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fyeahnevilleslongbottomsocs · 3 years

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YOUR FINGERPRINTS ON MY SKIN, A PAINFUL REMINDER! ⚰️ CAN BE READ ON AO3

❝Catherine Cullen, born out of wedlock to the late Carlisle Cullen and Elspeth Fynch, struggled to live in the village that had ostracized her since birth. At nineteen, her only chance for survival is to sell her body; ironically this is what leads to her mortal demise. Aristide Athanasiou of the Volturi, finds a Blood Singer in the form of Catherine Cullen after intending to kill her, but he spares her. And he spares her over and over again until the painful reminder of her beating fragile heart becomes too much for him to bear.❞

part of PETALS FOR ARMOR a twilight au series of one-shots! please read tags before reading the one-shot!

warnings: mild smut, blood kink ( ??? im not sure about this but just in case ), prostitution, possessive behaviour

pairing(s): OC/OC | Carlisle Cullen/OC ( past relationship )

characters: catherine cullen ( oc ) | aristide athanasiou ( oc ) | aro ( mentioned ) | carlisle cullen ( mentioned ) | elspeth fynch ( oc )

click on ‘keep reading’ if you prefer to read this one-shot on here instead of on ao3!

RED EYES BURN into her pale freckled skin, they belong to a young man of the name Aristide. Catherine Cullen doesn't have to turn around to know it's him, he's the only one who ever looks at her. Her freckled skin and long messy, matted strawberry-blonde hair made her less than attractive compared to the other women in the area, and, of course, there was the fact she was a bastard child. None of the local men wanted her and the village scarcely brought in travelers. Catherine loosens the buttons on her late husband's old white blouse, exposing her the chest before turning around. The young woman nearly gasps when she sees that Aristide is standing right behind her. She had expected him to be across the street, where he normally waited, every night that she came to these parts for the past month and a half. If she thought about it, she would reckon that it was unusual, scarcely any traveler stayed this long but he paid her well so who was Catherine to complain.

She clutches her chest inhaling sharply. Before she can scold him for startling her, Aristide reaches up in a swift movement and brushes over her bruised cheek "My sweet singer, what harm as befallen thy cheek," He questions her in honey-coated voice, his fingers are freezing against her skin but it feels good against her throbbing cheek. Sometimes Catherine thinks that Aristide feels to cold to be truly alive. He was a strange young man, the strangest she had ever encountered.

"It is nothing, Aristide, merely Pastor Cullen," Catherine says, "He does detest me so, and with his old age —"

"You should forbear attending —"

"You know that I cannot do that, Aristide," Catherine says fiercely, more fiercely than she intends to. The last thing she needs to do is scare of the only paying customer she has but that place meant so much to her mother. Even though Pastor Cullen had always treated her and her mother terribly, her mother, Elspeth Fynch, had insisted that they go as often as they could. Her mother had said that the place was very important to her late father, Carlisle Cullen.

"He is old, Aristide. I have heard gossip that he is appointing a new pastor soon."

"Has thou? I am sure it shall be his son, that cannot be much better," Aristide says, sarcasm dripping from his tone and he's met with a solemn look.

"Afraid not, his son went missing nearly twenty years ago," Catherine says quietly, "On one of those vampire hunts, his father planned . . . No one knows what happened to him, we do not talk about it but I have heard many good things about the man."

Her mother had talked highly of him, Carlisle this and Carlisle that, was what had filled Catherine's childhood. Her father was all her mother talked about, his death had left a hole in Elspeth's chest and if he had not died than nobody would have known that Catherine was born out of wedlock and she wouldn't be facing the poverty that she is now. And perhaps her mother would not have perished so brutally upon that pyre all those years ago. Talking about Carlisle Cullen now did nothing but leave a bitter taste in Catherine's mouth.

Aristide frowns, he wonders if it's possible that the missing man had found real vampires and if he did that would mean, he's still around somewhere. Aristide had not sensed any in the area but there are plenty of sewers that they can hide in here. He pulls Catherine closer, she was his and his alone. Aristide had been passing through London when he seen her wandering the streets late at night, in need of money for medicine. In fact, Aristide had not met a single supernatural creature in this town, not even a witch and they were almost everywhere. Although just because he had not sensed another vampire around, it doesn't mean they weren't there, they could have easily found a mundane scent to cover theirs up, the son she spoke of could still be around, hidden in the shadows, it would make sense as to why his father had survived so long without a single uprising to his medieval ways. This son could be hidden somewhere, anywhere in this village which means Aristide would have to keep a closer watch on Catherine.

He had not meant to grow so attached to Catherine, he usually killed his blood-singers hours after encountering them but for some odd reason he found himself besotted with Catherine. Aristide had know her for a month or so by now. It started on a night quite like this and her alluring scent sang to him, her scent was much better than her appearance, she had been near this exact spot looking for anyone willing to pay her for sexual favours. He had given her the money in exchange for her to come back to his home where she believed that they would have sex but he had other plans. Catherine was supposed to be his dinner that night but as soon as the door closed behind her and he moved to pounce, she kissed him hard against his open mouth. The very same mouth that had been seconds away tearing through her jugular and draining her of her life. After that Aristide couldn't bring himself to kill her, he let her kiss him hard over and over, pressing hot and wet kisses on his mouth and down to his neck. It ignited a feeling in him he hadn't felt in centuries and he knew he had to keep her around, for the past month he's been coming to this dump of town just to see her night after night. Some nights, she wasn't there because she had made enough money to pay for the medicine of the little girl that lived near her. Aristide doesn't understand why she bothers to work so hard for someone that isn't herself but he's grown to adore it because that means she has to be here to do it.

Catherine presses a clammy hand to his face "Aristide, are you alright? You have grown tense . . . Have I done something to upset you?"

"No, my sweet singer, I am cold, it has naught to try with you." Aristide says, pressing a kiss to her forehead with causes her to shiver.

"Indeed, you are freezing . . . Shall we go back to your place and warm ourselves up," Catherine offers, pushing herself against Aristide's cold body. She looks up at him through her pale lashes, his red gaze is hot, it feels as though it's burning straight through to her wicked soul.

"That sounds enchanting, ma chérie," Aristide says smoothly, whispering in her ear. And off they go, arm in arm to Aristide's 'place' hardly a block away.

Unlike the last few times, Catherine does not throw herself on him immediately after the door closes behind her and as much as he'd love to see her naked body writhing with pleasure and bathed in the candle light, he assumes she's grown fond of him; she must trust him now. He licks his lower lip, it was naïve of her to trust him but something about the thought of earning her misplaced trust excited him.

He lights the candles and she sits down on his bed, technically not his bed but the person who owned it before he killed them, but Catherine doesn't need to know that. He smiles at her and she smiles back at him albeit a bit hesitantly, her heart speeds up and he wonders why — could it be she possibly fancies him?

Catherine's desperate, desperate enough to give her body time and time again to a man she's quite certain is the devil. He has red eyes and he's perfectly perfect and oh so tempting. There is no way that Aristide is human but she never dwells on it for long, she needs the money. Agatha is sick and her parents are even sicker, Agatha relies on her, Catherine couldn't let her down and she doesn't care if she's sinning or not.

He stalks towards her slowly and comes to a stop between her legs, he lifts her head up with a finger and leans down to kiss her, slowly but passionately. Her heart skips a beat as she kisses him back, she reaches up and wraps her arms around his neck, he snakes his arms around her waist. Aristide starts trailing kisses down her mouth to her neck, allowing her to catch her breath as he didn't need to stop to do that. He kisses her neck, finding her pulse-point with ease, he kisses the spot again and again, then he gently drags his teeth against her skin which elicits a quiet moan from her. So unaware how close she is to death, he pulls away to study her, her eyes are closed and her pink lips are swollen. Freckles coat her face as well as her exposed shoulders, Aristide is sure that every inch of her is covered in freckles, making her look like a constellation in the sky.

Catherine lies down on the bed, she smiles up Aristide as she slowly begins to untie her dress, he reciprocates her smile as he begins to unbutton his petticoat. By time he's pulled his blouse of, she's untied her outer-layer corset, she shivers again and he wonder if his home is really that cold. He, of course, wouldn't truly notice.

