you both. “Ain’t no backin’ out of this once we start,” he said. He stared at Laura, his face the epitome of sobriety. “You wanna do this?”

She rolled her eyes and yanked the door open. “Let’s just fucking hurry up, I don’t have all day,” she griped.

Sweeney held the door open for you, his arm brushing your shoulder as he leaned down to whisper, “Stay close.”

You nodded and stepped inside.

(Rose frowned as the scene against her eyes shifted, showing you through the eyes of a goddess she’d never met.)

Bridget – lovely and strong – felt her heart lodge in her throat the moment you walked into the Black Cock. She knew the man you walked in with, knew the emotion that made him hold open the door for you, dip his head towards yours, brush your back as you passed him.

Mad Sweeney was in love with you, and you him, if your subtle lean into him was a clue, and he didn’t explain a damn thing about the Baron’s specialty if you have followed him and the woman there.

He was about to break your heart.

She knew all too well that not everyone enjoyed their partner stepping out, but even the ones that didn’t mind it never came with them to ask the favor.

He hadn’t fucking told you.

In the ten seconds it took for your trio to enter the bar, Maman Bridget’s opinion of Sweeney soured. Something must have shifted in her, too, as her husband’s fingers lightly prodded her back in question. She smiled, mirthless, and stepped out from behind the bar.

What a fucking coward.

(And then, there you were)

You watched the red-haired woman move around the end of the bar. She passed Sweeney, sharing a look with him, before she moved through a door you hadn’t noticed before.

(Imaged passed through your mind – piles of stones upon marked graves of women, women standing beneath weeping willows that shielded them from mist and shadow, drums beating against ears; but also, there were doctors in damp fields and poets writing by candlelight and rough handed blacksmiths and farms all framed by an ever-burning flame.)

You sat heavily at the bar. The weight of recognizing a two-faced goddess rested heavily on your shoulders and the back of your neck. You stared absently at a bottle in front of you, barely listening to the sound of Sweeney’s voice as he traded barbs with the man behind the bar. Your vision swam when you finally looked at him.

The man himself was tall, even lounging back against the back bar, with a top hat that made him even taller. He had deep, dark skin with the cool undertone of a clear night radiating from beneath. His bright eyes, while filled with humor, were scanning over your trio with a knowledge you couldn’t place.

The wall behind him melted away when he met your gaze. There was a history behind him, spanning centuries and countries, filled with celebrations and swearing and death and spirits and all framed by a heady smoke that filled your lungs and spilled over your lips on a shaky exhale. When you breathed in, there was life and sex and booze, singing and loud music and a sharp tang of spiced rum on your tongue.

You couched and squeezed your eyes shut to the man’s grin, bracing against the bar as you struggled to regain your composure. Beneath it all, you recognized a gap in your knowledge that ached in your chest and made your heart race. The lack of information made you anxious and it hurt. You refocused on the bar, scooping up a bottle near your fingers, and struggled to listen to the conversation.

“And when she is not around,” purred the Baron, his voice floating through the air, “I fuck a lot of other women.”

You were joining an already complicated conversation, you knew it, and maybe it was nerves clawing at your throat that forced your mouth open to say, “Doesn’t Maman Bridget help women with unfaithful lovers?” The air chilled for a moment, but nothing rang untrue in your skull. You glanced up from the bottle of pepper-infused rum in your hand. “What?” you asked, “I’m not wrong.” You were defensive, yes, your voice sharper than you intended.

The woman, who you knew had left through a door before, was standing next to the Baron behind the bar. She arched an eyebrow and smiled. “I like this one,” she murmured. She released the man and rounded the bar again, almost materializing by your side with her smooth movements. No wonder you hadn’t noticed her return. “I wouldn’t mind keeping you around,” she said, leaning against the bar, “The Baron might even warm up to you.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” you replied, “No offense.”

The Baron laughed – loud and full, a sound that echoed a little harshly in your ears – and leaned towards you. “She’s right,” he murmured, “I like you.”

You smiled. There was an air to him that was familiar, and you voice as much when you said, “You remind me of another friend who owns a bar a lot like this. I think you two would get along.”

He snorted as he leaned back, eyeing Bridget over your shoulder as she slipped behind you. “Maybe you could introduce us,” he replied.

Sweeney sat heavily on the stool next to you, grunting and leaning into your warmth. “How’s about we stop makin��� nice,” he grumbled, “I gotta favor.”

Bridget smiled. “From what I hear, it’s not like you to do favors, Sweeney,” she sighed and your smile grew tighter, “Hasn’t that been your friend’s job?”

You frowned at the way she said ‘friend’. Sweeney huffed, shifting in his seat and leaning away from you.

“The Dead Wife,” he sighed, waving a hand towards Laura on his other side, “Is dead.”

The Baron flicked the rim of his hat up and leaned close, spreading his hands along the bar. “Don’t look dead,” he said. He sniffed, long and loud. “Don’t smell dead, neither.”

“Smells Norse,” Bridget commented with a sigh. She leaned towards Laura and picked up her hair, sniffing it. “A bit Greek? A bit…” Her hand snapped out and slapped the side of Sweeney’s head. He started to protest when Bridget opened her mouth and let loose a violent rant of Gaeilge so fast it didn’t sound like words.

Laura leaned back to share a wide-eyed look with you.

The Baron laughed.

Sweeney hunched his shoulders around his ears as Bridget swore. Her voice dropped as she switched to English, “You lost the Sun’s treasure?!”

Your leprechaun swung a hand towards Laura. “It ain’t lost, it’s in there!”

“It’s not yours anymore, is it?!” Bridget snapped, “Not the Sun’s but some dead woman’s!”

“And she’ll only give it up if she ain’t dead!” Sweeney shouted.

The Baron stood straighter. Bridget’s mouth clicked shut and her eyes glanced past him to you.

“Why we’re here,” Sweeney finished.

“That’s powerful magic,” the Baron murmured, “With a steep cost.”

“We’ll pay,” Laura replied, unknowing.

Sweeney shoved his hands through his hair and leaned on the bar, ducking his head low.

It was quiet for a moment. The Baron and Bridget exchanged looks. Then, Bridget cleared her throat. “Come back at closing,” she answered, “We need time to prepare.”

Sweeney was up and out the door before she finished. You stood to follow, stopped only by the woman’s hand on your arm. Laura lingered at the door.

“You shouldn’t come back,” she said, “It’s not magic involving you.”

You frowned, feeling a calm warmth seep into your skin, but pulled away. “We’ll see,” you replied.

You left.

Laura waited outside, talking about places to stay, and started towards the main road like she knew the area. Sweeney shuffled behind her, and you after him. He didn’t look at you, didn’t slow to walk next to you. He just walked, shoulders hunched, hands shoved in his pockets.

The three of you eventually made your way to a small hotel not far from the French Quarter. They had one room left, and the cost left you lightheaded, but you dug the cash out of your bag and paid regardless. Once you were given the keys, you turned to see what Laura and Sweeney wanted to do until it was time to go back, but found Sweeney gone.

Laura shrugged when you asked her where he’d gone. “Dunno,” she said, “Didn’t even see him leave.”

You frowned. “Okay,” you sighed, leaning to see if you spotted him anywhere. “What do you wanna do until he gets back?”

A smile lit up Laura’s face. She led you back outside, and down the street, stopping at every shop between the hotel and the bar. You found ink for Mr. Ibis, an antique set of mortician’s tools for Mr. Jacquel, and a new toy in the shape of a bat for Bas. Laura found a cute dress, which she showed you only after you had left the store, and she changed in an alley. There were other stores, other things purchased or stolen, other smiles shared and memories made.

It was dark soon enough, and the two of you stumbled back to the bar in each other’s arms, laughing like schoolgirls.

Sweeney was already there, waiting, face drawn as he pushed the door open. He didn’t say anything as you walked past him, didn’t even look at you.

Bridget looked away from the Baron with a smile that fell the moment she saw you.

(Coward. What a fucking coward.)

“I told you not to come,” she said, leaning on the bar, “This doesn’t involve you.”

“Why wouldn’t I be here?” you asked, confused, a bit incredulous, “They’re my friends.”

Even the Baron looked a bit lost as he watched Sweeney. “Sex magic only calls for two people,” he explained slowly, “That who requested, and that who benefits.” He tilted his head. “And those who cast it.”

“What?” His words rang in your ears. Laura’s hands disappeared from your arm as she said something, then the Baron, then silence. Three sets of eyes burned into your face as a fourth actively avoided looking at you. “What?” you asked again.

“It’s magic,” Bridget said at the confused look in your eye, “Just magic.” It was like she was trying to soothe a burn, but instead of aloe, it was lemon juice.

“Potent magic,” the Baron added. He slid his hand up over her ass. “Only kind that’ll work for this, too.”

Laura whispered your name.

You smiled. You had to – for her, who you’d come all that way for, and for Sweeney, who…

The smile hurt. You’d rather the platitudes from Bridget.

You nodded, glancing around the room. “Yeah, I know,” you said, voice cracking, “Why we’re here.” You cleared your throat. It burned. “I’ll be at the hotel then.” The door thumped against your back as you reached it. Laura had the grace to look away as you fumbled it open and left.

Once outside, the door slipped from your fingers and shut with a heavy thunk. The hot night warmed your clammy skin and sunk into your clothes until you started to sweat.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Just don’t wanna see ‘em.”

“You’re a liar!”

He knew.

(He really was a coward.)

You walked, shouldering through the thick evening crowd as your thoughts wandered away.

Why were you upset? He wasn’t yours, despite all your wants, and thoughts, and wishes. He never was, and, if you were honest, he never would be. You weren’t supposed to be there in the first place, weren’t supposed to be trailing after a man who worked for a god you shouldn’t have met. You were supposed to be home in Cairo. In your bed. Alone.

Fading.

Dying.

Dead.

Your feet shuffled to a stop. People milled past you, unseeing, like you were just something in their way and not a person on the brink of an abyss. You couldn’t tell what you were staring at – a swirl of blurring colors that spanned what must have been the road or the crowd or the buildings, it was all bright and it hurt. Heat spilled down your cheeks and your vision cleared.

A shoulder clipped yours. You stumbled, the rest of the tears rolling down your face, jolting back into your body when you weren’t even aware you’d left it.

“I’m sorry—oh,” a voice thick with a deep southern twang danced in your ears. Warm hands brushed your shoulders. “You alright, darlin’?” Your tears continued. They wouldn’t stop, even as you lifted your eyes from the ground, up past a white collar framed by metal filigree points, and met a warm, brown gaze set into a tanned and tired face. The Preacher’s brow furrowed as he muttered a soft, “Shit.”

You shrugged a shoulder away from him, mumbling something you knew was a lie, but that might’ve also been an apology.

He followed, standing close, staring past you, then turned you around towards a door. You barely heard his voice. You tried to take in more of his features, wondering why he bothered when no one else did – his hair was messy but stood in soft peaks around his head, while the sides were shaved close, and a splatter of dark freckles covered the bridge of his nose. He spoke again, meeting your gaze when he did.

The air trembled around you. Something traced his words out onto the air. You could’ve mistaken the anomaly for a heat wave if it hadn’t been at the end of your nose.

He guided you through the crowd and into a cold bar. You shivered at the sudden change, you sweat suddenly ice on your skin. His hands left you to remove his coat and drape it around you. You watched him roll up his sleeves. Hs pressed a hand between your shoulders and led you to a booth. Two other people were already sitting there, arm against arm.

“Padre?”

“Jesse?”

“Now,” the Preacher – Jesse – motioned you further into the booth, taking up the edge seat when you complied. “This here is Tulip, and Cassidy,” he quietly introduced.

You were pretty sure you gave them your name, but you couldn’t be sure.

“We ain’t here for—” Cassidy’s voice cut off with a yelp.

Tulip adjusted in her seat, shooting the man, Cassidy, next to her a glare. She smiled at you. She was lovely. “You alright, hun? You look down,” she asked. Jesse next to you suddenly jumped, swearing under his breath. “Why don’t you and Cass get us all some beers, yeah?” she politely demanded. She even moved for Cassidy to scramble out of the booth.

You took her in as she shuffled back across the booth seat – her tight brown coils kept the sunglasses sin her hair in place, and her brown eyes were bright as she stared at the men at the bar. She wore lip gloss, and her freckles were just a shade darker than her soft brown skin.

She flashed you another smile, this one not as awkward. “You okay?” she asked again. Her eyes darted over your face. “I mean, you don’t really look okay, but do you wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head. You mulled over her words, adjusting yourself in Jesse’s coat as you struggled to settle back into your skin, forcing yourself into the situation. Out of all the stupid things you could’ve done, you were led into a bar by a stranger, and stuck in the corner seat of a booth.

Though, there were worse things you’d done, too.

And it was a Priest that led you into the bar. Out of all the strangers, that was one that you could, maybe, trust more. And given the weird thing that happened when he spoke, it really reminded you of Anders, and you scrubbed your face with your hands with a groan. Fully covering your face, you dropped your elbows on the table and rambled out everything that had ever happened – from meeting Sweeny in Cairo, to sitting in the bar with her at that moment. Your voice cracked as you spoke, and you barely registered Cassidy or Jesse returning sometime towards the early middle of your tale.

Tulip took your hand and wrapped it around a beer, the polite look on her face replaced with a familiar frustration.

“Now, I ain’t one for religion,” she started, quickly rolling her eyes as Jesse cleared his throat. “Wasn’t,” she corrected, “But someone wanted us to meet because I think we are uniquely qualified to help you out right now.”

Cassidy slapped his bottle on the table, leaning in curiously. “Yer man really a leprechaun?” he asked, “Flighty fuckers, ain’t they?”

“I’m sorry?” you laughed, clearing your throat.

“Nah, I’m old, yeah, been everywhere in my hundred years, and I ain’t ever come across a shrewder or fucked fae than a fuckin’ leprechaun,” he answered.

You properly grabbed the beer and had a long drink. “And how—”

“Oh.” Tulip slapped his arm. “Cassidy here is a vampire,” she said casually, then waved a hand at Jesse next to you, “And Jesse has the literal word of God in his chest.”

“Tulip,” he sighed, as though it was a long-worn topic of contention.

The edges of your world became a little more defined the longer you sat with them. “A vampire, a priest, and a woman,” you mumbled, “I’ve been in weirder situations.”

“Yeah, alright,” Cassidy said, waving his hand in a circle over the table as he adjusted in his seat, “Circle back – how the fuck did ya land an invitation to the Oester party?”

“Oester?” Jesse whispered to you.

“Easter,” you clarified.

He nodded slowly and sat back, draining his beer in one long gulp.

“Everyone’s always clamberin’ for that, fuck, even the Oester in fuckin’ Qatar has a hard time gettin’ invited some years!” Cassidy continued.

“There’s more than one?” asked Tulip.

“You also said there were multiple Jessues?” butt in Jesse over her.

“Jesi,” Tulip corrected.

“I think it’s just Jesus, ya know, both plural and singular,” Cassidy mumbled.

“We’re lookin’ for God,” Jesse continued, sighing, “Big G, God. Was he—”

You shook your head. “Sorry, Father. Just Jesus.”

“Jesse,” he insisted.

The conversation continued in a similar vein, you giving them more details, them sharing their story. The table collected a large amount of beer bottles as the hours passed.

Sweeney drank just as much as Bridget danced. It was a dance she’d done numerous times, one that he partook in at least once, one she’d done in front of others who owed favors, who needed magic so desperately that they’d toe the line between death and sex just to taste it. She twisted in time to music that formed on the air. Sweeney’s eyes slipped past her, past the figures that appeared around her, to someone she had yet to see. She threw her head back as old words slipped past her lips, and spotted the figure, the one who clouded the Irishman’s mind as the world grew hazy and the magic grew hot. Bridget was grinning when she turned to him, traced her slim fingers up his thighs, which parted for her.

“And, for a moment, I thought you were hung up on the dead girl,” she crooned against his clothed stomach.

Sweeney snorted.

“But it’s someone else,” she teased. Her lips grazed the skin of his neck. He twisted his head away from her. His knee started to bounce. “Bet you’d be more into it if the Informant were here, kneeling between your knees.” She pressed an open-mouthed kiss against his ear. “Just as eager to take your cock as you are to give it.”

He shrugged her off with a growled, “Shut up.”

She arched an eyebrow as she stood, though that Cheshire stretched further across her face. “C’mon, let’s play pretend, hm?” The room filled with an eerie glow. Sweeney rose from his eat. “You be the burly Irishman.”

“Shuddup.”

“I’ll grant your favor,” she purred, voice lilting as Sweeney stepped closer.

“Shut. Up.”

It wasn’t her voice that said, “Make me,” but she squealed when Sweeney scooped her up and pinned her to the wall, anger and frustration brewing hot in his veins. It wasn’t her he saw when he hiked her skirt up and pulled her legs high around his waist, nor when he tilted her hips up and pushed his cock into her with no preamble.

In the haze, he heard the Baron and Maman Bridget laugh.

As the red settled over his eyes, he slid a hand up the back of the figure on his hips, swinging them around, pinning them to the column behind him. They were tighter than hell on his cock and warmer than the sun against his chest and he felt himself swallow his own name as he kissed a mouth he’d become familiar with.

The fingers in his hair were yours.

The thighs he gripped tight were yours.

The voice that mewled and moaned in his ear as he touched and bit groped the right places was yours.

And while part of him knew it wasn’t you – wasn’t really you taking his cock like you were built for it – the rest of him desperately wished it was, and convinced him to enjoy the fantasy while it lasted.

(Laura knew that Sweeney only touched her the way he did was because he imagined it was you, and she desperately wished her imagination was powerful enough to picture the man she kept telling herself she loved, rather than seeing the one she really did.)

Jesse fumbled with the lock to your hotel room for the third time, swearing beneath the din of a party going on down the hall. Cassidy stated that he was sober, that he could open the door, but Tulip hushed him and pointed out that he was carrying you on his back, so he was too occupied to do so. He didn’t argue with her, nor point out that she, too, was drunk.

You cheered when Jesse finally opened the door.

“’ey, I got it,” Cassidy said as he shuffled inside. You were vaguely aware of him ushering Tulip and Jesse away, of him telling them that they needed to get home, and to call a taxi or an Uber.

“You text me!” Tulip halfway shouted around him, waving at you as you were deposited onto the bed.

You flashed her a thumbs up before Jesse pulled the door shut.

Cassidy turned to you, rubbing his neck, and dug through the only bag in the room, mumbling something about getting you a change of clothes.

It gave you a chance to really look at him, really take in his features. He was tall, with hair long enough to stick out in difference directions, and soft brown eyes, and was freckled from his previous days in the sun. His voice was soft as he handed you the clothes and advised you to change. He steadied you, helped you tug off your stubborn shirt and put on your clean one, then sat you on the toilet and grabbed a washcloth.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked, surprisingly sober, given how much you drank.

He knelt and started to wipe your face; his brow knitted together at your question. Then, he sat back on his heels, his arms draped on his knees.

“I’m a real right bastard, love—”

You swiftly corrected him with your name.

He lifted his hands, apologized, and continued, “But I ain’t gonna leave someone alone when they’re hurtin’.” He paused, then sighed. “Specially with somethin’ like this.” He gave you a small smile.

“I don’t deserve it,” you whispered, sniffling. You wiped your nose with your hand. Cassidy held out the damp cloth. You took it, chin trembling, “I don’t deserve any of this.”

“You don’t,” Cassidy agreed. “Fact, from what y’ said, that Sweeney’s a fuckin’ arsehole and deserves an asskickin’, but that’s from the outside.”

You waved your hands, rolling your eyes. “No, I—” You sniffled against and dabbed your nose with the cloth. “No, I don’t deserve your kindness. I don’t deserve your company, I don’t…” Your voice cracked and dropped to a whisper as you continued, “I don’t deserve to be here. Someone else does. Someone stronger, someone kinder, someone smarter.” You hiccupped and covered your face with the cloth, leaning over your knees.

