#ms wimple

[seeksstaronmewni]

Which Cartoon Network teacher is your A+? 💘🍎✏

Tweet version here.

[thesimline]

1500s WOMEN - LOOKBOOK

While I absolutely adore all historical costume, the Tudor era has to be one of my all time favourites. The luxurious textiles, the rich colours, the opulent details - it's truly heaven for a costume nerd like myself. Tudor fashion was heavily influenced by key figures in the royal court such as Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. Wealthier aristocratic women would demonstrate their status through their striking silhouettes, highly-embellished outer layers and ostentatious headdresses. While the clothing of lower classes remained much more simple than the upper class, the newly fashionable silhouette still trickled down through social strata.

You can find more of my historical content here:

1300s ��� 1400s ✺ 1500s ✺ 1600s ✺ 1700s

OUTFIT RESOURCES

Queen: Hair | Crown | Circlet | Earrings (TSR) | Ruff | Dress | Cloak

Princess: Hair | French Hood | Earrings (TSR) | Necklace | Dress | Undershirt | Ring (TSR)

Noblewoman One: Hair | Earrings | Ruff | Dress | Necklace | Undershirt | Fan

Noblewoman Two: Hair | Earrings (TSR) | Dress | Undershirt | Necklace | Ring

Lady One: Gable Hood | Necklace | Dress | Undershirt | Right Ring (TSR) | Left Ring (TSR)

Lady Two: Headpiece | Hair (TSR) | Earrings | Ruff | Necklace | Dress | Ring (TSR)

Patrician: Hat (TSR) | Hair (TSR) | Earrings | Ruff | Necklace | Dress | Gloves

Merchant's Wife: Hat | Hair | Earrings (TSR) | Dress | Cuffs | Ring One (TSR) | Ring Two

Citizen: Hat | Hair | Earrings (TSR) | Dress

Trademan's Wife: Hair | Dress | Belt (TSR)

Housekeeper: Head Covering | Outfit

Farmworker: Hat | Wimple | Outfit | Basket | Shoes (TSR)

With thanks to some amazing creators: @leeleesims1 @thesimpireblr @the-melancholy-maiden @strangestorytellersims @elfdor @glitterberrysims @plazasims @natalia-auditore @miikocc @teanmoon @simsregalia @waxesnostalgic @simverses @ms-marysims @simulatedstyles @batsfromwesteros @shoelala-sims @tzuhu @zx-ta @lady-moriel @dancemachinetrait @historicalsimslife @pralinesims @rustys-cc @simstomaggie @sims4nexus @zurkdesign @pea-milk @plumbobteasociety

[inkypearlz]

Gifting A Brooch

I removed my hat, the vintage grey one with that lovely black feather, where I took inspiration from a certain Ms. Rosier, and knocked on The Queen’s door. I am no expert in wood types, but this ebony door is certainly beautiful. Princess Snow White wrote to me, as I am her stepmother’s jewelry designer, and I am related to Dulce, her newest mirror maker, who had been nothing but a charismatic dear to her over the past few days.  

“Enter.” I heard her voice, regal, calm and collected, with a hint of vulnerability. Something I know all too well. I carefully opened the door and closed it behind me while placing a hand on the door knob so it will not slam. I have absolutely no intention of ruining this calm atmosphere. Then, I turn and face The Queen. 

She seemed to be in her usual attire, her violet gown, ruby pendant, black cape, fillet and wimple and crown, all in place. I recently did some simple research on her headdress, learnt that it is actually a two-piece. Her emerald eyes pierced through my onyx ones. “If I may ask, how are you faring, your majesty?” My lips parted to speak. 

“How am I faring?” She echoed. She did not respond for a while, but I can see her emerald pupils dilate, then back again. I know it’s a rather surprising question for her. “If you must know…Currently, I am not at my best.” Those words rolled off her tongue much easier than she would admit. I reached out to hold her hand, but only managed to brush over a perfectly manicured, apple-red nail. Queen Grimhilde’s stance seemed to be different, and it is not just because she sat on an armchair. Yes, she was still the poised, regal monarch, yet the way she stood also allowed me to detect a hint of vulnerability.  She’s been hurt by many things. I’ve sensed those before, yet she seemed to have become more fragile after the tumble off that cliff. 

I pulled out a small intricate box with my emblem. “I would like to present this gift, your majesty. It is my own design, and I sincerely hope it is to your liking.”

I presented the box to her with both hands, and tensed up for a second when I feel her slender fingers brush over mine. She held onto the box, her slender fingers absentmindedly tracing over its velvet texture. The Queen has quite an affinity towards beauty, and now I can only hope that the intricacy of my design does not disappoint. 

Queen Grimhilde lifted open the lid, her eyes glimmered with subtle curiosity, and no, she did not gasp. Instead, she took the brooch out and examined it, the spinel surface of it glistening under the afternoon sunlight. “Very well, I shall accept it,” she finally replies, “But do explain, why does the design take the shape of an apple?” She arched a perfect eyebrow in slight confusion. 

I fully expected her to ask this question. “Your majesty,  I do know of that unfortunate encounter with the dwarves. But also, I imagine apples to be a most flawless fruit, much like yourself. It deserves to be refined.” Yes, it was inspired by that poisoned apple, but I wanted to bring a refined touch to it, so that it is custom made and befitting of royalty. Instead of the acidic green poison, I opted for gold, soft enough to form intricate flamelike swirls like the steam rising from a cauldron.

The Queen listened with interest. “You seem to always be drawn to the…elements around you, yet you twist them into your own aesthetic.” She mused, locking her gaze into mine once more. “I have not expected you to visit me.”

She carefully placed the brooch back into the box, and rose from her seat, “A creative design I do approve of.” I stood up too, and followed her to her vanity, where she opened a drawer, and I was greeted with a masquerade of intricate brooches dancing before me, as I see a hint of her rare smile. 

Call me Aurelia, if you want to. It means “Golden One”, and I have always strived to live up to this name. It’s my destiny, you see, the one I willingly chose. I am known for my passionate jewelry designs and my empathetic nature, as I dramatically consider myself as that sprinkle of starlight that is visible every night. In simpler words, I offer compassion and design jewelry for those I value. A rather odd combination, but befitting of me. Yes, I travel, but through dimensions and realms to find possible clients. Among all my clients, Queen Grimhilde is one of my favourites. 

[the-mediaeval-monk]

Our bell ringer seems very serious. I wonder what she’s ringing the bells for. Any guesses? A hybrid creature with a wimple and bells

Add MS 42130 f.43r

Source: The British Library.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 12

Read on AO3. Part 11 here. Part 13 here. Summary: Who knew that Commander Ren had pretty handwriting? Well, *I* sure didn't!

Words: 2800

Warnings: Handmaid’s Tale AU

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: HI! Surprising you again with another chapter! I really enjoyed this one--it's a bit more ruminate-y than most, but I just really needed for all of this development to happen, so I'm sorrynotsorry. I'm proud of Reader for building a backbone in a horribly oppressive society. I hope you are too.

Thanks again for everyone who is still sticking around for these updates! I love you so much now and forever!

When the door closed behind your Commander, breath leaked from your lungs in a long, satisfied sigh. Your cunt still tingled from the stretch of his cock, your pulse like a drum that beat from your core to your throat. A slow smile spread across your face, your eyes lulled shut. It wasn’t about the Ceremony--which had been as typical as one could expect--but the physical longing that pulled him toward you, the gentle, appearing-accidental brush of his thumb across your clit, the meeting of Ren’s stare before he left the room, a smirk on his face that you swore was meant only for you.

It was about hope. It was about promise. Or whatever combination of those two things you could pretend to enjoy.

Johana shifted underneath you, jolting the tranquility from your chest. She hadn’t yet let you go.

“Ms. Johana,” you said, “if you need me to go…”

“No, no,” she said, squeezing your hands. “Of course not. We should go through this together, right?”

“Uh, of course.”

She reached behind her and nudged you to ease up your hips. You did, and she stuffed a pillow under your backside. “There you go.”

Her kindness had been a source of nausea for you since you’d noticed it, but in this setting, it was even more bile-inspiring. Whatever she was high on, you hadn’t had any part of it. Really, what you wanted was to sprawl on the bed for the next several minutes and review another replay of your mid-morning rendezvous with the Commander--after all, this was the only current source of joy in your life. This was something made much more difficult when his Wife was busy preening in the aftermath of seeing him trying to impregnate you.

How had this become your life, again? Ah, right--a fascist insurrection that had uprooted any buds of life you’d dared to have and replaced them with rotten fungus. And here Johana was, frolicking in the fungus like a meadow.

“Ms. Johana,” you said, “I really appreciate your, um, kindness, but…”

“But what?”

You sighed. “Did you ever want something different?” You paused, but she was silent. “Out of life, I mean.”

Johana snorted. “Something different out of life?” She shifted again, staring into the ceiling. “What more is there to want? 

You had a difficult time believing that watching her husband fuck another woman in her lap was part of her childhood dream. “I guess I’m not sure.”

“God has gifted me with a beautiful house,” she said, “and the dedication of the Marthas. Financial abundance. A husband who loves me.” Her voice was dry, empty. “I couldn’t have prayed for more.”

