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sserpente · 3 years

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A/N: Surprise! Here’s the thing—I don’t normally write sub!Loki at all. However, since Christmas is a time of gifting and making wishes come true and it has been requested quite a few times in the past, I decided to take on an anon request. I can’t write fully-fledged sub!Loki, I just can’t… so I hope this will do! There’s another anon request in there too. I hope you all enjoy it!

Words: 2357 Warnings: sub!Loki-ish, fluff, smut

Additional NSFW warnings: light bondage, oral, usage of anal sex toy

You cursed when you stubbed your toe on the door, shutting it aggressively all the while flinging your bag into the corner like it was the reason for all of your problems. You were trembling, anger and exhaustion gnawing at your guts.

When you let out a desperate sigh as you kicked off your winter boots, Loki tilted his head. He had appeared in the threshold leading to the living room on your floor—an entire floor on Stark Tower, all to yourself. Today, however, this very circumstance did not cheer you up in the slightest.

“A good evening to you too, pet.” He said, eyeing you with curiosity.

“I bloody hate working in retail!” You spat in response. “Why are people being so idiotic, can you tell me that? Oh, I want a refund on this obviously used item which I don’t even have the receipt for, oh, can’t you hurry up I need to catch a train—I had hours to spend on browsing but I want to pay for this immediately or I’m just gonna leave, oh, can you recommend a gift for my niece, I barely know her or her interests but surely you’ll find a gift for her because I am too lazy to use my own brain?” You were fuming. Loki chuckled.

“My dear… breathe.” He was never this gentle with any of the other Avengers but then again, you were the only one he had taken a romantic and sexual interest in. You sighed when he approached you to pull you into a tight embrace, forcing you to calm down for him. Your hands wrapped around his middle almost automatically, allowing him to lift you off the ground and carry you into your bedroom.

Loki spent most of his time in your flat here in Stark Tower. Here, he wasn’t always under suspicion of plotting world domination again—and in fact, all he did was reading, stealing your sweets and learning more about Midgardian culture, first and foremost Christmas. Last week, you had forced him through all Santa Clause films and he had actually ended up enjoying them in the end.

Another sigh escaped your lips as you pressed your face against his chest, letting his hand stroke over your head. Perhaps you should finally let the cat out of the bag and tell the others about your relationship. Loki could be so sweet… and he loved being pampered by you, even if you made sure to take your time teasing him thoroughly first.

“Is there a particular reason you left me a gift this morning?” He changed the topic. Oh yes. You had almost forgotten about this. You had shoved part of Loki’s Christmas gift into his green and gold socket above your bed before you had left this morning. It was Christmas Eve and since you would be spending the 25th with the other Avengers, you had decided that him receiving part of his gift in private would be more appropriate.

“Me?” You asked, playing innocent. “That must have been Santa, Lokes.”

“Are you going to tell me what exactly it is?” He probed. You giggled, looking up at him with innocent eyes.

“I was hoping you’d ask. Where did you put it?” Loki conjured it up seemingly out of thin air—you’d never grow tired of seeing him use his seidr—and handed you a black plastic packaging which contained an equally black butt plug with a prostate massager for men. Loki and you had recently had a conversation about toys for men as opposed to women only and much to your surprise, he had shown quite the interest in the topic. The faces of the Avengers would have been priceless, had you put it under the Christmas tree for him along with his main present.

You grinned. “Lie down on the bed for me—and magic your clothes off, will you?” Loki smiled at your request. He did not often let you command him around like that—but when he did he knew you needed it, to have some fun with his arousal for you to distract yourself from work and other sorrows, much like today. You shouldn’t be in such a bad mood on Christmas Eve, after all.

Still smiling gently, he did as he was told and then slightly raised his eyebrows for you to make the next move. You winked at him after admiring his semi-hard cock for a bit, disappearing in the bathroom. Once you had returned, hands washed, clothes changed and sex toy sanitised properly, you got to work. Loki’s eyebrows shot up all the way when you produced the bondage rope you kept in the drawer right next to the bed and then climbed on the bed as well, straddling his strong thighs.

“Please? Let me play.” You pouted. Loki sighed—allowing you to tie his hands together and then to the bedpost. Both of you were very well aware that he could rip himself free at any time—it was more a matter of it looking pretty and downright hot to have the God of Mischief tied up and at your mercy, at least hypothetically.

He shifted on the mattress just a little when you reached for the toy again which you had already coated in a thick layer of strawberry lube and brought it to his anus. It was designed to directly stimulate his prostate and you positively couldn’t wait to see his reaction.

“What are you doing?” His question was a warning; reminding you it was a privilege he was playing submissive for you and that the… situation could change at any moment. You swallowed, your own arousal pooling in your knickers like a waterfall.

“Trust me? It will feel good, I promise.”

Loki sighed once more—and gasped when you slowly and carefully worked the butt plug inside of his rear. His cock twitched, joyful anticipation mixing with impatience. By the time it was snugly in place, he was as hard as rock and moaned upon you wrapping your hand around him, giving him a few strokes with your hands partially still covered in the strawberry lube you had used.

Loki bucked his hips almost immediately, growling when you drew your hand away again. You chuckled. “You look pretty adorable like that, you know… desperate for pleasure…”

He growled in response. “You will be the one desperate for pleasure and begging me for my touch if you keep this up for long.” He threatened. Your giggle intensified. You felt so much better already.

“Just you wait.” You said, pressing the button of the small bullet vibrator inserted into the butt plug. Loki tensed up when it hummed to life, sending continuous vibrations through his anus and stimulating his prostate.

Then, taking mercy on him, your hand returned to his impressive length, jerking and pleading for attention. A few drops of precum had already formed on his red tip—it was too tempting to ignore. Unceremoniously, you bent down and closed your lips around him, licking over his slit and lapping up all he had to give for now.

Loki tugged at his restraints. A little more strength and he’d tear them apart altogether and he was barely just containing himself anymore already. Knowing he could stop this anytime and pin you down underneath him to just take what he desired for some reason only fuelled his arousal. He bucked his hips in an attempt to plunge himself deeper into your mouth but you were being particularly relentless today. He growled once more, watching how a grin formed on your lips. With a smacking sound, you released him again, continuing to stroke him all the while the prostate massager kept vibrating inside of his rear.

“Does that feel good?” You asked, almost timidly. Loki was an experienced lover, you knew this much. How many Asgardian women had had the pleasure to learn what had earned him the nickname silver tongue you did not want to know and yet, even though his confidence in bed and knowledge of pleasing a woman was exciting, at the very same time it intimidated you.

Loki nodded, blue eyes locked with yours. “Yes. Keep going, my dear.” It almost sounded like an order—one you’d do better not to defy. You took it as an invitation and pressed the button of the vibrator again.

The setting was on high now—but not high enough to tip him over the edge just yet. You needed to hear him whimper first. You had managed once, a few weeks back when Loki had allowed you to tie him up and tease him for a while for the very first time. In the end, it had resulted in him flipping you around and fucking you roughly from behind so hard you had been unable to walk the next day. Your cunt clenched upon remembering how deliciously sore you had felt. It was a risk you were willing to take again.

Loki bucked his hips once more, thrusting up in a steadier rhythm now and desperate for more friction… which gave you another idea. Biting your lower lip, you stood from the bed and peeled off the comfy trousers you had changed into, right along with your underwear. If only Loki could see the wet spot on them as you stepped out of them, he would be grinning like a cat who got the cream but fortunately for you, you were in charge tonight—or at least, for now.

He eyed you like a hungry wolf, growling in an animalistic manner as soon as your slick pussy lips rubbed against his tip and you massaged your clit with it for a while before slowly, painfully slow, sinking down on him and sheathing his cock deep inside of you. You moaned, throwing your head back. Riding him always felt so much deeper than when he was on top… unless he hauled your legs over his shoulders that was.

“More…” He choked out, his blue gaze getting almost feverish, about to turn him into a mindless beast. You stilled, not moving an inch and just kept him inside of you all the while the vibrator in his rear kept stimulating him. He gritted his teeth when you failed to move, bucking up his hips in a desperate attempt to get you to ride him but you decided to take your time. Leaning forward, you began covering his chest and neck in light kisses, tongue darting out every now and then to taste him. Loki was already sweating, his limbs shaking and you knew then just how badly he needed his release. The restraints keeping his hands above his head on the bedpost gave a suspicious tearing sound as he thrust up into you once more.

He was close. He was so close. Smiling, you kissed him and moved back up and into a sitting position. Your fingers found the switch of the vibrator, turning the setting even higher. There was no need for you to move and ride him anymore. Loki came by himself and finally, gave you the whimper you had so desired to hear from him. Your lips parted when he starting twitching inside of you, spilling himself with a groan. His warm seed coated your walls, his cock jerking until he was all but spent. Once he had caught his breath, you turned off the vibrator… for now.

“Get that lovely quim of yours up here.” He ordered with a hoarse voice, once more raising the question whether you had ever truly been in charge of his pleasure. But who were you to defy him? Biting your lower lip, you let him slide out of you, whimpering at the loss of feeling so deliciously full, inched forward until your most private parts were only inches from his mouth and then carefully sat again, your thighs to either side of his head.

Loki wasted no time. Humming contently, he licked over your slit and clit, suckling on your outer lips and circling your sensitive bundle of nerves, tongue pressing against it, massaging it, until you dug your fingers into his raven hair, urging him on. You were so incredibly wet for him it wouldn’t take you long to gush all over him either and so you did. Loki ate you out like you were his last meal, pampering your clit until your body couldn’t take it anymore and you fell, seeing stars as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, drowning you in pure pleasure. You only realised once you lifted yourself off his face because he would not stop that he had wrapped his fingers around the bars of the top of the bed. The bondage rope was torn apart beyond repair.

You smiled, allowing him you wrap you in his arms as he flipped you both around so you came to lie on the bed more comfortably.

“Feeling more relaxed now, my dear?” He asked with a sly smile.

“Much better. Thank you.” Loki hummed in response. “I’m pretty hungry… how about an early Christmas dinner? Just the two of us, without the others.”

“That sounds promising. But first I will need you to get that thing out of me.” He said, eliciting a devilish grin from you.

“I think I’m gonna leave that thing where it is for now. You’ll get a taste of your own medicine. Remember that golden butt plug you made me wear on Christmas last year? Revenge is sweet. So…” You paused. “Are you going to help me cook?”

Loki’s expression darkened, sending pleasant shivers up and down your spine. “You are going to remove that right now.”

“Nope,” you announced smugly, freeing yourself from his embrace and climbing off the mattress. “I’ll be in the kitchen, whenever you’re ready.”

Truth be told, you never made it to the kitchen. Loki was after you in a matter of seconds, dragged you back into bed and made sure you came to regret teasing him like that. Oh, and you most definitely lost count after at least five more orgasms.

A/N: There’s a hint in there for another smutty Loki Christmas Imagine soon to come. Can you find it? ;-)

If you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate it so much if you considered supporting me on Kofi! It’s either for caffeine or red wine, I’ll take both. ko-fi.com/sserpente ♥

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valeriehervo · 3 years

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Valérie Hervo runs Les Chandelles, the legendary Paris sex club where members of French high society, politicians, barristers and rock stars (and an increasing number of Brits) come to indulge their erotic fantasies. Can it survive the twin threats of the pandemic and a moral backlash?

Adam Sage

Saturday March 20 2021,

Valérie Hervo is outraged. She has just been listening to a radio station where two male presenters, chatting about her forthcoming appearance on their show, kept referring to her as the owner of a “group sex club”.

“That really is low-class vocabulary,” she tells me. “It’s very macho as well. Only a man would say something like that.

“And it is not what this place is about. To me, it is a journey through the mystery of the senses to a land of sensuality and encounters.”

Hervo is particularly aggrieved at what she took to be the implication that she organised sexual games for the benefit of men.

Nothing could be further from the truth, she insists. “Here, everything revolves around women’s pleasure. This is a place where a woman can do what she wants, when she wants and with whom she wants – and if she wants to do nothing, she does nothing.”

Hervo opened Les Chandelles, her recreational club – as she would prefer it described – in 1993, and it has since become a part of French high-society folklore.

Any Parisian will tell you that this is the place where the country’s political, economic and cultural elites live out their sexual fantasies beyond the sight of ordinary mortals, where government ministers, television presenters, rock stars and chief executives engage in the ancient practice of libertinage.

But what exactly goes on behind the plain façade in a narrow street near the Louvre in central Paris? And what might this tell us about French values? Or indeed about British values, given the steady flow of clients rumoured to have crossed the channel in recent years in the hope of fulfilling their “erotic potential” under Hervo’s stewardship?

With telephones barred from the club (they have to be left at the entrance) and hardly anyone willing to talk openly about their evenings there – “It’s a matter of intimacy,” says Hervo. “You don’t start telling everyone about your sex life at dinner parties” – such questions have given rise to few answers and much speculation.

Now, with the club closed because of the pandemic, Hervo, 53, has written a book that explains what happens when the dancefloor empties, usually around 1.30am, and the salons around it fill with writhing, sighing bodies.

Les dessous des Chandelles, which could be translated either figuratively as The Secrets of the Chandelles or literally as Underneath the Candelabras, is the portrait of a quintessentially French establishment.

Where else would the lost property include designer thongs or customers eat Ladurée macarons off the back of a naked woman, a famous male barrister end up in an alcove with his female rival days after their clash in a criminal court, or Mick Jagger reportedly be turned away for wearing a pair of jeans?

Hervo explains that her club is a bastion of French “savoir vivre”, where a select group of beautiful, intelligent and well-educated people conduct themselves in a way befitting a nation that has given the world some of its greatest suggestive literature, from Molière’s Dom Juan to Laclos’ Les liaisons dangereuses.

Consider, for example, her account of one of the Eyes Wide Shut theme parties she holds from time to time. “A naked woman, her gaze hidden by a Venetian mask, lies on a table,” she writes. “A nymph in a transparent toga joins her. She kneels down and delicately pulls her legs apart.”

She has torrid encounters herself, for instance with a woman whose perfume she found bewitching and whose body she discovered behind a veil in an alcove.

Much of her time, however, is spent looking after her patrons, like the couple of regulars who realised to their horror that their adult son and his partner had also begun going to Les Chandelles. Hervo tells how they begged her to help them avoid what they said would be a “regrettable” meeting.

On another occasion, a male customer arrived with his mistress, explaining to Hervo that his wife was stuck at home because she was ill. An hour later, the wife arrived with a younger man, she writes. “Don’t say anything to my husband,” she told Hervo. “He thinks I’ve got the flu.”

Hervo promptly rushed downstairs where she found the husband, “naked and frolicking with his partner and a few other accomplices”. She advised him to leave through the emergency exit.

I am discussing these and more adventures with Hervo at a table in her club’s pink and white restaurant, which is to be found at the bottom of stairs that wind down from an ordinary-looking blue door on the street.

Opposite us is another staircase that leads to what could easily be mistaken for an 18th- century Parisian literary salon – were it not for the mattress in the alcove at the end of it.

A third staircase, encased in walls painted in gold leaf, descends to a dancefloor, a bar and more salons with their alcoves, benches and mattresses.

It is difficult to find an English word to describe Les Chandelles. Some have called it a swingers’ club, although that conveys none of the cerebral sophistication and cultural aspirations that go with elite sex in France.

Others have used the term wife-swapping (or échangisme, as the French call it), but Hervo is no more happier with that than with group sex.

“For me, échangisme is very reductive and sad,” Hervo explains. “It involves some kind of contract between four people and they all need to agree, which can’t happen very often.”

What prevails at her club, she says, is libertinage, a concept dating back to a 12th-century rebellion against the church by disaffected clerics who were determined to place physical love above the courtly version promoted by troubadours and their ilk.

The contemporary version of this philosophy involves making “everything possible and nothing obligatory”, Hervo says.

One couple might go for sex, either with each other or with someone else, she says. A second might go along to watch. A third could be happy with a turn on the dancefloor.

“For some, it is enough to have an imaginary journey. For others, they will want a little bit more. But what happens in the salons is the icing on the cake and it doesn’t matter if nothing happens, because we’ve had such fun with the preliminaries.

“Everyone goes at their own rhythm. You may be happy with a look, a caress or with voyeurism. But that is all very different to échangisme.”

Libertinage, which has come and gone in France over the centuries – the early 17th and the mid-18th being among the high points – enjoyed a return to fashion from the late Nineties with the emergence of hundreds of clubs amid a spirit of unrestrained freedom.

The number has since fallen, with adepts taking to organising their own house parties. At the last count there were 269 such clubs left, according to French state radio.

The health crisis looks likely to drive many more out of business, their activities scarcely being compatible with social distancing.

Les Chandelles, however, has a status apart, and this should offer it protection against the vicissitudes of fortune.

Hervo says her customers include “politicians from both the left and the right” and “celebrities from across the whole world” (she refuses to divulge their names).

Hervo says that as her club’s fame has grown, so has its allure to visitors from Europe, the US, Asia and “a lot from Britain”.

It is not enough just to cross the channel and knock on the door, though. In order to get in, you need erotic knowhow, Hervo says, along with familiarity with Parisian savoir-vivre.

“It is an alchemy. A way of being,” she says.

In his Histoire du libertinage, Didier Foucault, a history lecturer at Toulouse University who is a specialist on the subject, writes of how the practice became fashionable after 1600 among aristocrats driven “by a haughty refusal to bow either to common law or to any authority whatsoever, be it temporal or divine”.

There may be something similar about the French elite that frequents Les Chandelles. The entrance fee is €96 for two, or €310 with dinner and a bottle of Deutz champagne thrown in. If Deutz is too downmarket, there is Cristal Roederer for €490 or Dom Pérignon Rosé for €470.

But the selection policy is not based on money, Hervo insists. More important to her are “elegance, refinement, education and taste.

“I have a very tough door policy. I turn away a lot of people.”

The badly dressed, the ugly, the vulgar, have no hope of getting past her, she says, while the overweight may struggle as well, at least if they are male.

“I know I shouldn’t be saying this, but I am going to say it anyway. I think I would be more concerned by a fat man than a round woman. Round women can be very beautiful but, in general, men who are fat are… Well, someone who lets himself go physically is someone who does… not respect himself. And if he doesn’t respect himself, he is less likely to respect other people.”

Les dessous des Chandelles is a strange, almost dual work. On the one hand, it is a window onto this secretive world of privilege and exclusion created by Hervo beneath Rue Thérèse in the French capital.

On the other, it is a tale of the author’s personal voyage through libertinage and her claim that the sexual liberation she found along the way, first in other clubs and then in her own, helped to unshackle her from a traumatic childhood marked by incest, guilt and depression.

Our conversation reflects the same duality.

For much of the interview, Hervo comes across as the archetypal Parisian businesswoman, complete with carefully applied make-up, an elegant hairdo, an articulate discourse, a headstrong Yorkshire terrier and a well-trained fiancé – Tom, the maker of an excellent Sancerre white wine, who rushes off shortly after I arrive and returns later with an armful of her outfits for the photoshoot, including an all-white suit and a glittering jacket.

One minute she is talking with off-putting clarity about the female orgasm, telling me in a tone that brooks no argument that “a woman’s sexuality is so much richer than that of a man”. The next she is explaining, with equal equanimity, how she resisted underworld attempts to take over her club following her divorce in 2005.

Like all self-respecting Parisiennes, she knows how to throw a strategic fit of pique as well, announcing that the photographer is driving her mad and that Tom had better summon a friend for help, and be quick about it. The friend duly arrives with a bottle of sancerre to enable Hervo to get through the afternoon session.

Yet, from time to time, there are signs of the scars left by childhood, as when she concedes that she took refuge in libertinage in part because “at night-time, you can’t see the suffering so much… the glitter masks the pain”.

At one point, her eyes fill with tears as she discloses that her relatives have refused to speak to her since the publication of her book, which recounts her rape by her grandfather as a young girl, her parents’ refusal to believe her, her teenage struggles with depression, her toxic marriage to a man 20-odd years her senior, and her salvation in swingers’ clubs.

It was her former husband who introduced her to libertinage. She writes of her first experience in a club where “in a salon plunged into darkness… some couples are making love while others are observing them”.

She did not want to join in – at least not the first time – but says, “My emotion [was]great and my excitement real.”

“I was 24 and I instinctively knew it was right for me,” Hervo tells me. “What I liked in those places was a feeling of freedom and especially a feeling that I was meeting couples who seemed to get on well together.

“That was not the image of the couple I had received as a child because my parents argued all the time. It was like Disneyland as far as I was concerned.”

When her former husband suggested opening their own swingers’ club in Paris, she jumped at the chance. He put up some of the money, they borrowed the rest and she became the manager.

“It was a success straight away, because I think it was the first club to give so much importance to women,” she says. “At that time, in 1993, in other clubs, the women were just treated as objects and it was the men who took charge of the games and who brought along their wives.

“I think that they were probably men of little courage who were not able to cheat on their wives and who went to this sort of place instead. But that was not at all in the spirit of libertinage.”

Les Chandelles would be different, she decided. “Women who are objects are women without humanity. Here, I made sure that the women were subjects.

“In fact, I created here what I never had myself. I tried to encourage women to take their time, to dare to set the tempo, to ask men to be attentive and unhurried and to be gallant, because women adore gallantry.”

She says her door policy has always involved refusing entrance to couples if she suspects that the woman is being dragged along against her will or kept in the dark about the true nature of Les Chandelles. “Even now in 2021, there are boors who don’t tell their partners where they are taking them,” she says. “It’s increasingly rare but it still happens. But if I have the slightest doubt, I question them. You get a feeling for these things.”

Inside the club, no means no, she says, explaining that men can be expelled for repeating a request to a female customer if they are turned down the first time.

“I think women are much safer in this sort of place than in traditional nightclubs where they get hassled all the time,” she tells me.

She says that she herself came to see Les Chandelles – of which she has been the sole owner since extracting herself from her disastrous marriage 16 years ago and buying her former husband’s share – as a refuge from the wounds left by her troubled childhood.

“This has been my bunker and my incubator,” she says. “It was where I revitalised myself, and where I discovered myself too.”

Can her club really be as idyllic as she pretends?

For years, Les Chandelles has been described in the French press as a favourite haunt of Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the former head of the International Monetary Fund, who resigned following his arrest on suspicion of rape. Although the charge was ultimately dropped, reports of his attendance at Les Chandelles have done nothing for its image.

Recently, it has also been linked with Gérald Darminin, President Macron’s interior minister, who, it has emerged, went to Les Chandelles in 2009 with a woman who had asked him for help in overturning her criminal conviction – he was legal affairs adviser for an opposition political party at the time – and who has accused him of raping her later that evening.

He denies her claim, but the publicity has scarcely been an advertisement for Hervo’s establishment.

She says the coverage has been misleading and unfair. DSK, for instance, barely ever visited Les Chandelles, she insists.

“There are many other politicians who came more often than him and who were much more important than him,” she says.

As for Darmanin, she says that when he dropped into the club a little over a decade ago, he was a young bachelor, and that young bachelors sometimes visit “for an evening with – what’s that word they use now? – oh yes, les sex friends, that’s it.

“And there’s nothing wrong with that. If you find yourself on your own for a year or so, you might want a regular one of those. Why not?”

Until now, the interview has gone smoothly enough, interrupted only by the barking of Cerise, Hervo’s Yorkshire terrier, at the emergence of the photographer from below.

But then I make a big mistake. Noting the entrance policy favours single women – who are allowed in on evenings otherwise reserved for couples, when single men are banned – I ask Hervo whether she uses them as an enticement for male patrons seeking a threesome with their wives and another partner.

She looks daggers across the table. “That is really a stupid, male, Cro-Magnon thing to say,” she tells me. “It’s very maladroit of you.

“Single women come because they want to have fun, because they could meet a man who pleases them, or a woman, or perhaps neither. Sometimes, it’s just two women friends who come for a drink because they know that here they won’t be bothered and because they will be appreciated because they are pretty.

“When I began here, I didn’t receive single women in the evening, because society considered that a woman who came alone to an establishment like mine was either a whore or a bitch. I fought to make people understand that life does not work like that, and I am proud to say that today I have single women among my customers.”

I ask Hervo if she is a feminist. “I certainly am not a neo-feminist,” she says, explaining that she laughs off wolf whistles in the street, likes being complimented on her looks and wants to “seduce or to be seduced, freely. But I am feminist for some things. I am in favour of women being able to experience pleasure alone at first, to discover their bodies and to enjoy their bodies, and only afterwards to share all that with a partner if they so wish.

“That sort of thing has not always been possible in the past.”

Pointing out that Foucault’s history of libertinage shows how sexual freedoms have come and gone over the centuries in France, I wonder out loud whether the country is shifting back towards greater restraint.

“You’re right, it is,” she says. “The difference is that today, it is not religion that is trying to cover everything up, it’s our moralising society. There is a very prudish scent around these days.”

In a thinly veiled attack on #MeToo, she complains in her book that the social networks have been transformed into “popular tribunals”, that the law has come to treat women “as weak beings which have to be protected” and that the ancestral French game of seduction is being subjected to new codes and new rules.

It is difficult to determine whether the pandemic will brake or accelerate this trend. Some predict that when the crisis ends, we will see a repeat of les années folles (the mad years), as the Twenties were known in France, with a yearning for freedom, parties and libertinage.

Others forecast the continued spread of the Anglo-Saxon-style feminism that Hervo abhors and the curtailment of French love-making and seduction. She is not overly worried, though. On a personal level, she has emerged from years of therapy able to confront her past and look forward to the future, she says. She has become a part-time therapist herself, has a house in the country, where she has spent much of the past year, and is planning to “marry the man I love” this summer.

Even if the moral backlash gathers strength, she thinks that Les Chandelles will continue to triumph.

“There have always been currents and countercurrents, but if society goes one way, people will need a place of liberty where they can do what they want, where they will have the freedom to talk, to exchange.”

