#handmaid!reader

[themotherofhorses]

If there is one thing I learned from being a fanfic writer, it’s that a nice chunk of your readers genuinely do not give a single shit about you unless you are posting one-shots/drabbles/chapter updates.

I lost my MOTHER, aka the woman who gave me life, my literal everything, and some of y’all genuinely expect me to … what? Shrug it off? And … write fucking fanfiction? For what? For 65% to just leave a fucking like, and nothing else?

My sincerest apologies for not posting smut drabbles, I guess. It’s hard to find the motivation to write fanfics when you’re trying not to follow your mom into the afterlife.

I don’t know who this anon is (truthfully I don’t wish know), but thank you — you’ve sealed the nail in the coffin. I’m not returning to this fandom again. Feel free to imagine whatever the fuck happens to handmaid. I don’t care anymore. Be thankful I don’t delete all my shit and leave this site.

A good new year resolution might be learning some decorum. Or empathy. Some of y’all need it.

[ghostsgrl666]

knight!ghost x handmaiden!reader who can't keep their hands off of each other in corridors and secret staircases, who have to pass each other ten times a day as they both fulfill their castle duties but by the middle of the day ghost can't stand it anymore. He sees you hanging laundry just outside the servant's quarters and he sneaks up behind you, big hands engulfing your hips as his mouth swallows your gasp of surprise. knight!ghost who stares a hole through your tight, full bodice all night during the banquet as you pour drinks and pretend not to notice. knight!ghost who sneaks every night by candlelight through the dark underground corridors of the castle to get to your room, to climb into your tiny bed and press his face into the back of your neck. knight!ghost who has to ride into town the next day to help the king investigate the suspicious dissapearance of one of his lords, the same lord who had gotten a little too drunk and a little too handsy with you at the banquet.

[thatoneyanderewriter]

coriolanus snow with a handmaid!reader

tw: NONCON, possessive behavior, dark!snow, very dark themes.

a/n: should I make this into a full blown fic?

your first ever assignment. how lovely. it hadn’t been long since snow proposed that every women in the districts of panem become handmaids, fertile ones at least.

unfortunately, you were one of them. it was cruel that you were assigned to him, your past with snow was probably why you were. but nonetheless, you were a handmaid for him and his wife, livia.

he was a tyrant. And this was all for fear and control. That was already obvious. someone stood outside, probably a peacekeeper. he had many for security.

“it is a privilege, not a prison.”

the aunt had said that to you, and those words remained in your head. this was a privilege. you were the first to leave amongst the girls. but by now, which had been a few days since you first left, they might’ve gotten their assignment too,

your name no longer was yours. the doors opened, and there stood his wife. she reprimanded you about the rules and such. clearly, she didn’t like you, and you didn’t like her, the feeling was mutual.

livia looked older. though, it had been a few years since you’ve ever seen her. and that was brief. Her hair was still blonde and long. But her makeup made her look older than her age.

it wasn’t until a few days later that you had first seen him. and it was only because of the ceremony. oddly, he requested for livia to not show, this time. it wasn’t too necessary in his words. but the next time she would.

“relax, his calm and smooth voice assured you. you nod, but we’re shaking. you’d never relax. spreading your legs using his hands, your dress is lifted up.

you tried to be out of the situation, picturing yourself like that comforted you somewhat. this was your first time, and it was taken.

you didn’t cry, as he thrusts into you. at first, it’s painful. but it’s supposed to be, he always says, as you wince in pain. then it hits you why he wanted to be alone.

“you’re mine now, handmaid.”

they become sloppier, but still slow, and you appreciate that. maybe things will change one day. but he couldn’t. he’d never change.

you just nod, as he takes his possessiveness out on you. but for the sake of reproduction, of course. totally not anything else underneath.

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Forbidden Desires: A Handmaid’s Tale Fic✨

Pre-Outbreak! Joel Miller x Handmaid! fem reader

A/N: I started watching The Handmaid’s Tale and fell in love with Nick right away, so it inspired this one-shot! I couldn’t stop thinking about Joel in his place, so I had to write while inspiration soared. If you love soft, protective Joel, then this fic might be for you 🩷

Summary: Gilead. A dystopian world—one that was once a free country. But that’s gone. Just like your freedom. You do as you’re told: say your prayers, spread your legs, pretend this nightmare is just a phase that’ll end. But it’s not; it’s real. Just like he is. Joel Miller—the gardener/driver that just might be your way out.

Rating: 18+ only MDNI

Word Count: 10k

Tags: Soft! Joel, Protective! Joel, a Handmaid’s Tale inspired fic, dystopian world, forbidden romance, angst, yearning, smut, unprotected piv, mentions of abuse, trauma, nonconsensual touching, implied age gap

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Red carves along your teary vision as you stare at your pale expression in the mirror—your modest dress clinging to your fragile body, bonnet covering your locks of pinned-up hair beneath the white fabric. You feel it. All of it. The weight of this dystopian nightmare you wish you weren’t living in rushing through every limb, every nerve in your body like a bolt of hot lightning.   

   You’re going to be sick. Going to throw up what little dinner and water you’ve had over the past few hours. Or maybe you’ll just toss your body down on the wooden floor like Mrs. Waterford likes to do when she shoves you in your little room, throwing slurs around like you’re a tiny ant she wants to squish under the ball of her expensive high heels. Her favorite word to use is slut. 

   Slut. Slut. Slut. It’s ingrained into your brain. Carved with blood into the back of your eyelids when you try to sleep. You almost start to believe the lies, believe you were never special in the first place. Maybe she’s right. Maybe you’re useless, just like you feel. 

   Maybe you should let her end your suffering. Take you into the back and shove a knife through your jugular and get it over with. It’d be quick. Just a few seconds and you’d be bleeding out on the cobblestone pathway. It’d be one of the best ways out of this insufferable hell. Maybe you’d find peace. A nice place to rest your weary head from the endless months you’ve been here. 

   Maybe then you’ll just be free. 

   Free of her, free of the Commander, free of this house. This extravagant, overly-large residence seems to shrink in on your anxious mind. Despair crawls under your skin like a hoard of spiders. You feel sticky, hot as your breath is knocked from your lungs over and over again like you’re suffocating under a black lake with nobody in sight to pull you free from the dark. No one’s coming to save you…

   Your red-rimmed eyes stare back at you in the bathroom mirror, taunting you like the blood that comes once a month. You’re still not pregnant, still not filled with the seed of a child that’ll never truly be yours. Mrs. Waterford loves to punish you. Loves to slap you around each time she’s reminded that she can’t have children herself. Maybe she’s just taking her rage out on you because she lives under a roof with a monster of a husband that doesn’t desire or love her anymore. He doesn’t even touch her. No gentle gazes from his narrowed eyes. No words of affirmation from his poisoned tongue. No. He doesn’t love her. He’s just stuck with her until her beating heart ceases to stop.

   This she knows. Like she knows you know. That’s why she always sends you away to your room when she catches you staring. Or when you’re laying in her bed while the Commander drills his half-soft cock into you, taking advantage while she holds you down against your will. She can’t even look at him because she knows she hasn’t felt his touch since their wedding night. And you hate it. You hate being underneath him. A ragdoll with no say. He doesn’t make you feel good, only shoots his cum deep inside you where you know it’ll never fertilize. 

   He’s sterile and his wife knows this. She even whispered the possibility to you the other day in the garden. All you could do was stare with wide eyes and keep silent. If you would’ve spoken, she would’ve taken her garden clippers and cut your tongue right out at the scene. So you just zipped your mouth closed like you always do. You don’t have a say anymore. Not with anything. You have no freedom left. Nothing.

   And yet, she still blames you. You’re the problem. The succubus that sucks away her husband’s will to fuck. Lately, he’s snuck peeks at you while you’re underneath him, limp and lifeless. Even though he threatens to get you caught. You’re his new plaything—a pretty little doll that bends at his will. A piece of plastic that he loves to break. You’re his to command, his to destroy. Like the nights he invites you down to his office to play board games. You can’t refuse, can’t say no. That’s the only way you get a semblance of freedom. The only way you’re getting out of this hellish house.

   So you flirt, bat your eyelashes each time he offers you a drink. Grit your teeth each time he uninvitedly touches you out of respect. You’ll indulge him, but only because you’d be locked away in your room till the moment you get pregnant, which will never happen. Not with the Commander, at least… 

   But then there’s him. Joel. The only thing that keeps you going every day. A breath of fresh air. Sunlight streaming through your darkened curtains. A taste of something that feels a lot like coming home. 

   He’s kind. So very gentle. From the moment you arrived, he was always near, always seeking a way to be close to you. It was the slight brush of his hand against yours, the soft gazes across the garden, the stolen conversations in the car when he was ordered to chauffeur you around Massachusetts. He’s become something dear to you. Something you can hold on to for just a moment when your knees give out. He always keeps you from hitting the floor.

  Safe. A word you no longer recognize in a cold world where women have no rights anymore. Nowhere feels safe anymore. But yet, you felt safe the moment he brought you an ice pack after Mrs. Waterford bruised your face after lashing out about you not being pregnant. He wasn’t supposed to be there, wasn’t supposed to help. But still, he snuck you a cold ice pack, took your hands in his gently, brushed a stolen kiss to the back of your knuckles. You still feel it—his soft lips lingering on your fragile skin like sweet perfume. You wish you could feel his lips on yours. Wish you could just be with him…

   But that can’t happen, can it? No. You only got that one afternoon. The one where Mrs. Waterford snuck you into his little studio, told you to hurry up and finish the deed so she could have your child. And you just had to comply.

