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storiesofsvu · 2 years

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Disgrace to the Name of Coffee

Rita Calhoun x reader Warnings: language, that's it I think? Some teasing/banter but that's to be expected lbh. Covers the "pumpkin flavoured" square for @adarafaelbarba 's bingo!

Fall was, without a doubt, your favourite time of year. It was due to a number of things; cooler weather, crunchy leaves, kids were back in school not running wild through the city. You caught the tail end of barbeque season, thunderstorms, autumn festivals, Halloween, the lead up to Thanksgiving. It was the beginning of major holiday season which meant lots of seeing old friends, family, and delicious food. But you couldn’t lie, the main part was the food. And one kind in particular.

September first brought with it: pumpkin spice season.

And truthfully, that was your favourite thing about fall.

There wasn’t time before work to pick up your beloved pumpkin spice latte so that meant you stopped by Starbucks on your way home, sipping at the glorious beverage while you perused the aisles of Whole Foods. All of the fall features were out, promotions everywhere for spiced apple cider, fresh pumpkin pies, mulled wine, and more flavoured baked goods than you could have ever imagined. Naturally, you picked up a little bit of everything, along with a couple of pre-made easy to reheat dinners for the next couple of days. You’d need food for both you and Rita considering the plan was to stay at your place for the weekend, she wasn’t about to cook, and you really didn’t want to bother after the long week, so this was just the better idea.

Originally the plan was go to dinner tonight, Thursday, and spend the night together going into the weekend, but Rita got the memo too late about a work function she’d practically forgotten about. So she promised you she would order you some takeout for dinner and would get to your place in time for a glass of wine and a night of cuddles.

As promised, right at six thirty there was a knock on your door from a delivery driver, a bag of bruschetta, shrimp scampi and tiramisu in hand for you. You weren’t sure exactly where it was from, but it was absolutely delicious and right up Rita’s alley for quality food. You putzed around the apartment for a bit, cleaning up before having a quick shower and changing into pyjamas to curl up on the couch. Rita finally got there around nine, apologizing for the late hour as she greeted you with a tender kiss and you waved her off, thanking her for dinner. She instantly curled up on the couch with you and a glass of wine while you fed each other bites of tiramisu before heading to the bedroom for a good night’s rest.

The morning was when everything got a little hectic, though regular alarms had been set, Rita was in the shower when her phone started ringing. You let it go to voicemail, finishing up your hair and make up before getting dressed, and then it rang again. The sound of the water from the bathroom had just stopped and you heard Rita’s voice calling out for you to answer it so you did. A moment later you popped your head into the bathroom, letting her know a client was at the twenty first precinct waiting for her and according to the cop you’d talked to, they weren’t exactly being patient. She let out a grumble as she rolled her eyes, now more thankful than ever that she hadn’t bothered to wash her hair. You stepped into the bathroom, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek, squeezing at her hand to calm her down,

“I’ll get some breakfast ready that you can take with you.”

“And coffee!” She called after you and you let out a little laugh at the desperation in her voice, her caffeine addiction was her whole personality some days.

You grabbed a couple of the prepped breakfast sandwiches from the freezer and tossed them into the air fryer before filling the coffee pot and turning it on to brew. You didn’t have anything put together for lunch, but you figured Rita would end up ordering take out anyways. You scrolled through your phone waiting for both things to be done, checking a couple of emails, thankful you still had a couple of hours until you had to head into work. Less than five minutes later, Rita came down the hallway, heels in hand that she placed by the door before moving through the kitchen. You hadn’t even heard the coffee machine beep, too distracted in your own little world and truly just not awake enough yet. She paused to wrap an arm around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before crossing the room to the counter. Pulling down one of your to go coffee mugs she swiftly poured coffee into it and looked up to you as she pulled open the fridge.

“I don’t have much to do today after this client, I’ll probably be able to get out early if you’re interested?”

“I’m always interested in more time with you.” You replied with a smile, not noticing the creamer she’d grabbed from the fridge door, dumping a hefty amount into her coffee before twirling the lid on. “We could hit a couple of happy hours before the show?”

“That sounds perfect.” She smiled, “I’ll give you a text once I’m done.” She lifted the mug to her lips, ready for the best part of her morning and instead nearly gagged, spitting the drink out into the sink as she coughed, “is you creamer rotten? What the fuck?”

“No.” Your brow furrowed, “I just bought it last night.” Then your eyes widened, “which bottle did you use?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t looking. The one from the usual spot.”

“I ran out of the hazelnut yesterday. I replaced it with a pumpkin one.”

“Oh god you’re one of them.” She groaned and you laughed.

“What?”

“Pumpkin spice lovers. It’s a disgrace to coffee! Mine of which, is now ruined, thank you.”

“Calm down drama queen.” You teased, standing from your stool as the air fryer beeped. You swiped the coffee mug from her, opening it and pouring it into another mug before giving it a thorough rinse and refilling it. “I haven’t had my coffee yet. There’s a carton of plain almond milk on the shelf.” You handed it back to her and pointed toward the fridge before you turned to the air fryer.

“Thank you.”

You pulled out the sandwiches, tossing one onto a plate and the other into a Ziploc bag, tucking it into Rita’s purse. She screwed the lid back onto her fresh, properly made, coffee and took a sip, this time letting out a sigh of relief. Her eyes swept over the counter, searching through the bowl of fruit and packages of pastries beside it.

“Those look good.” She muttered, her hand reaching out to the scones.

“Ah!” You cut in, swatting at her hand and she turned to you with a slightly offended look on her face.

“What? You saving them for something?”

“They’re pumpkin.”

“What about those muffins?”

“Also pumpkin.” You let out an awkward laugh, “they were on sale!”

“You’re a degenerate, you know that?”

“Everything must be pumpkin flavoured! It’s a rule of the season!” You practically scolded and she laughed, rolling her eyes, “and I’ll be sure to pick up hazelnut creamer for you on my way home today.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, leaning in to kiss you softly.

“Breakfast is in your purse, and it is one hundred percent pumpkin free.”

“If it wasn’t I’d have to break up with you at this point.” She teased and you let out a mock offended scoff.

“And to think, I was going to spend all weekend doting on you!”

“Yeah, with pumpkin flavoured everything!”

“Don’t you have a client waiting?” You raised a brow, a fake pout taking over your lips and she chuckled, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of it all.

“I guess I should get going. Thank you.” She gestured towards the sandwich as she picked up her purse, an arm wrapping around you to pull you in for a kiss, this one a moment longer than the last, though she pulled away with a grimace on her face, “now you taste like pumpkin.”

“Yeah, well, you’re just gonna have to deal with it until December.” You teased back and she laughed.

“And then what? Is it peppermint season?”

“Caramel brulee thank you, very much.”

“While that one is still sickeningly sweet and a disgrace to the name of coffee, I can at least get behind it.”

“Oh! She can actually make a compromise, I’m shocked.”

“You’re lucky I love you.” She deadpanned, pecking your cheek this time to avoid anymore unwanted pumpkin flavouring, “I’ll see you soon.”

“I love you too.” You replied with a grin, watching as she stepped into her heels and disappeared through the front door.

You couldn’t help but let out a laugh at the entire thing, having been completely unaware of your girlfriends complete distaste of pumpkin flavoured things. Though, with her affection of coffee you probably should have seen it coming. You simply shrugged, laughing to yourself as you opened the pack of pumpkin scones and added one to the plate with your breakfast sandwich and made your way to the couch.

If Rita didn’t want anything pumpkin, that just meant more for you, and you were more than okay with that.

________________ @giftedchildturns40 @hbkpop @clarawatson @naturalxselection @ms-calhoun @red1culous @imlike-so-gaydude @altsvu @svulife-rl @svushots @whispered-tear-drops @wannabe-fic-readerer @borg-queer @whimsicallymad @oliviaswifeyy @cmmndrwidw @bumblebear30 @jamiethetrans @molllss @wosoimagines @alexbllake @infernumlilith @australiancarisii @cerberus-spectre @emskisworld @lawandorderuswnt @ex-uallyactivee @dead-of-niight @samwithnoplan @multifandomlesbianic @muscatmusic18 @ladysc @alexusonfire @drduckthief @dxtery @momlifebehard @swimmingstudentchaos891 @mmemalwaa @holycrapraewth @poisonedcrowns @when-wolves-howl @a-little-bit-of-this-and-that @anya-casablanca @yesterdaysgone @godard-muse @itisdoctortoyousir @nobody-important1212 @softgamerking @httpjupiterbbyy

#rita calhoun #rita calhoun x reader #adarafaelbarbatrickortreatbingo #law and order svu #svu #law and order #law and order special victims unit

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yourneighborhooddisaster · 4 years

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Ravenous

Touch Starved Patton! I haven’t actually written stuff like this before, and I guess it could be read shippy, but it can also be read completely platonic. I would say warnings, sympathetic janus and remus, but they’re blessings.

