5 Little Ficlets
5 Little Ficlets
Summary: So this time I again put my iPod on shuffle and came up with these little (not so little) drabbles from different Meryl movies
Genre: Multiple
Pairing: Various (characters from her movies)
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these awesome characters, although I ardently wish I did! I have only borrowed them to whet my appetite and muse
Rating: K through M..maybe...just maybe.
A/N 1: This is not a songfic, so the matter does not generally relate to the words of the songs. I’ve mainly just used the headings and themes. Oh, and this is un-beta-ed, so all mistakes are mine.
A/N2: Oh yes! I love reviews (which can include constructive criticism) so please amuse me with ‘em! That’s all!
I Look To You- Whitney Houston
Fandom: The Hours
Pairing: Clarissa Vaughan/Sally Lester
I remember telling Louis that you were only ‘false comfort’. What I meant then was-you only fulfilled my carnal desires.
The day Richard died was pleasant and calm, the wind did not ruffle and the sun was shy.
Today, the angry wind is rattling the window frames. Even though I’m sitting in front of the hearth, a shiver runs down my spine.
Weirdly, I find an uncanny similarity between today and that day. The before and the after. Maybe, it’s the beauty which is strikingly common. Or maybe the flowers. They’re red today, just like it was on that day.
You’re sleeping in the bed which we’ve shared for 13 years now.
The fire in the hearth plays little tricks with my vision and all I can think of is how I’ve wronged you.
Sometimes I wonder how you did it. Am I even worthy of your love?
I wonder how you ever came to peace with the ‘Richard syndrome’. You endured it all- the moods, the rage, the flights of fantasies, the anguish and the raw almost sacrilegious desire to own it all. You stood patiently at the sidelines and faithfully awaited my return.
You always knew I loved Richard. You always knew you were second best. Still, you gave it your all.
Remember how you always told me that he was a genius. He was brilliance and you were mundane, he was poetry and you were documentary, he gave his love out in bolts and you in a stable uniform flow.
I cannot deny that he understood my soul. You on the other hand, listen, imbibe and assimilate all that I tell you. You look through me, yet you claim to know only what I offer you. You act as if you’re ordinary.
Yes, you and I are two opposite ends of a pole. You’re practical, I’m an idealist; you like simplicity compared to my affinity for complexity; you like blemishes on my face, I abhor them; you like things that stay-like artificial flowers, I like the fleeting pleasures and transient joys.
I won’t quite comprehend ever what I put you through when I ran to Richard and spent almost every waking moment of the day-nurturing him, nursing him and holding onto him for dear life.
I was caught in that moment in Wellfleet when he first called me ‘Mrs. Dalloway’. His love was self-destructive, his poetry was immobilizing and his passion was mind-numbing almost to the point that I felt dizzy.
The day he unsurprisingly glided out of the window, I thought the numbness in my veins could freeze me over.
Yet, yet it didn’t. You pulled me out of that dark abyss and blew life into me. You never gave up. Sometimes I feel you might have waited for his death. Not in a malicious way, of course not, but because you didn’t want me to lose my mind.
His death shook me from the inside and yet I hadn’t felt so stable in years. He was before and you are after.
Your love is so different from his. You treat me like the most fragile flower; you’re afraid I might get hurt or wilt, so you manure the plant and take extra care. You aren’t a whirlwind, you’re a warm gentle breeze-you calm me down.
I feel safer now. Richard and Julia are a part of me. Lately however, I have come to realize that you, my dear, hold my heart. You’ve given me and never asked for anything in return. I have wronged you for too long and yet you’ve already forgiven me.
It is high time I give you what you deserve.
As I stand over your sleeping face I bend down to kiss your forehead, creased slightly with worries. You open your eyes and look at me. I sense something in them and then without notice you capture my lips in a sweet yet passionate kiss. You pull me over to my side of the bed. I look to you and make a decision. Yes, I will give myself to you for all that it takes. I realize that I’ve always loved you.
Take Me Home Country Roads- John Denver
Fandom: Ironweed
Parings: Helen Archer/OC; Helen/Francis Phelan
The shower in the motel seemed to belong to Elysium fairies. Helen Archer didn’t remember how good water felt against the skin.
The flow of water was endless, cool and pure it descended down her shockingly pale and frail albeit beautiful body leaving long irregular trails in their wake.
The force of the shower almost pierced her porcelain skin. Yet she felt purged, sacred even. The smell of the soap transported her to another time. The sweet smell of lavender reminded her of the first time she had received flowers from a man. It was on her 20th local radio show that she sang O Holy Night mesmerizing all the listeners. One of them was so enamoured by her dulcet voice that he had presented her with the most luxurious bouquet of lavenders and had taken her to the most expensive restaurant in town. He even did propose to her, but she had politely declined. In her former glory, she had been one of the prettiest girls in town - long chestnut tresses, emerald eyes, satin soft alabaster skin and long coltish legs. Inspite of not being so rich, her beauty alone had garnered a long line of suitors. However, she was unabashed, passionate and yearning to own the world. She would wait to fall in love.