Indeed, she believes that her club may even come to play a role similar to that of literary salons in the 18th century, when they nurtured the ideas that helped to topple the ancien régime.

Only in France could there be dreams of Enlightenment amid the shadows of a basement sex club. Les dessous des Chandelles by Valérie Hervo is published by Cherche Midi

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babbushka · 4 years

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Empress

Kylo Ren x Reader ; Knights of Ren x Reader

Word count: 3.5k ; Warnings: N S F W lol (Group sex, women & men KoR, rough oral, voyeurism, mentions of blood, there’s just a lot going on here you guys lol)

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You’re surprised when you get the message that they’ve arrived.

Kylo and his Knights of Ren had gone on a dangerous mission to the Outer Rim, one that was expected to take far longer than you had anticipated. So when you receive the notification on your holo-pad that their ship is preparing to dock, you scramble to throw on something nice and run barefoot down the halls of the Supremacy.

You run straight into Kylo’s arms, nearly knock him over with your excitement, and though he wears his mask, you can tell he’s smiling. He always smiles at you.

“You’re back!” You grin, and he holds you very tight for a few moments before setting you down so you can greet the Knights.

There’s five of them, and thank the stars they’re all here before you. All human, although some theorize otherwise. Three men and two women, all loyal to Kylo, loyal to you.

You hug each and every one of them, their hands winding around your middle as you do, holding you close. They were all incredibly protective of you, they loved you.

“How’s our best girl?” One of them, Casey asks. She’s the oldest of the women, and the most fierce, the most bloodthirsty.

“Better now that you’re here.” You grin into her visor, try to squint to see if you can catch a glimpse of her eyes.

You never can, but that’s besides the point. You’ll see them soon.

You’ll see all of them, soon.

Another Knight, a man named Six, pulls you from Casey’s arms, hugs you close. He leans in for you to kiss his helmet, and your eyes go wide at the same time that Kylo grabs him by the back of his cowl and yanks him away from you, yanks him right up in Kylo’s face.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” He seethes, voice angry and staticy through the vocoder, and though you can’t see Six’s face, you know he’s shaking.

“I’m sorry Master, she’s just so – ”

“I know. I know she is.” Kylo practically spits, before dropping his Knight.

He collects you back in his arms, and you kiss Kylo’s helmet, hot and open mouthed, breath fogging up the metal. He’s the only one who’s allowed to kiss you, they know this. You don’t know why Six pushes his luck the way he does.

“You all must be so cold,” You say, not wanting to be out in the hanger any longer than necessary, “Let me warm you up?”

They form their protective square around you as they escort you back to your quarters, the ones you share with Kylo. There was an arrangement, between them all, between you and them. You were Kylo’s girl, his first and favorite girl, the love of his life. But they were all so loyal, all so needy.

Kylo let them have you, on special occasions. A reward for a job well done. They wanted you all the time, but then again, everyone wanted you. It was a privilege, one that only the Supreme Leader could bestow, to have you.

They have a hive-mind, being so mentally linked through the Force, and they feed off of one another’s lust, their thirst for you. When you reach your quarters, they’re practically vibrating, thrumming with energy as they all begin to disrobe, as the airlock hiss of the pressure release fills the room when they remove their helmets.

They’re all very unique looking, each in their own way. They’re incredibly well built, muscular, even the women. Maybe especially the women, you think as you appraise their rippling arms and thighs. They take their time with you, sliding your gown off your shoulders, letting it pool onto the floor at your feet. Two of them, Max and Tin, fall to their knees in front of you, nuzzle their faces against your stomach.

You chuckle, all the Knights were very much like a pack of wild dogs that Kylo has somehow managed to tame, hanging on your every word, nipping at your heels.

Kylo himself remains fully clothed as he sits on the big comfortable armchair just off to the side of the great canopy bed where you crawl on top of, settle down on the plush soft comforter.

“Since you were so good, you get to choose: do you want me all at once, or do you want to take turns?” You ask, sitting on your knees on the bed, naked just like them.

“All at once.” They reply, all at once, in a way that makes you blush.

They were all so needy for you, for your body.

It works out well that there’s five of them, you think as they crowd around you, all climbing up onto the bed and getting into position.

Six lays down on the bed and pulls you to him, sits you down on his lap, right on his cock. It’s hard, they’re all hard for you, all the ones who can get hard anyway. You’re wet enough though, wet enough to take him, and he groans as he holds you up.

“Oh fuck she’s tight.” Six huffs, and you hum from the feeling full.

Tin crawls up behind you, kneads the flesh of your ass for a minute or two before spreading your cheeks. You surprise him, surprise all of them really, by having a pretty pink plug already buried deep inside you. You had worked it inside you hurriedly when you heard they were coming, had enough time to just get it inside before making your way to the hangar.

It’s hard for you to relax though, when Tin tries to pull it out. He’s careful, but when you start wriggling away you feel the warm familiar embrace of the Force holding you still as he twists and tugs the plug out.

“No no no baby, you’re not going anywhere.” He shushes you, and you moan loud as he nudges the head of his cock against your asshole quickly, so that you don’t start to close up.

No one would want to waste that delicious stretch, after all.

Sandwiched between them, the third man in the group, Jov, climbs up to the head of the bed, wags his heavy cock in your face.

“Open.” He says and you do, open your mouth wide.

You’re already salivating, breath already coming in pants at the feeling of being stuffed from both ends, your cunt and your ass filled. No one is moving, no one thrusts, not yet, not until Kylo gives them permission. They wait for the command from their master like the well behaved hounds they are, and in obedience, Jov only slides his dick into your mouth, down your throat once, just to get it good and buried.

You breathe deeply through your nose, adjust yourself so you’re comfortable around all three of them, before the women, Casey and Max position themselves so they’re laying on either side of you.

They’re all obsessed with your tits, but Casey and Max get first dibs on them when they take you all at the same time like this. When they decide to go one at a time, they eat you out like a champ, fuck you hard with a strap until you’re sobbing, but times like these when there’s just too many dicks and not enough holes, they settle for sucking your nipples raw.

“Go.” Kylo says off-handedly, once they’re all in position and you look good and ready.

Kylo’s so in tune with you, with your thoughts, he doesn’t need you to give a verbal confirmation.

And good thing too, because at the sound of the command Jov rams his cock so far down your throat that your eyes immediately spring with tears from the sensation. You try your best not to gag around him, try your best to keep yourself relaxed so Six and Tin can fuck you well.

They have a steady rhythm, when Six thrusts into your pussy, Tin pulls out of your ass, and then they switch. It’s delicious, it’s horribly good, makes you shudder and shiver all over as they grunt and groan in your ear.

“That’s it, she’s so talented, so good.” One of them praises you, makes your cunt clench at the sweet words, makes you moan.

They do something with you, you don’t know what it is, something with the Force. They make you come as many times as you can. They get inside your nerves and set your body alight, all of them, all at the same time as they fuck you and fuck you from all ends.

“I love it when she comes.” Another growls, and there’s something degrading about being talked about like you’re not even there, like it’s not you that they mean, that you moan and whine against Jov’s cock.

“Oh – !” You gasp around him, knees buckling only for Six and Tin to pry them back open, keep you open and pliant for them.

Too soon your orgasm crashes over you, too soon you’re shutting your eyes against the feeling of it as white hot pleasure shoots through your limbs. They’ve barely started, and you know they’re going to reduce you to nothing but a ragdoll by the time they’re finished, they’re going to make you an incoherent mess.

You thrill at the thought, your stomach swoops, and you arch your back further, push your tits further into the women’s mouths, as they suckle and bite and kiss at you. You sometimes feel bad for them, when they don’t get to fuck you, but they’re fingering themselves, you can hear it. You don’t feel so bad then.

“She’s so sweet.” Max says, pulling off for just a little.

Of course they can hear you, they all can hear your thoughts. The hive-mind doesn’t just stop with Kylo.

Speaking of which, he’s got his fist around his cock, slowly pumping himself as he sits in the armchair. He’s fully clothed still, only his monster cock visible amidst the mass of black cloth and leather. He does this, every time. Likes to watch, the voyeur.

Sometimes he’ll hide in another room and get off, sometimes he’ll stand right by the bed and hold your hair, whisper filthy, humiliating things in your ear. Things like, you like getting used don’t you? Such a good whore aren’t you? Spreading your legs like a bitch in heat.

There are hands absolutely all over you. So many bodies that you can’t tell who is who anymore, can’t tell which hands belong to which Knight. They grab at you, grope you, hold your legs open hold your throat hold your tits. You don’t know what exactly happens but all of a sudden instead of pleasure there’s a harsh spike of pain, and you gag around Jov’s cock, pull off with a sputter.

“Ow!” You complain with a frown, wiping the drool and slobber off your chin with the back of your hand.

Kylo is out of his seat in a second, and all the fun stops, all the fucking comes to a screeching halt. Your own hips betray you, as they rock back and forth trying to keep getting more friction, trying to come again.

“Who?” He asks, voice velvety smooth but dangerous, low.

“I don’t know.” You hiccup, throat raw from being fucked so much, so hard. “Kylo – !”

He’s buried a vibroblade into Jov’s side, crimson immediately pouring down his flank. Jov grits and bears the pain, doesn’t so much as groan when Kylo yanks it out and shoves him off the bed.

Kylo takes his spot, but he doesn’t slide his cock down your throat, not yet.

“No one gets to hurt you.” He kisses you, his hot mouth on your own, his lips beautifully red and begging to be bitten, so you do.

“No one but you? Will you hurt me?” You ask through hooded lids, “Please daddy?”

He grimaces at you, grabs your jaw in his gloved hand and you can’t help but suppress a grin. He hates it when you call him that, thinks it’s entirely too gross. You only do it when you want him riled up, and he knows this.

“Don’t be a brat, or I just might.” He says, not releasing his grip on your face. Before he bends down to kiss you again, he mutters out an, “Keep going.”

They all move again, all of them, the thrusting in and out of your cunt and ass have your thighs shaking, have you moaning into Kylo’s mouth as he swallows the sounds down. He pets your hair sweetly, makes out with you while Casey and Max pinch and squeeze and knead your tits, as their tongues prod and pull at your nipples.

They are all quiet except for you, as you fall deeper and deeper into your pleasure, you grow louder and louder until you’re shouting, coming again, for the second time of the evening. They haven’t even touched your clit yet, haven’t even rammed your gspot yet, you come simply from the awe-inspiring power they have over you – and whatever the fuck it is they do with the Force.

“I want to kiss her.” Six complains from under you, and if you weren’t drooling so hard you might have laughed.

“Well you can’t. Just fuck her instead.” Kylo snaps, as he cups your cheeks in his hands and treats you so softly, so so softly even as you’re getting absolutely fucking railed. “You take them so well, look at you, look at you crying for them. They missed you. I missed you.”

The praise makes you sob, makes your chest heave into Casey and Max’s mouths, makes Jov groan from his spot on the floor where he’s fucking into his fist, completely disregarding the wound on his side. Your eyes and cheek sting with tears as you come again, as Six finally touches your aching throlling clit and rolls it between his fingers.

You clamp down around him and Tin, and the men grunt as they only work in time to milk your orgasm. Your throat clicks with the force of it, and you shudder and shake all over, spit all over you – both yours and theirs, you can’t tell, you can’t tell anything anymore.

“So pretty.” One of them murmurs.

“Gorgeous.”

“Stunning.”

They all agree, and you cry and cry, biting your lip so hard that it bleeds, and Kylo licks up the blood, swallows it down the same way he swallows down your shouts and screams.

“What do you want?” Kylo asks, and you nuzzle your face against his hands, trembling all over.

“Just you.” You say, and they all groan as they’re forced to come soon. If they don’t, Kylo will make them pull out and finish off themselves, and that’s never fun.

“You all have a minute.” Kylo orders, and they swear to themselves, pick up the pace.

It’s no longer an even rhythm that they fuck you with, Tiv and Six break enough to speed up, to be rough, bruising your hips and thighs where their grip on you is too tight. They once broke your bones like this, once broke your wrist from gripping you too tightly. Kylo cut their hands off for it, replaced it instead with robotics.

There’s another rule in place, one that they all abide by. No one but Kylo is allowed to kiss you or come inside your cunt, everyone else has to shoot their load only once they’ve completely pulled out.

Which is why you aren’t surprised when thick ropes of come splash against your back, against your stomach, not surprised when even Jov has come back to stand at the side of the bed, jerking off onto your face, into your mouth.

“Dammit.” Is all Six says, when he comes, because you know he wants to come inside. They all do.

The women go tense on their own fingers, but they feed it to you, they all feed you their come, and you suck it off their fingers happily.

You’re completely overwhelmed, oversensitive to the point that it hurts, but you still want more.

You want Kylo.

“Mine.” He gives you a handsome smile, a devious one, before snapping his teeth at the Knights, commanding, “Give us space.”

They pull themselves away from you, and only once you are completely free of them and their hold, do you whine and whimper for Kylo. It’s such an odd feeling not being surrounded by them, but one that’s made entirely better when Kylo lays you down softly on your back, when he props a pillow under your hips sweetly and parts your shaking legs with tenderness.

Kylo always saves himself for last, always. He’s the biggest out of all of them, both in size of body and cock. Despite being absolutely torn apart, you still struggle to accommodate his length, his girth, the way that it curves inside you is sinful, and he’s rubbing at your gpot in no time, really grinding his cock into you.

He’s still fully clothed, and the sensation of the fabric on your overheated, overly sensitive skin has you crying again. You shy away from him but he shushes you and kisses you deeply, even as his coarse clothing scratches your skin.

“Look she’s gonna come again.” One of them says, hungry eyes trained on you, on your cunt.

They like to watch just as much as Kylo does, and despite already coming on you, they still aren’t finished. Sometimes they’ll even fuck each other, thinking it’s you.

“Are you gonna knock her up?” Another asks hopefully, and this gets them excited.

“You should, it’ll get her tits full.” A third moans as he fucks his fist.

“Fuck I’m thirsty.” A fourth agrees.

“Shut up.” Kylo growls, before turning to you and focusing on pushing his cock as far into your abused pussy as he can, pushing you up the bed with the force of it.

“Unh, Kylo!” You whine, have the ability to speak now that you aren’t completely overwhelmed, now that it’s only Kylo rocking his hips into you, only Kylo punching air out of your lungs.

“Shh shh, be good, be good for me.” He covers your mouth for a minute as he thrusts slow and deep, whispers in your ear, “You’re sloppy, aren’t you?”

“Uh huh.” You mumble, jaw slack, focusing only on the sounds.

You know it’s obscene, the squelch of it all. You’re sopping wet all over, there’s come sticking you to the comforter from your back, dripping and sliding between your bodies from your stomach, there’s even come that’s collected in the pit of your throat from your face. It’s wet, the slap on slap on slap of skin only making you feel more filthy, more depraved, more used.

“Hear that? That’s all their come. They wish they could come in you, but that’s mine and only mine, isn’t it kitten?” Kylo asks, and you moan.

“Yes!” You agree, loud enough for them all to hear you, “Only your come.”

“Mmmm.” Kylo kisses your temple, “They can fuck you all they want, but you’re my girl, aren’t you?”

You only nod and moan loud at that, as you come for the fourth time. This time it’s practically painful, this time your chin is pinched and your brow is furrowed because you can’t possibly do another one, not another one, it’s all too much.

Kylo’s hips still in you then, and you let out a big sigh of relief as your orgasms hit at the same time.

He pumps his come deep inside you, you can feel it spreading, it’s so hot. You wonder if that’s just him, just Kylo, or if the Force has something to do with it, with the way you can feel the thick ropes of come fill you up so much that you’re practically overflowing with it.

Kylo is panting heavily on top of you. It takes a lot of restraint for him to hold himself back the way he does, but he knows, you both know, that it’s good for the Knights to get their fill of your body first.

“You had your fun, now leave.” Kylo commands as he presses himself flat down against your body, not caring about the sweat and spit and come that covers you. “Take Jov to the med bay.”

You chuckle at that, at the complete lack of interest in his Knight’s wound, the one he inflicted.

They gather themselves together, pull on their clothes while Kylo kisses you to calm you both back down, to bring you back to a place where you’re not so wrapped up in your head.

“Good night princess.” One of them calls through the vocoder of their helmet, all of them lined up in formation and ready to leave.

Kylo tucks his head against your neck and you card your fingers through his hair, regarding the Knights with a playful eye when you say,

“That’s Empress, to you.”

-----------

Honestly this is really @adamsnackdriver and @dreamboatdriver‘s fault go blame them

#reader insert #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren/reader #knights of ren #kor x reader #this is just #its a lot yall

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space-blue · 3 years

Text

The Mountain God

"I wish I could work downtown too."

"But working in the summer here is not very fun, especially not in kitchens."

"Still beats my job. I'm not even paid for it."

"Does it? I would think your job is more important and valued than mine."

Arji looks at the blond stranger, surveying the woody valley with a delight she doesn't think she's ever felt, being born and raised here. To him it must look exotic. She has no doubt her religious tasks are just as exotic to his foreign eyes–folklore that adds to the local charm.

"You know," he says, "I like to think that what makes tanma noodles taste so good is that each bowl contains at least one drop of sweat from our brows. It's the spice from all the hard work we chefs pour into making it."

"See, you make it sound so nice..."

It is hot and humid, and the blue of the sky feels wet to look at, like a smooth sea floating in the heavens. Their ears are filled with the racket of crickets and cicadas, a persistent hum that seems to make up the very fabric of the air. The breeze plays with the stranger's golden locks, making a show for Arji's own delight. She thinks Erik Vinter is a fine addition to the local charm.

"I still can't believe you begged Derjan to apprentice you after one bite of his tanma."

"No, I finished the whole bowl before asking. I couldn't stop to talk in the middle of such an experience. What can I say? I'm a travelling foodie. I know to trust my taste-buds."

Erik's eyes light up as he talks to her of foods he has tasted on his travels, of the recipes he has collected, of his dreams of restaurant and fame. She looks at him sway in the tuneless music of nature around them. She wishes the whole summer could pass by like that.

"I finish at eight tonight, Apra and Jen are coming over at mine for some drinks, won't you join us?"

Arji is surprised. It takes a clueless foreigner to invite the God's attendant in the middle of summer devotion. But it crystallises her hopes and desires all too well.

"I'll call you," she says, rising to leave and maybe hide her blushing, "if I can join after devotion."

She knows, as she goes through her ablutions, that her mother simply won't let her.

"Arji! How can you think of partying at such a time?"

Her mother's face looks so hurt and scared, it's hard to resent her, and that makes Arji angrier.

"Child, I'm worried you're not taking your duties to the mountain's God seriously," she says, tying Arji's ceremonial robes, "it is not a baseless tradition. Misconduct would bring much worse than just shame on us..."

Arji tries not to roll her eyes. Each passing summer her tasks seem more pointless. She knows the importance of attending the God. She would not want him to desert him. But surely summer devotion doesn't need to keep her as good as trapped on the Temple grounds, forbidden to have any fun? Her exasperation makes Arji look more dignified than usual as she steps out of the Temple's back patio. The evening ritual is the same every summer, with two priestesses–her aunt and mother–singing while Arji slowly steps unto bare earth and approaches a crystal clear pond at the base of a rocky outcrop. People call this the temple's garden, but really the temple was built in the God's garden. When she gets to the pool, Arji seizes the cord knotted on her chest and in one smooth motion, all the colourful layers of fine fabric cascade to her feet, leaving her naked but for a thin white loincloth. She raises her arms, breathes deep and plunges. The water is warm and clear. Arji grabs onto holds smoothed by generations of divers, and pulls herself expertly in a bend. It grows dark before light appears again, diffuse and greenish : a natural phosphorescence in the stone referred to as the God's Way. The passage bends until a new surface appears above, a cavern lit by the rocks' inner light. When she breaks through, Arji enters an atmosphere almost thicker than water.

It is the God's den. Here he is, lying on his side as always.

Arji climbs out and kneels, bowing and reaching forward to touch the God's fur. She doesn't know what he is. Wolfish, but smaller, definitely carnivorous. He never moves. The only movements she ever sees comes from the creatures crawling on and around him, critters of all shapes and sizes, from skittering bugs to mice, snakes or feral cats, come to pay their own respects. As she touches him, the air comes alive to her ears, throbbing, amplifying the rustle of fur, the clicks of little claws, the drips of water.

"From the humans of your mountain, O God, may you give breath to our songs and rhythm to our lives."

And Arji sings.

Her voice bends and reverberates in the close space, and she plays with it. For many years she has come to perform this duty, to offer the beauty of human music to the God. It is their expected sacrifice. She sings five prayer-poems of reverence, and bows again before turning and dipping back into the pool, unheeded. She did it the night before, and she will be back on the morrow. All summer it is her task–to please a God who lays crawling with insects and animals like a dead carcass–and all evening Arji fumes. She hardly touches her diner, and retires early. Once, singing for the God had been a great privilege. Habit wore it off. Does the God even really care for her songs?

Escaping the temple's grounds isn't exactly a feat: it is all open ground. She is kept in by trust and duty, not gates or fences. But tonight she's had enough of those, and not enough of Erik's charming smile and manners. Her friends are surprised but happy to see her, and the night soon melts away in pleasure, Arji loosing track of reality after a while. The dancing was famous, the food spicy and tangy, someone took out firecrackers... They sung and drank–and drank–and Erik's hands wrapped around Arji's waist, making her feel so small–they kissed, and the lights went out in her head.

A night well worth the misery of the following day, spent sick and hungover. The worst isn't so much the vomiting but convincing her mother she's fine. Standing in front of the pool again, Arji grimly wonders if the dip will help–it doesn't. She emerges with her headache intact and her spirits low. Everything is as she left it the last day, but for the court of little attendants. Here is a new vole, and a marten is gone... Arji sighs. Even the animals have more freedom than her, it seems. Resigned, she sings–but her voice splits, cracks. Reverberations croak back from all corners. She coughs and looks up, sheepish.

The God moves.

His whole head lifts from the floor and twists to face her, golden beady eyes starring at her, trapping her under his gaze like a frog in torchlight.

"So little care, human."

His voice comes from the stones, from the water and from each little critter. It comes from the noise of the blood in her ears, and the thunder of her laboured breathing.

"You see your duty to me as a chore, I can hear it."

Arji can do nothing but look at the God, her eyes popping out of her head.

"Do you wish to do without me, to become a place of chaos?"

Arji shakes her head, not daring to speak. She's been to the great city on the plain. She knows what it's like down there, where no God lives. People's lives are messy, without harmony. Things collide instead of working together. Sound there is noise without rhythm.

"I'm sorry... I thought... you weren't hearing me."

"But I was. And until you've come to love your reverence and your life embraces the rhythm I breath for you all, no one but me will hear you."

The God moves too fast for stunned Arji to react. His pounces on her, his teeth digging into her throat and tearing. She cries out, reaches up, but no blood is pouring out, her skin is smooth, and the God already gone, back to lie on his rock with his creeping court curled up close, chittering angrily at her.

“I'm sorry!” Arji chokes, massaging her throat. “I'll be more mindful.”

She bows and takes a hasty leave, subdued, her aching brain overwhelmed by the encounter.

It's only when she tries to explain her early return to her mother, and not a sound comes out from her throat, that she realises what the God meant. No one hears her bitter cries.

~~ May 2017 – Theme : Music Bit of a weird one... I'd totally forgotten I'd even written it...

#original story #original work #competition #fantasy

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itslula1991 · 4 years

Text

My Jewel (In Corrections)

Hello everyone! I am very sorry for the delay in uploading this chapter but the inspiring muse is failing me lately. Here is the second part, sorry if this is too long. I hope you enjoy ❤️

Genre: Adventure, comedy, romance, fantasy

Summary

An ancient spell causes a millenary young lady to weaken, it is up to Larry and her friends to help her find the key to return her to normal while an unknown woman, along with three known individuals, and in order to proclaim her “how hers,” she try to take over a captive jewel somewhere in Egypt. (The shock of all the chaos in the girl).

Objective? The guard and the exhibits must prevent it from falling into the wrong hands while between Ahkmenrah and the girl, a romance will slowly emerge that will bear fruit over time.

Chapter 2

Nowadays…

After graduation he was able to move to a fabulous place in Queens, without any more instability, without any more worries about unpaid bills and all thanks to his good salary as a teacher when getting the job in the same career in which he was oriented for a better life. However, at night Larry still worked as a nightstand at the New York Museum of Natural History, because after all for his wax, metal and polyurethane friends, he is a hero so to speak.

Larry mentioned: "Follow everything as it was the last time.", walking happily as he toured his workplace.

"Not much has changed, Lawrence. Except for one detail.", Mr. Roosevelt mentioned in his peaceful voice.

Larry frowned in confusion: "I've been out of the museum for over three years due to my studies and I'm not very aware, what is it about?"

The sky razo remained the same, like all the inhabitants, revived by the magic of the table of Ahk, who walked their house going from one place to another, browsing other exhibitions than their own, in themselves continued the consistency of each of the corners of the enclosure in details, also the floating floor of warm color, waxed and always slippery as usual. What could have changed over the years?

Well, Larry's curiosity was answered by Mr. Roosevelt when he pointed to a museum space where a pretty girl with ornaments and Egyptian clothing, she was sitting on the bench in a neutral room conversing animatedly surrounded by four girls from different times, a girl Colonial, an Italian girl, a Greek girl and a Native American girl, sitting on the floor the women listened to her narrate, perhaps a funny story about her because the women laughed along with the young woman.

But not everything ended there, hidden behind a showcase with artifacts from the first African tribes, King Ahkmenrah allowed his striking eyes to be seen above a vessel at the level of his nose, observing the lady in question. It could be seen how the polychromatic orbs radically mutated from a deep tourmaline pigment to a brilliant green-water, and everything indicated that the change was connected according to their mood, making their eyes clearer, denoting joy or darker, showing absolute sadness, and in this case it seemed that the green color exposed light to all its essence.