Warnings: touch starvation, angst, hurt/comfort (kinda), not everybody really gets along but that’s okay

Comments and constructive criticism are appreciated!!! Reblogs are cherished!! Also I’m just really excited I was able to stick to a deadline!

Fic under the cut. Please ask to be tagged! I’d be honored. Also you are always able to be removed from the taglist if you read something you don’t like or is triggering!!! I won’t be offended!

@genderfluidmoma @emiisanxious (that’s what you meant right? if not sorry)

All of the sides had needs.

They weren’t people. They were fully aware that they were all a fraction of a person, and they all cared for Thomas very much. They didn’t envy being a person, especially through all the wild stuff that was going on in the world right now. Technically, the sides didn’t need to eat, or sleep, even though it was possible for them to do so, as long as it was imagination food or during the night when Thomas was already asleep. But they did have needs.

Everyone was fully aware of Roman’s needs. Stimuli. Some sort of creative fuel. Even watching a documentary with Logan and Thomas could help him if he was in a particularly bad block. That’s part of the reason he loved Disney so much, and Patton always made sure they had time to watch a cartoon before bed when Roman was feeling down.

Logan’s primary need was obvious, although he hated to admit that he needed things, insisting it was to help Thomas. It did help Thomas, but not as much as it helped Logan. Logan needed structure and rules. It made a lot of sense. So sometimes when Patton noticed Logan’s smiles becoming tight, or when Patton felt he might not be listening to him enough, he would grin and ask what was on the schedule for that day.

Virgil was under a lot of stress lately, and that was because, as much as a lot of social interaction could overwhelm him, Virgil needed positive interactions with Thomas’s friends. Patton suspected that the sides may also be in that category, but he didn’t quite know, so he didn’t want to assume. He would often bug Thomas to call or text Joan, knowing Virgil wasn’t the best at bringing his own issues up.

Janus was tricky. Patton’s first instinct would be that Janus needed Thomas to take care of himself, but they all needed that, and Janus hadn’t seemed to suffer more than the others when Thomas missed the callback. Patton didn’t know Janus too well, but he knew him enough to finally understand that he was a little like Logan. Janus needed to be listened to. So if Roman and Janus had fought and Janus was sulking, Patton would insist that Janus pick a movie to watch with him. (And if Roman slunk out to watch Hamilton with them, well, two birds with one stone, right?)

Remus should have been a difficult one, and Patton would never admit that he had known right away. But Remus was simple. Patton didn’t really understand Remus’s thought process, and he probably never would, at least not all the way. But Patton understood Roman’s, and he wasn’t oblivious, no matter how much he was portrayed that way. Remus needed attention. He needed time, he needed the sides, he needed Thomas, and most of all, he needed to talk. So when Patton was up for it (and even sometimes when he really wasn’t), he would invite Remus to bake with him, as it was something they both, surprisingly, enjoyed, and something they both, unsurprisingly, were terrible at.

All of the sides had needs.

Patton wished he didn’t.

His was simple. Predictable. Expected, even. But it was just… so embarrassing. Because Patton needed physical touch, and didn’t that sound clingy and awful. Of course he could try to play it off, and he did. He was just happy pappy Patton, soft cuddly Patton, just your Dad Patton trying to give you a hug, kiddo! He felt so guilty all the time. And it hurt even more now that he was trying not to repress his negative emotions, because when he did admit he was feeling sad, everyone treated him as if he was made of glass. He dreaded when they asked him if he wanted to be alone, because no, he absolutely did NOT. And he says yes anyway. He wants to be normal, so why wouldn’t he? He knew none of the other sides wanted - needed this. It was okay though. He could always get in at least a hug or a high five in a day.

Until now.

Patton slumped against his door. He hadn’t been touched all day. He was frighteningly cold, but he didn’t want to go get a blanket. He had lent all of his to Virgil after he had a panic attack, and he wasn’t going to ask for them back. He wasn’t heartless.

“Thanks Pat, but… could I please be alone for a while?” The words rang in his ears, nearly deafening, though their speaker was quiet and polite. And Virgil was being polite, he had phrased it in the kindest way possible. It was just something wrong with Patton. He shook his head, tears finally rolling down his cheeks. He put on his hoodie to help with the cold, but it didn’t help with the hunger clawing right below his skin. Logan was reading, Roman was editing a video with Thomas, Remus would probably just make him feel worse. And he didn’t want Janus to sense all the lies he’d been telling. The most accessible of the sides was Logan, but Logan would hardly appreciate the interruption, especially as Patton wouldn’t be able to explain exactly why he was interrupting.

He was going to have a long night.

>><<

Patton hummed softly as he flipped some pancakes. He had managed not to burn them this time, even though the shapes were not really circles. Pancakes were easy. At least, he was better at making pancakes than anything else.

Logan’s better at it though.

Patton shook away the thought. It made sense that Logan would be better at something as adult and precise as cooking. Baking was where Logan was in need of help. Measurements usually fluctuated more in baking. Though Patton wasn’t really good at that either. He was usually a disaster in the kitchen, probably because he represented Thomas’s inner child, which was why he wasn’t offended when Logan declined the offer of pancakes, instead going to the commons to help Thomas schedule the day. Well, maybe a little offended. But not much. Logan had been under stress lately too, as quarantine tended to blur all the days together. So Patton dug into his pancakes himself, covering up all potential mistakes by drowning it in cheap quality maple syrup.

“Ooh, did you make pancakes, Patty-cake?” Remus all but bounced into the room. Patton put on a wide beam and nodded. Remus was still wearing his pajama pants and was shirtless, though he was definitely a morning person, so it was likely he’d already been up for a few hours. “I want some!” Patton laughed at that, pointing at a plate right next to the stove.

“The hot ones are over there, and make sure to tell me if you want anymore. If we do end up making more though, you’re on egg duty.” Remus half pouted, even as he shoveled pancakes onto his plate.

“But I like it when you get the shells in. It makes it crunchy.” Patton huffed, pretending to be offended. “Oh come on Patton, you know I compli-meant it!” Patton stifled a giggle, though a little unsuccessfully.

“Oh, that was bad even for me…” Remus shrugged, utterly unashamed. A lock of hair fell into Patton’s face, and he instinctively brushed it away, not really noticing his sticky fingers making a shiny trail up his cheek.

But he noticed when his fingers were replaced by something else.

Patton froze, his face hotter than the pan on the stove. (He should turn that off, his brain registered dumbly, but he was too much in shock to care if the mindscape could burn down.) Remus was clearly satisfied, grossly swirling his sticky sweet spit in his mouth. Tears pricked at Patton’s eyes, and he knew he was being stupid. Remus was lewd and touchy with everyone. He wasn’t special, and Remus certainly didn’t need this like he did. Remus just loved to be loud and obnoxious and throw everyone off.

Then why’d it feel so intimate and wonderful?

Why would he want such a gross touch?

“What’s got you so nervous Mr. Moral Compass?” Remus was watching him with a self satisfied smirk. “Did I do something to upset you?” That should have been reassuring, that Remus was happy and just his normal self. If everyone was happy, Patton would be happy, because he had no reason to be sad. No reason at all…

Patton broke out into loud ugly sobs. Crumpling to the floor, he was vaguely aware of Remus panicking, and no, he really didn’t want to burden him, and it just became worse when more people ran into the room. He couldn’t hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears, and blurry tears distorted his vision and fogged up his glasses, which were slowly sliding off his nose. But then two hands gently grabbed his wrists, and they didn’t let go, and his wrists were burning but all he could think was more, more, more. And then a hand landed on his shoulder, but it was much too hesitant. Another hand over his heart, and that seemed to do it ever so slowly. The tears stopped and his breathing slowed.

But he may have preferred the rush of blood in his ears to the stressed silence. He made a move to wipe at his eyes only to find his hands still restrained. A blur of yellow - Janus - removed his glasses, cleaned them, and wiped the excess tears away before placing them gently back on his face. He was surrounded by faces, but only Logan and Virgil were touching him, and he felt so, so clingy, because this definitely wasn’t enough even though he should be grateful they were even still touching him. Thomas looked terrified. Patton dropped his head in shame and guilt.