“That makes sense.” A torrent of pity washed over you. You might have felt guilt, if your sanity hadn’t been dependent on your duplicity.

Johana looked at you. “You wanted something different?” Her question didn’t seem accusatory--it was almost in admiration of your audacity.

You met her eyes. It was the most human she had seemed since you’d become Ofkylo. “I don’t know,” you replied. Talking about this with a Wife was only slightly more deadly than treading through a field of landmines. “I guess I always imagined myself with someone who loved me, too.”

“Oh.” Johana’s fingers wove through yours. “You don’t feel loved in this home?”

Laughter rumbled under your skin, daring to rupture to the surface--but your face remained still. You’d seen a surprising amount of vulnerability from Johana. “Well, Ms. Johana…” The end of the sentence hung on your tongue, and you spat it out. “Do you?”

“Of course I do,” she replied quickly. She squeezed your hands. “Of course I do. I’m…” Her gaze wandered. “The Commander…”

A lump formed in your throat. You swallowed. “Has he ever told you that he loves you?”

Johana’s stare searched the room in silence. The skin of your clasped hands slickened, and she cleared her throat, sniffling. Her cheek glistened. “Are you done, now?”

She threw her hands away from yours, rolling out from under you. You plopped on the bed and watched as she stood, wiping her hands on her dress in disgust. Sighing, you yanked the pillow from under your hips and tossed it to the head of the frame. Johana had moved to the mirror next to her wardrobe, smoothing out fabric on her skirt and tucking away errant wisps of hair. A piece of your heart twinged. There was a distant portion of you that didn’t just pity her, but wanted to help her. To watch her recede into the drowning of her own loneliness was almost too much to bear--particularly because you knew exactly how it felt. The both of you empty, stranded, together.

Gathering yourself, you stood. “Johana, I’m sorry--”

“Go.” She paused, the tension in her shoulders softened. “Please.”

You nodded, and took off toward your room.

Back in the closet-turned-living-quarters, you shut the door behind you, the breath you’d apparently been holding rushing from your lungs. This day had been too much. The vision of Johana’s glistening eyes was emblazoned in your memory.

You wanted to rip off your wimple and collapse onto the bed--but before you did, saw a folded piece of paper waiting on your sheets. Dread and excitement flashed through you. There was only one person you suspected of leaving it. Swallowing for what was probably the 50th time today (though previous instances more pleasant than this one), you snatched the paper from your bed--it was blank, no name written on it--but as you unfolded it, there was no mistaking it was meant for you. Written in swift, pretty cursive were the words Tonight at the garden.

Your heart dropped. Of course, you’d be going.

“Tonight” indicated affer curfew--the few hours between then and the Ceremony dragged like feet through glass. During the time between, you admired the Commander’s handwriting; the cold rigidity of his exterior seemed at odds with the brief but beautiful words on the paper. The top of the “t” curled back onto itself, the letters thickening where the pen swiped and turned. There was an artistry to it, something learned or inherent. The thought of the Commander studying calligraphy, especially before Gilead, seemed almost comical. But the reality of this note betrayed something about him you’d never considered. You tucked the note into your dress.

The cotton air of summer hadn’t cooled by the time you snuck into the garden. A film of sweat inspired the baby hair at the nape of your neck to frizz and loop in the heat, and you smoothed it with your palm. You weren’t sure where he might have wanted to meet, so you sunk onto a bench, thinking of note you’d hidden. You imagined his large, strong hands, how they’d dwarf the ink pen, the calm focus of his face as he inscribed--maybe a lock of hair had come loose, dangled over his forehead.

Footsteps broke you from your thoughts, and you spotted him crossing the stone path to your bench, dressed in slacks and a suit jacket, the top buttons open on his crisp, white shirt. His was sight already fixated on you. Between him and the temperature, you were concerned about the capability of your body to remain in a solid state. What was the melting point for human flesh?

As Ren approached you, his face remained stoic--you wondered what went on his head, what he’d been thinking while he penned the note, what thoughts had skipped through his brain that made him pull the paper in the first place. He stopped, considering you on the bench, and then sat next to you, closer than you anticipated. You could have moved your arm and brushed against him, inched over and pressed your hips to his. He leaned forward, his eyes trailing from your feet, up your legs, as if he was peering through the layers of your oppression, remembering the smoothness of your skin in the water. His silence next was almost as unbearable as his nearness.

You cleared your throat, thighs squeezing together. “You seem to be seeing me a lot.”

He said nothing, words darting inside of his head that he declined to speak. His reticence reminded you of Johana, earlier--the things she’d wanted to say, wanted to think, but denied herself the ability. In that way, at least, they were similar, but you realized that you could count yourself in that group, too. There were hundreds of thousands of self-censored thoughts that had passed through your brain since the coup--a number that grew exponentially larger with each day. Perhaps Ren, too, had the same burgeoning issue. Perhaps, despite being your Commander, he suffered in ways you couldn’t know. You wondered what his life had been like before Gilead, too. You wondered if he had loved Johana--as she so desperately seemed to need.

“How did you end up married to Johana?” you asked, searching for his eyes.

Ren blinked. “Why?”

A question for a question. “Was your marriage always like this?”

He met your gaze and glanced away again, now focused on the garden. The racing of his mind seemed to slow. “Her husband, a Commander himself, died,” he said. “In the revolution. Our lead Commander was… concerned. About my lack of attachment. So we wed.”

“Concerned?” You were emboldened by his unexpected honesty--and hungry for more.

A tiny smirk crossed Ren’s lips. “Concerned. “ He seemed as if he had finished, for a moment, and then continued. “The Commanders cannot be childless.”

“Oh.” 

The marriage had been to produce children, and like so many other Wives, Johana hadn’t been capable. The memories of her hands winding around yours, her hardened, stoic eyes, the hidden desperation in her voice--they flashed through your body like a strange heat, left a hole in your stomach. You imagined her in her room, now, asleep. Alone.

“Did you ever want to marry her?”

“No.”

You frowned. Perhaps you’d assumed a Commander would be more than eager to take up a Wife to fulfill his duty--especially one as pretty as Johana. When she wasn’t scowling, anyway. Maybe it was the thought of marrying someone’s widow. Maybe the other Commander was someone Ren knew. Maybe the high ranks of Gilead were just as miserable for different reasons.

“Why?” you asked.

Ren’s brow twitched. “Why?”

“Why didn’t you want to marry her?”

He turned away, staring out across the acreage of his yard. His breath was slow, controlled; his hands were gripping each other pale.

You shifted in your seat. “Did you ever want to marry anyone?”

“Enough.”

Perhaps that had been too personal. You sat back, a hard corner of the note in your dress scraping against you in reminder. Clearing your throat, you pulled it out, unfolding it for him in your palm.

“This is your handwriting?”

He glanced between you and the paper, the tension in his back softening. “It is.”

“It’s beautiful.” The words brought a glow to your face--complimenting him seemed so intimate.

“I practiced calligraphy,” he murmured, fighting a smirk. “As a child.”

“Really?” you said. “I’d love to see more of it.”

There was a pause. Ren was considering you, considering the paper. Frowning, he plucked it from your grasp and folded it in his jacket pocket. “You shouldn’t have this.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t wrong. You crumpled, and your head tilted toward the sky.

It had been awhile since you’d gazed at the stars, truly gazed at them, and the existential glory of it rushed back to you with warm familiarity. There was something about locking eyes with the sky and understanding your finiteness in such liberating terms. It was not like a depressing nihilism--nothing matters, why bother--but far more humbling. In comparison to the vastness of the universe, the billions of stars, the trillions of possibilities contained within the endless expansion of everything and nothing, Gilead’s shield of religion was farcical. There was no God that would demand women be confined to reproductive slavery, not when there was so, so much more to existence than the color of your dress.

Johana’s question--You wanted something different?--floated through your mind. 

“Do you ever wonder what’s up there?” you asked. “I used to wonder all the time. When I was little.”

Ren turned, scrutinizing you, gaze busy with some emotion too cloudy to discern. You watched him, breath short, the weight of him pressing the air from you.

“I did,” he said. “I do.”

You found yourself wanting to say more--I had dreams before this, I had plans, I had a life, I was alive--and, staring into his eyes, saw yourself there, in all of the loneliness and regret and confusion and fury. The both of you empty, stranded, together.

In a gasp of air your mouths were connected, one of his hands gripping the small of your back, the other cupping your cheek, every bit of him large and firm. Your lids fluttered in bliss, and you pulled yourself to his body, enveloping yourself in his frame, disappearing under his touch. Ren groaned, his hand sneaking from your back to slide up your side--first a thumb, and then his palm, squeezing and caressing your breast. In a whimper, your head craned back, and his lips travelled your neck, and then returned, his other hand guiding you to his mouth. Your cunt screamed for him, from him, the scream growing louder when both his hands kneaded your breasts--you were certain he was reliving the memory of your nude body in the tub, hoping to pull your flesh into the present.