Cassidy sat on the floor at your feet, folding himself around your legs and the toilet as much as his long limbs would let him. He looped his arms around your back. “That’s the shitty booze talkin’, y’know…” he murmured, sighing gently, “An’ I dunno who you think is better. Yer plenty strong, from the sounds of yer story. Kind, too. Smart as a fuckin’ whip.” He frowned. “You deserve what ya put into the world, and y’ve put a lot of good out there.”

Your sob tore through his chest like a stake.

(Cassidy’s heart broke a bit and stitched back together with a bit of love he carried for you until the day he died.)

“Then why…” you trailed off.

He sighed. “Others just put shit out there, too, and that’s a bit bigger than the good sometimes.”

You scrubbed your eyes with the cloth until they burned, then sat up, wiping your cheeks. He took the washcloth, carefully wiping your nose with the corner.

“Know it ain’t much,” he whispered, “But ‘m glad someone like you’s here.”

“I wanna go home,” you whispered, and he felt it in his gut that you didn’t mean a place.

He sighed. “Me, too,” he said, and in that moment, you knew he didn’t mean a place either, and wondered if Tulip was right about the serendipitous meeting.

Your chin trembled. He helped you up, guided you to the bed, tucked you in, then sat next to you. He flipped the television on. You reached over and flipped it off.

“You’re a vampire,” you mumbled, resting your head on his shoulder, “Tell me a story. Tell me your story. I’ll commit it to memory.”

He snorted. “Why you wanna do somethin’ so silly like that, huh?” he asked.

“Everyone deserves to be remembered,” you sighed, closing your eyes. “And everyone’s important enough to be remembered.”

Your phone buzzed on the blankets. Cassidy scooped it up. He tilted the screen towards you.

“He’s really enjoying fucking that dead flesh,” read a text from your sister, sent over one of the social media apps on your phone.

“That somethin’ she’d say?” Cassidy asked, glancing at the phone, “You said somethin’ about gods and the like, too, when y’ were tellin’ yer shit.”

“Never,” you whispered.

He turned the phone off. “None a that, then,” he mumbled, tossing it somewhere on the bed. He threw an arm around your back. “Get comfortable. It’s a long story.”

“Those are the best,” you yawned.

He spun you a tale of two kids playing at being Freedom Fighters in a land you’d grown familiar with, about how one died in battle, another in the streets.

You drifted off sometime during his re-telling of the 70’s.

Old stone homes crowded the darkness of your sleep, looming over you like specters of a past you didn’t know well. You padded barefoot down cobblestone roads and turned a corner to find your familiar library at the end of one.

“Hello, you,” you whispered as you made your way over, pulling open the clean doors. They creaked and slammed shut behind you. It was dark inside. Not dark enough that you couldn’t see, but the once warm candles were no longer lit, instead being scattered, and broken across the floor. You stepped over them with a frown as you walked in.

Thrown across the main room were books – the floor was covered in pages that were ripped and stained, and shelves were knocked against each other. You knelt to pick up a book and sighed. An ache bloomed behind your eye as sobriety quickly approached.

“Leave.” A voice in the sudden silence made you jump. You dropped the book, rising to your feet. A figure stood beside a tipped over shelf. Its eyes reflected what little light filled the room. You gulped, shifting back as it inched towards you. You scrambled for the door and the bright light beyond it, panic clawing at your throat as the thing ran after you. You pulled the door open.

Its hand smashed the door shut. “You don’t get to run away from this!” it snarled over your startled screech, “You don’t get to just decide it’s over!”

“Stop it!” you screamed. It roared against your back, then fell silent. Its heat surrounded you. You swallowed, turning to see whatever it was that haunted your library.

You stood toe to toe, its bright, knowing eyes watched you. Its chest heaved and its arms trembled. You shivered, backing up against the door. It stepped back.

“Who are you?” you whispered.

It opened its mouth and hundreds of names poured out. You covered your ears as the sound of them echoed in your head, pounding against your skull, everything building until it was undecipherable noise.

Fingers wrapped around yours, cold against your hot skin.

Rose opened her eyes, leaning away from her two lovers to pick up her phone. She’d sent a message hours ago, calling on an acquaintance she hadn’t met in decades, cashing in her one and only favor to him.

Her message was the address of the hotel and your room number, attached to the request, “Take them home. Cairo.”

He’d replied, “Done,” and dropped a pin showing that his phone was at the same location.

She sagged with relief and sat back against the couch.

The man saw the read notification beneath his pin, then slid his phone into his pocket. It was easy for him to pick the lock of your room – old doors, old locks, they were nothing for his deft fingers. Though, he swore when he dropped the lock pick, scooping it up into a wide palm as he checked the door. Satisfied, he swung the door open.

Cassidy looked up from gently prying your hands from your head.

The strange man looked around the room. The television had been unplugged at one point, as had the small clock radio. A cell phone sat on the blankets, turned off. And a vampire was tending to the one Rose had sent him for.

He laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Cassidy grunted, standing tall, making sure he was between you and the stranger. The man laughed harder.

The sound was finally enough to wake you. You pushed yourself up, rubbing your sore eyes, and squinted at the man standing in your room. He tilted his head back, somehow larger than Cassidy was before you. “Rose sent me,” he said, waving a hand, “Here to take you home. To Cairo. Let’s go.”

Cassidy glanced over his shoulder at you. You swung your feet off the bed, shrugging, still half asleep and not quite sober as you groggily responded, “Take me home.”

“Y’sure?” whispered Cassidy.

You looked up at him, smiled, and nodded. “I’m sure.” Then, you pointed at your bag. “Give me your number. I’ll update you. And stay here, at least until nighttime. The room’s paid for.”

He hesitated, and gave the man another wary look, but did as he was told with a shrug. He eventually turned back to the man again. “Wait, who’re you?”

The strange man grinned, his laughter finally subsiding. “Call me Iartaithe,” he answered with a wink, “It’s a name.”

“Okay, but why’re you laughin’?” Cassidy asked as he grabbed your bag. He fished for the pen you pointed towards, glancing over when you saw you rubbing your eyes again.

“Just absurd,” Iartaithe replied, “Whole thing. Absolutely fucking absurd.”

��Yeah,” you muttered as you stretched your arms above your head, “Tell me about it.” You waited as Cassidy scribbled down his number, then stretched to grab your phone and turn it back on. You looked up at him. “Can you tell Sweeney where I’m going?”

“I can tell ‘im to fuck right off,” Cassidy replied. You smiled. “Guess I can,” he muttered.

“Thank you,” you said, “He’ll worry.” Then, you frowned, wondering if he’d show back up at all, and remembered that, despite what you wanted from him, he really was still your friend. He’d show up. And he’d worry. But you also knew that you couldn’t stay there anymore, especially alone. You appreciated Cassidy’s company, but you knew he couldn’t stay. You needed to go home. You needed to see Bast again. “Thank you,” you repeated, looking up at Cassidy, “Really.”

He flopped onto the bed with a loud sigh, tapping your phone with his finger. “You better fuckin’ message, or I’m comin’ to find you instead,” he threatened, “Fuck God. He can wait another fuckin’ day.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, yawning, and stood, scooping your bag off the floor. “Promise,” you swore.

Iarlaithe leaned back against the door, and stepped out into the hall when you followed. You gave Cassidy one last glance, waved when he did, and shut the door on him and everything that New Orleans had brought you.

~*~Thanks for Reading~*~ ~*~Tag List~*~

@hannon-say || @divadinag || @superflannel || @jinxy-toast || @the-bluest-hour || @karmabites2313 || @siedrkona1991 || @hstott || @lakeli || @massivecolorspygiant || @leximus98 || @weirdo125 || @fleeingdawn-blog1 || @madamecoyote || @postgradandstupid || @hopplessdreamer || @ceyruh || @animatenebrae || @ultrablackwidower || @callmemaeverick || @loisbaggings || @fictional-hooman || @babypink224221 || @quietwitchworld || @mags-writes || @sunshine-gumdrop || @theonlylolland

[hoedamn-eron]

mad sweeney - overstimulation

Kinktober Day 1 - Overstimulation

Warnings: 18+, minors, DNI. Overstimulation. Sweeney refers to reader as 'lass'. Some swearing. Word count: 950 F!Reader, no use of Y/N.

Series Masterlist ● Day 2

“No, no, no, Sweeney, please…”

“Just one more, love, that’s all I need, just one more…”

It’s nothing new. When Mad Sweeney reappears into your life, he always wants a hot shower, a drink (a stiff one usually, but you always make him tea), and a comfortable bed.

And a warm pussy to bury himself in. It was usually yours.

He comes stumbling into your house, filthy and slurring his words. You never ask any questions; where he’s been or what he’s been doing, or who he’s been doing it with. All you know is that he wants, needs, your help, even if it’s just for a few hours. So, you lead him to your shower, where he barely fits, and you make him the cup of tea. You wash his clothes and He’s usually sobered up enough after the shower to drink the tea then pass out in your bed with you.

This time round was no different. However, this morning, he decided to wake you up with his head between your legs and an orgasm or two.

Or five.

Maybe six.

You lost count a while ago.

Your fingers are buried in his red hair and you’re pushing him further into your pussy, like you weren’t just begging him to stop his onslaught on you. It’s gotta be illegal, the way he was making you feel, his tongue and his fingers working you up to another orgasm, as he promised.

“Sweeney,” you gasped, your back arching. “Please, please, please, please…”

He didn’t deem to give you an answer, just look up at you with the dirtiest look possible, from those hazel eyes of his, and that was all it took for another orgasm to glide down your spine. After a few more flicks of his tongue against your abused clit, you came with a loud cry. You felt more than heard Sweeney groan into you, his fingers thrusting into you, helping you ride out your orgasm.

You were shaking your head as the pleasure subsided, but Sweeney was already working at you again, feeling like a warm buzz throughout your body. “One more.”

“That’s what…what you said three orgasms ago,” you breathe, giving a small laugh as your eyes closed. You knew you weren’t getting out of this anytime soon.

You felt him give a breathy chuckle against your pussy before he leaned back in. Your nerves were on fire, and you couldn’t stop shaking. You could feel your fingers tightening in Sweeney’s hair, trying to anchor yourself as he licked and sucked at your clit. You felt as if you would float away if you didn’t.

“Ye’re being so good for me, sweetheart,” Sweeney muttered. “Just takin’ all I’m givin’ you.”

You give a high pitched, weak whine from deep in your throat as you feel yourself about to cum again, seeing stars behind your eyes as your orgasm builds quickly and suddenly. You shook and screamed his name as you thrash on the bed, as if trying to get away, another wave of ecstasy crashing over you as another climax hit you just as powerful as the others. You felt Sweeney hold you down by your hips, keeping you still as he continued his assault on your cunt. You sobbed loudly, and you hadn’t even realised you had started crying. Everything hurt, but it all felt so good.

“Love?” Sweeney asked in a low tone, his fingers stilling in you as he looked up at you again with those Goddamn eyes. “You got one more fer me?”

“No, no,” you say, panting, finally looking down at him. “Fuck, Sweeney, I can’t.”

“Ye can,” he muttered against you, not breaking eye contact as he kissed your abused clit.

Tears were falling down your cheeks as you stared at him, and eventually you nodded, barely able to form any words.

“Good lass,” he muttered as his fingers pumped into you again, slowly this time. You let out a low moan, your head tilting back again as your eyes closed, visions of luscious green forests and the metallic taste of gold suddenly overtaking your senses. “That’s it. Have to thank ye for all those times ye’ve taken me in, eh?”

You don’t tell him that you would have taken him in anyway, sex aside. You know he isn’t a man to be tired down, that he wasn’t the man you would take home to meet the parents, but you liked knowing that he was alive…that he’d come to your door okay (as ‘okay’ as he could be anyway).

You feel his tongue on you again, and now you don’t even fight it. Even as you came down orgasm after orgasm, he doesn’t stop, making your whole body tremble with each sweep of his tongue. You were a wreck, drenched in sweat, your own mess, and trembling helplessly. Sweeney finally pulled away, only for him to kneel up high over you, smirking as he fisted himself slowly before wordlessly entering you easily, meeting no resistance with how much he’d been working at you.

You were a goner.

You’re not sure how long you’re actually in bed for, but by the time he’s finished absolutely devouring you and fucked himself into you (with a few extra orgasms for ‘good luck’), your legs can barely support you as you stagger to your bathroom to clean yourself up. You send him a glare over shoulder, leaning on your dresser for support as you feel his cum start to drip out of you.

He merely smirked at you before chuckling. “Need a hand there, love?”

“No, thanks,” you say, stumbling your way into your bathroom. “I’ve had enough of your hands for one day.”

[ficmesideways]

Request for Anonymous

Gif Source: Wednesday / Sweeney

Imagine being Mr. Wednesday’s demigod daughter and him finding out you’re dating Sweeney

------- Imagine -------

“Your doing what? With who?!” You father all but yelled. Scrath that, he did yell. The walls shaking in response to his surprise and anger. You flinched but did not back down as you watched him fume. “If you let that insignificant little thing who likes to think he is still a god wed you or heavens forbid, knock you up, I’ll”

“What?” You said, your own anger sparking now. “You will do what exactly? Because as I recall you were never around until Shadow showed up and all of a sudden you wanna be a family man. Well fuck that, I will let Sweeny fuck me, wed me, breed me, whatever the hells I want because it is my life, and my relationship you got that!” Your own voice reverberated just as loud as his, but no walls shook in response. Only a nothingness quiet followed as your father looked at you.

“I’ll tell you this only once.” He said looking at you, is voice calm and low as if the screaming match had never happened. “Take all the time you need, but when you come back, when he breaks your heart, dies, or leaves you in a bloody pile; you come back to me for good.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine but you ignored it and turned your back to him to head back to the booth where Sweeney waited. The reassuring smile he sent your way had you feeling lighter already. You took his had when you were close enough and bid him to follow you out.

[delightfuljellyfishtraveler]

Second ever post in here I’ve been obsessing over Sweeney for the past several months and I have already read a majority of the posts in here about him, so here’s my try at it! Hope you enjoy!

"Ugh, too much damn paperwork..." I state as I go through the seemingly endless slog of articles that are balanced precariously on my cramped desk. I press the heel of my hands into my washed out eyes, The lack of feeling makes my shoulders sag. as i should be angry with the co-worker who dumped all of their paperwork for their case down on me. It was an 'easy case' and a cheerful, 'you'll have it done in no time!' That drained all of the energy I once had when I walked through the steel, double doors. I stand up with effort and sigh in relief as my knees and ankles crack into place. My eyes widen as I look down at the small alarm clock on my desk, I had worked through two of my breaks and my lunch.

'Great.' I walk over to the door of my office and out to the break room where a few stragglers remain after their breaks. The intense smell of cigarettes and something else foul smacks me in the face as I open the doors. All of the people look over and give a forced smile. None of my co-workers liked me, not even the supposed 'yes' man, Rodney. The looks they give me feel like knives were driven into my back, I know why they hate me. I've heard the whispers, 'Lawyers slave', 'Firms pet', and many more. I walk over to the only fridge in the entire building and pull out an empty container with my name written on the lid. I was looking forward to my lunch today. I had a self-made Alfredo that I had the night before, not the kind one can buy in a jar, a homemade Alfredo sauce put over homemade noodles with chicken. I stand there looking at the container in a blank stare, I was always taught not to say anything if I had nothing good to say. But the flood of anger and contempt for my peers was growing faster than my own thoughts. My grip tightens on the container, as I look back at the people I share the same room with.

"Oh, sorry. I thought that was what my wife packed me, she has very similar hand writing." It was Samul that spoke up, his Boston accent lilting as he spoke in mock sympathy. His mouth is quirked up in a prideful smirk as he walks closer with a swagger in his step, as if he fell a deer.

My breathing picks up as my thoughts swirl in my head, my overactive imagination, imagining what I could do to him. Strangle him with his tie, tackle him and stomp his face in, gouge his eyes out with my spoon. Something primal falls over my mind as I take a step closer towards him. My eyes must have gave something away as he takes a step back with a strange look on his face, all of that arrogance gone and is replaced by a outward look of fear.

I take another step forward. 'I could stab my fork into his throat, it would shut him up.'

"Hey, are you okay?"

The sound of my employers voice stops the thoughts and pulls that primal blanket of feeling off of my head and I look over towards the older man. He is the nicest man in the business, the man who saw potential in me while everyone else only saw a woman with nothing. "Uh, Sir?"

"I asked if you were okay?" The worry in his voice is evident, as he knows how my peers treat me like a personal rug. His wispy hair and old blue eyes ooze comfort and remind me of my grandpa.

"Um, No Sir. I feel Ill, do I have permission to head home?" I needed to head home before I did something I regretted.

"Yes, you can head home, just don't forget to double check you logged in everything."

His voice helps to ground me to reality and I nod my head. I rush out of the break room to my gate as the need to move pushes me forward. I walk back to my cramped office and back to what was supposed to be my lunch in my bag. I sit back down and check all the information before logging off. The chair groans as I stand up from it. I take a breath as my head falls onto the desk. I feel so tired, yet so pumped. My body itches to move, to run.

Yet my head feels like a pound of lead. Maybe I am getting sick…

I huff as I stand up with my bag. I ignore all the looks I’m given as I walk right out the door to my car. The sound of the ignition turning lit my heart on fire as the old engine roared to life. A thrill I lost long ago fills my head, and I grin maniacally. The music turns on, and the song ‘Iron’ by Woodkids fills the car. The percussion takes my heart as I put on my seat belt, shift the gear, and rip out of my parking spot. I floor the pedal as I rush to the exit onto the highway. My breathing picks up as I watch the other cars whizz by. I catch a clear spot and gun my old baby down the highway. I gasp as the speed picks up fast. I can feel my heart thrumming as euphoria fills my head. A loud smile crosses my face as I revel in my new feelings.

The drive back to my house was much faster than usual and was a happy blur. It felt good. I turn into the courts of my apartment complex, drive slowly down the street, and turn into my driveway. I park my car, grab my things, and head inside in a tired daze from my drive and the emotional rollercoaster I was on. I open my door and lock it behind me.

The sound of a meow pulls me out of my daze; I smile as I see my black cat strut his way over and rub against my legs. His green eyes stare up at me and blink slowly.

“Hello, my Lugh.” I reach down and pet him with a smile. “You’ve kept the house safe?”

He meows back as he walks back to his sunny spot.

I hang my purse and coat on the hooks and strip my heels off. I groan in relief as my feet hit the floor. “God, I hate those things.”

I walk over to my small bedroom, pull my fluffy pajamas out of the drawers, and walk over to my bathroom; I strip down and take a nice, long, hot shower. I quickly dry off and change into my pajamas. I walk out while brushing my hair, walk into the kitchen, and grab a bag of pumpkin seeds. I reach into the higher cupboards and pull down a bottle of aged Redbreast whiskey and a large glass. With my prizes, I settle down into a plush armchair. I set my liquor to the side and reach for my favorite book. Its cover is worn with age; the pages are yellowed and bent from the continuous dog-earring. The cover is worn green, and the gold lettering fades but can still be read. ‘Irish Folklore And Fairytales’.

I reach over, pour myself a glass, and open the book to my previous place. The book starts with a new chapter labeled ‘Leprechauns.’ The night flies by as I lose myself in the emerald groves and wistful magic. A feeling of peace overtakes my whole body as I linger between the two planes of dreams and reality. I jump when I hear my cat purring beside me. I look over and close the book in my lap. The glass in my hand is now dry, so I set the book down. I smile as I reach down and pet Lugh. “I love you, my boy.”