"It is cold in here," Catherine whispers, her pale face flushed, as her thin fingers begin to remove her blouse, Aristide can see that they're trembling and he frowns. He had forgotten how sensitive humans were to temperatures.

"Keep it on, my sweet singer, you will be warmer that way," Aristide says, and it will be easier for her to leave quickly in case something goes wrong. He unbuckles his trousers, Catherine hums in response abandoning her attempt to undress herself and instead busies herself with watching him, she takes in his too perfect features, his long black curls which were pulled back with a thin white lace. His pale skin seems to glimmer in the light of the candles, he was heavenly-looking, almost god like. But every moment with him felt like a sin.

Once Aristide has kicked off his trousers, he crawls over her and listens to her heartbeat race. He settles himself between her legs and pushes her long skirt down to her waist to expose her thin and freckled legs. They're covered in bruises especially her thighs, and they're all from him, as gentle as he tries to be with her he always leaves evidence of his strength. He tugs off her undergarments, his calloused fingertips brushing against her inner most thighs as he does so.

She hisses at the harsh coolness but arches her hips towards him nevertheless, He smirks at her and says "Eager are we now, ma chérie?"

Catherine nods her head, whimpering. Playing it up because she just wanted to get this over with, she doesn't hate it and she quite enjoys their time together but she wishes he would be quicker. She just needed the money, Agatha is relying on her. If they got this done with quicker, she could probably get home in time to make some soup for Agatha and her parents. Aristide was the only good man she had ever been with, outside of her marriage, but this was never about good, this was about survival for not only herself but those she cared about. It was nothing more than that.

He chuckles, grabbing her legs and pulling her close. Their hips meet and Catherine shivers violently at the feeling of his freezing body pressed against her already cold one, Aristide hushes her, stroking her cheek in a gentle manner as he tells her to sit up. Catherine does as he asks, they're so close their bodies were practically one. Although she, herself, felt cold, to him she felt like a raging fire against his own cold, undead skin.

His finger traces her lips before pulling her into a bruising kiss, she hisses against his lips but the hiss turns into a pained moan as he thrusts into her. He's careful as he can be, she's a delicate flower compared to him and he could easily kill her this way. He pulls away from her, muttering "You're beautiful," against her bruised cheek. How he longs to taste her blood, her skin itself was surprisingly sweet and he's sure that her blood is even sweeter.

"Thank you, sir," She mumbles, bucking her hips into his. Quiet pants and moans escape her chapped, swollen lips. She grips her skirt tightly, her eyes screwed shut and Aristide watches her every expression with keen interest from the smallest twitch of her eyebrows to more noticeable action of her mouth falling open as louder moans fall from her lips. He's learned to let her do most of the moving because it results in less bruising, at first he didn't care but as their intimate encounters grew closer together, he had grown fond of her and her safety.

He gently moves his hands so they're entangled in her hair, he pulls on her matted locks slightly. Her strawberry-blonde hair appears almost golden in the glow of the candles. If she had the ability to take care of herself, she would have been breathtaking. Catherine, in Aristide's opinion was unique for a mortal. He could give her the power to be so much more than that, he had thought about it for an agonising amount of time. But, Aristide had never turned someone before, it was usually Aro who did that and Aristide had went alone this time around.

Her heart pounds loudly, mocking him and his cowardice. He was afraid to turn her, he could kill her instead and for the first time in his immortal life, Aristide did not want to kill. He thought about bringing her to Volterra but he thought it unlikely that Aro would turn her, Catherine appeared to be lacking a gift, in other words, useless to Aro. But, she meant everything to Aristide.

His name is whimpered, as he tugs a little harder on her hair, Catherine's hips press into his. Momentum is growing, a feeling akin to being alive grows inside him, Aristide moans lowly. He swallows the venom pooling his mouth and presses his lips to her shoulder, over and over and over, slowly moving up to her jawline.

After a few minutes, her moans get louder and her legs start to shake but Catherine does not cum. Typically the mortal doesn't last this long but Aristide had taken it slower tonight, mostly lost in his thoughts. But now, it was getting harder for him to ignore his bloodlust, he trusts into her hoping that it would be enough to push her over the edge but it's not. All he earns in a loud, pained moan and then she bites down on her lip hard and draws blood which is enough to send him spiraling over the edge. He inhales sharply as he does his best to restrain himself, he grips her skirt so tight that it tears. Aristide doesn't want to kill her, she's too precious, too good to be killed no matter how good her blood smells.

He pulls away from her, stumbling backwards and he hears her whine quietly as she sits up. She goes to ask for her pay but she falls short upon seeing the ravenous look on his face, her grin turns into an uneasy frown "Aristide, are you alright, have I done something wrong?"

"Get out," He hisses, he wants nothing more to tear her apart, he wants to completely destroy her just for a drop of her precious blood, "Get out now!"

Catherine scrambles out of his bed, looking terrified out of her wits as apologies profusely fall from her lips, she tries to move closer to him but he throws the first thing he can grab — a pot — in her direction and he screams "GET OUT!"

For a moment, Aristide expects her to flee, he hopes that she will but Catherine surprises him and she stays. Stupid, foolish girl.

Her eyes, blue as Aristide remembers the Mediterranean Sea to be, are wide with fear. Her bloodied lower lip is quivering but she stands motionless and determined. And although, Aristide would never raise a hand to her, he understands why the pastor raises his hand to her; she doesn't seem to obey what she's been told to do.

"The money," Catherine says, trying and failing to keep her meek voice steady, "I did what you wanted me to do, if you're done I would like my pay."

A thin line of blood trickle down her lip and onto her chin, his red eyes zero in on it. Catherine's words become lost to him, her pounding heart is all that Aristide can hear and he can no longer control himself. He lunges, she screams.

He takes her out easily, his teeth tear into her jugular with ease, her scream becomes muffled by the blood filling her mouth, some of it splatters against Aristide's pale cheeks. It tastes much better than he ever imagined, Catherine was not the first Blood Singer he had encountered the many centuries he had been alive but she was by far his favourite.

Her hand slams against his chest in a feeble attempt to fight him off but all she gains is a broken wrist. The snapping of her bones brings Aristide back to reality, he remembers that he doesn't want to kill her and with great difficulty he pulls himself away from her. Catherine screams meekly, her voice hoarse already, blood pools out of her mouth as she rolls onto her side and curls into herself. Her small frame trembles violently with every sound, the venom spreads through her veins like a forest fire, she has no idea what's happening.

Aristide watches with keen interest, he had seen Aro turn lots of people but it seems different now, a whole new experience for his old soul. Every tremble and every scream from her excites him.

"Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop," Catherine screams over and over, she grits her teeth together after every word, eyes squeezing shut as she hugs herself around her middle, writhing violently on the wood floor, her words fade from harsh and hoarse screams to a soundless chant.

Aristide reaches out, brushing her hair out of her face, she looks at him with complete and utter betrayal, she whispers a plea for him to put her out of her misery. He doesn't, his bright red eyes zero in on the bite he left on her neck. It was not as clean as Aro's and it would leave a nasty scar, Aristide thinks that it will look much better than the bruises of his fingerprints ever did on her. His bloodied lips pull into a satisfied smirk, she was his forever now.

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writingfromkitchenator · 4 years

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Crowley ~ Pour Some Sugar on Me

800 Followers Challenge!

Requested by @sheppardaddicts

Based on Pour Some Sugar on Me by Def Leppard

Words: 1,555

Warnings: Typical violence, bit of blood, sexual tension. 18+ only for safety.

The shotgun blast was loud, making Crowley ears ring and both Sam and Dean flinch, but it was accurate, sending the demon flying across the room, the three men looking around to see who had fired the shot.

“Heads up.” You said casually, nodding as the demon was getting back to his feet.

Sam and Dean quickly took it down, but Crowley’s gaze never left you as you rested the shotgun on your shoulder, the barrel smoking. It certainly was an impressive sight against the black jeans and leather jacket, hair pulled away from your face, a casual grace about you that you knew what you were doing.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean asked, wiping sweat from his brow, sending a distrustful glare your way.