That had been before her ‘Dearest Papa’ died. Her world had changed over-night. Shunned by her own flesh and blood, she found herself on the streets of Albany without a dime. Shell shocked, she realized, her life was destined to follow the path less traveled.
The voice she once had was lost somewhere in that transition. She would never be the same. Today she is only a shadow of her former self- a hank of hair, red rimmed eyes, prominent dark circles and patches of red irritated skin from mosquito bites. She is a street urchin, a ‘have not’, a speck of dirt.
She had often wondered how her life would turn out if she had married the rich lavender guy, Gregory, yes that was his name. She would probably be a world renowned singer by now, rich, famous and content. She would probably also have had children- oh yes, how she yearned for them. However, she always came up with the same answer-no. She would never marry Gregory.
She would trade wealth, fame and family for her Francis. Yes, her dear Francis. Oh, what would she not give to be in his arms, she would endure all pains even if they were inflicted by him to love him again! The only man she had ever loved and given herself to. Francis had saved her from the bastards who had tried to rape her on that cold September night some million years ago. Francis had kept her warm on freezing December nights, Francis had given her hope. To him she was a star. All the insult, hunger, pain and suffering paled in comparison to him.
Sometimes she wanted to go back to the place where she belonged. Go back to her childhood and...and what? Where did she belong? Where was her home? Where would the Country roads lead her?
Turning off the shower she donned her blue satin bath robe, a reminder of her civilized life. Outside the gramophone played Chopin’s Funeral March. Fitting, she thought. Yes, Helen Archer knew that her end was near. She knew that she had sinned in God’s eyes-drinking herself into stupor, but had God not sinned?
She will forgive God because He had given her Francis, and God will forgive her for He forgives all.
The shoe laces on the bed and Helen will wait for Francis and ardently hope that he isn’t too late. He will take her home, wherever that may be because home is where the heart is.
All Things Good- Henry Wolfe
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Pairings: None
Miranda Priestly, editor-in-chief of Runway magazine, was rummaging in her closet for a silk Hermès scarf when her eyes fell upon a pair of identical ivory pink cotton frocks folded neatly in a pile.
She remembered the exact day on which these dresses had been worn by a pair of red heads, 26th January 1996, Caroline and Cassidy had only been six months old back then.
2 months
She had only been the editor-in-chief for three months when she got to know she was expecting. Saying she was furious was an understatement. Being the career driven woman that she was, a baby would mean a hindrance to her progressive rise in the corporate ladder. She didn’t even want a baby. She was too busy to care for anybody but herself. She would crush anything that came her way...or would she?
4 months
Twins. Twins. Oh, for Christ sake was God punishing her for all the people she had already fired. No, no this wouldn’t do. Wasn’t she being gracious enough allowing one to live inside her and wreaking havoc on her body that she had another one hogging for extra space!
5 months
And then the hormones took effect in full charge. She hated losing control, yet here she was, nothing was taking heed of her words. Not her work, not her body, not her bladder and not her stomach...everything was spiralling out of control!
How many times was she running out of meetings to pee and vomit her guts out?
6 months
She hogged on ice creams and doughnuts, milkshakes and jelly, steak and French fries. What was she even? A size six!
The funny thing was she didn’t want to stop eating. She was beyond caring now. Let all hell break lose.
7 months
Then, suddenly, well not so suddenly her dearest husband decided to divorce her. Oh, was she too ‘fat’? No, not that, he claimed she was ‘uber-bitch’ and were the twins even his? Well, Miranda Priestly couldn’t bother more. She would be uber-bitch and slap a child support payment on him large enough to buy Prada from Miuccia.
8 months
What was that again? AMA- Advanced Maternal Age...no sir, you can’t work, bed rest, that’s what you need! Can’t work, were they kidding her?! The magazine would not run on its own, clearly!
Well, nor could she. If she got any bigger, she would burst. The only time during the day she felt even slightly close to human was when her masseuse gave her a back and foot rub. Boy, was her body a sight!
She was ready to have these little people, her people and get back to work!
9 months
After 18 hours of gruelling child-birth which included indecent cussing, frantic groans and growls, Caroline Priestly emerged, some three minutes later Cassidy followed.
Post-Partum
When she held them for the first time, Miranda Priestly was changed forever. The previous nine months seemed to be only a small price to pay for these two bundles of joy. She gazed at their red scrunched up faces for an eternity. She didn’t believe she was capable of the kind of love she felt for those two little girls-tiny, helpless and in dire need of her. Her girls, her bobbsies. Yes, she would step in front of an airplane for them.
She hardly knew what to do with them. They were quite a handful, well literally. Miranda was tired all the time, more exhausted than she'd ever thought possible, even during the first trimester when she'd spent most of the day trying not to pass out. She had managed of course, but with quite a bit of help!