   It was only five minutes. Five blissful minutes that you got to be with Joel. Even if it was forbidden, the wrong way to do this. She didn’t fucking care. She just selfishly threw you in the room and told you to spread your legs, get it over with. But even though you were both forced into it, you were glad it was him. Because you got him once. You got him, even under the worst situation. Still, you had him. Even if it was just those five whole minutes…

   He was so gentle, even then. Whispered, “I’m right here. Jus’ look at me, sweetheart. You’re alright.” And so you did. You stared up into his big brown eyes, pretended your handler wasn’t in the room, imagined it was just you and Joel for those quick five minutes. His broad body loomed over yours like a blanket. His strong, tanned arms held himself up against each side of your shoulders. And his eyes—big brown orbs of sadness slipping against his flecked irises. He was holding himself back. Holding himself back from really touching you like he wanted. You could see it in those coffee-colored eyes. He wanted to kiss you so badly, but he couldn’t. He fucking couldn’t. 

   He held on for as long as he could with each slow, languid thrust inside your walls. Gritted his teeth together when she said to hurry up before someone comes up. He wanted to fucking strangle her with each sharp word steered toward the two of you. But at the next command, he thrusted deep inside and spilled all of his warm seed inside you, claiming you as his own. 

   And even through those entire five minutes, he never once let his warm brown eyes drop from yours…

   But then you were ripped away, yanked out of his calloused reach, back to your prison cell of a house. And with one more longing look, she shut the door with a bang, growling orders once again when you were alone in that big, empty house where cobwebs lingered in dark corners. Corners only you knew. 

   Your teeth chatter, lips quiver as tears begin to stream down your face. Your nails dig into the porcelain sink like a chalkboard, dragging along like knives that could gut the expensive decor to shreds. This house is no home. The only home you know is in Joel’s arms. 

   Joel Miller. The only one that’s seen you as a real human being since this nightmare of a world started. The only one that truly made you feel safe, seen, loved. 

   Loved. That’s what it is. The one thing the Commander said wasn’t real anymore. But it is. It’s real in Joel… You feel it everywhere when you’re around him. It’s in those yearning eyes of his, those long, dragged out glances he steals across the garden when he’s tending to the rose bushes. It’s in the shadows of the kitchen when he brushes his knuckles against yours just so he can feel you for a second. It’s in the way he looks out his window every night just to make sure you’re okay. 

   But you’re not okay. You’re never okay. You’re a chipped teacup with cracks and fractures all along the dusty china. And you just keep chipping away day after day. Pretty soon, you’ll only be in pieces swept under the crimson rug by the front door. 

   Your body trembles beneath you as you stare at your pinned-up hair, hidden under the white bonnet. The one that hides your face from the world. The one that tells everyone you’re oppressed—used as an object to burden a child into this world. One you won’t be able to keep…

   And if you birth Joel’s baby, you won’t be able to keep it. You won’t be able to raise it together. It’ll just be taken like everything else has from your life. Just like Joel will be taken shortly after the birth, once you’re kicked out of the house. You’ll never have a real family of your own. You’ll never truly have… Joel.

   Anger boils its way through your body, singeing nerve endings, feeding flames in your watery eyes. Gritting your teeth together, you throw the white bonnet to the floor, frantically pull out the bobby pins that hold your hair up. It’s messy, unhinged the way you tug and throw them all over the floor while tears drop like rain to the polished wood. Metal clatters against the ground while your hair falls in messy waves. You claw at your scalp till all the bobby pins are out, till you feel a glimpse of a weight off your chest. But the rage still churns deep in your gut, still swims in your bloodstream. 

   When you run your fingers shakily through your hair and let them fall to your violent red dress, it takes everything in you not to rip it clear off your body, shred it to pieces till you never have to wear the monstrosity of a dress ever again. 

   Forbidden. What Mrs. Waterford did last week was off-limits. Banned. But she broke the rules, now it’s your turn. Now you get something forbidden too. And that something is Joel. 

   Whipping your head around, you see the clock says ten o’clock. She’ll be asleep by now. The Commander will be deep into his alcohol in his study. The guard that patrols the yard will be well past this area, clear across the neighborhood by now. So now is your chance. Now, you run. 

   Slipping out of your room, you tiptoe down the hall, go clear down the staircase silently, careful not to make a sound as you make your way to the front glass door. With one peek behind you, you have the all clear. So you slide through the door, quietly close it behind you and fucking run for your life. 

   You let your hair fly behind you as you zigzag through the rose bushes, push your way through the front gate, sprint next door to where the black staircase is. The one that’ll lead you to Joel’s room. 

   Your blood starts pumping when you hear footsteps approaching somewhere behind you. Sweat beads your forehead as you slip into the shadows and make a run up the staircase to safety. 

   “Is anyone there?” a guard shouts into the stillness of night. 

   Your foot catches on a broken step, and it takes everything in your power not to whimper as your knee skids against metal. But you hold in the cry, duck down and pray you won’t be seen. Your knee’s not bleeding, thanks to your long dress, but you still could be caught. 

   You timed it wrong, wasn’t prepared for this to happen. It was a rash decision. A desperate, stupid idea. One that might just get you killed. And for what? All because you can’t fucking go another night without being in his arms. For him, you’d hang if you have to. For Joel, you’ll do just about anything. Even if that means getting dragged off into a black van in the night. 

   Holding your breath, you feel the tears sting your eyes. Feel the weight of the world topple down on you as the guard with a huge rifle slips inside the creaking gate. He checks in every crevice of the garden, looks behind trees, through the red rose bushes, even looks through the kitchen window. 

   You don’t move a muscle, don’t even breathe while he’s there, hunting you down. He’ll never find you. Won’t drag you down this staircase. Won’t take you away from the man you’re head over heels for. You won’t let him. Or rather, Joel won’t let him. 

   Closing your eyes, you wait for the inevitable as he pushes the iron gate open while his heavy footsteps observe the perimeter. You cringe, sinking in on yourself, just waiting to be tazed and taken into custody. But his abusing hands never come. His gun never shoots off. He just vanishes into the dark night like a cloud. And in the next moment, he’s completely gone. 

   Uncovering your mouth, you let out a gigantic sigh, relax as your knee stops throbbing. You did it. You fucking did it. Snuck past the hounds. But still, you feel so far from safety. Feel like he’ll be back any second, so you push yourself up off the stairs and crawl your way up, still too terrified to stand up all the way. 

   When you make it to the dark green door that’s closed, you rap your knuckles quickly against the wood, scared of making too much noise in the quiet of the night. 

   Open up. Please, open the door, Joel. 

   It’s desperate, dire as you silently beg for him to open. What if he’s asleep and doesn’t hear you? What if he doesn’t come? What if he…

   Your rampant thoughts are suddenly silenced as he whips the door open, his eyes wide when he sees you standing there in a puddle of tears. Your hair all down, hands shaking, face probably pale from the close call of the guard. 

   You have no time to explain, you just rush into his space, close the door, click the lock tight, and then you’re jumping into his body. You wrap your arms around his broad back, fall into the weight of him, inhale the scent of coffee and safety, feel all of him, all at once. 

   “Joel. I had to see you. I couldn’t… I couldn’t…”

   “Shh. I’m here, sweetheart. I’m right here. S’okay now. You’re safe,” he coos into your ear while he places a soft kiss atop the crown of your head, wrapping his arms like a cocoon around your shaking body. 

   He holds you like that for another minute, till your sobs start to quiet down, till you’ve soaked through a section of his blue flannel shirt. But he doesn’t seem to mind. Doesn’t even flinch when you lock your fingers around the soft fabric, till you’re one in the same with him. 

   “Hey. Look at me.” He says it softly, lifts your chin with his calloused fingers, lets the pad of his thumb catch a falling tear from crashing onto the carpet. “Are you hurt?” He assesses your cheeks, looks for any new signs of purple bruises, but he finds none. Only sees how broken you truly are. 

   Shaking your head, you gulp. “No. I’m not hurt. I’m just…”

   “Jus’ what?” His soft brown eyes delve into yours while they search for anything that might give your reckless behavior away. But he’s not looking for an apology or explanation of why you came. He knows why. Deep down, he knows. 

   You just need him. More than you ever did. 

   “I needed you…” you whisper into the air as he catches another falling tear. 

   “Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls out as sadness sweeps over his soft features. “C’mere, baby.” He scoops you up in his arms bridal style, takes you over to the bed, cradles you in his lap till everything just stops. Till all the noise dissipates into the air. Till your body stills in his arms. And then you let him rock you against his firm chest while he gently kisses your temple, leaves the mark of his soft lips on your skin like an invisible tattoo. You’ll surely wear it forever underneath this red rag of a dress. 

   “You’re such a brave girl, you know that?” he whispers into your hair, dragging his lips down until he’s pressing them to your forehead. An action you’ve needed so desperately for so long. 

   You choke on words, spit them out as if this will be your last time to voice them. “I thought I was gonna get caught. I slipped on the stairs. I made too much noise. They almost… they almost…” You fall into his warm chest, nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck where you know it’s safe.