“Well, certainly not from Hell, but pretty close to it these days.” Your English accent made the three of them share a quick look, even as you waved your other hand. “No need to worry about that lads, we’re on the same side.”

“Uh huh,” Dean keeps a firm grip on his gun. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you sweetheart.”

The smirk you wore instantly proved to Crowley that you didn’t care what Sam and Dean thought in the slightest. “The name’s Y/N, Dean Winchester, and I wouldn’t be so quick to judge, I’m a hunter just like you and your brother, and by the looks of it, you need my help.”

“I didn’t think there were any British Hunters?” Sam asked, frowning at you. “I thought the Men of Letters didn’t allow for them.”

You chuckled. “Oh, they try, trust me, but there’s a few of us, we don’t enjoy being told what to do see, and so when they sent their best agent here,” You shrug. “It was natural that one of us followed. Can’t have them trying to wipe us all out now, can we?”

It was clear Sam and Dean weren’t going to trust you easily, even less so when you started getting along well with Crowley.

“If you know what he is,” Dean asked, perhaps a little harshly as the four of you sat sharing a drink, waiting for Castiel. “Why are you treating him so normally?”

“Come on Dean,” You said, smiling at him, completely unfazed by the distrust. “All of us here know that things aren’t black and white in hunting. By the looks of it you guys have been working together for a while now, so who’s really treating who normally?”

Crowley chuckles at Dean’s sour look, earning the furious glare of the hunter. “She has a point squirrel.”

“Demon’s are usually the good ones anyway,” You said, smirking over the top you glass as you take a sip. “Angels are just…boring.”

Sam spat his own drink back into his cup, Dean just looking at you with what looked like a very painfully blank expression.

Crowley hides his own smirk behind his glass, catching your eye for but a moment, but it was more than enough to convey a message.

Things quietened down when Castiel got there and talk turned to more serious discussions. As it turned out, you were well aware of what was happening with Lucifer and the British Men of Letters. How you knew, you wouldn’t elaborate on, but you were confident in your abilities to help them without getting anyone else involved.

So, a little reluctantly, you joined in the small crew, offering a surprising amount of knowledge to the situation and insight to the British Men of Letters.

But only Crowley ever dared asked where that knowledge came from.

“I used to be one,” You said with a shrug, as if it was no big deal. “But when they treat you like fodder and don't like someone that performs above their pay grade, in amongst all the stuffy systems, I didn't see that there was much choice.” You pulled the collar of your shirt down. “Let's just say that faking your death isn't much fun either, but it's the only effective way of getting out without actually being dead.”

“Well, you could have made a deal.” Crowley said lightly, making you laugh.

“Yes, because there's so many demons around in England.” You shake your head. “Even if there was, any demon worth it's salt would've known that that was a death sentence too.”

It frustrated the Winchester's and Castiel that you and Crowley got along so well, it certainly didn't help with the trust side of things, but they knew that there was little they could do about it, you were your own hunter, in and out of the bunker as you pleased, taking cases and hunting down further information that was needed to further a potential plan.

The timing of the plan ended up not working in your favour, all of you finding yourselves a little worse for wear afterwards and you storming off, not wanting to face the blame that was being thrown your way.

Crowley was the only one to come after you.

“You know, if it was anyone else, they’d be at the end of my gun right now,” You growled as you stepped out of the bathroom in naught but a towel, finding Crowley seated at the small table in the motel, a drink in hand. “You’re lucky I like you.”

He gives a slightly amused snort, seemingly unconcerned about his own injuries. “Well, someone had to make sure that your injuries weren’t too bad.”

Shaking your head, you walk over and take the drink from his hand, taking a sip. “Trust me, even against an archangel, I’m harder than that to kill.”

“So I’m seeing,” Crowley said, amused as you handed him the drink back. “You really are a wonder love.”

There was no missing the smirk on your lips as you stepped away, heading back to the bathroom for a moment. “You going soft on me Crowley?”

“I’d hope not.”

You chuckle, reappearing with a washcloth in hand. “I’m surprised you didn’t at least clean up before you came and saw me, snap your fingers and all that.”

Crowley takes a drink, his eyes not leaving you. “Why? It’s much more entertaining having someone do it for me.”

“Really?” You asked, standing before him, the cloth in hand, eyebrow raised. “And what exactly gave you that impression Crowley?”

He snorts. “Are you really going to try and dance around this love? After all we’ve been through?”

A smile tugged at your lips. “Aww, do you need some stress relief?”

“Says the one who’s been walking around in a towel.” He offers his drink to you, watching as you drain the rest of the glass. “And who’s not complaining against a drink.”

Chuckling, you lean over him to place the glass on the table before straddling his waist, his hands resting on your hips as he shares your smile. “I’m a Hunter, I enjoy a drink or two, as for the towel, I just enjoy some freedom for a while, this is actually me being modest, normally I’m bare.”

His fingers trail under the edge of the towel, slowly brushing along your skin. “Well, that can easily be arranged.”

Smiling, you carefully begin to clean the blood from his face. “Funny, I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested in humans too much.”

Crowley’s look was slightly indignant, his tone laced with sarcasm. “I’ve never seen a human this close before. Whatever shall I do?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

The cloth flew from your hand and Crowley’s hand wrapped around the back of your neck, pulling you down to him, his lips hungrily claiming yours and you quickly sank into him with a small moan, letting him dominate the kiss.

Slowly, the kiss turned lazy, exploring, any urgency fading as you both silently came to the conclusion that this shouldn’t be rushed. Yours hands ran over his chest, slipping under his jacket and pushing it off, letting the towel slip off in the process, Crowley humming in appreciation.

You sighed as he hands began to explore and a soft laugh leaves you as you break away from the kiss for a moment, nuzzling into his neck. “Never took you as a patient man.”

He growled as you nipped his throat and then you found yourself landing hard on the bed, giggling as Crowley pinned your hands above your head, his lips hovering just above yours. “I thought you’d know not to tease a demon.”

“Why?” You asked innocently. “Teasing gets me exactly what I want.”

There was a dark flash through his eyes, and you had no time before his mouth was back on yours, hot, hard and dominating, the smirk that had been on your lips quickly being lost to a heady moan, Crowley growling in response, his hand freeing yours and starting to explore.

You tried to move your hands but found them still pinned the bed, feeling Crowley smirk against your lips, sending a thrill of heat through you, your heart rate soaring and anticipation pounding through your blood.

This was what you wanted.

You were Crowley’s tonight, no consequences, no thoughts of a new plan, just the result of insinuations and teasing since you’d met and perhaps a silent promise of it being more than a one night thing.

#supernatural #crowley #crowley x reader #short #drabbles #800 followers challenge

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thomasstalsworth · 4 years

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Too Old ... Johnny Boy’s Bones

[ Prior Chapter ]

Captain Florence was a stone, stoic, stalwart and able man.

He wore grey hair with easy features. The sort of unwrinkled face that a man of his age could only acquire through studious effort at not smiling, frowning, or otherwise revealing his innards. There was no emotion about him at any time, even when pressed. The worst of weather he ever wore was on the cuff of his jacket. A ring of sweat when times were at their worst, and a clean slate of white cloth for the rest.

There was a reason -- many reasons, in truth -- why Thomas trust him so well. Old friendship was powerful, but all the moreso was demonstrable history, trust and action. Florence was a man of action and not word, that much could be seen even by the stranger. And so Thomas asked the greatest of efforts needed to the man, allows constituting such things as an offer. The two men knew each other well, but even as his Admiral now -- a feat of strength so far beyond the measure and imagination of their younger minds -- Tom never ordered Florence. He offered, and requested what needed done.

And Florence always, without fail, did what needed to be done.

And so it was that Florence stood at the helm of a thin-strop vessel, a bare creature of wood and tar and two masts that was heavy enough to ferry himself and a trusted crew to Freeman’s Bones. A neutral, freebooter’s harbour and mooring some unfettered stretch of horizon South of Freehold herself. Yet where Freehold was a den to pirate, villainy and the dealings of men’s unsavory hearts -- Freeman’s Bones were just that.

