#also yes i know that persian is not silver | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cjfritos · 4 years

Text

In Dreams Begin (Jessa wedding story)

Obviously written by Cassandra Clare. I own no rights to this. This was included in first editions of The Lost Book of the White by her and Wesley Chu. It tells the story of Jem Carstairs and Tessa Gray’s wedding and explains why no one remembers it.

Unfortunately it does include some spoilers from LBW so if you have not read it yet, I don’t recommend reading it. Otherwise, enjoy :)

~~~

Magnus Bane was scheming.

To an untrained observer, the High Warlock of Brooklyn wouldn’t look like he was doing much of anything at all. For one thing, he was wearing purple silk pajamas. For another thing, he was in bed, leaning back against a pile of pillows with a spell book open in his lap.

Beside him, Alec Lightwood was stretched out on his side, deeply asleep. Earlier that day, Alec had taken their son, Max, to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. This had been at Magnus’s request—he wanted Max to have ample opportunity to tire himself out before bedtime. It worked almost too well. Max had made fast friends with a werewolf toddler named Eliza, and the two of them tore around the gardens blissfully for about three hours straight, Max crawling while Eliza ran, albeit unsteadily. Eliza’s mother had been quite surprised the first time Max levitated. Luckily, he was glamoured so only she and Alec noticed.

Though not possessed of much vocabulary, Eliza clearly wanted Max to levitate her as well. Fortunately, Max did not yet have that sort of skill. Alec and Max returned home happy, covered in mud, and—best of all—exhausted. Magnus really wanted them all to sleep through the night.

Magnus shifted position and peered across the room at the mantel clock atop the dresser, a hideous thing covered in putti that Ragnor had given him years ago. The room was lit only by a candle that burned with a blue flame on the table beside him, but he could make out the numbers. It was one forty-five a.m. Surely that was late enough. Surely even the Shadowhunters and Downworlders of the West Coast would be turning in. He’d given Catarina and Jem and Tessa a heads-up, after all, and as for the Blackthorns and Emma Carstairs, they were kids! And not even babies, with their bizarre and erratic relationship to sleep. Surely the would be asleep by now, worn out from running around on the beach or whatever it was that the residents of the Los Angeles Institute did all day. Yes, it was time.

Snuggling a little farther under the blanket, Magnus looked fondly over at Alec’s sleeping form, his black hair like spilled ink across the ivory pillowcase. He closed his book and set it on the bedside table. He mentally reached within, feeling about for a particular pocket of magic folded away deep inside, a self-contained bubble. I had been two weeks since he’d been freed from the influence of the Svefnthorn, and while the markings on his skin had faded, his teeth had shrunk back to their normal size, and the overcharged magic of the artifact had left his system, this one reserve of magical energy had lingered.

At first, Magnus had considered hanging on to it as a sort of insurance policy. A little extra magic went a long way, especially when the magic was this potent, and Magnus was quite certain that he and Alec and their friends would have plenty more dangers to face in the years to come. That was their job, after all. But clinging to the magic out of fear of imagined dangers didn’t feel good. It felt like letting demons have a small victory over him, playing right into their scaly, demonic hands. No, instead he had resolved to use the power in a decidedly un-demon-sanctioned manner—to create joy.

Magnus shut his eyes. Oneiromancy, the study and practice of dream magic, had never been one of his specialties. But with the added kernel of power from the Sveftnthorn, he felt quite confident that he could pull of this one feat, even as complex as it was. The trickiest part, it seemed to him, was holding himself in that drowsy state between waking and sleeping, while maintaining enough awareness to cast the spell. He lay back against the pillows, letting his eyelids flutter shut for just a moment….

~~~

When Magnus opened his eyes again, he was standing in the middle of Blackfriars Bridge, the panorama of London spread out around him in all directions.

He took a deep breath of river-tasting air. The sky was a dark violet, the sun only just beginning to rise. There was no traffic, which was a distinct advantage to throwing a party on a dream bridge rather than on the real thing. There was a warm breeze in the air, and the Thames danced beneath it, silvery in the dawn light. Had he ever noticed wind in a dream before? Magnus wasn’t sure. He admired the view from the bridge—it seemed just about right, though he hadn’t been here for a couple decades. Perhaps some ugly new construction had taken place since then, but who would fault him for omitting that?

“Magnus!”

He turned and saw two figures hurrying toward him. It was Tessa and Jem, both in what Magnus assumed was their pajamas. Tessa’s were gray with white rabbits on them. Jem’s were dark-green-and-navy-blue plaid. They were barefoot, but that wouldn’t matter on a dream bridge. He started to smile as they got closer and he could see that they were both giddy and laughing, a hint of disbelief on their faces.

Tessa threw her arms around him, knocking him off-balance. He marveled at how solid and real she felt.

“It’s working!” she said in wonder.

“A magical discipline unexplored is always worth exploring,” Magnus said, stepping back. “I may be late to the game with oreiromancy, but I plan to make up for my tardiness all at once, right now. Is that what your planning to wear to your wedding?”

“It’s not traditional, but neither was the yellow cotton shirt dress I wore for the courthouse wedding. And I do love bunnies,” said Tessa. “I’m all right with it if Jem is.”

“I would marry you if you were wearing a barrel,” said Jem.

“But why would I be wearing a barrel?” said Tessa.

They were both grinning at each other stupidly. Magnus decided something needed to be done; he wasn’t sure how long his magic would hold out.

“I won’t have it!” he said. “If I’m to throw you a dream wedding, you must be properly dressed for the occasion. It’s in my contract. I do hope you read the fine print.”

He snapped his fingers, and Jem’s pajamas were replaced by an exquisitely cut black suit. Magnus aimed for something that suggested the style of the Shadowhunter gear Jem had worn long ago, in the first years he knew Tessa. Wedding runes were intricately embroidered on the lapels in gold thread. As Jem marveled at the excellent fit, Magnus turned his attention to Tessa.

“I know,” he said, “a wedding dress is a highly personal choice. But as our other guests will be arriving momentarily, and time is of the essence, I’m going to take a stab at it.”

“You have my express permission,” Tessa said.

Magnus snapped his fingers again, and the Tessa was wearing a beautiful sleeveless gown of pale silver, with a full skirt that reminded Magnus of the first time he’d met her, at a vampire ball. A couple more flicks of his fingers, and her hair rearranged itself beautifully into an updo, with a few tendrils loose around her face. One more gesture, and Tessa’s familiar jade pendant appeared around her neck—as did the pearl bracelet she always wore, a gift from Will on their thirtieth anniversary.

Tessa looked startled, reaching up to touch her hair, then brushing her hands over the gown. “How do I look?”

Jem looked very young again as he gazed at her, his dark eyes full of emotion. “Ni hen piao liang,” he whispered. You are very beautiful.

Magnus turned away to give them a moment—and felt familiar arms close around him.

Alec kissed Magnus on his forehead—being slightly shorter than Magnus, he had to pull Magnus down a bit to do it, which Magnus didn’t mind at all—and muttered, “You’re a sentimental bastard, aren’t you?” in his ear.

But he was grinning all over his face as he turned to greet Tessa and Jem, congratulating them. They both looked delighted to see him.

“So let me get this straight,” Alec said. “You, me, Tessa, and Jem will all remember this with perfect recall. For the other guests, they’ll remember it at first, but then it will fade away, the way dreams do?”

“That is correct. They won’t recall it the way we will, but their souls will be present, and glad for it. Well, mostly glad for it,” Magnus said.

“What do you mean, ‘mostly’?” Jem said nervously.

“I mean that I’m not sure how Church will feel about the whole thing.”

“Church!” Alec and Jem exclaimed at the same time, and turned to see the grumpy Persian cat sauntering toward them down the center of the bridge.

Tessa laughed. “Well, he does sleep twenty hours a day. I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I took the liberty of adding him to the guest list you gave me,” Magnus said. “I’m trying to get on his good side.”

“Why?” Alec asked, incredulous. “He’s a cat.”

“So he won’t hate me forever when I do this.” Magnus snapped his fingers, and a silver bow in the same fabric as Tessa’s dress appeared around Church’s neck. Church’s eyes widened for a moment. Then he sat down, and after a moment, became very focused on cleaning his front paw.

“Now,” Magnus said, “I simply must get this bridge decorated.”

“It’s decorated perfectly,” said a voice from behind him. Turning, he saw Clary, who was holding Max. Behind her was Jace, followed by Isabelle and Simon, who were leaning together, whispering conspiratorially. Jocelyn and Luke were there, looking slightly unkempt, and Magnus remembered that they were in the process of remodeling a barn at Luke’s farm so Jocelyn could expand her painting studio. Ragnor and Catarina had also appeared, as well as a whole gaggle of kids—the Blackthorn clan. Julian and Helen, Tiberius and Livia, Drusilla and Octavian. Emma Carstairs was with them, though she broke away from the group immediately, running to hug Clary. They were the same height now, Magnus noticed with amusement. Max had escaped from Clary and was riding on Alec’s shoulders now, babbling a story to Helen Blackthorn and her wife, Aline. They looked very amused, though it was unlikely they understood even a quarter of what he said.

Maryse and Kadir were there too, already deep in conversation with Jocelyn and Luke. Kadir hadn’t been on the guest list Jem and Tessa had given Magnus, because they didn’t really know him, but Magnus had added him as Maryse’s plus-one. It never hurt to butter up your boyfriend’s mother, especially when she was willing to babysit for days at a time.

A couple Silent Brothers had appeared—Enoch? Shadrach? Magnus was slightly embarrassed to admit that they all looked alike to him, now that Jem was no longer counted among their number as Brother Zachariah. Magnus hadn’t known if the Gregori would be able to attend, since they didn’t normally sleep. One of them—Enoch?—inclined his hooded head slightly at Magnus, acknowledging this mad thing he was doing as worthwhile. At least that was how Magnus chose to interpret the gesture.

Octavian was climbing Jace like a jungle gym. Clary was talking with Julian and Emma, while Tiberius stood near his older brother, looking around at London with fierce curiosity in his gray eyes. Livia and Drusilla were perched on the railing of the bridge, Livia chatting animatedly with Simon and Isabelle, Drusilla looking around shyly. Catarina went to lean beside her, asking her a question. Magnus looked at the motley assortment of clothing on the assembled group. Mostly casual, though there were more pajamas as well. Magnus made two sweeping gestures, and all at once everyone was looking very sharp in formal attire. Even better, they barely seemed to notice the change. Magnus was impressed. Oneiromancy—who knew!

A hand gripped his arm. It was Tessa, who looked close to tears. “Magnus. I can’t believe you’re doing this for us. I…” She trailed off, at a loss for words.

Magnus regarded her fondle. “Tessa, most people’s idea of a dream wedding is not a literal dream wedding. But since yours is, I am happy to oblige. Shall we get this show on the road?”

Jem and Tessa took their places on either side of Magnus, and the guests gathered around. The sun had climbed well above the horizon, casting rays of warm light between the long shadows of the wedding guests.

“Dear friends,” Magnus said to Jem and Tessa, “we are honored to share this moment with you, and I am doubly honored to be given the chance to speak. Several hundred years ago I got very drunk and woke up as ordained minister. Today I have decided that doing so was a wise choice after all.”

Jocelyn snorted, then looked embarrassed. Luke grinned at her.

“Joking aside, it is impossible to stand here with you all and not feel that there is some greater plan at work, some greater force that has brought these two souls across more than a century to be joined as one.”

Clary’s eyes were glistening. Jace reached into his pocket and offered her what looked like a handkerchief but was more likely a soft cloth for polishing blades. She gave a wry smile of recognition, and sniffled into it.

“I debated which customs to follow in officiating this wedding,” Magnus went on. “Whether to conduct a Shadowhunter ceremony, or a warlock ceremony, or even a mundane ceremony, for many worlds have been united in the two of you. But none of these traditions seemed quite appropriate on their own. So I’ve attempted to tailor a ceremony that will honor your unique paths.”

Magnus nodded to Jem, who reached into his pocket and produced a gold ring. Jem had requested a single word etched around the outside of it: Mizpah.

“It has been said,” said Magnus, “that when two people are at one in their inmost hearts, they shatter even the strength of iron or bronze. Theresa Gray, are you at one with James Carstairs in your inmost heart?”

Tessa’s eyes were wide, her face serious as she gazed at Jem. “I am,” she said, offering her hand to him. He slid the ring onto her finger.

The Magnus nodded at Tessa, who produced another ring, this one from thin air. Magnus had to suppress the grin that threatened to break his calm officiant expression. It delighted him that Tessa was engaging in a small amount of oneiromancy herself, and Jem looked as pleased by it as Magnus felt. This ring was the exact match of the first, and he knew what it said as well: May the Angel watch between me and thee when we are absent from one another.

“James Carstairs—Ke Jian Ming—are you at one with Theresa Gray in your inmost heart?”

“I am,” Jem said, delight visible in his dark eyes. Tessa put the ring on him, and they stood for a moment, holding hands and smiling at each other like they couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

“For I am persuaded,” said Magnus, and Jem and Tessa both looked up at him, recognizing a piece of the old Shadowhunter wedding ceremony, though he had altered the wording, “that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor demons, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate these two.” He stretched out his arms. “Therefore I am overjoyed to declare this marriage consecrated, here in the presence of your friends and family. Tessa Gray and Jem Carstairs, you are married, and the world is better for it. You may kiss each other, not that you really need my permission.”

The assembled crowd cheered as Jem and Tessa kissed, a kiss that had been long delayed. The kiss continued, and Magnus slowly backed away, joining the cheering audience. “Let’s give them a moment,” he said, and happy chatter swelled around him.

Magnus noted that Alec was looking very foxy in his Armani suit, laughing with Maryse. Ragnor and Catarina were cackling over something, glad to be reunited now that Ragnor didn’t have to pretend to be dead—or at least, didn’t have to pretend with them. Clary had her arm draped over Emma’s shoulders, and Jace was arguing with Simon about how to properly tie a necktie. Tiberius and Drusilla were watching this argument as though it were a tennis match. Julian had lifted Octavian up so he could look down at the river flowing by beneath. Isabelle was joking with Livia, who was giving Max a piggyback ride. It was a miraculously good wedding.

Here they were, his friends. They’d literally gone into Hell twice with him now. He found himself reflecting on how much had changed. At first his life had felt like Magnus against the world. Then for years and years it had been Magnus, Catarina, and Ragnor against the world. Now his community was a much larger group, one that had spread wide enough that instead of Magnus and his friends against the world, it felt like Magnus and his friends, a part of the world. Probably the best part of the world.

It was a good feeling.

“Look!” a girl’s voice cried. It was Drusilla, pointing up into the sky, eyes wide with wonder. There was a collective gasp as the crowd saw what she had spotted. Two figures flew overhead, riding a translucent white stallion with two gold hooves and two silver. One of them was a blond boy in ragged clothes, who looked down at the Blackthorns and waved. The figure in front of him was harder to make out—a gentry faerie in clothes just as ragged, only he was as translucent as the horse. The blond boy must be Mark Blackthorn, Magnus marveled. He’d “invited” the whole family, not knowing whether those who rode with the Wild Hunt could be summoned by dream magic. He had his answer, but it came with another mystery. Who was this companion, so close to Mark that they would appear together in a dream?

The riders made a circle overhead, while the Blackthorns shouted and waved, and Mark waved back, smiling an odd smile down at them. Then they faded away into the morning air.

Magnus saw with relief that Jace, Clary, Simon, Isabelle, and Alec had all move in around the Blackthorn kids, giving them an opportunity to talk about what they had just seen—their stolen brother, visiting so briefly.

He glanced over and saw Tessa and Jem still standing by the railing. There was a shimmer beside them, at the edge of the bridge, and the hair on the back of Magnus’s neck rose.

He knew Will Herondale had never haunted the moral world, because he had lived and died happily and had no unfinished business among the living. While Magnus didn’t subscribe to any specific set of beliefs about reincarnation or the afterlife, he had always had a strong sense that Will was waiting on the other bank of a dark river—be it Lethe, or some other border between the living and the dead. He was there among the green grass, the sky above as dark a blue as his eyes, waiting patiently for Jem and Tessa to join him, that he might lead them by the hand to whatever wonders lay beyond the veil.

The philosophers of ancient Greece had believed dreams and sleep to be the twin of death: Morpheus and Hades, standing side by side. And here, in that space, Magnus would not have been surprised if Will stretched out his hand to those he had loved best in life—to Jem and Tessa.

He was, after all, a Herondale, and very stubborn.

Alec sidled up to Magnus, leaving the Blackthorns in the capable hands of his siblings and their partners. The kids seemed to have taken Mark’s appearance as a sort of wedding favor created especially for them.

Alec twinned an arm around Magnus’s waist and pulled him close, kissing him on the temple. “It was very kind of you to use the last of your Svefnthorn magic on this,” he said.

Magnus leaned into Alec. “Well, it wasn’t enough magic to send us to the moon, or get us into the front row at the Alexander McQueen runway. So I figured, next best thing.”

Alec smiled at him pointedly. “Actually, I happen to know that you did it because you are an incredibly kind person, and that is one of the many things I love about you.”

“Oh dear,” Magnus said, turning to face him. “You know all my secrets.”

Then they were kissing, and kissing in a magical dream turned out to be just as perfect as kissing in the waking world.

#jessa #jem carstairs #tessa gray #magnus bane #jessa wedding #the lost book of the white #tlbotw #lbw #tsc #the shadowhunter chronicles #cassandra clare #in dreams begin

459 notes · View notes

wardencommanderrodimiss · 2 years

Text

#every day my giovanni lore grows more incomprehensible.

Yes! I remember reading somewhere that Giovanni and Nanu knew each other (appears to be in the anime), and now that I was pondering languages in my Pokeverse, that thought came back to me and I’m like okay, Giovanni and Nanu definitely knew each other, Giovanni speaks Alolan fluently and has never mentioned why this is or when he learned it. Silver eventually ends up visiting Alola (for reasons related to some of my other OCs) and brings his dad’s Persian along because she is old and deserves a tropical vacation, and when Nanu bumps into the gang and Giovanni’s Persian is found to be very friendly with Nanu’s Persian, Silver is just like. “Hey. Why does an Alolan Kahuna and ex-Interpol officer know my dad. Why does my dad speak Alolan.”

“You can think whatever you want,” Nanu says.

Silver texts a photo of the two Persian together to Giovanni with a message that says met an old friend? of yours. “If you don’t tell me anything, and he’s never told me anything about what his history in Alola is, I’m going to be forced to assume that you two are ex-lovers.”

“You can think whatever you want,” Nanu says.

A text chimes on Silver’s PokeGear. Oh. Nanu. “Okay, then I’ll think that,” Silver says.

Anyway, Giovanni. He’s my favorite of the evil team leaders proper (eg, not including N, because N is my favorite Pokemon character of all time) not necessarily for any one thing about him in the games, but when I was younger I wrote a lot of fic set in Kanto and Johto, and besides my protag-based OCs and the rivals, Giovanni was one of the NPCs I fleshed out most (him and Lance). I borrowed traits from the games I’d played, facts from games I hadn’t played that I read on Bulbapedia, traits from the anime that I’d read on Bulbapedia, and whatever I decided to invent wholecloth to fit my plot.