“I’m-”

“Don’t,” Roman replied quickly, already knowing what Patton was about to say. “You have nothing to apologize for. My brother, on the other hand-” “No!” Remus was still looking panicked on the sidelines, and what Roman would’ve said next would have everything even worse. “It’s not his fault, he didn’t do anything.” Patton squirmed, his whole body on fire. Virgil made a move to retract his hand from Patton’s chest. And Patton. WHIMPERED, SO EMBARRASSINGLY LOUD. Virgil froze. “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, of course you guys don’t have to touch me if you don’t want-”

“Patton.” Janus spoke calmly and slowly, as if he was trying to understand something. “So the problem is you want people to touch you, and you aren’t getting that attention you need, correct?” Patton nodded, biting his lip bloody so he wouldn’t make such a weak, embarrassing little noise again. All heads swiveled towards Janus, but he simply, albeit hesitantly, took off his gloves and cape and moved closer. Virgil and Roman glared defiantly at him, but one look from Patton and they stepped aside, and Logan gently released his hands, leaving Patton nearly about to cry again about the loss of contact. “I know this normally would be a little… inappropriate, considering our only newfound truce, but…” Janus spread his arms open wide. It was preposterous. Why would Patton hug Janus, even with their agreements? A ridiculous notion. (Now he was starting to sound like Logan.)

Patton jumped into the other’s arms.

He was suffocating, choking on air and new tears but he buried his head into the all encompassing warmth around him. Six arms squeezed him so tight and so close he felt like he was in a vacuum, but he didn’t mind at all. After a few minutes it started to get to be too much, but Patton didn’t want to ever let go at the same time, and he was just so confused. Janus seemed to sense this and he broke away. His hands were still holding Patton’s forearms.

“Hey, you’re not going to feel that bad ever again, okay? We won’t let that happen,” Janus murmured soothingly, and Patton shakily nodded because he didn’t even care if it was all a lie because it was so pretty and it felt so good. “Do you want to hear about what that was or would you rather just come watch a movie?”

“You know?” Janus nodded at Remus.

“Wait, how come you know and I don’t?” Logan was rather flustered and panicked looking. They all were, Patton realized.

“It’s touch starvation. Patton’s been lying to himself about it for a long time. He has a crucial need for physical touch.” Virgil inhaled sharply, and Roman glanced over Patton, but refused to quite meet his eyes. Logan gasped.

“I’m so sorry, Patton.” Patton blinked at the sudden and quick apology from Logan, who always struggled with admitting he was in the wrong. “I didn’t realize that by limiting my physical affection towards you I was harming you in any way. Can I… can I do anything to fix my behavior?” Patton smiled sadly.

“It’s okay Lo, I know you guys don’t really need it like I do. We’re sides, not people. You wouldn’t have assumed I was affected by things like that.”

“What - what did I do?” Remus asked tentatively. “I mean, I know I was being gross and all, but I touched you. I’m a very touchy person. So what happened to make you all snotty?” He immediately winced at his own wording, but Patton knew this was rather gentle for him.

“I just… I guess I couldn’t handle that you were only doing it to get a rise out of me… And it’s kinda started to burn when I get touched because I feel so cold the rest of the time.”

“Overstimulation,” Logan supplied helpfully. Patton nodded, and their conversation lapsed into silence. Then Thomas walked towards Patton, Janus helping him to his feet and guiding him into Thomas’s arms. He was exhausted but even the much looser two armed hug sent his heart and skin and mind spiraling into fireworks. They settled onto the couch.

“We got you, okay Pat? We’ll be more careful from now on.”

And Virgil would just have to trust that Patton understood, because before he replied, Thomas and Patton had fallen fast asleep.

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sacrilegious-skeletal-scribe · 3 years

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My deepest apologies, heretics, for my lack of activity in the past weeks, my seeming disinterest stemmed nowhere from you. My workflow, as all who have been here for more than a week might have acquired, stems entirely from my ability to justify it. If I can’t think of anything witty to say, I just, uh… won’t.

Speak.

And you might see where this could cause concerns when I am attempting to produce engaging, quality content at least one a week. So to confirm: I am not Dead, I will not be abandoning this platform I’ve managed to scrape out for myself, and I do Actually create things! Content even. For you.

As it currently sits, I have been eyeing a few more submission possibilities for my work, and should one in particular pan out, I will have the honor of seeing my work bring me money for the first time… ever. Which would be neat.

I, do not wish to vent, on here. I feel I have set a degree of separation between my observable work and my personal life, and I think that’s for the best. You all have seen some of the most explicit emotional expression I’ve ever created, yes, and that’s what I want my art to do, but all the same I’d rather you not have the floor-plans to my mild mystery murder basement.

All this to say, I am a human being. Constant heresy is draining, and braziers are hard to acquire on mass. I am not going to stop creating, so long as it brings a smidgen of enjoyment and satisfaction to myself, and a little bit more blasphemy into your lives.

The concept of publishing an anthology of my shorter work, novellas I’ve been bleeding into, or, god forbid (he’s been trying to) the novel that started this whole thing in the first place, is scarier than certain cosmic horrors I’ve met. I even made a few of them.

I solemnly hope, that you enjoy what I’ve been throwing at the walls, for the last year or so, and I hope you will stick around for what else I have planned, but I hope you know, that each one of you, that’s ever given me and my menagerie a chance, you’ve made my goddamn world. I have a life beyond you, a lot of you will never know me more than a name on a screen, the same for me, and that’s okay.

I can’t goddamn wait to see measurable compensation for the work I put into this, but before that was possible, before I could ever hope to have somebody listen to my work, you all did. And some of you continue to do so.

So keep yourselves ice-shatteringly crunchy, keep your ears piqued towards bloodstained corners, and keep the heresy in your side-holster as polished as violent self-expression screaming under a moon-day sun, and As Always, To You.

#sin the ironic paladin speaks #writblr #content creation #writer mumbles into the void #I don’t know what to say down here everything I usually relegate to the tags is in the post proper #hi :)#hope your blasphemy is treating you well #I have a few things lined up unrelated to writing art my usual brand of desperate clawing at the gates of hell #so that’s been taking up a fair amount of headspace for a few weeks #so wish me luck maybe #fresh hot new work next time hopefully #really hoping the e zine I scoped out is legitimate #ah yes the constant fear that my work won’t be able to sustain me despite the fact that I’ve never actually tested the theory #hopefully won’t feel the need to delete this later #but if I do #hello three (3) heretics

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lsbaird · 4 years

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The Devil’s Luck - Chapter Two Preview!

It’s a nice long one today, folks! Maybe snug up with a cup of coffee. If you’re just now joining in, the prologue is here, and chapter one is here! Today’s installment tells us more about Chancelion, the unfortunate Evern, the maybe more unfortunate Frey, why squirrels are bastards, and why you should lock up your books when Etienne comes to visit.

Etienne woke up late the next morning feeling almost cheery. It had been too rainy the night before to do a thorough scouting of the rooftops, and he had retired early. His garish bed made up in feather ticking what it lacked in subtlety, and none of it could be seen in the dark anyway. He had slept like the sainted dead, though he still had to suppress a yelp when he woke and saw the room by daylight. It was that damn cherub.

He opened his curtains onto the gardens—the view was as lovely as promised, if still somewhat waterlogged—and took a deep breath. All would go well. A rocky start did not predict a rocky end, after all, and if he was going to make some flubs on his mission, it was better to make them at the beginning rather than at a more critical moment. He repeated these things to himself until he started to believe them, and turned away from the window to face his first morning at Chancelion.

The tea and soup from the night before had not yet been cleared away. Frey's servants had heeded his order not to disturb Lady Elsa, and even if they had tried, the chair Etienne had put under the door handle would have prevented it. He was pleased to see it had not shifted an inch. Trustworthy staff, Etienne thought, adding the tidbit to his growing list of household details.

His dress was still unpleasantly damp, even after spending the night spread over two chairs by the fire. Etienne had three gowns with him, which was enough for his deception, but any real noblewoman would feel destitute with so little. Etienne padded across the bright carpets to the wardrobe lurking in the far corner. Wearing a frock of his fiancé's choosing was a sure way to his heart, and as Lady Elsa's lady-maid and trunks of clothing were all fictitious, it seemed a shame not to have a look, at least. It couldn’t be as awful as the rest of the room, could it?

Etienne tugged on the brass handles of the wardrobe doors, instinctively braced for whatever horror might await him. But here, once again, Chancelion—or at least Chancelion’s master—surprised him.

Shades of cool green and black washed over Etienne like a refreshing waterfall. In the letters to Frey, which had been concocted by Ephaseus and written by Etienne, ‘Elsa’ had mentioned her preferences when it came to such things: an emphasis on clothes that would be best suited for the concealment of weapons, and for activities where accidents could happen. Every least detail had been taken into account, even her (Etienne’s) antipathy to lavender. All the linens smelled of mint leaves, instead.

