Possession

"No! You can't marry him, you can't! You're mine!"

None of it made sense. She'd been here before. She remembered the words, the desperation in them, the sound of wood on wood as the door had slammed in her face. Arms braced against the doorframe as she bit her lip and tried to summon up the courage that came with abandoning this marriage, abandoning her rung into social excelling, the climb of the hierarchy. Run away with her. Flee to a hovel in the country. They could live on love, she said.

She knew it wasn't true.

She didn't go after her.

She watched herself from some omnivisual presence in the distance, sadly. As much as it pained her, she didn't urge her younger self to go after her. It wouldn't have stood a chance.

The visual shifted. The same room. Violet in her white satin nightclothes, maudlin in the moonlight, pale wine in one hand. She still looked chest-catchingly beautiful. Ethereal.

But she knew what was coming. She willed the door not to open. Let it not. Let it just be half a memory, let the memory be changed. Let there be no horror to be had here. No screams. No sting of nails. Nothing. Let it be forgotten.

The door opened.

Violet turned from her night-gazing, tear-streaked and wide eyed. Who in the Hell would her servants let in without a qualm?

Eave. Infernal, married Eave. No doubt had already. No doubt she'd now be able to get her fingertips up there without any protest from that damnable redhead's muscles.

"Get out," she hissed at the leather-and-shirt clad, recently dubbed Lady Varana as she closed and locked the door behind her. "Get out! I don't want to see you! I hate you!"

Turn around and go. Do it. Damn it, past-self, turn around and abandon her. Leave her. Just don't do it.

Boot heels moved implacably forward. A wine glass shattered around their ankles. They kept moving, dripping and crunching their way over. Clunking over the priceless rug they'd picked up from Bath. There was no turning around. She watched her own hands take hold of Violet's shoulders, watched the blonde's hands press at her chest, watched the violent ram against the wall that came with one leather gloved hand at one trembling throat.

"Get off me!" Violet snarled, hands lifting to grasp at the wrist that kept her pinned to the wall. She stared back at unrelenting russet eyes. The hand pressed down harder.

Dream perspective shifted. She became herself. She re-enacted it. All of it. She felt her hand squeeze, felt the swelling jolt of coughing and the vibration of sobs and further 'get off's. She forced her to breathe the air she gave her with a kiss, which Violet would've evaded, had stronger fingertips not taken a firm hold of her jaw to keep her in place. The second hand went to grasp one satin covered breast.

Violet's entire body flinched and pushed against her, hands letting go of their useless grasp at Eave's wrist, and beginning to thump against her chest instead. She caught them up in both leatherbound hands, and slammed them upwards into the pheasant and feather lifted wallpaper. One set of digits pinned them there.

"No! No! Eave, I don't want to! Get off me! We're through!"

Through. She recalled the rage. They would be through when she, impetuous, headstrong, youthful Eave decided they would be through. Violet would not tell her what to do. If she wanted to have her, she'd damn well have her.

Her hand lowered and began gathering satin upwards, exposing milky skin inch by inch. Violet's physical escape began to thrash more fervently, but she remained implacably against the wall by her wrists. She tried to drop her weight from her legs, but nothing changed. The hem crept higher. She jammed her thighs closed, pushing them against Eave's abdomen as she began to sob as violently as she was being pressed.

Leather creaked as the trouser wearing knee rose in response, needling its way into the juncture of shut kneecaps and enforcing all of her bodily strength forwards. It didn't take all that much. Boots spread, supporting all of the blonde's weight by that point. When her legs were forced apart, she unleashed a pained cry and strained her shoulders, legs kicking at whatever they could reach.

Stop it and get off her, Eave. Stop.

The hem was up. Exposed, Violet wept openly, beginning to plead with her attacker-come-lover. Helpless. Utterly, completely in Eave's power, and that was precisely what she wanted. She'd not leave. She'd have her. She belonged to her.

Violet released a sharp, mentally agonised and unwilling cry at the sensation of the cold surface of leather meeting with her crotch. It slipped across her flesh, which was unusually dry for one of their encounters. A moment later, one digit began the violation that set the blonde to jerking her hips, continuing to unleash desperate wails the further that hand went.

She remembered the warmth around her glove, and the terror in blue eyes. She remembered the thousand tears and the pleading. Every moment encapsulated. Each harsh, merciless thrust upwards, each pained response. On reflection, she couldn't remember how many times she heard the words, 'no' and 'please' cried into her ears.

She didn't stop until she'd got the violently drawn, unwilling, hostile clenching around her hand that she wanted. Violet's body betrayed her to dexterity and aggression. She stopped struggling after a while, conflicted between moans of pleasure and those of revulsion.

When it was done, her wettened glove came up to take hold of her jaw again, and made the breathless woman look directly at her. "You belong to me," she told her, russets boring into blues. "Do you hear me? You're mine. I say when we're over."

Violet's eyelids lowered lowly to squeeze tears down either side of her cheekbones, rigid nod given. "I hear you," she mumbled around a sob, parted mouth taken by another overpowering, suffocating kiss.

She began peeling in her arms. Another memory, another strained recollection. Skin hit the floor with wet slaps. The Advisor carried on kissing. She could taste the copper in her mouth. Felt it rush with thick liquid. Her eyes opened.

A skinless body in her arms, blood streaking down her chin, drenching her lips. Highlighting the meeting of each tooth as she cried, "Violet!" in thorough distress, and began weeping herself. "Violet, don't do this to me!"

She collapsed to a kneel with the corpse in her arms, and tilted the head to search out any sign of life - and found herself staring into her own glassy, unmoving, lifeless eyes. This wasn't Violet's body.

It was her own.




She awoke already sobbing. Her hands clutched directly to Samuel's sleeping shirt, sore from having done so for long minutes at a time. She couldn't explain it, and neither did she want to, simply woke into hysterics in the early hours of the morning, and couldn't be comforted for well past an hour. After which, a nursing servant brought in a concoction that forced her into a deep, dreamless sleep. For a moment she hoped it was poison.

Don't let him suffer watching this.