(no subject)
Title: En't We Dead Yet?
Pairing: Mrs. Coulter/Lyra
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: HDM is not mine.
Lyra never forgot her hands.
They were cold hands, cold as the icicles that broke off the roof of Jordan College and shattered in jagged pieces on the cement of the walkways, cold as Roger’s nose pressed against her when they were once locked outside overnight and they thought they would die.
Lyra remembered that night clearly; Roger had squeezed himself between the hollow space beneath the front steps of Jordan College’s front steps and Lyra’s own crouched body. He had been shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering, and when he had spoke, his desperation was flimsily covered in humor.
“En’t we dead yet?” he had said.
Dead. The word meant something scary, or at least the scholars at Jordan College treated it like that. Lyra's own experience with death was limited. The only people she knew who had died were her parents and since it had happened when she was still a baby, she never missed them. The Master of Jordan Collage was nice enough and she liked the Scholars all right, as long as they didn’t chide her. But because both Pan and the Scholars thought death was something terrible, Lyra reckoned it must be.
It wasn’t until Mrs. Coulter first touched Lyra that she understood what death was. Death wasn’t having your body buried, except for your skull, or having your daemon’s name etched into a coin to put inside it on a ledge under Jordan College. When Lyra met Mrs. Coulter, she tasted the worst form of death: a living death; within that living death, she tasted obedience and meekness.
And when she disobeyed, she tasted the cold iron heat of anger and rage. The first time Lyra refused to cooperate with Mrs. Coulter, her monkey seized Pan and everything hurt so bad she was crying and why wouldn’t Mrs. Coulter let her go please. Afterwards, Lyra swore there wouldn’t be a next time, that she would never let Pan be hurt like that again.
From then on, Lyra never let Pan out of her sight, even momentarily. They stayed together constantly: eating, bathing, sleeping and shopping. But it didn’t matter anymore. She had seen Mrs. Coulter enraged and Mrs. Coulter knew it and didn't care. Mrs. Coulter's deceit had been cracked and she had lost everything, yet in return she gained something dangerous.
The next time Lyra upset Mrs. Coulter it was over breakfast. Instead of eating out, Mrs. Coulter had put on a pleasant smile and an apron and had fixed a simple breakfast of toast, tea and eggs. Lyra slunk into her seat quietly, wishing they were eating out. Mrs. Coulter never got angry in public; in public, she was safe.
As Mrs. Coulter placed the plate of toast on the table in front of Lyra, she noticed Lyra’s hands. In a flash as quick as lightning or a Jordan College sparrow, Mrs. Coulter’s hand darted out and grabbed Lyra’s wrist. She inspected her palm with scrutiny.
“You didn’t wash.”
“I washed earlier - ”
But Lyra had already lost, and this time, Mrs. Coulter had no pleasant facade to maintain. Tightening her hold on Lyra’s wrist, she dragged her into the bathroom. Lyra didn’t want to cry, not in front of Mrs. Coulter, but the pain in her wrist was too intense.
She turned the faucet on with an efficient jerk and thrust Lyra’s hands beneath it. Holding both wrists with one hand, Mrs. Coulter reached for the perfume soap and scrubbed it viciously over Lyra’s bare skin, all the way up to her elbows and the edge of the soft blue shirt beneath her jumper. Suddenly Mrs. Coulter let go of Lyra’s wrist and Lyra stood in front of her, scared and shaking and too afraid to run away.
As if she had somewhere to run to.
Instead, it was only Mrs. Coulter and her and that feminine bathroom with the large bath.
“Take off your jumper.”
Lyra twisted her arm around her back and unfastened the jumper. Wincing in pain, she rubbed her sore wrist, but her weakness only infuriated Mrs. Coulter further.
Mrs. Coulter pulled her forward by her upper arm and pressed her against the sink. The sink counter bit into Lyra’s stomach uncomfortably, but she didn’t whimper. Mrs. Coulter quickly worked her jumpers off her and peeled off the shirt afterwards.
Lyra stood before her in her stockings and shoes.
Mrs. Coulter’s anger seeped like lava from her mouth and spread across her cheeks in a flush. Her fingers were resting lightly on the counter before her, as she stood staring at Lyra. Then she ordered Lyra to get into the tub and fill it and wait for her.
Lyra couldn’t even think of resisting, but as incentive to obey, the golden monkey rested one hand lightly on the ground next to Pan.