She would not be used to the cold, and as a result, there were three handsome wraps as well as a fine wool dressing-gown in Lady Elsa's favorite emerald hue. Pearls were her favorite gem, and the embroidered bodices were stiff with them, no matter the outrageous price they commanded in Easting. She enjoyed riding and hunting with birds, and so a green damask riding habit hung in the nearest corner, along with fine hawking gloves decorated with gold silk tassels. A lady's riding boots occupied the bottom of the wardrobe, along with several different pairs of slippers. An evening dress, suitable for a royal ball, was downright crunchy with its yards of thick gold lace; Etienne mourned that the neckline was far too low for his disguise. Jewel boxes nestled on the shelves contained ropes of pearls, gold chain, and actual emeralds. Etienne at once lost his vain little heart to a particular pair of pearl drop earrings, thinking they would look elegant on Elsa and rakish when worn with his usual black leathers.

Perplexed by his findings, he looked at the room again, as though to make sure its hideous state had not been some fevered imagining on his part, but it was as outlandish as ever. The wardrobe and its contents seemed to have come from some other chamber, possibly one in a different house.

Etienne fingered the soft velvet of a split sleeve. The gown was a simple one for day wear, easy enough to get into on his own, and the already demure neckline could be made even more modest with a fichu hanging nearby. After a moment's consideration, he pulled the dress from its hook and his mostly-dry corset from the windowsill, where he’d thrown it the night before.

Dressing took him time and care; it was, after all, as much his arsenal as his disguise. The pins in his wig could pierce a man's heart, the flutter of lace at his throat concealed a fine length of garroting wire. Poisons he had as well, of various sorts, but one in particular—the powder of the humble grensel blossom, concealed beneath the ruby on his forefinger—was for Etienne alone.

Etienne carefully measured out a tiny portion of the deadly nitoxis powder from the compartment on his ring, swirled it in his half-finished cup of tea from the night before, and drank it down. It tasted like nothing but cold chamomile tea and orange peel, but he couldn't repress a faint shudder. Playing dice with his own mortality was a dangerous business, but his immunity had saved his life six times so far. Of course, the time he failed to keep up his doses the withdrawal almost killed him, but that was a hazard of the job. It was a price he paid for being careless, and he'd learned, very quickly, to never be careless.

His weapons and dress secured, Etienne smoothed the sleeve of his gown to be sure the crimson brand on his wrist was well-covered, and swept out the door for breakfast.

Once again, however, the actors had failed to assemble for the performance. This time, it was the leading man that was missing, and Etienne was in the dining room before he found any of the other players at all.

“Out at the cattle barn, miss,” Tobias whispered, as the maid dished up oat porridge and poached eggs on toast for Etienne, alongside fat sausages and potted chicken liver and fried apples and all the other morning delicacies of the country. “One of the yearlings took ill in the night, and suffers naught but the Master to nurse it.”

“He is good with animals, then?” Etienne asked, napkin balanced on one hand to eat with a young lady's poise. It would not do to give in to his own peculiar habits, such as pouring massive globs of honey on his sausages.

“They take to him, aye,” the butler went on, in his creaky voice. “But the stableman hopes that some of the Master's good fortune will rub off. None he's nursed yet has fared poorly after.”

“Oh, how curious. Is he so very lucky?” Etienne sipped his at his tea like a bird tasting the air of a winter morning. It had been put out for milady’s breakfast on ormolu trays, served in cups of a fine porcelain as fragile as frozen milk, but was weak enough to read a gospel through. Coffee, to Etienne’s abiding regret, had not yet caught on in Easting. With a flash of longing he thought of Ephaseus' comfortable, parchment-scented study, a battered silver pot of black coffee laced with cacao powder at his elbow, and a thick book in his lap, leather armchair pulled up to the fire. Resigned, Etienne contemplated swift murder, and dutifully drank his impotent tea.

“Luck is what the unfaithful call the will of God,” Tobias wheezed, and it was lucky he had his back turned as he attended to the sugar tongs, so he missed the expression that crossed Etienne's face. It was as much for the sanctimony as the weak tea. “But it would seem heaven has seen fit for Lord Reichwyn to be uncommonly blessed in that regard.”

Etienne lifted his eyebrows, and wondered how quickly the uncommonly blessed Lord Reichwyn would sink in a swollen Easting stream after his lungs were punctured with a knife. “When might you expect him back?”

“He asked me to proffer his apologies, my lady, and inquire if you would do him the honor of going for a ride with him this afternoon.”

Etienne's smile was winning, and genuine. There were so many ways one could die, out on horseback in the country. “I should be delighted.”

“In the meantime, he bids you feel free to look around the house and grounds, and hopes you find them to your liking.”

Etienne remembered that Elsa was supposed to have every intention of making Chancelion her future home, and as a result should take an active interest in things like the main hall carpet and the gutters. For himself, Etienne wondered if there was a decent library. He finished his breakfast in spite of Tobias hanging off his elbow like a dried-up dungball, and went off to get a better grasp of the manor's layout.

Excepting the dearth of coffee, Chancelion was a well-appointed estate. Frey, in his two years of holding the title of Lord Reichwyn, had devoted considerable time and effort to converting the neglected property into one of the finest holdings in the north. Etienne spent the morning wandering the halls, not only checking to see which doors and windows were regularly unlocked but, more and more, with a genuine interest in the house. It would have taken all day and some of the evening for a complete survey of the rambling manor, which he fully intended to do, until he was distracted in his reconnaissance by the scent of books.

He was not prepared for the library. Country manors were rarely outposts of learning, and at best one could expect to find an old volume of St. Justicia’s teachings, or an archaic treatise on mushrooms, or doggerel poetry about cows. Or so Etienne supposed, and he was delighted to be proven wrong. It was not expansive, that was certain, only a simple square room with one window. But it was quality. Etienne knew that by the smell of old leather and quality parchment, as well as beeswax, which meant the room actually saw use. Within a minute he had vanished into the library’s inviting shadows, and the rest of the morning slipped by with astonishing speed.

He had just persuaded himself to resume his work, and was heading for the other wing of the house to do so, when there was a commotion from the entrance below him. Etienne gathered up the weight of his green velvet skirts (which had been made heavier with the weight of one or two rare editions that he was sure no one would miss) and peered over the balustrade into the stone-flagged entryway below.

Freyton Reichwyn Landry had just returned from the stables, as muddy and strawy as any cattle-hand, beaming in spite of the state of his boots and coat. His hair was falling out of his queue again, and his good spirits gave him the appearance of a boy returning from some successful caper. He was wholesome enough to make Etienne shiver, as would any explorer in a foreign land when confronted with some strange and innocent animal. Etienne didn’t think they even made them like that anymore. Or ever.

“I think she'll pull through, Tobias,” Frey announced with triumph, shucking out of his waistcoat. Etienne bit his lip and leaned slightly over the railing, watching closely, but Frey kept his shirt on. Even going out to the stables he had it buttoned to the wrists. His neckerchief was modest in terms of ruffle, but he wore it wound up to his jaw like an old-fashioned city lawyer. Etienne let out his breath in frustration as Frey put on his more gentlemanly boots. “But it's coming up another rain, I'm afraid. Touring the grounds with Lady Elsa will have to wait. Have you seen her?”

“Lady Elsa is inspecting the house, sir,” Tobias answered.

“Ah, well, I hope she hasn't gotten herself lost!” Frey pulled on the coat Tobias offered, a somber thing of brown velvet and gilt buttons, more suited for his role as manor lord, trading it for the threadbare tweed he had worn for nursing cattle.

Etienne pondered the advantages of making an entrance just then, but chose instead to retreat backstage to his rooms for the moment. For one thing, he wanted to dispose of his stolen books in his traveling bag, and for another, there was a trap to be laid.

Etienne paused by his dressing-table for a brief dose of powder and perfume, and then went out in the corridor and proceeded to get lost. Not terribly lost, of course, only a little bit lost, just a short way inside the unexplored wing of Chancelion and out of sight. He knew his perfume would do the rest. He also knew, from the sound of boots on the carpet down the hall, that a splendid, fated rendezvous was imminent.

Etienne positioned himself at a cross-corridor, between a suit of archaic tilting armor and a large ceramic urn, and put on his very best winsome and bewildered expression.

For once, the leading man knew his cue. Frey appeared around the corner with impeccable timing, redoing his ribbon and whistling a country jig. His eyes lit up at the sight of his betrothed in the corridor, and he quickened his pace along the landing.

“Here you are! I hope you haven't been too dreadfully bored, have you?”

“Oh!” Etienne said, wringing his hands and turning in surprise, as though he had not in fact been counting Frey's boot-falls, and had not known full well just when to look up to best effect. “Lord Freyton! I'm ever so glad to see you. I'm afraid I've gotten turned around entirely. Is this the way back to the east wing?”

Frey shook his head. “I must beg your forgiveness, Lady Elsa. I have been terribly rude to abandon you this morning, without even a guide around the house! I should have sent Tobias with you to show you the lay of the manor.”