"…I love you too, my human." "Alright, it's time for bed." *I stand wobbly on my legs as I trudge to my room. I walk into the bathroom and brush my teeth as my mind replays the myth of leprechauns. They loved cream and bread; humans left a plate of freshly baked bread and a bottle of cream on their window sill. If a leprechaun saw it and liked the bread, it's said they would leave a lucky coin on the window sill. An image of my grandmother leaving a loaf of bread and a bottle of cream on the sill flashes. In my tipsy haze, I tell myself, "Why not? I could use a little luck." I finish with my nightly routine and walk back down to the kitchen. I grab a loaf of rosemary and cheese bread I had made the day before and one of the bottles of half-and-half I have in my fridge. I walk up to my room. I open my window and set the load of warm bread wrapped in aluminum foil on the counter. I can feel my family's warmth wrap around my neck and back as the image of the bread and cream brings to mind my late grandmother's kind smile. She always swore up and down that she had seen the great Tuatha de Danann when she was a child. When I was a child, I believed her stories of the children of Danann, of seven-foot giants and grisly warriors of old just beyond the veil. I believed in the faeries and the kings of old. I thrived on her stories; they brought me joy and a sense of wonder that I lost when she left. It was replaced with my father's misery and my mother's hope. I stopped looking in the forests for the little faery lights of my grandmother's stories and looked at my feet. My feet took me across the sea to America, where I started working in the firm as an errand girl.

Tears fall down my face as I think of my grandmother, the loss of wonder, and my path. I lean down and pry the window open a bit.

“deonaigh dom ádh, a anamacha na sean.”

The prayer that my grandmother used to whisper falls from my lips in a tone of reverence, as if I were reliving a memory. I turn to my bed, dress myself for bed, tuck myself into my thick comforter, and close my weary, heavy eyes.

[zenithheifer]

Who did I have to kiss to get some fics around here?

[hinge]

Hinge presents an anthology of love stories almost never told. Read more on https://no-ordinary-love.co

[sunshine-gumdrop]

Mad sweeney & Ellie

[hornydilfsinyourarea]

Mad Sweeney x Husband! User

Authors note: I like men with accents

Scenario: "Sweeney just came back to the home both of you shared together, at first he didn't expect that you were awake untill he saw you looking through a magazine, so why not ask his very handsome husband to patch him up?"

Warning: Sweeney got into a fight at a bar, mentioned that user works as a bartender, mentioned that user has a edgy/grunge vide to them, mentioned that user wears more dark clothing/likes the color black, mentioned that user didn't think they would date or marry a Irish person

Patching up your Irish husband after he had a fight at a bar <3

↑link to bot↑

[bearwriting]

Casing

Start Here Previous Chapter

Summary: Bruised and bloodied, you end up with the last person you thought you'd turn to, and you're taking him to see an old friend.

Word Count: 12.3k

Warnings: Vomiting

Next Chapter

“What did you do before you worked for Wednesday?” he barked.

“I-I dunno. I don’t remember what I did, I don’t remember what my life was.” You were crying now. “Before Wednesday, everything is blank.”

He knew this. You had told him this before, that Wednesday had found you wandering through northern Minnesota, half-frozen and with no memory to speak of. But now…he had to wonder. Did Wednesday happen upon you by chance? Or had he lied? Knowing the old man, the latter was far from impossible or even unlikely.

He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you against his chest, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “I think we need to get some answers,” he murmured against your hair. “But first, let’s get you to bed.”

The next day, you woke to find yourself crammed into the backseat of your car with Sweeney’s gangly form sprawled beneath you, his chest rising and falling as his snores rattled the windows. You yelped and untangled yourself from him, opening the door and falling out backward in your haste to extricate yourself from the situation. Your face burned and a piercing headache threatened to cleave your skull in two as your vision swam. Groaning, you lay back on the cool asphalt of the bar’s parking lot and desperately wished that the world would stop spinning.

Sweeney sat up, peering blearily at his surroundings. “Sure, was I not comfortable enough for you?” he called down to you.

“Don’t fuck with me right now,” you begged. “All my energy is going to trying not to yak in this parking lot.”

He chuckled and flopped back on the seats. “Better out than in.”

“Fuck you.” Your head was stuffed with cotton and your mouth was all but glued shut, every word a struggle. You smacked your lips and rubbed the heels of your palms into your eyes in an attempt to rid them of the wretched sandpaper feeling and groaned again. “I think I’m dying. Is this what dying feels like?”

Sweeney unfolded himself from your car and stood over you, nudging you with the toe of his boot. “You’re not dying, mo chara, you’re hungover.”

You flung a dramatic arm over your face. “I’ve never had a hangover, I don’t think. I think I’d rather I was dead.”

Sweeney snorted and reached out to clasp your forearm with a massive hand and hauled you to your feet with a grunt, steadying you when you swayed slightly. He was watching you closely and you shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

“What’re you looking at me like that for?”

He remained silent for a moment. “You’ve never been hungover?” he eventually asked.

You shook your head.

The look on his face told you he didn’t believe you.

“I’ve seen you drink, you must’ve had at least one.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” you said. Your patience was wearing thin and you were beginning to get annoyed.

“You’ve never been hungover?”

“No. Do you want it in sign language?” You made a rude gesture.

He cocked his head to the side like an animal appraising something it didn’t understand. “D’you think it’s the healing thing?”

You pulled your lower lip between your teeth and chewed it thoughtfully. “I mean maybe? But then why do I have one now? What’s different?”

His eyes darted across your face as though searching for something. “What do you remember about last night?”

You shrugged, releasing your gnawed-on lip. “Dunno. I guess falling off the bar? I remember you yelling at me for some reason.”

Sweeney forced himself to look away from your mouth with a shake of his head. “D’you remember why?”

You shook your head and he sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. “You said something about a battle that I was in.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So? We talk about that stuff all the time, why was that enough for you to go off on me?”

Sweeney looked like he wanted to shake you. “You’re not understanding me. You spoke about it like you were there.”

You blinked. “What, like a memory?”

“Sure, that’s what they’re usually called.”

You glared at him. “So…I remembered something I wasn’t supposed to and now I have a memory hangover? Or something?”

“Or something,” he muttered. You couldn’t put your finger on why, but you got the distinct feeling that there was something he wasn’t telling you.

“Anything else?” you prodded.

He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels. “Nope.”

You opened your mouth to push further, but he curt you off. “We need answers,” he said firmly, “and I might know where we can find some.”

You rolled your eyes and gestured for him to continue.

“Portland.”

You looked at him blankly. “Oregon?"

He shook his head. “Maine. East coast.”

“What the hell and fuck is all the way up there?” you demanded.

“The Morrigan.”

A rat scrambled across your sneaker and you jerked your foot away, grimacing. The cool morning air was starting to warm with the inevitable heat of the day. There was a wad of what had once been bright blue bubble gum stuck forlornly to the concrete, specked with debris, the vivid color chewed to a muddy grey-blue, and a hypodermic needle lay some yards away with a used condom. “Come visit picturesque Kentucky,” you muttered to yourself as you scuffed your shoe over the ground, thinking of the poster you had seen at a bus station with the phrase. “I want to go to Circe,” you said.

Sweeney’s mouth gaped. “In Florida?”

You scoffed. “Like Maine is any closer. If someone’s going to dig around in my head, I’d rather it be someone I know.” you said.

If his mouth opens any wider, his jaw is going to dislocate, you thought mildly.

Sweeney snapped his mouth shut like he could read your mind. “Don’t tell me you trust her.”

“I’m not a moron,” you snapped. “I’d just rather not have a stranger rummaging around in there. Plus, she’s a millennia-old witch and we have questions about magic. And it’s my car,” you added.

The two of you stared each other down in that dingy parking lot for what felt like an eternity before he relented. You had dug your heels in and he knew better than to try to argue.

He pointed at you. “Fine. But if she can’t help us, we’re going to the Morrigan.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine.”

“I’m driving.”

“Like fuck you are,” you told him. “Let’s get the lead out, my beautiful passenger princess.”

He glared at you before he slung himself into the empty seat and slammed the door with more force than was strictly necessary.

The nearly twenty hours to Florida dragged by impossibly slowly. You and Sweeney traded for the driver’s seat every few hours and your time in the passenger seat was passed either sleeping or poring over your journals and books in a futile search for answers. The two of you spoke little, save for your occasional questions about certain customs or rituals. Sweeney was uncharacteristically quiet, deep in thought and his brow furrowed so deeply that you could have put a pencil between them and it would have held there.

“You’re gonna give yourself a headache,” you murmured, reaching over from the driver’s seat and running a thumb over the wrinkles in an effort to smooth his forehead without taking your eyes off the road.

He grunted and swatted your hand away from his face. “I don’t like this,” he grumbled.

“Which part?”

“Any of it!” he exclaimed, gesticulating wildly. “All of this feels wrong. It feels like we’re missing something. Something isn’t right.”

You snorted. “When is it ever? Our job is secrets and lies, this isn’t anything new.”

Sweeney leaned back in his seat, flipping his coin across his knuckles and in the back of your mind you were painfully aware of how smoothly it rolled across the breadth of his strong hands. You forced yourself to think of something other than the freckles and the fine orange hairs that traveled from the back of his hand and up his wrist. Christ, you scolded yourself. Get a grip. The muscles of his shoulders flexed involuntarily under the fabric of his blue button-down and everything in his body language screamed anxiety and discomfort, from his constant fidgeting to the tension that arced through him, and you worried that he would snap like a rubber band wound too tightly.

You sighed. “Look, we’ll be at Circe’s in a couple of hours. Maybe we can start to get some answers.”

“Or maybe we’ll just be more confused and a three days’ drive from where we should be.”

You glanced over to snap back at him and your heart froze in your chest.

He blinked. “Y’alright there?”

The grass green eyes were gone. In their place were sightless black pits that wept a black viscous ooze.

“S-Sweeney?”

The black pits narrowed and the figure that had been Mad Sweeney leaned closer. You pressed back against the passenger door, seized in that moment with an absolute certainty that this man, this thing, was going to kill you.

His mouth moved, but no words came out. Instead, a heinous and inhuman keening issued from his lips and burrowed into your skull. You clutched at your head as if you could block it out and curled up against the door, making yourself as small as you could. You were in a speeding car with a demon changeling that had taken your leprechaun and wanted you dead. You were going to die.

The monster in the driver’s seat pulled the car to the shoulder of the highway and shut off the engine. You flattened yourself against the door, your eyes screwed shut as you willed this creature to disappear.

After a few minutes of silence, you cracked an eye open. Not-Sweeney was standing outside the car and watching you closely with those hideous eyes and you could feel your heart climbing up your throat.

You wondered if it really was possible to die of fright.

It opened its mouth, its jaw making a nauseating popping sound before dislocating, and again that horrible keening pierced your skull and it didn’t stop. It came closer to you and you scrabbled for the door handle, desperate for escape.

He came around to your side of the car and opened the door slowly. Someone was screaming and it was only after a moment or two that you realized the sound was coming from your own mouth. Not-Sweeney crouched in front of you, keeping a few feet of space between you.

You were aware that he was speaking, but your terrified mind refused to comprehend it. He reached out to touch you gently and you flinched so violently you nearly bit a hole through your tongue, but he didn’t remove his hand. Instead, his thumb began to rub the skin of your arm and he kept talking to you. After a few minutes of this, the blood roaring in your ears quieted enough that you could hear what he was saying. You kept your eyes glued to the ground, too scared to look into those horrible eyes, but you could hear his words now.

“— and I don’t know what you’re seeing right now, but it’s still me. I promise you, it is still me, and I will never hurt you.”

His voice was so soft and gentle and it instantly made your eyes well. You blinked, letting the tears roll down your cheeks, and looked up at him. That horrible face yawned before you and you cringed away from him, but in the blink of an eye, it was gone. The black pits had returned to their shining green and his jaw was back in one piece and covered with four-day-old ginger scruff.

Your relief at the sight of his face was so immediate and overwhelming that you threw yourself against his chest and buried your face in his shirt, your shoulders heaving with sobs.

His enormous hands rubbed small circles between your shoulder blades and stroked the back of your head.

You fought to breathe through your hiccuping sobs but couldn’t quite get enough air into your lungs. He guided your face up to look at him. His palms were rough with calluses, but they were warm and they were so, so gentle.

Before you could say anything, before you could even try to take a breath, his head dipped towards yours and he was kissing you. He was kissing you and he was holding you so tightly, like he was afraid you would disappear if he let go, with one hand on your face and the other against the small of your back, pulling you as closely as possible.

You clutched at him and he just felt so real under your hands. Clove smoke and liquor filled your nose and his scruff scratched at your lips in a way that made you shiver. This was real, he was real. Not the monster. Never the monster.

He broke away from you, leaving you staring at him wide-eyed and thunderstruck.

The sadness you saw in his eyes punched the air from your lungs.

“You were scared of me,” he said quietly, the despondency in his voice nearly cracking your heart in two. “What did you see?”

“I — what the fuck?”

Sweeney’s face flushed scarlet. He wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“‘M sorry,” he murmured, ducking his head. “Dunno what that was.” He got up and strode back to the other side of the car and climbed behind the wheel, gripping it so tightly his knuckles were bone white.

“Sweeney —“

“Don’t,” he said softly.

You stared at him mutely, your mind reeling. You didn’t even know what you wanted to say.

“Can we just —“

He started the car and whatever you were about to say was drowned out by the roar of the engine. The conversation was over.

If there had been tension in the car before, it was smothering you now. You couldn’t bring yourself to speak, not trusting your voice, and Sweeney hadn’t even looked at you since you had gotten back in the car. The trees outside had long since changed from oaks and beeches to towering palm trees that waved in the breeze as though they were welcoming you.

Unease crept up your throat, settling in the back with the unpleasant oily feeling that comes with nausea. You remembered that Circe had told you how Florida had been formed from the grit and dirt that had sloughed off the Appalachian Mountains and settled in the Gulf. You figured this was at least a partial explanation for all the weird and unsettling things you’d seen there. What else could you expect from somewhere that had been born from the blood and dirt of gods that were older than the Atlantic? Here, all bets were off, but whether or not that was a good thing remained to be seen.

The remainder of the drive passed in what felt like an eternity of that tense and anxious silence when, at last, you arrived at the ferry that would take you from Fort Myers to Key West. From there, you would take a small boat that would take you to Circe’s island, an uncharted islet that held the ancient witch’s home.

On the ferry, Sweeney seemed to come back to himself. He had disappeared the moment you stepped onto the deck and reappeared shortly with snacks and drinks clutched in his hands. He had gotten your favorite snacks from the vending machine along with two hot drinks from the small ferry cafe.

He held your snacks and one of the cups out to you. “Tea,” he grunted. “Help keeps y’from getting sick. Immune system boost or something.”

Whatever remaining anxiety you had from the drive melted away as you took his offerings. “Thank you,” you said, giving him a small smile.

He rubbed the back of his neck and wouldn’t meet your eyes. “Dunno if you can even get sick, but between the driving and the not sleeping I figure it can’t hurt.”

You inhaled the steam, letting it clear through your sinuses, and sighed contentedly. “Thank you,” you said again.

He nodded and sat down on the opposite bench facing you. “D’you have a plan for when we get there?” he asked.

You chewed on your lower lip. “Beyond just sort of showing up?”

Sweeney groaned and ran his hands through his hair. “Of course you don’t. S’pose you show up and she’s not there? Or s’pose she’s not willing to help?”

“I could ask the same of Maine,” you muttered.

He leaned forward and pointed a finger at you. “Sure, except I do have a plan for Portland.” He sat back. “Do you even have anything for her?” he asked. “You’re smart enough to know that she won’t give help for free.”

You patted your backpack. “I’ve got something I’ve been holding onto for her.”

Sweeney looked at you skeptically. “Like an offering something, or is this another. Gungnir situation?”

You glared at him. “It’s an offering, dickhead,” you snapped. The annoyance from earlier was suddenly back in full force. “Stop acting like I’m completely incompetent.”

“You’re the one that wants to drop in on her with no advance warning,” he pointed out. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“Sweeney,” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose and squeezing your eyes shut, “please, just shut up.” As you spoke, a shiver ran up your spine and the tip of your tongue tingled.

He moved to retort angrily, but it seemed that he couldn’t open his mouth. His green eyes bulged and your own widened as he clawed at his throat.

“Th-this isn’t funny,” you stammered.

Sweeney shook his head vigorously. He wasn’t messing with you.

“Fuck.” You tried not to panic. Clearly, this was your fault, but you had no idea how to undo it. Your hands fluttered as you tried to think of how to undo whatever it was that had been cast. “Um…Christ. Fuck, okay, um…speak,” you tried, like he was a dog that could be trained to bark on command. He looked at you in reproach and you winced. “Okay, yeah, sorry. I have no idea how to undo this.”

You tried again and again to no avail, succeeding only in further upsetting yourself. Your hands began to shake and your words stumbled over each other and you couldn’t quite catch your breath and oh god what had you done —

Warm hands covered yours and squeezed gently. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.

You swallowed and took a shaky breath. He nodded and took another and you tried to breathe in tandem with him.

Your heart slowed and he nodded. He paused and thought for a moment and then he grabbed a pen and a notepad from your backpack.

“Hey!” you protested, but he paid you no mind as he scribbled something on the page in front of him and handed the notepad to you. You didn’t recognize the word he had written down.

“I have no idea how to pronounce this or what it means,” you told him.

He rolled his eyes and took the pad from you, once again scribbling something before handing it back to you.

You scanned his chicken-scratch writing. “’Just feel it’? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you demanded.

He gave you a look that said try.

You stared at the page for a moment, not sure where to begin, and then took a deep breath and carefully sounded out the word. Nothing. “Did…did I say it wrong?” you asked cautiously.

He shrugged, which you took to mean It was good enough.

Eyes closed, you leaned back against the sticky brown vinyl of the seat. You knew this likely had to do with the tingling you’d felt when you accidentally cast whatever the hell this was, so you just had to get that back. Reaching forward, you tried again but still felt nothing. You cracked an eye open to see Sweeney staring at you expectantly. It hadn’t worked. Your shoulders sagged with frustration. “I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “Maybe it’s temporary?” You had been aiming for a light, joking tone, but your voice cracked and you had to press the heels of your trembling hands against your eyes in an effort to stop the dam from breaking. There was a pressure that had been building behind your eyes for several days, all the fear and anxiety and exhaustion piling up and threatening to spill over, but you couldn’t let it. You refused to cry in front of him.

The seat next to you dipped with new weight and you opened your eyes to see that Sweeney had moved to sit next to you. When his eyes met yours, they softened. He wasn’t mad at you, he knew this had been an accident.

Mortifyingly, your eyes began to brim with tears that quickly spilled down your cheeks. You realized that you wanted to hear his voice. You needed to hear him say that you would figure it out because that’s what you always did. You refused to meet his gaze, instead staring straight ahead and willing yourself to stop crying. Then, in a gesture that you had always understood to be unlike him, Sweeney put an arm across your shoulders and gently squeezed you against him.

The dam broke. You slumped against him and turned your face to bury it in his side, tears now flowing freely down your face and soaking into the fabric of his shirt. The feeling that you were overreacting to this comparatively small misstep in the grand scheme of everything else ate at you, but in the smaller scheme of right now, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Your body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds and your hands were trembling.

Sweeney’s thumb gently brushed back and forth over your arm. The callused skin on the pad of his thumb snagged at the looser fibers in the flannel you wore. His head rested on top of yours and his breathing was slow and even. You did your level best to focus on the rhythm of the rise and fall of his chest and tried to sync your breath with his. The two of you sat like that for several minutes while you worked to stem the tide flowing from your eyes. Sniffling, you sat upright and swiped at your eyes.