A scattered mass of scaffolding, dockways, mooring posts and stray driftwood to form a bulwark against the rest of the world. A place for men and women of the ocean to take ease a spell before they were off again. A place where you were still free, even if your feet were on land.

‘Land’.

Freeman’s Bones was barely such a thing. The wandering, rickety nature of it was all built upon the same, single spit of rock and reef. What had begun as a single dock and a bare-rattle pub with just enough grog for a man to drown in if he kept both nostrils pressed to the floorboards had become a thriving, seaside piece and trade. A freewater depth for the wanderer’s anchor.

And the current dwelling of Roderick Allhouse and Belly-Ann Hurstvale. The two freebooters, accomplished anglers, well-water privateers and occasional buskers that Thomas had asked Florence to find. Seek them out, inform them of the Admiral’s need and plan, and bring them back to Stormholme under a grey sail. Simple.

Thomas’ requests were never simple.

All hands at harbour, all hands on deck or below. Florence tread the half-scoured wooden walkways of the Bones alone. Nary a soul joined him, and with good enough cause. The most of them were green to boot, young men and women who were only of knowledge for that Florence had a pleasure’s call to the isle and her piecemeal wooden skeleton. The better and beastly and trusted of Stormholme’s harbour lay with Thomas. There was work to be done.

And Florence had his part to play. The man was not known for parting before his due was done.

Straight on the lace and burdened with principle, ethic and the equanimity of a Stormsong stream in midsummer, Florence walked through the vibrant pathways of the Bones. So many ragged, half-heart folk passed him by in all direction. An unhurried sort of congestion, ‘roads’ stacked atop each other and swollen high and wide with men and women.

Free men and women.

It was a ten-start of minutes at most before Florence found himself, prim and bucked up in the spine looking far, far apart from the generous masses, standing within the belly of the Bones. That rattle-skin pub that was the first building nailed to reef and pinioned to stand against the rock of the sea below.

‘Coccyx’.

The humor was not lost on Florence, and perhaps in the privacy of his own cabin quarter, with the curtains drawn and a disc of music playing from the gnomecorder, he might have allowed himself a single puff of air from the nostril -- to laugh. As close as he ever was to laugh.

The pub was wide, and squat. No ceiling laid higher than a man could reach up to touch. It felt so much like the hold of a vessel, all run up with the sweat, bluster and cry of sailing creatures that it jarred Florence. He was a perceptive man, though, and shucked off the peculiarity of the Bones to lay his mind to work.

Roderick Allhouse and Belly-Ann Hurstvale.

The former was a sprite of a lad who wore a fashionable face; in appearance he was many years younger than the hourglass would call to. Boyish face and skin so scuttled and soured with ink that his pale flesh was barely visible. They said he could no longer grow hair on account of it. Sailor’s ink dragged into his flesh so many times with whalebone pen that no hair could grow -- only gills and scales.

The latter was a woman of curve and compass, covered as often as she was not. More mindful and heartfelt than any combination of sea captains from the Bones all the way South to the edge of the charter, and back again until you hit the Frozen Sea. She was keen and observant, not unlike Florence himself. But she saw beyond what presence that a man’s eye could conjure.

To find a single soul of affect in the belly of the Bones was a task beyond most creatures. Even those with the powers of prestidigitation or prescience, divination or else wise. Florence had none of that. He was but a man with good cording and a sound mind, a penchant to dress in anticipation of the weather and the ability to inflict a potent right-hook.

He also knew what liquor that the latter and the former of his notion of task drank.

Somewhere, in the far corner that resembled a ‘stage’ cut into the pub’s depths, a lilting of music managed to buoy itself over the craig and call of the patrons. A few lads were having a go with a beaten string-body and a horse-hair bow, a few guitars, and a wooden drum, singing:

“Forty-five in the fox holes And of this I will boast Don't they look fine and handsome My poor Johnny-boy's bones … “

The song carried on, and the next -- and the next.

It took a few hours, but eventually after the fourteenth or fifteenth round that Florence’s purse bought for those in earshot of the pub’s counter top -- which was not far, as it stood, considering the roar of noise in the drink home -- the man and woman of his task slid through the crowd. Whether they had been there the entire time or only came about after getting word -- slowly, through the throng and sweat of sailors -- that free drinks were rolling like tidewater, Florence could not know.

“Two in the air, Bonny!” A male voice called, spirited in the way that young men usually were when they had an amiable lass on their arm and a desire to look the peacock.

“Gush it a’three, love -- thanks.” A female voice called crow to reply. Lilting moreso, but hazy in the throat in such way that constant smoke-fall down the gullet gave.

It was not useful to try to hide. Florence looked as much a member of the shifting, pierced and tattooed, sunk-heel and red-sashed, belly-raised and ‘member’-forward, cutlass-keen and pistol-first crowd as a husk of corn looked fitting in a Duchess’ garden.

He let Roderick and Belly-Ann take up their drinks before he spoke. The liquor was a revolting substance, in truth. But some peoples of the edges of the common folk took good favor to it. If the goal was to be inebriated, invigorated, and given better cause for a ‘second sight’ through the caustic waves of the open sea -- Bonemarrow was the way forward. Florence liked to think it was rum, but in truth no one but the settled souls of Freeman’s Bones knew just what in the good Godly damn was in the kegs that made it run so thick and black, like blackstrap syrup forged with intention to make children in hammocks by the groggy seaside.

-- Thoughts unimportant.

“Let us get a few down beforehand, aye?”

Florence spoke first, standing proddled and proper at the edge of the bar. In a space of pub so shoulder-to-briny-shoulder, it was quite odd how no one was willing to gather near him. Despite the way he spilled coin after shiny coin to pay off the rounds that were poured. Only greetings and raised ‘cheers!’ came his way. So when he spoke, it was noted. Roderick and Belly-Ann both looked to him, appraising each other, then reasserting their gaze.

“Better to know the after-hand first, cuff. Let’s a man know how many to get down first.”

Roderick replied with a simmering sarcasm. His tone was not any surprise. Tom had said he would be the worse of the two of them to net and drag. Liquor helped that, though -- and Roderick drained his marrow quickly from the glass, tapping an obscenely jeweled set of fingers against the vessel to demand more.

Belly-Ann had a covering over her head, some thin-spun silk sort of thing that would not have looked amiss among the caravans of itinerant merchants that often criss-crossed Wrynn lands. She did not say anything as she dragged her lips over her own pour of marrow.

“The after-hand is all gold, friend -- and Big Iron.”

The old name sprung memory back to both Belly-Ann and Roderick when Florence spoke. Few recalled Thomas’ old subtitles. Only those with more sands in the hourglass down with gravity’s flow than naught might have been possessed to know. By the sudden pause and quirk of pierced brow and ink-heavy lip, Belly-Ann and Roderick were counted in such crew.

“He wants you to come hear what he has to say. There is work to do, and a powerful need for capable souls.”

Despite Florence’s prim and structured state and tone -- the relevance and severity was cast in his voice. Even through the haze and smoke of pipe and pouch in the briny pub, his eyes cut through. His words were only buoyed by the marble cast he gave. A contrast, surely, as he was all pressed uniform and stiff collar, shaven face and unlacquered skin. -- But an understanding passed among the scream and huff and heft and lift of the crowd.

“.. I’ve an eye on the lass fifteen paces behind your stick-heel starfish. After I’ve gotten my fill, and if this marrow keeps flowing free to sole, then we’ll consider thumbing tooth with Big.”

Belly-Ann spoke first, and she spoke for both herself and Roderick. Keen and mouthy and saddled with fisticuffs, thin-man’s strength and scrawny draw as he was -- Belly was the mind between the pair. That was clear enough. Roderick nodded in obeyment, trying to eye out the lass that Belly spoke of.

Florence nod once, keeping an eye to them both. After enough of a spelling of seconds to be assured of their validity, he set his coin purse -- full and swollen -- onto the bar top. With a glance to the barman, who looked confused, but quite happy to take the coin and let the rounds keep rolling along, Florence turned and left the pub.

Thomas had said that if he managed to find them and get their mind for it, attention drawn and not quite quartered -- at worst halved -- then they’d know where to find his mooring.