So with that context, here are some more true facts about Giovanni that are canon to my hodgepodge version of the Pokemon world and nowhere else:

1. I joked in the language post you were responding to, but Giovanni is surprisingly tolerant towards - and indeed, good with - children. He is, for sure, a ruthless crime boss, but like, he’s a Gym Leader. That is a job that involves dealing with children. I figure that, yeah, being a Gym Leader is definitely a mark of status, showing you are a very powerful trainer, but there’s got to be other ways to make the region know how tough you are. Giovanni is a Gym Leader because he wants people to know how strong he is, and he also does genuinely enjoy battling with and assessing up-and-coming trainers.

It’s this quirk of personality that’s the main reason Piper (FireRed protag, stuck her nose into plenty of Team Rocket business) is still alive. She’s an idiot twelve-year-old with more bravery than sense and a not-half-bad team of Pokemon with her. Giovanni’s not going to smear any kid across the walls like he’d be willing to eliminate any adult interlopers, and he especially likes the gumption of this particular idiot, so when he wins the battle in the Celadon Game Corner hideout, he gives her a few pointers and a Moon Stone to someday use on her Nidorino, tosses her back out onto the street, and begins preparations to bail on the location, assuming it’s been compromised because he just let someone walk away with full knowledge of it.

2. He was entirely responsible for the creation of Mewtwo, and the attempted takeover of Silph Co. was a response to Mewtwo’s escape - he wanted the Masterball plans because of course he did, but also he figured it would be very handy for recapturing an errant genetic abomination.

3. So the special Celebi event in HeartGold/SoulSilver shows that Giovanni intended to go back and lead Team Rocket at the time of the Goldenrod takeover, and the only thing that stopped him was the protag showing up and kicking his ass. I tossed that out the window. I cannot quite remember the thought process behind it, maybe I just liked the idea of not making Giovanni outright evil the whole way down, probably for Silver’s sake of not having his shitty dad be irredeemably terrible.

But anyway, in this Pokemon world, he has no intention of going back to Team Rocket after he disbands it. He hears the Team Rocket messages going out over the airwaves, pleading for him to return, and he just shuts the radio off. He’s done with that shit. He’s tired. He’s not going back.

4. Definitely the funniest thing about my version of Giovanni was his uh...redemption arc? It was not a redemption arc. He simply got tired of the life of organized crime and bowed out after a few defeats, and around him, other, nastier people just kept doing shit. In one of the climactic incidents in my setting, a year after the events of SoulSilver when Team Rocket was stopped a second time, Giovanni ended up fighting alongside Lance, Red, and Silver to stop another villain’s plans, not because Giovanni gave a single shit about whether or not Ho-oh was captured or whatever, but because Silver was involved and Giovanni had determined at this point that the very least he could do to make up for everything else he’s done was make sure that his son didn’t get killed. It’s still a selfish motivation, the whole way down, but he does indeed stop Silver from getting killed, helps free Ho-oh, and rescues Piper and a few other characters.

So like... they all just let him go after that, figuring that they’ll stop him and bring him to justice if he starts getting up to shit again, and he just never starts shit again. He just gets away with it. He definitely shouldn’t have gotten away with it but he did, and he settles down somewhere maybe on the Sevii Islands, and lives a very quiet life from then out.

5. Silver’s current relationship with Giovanni is like a monthly text and a “world’s okayest dad” mug, but that keeps them in touch enough to coordinate trading Royal back and forth.

6. Royal is Giovanni’s Persian and she is the first Pokemon he ever had. She rarely participates in battles, not because she’s too old to fight, but because she’s too lazy to. She’s a bitch to everyone except for Silver, who she adores. Silver tells Giovanni that he’s traveling to Alola for a few months and Giovanni asks if he wants to take the cat along because she would probably enjoy the tropical weather. Silver takes the cat along, because he loves her. This ends up prompting The Whole Thing With Nanu.

7. Silver asks further follow-up questions about no, really, when did you learn Alolan, how do you know Nanu, and Giovanni, you guessed it, does not provide an answer.

#the rodimiss pokeverse

18 notes · View notes

ladyfloriographist · 3 years

Text

Descent of Man

[Image source]

Pairing: Commander Joseph Lawrence (The Handmaid’s Tale (TV)) x femme!Reader

Warnings: SPOILERS, Canon-Divergence, Non-Canon, Post Season 3, Repression, Oppression, Dystopic Future, Dystopian Themes, Older Man/Younger Woman, Mentions of Pregnancy, Mentions of Death, Traditional Gender Roles, Religious Extremism

XXXX

“Straighten your back, dear. Don’t slouch.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.”

You tighten your grip on the handle of your red leather suitcase as you walk up the concrete path that leads to Commander Joseph Lawrence’s front door. Nerves in your legs tingle back to life. The drive from the Red Center was long, and Aunt Lydia had counselled you to mind your patience when you’d grown restless. But now, as you make your way to the crescent-shaped steps, you can’t help but hope for even one minute more in the van.

The overcast sky looms grey and ominous overhead.

“Remember, the Commander is a very powerful man.” Aunt Lydia’s cane clacks on the concrete alongside your footsteps. “He is very well respected, Ofjoseph. This is quite the opportunity for you.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.”

The old Victorian becomes grander and more imposing with every step you take towards it. Your gaze lifts higher and higher: first floor, second storey, then dormers and a tower that let light into what must be the attic. Stonework and Roman arches over the windows and doors signal the age of the house—it has to be at least one hundred years old.

“He has suffered great losses recently, as you well know.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.” She had recited the story over and over—and made sure you could tell it back to her, too. Your and Aunt Lydia’s footsteps fall into stride along the concrete path, fast approaching the stairs up to the house.

“His dear Wife, Mrs Eleanor Lawrence—may God protect and keep her—and then his Handmaid, too.” The Aunt tuts. “Oh, that wretched girl. I’d had such hopes, Ofjoseph—but you won’t disappoint me so, will you, dear?”

“No, Aunt Lydia.” The knot in your gut tightens.

“No, good girl.” Aunt Lydia modestly raises her brown skirts to ascend the concrete steps with grace. “Posture,” she says pointedly, brow arched, looking back at you with an appraising, approving glance before she knocks on the large black front door.

Just before you bow your head to look to the concrete beneath your feet, your eye is caught by something to the right, attached to the burnt-orange bricks that make up the gloriously antiquated home.

It’s a black wooden plaque, with three golden numerals in the centre framed by a golden ovoid ring.

132

You glance down quickly. You should not even be making an attempt to read, whether it be letters or numbers or anything. If Aunt Lydia saw recognition register on your face, she’d march you straight back to the van to return you to the Red Center for the swift removal of one of your fingers.

Leniency, for your first offence.

“The Commander has been very gracious in accepting you, Ofjoseph. You have a privileged place here.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia. Praise be.”

“Mm,” Aunt Lydia hums in righteous agreement. “Praise be.”

…But still, it strikes you as unusual, as you stare at the grey concrete, that such a plaque should even exist, now. Such decorative tiles are relics from the time before Gilead—forbidden, now, and what’s more, utterly useless. How could such an inscribed plate remain intact when there are no more street signs to direct your way let alone numbered houses?

The front door swings open, shocking you out of your thoughts.

“Blessed day. Come in, Aunt Lydia.”

A female voice. Younger? Deferential.

A Martha: one of the two you’d been told to expect here.

“Blessed day, Sienna, thank you,” Aunt Lydia replies pleasantly. “Come along, Ofjoseph,” she says promptly, without a look back at you as she steps inside.

The interior of the Commander’s house greets you like, once, a warm hug might have done. Off the foyer is two sitting rooms, and they seem dark, but not sinister inside. The walls are papered with cranberry-red brocade and muted-toned, aging florals, or else—painted with rich, deep hues of colour. Dark-stained wood pocket doors with etched glass inserts lead to one sitting room and an archway with a stained-glass transom at the top leads to another. The heavy, patterned curtains inside make the sitting rooms feel cosy and private—even, dare you think, warm. Full and ornate bookshelves, rugs of paisley and Persian patterns, and an abundance of leather seating furnish the cluttered rooms.

“This way, please,” offers the Martha named Sienna, gesturing through the open pocket doors.

You follow Aunt Lydia, your eyes struggling to adequately absorb every detail of the room. Lamps on side tables, artworks from many different Schools arranged effortlessly on the walls, chests, sculptures, a chandelier, a fireplace.

Cushions and blankets strewn over the leather couches. Stacks of books lazing on armchairs.

An old, freestanding record player in one corner.

Knowledge, art, and music all reside here.

The house is lived in. Still. Even now.

“Can I getcha a tea, some coffee, Aunt Lydia?” comes a man’s voice from the far end of the room.

Before you can think better of it, your gaze snaps to the sound of his voice—relaxed, even casual in tone. He stands just inside another arched opening, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. A generous head of ghost-white hair tops his head. He has thick grey brows and a white beard peppered with silver and grey. Thin-framed glasses rest on the bridge of his nose. He wears a waistcoat, and a buttoned vest with a scarf tied like a cravat, in an ascot knot.

It’s the first you’ve seen a man of Gilead not dressed in a black suit and black tie.

“Commander Lawrence,” Aunt Lydia smiles, with only a slight waver in her voice. “Blessed day, Sir.” Your raised wings catch in her periphery and she glances at you with beady eyes.

You drop your head immediately, quickly and quietly pretending like you’d been studying the many colours in the Persian rug beneath your brown boots.

The Commander’s gaze flicks to you—not that you see it—before he looks back at the Aunt. “Hi, yeah,” he says, “blessed, good morning.” He calls down the hallway, “Sienna?”

You shift on your feet, tightening your grip on your own gloved hands where they rest in front of you. The Commander’s casual, informal, incorrect greeting stirs a sense of unease in your stomach. Was he merely distracted or… wilfully disrespectful? Could you even think such a thing, about a man like him?

Beside you, Aunt Lydia bristles, drawing in a sharp, quiet gasp. But she settles herself quickly.

“Sienna!?” calls the Commander again, louder this time before turning back to his guests.

Well, his one guest, who brought with her the newest member of his household.

“’d you say coffee, Aunt Lydia? I think Beth made scones.”

“Ah…” the Aunt hesitates, gathering herself in a way you’ve rarely seen her need to do. “Oh my. Tea would be a delight, Commander,” she recovers. “No need to waste your delicacies on me!”

“Hm,” Commander Lawrence huffs a mirthless laugh in response to Aunt Lydia’s self-deprecating smile, and the resulting silence is broken by a set of hurried footsteps that quickly enter the room.

“You called for me, Commander?”

The young Martha, her rich brown eyes wide, a sheen of sweat making her warm-brown skin glow, her voice slightly breathless.

“Auhm, yeah,” says Commander Lawrence, swivelling to address her. “Tea, please, Sienna—and bring three cups, would ya? Some of Beth’s scones, too.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Three cups?

“Thanks.”

“Three?”

Aunt Lydia’s incredulous voice cuts through the room like a warm knife in soft butter. It’s so abrupt, so much shriller than you are used to that your gaze flicks upwards.

The Aunt’s round, wrinkled face is dropped in an expression of pure shock. The room is silent, even Sienna’s retreating footsteps have ceased, as the three of you look between each other—stunned in the face of this blatant and brazen flouting of Gilead-sanctioned decorum.

It seems, as tested as Aunt Lydia has been since arriving at the Commander’s house, that this act of hospitality extended to you, a Handmaid, is the extent of what she can handle.

For the first time since meeting him, you spot a hint of a smile flicker across Commander Lawrence’s face, as elusive as the passing of a shadow, or a ghost. “Three, Lydia,” he says quietly, with a self-assured confidence that dares her to question him further—especially since he refused to use her title.

The air is thick with tension. You hold your breath.

Aunt Lydia’s lower lip quivers as she searches for words. Her brow creases, her small eyes flitting between his as she holds the Commander’s gaze.

You hear her suck in a breath before she speaks again.

“Th-hank you, Commander Lawrence.” Aunt Lydia swallows. “Praise be, you are most generous, Sir.”

Everything breathes again. Footsteps recede down the hall once more, the walls themselves sigh with relief. For a moment you almost think you hear birdsong outside—but that’s next to impossible, over all the radio chatter.

“Welcome,” the Commander replies, lazily omitting words in his speech once more. His tone is breezily self-assured once again, but his dark eyes have hardened into a cold stare. He turns his gaze on you. “Sit.”

You look to the floor so quickly there’s a twinge in your neck, and you drop into the nearest seat. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Under His Eye, Sir.”

“Alright,” the Commander cringes at your nervous rambling. “No problem, just, yeah. Siddown.”

You clasp your gloved hands together in your lap, your eyes fixed on the tiny balls of lint that have gathered near the seams. Everything about this man, from his clothes, to his manner, to his home, is contrary to what you’d been told to expect.

“Please,” says the Commander to Aunt Lydia, gesturing and offering for her to take a seat also. He walks around one of the armchairs, picks up a stack of three books and unceremoniously drops them on top of the existing stack on a nearby side table so he can sit down, too.

Aunt Lydia, frazzled and just barely recovering from the disrespect afforded her by the Commander, uneasily sits down on one of the brown leather couches. She sits like she’s perching on it, not quite setting down all her weight, on an angle to take up only the smallest possible amount of space.

She clears her throat. “Commander,” she forces a smile, shifting to face him, “it is my great hope that Ofjoseph will bring some,” she pauses, anxiously looking around at the many artworks and stacks of books that decorate the room, “stability, to your household, Sir. By His Hand.”

“Thanks,” says Commander Lawrence. “’ppreciate it.”

“I…” Aunt Lydia stammers again, stumbling over the Commander’s audacious disregard for social custom. It’s unorthodox—or rather, much worse—it’s a deliberate, transparent, shameless violation of his role as a Commander in the Republic of Gilead.

Lost for words, Aunt Lydia merely nods her head in deference. Her fingers flex around the gilded handle of her cane.

The Commander hums to clear his throat as Sienna brings a laden tray into the room. One teapot, three teacups, a plate of scones, and one small ramekin of butter.

The Martha sets it all down on the coffee table and the porcelain rattles softly in the stifling silence.

“Thanks, Sienna,” says Commander Lawrence, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of tea as the younger Martha leaves the room. “Hey, uh,” he sits back in his armchair, cup and saucer in hand, “you.”

You feel his eyes on you. This is how he chooses to address you? To draw your attention to him? ‘You’?

The stillness in the room is expectant, now. You tell yourself to lift your head.

“Ofjoseph?” Aunt Lydia prompts you.

Commander Lawrence speaks over the top of her. “Look at me.”

You lift your gaze to meet his. There’s nothing hard or soft in his stare, nothing warm or cold in the way he regards you. He merely sees you—his eyes observing, his lips in a line that neither smiles nor frowns.

He’s a wall, but built to defend or protect, you can’t read right now.

“My last Handmaid was a bit of a rabble-rouser,” he says easily, his voice nonchalant, “so I'm gonna say to you the same thing I said to her, ‘kay?”

You swallow, absorbing his candour. Aunt Lydia had told you never to speak of the last Ofjoseph, even if it was asked of you. But this particular question posed by the Commander requires more than a passive response. You get the sense that a number of conversations with him will be like this, and so you steel yourself to speak with a clear voice. “Yes, Commander.”

He keeps his gaze locked with yours, and brings his steaming teacup to his lips. He takes a slow sip, eyes trained on yours, and you resist the urge to shrink and shrivel into yourself.

The Commander swallows and sets his cup onto the saucer. It clinks, and after letting the small sound land for beat he says lowly, “You’re not gonna be any trouble, are you?”

Your breath catches, your voice stalling in your throat. Staring at him heats your blood, makes your palms perspire in your gloves. The man is dignified; he holds himself almost regally wherever he sits or stands. Is it the power he holds that makes him handsome, or is innate attraction purling in the pit of your gut?

…What will the Ceremony be like with him?

“No, Sir,” you say, your voice so soft it cracks. You gulp and collect yourself. Timidity does not seem to be a quality Commander Lawrence respects—another lesson you’d ardently learned only to be proven useless in his house. With more confidence, but not too much, particularly for Aunt Lydia’s benefit, you say, “Praise be to you, Commander, and may He make me truly worthy.”

You can feel Aunt Lydia’s presence lift with pride. You can see the smile spread across her face without needing to look at her, and can hear her words in your head without her needing to speak them.

‘Very good, dear,’ comes the Aunt’s voice in your mind.

The Commander looks you over, stoic as ever. “Ya,” is all he says in reply.

“Ofjoseph is one of our most promising Handmaids, Commander, allow me to assure you,” Aunt Lydia chimes in, now, finally, feeling on equal footing again. “Since the horrendous tragedies that your household has withstood, we thought it right and just that you be unburdened in at least this regard, Sir.”

“Unburdened?” the Commander replies flatly, his stalwart gaze now fixed on the Aunt.

You’re not sure whether you can look away from him. Does he wish for your eyes to remain on him? Does he expect you to look at him and from him at your own discretion? Would he like you to use your own judgement?

Regardless, it is clear that the decision of the Red Center Aunts to provide a pious, docile new Handmaid as consolation for his wife’s death is—at the very best—unappreciated by the Commander.

But whether or not Commander Lawrence appreciates the gesture and the gift that the Aunts have made you into is, ultimately, not your concern. Your first and last and only priority is that you fall pregnant with Commander Lawrence’s child as soon as humanly possible—or it’s the Colonies for you.

However, you being his sixth Handmaid, the Commander needs you to fall pregnant with his child just as quickly—given, especially, the sudden exodus of most of Gilead’s children seemingly overnight.

“Forgive me, Commander,” Aunt Lydia frowns, her eyes softening apologetically. “I only meant—”

“’s fine,” he interrupts, setting his cup and saucer back on the tray. “Tea’s gone cold, anyway,” the Commander stands from his seat and straightens his waistcoat, clearing his throat. “You can find your way out, Aunt Lydia?”

“Certainly, Sir,” Aunt Lydia assures him, mirroring his movement and standing from the sofa, somewhat uneasily on her injured leg. On instinct, you rise to your feet too.

“Til next time,” the Commander says, his voice laced with sarcastic fondness, as he strolls from the room and into what must be his private study. He doesn’t spare you a single backwards glance as he pulls another set of pocket doors closed behind him.

Silence settles over the sitting room like night.

Just like that, the visit concludes, and the realisation washes over you.

You’re not leaving with Aunt Lydia, when she goes, which she’s sure to do in just a moment.

This is it. The transaction is complete.

Your place is here. This house is now your home.

“I’ll be back the day after the Ceremony, dear,” Aunt Lydia says, leaning on her cane to stand. “In about, oh!” she pauses, looks at you with bright eyes, “seven days! Oh, sacred number. Blessings, Ofjoseph. May God bring forth His miracle.”

You muster a smile for her. Despite how this woman screamed at you, berated you, withheld your food and your sleep and denigrated your sense of self until you believed you were worth nothing more than being impregnated and delivering a healthy baby, her absence from your daily routine will be an adjustment.

You say, “Under His Eye, Aunt Lydia.”

She cups your cheek. “Under His Eye, dear.”

The Aunt makes her way to the door, met by Sienna and the second Martha, Beth, who stand in the foyer to see her off. The front door closes behind Aunt Lydia, and as soon as the latch locks it’s as if a dark, heavy storm cloud lifts from the house.

The Marthas sigh and relax, chattering eagerly and bickering animatedly about tonight’s dinner and even complaining about the Commander’s fussiness as they strut down the hallway to the kitchen. From the other side of the house, you hear a flare of music go up: some kind of Big Band era song, with trumpets and tubas and horns playing vivace—lively and fast.

The sun peeks out from behind the shroud of overcast sky, lighting up the sitting rooms with the glow of mid-afternoon.