“We'd still be in the foyer,” Etienne muttered, and then caught himself with an internal curse as Frey’s eyebrows shot upwards. Elsa would never say that! Not about such a dear, kind old soul! “I mean,” he hastened to add, “He is elderly, and I fear it would be too much strain for me to drag him all over at my pace, and…” Etienne hit on it all at once, and it was so obvious, he was ashamed it had taken him so long. “Well, the truth of it is, I was searching for a room.”

“A room?” Frey echoed, with a careless smile. “Well, there are dozens of them, Lady, you may have your pick. Is your chamber not to your liking?”

Etienne's laugh was a little thin. That had been a close call. “Not for me, My lord. One room in particular has caught my fancy,” he continued. “I have heard a legend told of this place: the great ghost story of Chancelion. In Ivanis City, they say that your great-uncle Evern Reichwyn played a hand of cards with the devil, and lost, and was dragged down to hell for payment. Is it true that the room where they gambled is still locked up, untouched?”

All of the good humor had fled Frey's face. For a moment Etienne thought he had gone too far, and some fast back-stepping would be required, but Frey shook himself and dredged up a smile from somewhere. It was a thin ghost of the previous one, however, and did not reach his eyes.

“Ah, I should have known you would be curious,” he said, sadly. “I suppose even in the south, the misfortune of Chancelion is known?”

Etienne clutched his hands in his skirts, consternated. “Forgive my inconsiderate curiosity, my lord. Of course, it is a family matter here, and a serious thing, not some scandalous fireside rumor told in a salon in the city...”

“Frey,” Frey said, with a touch of his old humor. “Call me by name, lady, and I will grant your desire, any desire.”

Etienne felt his pulse quicken, in spite of himself. He told himself it was only the hot blood of the chase. “So he did play a hand with the devil? There is such a room?”

Frey shrugged. “I wasn't there at the time, so I don't know about the devil or not. But there is such a room, yes, and it is indeed untouched, as far as I know. It's a morbid curiosity, really, and in my eyes it is the sad remnant of a man who went mad and nothing more. But I cannot deny the air of the place, and I've no heart to disturb it. The servants refuse to speak of the room at all, so one can hardly expect them to go in and tidy it up. There is only one key, and it is mine. I am not sure if such a place is suitable for you, even if it is only a legend.”

Etienne's curiosity was now well and truly piqued. So Freyton Reichwyn Landry—who if Etienne’s information was true, was the Devil's Heir apparent himself—doubted the legend of Chancelion, and his own great-uncle's fate? “I assure you, Lord Freyton, I am not prone to histrionics or fainting. I can endure the sight of a dusty chamber with a tall tale tacked onto it.”

“Then I will show it to you,” Frey said, and reached for the ring of keys at his belt. “Provided, of course, that you meet my condition.”

“Your condition?” Etienne echoed, and then remembered. “Ah yes.” He paused to taste the name a little before letting it out. “...Frey.”

His suitor smiled once again, and it was as though the sun had come out, though rain still hammered down like musket-fire on the leaded glass windows. “That is much better,” he said, and swept his arm towards the left-hand corridor. “This way, my Lady.”

Frey knew the passages of his rambling house as though they were the contours of his own bedchamber. Even though he had only lived there for two years, he could recite the date of every tapestry, the tournaments won or lost in every suit of armor, the artist of every portrait. Knowledge of his ancestral home was a matter of some pride for the young landholder, and as he had been unaware of his birthright for most of his life, he took it as both his duty and his pleasure.

Etienne did not have to feign interest on Elsa's behalf; he had a weak spot for history and the halls of Chancelion had their wealth spread out in a tasteful sheen, instead of the overcrowded luxuries of his room. Frey led Etienne across a landing and through a side-passage, then down a staircase of coiled squares, the railing-posts mounted with exquisitely carved hawks.

“They were an addition of his,” Frey said, patting one of the birds on its shiny head. “He liked it a great deal, I've heard. Hawking. You enjoy it as well, don't you? Perhaps tomorrow it will be dry enough to go out.”

“His?” Etienne repeated.

“Uncle Evern,” Frey said. “I never met the man, but Tobias was here at the time, you know. Much younger, of course. He knows everything about the place. I'm a mere amateur by comparison.” Frey had paused at the landing, under an ornate window with stained glass in the pattern of the Reichwyn arms, emblazoned on a shield held by a pair of rampant cats. On a sunny day, it would have splashed them both with blues and golds, but in the rainstorm, it was darkened as though in mourning. The device featured crowns and stars and moons and suns—-the same as Evern's ill-fated round of card suits. Etienne wondered if Frey had picked those motifs when he came to inherit, or if his Great-Uncle had chosen them when he won Chancelion. Etienne shuddered as he turned his back to the window. Perhaps it was only that the Archdemon had a wretched sense of humor.

“This way,” Frey said, once he had finished adjusting a bit of the stair-carpet that had buckled up under its rod. “Bloody thing is always coming up. Someone's going to trip on it and break his neck, honestly.”

Would it were that easy, Etienne thought, but he took note of the step, just in case. Maybe on the way back.

They soon left the refurbished parts of the house, plunging back into older, dusty passages. Bits of plaster had fallen from the walls to reveal bare stone. Crates were stacked against the walls, and moth-eaten hunting trophies glared down at them from the high walls, their glass eyes disturbingly lifelike in their gaunt heads. Frey and his guest had encountered no servants in their journey, and there seemed to be little chance of doing so now.

“I must apologize for the state of this wing,” Frey said, shoving aside an old oak table to allow more room in the passage for his lady's copious skirts. “My predecessors in the title were an unscrupulous lot, though I pray Saint Justicia had mercy at their souls' trial. They ransacked the house and sold most things of value. I've only just gotten the present rooms in a fit state to live in. It's something of an ongoing project—oh, damn.” A suit of armor had collapsed on itself, scattering pauldrons and greaves across the hallway like the wreckage of an upset carriage. Frey reached back a hand to help his lady across the mess. “Mind that spur, it can't be at all nice to step on. In truth, when I took the house, it all looked like this, and there wasn't much left in the coffers.”

“You've done splendidly with the manor,” Etienne murmured. “I had no idea it was in such a state when you came to your title.”

“Well, to be honest, it was worse than this. They were keeping pigs in the great hall, and had burned most of the furniture and banisters for firewood. I'm only glad they didn't touch the library. For one, I doubt they could read, and for another, Tobias locked the doors and claimed to have misplaced the key. Lucky thing he did. You enjoy reading, my lady?”

“A great deal,” Etienne answered, with honest enthusiasm.

Frey was delighted in turn by his bride's delight. “Then you must see our library. Do you know we have an ancient account of the binding of the Archdemon, in the very hand of the scholar D'Grassa?”

“Do you really?” Etienne said, his eyes wide, showing no sign that the leather-bound original D'Grassa was in his traveling case at that very moment. “That's extraordinary.”

“I can't read it, of course,” Frey said, apologetically. “But you mentioned—in your second letter, I believe—that you dabbled in the pre-Justician letters? I'd be honored if perhaps you could go over some of it with me. Some night after supper perhaps?”

“I shall do my best,” Etienne said, hoping his smile wasn't too fixed. He either needed to find a way to smuggle those stolen books back into the library, or to brain his fiancée before the subject could come up again. Though it was a pity, he thought. So few people want to learn the old letters in this day and age. I finally find one who wants to, and I have to kill him instead.

Frey was counting tapestries. “Seven, six... ah. Here it is. The one with the hunt on it.” Faded figures writhed across the wall-hanging, racing their dogs and horses pell-mell into the yawning holes made by age and vermin, all in the determined pursuit of a stained-looking stag.

“Was it always a hidden room?” Etienne asked, as Frey shoved up the tapestry with his elbow, and jangled through his ring of keys in search of the right one. “I mean, doesn't it strike you as a bit odd, that Evern would be playing cards in some hidden room?”

“Oh, no. It wasn't always hidden. This is the old armory. Evern had it converted into a games room, and Tobias tells me he always came here after dinner to play cards or dice with his friends. There were no guests the night of the last hand, but he would dice on his own.” Frey had found the key he wanted, a rather elegant one for such a room. Etienne had been expecting a slab of iron with a rough tooth, the sort for locking manacles. “The room was shut up and covered afterwards, by some superstitious second cousins of mine who inherited next. They weren't here long; the lady of the house went mad and wound up drowning herself in the duck pond. The staff insists her ghost’s been sighted regularly around the grounds ever since, not that I've run into her myself, but we did just have a scullery maid quit a fortnight ago after supposedly seeing her.” The lock gave a surprisingly well-oiled click. “There. Mind the tapestry.”

