[Amnesty: Multiple Challenges] Original Fiction: 'White as Lilies, Pure as Milk'

[but_can_i_be_trusted]

Title: 'White as Lilies, Pure as Milk'
Fandom: Original Fiction
Characters: Original
Word Count: 500
Rating: PG (Warnings for very mild innuendo)
Notes: Crossposted to ficlet_zone and whatif_au. Using Challenge #322: Lace, Challenge #329: Resort, Challenge #334: Expensive, Challenge #361: Limit, Challenge #378: Speak, Challenge #380: Beauty, and Challenge #397: Milk.
Summary: I gaze at the contract that's spread open before me.


I gaze at the contract that's spread open before me.

It looks, at first glance, just like any antique strip of sheepskin parchment. Words scripted across its surface in red ink.

Only...it isn't ink. The words gleam a fierce red, that pulsates. Every single stroke of every single letter glows viciously, each looking like a slim crack that peeks into a magma chamber.

"Well," I murmur, "this is safely the strangest thing that's ever happened to me."

He smiles, resting a hand on my shoulder. "Come, now. You act as though far stranger things don't happen each and every day."

"Sure, they do," I agree with him. "But not to me." I look away from the parchment, and into his darkly smiling eyes. "What do you want with a soul like mine, anyway? Why not go after somebody who's more...I don't know...evil?"

"Oh, for a number of reasons," he tells me. One hand, the one he's not pressing to my shoulder, waves dismissively. "You should see some of the souls I've encountered. Evil, cruel, monstrous...you name it, or don't name it, and I've seen it. But wicked souls?" He shrugs. "They're run of the mill. Old hat. A dime a dozen, or what have you."

The grip on my shoulder slowly squeezes. Not painfully; just enough to remind me that he's present. My instinct tells me to pull away, but I don't want him to think I'm afraid. Not that I'm not; but it's none of his business, so I see no reason to give him that satisfaction.

"As for a soul like yours," he continues, "white as lilies, pure as milk..."

I roll my eyes. "Oh, please. I'm as flawed as anybody," I mutter.

"Perhaps," he concedes readily enough. "But you're more cautious in your flaws. You don't drink; you don't smoke; you don't engage in profanity. You're even..." He chuckles, the sound low and almost reverberating. "You're even, pardon the word, a prude. Quite the rarity, in such a sexually-charged era."

"In short, I'm so inoffensive that it offends you."

"Oh, to the contrary," he's quick to protest. "I find you to be a particular challenge. I want to know exactly what you'd sell your soul for."

"That I wouldn't think my soul was too expensive a price to pay for? That I'd want enough, to resort to such a tactic?"

"Precisely. What would you like? Diamonds? The finest lace? An expensive vehicle?" He leans in close behind me, one hand grasping each of my shoulders firmly. "Fame? Wealth? Power? There's no limit. Speak, and it's yours. Just like magic--and I know that you believe in magic." Pressing in nearer still, he whispers against my ear. "Tell me, you beautiful dreamer..."

I grip the contract, tearing it to shreds. "You have nothing to offer me," I mutter.

His grasp tightens. This time, it hurts. "I beg your pardon...?"

"Not every day I beat the Devil," I mutter, wrenching free. "No deal, dear."