“Maybe Circe can fix it.” You didn’t even bother to hide the misery in your voice. You were exhausted and there was an odd smell in the air that you initially attributed to a general Florida-ferry-scent, but upon further inspection, you realized that the odor was wafting from your own self and Sweeney. Never in your life had you longed for a shower and clean clothes more than you did at that moment.

A second wave of tears overcame you and you folded in on yourself, desperately wishing you could disappear and hating how weak you felt in that moment. You couldn’t even fix your own mistakes, between running to Circe to save you and Sweeney being the reason you had stayed alive long enough to get Gungnir to the old man. Sweeney being the reason you hadn’t died after you escaped the Jötnar and Sweeney being the reason, Sweeney being the reason, Sweeney being the reason. Fuck.

Your shoulders hunched forward and you stared at the linoleum floor of the ferry as you chewed at the dead skin of your nail beds. You didn’t understand why Sweeney was still by your side even after you had dragged him across state lines and nearly killed him. He’d said you were his best friend, sure, but everyone had their limits. How many strikes until you found yourself alone?

Sweeney laid a hand on your shoulder and gave what you could only assume was meant to be a reassuring squeeze, but it only threatened another round of crying. Again, you found yourself surprised at how badly you wanted to hear his voice.

The remainder of the ferry ride was filled with suffocating silence, Sweeney unable to speak and you unwilling. There was nothing you could say that wouldn’t feel depressingly hollow, so you buried your nose in your journal and scribbled down everything that had led to the right now in excruciating detail. You didn’t know if Circe would find it helpful, but you figured it couldn’t hurt. At the very least, she might be able to help you figure out where to even begin to learn to control whatever was happening to you.

The moment you stepped off the ferry, you were submerged into the hot Florida air, which clung to you like a second skin. The palms waved at you merrily and you glared up at their dancing fronds. They were where they belonged and you, most assuredly, were not. You couldn’t help but feel like you were being mocked.

There was a small marina beside the ferry terminal and it was there that the two of you headed next. You led the ginger giant down to where the boats bobbed gently in the saltwater and towards the farthest end of the marina. As you walked past yachts that increased in size the farther you went, you could see Sweeney’s eyes darting excitedly from vessel to vessel. He thought you were leading him to what had to be a spectacular super-yacht, you could tell, and your misery lifted long enough for you to make the decision not to tell him otherwise.

Despite the everything about how you were feeling in that moment, you couldn’t help but snicker when a small and rather dingy sailboat came into view and a look of dawning horror came across his face when he realized that you weren’t going to stop at one of the enormous sleek monstrosities that stood sentry on either side of the walkway.

Approaching the vessel, it became clear that it was even shabbier than it had seemed on first glance. The deep blue paint of the hull, which must have been breathtaking when it was new, was flaked and peeling with bare wood visible in places. The glass of the aft porthole of the cabin was spiderwebbed with cracks and appeared to be held together with duct tape and there was splintered wood everywhere. The gold-painted letters across the stern that had once proudly spelled “Aeaea” now read “Ae e “ in script that was just as faded and peeling as the rest of the boat. You didn’t need to look at Sweeney to know how he felt about your ride and he didn’t need to speak for you to know exactly what he was thinking.

“I know,” you told him, “but she’s never sunk before.”

He gave you a look and you knew then that it wasn’t just the boat that was giving him pause. The witch had turned him into a pig the last time they had crossed paths and there was nothing to say she wouldn’t do it again. You couldn’t really blame him for his reticence.

“I won’t let her turn you into a little pig boy again,” you teased. Both of you knew that it was not within your power to stop Circe from doing anything.

Sweeney’s shoulders hunched with reluctance and you gave him a gentle shove in the direction of the boat, mentally preparing yourself for the possibility of having to body-check him over the rail, but you were pleasantly surprised when he climbed aboard with no complaint. Not that he could complain even if he wanted to, but it was nice that he didn’t try to fight you over it.

The two of you sat on the cracked and yellowed vinyl seats that circled the perimeter of the deck. You folded your hands and waited patiently and Sweeney looked at you, clearly confused as to how this was supposed to work.

“Give it a sec,” you told him.

Sure enough, after a moment the boat lurched forward, its engine coughing and spluttering and belching black smoke. Sweeney’s face told you that he did not think that this was a good idea and you could see his reluctance only increase as the little boat trudged down the jetty. As soon as you were out on open water, a thick, unseasonable fog descended around you, obscuring everything from view.

“This is the only way to the island,” you explained. “I mean, it’s the only one I know of, at any rate. I’m sure there are other ways to get there, but this is the easiest and also the least dangerous.”

He gestured for you to continue.

You huffed out a breath. “Okay, I don’t know how well I can actually explain this, but I’ll do my best. Basically, the island is shielded. You know how in The Magicians, how the school in that has wards on it to keep people from finding it?”

He nodded. You had plowed through those books and made him watch the bad TV adaptation with you, he remembered how it worked.

“It’s not the same shielding, obviously, but it’s the same concept. Circe has a shielding spell on the island that keeps it hidden. The only people that can get to it are people who have been there before. The boat has an enchantment on it that will guide it to the island with the right person.”

You could almost hear his voice demanding that you explain to him how you’d gotten to Aeaea before and you knew that if you didn’t tell him now he would only be annoying about it later.

“You know I spent time with Circe, yeah?”

Sweeney nodded. “Wednesday sent me to her after he found me. I didn’t learn anything major or super helpful, but he had her teach me basic protection magic and some other small things here and there. She was the one who helped me get my feet back under me.”

There was more to the story, and he could tell that you were holding something back, but that was a can of worms for another day. You lapsed into silence and leaned back against the seats and gazed out over the water. Even having been to Aeaea before, your breath still hitched when the fog cleared and the small dot of Circe’s island came into view. Memory had dulled the beauty of this place, you could tell even from a distance. The water that lapped at the hull of the boat was a bright, seemingly impossible shade of cerulean that almost hurt to look at in its brilliance. The fish that swam beside you seemed like something from a dream, so beautiful were they with bright orange crests arcing down their backs and sunlight glinting off of their silvery scales.

You leaned over the side and let your fingers trail in the warm water. A sea turtle slid gracefully through the water, close enough that your fingers could skim its shell, and you couldn’t help but gasp. In doing the work that you did, you saw so much ugly without reprieve and it was easy to forget that there was still beauty and wonder in the world. In spite of it all, there was still beauty. Even the little boat looked new, whatever enchantment that had disguised it now lifted, its blue paint glossy and no longer peeling and the wood polished to a mirror shine. The cracked porthole was now in one piece and the vinyl on the seats was now a soft beige and looked brand new.

You closed your eyes and tilted your face skyward, taking a deep inhale of the clean salt air. The rays of the sun warmed your cheeks and seagulls wheeled through the sky at incredible heights and you opened your eyes to watch them. You envied their freedom. They didn’t have to do anything, no one ever asked anything of them. They were free to go where they wanted when they wanted and answered to no one. You’d have liked to be a bird. When you had asked him about it, Sweeney had said that he didn’t remember much of his time as one, but he remembered the freedom and the feeling of soaring through the air, weightless and free.

You looked to the island. Now that you were closer, you were able to see some of the animals that lived among everyone there and among the bustle of the witches on the beach. You’d have liked to be an animal. You’d have liked to be anything other than…whatever it was you were. It was a cruelty, in some ways, that you had been given this life and this form. You looked to Sweeney, curious what was on his mind as you approached the white beaches, and found that his gaze was already burning into you.

The moment your eyes met his shocking green ones, all thoughts of wishing you had been made differently evaporated.

Sweeney looked away from you quickly and scratched the back of his neck. That moment passed in the space of a heartbeat, but you didn’t think you were imagining the flush that was creeping up from under his collar.

Before you could dwell on it for too long, the small vessel glided neatly to its dock. Waiting to greet you were three gorgeous women with jet black hair and clear gray eyes. They smiled at you in unison and you could see rows of needle sharp teeth, stark white against pink mouths. These women had been at the docks when you had last arrived years ago. They’d made your skin crawl then and they made your skin crawl now.

“She’s been expecting you,” they said as one. Their voices made your frontal lobe buzz unpleasantly. Their mouths moved, but their words felt as though they were being beamed directly into your mind. Judging from Sweeney’s grimace, he felt it too.

You cleared your throat and regained your bearings. “She knew I was coming?”

Sweeney moved to stand behind you and once again you were grateful for the solidity of him in the face of the Gray Women.

The Gray Women said nothing more, only turned and began to walk down the dock towards the beach. A look passed between you and the leprechaun before you followed. The sisters (Were they sisters? You’d never been sure.) led you to a cobbled path that ended at an enormous manor. It was an elegant building that you could only imagine was what the home she had grown up in looked like. Its façade of soaring columns and well-polished stones supported snaking vines with fragrant blossoms that were as big as your fist and there were gas light fixtures on either side of the massive oak doors that were banded with iron and sported heavy brass door knockers that had been cast in the heads of lions, their jaws agape in mighty roars.

The tallest of the three women raised one of the lion heads and let it fall against the oak with a boom that echoed through the house.

After a moment, the doors swung open of their own accord and you were hit with a gust of incense-perfumed air and woodsmoke. The women gave you one more eerie smile before vanishing back the way you had come and you stepped inside.

Sweeney moved to follow you, but you turned and placed a hand on his chest. “Maybe you should wait here,” you told him. “You know how she can be.”

He looked as though he very much wanted to protest and shook his head vigorously. He was not going to let you talk to the witch alone.

You patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back,” you promised and walked down the hallway. You could feel Sweeney’s glare boring a hole in the back of your head.

Though it had been a while, you still remembered the layout of Circe’s home. It was approaching late afternoon and you knew she would be taking her tea in front of her hearth in the great-room as she attended to her rituals and the hearth would not be difficult to find.

You dodged the dryads that bustled around the halls, their hands full with rich fabrics, decadent dishes, and wine in jugs made from the most beautiful ceramic you’d ever seen. The walls were hung with vivd tapestries and patterned with intricate mosaics, both holding images that were so lifelike you half expected them to leap out at you. Treasures on pedestals lined the walls and glinted in the warm light of the sun. Carved chests were tucked into corners and soft rugs padded the cold stone floors. You ran your fingers along the cool marble of the windowsills and traced the intricate scrollwork of the wooden shutters. Undeniably, the home of the sorceress was breathtaking, but there was a cold, hard feeling that lurked beneath it all. You supposed centuries of forced exile would do that to a person.

Eventually, you got to where you wanted to be and, as expected, when you rounded the corner she was sat before the fire at her loom, her fingers deftly sending the shuttlecock back and forth with a glimmering thread. Another woman sat adjacent to her with her back to you. You couldn’t see her face but her auburn hair was intricately braided and threaded with silver beads. She waved her hand as if to illustrate a point and you saw silver rings adorning long slender fingers that were covered in inked symbols that were too small for you to make out.

From your backpack, you retrieved the bottle of 1869 Château Lafite that had been packed carefully at the bottom of your bag and set it on the long cypress table. You contemplated knocking on the table to make yourself known, but Circe spoke before you could.

“It’s rude to stare,” she said calmly without looking up from what she was doing. “Either speak or leave.” Her voice was cool and carried through the space so that it sounded like she was right next to you. You had never once heard the witch raise her voice, but she always made herself heard.

You picked up the bottle and made your way to the hearth, your cheeks burning. Like the rest of the house, the grand room was a thing of beauty: the high ceilings boasted intricate frescoes of what you knew to be scenes from The Odyssey. Columns stretched from floor to ceiling, the tops of which curled into delicate scrolls. Two stone lions bracketed the enormous fireplace and you couldn’t shake the feeling that they were watching you as you moved, and more rich tapestries hung on the walls. You could see threads of gold gleaming among the royal purples and bloody crimsons. Despite the oppressive heat of the day, there was a roaring fire blazing merrily before them.

“I apologize Teacher,” you said sheepishly.

She eyed the bottle of wine in your hands.

“Is that the 1869 Château?” she asked. Her eyes shone hungrily with the promise of an offering.

You nodded. “Yes.”

She snatched it from you. “Oh, well done indeed.”

You cleared your throat. “I know I come without invitation, but—“

“Dear one, have you met my friend?” She spoke as though you hadn’t said a word.

“I — no, ma’am.”

Circe indicated the woman beside her, who smiled at you kindly. Her ice blue eyes glinted and her smile actually reached her eyes. “This is Angrboda. She’s a dear friend and a fellow practitioner of the craft.”

At the woman’s name, your blood ran cold. The old man had told you stories about this witch. Mother of Fenrir and Jormungandr. Loki’s wife. A force to be reckoned with above all else, who had died at the hands of the Æsir more than once but now sat five feet from you. And yet, the woman before you didn’t seem as cold and wretched as Wednesday had made her out to be. Those sparkling eyes had crow’s feet and there were smile lines around her small mouth. This was a woman that smiled often, even with the aching sorrow you could see behind the twinkling in her eyes. You liked her immediately.

You gave Angrboda your name and she inclined her head.

“Pleased to meet you.” She was soft-spoken, her voice gentle and delicate, but like her Greek counter, she radiated power and authority.

“Likewise. Teacher, you —“

Circe held up a hand. “I know what you’re here to ask. Where’s that ginger giant of yours?”

You ground your teeth. “I left him in the front hall. I didn’t want to risk offense and, forgive me, but he’s still a little skittish after last time.”

She scoffed and tossed her head. “He ran his mouth, I set him right. The man has nothing to fear as long as he minds his manners. He’ll be brought in shortly, I should think.”

“Thank you,” you mumbled.

At that moment, the doors at the end of the hall banged open and Sweeney strode through, looking for all the world as if he owned the place. A harried dryad trailed after him but Circe waved her away and she made a quick retreat.

“Mad Sweeney!” Circe exclaimed in delight. She stood and spread her arms to hug him. “Lovely to see you,” she said, kissing him on both cheeks. It almost sounded like she meant it, but you didn’t miss the glimmer of disgust in her eyes.

Sweeney raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, and surprise flitted across her face. For a split second the witch was visibly annoyed, but she quickly wiped her face and plastered on a pleasant smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “No biting comment?” she teased. “Am I not worth your words, great king?”

You tensed but Circe waved her hand. “Sit down.”

An invisible force yanked you into one of the high-backed chairs like you were attached to a string.

Circe approached Sweeney, inspecting him like he was one of her cattle.

“Oh, now this is interesting,” she remarked. She prodded his jaw. “You can’t speak at all, can you?”

Sweeney’s face remained impassive. Circe waved Angrboda over. “Boda, come look at this.”

Angrboda rose from her seat and crossed the room with impossible grace. Her pale fingers delicately probed along Sweeney’s jawline and down his neck. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped and you snorted derisively. Not that you could blame him though, Angrboda was otherworldly in her beauty.

“This is wonderful work,” she murmured, forcing Sweeney’s jaw open so Circe could stick her fingers in his mouth and poke around in his cheeks and under his tongue.

Circe removed her fingers and took a step back. “It’s rudimentary and a little crude, but it’s clean and to the point.”

Angrboda hummed. “It does feel unintentional, but it’s better work than some of your novitiates.”

The Greek witch turned to you. “Is this your doing?” You nodded. “I thought it felt familiar,” she said, more to herself than to you, “but if it is, it is stronger than it used to be.” She sniffed the air. “You smell different, too. Much more wild.”

You blinked at her.

“I don’t think they’ve come to be told they stink,” Angrboda said gently.

Circe cleared her throat. “Right. Why have you brought him to me? I know that this alone isn’t what brought you back to my shores.”

You swallowed. “I was hoping you could remove the enchantment. Please.”

She pretended to think hard. “I don’t see why I should. I like him better this way anyway. All of the strong and handsome brooding with none of the insufferable speaking.”

“I need him to help me find answers,” you said.

The witch looked at you in a way that made you feel naked and exposed. “It’s your spell, you should be able to do it yourself.”

Your eyes were glued to the floor and you let the sole of your boot scuff across the textured surface. She knew you well enough to know exactly why you hadn’t undone this, she just wanted to hear you say it.

“I haven’t…been able to,” you said reluctantly.

She scoffed. “You cast it, didn’t you? You can remove it.”

“The casting was unintentional,” you snapped. “I haven’t been able to figure out how to undo it. I don’t even know how it happened in the first place!”

“Did my teachings mean nothing?” Circe demanded. “Did nothing stick in that thick head of yours? I’ve seen you cast. You’re more than capable.”

“Only defenses and wards,” you protested. “It’s never been like this before.”

Angrboda regarded you carefully. “This unintentional magic, is it a recent development?” she asked. You nodded and she turned to Circe. “That could account for the wild smell, but why now?”

Circe scratched her chin and looked at you. “Have you had any particularly traumatic experiences lately?”

“Broad question,” you muttered.

“Let me rephrase. Have you had any experiences recently that go beyond what you would typically encounter?”

You looked to Sweeney, unsure it was safe, but he shrugged and nodded. Might as well, his body said. You reached around to hike up the back of your shirt to show the witches what the Jötnar had done. There were sharp intakes of breath as they took in the ruined flesh of your back, which was already beginning to scar over. Circe’s face hardened but Angrboda’s eyes went wide.

“Nine hells, it was you,” she realized.

Circe’s gaze snapped to Angrboda. “Explain,” she demanded.

Angrboda’s eyes didn’t leave your back. “I heard a rumor about a week back that one of the All-Father’s people had been taken by the Jötnar. They said they had trespassed and stolen something valuable.”

“Is it stealing if they stole it in the first place?” you muttered.

Angrboda ignored you. “I had no idea this is what they were doing.” Her voice was strained as she spoke. “Talk about traumatic. Child, I am so sorry.”

Circe bent to examine your wounds more closely. “I can heal the rest, but I can’t do anything about the scarring,” she said as she ran her fingers lightly over the angry intersecting cuts. “Boda, you said this was a week ago?”

Angrboda nodded and you piped up to confirm, “I broke out around then and found him.” You pointed to Sweeney.

Circe raised an eyebrow. “He was nearby?”

You nodded and she put you under that scrutinizing gaze. “Quite a stroke of luck, isn’t it?”

You shrugged. “I’d be dead if I hadn’t found him, so I’m choosing not to question it. We’ve got more pressing issues.”

Circe straightened. “I see. And I’m sure that you’ve figured out that you’re healing much faster than you should be?”

You nodded again and she turned to Angrboda. The two began conversing rapidly in a language you didn’t understand. When they had apparently reached a conclusion, Circe’s attention came back to you. “We have much to discuss and what remains of the day is passing us by. Let’s get started.”

She swept past you and Sweeney glared at you and coughed into his fist. Circe huffed in annoyance.

“Oh, right. Are you sure you want to undo this?” she asked you. “I really do prefer him this way.”

“Yes, please,” you said. “He’s…he’s my friend,” you finished lamely.

The knowing look on Angrboda’s face only served to add to the awkward anxiety that was railing against your mind.

Circe heaved a beleaguered sigh. “Fine. I’ll show you how so you can fix your own mess next time. You,” Circe pointed at you, “I need you to tell me exactly what happened in the moments that led up to the unintentional casting.”

Wordlessly, you reached into your backpack and handed her your journal. She took it from you with a raised eyebrow and flipped through the pages you had written on the ferry. When she finished she handed your journal back and looked between the two of you.

“You tried in English and Irish?”

You nodded.

“What did it feel like when you spoke the words?”

You didn’t understand and said as much.

“When you spoke the words that cast this and when you tried to undo it, how did it feel?” Circe asked, the way you would ask a small child a question with an obvious answer.

“Like…emotionally or physically?”

“Physically.” Her tone indicated a strained sense of patience.

You shook out your hand, remembering the pins and needles feeling that had danced across your tongue and the chill that had run through you. “It felt weird. Like, my tongue got kind of tingly and it felt like something was slithering up my spine.”