You imagined throwing your leg over his hips, hiking up your dress, somehow pulling aside your underwear--how would you do that? As a matter of fact, why were you kissing in the garden, now? What if Johana saw? Johana, who had lost her husband; Johana, without love, Johana, holding your hands and hiding tears. She married him and he didn’t want to marry her, and here he was, groping your body, straining like everyone against the shackles he’d put on himself. All for Gilead, every bit of it for a system that served no one.

You pushed your hands into his shoulders, prying him from you, dizzy from your heaving lungs. Mind spinning, you examined him, examined the dark ache in his eyes--and felt a rising knot of fury. Ren had power. You didn’t.

“Do you even believe in Gilead?” Your words were becoming more dangerous by the day--but now, he didn’t seem fazed.

“Of course.”

“Then why are you out here with me?”

Ren’s brow drew back, his head tilting. He couldn’t meet your gaze. “I don’t know.”

Lips pursing, you leaned back, and caught a glimpse of the sky again, the moon hiding in the thick, cream-colored belt of stars. You wondered who was out there. You wondered if they wondered, too.

“I don’t want to be here.”

He sniffed, dismissive. “I want you here.”

You bristled. He, the creator and arbiter of your hell, wanted you here. It wasn’t to fulfill his duty--that much was clear. But was it for sex? Or something else? And if it was only for sex, why were you so accepting of it, when the vastness of your possibilities were reflected in the sky? If Gilead was truly as meaningless as you and he both knew it to be, how could you sit there and kiss him--and not demand more? It was not enough to survive on duplicity alone.

“Why do you want me here?”  

At your question, he tensed, staring at you, and then he reached for you, tugging you against his body. Growling, you pushed him off again.

“Answer the question, or don’t kiss me.”

He seemed torn between irritation and restraint. “Watch yourself, little bird.”

Ren’s body was stiff, his eyes betraying hidden concern. You hung there for a moment, lungs stopped, waiting for an answer. Waiting him to acknowledge that some, or any part of him recognized your humanity. Waiting him to say that when he had looked at you, he had seen himself there, too. Waiting for him to expose the part of himself you’d seen scrawled onto the piece of paper in his pocket. But expected silence was all you received.

The both of you empty. Stranded. Together.

“Goodnight, Commander.” You stood, peeling him from you, and headed back to the house. He didn’t stop you.

You were getting out of this hell. With or without him.

[sixcastappreciation]

sixcago gave me my gay rights

alternative title: review of the evening sixcago show on july third

this is like almost 4k and its mostly just rambling but i need to express how much i love sixcago

like at least half of this is just me being gay so i bolded some of the things that i found really interesting and isnt just me like, freaking out

so to start off: holy shit. the energy of the entire show was amazing, it was really funny and fun and the acting/dancing/singing was on point like i cant think of a single complaint on the part of any of them.

so to get into the actual show

ex wives

when the curtain came up and the smoke started pouring out i actually felt my soul leave my body it was such a good moment

less than thirty seconds in brittney mack made eye contact with me and i swear to god my heart stopped and i honestly had trouble focusing on the rest of the song

i am not exaggerating that is the whole truth and nothing but the truth

shes............. literally so good im still shaking as i write this like three hours later

the third repetition of the rhyme where they all sound kinda pissed off? they nailed that

adrianna was so cute when she said “you wont try that again”

andrea holy shit. thats really a wrap on that

abby got that like, kinda head in the clouds thing that i feel like is janes Brand during this part

when he saw my portrait he was like JaaAAaaa

i love brittney mack

courtney knew what she was doing with that prick line. get it girl

anna has the most angelic voice i swear to god

the six of them work really well together on stage???? like i know its all choreo and stuff but you could Feel the energy that they had together it was good

oh man the choreo for the end. im so gay

intro thingy:

adrianna with that riff!!!!! we stan

annas face after “herstory” was iconic. she knew what she had done wrong

you couldnt hear the intro for maggie bc people were cheering so loud

the way adrianna says maria made me gay

abby also knows what she had to say. she knows how cursed janes sense of humor is and she was really playing it up

protestent............ protestant

“we’ll tell you what you want what you really really want” this made me laugh so hard i dont rly remember the next like thirty seconds because i was dying

“the biggest.... the firmest......... the fullest..............” im. i cant

no way

“maria” AGAIN adrianna please. please i cant handle it

“OH muy bien aHHah” not to be Lesbian On Main but fuck this was so cute

her emotion during the monologue was SO funny

it was peak, it was so good

she really gets it. i dont totally know what it is but this aragon monologue gets it

when she said “really trying” she did like, a motion. i cant go into more detail but Fuck

so after “move me into a convent” everyone like, gathered around aragon and adrianna did a

well idk what youd call it but a like

her entire torso swung around in a huge circle right before “i dont think i’d look that good in a wimple”

and idk what it was but that part just made me Lose It

adrianna had this way of making it all a little funnier?

like catherine is usually pretty Serious, i think but it felt like adrianna knew she was playing a character who was Like That, if you will, and was kinda leaning into breaking the fourth wall a little

i can probably elaborate if that doesnt make sense

you say its a pity cos quoting leviticus ill end up kiddiless all my life

she said that with such conviction goddamn

oh, he doesnt remember

this was so good

the “sh-”s were really funny

the fucking. i dont know what it is but the *ting*

holy shit

i cant put into words

how much i loved that part

the pause after “i’ll go” was............ expansive

i just checked it was 10 whole seconds

that doesnt sound long but it felt like forever

she went high on “end of my life” and thank u for mine adrianna hicks

the amount of no’s was impressive and im heart eyes for it

adrianna just had really good stage presence

like i caught myself looking at her during the dance breaks of all the songs when i wasnt looking at brittney

it was just so fun to watch her go!

dluh

during the intro of like “yeah, you know, the really important one” andrea was doing some Dumb Shit in the background

like i dont know exactly what it was but she was just like

idk like noodling around in the back

and i caught her eye and she like, smiled a little

the gasps the rest of them did were....... cute

then andrea busted out a full on fucking witches cackle

then she stuck her tongue out and looked like she was taking a selfie and it was so cute

like, her tongue was OUT

“not my thing” had the BIGGEST uwu energy of anything ive ever heard

i thought people were kidding when they said andrea boleyn had uwu energy

they were not

pret a manger barely came across as a real line it was more like, an experience

the sorry not sorry choreo. its so funny and cute and simultaneously cursed

the way andrea delivered her lines here was just

it was like, cutesy and fun but also kind of cursed

uwu

when she said “are you blind” andrea like, gestured to herself, in a like “look how hot i am” kinda way

which might be the standard? either way it made me laugh a lot

don’t be bitter/cos im fitter was the only line in the entire production said with a british accent and it fucking slayed me on sight one hit ko

i actually like that they changed “mate, what was i meant to do” to “wait, what was i meant to do” because

it implies that anne had no other train of thought than the one she was on and thats very funny to me

i think it fits w andreas portrayal too

everyone was like, fake crying when anne fake walked down the aisle and it was really funny imo

and as soon as she got to the end anne like, turned, yk?

bro just shut up

the entire audience gasped after that

andrea had actual like, panic on her face

then she led into “i guess he just really liked my head”

and there was a beat after that, where everyone laughed

it was long enough that everyone got the joke

then she mimed the blow job

her riff on “hell”? iconic

“wait, didnt you actually die” no jane she was beheaded but she was fine

abby seymour said dumbass rights she has the Dumbest Bitch energy god

“catherine of aragon had tragically died” catch adrianna looking like, yeah it was so sad for me, how terrible, right?

then boleyn goes off

the. fury, passion, anger, zest, contained in andreas “MASSIVE-”

“over my dead body” andrea gave her this look like, youre damn right it will be

heart of stone

oof

okay so the monologue

oof

“i was lucky. okay, i was really lucky” o o f

“edwina” is still cursed tho

i dont know what it was about this. i dont know if it was abby, or the dialogue, or just it being live but

this made it clear that jane had been Through It

like, this monologue came across (to me at least) as unquestionably a “woman who was abused trying to justify it to herself” kind of situation

“and that’s not because i was scared,” she said, wearing an absolutely terrified expression

this is where she started tearing up i think

okay i gotta take a moment here because

abby was fully crying before the song even started

like somewhere about halfway through her monologue she started tearing up

i was looking for it specifically

i wrote this before the last part so see above

so by the first fucking like of hos you could hear her voice breaking

holy shit ms meuller what the fuck

im not kidding who gave her the right

at the stagedoor she said that after this she was like, “well thats it for my makeup” when someone complimented her song

she is crying. the first chorus and she is actively crying. in the breaks between her lyrics you can hear her crying

abby went high on a couple of notes in here

she riffed on “truthfully” and it was, wow

she didnt go for the whistle tones which was, honestly? the most relatable thing in this entire show

but a couple of the other notes she went high on and they were so killer

there was a second or two of pause after the end where everyone just, absorbed things before the applause

i have some questions for abby about this actually because i dont know if its just because the monologue was different than im used to but

i just want to know if abby meant to have everything come off like That but god

the mental gymnastics jane is doing here are so intense

this performance genuinely changed how i listen to hos forever

i dont think i can ever peacefully listen to this song again

this song gave me so many layered emotions thank u abby mueller

haus of holbein

hans................................. *holbein*

the chaos

i honestly barely remember most of it it was

i had no idea who to be looking at

but i remember it being beautiful

i dont have the words to express how

fucking funny it was

the accents were hilarious

like they werent great german accents, but that made it far better

they were leaning into the ridiculousness of it all

the way abby said “but we cannot guarantee that you’ll still walk at forty” had me on the ground

ive spent the last 24 hrs trying to figure out exactly why it was so funny and i think i got it

she dropped the german accent

and she straight up sounded like she was reading off the side effects of a pharmaceutical ad on tv

the freeze frame? legendary

anna and courtney (im pretty sure?) managed to look so genuinely offended that henry swiped left on them

your highness your highness your highness

god adrianna please

actually every h sound that came out of their mouths

but adrianna Got It

get down

oh god i gotta talk about “didnt live up to his expectations”

brittney like, half took off her jacket and gestured to her body and like, body rolled a bit and honestly? i was fucking dead

the sarcasm really jumped out here. brittney went off in the best way possible

she was fully fake sobbing right before “tragic”

fucking legend

brING me some pheasant!