   “Shh,” he coos while he runs a hand up and down the small of your back. “You’re safe now, sweetheart. You made it. And now, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

   I’ve got you. He repeats the phrase so he can drive it into your brain. Really make you believe that this is all okay. He knows it’s not, but he’ll make you feel like it is for now. In these few minutes you have together. 

   You turn your head, stare at the locked door like they’ll break in any second. Carry you away. They’d take Joel first. Hang him by a rope till his neck breaks. That’s what they always do because they love torturing women. They’d drag it out so slow, till you felt everything Joel did. Till every single particle inside you broke from heartbreak. And then they’d drag you back to that awful house and make you relive it all over again but without Joel. You can’t live without him. You can’t…

   “It’s so awful in that house, Joel. They’re both monsters. Please don’t… don’t leave me,” you cry into the fabric of his flannel, praying it never gets to that point. Begging for anyone to just listen to your pleas. 

   “I'm not goin’ anywhere, sweetheart. Gonna stay right here,” he whispers gently into your ear. As if he knows exactly what you’re thinking, he wraps you tighter in his arms, rocks you till you’re floating in a sea of still water. “I know, sweetheart. I know. I worry ‘bout you every second of every day when I’m not there. ‘Cause I can’t… I can’t stop them from hurting you. I can’t stop him.” You know exactly what he means. He can’t stop the Commander from spreading your legs every single week. Joel has no power to do that, and you know it kills him. God, it fucking weighs on him like wet cement. Even if he wants to end it, he can’t. 

   “I know. I wish you could because he makes me sick. They make me so fucking sick. I just want…” You pause, curl your fingers into the soft flannel, reel him in a little closer so you can inhale his woodsy scent. 

   “What do you want? Tell me, sweetheart,” he coaxes as he twists a strand of your hair between his fingers.

   “I just want you.” That’s it. That’s all you want. All you need. “If I can’t have anything else in the world then just let me have you.” Your eyes swirl with mist, tears breaking over your lashes, a desperate cry for help for someone to hear your call through the dark night. 

   Please, just let me have Joel. Just once more, if that…

   “Oh, babygirl.” He draws you in, brushes his plush lips over yours, kissing away the pain of yesterday. And then he takes his calloused palm and caresses your cheek while he stares into your blurry eyes. “You’re all I ever want, too. You’re like the twinkling stars in the night sky. So beautiful, yet so out of reach. And when I try to extend my arm out, jump for the night sky, you somehow get further from my grasp. You always jus’… disappear.”

   You know what he means. You’re always pulled in two directions at once. Always at the beck and call of Mrs. Waterford. Always fucking drowning in her moody demands. She can’t stand the sight of you. Thinks you’re a crawling parasite that she can walk all over. Makes you choke when she wrings your neck like a dog on a leash she can’t control. She has control though. Always has ever since you walked through that dark doorway. She has every last bit of control with you, except right this very second.

   You cling to his flexed bicep, look him deep in the eyes while you try to put on a brave face. “I can’t sleep at night knowing you’re just feet away from me. I can’t function when all I think about is you in that haunted hell of a house. I can’t… think when you’re not around. I can’t fucking breathe.” There. You said it all. Poured out your entire feelings on a platter and offered it up to him like a pot of gold. He’s your everything, and you can’t bear to live in this authoritarian nightmare without him.

   He pauses a beat, fixes his sad brown eyes on you, slides his knuckles against your jawline, gives you that look that makes butterflies swim through your stomach. “Sweetheart, I… I haven’t slept a wink since me and you… Well, since we…”

   “Slept together,” you finish for him, watching his lips twitch and jaw clench.

   He nods, sighs through his words. “I wouldn’t call that sleepin’ together. That was… forced. ‘Cause she was fuckin’ standing over there like a goddamn watchdog hoverin’ and blowing smoke down my back. I couldn’t give you what I wanted to. I couldn’t make you feel the way you should feel. I couldn’t… Fuck. I couldn’t make love to you like I wanted to.” He drops his forehead to yours, holds you a bit closer, grazes his lips over your cheek, steals your breath when he tips your head back until you’re practically mouth to mouth.

   There’s a tension thickening in the air like a warm summer breeze. Thunderstorms brewing in the distance, creating humidity and heat between your bodies. This is it. This could be your only shot at a real moment together. You could be dead by tomorrow, so you’ll take every advantage of what’s right in front of you now. Joel. 

   “So make love to me then,” you whisper against his lips.

   He dips his head, looks you right in the eye and asks for permission with those perfect brown eyes of his. “You feel up for that, sweetheart? I mean, did the Commander…”

   “Not tonight,” you shake your head, feel relief flood through you as he carefully takes his hand and unzips the back of your crimson-stained dress, letting you know he’s going to take good care of you.

   “Well, then. Let me make you feel exactly how you deserve to feel. Let me show you how I really feel about you.” He slides the dress off your body, takes his hands and unclamps the back of your bra, tugs just enough until it’s thrown in a heap on the floor. Leaving you in only your panties.

   “Joel…” you breathe as he kisses a trail down the side of your neck, kneading your breasts until his mouth closes around them. You arch your back, whimper his name through closed lips, fall into bliss when he hooks his fingers around the elastic of your panties until he’s pushing them down, leaving you completely bare with parted legs.

   “Tell me what you want, baby,” he says through languid kisses, his tongue teasing along your inner thighs, creating slick that you haven’t felt in years. Is this what it’s like to feel wanted, to be loved? 

   “Want you to… touch me,” you say effortlessly through fluttering eyelashes, your legs splayed wide as he settles between your thighs, looks up at you with satisfaction swimming through his shiny irises. He’s going to eat you alive, and you hope he swallows you. 

   “Jus’ relax. Lay back. Enjoy this. It’s all for you, sweetheart. All of it,” he growls. And then he dives down, flattens his tongue over the entirety of you and slides up, licking all of you. 

   You have to wrap your fingers in the sheets. Have to hold on to something while he ignites every single nerve ending in your body. He does it again, this time slower, needier. Flicks his tongue around your bundle of nerves while you moan through the pleasure. 

   “Yes, yes,” you chant as he looks up with hungry eyes, replaces his tongue with two big fingers that circle your puffy clit till you see stars. 

   “Joel, I’m close. I’m…”

   “Take it all, sweetheart. Want you to feel so good for me. Want you to come like no one’s ever made you come,” he groans as he licks over your folds, pushes two thick fingers through your dripping hole, reaching that spongy spot that no one’s ever reached but him before. 

   You throw your head back into the silky sheets, push your fingers through his greying locks of hair, feel your body start to vibrate through the pleasure. You feel him everywhere. Through the tips of your fingers, through your curling toes, through the way his name slips off your tongue through his languid strokes of his tongue. He’s inside you, all around you, through the smoke of the air outside. You’re his. He’s marking you through his lips, reaching inside and slapping his name on your heartstrings. He’s all of you. And now, you fall. 

   He sucks you into his mouth, pulls you in and curls his fingers once more till you’re falling from the stars. Arching your back, you let the white-hot heat take hold of you, let the tears crash over the messy sheets, let his name fall off your lips as your orgasm washes over you like falling snow. There’s no Commanders, no rules, no regulations in this room. It’s just Joel guiding your body, freeing you of your shackles so you can experience this wonderful, incredible, once in a lifetime moment you may never have again. 

   You fall back in the bed, his fingers still meticulously brushing over you, pulling out the last of your orgasm like magic on a string. And when you open your eyes and let your body come back down to reality, he hovers over you, strokes your cheek, looks at you like you’re made to be loved. 

   “You okay?” His deep Southern drawl is filled with so much love. A scrape of affection you thought you’d never feel again. 

   “Mhm. More than okay.” You lace your fingers with his, coax him forward until his lips are hovering right above yours, waiting for an invitation to drop down on yours. 

   He sighs, lets his forehead lean against yours, brushes a piece of hair behind the shell of your ear, gazes at you with the most sincere eyes you’ve ever seen. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers out as his hand skates over your heated skin, feeding the flames inside you. 

   Your bottom lip trembles, your eyes melt. No one’s ever called you that. Not in this lifetime. Not in that house with crawling spiders and venomous snakes. But he did. Joel called you that. Beautiful. He thinks you’re beautiful…

   Without wasting another second, you grab the front of his flannel, draw him closer until your mouth crashes against his in a heated kiss. Flames erupt around you; wildfires burn as you tangle yourself around him. He tastes like yours, tastes like freedom, like love. 

   You paw at the buttons on his flannel, frantically tugging like you’ll die if you spend one more second without his tanned skin on yours. He senses your worry, feels you desperately pulling at the buckle of his belt while your other hand clings to his button-up. So he helps, assists you in your dire need. 

   He quickly undoes all his buttons, lets you slide the soft fabric off his broad shoulders while his tongue dances with yours. Next, he unzips his black pants, lets the belt slide loose until he shucks them off along with his boxers. Now there’s nothing left between you, just warm bodies sliding against one another, connecting like you fit perfectly together. 

   Your bodies tangle together as you roll through the sheets, toppling over one another. His hands are everywhere—exploring your curves, his mouth molding with yours like honey, fingers tangling through your locks. You push your hands through his soft brown hair, lock your arms around his neck, kiss him like he’s the only thing filling your lungs with oxygen. But it’s not enough. It still isn’t enough. You need to be closer, tighter, sewed into the very essence of him. Maybe then it’d be enough. 