What would she not do for them! They were her pride and joy. Yes, only them.
As she gazed at those two identical frocks, she realized that only her twin girls could bring her true joy.
They reminded her of all things good. She didn’t care about the seven pounds that she never could lose after their birth.
Everything around Miranda had always hurt her.
Miriam Princhek had suffered years of physical abuse from the hands of her own father.
She had lost her virginity to her high school boyfriend on prom night, right after which he had sauntered off with another girl.
Miranda Priestly had been used as a rag doll by her numerous bosses quid pro quo- a higher position for a night of hurrah.
She had been cheated by the scumbags she had married only to provide a father figure for the girls.
Miranda Priestly had come a long way. Nobody knew the woman behind the icy exterior. Nobody knew the warmth that the fire of the Dragon Lady could provide, except for those two bundles of joy.
She mused; probably it was for the good. The icy facade only broke in front of the twin sets of blue eyes, because they reminded her of all things good. She would give her life away to see them happy.
The One That Got Away- Katy Perry
Fandom: Doubt
Pairings: Sister Aloysius Beauvier/OC
Father Flynn was gone. She had made sure of that. What was left were only his words.
I will fight you
You will lose.
Well, he had lost. Hadn’t he? He had been removed only to be made pastor of St. Jerome.
Realization dawned on Sister Aloysius on a cold wintry morning of December. It was she who was losing, to her own self.
Father Flynn had ignited something in her that she feared. Compassion, which she had long abdicated. So she lied to him, saying it was ‘nowhere you can get at it’.
So when Father Flynn had marched into the parish with his new ideologies of change and progression, Sister Aloysius felt threatened. Not so much so as her position as Mother Superior, but more so because he had challenged her basic notion of right and wrong.
Aided with her unfounded suspicions she had forced Father Flynn to resign accusing him of seducing Donald Miller by offering him altar wine.
Somewhere inside herself, she always knew that she was in conflict with herself; Father Flynn had only acted as a martyr to her internal battle. She could never understand what the battle was about.
She had convinced herself (or had she) that Father Flynn was unfit for priesthood because of his misconduct and mortal sins.
Have you never done anything wrong?
- I have.
- No mortal sin?
Yes.
And?
I confessed it, Father.
Then whatever I have done, I have left in the healing hands of my confessor. As have you. We are the same.
Mmm-mmm.
No, we are not. We are not the same.
No, they were not the same. Oh, how could they be! If only Father Flynn ever knew her mortal sin, no sins, would he understand her accusations!
She did not need proof, because she herself had committed the sin of seduction.
While her husband had been away fighting for the war ravaged country Athena (yes that was her name back then-the Goddess of wisdom and just warfare) was secretly seeing a boy, yes indeed that’s what he was. He was all of 17 years old while she was 26. The boy had taken up a spring job as their gardener only to be attracted towards the mistress of the house.
Athena had always been a tad bit vain, indulging herself in resplendent red lipstick, mascara for her twinkling eyes and a little rouge to enhance her pale white skin.
In the three years that Athena had been married to her husband, he had been off to war in almost two of them. They had tried to have a child in their first year but in with vain. Every month she had devoted an entire day in writing a letter to her husband, putting into it all her love and longing and then taking it to the local post office. She would get back replies not so often, but she never gave up. She was the epitome of a perfect housewife who kept a neat house, went to church, appeared prim and proper and occasionally participated in parlour gatherings of women whose husbands were away on war.
The spring of 1942 saw a change in the above occurrences. It had been a warm evening in March. She had only just returned from one of those silly parties where women discussed jewellery coupled with the brutalities of war. The evening breeze ruffled the hem of her navy blue evening dress and she could smell the shampoo in her chocolate curls.
The gardener, an itty-bitty boy of 17 who had taken up the job a few days back with the Beauvier’s was tending to the fawn lilies when he heard a loud shriek emanating from near the front porch.
Running towards the source of the noise he found the lady of the house lying on the grass in an uncomfortable position-face blushed red and dress hitched up her thighs. Her black heels had not cooperated and the left one had given way making her stumble and fall.
Richard had always found something erotic in the woman- although he only got glimpses of her when she trailed around the house passing the netted front door- sometimes only in her bathrobe.
As he scooped the woman into his arms he could feel the warmth radiating from her body, her sumptuous breasts pressed against his sternum and her eyes- dreamy and lost looked directly into his. He felt lightheaded at the rush of adrenaline gushing into his veins and his manhood aching for release.
Athena, hadn’t touched a man in 2 years and here she was, pressed close to a man..no a boy. She couldn’t believe she felt what she was feeling. It was wrong at all levels. Wasn’t she married? Wasn’t this boy young and naive...but then again, wasn’t she human...didn’t her body need to fulfil its own pleasures?