You take a breath.

This old house feels alive.

#commander joseph lawrence #joseph lawrence #commander joseph lawrence x reader #commander joseph lawrence x you #joseph lawrence x reader #joseph lawrence x you #the handmaid's tale #g writes

55 notes · View notes

masqueradeball · 3 years

Note

How about number 3? Like, tell us all about it if you want :)

Oh my gosh 🥺 thank you so much for giving me my first ask! 💖 I'm eternally grateful I get to spill all my pheels out.

3. What is my favorite Phantom tv/film adaptation?

My absolute favorite Phantom is the 1925 Lon Chaney silent film. He just embodies everything that I like about Gaston Leroux's Erik for me and he is both horrifying and pitiable. I dislike the ending but I can live with it given it's what test audiences wanted at the time. I truly love his Red Death costume. You can find it on Youtube and the Tubi app for free.

My first runner up would be Claude Raines in the 1943 because his Erique so soft and tragic in that film I cannot help but love him. This was one was my grandma's favorite 'classic monster' movies that she loved, so I have a special place in my heart for this one. I love his hair and appreciate that he was one fine silver fox before the revenge and jealousy issues set in. The opera parts are a little boring, but the costumes and the sassy diva rival to Christine are worth the watch. We get 2 handsome Raouls who end up going to dinner together at the end of the movie and a Christine who gets to bask in the limelight of her career while not choosing any suitor, which is the best possible outcome for her. Double play for the win in my book! You can watch it for free on the Peacock app.

My next runner up is a 3 way tie between Robert Englund, Gerard Butler, and Charles Dance.

I honestly enjoy all their performances because they each bring something unique to the role.

I cannot stress enough how violent the Robert Englund version is if you want to give it a go, but Erik Destler is insane, twisted, and fabulously murdertastic in this. I love the creepy, evil vibes the man gives off. Think of this film as a time travel AU of the original novel. I feel like he nailed Leroux Erik's darker, snarky personality that some people tend to forget he had and the gothic horror parts of the original novel are there. Bonus: they keep the Faust parallels like in the novel!

I'm gonna say it: I love the Charles Dance miniseries. I know it's not the best, but damn, he is so dry and sarcastic I cannot help but enjoy his performance. I want to pinch his cheeks and smother Cherik with the love his father never gave him everytime I see him. Again, this one focuses on the operas a lot, and for me it's a bit boring. But the backgrounds, settings, and props in this thing are fantastic and the costumes are wonderful too.

That leaves Gerard Butler in the 2004 movie. No he is not the world's greatest singing Phantom, but I don't care. I absolutely love his facial expressions and body language. The Phantom is an emotional, expressive dude and the Red Death costume scene is pretty good. I love how kind and sincere Emmy feels in this film and I appreciate she's not overracting and doesn't feel fake compared to some other Christines *coughSierracough* Being the film version of the ALW musical, this Phantom story focuses on the romance and Gerard excels at that. When he and Christine are singing Past the Point of no Return, I FEEL THEIR PASSION! And that's what counts more so than hitting the same notes we've all heard a million times before.

Now for the versions in the 'I will eternally like this' category 😊 :

The Phantom of the Paradise from 1974. This is also a very violent and dark film so fair warning if you haven't seen it. It's a bizarre rock musical, but if you're weird like me and enjoy Rock & Rule or the Rocky Horror Picture Show, this might be a film you'd like too. I don't want to spoil it too much but the Faust/devil parallels are here too, as is various pop culture references. His teeth and mask are terrifyingly cool, and so is the electronic voice box he uses. It makes sense Daft Punk was inspired by this film. Maybe G1 Soundwave was inspired by this film too, but that's a debate for another day 😉

Next is the animated 1988 film. This one features animation on par with other 80s tv cartoons of the time. I love that they kept the Persian and the torture chamber from the novel. The Phantom's death scene is pretty damn epic. Christine is kind of a flake, but animated Leroux Erik is hilariously insane and terribly charming, especially when he calls himself a Don Juan. It's worth watching just for his antics and his dialouge.

You might not expect a Goosebumps episode to do a Phantom story any justice, but here we are: 1995, The Phantom of the Auditorium is a spooky fun take on the story and honestly, I'd like to see the full play the kids at that school are putting on cause it looks better than some of the live Phantom stage scenes I've seen. Both young boys playing the Phantom are fantastic actors and the plot twist at the end is great.

I absolutely have to give a shout out to Wishbone's Pantin at the Opera. He is the best, cutest, most adorable Raoul de Chagney ever and I will fight you if you dare talk smack about this version. I'm not even a Raoul stan by any means but like, this dog is precious and I enjoy this episode so much.

Also in the animated category and cute dog category is Scooby Doo Stage Fright made back in 2013. This movie is one of my fave Scooby Doo films (yes I own almost all of them on dvd) and there are multiple Phantoms, a reality tv show contest, and Fred and Daphne finally kiss each other! Lots and lots of hidden Phantom references in the background and lots of voice acting talent for those of us who appreciate that.

Now for the versions I intensely dislike 😏

The 1962 Herbert Lom version. UGH where to start. The sets are so small and everything looks dirty and of the wrong time period. The color in the film looks washed out. The clothes look too modern somehow (maybe it's their hairstyles?) and it bothers me. It feels low budget in a bad way and it shows. This phantom is not likeable or pitiable even though his backstory is similar to the Claude Raines version. He has no romantic interest in Christine, so it feels off. This guy is such an old a$$ piece of sh*t, he literally slaps Christine as she's singing for him for no damn reason. His paper mache mask looks like a Kindergartener's botched art class project. His personality is like somebody locked up cranky grandpa in the basement and he's PMS-ing because y'all forgot to give him his daily prune juice. This squatter's lair lacks creepiness, and his bizarre sidekick is annoying and yet somehow more interesting than the Phantom. The pervert manager trying to bang Christine aggravated me and simultaneously made me want to vomit. Raoul is the only likeable character in the whole damn movie. The Joan of Arc opera scene makes up for some of the film, but it's still terrible.

Next on my meh list is the 1983 made for tv movie starring Micheal York and Jane Seymour. Now, this one has some likeable and applaudable scenes: the various murders and general creepiness of the Phantom, and the lair scene when she wakes up in his bed and the Phantom gets all up in her face is so intense and so Leroux I absolutely love it. The rest of the film is a jumbled hot mess at best, but Jane Seymour is 🔥 and she gets some damn good sex, so hell yeah to that!

And lastly, I do not like the Royal Albert Hall 25th anniversary recording. I should preface this by saying it is Sierra I don't like. I like Ramin, I love Hadley, everyone else is wonderful but I cannot stand Sierra. She tries too hard to make Christine a Disney Princess- and that doesn't fly with me. It comes off as insincere or mocking the source material at best, and at worst it makes Christine look like an airheaded ditz. Apparently Sierra played Ariel at one point which is hilarious because of all the Disney princesses, I dislike her the most. But that's a different rant for another day.

And finally, the one I hate most of all:

The 1998 Argento film. This is the worst Phantom adaptation I've ever seen. It is a whole lotta nope for me. Between the rats, the unecessary and pointless telepathy, the r*pe scene, and the unfunny weird vibe from the murder going on in this film it's a disaster from start to finish. Honestly, it's the rats and his hair that bother me from a visual standpoint alone and it's beyond disgusting the way this a$$🤡 treats Christine. I don't like any of the characters in here and for good reason. It's not worth watching and if you do, be ready to bleach your brain afterwards.

💖 Sorry if this was a long read! Thanks again for giving me an ask and I will cherish it forver!!!! 💖

#phantom of the opera #poto film adaptations

19 notes · View notes

stories-by-rie · 3 years

Text

Chapter 3 - Heart of Silver

Back in the present, Evelyn and Ariel search the house of the dead granny in order to find clues on how to stop the heart of silver curse.

words: 3614 || masterlist

Evelyn pulled in on the house’s driveway. Now that she knew that no one was living there anymore, she couldn’t deny the ghostly aura that hung on it. The windows were dirty, the geraniums in the windows dead and brown. The driveway was growing weeds all over, so unlike the tidy places of most older people. Even the magnolia tree looked glum now.

“The whole house feels like death,” Ariel mumbled as they walked closer. “Must have been a pretty rich lady, though. Didn’t you say she didn’t have any money?”

“It’s an old woman. She owned the house and couldn’t bear to separate from it. Believe me, she told me for nearly a whole hour how she wouldn’t move out because she couldn’t see it in someone else’s hands. The pension was just enough to cover for house and food, so she didn’t have much extra.”

They came to a halt before the door that was cordoned off by the police, but Evelyn swiftly cut through the sticker.

“You’ve become unscrupulous, huh,” Ariel said and stepped in behind her.

“It’s your terrible influence,” Evelyn replied and turned on the lights.

“This was probably a nice house once,” Ariel noted as they looked around. The ceiling was dark brown mahogany, the floor white marble tiles that looked quite expensive, but were covered with a great Persian carpet. Overall it seemed to have been a very grandiose house judging by its interior alone. There were shadows on the walls, where paintings or photos must have hung -- which perhaps had been sold in time. This was an impression that wasn’t new to Evelyn, as weren’t the spiderwebs in the corners and the dust on the decoration.

“They probably used to have a lot of money back in the day. Judging from the silverware alone,” Evelyn agreed and pointed towards the dining room, the door still open from the day before. Ariel nodded along and they walked over the echoing tiles, over the old dusty rugs, quieter. There was a simple chandelier over the dinner table, dipping the small room in yellow light, spider webs between its bulbs.

Evelyn walked over to the sideboard, opened the drawer where the silverware was neatly stashed on red velvet.

“Fancy,” Ariel mumbled and looked at the spoons and knives and forks. “So which of these is the culprit?”

Evelyn looked down, face blank. “I don’t remember.”

“Didn’t you say that there was some kind of evil aura?”

“Very much so. It only missed evil green sparkles or something. But it just looked like a fork. Maybe too much like a fork? It definitely stood out somehow.” Evelyn looked down at the forks. None of it was missing, the cutlery was still neatly put in its satin cushion, but she still couldn’t make out the one that had been the medium to curse her. She still remembered the unsettling feeling that had overcome her at the sight of the whole drawer the last time around, shivers running down her spine. All of that was missing now.

“Maybe it is because I sent the granny off? Or because the curse got activated?” she mused. Ariel crossed their arms before their chest.

“That’s both possible. Curses work in a whole lot of different ways, there are dozens of various classifications for how they are transmitted alone. If the medium isn’t working once the curse gets activated, and doesn’t even show signs of the curse, then it means that either the curse gets transmitted through the victim, or that the curse medium is randomised. Any kind of object could be the medium now if it’s not you.”

Evelyn felt her limbs get heavier at those words. It was not the silver – not yet. It was the hope that left her in that moment. Somehow, it had been so easy in her mind. Ariel knew their curses. They knew how to break them.

“So, what do we do no-”

Evelyn didn’t even get to finish her question before Ariel took the first fork and poked their finger on it.

“What are you doing?” her voice jumped an octave higher as Ariel tried the next one.

“These aren’t exactly sharp, did it bleed when you poked your finger?”

“No. Sort of? There was liquid silver when I pressed it. But- Why are you-”

“Maybe it is just a hidden medium. Sometimes, when curses are especially deadly, to make sure the whole power goes into just that one victim, the medium hides its potential so that it won’t curse two people at the same time.”

“Ah.” Evelyn stared at Ariel as they kept poking themselves with the forks. “So can it still curse you then?”

“Depends. Potentially.”

It was late and Evelyn was exhausted, so it took a while for her to understand those words’ meaning. Once she did, however, she quickly grabbed the fork out of Ariel’s hand and put it back.

“Are you mad? What if you get cursed too?” With horror she looked at a reasonably startled Ariel who just shrugged.

“Would definitely keep me motivated.” Their gaze dropped to Evelyn’s neck, then wrists where the dark silver veins were well hidden by her hoodie.

“No. If you get sick you won’t be able to cure me anymore. You stay alive, preferably.” Evelyn closed the drawer and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Then how do you think I am going to find the right fork if it is just hiding?” At this point Ariel sounded a little exasperated, a fake smile on their dark purple lips.

“Don’t you have some strange curse detector of sorts?”

Ariel just shook their head. “Only nolly-powder and that’s really just for our last resort, okay? There are really, drastically awful side-effects, and we should not lose time because of them.”

It was quiet in the dining room, only the platter of the rain against the windows -- it sounded spitefully soft now. The quiet of a house not lived in. Consequently, it was easy to hear the door fall shut.

Both Evelyn and Ariel whipped around toward the back of the room, where the door was still wide open as they had left it.

“Maybe above us?” Evelyn wondered with a toneless voice.

“Did you not say you sent the granny off?” Ariel asked instead. They glanced at each other with the same uncertain look in their eyes.

“I am really tired. I would honestly be happier if this was a burglar, and not a ghost. Or a Mare. Seriously, I couldn’t even handle an Elwetritsch today.”

“Isn’t that last one just some super shy chicken with antlers?” Ariel had turned back to the forks and continued poking their finger.

“Please don’t underestimate chicken nor antlers. But yes. They also can’t shut doors,” Evelyn said and sighed deeply. Maybe, if she ignored any kind of noises for long enough they would eventually disappear by themselves.

Certainly, getting cursed didn’t seem bad enough for one day, though. So she flinched when there followed the sound of something heavy falling over – really heavy – somewhere in the house, even if it was not close by.

“At this point, it would make more sense if it was a burglar,” Ariel said and walked back towards the hallway. Stairs lead up to the next floor on one side, a door right underneath that had to lead into the cellar.“Hey, let’s take bets. I say it’s a burglar, you say it’s a horned chicken. Winner gets ten Euros, deal?”

“It’s called an Elwetritsch, and also I wouldn’t make deals with dying people if I were you, Ariel.”

“That just sounds like you have no faith in my abilities at all.” They said it like a joke, but Evelyn knew them long enough now to understand what they actually meant. The way they weren’t looking up at her when they said it was telling enough.

“I do trust you, Ariel. You know that right?” Evelyn looked at them, and when their eyes finally met, Ariel’s crinkled. “Just, the situation is driving me a bit on edge, that’s all,” she added.

“Mh,” Ariel hummed, not in a way that indicated that they believed her. For now she ignored it, as she did the feeling of doubt in the pit of her stomach, and focused on Ariel instead when they pointed upstairs. “Let’s check in on the Elwetritsch?”

Evelyn nodded and followed them up the stairs. Last time she had not gone that far deep into the house, and it seemed like the old woman who had lived here didn’t either. The dust laid heavily on the old furniture, even on the ground in a way that was easy to see in the dim light.

“Doesn’t seem like she went here often.” Ariel wiped a finger over the dust and pulled a face. “This is going to make my allergies so bad.”

“Maybe she was too old to walk many steps. Old people have bad joints, no?” Evelyn opened the door to her side, revealing a small bathroom that looked like it was ripped straight out of a 70s decoration advert. It smelled like old water and too much soap, the tiles a shade of orange that should be banned.

“It would be a good place for a burglar now that the house is officially empty, just that there are no signs of a living person anywhere. Not even chicken feet in the dust.” Ariel had kneeled on the ground staring at the floor from close up and squinted at the tiles. They sneezed.

“Maybe the noise came from the cellar then,” Evelyn wondered and walked over to the next door. Behind it, there was a children’s room. Posters of pop bands from the eighties still hung on the walls, the bookshelves empty but the bed still made ready. It poked at Evelyn, uncurled something inside her heart at the view.

“She had her kid’s room ready for whenever they would come back home, it seems. That’s very nice.” And still no one had noticed the old woman’s death in such a long time. She must have been truly lonely. She walked over to the next room that was mostly empty.

“Any chickens inside?” Ariel asked into the space – nothing answered. There were still curtains and a closet on the wall. A fainter colour in the shape of a bed on another wall.

“This probably was the old bedroom. Maybe she had the bed brought downstairs at some point.” Evelyn walked over where there was still an impression of the bedposts in the old rug.

“Okay, one more room, I am having the hunch that I will be disappointed regarding my expectations to see horned chicken today.”

“Wait.” Evelyn turned back to Ariel who was just about to walk over to the next room. “Don’t you think this room feels weird?” she asked and Ariel just shrugged. But there was an undeniable shadow hiding in the corners, behind the curtains, inside the closet.

“Feels like it does in your apartment. Like ghosts are trapped in here.”

“There are no ghosts trapped inside my apartment,” Ariel refuted but walked closer to Evelyn as she went to open the closet door.

“Are you good with ghosts?” they mumbled behind her back as she put her hand on the door knob.

“Most of them. As long as I recognize them, yes.”

Ariel chuckled a bit at her words, which gave her the courage to open the door. Behind, there was nothing. Nothing but shadows. Evelyn crunched down and now it was her turn to wipe with her finger through the dust.

“And?”

“Looks like there were ghosts here at least. Maybe it was the granny. There is residue mixed here. See? The grey ash?” She held her finger up for Ariel to see and they nodded.

“Knew that dust looked funky.”

“It’s when ghosts dissolve. They lose what could be considered their body. To the human eye it looks ashen. It also tends to darken shadows.”

“Fascinating.”

Evelyn looked up at Ariel with a raised eyebrow. “You had a class about this. You studied the same subjects as me at uni.”

“That really is no reason for me to actually know this stuff.”

Evelyn supposed that they had made a fair point and let the matter be, even if the confusion would not leave her.

“The granny was still very lifelike when I saw her. She couldn’t have dissolved that much so quickly for us to find so much residue.”

“So, more ghosts?”, Ariel suggested and Evelyn gave a nod. There was only one more room on the floor, and she could not deny the rising anticipation. Before the door, they both hesitated, though.

“If there is no burglar in there, we should check the cellar next,” Evelyn mused and Ariel nodded and stepped back a bit, as if asking Evelyn to open the door first.

“We should check the cellar either way, really. No matter what we find behind this door” she said and took a step back too. Ariel just sent their hand through their hair and pointed at the door.

“You feel that there’s something behind this, too. Don’t you? It might be important, so we should really check this out. You go first.”

Evelyn shook her head. “There is no reason I should go first. This is about curses, so you’re the go-to person. You should go first.”

“It’s likelier that there’s a burglar behind this, or a horned chicken. That’s your area of expertise, so you should go first. I am far too fragile to be put in such a danger.”

“Ariel, you were the one who went to attack a Mare back when we met, do you remember?”

“Yes, and I have learnt and changed myself through that experience. More specifically, I have learnt that it should be you who deals with these kinds of matters. So after you.”

Evelyn sighed deeply and then shrugged. “You know what? Fine. There’s no reason not to check out this room too. I can ignore some cold shudders down my spine, I am not that easily frightened.” Just as she put her hand on the door knob, though, the knob dissipated to dust right in front of her. Evelyn and Ariel exchanged a glance. “I feel like something doesn’t actually want us to enter this room.”

“No shit.” Ariel stepped back even farther and then waved for her to move out of the way. Evelyn just managed to get far away enough before they tried to kick the door open.

A loud yelp, a loud bang when the door flew open, but nothing else happened, no monster jumping at them, no screaming ghost, and no attacking burglar either. In front of them was a simple study, filled with bookshelves and a big desk full of papers and letters.