   As he rolls onto his back, he disconnects from your lips. Just long enough to take a breath and look up at you with big brown eyes that sparkle just for you. And then he smiles—one that nearly tips you over the edge. You’ve never seen anything more beautiful in your life. 

   “Hi,” he says, so casually with a perfect crooked smile on his lips.

   “Hi,” you repeat, your lips curving into a soft smile. 

   “Goddamn it. Look at you. Straddlin’ me. Looking like a pretty picture under the soft lighting,” he smiles, melting your heart that much more. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters. The only thing that exists in this world. 

   “Am I your girl?” you ask shyly, batting your eyelashes as a blush stains your cheeks. 

   He nods, spreading his smile wide while he caresses his knuckles against the side of your cheek. “Yeah, you’re my girl.”

   You blink down at him, take this moment to memorize the outline of his chiseled jawline. Map out every single wrinkle and line of his tanned skin. Commit to memory his perfect glossy-brown eyes. Eyes that make your knees weak. 

   Taking his time, he slides your body down, just enough to where his tip nudges against your entrance. Coaxing you to move on your own terms. Nodding down between your sprawled legs, he lets his hand fall to the side of your right hip. 

   “Go on, sweetheart. Take what you need,” he coaxes, sending you another warm grin. 

   You flick your eyes down for a second, see his hardened cock ready to go, trace the outline of the thick veins wrapping around his long length, memorize all of him before you look back up with big eyes. 

   He knows… He knows you’re always being held down against your own will. Always on your back as the Commander takes and ravishes and steals till you finally break. Joel knows how uncomfortable it makes you. Reminds you that you have no freedom. But Joel’s giving you release, unshackling you from your duties. He’s giving you a choice. Freedom. He’s setting you free…

   With one more knowing look his way, you start to rock against him. Let him slip inside your dripping opening. Feel him stretch you like no one else has before. You slide down till he’s bottomed out inside you, bounce up and down at a slow, satiating rhythm. You revel in the feel of him, in the way he makes you feel so good. He lets you take the pleasure, lets you breathe his name through the thick air while you intertwine your fingers with his. And then you moan, let his name slip off your tongue till all you can feel is him buried deep inside you.

   “There ya go. That’s my girl,” he groans out through his own pleasure, his hooded eyes staring up at you as you listlessly call his name.

   “Joel, Joel, Joel,” you moan as your clit catches on his coarse, dark hair; your continuous echo bouncing across the walls each time his massive cock hits that spongy spot at the top of your walls. 

   “Yeah. Attagirl. Take it all. Every drop. Soak it in. Bottle it up. This is all for you. Jus’… you,” he bites through his clenched teeth as your walls suck him in, devouring him like you’ll never let go. 

   You revel in the ecstasy. The way he tilts his hips, just enough to where each thrust pounds you deeper into oblivion. And you ride him—slowly, implicitly, unabashedly until you take back every ounce of freedom you’ve lost. Each slide of his cock, each affectionate word, each roll of his hips is giving back something you’ve lost. Your right to own a house, your ability to have money in a bank, your freedom to fuck who you want, when you want, your choice to love who you want. Joel gives it all back piece by piece each time he stares at you with those big brown eyes. Eyes that make you forget you’re trapped in a simulation of misery and despair. 

   You blanket yourself over his body, seal your mouth to his, get lost in the taste, smell, and feel of him. Tanned, sweat-glistened skin. Calloused fingers dancing across your back. The scent of trimmed rose bushes permeating off the tips of his dark hair. You bottle it up, slip it into your mind so you won’t forget. Push past the barrier that says this might be the only night. The last time you’ll be able to be like this. Sprawled over his body, draped in his silky sheets, his tongue dancing in sync with yours, his body tangling with yours.

   Fear alights in your mind, your facade breaks, glass shattering as wet tears rain down your face. And you cry through the pleasure, sulk through the way his cock bruises your cervix, moving through the pain of knowing this could be the last time. The only time you’ll ever experience this form of love blooming in this little room, lighting fires in these twisted sheets. You just crumble, ride through the sheer terror of leaving this very room. Leaving him. 

   “Let it out, sweetheart,” he coos through your tears, helping you through your blurry eyesight. “Let it all out.” He flexes a big hand around your hip, guides you to that point of no return. Sets your body alight once again as your climax starts to go over the edge. 

   And then he says your name. Your real name. Slow, filled with passion, his tongue drawling your name in that sweet, saccharine way he always does. In a way that screams “I love you, I need you” so desperately and deeply. And then he repeats it like a prayer, chanting your name through his deep thrusts, making you burn like fire. And when he says it once more, rolls his hips so your puffy clit catches just the right spot to make you see stars, you fall, reach for heaven when you throw your head back and moan his name. 

   He falls apart the second after you do, calls your name while he spills his seed deep inside you—warm bursts of cum filling you, claiming you as his. 

   His, his, his. Yes, you’re his…

   The moment he pulls out, you topple on top of him, collapse against his sweat-glistening chest, your fingers automatically hooking around his. He pulls you up higher, kisses the crown of your head, talks you through coming down from your orgasmic high. 

   “That’s my girl. My perfect girl,” he drawls out slowly, his fingers curling a lock of hair behind the shell of your ear, brown eyes filled with so much admiration. 

   You look up at him with tears filling your eyes as fears drown out the bliss. You’ll have to go back, have to be ripped away from Joel once again. You don’t think you can do it. Don’t think you can breathe once you walk out his door. 

   Taking a shaky breath, you swallow back tears. “Please, don’t make me go back. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to…”

   He goes silent for a beat. His lips form into a tight line; his eyes start to shine from the building tears he’s holding back. And then he closes them just for a second, enough to pull himself back together. He doesn’t want you to go back either. Wishes he could just vanish the both of you away from this awful, twisted place. He wishes he could take your pain away for good. 

   Letting the back of his knuckles graze your cheek, he sighs. “Sweetheart, I… If it were up to me, I never would’ve let you spend even five seconds in that house with those fuckin’ monsters.”

   You give him a sad smile and nod. “I know you wouldn’t.”

   He lets his hand fall to yours, intertwines his fingers through yours like tangled vines, looks at you with so much intensity you might just melt into his gaze. “Do you know how hard it is for me to jus’ stand there and watch the way they treat you? When he puts his hands on you or calls you names or slaps you around. I jus’ wanna take a goddamn gun and pop it in his fuckin’ mouth!”

   He’s angry, getting heated because he knows he can’t intervene. Not if he wants to be found out. If he gets caught that means this is over. And it can’t be over. Not yet. Not ever.

   “Hey, it’s okay,” you implore sadly, showing him you understand. 

   “It’s not okay! It’s—”

   You push your fingers through his messy locks, let his silver strands tangle around your hand. “Joel. Just having you in the same room with me is enough. For this life, it… it keeps me from tipping over the edge.”

   He draws out a sigh, relaxes beneath your touch. “You keep me from losin’ my goddamn mind in this hell, you beautiful woman. You keep me from lodging the barrel in my own mouth…”

   You nuzzle your head into the crook of his neck, breathe in his earthy scent, committing it to memory so you’ll never forget this night with him.

   “How much longer do we have?” you whisper, squeezing your eyes shut so you don’t have to see the pain written on his face when he answers.

   “If we’re speaking in terms of safety, we have none,” he murmurs out quietly as he wraps an arm tightly around your waist like he never wants to let go. “Riskin’ a little, maybe an hour or two, at most.”

   Being brave, you flutter your eyelids open, watch the way he stares down at you with such affection in those pools of warmth. “Can I stay till morning?”

   He’s silent a beat, probably scared to say anything at this point. “Sweetheart, we…”

   “Please?” There’s a desperate plea in your voice, a cry for help in your wide eyes. If this is the only night you have, you want to make it last as long as it can. 

   He sighs, breathes as his jaw flexes, nodding through his uncertainty. “Alright. But we gotta get you back in before the sun rises. If you got caught, I couldn’t live with myself.”

   “Well, it’d be worth it because I got to spend my last moments with you…”

   He pulls you in, plants a lingering kiss atop the crown of your head, lets his lips trickle down to your forehead. And then he whispers out into the night air, “I love you, my sweet girl.”

   Love blooms deep in your chest. Butterflies toss through your stomach. And it’s like the rose garden in the front covers the expanse of Gilead. “I love you too. So much…” you whisper back.

   He throws his arms around you, pulls you as close as humanly possible into his side. And you mold to him like clay. If you die tomorrow, at least you can say they didn’t get to steal this night from you.

   After a few minutes of comfortable silence, you decide to ask the inevitable. It’s a touchy topic, but you have to know. “Have they let you see her?”

   He stills beneath you, his breathing becoming shallow at the mention of her. His little girl. 

   Joel shakes his head. His eyes become so heavy that you can almost see thunderstorms brewing in them. “No. The Commander loves to dangle Sarah in front of me. To threaten or scare me or maybe jus’ to be the bastard that he is.” His jaw ticks, the muscle becoming strained beneath the weight of this burden on him. “He thinks he has me on a short leash with a shock collar, but he’s fuckin’ wrong. I’ll never be his dog.” But his anger melts away. In its place is hurt, sadness, a weight that hollows out his chest. “He promises she’s safe, as long as I… obey.”