"She is new, I hadn't seen her before I temporarily retired from here."

"She's a lovely young lady.", Teddy commented with acceptance towards her.

Larry smiled looking at the scene: "So that detail is Ahk and the Egyptian girl."

"This is Larry.", Sacajawea contributed her good eyesight being sweetly taken by the arm by Teddy. "Ahkmenrah has not skipped a day since she appeared. They are the same as two young people from this time playing to fall in love."

Sacajewea was tenderly made by the king to spend hours at random, other times too, choosing the hiding place behind the plants of Africa spying on that particular someone.

"I still remember the day the boy first saw the young woman.", Teddy smiled at the two teenagers.

**** Flash ****

A month ago...

It was night, and there was a little party, maybe it was the one that Larry started attending night classes to get his teaching degree.

Nothing particular happened as King Ahkmenrah came down from that balcony leaving Jed and Octavio in charge of the music.

Since Doctor McPhee already knew everything that was happening with the tablet, it was not surprising to see a figure come to life, so wandering next to one of them was not considered nonsense either.

It turned out that the aforementioned was a beautiful Egyptian girl, with light skin, hazel eyes, long brown hair, sandals, a fine long kalasiri (dress) with two straps that covered her bust made in real white linen with bows gold at his waist. She, too, was wearing a kind of short cape covering her shoulders, a two-piece cylindrical snake bracelet adorning her left arm, a small crown with a baby cobra, and a delicate pendant in the shape of a winged golden and green beetle with an ankh completing the young woman's outfit.

Ahkmenrah's face said it all, it seemed that everything happened in slow motion in his mind.

"Wow...", Ahkmenrah whispered as if he were seeing a wonder of the ancient world. "By Ra and all the gods."

Ahk's face lit up as he was dazzled by the bubbling chestnut. It was as if he were in a dream.

When he saw her speak willingly next to the Museum Director on one of the stairs, he was fascinated. No matter what she was doing, he smiled and his eyes filled with love and wonder. Ahkmenrah did not miss a single movement of the pretty girl, standing next to the desk watching her with a half-twisted smile and her gaze was as if billions of stars lit up within her eyes. The boy was indeed in love, and although not any woman managed to shake his heart as the Sheik of a harem in the past, she instantly shot him or, as the cliché is vulgarly said, love at first sight.

“I had not seen a museum more impressive than this one. It's amazing.”, she was so happy.

“I am extremely pleased that you feel comfortable, Your Highness. I will leave you with the figures of the establishment so that you can get to know the place. Miss.”, Doctor McPhee said goodbye with respect and she made a slight bow allowing her withdrawal.

Like everything an Egyptian goddess, she glamorous went down the stairs, the girl moved exploding sensuality and with a comic touch when everything happened in slow motion to the rhythm of the background music.

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She ran her hair back with one hand, blinking coquettishly looking around while some exhibits threw roses at her, adoring her presence, therefore she greeted with extremely overwhelmed and gratefulness as she slid down the hall, seeming to parade like a 1999 BC model.

And to all this Ahk thought that she addressed him with that hip shake, he enlarged his smile but it was not, she followed long and the comical sound of when one track is run to another, made him raise an eyebrow reflecting a little disappointment. However, he continued absorbed in his thoughts without taking his eyes off each line of the toned and fine female figure, wandering in those curves when Mr. Roosevelt's voice made him come out of that trance.

"I don't want you to be the same as me.", Teddy spoke solemnly.

Ahkmenrah was half foolish trying to spin his answer well: "What do you mean?"

“In the sense that I have spent more than 50 years observing and not daring to say a word to my dear Sacajewea until Larry's arrival prompted me to do so. Do not hesitate or let her escape, Your Majesty.”, Teddy wisely advised as the boy sighed looking at the Egyptian girl.

The young woman with an unknown name detailed every corner and she never realized that those jade eyes did not lose sight of her.

Sac spoke very sweetly: "Teddy?", Appearing on the scene as she wrapped her arms around Mr. Roosevelt and inevitably smiled.

"He knows what he's doing, love."

It seems that the words of Mr. Roosevelt encouraged the king to arm himself with courage, inflate his chest, accommodate his deshret (crown) and approach her to relate, establish a bond, perhaps.

"This is so beautiful.", she whispered fascinated looking at the divine building and how the party continued with its magic.

"Hello.", Ahkmenrah finally said with real elegance behind her.

She gently spun on her axis as she was distracted watching the constellations form mirror balls illuminating the room in soft blue. The pretty girl greeted him with a friendly smile once they were face to face.

"Hello."

"What is your name?"

"I am Larempteh.", she introduced herself with singular elegance.

And Ahkmenrah raised an eyebrow detailing her peculiar appearance at a considerable distance, she had almost no makeup, just a little soft brown shade that accentuated her sweet eyes and bushy lashes, kohl for a discreet black liner and lipstick lipstick, privileged to possess the fleshy. Beautifull.

"High Blue Sapphire of the Nile, fourth queen of the fifth great king and sovereign of the reign of my pharaohs. It is a pleasure.", Larempteh added with graceful finesse in his speech.

She was not conceited, only that the way of presenting herself in the ancient world was that way when you were belonging to the nobility of Upper Egypt, and her voice was a caress with words for him since the girl was cordial, warm and very respectful , in addition to sweet and possessing that mix between shy and intellectual. She illuminated the whole place only with her presence.

"What a beautiful name.", Ahkmenrah recognized and she smiled, she was hypnotic and Ahk's eyes could not detach from the young woman for any reason. "Excuse me, I don't look at girls like that."

Larempteh excused him with a pleasant laugh: "Don't worry, it's fine. For that you have a view, you appreciate what you see."

"Also your English is perfect, you speak divinely, where did you learn?"

"I went to Cambridge University."

Ahkmenrah was amazed with a smile.

"Were you in Cambridge?"

"On display..."

"From the Egyptology Department?", both agreed in the sentence with surprise.

"Yes, that's right! What a coincidence!"

"Have you been there too? Wow, that's great."

"Is this your first night at the museum?"

"No, I came here in 1954 from the Giza expedition.", Larempteh said.

"How come I have never seen you before?"

"Here or Cambridge?"

"Both answers have value."

"Well, I arrived there in 1940 and have spent 14 years in my sarcophagus."

"That explains a lot."

"Yes. And here they kept me away in the warehouse until they created my showroom just around the corner from your showroom. I have had so few visitors interested in the old world that all this time I have been around my exhibition and never dared to abandon it, habit, melancholy perhaps... It is difficult to detach yourself from Cambridge once you belong 14 years."

"Indeed. It feels weird."

"It would also be due to the fame of a little docile nature that was instilled in us and I did not want to be feared by the other exhibitions. Apparently, today I took a lot of courage after 66 years being here and I left tonight finding a beautiful place."

Larempteh apparently hinted at Ahkmenrah, but Pharaoh did not catch that eulogy in the air.

"I understand you."

"I must add that it may be by fate, I would say."

"And why were we in different temples?", Ahkmenrah joked.

Larempteh found a cute shoulder: "Or maybe the gods had prepared our meeting for a suitable moment and I think it worked today."

"It is wonderful and you believe in destiny, that is fabulous."

She gave him a sweet smile with the music still playing in the background and neither she nor he stopped inspecting each other, reviewing his features, the most prestigious in her and manly in him. Larempteh decided to cut the air to get into the conversation a little more.

Larempteh said: "And, you're from around here I guess or..."

"I belonged. I am a limited time conservation."

She was stunned, Larempteh asked, "Limited time conservation?"

Ahkmenrah gave the queen a cute smile.

"Yes, I am a British museum of treasures."

She frowned and asked a little confused: "What?"

That's where the voice came into play in the king's mind.

"Great Ahk, now you will look like a clown from 4000 BC for the rest of your life."

Ahkmenrah was slow to process his own words, what he least wanted was to be an idiot in front of her and accidentally he did, he mentally reprimanded himself for the inconsistency he had just said, feeling ashamed for possibly making a bad impression within minutes of having her known.

The pharaoh spluttered trying to accommodate the correct sentence in her brain while she paid no attention to anything other than the strong blush of shame that formed from her cheeks to the bridge of her nose, therefore Larem smiled attentively at that detail. because it made her feel tender that there was still a young man like him and that she blushed in such a way, and that made him more nervous.

His throat went dry, his usej suffocated him, and Ahk swallowed thickly, omitting such awkwardness.

He adjusted his voice and said: "No, I meant that I am part of the treasures of the British Museum."

"No problem, I understood.", Larempteh laughed lightly. "And what is your name?"

"I am Ahkmenrah, the fourth king of the fourth king, the ruler of the lands of my parents and the pleasure is all mine."

Ahkmenrah showed up bowing in his presence showing Larem cordiality when he kissed the back of the queen's hand, she could not believe that that kind of young man with approximately 18 years of age, a classic conservation of 4000 years, was real. Like the man she dreamed of all her life but hearing the boy's name, she divinely opened her eyes at a certain surprise of having him face to face.

"For Isis! Are you the famous Ahkmenrah?”, Larempteh questioned with deep happiness.

Ahkmenrah frowned in confusion: "Famous?"

"Yes, in Cambridge. All the time the museum figures have talked about you, you are an icon there. By Ra! I can't believe it, I didn't think I had the chance to meet you one day and... Oh, what happiness! What an honor, son of the Sun. You must be considered a legend in the history of Egypt, not many reach one of the most remarkable and visited venues in the world as the British museum. It is a luxury that you are there then, you are very lucky.”

"Yes, I do not know if I am as important a figure in the history of Egyptian humanity as Ramses was, I knew later that he was more important than me."

"But you must have had fabulous feats to have been a part of here in the past as well."

“I suppose, although I don't entirely remember it, my memory has always been blank since I arrived. I mean, I wish they would help me a little more to understand myself and to know who I am apart from my name because all I know is that my determining home is there because my family is there. But sometimes I am only treated as a piece of archaeological piece from my Era.”

The glitter in Ahk's eyes faded slightly.

Larempteh grieved: "Oh what a shame they make you feel like this because you are a very nice boy."

Ahkmenrah analyzed the girl's words, the pharaoh blushed timidly again, his face was a poem and he frowned with a vague smile thinking that she could not not get over you by not resisting her charms.

Larempteh had a blush when reformulating his sayings: “Sorry, I didn't mean it like that, it was not my intention to bother you. I mean, you're cute in the sense of your soul.”

“You don't care, I've never been told before. It is precious that it comes from you. Thank you."

Larempteh smiled at Ahk's intense gaze, wiping a slight perspiration from her dress against her palms.

"You do not have to thank. After all, you do have a splendid shine and impressive eyes, they attract attention, they are very pretty.”

Ahkmenrah did 'the thing' with his smiling mouth, showing off his defined cheekbones.

"And maybe it must be because I just have them in the middle of my face.”, Ahkmenrah built a good sense of humor in which she laughed refinedly. "I also like your eyes, they are very warm and sweet. Since they are conspicuous and shocking to the delight of others, it would be considered a crime not to appreciate them in such a way nor are they how to be wasted.”

Queen Larempteh's eyes sparkled. An action that made her smile.

"Thank you. So your family is in the British museum, huh? It's great to have your parents nearby in one place or someone by your side to remind you of where you came from.”

“Yes, the boys made me stay close to them and it was also to keep my board safe. But don't worry, it's just a long story that I'll tell you already.”

"Okay, no inconvenience.", Larempteh said quietly.

"And where are yours?"

"I do not know. I am adrift just like you with my mind.”

"Oh I'm sorry."

"Do not worry, nothing happens. I suppose it is part of our life as museum exhibits having to find pieces of ourselves at random to feel complete. It's just a matter of divine intersession.”

"We can change the subject if you want."

"As you like."

Ahkmenrah watched her closely: "Dynasty XIX? I suppose."

"Yes, how did you know?", Larempteh cackled with sophistication.

She was charmingly curious to tuck a strand of hair behind her right ear, revealing one of her sparkling triangle-shaped hoops and elegant burgundy nail varnish.

"About the above, it is that you have an unseen face and it is impossible for you to go unnoticed. My guess is that you happen to be an old relative with proximity to Nefertari's family ancestors or perhaps it is because she has reincarnated in you."

Ahkmenrah learned to maintain his cordiality by behaving like a great nobleman, he was taught that his feelings should be fair and necessary before anyone but it seems that Larempteh appeared only to make him break the rules, disobeying his archaic teachings.

Well, Ahk always did, but Larem made it worse, like a fever with no disastrous results.

What he could never hide was a dazzled observing of her tangible beauty, he winked at her giving her a warm smile indirectly telling Larempteh how extremely beautiful she was.

Perhaps the young man hinted that the girl would be a descendant of the most important queen that Egypt had, making her an extremely attractive goddess for her taste and reach.

Larempteh thought, "No, I don't think that's the case either. Well, one knows who it comes from to reincarnate as a living human god on Earth, but one of my parents may have had the honor of belonging to the offspring of the Nefertari's lineage from the many children she had. Perhaps I am some great-granddaughter or great-great-granddaughter, as were the many siblings I had."

"The hundreds of kings who claimed your love should tell you."

Ahkmenrah guessed vehemently. And how not to do it? If she radiated sweetness and owned an exquisite exotic image; how it was not possible that the kings would not argue the hand of that venerable woman.

"No, well, yes, in part, but it was my older sister who received ninety-nine point nine percent of all these courtships.", Larempteh let out a natural laugh.

"Sister.", Ahkmenrah was not interested, rather he was unsuspecting. Shocked by the fact that her beauty is not praised.

"Yes. You see, Dad wanted two male rulers, one who was a strong pharaoh and who knew how to command the kingdom and another who was a champion in battles, especially in Kadesh. As you see, it could not be, he had my sister and me some time after that event. And considering that my father's wish was fulfilled very late, yes, he had more secondary children, but she and I were the eldest daughters of the family and for Real rules we had the privilege of direct access to lead a nation for being of pure lineage. Although something happened along the way and it was damaged or rather someone made history change its course regarding that. A long story that I will tell you.", Larempteh commented with a frown with a smile naturalizing his story.

"And why her and not you, how is that possible?", Ahkmenrah used a tone of Royal disbelief.

"It was just that she was extremely beautiful.", Larempteh just shrugged her shoulder in a cute way continuing the thread of praise. "She was so crazy though."

"I am sure she does not exceed the honey of your voice or your delicate presence.", Ahkmenrah said raising his jaw with elegant bearing.

The young queen did not know where to look, and of course, if Ahk's electric eyes did not dare to detach themselves from his youthful features.

Larempteh was intimidated by these charming courtships and tilted her face to the side a little hiding a faint blush keeping a thin smile as she tilted her head to later observe him.

"Excuse my daring but I couldn't stop watching you since I saw you. It's just that you're more beautiful than the Giza pyramids.", Ahkmenrah complimented her and the girl felt another strong blush take over her face.

In a delicate tone, Larempteh said: "How divine.", stunned with a slightly strange smile wandering her lips for all the praise she got from him.

"I spent 54 years wrapped in dirty linen bandages, locked in a sarcophagus and after waking up 66 consecutive nights to meet you, that's divine. You are a precious, beautiful creature."

Ahkmenrah after that praise, smiled sideways showing his immaculate teeth, without showing lewdness or perversion, it was like a seductive tactic in him.

The queen laughed in elegant confusion as she said: "Thank you?"

Obviously, in her time she was not very familiar with more than 100 compliments in a row due to her real beauty and so many coming from a single pharaoh, it was something intense but that was still a nice touch on her part.

"Don't be thankful since the pharaohs used to have an aggressive and unkind image. You should be suspicious.", Ahkmenrah commented regaining his posture of standing up.

Larempteh said: "I'll be careful then."

And her whispering was a little less than what's called suggestive, perhaps being eerily suggestive was a healthy seduction tactic to start the romance game.

"Although if someone stands between me and your beauty, probably the king of 4000 years ago, perhaps he will make an exception. But as long as none of that happens..."

"I knew what pharaohs were like in our time. Not tolerant, only in tiny exceptions.", Larempteh reaffirmed.

Ahkmenrah leaned down again, bringing the female hand to her lips, placing a kiss on her knuckles.

"I am kind, believe me not unless..."

The pharaoh straightened up, winking at the girl again so she smiled at him causing Ahk to wrap himself in the infinite tenderness of her beautiful grimace and lose herself in the brilliance of her precious eyes.

Maybe it was because of an attraction that burned inside her or an irrepressible instinct to want to touch her, even if it was to take something from her to remember her before returning to the darkness of her sarcophagus, extinguishing that sadness and going to 'sleep' happily and waking up a bit more alive by an obtension, and then the pharaoh felt the need to approach very slowly to Larem's face reviewing his eyes for each of its smooth details directing his lips to hers, who incidentally, looked at that mouth with reverie.

Larempteh for her part closed her eyes at the preamble of the stimulus in which her heart beat a thousand times stronger than before, announcing that perhaps she would have her first kiss under the beautiful blue light of the constellations. How romantic would it be, right?

She stood still with her eyelids hiding her pupils without startling when Ahkmenrah gently cupped a hand on her right cheek, it was such a sweet touch, he transmitted so much peace to her from the first moment.

Ahkmen closed the distance between the two more, and more, and more, and more, and more until Tilly's voice was heard as he ran to Laaa through the hall interrupting the moment.

"Laaa, no! Don't touch that! Those aren't headphones! It's a defibrillator!"

Ahkmenrah and Larempteh suddenly opened their eyes and immediately regretted the situation in which they found themselves and laughed without penalty or glory.

Larempteh said with a laugh: "How pitiful."

The queen touched her own face that burned from the strong blush, but she continued to laugh, being accompanied in good humor by the loud and manly laughter of the pharaoh.

That commotion where Tilly chased Laaa, made Rexy and Trixy freak out and make sounds minimally chasing away the crowd causing Larempteh to dodge the alpacas, the flames, the terracotta soldier and the Vikings fleeing in terror in his direction. .

There was a moment when the girl lost her balance due to their action and it was there when she fell into the arms of Ahk, who reflexively held her tight by the waist like the gentleman she is. That caused her to sink her face into the hollow of the precious and soft neck of the king, thus forming an electricity that was made at the clash of skin against skin and at that moment a spark ignited between the two upon closer inspection.

"Well, I must reaffirm it, now more than before, what divine eyes you have."

Ahkmenrah praised the color of the girl's irises that now mutated to the striking honey pigment, giving Larempteh a soft grimace on her lips as she watched him from behind her thick lashes as she smiled tenderly, with her too, of course losing herself in his eyes.

**** End of Flash ****

@sherlollydramoine @xmxisxforxmaybe @txmel @moon-stars-soul @sunkissedmikky

#ahkmenrah #rami malek #night at the museum #natm #natm ahkmenrah #night at the museum 3

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doomedandstoned · 4 years

Text

The End Is Nigh: A Conversation With OFFICIUM TRISTE Frontman Pim Blankenstein

~By Shawn Gibson~

I was first introduced to OFFICIUM TRISTE when Mors Viri came out in 2013 and I have been a fan ever since! At the time, I had a radio show and got an email from HammerHeart Records with promo and played some songs off of that album.

The Dutch band's music has also pushed me through tough times, mentally and emotionally. There is sadness in their songs, as there is great beauty. Each song has its own dynamic sound with piano, organs, violins, cellos, etc. Officium Triste's albums are heavy as mountains, but have parts within that soar like eagles!

Recently, I had the privilege of longtime singer Pim Blankenstein, who has been with the band since 1994.

Mors Viri by Officium Triste

Officium Triste has been making music since 1994! How does that feel to be with this band now and the current state of affairs?

It feels as exciting as it was when we started out. Of course, a lot has changed in 25 years, but for us as a band our values are still the same. We love slow, heavy and melodic music and we still write this kind of music. Over the years we of course have grown as a band and you keep learning. After the last couple of line-up changes I totally feel this is the best line-up we've had. We're all on the same page and actually things couldn't be better.

What does the name Officium Triste mean?

If you put it in Google translate, it says it means the baleful. Back when we started out our then guitarist Johan Kwakernaak came up with the name, which he got from a Latin dictionary. The combination of words means something like a "sad gathering," such as a funeral.

You are from the Netherlands right? What are some other bands from the Netherlands you guys love?

Yeah, we are from the Netherlands and when we started out there were quite some doom bands we dug like early The Gathering, Celestial Season, Castle or Beyond Belief. Having said that, the doom scene never was that big but we always had killer bands. Just think of Deinonychus or newer acts like Facade, Treurwilg or Beyond Our Ruins.

In other genres we have (and had) great bands, too. Death metal was especially huge. Pestilence, Pentacle, Asphyx, Sinister, Thanatos, Severe Torture, Bodyfarm, Gorefest. I could go on and on. Bottomline is that the Dutch scene always has been and still is great. We know quite a lot of bands personally and we get along real fine.

We are all Doomed! Are you Stoned?

Nope. Used to smoke a lot. Not anymore though. But that doesn't change the fact we indeed are doomed!

The Death of Gaia (Atmospheric Death/Doom Metal) by OFFICIUM TRISTE (Netherlands)

Your latest album 'The Death Of Gaia' came out December 13 2019. What has influenced the writing of this album?

As far as the music is concerned, our core values are still present, which is writing slow, heavy, melodic and melancholic music. I like to say we are still inspired by the bands that showed us the way in the '90s, like Paradise Lost, Anathema, Katatonia or Type O Negative. Along the way, also a band such as Shape Of Despair inspired a bit but also film scores, shoegaze or dream pop.

Lyrics are about subjects such as the decline of our planet, loneliness, insomnia, guilt, and stuff like that -- basically what is happening around us. So the reality of life inspired us in that department.

Throughout the years of your albums there is always great range and depth of song with varied instruments. Are there any instruments you haven't used yet, but would love to include in a song?

From a personal perspective, I'd like to include some percussive elements. I can totally imagine us using some proper timpani for that ultimate heavy sound.

Who did the artwork for 'The Death Of Gaia'?

When we figured out we wanted something different as artwork on this album and moved away from our earlier art, we got in touch with Chris Smith of Grey Aria Design from the US. We liked what he had done for Solstice from the UK and we really wanted that Art Nouveau-type art. Chris totally delivered what we were after.

Art by Chris Smith/Grey Aria Design

What makes you guys laugh?

We actually laugh a lot. We get along really well and joke around a lot making fun of each other. Other than that we are totally into dark, sarcastic humour. Or stand-up comedians like Steve Hughes of Jim Jefferies. Writers like Bukowski or Brusselmans (a Belgian writer). Ren & Stimpy, Pinky & The Brain, Invader Zim. There's plenty of stuff that makes us laugh.

What has been an awkward moment for Officium Triste?

Probably being too drunk on stage in our early years could be considered as awkward. Other than that, not much. Maybe some awkward moments on behalf of our previous bass player, but I won't get into details on that because it's better to let that rest.

You have a long history of making death doom and are in the same boat as other established bands such as My Dying Bride, Katatonia, Paradise Lost. What is in the future for Officium Triste? Will there be another 25 years?

Well, we take it as it is. Our current label Transcending Obscurity is quite happy with us it seems and has been asking if we want to do another album for them. We are gathering new song ideas as we speak, so you can expect another album in the future. Not sure if we'll last another 25 years, as we will be considered as elderly people by then. As long as we're having fun we keep doing what we like to do.

Who is in the band Officium Triste and what do they do in the band?

Right now it is the founding members Martin Kwakernaak on keyboards. He used to be our drummer, too. Gerard de Jong on lead guitars and I (Pim Blankenstein) on vocals. We have Niels Jordaan on drums, William van Dijk on rhythm guitars and Theo Plaisier on bass.

With the varied sounds in your music do you have several session players to record? Sometimes it sounds like you have a symphony accompanying your music!

Actually, this time around we used some session musicians. We decided to record some real string instruments, as opposed to using the sounds from the keyboard, so we asked Chris Davies to record violins. We knew Chris from Eye Of Solitude where he used to play bass and he played violins with Clouds, in which I am involved, too, in a way. He did a great job. On cello we asked Eliane Anemaat. She is quite known for her work with bands, such as Celestial Season, Mayan or Delain. She also did an outstanding job.

What are some bands from the beginning that have influenced Officium Triste? Who are some current bands that catch your attention?

I more or less mentioned some bands in an earlier answer, but we initially were heavily influenced by Paradise Lost, Anathema, Celestial Season, My Dying Bride, Katatonia, and Type O Negative. But also Metallica, Edge Of Sanity, Dismember or Winter influenced us to some extent. Later on, also bands such as Evoken, Mournful Congregation or Shape Of Despair impressed us. Currently, there's not a lot of bands that caught our attention and actually had an impact on us, but we do like bands that mix things up like what In Solitude, Tribulation, Alcest or Chapel Of Disease are doing, to name just a couple.

Film by Buzau Live Music

Beyond doom and death, what other music styles do you like and listen to?

We listen to quite a lot of varied stuff. Like heavy metal, classic rock, shoegaze, indie rock, new wave, movie scores, retro wave. As long as it is good music we listen to it.

Will you ever tour in the states?

Hopefully. If we ever get a proper invitation and stuff is sorted out, well we definitely would like to come. We are crossing the Atlantic in a couple of months to play a one-off in Mexico.

For me, I have felt positive things from the lyrics and the heavy music amidst the doom. I guess its nice to be able to relate to songs and feel the music with your soul. The balance of heavy and almost symphonic and atmospheric music still blows my mind! Officium Triste is one of very few with clean vocals accompanying death growls I love. Most clean vocals fuck me up.

Cheers for that!

"Burning all Boats and Bridges" is my jam! Fuck it all and starting clean! My life has to take another turn! A fresh start is what I yearn for! Please tell me a little about this song.