And so Florence returned to his green-galley-gill crew and tried to act like he had just spent the last few hours having a go of his nethers, as had been the implication of the surreptitious voyage, rather than standing around the Coccyx and enduring the smell of spittle, beer and sour rum for hours, waiting.

And Florence waited more, sat upon a beaten old chair on the deck, by the gangway, until late -- late -- into the night, Belly-Ann and Roderick came aboard.

Cussing and ravaging and posturing died quicker than the good Captain could have thought. Florence need only tell them the most intimate of detail and none of the grandeur to gain their fallen faces -- both Roderick and Belly-Ann -- and their nod of trust. The man at the end of Thomas’ harpoon-aim had hurt his child. The man had hurt his child. Far apart as old friends could be in life, some things demanded loyalty no matter what. -- They would join Thomas’ crew and help round up the disparate old friends -- and some enemies -- that he would need to conjure up a real chance at taking down the Red Lord.

With Roderick and Belly-Ann on board, Florence called to weigh anchor and sail -- back to Stormholme. Their last port of harbour before the hunt was on.

#Canon #Too Old

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smolbeandrabbles · 5 years

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Selfish Pt.2 - Sheriff of Nottingham x Reader (Robin Hood 2018)

Part 1

Authors Note: Promise we’ll go back to the beginning after THIS one. This is fairly important though, don’t you think? I’m not sure how much she’d get away with... But I honestly don’t care. She’s a badass and she can say whatever the hell she wants! First hint of what I’m calling him here. With her ‘Wil...!’ that is actually Historically “accurate” information!! One L because there’s enough of them in Robin Hood as it is!

ALSO - I thought you guys loved Sorrento, but, the NOTES for Pt.1 of this!? You honestly all blow me away sometimes...!! 😊

My entire playlist for the Sheriff is songs with religious significance or subtext... And I don’t know if that’s how my brain is working or I’m trying to tell myself something...?

Disclaimer: Owning my OC/Reader character only! I’ve never had a kid, so that’s all my imagination...

Premise: In an effort to keep both the Church and the Hood at bay, stress finally hit her - HARD.

Word Count: 4013

Warnings: child-birth (I might have overdone it slightly. I’m sorry!!) Third Person Reader Insert

I walked the line Until the line was just a blur And love was out of reach, And faith was just a word

Oh, I've been searching, I've been praying I've been hurt, and I've been patient I've been lost and found again Waiting for my Amen Looking at you now I believe Someone up there is looking out for me And I know how my prayer ends Baby, you're my Amen

---

It was the following morning when he got the inevitable call to explain himself to the Cardinal and the church. She wasn’t having it. “You’re not going.” “And what am I to do instead?” “Stay here where you’re safe. I’ll go.” She knew if she let him go to the Church they would likely strip him of office. Maybe they’d even try to finish what Robin started. The church can make or break a man… “You most certainly will NOT.” “I’ll take Marcus… Alden… My brother… Are they honestly going to try to harm two Norsemen?!” “…Take Guy and I’ll consider it.” She folded her arms and sighed; “Fine.” He seemed surprised, because he thought that was about the only thing she would never agree to, “But you stay here until I get back.” He opened his mouth, but the look in those hazel eyes of hers daring him to say something smart made him close it again. Maybe just this once he wouldn’t keep her here… “Tell me that sword is just for show?” “They wish.” “Y/N…” Even her brother was looking to rebuke her today “Askel – if I need it so be it.” “In a Church no less…” He looked towards the towering structure in the distance “Amen…” His mocking sarcasm was telling. She had accepted the Church because she had to. Her brother most of the time refused to set foot in it. And he wasn’t particularly happy that she seemed to forsake their Gods for this one… She was caught between two worlds, but she made sure to keep balance between the two. Askel wasn’t the only one who thought it was nonsense to do both. Marcus and Alden, about the only English men beyond her own man she trusted, stood a little way off. Listening, but understanding nothing. Only Tuck and the Sheriff had ever bothered to learn it; Tuck as a man of many talents and her lover because he wanted something that would be theirs – and seen as there was only one of them left… “How is he?” Marcus and Alden flanked her as they walked. Askel a few steps behind; he didn’t trust Guy either – which put Guy a few paces behind him. She rolled her eyes “He’s… Him.” They were both eyeing her sword; obviously as worried as her brother that she’d be drawing it. In truth, she also wanted to feel safe, like she wasn’t the defenceless pregnant woman she FELT she was right now. Her comment only made Marcus smile; he was used to every gripe she had with England, with Nottingham, with the Sheriff. He was her second in command, but also her best friend. Over these past 8 months, however, the complaints had only become more intense and to him, more hilarious. She used to do this daily; patrolling the streets of Nottingham with him, or with Eyhamel – her war horse. But for at least 7 of the 8 months there was a distinct radius she was allowed to walk in and never unguarded, and certainly, never in charge of security. She was itching to get back to it, of course, which is why she was about to walk into this. “Where is the Sheriff?” It was the archdeacon the five of them came face to face with, rather than the Cardinal. She kept her left hand on the hilt of her sword and it was clear the presence of both her and her brother made the man uneasy. “I believe after yesterday his absence is understandable.” “He was summoned here.” “And I am here in his place…” She was always defiant. And she was daring them to take Nottingham away from him now “…But I’m happy to deliver the message.” “With all due respect. My Lady, the message is for him. Not for you.” My Lady… God that even grated with her now – it was just the way he said it! She had the distinct feeling they weren’t particularly pleased with having to speak to her as a woman, either. “With respect.” Though she had very little for him, “The Sheriff almost lost his life yesterday in this very building. So let me get one thing straight here. You can tell ME what you have to tell HIM and I will endeavour to relay the information…” She took a step forward and out of line; “Or, why don’t I just tell you what you’re going to tell me… You’re going to tell me all the effort he’s made over the past few years on this War is not all for naught because of the work of a thief. That the people of Nottingham, after this chaos, need a strong leader. Because he is one. They need consistency and stability… Lose him, you lose me… For you that could be a good thing, but of him and I who has more favour with the people in your mines? You want them to keep the faith, excellent. Have someone tell them to keep it. Who would you put in his place anyway? And with this…?” She indicated to herself “Losing him is no good for anyone until we know what this is…” She took another step, with a smile “So I put this to you, Archdeacon. You do your job. I’ll do mine. And the Sheriff will do his. And at the end of the day we’ll all be better off.” His eyes flicked from her to the men around her, none of whom looked in disagreement because they all know she had a fair point. She was a woman of two countries and two faiths. And she was confident in where she stood with both. She was difficult to manipulate. There was no fear the Church could put into her, asides the fear they could put into him, which of course was why he wasn’t here. More than that; she hated them for everything they had ever done to him. And her brother – not even one to attempt converting – a true Norse warrior and surely not someone to mess with. The other three… Well, at least two of them would follow her orders to a fault. Even with all the Church’s power; with her the Archdeacon knew he had to tread carefully. The Church had no power here, even though they were standing in one. “…It’s all well and good saying this. Y/N. But what of the war?” She gave a shrug “I’ve never much cared for your war. That will be for your Cardinal to decide.” The step she took this time was backwards; making her 4 companions turn – even Guy knew her well enough to read every signal of her voice; “…I suggest you make the correct decision… Besides I don't think even you want the consequences of removing him from office... It could be more than just the Arabs he'll be warning the people about... We all know the stories of Ragnar..." "Was that a threat?" She turned from him with a smile, "It’s a promise..." And it was. Her father would as like march on Nottingham and the Church if someone so much as touched her. That's what Askel was for. And Norsemen didn't often show mercy. *** “...Can you do a ride of the perimeter ... anything unusual or out of place or-” “Yes...! It’s going to be fine... Robin hasn’t been here since the-” “I know, will you just do it!!” She was painfully aware of the ticking clock that was her pregnancy. And she was paranoid. Marcus couldn’t count the number of times she’d had him walk or ride various parts of Nottingham for any potential weak points Robin and co could take advantage of. “Marcus...” He turned at the sound of the Sheriffs call, walking briskly down the hallway toward them. “It’s okay. You may leave us.” “Yes sir...” But she pulled his arm back “Marcus please!” “It will be done. My Lady.” He gave her a confident nod and bid then both farewell. The Sheriff watched him leave before he spoke.