Etienne held up one arm to ward off the moldering folds of the hunt scene, and followed Frey's gesture into the fabled chamber. The overwhelming impression was one of dust, but that was only to the eyes. There were other senses to be assailed, other messages to heed, and they presented themselves at once, to the detriment of all others.

The moment Etienne crossed the threshold, the crimson tattoo on his wrist burst into pain, burning as though freshly inscribed. Etienne could feel every needle-stroke of the protective seal upon his skin. He put one hand to his wrist, grasping the mark hidden by his sleeve, and struggled to think past the agonizing warning. For Etienne was far more than a common-garden villain and garrotter. He was a sworn and bloodied member of the Order of the Crimson Seal, founded by Vynae himself after the defeat of the Archdemon centuries ago. Etienne was an elite soldier standing against a tide of black magic and foul sorceries. His was a sword of brilliant reason in the darkness, and he was branded and oathed to Ephaseus and his cause.

Frey left the door open behind him, though the tapestry tumbled down after and a few of the hounds lost their snouts in the crumbling threads. “You see, it is truly not much to—” He broke off, in alarm. “Elsa! You've gone white! Are you ill?”

With effort, Etienne pried his fingers off his wrist, and his teeth apart. The air of lingering evil was so palpable in the room, he marveled that Frey could stand there oblivious to it. “It’s—it’s nothing,” he said. “Only some dust in my lungs, it made me quite giddy.” He pulled a kerchief from his artfully constructed bosom, and held it delicately over his mouth as he forced his mind to clear, to focus past the pain. “I should be fine in just a moment.”

“I should not have brought you here,” Frey said, scowling. He had one hand on the small of Etienne's back, to catch his bride-to-be should she faint. “Your bravery is commendable, but there's no need to go further—”

“I'm quite all right now,” Etienne said, tucking his kerchief away, and making a grand show of fussing with his cuffs. “Now, we've come all this way to see this place, I should like to see it! Don't frown so, it was only a spot of stale air.” Etienne put a finger to Frey's lips, teasing, and it was enough to startle a smile out of his betrothed.

Etienne's head was clearing at last, even though the mark of the Order still buzzed like the stings of an entire beehive. The room was small, even cozy, though the air of neglect made it seem that much more empty and echoing. He had always pictured the famous duel taking place in a bare chamber with a splintery wood table and two chairs, like in some hidden dungeon. But this had been a delightful room years ago, one designed for leisure and pleasant pursuits. The high, narrow windows had all been boarded over, but several of the planks had fallen in, letting in a watery light. Dust lay thick and undisturbed on elegant tables and chairs; a settee sat decomposing in the corner, tapestry cushions lumpy grey in the colorless light. The beams of the ceiling had once been painted in bright, lively patterns, now they only looked like faded graffiti. A shadowy portrait peered down over the mantelpiece. Logs still waited in a neat bundle by the hearth, where black ash was scattered around the gnawed rug in tiny trails.

“Squirrels,” Frey said, following Etienne's eyes. “They'll have the whole room nibbled to floorboards in another year or so. I was going to have a grate put over the fireplace to keep them out, but I haven't found any workmen willing to do it.”

“Ah.” Etienne took a few steps forward, his skirts sweeping a clean spot through the dust. “This is the man himself, I assume?” He tilted his head far back to get a better look at the painting, but in the gloomy room—and under the dirt on the paint varnish—Lord Evern Reichwyn was a yellowed ghost, dark-eyed and fair-haired and elusive, sitting at ease with his hand on the head of a hunting dog at his knee. He was handsome, even in shadows, and wore his shirt open. Etienne could see an echo of Frey there, somewhere in his slightly-arrogant face, a whisper of familiarity beyond just coloring.

“I wanted to put him in the great hall,” Frey said, with a little sigh. “But one of the chambermaids swooned at the very idea of it, so I'll have to wait a bit longer to dine with my uncle, I suppose. I can't really blame the servants. They've all become superstitious. I only hope the painting's not ruined by the time I can have it brought out.”

Etienne took a step backwards to see the painting better, but his skirts bumped into something behind him. “Ah! I didn't even see... oh.” The something was a chair lying on its side, on the floor. Etienne knelt to right it again, and noticed the dust heaped up against the toppled legs. The chair had fallen decades ago, knocked aside from the delicate little table behind it. The matching chair on the other side was scooted a short distance from the table, as though someone had pushed it back to rise, maybe to refill his glass. But it was the table that drew Etienne's attention. Almost invisible under a thin film of dust, there were cards scattered on its surface. They had curled with age and one—the ace of crowns—lay on the floor. One corner had been chewed by a rodent. Frey was on the other side of the table, looking down at the three crowns and seven suns that lay there, just to the side of a grimy crystal glass. A bottle was on the table, empty save for some flakes of brown dirt, and the other cup was overturned, cracked and empty. Its contents had made a darker patch, long ago, on the table and the carpet below.

Etienne stood up without moving the chair from its resting place. “This is it, isn't it?”

“It is,” Frey said, heavily. “Sad, is it not? He even laid out another hand of cards and a glass. I suppose the loneliness of the place in winter must have driven him mad.”

“So you don't believe the Devil sat here, and answered Lord Evern's challenge for an opponent?” Etienne's fingertips hovered over the stack of undealt cards in the middle of the table. They had slipped sideways into a heap.

“Don't mistake me, Elsa. Every Sabbath I've a grateful hymn on my lips for Saint Justicia. But this speaks to me more of madness than of a curse. Though I suppose that's devilry enough, is it not?”

“So why the tales?” Etienne said, moving to the other side of the table and trying not to flinch as his tattoo went to pinpricks again.

“Tobias found Evern in this room the next day. Just like this. The wine for two, the cards laid out so, and Evern out of his wits with his hair gone snow white. Of course it went round to the servants in a flash that Evern was yammering nonsense about the Devil and a curse and payment due, and if someone asked him directly what happened, he would only gesture to the cards. He wandered off into the moors the next night. He's never been seen since. All the servants except for Tobias left Easting right after.”

“How awful,” Etienne said sadly, as Elsa would have. “So the curse—”

“Is a myth, of course.” Frey looked up at him, intently. “I know my cousins had hard luck at Chancelion, but they made their own misfortune. I've been here six years now, and it has been nothing but blessed for me. Surely, if there was a curse, I would have been victim to it? No. I show you this to put your mind at ease, Elsa. It is a sad room, but nothing more. No split-hoof prints burned into the carpet, no eternal ring of fire, no ghosts showing up on the anniversary of the game to replay it again in transparent pantomime. You need have no fear of it.”

“I'm not afraid,” Etienne said, though that did not mean he agreed. If there was no curse, then Etienne would not be standing there, tricked out in green velvet, with murder on his mind. If Evern had not gambled away his soul in that room, then why were there no coins on the card table? Even a madman playing himself would know a bet had to be laid as well as cards.

“I'm glad to see you are as brave as you are intelligent,” Frey said, and smiled at his bride-to-be. “And as lovely.”

Etienne turned away, wishing he’d thought to bring a fan with him to hide behind. “You do me to much honor, sir. I am only too curious for my own good, as my Aunt would say. But I thank you for being so honest about the room. Another man would not even have permitted his bride to see it, for fear of making her hysterical or overwrought or some nonsense.”

Frey's hands tightened on the back of the Devil's chair. “Honest?” he asked, as though to himself. “Hardly. In truth, Elsa, I only agreed to bring you here so that for a moment we could be most assuredly alone, and unobserved.”

Etienne's pulse tripped with warning. What was this, then? Surely Frey was not about to make an attack on his lady's chastity? “Oh?” He forced out a laugh, but it rang as hollow as a specter's in the room. “You choose a strange place for courtship, Frey.”

Frey did not warm to the teasing; if anything, he looked more grim. Etienne wondered for a split second if there was a beast under his veneer, one who would prey on an unsuspecting female, but dismissed the idea at once. If anything, it was Frey who should be worried about his bride's intentions.

“Elsa,” Frey said, and his handsome face twisted a moment with dismay. “I have... there is something I must tell you. Tobias suggested I wait until the wedding night, but that is dishonorable, and no lady deserves to be so willingly misled. I would give you the chance to refuse me. I don't think a sensible lady would reject my suit on such grounds, but you deserve the chance to do so.”

Etienne took a step away. For an assassin it was practical: he wanted some distance, something solid behind him if need be, and room in which to fight. But in his gown and wig and paints, it looked perfectly authentic as trepidation. “What are you talking about?”