That night, she leaped into a flight of carnal oblivion and answered her bodily needs. She took the boy’s virginity and felt sated. He had fumbled but treated her like a Goddess and she didn’t complain. The sex had been wild and full of lust.
Then, it became a regular occurrence. She hoped that guilt would set in, she hoped that she would stop..but when night dawned the devil in her emerged.
The spring was soon over and with that her unbecoming affair. Spring also crushed the hope of her husband’s return. Why, he was killed in war. Then, Spring gave her its last shock- an unwanted pregnancy.
The end of spring symbolised the end of youth in the life of one Athena Beauvier. That was when guilt set in. She had wronged everybody- her husband, her young lover and his unborn child but more importantly her own self. Was it too late to purge her soul?
She committed one last sin- killing the child growing inside her with a botched attempt in illegal abortion endangering her own life.
No, she wouldn’t take her own life. That would be the easy way out. She would suffer and live with the guilt every day of her life.
Yes, she had confessed but that hadn’t reduced her guilt by an iota. Sister Aloysius (she changed her name to suit her more-famous warrior- wasn’t she one, fighting her own battle courageously!) had come a long way since that spring. She was the one that got away. Not for long though...the ghosts from her past were back every night to haunt her. Father Flynn’s removal had not ensured that...the internal battle will continue and find a new martyr.
Mrs. Robinson- Simon and Garfunkel
Fandom: It’s Complicated
Pairing: Jane/Harley
No, no this was so...so wrong. For Pete’s sake, the woman he was fantasizing about would soon be his mother-in-law...yet, yet he couldn’t stop fantasizing about how Jane’s crimson shift dress was hugging her body at the perfect places-travelling down the swell of her breasts to her toned flat stomach and around her perfect butts closing just above her knees. Her legs were naked-not stocking clad and her toe nails were painted a baby pink-soft and fragile, just like her.
He had only come to return the mixer- grinder that Lauren had borrowed from her mother two days back. As soon as Jane had opened the door, he could smell her perfume- a mixture of amber and patchouli which had enveloped the room. For a moment he had felt mesmerized by her beauty, her golden hair held up in a barrette with soft curls travelling down the expanse of her milky white neck. She had said something to him; he didn’t remember or comprehend what and then she had laughed her trademark laugh revealing the wrinkles around her azure eyes. He felt like Alice in Wonderland- trapped in a rabbit hole, entranced by its beauty never wanting to return.
Her dress, the candles, the suddenly emerging smell of food and the sad glint in her eyes made him realize she had been waiting for someone to show up who apparently hadn’t. Oh, how ardently he wished that it had been him!
No, he had to get out of this place! This woman was wreaking havoc on his sexual neuroses by being just her- calm and casual. Yes, he had always found her attractive, but never in a sexual way. Tonight, however Harley found everything about Jane Adler erotic. He hoped against hope that Jane wouldn’t see his erect manhood beneath his trousers.
Finding his voice he said ‘My, I smell good food!’
‘Yes, Harls! Come in, I have enough food to feed a million!’
Yes, only when he was trying to control himself from pouncing on his mother-in-law she had decided to give him a new name- Harls, what? Harls, really! It thrilled him from inside that only Jane would get to call him by this special name.
‘Umm...no Jane....Lauren’s probably cooked dinner (Yes, Harley, go on, you’re saying the right thing)...I should...not eat you (damn!)..with you..eat with you.’(Phew!)
‘Nonsense, I know my daughter, she hasn’t cooked dinner! Eat and then take some for her! Or, why don’t you call her over?’
Yes, he needed Lauren here. He would look at her and forget about Jane.
No, he wouldn’t get this opportunity again...just him and Jane...it wasn’t wrong he argued, he was just admiring her because she was worth doing so..nothing was ever going to happen..no, never. So maybe, tonight was a one night free pass. Tomorrow, he would forget all about it and never remember it again.
‘No, I’m good! I’ll take some for Lauren..I got the car with me, so..so she can’t come anyway.’
With that Jane pulled Harley’s shirt and dragged him to the table laden with food. He almost felt triumphant that Jane’s date hadn’t showed up...somewhere in the recesses of his mind he knew it might have been Jake..but he couldn’t be bothered. He felt perverted at the thoughts in his head and yet felt confident, lucky even like a seven year old boy who had just gotten a golden star from his favourite teacher, Mrs. Robinson.
Throughout the meal it was difficult for Harley to concentrate on the food inspite of it being delicious because Jane’s regal cleavage was peeking from beneath the crimson material- promising to tease but not deliver.
He thought about how she would taste, how it would be to press his lips against her full tantalizing ones, how her breasts would feel in his hands, what she would look like when she came, what her juices would smell like and how she would cuddle after a satisfying orgasm.
When their time together came to a close- he was torn between relief and utter grief. He yearned for one more night, just one last chance...but like a child chastised for being mischievous he made his way home quelling all his inappropriate thoughts.
That night he fucked Lauren hard and fell into a deep slumber.