“What are you doing?!” His blue eyes studied her carefully... he noticed she didn’t look at him; “I’m scared!! I’m panicking that he might-” Of course this was about Robin. But he didn’t sigh. He didn’t roll his eyes. He didn’t look anything less than understanding. Gathering her in his arms as best he could he ran his fingertips into her hair, kissing her forehead and hairline; “Shhh! Shhh! Not another word!” Well, he either wanted to know or he didn’t “Stop this... Y/N stop this...” “I’m just being prepared!” “You, of anyone in this Goddamn city, should be preparing for something far greater than our defences...” He whispered it gently against her skin. The way he chose to hold her now was protective. But he still moved his hand to rest on her bump “I need you to stop thinking about this... And start thinking about our child...” She wasn’t sure why he would think that she wasn’t doing this FOR their child. She let out a sigh of her own and wound her arms around him, burying her head in the safety of his chest allowing him to rub her back gently. “That’s my girl...” It was weird for him to say that phrase like that. Here. In this context. It sent a delightful shiver down her spine. Which made him chuckle, but say nothing more. He kissed her hair again. “We have mere days... barely weeks....” He watched the way the sunbeams danced in the courtyard, it was serene... His eyes flicked to the sky... In times like this he actually believed in God. He didn’t need a church for that - Hell, he didn’t want a church for that... “Everything is going to be fine... I promise you...” It was convincing. It was what she needed to hear. It was what he needed to say. How could he become so disillusioned with the church? After all hasn’t God given him this? By miracle or grand design... He realised quickly that yes, God may have...but the Church had not...

***

Weeks had passed since Robin had taken half of the poorer populous with him to God knows where… She was getting antsy towards the end of her pregnancy AND that she couldn’t be out there right now patrolling Nottingham or looking for Robin… All she wanted was to know he wasn’t going to come around here again in a hurry. She now found herself almost permanently stuck to the Sheriff; half in worry that something would happen and she wouldn’t be around. And she wouldn’t admit it to him, but she’d been having bad nightmares about the happenings in that church and she daren’t tell anyone else about it. Besides, what exactly could she tell the doctor? ‘I know you told me not to stress! But my subconscious thinks it’s a good idea to share that trauma with me every night!!’ Nope.

Today was Sunday, a Holy day, and that meant Church. She wondered if it would involve any more War donations… She had noted that since Robin had left talk of the war effort had fallen fairly silent. There was something going on in that brain of his, she could tell, but he wasn’t confiding it in her just yet… She wasn’t too worried – she’d be the first to know. There was a knock at her chambers as her handmaidens helped her to dress. If there was one thing she would curse about bringing another life into the world, it was the awkwardness of having to do even the most mundane of tasks with a bump. Even holding her lover close to her was proving most difficult these days. And as if to speak of the Devil he nudged the door open slightly; “Apologies ladies… I must interrupt…” He only half stepped into the room; clearly all ready to set off; “…Y/N, my darling, they have called me early. I’m afraid I must away… Will you be alright…?” She looked down at herself and the girls, who seemed almost finished; she didn’t like the idea, but she could imagine the Lords all attempting to drag him off for the best part of the morning before he actually caved… She nodded, “I shall not be too far behind…” “Okay…” His voice was quiet and she wasn’t too sure that was even the answer he wanted to hear. “Ok…” He repeated it, and with one look back into her eyes, he took his leave. She huffed slightly as Hal held out his hand to help her get into the carriage… Why all this was necessary she didn’t know! They were treating her, her!, Norse Princess and Shield Maiden, as fragile as glass. She knew she was pregnant but this was ridiculous. Still, she thanked him as she sat – today was a glorious day, the sun shone in a bright blue, cloudless sky and bathed everything in glorious golden light. Its warmth caressed her face and she smiled. Sure, she might have to spend the rest of the morning in a gloomy church (although… the sun through the pretty stained glass today would likely look spectacular) but once they left, she would get to see him in glorious sunshine; the way it would hit his blue eyes and turn his hair a multitude of grey shades and maybe he’d relieve himself of his jacket and… She bit her lip just thinking about it and damned her racing hormones. The carriage set off towards the church and her mind wandered, wondering what the subject of today’s preachy sermon would be… And how long they could possibly drag it on… She wondered if they would once again mention Robin… Because he was a subject all to himself these days… Not that she was SUPPOSED to think about him… A sudden sharp pain shot through her lower body that made her wince and cry out… what in the hell was-!? She cried again, holding her stomach as it happened again… Oh Gods… NO. She had to take a sudden sharp intake of breath, twice, in-out-in-out… She looked down to her dress, patches now considerably darker in colour… Please no… Cradling her bump, the next shot of pain almost had her in tears; but the liquid wasn’t blood… it was clear… And that left her almost more horrified. She wasn’t going to lose it… But he wasn’t HERE!!! “STOP!!!” She screamed as loud as she could, pounding one hand against the side of the carriage “STOP!!! STOP THE COACH!!!” Just hold on… hold on!!

The carriage slowed to a stop, and the door opened; “My lady, what is wrong…!?” She was almost bent double over the seat, her breathing ragged “…The baby…!!” She took another deep breath “The baby is coming…!” For the two men standing outside time almost froze, then they almost fell over each other flagging down the following coach. She squeezed her eyes shut and cradled her bump again trying her best not to begin sobbing in the midst of the commotion suddenly happening around her

“-turn the coach around!!” “—What do we tell---” “Someone has to go to the church and TELL HIM!!---” “—She can’t deliver here you---!” Marcus, ever her saviour, jumped up onto his horse “I’m heading to the church, take her back to the castle – and God Speed!” With that he was away, galloping as fast as the horse would take him. Another of the guards jumped on a second horse “I will go on ahead and warn the doctor!” The coach master was gathering the reigns back as two of her hand maidens Ada & Caralyn climbed in with her; as the coach began to move she grabbed Ada’s hand in panic “WAIT--- WHAT Ab- AH!” “They will bring the Sheriff as fast as they can M’lady… But we have to get you to a safe place and NOW!” Ada squeezed her hand tighter in a form of comfort “He will be there…” By the time they had made it back to the castle she could barely walk, and her contractions were getting worse, her security team practically had to carry her to her bedroom. All the while she was protesting; even though the doctor and his aides and her hand maidens had done their best to prepare for her; There was only one thing on her mind, still. “Where is he?!” “They can only get him here so fast… and on a Sunday…” She was still complaining as they laid her down; “You need to breathe… calm down and breathe…” “I CAN’T do this without him!!” She panicked, and Ada rushed to comfort her; the doctor and his team were firm; “Y/N, panicking will not help your baby… And you CAN!” The next shot of pain nearly took her breath; this was really going to happen – wasn’t it? She was trying to concentrate hard on what she was feeling to fight through the pain and listen… When she’d been old enough and curious enough to ask, her mother had simply replied that she would know, as she had to do was listen to her body… All around her she could hear medical nonsense and babble she didn’t understand and she wanted to yell at them all to be quiet; but she knew why they were stressed themselves, women died in childbirth… And it was sure the Sheriff would damn them all to hell or worse if anything happened to her here. Especially as he’d spend the best part of 8 months making contingency plans for this exact moment. It didn’t matter how many times the doctor told him he would have it covered. She was suddenly brought to another level of pain; and she felt the tears begin to run; this was ridiculous, she was stronger than this!! Women did this all the time!! But she already knew why, she was scared to do this without him and her body was caught between trying to hold it off and the fact that it was TIME to do this… “…Wil….!”