Frey pushed himself off the chair, and raked back the hair that was always slipping out of its ribbon. “Elsa. Darling. You know I think this curse business is nonsense, correct? I'm a man of faith, believe me, but I will not be dogged by imaginary devils. Nor would I see you live here in fear, when my only wish is for you to bring warmth to this place... and... and children.” His face was flushed with crimson, and to Etienne it was the only color in the entire room. “For the two of us to give Chancelion life again. I never dreamed of achieving such things when I was a fatherless boy growing up in a tavern, playing cards to earn my mother's bread, without even a home to call my own.” He looked at Etienne in something like desperation. “But the moment I came here I have loved this house from cellar to spire. Yes, even this wretched room. It grieves me to see it so. All I have ever wanted was for fortune to shine on this place once more. And for two years, it has. Never have I been more convinced that there was no curse than I was the moment you accepted me as your future husband. It was the most wonderful day of my life, even more so than the day I was informed of my inheritance.”

Etienne felt his heart sinking, oozing down into his belly like the drowning wick of a tallow candle. Frey continued on, as though his confession was being dragged out of him with an inquisitor's red-hot hooks.

“But there is a reason—a trifling coincidence and one I give no credence to—that you might think such a curse exists. I speak not of Evern's madness, or the foolishness of my late relatives. It is something about me, specifically.”

Etienne wished he could loosen his corset. It felt like he couldn't breathe, and his one consolation was that his anxiety must be convincing. “...What is it?”

Frey looked at him, a long, searching glance, and then he took off his velvet coat. He flung it on the back of the Devil's chair, and sent his waistcoat after it.

“My Lord!” Etienne began, forgetting to call him Frey.

Frey did not answer, but his silk cravat unraveled to the floor like a serpent's ghost, and then, with only the barest moment of hesitation, he pulled his shirt off over his head.

Even the dim light of the room was not kind. Etienne's wrist burst into flames of pain, and he put a hand over his mouth, knowing his noise of horror would not be a woman's cry. From throat to wrists, and shoulder to belly, all over the smooth muscles of Frey's torso, tiny red lines writhed across his skin. They twisted and bent and curled like live insects held above a candle flame, and Etienne's stomach clenched with revulsion at the sight of them. He struggled to hang on to his ruse, and in no small amount, to his sanity as well. Elsa would only be shocked at the marks, surely. She would be aghast, but would think them only lines, blemishes.

But Etienne could read them. He knew the horrors inscribed across Frey's skin, and understood the terrible doom they foretold as they burrowed down Frey's ribcage. Death and chaos had been dragged over Frey's body like corpses behind a charnel wagon, leaving bloody paths behind. The letters screamed with rage inside Etienne's mind, the rage of a demon from the depths as he wrenched at the splintering bars of his cage. Those splinters made those awful letters, scribed in the highest tongue of hell. When Etienne could tear his eyes back to Frey's, he found them shining with grief.

“You refuse, then,” he said softly. “Lady. I do not blame you.”

Etienne gulped past the taste of bile in his mouth. “No!” he gasped, but he looked away and could not bring himself to look back again. “I am not so shallow, Frey. But they—what are they?” It was all Etienne could do to feign ignorance. He was possessed with a wild urge to take a blade to Frey's skin, to peel away the marks as one would a rotten spot on an otherwise perfect and luscious peach.

“Birthmarks, I assume.” Frey answered, subdued. “I've had them my whole life, though when I was a child they were mere mottling. My mother told me I looked as though I had been born flayed, they were so thick on my skin. But as I have aged they have thinned, sharpened. It's my hope that some day they will fade away entirely. But save for my head, my hands, and my feet, no part of me is unmarked by them. I believe them to be mere lines, like the strain of a vein broken beneath the skin, but—-tied to Chancelion as I am, they easily seem to take on a more evil meaning.” Frey had pulled his shirt back on, and though the demonic scribbling was still visible at his neck and wrists, Etienne felt a good deal saner without them shouting their horrific threats at him.

Etienne forced himself away from the side table, tearing his hands away from its marble top. His fingers had left damp, sweaty patches in the dust. “I am your betrothed, am I not? I fail to see how that should change. You do me little honor, Frey, to think such a small thing would sway me.”

The gratitude and adoration in Frey's eyes was heartbreaking, even to so small and shriveled a heart as Etienne's. “When you asked to keep our engagement quiet, out of respect to your aunt's endeavors to find you a suitor on her own, I admit, I was grateful. I knew then you could refuse me without bringing undue shame on yourself.”

Etienne drew himself up straight. “Shame? My shame, Frey, would be to refuse the heart of so worthy a suitor.”

Frey took a step forward, arms outstretched, and Etienne knew he must do the same. If he was to continue his role, then he would have to submit to being kissed, and kissed he was. Earnestly, and as chaste as a blushing milkmaid's dream. Etienne’s thoughts, however, were elsewhere. Frey had the marks, and only that confirmation made Etienne realize how desperately he had hoped otherwise. But it was so. Frey was the Heir, his doom was sealed by Ephaseus' decree, and Etienne was sorry. More sorry than he'd ever been for any blackguard nobleman seeking black powers, or for heartless beauties who cursed the lovers who spurned them. Those he had snuffed without a thought, serene in his duty. But once, just this once, Etienne had been beginning to hope Ephaseus was mistaken.

He should have known better. Ephaseus was never mistaken.

Etienne's duty was clear. Frey must die, and quickly, before the fate inscribed on his flesh could be allowed to manifest. And really, what better place to do that than in the hidden chamber? Frey was the only one with a key to the room, in a distant and unused part of the house. No one had seen them pass this way. Etienne could dispose of Frey here, lock the room, and then Elsa could protest that she had not seen her beloved all day. Who would look for him here? In the chaos it would be easy enough for Elsa to take her leave of Chancelion, for good. With any luck, by the time Frey's body was found, he wouldn't be in a fit state to show how he had met his untimely end. He would be another victim of Chancelion's curse, and would follow Evern into legend.

Etienne leaned harder into Frey's kiss, trying not to think about the state that warm mouth would be in, in a few days’ time. He'd sent enough men to the worms, there was no reason to go getting squeamish about it now. He was doing Frey a mercy, though the man didn't know it. The only question was how best to go about it. Poor bastard, Etienne thought. Probably it was best to be quick and painless, so he wouldn't know what had happened. He could go straight to Saint Justicia's arms with his true love's kiss still on his lips, dreaming of all the sons that would not be born.

Etienne put a hand back to the table, as though to steady himself. The other he tangled up in Frey's hair. To Frey, it must have seemed quite an ardent gesture. Etienne, however, was only looking for the best place to clonk him. Evern's empty wine bottle on the table was dusty and cold against Etienne's other hand, and he grasped it. Sometimes the best weapons were already provided. One blow to the head, and then if Frey was still breathing, the gentle pressure of his lady's hand over his mouth and nose would end that. It was perfect, really. As sweet a setup as Etienne had ever dreamed of. Etienne felt his belly tighten, and he brought the bottle up in an arc that would end at the back of Frey's skull.

Death was an eventuality for everyone, Etienne thought. It was only his job to speed things along.

It was at that moment, just when the murder was shaping up so splendidly, that it happened. Actually, it was several things, happening all at once. The first of them was only a tickle, a little tug on the strap of Etienne's ladylike shoe. It was not worth note until it was followed, alarmingly, by the unmistakable sensation of something large and alive wriggling under lace-edged linen drawers and crawling up Etienne's leg.

It was instinct; it was involuntary. Etienne shrieked and the bottle flew out of his hand before it was even a third of the way through its course. It crashed into the fireplace and exploded; the overturned table scattered cards up into the air. Frey started back with an oath on his lips, still quite alive, and Etienne was forced into a frantic kicking jig, at last flinging a bewildered and very much offended squirrel out of his undergarments. It shot beneath the settee and up the chimney, leaving Etienne swearing at it in words that Lady Elsa should by no means have even known, much less dreamed of using.

Etienne caught himself halfway through a tirade involving fornication, the nine fires of hell, and leeks, and whirled to face Frey. Surely, what with that and murder and misfortune and squirrels for the love of reason, Etienne's mission and his ruse were both lost.

But Frey, honest, guileless Frey, was only hanging off the Devil's chair, laughing until he couldn't breathe. For a moment Etienne hoped he might laugh himself into the grave and spare Etienne the trouble, but there was no such luck.

Actually, there was plenty of luck, and all the wrong sorts.

It was not a pleasant evening for Etienne. Not only did Frey tell the story of the squirrel to Tobias as he served the couple dinner, but Frey was only more enamored of his bride for their adventure, and for her presumed acceptance of him. He spent the meal gazing at Etienne in pure, unashamed adoration, and that evening kissed him again before saying good night: a frustrating experience for Etienne as there was no good opportunity for death in it. At nine thirty, he was left in his garish bedchamber with no company but his own frustration and that hideous cherub.

And then, of course, to top it all off, Etienne had to sneak out in the middle of the night and put the D'Grassa volume back in the library.