Actually, this song is basically the only one where we could use music provided by our previous bass player. But since he fucked things up I have a hard time listening to this particular track. I did write the lyrics, though, and I usually start with a song title. I'm not sure where I got it from, but the lyrics are about having a fresh start and cut all ties with your past. It's not something that happened to any of us personally. But I guess everyone can relate to the subject, so I wrote lyrics about this.

"The End Is Nigh." Do you think this song is relevant to current world events?

That's what inspired it. But to be honest, this world has been a shithole for centuries. So, when I wrote the lyrics I did think about the current state of affairs, as well as stuff from the past. I think everyone can decide for themselves what we talk about, whether it is politics, the environment or overpopulation. It all goes hand in hand, in a way. For the lyrics, I took the Four Horsemen of The Apocalypse as a metaphor. And the second song on the album World In Flames continues with the subject.

Pim, thank you very much for your time! It is a pleasure and an honor!

Thank you, Shawn, for the interview. Much appreciated. Hope your readers will check us out if they haven't done so yet.

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#D&S Interviews #Officium Triste #Rotterdam #The Netherlands #Doom #Metal #Doom Metal #sludge #death doom #blackened doom #Shawn Gibson #Doomed & Stoned

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laketaj24 · 5 years

Text

Money: Bjorn

Author’s Note: Heyyyy!!! This fic is dedicated to like my DEMON TWIN!!!!!!!! AHHHHH!!!! Happy Birthday BITCHHHHHH!!!!! You are the sweetest person ever! And it has truly been a privilege to get to know and write with someone as bad ass and real as yourself!! They don’t even know what is coming for them!! Just wait on it!!!! I hope this day has been amazing for you!!! Here’s the fucking SMUT. AS promised!!!! @imgoldielikehawn (might be some typos) (gif by me)

Warnings: Hair Pulling, Strippers, Smut

Pairings: Bjorn X Stripper!Reader

Viking Masterlist

Requested:

10. "You look so pretty with your head in my lap" what about with Bjorn?- @bluearchersstuff

If you’re still doing the Daddy prompts, will you please do the “Now where did you learn to dance like that?” One? Thank you ❤️❤️❤️ - Anon

thirst day request for hair pulling with either Bjorn or Uhtred - Anon

A call from the Lothbroks was the last thing Ace of Diamonds expected but it was rented out, the entire building, ever A list stripper and a sold out bar. This was to be some event. Your partner ran across the floor waring no shoes, your nose snarled at her immediately, nasty ass floors.

“Are you gonna watch me work or are you gonna move these fucking chairs?” She barked.

“I’m working.” You flourished your freshly painted toenails and sat backdown in the couch. “Who are these fucking men anyway?”

“They’re from out of town. They’re bothers the oldest rented out the place, one of the other brothers is getting married. Only A-Listers.” She reiterated.

You didn’t need the reminder. You were the A-List. You stand from the chair and leave her to ramble on alone. Your dressing room was well lit and private, like everything else you had in your life you wanted it to stay that way. You lay out the outfit for tonight. You were the highlight of the show, so gold everything would do just fine.

They start to arrive, and the gang of girls act as if they have never seen men before. You listen laughing to yourself.

Did you see the one with the fucking dimples? Or the huge one? Even the older ones look like fucking gods.

Thirsty Hoes. You rolled your eyes watching from the side of the stage as the first two girls took the stage. They could dance. But they were basic. You didn’t even need to dance to survive anymore, you owned the club, but the money called your name and the pole kept your body in shape.

The men were nice looking compared to some of the patrons that came into the place on a regular. You were the midpoint of the show, what brought in the money. The music started over the intercom and the speakers rocked the entire club. You were to start from the roof, and you descended whirling around the pole until you landed in the split and the lights came on.

The act went great. The crowd cheered, all but one guy, the blond in the middle of the crowd. He sat stone faced staring at you with his hand gripping his chin. He was unmoved. It bothered you that he didn’t care. You were the baddest stripper in this place, he needed to act like it. You too the exit to the left heading to your dressing room. Home was calling your name, Ace could handle the closing tonight. She would have too, you were tired.

You walked into the room closing it behind you and then you see him in your chair waiting. The stone faced gazer. “This room is private.” You said quickly. “you can leave.”

“I know it’s private. It’s why I’m here.” He adjusted his blazer and then peered back up to you. What is your name, Diamond?”

“Stage name.” you rolled your eyes. “This is a private room. I don’t care how fine you are, you have got to get your ass out.” You rest your hands firmly on your hips and wait for him to go. Where in the hell were your body guards at this point? Why was no one doing their fucking jobs around here? At the next fucking meeting you would have to address it.

“So, you are part owner here?”

He was a nosey bastard. A nosey correct, intuitive, sexy ass bastard. “What the fuck do you want?’

“I want you to watch that sexy ass mouth, close the door and listen to my proposal.” He paused and you felt inclined to follow every direction that he had just given. What in the fuck was wrong with you? “Now.” He said.

You closed the door and folded your arms over your chest. “What?”

“I want to fuck you.” He was frank.

“You and every other man in this club, and?”

“Arrogant.” He smirked. “Every other man in this club isn’t offering you one million dollars. I am. What do you say?”

“One million?” your mouth dropped. You would have fucked him for free. The sexy ass stranger in your dressing/rehearsal room looked like a god damn god. “what’s the catch?”

“There is no catch. I am a simple man. I offered you a simple proposition. I deserve a simple answer. Next thing from that foul mouth of yours should be yes or a no… diamond.”

You pause. Why the fuck no? Sex with a sexy ass man and you came out one million dollars richer. “Yes.”

Good. He slid out of his blazer and placed it on the table behind him. “Take off your clothes.” Bjorn said from the leather backed chair. He sat with his legs gapped and his long fingers clasped and rested in his lap. “Now.”

“Nah, daddy. That ain’t how this work.” You look at him unphased by the hard stance he was giving you. One million or not, he didn’t run shit.

“How does it work it then?”

“You shut the fuck up and enjoy or I leave.”

“We’ll see.”

The private room didn’t have much space but when the music started you forgot everything that was going on around you ceased as you ran up to pole and climbed to the top. Your legs latch on as you start to spin and you Bjorn lean forward. You land in the split with your eyes hooked on him and your hands sliding down to your clit. You crawl over to him. He’s in the perfect position to ride.

He watches. His face is still. You move his hands and attempt to unbutton his pants and then he grips your hands and shakes his head. “That’s not how this works.” He pulls you up on your feet. “Take off your clothes, crawl back to me and suck.”

Your hand reacts before the words can as it hit the side of his face and you take a step back. “I told you that’s not how this-,” His hand grips your neck and your taken back, flooded with arousal and fear at the same time. The fuck?

“Yeah, but you don’t run shit. I do.” He reached down picking up the rope. “This’ll be easier if you just say yes daddy and take off those clothes, Diamond.” In one pluck of your top it falls to the ground. Bjorn takes a step back and allows you space to breathe. “And that slap was free, the next one will cost you.”

That wasn’t your name, but you didn’t even give a fuck at this moment as you stepped out of your clothes and sink to your knees. Your hands touch the cool floor and your back curves. You crawl over to him… “Is that what you wanted.”

His large hand comes down to cover your whole ass cheek with a loud smack and the pleasure rushes you. “Now suck.” Bjorn commands.

Where to fucking start? Your eyes admire his cock, starting with the thick vein the curved around the shaft. It curved back onto his shirt, you wanted to see him out of it. Your mind raced and then the large hand gripped a hand full of your hair pushing your plush lips to the tip of it and then you take all of him. He hits the back of your throat and then pulls you back up and you start to find your rhythm as he guides your head up and down to his own preferred pace. His cock stretched your mouth till it nearly hurt but you couldn’t think about that. His moans were carnal, melodic and they made your pussy eager. You wanted to hear it again. You suck him again swallowing around him and then swirling your tongue around the tip and he bucks his hips pulling your hair,

“You look so pretty with your head in my lap. Those pretty lips around my dick.” His words strained as his grip tightened around your hair and he pulled you from him. “You like the way daddy’s cock taste?” He asked. The lust seeped from his voice.

“Yes.” You wiped your mouth peering up at him.

His kink must have been your hair as he pulled you from your knees up to your feet by it. He leaned down placing a quick kiss on your lips and flipped you around to see yourself in the mirrored wall. His long finger trails down your stomach to the mound above your pussy and then dives into you. You hiss through your clench teeth. “Now who taught you to dance like that huh?” He pushes into you deep curling his finger to hit your g-spot and then like it was nothing he pulls his fingers from you and sucks them. “So fucking sweet.” Bjorn steps back and out of his dress pants. He unbuttons his shirt and tosses it to the chair and stands before you naked, a fucking glorious sight it was. “Why are you doing this?” He asked surprisingly.

“Money.” You turned to him with the seductive grin on your face.

The next song started, and Bjorn sat down in the chair. “I think it’s more than that but come take a seat.”

You walk over to him nearly rolling your eyes, but you stop yourself as you drape your arms over his neck and he lines the head of his cock at your entrance. He ran it quick, once, twice and then a third time drenching it with you and then like it was nothing slammed into you. Your mouth stilled with a formed O and a hitched breath.

“Speechless.” He smirked.

Cockily you shook your head winding your hips on him. He was so fucking big. Thick and perfect. He was setting out to ruin you as he allowed you ride him, the heel allowed you to thrust wind and get that perfect tingle on your clit. And it started. The build up to what you were there for. You watched Bjorn. He was composed but his subtle groans, moans and hisses were nearly enough to make you cum.

Your hands rose and fell over the rigid abs and you soaked his thighs with your cum. “you like this wet pussy don’t you daddy?” You smiled leaning in nipping his ear.

He laughs and as if he knew you already placed two fingers on your clit and rubbed and you exploded, inside and out. Your head is thrown back as you bounce up and down on him digging your nails into his shoulders as your body convulses on him. “I think your pussy likes this dick more.” His arms enclose you and he drills you. The smacks of your skin meeting his is all you can hear. What fucking music? You scream as your nails dig into the flesh of his back and are wet with his blood. WHAT. THE. FUCK. “No, you can take it.” He says as you try to push up on your feet.” He slams you back on him and yon can feel that sly smile on the side of your face as you cum again and again. The cum runs down your leg dripping to the floor. Your body shatters in ripples. Every single movement is amplified and then he’s early there. You can tell as he tenses and his eyes close, but nothing slows. He’s faster. His pace is frantic, racing and he’s desperate. Your walls grip and clench around him milking him to cum and he does. The melodic cry escapes as his cum warms your walls.

It’s over. But you’re not sure you want it to be. You compose yourself, taking deep breathes and wincing as you stand and he falls out of you still semi hard somehow. Bjorn notices your eyes. He was hard not to look at, fucking masterpiece that he was. He leans over and takes the card from his pocket. “This is my card.”

“I didn’t fuck you for a card.” You smile taking the small black matte card from him. You slide into the dress and walk over to the door.

“Come to my office tomorrow morning, I will have the cash for you.” He winked. “And maybe more of what you really wanted.”

“We will see about that Bjorn Lothbrok is it?”

“Oh no, it’s daddy to you.”

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firesidevisions · 4 years

Text

Schadenfreude

by Stephen Amos

James Banner surveyed the crowd in front of him and smiled. They were ready. They were warmed up, he could see it in their eyes, in the way they seemed to lean forward to listen to him. It was time for the finale of his speech, a speech many of them had heard before on TV if not in person.

‘So, let me ask you this…’ he boomed. It wasn’t a shout, he just projected and his voice was heard. This made any subtleties he needed to convey easier to get across. Although today was not a day for subtleties, it was a day for well-worn and effective points. They had, so far, helped propel him to the limelight of politics and the cusp of something greater - power.

It was what he craved. It was what he knew he would soon achieve.

‘Do you earn enough money?’ he asked the crowd in front of him, their eyes watching him expectantly.

‘No!’ they returned. Not everyone yet, but he knew that soon they would all be singing from the same hymn sheet.

He raised his voice a little more: ‘Are there enough decent jobs?’

‘No!’ Louder this time, they were more into it, willing to take part in the growing mass hysteria.

‘Are you earning enough to live?’

‘No!’

‘Are there enough opportunities for our young people?’

‘No!’

‘Are our services adequate?’

‘No!’

‘Our NHS! Our Schools! The Police?’

‘No, No, No!’. The crowd was truly with him now, he could feel it. This was why he was here; he loved this moment when he was one with the crowd, or to be more accurate, they were one with him. This wasn’t why he was a politician, but it was what he loved and what he craved.

‘And who has let us down? Who has let each and every one of us down? Who has failed us?’

He paused, leaning back on his lectern, then, after a beat, he came forward again and in a loud savage whisper he said:

‘This government has let us down. This Prime Minister has failed us, the opposition has forgotten us! These people who are so desperate to be loved by those faceless bureaucrats of the European Union-’

He said these last two words with withering contempt.

‘-that they open our borders to all who want to enter. They. Are. To. Blame!’

The crowd roared in approval. Banner nodded in satisfaction.

‘Last year almost four hundred thousand immigrants entered the UK. That’s almost half a million! The government deny this figure. They claim we are plucking it out of thin air, like we can really hide half a million refugees! And that’s only the ones we know! How many others are coming in? We don’t know. Either the government can't tell us or won’t! Frankly, I can’t decide which is worse – that they are incompetent or a bunch of liars!

‘And what are these immigrants doing? They are taking our jobs! They are driving down wages! Think about it, if an employer has two choices, to pay a British worker a decent wage or to pay an immigrant the minimum wage, what is he going to do? This drives wages down, this drives living standards down, this drives the amount of tax the government collects down, which, in turn, drives our services down, down! Down!’

The crowd booed. Some threw their hands in the air. Their faces flush with anger.

And that's when he saw the old man. At the front of the crowd. Unmoved and still, the man stood with a wry smile on his face. His hands were crossed as if he was judging Banner as if he wasn't here for the speech. 

Not to worry, Banner thought. There's always one who didn’t feel the buzz, who was a little slow on the uptake. 

'Now I know what I'm saying is controversial and not something the liberal media thinks I should say. Has anyone seen the newspapers today? Watched the news this morning? Apparently, I want to gas all immigrants; apparently, I am advocating the use of concentration camps...' 

The crowd grew quiet. He knew the reason there were so many people here today was because of the comments he had made, of the coverage he was getting, but that was fine by him. 

'They don't seem to get it, though. I don’t want to put them in concentration camps! I’m not a monster! You are not monsters! We just don’t want them in this country in the first place!

‘What they want to do is disrupt a movement! What they want to do is discredit the voice of the people. What I am saying is not just what I think, it’s what the people want! I am not just the leader of a movement, I am one voice in this movement. I am privileged that I can stand here and speak, but my words are not just mine, they are yours! Don’t let the mainstreamers, the liberalers, the eliters, the politicians, stop you from speaking the truth; don’t let them quash your movement, your revolution!’

The crowd was cheering again, he knew what they wanted to believe, what they wanted to hear, and he was more than willing to speak for them. He was, after all, one of them! This wasn’t just rhetoric. He believed it all.

‘So, don’t believe the liars in the press, look around you and see the truth. In three weeks, there is another election, and you will have the opportunity to shove it to the elitists who run your country. Will you do it?'

The crowd erupted in a cry of ‘Yes!’

‘Will you do it?’

‘Yes!’

‘Will you do it?’

‘YES!!!’

James Banner could feel the sweat trickle down his back as he was led off the stage and away from the roars of the crowd. He knew they loved him, they were his people and he believed that from the very pit of his soul.

His assistant, Jeanine Jeffreys, was yapping in his ears about something or other, the next engagement, maybe? His invitation to appear on Question Time on the weekend? That was going to make a big impact he’d been told, although he doubted whether the voters he was cultivating would ever watch that tired old nonsense. He wasn’t really listening, the details were up to Jeanine and they could discuss it in more detail later when he calmed down. Right now, his heart was pounding with adrenaline which throbbed pleasurably in his temples and gave him an almighty erection that pushed at his trousers and pulsed in rhythm to the same beat. He loved this feeling; who needed artificial drugs like cocaine or Viagra when your body could replicate the same awesome effects naturally if you knew how to access them.

He pushed through the crowd of well-wishers, people shouting his name, calling him, chanting one of his mantras: ‘Who’s to blame! Who’s to Blame!’. This is what the career politicians didn’t get. It didn’t matter what your policies were or what you really believed in, all you needed was a few catchy slogans, a few mantras for people to chant, and they would follow you. They didn’t want details, they wanted simplicity. They wanted something to believe in without having to get into details. They didn’t want to think, they wanted to know. That was his job, to tell them what they wanted and assure them it was what they needed.

‘James!’

His assistant pulled on his arm, taking him out of his reverie.

‘What?’ he replied indignantly.

‘Have you not been listening to a word I said! I think you should speak to him. It might not lead to anything but if it does it could be beneficial to the campaign.’

‘What? Who?’

Jeanine sighed. ‘I don’t know why I’m here sometimes; you don’t seem to want to listen.’

James turned to her and took a deep breath. ‘What are you talking about?’

Jeanine smiled but there was no humour there, just a hint of exasperation. She had been his assistant for three years now, right from the beginning of his campaign. She was organised, committed and a good lay, especially when the times had been hard and the stress had been too much. He would pull her to the side, find a quiet room, whip it out, and release every knot in his body. She took it without question, never asking for more, accepting what was given. He had occasionally wondered if he was using her or vice versa, which riled him sometimes, but who cared. He got what he wanted so he could return home to his wife a little bit more relaxed and avoid a tongue lashing there.

‘OK, let’s start from the beginning. There’s a scientist here who would like to speak to you. He says he has followed you and thinks he could help you and the campaign.’

‘Who is he? Who does he work for?

‘His name is Matt Hastings and he works for the ITR.’

‘Never heard of them,’ James said. ‘Why should I speak to him?’

They were nearing the car now and the crowd was getting thinner. There were still a lot of people trying to get his attention, but they were being held back by the security guards.

‘As I said,’ Jeanine continued. ‘It might not lead to anything but, even if he belongs to some crappy institute that has absolutely no power or influence, at least you’ll be able to say you’ve got a bunch of scientists backing you.’

James shook his head. ‘I don’t know, I haven’t got time for this.’

‘Five minutes in the car, that is all he wants. We could be on the road by noon and your next appearance isn’t until two. There’s plenty of time and, if he turns out to be some crackpot, you can just shake his hand and tell him to go on his merry way.’

‘What if he’s dangerous?’

‘He’s an old man and he would have been checked for weapons before he gets in the car.’

Banner could sense the sarcasm in her voice. He ignored it. ‘OK. Five minutes.’

‘Mr Banner?’

The car door opened, and Banner looked up from the report he was reading. Standing there was the old man he had seen in the crowd, this time with a wide friendly smile on his face.

‘Yes,’ He put on his most welcoming and gracious smile, all very professional. ‘Please, come in’.

The old man stiffly entered the car and flopped down into the seat. He took a moment to adjust his clothes to make his posture more comfortable. Finally satisfied, he smiled then turned to Banner.

‘Thank you for seeing me Mr Banner, I have been following you for some time now.’

‘No, Thank you Mr…’

The old man’s smile grew large, lighting up his eyes. His whole face spoke of a grandfatherly benevolence that Banner quickly warmed to.

‘Dr Matt Hastings.’ The old man replied.

‘Dr Hastings. How can I help you?’

Hastings gave a short laugh. ‘No Mr Banner. The question is - how can I help you?’

‘OK,’ Banner said, adjusting his seating position to face the doctor.

‘I am a member of a government scientific research department, the ITR.’

‘ITR? I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with it.’

‘Nor should you be, Mr Banner. At least not yet. We enjoy a certain level of security and those who have heard of us tend to be on the, shall we say, “need to know”.’

Banner was intrigued. Why would a secret government research department want to speak to him?

‘Are you breaking any laws speaking to me, Doctor?’

‘Oh yes, several.’ The doctor waved his hands as if it wasn’t important. ‘However, we feel that whilst we will never have to worry about funding, we should worry about how the government is run and who runs it.'

‘…ok’ Banner replied. He was getting the feeling he was on shaky ground here and had better be careful.

‘As I indicated, I - or perhaps I should say, we – have been watching you for some time and, I must say, you have made an impression.’

‘A good impression I hope’.

‘Oh absolutely. Absolutely. We at the ITR have been very impressed by you so far.’

‘What exactly do you do? What is the ITR?'

The doctor’s eyes seemed to glow at the question. This was obviously a subject he was very happy to speak about. His cheeks, red with the cold, seemed to push up his glasses as his smile broadened even further.

‘The Institute for Temporal Research. We, erm, investigate time.’

‘Time? As in clocks or time travel?’ Banner gave a short laugh at his little joke.

Hastings paused for a second and his face grew momentarily serious. Then he smiled again and seemed to come to some decision.

‘Before we continue Mr Banner, can you tell me exactly what you meant with your…um…Hitler comments yesterday?’

Banner frowned. ‘Dr Hastings, please do not believe everything you read in the Newspapers or hear on the BBC. They don’t like what -’

‘Please, Mr Banner,’ Hasting interjected. ‘Whether I continue to speak to you today, whether we at the ITR help you with your campaign or not, depends greatly - no, absolutely - on the truthfulness of your response. I have been given full authorisation by my colleagues to either continue talking and in the long run helping you, or, alternatively, to get out of the car and you’ll never see me or hear from us – or, I might add – hear about us, ever again.’

Banner froze for a moment, considering what exactly he needed to do. What did they want him to say? This was his strength, working out exactly what people wanted to hear and giving it to them.

‘Mr Banner,’ Hastings continued. ‘We know what you said about refugees and concentration camps, and the application of Hitler’s final solution. Please, tell me, how would you apply it?’

Banner thought for a moment then came to a decision. He would tell the truth. There was something in the doctor's manner, the wording of the question, told him they wanted the truth. Besides, if he was wrong, what was the worst thing that could happen? He would lose the endorsement of someone he had never heard of until five minutes ago.

‘I believe that a final solution, for lack of a better term, is not something we need to consider. As I said in my speech, why would I want to build concentration camps in the UK for immigrants I am determined to expel? And expel them I will. Every last one of them, and I don’t really care if they were born here or not. We don’t want them here and I am certainly not going to spend precious tax money on building them accommodation.’

He smiled. That was the truth, and, if any of his severest critics were to be honest, he didn’t think they could argue with it.

‘Very good, Mr Banner, very good. However, what you said, I believe, was that Hitler’s Final solution was acceptable?’

Banner paused again to think things through. He didn’t like being drilled like this, but if this doctor and his colleagues wanted the truth, then he was willing to give it to them.

‘Doctor Hastings. I am going to be honest with you. I have always admired Adolf Hitler. Not everything he did, I think taking Europe and the world to war was stupid. He should have concentrated on Germany and left it to that. Over the years I think that other European countries would have followed his lead and formed similar governments to his own, negating the need to go to war…’

‘However?’ Hastings prompted.

‘However, Germany had issues, especially with regards to racial and ethnic groups which were undermining their sovereignty.’

‘The Jews?’

‘Yes, principally it was the Jews but there were others too – gypsies, the blacks and other undesirables. Germany didn’t have the advantage we have, being an island, and so his immigration problem was more acute. His solution was concentration camps. I think that immigrants and ethnic minorities should have been allowed to leave, which they were in the 30s, but then, for those who refused, Hitler had little choice.'

Hastings nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, yes, I can see your point,’ he said.

‘I agree that the final solution was drastic and, if Hitler hadn't insisted on going to war, I don't think it would have been required, however, he acted based on the opportunities and the possibilities he had in front of him. I may sound harsh, but I don't think he had much choice.'

‘No, no. I don’t think you are being harsh, I think you may be correct.’

The doctor rubbed his hands together and then clapped them. ‘I think, Mr Banner, we can help you!’

Banner smiled and realised how tense he had been. It was almost as if he had wanted to win this old doctor’s approval. Maybe it was the gran-fatherly demeanour, possibly the infectious enthusiasm that radiated from him, but it was no denying, this Dr Hastings was having an effect on him.

‘Mr Banner. Earlier I believe you thought your comment about time travel was a nice little joke. A witticism, shall we say. But you can rest assured that the Institute for Temporal Research does not make clocks, we make time itself.'

‘Time itself?’

‘Yes. I suppose you could call us Time Travellers, after all.’

Banner almost snorted. Perhaps he had wasted the last five minutes after all. ‘Time Traveller? Are you telling me you have come from the past? Or the future?’

‘Oh, dear me no.’ The doctor laughed with a fair deal of merriment. ‘I’m not a time traveller in that sense at all, and even if I could be, I wouldn’t be able to speak to you like this. Time travel seems limited to observations only. There seems to be a few rules and that is one of them. Paradoxes and all, you understand. No, the IRT are not time travellers per se, although many of us have tried it. No, you could say we are facilitators of time travel. We have the technology and the knowledge. We make it happen, Mr Banner.’

‘You’re serious?’ Banner was flabbergasted. This is not what he had envisioned a few moments ago.

‘Quite serious. And we have been so impressed with you that we thought…um… you might want to have a go.’

Banner couldn't help but smile, although whether it was because of the incredulity of the situation, or if it was because he believed it and, well, could go time travelling, he didn’t know.

Hastings adjusted his coat once more and moved toward the door. 'Now, I know you are busy, but do you think you could arrange to be at the Institute one night, next Wednesday, for example? Hopefully, that will give you enough time to arrange an evening off.'

'Wednesday will be fine,' Banner replied. 'Where do I go? I take it I can't google you.'

Hastings laughed. 'Of course, how remiss of me. You know, my colleagues often compare me with those scientists in those science fiction films from the 1950s. You know, white coats, bumbling but not aware of the outside world or what is really going on around them.'

He reached into his coat pocket and brought out a card.

'Here's the address. It may seem like you are driving into the middle of nowhere and it doesn't really look like much on the outside, but inside.... well, you'll see when you get there.'

Banner took the card and looked at it. It was just plain white with the letters ITR on the top and a postcode beneath it.