He was aware that by now he was probably late for the start of the service, several of the Lords were standing by the doors trying to usher him in, but he wouldn’t move until she got here. And he was becoming concerned that she wasn’t here yet. She knew the importance of punctuality, and he knew he had been early… What had happened?! He knew, idiotically, that he should never have left her alone. The sudden sound of hooves approaching at pace picked up his hopes, until it turned out to be a single rider – her right-hand man, Marcus. “WHAT?!?! WHAT THE HELL-” “SIR!” Marcus was slightly out of breath, mirrored by his horses panting “We have NO time! You must come with me!!” “WHY!?!” He was taken aback that the man would even interrupt him; “The baby is coming! Y/N has been taken back to the castle!” His eyes widened, horrified, NOW!? NOW!? She was going to have his child NOW!?! DAMMIT! Marcus grabbed his arm and helped him mount the back of the horse; turning it expertly on a dime – but not before the Lords all rushed forward; “Sheriff! What has happened!?” “You can’t leave church like this!?” “SIRS. My wife is about to have my first Child.” His snappy angry tone made Marcus inwardly smirk as he prepared to urge the horse back into a gallop “If being there rather than here is a sin, I shall repent later!” Marcus took that as a signal to go, and kicked the horse back into action, “…I didn’t realise you and Y/N were married, Sir?” The Sheriff at least laughed at that “What, you want me to give a full explanation of our relationship!? She is about to bare me a child Marcus! I don’t have time to lecture them!” “Well, if I may speak freely, I think it’s fine for you to lecture them a little, Sir!”

She certainly wasn’t making things easy on herself; she was going against every piece of advice she’d ever been given by every woman in her life and she was trying to resist what her body was telling her. For as long as she could… Come on Marcus! How long does it take!? Gods PLEASE! She knew it would be painful, but THIS painful..?! Eventually, when all the commotion around her stopped and the doctor and nurses settled into position, she knew everyone was waiting on her, and she could not hold off on what her body was asking from her any more, Ada clasped her hand tightly, and she took one gulp of air before she began pushing…

In the courtyard below there seemed to be more commotion. A lot of yelling back and forth and running footsteps, doors being thrown open so hard they hit walls, frames and all manner of other architecture… Then there was running down the stone corridor. All she was hearing beside the focus on herself was the doctor trying to help her time; and then the last set of doors were thrown wide, all but a few turned. The Sheriff didn’t stop there, running the skirting of their room to be beside her Ada left her hand in his strong, firm, confident grip. She almost cried again but in relief… he was here… he’d made it all the way back here… Marcus slowed his run to a jog, and then to give them privacy began to close the door.

“I’m here… Y/N… I’m here… Darling…” His voice faded in and out of focus but the strength of his hands around hers was all she needed, it was still painful, and he did his very best to soothe her, stroking her back… kissing her hand and whispering encouraging phrases that she couldn’t really hear but she knew where well meant… and then… Crying. And not from her. The room fell completely silent apart from the cries of an infant…

There was a collective sigh of relief as the breath everyone was holding relaxed… She couldn’t help but look to her lover and smile, and he looked back with nothing but admiration… The Nurses collected together blankets quickly… And the doctor cleared his throat in order to break the look they were giving each other. “Sir… Would you…” She let him take his hand back gently, his discussion was brief, and as if he had simultaneously lost the strength to stand the Sheriff fell almost weakly into the chair beside her. He clasped her hand back in his and sank his head onto the bedsheets; he very nearly cried with relief as her fingers gently tousled his hair; “You did so well… My darling… so well…” His murmur was as much relief as it was praise. He only raised his head as the doctor approached again, carrying with him their child; “Sir… My Lady… God has graced you with a Son…” She knew immediately that was it – the look needn’t even have crossed the Sheriff’s face as he turned to her; a son to carry on both his bloodline and his name. Heir to Nottingham, with a fair claim on her father’s Kingdom too. He turned to her, with a confident smile, “Y/N…” He took a breath like he didn’t know what to say “You have blessed me with a son…?” Then he laughed “…I think that makes it only fair that his name is yours to give…” She hadn’t been expecting it, but for a child of two words it would only be tradition to call him after his father – and hers. “Eske…” Would he be okay with that? “I would like to call him Eske…” “Eske…” He repeated, testing it for himself… before he laced his fingers with hers and kissed her, it was gentle and sweet “…Eske it is.”

*Eske, for Eskil. Her father, as you will discover when I do my (backwards) timeskips! I.E. In the next part!

GIF CREDIT: @mendo-r

#Sheriff of Nottingham #sheriff x reader #robin hood (2018)#Ben Mendelsohn #Robin Hood Origins #Linzi Writes #hunter hayes' entire C2C setlist had a major impact on me. Here is the first time I've used his lyrics. It won't be the last #There is also some Dustin Lynch in here if you're looking hard enough #I write a lot of lyrics into my stories. It makes me happy when I read them back #Rambling Again!#Thank GOD for the behind the scenes gifs #I WILL BE USING A LOT OF THEM THEY ARE SO GORGEOUS!#OHH MY GOOOD WHY HAVE I WRITTEN HIM THIS WAY!?#CUZ HES A BADASS IN A TRENCH COAT AND I LOVE HIIIIIM!#POST 9000!!!!!#I FIXED IT THERE IS NOW A PART 1 LINK #18 #Loraina

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victorluvsalice · 7 years

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AU Thursday: As Long As You Love Me -- Murder Angel

Hey, how about some actual fic from me today too? I’ve had this one waiting in the wings for a bit -- the next part of the “As Long As You Love Me” AU! If you recall, when we last left our heroes, they’d suffered a mysterious blowout during radio sing-along time. As we rejoin them, we find that -- well, they’re roughly in the same state Ken and Bart were in this clip: Angel of Death Victor’s not taking it well...

"The universe never allows you to get hurt, huh?"

"Technically, they didn't hurt us," Alice replied, tugging at her bonds. "And it is very odd hearing sarcasm coming from you."

"I think I'm allowed to be sarcastic, given the circumstances," Victor grumbled, looking up at the hot, cloudless sky. He could feel the sun boring into his skin – much longer out here and he'd have an awful sunburn. "Can't you do anything?"

"Do you think I enjoy being duct-taped to a fence in my skivvies?" Alice responded. "Unfortunately, it doesn't work like that. We have to wait for the target. At least that's what Caterpillar tells me."

"Tell Caterpillar that if this 'target' doesn't hurry up, I'm going to put him into a bug box."

Alice was silent for a minute. "He says you wouldn't," she finally replied. "That's its antithetical to your very nature. Apparently you cried the first time you heard what making a bug box meant for the butterfly."

Victor went still. "What – h-how do you–"

RRRRRRMMMRRRrrmrmrmrmrmrmrrrrmmmm. . .

A familiar set of Harleys roared into view, quickly rendering Alice's sudden attack of psychic power unimportant. The gang rolled up and spread out, parking in a circle around their captives. Victor did a quick headcount – nine now, instead of eight. The newcomer was an older man – short, and on the heavier side, but in a way that suggested power instead of one too many large dinners. The rest of the gang scurried around him deferentially as he dismounted and walked toward the fence. Victor gulped. Suddenly he was almost missing his closet.

The man stopped and stared at them, one eyebrow raised. "These two?" he said. Medusa nodded. "You're shittin' me. These are the guys that killed Icarus?"

"It's them, Riggins," Marzanna said from somewhere behind Victor. "Shark and Kitten saw 'em at the diner."

Alice twisted her head around. "Riggins?"

"I think he's their leader," Victor told her. He offered Riggins a shaky smile. "L-look, I think there's been some s-sort of – of mix-up–"

"You don't look like professionals," Riggins continued, ignoring him. He stepped forward, scowling. "So who sent you? The Horsemen? New Children of the Old Gods? Those weirdos the Hitchhikers Of The Galaxy?"

"No one! She killed him on her own! She just – does that!" Victor yanked ineffectually at the duct tape. "We are not trying to start a gang war here!"

"No, we're ending one," Alice said softly. "Target acquired." Out of the corner of his eye, Victor saw her look up. "Now, Cheshire, I don't suppose you could put those claws of yours to good use and cut me down so I could do my job. . ."

Riggins shook his head. "This is all so much noise," he muttered. "Screw it." He waved to the rest of the gang. "Burn 'em. Dump 'em with the others."

Victor felt Alice stiffen behind him. "Oh no. . .oh, you shouldn't have said that," he groaned. "She has a – history with fire."