“I am slightly disappointed. That’s what I hurt my ankle for?” Ariel said as they stepped inside. Evelyn followed right after and couldn’t hide her slight awe. For a few seconds, the sight of the study overwhelmed her, a space that was clearly well cared for, a space that must have been so precious a long time ago. It was as obvious as it could be, small decorative figures on the shelf, a few letters framed on the wall. The only sign of neglect was the thick layer of dust on the books, even inside there. It was the few seconds in which Evelyn’s heart beat a bit lighter, forgetting about the fact that it pumped liquid silver through her body.

The spell was broken as Ariel’s words settled in a bit late. “You hurt your ankle? Should we go and check with a doctor?”

“No, it’ll be fine. This is how devoted I am to curing you. Let’s check out these open letters and books, maybe we will find a clue about the curse,” Ariel whispered. They had a good point though, so they both started to work through what they could get in their hands.

It didn’t take long until they realized what the old lady had used the study for.

“She was looking into curses,” Evelyn said as she flipped through A Beginners Guide to Curses And How to Break Them.

“Yeah. I found a conversation with a famous curse-broker from the sixties here. Apparently they were discussing some new phenomena that they thought were linked to curses.”

“But she was not a curse-broker herself?” Evelyn wondered and Ariel shook their head.

“If she had been, I would have known. Not a professional one, at least. Maybe she just was fascinated by them. Or maybe she had a victim in her family. A lot of people get into curses after one of their loved ones succumbs to one.”

Evelyn continued to flip through the book before her until her fingers traced the photo of a boy in silver, shackled to a barn wall. A cold shudder ran through her then, made her recoil a bit before she flipped to the next page, where an equally familiar photo was printed.

“Ariel, I am certain that this woman knew about the Heart of Silver curse. This book looks well read.”

“You have it,” Ariel mumbled from behind her, their voice a bit thin. It nearly sounded as if they would start crying, which was a slightly unsettling thought.

When Evelyn turned around, it was not Ariel who stood behind her. Instead, she stared right at the very dead eyes of a young boy. He was maybe fifteen years old, still already nearly as big as Evelyn herself. The startle nearly made her scream, but she could control herself just in time. Carefully, she tried to look around and find Ariel, but the boy just came closer, losing his body more and more.

“Yes, I have. I have it,” Evelyn stuttered and held out the book to him.

“No. You have it,” the boy repeated, in the same manner, but he still sounded more powerful. His eyes dropped to her neck, where the black lines of her silver veins were visible the best.

“I do,” she agreed and pulled up her sleeves as well to bare her wrists.

“You should find what you really want,” the boy said with a sad tone in his voice, it sounded farther away than he was. So hollow.

“I will. Thank you.”

The boy still looked like there was more that he wanted to say, but when he opened his mouth next, there was no sound coming from him. Instead he just disappeared into thin air once more. Evelyn felt her whole body shake.

“Oh! Look at what I found! That old granny won second place in a cooking show once!” Ariel yelled from across the room. Evelyn turned to them and the framed certificate in their hands.

“Wow, you look as if you have seen a ghost.”

Evelyn just stared at them from afar and pointed towards the dusty footprints before her.

“There is a ghost in here.”

The ash-like dust was still falling slowly like soft snow and landed before her feet -- the thought alone that the ghost was standing so close made her skin crawl. Ariel took off their glasses for a moment to narrow their eyes at where Evelyn was pointing.

“I can’t see anything.”

“The ghost is currently not showing his corporal form.”

Ariel nodded and pushed the glasses back up their nose. “So it was a ghost, not a burglar or an Elwetritsch. At least as long as there isn’t anything weird in the cellar. What happens when neither of us win a bet? Do we both pay? You give me 10 euros and I give you 10 euros?”

Evelyn decided to ignore the question and instead held up the book that was still in her hands.

“The old lady knew about the curse. The ghost materialized for a moment when I talked about it. He said ‘You should find what you really want’, and then disappeared.”

Finally, Ariel got a bit more serious and walked over.

“That’s the same book as I have at home,” they mumbled and took it out of her hands. “So the old granny really knew some of those curses. I wonder if it’s just a coincidence, or if she was somehow tied to that curse especially.” They flipped through the pages not unlike Evelyn had done before, until they looked up again. “What is it that you really want, Evelyn?”

“I want to get rid of this curse, of course, what do you think?”

“What do you really want, must be the focus here, then. So, some kind of personal revelation might be the key to fulfilling the curse.”

“Believe me, my thoughts and emotions are all set on staying alive. Maybe what he said was not related to the curse, though. It could be that he was just talking nonsense. Some ghosts lose control over their words with time,” Evelyn pointed out and with another glance at the ashen dust before her, she added, “This one has been dissolving for a long time now, from what it looks like. I bet he is the one leaving all the residue in the other rooms.”

Ariel put down the book onto the desk and stared at the ashen footprints in front of Evelyn. “Better search the cellar then? Let’s find out a bit more about this granny that taught herself about curses, hid ghosts in her house, and cursed innocent ghost hunters after her death with her silverware, shall we?”

In lieu of nothing better to say, Evelyn agreed and carefully stepped around the ghost, out of the study.

____

previous chapter || WIP intro || masterlist || next chapter

#writeblr #novella #my writing #original fiction #fantasy #urban fantasy #ghosts #curses #wip; heart of silver #heart of silver chapter 3 #tw body horror #(very very light not really spooky though)#tw depression #tw death mention #because of ghosts

13 notes · View notes

lesliedraws-lilithcurses · 3 years

Photo

Hi guys, I wanted to shed a bit more light on the last artwork I posted on my Tumblr by giving it context. You can see the original artwork here. So I wrote another fic. It’s quite short but I already had a few lovely feedback, thank you all for your kudos and comments, they’re very much appreciated and I love when I get to know that what I share actually makes you happy! Because we all deserve some goodness in those weird times and I am delighted I can somehow provide with some escape.

Enjoy!

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cover Art, Romantic Soulmates, romance in the desert, roman antiquity, picnic in galilee, Star Gazing, romantic dinner, and yes the universe does taste like raspberry Summary:

As he was drawing nearer, the angel could see that Crowley had put fantastic efforts in gathering tonight’s elements for a perfect setting.

There was a lush, hand embroidered carpet that seemed Persian, oh and so many pillows! Most of them sewn with silver and golden threads… It was clear that the demon loved nice things, he was currently looking like a lovely magpie in its nest, very content and all cosy.

There were three flat oil lamps made of a golden material that Aziraphale suspected might be, well, gold… Oh dear. All decorated with lovely motifs, they were lightning the scene in a lovely golden light as daylight was slowly giving way to a breathtaking starry night.

The angel sat down next to the demon and enjoyed the view of the endless desert unfurling in front of them. A few palm trees and bushes of desert roses were the only shadows nearby. Other than that, it was all solitude and peace. Not loneliness mind you, solitude is different. It is chosen, and it can also be enjoyed at two.

#good omens #good omens ao3 #fanfic #ineffable fanart #ineffable partners #romance #romantic scene

14 notes · View notes

kylorengarbagedump · 4 years

Text

Little Bird: Chapter 25 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 24 here. Part 26 here.

Summary: All right, well, I guess no one's gonna go swimming in that pool, anymore.

Words: 6600

Warnings: cw--a kylorengarbagedump special: tons of graphic violence and gratuitous bloodplay

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: HI, HELLO, what the fuck am I doing! I'd like to give thanks to @faestae and John Wick for this chapter. Without them, I'd be completely fucked. For some reason, I keep writing shit that demonstrates how little I know about writing anything other than sex. Please let me know what you thought! I'm interested to see what people think about this bit.

I love y'all so very much! Thank you for always offering kindness and encouragement. <3

You hadn’t taken your eyes off of your Commander since entering the car, hoping that, if you stared long enough, you’d be able to identify any hint of emotion, any flicker of feeling in his inscrutable expression. But Kylo Ren sat, back against the partition, hands at his sides, a veneer of distance cast over his face. The harder you looked, the further away he seemed--like a void, emptying itself, slowly, of vulnerability.

“Do you know how long I’ve known your Commander?” said Snoke. You felt his spider-leg gaze crawling over your figure. “Since he was a boy.”

Unsure if you were supposed to respond, you dipped your head in the tiniest nod you could muster.

“And there was a period where he disagreed, you know. With the idea of Gilead. Did you know that?”

Ren was solid, unmoving, staring through the back windshield. He didn’t blink, didn’t twitch. Swallowing, you allowed yourself to peer over at Snoke. He was watching you expectantly.

“Um.” To be fair, you did know that--you just didn’t know to what degree, and for how long. “I didn’t know that, no.”

“Well, it’s true.” His focus drifted back to Ren. “He was so unsure of himself, back then. Couldn’t ever make a decision. Afraid to let himself achieve what he was truly capable of.” A dark, breathy laugh escaped him. “He was so sensitive, so scared.”

There, right below his nose, you saw it--a twinge of muscle.

“But, thankfully, he’s resolved those doubts, now.” A wicked smile twisted through his skin. “Haven’t you, Ren?”

His eyes, like slate, met Snoke’s for a millisecond. “Yes.”

“Yes.” Now Snoke turned his attention to you. “He believes, like I do, in the roles of society. In the order we can provide by enforcing them.” A glance at Ren. “Isn’t that right, boy?”

“Yes.” His back straightened.

“He agrees with me that Handmaids are one of those unfortunate necessities of society,” Snoke said. “If we had a perfect world, we wouldn’t need you at all.” He shrugged. “For now, both of you have your roles. Separate and equal.”

Not that nonsense again. It sounded just as repulsive as when it had come out of Ren’s mouth. “I think we’re both more than that.” You peered at your Commander, who observed you with guarded confusion. “More than our roles.”

Snoke’s eyes sparkled with some sick delight. “Really, now.” He looked to Ren. “We have to make sacrifices, don’t we. To ensure our vision survives to the next generation.”

He averted his gaze, nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You’ve made many sacrifices for Gilead, Ren.”

Snoke’s hand laid on your knee, squeezing it, red fabric bunching in his skeletal grip. Your throat thickened with fear, your breath stolen. Ren’s chest filled with slow, tense air, his jaw tight. The knife in your sleeve seemed to sear you with its presence--you imagined whipping it out, swiping the button, slamming the blade right into the old man’s wrinkled neck. Instead, you sat there, watching his hand creep higher, your focus switching between his fingers and your Commander.

Do what you wish with it.

If you tried to attack him now, here, in his car, both you and Ren would end up dead. You shoved the urge into the bottom of your brain, chin trembling as the bony excuse for a hand grazed your thigh--Snoke’s eyes were trained on Ren, daring him to move.

But he did nothing.

A whirr of a winding engine cut through the silence, and Snoke removed his hand--you sagged with relief. He rolled down the window, making a quick motion with his wrist, the limo stopping for a brief moment. Then it pushed forward, past a gated entrance staffed with at least two guards armed with rifles. Fear dug its claws into your chest.

The limo coasted up a long, winding driveway, up to what you could only define as a mansion, and came to a halt. Snoke glanced at the both of you, popping the door open.

“We’ve arrived,” he said. “Come, now.”

Ren met your eyes for a brief, electric second before he exited the vehicle. Steeling your nerves, you followed, feeling significantly hampered by the rustling of your dress. As you clambered into the sun, you breathed the heavy summer air and glanced over the property.

A white stone gate with the pair of sentries encircled a ring of decorative topiaries, bushels of red flowers poking through the mulched landscape. The driveway looped like a racetrack through the yard, up to the bleached cement plaza that opened to a glittering fountain pond. The center of the fountain was dominated by a marble carving of Jesus on the cross, his head craned toward the sky, water gushing in clear, noisy rivers from his hands and crown. In front of you, the staired entrance led to a grand, columned pavilion that guided you toward the front door, a glass and iron arch with concentric rows of windows radiating out to the walls.

All of this might have been beautiful, you thought, had you not been a slave, invited with your owner under the pretense of interrogation.

That, and the two guards coming to escort you to the entrance--also armed, of course.

They bookended you in a line--Snoke, Ren, and you--through the front door, into the vaulted foyer, ivory granite floors stretching out into a wide parlor room, light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Through them, you spied the backyard, complete with a glimmering Tuscan-style pool, enclosed also by that same white stone. And more guards marching in assignment.

Silent, you kept close to your Commander’s heels as you all climbed the one of the two curved staircases, ascending past an enormous chandelier, tiers of glowing crystal casting flakes of light onto your skin. Despite its warmth, at the last step, you fell cold--there were still more riflemen at the top. The guards ushered you down an empty hall to an open door. They stood at either side of the entrance, and, blood escaping your face, you followed Ren and Snoke inside.

Cherry wood-panelled walls wrapped the oval stone floor, a circular Persian rug rolled out underneath a huge teak desk. It was accompanied by a tall Chesterfield throne upholstered in red leather, two smaller, sister chairs attending the sides. Behind the desk, built-in shelves were lined with heavy, hardbound tomes, all illuminated by two sets of double-necked glass sconces at the two ends of the room.

You stood next to Ren, hands strangling each other as Snoke closed the door and wandered around to the head of his desk. His stride was slow, deliberate, crossing the room like it was slick with molasses. Arriving at his chair, he opened one of the drawers, carding through it before pulling out a folder and plopping it on the flat surface. With precision, he plucked a few pages from it, pushing them forward.

“Do you remember signing these, Ren?”

Kylo Ren’s eyes flicked between the paper and his superior. “Yes.”

“Your very first acceptance to the order,” Snoke said, gazing at it. “The evidence of your commitment.” He turned his attention to you. “You said that you think you’re more than your roles. But I know that isn’t the case.”

You cleared your throat, spine straightening. “And I know it is.”

“You’d be wrong,” Snoke said. “Because Kylo Ren is a facade. An identity--a role. Just like yours.” He paused, waiting for Ren to react. He didn’t. “Before he was Kylo Ren, he was a lost, lonely little boy. Always winding up in fights. Parents too busy to care.”

Ren rolled his tongue along the inside of his teeth, but said nothing.

“But I saw potential in him. Didn’t I, boy?” Snoke offered him a small grin. “I could see the greatness, the cunning, the power you could have.”

“You did,” Ren muttered.

“And this is all you’ve become. Your heart hasn’t hardened. You’re soft. You could never hope to be Kylo Ren.” He sighed, and leered at him. “And I’m disappointed to see that this is the case.”

He was silent, chin raising, stare toward the floor.

“You’re still fighting it, aren’t you?” When he didn’t respond, Snoke’s entire face twisted in a frown. “Answer me, boy.”

“I’m not.”

“No?” Snoke opened the top drawer of his desk and produced a massive silver revolver, tossing it on the desk with a thunk. “Prove it,” he said. “Shoot her.”

Your heart shot between your ears, eyes darting between Snoke, Ren, the gun, Snoke, Ren, the gun, Snoke, Ren, the gun. Kylo Ren was as unreadable as ever--he considered the revolver as if Snoke had thrown down a ballpoint pen. A tiny breath escaped him.

“Everything I’ve done has been for Gilead--my commitment has never wavered--”

“Don’t lie to me, boy!” Snoke’s gaze flashed with barely-leashed rage. “I see how you respond when I touch her, I can feel your weakness for her.”

Ren’s lip twitched. “Weakness. For a Handmaid.”

“I know your mind, Ren. I know every little thought that goes through your brain. Your impulses are raw, you allow Gilead to suffer under your foolishness. This paper...” He held it up, pointing to the signature--beautiful, loopy letters that read Ben Solo. “The boy that signed it still lives. And he is weak.”

Snoke pushed off the desk, stalked over to you--before you could even think to move, his hand gnarled in your hair, fingers scraping like screws over your scalp. You whimpered, thinking to scream, to fight, to beg--but worried Snoke would shoot you himself if you did.

“Show me who you’re meant to be, Kylo Ren.” He ripped you to the floor, shoving you onto your knees near his feet. Then, at the back of your head--something hard. Cold. Another gun. “Or I’ll show you myself.”

In the back of your mind, it seemed strange--for all the scenarios you’d imagined being on your knees in front of your Commander, this had never been one of them. Terror shuddered you, but you stilled the quaking of your flesh, meeting Ren’s eyes, sticking your chin into the air. He stared into you and through you, hooking into your hidden fear, finding himself there. Your chests rose and fell with the same breath, lips parting with the same awful knowledge--there was no scenario where he could save you, no reality where your story could’ve had a different ending. For all of your emptiness, loneliness, wanton need, this was your destiny--two souls, desperate to know the other, denied for every unchangeable reason fate could offer.

Part of you knew that Ren had to kill you. Part of you hoped against hope that, somehow, he wouldn’t.

But then he moved. And he picked up the gun.

“Good,” Snoke said. “Good.”

Ren stepped toward you, face blank, and aimed the revolver until it was inches from your head. You gazed at him, thankful that you’d known relief at least once in the past few years, somehow more thankful that he’d been the one to give it to you. Heat stung your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not now. You’d wished for death too many times at this point to begrudge its arrival.

“Good choice, my boy,” Snoke said. He jerked your scalp. “Would you like to have a prayer for your last words?”

He scoffed. “What use does a dog have for prayer?”

A hearty chuckle. “Oh, I’m nothing if not a man of God.”

“Last prayer, then.” Ren blinked. “Do what you wish with it.”

In your chest, breath hitched, your pulse flying. The switchblade. Swallowing, you glanced at the floor to Snoke’s foot beside you, then back up, meeting Ren’s eyes. A spark, a crooked crackle of light--you were seeing them, seeing him, seeing yourself, a reflection, an echo, pure resonance in the emptiness of his mind--and in that moment, you knew.

You knew him.

Clearing your throat, you began, “O, Lord Jesus…”

You pressed your palms together, bowing your head to conceal them as you used the heel of your hand to guide the blade up your sleeve.

“... pour into me the spirit of your love…”

The handle poked through the edge of fabric, the wooden scales cool and smooth. Your tongue was paper, scratching at your mouth.

“... that in the hour of my death…”

With the switchblade fully encased in your hands, your finger dipped to find the safety and flick it free. Perspiration had it slip in your grip, and you flinched for only a second, pinching it tight between your palms.

“... I may be worthy to vanquish the enemy…”

Your thumb fumbled for the safety, now, finding it behind your sweaty skin.

“... and receive the heavenly crown.”

Pushing it up, you drew a long, deep breath through your nose. Ren cocked his gun.

“Amen.”

The blade sprung free, and you drove it, a stake, straight into Snoke’s hapless foot. He screamed, his gun clattering to the floor--in that instant, Ren cocked a brow, raised the revolver, and fired. Snoke blew back, blood spattering your crown, a crimson spray cast over the desk, onto Ren’s face, and the body hit the floor behind you with a fleshy thud.

You blinked, gasping, trembling, too terrified to look behind you, too anxious to not confirm he was dead. A quick peek--a massive crater in the lifeless facade of his skull--and you swallowed, looking to Kylo Ren, without breath, without speech, without pretense. His eyes were wide and wild, his chest heaving with something like excitement--then, outside the study, the guards stirred.

“Commander Snoke?” one asked.

Ren glanced at the door. His pupils swallowed his irises, and at the corner of his lips, a smirk. He tore off his tie, tossed his suit jacket onto the floor, back and shoulders swelling like mountains underneath his shirt.

“We’re coming in, sir.”

“Get down,” he muttered as he cocked the gun, aiming it at the door. “Come in.”

You scrambled to the side of the desk and tore off your wings so you could see, curling over your knees, and the door squeaked open. The moment the guard’s head breached the entrance, Ren fired, and you jolted--blood spurted, painting the wall, the body dropped. A second guard flung the door back, rushing Ren before he could reload, but Ren threw his elbow into the man’s chin, wringing his arm around his neck and shoving him to the ground. He drove his heel into the guard’s neck before cocking the gun and blowing a hole through his face.