'Just put that postcode into your SatNav and it'll take you there. Oh, and make sure you drive your own car. All cars in the area are monitored and if your registration is not recognised you will be turned away.'

'Oh, should I write my number plate down for you?'

Hastings reached over to the door and opened it.

'No need,' he said. 'We already know it.'

Banner frowned. 'Are you watching me?'

Hastings smiled. 'Of course, my lad. Of course.'

Before Banner could reply Hastings got out of the car and, without another word, he was gone.

Banner sat alone for a minute. Did he feel a little paranoid? Probably. Excited? He didn't know. He was certainly intrigued and, although there was more than a little doubt in his mind, he did like the idea. Where could he go? What would he see? Who would he see? It was like one of those silly dinner party hypotheticals that people played: if you could go back in time and visit one place or witness one event, what would it be? Would he even have a choice?

'Well, that took longer than I thought.'

Banner's reverie was interrupted as Jeanine got into the car beside him. The driver's door opened at the same time and John, Banner’s driver since the start of the campaign, also entered.

'I was just about to knock the window and tell you to hurry it up,' Jeanine continued. 'What was that about?'

Banner didn't know quite what to say. He couldn't tell her the truth; he still wasn't sure if he believed it.

'I've been invited to a dinner party with some of his colleagues. Next Wednesday, 9pm.'

'But that's the night of...'

'I don't care, whatever is on my schedule, cancel it. I'm going.'

'Then I'll have to get my old little black number out then.'

'No,' Banner said, his voices laced with finality. 'I'm going alone.'

The Institute was situated about five miles across the border and into Wales. Doctor Hastings was right, it was in the middle of nowhere. He had crossed at Hereford, passed the book town of Hay-On-Wye and then continued down a road that was little more than a lane. The night was dark and his lights illuminated the trees given them a ghostly quality which seemed to add to his mood of anticipation and apprehension. It wasn’t dread he was feeling, he was far too excited to be scared, but he would be fooling himself if he pretended not to be nervous.

His radio had difficulty picking up a decent signal and he didn't want to flick through channels hoping to find something decent in fear of missing a turn on this most snakelike of roads. There was only silence in the car. The road was so long that not even the SatNav voice had spoken for almost twenty-five minutes.

He could see he was getting close though, the countdown on the Sat Nav display informing him that he only had a few minutes left on his journey.

He wondered when he would hit security. Hastings had seemed to suggest that the security would be extensive and, if this institute really did house a time machine, then you would think there would be armed guards everywhere. OK, so they may try and be a bit discreet but so far, he was sure there had been nothing.

What was he really getting himself into? he thought.

'Right Turn ahead, 100 yards.'

The normally soothing Aussie accented SatNav voice broke through the silence and his reverie, startling him to the point that he almost jumped in his seat. That didn’t help either. He didn't really know what he was letting himself in for. He didn't know anything about these people, he had tried to make some quiet enquiries but no one seems that have ever heard of the ITR. It was almost as if they didn't exist. What if they were a bunch of lunatics? What if it was just some elaborate prank, make him drive for hours away from home into the night, keep him away from a potentially valuable evening with donors? He wasn't even in England anymore for god sake! Did he want this to be true so much he was willing to face humiliation?

Ultimately, he thought, he was. The idea was so intriguing that, if his friends had gotten together to make fun of his misguided devotion, then yes, he would take it on the chin and join them for a drink. Then, he would plot against each and every one of the bastards until they paid for their stupid trick.

He saw the turning and steered the car right. It was another narrow lane but this time there were only a few corners before he saw the lights of an old stately home. His stomach twitched. OK, there were a lot of government departments situated in buildings like this but where was this security? How could anyone turn him away if there was no one here?

He parked in front of the main doors and turned off the engine. He could see several other cars parked in the front, all of them very nice – BMWs, Mercedes and even a Bentley. There were also a few white vans all with the Logo ITR Home Improvements. Banner shock his head. Maybe he should drive away now before it was too late.

'Mr Banner!' A voice rang out. 'So glad you could make it.

'Oh, well,' Banner thought. 'It is too late now.'

He opened the door and stepped out of his car. Dr Hastings seemed to jog towards him, a brilliant and quite infectious smile on his face. He held his hands out and quickly cupped them around Banner's hands.

'So great that you were able to make it,' the doctor said. 'We had a discussion earlier today about whether you would or not. I'm so glad I was right!'

'It's a lovely place you have here' Banner said trying to find something to say. 'You were waiting for me at the door? I hope you weren't there too long.'

'No, no, no. We knew what time you would arrive. We were watching you on the CCTV.'

'Oh, I didn't see any cameras on the way here.'

'Of course not. The greatest security is secrecy.'

Banner point to the Vans. 'ITR Home Improvements?'

Hasting chortled. He put his hand behind Banner's back and started to guide him towards the door.

'Well, we couldn’t really advertise ITR Time Travelers, could we?' His laugh was hearty and warm. 'No, this way we can drive around without anyone asking questions. And if anyone phones the number on the Van's they are told we're a bit busy at the moment but here are some local workmen who come highly praised. It's a nice little idea.'

Banner nodded.

He was led through the front doors to a reception area. There, near the front desk, were two men and two women, all in white coats, each with wide smiles on their faces.

Dr Hastings paused, his chest seemed to grow and the pride on his face was undeniable.

'Mr Banner, may I introduce you to the men and women responsible for this remarkable feat of science we have achieved here at the institute. This is Dr Fellows...'

The first man stepped forward. He was a small man with what seemed like a smaller face. It was as if his head was too large. Banner tried to make sure his smile was magnanimous. He reached out his hand and took the doctor's hand to shake it.

'Doctor...' He said.

'Dr Michael Dixon.’

The second man stepped forward and shook Banner’s hand. He was a black man with what Banner assumed as either a half-grown afro or a badly cut one. Banner felt the urge to laugh and had to fight not to stare.

'Dr Amy Dixon,'

A woman stepped forward. A little mousy but with what looked like very large breasts pushing at the white coat. Banner focused on her eyes, rather dull but part of a pleasant face, and away from the attractions below.

'Dr Dixon? Any relative?' Banner asked.

'Yes,' Dixon said. 'We're married.'

'Oh, of course.' Banner had to admit to himself he hadn't thought of that. He wondered how they managed to work together and remain married. He couldn't imagine working with his wife, Silvia, every day. It would mean divorce courts before the end of the first week.

Finally, he introduced another woman. This one was pretty stunning in Banner's eyes. She was in her mid-30s and had long flowing red hair, a few soft freckles on her small button nose. Her eyes were a striking green, like precious emeralds. She had the look of a model, not a scientist. With her small designer glasses and her long white lab coat, Banner imagined her as a cliché of a porn star pretending to be intelligent. His first thoughts were how he was going to get some moments alone with her. He glanced back quickly to Amy Dixon, her large breasts pushing forward beneath her lab coat and he couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to sleep with two scientists.

(‘Why Doctors, what lovely Petri dishes you have. Of course, you can play with my Bunsen burner.)

'And speaking of workplace relationships, can I introduce you to my wife Dr Carys Hastings.' Hastings said proudly.

This time Banner couldn't hide his surprise. What was this gorgeous beauty doing with a dork like Hastings? Had he developed a formula for bedding beauties? He must have been 30 years older than her, if not more. If so, they would definitely be talking later.

'Oh,' he said. 'I...' he blustered. Hastings gave a small friendly laugh but as Banner looked at Mrs Hastings, he thought he saw the briefest sneer pass across her face, before being replaced by that smiled again.

'I know,' she said. 'A lot of people wonder how I managed to bag someone as brilliant as Matt.'

She reached over to Banner and grabbed his arm. 'Come,' she said. 'Let us show you the lab.'

'Oh,' Banner said. He looked around the room and felt vaguely disappointed. He had imagined something bigger, more technical, more, well, sciencey. At the one end was a series of desks in front of large chalkboards covered with equations. He had no idea what any of it meant but he hadn't realised it would be so old fashioned. There were computers across one wall but they too looked very simple. They were no different to his computer at home. They probably had a server room somewhere he surmised. Everywhere there was paper, covering the desks, piled next to the computers, falling out of the three printers he could see. It looked quite chaotic.

'This is our home away from home.' Hastings proclaimed. 'Please, come in.'

Dr Amy Dixon cleared away a chair and indicated for him to sit down. Banner sat, wondering exactly what was going to happen next. His stomach was tight with anticipation.

'How long have you been here?' he asked.

'Ahh, Hastings answered. The others had moved to various workstations and suddenly it was as if the office had come alive. Hastings stood in front of him, obviously enjoying holding the floor.

'Our founder was Huw Morgan, a physicist who worked on the Manhattan Project with Oppenheimer.'

'The nuclear bomb guy?'

'That's right,' Hastings replied with a smile. 'Apparently, at night Huw, Oppenheimer and some of the other guys used to discuss the existence of Einstein-Rosen bridges, wormholes. These discussions could get pretty detailed and, even though they spent the day doing math, at night they would just do more math to relax.'

Hastings chuckled to himself. Banner smiled although in truth he couldn't think of anything worse than doing math.

'Anyway, when the war ended, Huw returned here to his home and bought this building and set up the institute. Initially, it was solely for theory however Huw always said that he knew, categorically, that one day we would achieve time travel.'

Hastings chuckled to himself again. Banner got the impression that the scientist had told the story many times and enjoyed telling it immensely.

'He knew it would work the day we met, not because he saw anything special in me, but because, once when giving a lecture at the science museum in London many years before we had met and he had seen me. I was much older, he said, less hair and much greyer than I was then, but it was me.

'Unfortunately, Huw died in 1988 and we didn't crack it until 2007. I made my first trip back in 2011 and I didn't really feel like I had much choice as to where to go.' That self-satisfying chuckle again. ' I stood at the back of the room and watched my mentor and hero as a young man, talk about things that wouldn't be realised for almost fifty years. At one point he looked straight at me and I couldn't resist, I just had to smile and give him a wink. I think he knew even then and when I first joined him as a young man in 1975, he knew for certain.

'I don't believe in destiny or fate but I do believe in the science and for Huw, it predicted the future.'

Banner nodded. He now wanted to get on with it. The thought of going back in time, of witnessing history, or being there as it happened, was filling him with excitement. He accepted that this was real, that these crazy scientists had achieved one of the greatest breakthroughs in history. And he was on the cusp of taking part in it.

'And all this is real? No messing?'

Hastings shook his head eagerly.

'No Messing. That could be our logo.'

'So, what happens now?'

Hastings scanned the room as each of the others gave him a nod.

'Come,' the doctor whispered. 'This way.'

Banner stood and followed Hastings as they crossed the room to a small door.

'This door acts as the wormhole. We made it like this because it is more comforting than stepping through a void in the middle of a room or a field. Your mind can process the act of stepping through a door and expecting something on the other side. It is easier for the modern mind to process.'

'I just walk through that door?'

'Yes.' Hastings passed a small device to Banner.

'This is a tracker,' he said. 'Keep it with you at all times, don't lose it, I can't stress that enough. The red button will bring you back immediately, wherever you are.'

Banner held it in his hand. It was the size of a small phone, smooth surface with an LCD display and one red button on the side.

'The display will keep track of how long you are gone. The device is timed for 5 minutes and you will automatically return.'

'Where am I going?'

Hastings patted the politician on the back.

'As we have already discussed. You want to see the history of your movement. How does the 5th of September 1938 sound?'

Banner’s eyes grew wide. When he spoke, it was little more than a croak.

'Nuremberg? The rallies?'

Hastings nodded. 'None of us have been back to there yet so you'll be the first. We'd like a full report, however, I have the feeling you'll be so overwhelmed by the experience you'll have to return a few times before you'll be able to be subjective and report back fully. In the meantime, try and concentrate on the atmosphere, the people around you and, of course, the speaker.'

Banner nodded. 'When can I go?'

'Now, my good man. Now. Just open the door and step into history.'

'And this is real?'

Hastings laughed heartily. 'See for yourself,' he said softly.

Banner nodded. 'Ok, I'm going to do this before I shit myself.'

'Don't worry. It's a little disorienting at first, especially as you'll be going into a crowd but it'll soon pass. See you in five minutes.'

Banner was shaking, he could feel it right down to his bone marrow. Yet instinctively this had to be done, he knew it. He was completely convinced that it was true, that he was going to witness history as it happened.

As it fucking happened.

'One last thing,' Hasting said, handing him an envelope. 'Once you get there read this, it's a translation of the address that the Fuhrer gives, I'm assuming you can't speak German?'

'No,' Banner was almost giddy. He took the envelope and stuffed it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. 'Are my clothes ok?'

'Don't worry about them, you're only going for five minutes. If there are any issues, press the button quickly.'

Banner held the device in his pocket. He held it tightly, believing it could save him.

'Ok,' he said finally. 'Let's do this.'

Hastings reached for the door handle and pushed it open. The other side was completely black. Banner had thought that maybe he would have had a glimpse at whatever or whenever it was on the other side but there was nothing. And yet, from somewhere he could hear a noise. A crowd perhaps?

'See you in five minutes, Mr Banner, ' Hastings said. He put his hand on the small of Banner's back and pushed with the subtlest amounts of pressure.

'OK, let's do it.'

With a deep breath, pushing aside any worries about what will happen or if it was indeed real in the first place, Mr James Banner stepped through the door and into the darkness.

The first thing that Banner was aware of was the smell. Before there was light, before the sound became loud enough to interpret, the stench hit him. It was foul, a slaughterhouse of sweat and pain and hurt. It had substance and physicality to it which was nauseating, a rancidness which burned at his nostrils causing him to fight down the bile rising in his throat.

The motion came next, he became aware that he was rocking, ever so slightly. Almost rhythmically but with the occasional bump that was almost jarring. He was moving, he realised.

Then came the noise; the movement was given sound. It wasn't pleasant and it certainly wasn't unfamiliar. There was something to it that he knew, that triggered a memory. Something he had heard before. A loud mechanical cacophony that made him wince. Beneath it, there was also something else - crying, moaning, like animals near death capable of making only the most instinctive of groans.

Finally, he could see. It was dark but flashes of light shone through wooden slats to his left. He looked around, squinting in the darkness and he could see he was surrounded by people, lots of people crammed together, standing still yet moving slightly with the rhythm of the... what?

The train?

That was it, he thought. I'm on a train. This made no sense to him. He should have been in a crowd, in an open area full of people all worshipping the sight of their leader, their Fuhrer. Instead, he was...

He was standing in a corner leaning on the wooden slats of a train carriage. Not a passenger carriage despite the people who were around him. It was a cargo carriage, he thought. Then, no it wasn't for cargo, it was for livestock?

He turned to the man next to him. He was gaunt, his face drawn and his eye sockets were dark as if they were withdrawing into his skull to avoid experiencing his surroundings. The man stared at Banner without interest or recognition. He wore what looked to Banner like pyjamas, striped black and white. They looked dirty and old and were clearly several sizes too large for the man.

The smell was atrocious, overbearing. There was sweat, shit, piss, vomit, all ingredients in some revolting recipe. He looked to his shoes and could see he was standing in a swamp of faeces, wet, degrading and unhealthy. The man next to him wore no shoes or socks and the shit was clinging to his toes. Banner took an involuntary step backwards but there was nowhere to go. Some leaked out of a gap in the wooden slats but most was trodden into the carriage floor by his feet and those of people surrounding him.

'What is this place?' Banner croaked. His voice struggled to assert itself, coming out like a croak.

The man just stared, there wasn't even any recognition that Banner had spoken.

'What am I doing here?'

His voice had started to rise as he could feel the tightness of panic grip his stomach; his larynx twisted and his lungs seemed to empty of oxygen. He could feel bile beginning to thrash inside his gut.

Several people turned to him but they all had the same disinterested expression. It wasn't disdain, he realised. It was worse. It was as if they had withdrawn from the world and he was an unwelcome interloper, reminding them of the filth they were part of and the desperate lives they now lived.

'Please?' Banner grabbed the nearest man by his lapels. The man pushed Banner back with the minimum of force but with what seemed the maximum of effort.

As tears began to fall from his eyes, he remembered the device in his pocket. With trembling hands, he took the device out of his pocket quickly and for one brief moment thought he was going to drop it in his eagerness. A manic laugh escaped him and he started to hyperventilate.

He grabbed it tightly in time, then held it close to his chest. He tried to control his breathing, to get to grips with his emotion but this just made him more aware of the stench around him. He then opened his hand delicately and held it up to the light from the open slats.

On the screen there appeared to be a counter indicating that it had been only 90 seconds since he arrived. Just one and a half minutes. Could that be true? Surely it was more than that. It seemed like a small lifetime instead of a mere 90-second interlude of a much longer life. Those bastards at the Institute would pay for this he thought. He would make them fucking pay for this fuck-up. He would release a shitstorm down upon them so great they would be digging themselves out of manure for the rest of their fucking lives. What sick lesson were they trying to teach him? Well, he would teach them.

This made him feel better, it gave him purpose, it gave him something to fix on. His breath slowed as he sucked it in through his teeth, imagining what he was going to do to that prick Hastings. He would start by raping his whore wife in front of him, ensuring that the doctor saw every last detail. He would do the same to the Dixon woman too. Maybe he would even do them together. Then, when he was elected, he would use his power to bring down the institute. If there was a future for time travel, he thought, savouring the irony, it would be his to control.

He moved his thumb over the red button and with one last sneer at the nasty, wretched filth he was surrounded by, he pressed it.

Nothing happened. He pressed again, this time in panic.

Nothing.

Again, and again, and again.

Still nothing. He became aware that he had begun moaning, loudly. He could feel the tears falling down his face, stinging his eyes just as the recognition of the truth of his situation fully dawned on him.

He threw to device onto the ground and stomped on it. Its plastic body lay there in pieces beneath his feet. His shoes were unrecognisable, they were caked with crap which was so deep, it soaked his socks.

He then realised what he had done. He stooped down and picked up the pieces realising the futility of it all. The device was gone, just a lump of plastic covered in shit and piss and vomit. He was stuck. He was trapped. He was here in this stinking train, surrounded by the dredges of civilisation, and there was no way out.

Deep down he knew who these people were, what they were. Deep down he realised what those fucking doctors had done to him.

Then he remembered the envelope.

He reached into his breast pocket and took it out. He held it to the light and ripped it open. Inside was one piece of folded paper. He tore it out with trembling hands and held it to the light. He had to wipe the tears from his eyes before he could read it, the drops falling onto the paper, staining it like a pathetic wax seal.

He read.

Dear Mr Banner.

As you will now realise, you are not at the Nuremberg Rallies. You are not going to witness the spectacle of your hero as he bombastically spreads his creed of hatred. I am sorry for our dishonesty but there was nothing else we could do.

You see, we have followed you for some time. Your career has been very interesting and there have been many parallels with your hero, I'm sure you will be happy to note. We have followed your rise and recognised the horror that a man like you could unleash. It has, as you know, happened before.

There are several limits to Time Travel as we have discussed. You can observe but you can't change. We couldn't go back to the '20s and assassinate Hitler because what has happened is fixed. There is no changing. We can't go forward either as this is not fixed so we can't be sure that you would actually become if everything went as you have planned.

So instead we decided to take the lessons of the past and apply them to the present. You are the present.

I think it is a fitting irony that the way we decided to dispatch you is the very way your hero dispatched so many others. Some great men and women slaughtered because they were guilty of being Jewish. Something they had no choice about, yet they were condemned. Men, women and children. Yes, children.

So, we decided that your last journey should be with these very people. We can't save them but we can ask you to share their fate so that, in the last few hours, days or weeks of your life, you would be confronted with who you really are. We are not without humanity though. As you look around you, you will see some very desperate people whom humanity has abandoned. Many have lost their own humanity and the only hope they have is for death to come and rescue them. One of the fundamentals of humanity is the desire to live, to survive. To be stripped of this is the cruellest of atrocities and to hope for it in others, the cruellest of evils. We are not evil and though we have condemned you to this ghastly fate, we pray that the ending comes before what little humanity you possess is taken from you.

So, I bid you adieu. I can't say it was a pleasure knowing you but we can take great pleasure in what we have done to you. There have been many discussions as to how we can make a difference with our wonderful invention. Please take some comfort in the fact that whilst you are the first, we hope you are not the last.

Yours

Drs Hastings, Hastings, Dixon, Dixon & Fellows.

Banner felt a stab in his heart. He let the paper fall from his hands and disappear into the sludge on the carriage floor. Outside the train passed through a gap beneath a cold, red stone tower. Banner knew this place. He knew the history; he knew why it was built and he knew the words fashioned in metal over the main gates.

Arbeit Macht Frei

Work will set you free.

#short story #brexit #time travel #science fiction

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tomasorban · 5 years

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THE ZODIAC: LIBRA THE SCALES

Date of Rulership: 22nd September-23rd October; Polarity: Positive, male; Quality: Cardinal; Ruling planet: Venus; Element: Air; Body part: Back, kidneys, and ovaries; Colour: All shades of blue; Gemstone: Sapphire, jade; Metal: Copper or bronze.

Libra is probably the first sign in which we see a comprehensive exploration of the concept of duality and a conciliation of opposing forces like order and chaos, activity and passivity, truth and falsehood, equality and inequality, and so forth. The sign is primarily concerned with this conflicting relationship and interaction between opposites because it inherently understands that opposing forces in the universe facilitate the fruition of equilibrium. Sadly, this is one theme that more often than not eludes all other archetypes standing along the wheel of heaven. With Libra, we begin to acquire a much deeper understanding of the cosmos as an inhabited space of conscious and superconscious extensions and examine questions such as whether or not two things or people can co-habit the same space and partake in symbiosis. If so, can the two be synchronized in such a way as to foster the allusion that the two are actually one? Can two people or things of variant compositions and teleological hardware be made to step, skip, or even march to the same rhythm? According to Libra, such affiliations can be successfully developed and maintained otherwise the world would lapse into a lapsarian state of war and disarray. The psychological and social friction caused by the everlasting battle between thoughts of yes and no and the actions of give and take mediate compromised experiences from which more than a single person learns and grows. Hence, what we find with the Libran formative force is that it is always juggling with two or more conflicting viewpoints and attempting to harmonize them in such a way as to leave the minds from whence they originated mutually satisfied. When this process of unanimity works it has the power to transmute base matter to gold. Alternatively failure to make peace between them results in negative consequences like alienation, disenchantment, and self-destruction.

“As ye make your bed, so shall ye sleep in it,” says Libra in a stern voice. “Many of the preceding inhabitants of the zodiac–Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, and Virgo–see me as being rather cold, distant and impersonal. I can come across that way, especially when my superego Osiris springs into action. Would you like to know what Osiris tells me every night as I’m drifting off to sleep? He says that everything that exists on the physical, mental, or spiritual planes is subject to the cosmic law of cause and effect. For every action there is a reaction, and for everything that is pushed there will be something pulled away. He also says that irrespective of class, gender, distinction, social rank or privilege, every individual in possession of a soul is born into this world with a dowry. If he or she utilizes this dowry to the best of his or her ability whilst remaining faithfully orientated towards justice and truth, life usually materializes as sympathetic and kind. If, though, egotistic gratification becomes the reason for one to commit social misconduct and misbehaviour, the universe will react by drawing the noose around his or her personal freedom and squeeze the life out of him or her, bit by bit.

On the whole, I think listening to these short lectures on moral and social codes has made me a much better entity. Furthermore, I’m much more apt and skilful at weeding out liars, swindlers, bullies and cowards than I used to be, and can easily detect any irruptions of emotion, cunning justifications and intellectual arguments generated to obstruct pathways to the truth. Don’t you dare think that I’m not a merciful power; there’s plenty of compassion and empathy in me. I can understand how someone’s personal circumstances might compel them to commit a crime against another or humanity as a whole, but that in no way diminishes my belief that violation of another’s rights or social transgression should be punished accordingly.

In any case, I’m a social animal and need to be around people, especially those that share similar interests and are composed of the same moral clay as myself. I feel that people should be treated respectfully at all times; courteous interactions and social etiquette are a must! I cope well with most things, vent occasionally, and can be exceptionally understanding and tolerant of others’ vices. I’m happy to say that unlike many of my co-stars on the zodiacal band, I do fight fairly and respectfully. I also see nothing wrong with looking after oneself. Much can be discerned about one’s personality and character from grooming and personal hygiene. Like attracts like; if I want to attract the beautiful to myself, I too must make an effort to look beautiful. I care what likeminded others think of me; more often than not, looking good steadfast earns their approval so I’m all for it!”

Libra is a sign that is intimately linked to cerebral processes which have governed the evolution of human consciousness and the historic induction of a civilized life based on social parameters, moral codes and conventions. Thus it would be more than appropriate to declare that Libra is a faithful advocate for the acknowledgment of interpersonal relationships between two committed people regardless of race or gender. There is something of the sacred and divine in the love that exists between two committed individuals, and in Libra’s eyes these partnerships should be acknowledged, endorsed and held in the highest honour by all citizens unified under the umbrella of culture. The inclination towards convention is not to say that Libra is narrow-minded, bigoted, or totalitarian in any way, shape, or form–far from it! Libra respects and recognizes all unions of matrimony regardless of the dynamic and nature of the partnership whilst at the same time expressing preference for monogamistic lifestyles. It is not opposed to polygamy, but does not wish to revel in it itself. Libra is a firm believer in the adage that “everyone is born equal” and does not believe in gender-specific roles, colours, or any other qualities quantified and standardized by Western culture in that way.

With respect to its personal life, the Libran psyche can go on forgiving the mistakes and wrongdoings of significant others until it begins to feel a sense of hopelessness. When this threshold is reached, Libra can become cold-hearted, detached and mercilessly unyielding. It should also be mentioned that Librans can be quite charming and seductive and often enjoy flirting more than the sexual encounter itself. They are brilliant schemers and diplomats and will never act on impulse. For a Libran, deliberation is more appealing than immediacy and long-term goals and effects are far more important than fleeting and momentary pleasures. Libra is a cardinal energy and cannot stay inert for too long without becoming restless. Nevertheless it needs intermittent breaks between prolonged periods of activity to diffuse tension and excess stress otherwise its mental health can become afflicted.