   There’s a weight setting across the room, blanketing heaviness and despair across the thick air. Joel looks so defeated, so very lost in his head. With his deep-set eyebrows framing his watering eyes to the flex of his jaw with every moment he makes. 

   You place a hand gently on the side of his face, give him an encouraging smile that says you know exactly how he feels. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what that feels like. To have your daughter stripped from you just like that.”

   He shifts in the bed, stiffens his broad shoulders, holds you just a little tighter through the pain. “I miss her every day. Her laugh, her bright smile, the way she used to make pancakes with me every Saturday mornin’.” He sighs, relaxes his jaw, and looks at you with worried eyes. “You know, I don’t even know how brainwashed they’ve made her. I don’t even know if she remembers me.”

   Dragging your fingers softly through his salt-and-pepper scruff, you say, “She remembers. I know she does. And she loves you. So much, Joel. She thinks you’re the best father in the world.”

   He stills beneath you, gives you a half lopsided smile, and laughs under his breath. Tucking you against him, he lets his hand slide up and down your back slowly in a soothing way. 

   “I miss her so fuckin’ much…” There’s a gleam in his eye. A tear slips down his cheek, and you brush it away with your thumb. He tries so hard to be the big, tough man that is his, but strong men break too. 

   “I know, Joel. I know.” You linger your fingers on his tanned cheek, keep yourself strong just for him, even though you feel like shattering too. “She misses you too.”

   He swallows back the tears and nods through the pain, just like he always does. “She’d want me to be brave.”

   “And you are,” you confirm. “You’re the bravest man I know.”

   He burrows himself against you, lifts you up so you can blanket the top of his body with yours. And then he cups both sides of your face and brings your lips to his to soothe the pain for just a minute. You’d do anything to erase his pain. You guess the two of you do that a lot. Use each other to drown out the pain of living in enslavement. Remind each other that you’ve got to keep living. Even if most of the time that ray of light seems miles away. Like you’ll never be able to fully grasp it. 

   What was it he told you before? That night he found you in the mud in the middle of a thunderstorm. When you buried yourself behind the rose bushes, praying that’d be your last night on earth. He said, “C’mon, sweetheart. You can’t give up. You’ve got to find the light.” But he was your light. Still is. You could’ve died right there, but he scooped you up and showed you the path to light again. 

   He’s the only reason you’re still breathing…

   “Joel?”

   “Hm?” he hums against your body, one hand on the small of your back, the other drawing hearts on the side of your face.

   “What if I…” You pause, not able to finish the sentence.

   “What if you what?” He searches your face, digging for anything that might give away your half-finished sentence.

   “Get pregnant.” It’s a whisper, barely anything at all. But it permeates through the room like fog.

   “Then I’ll take care of you.” There’s no question or hesitation in his voice. He’s firm like the wood on the floor. He will take care of you. This you know. You guess you’ve always known. Like that first day at the house when he clasped his hand around your wrist after you stared at the ceiling fan for too long. He saved your life that day, and he’s still continuing to save it.

   “But they won’t… let you,” you mewl, biting your bottom lip as fear creeps its way inside you. “They’ll take the baby, Joel. Once it’s born. They won’t let me see them. Mrs. Waterford, she’ll never let me hold my…” You can’t help it. You break on the spot. Tears pool in your eyes. Your chest squeezes around your lungs. You can’t breathe. You can’t think because your future baby, the one that may already be growing inside you, will be lost forever. In the hands of monsters that will never be what your baby needs. 

   “Hey. No… no.” His big hands cup your face in a desperate plea, his big brown eyes delving into yours. “I’ll fuckin’ chop off their goddamn hands before they lay a finger on our baby.”

   Our baby. Something made out of love in spite of living here where love doesn’t exist. But it does with you and Joel. But again, it sounds too good to be true. Our baby. 

   “But…”

   He brushes his thumb over your skin, calming you down through every soft stroke. “I’m gonna get you out.”

   You gasp as you let the words sink in. “What?”

   “I’m gonna get us out,” he states clearly. 

   “Us?” 

   He nods. “You, me, Sarah, our baby…”

   Our baby. There it is again. It settles like concrete on the ground outside. Makes it official. You’re going to have his baby.

   “How?” Your eyes search his face, grabbing at answers you don’t quite have yet. 

   “Jus’ trust me, okay? I’ve been workin’ on somethin’, and I think it might jus’ work.” 

   You open your mouth, but then snap it shut. There’s nothing you can say because your mind is racing through the unknown. 

   He’s going to find a way out…

   You dig your fingers into the flesh of his bicep, hanging on for dear life when the fear comes raging through your bones. And then you start to shake. “I’m scared, Joel. The Commander. He’ll… he’ll…”

   Joel wraps his arms around you, draws you in so he can hug you tight like a teddy bear. And you cling to him as hard as you can.

   “Hey. Baby, I need you to hold on jus’ a little longer.” He smoothes a hand through your hair, caresses his other down your back until you feel just the slightest weight leave your chest.

   You flick your eyes up to his and whisper, “How much longer?”

   He lets a sigh escape his mouth. “Maybe a month. Two at the most, unless I can get my cards right.”

   You close your eyes, breathe in the scent of him and try to picture freedom. “Two months is an awfully long time.” But really, every day seems like weeks.

   “I know.” He lets his scruff slide against your jawline till his lips brush against the shell of your ear. “Sweetheart, you’re such a brave woman. So fuckin’ brave. And you’re gonna be okay. As long as I’m here, you’re gonna be okay.” 

   You want to believe he’s right, but he’s not in the Commander’s room when he’s got his grimy hands on you. Joel’s not there when he’s using your body and holding you down. He can’t always be there. At least not when you need him the most…

   As if he can read your thoughts, he murmurs out once more, “I’m gonna get us out.”

   Get us out. The words sound foreign, distorted, but they’re clear as day when you look into his soft brown eyes.

   “But what if they catch us. What if they…”

   “Hey, look at me.” He cups your chin, tilts your head until his gaze is locked with yours. There’s no maybe about it in those eyes. “I’m gonna get us to Canada. I’m gonna set us free.”

   “You promise?” you whimper out, holding back tears from the fear that tries to eat you alive. 

   “I swear,” he nods, firm in his promise.

   “Okay.” You fiddle with your bottom lip, brows knit, your teeth grinding against one another. What if this doesn’t work? What if we get caught? What if we… die.

   Joel sees that look in your eyes. The one he knows all too well. So he does what he does best. Comforts you when you need it.

   “C’mere, sweetheart.” He scoops you up, wraps his thick arms around you, and hugs away the fright. It just melts away like warm butter. “You alright?” His warm breath blows against the shell of your ear, his lips grazing your skin, making you feel so good and warm and safe.

   “As long as I’m in your arms, I’ll be alright,” you coo into the crook of his neck as your fingers dig into the flesh of shoulders. 

   “Then I’ll hold you for as long as I can,” he says quietly as he kisses the top of your forehead, silencing the gut-wrenching fizzle in your chest that tells you you’re running out of time. The night can’t last forever.

   “Promise you’ll never let go?” There’s a catch to your voice, something broken, fading—like the light inside you. But Joel holds the lamp up, so you never have to fade to black. 

   “I promise.” And he does. You hear it in the softness of his words. He promises to always keep you safe…

   The room turns into silence, only the faint chirps from grasshoppers outside, the hoot of an owl somewhere in the blowing trees. You wish you could just walk out that front gate with your hand in Joel’s. Strut right past the armed guards, turn invisible for the hour it’d take to get past this city. Maybe then you’d really be free.

   Shifting your weight, you adjust yourself atop his broad chest and look at him with a fixed gaze. “You really think we can make it?”

   He nods and strokes lightly at the back of your head, your hair tangling in his fingers. “I know we’ll make it.”

   “I believe you.” Giving him a sweet smile, you take your nails and scratch them along his greying scruff, memorizing how it feels to touch him. Really touch him. This time it’s not just your imagination. 

   Joel brushes the pad of his thumb along your cheek, soft strokes like he’s running a paint brush over your skin. “When we get there, I’m gonna take you on the best date of your life.”

   “Oh?” You giggle, tilting your face to the side so you can admire the handsome man in front of you. 

   “Mhm,” he hums out, watching you through lovesick eyes.

   “Enlighten me,” you challenge with a smirk.

   “Hmm. Let’s see.” He traces a line down your arm slowly, savoring the feel of your skin. “We could start by me takin’ you out for a nice, fancy steak dinner. Top it off with some chocolate cake.”

   “Go on. I’m listening,” you murmur out dreamily.

   He strokes along the back of your neck, sending tingles down your spine. “Could drive you down to the lake. Make a little bed in the back of the truck. Watch the stars in the night sky.”

   He’s such a romantic. How’d you get so lucky? If you were never placed with the Waterfords, you never would’ve met Joel.

   “I like the sound of that,” you lull against his chest, your fingers still scratching along his smooth, clipped beard.

   “Yeah?” he smiles, asks you to elaborate, so you do.

   “Sounds so romantic,” you drawl out in a thick cloud of admiration, picturing it through the fog of your mind. 

   You adore this man so much.

   “Well, I am the romantic type,” he smirks playfully, his Texas accent thick on his tongue. 

   “I can see that.” You press a sweet kiss to his cheek, settle back into him as one of his big arms snakes around your back.