Heart flying in your chest, you stared at him, mouth open, almost unable to believe what you’d just seen. In the recording, you’d heard Snoke call him a warrior--you just hadn’t known until now what that meant.

“We’re moving.” Ren stalked over and snatched your wrist, but you winced.

“Hold on!” You tugged away and snagged the switchblade from Snoke’s foot, sheathing it and shoving it back up your sleeve.

“Come.” He grabbed you again, leading you over the leaking lump of the guard and into the hall.

As you breached the threshold and crossed the hall, two guards turned the corner--the ones from the top of the stairs. Kylo Ren shoved you behind him, gunshots spearing your ears, a body falling; then he slammed you against the wall, the trill of wide rifle bullets whizzing by your skull. You screamed, covered your head, and Ren reached out, wresting the barrel of the offending gun and wrenching the guard flush with his chest--he shoved the revolver up to his chin and fired, viscera erupting from the man’s eye sockets and coating you both.

You gagged, mind whirling--but Ren was crazed, rippling with the heat of exhilaration. He ditched the revolver and tucked the rifle under his arm, shrugging the body off and grabbing you again. Ren hugged you tight to his frame as he marched through the halls; panting, you gazed up at him, futilely trying to process that he had not only murdered his leader, but now apparently planned to gun down the entirety of this estate--when he all he had to do instead was kill you.

He cursed when you reached the steps. A pair of guards was posted at both sets of stairs--and, seeing you, they shouted and charged. Ren’s attention darted between them, landed on the chandelier. He shouldered you back, running forward and leaping from the banister. You squeaked, hands clapping your mouth--but he grappled the chain, feet stumbling over the metal frame as the crystal behemoth swung like a sparkling pendulum in the foyer. The guards hollered, racking their rifles--but Ren fired first.

Using the chandelier like an assassination assistant, Ren pinned the gun to his body and pulled the trigger, spitting a storm of bullets into the staircase, littering pockmarks over the walls. The guards quailed, ducked--Ren jerked the fixture’s chain, rolling his legs down, and he spun, a carousel of death, firing next at the guards climbing the other steps. These two were not so lucky--you caught hot streams of blood splash over the balustrade, and then Ren swung again, crystals clinking like chimes as the chandelier bowed in wide arcs. Face tight with frenzy, he fired, and you watched the bodies crumple like marionettes and tumble down the stairs.

Bobbing in the air, he cast his gaze around the room, back hunched, an animal starved. You grimaced, crawled forward, gripping the banister, and when he met your eyes, he shifted, making to swing.

“Stop!” came a voice from the back of the home.

From underneath the balcony, you saw two guards run forward, rifles pointed up--before you could shout, they fired into the ceiling, clouds of crystal fragments spewing into the air. Ren wobbled, dodging with surprising grace, then flung the chandelier back.

You watched him, lids wide, as he stepped, one foot, another foot, skating over the steel and lurching forward, yanking on the chain like a rope and throwing his legs into the air. His other arm, still occupied with the rifle, swung down, and as he launched himself toward the banister, he fired, sparks snapping, the chain severed. Ren connected with the railing as the chandelier exploded to the floor, crushing the two guards in a splintering spew of metal and glass. Without thinking, you scampered to him, clutching his arms, straining as you helped haul him onto the balcony. He stumbled to his feet and ripped you up by your wrist.

“Commander--”

“Quiet.”

Adrenaline coursed through him into you, absorbed like warmth through your skin. He dragged you down the steps, tossing his current gun and grabbing a new one while you fled over the ragdolled corpses covering your path. In your dress, it was difficult to maneuver, but Ren pulled you through, jaw set firm, ravenous fury dancing in waves from his body. His eyes were focused and feral, a predator, a true, live killer, consumed with a hunger you’d never before seen--not up close.

He led you toward the front door--beyond the mottled glass, you could spy a pair of guards sneaking close, decked in armor, guns raised. Cursing, he doubled back, your arm popping while he hauled you toward the other end of the home. Then two more guards, also in armor, crept across the pool deck in the same formation, heading toward wherever the back entrance was. Grumbling, Ren tore to the right, wringing you forward--you’d been thrust into a huge kitchen, replete with white quartz countertops and oak cabinetry. You had little time to admire it before he shoved you under the hood of the breakfast nook. Breathless, you pulled your knees to your chest, trying to become as small and unnoticeable as possible.

Slinging the gun over his shoulder, he grabbed two long knives from the butcher block on the counter, sidling up to the wall next to an archway that opened to what appeared like a mudroom. The first sentry peered around the corner, and Kylo Ren snarled, driving the knife through the man’s throat. He choked, gasped, writhing as he fell to the ground, rivers of blood spilling over the floor. The second guard flinched, went to raise his rifle at Ren--but the second of hesitation sealed his fate. Ren jammed his foot into the man’s chest, knocking him onto his back, and stomped his face before shifting the rifle into his hands and ending him with a pop, pop.

Flustered with fear, you made to move--and then spotted that the two guards from the front had made their way into the home, crossing into the kitchen. Before you could warn Ren, one fired, a quick burst, striking him in the side. He roared, crumpling to the floor, a bloom of bright blood staining his side--your body burst with fear, with rage, your mind making decisions without a second of uncertainty.

As the guards pushed toward Ren, you threw yourself into their path, a human speedbump; they tripped, stumbled over you, over each other, trampling you as they both collapsed to the ground. You craned your neck to see your Commander--he seethed as he stood, punching himself in his wound, each strike punctuated with a furious grunt.

Kylo Ren flipped the free knife into the air, caught it by the handle, and sneered, stabbing one of the guards through the eye--his body jerked, twitched on top of you, and Ren rolled the other man with his foot, aiming his rifle at his exposed face and riddling it with holes. You squealed as his frame jolted with the shots, trying to scramble free--but Ren caught you by the arm again, prying you to your feet. He started toward the back door, but you jerked away--he spun, hair tossed in choppy waves over his face, teeth bared, entire form trembling with the throes of bloodlust.

“The--the front,” you managed to eke out. “You’re injured, let’s get out of here.”

He growled, seizing your wrist and tugging you forward. “We’re not done yet.”

You swallowed. This was no longer about escaping. It was about revenge.

Led through the mudroom in the wake of his wrath, Ren discarded you to the side of the door and shouldered it open. Two guards stood, anticipating, at the exit, two more chasing around the pool. Your Commander wrapped one of the guards in a headlock, using him as a shield while he surged forward, facing the closest guard while shooting over his arm at the other two. They shook, barraged with bullets, toppling back until they both splashed into the pool, crimson fog weeping into the water. The guard in his grip kicked back, and he faltered--the man closest to him took this as an opportunity to lunge, and smashed into Ren, knocking him and his hostage to the ground.

Chest tightening, you made to move, but hesitated--what would you do? Shoot them? Your brain raced with the possibilities--at this point, you’d picked up a pistol, but you’d never pictured yourself as someone who could end a life. You’d also never pictured yourself as someone who would speak back to the lead Commander of Gilead, get belted over a knee, have her pussy stuffed with a gun, or feel worry for the man who owned her.

That last one caught you by surprise--you weren’t just worried, you were terrified. And not for yourself, but for him.

Kylo Ren rolled as the other guard approached, his rifle raised--he ducked behind his captive, using him like a barrier and reached down to the man’s side, stealing a handgun from his belt. The other guard went to dodge, but was blasted in the face with two shots, raining blood over the brick patio, crumpling to his knees and smacking the ground.

Caught in a struggle, Ren went to shoot his final victim through the skull--but the man had already produced a knife from the other side of his belt, and slashed up, ripping Ren across the shoulder and slicing his face. He howled in pain, and the guard took the opportunity to tear himself free, scurrying to his feet, reaching for the gun in Ren’s hand.

Something possessed you--fear, indignity, affection, something--and you dashed through the door, grappled a gun from the corpse closest to you, and cocked it. Maybe, before Gilead, you weren’t a person who could end a life. But now, you were a survivor. And you would be damned if you or your Commander would die here.

Taking the pistol in both hands, you aimed at the guard’s torso. “Hey!” you shouted for absolutely no reason. He glanced over, confused. “Fuck you!”

You pulled the trigger, ears ringing--the bullet nailed his chest, and he staggered, jaw dropped, perhaps wondering if he had really just been shot by a Handmaid. Ren, face smothered scarlet, swung to his feet, swiping the knife from the ground. He snatched the man mid-fall, hoisted him into the air and, snarling, shredded his throat with the blade. A geyser of blood gushed from his neck, bathing Ren in its fever, soaking his shirt, coating the curls of his hair. His shoulders crowded with the desperate cycle of his lungs as he loosened his grip, letting the body hit the ground, crimson bubbles seeping from the wound.

Hands quaking, you lowered your arms, dropped the gun. You couldn’t find your breath, chest fighting for air. Ren turned, eyes tracing the bodies, until finally, they landed on you. Heat hit you, strangled you, wrapped you like wire in a suffocating, powerful, need. Both of you, sprayed with blood, panting, aching--everything you had done, you’d done for the other. His transgressions faded to shadows in your mind. Against every single governmental pillar and logical instinct, you were alive because of him. And you wanted nothing more, now, than to be in his arms.

The word fled your lips, a caged dove. “Kylo…”

Kylo Ren threw down the knife, rushing you, and your feet moved too, carrying you on feathers to him, until your bodies connected, his arms coiling around you, his mouth bruising yours, the taste of iron fresh between your teeth. He was damp with blood, his skin spilled copper into your nose--but despite it all, you groaned, flooded with passion, burning in his embrace. Ren’s tongue drove into your mouth, his hand cupping the back of your head, wetting your hair as he crushed you to his frame. Thighs thrumming with desire, you kissed him back, nipping his lip, threading your fingers through his sticky waves--he moaned, crumbling to his knees, his hold taking you with him.

“You saved me,” you muttered against his lips. “You saved--”

Ren silenced you with a kiss. “Little bird...” He nibbled the line of your jaw, jerking a fistful of hair and burying his face in it, inhaling deep. “Get these clothes off.”

You shivered. “Yes, sir.”

Keeping his gaze, you gathered the hem of your dress and peeled it over your head, his eyes leaping over every bit of exposed flesh as it was revealed to him. You tossed it and your switchblade to the side, his hands grappling with your hips, sliding up your sides, smearing crimson over your skin. Whimpering, you reached toward your feet, pulling your boots off and throwing them to the side, attempting valiantly to remain kneeling while you inched your underwear down your hips and over your calves. Ren watched, trained on your naked cunt, as you finally flung it behind you.

When you went to begin the arduous task of unhooking your bra, Ren growled, your knees scraping across the pool deck as he yanked you into an impatient kiss. You whined in pain, soothed by his soft lips working yours, new blood from the wound on his face dribbling into your mouths and over your wrestling tongues. He wrested your tits from your bra, dying them red, thumbs skating delight over your stiffening nipples. Moaning, you writhed into his chest, and he gripped your face, nails scraping your scalp while he pulled you closer, groaning into you, leaning--you followed him, chasing his kiss until he was on his back, your legs straddling him, palms planted on his chest.

A soft, anxious breath escaped his throat, and he swirled his tongue over yours before biting your lip and pushing you up, hands settling on your thighs, rocking you back and forth over his thick erection. He watched you, panting in rhythm with you, and you admired him--how fucking beautiful he was, even (or especially) doused in blood--his eyes stark with need, his mouth parted in open anticipation, his muscles tensing as he gripped and squeezed you, jerking his hips into your heat. If he was in any pain at all from the gash on his face or the bullets in his side, it didn’t show--he rolled into you as if he cared for nothing other than the sight of your body over his own.

“Are you okay?” You placed your hands on his, squeezing them.

Ren frowned and swatted you off, gathering both wrists behind you in a tight vise. “Interesting question to pose while you’re already grinding onto me.”

You blushed. “I just wanted to make--”

He shoved two bloodied fingers in your mouth, depressing your tongue, cranking your jaw open. “Ask me again after I’ve fucked that little cunt raw.”

Shuddering, you clenched, and nodded.

“There we go.” He released your tongue, popping your wrists back--your tits swayed from the movement, and he hummed in satisfaction, kneading and groping at the flesh, teasing your nipples. “You’re gorgeous…”

“Oh…” Submerged in desire, you could barely process his words. He twitched underneath you, drawing another spasm from your core. “Kylo…”

He sucked in air through his teeth, digging his fingers into your breast. “You want my cock? Hm?” He reached down, brushed his thumb over your clit, and you whined. “You want me inside you, slut?”

“Fuck,” you whispered. “Fuck, yes, please.”

“Good girl…”

Ren kept his grip on your wrists, working at his pants until he’d managed to pull his long, heavy cock free. You ached at the sight of it, wanting to slide it between your folds, feel it pulse inside you, bask in its swollen heat. Ren slapped it against you and shifted his hips, pushing you higher, hand stroking his length as he guided it to your entrance. Stoked on adrenaline, on some sort of intoxicating infatuation, you were wet and wanting and warm with need--you sank onto him, crying out when he broke you open, letting him drive deep into your belly.

“God,” you hissed, “you feel so good…”

He throbbed at the base, rutting up into you and popping your wrists again. “Shh.” His free hand clutched your hip. “I’ll tell you when to speak, little bird,” he muttered. “Be quiet and take this cock.”

Ren’s strength overwhelmed you--he slammed you from below, fucking up into you, forcing gasps and squeals from your lungs. Bliss blazed through your blood as the force of his thrusts throttled you, body quaking, breasts bouncing. His face was screwed in a twist of lust and effort, lip furled, strangled growls escaping his chest--he pumped hard, fast, pinching you in his hands as his own pleasure built.

“Fuck,” he growled, “that’s right--do you like that?”

“Yes…” The words were as unfiltered as you were. “I love it…”

“Good--good girl.” His stare devoured you while you rode him. “So beautiful… so perfect…” A hand glided up your side, cupping one of your tits. “And all mine…” He grunted, punished you with a particularly hard thrust--you yelped. “Say it.”

A twinge in your heart, distant and irritating. “But I--”

He yanked your wrists, straining your shoulders, branding a bruise into your breast with his fingers. “Say it.” His pace switched, and he rammed your cunt with brutal, deep strokes, striking your cervix with white streaks of pain. “You’re mine.”

“Kylo--”

Ren seethed, throwing you off of him and onto your back, wincing when he loomed over you, and he pounded his side, hissing in pain. Your eyes widened--in seconds, he’d spiraled into mania, his face wrought with possessive fervor while his fist pummeled his wound. If he’d looked beautiful before, now it was sinful: dark hair matted in messy clumps around his crown, his brow drawn in focus, his shirt, torn from the knife, flopping over to reveal his bare chest, showered with blood. He peeled your legs wide, ankles in his fists as he lifted your ass from the ground--and, sneering, he split you, cock cleaving your cunt. In pleasure, you sobbed.

“Fuck,” he growled again. “You’re so fucking tight…” Ren started fucking into you, slipping in to the hilt, hips hitting yours with loud slaps. “You feel so good around my cock…”

Whinging, you lolled your head on the deck-- his words sent a torrent of yearning through your flesh, and your clit screeched for attention, but part of you knew that touching it yourself would deny you release altogether. So you stared at him, chin tucked to your chest, each stroke bringing new, desperate breath to your lungs as your back scratched the smooth stone underneath you.

“Nothing to stop me,” he said, “nothing to keep me from you.” He jerked you closer, and you wailed from the depth of his thrusts. “You’re going to be mine…”

“Kylo--”

“No,” he hissed. “Say it.” He propped one of your legs on his shoulder, his hand diving between your legs to rub your clit, covering it in blood--you cried out, clenching, convulsing, pleasure creeping into your vision. “Say you want to be mine.”

The earth turned beneath you. Everything, all of it had been for you, but not in the way that you had hoped. No, it had been to alter the universe to his own whims, to construct a galaxy where he could possess you, keep you, trap you in a tiny, wire cage. His little bird.

You wouldn’t accept that--not after today. You couldn’t.

“Only if--ah--you’re mine, too,” you replied. “I can’t just be yours! You--you have to be mine!”

“What have I told you?” Ren groaned, deep and low. “If that’s what you want…” He gathered some of the blood from his face onto his thumb. “Then you’ll want for nothing.” He slicked your clit while he fucked you, the fluid warm and wet and spinning you to the height of euphoria. “Say it.”

“I’m--I’m yours!” You shut your lids, awash in the elated reality of his admission. “I’m yours, Kylo!”

“Cum then,” he ordered, “cum on this fucking cock...”

You were drawn and quartered by ecstasy, spine arcing toward the sky as your core clamped his dick, limbs shuddering with the waves of your epinephrine-injected climax. Ren growled, leaning over you to hammer into your cunt, strangling his groan as he poured his cum into you, rolling his hips until he was empty--empty of rage, lust, and energy.

Swallowing, you heaved, eyes fluttering open, seeking out your Commander’s gaze. Not that his position mattered, in this hazy purgatory of existence. In this moment, the laws and regulations of Gilead didn’t apply to you and Ren. You’d defied them, destroyed them all. Together.

Something, some emotion you’d wrestled into submission so many times before slithered out of its grave--like hope, but more poignant, more powerful, not just the faith that you could survive. No, it was the dream that you could thrive, that Gilead would crumble underneath both of your feet, that--maybe--you could take a canvas and paint a future with him in it.

Locking eyes, you spied it there, too, beyond the lowered shield of his anger: a mirror of your mind. His hand fell between your breasts, his lip quivering, fingers skimming down your sensitive, starlight skin. How long you laid there, you weren’t sure, but it was after his soft cock had slipped out of you, after your breath had leveled. Sweat glazed you both.

“Why did you do it?” you asked, finally. You fumbled for his hand, laid yours over it.

Ren paused, staring at the image of your hand--so much smaller--wrapped around his, analyzing it in his mind like a puzzle. His jaw tensed, and he pulled away. A piece of your heart wilted.

“I told you,” he said, beginning to adjust himself to decency. “Gilead is flawed. My vision will perfect it.” He met your eyes. “You’ll be mine. And you’ll want for nothing.”

“But…” You narrowed your lids. “You’re mine, too, then.”

“I am.” He stood, gazing over the carnage of the yard--the bodies, the blood, the dyed-red water--all of it turning rancid in the summer heat. “Your Commander.”

There it was. The mallet of his intention, shattering your dreams to disasters. It was as if you had been thrust into the pool yourself, drenched in cold, icy admonishment. How stupid, how foolish were you to imagine that Kylo Ren could consider bringing Gilead down? How short-sighted had you been to believe, for one moment, that he would ever renounce his ownership of you? How horrible, how awful were you that the tiniest, most foolish part of you wanted to accept this--agree to his terms, as long as he’d stay, somewhere, in that canvas.

He held out his hand. “Come.”

Shaking your head, you grabbed your underwear and pulled it on. It seemed silly, getting dressed when half of your clothing would be muddied with blood. You glanced up at him, mapping the wounds in his body. He was hunched, but not hampered.

“Are you really okay?”

Ren still had his hand extended. “Yes.”

You frowned, slapped it away. His eye twitched, attention switching between you and his hand--and, to your surprise, he shoved it in his pocket. You grabbed your dress, tugged it on.

“Continue getting dressed,” he said. “I’ll contact my men and tell them--”

“Hello? Who’s out there?”