Summary: So this time I again put my iPod on shuffle and came up with these little (not so little) drabbles from different Meryl movies
Genre: Multiple
Pairing: Various (characters from her movies)
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these awesome characters, although I ardently wish I did! I have only borrowed them to whet my appetite and muse
Rating: K through M..maybe...just maybe.
A/N 1: This is not a songfic, so the matter does not generally relate to the words of the songs. I’ve mainly just used the headings and themes. Oh, and this is un-beta-ed, so all mistakes are mine.
A/N2: Oh yes! I love reviews (which can include constructive criticism) so please amuse me with ‘em! That’s all!
I Look To You- Whitney Houston
Fandom: The Hours
Pairing: Clarissa Vaughan/Sally Lester
I remember telling Louis that you were only ‘false comfort’. What I meant then was-you only fulfilled my carnal desires.
The day Richard died was pleasant and calm, the wind did not ruffle and the sun was shy.
Today, the angry wind is rattling the window frames. Even though I’m sitting in front of the hearth, a shiver runs down my spine.
Weirdly, I find an uncanny similarity between today and that day. The before and the after. Maybe, it’s the beauty which is strikingly common. Or maybe the flowers. They’re red today, just like it was on that day.
You’re sleeping in the bed which we’ve shared for 13 years now.
The fire in the hearth plays little tricks with my vision and all I can think of is how I’ve wronged you.
Sometimes I wonder how you did it. Am I even worthy of your love?
I wonder how you ever came to peace with the ‘Richard syndrome’. You endured it all- the moods, the rage, the flights of fantasies, the anguish and the raw almost sacrilegious desire to own it all. You stood patiently at the sidelines and faithfully awaited my return.
You always knew I loved Richard. You always knew you were second best. Still, you gave it your all.
Remember how you always told me that he was a genius. He was brilliance and you were mundane, he was poetry and you were documentary, he gave his love out in bolts and you in a stable uniform flow.
I cannot deny that he understood my soul. You on the other hand, listen, imbibe and assimilate all that I tell you. You look through me, yet you claim to know only what I offer you. You act as if you’re ordinary.
Yes, you and I are two opposite ends of a pole. You’re practical, I’m an idealist; you like simplicity compared to my affinity for complexity; you like blemishes on my face, I abhor them; you like things that stay-like artificial flowers, I like the fleeting pleasures and transient joys.
I won’t quite comprehend ever what I put you through when I ran to Richard and spent almost every waking moment of the day-nurturing him, nursing him and holding onto him for dear life.
I was caught in that moment in Wellfleet when he first called me ‘Mrs. Dalloway’. His love was self-destructive, his poetry was immobilizing and his passion was mind-numbing almost to the point that I felt dizzy.
The day he unsurprisingly glided out of the window, I thought the numbness in my veins could freeze me over.
Yet, yet it didn’t. You pulled me out of that dark abyss and blew life into me. You never gave up. Sometimes I feel you might have waited for his death. Not in a malicious way, of course not, but because you didn’t want me to lose my mind.
His death shook me from the inside and yet I hadn’t felt so stable in years. He was before and you are after.
Your love is so different from his. You treat me like the most fragile flower; you’re afraid I might get hurt or wilt, so you manure the plant and take extra care. You aren’t a whirlwind, you’re a warm gentle breeze-you calm me down.
I feel safer now. Richard and Julia are a part of me. Lately however, I have come to realize that you, my dear, hold my heart. You’ve given me and never asked for anything in return. I have wronged you for too long and yet you’ve already forgiven me.
It is high time I give you what you deserve.
As I stand over your sleeping face I bend down to kiss your forehead, creased slightly with worries. You open your eyes and look at me. I sense something in them and then without notice you capture my lips in a sweet yet passionate kiss. You pull me over to my side of the bed. I look to you and make a decision. Yes, I will give myself to you for all that it takes. I realize that I’ve always loved you.
Take Me Home Country Roads- John Denver
Fandom: Ironweed
Parings: Helen Archer/OC; Helen/Francis Phelan
The shower in the motel seemed to belong to Elysium fairies. Helen Archer didn’t remember how good water felt against the skin.
The flow of water was endless, cool and pure it descended down her shockingly pale and frail albeit beautiful body leaving long irregular trails in their wake.
The force of the shower almost pierced her porcelain skin. Yet she felt purged, sacred even. The smell of the soap transported her to another time. The sweet smell of lavender reminded her of the first time she had received flowers from a man. It was on her 20th local radio show that she sang O Holy Night mesmerizing all the listeners. One of them was so enamoured by her dulcet voice that he had presented her with the most luxurious bouquet of lavenders and had taken her to the most expensive restaurant in town. He even did propose to her, but she had politely declined. In her former glory, she had been one of the prettiest girls in town - long chestnut tresses, emerald eyes, satin soft alabaster skin and long coltish legs. Inspite of not being so rich, her beauty alone had garnered a long line of suitors. However, she was unabashed, passionate and yearning to own the world. She would wait to fall in love.