   Tilting his head in curiosity, he murmurs out, “And if by chance we have another guest with us then?” One of his hands finds your stomach. As he flattens his palm over your bare skin, he lingers there like he’s waiting to feel something other than the butterflies flitting in your belly.

   “Then?” You try to read him, but it’s pretty damn obvious. He’d love to have a baby with you. 

   A crooked smile frames over his mouth. Makes his eyes a little brighter. “Maybe we’d put on a record, get nice and cozy in bed, cuddle till we both fall asleep. You in my arms…”

   “Sounds like the perfect date,” you muse as his hand slides atop yours.

   “It will be, sweetheart. It will be.” And there’s that promise again in his deep drawl. Something to hold on to.

   As he tangles his fingers in yours, he pauses. “You know, if we would’ve met when America wasn’t like this, when it wasn’t a prison, I think I’d have found you either way. Given you a family.” 

   Given you a family. He wants to give you a family…

   “You are my family,” you verify with a big smile. And he is. He has been since the day you met him months ago. 

   “Jus’ as you are mine.” 

   Craning his neck forward, he brushes his lips over yours, steals a kiss like he steals your breath every single time he even looks at you. Even that first day that you saw him in the garden, you just knew he’d be your undoing.

   Biting your bottom lip, you ponder for a moment. Wonder what this could become in a broken world. “Do you think…” You pause, unsure if you should continue. But the tilt of his head and warm eyes tells you that you should. So you ask, setting the question free like a string on a loose kite. “Do you think it’d be a boy or a girl?”

   He hums, mulling over the question as he stretches his arm up, flexing his muscles while his fingers run through his messy curls. Then, he smiles. One that’s gigantic and all-knowing. “A girl.” The answer makes you light up a bit.

   “Yeah?” You daydream for a second, trying to snatch an image of what she’d be like. She’d probably be so brave. As brave as her daddy. Must have the cutest laugh. One that floats through warm summer air and fills you with joy.

   “Yeah,” he confirms as his thumb brushes against your bottom lip. “I just have this weird feeling it’ll be a girl.”

   A girl. You’d love to have Joel’s little girl.

   “What would you name her?” he wonders out loud as your eyes light up like fireflies.

   Chewing your bottom lip, you think hard on the question. But it doesn’t take you long until one is right there dancing on the tip of your tongue.

   “Ellie,” you reply with a soft smile, already certain.

   “Ellie…” he breathes out quietly, like he’s drawing the letters on the wall with permanent ink. “I like it. That’s a pretty name.”

   “I think so,” you smile as you run your fingers through his tousled locks, enjoying every second you can continue doing this.

   “Bet she’d have your eyes,” he drawls out as a heartstopping smile appears on his face. 

   “Just like she’d have your smile.” You caress the side of his face with your fingers, nuzzle your nose against his, pour out affection while you still can. 

   “Our own little family,” he sighs out. You can almost map out the daydreams flitting across his brown eyes. Can almost see exactly what he does. 

   “One day,” you whisper out faintly.

   “We’ll be free. Happy. Safe.” 

   “Yes. Safe…”

   One day, you will get away from this place. Whether it’s months from now or just barely weeks. Joel will get you and Sarah out, and he’ll take the two of you far, far away. 

   Well, the three of you. 

   It’s inevitable now. You will have his baby. Mrs. Waterford won’t give up the chance to have you get pregnant. She’s too desperate, too soulless and selfish of a person. She’d rather cheat the system and use a forbidden way than not have a child. But your baby will never be hers. Your baby will have you and Joel’s DNA tied together like a web. And you won’t give that up. You’d rather die by fire. 

   Maybe that’s what will happen if you don’t get out in time. You’ll just wither away like the crumpled leaves of winter. But Joel won’t let you. No. He’ll be the rock you need through this treacherous valley of death. He’ll be exactly what you need, just like he’s always been. 

   So you nuzzle against his neck, bury yourself in his warmth as he wraps his strong arms around you. And then you doze off to sleep, breathe this moment in like it’s the last breath you’ll ever take. 

   If this place is the desert, Joel’s the stream of fresh water that never stops flowing. He’ll keep you hydrated, safe in a place you thought had no happy endings. But isn’t Joel that? Yes, he is. 

   He’s your happy ending that’ll set you free from Gilead. 

[happy74827]

Take Me Over

[Nick Blaine x Wife!Reader]

Synopsis: In the heart of Gilead’s oppressive regime, you find yourself thrust into a marriage with Nick Blaine, a man whose silent demeanor hides a truth you’ve realized to be shared.

WC: 2189

Category: Lime/Spice, Slight Fluff {TW — Forced Marriage}

I’m back at it again with another character that no one seems to write about 🥲 (I love him your honor)

『••✎••』

The dim light of the candles flickered in the oppressive silence of the room. You sat on the edge of the bed, your hands tightly gripping the stack of letters tied together by a brown string while you contemplated what you were about to do.

It’s been a total of two days since you were placed to be a part of the household of Commander Fred and Mrs. Waterford. Two days since you were forced into a role that you were not comfortable with. Two days since a new life was placed before you.

Two days since your marriage, and now here you are, sitting on the edge of a bed, dreading the moment that the door would open and once again reveal the man who was forced to be your husband.

Nick Blaine, that was his name, and it was all that was given to you. You knew nothing about him. All you knew was that you were his wife, and he was your husband, and you both had a role to play. Though, if the letters that you currently held in your hands were anything to go by, Nick Blaine, your husband, played the role of a rebel.

Shock. It was the first thing that you felt when you discovered the stack of letters hidden behind one of the drawers in the room. Then, curiosity. What exactly were they? You were so intrigued that you couldn't help yourself. You had to find out.

You didn’t regret it.

You didn't even want to.

What you had found was something you could not believe. Something so secret and dangerous that you could not fathom. The contents of the letters, the words written upon the papers, were like a breath of fresh air.

Stories, that's what they were. Stories that you would tell in hushed whispers. Stories that were passed around. Stories of the world before Gilead.

They seemed to be all handmaids. Handmaids telling their side of the story. Brave women who would take such risks, who would defy the rules, just to let their voices be heard.

They were inspiring, and as you read through them, you realized the more dangerous these letters were, the more powerful. And the more powerful they were, the more they were needed.

It was a small act of defiance, but it was enough. It was something that could keep the flame of hope alive, and that is exactly what they needed in the current situation.

But the question still stands. What was Nick Blaine doing with them?

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to feel, especially now that you were aware that a man of his stature and position could risk everything for the sake of those who were fighting against Gilead.

So many things were racing in your mind, but then it hit you. The soft glow in his eyes whenever Waterford’s handmaiden was around. The way he looked at her. Sympathy and guilt. He cared for her.

The revelation was almost jarring, but you weren’t too surprised. Nick always seemed different from the others. Hell, it’s been two days, and he hasn’t touched you.

You could almost guarantee that all the other men who were promoted and newly married would have already taken their wives by now. They would’ve taken their wife that night after the ceremony. But not him. Not Nick.

You were grateful.

He had a heart, and that's all that mattered.

A knock on the door snapped you back into reality, and before you could even respond, the door was opening.

It was Nick.

For a split second, the two of you just stared at each other, his eyes moving in slow motion as they trailed from your face to the stack of letters you were holding.

Of course, as he did so, all you could do was look at him in admiration. He was always easy on the eyes before, with hair and eyes that were darker than the luxurious dark chocolate you once loved to eat before Gilead. But, knowing what you know now, everything about him was just much more attractive.

But then, a flicker of fear was shown in his eyes, and all at once, the atmosphere seemed to grow tense.

Without saying a word, Nick stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. You could visibly see a sweat drop trickling down his neck as he tried to compose himself, his eyes never leaving the letters that were clutched tightly in your hands.

"Nick." You whispered, and you could see him stiffen at the mention of his name. The poor man was terrified, and it was heartbreaking.

"How much did you read?" His voice was rough and gravelly, and the sound was music to your ears.

"Enough." You answered, and without missing a beat, you slowly stood up and began to make your way toward him. "Enough to know I can trust you."

Your response was met with a surprised look, and it was clear to you that he was not expecting that. Truthfully, you were surprised yourself.

This was all new to you. You've never spoken so freely before, and you never expected the day would come when you would have the courage to defy the rules. But today was a strange day.

"I’ve never believed in miracles," You whispered, taking a few steps forward. Your eyes were locked with his, and you could see the surprise and curiosity swirling around in his beautiful, dark brown eyes. "but you might be the closest thing to one I could get."

A soft smile tugged at your lips as you slowly walked towards him, and as the two of you were only mere inches away from each other, you raised the stack of letters and gently pushed it towards him.

"You need to do better than hiding them behind a drawer, though. I almost tripped on it when it fell out." You said, and for the first time since you had met him, you saw his lips curl up into a ghost of a smile.

"Noted."

And then the two of you lapsed into silence. A comfortable silence that was filled with the soft glow of the candle and the faint crackling sound of the fire.

That night was the night your trust was built and the beginning of a bond that would eventually bring the two of you together.

It was a couple of months later, when he returned from Canada with the Waterfords, that your relationship from close friends to lovers began.

He’d gotten the letters out. He’d finally gotten them out, and as the news of the failed union between Canada and Gilead left his lips, all you could think about was the relief and the excitement.

Your heart was overflowing with joy, and your body was filled with a sense of warmth that you had long forgotten. Nick had done it. Nick had finally done it.