The voice, tight with fear, froze you both--Ren’s fists clenched, your heart falling somewhere into your ass. From inside the mudroom, a young woman cloaked in blue emerged, and you recognized her immediately. Snoke’s robot, er, Wife. Christine. She hadn’t spoken once at the dinner.

Between the gloves, the hat, the heeled shoes, it was obvious she was just now returning home. As she surveyed the yard, her gaze fuzzied, and she tumbled into the threshold. Neither you nor Ren made a move to help her.

“What… what happened here?”

It was a fair question. But admitting you’d both participated in a coup likely wouldn’t go over well. You weren’t sure what Ren’s plan was, but you knew the Eyes could have you both killed if they learned this had been your doing.

“Commander Snoke is dead,” Ren said. “I killed--”

“The guard,” you said, glaring at him. “He killed the guard who killed Commander Snoke. After that, the entire place went up.” Looking back at her, you gestured to Ren. “You need to call an ambulance, he’s been injured.”

Christine, appearing dizzy, pushed off of the doorframe and nodded. “I’ll… I’ll get help. Just…” She waved her hands in circles. “Don’t move.”

With that, she stumbled into the home, the click of her heels growing distant.

You sneered at Ren, pulling on your boots and stuffing the switchblade in your sleeve. “You’re welcome.”

He watched you as you stood, said nothing for a moment--a twitch of pain crossed his face. “When I’m taken to the hospital, you’ll be questioned,” he said. “Say nothing. I will handle this. And when you get home, bathe and get into bed.” His eyes raked over you. “Do you understand?”

You nodded. “Yes, Kylo. I do.”

Ren exhaled, drinking you in. “I’m going to contact my men before the ambulance arrives. They’ll have work to do here.” He reached out and cupped your face. “Be good, little bird.” He patted you on the cheek, and walked into the home.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #kylo trash #little bird #handmaid au #fanfiction problems #bloodplay #tw: violence #just fulfilling all my tfa and tlj fantasies in one fell swoop

170 notes · View notes

theonlinemuse · 4 years

Text

And now it’s Yolanda’s turn to have a headcanon post! @freckledpianoman and me wanted to contribute more Yolanda Montez content to the tags now that the season finale has aired:

Yolanda’s family follows Mexican naming conventions so her full name is Yolanda Pilar Montez Zurita. Montez is her father’s last name while Zurita is her mother’s maiden name. And yes, Zurita is for Juan Zurita

Nicknames are also a tradition in the Montez family. Yolanda’s parents called her mija and nena before their estrangement while her maternal grandmother and her little brother call her by her diminutive name, Yoyi

Courtney’s absolutely delighted when she first hears Yolanda’s abuelita call her Yoyi. She thinks it’s adorable. Yolanda just fondly rolls her eyes when Court whisper yells Yoyi at her all starry eyed

She’s third generation Mexican American. Her maternal grandparents, the Zuritas were originally from Puebla and they came to Blue Valley in the 1970s where their daughters, Maria and Mimi (Yolanda’s mom and aunt) were born and raised. Yolanda grew up speaking Spanish, but she’s not fluent like her parents. She sometimes blanks out trying to remember certain words

“Man, I don’t even know how to begin explaining this in Spanish.”

Yolanda admits that she’s not much of a cook, but she grew up helping her abuelita make traditional dishes and as a result the only two dishes that Yolanda’s capable of making are mole poblano and chiles en nogada

She shares these recipes with Beth and they eventually start cooking together in Beth’s kitchen while Chuck blares music requests in the background

Yolanda usually wears her hair in double braids because her abuelito used to braid her hair in the morning before school. He always claimed that braids were the one style he could confidently do out of all the hairstyles that Yolanda’s abuelita taught him

She does start branching out after Courtney and Beth start helping her experiment with different hairstyles. Yolanda does styles like half up or regular space buns, topknots, braided low ponytails, and she rarely wears her hair down

Courtney once accidentally dyed Yolanda’s hair red when she was trying to give her highlights. Artemis helped fixed it (thanks to the time she accidentally went blonde for a month) but Yolanda ended up with ombre hair for a few weeks

For her quinceañera, Yolanda took inspiration from old photos of her abuelita and silver screen bombshells from the Golden Age of Mexican cinema

Yolanda started learned how to box from her abuelito when she was nine. He was a former lightweight boxing champion in Puebla and he taught boxing classes at a school that he founded with a fellow boxer (who Yolanda later discovers to be Henry Grant, the first Wildcat’s father) after he retired. It became their bonding time

He died when she was fourteen and she joined the Blue Valley High boxing team as a way to honour his memory. She even adopted his boxing nickname, The Mauler

Boxing wasn’t the only sport that she did growing up. Yolanda’s mom signed her up for ballet classes when she was in kindergarten and she was good enough to attend summer classes at the American Ballet Academy during middle school, starring in a few small productions like Coppélia and The Taming of the Shrew

She was forced to quit ballet after the fallout with Cindy leaking her pics and she was closed off for weeks because she missed dancing. After joining the JSA, Beth invited her to sit in on her ballroom dance lesson because “I know it’s not ballet exactly, but you get antsy if you don’t dance, I totally get that”

Yolanda only intended to go to the one lesson, but after partnering up with Beth for a not-so-serious tango and laughing harder than she has for months, she went back to the next lesson. And the next one and by the time the fourth lesson rolls around, Yolanda decides to sign up for the same classes as Beth

Yolanda can eat spicy food as long as there’s just ground spices in it, but she cannot handle chilies, much to her dismay. Every time she accidentally eats one, her eyes water and you can literally see her trying to hold in her reaction going, “nope, I’m not gonna do this, I’m not going to have my ancestors laugh their collective asses off just because I can’t handle a damn pepper”

She eventually caves when Courtney and Beth offer her their chocolate milk

Because she was raised Catholic, Yolanda has a habit of eating fish and shellfish instead of meat on Fridays. Fridays are when the JSA go out to eat instead of staying in the cafeteria and it’s Yolanda’s day to indulge in seafood. Courtney is still surprised how Yolanda can put away two giant king crabs like it’s no big deal, their bodies alone are bigger than Rick’s face

Yolanda’s favourites are coconut curry steamed clams, grilled shrimp, and the crab boil, all washed down with a raspberry lemon agua fresca

Her love for seafood has earned her an annoying, yet affectionate nickname from her cousins, “fish head”

“Mauler Montez, huh? You should’ve gone with El Mero, it’s much more on the nose.”

Courtney and Beth are the only people that Yolanda will share her seafood feast with because a) she gets to feed Beth for once and b) she knows how much Courtney loves shrimp

Rick can starve and Artemis keeps getting her hand smacked away every time she tries to sneak food

“It was one freaking scallop!” “Aren’t you allergic? Do you want to break out into hives again?”

When Beth first brought Artemis to sit at the loser’s table, Yolanda was a little wary of her because she’s known for tackling football players twice her height and she’s pretty sure her parents are Sportsmaster and Tigress. Now Yolanda and Artemis are snarky, overly competitive friends who arm wrestle and and have each others’ backs on the football team

Artemis managed to convince Yolanda to join as an alternate member since football season is right after boxing season and the team could use more girls

Artemis is still trying to convince Beth and Courtney to join as well

“You guys need something other than the JSA, you can get all your frustrations out in football.”

Courtney and Beth drag Rick to games to cheer them on

They both have huge sweet tooths and Artemis is constantly trying to steal the tres leches cake and chocolate flan that Yolanda brings to school. And it’s often a race to get the last one of whatever baked good Beth has brought with her that day

And as huge tomboys as they are, Yolanda and Artemis are arguably the best at doing makeup out of all the girls. Artemis likes experimenting with eyeliner and smokey eyeshadows while Yolanda knows a lot about lip products thanks to her abuelita, who rocks red lipstick and berry flavoured lip gloss well into her seventies

Yolanda means “violet” and she was named as such because her landscape architect mother was working on a Phillipine violet garden during her pregnancy and there was a pot of Persian violets in the OBGYN’s office the day the Montezes found out they were having a girl

Even the earrings that her grandparents gave Yolanda for her first communion were a pair of violet shaped stud earrings

Her abuelita even gave her a pressed violet pendant choker for her fifteenth birthday

Yolanda is a huge horror movie fan. It was a tradition that she shared with her dad since no one else in the family can stand them. Now she keeps trying to get Beth to watch horror movies with her despite the “Halloween only tradition” because Beth’s the only other person who would survive a horror movie

Beth spends half the time clinging to Yolanda when they’re not booing at horror cliches and trying to predict which character is dying next while berating fictional life choices

Courtney and Rick are in the other room pouting, trying and failing to catch up on homework

On the flip side, Beth makes Yolanda watch cartoons with her after horror movies because between school and the JSA, they need other ways to relax and unwind. Yolanda ends up loving The Owl House

“I started watching it because Luz looks like me. I kept watching because it’s so good.” “Yolanda! You did get hooked, you big nerd!”

Beth also finds out that Yolanda is also really into She-Ra, which may or may not have to do with how Catra and Adora look like Yolanda and Courtney. Beth doesn’t stop grinning and nudging her for the rest of the night when she sees Yolanda blushing over Catra and Adora

“You guys could dress up as them for Halloween!”

Despite their different tastes, they both enjoy true crime and history shows. They’re both fans of Drunk History and the Drunk Mystery Halloween episodes

And Beth is surprised to learn that Yolanda has a soft spot for period dramas as well. The both love Hidden Figures and The Personal History of David Copperfield

Yolanda is what Artemis likes to refer to as a distinguished bi. She knew that she was bi since she was fourteen when her abuelito pointed out that the way she acted around the very pretty ballerina in her dance class was the exact same as the way she acted around the very charming baseball player

“Abuelito, oh my god! Did anyone else notice?” “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, mija. You just have very good taste in people, just like your Tia Mimi.” “Tia Mimi likes girls too?”

And thus, her abuelito technically became the first person she came out to

She’s out to only two other people in her family, her little brother and her abuelita. It’s not like her parents would be disappointed in her for being bisexual (the congregation that the Montezes go to is fairly open) but Yolanda wasn’t able to talk with them about it because of her estrangement with them

Whenever she gets a crush on someone, she does this little honking laugh that makes Rick look at her in a mix of horror and confusion

“What the hell, is that your laugh? Stop flirting and help me find Hootie before Beth finds out he’s missing.”

It’s what clues him in to Yolanda’s crush on Courtney

Due to her estrangement from her parents, Yolanda didn’t think about having a quinceañera, but the JSA decides to throw her one with help from Yolanda’s abuelita, Socorro “Coco” Zurita, who’s played by Adriana Barraza. Aside from Tia Mimi who’s played by Marisa Ramirez and Yolanda’s cousins Josefa and Charo, played by Lee Rodriguez and Herizen Guardiola, Abuelita Coco is pretty much the only other family member besides Alex who still talks with her and she will make sure that her granddaughter has a wonderful quinces

Yolanda was never really a big fan of big, poofy dresses because they remind her of the itchy netted dresses that she had to wear for her first communion and other big church events she had to go to as a kid. So Beth and abuelita Coco decide to surprise her by making a skirted jumpsuit instead

And while she doesn't wear heels that often, joining Beth at her dance classes helps ensure that she rocks the Wildcat blue shoes that Courtney picks out for her

Beth, Courtney, and Artemis all pitch in to get a cat eye necklace for Yolanda to wear at her quinces. Yolanda denies crying when they give it to her

“Are you crying?” “It’s my allergies acting up, no big deal.”

And instead of the father-daughter dance, the JSA just converges on Yolanda for one big slow group dance One Day at a Time style

Yolanda and Courtney have more than a few slow dances together

She has nicknames for everyone in the JSA. Courtney is Shooting Star, Beth is Sunshine, Artemis is Hawkeye, and Rick is John Bender

“Seriously, Yolanda? You couldn’t have been more creative.” “Would you rather I call you One Minute Man?” “Ugh, just don’t say it in front of Beth.”

Yolanda knows so many Selena songs by heart because abuelita Coco is a huge fan. She grew up singing along to Bidi Bidi Bom Bom and Como La Flor and it’s almost a Pavlovian response to sing along to a Selena song whenever she hears one on the radio during JSA car trips

Courtney and Beth totally sing along with her while Artemis heckles them and Rick just groans and tells the girls to keep it down when he’s trying to drive

Yolanda is the only JSA member that Beth’s goggles will work for, but she still can’t make the staff glow. However, she’s the only person (other than Courtney and Pat) who’s able to order it around

“Wait, why is she able to order it around?” “Maybe because it knows Yolanda is a boss.”

#Stargirl #Yolanda Montez #Courtney Whitmore #Starcat #ship it

31 notes · View notes

rogersbabyyy · 5 years

Text

sex, drugs, rock n’roll | roger taylor

author’s note: me? posting a fic? this is much too strange! i really have no excuse for writing this other than i was horny and just wanted to write some filthy ass 70s sex where everyone’s high and and it’s a lot of fun. but please don’t do drugs it’s not a good idea, this is just for fictional sake and me wishing i was a groupie :) also, i tried to change up my writing style a bit a try and get into the head of someone on cocaine, hence the repetition and somewhat scattered internal monologue. i really hope you enjoy, please reblog!

summary: you get high and fuck roger at one of freddie’s parties... that’s it.

warnings/tags: this is the most disgusting thing i’ve written. DRUG USE!!, foul language, smut (dom!roger makes an appearance), but mostly heavy drug use (cocaine) so pls pls dont read if u feel uncomfy!

word count: 3.7k

not proofread

Two hours ago, the party had conformed to become a force of life in itself; roaring and fantastical, welcoming and formidable, all at the same time. Nothing less than outrageous, there were naked girls, naked boys, lounging on Freddie Mercury’s grand staircase, snogging and touching and almost fucking right for everyone to see.

The latest disco hit playing through the stereo system was nothing but a pounding heartbeat for the writhing bodies to obey, hands clutching glasses swaying above heads, shoes kicked to the sides of the room, heads unconsciously bobbing to the beat.

It was the quintessential celebration for the release of Queen’s latest album, months and months of hard work, Roger arriving home every night (morning?) at two, and proceeding to wake you up at six o’clock anyway with the crush of his golden cymbals and throb of his bass drum. Not that you minded, but… it was nice to finally have the chance to let loose, and the boys, finally earning a proper wage of their own, had the money for parties like these now.

The host of the evening (and lead singer of the band) adorned in a leotard clinging to every curve of his muscular body and showing off his chest covered in a soft dawn of hair, had been busy all night entertaining his guests, balancing a velvet crown atop his head with one hand, a glass of bubbly champagne in the other (his matching cloak long ago discarded), his booming tenor voice always assuring that more drinks were coming, and oh, come on darling, you must have another.

Brian and John, however, were long gone; as soon as one of Freddie’s friends dumped an assorted mix of drugs onto the table (causing to Brian to choke on his beer, with someone needing to thump him on the back for a solid two minutes before he recovered), he whisked Chrissie out of there, and John was always yearning to be with his little babies these days (they were utterly precious; Freddie constantly demanded that they be brought round to the studio).

So, that left you with the drummer.

Your boyfriend, Roger, was situated firmly at your side, the hand that wasn’t holding an ice cold glass of whiskey thrown around your waist. His shirt was unbuttoned almost to his navel, exposing his toned abdomen shining with sweat (not unlike the little black dress you were wearing, with a neckline that dipped so low it really didn’t leave anything to the imagination), and oh, did he ever look delicious. And, he obviously thought the same of you; for the way his tongue was licking slow, deliberate stripes over your exposed neck, causing you to giggle so hysterically, it probably had something to do with the remnants of fine white powder littering the glass table, on which your nose was pressed up against approximately five seconds ago.

Euphoric was barely a satisfying enough word to describe how you were feeling. You were orgasmic, horny, powerful, high, burning up (God, you were hot); and from the way Roger’s baby blue eyes were fixed on you, dilated and glazed over, he wasn’t feeling all that different. Growling softly against your neck, his head clouded with a high of his own, his lips hot, so hot, burning, exerted to find the words he desired to describe what he wanted to do to you.

“Mhm, lovie,” he moaned, “Want to, want... ” he laughed softly against you, his equilibrium simultaneously failing him, as he lost what little balance he had left and swayed against you, spilling his drink all over his front in the process.

“Ah, fuck,” He discarded the glass by letting it roll out of his hand and onto the beautiful Persian rug below, and you found this unspeakably hilarious, laughing harder until his lips finally found yours in a kiss so filthy it belonged in a porn movie. Open mouths, tongues entwined in a furious dance, he tasted of his whiskey, Benson & Hedges cigarettes, the hor d’oeuvres that had been floating around all night on silver trays, and something else that was just inexplicably him.

“Naughty dress you’re wearin,” he tried again, lips breaking from yours, and then, barely suppressing a grin; “M’ so horny. M’ so horny you don’t even know. Wanna fuck you right here, don’t give a fuck if anyone sees. Need to fuck you, need your cunt, need you, need you,” He repeated the words continuously, his voice ending as a mumble as he went back to press open mouthed kisses against your neck, on which you’d know there’d be countless bruises in the morning.

Your heart throbbed faster, faster, fasterfasterfaster, and it wasn’t even a question in your mind to squeeze the stiffy growing in his too tight jeans; no one was really even looking, too busy dancing and kissing and drinking and smoking and laughing and-

“I swear to God, I will come in my jocks if you keep bloody doing tha’.” He choked, grasping your wrist and squeezing it softly.

“Well, s’much as I wanna fuck here, I don’t think Fred would appreciate seeing your cock, as lovely as it is,” you beamed up at him, and he giggled softly back, brushing your hair to one side.

“Hm, you have a point, kitten,” he peppered your neck with a few more slow kisses, before his lips found your ear to whisper, “Besides, we wouldn’t want everyone seeing your pretty cunt, because that’s all mine.”

Oh, he owned you, he owned you so bad, and you could feel your walls tighten at his words, and oh how you wished they were clenching around him instead.

“Please, Rogie, let’s go, upstairs, somewhere, the bathroom or the car, even-”

“Calm down, lovie, c’mon, let’s go upstairs… Be needin’ some o’ this,” Roger staggered sideways to snatch up one of the last small plastic bags left on the table, bulging almost to the brim with white powder, “Let’s go.”

Your hand in his as was clammy and hot, God it was so hot, as you took a grievous amount of time to scale Freddie’s staircase in platform heels that perhaps maybe possibly you might have stolen from John, it was too long ago to remember. So, you kicked them off, and they clunk clunk clunked as they bumped their way down the stairs; you’d pick them up later, but probably not, because you were so horny and so bloody fucked up that really the only thing you were thinking at that point about was grinding slowly on Roger’s cock.

Your clit throbbed at the thought, and you fell against his side, moaning softly, his arm encircling your waist to keep you upright.

“Here,” Roger grunted, sweeping you up in his arms as if you weighed nothing at all, and you howled gleefully, legs failing as your halfheartedly moaned for him to set you back down.

“Roger, stop!”

He ignored your pleas, a soft, dazed smile on his face, as he pushed open the door to the nearest room with his shoulder; which happened to be a master bedroom with a four-poster bed, surround by a floaty, gauzy fabric.

He set you down gently on the mattress.

“Right,” he smiled, and for as high as he was, he unsealed the small bag and carefully tapped out a short, perfect line of cocaine on the bedside table. “Ladies first, hm?”