When Mrs. Coulter returned, Lyra was naked and sitting in the bathtub. The water was filled within six inches of the top and uncomfortably warm, like Lyra knew Mrs. Coulter liked it. Mrs. Coulter smiled when she saw that Lyra was sitting docile in the tub, and the smile spread to her cheeks as she tested the water. Mrs. Coulter never smiled with her eyes, unless they were in public.
Then Mrs. Coulter started undressing.
With each garment that she removed, Lyra grew more and more helplessly fascinated. Mrs. Coulter was still a young woman and immensely beautiful. Even Lyra could recognize it. Her skin was smooth and hard and flawless. Her black hair fell over her shoulders, contrasting against the blank canvas of her skin artfully, like the quick strokes of a paintbrush. Her breasts were firm and nice, unlike the wrinkled skin of some of the kitchen staff at Jordan College. And as Mrs. Coulter removed her underwear, Lyra unconsciously adverted her eyes, for that area was private and Mrs. Coulter never undressed in front of her and why was she doing it now?
Mrs. Coulter stepped into the tub and sat down. Lyra was petrified. The golden monkey was still holding Pan, but it didn't matter. He could have removed his hand and Lyra would not have been able to budge an inch.
Beckoning Lyra closer, Mrs. Coulter leaned forward slightly. Lyra’s attention was drawn to the water tracing the steep slope of her breasts, but she forced herself to inch closer to the other woman as she had requested. As she did so, Mrs. Coulter wrapped an arm around Lyra’s back and helped her onto her lap.
As their bodies brushed, Lyra felt a tiny shock. Mrs. Coulter turned her slightly in the water, so she was facing away from her body and looking at the empty end of the tub. No longer looking at Mrs. Coulter, Lyra felt the first vague feelings of unease begin to soak into her consciousness, but Mrs. Coulter’s hands were still on her, keeping her on edge just enough that she was unable to think about what was happening.
Lyra never forgot her hands.
She would, however, forget what they did to her next.
Pressing Lyra’s legs apart with her own, Mrs. Coulter settled lower in the tub. She wrapped one hand around Lyra’s torso, hugging her close and with the other one, she reached across and rubbed Lyra’s breast.
The sensation was completely foreign to Lyra and she didn’t know what she was supposed to feel. She could feel a stronger shock run through Pan, and as she glanced over, she saw the golden monkey pinning Pan down in his ermine form. The length of his golden fur was pressed against Pan's own completely, and now the monkey was twisting on top of Pan and Lyra was distracted by Mrs. Coulter again.
Mrs. Coulter concentrated her energy on Lyra’s breasts, teasing the tiny nipples and twisting them gently to usher a soft cry of confusion from Lyra. She ran her lips along the back of Lyra’s neck and kissed her shoulder as her hand sank lower in the water. With Lyra’s legs still pinned against the walls of the tub by Mrs. Coulter’s own, Lyra couldn't defend herself. Mrs. Coulter knew it too well and guiltlessly took advantage of Lyra's position.
She jerked her fingers against Lyra’s clit, smiling when Lyra cried out. She slowly stroked her clit more. With each cry or shiver that she forced out of Lyra, Mrs. Coulter’s smile grew wider.
Seconds felt like days to Lyra, but the conclusion came all too soon; when Mrs. Coulter was through teasing, she forced herself inside Lyra. It was quick and brutal and a single gesture.
This time when Lyra cried out, it really was in pain. She started crying again and struggling against Mrs. Coulter’s arms, but between the arm wrapped around her waist and the golden monkey pinning Pan down harshly, Lyra was easily restrained.
Lyra would never forget what happened next.
Mrs. Coulter fucked her brutally and purposefully with her hands, seeking pleasure from her pain and misery, seeking comfort from her discomfort, elating in her suffering. Every time Mrs. Coulter shoved her fingers into Lyra, the pain increased until tears were streaming down Lyra's face and her nose began to run. With pain blinding her, Lyra was unable to estimate the time that passed.
But Mrs. Coulter stopped eventually, and she got out of the tub and dried off as if nothing had occurred. As she wrapped the towel around herself, she glanced over at Lyra’s miserable, curled form in the tub and her face hardened..
“Clean up the bathroom after you get dressed; it’s a mess,” said Mrs. Coulter. “Then meet me at the table and we will have breakfast.”
After Mrs. Coulter left, Pan licked Lyra’s cheek comfortingly, but all Lyra could do was cry.
In the following years, Lyra would repress the majority of what Mrs. Coulter did to her, but she would never forget her hands.