As soon as he finished recounting, you rushed to embrace him. A strong grip wrapped itself around his waist, and your face nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

Nick, on the other hand, was stiff as a board. Even though you two were married to each other, he still felt that it was inappropriate for him to touch you in such a manner.

The thought didn’t last long, however, as you pulled away and gave him a smile that made his heart skip a beat.

Your smile was radiant. Your eyes were twinkling, and your face was glowing. For the first time in a long time, you were truly happy. And Nick didn't think that he'd ever seen anything more beautiful.

"I'm proud of you."

Your words were soft, and as you placed your hand on his chest, you could feel his heartbeat quicken beneath your palm.

His eyes were locked on yours, and he could see the emotions swirling around in your eyes.

Relief. Excitement. Happiness. Admiration.

The list could go on, but in the end, all that mattered was that he could see the love that you held for him.

And that… that look was all it took for his hands to gently grasp your shoulders and guide you backward as you told him another set of words about how he was a hero and that he was amazing.

You didn’t even realize what he was doing until your back felt the concrete wall. Once you realized you weren’t moving anymore, you paused and looked at him, and the moment you did, your breath got caught in your throat.

Nick was looking at you with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand. His hands had moved from your shoulders to the nape of your neck, and the warmth of his skin sent a shiver down your spine.

"Nick." You whispered, watching as his thumb grazed the outline of your bottom lip. It was a simple, tender gesture, but it was enough to send butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

You couldn’t get a response out, not even a single word, as you watched his eyes glance down at your lips, his own tongue darting out to lick his.

Then, his head was moving forward, and his lips were brushing against yours. It was a ghost of a kiss, barely touching your lips, but the electricity was there. It was a spark that made your entire body tingle and your heart race.

When Nick pulled away, he was met with your intense gaze. You were almost upset at the weak display. Even though you understood his hesitation, a part of you was hoping he would be braver.

"That's it?" You murmured, a hint of teasing in your voice.

And the moment those words left your mouth, he was smirking. He was actually smirking, and his fingers were running through your hair.

"Are you asking me for more?" He asked, his voice low and deep, sending another shiver down your spine.

"I’m not asking," You breathed out, leaning in close and pressing your forehead against his. The moment you did, his grip tightened around your waist, and his free hand slid down to your hip, squeezing it slightly. "You were brave enough to get those letters out. Be brave enough to kiss me like you mean it."

Those were the magic words.

He didn't say anything in response.

He didn't need to.

Instead, his hands went back to the nape of your neck, and his lips were once again on yours. Only this time, it was not a ghostly touch. It was real, and the moment his lips were on yours, all your senses were flooded with him.

You could feel his warm, plush lips molding against yours and the gentle way his fingers were running through your hair.

But what made you absolutely weak was the taste of him. Your legs were almost wobbling the moment his tongue slipped into your mouth. It was like a dance, his tongue brushing against yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And as the two of you kissed, all the tension and the desire that had been building up in the past months slowly dissipated.

Your heart was racing, and your mind was in a daze. The only thing you were thinking about was Nick and his lips. And as his fingers gripped onto the strands of your hair and the way his hips began to press against yours, all you could think about was getting him closer.

So, your hands traveled down from his chest and to his back, gripping the material of his jacket as you pulled him towards you.

The action elicited a groan from the back of his throat, and his hips began to press firmly against yours. You could feel the way his hips were subtly grinding against yours, and as his hardness began to rub against the thin material of your dress, the moan that escaped your lips was swallowed by his mouth.

The kiss was turning heated and passionate, and your lips were swollen and bruised. Your fingers were tugging on his hair, and his were clutching at the strands of your own.

His teeth gently bit down on your bottom lip, and a moan escaped your lips; the sound was swallowed by his mouth, and you could feel him smiling.

You and Nick were so lost in each other that night, so focused on the taste of one another and the way his body was pressed against yours; it created a bubble where you both were safe, warm, and blissful.

It was the first time in a long time either of you had felt that way, and that feeling continued to grow, and eventually, it blossomed into a love that was deeper than the ocean and brighter than the sun.

And that was when you realized that no matter what happened, the two of you would always have each other, and no matter how cruel the world was, the two of you would always find a way to stay true to yourselves.

[imaginedreamwrite]

brave and valiant knights Simon & Johnny fight for the King and have returned from war honourable. The King grants them the highest praise earned for knights like themselves.

The King, to thank them for their service, grants them retirement and wealth, and a woman to share. The woman they wanted since before they left for war: their queen’s handmaiden

Wiping your hands on the apron on the front of your dress is only natural for you. To get rid of the moisture that sticks to your hands, that gives away your true feelings that you hide behind a perfected poised smile. You are a handmaiden to the queen, a woman destined to work for a woman much more royal than you.

Today you find yourself standing in the royal court, shifting your weight from foot to foot beneath the skirts of your ordinary work dress. The apron tied at your waist is dirtied from stoking the fire, ashes dust your cheeks, and yet you have garnered the attention of two knights.

Returning from war, Knight Simon the Death-Mongerer and Knight Johnny the Galloglaigh, had become legends in their return. They were beastly and fearless, scars marked their victories and their deeds during the war earned them retirement and wealth.

With retirement came the desire for marriage, a wife for the two of them to share, a woman who would bear them strong willed daughters and sons. The task of finding a wife for the two fierce men was not a task anyone could consider hard by any means.

They were desired, they were highly coveted by other noblewomen and higher status maids than yourself. There was a long line of women who would offer themselves up to be their future bride.

But the two men already knew who they wanted. They had made their choice and it was a request given to the king that was honoured. The women that had lined the halls trying to vie a place in the brave knights favour had wasted their time and efforts on someone who didn’t want them.

“A handmaiden?” The choice was negated as odd at the very least, considering how many other women had wanted to take the position as the knight’s wife.

Their choice was you. And you’d never felt more awkwardly stationed in your life, as you had now.

Your dress was used, worn from the years of service to the princess who then became queen. You had a dusty and slightly dirty apron, charcoal on your cheeks and they still chose you.

You stood in the royal court while the two men, the two valiant knights, had presented the Queen with substantially capable proof that her handmaiden wouldn’t fall to the wayside. The Knights Simon & Johnny had presented you with gifts of fine dresses, a delicate mirror set into fine silver with a hairbrush to match. Jewelry that you’d never been able to wear before, hairpins to weave into your hair when you woke in the morning.

A staff of your own, to deal with the day to day life that you would experience once you left the castle. They had it all, an estate in the quietude of the countryside, still within riding distance of the castle grounds but it was your own.

“Our bride,” Johnny’s physical boldness was as unforgettable as his verbal bravery, “will be taken care of your Highness.”

His hand slipped around your waist, your body pressed against his side. Scars on his arms, one that trailed down his right temple to nearly his jaw, and they hadn’t deterred from his beauty.

Simon, the Death Mongerer, was no less bold. In the royal court they lay their possession upon you. They were making a statement, one you couldn’t deny.

You were their wife in the eyes of the King & Queen.

[themotherofhorses]

oh he’s been TOTALLY dicking down his handmaid with horniness that rivals pepé la pew’s & the reason why he looked so pathetically sad in that scene was bc mommy alicent told him to lay off of her for one night.

like okay 2012 emo boy

what if we find out Aemond’s been slinging dick with a servant or common girlie this whole time and that’s why he got so cocky — been working on all his sword skills

@themotherofhorses 👀😏🥵

[tellingtell5]

Three Little Birds part. 1 《Nick Blaine, The handmaid's tell》

A short story about Nick Blaine.

Nick Blaine x oc!fmale

Hi: I love The Handmaid's Tale and the relationship between June and Nick, but I couldn't get this story out of my head. I’m always looking for stories about this character, but I never find exactly what I’m looking for, so I decided to write it myself. I hope it reaches someone. Thank you.

Three Little Birds Part 2.

I wish there were a mirror where I could see my reflection. It’s a recurring thought, creeping in when I least expect it. "Vanity is a selfish sin, girl." Aunt Lise’s voice follows the thought, sharp and unyielding. But this isn't just about curiosity—about seeing how they’ve prepared me for what, according to the women around me, should be one of the happiest days of my life, second only to the birth of my future children, of course. It’s about something deeper. It’s been years since I last saw myself. Would I even recognize the person staring back at me? Or would it feel like looking at someone I once knew, someone familiar yet distant, their face blurred by time and memory?

The truth is, I am not happy. I’m not afraid either, nor anxious about the tragic fate that awaits me. I suspect one of the Marthas slipped a narcotic into the tea they served me a few minutes ago. It’s a common practice on occasions like this—just enough to dull the mind, to keep the girls calm, too weary and dazed to resist, but not so much that they’d faint and delay the ceremony. That would be a disaster.

I had always imagined this day differently. In a normal world, I would have chosen my own dress, picked the flowers, planned the menu for the family I would have invited—eager to share my happiness with them. And I would have known the man waiting for me at the end of the aisle. I would have loved him enough to want to marry him.

Instead, I am in an unfamiliar room, laced into a regal, antique dress that once belonged to another girl before me and will surely be worn by another after me. "Gilead is at war, girls. We cannot afford extravagance for each and every one of you, nor grand ceremonies." And yet, this event is laughably pompous. Today, I and dozens of other girls will be married off to men we have never even seen, in front of Gilead’s most distinguished Commanders, their Wives, the Marthas, and the Handmaids.