Reaching for the five pound note in his outstretched hand, (“Thank you very much, kind sir,”) you rolled it into a tight cylinder with some difficulty, your hands were trembling so much (from the drug, or from the need for more of it?) and hovered over the line, sniffing as hard as you could as the powder rushed its way upward, Roger’s hands carefully holding your hair back in a makeshift ponytail as the stimulant worked its magic.

Within seconds the drug was in your blood, in your brain, sizzling and popping and making you shiver in delight, oh, it felt good, and you sniffed again, your head dizzy and the room whirling around and aroundaroundaround until your eyes came to a focus on Roger right at your side. He seemed ten times more attractive, if possible, and you quite literally drooled at the sight of him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as the room whirled once more.

“Good, huh?” His eyes were excited, as he unbuttoned his shirt completely now and shrugged it off, the fabric landing in a heap on the floor, his hand sliding down the small of your back to squeeze your ass, practically hanging out of your too-tight and much-too-short dress.

“So good,” you said, running your fingers through your hair, your palms coming to rest on his shoulders, “Fuck, I feel like I could do anything. And I’m so horny I could die,”

“Know the fuckin’ feelin’,” he groaned, pushing you backward onto the awaiting bed, his mouth clumsily finding yours in a messy snog, his hands obviously focused on something else;

“Please get those pretty tits out fo’ me,” he growled, his hot hands everywhere all at once, all at once, all at once yesyesyesyes, and God it felt so good, pulling at your dress and squeezing your hips and cradling your pyretic cheeks, “Been teasin’ me all night like the whore you are, mhm, such a little whore, yes,” finally, he managed to rip your pretty black dress right down the middle, your breasts bouncing as they were revealed to him.

His feverish, insistent mouth eagerly found one of your nipples, nipping the soft bud between his teeth. In return, you gasped, thrusting your chest forward ohohohohfuck and yanking on his salty hair. He sucked on it until the bud pebbled, hard against his tongue, and the other breast received the same treatment, Roger always being one for fairness.

“Lay down, c’mon,” his voice was a soft whine, a palm on your shoulder to push you backward onto the luxurious mattress, on which you fell against like one of those rich white girls in chick flicks, collapsing after a long day of retail therapy.

And before your brain could process what he up to, the bag of cocaine was in his hand, and he poured a generous line over the dip in between your breasts, a mischievous grin lighting up his face as he did so.

“Mhm, let’s get it all over, that’s it, all over your pretty tits,” he simpered, his chest heaving with anticipation and arousal, as he tidied up the line with his fingertips, “Always wanted to do this, gettin’ high off your body, mhm…”

“Oh, you’re filthy!” You gasped, as he pressed his soft, upturned nose in the valley, not even bothering with the rolled up fiver. Holding one nostril closed, he snorted the fine powder all in an alarmingly fast fluid motion, your hand entangled in his hair to hold him close to you as he did so, before he shot up like a person possessed.

“Oh, shit!”

He was a flurry of blurry blonde locks as shook his head from side to side, almost violently, his body positively trembling when he was done as he sniffed hard, a final time. His eyes rolled back in his head briefly, before fixating on your lips, and stating in a deadpan voice as clear as day;

“I might die if I don’t fuck you right now.”

You thought it impossible for your heart to race any faster than it was, but your body proved you wrong, your head and the inside of your wrists and every limb pounding hard and fast to the rhythm of the organ, like one of Roger’s particularly fast drum beats that left him panting and shaking from adrenaline (in fact, not so different from his current state).

“Fuck me then, would you? I’m so wet I think I’ve made a mess,” your voice was a soft, hoarse, giggle, as you looked down to find a noticeable dark patch on the white lacy g-string you’d had the foresight to wear.

“See! Oops!” You laughed loudly, slipping your fingers past the material to rub your throbbing clit, throbthrobthrobbing godyouweresowet, and you pouted teasingly when Roger could do nothing but stare. “What, don’t you want me, Rogie?”

His eyes flickered shut as they rolled backward again, showing you the whites as painful, animalistic whimper left his throat. His hands fumbled at a speed you’d never seen before to unbuckle his belt, tugging down his flared denim jeans (that were all the rage at the moment).

While he did so, you removed your fingers from their place over your core, you brought them to your mouth, taking your index and pointer fingers to the knuckle, before dragging them down over your lips.

Finally managing to slide the leader belt through the loops of his jeans, Roger shook his head as you this, his gaze almost becoming furious and disapproving as he leant toward you and nudged your hand away from your mouth, replacing your fingers with his own.

“Uh-uh,” he scolded, “Don’t you dare tease me like that now, lovie.”

You sucked eagerly on his fingers, tongue running thoroughly over the tips of each, kissing and sucking and perhaps wanted them rubbing over your needy clit instead.

As if reading your mind, Roger’s fingers withdrew slicky from your mouth, spanking the sweet bundle of nerves between your legs, just enough that you convulsed, shuddering at his touch; “Fuck!”

“Open your mouth,” he commanded, forcefully taking your face in his hand and squeezing your cheeks until you obeyed, eyes crazed and jubilant.

With a soft hum, he let a single strand of his saliva drip from his mouth to yours, dribbling slowly onto your awaiting tongue, as you swallowed eagerly and jutted your chin out proudly to show him your efforts.

“Tha’s my girl.”

“Can you fuck me now, please?” You moaned, sliding your knickers past your ankles to toss them over Roger’s shoulder, all the while giving him the sexiest puppy dog eyes you were able to muster up.

“Since you asked so nicely.” Yanking his boxer shorts off and kicking them toward the foot of the bed, you finally got to wrap your hand around his length as it bobbed upward to tap against his tummy, beads of precum leaking from the tip, feeling the throb of his erratic drug fuelled heartbeat pulse through his shaft.

“Such a needy boy,” you whispered, legs spreading earnestly as you greedily guided his palpitating member to your core. The cherry coloured blush that was the head of his cock slid past the swollen lips of your cunt, and the both of you shivered in a bout of ecstasy, moaning against each other as Roger clutched you to his chest.

He then slid out of you slowly, before immediately jerking his hips back toward you, making you scream, digging the heel of your foot into his back.

“You’re so bloody wet,” he gasped, collapsing his weight onto his forearms as his thrusts continued the erratic pace he’d established moments before, one slow thrust, and then fastfastfastfaster-

“You’re so fucking huge, oh my God, I love your cock, I love your cock, I love-”

-until he returned to his teasingly slow pace. Whimpering, you hid your face in the crook of your elbow, eyes squeezed shut as you shakily begged your boyfriend to increase his pace.

“I’ll fuck you how I like,” he grunted, angling his cock in a way that it only just nudged your g-spot, making your toes curl as his hips finally found the familiar rhythm that you so adored: fast, steady, and hard.

The room resumed its spinning motion from earlier as his cock sent you into a bout of euphoria, his balls making the filthiest noises you’d ever heard as their momentum caused them to slap against your your dripping pussy.

“You feel so fucking good, holy fuck,”

His cock made a slick, wet sound as he pulled out of you, and you whined, cunt clenching around nothing, so emptyemptyempty.

“Why’d you stop?”

“Get on your hands n’ knees, c’mon love, c’mon, need t’be back in your cunt,” He was panting, his hair soaking with sweat, his palms so warm so hot so boiling, as they found your waist to flip you over, making you titter deliriously as you landed on your front, ass in the air and cheek against the soft dawn of the mattress.

“Pass us the coke, angel,” you felt him smile as he pressed the gentlest of kisses against the back of your shoulder, as you stretched to reach the little bag filled to the brim with euphoria to pass over to your boyfriend.

Catching you by surprise, his palm came down sharply on the supple skin of your ass, as you jolted forward and squealed, clutching the sheets against the sting of your skin that was just the right blend between pleasure and pain.

“You like that, don’t you? Filthy little thing, an absolute slut, horny and dripping, all for who? Hm?”

“For you, for you, only for you, Rog!”

Feeling a tickling sensation between your asscheeks, you knew what Roger was doing immediately, knew he was tapping out what was left of the white powder on the barely-an-inch of skin that separated your two holes.

“Stay still,” he muttered, palms spreading your cheeks apart to bury his face in between them, snorting the powder in a quick, practiced movement.

A slurred jumble of profanities left his mouth as the smaller amount of the drug boosted the euphoria coursing around his system, and he delivered a final spank to your ass, and you yelped and laughed deliriously once more.

“Alright, c’mon, you naughty thing, back up you get,” His staunch arms encircled your waist and lifted you so were you sitting upright.

“Want you t’ride my cock, think you can do that fo’ me?”

“Yes, yes, oh, please, want you back inside me,” you begged, clambering on top of your boyfriend as he settled against the headboard of the bed, his eyes clouded with lust as you rocked desperately against his thigh. “Feel so empty.”

“I can certainly help you with that, darlin’, mhm, oh, oh fuck,” he grunted as you took a hold of his member and settled down onto it, pushing him inside you.

Grinding your hips against him slowly, it was Roger’s turn to whimper, as his hands squeezed your waist to keep you balanced against him.

“Please, love,” his voice was hoarse, “need to you- oh, yes.”

Using your knees as leverage, you re-commenced the steady tempo, except now you were in charge. You bounced on his cock, taking him right to the hilt every time, your breasts bouncing in front of his face, in and out and in and out outandinoutandin…

You went to throw your head back in a wail of pleasure, but Roger’s hand found the back of your neck to stop you, and he growled,

“Watch. Watch yourself bouncin’ on my cock.”

You looked down at the join of your bodies and moaned gutturally at the sigh of his dick soaked in your wetness, his veins pink and throbbing, so pretty, God his cock was gorgeous-

You reached down to rub your stiff, hard, slit, your movement becoming messier and erratic, Roger announcing;

“I’m so close, love, I’m so close-”

“Come inside me, I don’t care, please, want you in my cunt, Rog, please,”

“Bloody fuckin’-”

You didn’t need to tell him twice. Your words alone prompted a callous growl from his diaphragm, his muscles seizing and spasming as his warm seed covered the walls of your pulsing cunt, hips jerking of their own accord as he emptied himself inside you.

The feeling of his cum inside you, paired with the stunning sight of his orgasm, pushed you to your own.

“Roger, Roger, oh my God, Roger-!” The coil in your stomach popped, your eyes rolling backward as they did when you took your first line of the drug, falling into his chest as your trembled.

“Tha’s it pretty girl,” he encouraged, still shaking from his own orgasm and the cocaine and everything was just overwhelming as you came all over his cock, “Tha’s it, come for me, fuck, you’re clenching so hard-”

And that’s when you squirted all over his cock, drenching him with your cum, almost looking like a person having a seizure.

If he had it in him, Roger could have come again right then and there. His ego certainly inflated a solid few degrees (although it was already relatively huge; c’mon, this was the 70s), because he did that to you. He made you squirt all over his cock, and forget the cocaine; that was the most powerful feeling was capable of experiencing.

Rolling off of you in a tangle of limbs, Roger’s breathing was hoarse and loud and rough as he fought to catch his breath.

“Fuck, that was hot.”

Eyes heavily lidded, the tiny floating pinprick sized silver stars still sporadically clouding your vision, you sighed contently, feeling fuzzy and happy and high as a kite and most importantly, in love.

You knew it wouldn’t last long; the inevitable crash would creep up on you out of nowhere and have you reaching for a cigarette or glass of wine, or, most likely, Roger’s arms, where you’d have a good cry for no particular reason.

“Rogie?” You murmured, rolling on your side to rest your head on his shining chest, hearing his turbulent heartbeat thunder against your ear.

“Yes, angel?” His eyes were still bright and misty from the drug, and yet, they surveyed yours carefully, his arm wrapping around you. “That was fun, dontcha think?”

“‘Course,” you smiled, “like having your cum inside me, all dripping out.”

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he kissed you again, “n’ I love marking you up, darlin’, letting everyone know you’re mine, all mine, mine, mine…”

He smiled his perfect little cheeky schoolboy grin, “Love you, angel, you know that? ‘Cos I do, I love you, wanna be yours n’ fuck you forever.”

Your vision was hazy, the last of the cocaine beginning to thin in your blood, the crash creeping up on you as the seconds ticked by-

“I love you, Rog.”

-but, boy, could Freddie throw a party. And Roger: he was worth it.

#roger taylor #roger taylor smut #roger taylor fluff #roger taylor x reader #ben hardy smut #ben hardy x reader #ben hardy! roger taylor #ben hardy fluff #ben hardy

1K notes · View notes

gifted-burnout-archive · 4 years

Text

Codename: Candy

Part One - Welcome to the Palace

Word Count - 1542

Author’s Note: Hello! Just for context, this is set after Season Two of the TV show, like a whole new mission to dig your claws into while lockdown happens and we wait patiently for a new season. Also, this is my first time writing on tumblr so I hope you enjoy!

There aren’t many from the Western Hemisphere, or anywhere in fact, that prefer a war zone over somewhere safe. Countries plagued by modern warfare, in the ways of terrorism, dictatorships and oppression, sound much less appealing to the logical human when compared to a warm bed, democracy, and equality regardless of gender, race or creed. There is nothing beautiful about lines of dead civilians, nor burnt down homes. It’s a wretched place, and cold despite the heat from a scorching sun, haunted. It’s why people sacrifice their world to seek refuge in foreign countries, with a foreign language to learn and new way of life to adapt to.

A war zone is never glamorous. A war zone is no sane person’s heaven.

In which case, it was fair to assume that whatever fucked up Lieutenant ‘Candy’ Jones as a child had rendered her a maniac, because she quite happily trekked through the Afghan desert to her new US Army Base in little more than a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. She had managed to talk her way through enough broken Pashto mixed with Arabic to secure herself a ride from the airport to a turn in the road about 2 kilometres from the base, and with little regard for land mines she began the hour-long walk through scorching desert.

In the setting, she was most certainly out of place. A dust-covered Walkman was clipped to her shorts, which were a light beige in colour, and a camouflage green vest top tucked in. Her poor attempt of modesty consisted of her thick combat boots and socks, covering a good part of her calf, and a scarf draped over her hair and shoulders, held in place by hair clips. Between the top of her shirt and the bottom of the scarf, flashed of silver were caught by the sun, dog tags she kept on at all times. A pair of sunglasses protected bright eyes from the sand picked up by the wind, and with her she carried a single duffel bag, army issued. She was indeed an odd sight, banging on her music player when it jammed on a certain track, humming aloud into the great expanse of desert around her, but this was exactly where Candy wanted to be.

The coming month would mark her eleventh year of service with the US Army, having joined on her 17th birthday, a time back when landlines were still used and her Walkman was ‘junk’ rather than ‘nostalgic junk’. And after mandated leave for two weeks, which she spent in Egypt with old friends from a previous tour, she was glad to be back on soil - or sand - she was familiar with. The base she was headed to was her first deployment spot in the midst of the war (at least when it was covered by media), and it was where she truly became a soldier. A member of a brotherhood. The decade following was back to back tours of Iraq, Syria, Nigeria, Iran, Ukraine, Lebanon, and so many different provinces and trips to visit military friends in their home countries that she was much more a native of the Middle East than America.

She learned parts of the languages, starting with how to order a beer or wine and progressing from there, and over her years of active duty she was able to speak Pashto, Arabic, French, Persian and Hebrew to varying degrees of fluency. She became familiar with the religions practised, the foods made, and while she never quite got a hang of the modest stylings, she knew when and when not to wear clothes like what she wore on her hike. With no-one around, there was none to be offended or to be shamed on her behalf, plus she needed to top up on her tan.

As the Walkman skipped three tracks without instruction to start blaring some ‘Does Your Mother Know’ by ABBA into Candy’s ears, the headphones obscured by the scarf, the base she started her career in came into view. Signposts started to appear, warnings to not pass certain points, all written in English and in plain text as to confuse non-speaking attackers, though by the looks of the base, Candy decided that the last action it had seen was perhaps when she left. The place was crawling with soldiers, a platoon worth inside, rotating shifts and all armed with enough firepower to wipe out a small village, yet the threat was nonexistent. She had walked just over a mile to arrive at the base without seeing a single soul, no other car driving past on that particular road after she was dropped off.

As such, her approach set off alarms in the watch post guard’s head, and with 150 metres to spare, every gun on the south facing side was pointed in her direction. The Lieutenant raised her hands, slowly lowering her scarf and shaking out her hair, removing the sunglasses next and hanging them on her top.

“Lieutenant Jones, former 904.” She called up shutting off her Walkman with a quick slap to her side.

“Jesus shit Candy, how the fuck does that thing still work?!” A voice called back. “Stand down boys, let her through.” It continued, the gates opening for her. She grabbed her duffel and scarf from the ground, walking into the compound with a bounce in her step, and being immediately greeted by a bear hug.

“This is only being allowed because you haven’t seen me for seven years...” She gasped, feeling her old comrade Lima lifting her off of the ground in an embrace. He dropped her quickly, saluting to his superior officer, and nodding for a fellow soldier to take his post on momentarily.

“How have you been, Jones?! You got shorter, and you changed your hair.” Lima started, looking her over with interest. He was a 6’1 black French-American dude, with a muscular build that would make you wonder if he even had any body fat. Compared to Candy, he was a giant.

“No, Lima, you grew another inch and gained 50 pounds of muscle. And yes, I cut my hair.” She added, providing a response to both his statements. “I was told to come straight here after leave, see the base commander, but they didn’t say who. Is Greer still holding the post?” She changed the tone of the conversation to a more serious one as they moved further into the compound, heading for the back buildings that most meetings had been held in when she was there before.

“Nah, Greer went to Pakistan, then T-FAD, then Moscow after they got that Suliman dude. He’s been stationed more places in the last four years than I have in the last decade. Current Colonel is called Rogers.” Lima informed her, nodding to the Private at the door to let them through. A wave of relief ran over Candy as a hush of cold air hit her.

“They’ve upgraded the ventilation system, I see.” She smiled, stopping for a moment to stretch under the air conditioner.

“Don’t get used to it, it’s one of two in the entire compound.” Lima laughed at the frown that appeared on his comrade’s face, gesturing for her to follow him down a few more hallways, stopping at a door guarded by two more men. From within, a shouting match seemed to have started, the old friends sharing a glance.

“Diving right into the belly of the beast, eh?” She joked, rubbing her hands together in exaggerated excitement.

“Only you, Jones, would be excited to be back in Afghanistan.” Lima rolled his eyes, banging on the door as Candy rummaged through her bag, smoothing our some crumpled paper and slipping on her under arm gun holster for some semblance of professionalism. She stood up straight just as the door was opened by a man no more than nineteen.

The room, filled with seven or so men all arguing, fell quiet as Jones walked in, dropping her duffel one the floor and nodding.

“Who are you?” One of the older men in the room asked, his rank shown on his arm: Base Commander.

“Lieutenant Jones, sir. I apologise for my casual attire, I came straight from the airport.” She informed, and looked around the room.

“I-Uh... Apologies, Lieutenant... I didn’t expect you,” he paused, trying to say the correct words, “u-until tomorrow.” He decided on, which was technically true. She had managed an earlier flight.

“Not at all sir...” She smiled, “Managed to catch an earlier flight.” She informed, and her eyes landed on the Colonel’s opponent in the previous screaming match. “Nice to see you again, Greer.” She took a seat at the base of the table, looking at the men surrounding her, none quite sure what to do.

“Gentlemen, let me introduce Lieutenant Jones, codename Candy, one of the US Army’s finest this side of the Nile.” Greer stated, sending a cheeky grin her way. “Jones, this is your team: Gomez, Dalton and Ling. Deputy Base Commander Brody, and this is the boring one.” The men all sat down bar one, the tall handsome brown-haired one positioned closest to her, referenced to as “the boring one”. He held out a hand, shaking the Lieutenant’s quickly before introducing himself with a lopsided smile.