That had been before her ‘Dearest Papa’ died. Her world had changed over-night. Shunned by her own flesh and blood, she found herself on the streets of Albany without a dime. Shell shocked, she realized, her life was destined to follow the path less traveled.
The voice she once had was lost somewhere in that transition. She would never be the same. Today she is only a shadow of her former self- a hank of hair, red rimmed eyes, prominent dark circles and patches of red irritated skin from mosquito bites. She is a street urchin, a ‘have not’, a speck of dirt.
She had often wondered how her life would turn out if she had married the rich lavender guy, Gregory, yes that was his name. She would probably be a world renowned singer by now, rich, famous and content. She would probably also have had children- oh yes, how she yearned for them. However, she always came up with the same answer-no. She would never marry Gregory.
She would trade wealth, fame and family for her Francis. Yes, her dear Francis. Oh, what would she not give to be in his arms, she would endure all pains even if they were inflicted by him to love him again! The only man she had ever loved and given herself to. Francis had saved her from the bastards who had tried to rape her on that cold September night some million years ago. Francis had kept her warm on freezing December nights, Francis had given her hope. To him she was a star. All the insult, hunger, pain and suffering paled in comparison to him.
Sometimes she wanted to go back to the place where she belonged. Go back to her childhood and...and what? Where did she belong? Where was her home? Where would the Country roads lead her?
Turning off the shower she donned her blue satin bath robe, a reminder of her civilized life. Outside the gramophone played Chopin’s Funeral March. Fitting, she thought. Yes, Helen Archer knew that her end was near. She knew that she had sinned in God’s eyes-drinking herself into stupor, but had God not sinned?
She will forgive God because He had given her Francis, and God will forgive her for He forgives all.
The shoe laces on the bed and Helen will wait for Francis and ardently hope that he isn’t too late. He will take her home, wherever that may be because home is where the heart is.
All Things Good- Henry Wolfe
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Pairings: None
Miranda Priestly, editor-in-chief of Runway magazine, was rummaging in her closet for a silk Hermès scarf when her eyes fell upon a pair of identical ivory pink cotton frocks folded neatly in a pile.
She remembered the exact day on which these dresses had been worn by a pair of red heads, 26th January 1996, Caroline and Cassidy had only been six months old back then.
2 months
She had only been the editor-in-chief for three months when she got to know she was expecting. Saying she was furious was an understatement. Being the career driven woman that she was, a baby would mean a hindrance to her progressive rise in the corporate ladder. She didn’t even want a baby. She was too busy to care for anybody but herself. She would crush anything that came her way...or would she?
4 months
Twins. Twins. Oh, for Christ sake was God punishing her for all the people she had already fired. No, no this wouldn’t do. Wasn’t she being gracious enough allowing one to live inside her and wreaking havoc on her body that she had another one hogging for extra space!
5 months
And then the hormones took effect in full charge. She hated losing control, yet here she was, nothing was taking heed of her words. Not her work, not her body, not her bladder and not her stomach...everything was spiralling out of control!
How many times was she running out of meetings to pee and vomit her guts out?
6 months
She hogged on ice creams and doughnuts, milkshakes and jelly, steak and French fries. What was she even? A size six!
The funny thing was she didn’t want to stop eating. She was beyond caring now. Let all hell break lose.
7 months
Then, suddenly, well not so suddenly her dearest husband decided to divorce her. Oh, was she too ‘fat’? No, not that, he claimed she was ‘uber-bitch’ and were the twins even his? Well, Miranda Priestly couldn’t bother more. She would be uber-bitch and slap a child support payment on him large enough to buy Prada from Miuccia.
8 months
What was that again? AMA- Advanced Maternal Age...no sir, you can’t work, bed rest, that’s what you need! Can’t work, were they kidding her?! The magazine would not run on its own, clearly!
Well, nor could she. If she got any bigger, she would burst. The only time during the day she felt even slightly close to human was when her masseuse gave her a back and foot rub. Boy, was her body a sight!
She was ready to have these little people, her people and get back to work!
9 months
After 18 hours of gruelling child-birth which included indecent cussing, frantic groans and growls, Caroline Priestly emerged, some three minutes later Cassidy followed.
Post-Partum
When she held them for the first time, Miranda Priestly was changed forever. The previous nine months seemed to be only a small price to pay for these two bundles of joy. She gazed at their red scrunched up faces for an eternity. She didn’t believe she was capable of the kind of love she felt for those two little girls-tiny, helpless and in dire need of her. Her girls, her bobbsies. Yes, she would step in front of an airplane for them.
She hardly knew what to do with them. They were quite a handful, well literally. Miranda was tired all the time, more exhausted than she'd ever thought possible, even during the first trimester when she'd spent most of the day trying not to pass out. She had managed of course, but with quite a bit of help!