"Awww, what? The little lady don't like the heat?" Kitten mocked, shaking the fence. Victor grimaced as hot wire rattled against his back.

"Not fond of it, no," Alice said through clenched teeth.

Riggins chuckled. "You're gonna like it even less soon." He licked his lips. "Maybe me and the boys will make s'mores."

Victor decided he really did not like Riggins. But, well, even the worst asshole deserved a warning. "Look – I will be the first to admit that I have no idea what's going on," he said slowly. "But I do know Alice. When she gets it in her head to kill someone. . .well – they die. You and your men are the ones in danger here." Although how the hell she's going to get us out of this one is beyond me. . .

Riggins smirked. "You really believe that?" He moved a step forward, like a cougar stalking its prey. "We're Blackwing, loser. Nobody fucks with us."

Victor looked over his shoulder at Alice – in naught but her bra and panties, no knife or gun, taped in place as securely as he was. She looked as helpless as him. . .but then, he'd thought she was a goner when Tannen had shoved his gun into her forehead too. "She's the one who killed Icarus," he replied, meeting Riggins's smug gaze head on. "Hasn't she already?"

That got a scowl. "You gotta mouth on you," Riggins declared, reaching down for something in the dirt. When he stood back up, Victor saw it was a baseball. "Time to shut you up, I think."

Oh shit, oh shit, why on earth had he decided to go for the pithy one-liner – Victor jerked his head back around. "Alice?!"

"Wait for it," she replied, eyes on the sky, looking supremely unconcerned.

"Wait for it?!" Victor threw himself against his bonds in a panic. He was about to take a baseball to the face, minutes before Blackwing turned them both into Guy Fawkes dummies, and she told him to wait for it?! Oh God, why didn't I run for it when I had the chance?! A bullet to the back of the head would have at least been quick! Now I'm going to cook to death, probably with a broken jaw, back to back with – "Ow!"

Victor's head clanged against the fence as the baseball met his forehead in an instant of blinding pain. He screwed his eyes shut, fireworks briefly flaring behind his closed lids –

bonk! rippppp – clunk – CRUNCH!

And then, suddenly, his left hand was free.

Victor's eyes snapped open. The fence was sagging now, the old length of pipe holding it up having fallen. Had the baseball knocked it out of place? Did he dare do anything?

"Kitten!"

Shark raced past them, toward where the pipe had fallen. Victor followed his path to see – Oooooh. . . He hastily averted his eyes again. The unfortunate Kitten had been directly under the pipe when it fell, and thanks to the nasty-looking chunk of concrete on top of it. . .well, he wasn't getting up again. And I thought I'd seen the worst of what could happen to a human head when Tannen got pistol-whipped to death. . .

The rest of the gang hastily closed ranks, drawing guns and eyeing the captives suspiciously. Victor heard Marzanna hurry towards them. "Don't you fuckers even think of trying – ah!"

The barrel of a shotgun jerked through the fence, right next to Victor's head. He flinched as it fired – BANG! Medusa hit the ground, a bullet in his forehead. BANG! Incubus dropped, blood spraying from his skull. BANG! Cerebus collapsed, felled by the same impossible accuracy. Victor risked a glance behind him. Sure enough, Alice had also been freed by the falling pipe. Her hand was currently wrapped around Marzanna's, struggling for control of the gun. Then her knee came up, catching him right in the sternum. Marzanna gasped for breath as she tore her other arm free. "Get her!" Riggins demanded, staring at his downed compatriots in shock.

Wilson promptly started firing – Alice spun and grabbed Marzanna, letting him take the hail of bullets. Her hand snatched his pistol from his waistband – bang! Wilson flopped over, missing a healthy chunk of his skull. Shark ran at her, screaming – bang! One bullet, right through the gullet. Moloch desperately took aim – bang! He hit the ground, less one eye and one life. Alice let Marzanna's corpse drop and pointed the gun at the stunned Riggin's head –

click, click.

Alice blinked. "Oh for – are you kidding me?" she demanded, snapping open the cylinder. "With one left?"

Riggins, mouth opening and closing like a fish, saw his opportunity and went for his boot. A wicked-looking knife appeared in his hand. He took aim and threw as Alice as Alice dropped the gun and looked for a fresh weapon. thwip-thwip-thwip –

The handle bounced off her shoulder. Alice looked down, then picked up with a shrug. "That works." With barely a moment's pause, she flung it back.

It landed with a heavy thunk right in Riggins's heart. He stared at it a moment as blood began to pour from his mouth. His terrified eyes found hers – merciless and pitiless.

Then, in slow motion, he collapsed to the ground. Alice surveyed her work with cool professional pride. "There. That about does it." She returned to the fence and tore the tape off Victor's right wrist. "I think you ought to get some clothes on before you end up looking like an overdone steak."

Victor nodded vaguely, eyes traveling over the bodies of the men. Nine people. Nine hardcore, violent, unforgiving people. And she'd slaughtered them all in her underwear. Without even her trademark knife. All because a baseball had gone the right way.

A baseball. . .

"Wait for it."

He stumbled off the junk pile as she took Riggins's jacket and draped it over her shoulders. "You – you knew, didn't you?"

Alice looked back at him. "Knew what?"

"About this. That – that this–" He waved a hand to encompass the carnage. "–was going to happen."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," Alice said, examining Shark's corpse. "But I knew the universe would provide, once I had my target." She started undoing his jeans. "He's pretty thin – I think these will fit you. At the very least, you won't be swimming in them."

Victor barely heard. "It's real," he whispered. "What you said before – it was the truth. You are exactly who you say you are. Some sort of – of murder angel."

He wasn't sure what possessed him to put it that way. Judging by Alice's surprised stare, neither was she. "Angel?" she repeated.

Victor shrugged. For a half a second, he was sure he saw her blush – then she dropped her head and went back to her task. "I am what I say I am. I know it, the universe knows it, and now you know it. Congratulations."

"And I really am with you for a reason." Victor found himself smiling, fear drowned out by a wave of exhilaration. "My life – it – it actually has a purpose!"

Alice glanced up with one of those genuine smiles. "Nice feeling, isn't it?" She yanked the pants off Shark and tossed them to Victor. "Catch!"

His hand grabbed a leg on autopilot, his mind racing. Ever since he was little, he'd listened to Pastor Galswells preach that everyone had a purpose for being – a reason God had put them on this earth. For years, he'd wondered if that was true – and, if it was, whether his was really just helping his society-obsessed parents move further up the heap via a good marriage. But now. . .he stepped into the jeans, awash in possibility. Perhaps being the companion of a holistic assassin wasn't really better, per say, than forwarding Nell and William Van Dort's social-climbing dreams – but it was a hell of a lot more interesting. "So – where to now?" he asked, zipping the fly.

"Search me," Alice replied, throwing him the shirt. "But Wonderland will lead me – us in the right direction soon enough." She felt in her jacket pocket and pulled out a set of keys. "Do you know how to ride a motorcycle?"

"No," Victor admitted, pulling on the shirt. Ugh, it was all greasy. . .but any port in a storm. "Do you?"

"No." Alice grinned like a shark. "But I'm willing to learn."

#as long as you love me au #fanfic #tw: violence #because you know #this is bart's big murder scene #although that bit at the beginning was actually inspired by Dirk and the cowboy drawing #(Xerobox uploads a LOT of clips of the show)#the references should be obvious for the most part but #the motorcycle gang is named after Blackwing with most of the members named after projects #Shark and Kitten reference the shark kitten (natch)#and Cerebus and Medusa were my ideas for project names for the Rowdy 3 and Bart #obviously New Children of the Old Gods is a reference to the gang in the show #but the Horsemen refers to the Horsemen of the Apocalypse as seen in Good Omens #(they briefly pick up a second gang of bikers to ride with them)#and of course Hitchhikers of the Galaxy is a reference to Adams's other famous book series #this also probably makes it clear I've only seen clips #as it has only recently occurred to me that the 'Jake' Bart apparently killed #is probably the guy who helped her and Ken with the car #I watched the biker kill not long after a brief clip of them in the diner and #well as you can see the two got linked in my head #so yeah #also the action scene was a BITCH to get right I hope you like it #queued

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