There are two symbols associated with the zodiacal sign of Libra. The first, a set of scales, is the only inert object to exemplify a zodiacal sign in the Western zodiac as well as the perfect exoteric expression of Libra’s rudimentary quality–balance. All ancient civilizations, from the Indians and Persians to the Hellenes and Babylonians stood united in attributing to the seventh sign concepts which enabled the universal derivation of order from primordial chaos. The Romans attributed special significance to this sign because the foundation stone of Rome and thus of Italian self-determination was laid on October 4th, a date which falls under the mediation of the Libran house. In ancient Egypt, Libra was inexplicably connected to the concept of maat, a word used to denote the providential state of order, truth, balance and justice and personified as an Egyptian goddess with an ostrich feather strapped to her headdress. In ancient Egyptian society it was widely held that maat had been inaugurated by the gods at the moment of creation and was supposed to be upheld by the pharaoh, the living incarnation of Horus, through temple construction and the enactment of ritual. A surviving body of ancient Egyptian literature coined Instructive or Wisdom Literature illuminates just how vital justice, ethical standards and social etiquette were to the lives of the ancient Egyptians but especially to their eschatological practices and beliefs. Maat played a pivotal role in day-to-day undertakings but it played an even bigger role in the psychostasia, the judgement that was thought to occur following the death of an individual and determined whether or not he or she would continue to exist in an alternate dimension known as the Amenti. According to instructional texts connected to the moral code, any expression of disorder, envy, deceit, rebellion against established authority, laziness, injustice, and ingratitude were crimes against maat and set the individual soul upon the road which led to punishment, an eternal state of non-existence.

The second symbol is an astrological shorthand for the zodiacal sign utilized by astrologers in the creation of astrological charts and looks like a yoke. Interestingly, the ancient Greeks called Libra “Zygos” which essentially means “yoke”. An even more striking parallel exists between this pictogram and the ancient Egyptian hieroglyph used to denote akhet, the horizon or place of the rising and setting sun. In ancient Egypt the just mentioned word was originally used as an ideogram for “horizon” and “mountain of light” until the Ptolemaic Period when Hellenistic culture introduced Chaldean astrology to Egypt and connected the latter with the seventh house of the zodiac. From that moment onwards the word akhet was also a synonym for Libra and was appropriate given that the appearance of the full moon in this sign signals a return of the solar orb to the vernal equinox that might be interpreted as a tipping of the scales in the opposite direction and a reinstatement of universal balance.

In retrospect, both astrological sign and shorthand recall positive elementary and cardinal traits belonging to Libra–tenderness, tranquillity, fondness, orderliness, and sophistication. Dispassion, impartiality, relaxation, and sporadic inertia are also indigenous to its psychic make-up, a notion consistent with a lull in agricultural movement during the transient period of its government. The sign thrives when polar opposites coexist in a state of harmony but any psychological or physiological affliction can throw the scales off balance and result in protean temperaments and wild mood swings. The propensity of this sign to discern both sides of an argument and equate, measure, and quantify all possible trajectories before rationalizing a final judgement marks it as the personal abode of diplomats, judges, governments, and law-makers.

#astrology #zodiac #astropsychology #psychology #consciousness #libra

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hrhduchessoflancaster · 5 years

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Chapter Eighty-Seven: Blessing Upon Thee

A/N: Thank you for all your comments and likes! And I apologise for taking so long to update. With my thesis to write and research going on, I had barely had time to focus on anything else. Also, there’s a bit of NSFW in this chapter so be cautious. xx Bea

Disclaimer: see Prologue

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With Trooping the Colour out the way, the Sussexes and their family, could focus on their main event for the Summer: Arthur’s christening. The date was set for the 23rd of June, at St George’s Chapel, where Harry had been baptised. Prince Seeiso of Lesotho, Princess Eugenie, the Marquess of Lorne, and Mary Collins would serve as godparents. The venue had been decorated with lilies and daisies, a choir would sing Be thou my vision and Bread of Heaven, the latter which was sung at Elle and Harry’s wedding. As per tradition, Arthur would wear the replica of the christening gown worn by all royal children since Queen Victoria’s, the same worn by his cousins George and Charlotte. The family and their guests, which were more or less than twenty, would stay at Windsor Castle for the ceremony and reception.

Elle’s parent’s were thrilled and made a point to contribute with the celebration, bringing a piece of their own tradition to the christening, which she and Harry were more than happy to oblige. First there was the silver coin that would be given to baby Arthur for luck, and a tiny red ribbon would be tied to his wrist to protect him against evil.

“ We have to make some Christening Pieces for the guests.", said Victoria. A Christening Piece was an old Scottish tradition to offer sweets, generally in the form of cake or biscuits, along with a bit of money, to the guests after the christening ceremony. Elle gladly delegated that task to her mother, her aunt Ava, and Valerie. Meanwhile, she and Harry would sign all the invitations and give them to Ronald in order to send them to the guests. The godparents were already alerted of the date, of course, but there were some other family members who needed to me reminded of it.

But before they could go to Windsor and have the beautiful service she had envisioned, Elle and Harry had a joint engagement on their hands. They would be travelling to Edinburgh, for her first visit to the Royal Botanic Garden. Since their wedding, she had tried her hardest to get involved as much as she could with her charities. But when Elle became pregnant and after Arthur’s birth, the pace of things had to be slowed down due to the baby. Entrusting Rupert and Victoria to care for their grandchild while they travelled, the couple took the Royal helicopter, flew by Hector’s familiar face to Edinburgh. This would be the first time both of them would be staying at Hollyhood Palace and also their first time away from Arthur since his birth.

“ I know it’s just for a day, but it’s so hard to leave him behind. He’s still so tiny.”, said Elle, holding back tears as they boarded the helicopter on Kensington Palace’s lawn.

Harry smiled at her and held her close to him, squeezing her tightly and nodded his head. “ I know, love. We’ve barely even left and I already can’t wait to come back to him., he told her as they sat side by side.

“ And Sir Lancelot.”, she added smiling. Chuckling, he agreed with her. “ Yes, and Sir Lancelot.” Soon, they were flying over London on their way to Scotland, leaving their most treasured possession behind.

************

Meanwhile, another meeting was set between the Queen, her Privy Council and the Prime Minister to discuss the order of Succession. Harry had yet to made aware of such changes into the line. But Elizabeth had planned a meeting with him and Eleanor for as soon as they have returned from Scotland. Things needed to be solved and they needed to be solved quickly.

“ Thank you all for coming to this extraordinary meeting today. The issue at hand is the removal of Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and his heirs from the line of Succession of the United Kingdom. This issue has been previously discussed between all parties involved and has come to the attention of this Privy Council for approval and petition for effectiveness as soon as possible, per the Duke’s request.”, said the Prime Minister.

“ Thank you, Mr. Simmons.”, said the Queen. “ As you are all aware, my grandson, Prince William, has wished to leave the line of succession, something that hasn’t been done before. We, upon reflexion and much consideration, understand his reasons and have decided to grant that he wishes. And, although he, his wife and heirs shall still retain their titles and styles, they shall henceforth be removed from the succession of our United Kingdom of Great Britain, Northern Ireland and overseas territories. Therefore, the line will continue after the Prince of Wales, with his second heir Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex and his heirs.”, said the Queen, reading from the same a draft of the document who would be signed by all members of the Privy Council. And that, of course, included Harry. Until he returned, the final draft of the document would have to wait.

“ All those in agreement, say ‘aye’.”, said the Prime Minister. A resolute chorus of ‘I’s’ answered the question and the meeting was concluded. The only thing left to do to actually ratify the document was Harry’s consent and signature.

************

At the Royal Botanic Garden, Harry and Elle were met with great cheers from the crowd that was waiting for them. At the entrance, Elle was given a posy of thistles, Scotland’s national flower, by a very shy young boy. She knelled down close to him and smiled sweetly at him, whose cheeks turned a little red.

“ What’s your name, sweetie?”, she asked. Looking at his shoes, he quietly replied:

“ Jonathan.”. She smiled at him and thanked him by shaking his hand. She and Harry were led by a group of botanists and florists around the garden and were shown different flowers and native plants from Scotland and a few other places around the British isles, as well as some foreign ones.

“ And this, is the new variety of Mountain Avens which have been named the Eleanor in your honour, Your Royal Highness.”, said one of the botanists. Elle smiled and posed beside the white and yellow flower, taking her time to admire the different shades in its petals.

“ That about a flower named after me?”, joked Harry and the group laughed.

The took around half an hour to visit the entire garden, finally finishing at the entrance where Elle prepared to give a speech.

“ Thank you to the Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh for having us here today. It’s a privilege to be able to witness the magnitude of the work done by all of you; from the gardeners to the botanists and scientists. My husband and I are thrilled to be see first hand how much effort and care is put into conservation and restoration of the natural floral of Scotland. A true gift not only to this nation but to the entire British Isles. Thank you.”, she said, finishing her speech. After the applauses and posed pictures, she unveiled a plaque in commemoration of their visit. Hand in hand, they waved their goodbyes to the public and made their way back to Hollyhood Palace.

With a free day to kill before they returned to Arthur, Lancelot and their lives in London, Harry and Elle explored a little of the surroundings. They actually took the time to go about the gardens and the ruins of the ancient chapel that once stood beside the palace. With Leo and Ingrid on their tails, they went about Edinburgh with little to no recognition, which was a breath of fresh air to them both. Once back in the castle, Elle drew herself a relaxing, lukewarm bath, dropped a bath bomb in it and set there, quietly enjoying the feeling of the water on her skin. As she started to doze off, she felt the water stir and was hastily awaken by Harry, who was splashing water everywhere trying to get into the tub as well.

“ Didn’t even bother to invite me, love? How rude…”, he said smirking, sitting close to her, their legs intertwined. Elle chuckled and leaned forward, kissing his cheek, gently caressing his face, soaping it with foamy water. She felt his hands on her waist, pulling her closer to him and she let Harry guide her to his lap. His lips ferociously attacked her neck, making her moan as her fingers roamed across his hair, neck and back, leaving faint red lines. He then lowered one of his hands to her inner thigh and slowly traced patterned over her skin, inching closer and closer to her core, teasing her to no end. His fingers were firm and dextrous, knowing exactly how to please her. She moaned in his ear, throwing her head back as he continued to kiss her neck.

“ Good, love?”, he asked ruskily. Her reply was another moan, followed by a series of passionate kisses that left him out of breath. Harry’s movement’s became more urgent only to stop when she was so close to the edge. Elle let out a whimper of discontent which made him smirk and gently press himself further against her. She gasped as he filled her, completely taken by the waves of pleasure she was feeling.

Their movements alternated from fast to slow, loving and raw… a rhythm they had long developed. Their swear mixed with the water as they climaxed over and over again. They stayed in the tub until the water ran cold, tangled in each other’s arms. Having the luxury of being away from their newborn gave them time to actually enjoy each other’s company, a much needed rest from the parenting they were still getting used to.

They barely had time to touch base in London before they had to leave for Windsor. Arthur’s christening was a few days away and the final preparations were at full speed. Family and guests had arrived and where received by the Queen, Prince Philip and the royal couple in question. Seeiso and Mabereng were thrilled to get to see the new addition to the family.

“ Oh he’s so precious!”, said Mabereng, as Arthur was passed from his mother’s arms to her awaiting ones.

“ And look at that patch of ginger hair… it’s obviously your child, my friend.”, said Seeiso to Harry, who chuckled.

“ Hey! I’ll have you know that his particular shade of ginger comes from my head, thank you very much.”, said Elle, making the men laugh.

“ Fair enough, point taken dear Eleanor. By the way, how’s being a mother treating you?”, he asked her, sitting beside his wife and gently brushing Arthur’s head. He had fallen asleep on Mabereng’s arms and was cutely making faces as he dreamed. Smiling to her infant son, she said:

“ It’s no easy I’ll tell you that. But it’s been so good, so rewarding. When I get to hold him, having his skin on mine and he’s cosy and warm against me. Or when he gives me that toothless smile and I know he recognises who I am… it’s so pure. It’s much more love than I thought I’d be able to feel.”

“ That’s about right…”, said Mabereng in agreement.

“ And you my friend? Is fatherhood all you dreamed of?”, asked Seeiso to Harry. Looking at Elle, they shared a smile and he nodded his head.

“ That and so much more…”, he said. “Specially when you share it with the right person.”, he continued, taking Elle’s hand into his.

“ So, worth the wait I take it?”, asked Seeiso.

“ So worth it.”, Harry replied, planting a kiss on Elle’s cheek.

************

The press was invited inside the grounds of Windsor Castle as well as part of the public. The barrier surrounding the Chapel of St. George was full of people carrying cameras, signs, toys and flowers. The guests were the first to arrive: Richard and Mary with little Rose; Eugenie and Jack, Beatrice and Prince Andrew, Sarah Chatto, her husband and children; Seeiso and Mabereng, Elle’s cousin, Michael, the Marquess of Lorne, her aunt, uncle and cousin from Scotland; Valerie and Elle’s brother, James; her parent’s; Charles and Camilla; William, Kate and the children, and then Queen and Prince Philip.

Finally, Elle and Harry came out of the Castle, with her carrying baby Arthur, who was dressed in the iconic christening gown, in her arms while he supported her by the waist as they walked down the path to the church. Dressed in a … dress with a matching fascinator, they stopped at the side entrance and greeted Elizabeth and Philip first, proceeded by the Archbishop of Canterbury. As the senior royals took their place inside the chapel, Elle and Harry waited with the Dean of St. George’s Chapel to begin their procession, along with the godparents.

Much like they had done at Rose’s christening, they walked in first towards the altar, carrying baby Arthur, while the godparents followed behind them. Elle then passed the baby to Mary, while Eugenie held the towel to dry the baby’s head.

“ Your Majesty, Your Royals Highnesses, Your Graces, ladies and gentlemen… Parents and Godparents, the Church receives this child with much joy. Today we are trusting God for his growth in faith. Will you pray for him, draw him by your example into the community of faith and walk with him in the way of Christ?”, asked the Archbishop.

“ With the help of God, we will.”, they replied in unison. The Archbishop lit a large candle and the service proceeded with prayers and blessings. They all gathered around the baptism fountain Seeiso then poured the water into it. Much like in Charlotte’s christening, the objects and regalia used in the royal ceremony were taken from the Tower of London and carefully transported to Windsor. The water itself, also like in every royal christening, came from the River Jordan. Mary then leaned Arthur forward, so the Archbishop could then pour the water over his head. The baby fussed a little but was soon soothed by the warm water.

“ Arthur Frederick David James, I baptise you in the name of Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”, he said. Eugenie then carefully dried Arthur’s head with the towel while he cuddled closer to Mary. It was then Michael’s turn to lit the christening candle; the flame itself coming from the larger one.

“… shine as a light in the world to the glory of God.”, said the Archbishop, and thus the ceremony was complete. There were a few readings and hymns were sung. Family members and guests smiled and cried of joy as baby Arthur let out a giggle as he was returned to his mother’s arms. The bells rang loudly outside and you could hear the cheer of the public as little by little the royals and guests exited the church. At the very end came Elle and Harry, who was now carrying baby Arthur in his arms. Both smiling from ear to ear. Photos were taken as they made the walk back to the Castle for much needed food and refreshments.

But before they could actually dig in the said goodies, photos would have to be taken. So the couple posed with their family first, then with the baby’s godparents and finally just them and Arthur. Mario Testino was hired to take the christening pictures and for the ones with just the little family, they took things outside. In the quadrant courtyard the couple sat together on a wooden bench beneath a majesty oak tree and things just went naturally from there. The smiles and looks, Arthur’s little hands reaching for his parent’s, Elle and Harry’s heads close to one another as they watched Arthur babble. Very sweet and touching moments that would be recorded on their mind and on paper forever.

Once back inside, as per tradition, a piece of their wedding cake which had been frozen, was served to the guests, along with cordials, and heavier drinks such as whisky and brandy. Arthur enjoyed being coddle up and spoiled by his godparents as well as all the other guests who wanted to hold him and gift him something. George and Charlotte kissed and caressed their baby cousin’s head but soon were too bored and decided to play around the room. Valerie, who had the turn of holding Arthur made silly faces which made him giggle in return.

“ That’s such a sweet sound… I can listen to it all day long.”, she said to the beaming parents.

“ So when it’s the next one?”, asked James, winking.

“ Slow down there, James. I’ve just had this one. Let’s revisit this chat in a few years ok?”, said Elle, shaking her head.

“ A few years? I don’t think Harry there will be able to wait that long.”, joked James, smirking at his brother-in-law.

“ I think he can. And he will.”, replied Elle, now also looking at her husband, raising one eyebrow.

“ Whatever you say, little sister. But we all know you’ll have another one soon enough. You both want it… and we everybody knows that.”, retorted James.

“ We’ll see about that.”, said Elle humphing. Valerie chuckled and agreed with James, while Harry shook his head and planted a kiss on her temple. He then noticed Charles coming in his direction with a serious look on his face.

“ Harry, Eleanor dear, may I talk to you for a moment?”, he asked in almost a whisper. The couple looked at each other and nodded their heads, quickly excusing themselves from their small group. No one seemed to bother or notice the look on Charles’ face.

Elle and Harry then followed Charles to the Green Drawing Room, where Elizabeth, William and Kate were waiting for them. The couple looked a little surprised and suspicious at the odd gathering.

“ What’s going on?”, asked Harry to no one in particular.

“ Please, take a seat.”, said the Queen and they both sat in the semi circle of armed chairs.

“ I asked Charles to call you here due to a matter of the utmost urgency. The matter itself had been already solved but I do need to clarify a few things with you both and… and prepare you for what’s to come.”, said Elizabeth.

“ Granny, you’re scaring us. Please, what’s happening?”, said Harry. Elizabeth dismissed his plea and looked to William and Charles.

“ A few months ago, your brother called me asking to meet. He told me he had a very important matter to discuss with me. And as it turns out, he did. Having talked to your father fist, William came to me with his mind made up, only looking for my consent.”, continued Elizabeth.

“ Consent to what?”, asked Harry, getting irritated.

“ Consent to drop out of the succession line.”, said William. There was a pause. The room fell silent and no one said a word for what looked like an eternity.

“ Are you fucking kidding me?!”, said Harry, half shouting. He was in awe, disbelief and irritation covered his features. Elle didn’t know what to say. She ran her hand on Harry’s back in an attempt to sooth him. She then looked to William and Kate, who had their head bowed down.

“ What do you mean you’re dropping out of the line of succession? You can’t simply fo that!”, shouted Harry, now standing up and making his way towards William, only to be held back by Elle.

“ Darling please. Calm yourself. I’m sure there’s a very good explanation to all of this.”, said Elle, as calmly as she could. Sighing, Harry gave his brother a hateful look and plopped on the chair once again.

“ When Eleanor was kidnapped, Kate was hit by a bullet in amidst the crossfire.”, said William. Harry and Elle both looked alarmed and turned their faces to Kate, who shook her head.

“ I’m fine. It was just a flesh wound. Nothing too serious. We didn’t want to tell anyone or make a huge deal about it but… let’s say that was the last straw in an already very full barn.”, said Kate.

“ It wasn’t the first time out lives have got in the way of someone we love. Catherine suffered for most of our relationship with harassment and then kidnap threats and death notes came to our office not only against us, but also against out children. I’ve decided… we decided we had had enough of it. I talked to Pa then I went to granny and explained the whole situation for her…”, said William.

“ So you’re just dumping this on my plate? That’s it?”, said Harry, very irritated.

“ Oh let’s face it! You’re much better suited for this than I could ever be!”, said William. “ You’re a natural. A born leader. Even mother knew that!”, he continued.

“ Don’t you dare bring mother into this.”, said Harry angrily.

“ But it’s true. Everyone knows it, Harry. You’re just like her. You have a way with people that I could never ever dream of having. And it’s all you. It’s almost instinctive to you.”, continued William.

“And are you both ok with this?”, he asked Elizabeth and Charles.

“ As much as it pains me to say it, I am.”, said Charles.

“Unbelievable!”, exclaimed Harry. “ Granny?”, he asked the older woman. She sighed and was about to speak when Harry said:

“ Oh for fucks sake!”

“ As I was going to say, after much consideration, I agreed to your brother’s wishes. He’ll live as a private person, like your cousins Zara and Peter and will relinquish his royal duties and income. He’ll retain his title and styles as will Catherine and the children. He’ll resume his work as a helicopter rescue pilot in Wales, where they will reside for the time being.”, said Elizabeth. Harry sighed deeply, running his hands over his face and hair. Elle kept on soothing him with circular motions on his back. She was nowhere near calm herself. Her heart was pounding and she could feel a headache coming and settling in.

“ I know this is all too much to listen and to consider but as soon as the document is signed, the line of succession will fall to you and your heirs, Harry. Much like it happened to me.”, said Elizabeth. “ I was never to be the monarch, yet here I am.”, she continued.

“ We’ll be with you every step of the way. We’ll teach you everything you need to know about statesmanship, government, religion, cerimonial duties… you’ll have time to get used to it.”, said Charles and Elizabeth nodded her head in agreement.

“ Well… the decision has already been made, hasn’t it?”, he asked his grandmother, who nodded her head again.

“ Then I guess there’s nothing I can do about it.”, he replied. “ Just know this… it’s very selfish what you’re doing, William. I never expected that from you. Right now I can’t even talk to you, or look at you.”, said Harry, standing up, taking Elle’s hand in his own.

“ I understand.”, replied William.

“ Now, if you excuse us, my wife and I have guest to entertain. We’re going out there and we’ll enjoy our son’s christening party.”, he finished, taking Elle along with him and going out of the room with a loud bang.

“ Well… that went better than I had expected…”, said William.

“ He looked very calm… all things considered.”, said Kate and they all nodded their heads in agreement.

“ And that, my dear, is the very reason why I think he’ll make into a fine monarch one day.”, said Elizabeth.

************

Harry walked fast almost pulling Elle along. He rushed along the corridors and went to the quadrangular courtyard. He let go of her hand hand and walked into the grass, pacing from side to side, hands ever so often running through his face and hair.

“ Darling? Harry… talk to me….”, pleaded Elle.

“ How can they do this to me, huh?! TO US!”, he shouted.

“ I can’t do this. I can’t be king! It was never meant to be me! William was supposed to be the one on the throne! The one with the responsibilities and duties… NOT ME! And Kate was meant to be the Queen like my great grandmother was. Not you, my love. Never you. I don’t want to put that responsibility over your shoulders, my love. I… I can’t…”, said Harry, crumbling to the ground, sobbing. Elle rushed to him and embraced him.

“ Shhhh… it’s going to be okay, darling. You’ll see.”, she said. “ We’ve faced do much together, this is just another challenged in our way. We can do this. So long as we stand by each other.”, she continued.

“ I don’t think I can do it. I saw what that kind of life did to my mother… it destroyed her. I don’t want to it to destroy me… even less to do that to you… and Arthur… our little boy… look how much is already being thrusted onto him. I can’t Elle… it’s too much.”, he said, still sobbing.

“ We work this out. We’ll find a way.”, she kept repeating it. Not only to Harry but also to herself. What are we gonna do now?, she thought.

#FATES INTERTWINED #phff #prince harry fanfic #prince harry fanfiction #prince harry

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amarauder · 5 years

Text

0.10 madame pamplemousse and her incredible edibles

sincerely, the blue and silver gryffindor

a princess of magic novel

draco malfoy x reader

When the news went out that the restaurant was opening again, the phone never stopped ringing. By now, only the wealthiest citizens of Paris were able to afford a table, but even so, the tables were by invitation only. The head of FOOD Corporation had ordered his private jet to spin around in mid-flight when he got the news. The President of France had a special body double take over the engagements so that he might attend.

But eight o'clock that morning, all of Lard's cooking staff had been despatched to buy the necessary ingredients. Lard was amazed by the recipe's simplicity.

"You mean that's it? There's nothing else to it?"

"Just what's on the list, Uncle," said Y/N.

"But surely some extra butter, a drizzle of double cream?"

"Just what's on the list," she repeated.

"Well, I never!" said Lard. "And there it was all this time, right under my very nose!" And he went off muttering to himself, occasionally lashing out to punch a wall or smash a piece of furniture.

By midday all of the ingredients had been bought, chopped, filleted, sliced, crushed, and blended as dictated, to the letter, in the recipe. Smiling practice began soon after and work had to stop for a good two hours. Seeing her chance, Y/N slipped away.

As quickly as she could, she took a saucepan and began to prepare the stock, just as she had done the night before in Madame Pamplemousse's kitchen. But the freedom she had felt there now abandoned her and in its place came a little, creeping fear. A fear that her recipe was no good-that it would backfire horribly and her uncle would be triumphant after all. But then the first delicate threads of steam rose up from the cooking pot to curl about her nostrils, and in that instant she forgot her fear. A new, coolly detached part of herself took hold, no longer rushing, but allowing the recipe to take shape at its own pace and natural rhythm.

Then, when it was done, she removed the saucepan from the heat and let it cook in a special hiding place in one of the store cupboards. This she managed just in time before a great stampede of chefs, forced to stop work during smiling practice, came charging through the kitchen doors.

By seven o'clock huge crowds had formed outside the restaurant and were screaming and shouting to be let in. Lard had the full assistance of the military and the police, and great steel barriers had been set up around the restaurant, patrolled by armed guards. Television crews were filming all the commotion and the crowd became hysterical when a helicopter appeared overhead, hovered above the restaurant, and a rope ladder dropped down. A bald, faceless man in a grey suit, who was the President of France, climbed out of the helicopter, closely followed by a small, withered-looking man, who was the head of the FOOD Corporation.