“I’m Dr. Ryan but, please, call me Jack.”

—

Tags: @lullabieswrappedinlies

#jack ryan #john krasinski #fanfiction #reader insert #reader #jack ryan x reader #tom clancy #codename candy #fanfic #part one

40 notes · View notes

belphegor1982 · 4 years

Text

…it’s done. Finished. My monster Mummy fic, the one I started in 2003, started publishing in 2004, and left dormant since 2008 – I finally completed it o.O Weirdly (or not), this is the chapter which gave me the most trouble, if you don’t count chapters 16 and 17 (which took me 2 and 16 years to write, respectively). It was hard to say goodbye to this story and these characters, even though I knew I literally just had to get an idea for another story :-/

FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM

Summary: 1937: Two years after the events of Ahm Shere, the O’Connells are “required” by the British Government to bring the Diamond taken there from Egypt to England. In Cairo, while Evelyn deals with the negotiations and Rick waits for doom to strike again, Jonathan bumps into an old friend of his from university, Tom Ferguson. Things start to go awry when the Diamond is stolen from the Museum and old loyalties are tested… (story on AO3; on FFnet)

(Chapters on Tumblr: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23)

Chapter 24: Departure (on AO3 here; on FFnet here)

London, September 1937

A little off Paddington Station, almost in Marylebone, was a small pub called the Stars and Crown, its red brick façade almost exactly similar to the others along the street. It was an unassuming little affair Jonathan liked to patronise every now and then, and not just because it happened to be situated not too far from his flat.

It was a balmy mid-September late afternoon and one of the double doors was wide open on the quiet street. Jonathan and Tom were seated by one of the stained-glass windows, drinking – G&T and a ginger beer, respectively – and talking. Jonathan, remembering the promise he’d made after blowing up Hamilton’s lorry, had bought the rounds.

But for small details like the mostly healed-over scratches on Tom’s hands, the old scar in Jonathan’s left palm, and all the subtler little ways the past two decades had changed them, they might as well have been twenty year old students again.

Well, apart from the subject of their conversation.

“I got off easy, if you ask me.”

“Nonsense. You were the only one who tried to fix this bloody disaster. It’s only fair that you didn’t… You know.”

“…Pay for my mistakes?”

“That is not what I meant and you know it.”

Tom gulped a mouthful of ginger beer, still looking glum.

“I suppose – I know – I should be grateful I didn’t end up like Hamilton, at least.”

Jonathan winced.

Charles Hamilton had made it back to England in a slightly better state than he had made it out of the pyramid, but that wasn’t saying much. From what they had heard, he was lucid for about an hour a day, and that was it – and not very coherent at that. Which made the fact that he allegedly hung himself in his cell a week before his highly sensitive trial very suspicious indeed. The man didn’t appear capable of putting on his trousers on his own, let alone do anything as complex as a slipknot.

The Lord Chancellor’s Department had issued a statement half-heartedly lamenting Hamilton’s demise, the newspapers had stayed surprisingly quiet about it, and Evy had fumed for an entire fortnight. And that had been it. Hamilton had taken the gentleman’s way out. Case closed.

At least Gabriel Baine had been tried, convicted, and sent behind bars for a lengthy period of time. Jonathan didn’t particularly care where he was, as long as he could be elsewhere.

Baine had stated a few times that there hadn’t been anything personal about shooting and ordering his men to shoot Jonathan, Rick, and Tom. Jonathan had silently begged to differ. Baine’s shouts of “Kill them” followed by the sudden excruciating pain in his back, not to mention the confusion and terror as he fought not to die and lost, had felt pretty damn personal.

Tom stared into his glass for a while, then looked up with a brighter expression.

“But enough about this fiasco. How’s your family? I seem to remember your sister’s birthday was coming up, you were lookin’ for a present when we bumped into each other at that bazaar. Did you find one, in the end?”

Jonathan perked up. “I did, actually. Got her a signet ring. She seemed to like it.”

Now that memory he would treasure as long as he lived.

An inventory of his pockets had revealed a hodgepodge of small trinkets which he was still trying to trace. The little medallion with the amethyst cameo must be early Regency, stolen by the pygmy mummies from some unfortunate Napoleon soldier’s corpse; the lapis earring was probably from the Ramesside period (a few Rameses had sent their armies to find or reclaim Ahm Shere, Jonathan had found); the couple of gold and silver rings bearing the Roman SPQR were a little incongruous but easy to chalk up to Julius Caesar’s expedition. There were also some 4th Century Persian coins, proving Alexander the Great’s men had also reached Ahm Shere – the Oasis, anyway – and a number of little amulets from various Egyptian expeditions, mostly heart scarabs made of red and green jasper, copper, quartz, bronze, or gold. He hadn’t determined the nature of the green gemstone yet, saving it for last.

Jonathan had been so excited by his find that he hadn’t gambled a single object. Tracing their origins took time, but he had not even told Evy about it yet. Instead he had not only called on every scrap of expertise he had concerning treasure, but also on every book he could lay his hands on. Evy would have been very surprised – not to mention highly suspicious – if she learned how much time he had been spending at the British Library lately.

He had always enjoyed a good riddle. For some reason this one looked promising enough to justify doing some actual work for. Besides, having the artefacts authenticated meant he would be able to get a much better price selling them.

The only thing he had parted with was the (probable) Napoleon coin, the soft gold nibbled almost beyond recognition by the pygmy mummies’ teeth. Another look at it the morning after his resurrection had given him an idea.

Before they left the Medjai camp, Jonathan had obtained from Ardeth a sketch of Nefertiri’s personal cartouche and the address of a talented goldsmith in Cairo; once back in the city, he had wandered down to Kerdasa, the coin and the folded paper safe in the inside pocket of his (whole and clean) jacket.

Just before he reached the little shop, however, he heard a yelp and a startled cry, and was knocked off his feet by something large and hairy. His vision was filled by long camel’s lashes and lips drawn back on long yellow teeth in what Jonathan might have taken as a smile if he hadn’t known better.

Why did every single camel have to have such foul breath, he wondered.

“ʾAhlan1, Djem,” muttered Jonathan with a sigh that was half annoyance, and half amused resignation.

And was astonished when the camel immediately disappeared from view, replaced with a familiar face. Satiah’s big brown eyes went wide when she saw him.

“Oh, it’s you, bāša2. Hello,” she said with a smile.

Jonathan got up and dusted himself off, irritation quickly fading away. The jacket could survive a little dirt; besides, Satiah’s smile as she hung on to Djem’s bit had lost some of its previous shyness. Considering how fearful she had been the last time – and who could fault her for that, really – it almost made getting knocked over by a foul-smelling bag of hair and wind worth it.

“Good morning, Miss Satiah,” he said in Arabic, picking up his hat from the ground so he could salute her with a flourish. Her hand flew to her mouth to hide a giggle. “It’s a stroke of luck finding you, really. I wanted to thank you for your help the other day, and for, er…”

He reached his limits of the language, and finished in English, “I mean, thank you for returning my wallet to my sister. That was very kind of you.”

“You’re welcome,” Satiah said in Arabic, her cheekbones a little pink. “I’m glad you and your friends got away from those men.”

Jonathan’s smile slipped a notch or two, but he rallied quickly enough.

“Yes,” he said just a little wryly, “we did, at that. In the end.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, I’ve just reached my destination,” he added, pointing to a door above which hung a sign saying something about gold in painted Arabic script, “so I’m going to wish you a—”

“You’re going to see Cousin Ashar?” Satiah interrupted, her eyes shining. Immediately afterwards she clamped both hands on her mouth and cringed. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. Small world, eh?”

She gave a small smile and led the way into the shop, stopping only to tie Djem to a post.

Ashar – the goldsmith Ardeth had recommended – was a tall, wiry man with a long face, his hair going grey at the temples. He welcomed Satiah warmly and sent her to the backroom to get what she came for. Before she closed the door, she gave Jonathan a little friendly wave, which he returned with a smile. Ashar gave him an odd but not hostile look, eyebrows raised.

Jonathan placed his order, left the coin, and was about to leave, when Ashar called him back, frowning slightly.

“You’re one of the O’Connells, aren’t you.”

Jonathan’s mouth opened and closed as though of its own accord.

“You could say that, yes,” he said finally. “Why?”

“Because word of the second raising of Anubis’ Army made it to Cairo recently.”

This time Jonathan’s mouth dropped open and remained like that for a handful of seconds. Ashar gave something that was almost a smile.

“Not all of us wear the ritual tattoos, you know.”

“I do know,” Jonathan articulated with only the slightest difficulty. Dr Hakim was a Medjai, and his face was devoid of any tattoo as well. Dr Bey had been the same, now that he thought of it. His gaze went to the door that led to the backroom. “Satiah, too…?”

“Yes. But her mother’s family has lived in Cairo for fifty years. The girl has never seen the desert. She will get good schooling and find a trade, inshallah3. The time for living legends is coming to an end.” Ashar looked at the cartouche Ardeth had drawn for reference. “I know what this says. Who the name belonged to. Your commission is either a hollow trinket or a great gift.”

Jonathan drew himself up and said, as dignified as he could, “I’m rather hoping for the latter.”

His own signet ring had been gambled and lost in some card game or another, years ago. His parents would have been so disappointed had they still been alive. The least he could do was make sure his sister had a ring of her own, one that paid tribute to the woman she was and the woman she had been, three millennia ago.

Evy’s reaction when she opened his present proved him right, and even surprised him.

She stared into the box long enough for Jonathan’s brain to go into overdrive. Her silence made him panic ever so slightly. Then she looked up at him, her eyes very bright, lower lip trembling.

Jonathan barely suppressed the need to shuffle like a schoolboy and buried his hands into his pockets, hoping his face didn’t give too much away.

“I know I wasn’t… there – or, you know – then,” he said, almost sheepishly. “But I thought… Well. I hoped you’d like it. The cartouche must be right, I got it from Ardeth, and the goldsmith was a bloody good artist, as it turned out, but—”

Evy cut him off by launching herself at him and flinging her arms around his neck, throwing him off balance. As usual, Jonathan stumbled, but managed to catch her in the end.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered into his neck. “Thank you, Jon.”

If his smile was a little wobbly, his eyes a little moist, nobody seemed to notice. Rick and Alex had picked up the little box; Rick’s face lit up in strange recognition, while Alex deciphered the cartouche slowly and grinned.

“Nice one, Uncle Jon. That’s a pretty good present.”

“Yes, about that,” said Jonathan irrepressibly while Evy broke away and wiped her eyes, “I hope you realise that this is the last birthday present you’ll ever get from me, old mum. Since – judging by your reaction – nothing I could give to you could ever top this, I have decided to simply refrain from trying.”

Evy had slapped his arm and called him an idiot with a big smile, then hugged him again. And he had hugged her back, just because he was alive and able to.

The ring hadn’t left her finger since.

“Jon?”

Jonathan was abruptly pulled back to the present, the Stars and Crown, and Tom’s curious smile across the table.

“Hm?”

“You were a thousand miles away.”

“Sorry about that. What about you and Lizzie? Dorset been treating you well, I hope?”

Tom shook his head with a smile.

“It has, sort of, but we’re moving to Oxford. Did Liz tell you she’d been replaced while she was gone?”

Jonathan nodded. Lizzie disappearing for two weeks had not gone unnoticed in her little town, but since the police didn’t have the beginning of a clue and nobody was able to reach Tom, they had moved on to other things and her boss at the telephone exchange had hired someone else. There had been a subtle but definite irony in Lizzie’s letter as she described her and Tom’s return and the scrutiny they’d had to stand up to in order to prove her husband hadn’t killed her and stashed her body away – or vice versa – before his former Chamber of Horus hierarchy stepped in to explain things.

“Well, they needed an operator at the exchange on Pembroke Street. And you know the interview I had this morning at Whitehall? I won’t be too far, as it turns out.” Tom took a deep breath, then said with one of the goofiest smiles Jonathan had ever seen on his face, “I’ll be workin’ from the Bodleian.”

This could only mean one thing. Jonathan grinned.

“The British Antique Research Department accepted your application, didn’t they? Congratulations, old chap. That’s fantastic.”

He downed a mouthful of his G&T and laid an elbow on the table, his chin in his hand.

“Haven’t been to Oxford in almost fifteen years,” he said thoughtfully. “Not since Evy finished her degree. I wonder if the city’s changed.”

“It’s Oxford,” said Tom quietly, looking like his mind was straying down the same path Jonathan’s thoughts were. “I can’t imagine it’ll ever change that much.”

Jonathan smiled quickly into his palm. Then he raised his glass.

“To the two of you, then. And to publicans hopefully not holding grudges, otherwise we’re still banned from half the pubs in Oxfordshire.”

Tom snorted and raised his own glass, now almost empty. “To the three of us, and testing that theory sometime. And let’s not wait two decades this time,” he added with a twinkle in his eyes.

The two glasses clinked.

For just a second, the decades fell away, and Jonathan was twenty years younger.

Lizzie was already waiting for them on the platform by the time they finished their drinks and walked back to Paddington. She carried a shopping bag that looked entirely too small compared to what should be expected of a woman who’d just spent a few hours in the old metropolis. Tom raised an eyebrow.

“Didn’t you say you planned to go to Harrods while we were in London?”

“I also said I only needed a new suit and the latest Agatha Christie novel,” she said, light teasing in her tone. “The next one will be out sometime in November, I think. Have you heard what the title will be? Death on the Nile, of all things.”

Jonathan gave a mock shudder. “I might just give this one a miss, then.”

The train’s whistle pierced the air, cutting the rest of the conversation short. Tom picked up his wife’s bag and Lizzie turned to Jonathan with a smile.

“Goodbye, Jonathan,” she said softly.

The use of his first name had always been a signal that the game was paused and the masks were off, as clear as a referee blowing halftime. Jonathan answered in kind, his throat just a little tight.

“Goodbye, Elizabeth.”

They hadn’t even actually said ‘goodbye’ last time. They had just stood there, she leaning out the train window in her brand-new nurse’s uniform, he and Tommy on the platform amidst the soot, the steam, and the throng of people, until the train departed. The memory was an old hurt that still twinged sometimes, like his left shoulder when the weather was bad.

He cleared his throat and smiled.

“See you on the next Christie novel, then?”

What Lizzie did next might have shocked twenty year old Jonathan, who thought he knew her well, and as such very much surprised his current self, who had a little too much experience of the world to truly get shocked anymore. She took his hands in hers, flying in the face of propriety and what had been her rules of conduct in public, and kissed him on the cheek near the corner of his mouth with an aching sweetness. The old Lizzie, so shy and unsure of her self-worth that she was terrified of what people may think, would have been appalled.

It had taken a while for Jonathan to truly grasp how much the years had changed Tommy and start thinking of him as ‘Tom’ to account for that change. Through this apparently simple gesture – simple only to someone who didn’t know Elizabeth Ferguson, née McAllister – Lizzie became ‘Liz’ in an instant.

“I can’t bear to think you died,” she said, her voice shaking ever so slightly. “When I think… Without that – that book…”

She took a deep breath. Tom caught Jonathan’s eye and gave a small nod. Of course he had told her. Knowing Liz, she’d take the secret to her grave anyway.

“Take care of yourself, Jonathan, please. The world would be so dreadfully dull without you in it,” she added with a tentative smile, to which he replied with a smile of his own, one that hopefully looked steadier.

“Likewise.”

Her hands tightened around his. Just for a second or two, he softly ran his thumb on the back of her hand, an echo of the old intimacy that used to bind them; then their gazes fell away, their hands separated, and the moment was over.

Tom held out his hand with a smile, and Jonathan’s mind was whisked back to that sunny afternoon in Cairo, almost two months ago, and a chance encounter that had reshuffled the cards in a major way. Tom’s handshake was slower this time, steadier, warmer.

“Bye, Jon.”

“Cheers, Tom,” said Jonathan, determined but failing to swallow the lump in his throat. “Have a pint at the Oxford Arms for me.”

Tom nodded, and added his left hand to the handshake, not saying anything. He didn’t need to. As usual – almost – everything he meant to say was on his face and in his eyes for the world to see.

The train let out a burst of steam. Tom hastily let go and made for the train door, stopping only to help Liz aboard. Jonathan looked wistfully at the train for a minute and was about to turn around and go home when he heard his name being called over the din of the locomotive and the running gears chugging into motion.

Tom and Liz were leaning out of a window, wearing identical wide smiles. Liz was waving, her other arm wrapped tightly around her husband. The light in her eyes and her curly hair whipping around her face made her look like the girl from Jonathan’s memories.

“Send my love to Evelyn!” she called. “And say hello to your brother-in-law for me! You’re all welcome anytime for tea!”

“I’ll make sure they know!” shouted Jonathan as the train gathered speed.

The blatant disregard of platform etiquette made several passers-by turn and stare at him with a touch of glower. Jonathan ignored them and kept his eyes on the departing train. Tom’s and Liz’s beaming smiles remained in his head a long time after they had gone back inside the carriage.

He would see them again. This time he was determined not to leave the possibility of a reunion to chance and the vagaries of life. They had been through too much – both twenty years and two months ago – to just go their separate ways.

Besides, Jonathan mused as he left Paddington behind to wade through the bustling streets, he still had some research to do before he set out to sell the objects he had found at Ahm Shere. The Bodleian Library was as good as the British Library; at least he didn’t risk meeting Evy there and being subjected to her prodding curiosity, which he wasn’t ready to face yet. At least not before he unravelled the mystery of the little gemstone. It looked like an emerald and felt vaguely familiar, as though he had seen it somewhere or heard a story about it.

This required some investigation, if only to be prudent.

After all, he was particularly well placed to know that you can only go so far on fairy tales and hokum alone.

THE END

.⅋.

1(أَهْلًا): informal “hello”, “hi”.

2باشا (bāša): “sir”, “mister” in Egyptian Arabic.

3ʾin šāʾa llāhu, (إِنْ شَاءَ ٱللَّٰهُ‎) – literally “if God has willed it”, “God willing”

Don’t look for the Stars and Crown in Paddington, or the Oxford Arms in Oxford. Unlike the Turf Tavern they’re entirely fictional.

Agatha Christie’s Death on the Nile was indeed published on 1st November 1937. I couldn’t resist, I mean, come on ;o)

The Bodleian Library is the main research library in Oxford and one of the oldest in Europe.

If you’re wondering, yes, that little gemstone might be the basis for a sequel of sorts, but I haven’t really started to plot it. Considering my track record for these things you might see that story sometime in the next decade and a half :P

Writing and publishing Fairy Tales and Hokum has been such an adventure. I was 21 when I started writing it; now I’ll be 38 in four days. Much as I miss the old crowd of 2003-2006, reposting and updating the story here on AO3 allowed me to know some awesome people. I’m so glad these characters somehow – FINALLY – sneaked back into my head and my heart again with their quirks, their (updated) backstories, and their voices and allowed me to finish this story the way I wanted to. Like I’ve said before, whenever you started reading this, I hope you had a good time now that you’ve reached the end. If you’ve read and left a signed comment – if you’ve read and left an anonymous comment – if you’ve read and left no comment at all – know that I wrote this for you and I hope some of it made you smile.

Take care of yourselves, love you all, and see you on the next fic? :o)

#Fairy Tales and Hokum #fanfiction #my stuff #the mummy films

14 notes · View notes