#the devil's luck #l.s. baird #indie publishing #queer lit #reblog to save a life #probably Frey's

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krizaland · 5 years

Text

Enter the Zimvoid Chapter 26

First Chapter Previous

Heyo! Chapter 26 is here!

Be warned: There are more spoilers ahead!

The monitor crackled to life to reveal your Zim sitting on the couch with a box of packing peanuts next to him.

It wasn’t long before Your Zim grabbed a packing peanut and popped it into his mouth, causing him to hack and cough for a few seconds.

“He’s the first Zim to choke on one of those styrofoam packing peanut things?” Zib snorted before bursting out into laughter.

“Wait, that’s your thing? Choking on a packing peanut? That’s just stupid.” 2K gave your Zim a confused look.

“Wow and I thought my thing was lame.” Specs muttered as he adjusted his glasses.

“HA! THIS IS WHY BRUTUS IS SUPERIOR! BRUTUS CAN EAT A WHOLE BOX OF THOSE CRUNCHY FOAM THINGYS!” Brutus boasted as he put a hand on his chest.

“Don’t those make you sick?” Palindrome asked.

“NOPE! BRUTUS LIKES THE CRUNCHY FOAM THINGYS!” Brutus confirmed.

“Eh, why am I not surprised?” Palindrome sighed.

Majestzee opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was roaring laughter.

“CEASE YOUR INCESSANT LAUGHTER AT ONCE! So what if I choked on a packing peanut?! I am still the ULTIMATE ZIM! AND YOU SHALL ALL RESPECT MY SUPERIORITY!” Your Zim roared as he threw his arms into the air.

“Never in all my time here have I ever seen a more pathetic thing! This guy truly is the worst Zim I’ve ever seen!” Zib cackled as he wiped away a few tears.

“If my Zim is the worst Zim…Does that make me the worst Dib?” Dib whimpered as he continued to watch the hologram.

“I almost feel bad for this Zim. I mean, what redeeming qualities could a Zim this pathetic possibly have?” Zib smirked as his laughter finally slowed to a stop.

As if on cue, you rushed to Your Zim’s side.

“Oh my god! Zim! Don’t worry! I know what to do!”

And with that you proceeded to give your Zim the Heimlich Maneuver.

POP!

Your Zim managed to cough up the packing peanut.

He let out a sigh of relief as you put him back down.

“Thanks Y/N.”

Zib’s eyes nearly burst through his cracked glasses! Never had he seen such a beautiful Y/N.

“Those soft eyes! That perfect figure! They’re…They’re perfect! They’re the most perfect Y/N I’ve ver seen! Computer! track down this Y/N at once!” Zib commanded as a few globs of drool splattered onto the computer’s monitor.

“SEARCHING FOR THE Y/N….”

WHIRRR

“Y/N LOCATED IN THE ZIMVOID!”

“Wait! What?! The Y/N is here?! I didn’t think they would be able to follow the Irken distress signal. Then again, I guess they probably just wanted to save their precious Zim but still I’m surprised they even managed to get through one of my many Pandora’s Quadrangles. After all, I worked so hard to ensure that no one other than Zims could get here.” Zib rambled as he scratched his head.

“Eh?! That Dib made the portals?!” Your Zim yelped as his eyes widened in shock.

Zib’s rambling became nothing more than muffled mumbles as the gears began to turn deep within your Zim’s mind.

“I understand it all now. All these ridiculous fake Zims…It’s all the other Dib’s fault! He’s perverted the natural order with his disgusting… Dibness. But he can’t fool me! No one can fool me!” Your Zim ranted as a chuckle escaped his throat.

“Shh! Be quiet Foamhead!” Palindrome shushed.

Meanwhile, you were frantically running through hall after hall.

You tried your best to remain unnoticeable but you begun to worry that your pounding footsteps and heavy breathing might give you away.

“I gotta find the dungeon! Think, Y/N! Think! If I were a deranged tyrant, where would I keep my dungeon?” You asked yourself as you continued to wander about.

It wasn’t long before you found your answer.

Standing before you was a large, colorful map of Zib’s castle.

“Oh hey, a map! What luck!” You hummed as you inspected the map, “Let’s see…Dungeon…..Dungeo- There! That looks about right!”

And with that, you trotted off to find your friends!

The rest of the group was on the last few moments of the recording.

“Oh well! I’m not going to question all the details! Looks like I’ll have to put my Dib Virus plan on hold! I’ve got a wedding to plan!” Zib giggled eagerly as more drool dribbled down his shirt.

And just like that, the recording slowed to a stop.

“Huh, well I was expecting something more informative but I guess this works…” Dib muttered as he rubbed the back of his head.

“Yeah, I guess we’re gonna have to make due with what little we’ve got.” Specs added as he adjusted his glasses.

“So what’s the plan?” 2k huffed.

“If only the beautiful Y/N were here. Surely, they would know what to do.” Majestzee sighed as he rested his hand on his cheek.

“Guys! I’m so glad I found you!”

Everyone looked up to find you cheerfully waving at them.

“Y/N! You’re ok!” Specs chirped as he rushed up to greet you.

“Oh beautiful one, I knew you’d come to our rescue!” Majestzee crooned as he clapped his hands.

“Eh?! Y/N?! Is that you?! Is that really-ACK!” Your Zim yelped.

WHOOSH!

Brutus shoved your Zim to the ground as he eagerly ran towards the cell door.

“Y/N!!!!!!!!!!!!”

BASH!!

Brutus was so excited he plowed clean through the bars and scooped you up into his big, burly arms.

“Really?! You could’ve done that the whole time?!” 2k growled as he tugged on his antennas.

“At least Y/N’s safe…” Palindrome sighed as he playfully shook his head.

“YAY! NOW THE WHOLE FAMILY’S HERE!!” GIR squealed as he twirled around a bit.

“Oh, god! I’m so glad you’re all alright.” Tears streamed down your cheeks.

“OF COURSE BRUTUS IS OK, PRETTY Y/N!” Brutus reassured.

“Hey! Y/N it’s ok-” Your Zim began before being cut off.

“What? Don’t tell me you thought that dumb other Dib actually did anything to us! Everyone knows Dibs never succeed in killing Zims!” 2k chuckled as he hopped onto Brutus’s head.

“Excuse me! I wasn’t finished-” Your Zim was cut off yet again.

“Heck, I don’t think there’s anything that could kill a Zim!” Palindrome added with a grin.

“Hello! I’m trying to talk here-” Your Zim grew more and more annoyed by the second.

“Well that’s not entirely true but that’s not the point. The point is, we’re fine, Y/N.” Specs corrected as he activated his spider legs to see you better.

“Is anyone listening to me at all!?” Your Zim snapped as he activated his own spider legs.

“The question we should be asking is: Did other Dib did something to you?” Majestzee added as he squeezed in between Specs and Palindrome.

“EXCUSE ME! I, THE ULTIMATE ZIM, HAVE BEEN TRYING TO TALK TO Y/N FOR QUITE SOMETIME NOW!” Your Zim screeched as he squeezed his way through the crowd.

Majestzee burst into another fit of laughter.

“Yes, yes. I’m a master of comedy! Now can I please speak to Y/N now?!” Your Zim snapped as he put his hands on his hips.

“Oh you can talk to the beautiful Y/N, but I don’t think they’d want anything to do with a Zim who choked on styrofoam!” Majestzee mocked as he wiped away a few tears.

“Majestzee! Don’t be rude! I love my Zim very much thank you!” You countered as you folded your arms.

“I apologize for my disrespectful behavior, beautiful one. I’ve forgotten that your heart is so kind that you love all Zims. Even those who are clearly inferior. That’s one of the many things I love about you. You’re so kind.” Majestzee let out a dreamy sigh.

Your Zim let out a growl as his body shook with rage.

“Are you kidding me?! No Zim is inferior!” You growled as you shot Majestzee a glare.

“I mean he did choke on styrofoam. That’s pretty sad if you ask me.” Palindrome sighed.

“So what if he choked on styrofoam?! That doesn’t make him sad nor pathetic! My Zim is just as awesome as the rest of you!” You chided as you folded your arms.

“Are you sure about that?” 2k whispered as he raised an antenna.

“GRARGH!!!! I’M THE ULTIMATE ZIM! YOU WILL ALL RUE THE DAY YOU’VE INSULTED ME! Except you, Y/N, thank you for sticking up for me. BUT THE REST OF YOU WILL PAY! OH HOW YOU WILL PAY!! Come GIR! Let’s show these fools what the real Zim can do!” Your Zim roared as he stormed off with GIR in tow.

“Zim wait! Come back!”

However, Zim was too upset to hear your pleas. He continued to drag GIR along to begin his rampage.

#Invader zim #Invader zim x reader #Invader Zim comics #Invader Zim dib #Invader Zim spoilers #spoilers #invader zim into the zimvoid

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