It was more than Monsieur Lard could ever have dreamed of and he stepped out to meet the crowd, resplendent in his new pink and diamond-spangled suit.

"Ladies and gentlement," he said in a voice like warm margarine. Then he paused to grin at everyone. "It is my immense honor to welcome you tonight to the Grand Re-Opening of the Squealing Pig. So far the world has only had a taste, a first taste of what is, by all accounts, the most delectable, the most delicious, the most extraordinary, the most incredible tasting edible in all the world!"

There were huge cheers and applause.

"Who wants some more?"

There were shouts of "Me! I do! Me! Me!"

Lard raised his hands to silence them. "Well, I've news for you, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight you shall have as much as you can eat!"

And the crowd went wild.

In the kitchens the cooks were rushing about frantically. They had made vast quantities of the recipe and were spooning it at the double on to plates which had been polished up to a sparkle by Y/N. The waiters were waiting anxiously, shouting for the cooks to hurry up.

A fight nearly broke out between one of the waiters and the Head Chef. It was the whippet-thin waiter who also acted as Lard's spy.

"If he shots one more time," whispered the Head Chef, "I'll chuck him in the deep-fat fryer!"

"Don't bother," Y/N whispered back. "Listen, I've got a plan." And she told him about the secret recipe she had prepared and how they were to serve it for the second course.

Next door, Paris's richest and most powerful were banging their cultery on the tables, and when they saw the waiters marching out of the kitchen they began to whoop like monkeys. They pounced on the food, saliva dribbling from their chins, and for a while there was no sound but for the busy scraping of metal on china plates.

Monsieur Lard first knew there was something wrong when he saw that people had stopped eating-not the way they had done when they first tasted the delicacy from Madame Pamplemousse's shop. Then they had stopped eating out of awe and wonder. This time they were frowning.

Lard's beady little eyes darted about the tables and he saw the President of France chewing slowly with a terrible furrowed brow and a man at another table with a napkin over his mouth. A woman was puckering her lips as if she was about to be sick, and then he saw the President stop chewing and suddenly he spit violently on to the table. All at one, everyone was coughing, spitting, spluttering, as if they had been poisoned.

Lard leapt up, waving his arms around. "Wait!" he cried. "Stop! There must be some mistake. Everyone stop spitting this instant!"

And so they did, not because he told them to but because just then the restaurant doors flew open and out came a solemn procession of cooks, all dressed in their aprons and white hats. And at the front there was the Head Chef, bearing in his hand a tiny plate. This he delivered to the President. "Monsieur," he said, "please accept this from the kitchen, with our apologies."

The President grunted and, as the crowd watched, he lifted ip a tiny spoonful of the food to his mouth. Then he ate another spoonful, and then another. The cooks delivered plates to other tables and soon everyone was doing the same, for Y/N's recipe had the most incredible effect. It was so deliciously light, so fresh and zingy that people quite forgot their sickness and were soon calling out for more.

On seeing this extraordinary turn of events, Lard got out from under the tablecloth where he had been hiding and dusted himself down. He had no idea what was going on but assumed the cooks had made a mistake with the first batch of the recipe. He was going to flambé whoever was responsible but, meanwhile, he improvised.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he grinned broadly, "as you have probably guessed, that first course you received was really a test! A test to see whether you are truly the finest gourmets in Paris!"

A small murmur of approval went round the tables. "And you have passed that test! Admirably! You are not only the finest gourmets but also Paris's best and most beautiful people!"

There was an even bigger murmur of approval. But while he was speaking, a black limousine had slid silently up to the pavement in front of the restaurant. A chauffeur got out to open the passenger door and out stepped the black-suited figure of Monsieur Langoustine. All eyes were on him as he walked up to Monsieur Lard.

"Well, well, nice of you to drop by, Monsieur Langoustine," said Lard coolly. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"The pleasure is all mine, Monsieur," said Langoustine. "For tonight I am here to celebrate Paris's new gastronomic star." From out of his long black coat he produced a large bouquet of flowers. "May I present my compliments to the chef?"

"Really, Monsieur Langoustine," said Lard, softening like rancid butter, "you shouldn't have. Though, of course, I accept. For it is an honor and a privilege to be at last recognised as the greatest chef the world has ever-"

Monsieur Langoustine loudly cleared his throat. This was a disturbingly high-pitched, barely human kind of sound, which had the effect of immediately silencing Monsieur Lard. "Perhaps you didn't hear me correctly, Monsieur," said Langoustine icily, "I said I was here to pay my compliments to the chef." He had raised voice so that all might hear it, although this was unnecessary, since everyone was listening intently. And then he pointed his black-gloved hand in Y/N's direction. She had been standing in a huddle with the other chefs but, receiving his summons, she stepped out from among them and Monsieur Langoustine presented her with flowers.

Attatched to them was a note, written in exquisite purple script, which read:

To Y/N, from he friend and colleague, Madame Pamplemousse

Next to her name there was what appeared to be a smudge of ink, but when Y/N looked closer she saw it was the tiny imprint of a paw.

"Congratulations, Mademoiselle," said Langoustine in his soft, piping voice. "People like us should stick together," And then he raised her hand to his thin red lips.

A camera flash went off. A photographer had caught the moment and the next day the picture would appear on the cover of every national newspaper: Y/N in her chef's whites, holding a bunch of brilliantly colored flowers, beside a rather sinister-looking man in dark glasses. Above it the headlines would read:

LANGOUSTINE CONGRATULATES NEW GASTRONOMIC STAR

☛☚

RESTAURANT OWNER STEALS RECIPE FROM HIS OWN NIECE

☛☚

MONSIEUR LARD: THIEF!

And in the later editions:

THE MOST INCREDIBLE EDIBLE EVER

TASTED: WAS IT REALLY ALL

A HOAX?

The photographer had also managed to get Monsieur Lard in the picture, his face bright pink, dripping with sweat. As far as situations in which to be unmasked as a thief go, this was arguably the worst. He had personally seen to it that every exit was either fenced off or patrolled by men with guns. His every facial gesture was being broadcast on national television and he was surrounded by a large angry mob who might easily tear him pieces.

But what they actually did was applaud. No one jeered, no one heckled or booed or hissed. They stood up and clapped as if the whole thing had been a theatrical event, an entrainment and nothing more.

Then someone called out Y/N's name and a small tussle broke out among the press, trying to get the first interview. Paris's top children's clothing designer was there, trying to get her to model a new kind of pink fairy outfit with elasticated wings. But no one could find her.

During all the commotion, while everyone's attention had been diverted by the flashing lights of the cameras, Monsieur Langoustine and Y/N had discreetly made their way through the crowd. And when they reached the limousine, the chauffeur got out to open the door and together they slipped inside. And if anyone had been looking they might have been surprised to see the driver of the car was not even human, but a cat: a long white cat walking on its hind legs and wearing a peaked cap. But no one did notice and before they would have had the chance, the car had already started and was moving silently away.

master masterlist

sincerely, the blue and silver gryffindor

#sincerely the blue and silver gryffindor #draco malfoy x reader #the princess of magic #a princess of magic book

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piperholmes · 6 years

Text

Fitting Together Our Broken Parts

By: piperholmes

Thank you so much for the kind reception for Costumed.

I started a multi-chapter story that can be read on AO3

Or you can read the first part under the cut!

Phillip asks Anne to marry him…a few times. Phillip has to learn it isn’t as easy as he thinks it is and Anne has to be willing to believe that hope can be powerful when built on love. This will be in a few parts.

I wasn’t sure of the timeline but I am going with 1888 since that is the year Zac Efron used in an interview. I have researched marriage laws for New York in 1888 so I am trying to make this as accurate as my amateur research can make it. This isn’t beta’d either so I apologize for any mistakes.

Part 1: The Release

The first time he asked her to marry him it had been a bitterly cold, quiet night.

The snow had fallen heavily on New York, creating a glimmering, soft, silver wonderland that would be a sludge of brown by mid-morning as the busting city came to life. But for now, as the moonlight fought for prominence against the street lamps, there was a stillness and beauty that defied the biting chill.

The circus sat silent for once.

No crowd pushed for entrance, no one willing to ford the flakey powder that buried the city. It was easier to stay at home, warm by the fire, and pretend. Pretend to believe that the ephemeral world around them offered a sense of contentment. No one was fooled by the soft, delicate nature of the icy, deadly blanket they were all settled beneath, however, and so there was no audience to entertain.

It wasn’t often the performers got a night off so many had gathered together in small groups, around fires, playing cards, drinking, singing, laughing, anything to help stay warm.

W.D., however, sat silently, ignoring the glare from Lettie.

“Let it go,” the older woman advised. “There’s nothing that’s going to stop the boy from loving her.”

He scowled, but said nothing.

W.D. had, in the beginning, argued with his sister, warned her against spending more time with the young man. A young man who knew more privilege and freedom than either of the acrobats had ever dreamed of enjoying. He feared for his sister. He feared what such an association might do to her. What the world might do to her. What the dissidence of two different understandings might do to her. But in the end, he gave up. He’d seen the look in her eyes. The same look when she let go of the safety of the bar and flew with courage and skill above the danger below. She was used to life without a net.

None of the other performers spoke about it to him. They left him stewing when his sister would disappear into Carlyle’s office, or when the ringmaster would take her to places that professed to beauty. To W.D. such beauty was counterfeit, hiding the ugliness behind diamonds, because beauty, true beauty should be available to all, not to those of a certain skin color and wealth. Anne would never see such beauty but on the arm of an affluent white man, and W.D. struggled with the happiness he felt for his sister to experience such a world and the heartbreak at knowing the price she paid.

His forced his gaze away from the office above them, finally giving into Lettie’s attempts to engage him in a game of Cinch.

He just hoped his sister knew what she was doing.

Phillip sat at his desk in his office, reviewing accounts, grateful for the fire roaring in his small cast-iron stove, the smoky scent of the burning wood covering the oft pungent aroma of elephants and zebras. He’d wondered at the idea of expanding his space, but knowing how hard it was to fight against the cold had always deterred him. For now, especially as Anne sat so near him, her legs crossed beneath her on the cot he’d set up in his office for those nights when he wouldn’t make it home, he knew he’d never give up this tiny space for anything bigger.

Phillip leaned away from the account logs, tired of adding and subtracting and feeling like it always came up short, and just watched her. Sometimes that was all they could do. The nightly performances were exhausting, and it was enough to just be together, silent. Anne would often fall asleep on his cot as he worked into the wee hours. Her body aching from exertion. He’d eventually slid up alongside her, pulling her tightly against him so he’d have enough room, then fall into a dead sleep. Other nights they would sit and talk, legs pressed against each other, fingers entwined. They listened and shared. Exploring worlds neither could imagine; her wonder and amazement at the places he’d been, the people he’d met, the life he’d lived, his awe and adoration at the cruelty she’d endured, the fights she’d survived, the family she had created.

It seemed impossible, like two stars forever trapped in one orbit, destined never to touch. Yet, somehow, they’d broken free and fallen together.

He watched her now, as she sat with her eye close, her arms moving to music only she could hear, dreaming up some new routine. Her face free of any paint, hair lose about her shoulders, looking younger than either of them felt.

He felt happy, and warm, at home.

Without much thought he simply said, “Marry me.”

His voice sounded rough and gravely from disuse, the deep tones almost difficult to hear but he saw her arms freeze before lowering as her eyes opened to meet his.

She looked at him.

He pushed away from his desk, moving to kneel in front of her, his hand coming to rest against her knee.

“Marry me,” he repeated.

Her brow lowered as her lips pressed together.

“Anne,” he whispered, his eyes unwavering from hers.

They sat like that, wordlessly looking at each other, before she leaned forward, her hand cupping his face, pulling him gently towards her until her lips met his. Again, and again, her lips pressed, welcoming him, deepening the kiss. One hand slip to the back of his neck, her fingers burying themselves into his hair, the other hand fell to his shoulder, then chest, then beneath the brown jacket he’d yet to shed.

She felt the warmth of his body, and delighted in the way his breath hitched against her lips when her fingers pulled his white-button up from the waist of his pants before slipping beneath his undershirt, her chilled fingers connecting with the heat of his skin.

They had kissed like this before, engaging in the prelude of a deeper connection, but Phillip always stopped them before too many clothes had been removed.

“I won’t ruin you,” he’d swore. “You are more to me than one night.”

Her love and fear of him had grown with that promise. She’d loved him for how he loved her, but she knew that there was no true hope in the world allowing them to be together the way Phillip dreamed.

She used her weight to leverage him up, forcing him to fall forward onto her and the cot, her lips never leaving his.

“Anne,” Phillip warned, his hands pressing against the cot, surrounding her, pushing his face away, his breath panting against her face.

“Shh,” she soothed, beginning to pepper his face with small kisses before slowly moving to his jaw, then just below his ear, until she was gently sucking at the skin of his neck.

She felt a low moan begin in his chest, and knew he’d fight harder to pull away.

Her leg came up, wrapping around the back of his thigh, pulling him more fully on top of her.

“Don’t,” she pleaded when she felt him stiffen. “Don’t pull away from me.”

She had whispered the words into his ear, her cheek now pressed tightly against his. She could feel him against her where she cradled him between her legs.

“Make me your wife.”

Phillip’s head snapped back, blue eyes colliding with dark brown, both searching, both pleading, both hopeful.

With a groan, he allowed his weight to settle more fully against her, his lips meeting hers with a fervor neither had been willing to express before this moment.

They had worked to remove clothes, moments of laughter merging with the passion. It was awkward and tender, learning and exploring, embarrassment and pleasure delicately interwoven.

He’d been gentle and careful, and she’d teased him.

Both did a poor job hiding their nervousness, and an even worse job at keeping quiet.

Phillip laughingly shushed her, claiming his fear of W.D., until Anne scolded him for mentioning her brother to her at such a time, then promptly rolled her hips in such a way that Phillip could only swear loudly.

And nothing could be done about the squeaking protest of the bed bearing their weight.

Afterword, after they had shyly helped each other clean up, as they lay tightly wrapped together beneath the old blanket Anne had brought to him long ago, claiming if she was going to fall asleep in the office the least he could do was have a soft blanket, both breathing hard, hearts pounding against each other, finding a perfect rhythm, Phillip kissed her brow.

“You are going to marry me, right?”

She lifted her head, her chin resting against his chest, a small, sad smile on her lips. She leaned up to kiss the corner of his mouth before resting her head back against his heart.

“We already are.”

He wanted more. Wanted her to give him a clear answer, but he knew that was all she would say tonight. He knew because he knew her, body and soul.

Because he loved her.

Yes, they were married, their vow to each other sealed tonight, two becoming one.

But Phillip was determined to tell the world.

He would marry his wife one day.

#the greatest showman #phillip carlyle #anne wheeler #phillip x anne #cartwheeler #fanfic

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myrecordcollections · 6 years

Photo

Gary Numan

Dance

@ 1981 US Pressing

******

Dance is often seen as the point where it all started to go wrong for Gary Numan. It is however, says Ned Raggett, one of the most interesting albums he ever released...

It's happened before, it'll happen again, and it seems most noticeable with guys, the men too often privileged and centered in humanity's roar. Loud guys - not always loud themselves in day to day conversation, but maybe known for big thoughts, sweeping gestures, a 'presence' - have a moment. Something happens that they can't brush off or brings them up short, makes them wonder what to do with themselves, and then they do something a little out of character. Then they seem a little smaller, withdrawn, perhaps humbler, perhaps bitter, maybe both. You've known them, you've seen them, you could be them. Maybe you changed your life, maybe you remember it as something embarrassing you try to forget. Maybe your friends and family see something good in what you did. Maybe they think you're not all that changed, that you had it all planned. Maybe nobody knows exactly what to think, even the person who had that moment happen to them.

Often Dance, his fifth album in five years counting the Tubeway Army releases, makes me think of two later albums, made by musicians who have openly spoken of Numan as an inspiration - Kanye West's 808s And Heartbreak and the Smashing Pumpkins' Adore. Both West and the Pumpkins' Billy Corgan had become massively famous after years of woodshedding and then a series of higher profile breakouts. But then both death - West's mother after complications from surgery, touring Pumpkins member Jonathan Melvoin after an overdose - and drawn out romantic collapses (West's engagement, Corgan's marriage) shadowed their follow-up efforts, albums that seemed to go against all that they'd already achieved. It's an exaggeration to say that but not entirely: West's shift to singing with vocal treatments, a Roland TR-808 and a quieter approach and the Pumpkins' shift to a more audibly spacious and electronic sound with less guitar shredding all around, neither were what had gotten them to where they were at before. That is definitely the story of Dance and Gary Numan.

There's a key difference between those two later albums and artists, of course - whatever initial confusion resulted, 808s still turned into a solid commercial success, with massive hit singles and, over time, an absolutely clear impact on so much music, hip hop and beyond, in its wake, not to mention continuing fame for and high profile work from West, who will now be famous for being famous for decades to come. Adore in contrast was the clear turning point of the Pumpkins' and Corgan's fortunes, never again quite getting as big as they had before; the tours got a little smaller all around, and Corgan began his drift into the cult artist status he's held since - high profile enough in turn, a known figure, a part of popular musical history, but the hits aren't there any more, and new work gets endlessly compared to the past first and foremost. That too is the story of Dance and Gary Numan, in a different time and a different scale.

It's worth remembering the exact context of where Numan was in his life and the role he held when Dance was released. Setting aside the question of personal upheaval for now - thankfully, unlike West and Corgan, no death was involved - Numan had, almost out of nowhere, singlehandedly hotwired a mass audience to consider an approach in pop music that embraced and interpreted 70s science fiction, glam's lingering impact, punk's brawl and, above all else, synths used not as excuses for neoclassical flourishes or for inspired funk workouts but, taking open cues from German pioneers like Kraftwerk, as chilled, blunt elements, simultaneously atmospheric and centrally melodic and, in Numan's hands and combined with his amazing ear for the right rhythms and beats for his songs, totally anthemic and huge in sound and feel. At the start of 1979 he was 20 years old and utterly unknown beyond a small clutch of listeners, mostly in Greater London, thanks to Tubeway Army's debut singles and album. By the release of Dance a little over two and a half years later he was 23, had toured the world, broken America with one big hit, topped the UK chart with two, not to mention having three chart-topping albums as well, and had played what he'd already termed his farewell shows with a three-night stand in London's then-biggest indoor venue, the Wembley Arena. (And a further illustrative note of comparison if you'd like: the Smashing Pumpkins' first album Gish came out when Corgan was 24, Kanye West's first mixtape Get Well Soon… when he was 25.) Numan was fully appreciative of what had brought him that far so fast already, but he openly wanted to try something more.

It's worth remembering that this all happened in a huge rush not merely to a very young man but, as he's freely noted in later years, a very young man who wasn't merely a loner growing up but also had and has Asperger's. With a loving and supportive family all the while he wasn't ever completely at sea but where human interaction exists on a slightly different level beyond the comfortable and familiar, things can be unsettling to say the least, the more so in a time and place when the two major outlets for any public announcements - the tabloids and the music press, especially wherever the one might bleed into the other - required that kind of interaction. Numan, freely and happily able to lose himself in the studio for as long as it took to get to grips with the initial rush of electronic possibilities, found himself less comfortable with the situations like he described later with his then-girlfriend Debbie Doran's friendliness with characters in the London criminal underground. When after their breakup Doran approached the tabloids with her side of the story, it didn't help his mood in the slightest.

Dance grew out of all of that and more - as any number of other musicians and DJs rapidly realised what further pop and dance possibilities Numan's approach had opened the door to, following fall 1980 dates in the US for Telekon he laid low and created what in essence was his first real solo album. Even as past albums had had guests and experiments in arrangement, a core group had followed through in studio and live settings, and still would the following year at the Wembley shows, his only dates all that year. Dance is much more of a fluid affair, with regular standbys like bassist Paul Gardiner and drummers Cedric Sharpley and Jess Lidyard appearing here and there along with others, including, very notably, Queen's Roger Taylor - laying down some of the few big brawling beats on songs like 'Crash' and 'Moral' - and two members of Japan: guitarist Rob Dean on 'Boys Like Me' and, even more crucially, bassist Mick Karn, whose immediately recognizable fretless work appears off and on throughout the album right from the start, as well as his saxophone playing.

Dance isn't a crypto-Japan album by any means, though David Sylvian himself was tentatively approached for the sessions as well, but Numan clearly appreciated how the act had similarly transformed themselves over time and brought even more individual touches to their work together. It was a recognition of others who were generally simpatico with Numan’s musical background as well, in the same way that Ultravox's keyboardist Billy Currie had joined Numan for The Pleasure Principle sessions and tour, and how Numan openly acknowledged John Foxx's impact on him in turn. Ultravox, Japan and Numan weren't the only Bowie-and-Berlin (and Dusseldorf) obsessed acts in the country but they'd put themselves out there and everything was suddenly sparking, everyone levelling up and refocusing. Numan didn't completely mothball an approach, but he fractured his own model dramatically, and did so via numerous changes at once: minimal electronic percussion reminiscent of Cluster and Brian Eno, two of the longest songs he'd ever done, a visual shift from vague futurism to fedoras and suits to go with even more makeup, and a general sense, one or two songs aside, that everything had gotten calmer, quieter, more introspective, but no less electronic or textured. It's not a sound of exhaustion, but one gets the sense that, creatively, Numan wanted to at least take a deep breath and pause.

There were other changes as well. Perhaps aside from Tubeway Army's debut, Numan had managed the pretty sharp trick of concept albums that weren't labelled as such from Replicasthrough Telekon - the storylines could be there more vividly if you cared to focus, most notably on Replicas, but he'd spent even more effort at near-perfect sequencing and larger concepts instead. The albums all had a perfect flow to them, their respective visual designs marked each as different, and even something as simple as The Pleasure Principle's one-word-only songtitle restriction helped to create a sense of self-contained universes. Dance throws that overboard entirely, and the result is weirdly thrilling - it's not simply a random collage, but it's intentionally imbalanced (the two long songs both end up on the first side) and if there's a storyline it's unclear.

But there are stories. (And 'Stories,' per a song title: a near-winsome number about a long-separated mother and song meeting by chance in a restaurant setting with the suggestion of something out of a film, a scenario constantly retold.) To say Numan partially used the album to process his breakup from Doran puts it mildly - indeed, from the perspective of 2018, some sentiment feels especially curdled. 'Slowcar to China,' the opening number and one of the two near-ten minute numbers, is a beautiful and mysterious track musically, a statement of purpose for the album as a whole and utterly unlike anything he'd released up until that point. Though apparently the story of a prostitute, to some degree it feels like a vehicle for his collapsed romance, however unfairly, and lines include 'She'll pay the rent for the use of you tonight' and 'In love with this elegant bitch... and here am I just a shy young fool' are especially vicious. Yet there's also a suddenly affecting line like 'We'll sing without voice, without heart, and leave no address.' If it's indeed a young fool's feelings, they can resonate just as strongly decades down.

Meantime, the barely restrained hints of homoeroticism that had permeated so much of his earlier work take a further turn here as well on any number of the songs - if admittedly a voyeuristic homoeroticism, Numan talking about it later as someone who had observed situations and been approached, and nearly always shot through with an air of seediness as a default. 'Boys Like Me', with a truly slippery and compellingly weird arrangement via Numan and Rob Dean, has pride of place thanks to the title, but 'A Subway Called 'You'', 'You Are, You Are' and 'Night Talk' among others contain further instances, the latter also addressing drug addiction with an air of anger and desperation. An even more striking combined lyric along those lines originally appeared as a guest appearance for a solo single by his regular bassist Gardiner, included here among the extra tracks. 'Stormtrooper In Drag,' released by Gardiner a couple of months before Dance and featuring both Numan and his brother John Webb, is a glistening monster of a song, sounding like something that should be on a playlist with, say, Laura Branigan's version of 'Self Control,' an urban nighttime vibe that's both threatening and compelling. Numan's lyric is a compounding of both sexual suggestiveness - the title alone, but also lines like 'obsessions with boys on the floor,' 'love cries like some boys cry,' 'I could call and make you crawl into bed' - and drug horrors, itself likely pointed at the heroin-using Gardiner, who would die of an overdose three years later, and suggesting further undercurrents. 'It's so disgusting, I'm so tired of the rhythm/And needles in arms/And I don't want your point of view' sings Numan near the centre of the song, and the whole feels like a way for him to communicate what he couldn’t as openly or easily say to Gardiner otherwise - not necessarily love, but a companionship ultimately cut short.

Musically, throughout Numan seems to be not merely subverting expectations but finding ways to recontextualise his immediate musical past and look beyond it - most obviously on the concluding bleak rock crunch of 'Moral,' a murky as hell remake of 'Metal' from The Pleasure Principle that's a sarcastic trashing of the New Romantics in his wake right from the start of the lyric. (An extended version of 'Moral' is the one wholly new track on this reissue - all other bonus cuts and contemporaneous B-sides appeared on the 1999 CD reissue of the album.) Yet it's also heard in the way that the majestic keyboard swoops on 'Are 'Friends' Electric' are echoed in the distant and spectral shades on 'Night Talk,' or how the album's one single, 'She's Got Claws,' is as directly catchy as what had become notable hits before, but with Karn's saxophones, calmer midsong breaks and a more overt suaveness all around - even while Numan's lyric, as the title indicates, is a clearly pointed one aimed at Doran. Perhaps above all else it's heard in the way that Numan's obsessive love of strong rhythms plays out - the soft bursts and beats of electronic pulses, often touched with gentle echo, are nearly always played first and foremost in the mix, and he hangs the song's hooks around them with the same catchiness as he had readily demonstrated over nearly everything he'd already released. It's not art-rock, it's art-pop, but transformed, extended.