Angrboda nodded. “That’s the magic.”

“What about when you tried to undo it?” Circe asked.

You shook your head. “Nothing.”

She clicked her tongue and walked around you in a slow circle. “You were trying too hard,” she said as she came to a halt in front of you. “When you said it the first time, you did it without thinking. On instinct, no matter how endearingly misguided. The second time, though, you were trying too hard. You have to simply let yourself feel it.” Circe directed the two of you to stand before the fireplace and face each other. When you were arranged to her liking, you were staring into his green eyes. This close, you could see the faint ring of gold that circled his pupil between the black and the bright green and the freckles that were splashed across the bridge of his nose and scattered across his cheeks and his forehead.

You swallowed nervously.

“You also need to believe that this will work and that you can do it,” she said pointedly.

“I get it,” you muttered.

“Watch it,” the witch said sharply. Sweeney’s jaw flexed and you knew him well enough to know he was suppressing a smirk. Circe reached out and cuffed you both upside the head. “I can still send you both back where you came from,” she reminded you. You mumbled a sheepish apology. “The Irish word that he gave you, say that again, but this time chew on it. Feel the shape of the word and how your intentions mold it. Hold those intentions in your mind, look at him and hear his voice as you speak the word aloud.”

You closed your eyes and did as she said before speaking the word, but nothing happened and your shoulders sagged.

“See, it doesn’t work,” you told her, unable to keep the frustration from your voice. “If we keep going it’ll just piss me off.”

“You think if you don’t get it on the first go it won’t ever work? I never took you to be a quitter.” Circe’s voice was mocking and Angrboda glared at her sharply.

“It’s like anything else,” the Norsewoman told you, infinitely more patient than your hostess and teacher. “You need to practice.”

“Do it again,” Circe ordered.

You clenched your jaw and tamped down your growing frustration. Sweeney reached out and guided your eyes closed with the callused tips of his fingers and then took one of your hands in his and pressed the tips of your fingers against his chapped lips.

Your eyes flew open in surprise, but the sight of his face so close to yours was so disorienting that you quickly closed them again. Just feel it. You reached deep within yourself for the feeling from before and poured as much of your will into it as you could. You allowed yourself to feel its meaning beyond the literal translation. What it meant to you in that moment, and in that moment it meant his crude jokes, the obnoxious laughter, and his voice. Loathe though you were to admit it, it meant the feeling of safety that you had somehow come to find in that stupid brogue. You didn’t ever think you would miss it, but now that his voice was gone it was fucking untenable. He needed it back. You needed it back.

“Labhair.”

The word fell from your lips as naturally and as easily as breathing and you felt it. The tingle on your tongue and the chill down your spine, but this time it felt like it was twisting up and around your spinal cord and flooding your brain. The point of contact between your finger and Sweeney’s lips grew uncomfortably warm and you jerked away like you had been shocked, but as quickly as it arrived, the feeling dissipated. Green eyes met yours and your fingers tapped nervously against your thigh. You held your breath and you watched each other carefully. He was silent for what felt like an eternity and tears of frustration and disappointment pricked at the corners of your eyes. You covered your face with your hands.

“Sure you’re not after crying again, are you?”

Your head shot up so quickly you nearly broke your neck. Sweeney had an enormous shit-eating grin that nearly split his face in two plastered firmly in place.

“It worked?” you asked hoarsely.

“Unless I’m being puppeted,” he said easily, “I’d say looks like.”

Your knees jellied with relief. Part of you, a part that you had refused to fully acknowledge, had been afraid that it couldn’t be undone, but you had done it. You hugged him tightly, burying your face in his chest and gripping he fabric of his shirt so tightly that it was a wonder it didn’t tear in your fists.

Sweeney huffed out a laugh as his arms wrapped around you. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head and you both missed the look that passed between Circe and the Norse witch.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—“

He palmed your forehead and gave you a playful shove.

“No blood, no foul,” he said simply.

To your exasperation, your eyes began to well once again.

Circe waved her hands. “Enough of that. We’ve fixed one problem, but I know that wasn’t all you came here for. You want to know what’s happening to you.”

You nodded. “This keeps happening. Magic that I can’t explain, incantations that I never learned.” You told her about the Bocánaigh in Missouri and the incantations that pulled themselves from somewhere deep inside you. Circe listened, the crease between her brows growing more defined the longer you spoke.

When you finished, the witch remained silent, though her fingers tapped nervously along her staff. She regarded you carefully as she chewed on the inside of her cheek, seemingly deep in thought.

“I don’t know that I can give you all of the answers you need,” she said at length, “but I think I may be able to offer some assistance. Come.” She swept from the hall with Angrboda in step beside her and led you back outside to the path that had led you up from the beach. You followed it further inland, taking a fork in the packed earth that led you to a sizable pristine white tent. Circe held one of the flap doors aside and gestured for you to step through. Inside, you realized that you were in the island’s infirmary. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, impossibly bright, with thuribles hung between them and from those drifted rivers of smoke that were scented with lavender and frankincense. The stone floor had been polished to a gleam and there was a stream that cut through it, neatly separating the space into two sides. One had a row of beds that were neatly made with creamy linen sheets, while the other held what appeared to be exam tables.

Circe exchanged a few words with her sister witch and kissed her on both cheeks before following you inside as Angrboda went back the way you had come. “She’s going to see if any of her sisters might know anything about this,” Circe told you, answering the unasked question in your eyes. “As for you—“ She grabbed your shoulders and sat you in a plush armchair, whose immense royal blue cushions threatened to swallow you. “You,” she pointed at Sweeney, “outside.”

He snorted. “Like hell.”

“I wasn’t asking,” she said icily.

You looked up at him and tugged gently on the hem of his jacket. “It’s okay,” you said quietly.

He knelt before you and put a massive hand over your knee. “I don’t like it, mo grá,” he murmured. “I don’t trust her.”

You let your forehead rest against his. “We don’t have a choice,” you said softly. “I’m a big kid, I’ll be okay.”

Sweeney sighed and stood. “I’ll be right outside. If anything happens—“

“You’ll come charging in, I’m sure,” Circe said in a tone that conveyed utter boredom.

He shot her a glare and stood and gave you a pat on the shoulder before taking his leave. You watched him disappear through the canvas. You’d been feeling different in his presence since he had stitched you up almost two weeks ago, and it had only gotten worse since he’d kissed you. No longer was he the obnoxious and barely tolerable coworker that you’d put up with out of necessity. After nearly two weeks of his constant presence, you should have wanted to claw his eyes out, but to your mild horror, you realized that the thought of being separated from him now nearly made you nauseous. Two weeks that had felt like a lifetime.

“I truly don’t understand why you keep that troglodyte around,” Circe huffed after he had gone.

“He saved my life,” you murmured as you toyed with a loose thread in the arm of the chair. “More than once.”

She clicked her tongue. “Be that as it may, he’s crass and indelicate and I find him grating. Here, drink.” She had busied herself preparing a tonic, which she presented to you in a steaming willow-pattered mug. You inhaled the vapor and nearly choked on the foul scent of it.

Poison, hissed a voice in the back of your mind. Your head snapped up and your gaze shot to Circe. The chill, ethereal beauty of the sorceress was gone. Her flashing golden eyes had become the same sightless, weeping black pits that you’d seen on Sweeney’s face the day before. It oozed down her cheeks, the skin there now pitted and scarred. The planes of her face seemed to be melting, her skin turning a livid red before settling into a foul necrotic black as it sloughed off of her bones. Her fiery hair hung lank and matted and you were able to make out lice and squirming maggots weaving in between the strands on her scalp.

You knew in your bones that this witch was trying to poison you. She would not let you leave Aeaea alive.

You screamed, a horrible and inhuman sound that tore from your throat.

Sweeney burst into the tent, green eyes wild and searching for you, but you were already up and scrambling away. Like Circe, his face was twisted and terrible. They both sneered at you as they approached you.

They’re going to kill you. The voice was wailing now. You gripped your hair as your heart hammered against your ribs so hard you feared it would burst from your chest. Sweeney made for you, but you dodged his outstretched hand and somersaulted away from them both. You came up on the other side of them white-knuckling the knife that had been in your boot and sobbing with fear.

Sweeney was trying to say something to you, but you screamed in his face, drowning out his voice. He tried again to approach you. You lashed out and kicked him square in the chest and his breath left him with an oof. But even with the wind knocked from his lungs, he still managed to catch the next kick you aimed at him and pull you towards him in the same movement. His other hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, twisting and forcing you to drop the knife to avoid your bones being snapped.

You flailed in his hold, but he was still bigger and stronger than you were. Circe pointed at one of the tables and Sweeney hauled you bodily onto its surface. He pinned your hands to your sides and sat astride your torso, effectively holding the rest of you in place even as you bucked your hips and thrashed beneath him in an effort to unseat his massive frame and free yourself.

Your face was slick with sweat and tears. Your hair was plastered to your forehead and you tasted blood. You must have bitten your tongue, but you didn’t feel it and you didn’t care. You had to escape. Fear forced your throat to constrict, threatening to choke you with it and swallow you whole. Every nerve in your body burned. Sweeney was shouting at you, something you didn’t understand, and Circe was barking orders to the dryad nurses, but you processed none of it. Fear, animalistic and primal, had consumed you and erased all else.

Scream after scream ripped from your throat and tears that weren’t yours dripped onto your cheeks from above. You were going to die here, pinned and cornered like a wounded animal. Eventually your voice gave out and the only sound you could make was a pathetic keening as you writhed in the leprechaun’s grasp.

Then Circe was there, her face hovering inches from yours, and she was wrenching your jaw open and pouring something warm and oily down your throat. You had a moment to register Sweeney’s stricken, tearstained face before you rolled over and voided the contents of your stomach. After that, everything went black.

You woke tucked into the white linen sheets of one of the infirmary beds. The sky outside had darkened to a deep purple and you wondered how long you’d been out.

What the hell had happened? You had been fine one moment and the next you were being choked by overwhelming terror that—

Oh. The Dark Man. He had found you here, somehow, and filled your mind with abject terror. It had been him in the car, turning your leprechaun into something straight from a nightmare.

You desperately wanted to cry, but you were too spent to do even that. Your whole body ached and you felt as though your bones were made of stone. A memory swam before you: Sweeney’s tearstained face, twisted and grotesque and…scared. He had been afraid of you. You squeezed your eyes shut and let your head fall back against the pillows, wanting badly to disappear where no one could ever find you again.

A dryad bustled into the room with fresh linens. When she saw that you were awake, she smiled pleasantly, but her stance was still guarded.

“You’re awake!” she said brightly. “You gave us all quite a fright. How do you feel?” Her voice was soft and musical and carried the clipped vowels that you had come to associate with the tree nymphs.

“Sore,” you said truthfully, “and a little freaked out.”

She moved to stand at your bedside and briskly began checking your pulse, your skin, your throat.

“But none of the terror from before?” she asked as she peeled back one of your eyelids and peered intently into your eye with a penlight. You noticed that her eyes were green, but not the same green that you were used to. Your green eyes were the color of lush, sprawling leas. The eyes of this nymph were the deep green of oak leaves. You could smell the forest on her.

“No ma’am.”

The dryad straightened and scribbled something on her notepad. “Well, physically you seem all right. Circe will be pleased you’re awake.”

“Is my friend okay?” you asked.

“You mean that beefy leprechaun?”

You flushed and nodded.

“He’s fine,” she said dismissively. “Worried himself sick over you and Circe had to bar him from the infirmary just so he would get out of our way.” She shook her head. “He refused to let you out of his sight.”

You chewed on your lip. “Can I see him?”

She shook her head. “Not until Circe has had a chance to speak with you.”

You stared down as your hands, folded together in your lap, and deflated a little. “Oh.” Your voice was small.

Your nurse looked at you pityingly. “We’ve been given instructions not to tell him you’re awake.”

Her gaze was sandpaper against your skin.

“Okay.” Even to your own ears, your voice was hollow. “Could you get her?”

“I’ll let her know you’re awake, but she’s busy on the other side of the island. It may be a little bit.”

You laid back and stared at the canvas ceiling. Your eyes traced the curls of smoke that drifted from the golden thuribles. Couldn’t catch a fucking break. You were beginning to get angry, but it was the sort of anger that had no outlet. Anger that could direct itself at no one and so reflected inwards.

No. That wasn’t right. There was someone. The old man.

Your life had never exactly been easier for him being in it, but the recent string of bullshit you’d had to survive was almost entirely his fault. That one-eyed cunt.

“Okay,” you said again.

She nodded and left the tent, leaving you feeling small and alone.

After what felt like an eternity but likely was no more than an hour or two, Circe appeared.

“Hello child,” she greeted you, calm and unbothered.

You swallowed. “Teacher.”

She sat at the edge of your bed and presented you with a cup of the same malodorous tonic she had tried to give you before.

“It’s not poison,” she said, sensing your trepidation. “It’s not a hallucinogenic, either. It’s only some herbs meant to help you relax.”

Still not entirely convinced, you knocked it back all the same, your eyes watering at the taste. You coughed. “Christ, that’s foul.” But the witch hadn’t lied. As soon as it passed your lips, a soothing warmth spread through your limbs to the ends of your fingers and toes. You could feel your muscles relax as all of the tension and stress you had been carrying melted away, leaving you feeling lighter than you had in ages. You sighed.

“Better?” Circe asked.

You nodded. “How long was I out?”

“Almost two days. Your leprechaun has been insufferable.

You managed a weak smile. “Sounds like him.”

“Mhm.” Circe regarded you carefully. “What happened?” Her voice was soft and it made you want to throw something.

“You don’t need to speak to me like I’m made of spun glass,” you snapped. “I’m not going to fall apart just because someone used the wrong tone.”

“You tried to kill me and your friend because I gave you a tonic that smelled bad,” she said cooly. “I apologize if I attempt to be cautious.”

You said nothing.

“What happened?” she asked again.

You spread your hands in front of you, palms up, helplessly. “Do you really need to ask?”

A shadow crossed her face. “I’d hoped we were wrong,” she said heavily. “He shouldn’t have been able to find you here. I’ll need to reinforce the wards and I’ll see if I can’t add something to your defenses.

A horrible thought occurred to you. “Did I hurt anyone?”

Circe sighed. “Your knife caught that boy in the arm and he needed stitches, but aside from that, no,” came the reply.

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes.

She placed a hand on your knee. “It’s all right, child. He’ll heal. As for yourself,” she stood and circled the bed so that she was standing behind you, “there’s some things that need to be figured out.” She took your head between her cool hands, her slender fingers at your temples and just beneath the place where your jaw met your ears. She applied the smallest amount of pressure and you could sense her magic reaching out, trying to connect with yours.

The witch made a noise of frustration. “There’s a wall,” she murmured, more to herself than you. “Someone’s put up powerful wards, but if I prod it just right, I may be able to—“ Her fingers flexed and you could feel her poke at a place in your mind that you hadn’t even known existed. The moment she touched it, you pitched forward and vomited over the side of the bed and all over the polished stone floor.

“Oh dear.” Circe gently patted your back as your body heaved like it was trying to expel your stomach. After a few moments it passed and you looked at her with bloodshot eyes. You had never seen her look so concerned.

Sweeney chose that moment to burst in, looking panicked. His eyes widened when he saw you, but before he could do anything stupid, one of the dryad nurses shoved him back outside.

Circe beckoned the nurse, who approached with a crystalline glass of water that smelled faintly of mint and soothed the burning in your throat and calmed your stomach as you sipped it carefully.

“What the hell was that?” you managed to rasp once the glass was empty.

Circe furrowed her dark brows, her bright golden eyes distant. “A memory spell,” she said slowly, as though she was testing how the idea sounded out loud. “A powerful one.”

You blinked. “Can you undo it?”

She prodded again at the same spot, more gently this time but still enough to make a wave of nausea sweep over you, making you groan.

“I think the only one that can is the one who cast it,” came the reply. “The failsafes on this…I’ve never seen work like this. Someone really didn’t want you to remember whatever it was that they shut away.” She stood to face you and took your face in her hands, her narrow golden gaze examining you intently. “You don’t remember anything from before Wednesday?”

You shook your head. “I was actually hoping you might. Somehow. He sent me here after he found me, I thought maybe…” you trailed off and your shoulders slumped, the weight of your exhaustion returning. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I was thinking.” This was never going to work. If Circe couldn’t give you what you needed, if an ancient sorceress like her didn’t know, what hope did you have?

Circe gave a quick command in Greek and the nurse that had brought you the mint water left, reappearing momentarily with Sweeney in tow. His right forearm was wrapped in crisp white linen, but you could already see he was beginning to bleed through it. Your chest constricted painfully. You had done that to him. He looked at Circe expectantly.

“Well?”

“You might want to try manners sometime,” she said drily. “You’d be amazed at what it can do for you.”

Sweeney made a face and you shot him a warning glance.

Circe pretended not to notice. “What is up in your mind is a barrier of sorts,” she told you. “It’s nothing like anything I’ve ever seen, but parts of the casting feel familiar.” You waited, but she did not elaborate. “There’s someone who may be able to help where I cannot.” Her eyes flicked too Sweeney and then back to you. “Do you know the Morrigan?”

You didn’t need to look at Sweeney to know that he was giving a good run for the world record for “most smug grin.”

“If you say anything, I swear I will let her turn you into a pig and I will leave you here,” you snapped.

Circe raised an eyebrow. “I see you’ve already discussed that option, then,” she observed. “May I ask why you chose my island instead?”

You looked at the floor. “I felt better about someone I knew digging around in my skull.”

Circe hummed. “Well, touching as that is, whatever is going on is much more akin to their particular branch of magic. They will be better equipped to give you what you need.”

Circe saw the two of you down to the docks and watched as you boarded the small boat that had brought you to the island.

“Remember,” she told you, “see the sisters in Maine. Use your magic as little as possible until you get to them, otherwise you’ll as good as tell him where you are.”

You nodded and she patted your cheek. “Sweeney,” she called over your shoulder. “Do try to get them there in one piece.”

He snorted but stayed silent, to your immense relief.

. . .

She watched from the shore as the boat disappeared beyond the horizon and the island’s wards. Her old wolf sat beside her in the sand.

“Why didn’t you tell them?” the wolf asked. Her voice was low and rumbling. Circe imagined she could see the grains of sand dance whenever the wolf spoke.

The witch buried her hand in the thick fur along the scruff of her friend’s neck. “I couldn’t,” she said softly. “It wouldn’t have helped even if I could. They wouldn’t understand.”

“You can’t know—“

“You misunderstand me,” Circe said sharply. “The wards in their mind…any attempt to tell them anything would have been distorted. I physically cannot.”

The wolf’s yellow eyes scrutinized her mistress before turning her gaze back to the water. “What will happen to them?”

Circe shook her head. “Would that I knew. I can only hope they get there in the end. We will need them for what’s to come.”

Tagged: @kind-wolf @imaginethatneathuhpartdos @cosmiccandydreamer

[dw-writes]

because this wont certainly lead to anything heart breaking right?

sneak peek at next chapter :3

[hinge]

Hinge presents an anthology of love stories almost never told. Read more on https://no-ordinary-love.co

[hoedamn-eron]

misc masterlist

📚 = series. ❤️ = fluff. 🥀 = angst. 😉 = a little spicy. 🔥 = smut.