What would she not do for them! They were her pride and joy. Yes, only them.
As she gazed at those two identical frocks, she realized that only her twin girls could bring her true joy.
They reminded her of all things good. She didn’t care about the seven pounds that she never could lose after their birth.
Everything around Miranda had always hurt her.
Miriam Princhek had suffered years of physical abuse from the hands of her own father.
She had lost her virginity to her high school boyfriend on prom night, right after which he had sauntered off with another girl.
Miranda Priestly had been used as a rag doll by her numerous bosses quid pro quo- a higher position for a night of hurrah.
She had been cheated by the scumbags she had married only to provide a father figure for the girls.
Miranda Priestly had come a long way. Nobody knew the woman behind the icy exterior. Nobody knew the warmth that the fire of the Dragon Lady could provide, except for those two bundles of joy.
She mused; probably it was for the good. The icy facade only broke in front of the twin sets of blue eyes, because they reminded her of all things good. She would give her life away to see them happy.
The One That Got Away- Katy Perry
Fandom: Doubt
Pairings: Sister Aloysius Beauvier/OC
Father Flynn was gone. She had made sure of that. What was left were only his words.
I will fight you
You will lose.
Well, he had lost. Hadn’t he? He had been removed only to be made pastor of St. Jerome.
Realization dawned on Sister Aloysius on a cold wintry morning of December. It was she who was losing, to her own self.
Father Flynn had ignited something in her that she feared. Compassion, which she had long abdicated. So she lied to him, saying it was ‘nowhere you can get at it’.
So when Father Flynn had marched into the parish with his new ideologies of change and progression, Sister Aloysius felt threatened. Not so much so as her position as Mother Superior, but more so because he had challenged her basic notion of right and wrong.
Aided with her unfounded suspicions she had forced Father Flynn to resign accusing him of seducing Donald Miller by offering him altar wine.
Somewhere inside herself, she always knew that she was in conflict with herself; Father Flynn had only acted as a martyr to her internal battle. She could never understand what the battle was about.
She had convinced herself (or had she) that Father Flynn was unfit for priesthood because of his misconduct and mortal sins.
Have you never done anything wrong?
- I have.
- No mortal sin?
Yes.
And?
I confessed it, Father.
Then whatever I have done, I have left in the healing hands of my confessor. As have you. We are the same.
Mmm-mmm.
No, we are not. We are not the same.
No, they were not the same. Oh, how could they be! If only Father Flynn ever knew her mortal sin, no sins, would he understand her accusations!
She did not need proof, because she herself had committed the sin of seduction.
While her husband had been away fighting for the war ravaged country Athena (yes that was her name back then-the Goddess of wisdom and just warfare) was secretly seeing a boy, yes indeed that’s what he was. He was all of 17 years old while she was 26. The boy had taken up a spring job as their gardener only to be attracted towards the mistress of the house.
Athena had always been a tad bit vain, indulging herself in resplendent red lipstick, mascara for her twinkling eyes and a little rouge to enhance her pale white skin.
In the three years that Athena had been married to her husband, he had been off to war in almost two of them. They had tried to have a child in their first year but in with vain. Every month she had devoted an entire day in writing a letter to her husband, putting into it all her love and longing and then taking it to the local post office. She would get back replies not so often, but she never gave up. She was the epitome of a perfect housewife who kept a neat house, went to church, appeared prim and proper and occasionally participated in parlour gatherings of women whose husbands were away on war.
The spring of 1942 saw a change in the above occurrences. It had been a warm evening in March. She had only just returned from one of those silly parties where women discussed jewellery coupled with the brutalities of war. The evening breeze ruffled the hem of her navy blue evening dress and she could smell the shampoo in her chocolate curls.
The gardener, an itty-bitty boy of 17 who had taken up the job a few days back with the Beauvier’s was tending to the fawn lilies when he heard a loud shriek emanating from near the front porch.
Running towards the source of the noise he found the lady of the house lying on the grass in an uncomfortable position-face blushed red and dress hitched up her thighs. Her black heels had not cooperated and the left one had given way making her stumble and fall.
Richard had always found something erotic in the woman- although he only got glimpses of her when she trailed around the house passing the netted front door- sometimes only in her bathrobe.
As he scooped the woman into his arms he could feel the warmth radiating from her body, her sumptuous breasts pressed against his sternum and her eyes- dreamy and lost looked directly into his. He felt lightheaded at the rush of adrenaline gushing into his veins and his manhood aching for release.
Athena, hadn’t touched a man in 2 years and here she was, pressed close to a man..no a boy. She couldn’t believe she felt what she was feeling. It was wrong at all levels. Wasn’t she married? Wasn’t this boy young and naive...but then again, wasn’t she human...didn’t her body need to fulfil its own pleasures?