the woof line is always a good moment but their facial expressions really made it work here

this song has the most outwardly complex choreo (ofc i cant speak to its actual difficulty) and every single one of them crushed it

brittney made eye contact w me again on “looking cute” and im deceased

oh god after “take my fur” she whispered “thank you. honestly” and gestured to herself again and like, i was dying

iirc brittney was like, skipping across the stage or something on “i look more rad” and snapped into position for “lutheranism”

we gotta take a moment to appreciate the operatic talent of that one “get down you dirty rascal” instead of the slo mo

like, ofc the slo mo is a good moment but

brittney went full opera and it was,

wow

shes got a voice on her holy shit

so much talent in such a tiny body

aCHYEAH

she picked the person sitting next to me to dance w her and

they did their cute little dance thing and then brittney gestured like, go sit down, and the person did, then stood back up and started dancing again

not like, in a bad way i dont think

it was super fuckin funny and after the song brittney was like “oh that was cute you think youre funny”

but i heard them talking at the stagedoor and like, brittney was chill it wasnt like a violation of anything

im not explaining it very well but it was really funny in person

everything about her on stage was just, so enrapturing

i dont have too many specific notes about this song because it would probably turn into just, me being gay, which is enough of this already

anyway! get down was good brittney mack is a stellar cleves

her fake crying is next level tho

the confrontation

boleyn, unprompted: i lost my head!

the beheaded cousins high fived after “nice neck” and like, stuck out their necks a bit it was so funny

seymours “i died”

we all know abby is gonna kill her line delivery

but GOD

and then after, she like, realized what she had said and struck a pose like, shit please still think im regal

the line itself was actually pretty, uhhhh, sad

theres something about boleyn roasting khoward in andreas voice

courtney with that “and your songs” had perfect timing

also “when will justice be SERVED” had such good punch to it

after she did that she like

rubbed her hand on janes face

and abby looked SO offended

theres something so, sincere about courtneys delivery of her roasts that i hadnt been getting and its SO much funnier to me

i forget exactly where but at some point boleyn aragon and howard were arguing

and in the background it really looked like seymour and cleves were having a normal conversation and i lost it like. they were just chattin

there were a couple moments of like, cleves and seymour interacting and it was interesting

aywd

courtney! mack! took! no! prisoners!

jesus christ

okay so i dont know if other howards do this or if it was just because i was seeing it live and up close and that made the difference but

for me the most compelling part of this howard was the fear

like yes there was the sadness/anger/etc like there was good emotion but

from the “he says we have a connection” re: henry, and then on, everything about courtneys body language just screamed that she was afraid

idk i might expand on this in a separate post because its a darker topic but yeah. holy shit that was emotional

not a single person clapped after the last line. they all waited until after “yeah, and then i was beheaded” before clapping

like the theater was dead silent. DEAD silent

it was like, so haunting because it was just courtney on stage at that point, with just the white spotlight on her, it was a Moment

im not sure i have the heart right now to get too deep into this

if it would be particularly interesting to anyone feel free to ask, im happy to get more into it but idk its just Emotional

actually this is already so long ima go for it

so on each “we have a connection” it was uhhhh parr and aragon (i think) who each put a hand on like, her clavicle

and for the first two verses she grabbed one of the hands and was like, flirty? ig

but on the one about henry seymour also put a hand around her waist and she like

she freaked out

and listening back to the audio i can

unpopular opinion perhaps but the actual emotion of her on stage didnt come thru in the audio

because it was so physical

like you could see how scared she was

which made it more relateable to me honestly

like she looked so so scared

it was heartbreaking

the confrontation part ii

oh BOOH OO MISTERESSES

“okay catherine, babes” is CUTE fight me

anna looked like, progressively more concerned as that beat went on, and then she just kinda like, deflated? it was really funny tbh

idk her parr feels Different than the parr im used to

during “oh im catherine parr i draw the line in arbitrary places” courtney was playing with her hair it was hashtag cute

BACKING VOCALS RIP CATHY PARR

idnyl

a cute little b flat major 7

yeah anna parr seems

hmm

she seems like she’s just, over henry

like from the start she just has no time for him

idk im Conceptualizing

anna uzele is

her voice is next level

she put survived in the “got married to the king became the one who survived” in air quotes which i think is an interesting note

anna got really physically into the “remember that...” bit of it and everyone in the back was also having a good time with it it was Good

andrea. she stuck her pointer finger between two of her other fingers on her other hand for the “my sixth finger” line and it was SO funny

khoward keeping aragon in line was

not the hot take i was expecting but nevertheless the one we deserved

both for “dissolution of the monasteries” and “well actually”

idk it was a cute character moment

one of *unsure, disgusted, vaguely annoyed* siiiIIIiix

abby was right in front of me and she looked SO uncomf

yeah, i read

iconique

andrea like, threw her head back for this line

the pause after “theres not much we can do about it now” is

painfully long and so so so funny

i was only really looking at brittney but she was like, arms down head up no body language it was SO funny

also her “yeah?” ended my life

she raised the mic up to her mouth while not moving an inch of the rest of her body

the part where they get all meta. has me dead

it was about halfway through this second part that i realized cleves had her coat back. i dont know when that happened. if anyone else knows when exactly anna of cleves gets her coat back after it gets taken off in get down please tell me. i genuinely want to know

this actually distracted me

i got vibes that they genuinely hated henry during this part

first off, mood

secondly, good

annas riffing. god.

she is so talented

dsfjksdf they all straight up left

six

the opening moment is really sweet and kinda funny

abby again killing it with janes cursed lines

courtney howard is actually so cute

when shes not being heartbreakingly sad that is

like her “bye!” was so cute

theyre all so supportive of each other its very cute

megasix

adrianna and abby both looked into my camera and like, i died

at the end anna and brittney were doing some dumb shit as they walked off stage and it was SO cute

after the show

i went to the stagedoor and it was a really fun experience! ive never done that before

it seemed like everyone was being pretty respectful and stuff, thank u six fans for being sane

i got four signatures on my program dklfjsldfjds

abby was such a sweetheart, we actually talked a tiny bit

i told her i loved her line delivery (because uhhhhhh i do) and she said that she tries to get in that comedic timing when she has Those Lines and like yeah

she was seriously the nicest

the ladies in waiting came out as well and everyone cheered for them and lets be real they DESERVE it

lemme sidebar here actually and talk about the ladies in waiting because

they killed it

bessie on the bass was living her best life at literally all times

brittney was also super sweet! i told her she had good energy (because uhhhhhh she does) and she was very nice about it!!!

i didnt really talk to anna or andrea but i got their signatures!

also speaking of my program im still losing my mind over “remembered for: headlessness” and “remembered for: staying alive”

thank u sixcago program

in conclusion! this was such a great+special experience!!! all of the actors were incredible, it was so wonderful

im also not claiming any of this stuff was unique to this performance or to sixcago in general this was just the stuff i noticed as i was watching it. if you clown on this post ill end u

[littleoptimistart]

The Adorable Ms. Avery Wimple

[thatginchygal]

100 Days-100 Word Drabble Challenge

I’m so excited about this drabble challenge!  Here are my three contributions. Each 100 words. I hope you enjoy! 

Based on a little moment from episode 5x5, I have @my-little-yellowbird to thank for the direction I took with this!  I’m not sure how the ‘kettles’ I’ve seen mentioned in fandom work, but there’s some steam alluded to here.  

From Poplar, With Love

He found her naked in his bed.  “How did you sneak in, Ms. Turnova?”

She reached for his tie, tugged him close. “You’re an excellent GP but your reconnaissance requires finesse. I’ve trailed after you all day.”

“Perhaps I allowed you to…hoping for this outcome.” He slanted his mouth over hers.

She pulled him down onto the bed, never breaking their kiss.

“Dad, Mum?”  Timothy banged on their bedroom door.  “The toilet is overflowing! Angela must have thrown another toy in there earlier.”

Shelagh and Patrick froze and simultaneously groaned.

Patrick sighed in defeat.  “These kids are worse than SPECTRE.”