Perhaps no song shows this best on Dance than the other lengthy one, 'Cry The Clock Said', capturing deep blue melancholia with precision and skill, a further processing of heartache. With its steady beats almost like a rhythmic patter of raindrops, a guest appearance by Canadian prog figure Nash The Slash on violin adding delicately mournful touches, keyboards softly sparkling then withdrawing, a lead melody played with calm deliberation, Numan's clipped lyric delivered with a wounded yearn, it's easily one of his most affecting numbers then and now. His spoken-word break can barely be heard, a self-rumination, and if the joke is to say that the robot is finally human, a better take is to say that there aren't many songs like it anywhere that capture the shocked emptiness after a decisive break, like the heart steadily beats but there's not much to warm it or comfort it.

When Numan played those Wembley Arena dates a few months before Dance came out, he and his band played 'She's Got Claws,' but there's also a shortened 'Cry The Clock Said' sonically arranged with the same understatement as the studio version, with Nash the Slash performing his violin part. You can hear that on the Living Ornaments '81 album released years later, and quite literally it's like nothing else during the entire show. The otherwise vocally charged up crowd is given to individual cheers here and there - you can definitely hear some 'GARY!' moments - but they're more generally silent, probably somewhat unsure about what was on offer on the one hand, but perhaps just as easily entranced by its unfamiliarity on several levels. A slow, steady clapping along begins about halfway through that lasts for a bit, until a sudden burst of cheers heralds Numan's short vocal turn towards the performance's end. The loud-by-implication guy, the big-sounding band, the huge music, the experience they're singing along with for nearly every other song (even the otherwise more familiar quiet ones - check the full throated roar on 'Please Push No More,' and that was an album cut) has effectively undercut expectations across the board and forced a different kind of response. If this, more than anything else, was the sign made visible that's when things would forever change for Numan, then quite honestly, it couldn't have been more beautifully done.

Ned Raggett

#Gary Numan #Dance #Electronic #Ned Raggett #Pop #Rock #kanye west #Billy Corgan

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feynites · 7 years

Text

Somehow my efforts to do some Ana’druil AU came out as, basically, ‘Vena Goes Shopping’.

...Well at least it’s something?

Tagging @lycheemilkart. And also @scuvgirl and @justanartsysideblog because Adannar and Faunalyn turned up.

Serving Ana’druil is very different from serving Sylaise.

For one thing, Venavismi still does not entirely know what purpose he is meant to have in her service.

It is a strange thing. Ana’druil’s territories are more rural than her sister’s, but after a while, Vena finds himself enjoying certain aspects of that quite a lot. Her gardens may not be so neatly tended and her estates may be smaller and more secluded, but the privacy is peaceful, and the people are friendly and easy-going. His new lady assures him that he is being granted time to ‘settle in’, and Vena accepts her graciousness. He and Tasallir are eventually given more permanent lodgings in their lady’s main palace - not so far from her own, and those of Uthvir, and several other high-ranking followers who have had much more time to earn their places.

Ana’druil’s chief palace is nestled in a verdant basic, not far from where one of the largest rivers in the territories drops off in a massive set of falls. At the edges of the compound, where there are fewer environmental wards to filter it, Vena can hear the sounds of the waters plummeting and crashing into the basin below. It is a pleasant rhythm, he finds. The grounds are very lively, too, especially when the Autumn Festival beings. Vena still has not been afforded any duties by then, but boredom has won out over taking it easy, and so he often volunteers to help with tasks. There does not seem to be much stigma against that sort of thing, here. The gardeners are pleased enough to let him help feed the koi, and carry off barrels of hedge trimmings for disposal, and the cooks let him take a turn carting dishes to and from the dining halls. He practices with the soldiers, and even goes along on some of Uthvir’s hunts.

He does not ask to go along on Ana’druil’s own, though. That seems like the sort of privilege that must be offered, rather than requested.

His only brief hesitation comes with the impending arrival of the Harvest Celebrations, which come only every ten years. Vena has several outfits of varying degrees of finery, afforded to him by the estate manager, by then. But it is customary in Arlathan, and in the service of Sylaise, at least, to commission new outfits for special holidays like this. Tasallir works himself up into a lather over it, and eventually musters the nerve to approach the Lady Ana’druil with the issue, and a request to visit Arlathan so that he might commission something appropriate. Vena does not hear the conversation that they have, but he knows that Tasallir has, in particular, felt strained by the lack of things they were able to bring with them in their transfer.

The Lady Ana’druil does not grant his request.

Instead she takes him, and Vena, and herself, and a small procession all to her city holdings, and declares that they are free to commission themselves anything which they like.

After a brief conference with Uthvir, she then amends the offer to one with a set - but still shockingly high - budget.

Vena’s own budget is the same size as Tasallir’s. He has no idea what to do with that information. Tasallir is, at least, a refined attendant, meant to be adorned in beautiful things. Vena certainly likes beautiful things as well, but he is not an attendant.

...Is he?

Uncertainty hits him, and he approaches Tasallir - who agrees that, if Vena is being given an attendants budget, it is likely that their Lady means to appoint him to that or an equivalent role. Vena has experience with meeting aesthetic guidelines, but never with styling himself so formally as an attendant is expected to. He does not even know where to begin, and when he admits as much, Tasallir is surprisingly understanding.

“It can be overwhelming,” he concedes. “I know some tailors, and stylists. They serve Sylaise but many also accept outside commissions. I will make a list, and I recommend you seek them out sooner rather than later.”

Vena’s worried enough about the situation that he actually does. Ana’druil may be as kind and as beautiful as her sister, but he has no desire to displease her, especially not when she is being so generous. Their first day back in Arlathan, he sets out at daybreak, and feels like a bundle of pure nerves.

But the first Stylist and Aesthetic Coordinator on his list is an elf he knows. Decorum. A tall, graceful elf who had helped Venavismi with his adjustment to having a body a time or two. She greets him with a genuine smile, taking both of his hands in their and squeezing for a moment. Like Tasallir, Decorum is strikingly beautiful. with blue-black hair and skin that shimmers like polished granite.

“My, Venavismi! Your new markings look handsome on you,” she declares. “I trust you are doing credit to us, in your service of Lady Ana’druil.”

“I am trying to,” he says, and some of the tension drops from his shoulders.

Decorum nods.

“I imagine that is why you are here,” she says, and, well, she is not wrong. Not that Vena would not have visited her of his own accord, at some point. But there is a long list of people he should say ‘hello’ to in the city, and Decorum would not even be at the top of it. Tutors, mentors, lifelong friends - Vena gets more excited as he contemplates the potential reunions. Hopefully, they will be glad to see him, and eager to share what has been going on in Sylaise’s territories in his absence.

He has a fair few stories of his own by now.

Decorum has never been one for gossip, though, and for a morning start, that ends up being precisely what Vena needs. She ushers him into her parlour, which is lined with artistic renderings of the latest fashions - not only in Arlathan, but throughout the territories as well.

It is a much nicer parlour than Vena recollects them having, but then, he had not even realized he was going to see Decorum based on the address and directions Tasallir provided him. But then again, when they had met it was because Decorum had fallen out of favour as one of Sylaise’s attendants. She had only just been starting out with her new commissions when Vena had met her, but she had handled her transfer of duties with enough (unsurprising) grace that many people had already begun insisting that she would be wasted in any other field.

Judging by her apparent success, those people were correct.

Decorum bids Vena wait a moment, and returns with a light breakfast of fresh fruits and soft breads, and sweet tea for them to refresh themselves with. They make some polite small talk about a new project in the Crossroads and the latest additions to June’s tower, while Vena reacquaints himself with the concept of a fruit fork.

“Now, what is your budget?” Decorum asks, once the necessary pleasantries have been seen to.

Vena discreetly hands her the slip of paper with said budget on it, but if she is surprised, she does not show it at all. Instead she only nods, and then lifts a hand and gestures towards the styles arrayed decoratively around the room. The spell is simple, but Vena watches with interest as the figures change. Ana’druil’s vallaslin takes prominence among them, though a few with Sylaise and even Mythal’s designs remain. Shimmering faintly, in a large enough selection of outfits that even his ample budget could not commission them all.

But then, that does seem to be part of the general process. Decorum frowns slightly, and makes a shooing gesture at a few of the designs. They vanish, and the order re-shuffles. She gestures at a few other figures and their builds shift to make Venavismi’s own, and a moment later she frowns at some of them, too, and sends them away. Once she is satisfied with the arranged options, she turns towards him.

“Now, of course, there will be limitations depending upon who is available to take commissions,” Decorum explains.

“I have been to a Stylist before, I know how it works,” Vena assures her. The first time, he had been confused. Stylists are often also tailors and make-up artists and hairdressers and even jewellers, but their chief role is consultant and wardrobe planner. Decorum, Vena knows, will give him concepts and styles to bring to other experts, to give them a framework to go off of. With so many commissions to make, a lack of coordination could result in a jumbled and disorganized wardrobe, with pieces that do not match well, or an over-abundance of, say, formal clothes, but not enough casual wear. Or the reverse. Stylists can also attempt to find and fill in the gaps or advise alterations to existing wardrobes, and of course, help coordinate and design outfits for groups and special events. But the clothes in the images are only a template, not actual for-sale stock.

Decorum nods.

“Good,” she says. “As pleasant as it is to have you, I have a late morning appointment that I would not be able to put off. But we should have more than enough time to get things squared away to your satisfaction. Now. I assume this is meant to be a comprehensive wardrobe, for every day use as well as special events?”

“That is the idea,” Vena says. Ana’druil’s exact words had been ‘get whatever you like’, but Tasallir had seemed fairly certain that she meant ‘get clothes that please you, while also serving all practical and required purposes’.

“And what do your new duties entail?” Decorum asks him. “Do you have any particular service clothing requirements? Protective gear, pleasure wear, armaments?”

Vena hesitates. That is the question, isn’t it? Even if he is, as it would seem, an attendant now, there is still a lot of variety within that classification. Is he to be a bodyguard? A bedwarmer? A decoration? A conversationalist?

Well, the latter two do not require special equipment beyond general aesthetic appeal, at least. And the first two are pastimes that, even if they do not end up being actual duties of his, fall within the spectrum of his own recreational interests. He likes to spar, and he is starting to like hunting, too, he thinks, and he certainly likes sex.

“I will need some protective combat gear and light armour,” he decides. “And a set of lingerie.” One to start with, he thinks, and then he will not spend an abundance of his budget on items that his Lady might not intend to make use of.

It is strange to think that he might end up warming her bed, at some point. Part of him suspects that if she meant for him to serve that purpose, she would have already requested it. But he does not really know, does he? Perhaps she is busy occupying herself with Tasallir. Though, so far, Vena has not seen her command that anyone wait in her chambers or retire with her in the evening.

Perhaps her interests are purely aesthetic?

Decorum only nods again, and calls up some of the more current styles of armour. Ceremonial as well as more functional. She also beckons a few very scantily clad projections into the procession, with some very consistent design features.

“Feathers?” Vena asks, raising an eyebrow.

“It is on trend,” Decorum informs him. “But if you would prefer something simpler...”

“I think I could make feathers work,” Vena assures her, easily enough. A few of those, though, are definitely veering a little too ‘awkward chicken’ for his tastes. He likes the playfulness in some of the others. But most of them look like they would tickle.

“Alright, now, let’s knock off the ones you absolutely have no interest in, and go from there,” Decorum suggests.

Vena nods in agreement, and immediately gets rid of the chicken lingerie, and most of the more ceremonial-looking armour.

The process actually ends up being quite a lot of fun. Decorum points out some possible needs he had not considered, and convinces him to get one set of ceremonial armour, in case he is called upon to escort Ana’druil to a council meeting or some other function which could require it. They select a few good designs for him to use as references, along with several more practical - but still very lovely - sets for common use. The pleasure wear they narrow down to a few possible styles also, and then they move onto the larger categories of casual wear, nightclothes, and formal celebration attire. Decorum informs him of what styles are considered acceptable to Arlathan’s standards, while still being preferred in Ana’druil’s territories. Lots of floral, fish, and bird patterns and airy robes and elegant accessory pieces paired with simpler main designs. Oranges and blues are popular, too, but only in splashes of colour against more neutral tones.

When they are finished making their general selections, and Decorum has worked out how many of each sort of piece he should try and get, she puts all the information into a portfolio booklet for him, and hands it to him.

“The information is spelled in there, so, the booklet will not last more than a few days,” she reminds him. “If you would like, I can make a more permanent copy here when I return this evening, but you should be able to get everything sorted in that amount of time. This is Arlathan, after all.”

It suddenly strikes Vena, then, that he has a wealth of money, and several days in which to shop and indulge and spend.

This is going to be quite a lot of fun.

“I shall endeavour to get it all squared away,” he assures Decorum.

“Go to your jewellers first,” the Stylist recommends, as they see him to the door. “Their materials are typically the most limited, and if any of them have an abundance of certain stones or metals, you can have the tailors accommodate the shift in colours more easily than the reverse. The merchants brought in the new shipment of pigments and dyes for the crafters just two weeks ago, so cloth should be coming in all the colours of the rainbow. If anyone attempts to tell you there is a shortage, decline to commission them and give me their name. If needed I will find you a replacement crafter, but if Tasallir has made your recommendations, that should not be a problem.”

“Thank you,” Vena replies, feeling much lighter and easier and like he has a far better idea of what he is doing.

Decorum pats his cheek, fondly, and then finally shoos him from her parlour, so she can go and dress for her late morning meeting.

Her advice is good, but Vena does not end up going to the jeweller that Tasallir had recommended first. Stone availability might be more fickle than clothing dyes, but pre-made items are more constrained twice over, and Vena likes shopping through those. He likes making commissions too, of course, but there is something just genuinely appealing about browsing through shelves of ready-made goods and finding something that suits.

So, he makes his way to some of the shops near to the lower districts, at first. The market might also be a good place to look, but typically that is better for materials than pre-made clothing or accessories. Owning a market stall usually requires a level of success that would preclude a lot of cancelled commissions or returned goods. Those kinds of things often end up in the front windows of lower-end crafters, trying to make back some of their losses.

It does not end up being a lucky day for such shopping. Vena finds a nice belt sash, but not much else. He enjoys walking through Arlathan’s streets again, though, listening to the sounds of the city, and weaving between wandering spirits and fellow pedestrians, and the new, shimmering rainbow lights that have been erected along some of the paths. One of the shops near to the Pleasure District is offering skin-tinting services, and recollecting how fashionable Decorum had looked, Vena goes and gets a soft layering of pale blue sparkles applied to his skin, and some streaks of dark blue threaded into his hair.

He makes his way back up to the main crafter and artisan districts, then, and follows Tasallir’s directions to his jeweller. There are actually a few listed, but Vena decides he will simply approach them in order. The first shop is more modest than he would have expected from someone of Tasallir’s station and tastes. It appears to belong to a single crafter, rather than a collective, but the items in the displays look very beautiful. When he makes his way inside, the shop is clean and airy, and a cordial spirit he cannot quite identify calls a greeting and then zips off towards the back rooms.

“Just one moment!” a friendly voice calls out. Vena can hear something whirring, faintly, like machinery at work.

He browses a little, examining the sample pieces until it stops, and an elf with a broad smile and a gold-flecked work apron emerges from the back room.

“Welcome!” he says. “Are you Arthanallir?”

Vena blinks.

“Oh, no,” he says. “I suppose I am a walk-in. My name is Venavismi. Tasallir recommended your services to me.”

The man offers him a ready smile.

“Tasallir did? That was good of him,” he says. “That tiara I made him was a very fine piece, though, even if I do say so myself. My name is Adannar, and I would be pleased to serve you. But, ah... I should probably disclaim, I fear I have no talent for the new trend of Live Jewellery.” The man shifts from one foot to another, and Vena gets the impression that he has had to mention this quite a few times of late.

“Living jewellery?” he asks.

“Ah, yes,” Adannar replies. “It is the latest fashion to overtake the city, and most of Lady Sylaise’s territories. Metal, stone, and wood are out, and enchanted insects, reptiles, and even some birds are in. The method of creation is a secret of Lady Ghilan’nain’s crafters at the moment, however. And probably not something I would ever have much skill in, truth be told - it is not kind to the creatures, even if it does not technically kill them.”

The man manages to radiate disapproval without actually expressing it. Vena waves off his concern, though.

“Decorum did not even mention it during our consultation, and most of what I need has to follow the trends of Ana’druil’s territories, rather than Arlathan,” he explains.

Immediately, Adannar’s countenance brightens again.

“Oh, well, That is alright then. Decorum? She has excellent tastes. Did she give you a recommendation?”

“A portfolio, actually,” Vena explains, and produces the little booklet. He flips it to the jewellery section and hands it to Adannar, whose eyebrows go up.

“This is a full wardrobe commission,” he notes.

“Is it too large?” Vena wonders.

The jeweller considers it for a moment.

“It would depend on how quickly you wanted the pieces,” he decides. “And what materials you wished to use, and how much fidelity you want your end products to have to Decorum’s designs. I generally work more off of inspiration than exact templates.”

“Oh, I like inspiration, too,” Vena says. Uniformity was expected among Sylaise’s followers, but Ana’druil’s seem to have more leeway for individual expression rather than cohesion, and he finds he likes that a lot of the time. “It would not have to be exact. For starters I would need some every day pieces, and something to wear to the Harvest Celebration. I am flexible on stones and metals, though, Decorum recommended I get my jewellery commissions seen to before I consulted with the tailors.”

“Good advice,” Adannar agrees, with a smile. “Well, then, let me just get my samples, so you can see what I have readily available. I suspect getting your festival pieces done in time for the celebration would take up my available duty hours, so you will likely have to find someone else for your every day sets. Or someone else for the festival jewellery and task me with the simpler pieces, but, apart from that, nothing in your portfolio would be beyond my skills.”

He looks up at Vena, and then adds:

"It would just be a question of time. In this, the latest trend is working in your favour - my schedule is a lot more clear than usual.”

Vena grins. Good luck indeed. Adannar’s work seems exemplary, and if he can handle most of the order, then that means he won’t have to go running around the whole district to find eighteen different jewellers or so. When Adannar leaves him with a ‘just one moment’ and comes back with his samples, Vena finds he likes the available choices quite a lot, too.

They discuss the particulars, then, of material cost and availability, and what sets would suit, and which designs. Adannar makes note of one of the ‘casual’ sets which Decorum and Vena had chosen for reference, and says he thinks one of the market stalls has a very similar set in peridot up for sale. He gives Vena directions to it, and accepts his commission for his festival jewellery, as well as all the other ‘finery’ pieces.

“If I may ask,” he says, once they are done. “A full wardrobe commission is not terribly common. Were you recently promoted? Are congratulations in order?”

“In a sense,” Vena ventures. “I was traded to Ana’druil, along with Tasallir, not long ago.”

Realization lights in Adannar’s. eyes.

“I should have guessed!” he exclaims. “That certainly explains it. I hope you and Tasallir are adjusting well? I can hardly imagine what a shift it must have been. My wife, my Serahlin, she used to work with Tasallir, she was one of his attendants. She works with Splendour, now. Just between you and I, I think she preferred Tasallir, a little. He was less... dramatic.”

Vena grins.

“More orderly?” he suggests.

“Absolutely,” Adannar agrees. “Which is to be expected. If you see him, please give him our regards. And my thanks for the recommendation. And tell him he is welcome to stop by for a visit, any time he wants to chat.”

“I will.”

Vena leaves the little jeweller’s shop with an increasing spring in his step. By the time he makes it through the second jeweller on his list - a charming elf who gushes over his hair and skin and build, until even Vena’s flirtatious nature is feeling a bit bowled over - it is nearing lunch time. So he makes for the market square, and tracks down the stall that Adannar had mentioned. The peridot set is indeed up for sale there, and with some haggling he comes away with it at a good price. A full bracelet, necklace, and earring combination, in autumnal bronze settings that have solid enchantments against wear, chipping, or weathering. They clash with his current blue tones, though, and on a whim, he buys a lapis pendant that is also for sale. Simple but pretty. He opts to wear it, and carries the peridot in a parcel with his new sash, and decides to have lunch in the market dining hall.

After lunch, Vena goes off and finds the first tailor on his list.

The afternoon flies by in a flurry of fabric samples and measurements and referrals, as the tailor which Tasallir had recommended to him ends up being a tailor’s collective, with two masters and three apprentices and one affiliate who technically owns a workshop further down the street, but assists with most of the group’s commissions as well.

Vena provides them with the commission information on his jewellery sets, as well as Decorum’s portfolios, and the group seems very pleased to take on the workload. They are affable, easy-going types, too, and Vena finds himself wondering at it. Is Tasallir secretly less uptight than he seems?

Or... no, Vena realizes. Tasallir is also in the city today, visiting with tailors and jewellers and stylists. He could hardly have recommended Vena to the same ones he meant to go to, or else they would likely have cross paths by now. A quick question to the tailors reveals that, no, they have not seen Tasallir, though they did work with him in the past, and are pleased to have his recommendation.

Ah, Vena thinks. He kept the snobby ones for himself, and sent me to his friendly second-stringers.

...Which is actually perfect, so, he can hardly complain. Especially given that everyone so far has seemed very good at their jobs, even if they are more hands-y and relaxed and ‘creative’ than Vena would expect from Tasallir’s tastes.

The tailors keep him busy through dinner, and so Vena ends up taking that meal with them. Plates spread out alongside templates and fabric swatches and projections of Vena’s jewellery sets. It is a lively atmosphere, but, the city is dark by the time Vena leaves, and his excitement has given way to tiredness.

Tiredness deep enough that he has to stop himself from heading to Sylaise’s housing district, and instead correct his course to Ana’druil’s estate. While is technically outside the city. It is a long walk, and Vena pauses as he realizes there is a figure standing by the road to the grounds.

He gets pretty close before he realizes the figure is Ana’druil herself. And then he nearly drops the parcel he is carrying.

“My Lady,” he says, and turns the fumble into a bow instead.

“Oh, good,” Ana’druil sighs. “I was starting to worry.”

Vena blinks.

Ana’druil blinks, too, and then sighs again.

There is something... something about her eyes, he thinks. She always looks at him so softly.

“I am sorry,” he offers. “If I have neglected a duty or was meant to be back sooner, I did not realize it. I was caught up in commissioning my new wardrobe.” Vena glances down at the parcel of peridot jewellery. “And shopping,” he adds.

“That’s fine,” his Lady assures him, waving a hand. “I hoped you would have fun. It was only that Tasallir got back hours ago, and I was worried that something might have happened to you.”

Vena swallows, and drops into another bow. Still not wholly certain if he has avoided trouble.

“I apologize for causing my Lady to worry,” he ventures.

“Nothing to apologize for,” Ana’druil murmurs.

The two of them stand in awkward silence for a moment more, before she finally turns away, and then gestures down to the road.

“We should get back,” she decides.

“Of course,” Vena agrees, and remembering his recent conclusions, falls into the attendant’s position beside her. Nearby enough to speak, but not quite keeping even pace, out of deference of her position. After a few minutes Ana’druil slows her steps a little, though, and Vena finds them both drawing even. And when he attempts to correct it, she does it again; so he concludes that she must want him to walk beside her.

Well.

It is darker on the road to the holdings than it is in the city. Perhaps that has something to do with it.

“You changed your hair,” Ana’druil notes, after a while.

“Yes. Does it displease you?” Vena wonders.

She shakes her head, but though they are walking side-by-side, and she is commenting on his appearance, she does not quite look at him.

“No, you look very beautiful,” she tells him. And then she raises a hand to her mouth, and stares straight at the road.

Vena’s not sure what to make of it. But, that was a positive response, right?

“I am gratified you think so,” he replies.

They make their way back in silence, mostly, after that. But it is not as uncomfortable as it might be. Ana’druil walks beside him, and Vena finds himself noticing things about her. She is much shorter than he is, for one. Not towering like Falon’Din or tall like Dirthamen, or even of average height, like her parents and younger sister. But her slight frame is well-built, and the colour of her hair keeps catching his eye.

He wonders if he should have put red in his own hair, rather than blue.

Uthvir wears red very often. Perhaps that is the expected thing.

Ana’druil does not even delicately correct his impulse, though. And Vena cannot see all of it, but he thinks the moonlight looks pretty in his own hair, too. By the time they reach the estate, nothing further has happened, and he feels more certain of himself. Faunalyn, one of Ana’druil’s high-ranking hunters, is waiting for them by the gate. She has her husband with her. A beautiful, willowy man whom Vena has not seen much of - he thinks Faunalyn will stay in Arlathan when they leave, though. The pair have a son that they share with the infamous and beautiful Melarue, who lives in the city.

“My lady. Venavismi,” Faunalyn greets, and folds her arms as she looks at him. “You skipped out on practice this morning.”

Vena had not realized he was now expected to attend that, and not simply go for a lack of something better to do with his morning.

“I had an appointment with a Stylist,” he offers, lying on a little. Technically that had been a walk-in, but it had still happened, and if he had gone any later then Decorum would not have been able to see him.

Apparently, it passes muster, because Faunalyn only shakes her head.

“Do not miss it tomorrow,” she says.

“I hope you got nice things,” her husband offers, much more brightly. Vena meets his smile.

“I did,” he confirms. “Though I suppose most of it technically remains to be seen.”

“If there are any problems, we will see to them,” Ana’druil declares. Which, he thinks, might sound ominous coming from most evanuris. But for some reason, she just seems... reassuring.

Vena ducks his head in thanks.

“My Lady showers me in kindness,” he asserts.

Faunalyn snorts.

He has no idea why, actually, that’s a standard response. But when he looks up, she seems amused, and Ana’druil’s expression is somewhat awkward again. Vena wonders if he has misread the situation. Before he can get far along that train of thought, though, Faunalyn turns and beckons her husband back inside with her. And then Ana’druil bids him a strangely hasty ‘goodnight’, before leaving him to stand in the front courtyard, and make his own way back to his chambers.

#ana'druil au #banana

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