Pairing: Mrs. Coulter/Lyra
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: HDM is not mine.
Lyra never forgot her hands.
They were cold hands, cold as the icicles that broke off the roof of Jordan College and shattered in jagged pieces on the cement of the walkways, cold as Roger’s nose pressed against her when they were once locked outside overnight and they thought they would die.
Lyra remembered that night clearly; Roger had squeezed himself between the hollow space beneath the front steps of Jordan College’s front steps and Lyra’s own crouched body. He had been shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering, and when he had spoke, his desperation was flimsily covered in humor.
“En’t we dead yet?” he had said.
Dead. The word meant something scary, or at least the scholars at Jordan College treated it like that. Lyra's own experience with death was limited. The only people she knew who had died were her parents and since it had happened when she was still a baby, she never missed them. The Master of Jordan Collage was nice enough and she liked the Scholars all right, as long as they didn’t chide her. But because both Pan and the Scholars thought death was something terrible, Lyra reckoned it must be.
It wasn’t until Mrs. Coulter first touched Lyra that she understood what death was. Death wasn’t having your body buried, except for your skull, or having your daemon’s name etched into a coin to put inside it on a ledge under Jordan College. When Lyra met Mrs. Coulter, she tasted the worst form of death: a living death; within that living death, she tasted obedience and meekness.
And when she disobeyed, she tasted the cold iron heat of anger and rage. The first time Lyra refused to cooperate with Mrs. Coulter, her monkey seized Pan and everything hurt so bad she was crying and why wouldn’t Mrs. Coulter let her go please. Afterwards, Lyra swore there wouldn’t be a next time, that she would never let Pan be hurt like that again.
From then on, Lyra never let Pan out of her sight, even momentarily. They stayed together constantly: eating, bathing, sleeping and shopping. But it didn’t matter anymore. She had seen Mrs. Coulter enraged and Mrs. Coulter knew it and didn't care. Mrs. Coulter's deceit had been cracked and she had lost everything, yet in return she gained something dangerous.
The next time Lyra upset Mrs. Coulter it was over breakfast. Instead of eating out, Mrs. Coulter had put on a pleasant smile and an apron and had fixed a simple breakfast of toast, tea and eggs. Lyra slunk into her seat quietly, wishing they were eating out. Mrs. Coulter never got angry in public; in public, she was safe.
As Mrs. Coulter placed the plate of toast on the table in front of Lyra, she noticed Lyra’s hands. In a flash as quick as lightning or a Jordan College sparrow, Mrs. Coulter’s hand darted out and grabbed Lyra’s wrist. She inspected her palm with scrutiny.
“You didn’t wash.”
“I washed earlier - ”
But Lyra had already lost, and this time, Mrs. Coulter had no pleasant facade to maintain. Tightening her hold on Lyra’s wrist, she dragged her into the bathroom. Lyra didn’t want to cry, not in front of Mrs. Coulter, but the pain in her wrist was too intense.
She turned the faucet on with an efficient jerk and thrust Lyra’s hands beneath it. Holding both wrists with one hand, Mrs. Coulter reached for the perfume soap and scrubbed it viciously over Lyra’s bare skin, all the way up to her elbows and the edge of the soft blue shirt beneath her jumper. Suddenly Mrs. Coulter let go of Lyra’s wrist and Lyra stood in front of her, scared and shaking and too afraid to run away.
As if she had somewhere to run to.
Instead, it was only Mrs. Coulter and her and that feminine bathroom with the large bath.
“Take off your jumper.”
Lyra twisted her arm around her back and unfastened the jumper. Wincing in pain, she rubbed her sore wrist, but her weakness only infuriated Mrs. Coulter further.
Mrs. Coulter pulled her forward by her upper arm and pressed her against the sink. The sink counter bit into Lyra’s stomach uncomfortably, but she didn’t whimper. Mrs. Coulter quickly worked her jumpers off her and peeled off the shirt afterwards.
Lyra stood before her in her stockings and shoes.
Mrs. Coulter’s anger seeped like lava from her mouth and spread across her cheeks in a flush. Her fingers were resting lightly on the counter before her, as she stood staring at Lyra. Then she ordered Lyra to get into the tub and fill it and wait for her.
Lyra couldn’t even think of resisting, but as incentive to obey, the golden monkey rested one hand lightly on the ground next to Pan.