That night, she leaped into a flight of carnal oblivion and answered her bodily needs. She took the boy’s virginity and felt sated. He had fumbled but treated her like a Goddess and she didn’t complain. The sex had been wild and full of lust.
Then, it became a regular occurrence. She hoped that guilt would set in, she hoped that she would stop..but when night dawned the devil in her emerged.
The spring was soon over and with that her unbecoming affair. Spring also crushed the hope of her husband’s return. Why, he was killed in war. Then, Spring gave her its last shock- an unwanted pregnancy.
The end of spring symbolised the end of youth in the life of one Athena Beauvier. That was when guilt set in. She had wronged everybody- her husband, her young lover and his unborn child but more importantly her own self. Was it too late to purge her soul?
She committed one last sin- killing the child growing inside her with a botched attempt in illegal abortion endangering her own life.
No, she wouldn’t take her own life. That would be the easy way out. She would suffer and live with the guilt every day of her life.
Yes, she had confessed but that hadn’t reduced her guilt by an iota. Sister Aloysius (she changed her name to suit her more-famous warrior- wasn’t she one, fighting her own battle courageously!) had come a long way since that spring. She was the one that got away. Not for long though...the ghosts from her past were back every night to haunt her. Father Flynn’s removal had not ensured that...the internal battle will continue and find a new martyr.
Mrs. Robinson- Simon and Garfunkel
Fandom: It’s Complicated
Pairing: Jane/Harley
No, no this was so...so wrong. For Pete’s sake, the woman he was fantasizing about would soon be his mother-in-law...yet, yet he couldn’t stop fantasizing about how Jane’s crimson shift dress was hugging her body at the perfect places-travelling down the swell of her breasts to her toned flat stomach and around her perfect butts closing just above her knees. Her legs were naked-not stocking clad and her toe nails were painted a baby pink-soft and fragile, just like her.
He had only come to return the mixer- grinder that Lauren had borrowed from her mother two days back. As soon as Jane had opened the door, he could smell her perfume- a mixture of amber and patchouli which had enveloped the room. For a moment he had felt mesmerized by her beauty, her golden hair held up in a barrette with soft curls travelling down the expanse of her milky white neck. She had said something to him; he didn’t remember or comprehend what and then she had laughed her trademark laugh revealing the wrinkles around her azure eyes. He felt like Alice in Wonderland- trapped in a rabbit hole, entranced by its beauty never wanting to return.
Her dress, the candles, the suddenly emerging smell of food and the sad glint in her eyes made him realize she had been waiting for someone to show up who apparently hadn’t. Oh, how ardently he wished that it had been him!
No, he had to get out of this place! This woman was wreaking havoc on his sexual neuroses by being just her- calm and casual. Yes, he had always found her attractive, but never in a sexual way. Tonight, however Harley found everything about Jane Adler erotic. He hoped against hope that Jane wouldn’t see his erect manhood beneath his trousers.
Finding his voice he said ‘My, I smell good food!’
‘Yes, Harls! Come in, I have enough food to feed a million!’
Yes, only when he was trying to control himself from pouncing on his mother-in-law she had decided to give him a new name- Harls, what? Harls, really! It thrilled him from inside that only Jane would get to call him by this special name.
‘Umm...no Jane....Lauren’s probably cooked dinner (Yes, Harley, go on, you’re saying the right thing)...I should...not eat you (damn!)..with you..eat with you.’(Phew!)
‘Nonsense, I know my daughter, she hasn’t cooked dinner! Eat and then take some for her! Or, why don’t you call her over?’
Yes, he needed Lauren here. He would look at her and forget about Jane.
No, he wouldn’t get this opportunity again...just him and Jane...it wasn’t wrong he argued, he was just admiring her because she was worth doing so..nothing was ever going to happen..no, never. So maybe, tonight was a one night free pass. Tomorrow, he would forget all about it and never remember it again.
‘No, I’m good! I’ll take some for Lauren..I got the car with me, so..so she can’t come anyway.’
With that Jane pulled Harley’s shirt and dragged him to the table laden with food. He almost felt triumphant that Jane’s date hadn’t showed up...somewhere in the recesses of his mind he knew it might have been Jake..but he couldn’t be bothered. He felt perverted at the thoughts in his head and yet felt confident, lucky even like a seven year old boy who had just gotten a golden star from his favourite teacher, Mrs. Robinson.
Throughout the meal it was difficult for Harley to concentrate on the food inspite of it being delicious because Jane’s regal cleavage was peeking from beneath the crimson material- promising to tease but not deliver.
He thought about how she would taste, how it would be to press his lips against her full tantalizing ones, how her breasts would feel in his hands, what she would look like when she came, what her juices would smell like and how she would cuddle after a satisfying orgasm.
When their time together came to a close- he was torn between relief and utter grief. He yearned for one more night, just one last chance...but like a child chastised for being mischievous he made his way home quelling all his inappropriate thoughts.
That night he fucked Lauren hard and fell into a deep slumber.