  Poor little innocent ginchy was not alerted to this photo being ‘in the wild’: glasses I may have made an embarrassing squeaky noise and stared at the photo for … awhile. Ahem.  Anyway, I wrote this drabble due to this picture. I’m calling it a ‘modern’ Turnadette, though I wouldn’t mind seeing Patrick with reading glasses on the show!  Sadly no steam except in my fertile imagination. Rated G.

Specs

Shelagh watched Patrick narrow his eyes at the menu.  He muttered, patting at his jacket before removing a pair of black-framed glasses. He put them on, smiling tentatively at her.  “Prescription. Yet another sign of my old-age.”

Shelagh blinked and tried to find her composure as she stared at him. “Watch it,” she murmured, tapping near her eye as if reminding him of her contacts.

“What do you think? Not too ‘insufferable dullard’?” His eyes glinted as he awaited her verdict.

Leaning across the table, she adjusted his glasses and grazed her thumb against his cheekbone. “I’ll show you tonight.”

   This drabble was inspired by @like-an-officer-and-a-sergeant and the post on Shelagh’s changing mirrors  The Bible quote is from Psalm 119:37*.  G rated.  

In the Mirror 

Sister Bernadette tossed and turned, but could not sleep.  When she closed her eyes she could picture herself, without her wimple and cap, with her hair hanging free. How young she still looked; how pretty.  She sat up and looked at the mirror on her dresser, imagining herself once more standing before it.  An unknown longing in her heart haunted her. Oh God, she prayed, turn away my eyes from looking at vanity, and revive me in Your ways*. 

She settled onto the bed, resolving to ask Fred to remove the mirror in the morning. A smaller one would suffice.

[seeksstaronmewni]

To celebrate Teacher Appreciation Week / Teacher Appreciation Day, I direct focus on some of my favorite teachers in @cartoonnetwork‘s Cartoon Cartoons!

Ms. Keane (@crackmccraigen​’s The Powerpuff Girls), an ex-kindergarten teacher from Pokey Oaks County, a sleepy suburb of the City of Townsville, is just the sweetest loaf of bread I ever knew. Along with that cute, squeaky, trill-y voice (voice of Jennifer Hale, who also voiced Billy’s Mom Gladys in Grim & Evil / The Grim Adventures of Billy & Mandy), she’s very nurturing to her students like a mommy.

Ms. Wimple (Genndy Tartakovsky’s Dexter’s Laboratory) is a supportive character for Dexter Detention (storyboarded by David P. Smith and the amazing @chrisbattleart). She’s so in love with Dexter that she’s entranced (“Whatever you say, Dexter. You can do no wrong.”)—and she sure is cute with all of those hearts (plus bubbles after she faints) all poppin’ around her, not to mention that “POP” appears when her hearts pop.

Ms. Babcock (Genndy Tartakovsky’s Dexter’s Laboratory) is Dee Dee’s dance studio teacher and a supportive character for “Dee Dee’s Rival” (storyboard by Chris Savino), who watches her students dancing to classical music like many classic cartoons used before Dexter’s Laboratory.

Ms. Eleanor Butterbean (@maxwellatoms’ Grim & Evil/The Grim Adventures of Billy & Mandy) is a supportive character / Endsville teacher. Those glasses look very complimentary to her eyes (inspired by Chris Reccardi’s work?), and “Butterbean” is just such a cute last name! Her voice fairly resembles that of Ms. Keane, too, though Ms. Butterbean is the voice of Renée Raudman..

Tweet of this here

BTW, many creatives who worked on these Cartoon Network Studios (AKA Hanna-Barbera Cartoons) projects came from Spümcø, which produced The Ren & Stimpy Show! (My most personal thanks to that show’s highly controversial and formerly abusive creator, and to his ground-breaking team for contributing talent to some of the most popular American/Western/Burbank-produced cartoons ever made!

[the-mediaeval-monk]

A woman wearing a wimple and holding gold balls

Add MS 62925 f.39r 

Source: The British Library

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 8

Read on AO3. Part 7 here. Part 9 here.

Summary: You were stupid to try and patch things over. You hope you haven't caused more trouble.

Words: 2200

Warnings: Handmaid’s Tale AU, dystopian hellscape

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: Hello!! Thank you all so much for your kind comments! I have loved hearing from you and hearing your thoughts about the story! <3 I'm really enjoying developing these relationships, right now, so I'm especially looking forward to the next chapter. OwO

As always, I love you all so much, your input makes my day! Thank you!!

Whatever position your Commander had left you in, that was the one in which you remained until dawn, revelling in the memory of his body heat, the soft fullness of his lips, his hand in your hair, caressing you. Holding you. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d kissed someone like that.

Maybe it’d been that long for him, too.

It was only until the sun breached the confines of your room that you gained the confidence to pull up your underwear, straighten your dress, cover yourself again. Blush reddened your cheeks as you tucked your hair into your wimple. A simple reminder of your humanity had been enough to undo him. How much hypocrisy did he carry on those shoulders? You wiggled on your gloves and exhaled, pushing out the anxiety. You weren’t sure how long you’d be able to keep this up. But for the first time in years, you felt alive.

You took your alive self down the stairs, wondering how Ren had managed to sneak through the darkness without the wood creaking beneath him. He must have had practice. Gulping, your face burned. Practice.

Before you entered the kitchen, you could already hear her. Johana.

“And is this dust? Is this dust?” Her voice was ragged and dry. You sidled up to the wall, too afraid to enter. “Did I not ask for things to be dusted?”

“You did, Ms. Johana.” This was Emma. She sounded dryer than Johana did.

“Then why aren’t they?”

“They were, ma’am,” Emma replied.

Johana snorted. “Oh, sure. Fine.” Her shoes clicked as she turned. “And you--these floors were to be spotless. But you missed right… right… right over here? Do you see that?”

“Yes, Ms. Johana.” Rose, this time. You debated heading back upstairs--trying to walk another day.

“What is that?” Johana asked. Rose was silent. “What is it?”

Rose’s voice trembled when she spoke. “That’s… that’s a scuff from your shoe, Ms. Johana.”

Your heart stalled. Part of you couldn’t believe Rose had just said that. The other part realized that you weren’t walking on the beginning of this verbal assault--and couldn’t believe yourself. Guilt poured over you in buckets. This was your fault. Had you managed to keep your mouth shut the night before, you were sure Johana wouldn’t have been so furious now. She was spilling her latent rage over the only two people she could heap it onto. That wasn’t fair.

Staring at the ceiling, you asked for strength from God (if he was up there--recent events had you convinced he wasn’t) before rolling over and into the kitchen, the bright red of your dress catching the corner of Johana’s sight. She faced you, her eyes igniting like flint on steel.

“What?” She straightened her back and crossed her arms. “More objections?”

You pulled your lips over your teeth. Everything was warm. Too warm. “No,” you said, “I wanted… I wanted to. Um. Apologize. For what I said last night.”

Johana was silent. Emma and Rose didn’t dare breathe. You watched the fury in Johana’s face shrink, her body tensing with confusion. Her fingers dragged over her sleeves as they fell to her sides, her gaze severe, glancing between you and the Marthas. She swallowed, looking to the floor and shaking her head before turning back to you.

“What?”

“The Commander…” you began, wondering how she’d react to you invoking his name. But she was stone. “The Commander informed me of the consequences should I do that again. And suggested that I apologize.” The lie couldn’t hurt. If she felt he was more on her side than yours, perhaps she’d cool off.

For a moment--a brief, fleeting moment--her shoulders sagged, like she was relieved, like her world had become weightless, like her doors had been unbarred. But then she breathed again, and the air of Gilead filled her lungs, bringing the shackles of reality back around her limbs. She blinked, and nodded, pushing past you into the hall.

“Come on,” she said--and when you didn’t move, shouted, “Come on.”

You exchanged looks with Rose and Emma, whose expressions betrayed only their desire for you to leave. Gulping, you obeyed, following Johana through the halls and out through the back door.

The sun was bright--you winced, your wings somehow not obscuring the rays enough to shield your eyes. Johana moved easily over the stones that paved the path forward, her blue skirt fluttering at her ankles--but you struggled, gathering handfuls of your dress and hoisting it up, terrified you’d trip into the yard, solidify your weakness in front her. Somehow, you managed to avoid it, trailing her into the gardens, past the maze of emerald hedges and tall grasses, into the sanctuary of flourishing lilies and roses and a bunch of other flowers you couldn’t name.

She stalled for a moment, and then sat at the wrought iron bench, staring into the algaed waters of the pond. The wind whipped by her, tiny strands of tawny hair coming loose from her long, curled braid and shimmering flaxen in the sunlight, her pupils pinpoints in the clear cobalt of her eyes. Her shoulders straightened, and she settled, her back a board against the bench. Like this, you could almost see it--the woman she used to be, before Ren. Before Gilead. Before any of it. You wondered what her family had been like. You wondered if they were still alive. You wondered if the definition of living had changed.

Johana looked over her shoulder, avoiding your gaze. “Sit,” she said.

Steadying your nerves, you nodded, creeping over and taking a seat as far away from her as you possibly could. Her hands were folded in her lap, fingers digging into tendons, her stare still focused on the pond, on the ripples cresting under gusts of wind, the mirror flashes of light shattering the surface. Breath left her body, as if she couldn’t be calmer.