When Mrs. Coulter returned, Lyra was naked and sitting in the bathtub. The water was filled within six inches of the top and uncomfortably warm, like Lyra knew Mrs. Coulter liked it. Mrs. Coulter smiled when she saw that Lyra was sitting docile in the tub, and the smile spread to her cheeks as she tested the water. Mrs. Coulter never smiled with her eyes, unless they were in public.
Then Mrs. Coulter started undressing.
With each garment that she removed, Lyra grew more and more helplessly fascinated. Mrs. Coulter was still a young woman and immensely beautiful. Even Lyra could recognize it. Her skin was smooth and hard and flawless. Her black hair fell over her shoulders, contrasting against the blank canvas of her skin artfully, like the quick strokes of a paintbrush. Her breasts were firm and nice, unlike the wrinkled skin of some of the kitchen staff at Jordan College. And as Mrs. Coulter removed her underwear, Lyra unconsciously adverted her eyes, for that area was private and Mrs. Coulter never undressed in front of her and why was she doing it now?
Mrs. Coulter stepped into the tub and sat down. Lyra was petrified. The golden monkey was still holding Pan, but it didn't matter. He could have removed his hand and Lyra would not have been able to budge an inch.
Beckoning Lyra closer, Mrs. Coulter leaned forward slightly. Lyra’s attention was drawn to the water tracing the steep slope of her breasts, but she forced herself to inch closer to the other woman as she had requested. As she did so, Mrs. Coulter wrapped an arm around Lyra’s back and helped her onto her lap.
As their bodies brushed, Lyra felt a tiny shock. Mrs. Coulter turned her slightly in the water, so she was facing away from her body and looking at the empty end of the tub. No longer looking at Mrs. Coulter, Lyra felt the first vague feelings of unease begin to soak into her consciousness, but Mrs. Coulter’s hands were still on her, keeping her on edge just enough that she was unable to think about what was happening.
Lyra never forgot her hands.
She would, however, forget what they did to her next.
Pressing Lyra’s legs apart with her own, Mrs. Coulter settled lower in the tub. She wrapped one hand around Lyra’s torso, hugging her close and with the other one, she reached across and rubbed Lyra’s breast.
The sensation was completely foreign to Lyra and she didn’t know what she was supposed to feel. She could feel a stronger shock run through Pan, and as she glanced over, she saw the golden monkey pinning Pan down in his ermine form. The length of his golden fur was pressed against Pan's own completely, and now the monkey was twisting on top of Pan and Lyra was distracted by Mrs. Coulter again.
Mrs. Coulter concentrated her energy on Lyra’s breasts, teasing the tiny nipples and twisting them gently to usher a soft cry of confusion from Lyra. She ran her lips along the back of Lyra’s neck and kissed her shoulder as her hand sank lower in the water. With Lyra’s legs still pinned against the walls of the tub by Mrs. Coulter’s own, Lyra couldn't defend herself. Mrs. Coulter knew it too well and guiltlessly took advantage of Lyra's position.
She jerked her fingers against Lyra’s clit, smiling when Lyra cried out. She slowly stroked her clit more. With each cry or shiver that she forced out of Lyra, Mrs. Coulter’s smile grew wider.
Seconds felt like days to Lyra, but the conclusion came all too soon; when Mrs. Coulter was through teasing, she forced herself inside Lyra. It was quick and brutal and a single gesture.
This time when Lyra cried out, it really was in pain. She started crying again and struggling against Mrs. Coulter’s arms, but between the arm wrapped around her waist and the golden monkey pinning Pan down harshly, Lyra was easily restrained.
Lyra would never forget what happened next.
Mrs. Coulter fucked her brutally and purposefully with her hands, seeking pleasure from her pain and misery, seeking comfort from her discomfort, elating in her suffering. Every time Mrs. Coulter shoved her fingers into Lyra, the pain increased until tears were streaming down Lyra's face and her nose began to run. With pain blinding her, Lyra was unable to estimate the time that passed.
But Mrs. Coulter stopped eventually, and she got out of the tub and dried off as if nothing had occurred. As she wrapped the towel around herself, she glanced over at Lyra’s miserable, curled form in the tub and her face hardened..
“Clean up the bathroom after you get dressed; it’s a mess,” said Mrs. Coulter. “Then meet me at the table and we will have breakfast.”
After Mrs. Coulter left, Pan licked Lyra’s cheek comfortingly, but all Lyra could do was cry.
In the following years, Lyra would repress the majority of what Mrs. Coulter did to her, but she would never forget her hands.