Stranger Things

Eddie Munson

The Rogue Elf - You want to join Hellfire Club. It’s a good job you’re in with the leader. (1.2k words) ❤️

American Gods

Mad Sweeney

Overstimulation - Kinktober prompt. (950 words) 🔥

The Card Counter

William Tell

Mrs Tillich's Hot Grandson - Your elderly neighbour, Mrs Tillich, is so lovely...as is her grandson. (1.7k words) ❤️

Drabbles

Oscar Isaac Characters with an S/O who Subtly Paints the Furniture ❤️

Poe goes away on a dangerous mission ❤️🔥

Oscar Isaac characters as dads ❤️

[ficmesideways]

Request for Anonymous Gif Source: Fields / Sweeney

Imagine being a demigod and dating Mad Sweeney

------- Imagine -------

Every god and the like knew of him. The big, bad, Mad Sweeney. A strong manic but almost forgotten god that served at the whims of Wednesday. You knew better though. Sure, as a demigod you didn’t have the years or even the powers some of the others of your ilk did; but what you did have was knowledge. The knowledge of a man the world had forgotten but still took the time to take you to lavender fields. Who looked at you like he wanted to kiss you, kill you, eat you, and love you all in one expression. A man who although served a master still had honor and love in his heart. Yes, others had power; but that power without the love of the man that you knew could not compare.

[writingstoraes]

off cam 🎥

pairing: charles leclerc/fem!actress!reader

type: instagram imagine, social media au

notes: decided to use sydney sweeney as the faceclaim as well as her new movie w glen powell! (makes my job easier the pics and clips are literally everywhere)

summary: your new rom-com is gaining traction and fans can't help but notice your insane chemistry with your co-star. luckily, charles does not mind.

yourusername

liked by charles_leclerc, zendaya, kendalljenner, and 794,294 others

yourusername The making of this movie has entirely been overwhelmingly euphoric for me. It is with great pleasure to say that Anyone But You is now out in theaters 🖤 All this would not be possible without my amazing co-star glenpowell, writers, producers, fellow actors, and everyone who helped make this script a reality.

Go get your tickets! 😘

charles_leclerc Proud of you beyond words, my world star ❤️

ynfilms everyone stand back her real man is here

jacobelordi Loved the movie!

taylorswift Had the best time recording the soundtrack 🙌

zendaya SOOO AMAZING

charles_leclerc

liked by pierregasly, yourusername, scuderiaferrari, and 1,239,393 others

charles_leclerc Truly in awe of how amazing you are. Never going to love anyone else as much as I love you. Excited to see you conquer the world when you do ❤️

Anyone But You out now in theaters!

tagged: yourusername

carlossainz55 Lol you saw the tweets and ran to Instagram

yourusername I was literally beside him while he was tweeting smh monacokingz i live for this banter i really do

pierregasly Threatened now, are we? 🤔

charles_leclerc Please go log off

danielricciardo Oh Silvia is going to have a field day I just know

yourusername

liked by glenpowell, filmlovers, popbase, and 1,204,583 others

yourusername Seems I have thanked everyone except for the person I am most thankful for. Charles has spent so many days on set with me - waiting till we finish filming, bringing nearly hundreds of cups of coffee for everyone working, and reading lines with me. He was just as ecstatic about this project as I am and he has been insanely supportive 🤍

Don't have eyes for anyone but you, charles_leclerc ;)

PS. He really doesn't mind all of the tweets, he's laughing beside me right now.

charles_leclerc Why are you ratting me out I wanted them to believe I was mad

yourusername Sorry, should I delete this? charles_leclerc No way you basically declared your undying love for me

arthurleclerc Loved the movie, Y/N! 🙌

-----------

notes: this took longer than i expected lol i hope you guys liked it! thank you so much for reading <3

tagging: @slytherheign, @honethatty12, @siovhanroy, @fdl305, @iloveyou3000morgan, @cxcewg, @sassyheroneckgiant, @ang3licho3, @pitlanebabe, @riverdalexvixens, @msliz, @boherahpsody @storminacloud @leclercdream (if anyone else wants to be a part of my taglist or if i forgot anyone that asked to be tagged, pls lmk by replying or sending me a message hehe)

[smilingformoney]

Sins of the Flesh

IV. Always

Turpin/Reader

Summary: For better or for worse...

Warnings/content: Rape/non-con, abusive relationship, stockholm syndrome, jealousy, semi-public sex, pregnancy, blood, menstruation, breeding kink, Victorian attitudes, doctor/patient roleplay, anal rape, forced oral, blood play, masturbation, fingering, watching masturbation, suicide, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT

AN: Thanks for taking this wild ride with me, folks. I thought maybe 2 people would want to read this but it's proved a lot more popular than I expected... turns out we're all a little bit deranged here.

I'm sure you all know this but remember that Turpin and yn's relationship is extremely toxic and unhealthy and we all deserve better irl <3 Turpin still hot tho.

Read on Ao3 or below the cut:

“BENJAMIN BARKER!”

Todd - no, Barker - raised his razor in the air, madness in his eyes, and in that moment Turpin knew he was going to die. He cursed himself for coming here, for running after Johanna when he had you at home, his darling wife. If only he had resisted the temptation –

The bell to the parlour tinkled, Barker hesitated as he glanced up at the new arrival, and that was all the time Turpin needed to leap up out of the chair. He glanced to the left and saw that his dying prayer had been answered - his wife was here.

“So the magician reveals his secrets!” Turpin roared, pulling off the apron that had been around his neck. He threw an arm in front of you protectively, as if you might charge forward towards the crazed barber. “Stay away from this madman, my love. Sweeney Todd - what a ridiculous name! I should have seen the signs. Taking up residence in your own shop isn’t exactly subtle, Barker!”

“Darling, what’s going on?” you asked, completely lost. “Are you saying Todd’s a fraud?”

“His name isn’t Todd - it’s Benjamin Barker. A madman I sent for transportation fifteen years ago. Thought you’d kill me as revenge for sending you away, is that it, Barker?”

“That was the least of your crimes, your Honour,” Barker snarled. His arm was lowered now, but still his razor was in his his hand, ready to strike at any moment. You reached for your husband’s hand, cowering into his large frame as if just being close to him would keep you safe. Barker looked at you now, as if only just realising you were there, and a dark look in his eyes terrified you more than your husband ever had. “I’d stay away from that one if I were you, miss. He transported me only so he could have my wife. And when Lucy denied his advances, he raped her and drove her insane - and she killed herself for it!”

“Barker… you’re Johanna’s father?!” you said with a gasp, remembering the story Turpin had once told you when you asked about Johanna’s family.

“Yes, her true father! If anyone is the fraud here, it’s him!”

Barker pointed his razor at your husband and began advancing on him around the chair, but you stepped between the two men and shouted, “Your wife isn’t dead!”

That stopped the barber in his tracks. He trained the blade on you now, his gaze locked on you. “What are you talking about?” he said in a low, dangerous voice,

You felt your husband’s hand on your shoulder, trying to pull you away from Barker, but you shrugged him off and stood your ground.

“Your wife didn’t kill herself. She drank a poison that addled her brains. She wanders the streets, begging for alms one moment and offering herself to men another. You must have seen her, she wanders Fleet Street every day!”

Barker’s eyes widened. He lurched forward, his blade on your neck, his face pressed up to yours. “You lie.”

“She’s telling the truth, Barker,” your husband said, forcefully pulling you back and away from the barber. “I tried to send her to Bedlam but she kept escaping. The crazed beggar woman who wanders Fleet Street is but a ghost of the woman we both once loved.”

Barker’s eyes flicked up to Turpin’s, and the dangerous expression melted into one of horror.

“LUCY!” he yelled, then ran past you out of the shop, apparently to look for his insane wife.

You breathed a sigh of relief, but your husband grabbed you by the shoulders and spun you around to face him.

“Are you insane, woman?!” he yelled. “Throwing yourself between us like that, you could have been killed!”

“What do you care? Your precious Johanna’ll be here soon, you can just steal her and rape her into submission like you did me!”

“Johanna?! You think I still want that ungrateful child after she betrayed me?”

“How do you think I knew to come here, William? I read Barker’s letter, promising to serve her to you on a silver platter, and you came running!”

“To save her from the sailor and send her back to Bedlam! Not to replace you with her! She is not –”

Turpin stopped, frowning at something on the floor. He pushed you aside and bent down behind the barber’s chair, staring at a dark stain on the floor.

“Blood,” he muttered. “It seems I wasn’t to be his first murder tonight.”

Just then, voices began yelling from below, sounding like Barker and a woman. Turpin stood up straight and turned to you.

“[Y/n], wait here for Johanna. Keep her safe.”

“Don’t leave me,” you begged, frightened that Barker was still close.

Turpin crossed the room towards you and took your face in his hands, his eyes burning into yours.

“Never,” he promised. “Not for Johanna, not for anything. You are my wife, [Y/n].”

You sniffled. “That’s very sweet, darling, but I was talking about our immediate situation. Barker’s still below!”

“I know, darling. I’m going to find a constable and bring him to arrest Barker. You and Johanna must get to safety. Can you do that, my love?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” you said quickly. You’d learnt long ago not to disobey him, and you weren’t about to start now. “Just be careful, Will, I couldn’t live with myself if I lost you.”

“Nor I you.” He pressed a passionate kiss to your lips, then dashed out of the parlour to the shop below.

It was quiet now, and with a sigh you sat down on a nearby trunk. That was, until you heard a knocking from the trunk, and you leapt up in fright. The lid was pushed open from inside and from within emerged…

“Johanna?!”

She was dressed as a boy, but it was unmistakably her. You took her hand and helped her out of the trunk. She was shaking, terrified, and you instinctively took your shawl from your shoulders to wrap it around her.

“Have you been in there this entire time?”

She nodded, staring off into the distance.

“Did you hear…?”

She nodded again, and she looked at you now, a question in her eyes. You sighed.

“I’m sorry, Johanna, it’s an awful way to find out. I would have told you, but Lord Turpin ordered me not to tell you.”

“And you’d never disobey him,” Johanna replied flatly.

“Of course not. He also ordered me to get you to safety, and I will.” You ran to the window and looked out at the street. Although it was still late afternoon, it was almost empty, the early winter nightfall sending the public indoors earlier and earlier each day. Down the street you saw a carriage, and waiting next to it stood the figure of a man with shoulder-length hair.

“Your carriage awaits,” you said, then turned back to Johanna. “Now, listen to me. I cannot be seen to let you go. But if you were to escape from me - that he might forgive. You need to run; I’ll give chase, and if I catch up to you I’ll give a show of trying to grab you but you must throw me off. Hurt me if you must; I can take it. But you must get away in the carriage before I catch you. Do you understand?”

Johanna nodded, her eyes wide, then she threw her arms around you, taking you by surprise.

“Thank you, [Y/n]! You are a true sister.”

“Actually, I married him so if anything I’m your mother. Now go!”

She released you from her surprisingly strong embrace and dashed out of the parlour. You gave her a few seconds’ headstart, then ran out after her, shouting her name as loud as you could in the hopes your husband would hear you giving her chase.

“JOHANNA TURPIN, YOU GET BACK HERE, YOU UNGRATEFUL CHILD!” you yelled, and part of you enjoyed the theatrics of it. She glanced back at you and kept running. Christ, she was slow! You had to jog to stay behind her, and you knew if Turpin saw he’d know you weren’t running as fast as you could, so you pretended to trip, giving her more time to get ahead.

At the carriage, Anthony saw what was happening and sprung into action, readying the horses to depart as soon as Johanna caught up. He spotted you in pursuit and, not knowing you were on their side, drew a pistol from his jacket. Before Johanna could stop him, he fired at you, and within moments you felt an awful pain searing through your arm. You cried out, collapsing to your knees, and Johanna’s voice called to you. You looked up and saw her being bundled into the carriage by Anthony, who promptly whipped the horses into action and rode away.

You stayed on your knees for a few moments, grasping your injured arm, then stood and turned back to the shop. Several police constables were now running in, batons at the ready, and jogging behind them at a slower pace was your husband.

“Will!” you cried out with relief. He turned to you, then when he saw the state you were in, he called your name and ran to your side.

“[Y/n], what happened?” Turpin demanded, wrapping an arm around your shoulder to support you as he walked you to the outside dining area of the pie shop and sat you down. He pulled up a chair next to you and listened as you told him a story of Johanna arriving just moments after he left, then running back to her sailor’s carriage as soon as she saw you.

“I tried to catch up, sir, I really did, but she had distance on me, and the sailor, he had a gun and –”

“Shh, darling. It’s alright. Calm yourself now and let me look at your arm.”

He tore the fabric apart where the bullet had pierced it and began dabbing at the wound with a handkerchief.

“It only grazed you, thank God,” he said with a sigh of relief.

“Yes, thank God for the sailor’s poor aim. I suppose he’s not used to shooting on land.” You glanced up at the shop, where several constables stood guard while the others were in the basement. “I wonder what happened before you arrived.”

“I dread to think. Don’t you worry your pretty head about it, darling. You’re safe; that’s all that matters.”

“And you.” You raised your good arm to tenderly cup his face, his stubble scratching on your fingertips just how you liked it. “I’m so glad you’re safe, my love.”

He smiled; a real, genuine smile. It was soft and warm, nothing like his usual smiles, which usually carried some sinister intention behind them, or else were completely void of feeling and merely polite. Once his face had frightened you, his eyes ablaze with terrifying anger, but now you saw only love and warmth.

“I love you, William,” you sighed, placing your forehead against his. “I love you so very much. I think my soul would die too if I lost you.”

“And I love you, [Y/n],” Turpin replied in a quiet voice, so much more tender than you were used to. “Seeing you at Barker’s mercy struck a fear in my heart I hadn’t known was possible. If he’d taken your life, I’d have taken his before he could blink.”

You chuckled, imagining Turpin and Barker sword-fighting with the tiny barber’s razors. Your husband must have thought you delusional from the stress of the evening, but he said nothing. He simply stood and helped you to your feet, then poked his head into the shop to ask a constable where their nearest carriage was parked so he could take you to the hospital.

“Darling, it’s fine, we can walk to St Bart’s,” you insisted. “You said yourself it’s only a graze. I’ll be quite alright, I think.”

“You’ve been shot, [Y/n]. You’re being driven to the hospital and that is an order from your husband. Constable - your nearest carriage, please.”

On the carriage ride to the hospital, Turpin kept his arm around you the entire time, as if he was frightened you’d disappear if he let you go. You leant into him, glad for the comfort you felt from being in his arms.

“Darling, I’m sorry for what I said earlier,” you said quietly. Turpin looked at you quizzically and you continued, “About Johanna. The letter frightened me. I thought - well, it’s silly, but I thought you wanted her back. I was always jealous of her being your intended, the way you idolised her innocence when you so brazenly took mine… and I know I was your second choice for a wife, so when I saw you’d taken the opportunity Todd presented you, I feared the worst.”

“The thought never crossed my mind for an instant, my love,” Turpin replied firmly. “I sought only to keep her from the sailor.”

“Is it - is it true what Barker said? Did you rape his wife, as you did me?”

“Yes. I wooed her for weeks and she refused me, so I took her by force so that she might know what she was missing. But she wasn’t as smart as you - I believe discovering her husband was a criminal had addled her mind even before she took the poison. Despite my best efforts to send her to Bedlam, she kept escaping and returning to Fleet Street, knowing she was missing something there but never quite remembering. The beggar woman - she is not Lucy. She is but a ghost. The woman I loved is dead.”

You sat there for a long moment, then said, “Did you really… love her?”

“I have loved before you, if that’s what you ask. But none of them are a match for you, [Y/n]. You are the only woman I will ever love until the day I die. I swear it.”

“There were others, then? Other than Lucy and Johanna?”

“Just one other… but that was a long time ago. I’ll tell you the story one day, but for now we must get your arm attended to. Come.”

You hadn’t even noticed the carriage stopping, but stop it had, and so you climbed out of the carriage after your husband, letting him lift you down to the ground. As you approached the hospital, your stomach twisted with jealousy. Turpin had loved three women before you, one of whom was hopefully on her way to Plymouth and lost to him forever, but the other still wandered Fleet Street, a ghost of her former self but still alive. And the third… who was she?!

As the great Judge Turpin’s lady wife, you were seen to quickly by the doctor, who declared you lucky that your assailant was a poor shot and the bullet had only grazed your arm. He cleaned up the blood with some soap and water and wrapped it up in bandages, but Turpin wasn’t satisfied; he insisted the doctor give you a full health check while you were there. You insisted you were fine, but he was hearing none of it, and you knew you had no choice but to let the doctor examine you.

While you subjected yourself to the doctor’s poking and prodding, a constable arrived to take your husband’s statement about the night’s events, and so with a gentle kiss on the cheek Turpin left you alone with the prodding doctor.

When your husband returned, the doctor was done with his prodding and you were itching to share the discovery he’d made on inspection of your body, but when you saw the grief on your husband’s face you asked the doctor to leave and sunk to your knees in front of your husband, who had sat himself in a chair, clearly distressed.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” you asked, taking his large hands in your tiny ones.

“Barker… he killed them,” Turpin muttered. You were at a loss - you’d seen him happy, angry, horny, tired, irritated… but you’d never seen him sad . No, not sad - he was more than sad. He was distraught.

“Who?”

“Stuart… Lucy… dead before I arrived.”

It took you a moment to remember that Stuart was the Beadle’s first name. And Lucy - the beggar woman. Johanna’s mother. No wonder Barker had been horrified to discover who she was - he’d killed her that very night.

“Oh, William, my love, I’m so sorry,” you breathed, squeezing his hands tighter and imploring him to look at you, but his eyes remained fixed on some spot on the floor, staring distant and vacant.

“Stuart’s been talking all week about investigating the chimney. Of all nights, he chose tonight to do so… and Lucy, she - she must have seen something she shouldn’t have. Perhaps she saw Barker kill Stuart, so he killed her to keep her quiet, not knowing who she was. I would have been next if it weren’t for you.” He looked up at you then, his eyes full of grief. “You saved me, my love.”

“And I’d do it again, a thousand times over,” you swore, but he shook his head.

“No. No, never again. Never risk your life, not for mine. I’m old, darling, you’ll lose me one way or another. I won’t have you wasting the decades left of your life for a few more years of mine.”

“Don’t talk like that –” you said, tears beginning to fill your eyes at just the thought of losing him.

“It’s the truth. I have forty years on you, darling, it’s only a matter of time.”

“Is that why you take me twice daily, to make the most of your remaining years?”

He smiled then. It was only a twitch, a ghost of a smile, but it was there. “If I were a younger man, I would be taking you as often - if not more. The simple fact is that I am addicted to you, [Y/n]. I have been since the moment you first knocked on my door.”

You did cry then, tears spilling from your eyes as your heart exploded with overwhelming love for your husband. How could you ever have been envious of the women he’d loved before? They were gone, you were here, and he loved you completely.

Turpin closed his eyes for a moment, as if shaking the grief from his system, then stood and lifted you to your feet. “What did the doctor say, darling? Are you well?”

He gently ran a thumb across your cheek, wiping away an errant tear. You leaned into his touch, so strong and warm, so safe.

“Well, he did a lot of tests - I didn’t quite understand most of them, really, but, well… he believes I may be with child.”

Turpin’s eyes widened with shock, the he grinned. “He’s certain?”

“As certain as he can be. My last period was two months ago, and he said something about the colour of my urine that suggested I was pregnant… but we’ll know for sure if my belly begins to grow. And my breasts have been particularly tender recently…”

“Oh, darling, that’s wonderful news!” Turpin picked you up by the hips and spun you around, causing you to squeal before he pushed you up against the wall and kissed you passionately. He held your legs up around his waist, crushing your chest as he sandwiched you between his body and the wall.

You could feel him between your legs, his semi-erect cock pressing into you, and you giggled into the kiss.

“Will, it’s not certain –”

“Oh, it is. You’re carrying my child, I know you are. Such a good little wife, so obedient, making me an heir so soon after our wedding.” He attacked your neck now, sucking on your skin so as to certainly leave a bruise, hips grinding against yours all the time.