You were petrified. Solid. Your eyes flickered between her hands and the pond, wondering why she brought you out here, brain calculating how hard you’d have to fight if she tried to drown you. A robin flitted in front of you, hopping along the pebbles at the water’s perimeter. Johana sniffed.

“Stupid animals.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Birds,” she said. “They’re stupid.”

This conversation was taking a turn stranger than you could have even anticipated. “Well,” you said, “I thought that I might have heard that birds can actually be quite smart.” Christ. Had you put enough qualifiers on that?

“Birds are like any other animal,” she said. “It doesn’t matter how smart they are. Put them in a cage, and they’ll peck themselves to death.” A pause. “Animals can’t look beyond their own instincts.”

“Oh.” Heat washed over your neck, sweat beading at your hairline. It wasn’t hot out. “At least… birds can fly?”

Another sniff--laughter or derision. “They can,” she admitted. “But leaving a cage doesn’t make them free.” She sighed, almost confidently. “And if their owner finds them, their wings get clipped.”

You cleared your throat. Something was stuck in it. You couldn’t even swallow.

“I’m not an idiot,” she said.

Words were glue in your mouth. “N-no, of c-course not. I don’t think that you are.”

“Then you must be one.” She sat up, leaning forward. “Ren had you apologize so I would spare you.”  An amused huff. “He knows I’m onto him,” she murmured. “He knows.”

Any word out of your mouth had the chance to incriminate. So you said nothing.

“Your apology is accepted,” she said. “But only because I haven’t caught you yet. The second I do, you’ll be forgotten. By him. By everyone. Like the rest of them.” She paused. “I’m the one who gets to stay. You know that. I’m the one who lies with him at night. And I’ll be the mother to his child. Not you.”

You tried to pretend like his cum wasn’t still leaking out of your cunt as she spoke, like you hadn’t had been working to burn into your brain the memory of what his hair felt like between your fingers. She was serious. And she wanted you to know how serious she was. You continued keeping your lips shut, hoping she’d move on without any input from you.

But she didn’t. She was silent. So silent, the sound of the wind deafened all noise. You turned, hoping to catch her expression around the edges of your wings--and it was still blank. The air chilled your face. Johana blinked, casting her gaze toward the grass. Behind you, the rumble of an engine coasted up the driveway, and she swallowed, peeking over her shoulder. Her brow tightened.

“I know him better than he thinks,” she said, looked at you. “I want you to know that.” When you didn’t respond, she stood. “The Eyes aren’t the only ones watching you.”

With that, she turned toward the house, shoes scuffing against the stone. You watched her go, her head held high, her shoulders pinned back. She’d made a full recovery. Groaning, you slumped, staring into the red mass of fabric that had become the substitute for your body. Perhaps you shouldn’t have apologized at all. You’d only exposed yourself further to Johana--the last thing you wanted to do--and now you were certain the next move you made she’d catch you and you’d be--you’d be--

“Why are you out here?”

You yelped, heart leaping into your throat as your neck swiveled so fast it popped. It was the Commander. The wind ruffled the soft curls of his hair, and your cheeks ran hot. That same hair you’d had your nails scraping through only hours before. He looked beautiful. Powerful. The dichotomy made your brain feel sick. Stockholm Syndrome was a thing--or maybe you’d been converted. Maybe you were a True Believer.

But that couldn’t be. No, because you still felt nauseous when you remembered what he thought of you. When you remembered your purpose in his home. But he wasn’t a nameless, faceless entity you could assign all of your anger to, anymore. The questionable morality made it all the more difficult to parse. The reality was, you hated everything he represented--your chains, your enslavement. But you’d have a much easier time hating him if he didn’t simultaneously provide you access and indulge you in everything you’d been denied.

You swallowed, facing back to the pond. “Your Wife asked me out here.” No reason to lie. “We were talking.”

Ren came closer, his footsteps like whispers in the freshly-cut grass. Your words had tempered him, you supposed--because he stood behind you, fisting a curled tendril of iron, his voice hardened steel. “Really,” he said. “Talking.”

“Yes,” you replied with a nod. “Talking.”

His knuckles tensed, and his hand slid from the back of the bench. “What would she have to speak with you about?”

You shifted, meeting his eyes with no uncertainty. “You.”

Fire flashed over his gaze--pure, red anger--and dissolved in a blink. He blew the steam out of his nose. “And you said?”

“Nothing. Why would I say anything?”

“You wouldn’t, if you were smart.” Ren paused, meandering around the bench, his brow furrowed. He glanced over, and then stepped toward you, reaching out, his fingers grazing the underside of your chin for the shortest of seconds. “I’d like to see you tonight. Here.”

“Here?” you asked. “In the garden?”

He frowned. “Must I repeat myself?”

You blushed. “No, sir,” you replied. “No.” Johana’s words wouldn’t get out of your mind. Two secret rendezvous were risky enough. The more you added, the greater danger you were in.  “I just don’t want to get caught...”

Ren stared at you, searching your face. “I know my Wife.” You frowned--for all the knowing they did, they both seemed to be missing hunks of information. “Tonight, little bird.”

You wanted to outright deny him--tell him that this wasn’t worth it, that you’d rather live out the rest of your miserable excuse for a life counting down the days until your inevitable death. You wanted to. It’d be far easier, far simpler. This was one of the times where you felt it--the possibility that you could hate him, if you really wanted to. The fact that he’d put you in this position--with no true options or escape--made your skin burn.

As if you’d been given any other choice, you nodded, and replied, “Tonight.”

Without a word, Ren brushed by you, heading to the house himself. Alone again, you turned your attention back to the pond. The robin, with its blood orange breast and white-rimmed eyes, was still there, having pecked its way to the other side of the water. There must have been an untapped mine of food around the bank, you thought. Or maybe there was nowhere else for it to eat.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 2

Read on AO3. Part one here. Part three here.

Summary: Your Commander is an "extremist"--and you need to stay away from him. Whatever that means.

Words: 2000

Warnings: Dystopia, Handmaid AU, general bummer,

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: Yay! Chapter two! I really really appreciate all the encouraging comments, so far! I love knowing other people enjoy this book too. And, even if that's not the case, I hope that you want to read it!

I love you all! You're amazing. See you next week. <3

At night, your body and brain swarmed with thoughts of the Commander. His appearance, his… beauty had unsteadied you, sure, but what terrified you was his demeanor. You could still feel the ghost of his fingers at your chin, pinching you, angling you back and forth, the searing heat of his gaze boring through your flesh. You thought of his voice, like a deep sea echo, drowning you in the sin of his speech. I remember what pleasure looks like, he’d said. Be good.

It was wrong. This was wrong. In your bed, you writhed, your thighs grinding together, seeking friction, seeking pressure. You could do it--sneak your hand between your legs, find your clit, buried underneath the layers and layers of chaste fabric, like a jewel stashed for safekeeping. But fear kept your wrists latched to your sides, kept your body cool. Be good. It was an admonishment. An order. Bitterly, you wondered if he ever had to be good. Johana’s face flashed in your memory. Perhaps he did.

You awoke the next morning with a pool of dread in your gut, gathering thick and heavy as you dressed. Beyond your window, white ripples of light shimmered off of the pond, its surface shattered by the wind. A bird hopped along the pond’s edge, cocking its head at its reflection before flitting off into the gardens. You tightened your wimple around your neck, securing the wings at the side of your face. If only it were that easy.

Steeling yourself, you opened your door and stifled a yelp, finding a Martha stooped there, her ear pressed to where the wood of the entrance had been. Her face flushed with blood, and she scrambled up, trying to dart away.

“Wait!” you whispered. “Don’t just leave.”

“I’m sorry!” Her voice was small and high--it was the first Martha from the day before. “I just, um--well--” Her plump hands trembled as she inched backwards.

“It’s okay!” You reached out, but stopped yourself, recognizing the urge to comfort as a relic from another time. “It’s okay. I’m not--it doesn’t matter.”

The Martha turned, tossing a glance over her shoulder before straightening her back, dusting off her bib and adjusting the locks of red hair that had fallen loose. She was short and stocky, with round, soft cheeks that were still dusted pink. Her eyes, wide and sea-green, scanned you.

“Please don’t tell the Commander,” she said. “He isn’t supposed to know.”

You frowned. “Know what?”

“That Ms. Johana has me watching you,” she mumbled.

Something squeezed your heart. “Watching me?”

The Martha nodded. “Yes. She wants me to make sure you’re--well--behaving, I guess.”

“Behaving.” You remembered him crossing into the room. “Shouldn’t she--”

“Shh!” She pressed her finger to her lips. “Quieter.”

“Sorry,” you replied, lowering your voice again. “Shouldn’t she be making sure he behaves, instead?”

She stared, blank, as if you’d spoken another language. Peeking over her shoulder again, she crept forward. “He’s not the one she can punish.”

A fair point. “Well,” you said, “she doesn’t have anything to worry about. I’m not really interested in being hanged.”

The Martha raised an eyebrow. “I know he was here last night.”

Your face burned, and you swallowed, wanting to tear off your wimple. It was tight, too tight around your neck. “Are you going to tell her?”

A long moment passed as she considered you, rolling back on her heels and crossing her arms. Your heart was a rock, crashing into your ribcage, the sound of its beat like a drum in your ears. There was no protocol for this. Grimacing, she sighed, dropping her hands to her sides and bowing her head.

“No,” she said. “I won’t.” There was something going through her head--something she didn’t say. “I don’t want to be responsible for another one.”

You choked on your own breath. “A-another one?”

The sound of shattering porcelain jolted you both forward, a ragged snarl of frustration following it. “Ugh! Can you do anything right?” It was Johana.

The Martha winced. “I have to go.”

“Wait,” you said. “Can’t you tell me--”

“Later,” she hissed, and paused, before turning. “I’m Emma. And you should stay in your room, today. She’s… not in a good mood.” She gathered her skirts in her hands, shuffled down the hall and bounded down the stairs. “Coming, Ms. Johana!”

You stood there, almost certain the amount of sweat in your armpits had seeped through your dress--which, for some reason, you were concerned about. What if Johana saw? What if the Commander did? Maybe they’d wonder why you’d been so hot. Sheepish, you peeked under your arms. Nothing. Thank God. At least something was going right. Your legs still refused to move, Emma’s words swirling in your head. You knew that you were expected to walk to the market this morning, but the thought of inciting Johana’s palpable rage petrified you. Briefly, you feared that it was a set-up. Maybe staying in the room would make things worse. But Emma had nothing to gain by hiding her knowledge of the Commander coming to you--that sliver of trust would have to be enough.

You tip-toed your way back into the room, easing the door shut behind you and crawling back onto your bed. It’d been less than 24 hours, and your stay at Commander Kylo Ren’s home was already giving you heart palpitations. All of your time at the Red Center had failed to prepare you for a Wife who wanted your every movement documented. It had certainly failed to prepare you for a Commander who--you shuddered--grabbed your chin and patted your cheek and told you to be good.

Between them both, you were just a body, stranded in the sands of an arid desert--and they were bickering vultures, each seeking to strip you of flesh and leave your bones to bleach in the sun. Fighting back left you vulnerable to evisceration. Your only choice was to remain still, watch their shadows circle you, and hope.

The arc of the sun crested over its peak, minutes turning to hours as the light in your room shifted with the drag of time. The day seemed to you like one long, exhausted breath, spilling from your lungs like fog, filling your room with all of its cloudy weariness. Staring into a ceiling was nothing new, for you--and now the view had changed, giving you an opportunity to memorize an entirely fresh set of threaded cracks. You imagined reaching up and digging your nails into them, prying them open like tiny canyons, turning your ceiling into a gaping mouth that could swallow you whole.

But your back remained flat on the mattress.

Pale yellow had dimmed to golden orange when a muted knock came from the door. You sat up, heart already skipping. “Yes?”

Wood creaked as it opened, revealing a green dress beyond it. Emma. “Dinner,” she said, holding a silver tray in front of her.

You sighed. Though you weren’t sure what kind of food you’d been expecting, a bowl of grey slurry hadn’t been high on the list. Not that you were hungry, anyway. Face falling, you caught Emma’s gaze as she placed the bowl by your bed.

“Looks good,” you murmured, regarding it like hazardous waste.

Emma’s mouth twisted, her voice almost softer than her breath. “Ms. Johana insisted.”

“I see.” For whatever reason, your Commander’s Wife was insistent on making your life as miserable as possible. What had you been told in the Center? That one day, Handmaids would be regarded as daughters by Wives? You snorted. “Is she always like this?”

Pursing her lips, Emma checked over her shoulder, sneaking to the entrance to observe the hall before easing the door half shut. She hopped over to you like a chubby, cautious rabbit. “It’s what I was saying before,” she muttered. “About there being others.”

“Others?” you replied. “With an ‘ess’?”

She nodded. “You’re maybe the third. That’s been through here.”

All blood in your body pooled in your feet. Your heart was suspended over a void. “T-the third.”

“The Commander…” Emma looked to the ceiling, considering. “He’s very serious. About the duty that’s been given to him.”

“The duty...” Your brow furrowed, your eyes falling to your lap--red dress, and everything it concealed. “Reproduction.”

She bowed her head. “He’s… an extremist.” A pause. “Ms. Johana--well--she, uh, disagrees.”

“Oh.” Crimson crinkled in your fists. “W-what does that mean for me?”

Footsteps--quick and hollow--sounded below. Emma stood, tucking the tray under her arm. “I have to go,” she said. “You want my advice--stay away from the Commander.”

You nodded. “T-thank you,” you said. “Why are you so kind?”

She shrugged. Downstairs, Johana hollered, her voice like cracking glass.

“Emma! Can you please clean this mess in the den, he will be home any second now!”

“I have my reasons,” Emma said, wincing. She ducked out and took off down the hall. You heard her mumble under her breath, “I just cleaned the den…”

Heart racing, you scrambled to close the door behind her before turning and facing your excuse for dinner. More unusual treatment. Unsure if you’d even be able to choke down a spoonful, you grabbed the bowl, cradling it in your hand as you guided a single bite into your mouth. Well--could you really call it a bite? The slurry slid onto your tongue like mucus, oozing toward your throat inch by viscous inch. You gagged, tears collecting as you swallowed, convinced you felt it settling in the pit of your stomach. Lip curling, you returned the bowl to the floor, wiping your face and plopping back onto your bed.

The sky was dimming. The only sound in your ears was your own restrained breath. Stay away from the Commander. It seemed like solid advice. You just wondered why she’d needed to give it in the first place. But then you imagined the heat of his body, only inches from yours, the calloused strength of his fingers on your chin, his voice, dark and deep and flooding your body with forbidden longing. Squirming, you tugged at the skirts on your hips, treating your sex like a disobedient dog.

Stay away from the Commander, you repeated, stay away from the Commander. You did not exist for romance, you did not exist for pleasure--you did not, in fact, exist. Your humanity was a mere inconvenience to the coveted treasure within your body. To act otherwise was to tempt punishment, to attempt to dream in a world where you could not sleep. You were chained from the inside, shackled to your own organs with viscera and blood.

In the silence of the falling night, you heard it--the crescendo of an engine, rolling like a wave over the gardens, its distant hum stirring your pulse. Your throat swelled shut, cheeks rushing red. Every beat of your heart seemed to come between long, breathless moments, moments where your ears burned from the emptiness of the air, moments where your body tensed and untensed, begging you for an order.

“Emma!” you heard Johana shout, muffled by the door. “He’s home!”

Her voice was followed by bounding steps, a one-woman stampede down the hall to the door, and all you could do was watch as it burst open. Emma hung onto the doorknob, breathless, urging you forward.

“It’s time,” she said. “The Ceremony.”

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 1 (NSFW)

Read it on AO3. Part 2 here.

Summary: You are a new Handmaid, your first assignment is at the home of Commander Kylo Ren. His Wife hates you. And you wished he did, too. It'd make it much easier to ignore the way he looks at you, the way he speaks to you, when she isn't there. But the hardest thing to ignore is the way he touches you.

Words: 2100

Warnings: Handmaid AU, Dubious consent, violent Christian themes

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: If you're confused, this is a Handmaid's Tale AU, because I love that novel so much. Feel free to read a synopsis online if you've never read the book (though I highly recommend reading it!)

This AU was created on my blog, kylorengarbagedump.tumblr.com. It was conceived with the help of user @checktheholonet, who I credit for both the themes in this piece, AND, most importantly, the title. Thank you SO MUCH, you are incredible and your writing is gorgeous. Anyway, welcome to my new fic. Love y'all so much!

“You’re beautiful…”

Hands. Firm. Strong. Pulling at your hips, your thighs, your breasts, bruising you, soothing you. A mouth. Wet. Desperate. A frenzy of kisses down your neck, your clavicle, to your sternum, above the terrified thumping of your heart. Your blood is red, his lips are red, the sheets are red, the air is red. You inhale a plea and exhale a prayer. There are two figures, but only one writhes and whines and gasps, only one works like an instrument tuned to the key of your body. Sweat. Flesh. Breath. You want to remember this. You need to remember--to remember--

“Tell me what you want…”

Sweat stained your nape, your red-gloved hands wringing together as you waited. The dream was far from an anomaly--but it was equally as far from being wanted. The last thing you needed on the day you were to meet your first Commander was a set of wet panties. There would be no Ceremony, tonight (thankfully), but you were nervous that there’d be an inspection, instead, or something. Maybe one of the Marthas would examine you, check you like a race horse--healthy hocks, clear eyes, shiny hair, clean mouth… and cleaner morals.

The door swung open--and your lips pinched together. Rather than the lifeless green dress of a Martha, you were greeted with the swishing jewel-blue skirt of a Wife. His Wife. You swallowed, sweat seeping into the white base of your wimple. This was not what you were told would happen.

“Are you going to stand there, or are you going to come in?” Her voice was gravelly. Demanding.