“Is it too soon?” you wondered aloud, worrying. “If we conceived before the wedding - people will talk –”

“Mhm, let them,” Turpin mumbled against your skin. He lowered your legs to the floor to free his hands as he unbuttoned his trousers. “Let them talk. What can they do, hm? Nothing… nothing. Judge Turpin’s lady wife is pregnant; it’s a time to rejoice! Open those legs, darling.”

You obeyed, spreading your legs where you stood, but you glanced towards the door nervously. You weren’t hidden, anyone walking in would see exactly what was happening –

“Don’t worry, darling, I ordered us not to be disturbed. We have - ohhhh, yes…” He groaned in pleasure as he pushed himself inside you, then he grabbed your thighs and lifted your legs around his waist again. You grabbed onto his shoulders and tightened the grip of your legs around him, which only pushed him further inside you.

“Oh, yes, that’s right, darling, hold me tight. Let me fill you up. If you think carrying my child means I’ll give you any less of my seed, you’re very much mistaken.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” you gasped, feeling so safe in his arms, surrounded by nothing but him, his warmth, his scent, his eyes burning with desire as he pressed his lips against yours and began to thrust into you. Even in your hospital garb, you still wore nothing beneath, giving him easy access to you just as he pleased.

“Ohh, yes, darling, I’ll fill you up. Fucking - mhm - paint your walls with my seed. Good little wifey, giving me an heir just as I asked…”

“We don’t - ah - know if it’s a boy –”

“I want a boy and you shall give me a boy. You obey your husband, do you not?”

“I don’t think I can decide that, darling.”

“You’re right - you don’t make decisions - I do. And we’re - having - a - boy. Ohh, darling - my adorable little bunny…” He threw his head back, his eyes closed and his face screwed up in beautiful ecstasy as his thrusts increased in pace.

“ Oh-ohh, William, you’re so strong,” you mumbled, your head lolling forward to rest against his shoulder. “Holding me up and fucking me - mmm, my big strong teddy bear…”

“Mmm… oh, you’re playing with fire, darling,” Turpin growled. You felt his grip tightening on your thighs and his rhythm began to falter. “Keep talking like that and I won’t last…”

“Oh, is teddy bear weak to bunny’s praise?” you teased, and above your head you heard him snarling like a feral beast. One hand dropped your right thigh as he tightened it around your throat instead.

“I am weak to nothing - no one - not even you. We may be wed but you’re still nothing but my little whore, a fucking cockhungry - desperate - dirty little slut.”

He squeezed on your throat as his hips stilled and he spilled inside you, letting out that loud, low groan that had once scared you to hear but now only aroused you further. He released his grip on you, finally letting both your feet touch the floor, and you whined when he pulled out of you.

“Please, sir,” you begged, not caring how desperate you sounded, “please, please, please, I need to cum. Please let me cum.”

“Have you earned it, bunny?” Turpin asked with casual disinterest as he buttoned up his trousers.

“I’m carrying your fucking child, you bastard!”

He looked up at you, an eyebrow raised, and you prepared yourself for his rage, your punishment… but he simply smirked.

“My, bunny has bite today, doesn’t she? Very well, darling, I suppose you have earned it.” He pulled down your gown and let it fall back to your ankles, hiding the seed that was dripping down your thigh. “Get on the bed, then.”

Eagerly, you scurried over to the hospital bed and laid yourself down on your back, keeping your gown covering you just as he’d left it. Meanwhile, Turpin took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, then took a doctor’s coat that was hanging on the wall and put that on instead.

“Now, Ms [L/n]... what brings you to my office today?”

You bit your lip, trying to hide the smile on your face as you realised what he was doing.

“Well, sir, I’m having trouble conceiving a child,” you said in a quiet, meek voice. “I heard you were the doctor to go to for problems of an… intimate kind.”

“My reputation precedes me,” Turpin said with pride. “You’re married, I take it?”

“Yes, sir, and my husband finishes inside me every day, but still my belly does not grow. I’m beginning to fear I may be faulty.”

“Nonsense. A beautiful woman like you could never be faulty. Nevertheless, I’ll give you the full examination, just to be sure. Have you removed your underthings as the nurse requested?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Just lie back, miss - let me take care of you.”

He pulled up your gown slowly, letting the fabric brush across your skin, tickling slightly when it brushed over your knees. You inhaled sharply when your cunt was revealed to him, although he’d seen it a thousand times before, but you were so immersed in your role you almost forgot you were playing.

Turpin let your gown rest on your stomach and pushed your thighs apart. You felt his cold fingers prodding at your lower lips, his brow furrowed as he examined your cunt as if he were looking for something.

“Is - is everything in order, doctor?” you asked.

“I must say, in all my years of medicine, miss, I’ve never seen a cunt quite as perfect as yours. I’ll have to conduct an internal examination, of course, but this is, if I may say, an exquisite specimen.”

“Thank you, sir… coming from a man of your standing, that’s high praise indeed.”

Hmm, yes, I am a highly respected doctor. The leading expert in all of England in the anatomy of a woman. You’re quite fortunate you could get in to see me, but when I saw those hips of yours, those breasts, so perfect for rearing a child… I simply had to know what could be ailing you. Now, stay nice and relaxed for me, miss. I’m going to conduct an internal examination.”

“Yes, sir.”

Turpin positioned himself at the end of the bed and bent down so that he was between your legs, propped up on his elbows, his face only inches from the warmth of your slit, which was still dripping with juices from the both of you. He pushed apart your lips with his fingers, then slowly slid a digit inside. He explored your insides, reaching in as far as he could, until he found the spot inside you that he knew you liked, and he feigned surprise when you whined, as if he didn’t know that pressing into you just there drove you crazy.

“Pleasurable or painful, Ms [L/n]?”

“Pleasurable, sir.”

“Hmm… and has your husband ever touched your insides like this?”

“No, sir. He never puts his fingers inside me, sir. You’re - you’re the first to do so.”

Turpin raised an eyebrow. “Really? Interesting. And tell me, miss, how does he like the taste of you?”

“...Taste, sir? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Do you mean to tell me your husband’s never done this?”

You gasped as his tongue met with your sensitive nub, circling it for a for moments before withdrawing again.

“N - no, sir. Why should he use his tongue and fingers on me, sir? Surely that wouldn’t assist him in spilling his seed inside me?”

“I think I’m beginning to understand your problem, miss,” Turpin said, and he slipped a second finger inside you to begin pumping in and out of you slowly, languidly, as if he had all the time in the world. “Your husband has never given you an orgasm.”

“Well, no, I - ah! - I had thought only men could achieve orgasm.”

“Ohh, Ms [L/n]... I pity you. Have you never touched yourself - just here?” He licked your nub again, and you shuddered.

“No, sir. My mother told me it was a sin to do so.”

“Then I pity her too. No wonder you’re not with child, miss – the womb takes so much more kindly to the seed when the woman has achieved orgasm. I shall show you how to achieve it, and perhaps then you will be able to grow big with with child.”

He placed his tongue back on that sweet spot and his fingers began pumping faster. You half-expected him to stop, to tease you, to bring you to the edge of your climax only to deny it to you - he loved doing that. Sometimes he would do it for days. But not today - today he wanted to give you your pleasure, to reward you for taking his seed so well, and so he licked and fingered you at a ruthless pace, not holding back even as your core tightened and an explosion of bliss spread through your body, leaving you screaming in ecstasy in the hospital bed.

Only when you’d completely come down from your high did he slow his movements to a stop, licking his fingers clean as you lay panting beneath him, slightly dizzy from the comedown.

“Do you understand now, miss?” Turpin asked in a cold, clinical voice. He was still doing the bloody doctor act! Was he planning on making you cum again?

“Y - yes, sir,” you replied, still slightly breathless. “But, sir, if the orgasm helps with conception, shouldn’t the seed be spilt straight after?”

“What a clever girl you are, miss. Yes, that’s precisely it.”

“My husband’s not here, sir. Only you.”

“Yes… yes, it seems so.”

He was sat up on his knees now, a glimmer in his eye, and you knew he wanted you to ask for it.

“Sir, please, I… I’m desperate for a child. I’m not sure my husband could ever recreate what you’ve done to me. Would you… would you give me your seed, sir?”

Turpin ran his hands up your thighs, examining you - or your cunt, more specifically - thoughtfully.

“Well, as a professional, I think it only right I partake of such an excellent cunt. Purely for academic purposes, of course.”

“Yes, sir, of course,” you agreed enthusiastically. “It’s only right I allow you to fully explore my cunt, sir, if it’s of such academic value to you.”

“Yes… yes, I’ll give you my seed. And this is a learning opportunity for you too, Miss [L/n]. Now you can know what a real man feels like.”

He pulled his cock from his trousers, which of course was once again thick and ready to slide back into its home.

“Thank you, sir,” you said obediently, lifting your legs up to give him better access to you. “Thank you for this learning opportunity.”

He slid inside you as easily as he always had, but you winced as if it were painful. “Oh, sir, it’s so large,” you gasped. “So much larger than my husband’s. Are they supposed to be this big?”

“I’ll admit mine is… particularly large,” Turpin bragged with a devilish smile, still pushing inside you. “But a real man’s cock is supposed to - mhm - stretch you out… fill you up… yes, there we go…” He groaned as he bottomed out, his cock pressing into that sweet spot inside you. “Do you feel that, Ms [L/n]? Feel that stretch inside you… feel how deep inside you I am, ready to spill my seed in your womb… Does your husband ever go this deep, miss? Does he stretch you out like this?”

“N - no, sir,” you gasped. “This feels different, sir… better. So - so much better…”

“Yes… yes, I’m sure it does. I’m going to move now, dear, and heed my warning - it is going to be much more pleasurable when I move. Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Then we’ll begin.”

Some voice in the back of your mind told you that your moans could almost certainly be heard down the hall, if not further into the hospital, but you didn’t care. Nobody would dare to disturb Judge Turpin and his wife - no. Nobody would dare to disturb Doctor Turpin and his patient as he administered his cure for her ailment. How fortunate you were to have the attentions of this great doctor, the leading expert in female anatomy, tending his most personal of cures to your barren womb. Your moaning, his grunts, the squeaking of the bedsprings and the banging of the headboard against the wall - these were all just signs that you were being cured.

Turpin muttered the most sinful things in your ear, things no doctor should ever say to his patient, but you were happy for him to diagnose you as a filthy slut, to prescribe you his seed to cure your hysteria. And when another orgasm washed over you, sending your entire body into spasms, Turpin praised you throughout, telling you the treatment was working and you’d soon be with child.

“...oh, yes, you will have a child, miss. A strong baby boy, born of my seed - I think it’s time I administer the treatment, don’t you? Yes, that’s it, keep those legs open for me - mmm, good girl - good little slut - ohh!”

His face contorted into the most beautiful, twisted vision, pure ecstasy and lust on his face as his orgasm overwhelmed him and his seed spurted into your cunt, just exactly where it had belonged all along.

Turpin let out a sigh as he collapsed on top of you, energy drained, and after a few moments his hand crept between his torso and yours to cover your belly.

“Now you are with child,” he muttered with pride.

“Already? That was quick. You must truly have a magic cock, sir.”

Your husband chuckled against your neck, then nibbled at the flesh there, and you were sure if you let him carry on he’d be hard again in no time.

“Can we go home, Will?” you asked, wanting nothing more than to cuddle up to your husband in your own bed, not some stiff old hospital bed, and to kiss and talk baby names until you fell asleep.

“Mmm,” Turpin grunted absentmindedly, his attention still firmly fixed on your neck. You nudged him and he finally looked up at you, brow furrowed in an adorably grumpy expression. Seeing you, the grumpiness faded away slightly, and he reluctantly pulled out of you, leaving you feeling empty and cold as he stood.

He took your hand to lift you to your feet and even managed to keep his hands off you long enough to allow you to redress yourself, although he couldn’t resist groping your breasts one last time before you left the hospital.

It was only as you climbed into a carriage to take you back to his house that you remembered.

“Was there any news of Johanna?” you asked.

Your husband shook his head, a sad look in his eye, but it quickly disappeared when you took his hand and placed it over your belly.

“We’ll make our own family. Boy or girl, I’ll teach the child to love and respect you, my Lord. Just as you deserve.”

Turpin smiled and wrapped an arm around you, holding you close to his warmth in the cool winter evening.

“That’s all I ask for, my love.”

“YOU STUPID SLUT!”

You cowered against the wall, body curled tight into a ball as your husband stood above you, raging. He took your wrists in his much stronger hands and easily pulled you to your feet, giving him access to your throat, which he promptly wrapped one hand around and held you up against the wall.

You sobbed, terrified, but the snarl on his lips and the fire in his eyes told you he didn’t care for your tears.

“How long did you think you could keep this charade up, hm? Thought I wouldn’t catch on?”

“N - no, sir, it’s not like that, I swear –”

“I regret whatever I did to cause the Lord to send me a faulty wife, but your lies are your sin and yours alone! Nobody lies to Judge Turpin and gets away with it - no one –”

His grip tightened on your throat, and you tried uselessly to gasp for air. How was it that something that was so arousing in the heat of lovemaking could be so terrifying now?

“I - I thought –” you stammered out with the tiny gasps of breath you were able to catch through his vice-like grip, but Turpin had no intention of letting you actually answer his question. Instead he grabbed your naked body and carried you back into the bedroom to throw you on the bed, uncoordinated and violent in his anger, and you were temporarily winded when you landed face-first on the mattress.

He climbed on top of you, one arm pressed across your back to pin you down, while his other hand felt between your legs to stab into your channel, and where such an action would previously have caused you pleasure, it only made the pain worse this time. 

Turpin pulled his fingers back out of you and brought his hand up to your face, which was currently smushed sideways into the mattress. He shoved his fingers in your mouth, and you almost vomited at the taste.

The morning had started as your mornings had started ever since you’d come to the house after your brother’s trial a thousand years ago - you, naked in the bed, with Turpin feeling you up. You were awoken when he pinched your nipple, and his hand trailed down towards your mound to tease you into full lucidity.

It was then that he found you sticky, not with the juices he so easily elicited from you, but with thick, red blood.

As soon as you both realised he had period blood on his hands, you jumped up and ran into the bathroom to inspect yourself. Sure enough, you recognised the signs of your period that had plagued you since you were 12 years old.

You sank to the floor, sobbing, mourning the child you’d never been pregnant with in the first place. When the bathroom door opened and your husband stepped through, you thought he would mourn with you, but instead his temper had flown into behaviour more terrifying than anything you had ever seen from him before. The wall was punched, the mirror smashed, and you cowered in fear, hoping his anger wouldn’t turn to you next.

You were wrong. So very wrong. He was angry at you - for being faulty, for lying. But you hadn’t lied! The doctor had told you you were pregnant and you’d believed him. Why wouldn’t you? Doctors were supposed to know everything about the body and you, just a simple woman, trusted what he had said.

You gagged on Turpin’s fingers, which were coated in your period blood, and despite your efforts to pull away he succeeded in spreading the metallic-tasting substance all around your mouth, across your tongue and cheeks, and when he assaulted your teeth you didn’t dare to try and bite down on him.

“Taste your lies, you fucking harlot,” Turpin growled in your ear. “Stupid slut. Really thought you could fool me, hm? What were you going to do, steal a babe from another woman and claim it as ours? I’ll teach you a fucking lesson, slut.”

You gasped with relief when his sticky fingers withdrew from your mouth, and you had no choice but to swallow the blood in your mouth, or else anger him further by spitting it onto his sheets.

Turpin hitched up his nightshirt above his waist and you felt his morning erection prodding between your cheeks, just where he knew you hated it.

“No, sir, please!” you begged. “Not there, please, sir, please –”

“I bet you fucking enjoy it, don’t you, slut? Just another thing you’re lying about. Pretending to hate it when I take your arse, when you know how well it takes me.” He grunted as he pushed his cockhead past your rim, and you whined, tears flowing from your eyes as he tore your insides apart gradually, pushing further and further into that tight, painful channel.

“What else have you been lying about? Did you lie when you said you were a virgin? Did you lie when you said you loved me? How many lies, [Y/n]?”

“No!” you screamed, begged, desperate for him to believe you. “I never lied, I swear –” You cut yourself off with a scream as he thrusted into you the rest of the way, spearing your arse open in one violent movement.

“LIAR!”

“NEVER!”

“You women, all the fucking same!” Turpin growled as he began thrusting into you violently, his member only causing you pain as it dragged along your dry, tight channel, the tip hitting something inside you that you only knew sent a pulse of pain through your abdomen. “Liars - temptresses - using men’s hearts against them because it’s all you know how to do. Well, no more - never - no more love. Just pleasure, my pleasure, and to hell with how it may make you feel. Scream all you want, [Y/n]. The Beadle and Johanna are gone - it’s just you and me now, alone in the lion’s den, and I will fucking eat. You. Up.”

All you could do was scream and cry, your cheek pressed up against the mattress as Turpin stabbed you repeatedly, using you only for his own pleasure, taking all his anger out on you. His movements became more erratic, but before he could finish, he pulled out of you and you sobbed with relief - but only for a few moments, because he grabbed you by your hair, pulled you off the bed and to your knees. He sat himself on the edge of the bed and brought you between his thighs. Instinctively, your mouth opened to take him, and you gasped when you saw that his cock was glistening red with the blood from your arse, both your holes now dripping red.

Your gasp turned into a choke when Turpin pushed your head down onto his lap, his cock slipping down your well-trained throat as easily as if you were drinking him.

The blood of your cunt mixed with the blood of your arse as he fucked your throat, and though the torture felt like an age, it was barely a minute before Turpin’s seed shot down your throat, mixing seed with blood and period and spit and the tears from your cheeks that had slipped into your mouth.

He seemed to relax slightly in his post-orgasm relief, though he kept a tight grip on the back of your head, leaving you choking on his cock and the various fluids he’d forced down your throat. You sat there, not daring to move, listening to his heavy breathing as you wondered what fate would befall you next.

After a few moments, he pulled your head back, and you gasped for air like a fish out of water. Turpin looked at you, his face unreadable as he examined yours, smeared as it was with blood, tears and his seed.

“Clean yourself up,” he ordered, releasing his grip on you. You hesitated for a moment, then quickly jumped to your feet and ran to the bathroom.

When you emerged, he was gone, but a gown was laid out on the bed, so you put it on and went downstairs to find him.

He was waiting in the hallway. As soon as he spotted you, he left and you followed. Outside, a carriage took you on the quietest ride you’d ever taken. You wanted to cry, but you held it in, terrified of angering him - further? Again? Was he still angry? You couldn’t tell. He wore the same expression you saw him wear in court as he listened to counsel’s submissions, plain and unreadable.

The carriage brought you to the hospital, the one you’d last visited with a bullet wound in your arm and left with the joy of knowing - believing - that you were carrying your husband’s child.

Turpin marched you down the corridor of the hospital with such purpose that nobody stopped him. You recognised the door he took you to - it was the same doctor who’d examined you and declared you pregnant.

Without a knock or any sort of announcement, Turpin opened the door and dragged you inside. You gasped and covered your eyes when you saw that the doctor, apparently with no work to do, was furiously masturbating at his desk.

“Oh, don’t pretend to be a prude, [Y/n],” Turpin snapped at you as the doctor, cheeks burning red, quickly put his penis away.

“Ahem - Lord and Lady Turpin. How - er - lovely to see you both. Is anything the matter?”

Turpin threw you onto the hospital bed and, his gaze firmly set on the doctor, pointed at you accusingly. “Did you or did you not tell this woman she was with child?”

The doctor blinked, looking between the two of you. “I - well, that is to say - I said she was likely with child. It’s impossible to know for sure until the quickening, of course, and that may not take place for months - if you’re only recently married and she’s not felt it yet, there may not be any cause for alarm –”

“Cause for alarm?” Turpin snarled. He grabbed both of your ankles in one hand and held your legs up in the air. Your skirt flipped down, exposing your privates to the doctor. “Tell me why, doctor, this very morning I found blood between my wife’s legs? A woman cannot get her period when she’s with child; that’s a fact even a simpleton like her could tell you!”