You nodded, stepping over the stone threshold onto the polished wood of the foyer. His Wife said nothing, turning sharp on her heel and marching down a hall. The sound of shoes on ceramic ricocheted through the empty air, an alarm. You tilted your head to the sides, eyes darting to the walls to discern your new surroundings. The decorations were modest, wide windows streaming light onto white painted walls lined with the occasional artistic tribute to the Old Testament. Your Commander’s Wife swept around a corner, and as you glanced up, you caught her peek over her shoulder, ensuring your obedience.

Before you turned, you heard another voice in the corridor, breathy and soft. “Oh! I’m on my way, ma’am, don’t--” Your presence halted her, and you blushed. A Martha. “You--you got her, Ms. Johana?”

“Yes,” replied his Wife. Johana. “And why shouldn’t I? He’s my husband.”

You stood at the corner of the room, an elephant in a red dress. The Martha, with little else to say, stepped aside, and you resumed your pursuit of Johana, who charged through the dining hall and around another corner, stopping bluntly at the mouth of a staircase. She whipped her head around, scrutinizing you, her nose wrinkling.

“Not talkative,” she said. “I like you better than the last one already.” When you didn’t respond, she sniffed, gathered her skirts, and tromped up the steps.

Planes of shadow concealed the staircase, growing somehow darker the higher you ascended, the only evidence of freedom a few thin rays of light, casting across the empty hall and illuminating the floating flecks of dust in the air. The wood at your feet was dark, struck through with lines of age and wear. As you reached the top, the hall stretched out as a tunnel in front of you, rooms branching off on both sides. You shifted, and the floor creaked, squeaking under you like you’d woken it from sleep.

Johana turned, nodding toward the end of the hall. “You stay there. During hours when the Commander is home, you are not to leave that room unless asked. Is that understood?”

You nodded.

“No,” she said. “Is that understood?”

“Y-yes, ma’am,” you replied. You were surprised at how small your voice sounded under the arch of the ceiling.

“Good.” Her shoulders fell in a slow breath. “You were informed the Ceremony is scheduled for tomorrow night.”

“Oh,” you replied. “N-no. I wasn’t.”

She rolled her eyes. “Now you have.” Straightening her back again, she glided past you. “Get to your room. He will be home shortly.” You nodded, listening to her steps fade as you bustled beyond the door she’d identified as yours.

The room was spartan in design--you’d been afforded a tiny, circular window, a clinically sparse twin bed, and a single dresser, barely large enough to house your dress. Chewing on your lip, you sat at the edge of the mattress, peering out of the window, gazing over the yard of your new home. Like the house itself, the land was massive, sprawling out like a manicured meadow, replete with razor rectangular hedges and rows of colorful annual gardens. In the center of these, there was a fountained pond, shimmering in the afternoon heat. A worn, iron bench rested to the side of the pond--you wondered what it would be like to sit there, let the warmth bathe your skin, let your toes soak in the cool water.

You shivered, staring at your cloaked hands, the piles of fabric obscuring your feet. They seemed foreign to you, like the limbs of another woman had been stuck to your body. They couldn’t be yours, these extensions of compliance--not when you could still remember what it’d been like to look a man in the eyes, when you could still remember how it felt to raise your voice, let your cheeks rage hot. It couldn’t have been you, growing small at the corner of the frame, a hunching red smock, shoulders sagged with the weight of your new reality. It couldn’t have been, you thought--but you felt your own pulse pound at your throat, felt the band of perspiration around your own brow. Swallowing, you clutched the neck of your wimple and collapsed back onto the bed, your heart sinking through the floor.

You weren’t sure how long you stared into the ceiling--just that it had been long enough to spike your eyes with tears, until, bidden by either exhaustion or by boredom or maybe both, you drifted off into sleep.

“That’s it…”

He knows, somehow. Somehow, he knows the precise pressure with which to brush your clit, he knows the exact moment to release you--that point when your breath hitches, catching on the inevitability of orgasm. He leaves you there, for only a moment, smothers you, his mouth on your lips, your breasts, your sex. You want him, you think, you need him--your body is being drawn and quartered by hunger, stretching further for desire than you think is physically possible. It’s inside of you, a thrashing black-red tangle of need, scratch marks behind your skin, the frenzied attempt to claw free, to break out, to devour you both.

“Good girl,” he says, “cum for me…”

You split open, the treacherous mass within you spinning out like loose thread from a spool, winding over your hips, your thighs, your knees, your shoulders, your fingers, sealing you tight around the white bliss that’s shredding through your nerves. It’s good, so incredibly, perfectly good, you groan, you whine, you shake, gasping…

“Good evening.”

Your eyes snapped open, and you sucked in a breath, scrambling to your feet and bowing your head. You didn’t need to be told even once--you’d known it was him, and you’d known what was expected. Pleasure crept through the edges of your body as you surveyed the floor--shadows of your dream. You could tell from the dampness of your skin and your hardened nipples that you’d came in your sleep. Shame could have swallowed you whole. If simple daydreams were embarrassing, how on earth should you classify wet dreams?

“Ah. Um. Good evening, Commander.” It was evening, right? Yes, the sun was setting. God, you hoped he couldn’t tell. Could he tell? He couldn’t tell, right?

“I see you’ve already met my Wife.” His voice was deep, soft, like the floor of a midnight forest. It made you want to see his face. “I imagined you’d want to become acquainted with me before tomorrow.”

This was unusual, to your knowledge. Speaking with--or acknowledging the humanity of a Handmaid in any way was not typical. You remembered how his Wife had ordered you to stay in your room if he was home--and wondered, now, if there was reasoning behind it.

“Nice to meet you.” That sounded stupid. Nice to meet you? Were you a new classmate? “Um. Goodnight, then.”

“Mm. Not so fast.” He stepped once, crossing the threshold into your room. Your chest iced over. “Look at me.”

Your eyes leapt from side to side. You wanted to. You just weren’t sure if you should.

“Look at me.”

Holding your breath, you did--and nearly forgot to breathe again. You should have felt disgust, revulsion at the man who, given his rank, you knew to be responsible for your current predicament. But instead of that--or hatred, or even fear--the very first emotion you felt was a hot streak of lust. Horrified at yourself, you stuffed it down, but were unable to shake the notion that he was… not-ugly. High cheekbones and plush lips and hazel eyes, capped with thick, shoulder-length waves of dark hair, his black, bespoke suit accentuating his towering height and broad shoulders. He was--almost beautiful. And yet, you knew.

It was strange, coming face-to-face for one of the men who had orchestrated your role. Given all of the re-education, you imagined you should have been reverent, like staring into the face of a demigod, or a local monarch. But all that would cycle through your brain was confusion. On one hand, you felt the distant desire to punch him in the gut. On the other, you wanted nothing more than for him to praise you.

He stepped forward again, and you averted your gaze, trembling as the shine of his Oxfords crossed into your sight. Something brushed your chin, and you flinched, face reddening as you realized it was his fingers. He was turning you. Examining you. Now, this, you knew, was unorthodox.

“Prettier than the last one,” he murmured, as if he were appraising a slab of meat. Though, you supposed--to him, you were. “Do you know my name?”

Nausea flooded you. “Yes, sir.”

“Tell me.”

How could you not know it? His named informed your own. You were Ofkylo. And he was--

“Kylo Ren.”

“Good,” he said, and patted your cheek. “Good girl.”

The words revived the dissolving memory of your dream, and you shuddered against your will, thighs clenching underneath your skirts. The heat inside of you radiated from your skin like flames--you were certain he felt it, that, at the very least, he knew you were impure. You wanted to shove yourself through the porthole window like a crimson cork and pop out into the pond, become steam as you hit the cold water, dissipate into the air.

“You’re turning red.” He pinched your chin. “Why?”

Don’t look at him. “Nervous to be meeting you.” At least you were being somewhat honest. “You’re, um, my first Commander.”

“Am I?” He turned your face toward his. You still refused to meet his eyes. “With any hope, tomorrow night will make me your last.”

A chill shot up your spine. He could have meant one of two things--neither of them was particularly appealing. You hoped for one more than the other. “Y-yes, sir.”

“I hope it will be pleasant,” he said, “though, likely nothing like your dream.”

Your lungs stopped. For a moment, your heart did too. “I-I’m sorry?”

“Your dream.” His thumb traced the curve of your lower lip, and you stifled a whimper. “You might think I’m callous, but I remember what pleasure looks like. And you…” His nail pressed into the flesh. “... were enjoying yourself.”

By some miracle of nature, your knees did not buckle--and you were thankful for this, for the position you would have landed in would have been even more compromising than your current one. Your heart was throbbing in your chest, beating down to your fingertips. No words would leave, because none would form in your brain to begin with. Breath leaked from your nose, and you felt it skim his hand.

“Sir! Excuse me, sir! Ms. Johana requests you!” The voice sliced between you like a cleaver. It was another Martha, from down the steps.

“In a moment,” he called back, still fixated on you.

“She says immediately, sir!”

The smallest, slightest sigh blew through his nostrils. “Fine,” he said, and then lowered his voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, little bird.” He dropped you, and you could breathe again, every joint in your body shaking as he retreated into the hall. “And begood.”

The door closed behind him, and you crumbled onto your knees.