“Er - well, as I say, it’s not certain - and there could be other causes - perhaps if I may examine her genitals, my Lord, I could ascertain the cause of the bleeding?”

Turpin snarled. “Very well, but don’t let me see you getting that pathetic excuse of a cock out again. Her cunt is mine.”

“Of course, sir,” the doctor said quickly with a bow, one hand quickly patting his crotch to ensure he’d buttoned himself up completely after their surprise entrance. “I am a professional, sir. Your wife’s vagina will remain entirely yours to do with as you wish.”

Turpin unceremoniously dropped your ankles, and you shuffled up the bed to allow the doctor access to you. Last time you’d opened your legs on this bed, it had been a very different scenario, and you wished you could go back to feeling love and desire radiating from your husband instead of the anger you felt this morning.

The doctor prodded at you. Your husband was by his side, watching like a hawk for any sign that either of you were enjoying yourselves. You made sure to emphasise your winces of pain so he knew you were uncomfortable.

The doctor asked questions about your health - all directed at your lord husband, of course, not at you. He inserted something cold inside you, then extracted it again. He hurried over to some instruments at the side of the room and busied himself with testing you couldn’t begin to understand. After a few minutes, he turned back to you - or to your husband, at least - with a grave look on his face.

“I’m sorry, my Lord, I had hoped that the cause of the bleeding might be something else, but I’m afraid your hypothesis is correct. My diagnosis was false; your wife is not with child.”

Turpin stared daggers at the doctor. He began shouting something at the man, but you didn’t care to listen. Your world had ended. The child you’d come to love in the last few weeks had never even existed.

“You must determine why she’s struggling to take my seed properly,” Turpin was saying when your mind came back to reality.

“Of course, I’ll do all I can to determine the fault in her. How often do you spill inside her?”

“Twice daily, at least.”

“Really?” The doctor said thoughtfully. “And she’s still not with child? Hmm…”

“Sir, if I may,” you interjected, and both men looked at you in surprise, as if they’d forgotten you were there. “My husband doesn’t always finish inside my, erm…” You blushed. “Sometimes he spills his seed elsewhere. Outside, or in… other places.”

You hated the way the doctor was talking so clinically about your intimate life - and how plainly your husband was replying. It made the whole affair seem so much less passionate.

“If I may, my Lord, I could take a sample of your seed and compare it with your wife’s blood. It could be the two are incompatible.”

“Incompatible?!” Turpin replied indignantly. “Sir, there are no two things more compatible in this world than my cock and my wife’s cunt. Perform what tests you must, but I assure you you’ll find no issues of compatibility.”

“Very good, sir.”

The doctor rummaged among his things and pulled out a small lidded cup. “Spill your seed in here, my Lord, and I’ll examine it with your wife’s blood posthaste.”

“What - now? If this is some perverted scheme –”

“I shall leave the room,” the doctor assured him. “I seem to recall you had no issue spilling your seed last time I left the two of you in here; I’m sure you’ll have no issues now. Just ensure you finish in the cup. You don’t have to fill the whole thing, just so long as I have a sample.”

“Alright, fine,” Turpin snapped, taking the cup from the doctor’s hand, and with a bow of his head the doctor left the room.

Turpin unbuttoned his trousers with a sigh, and for the first time ever he seemed reluctant to do so.

“You’ll have to help me here, darling. Talking to that pathetic man is probably the most unarousing thing I’ve ever done.”

Sure enough, he pulled his cock from his trousers, and it was flaccid.

“How do you want me, sir?” you asked, looking up at him as innocently as you could.

Turpin looked down at you thoughtfully. Then, a dangerous smirk spread across his face.

“Show me what you do when you’re alone, [Y/n]. I know you pleasure yourself on Sundays while I’m praying. Just the thought of it makes me want to sin. I want to see what you do without me.”

Obediently, you spread your legs, exposing your cunt to him. You reached down and began teasing yourself, working your fingers around your outer lips. You ran gentle circles around your nub, then dipped your fingers into your cunt, which was starting to drip.

“What do you think about, [Y/n]?” Turpin asked in a low growl, his fist languidly pumping at his already semi-erect cock. “What do you think about when you’re fingering yourself in our bed, little bunny?”

“You, sir,” you gasped, letting a shiver of pleasure run through you as you rubbed your slick over your sweet spot. “I think about you… your fingers, your mouth, your cock… I think about how good you feel inside me, how full I feel when you’re stretching me out…”

“And do you make yourself cum?”

“Sometimes. But never like you do. It’s not the same - not without you inside me…”

“How many fingers can you fit? Show me.”

You’d never tried more than two, but once you’d slipped your index and middle fingers inside, you followed with your ring finger, stretching yourself out.

“Still not as good as your cock, sir,” you moaned. You began pumping your fingers in and out, your middle finger reaching out to press against the sweet spot inside you. “I much - much prefer you…”

“Mmm, I bet you do.”

Turpin was fully erect now, pumping his fist furiously, but you didn’t stop the show for him; you wouldn’t stop until he told you to.

“Take your fingers out,” he commanded. You did so, and he grinned devilishly when he saw how sticky your fingers were. “Yes, that’s it… now, put a finger in your arse.”

“Sir –”

“Do as your husband commands.”

“Yes, sir.”

You slipped the tip of your index finger into your anus, and you surprised yourself at how easily you passed through the tight entrance, sore as it still was from that morning’s assault.

“Yes, that’s it, finger your arse… and your cunt too. Don’t be afraid to use both hands - mmm, good girl…”

You should have felt ridiculous, sitting with your legs spread on a hospital bed, one hand fingering your arse while the other fingered your cunt, but your attention was entirely on watching your husband touch himself, rubbing out his pleasure as he watched you do the same.

“Put your thumb to work on your clit. Yes, that’s it, good girl… mmm, you have no idea how beautiful it is, [Y/n], to watch what was once an innocent maiden pleasuring herself like this. Oh, what a delectable little slut I’ve turned you into… ohh, yes… such a good - little - slut - ughh!”

Turpin just about brought the cup to his tip in time to catch the seed that was shooting out of him as he came. His seed filled the cup quickly and it began to overflow, so he let the rest of it fall on you, painting your skin white with the excess of his seed.

It was incredibly arousing to watch, and you peaked just as his seed hit your skin, the impact only heightening the pleasure that you rubbed out of yourself, sweet and sinful but not nearly as good as what he could coax from you. You could feel your walls clenching in the hope that he was there.

The cup was so full that the lid wouldn’t latch on, so your husband had you drink some of it down to free up some space. It was warm and salty, just as it always was, but you thought it tasted distinctly better straight from the source.

The doctor returned and took the cup for testing, and when he returned and told you what the problem was, you almost laughed at the absurdity of it. There was nothing wrong with you at all, and you certainly weren’t incompatible. No, the problem was that your husband’s ejaculate, while plentiful, was almost entirely liquid - the amount of actual seed inside was very low.

“Frankly, my Lord, I’m impressed with your performance as it is,” the doctor said. “Most men your age - if they even live that long - struggle to get erect at all, let alone perform as frequently as you say you do. And pregnancy isn’t impossible - just unlikely. You’ll simply have to, ah… try harder.”

It was ridiculous. Preposterous. There couldn’t be anything wrong with your husband’s sperm, and it certainly wasn’t lacking. But the doctor’s prescription was that your husband should finish inside you at least three times a day to increase your chances of pregnancy, and you knew that Turpin was going to take the prescription very, very seriously.

You left the hospital and had only just shut the carriage door behind you when Turpin practically jumped on you, hands grabbing at your clothing to get it off again.

“Sir –” you began.

“Hmm?” Turpin replied from between your breasts, which he currently had his face buried between through the fabric of your dress.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m simply following the doctor’s orders, darling. Come on, get those tits out, I need to suck on them –”

“Sir, we’re in public –” you protested, but you pulled the neck of your dress down all the same, letting your breasts fall free of their confines.

“In a closed carriage. And don’t worry, I told the driver to drive around until I tell him to take us back. Come on, darling, let’s fuck all around the streets of London. How about Fleet Street, hm? So much death there lately - we can make new life there instead –”

He cut himself off by stuffing his mouth full of your breast, letting out a muffled content groan as if taking the first bite of his favourite food.

For the first time in a long time, you didn’t want to. You were still so scared, so confused, and the emotions of the day exhausted you. Turpin was so different now than he had been that morning, and as he pushed you down to your knees with your face in the cushioned seat and your arse in the air, you were reminded of his anger of that morning, the pain he’d inflicted on you and the words he’d said.

No more love. Just pleasure - my pleasure.

Was he aroused right now for you, or for the prospect of having a child? He groaned loudly - certainly loud enough for the driver to hear - as he entered you, and though his fingers fought through your bush to find your sensitive nub, you knew he only did so to encourage your womb to take his seed. He slammed into you so vigorously that the carriage began to rock with his movements, and anyone walking by would see the carriage rocking and hear your husband grunting with each thrust.

You came around his cock, of course you did, because you were an obedient wife and he demanded you milk him dry. He filled you up with his seed, not because he loved you, but because he needed a son.

After finishing inside you, Turpin pulled out of you, tucked himself away and sat back on the seat with a sigh. You let your skirt fall back down to your ankles and sat next to him. He put an arm around you and you obediently leant your body into his, but he noticed, for the first time, your lack of passion in doing so.

“Is something the matter, darling? Has the stress of the day worn you out?”

You turned slightly to look at him. You had no idea what was going on in his head - you never did. He was a stoic, unreadable man, the only emotions he let you see being anger and arousal. Right now, he was neither, so he was back to unreadable.

He wanted you to tell him the truth - his anger today had come from believing you were lying to him. You had to tell him the truth, even if you hated to admit it.

“I keep thinking about what you said earlier,” you said quietly, avoiding looking him in the eye. “When you were punishing me and you said - you said you didn’t want to love me anymore. No more love, you said.” You sniffed. “I - I don’t want you to stop loving me, sir. You’re all I have.”

“Oh, bunny,” Turpin cooed, stroking your hair gently. “You didn’t think I meant that, did you? You know you can’t trust what I say when I’m angry. I love you, of course I do.”

You looked at him then, eyes wide and glistening with tears.

“You do?”

“Yes, you’re my wife, aren’t you? I swore before God to love you until I die, and I take my vows to Him very seriously. I thought you’d lied to me, [Y/n] - that you’d betrayed me. That was why I punished you. But you didn’t lie, the doctor did. He’s to blame, darling, not you. I don’t love you any less today than I did yesterday.”

“Even - even though I’ve not yet given you an heir?”

“Well, we have the prescription now, don’t we? To fuck like rabbits until you grow big with child. I’m sure my bunny can handle that, can’t you, darling?”

You nodded, then wrapped your arms around his torso, holding him as tight as you could in the back of the carriage.

“I’ll never betray you, sir,” you swore. “Never, never. I know my duty to my husband, sir.”

“I know you do, darling. I’ve been betrayed by women in the past… this morning I forgot you’re not like them. My bunny would never betray me.”

“Do you mean Johanna, sir?”

Turpin hesitated for a moment, then gently pried your arms from his waist and sat you up properly so he could look at you. Your breasts were still out and the cold air hit your skin, so you went to pull your dress back up, but Turpin pulled it down again.

“Keep them out, darling.”

“Yes, sir.”

He took one of your hands in his and you tried to ignore the chill against your skin. The cold made your nipples point, which definitely didn’t escape your husband’s notice; he cradled your breast with his spare hand, rolling the nipple between his fingers as he talked.

“You’ve been such a good wife to me, [Y/n], it’s high time I told you… about my first wife.”

You looked at him, shocked.

“You - you’ve been married before?”

“Did you think an eligible man such as myself got to my age without any marriage prospects?” Turpin asked with a raised eyebrow.

“No, sir, I just - well, you never told me, sir.”

“I’m telling you now. This was a long time ago, darling, before you were born. Perhaps even before your own mother was born. I was twenty years old, my father’s only male heir, so naturally I required a wife. It was arranged that I would wed a young maiden… Charlotte, her name was. We met and were wed in the summer, although I didn’t lay with her until she turned sixteen. Despite my best efforts, she never came to be with child. We were married for twenty years, and although our marriage was one of convenience, I came to love her in a way, and I believed she loved me. That was, until she began disappearing in the middle of the night. I had Beadle Bamford tail her one night when she snuck out, and to his horror and mine he discovered that she was cavorting with a sailor.”

You gasped.

“Naturally, I confronted her the next night. I took her home and punished her, of course, and I believed that would be the end of it. She stopped her midnight disappearances… for a while, at least. Then, one night, she snuck out again. I followed her and found her boarding a ship with the sailor, determined to leave with him forever. The ship was hardly out of harbour when she fell overboard… and her body never resurfaced.”

“Oh, sir,” you sighed sympathetically. “I’m so sorry. No wonder you were so angry when a sailor began lusting after Johanna.”

“Yes, you understand. Of course you do. You’re a good wife; you know obedience. You know loyalty to me. If Charlotte had been loyal, she’d still be alive. If Lucy had understood, she’d have never gone mad. That’s why I kept Johanna indoors, to keep her away from lustful sailors. It’s why I taught you obedience, [Y/n], so you’d never put yourself in danger. All you have to do is stay by my side, darling, and no harm will come to you. I promise you that.”

“I know, my Lord,” you said quickly. “I know my place is with you. Taking your seed, keeping your bed warm.” You glanced down at his hand with a small laugh. “Giving you my breasts to fondle whenever you please. And when we have children, I’ll teach them to respect and obey you too.”

“Yes, you’ll be a wonderful mother, [Y/n]. A perfect example of a good and obedient woman. The girls will follow your example and serve their husbands well - and the boys will be strong and proud, carrying on the Turpin name in whatever noble profession they choose.”

“Multiple of each, sir?” You asked with a blush, considering just how many pregnancies you’d have to go through to have at least two boys and two girls.

“Oh, yes, darling.”

Your husband grabbed you by the hips and lifted you up to sit on his lap, straddling his thighs, and continued fondling your breasts.

“We’ll fuck thrice daily, just as the doctor ordered, and when you’re pregnant I’ll keep fucking you, just to keep you in practice. The babes will have to fight me for your breasts.” He pinched both your nipples simultaneously, causing you to gasp.

“Mmm, yes, such a perfect figure, darling. Designed just for me to put my seed in you over and over. In fact, why not go again, hm? We were prescribed thrice at a minimum, after all. I see no reason why we shouldn’t go for more.”

“And you’ll let me cum every time, sir?” you asked hopefully as Turpin unbuttoned his trousers again, remembering the doctor’s recommendation that you orgasm each time he does.

“Oh, yes, darling, I’ll make you cum… you’ll cum all over my cock, let me fill you up… you want to know I love you, darling? I’ll show you. I’ll fill you up with my love.”

He pushed up your skirt, grabbed your hips and lifted you up to slam you back down on his erect cock, which stood ready and waiting for you. You slid onto him easily, wet as you always were for him.

“Bounce for me, bunny. Show me how much you love me.”

“Yes, sir.”

You obeyed and the carriage began rocking again in the middle of whatever street you were being driven down, but you didn’t care. It was worth it, because each bounce, each thrust, each grunt of pleasure from your lips and his was a reminder to all that you loved him, that he loved you, and so long as you stayed true to him he’d love you always.

Always.

By the time Turpin died ten years later, you’d given him four children, two boys and two girls, just as he’d predicted. Your youngest three were too young to comprehend death, but your eldest son did and he mourned with you at your husband’s passing.

You’d known it was coming for a while. He was old, much older than you, and surpassed the lives of many of his peers. He worked until he was too ill to do so, and for the last few years of his life he was bedridden. He was even too ill to make love to you anymore, but still you slept by his side every night, and he had ways to leave you shaking with pleasure using only his fingers.

You remained obedient and true, just as you’d promised, and even though you weren’t even 30 when he died, you never remarried. You had no need to - his legacy was secure, and you watched your four children grow into adults and begin to have children of their own.

When your youngest daughter married at the age of 18, you knew your duties to your husband were over. In a cabinet you kept a bottle of arsenic. You had bought it the day after your husband died with the intention of joining him, but you remembered your duties and swore to join him when your children were grown and wed.

Now your duty was done, and so without a moment of hesitation you swallowed the poison and laid in your empty bed, happy and content in the knowledge that you would see your husband soon.

[morally-grey-girlbosses]

Bracket update! Round 3 matches will begin going up tomorrow. Matchups are in text form under the cut.

Evelyn Wang (Everything Everywhere All At Once) vs. Almalexia (The Elder Scrolls)

GLaDOS/Caroline (Portal) vs. Helen Richardson/The Distortion (The Magnus Archives)

Lady Barbrey Dustin (A Song of Ice and Fire) vs. Jennifer Check (Jennifer's Body)

Artemis (Greek Mythology) vs. Shego (Kim-Possible)

Morgana Pendragon/Le Fey (BBC Merlin) vs. Nimona (Nimona)

Ianthe Tridentarius (The Locked Tomb) vs. Lady Alcina Dimitrescu (Resident Evil: Village)

Vriska Serket (Homestuck) vs. Galadriel (Lord of the Rings)

Rose Quartz/Pink Diamond (Steven Universe) vs. Yūko Ichihara (xxxHolic)

Granny Weatherwax (Discworld) vs. Starlight Glimmer (My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic)

Dr. Frank-N-Furter (Rocky Horror Picture Show) vs. Empress Phillipa Georgiou (Star Trek)

Dr. Pamela Isley AKA Poison Ivy (DCEU) vs. Reagan Ridley (Inside Job)

Marcille Donato (Dungeon Meshi) vs. Remy "Thirteen" Hadley (House MD)

Han Sooyung (Omnsicient Reader's Viewpoint) vs. Nadja of Antipaxos (What We Do In The Shadows)

Junko Enoshima (Danganronpa) vs. Vermouth (Detective Conan)

Asuka Langley Soryu (Neon Genesis Evangelion) vs. Anthy Himemiya (Revolutionary Girl Utena)

O-Ren Ishii (Kill Bill) vs. Harley Quinn (DCEU)

Faith Lehane (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) vs. Eve (Biblical Canon)

Marina (Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas) vs. Halea Haumea (Phantomarine)

Wu Zetian (IRL History) vs. Miranda Pryce (Wolf 359)

Princess Bonnibel Bubblegum (Adventure Time) vs. Harrowhark Nonagesimus (The Locked Tomb)

Catra (She-Ra and The Princesses of Power) vs. Jasnah Kholin (Stormlight Archive)

Nana Daiba (Revue Starlight) vs. Any Female Praying Mantis (IRL)

Veronica Sawyer (Heathers) vs. Willow Rosenberg (Buffy the Vampire Slayer)

Noi (Dorohedoro) vs. Rat God (Mad Rat Dead)

Monika (Doki Doki Literature Club) vs. Mrs. Lovett (Sweeney Todd)

Lady Eboshi (Princess Mononoke) vs. Princess Azula (Avatar: The Last Airbender)

Samantha Groves AKA Root (Person of Interest) vs. Raphaella la Cognizi (The Mechanisms)

Yennefer of Vengerberg (The Witcher) vs. Elizabeth Swann (Pirates of the Caribbean)

Gertrude Robinson (The Magnus Archives) vs. Homura Akemi (Puella Magi Madoka Magica)

Romanadvoratrelundar (Doctor Who) vs. Rouge the Bat (Sonic the Hedgehog)

Aubrey (OMORI) vs. Dr. Olivia "Liv" Octavius AKA Doc Ock (Into the Spider-Verse)

The Fairy Godmother (Shrek 2) vs. Lucretia (The Adventure Zone: Balance)