I wish I could say I cried, that I screamed, that I fought against being sold like cattle, my worth reduced to my biological function. But I didn’t. Not a single tear fell, despite the weight of my grief. Some might call it resignation, but deep down, I knew the right word was exhaustion. If I made a scene, one of the Aunts would come rushing in to remind me of my privilege. That the only alternative paths available to me were a lifetime of servitude as a Martha, stripped of identity, or as a Handmaid, forced to bear children for another family.

"You are fortunate, given your record," Aunt Lydia had told me when they agreed to arrange a respectable marriage for me as a favor to my father. His position as a trauma surgeon granted him certain influence, even in Gilead’s rigid hierarchy. Otherwise, given my so-called advanced age and my past associations, my fate would have been much worse. By Gilead’s laws, I was an adulteress—a term they used for women with rebellious spirits. Before the uprising solidified its grip, I had been among those raising their voices, protesting as we were stripped of our jobs and our education.

I remember the day they froze my bank account. From that moment on, my father controlled my finances, as the closest male relative. He urged me to come home, promising he would try to secure passports so we could flee the country. But we never even made it across the street. A black van, its side marked with the emblem of an Eye with silver wings, cut us off. Armed men stepped out, their rifles slung across their chests. They told my father his skills were essential to Gilead.

He managed to delay my fate, bargaining for time, negotiating my place in this new order. "We will find her a respectable husband," they told him, "someone who will look after her and secure her future." But because he was not a Commander, he was not allowed to choose the candidates himself, as was customary. All I knew was that my husband wouldn’t be someone from the highest ranks—girls like me, those not raised from childhood to be obedient, were seen as too unpredictable. Too dangerous.

And now, here I am, waiting for the life that has been chosen for me.

While I enjoyed my limited freedom within the ecclesiastical regime I now lived under, I had managed to infiltrate the underground network operating in and out of the country. My father was rarely home, which made it easier to hide people—Marthas, Handmaids—those preparing to flee. But now? Could I continue my illegal activities under the watchful eye of my new husband? I highly doubted it. Still, I had contacts. And I wouldn’t hesitate to use them when the time was right—when things had settled after the wedding.

“Girls, it’s time.”

A heavy sigh escaped my lips. I gripped the edge of the opaque veil they had placed over my head and pulled it down over my face. At least it would hide the hatred written all over my expression for the duration of the ceremony. Though I could still see everything through the fabric, it reminded me of the tinted windows in certain cars—allowing those inside to observe the world while dulling its brightness, stripping away its beauty. To those on the outside, however, it offered nothing but obscurity, concealing the person within. That, after all, was the purpose of this garment: to keep me hidden until it was too late.

Since my mother was no longer alive, she couldn’t walk me down the aisle. Instead, an Aunt whose name I didn’t even know took my arm, guiding me into position. Before and behind me stood other girls—too young for what awaited them. My teeth clenched in fury. As awful as this was, at least I was old enough to have left adolescence behind. The others couldn’t have been more than sixteen. A sharp tug pulled me from my thoughts, and I stumbled forward, falling into step with the rest of the procession.

We entered the stage of an auditorium, where a line of men stood waiting to receive us. A higher-ranking official was delivering a speech on the importance of fulfilling our assigned duties, on the sacred nature of marriage.

When we finally stopped moving, my muscles seemed to loosen, my body floating as if caught in a dream. Everything around me appeared slightly blurred, the colors a little too bright. A song played over and over in my head, like a silent plea for help. Singing don’t worry about a thing, ‘cause every little thing gonna be alright. Maybe the pill they had slipped into my drink was kicking in, because I still can’t say for sure whether what happened next was real or just a drug-induced haze.

I studied the man in front of me carefully. He was tense, his gaze averted, offering me only his profile. He looked young—perhaps a few years older than me—but there was discomfort in the way he fidgeted, rolling his ring from one finger to another absentmindedly. His thick eyebrows arched slightly, deepening the creases in his forehead. Was this difficult for him? Did he oppose this, too? My heart pounded wildly in my ears. Maybe, just maybe, I had a chance to escape all of this.

When he reached for my hand to place the ring on my finger, I almost pulled away. I even twitched—just slightly—but he noticed. For the first time, he looked at me. His lips parted, as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out. I gave him another chance to stop this. His touch was barely there, light as air, as though he were trying to touch me as little as possible. I appreciated that. Gently, I took his hand in return. His palms were rough, calloused from work, but I slid the ring onto his finger anyway.

As he released my hand and reached for the edges of my veil, the urge to scream clawed at my throat. Instead, I swallowed a sob, squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as possible. This time, the tears finally fell, hot trails streaking my cheeks. The lump in my throat made it impossible to breathe, and I was forced to part my lips just to let in some air.

When the voice speaking above us finally ceased, I opened my eyes and saw him clearly for the first time—without the veil between us. He looked uneasy, even distressed, but there was something else there, too. A flicker of relief. Maybe because he realized I was a grown woman and not a child like the others.

Somewhere deep within my tormented soul, I felt a hint of relief, too. He wasn’t an old man. He wasn’t a boy raised in Gilead, one who would believe he had the right to control me.

The entire ride to his house, I didn’t speak a word. I just stared out the window. That’s how I learned his name—Nick. He worked as a driver for Commander Waterford. The esteemed couple sitting in the car with us couldn’t stop talking about how thrilled they were that their loyal servant had finally been rewarded.

I pressed my lips into a thin line. They were telling him—telling me—that I was his prize for good behavior.

My eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, where I caught a glimpse of my new husband. His hands gripped the wheel so tightly his knuckles had turned white. Did it bother him, the way they spoke about me? I exhaled sharply.

I let my gaze linger, scrutinizing him without shame. If I had met him somewhere else—at a party, in another life, in a world far from here—would I have noticed him? Maybe. I might have even found him attractive. But none of that mattered.

I didn’t know him.

And now, I was his property. A servant. A means to an end—a child.

Our eyes met in the mirror. I held his gaze, daring him, warning him. This will not be easy for you. If he thought I would submit, he was mistaken. I would make his life hell.

He didn’t look away.

What was he trying to tell me? A threat? Don’t push too far, or you’ll regret it?

Regret what? Would they hang me on the Wall?

The thought startled me, but not for the reason it should have.

Because, for the first time, I realized—

I didn’t care if they did.

When we arrived, I politely excused myself, saying that the emotions of the day had left me exhausted and that I needed to rest for a while. Nick led me to his home—a modest living space above the garage. I felt like an intruder. This was his place, and now a stranger was invading it.

He gave me a very brief tour before setting my suitcase down on the floor.

"Make yourself comfortable. This is your home now too."

He said it without looking at me, his eyes fixed on the ground, his voice tense. I thanked him, and he disappeared through the door—he still had duties to finish before the day was over.

I didn’t unpack. I just sat on the edge of the bed and cried, my whole body shaking with the force of it. I told myself I had to let it all out before he came back and tried to fulfill his “duty.” The only thing I pulled from my belongings was a set of sleepwear—much more modest than what I used to wear when I lived with my father.

Then, I sat on the bed again. Waiting.

Waiting for what?

A shiver ran down my spine at the thought of what was supposed to happen next.

What if I refused?

Maybe I could slit his throat in his sleep and then cut my own. After all, killing a man was a capital sin.

The door creaked open, and Nick hesitated before stepping inside, as if he hadn’t expected me to still be there. Maybe he had hoped I’d run away. He shrugged off his jacket and headed straight for the bathroom.

The sound of running water. He was showering.

This was my chance.

I stood up as quietly as I could and slipped into the kitchen, grabbing the first knife I saw. I hid it under my pillow and sat back down, trying to appear as obedient as possible.

When he came out, he was wearing what I assumed was his sleepwear—an old t-shirt that might have once been decent enough to wear outside and a pair of loose pants. He glanced at me warily before heading toward the bed.

I took a deep breath. He couldn’t suspect anything.

But instead of what I had expected, he simply pulled back the sheets and climbed in with a deep sigh, letting out a quiet hum of satisfaction as he sank into his bed.

I turned to look at him, but his eyes were already closed.

"Good night."

That was all he said.

I watched his silhouette for a while, lying still under the blankets. He knew that refusing to consummate the marriage could lead to severe punishment—maybe even death. And yet, he didn’t seem to regret it. He knew exactly what he was risking.

But no one would ever know.

I hesitated, fidgeting with my hands.

" I’m not an obedient woman. I don’t know how to cook. Or iron..."

It was the only thing I could bring myself to say.

Nick opened one eye and studied me for a moment.

"Good thing I do," he replied before shutting his eyes again.

Something inside me eased. It was as if I had been carrying a pocket full of stones and someone had suddenly lifted the weight away.

Could I return to my work with the resistance?

What would happen if he found out I was part of Mayday?

I slipped under the covers, careful not to touch him.

That night, for the first time since arriving in Gilead, I slept peacefully.

[themotherofhorses]

pairing: aemond targaryen x handmaid!reader

summary: “she’s a bastard—‘innit the truth, mother?”

warnings: explicit language. angst. much angst. nothing but angst. i cannot stress it enough.

notes: well this is rather unfortunate.

his handmaid's tales | main masterlist

The raven arrives at nightfall, at an hour so late that only Aemond is awake to accept it. The princeling could not find sleep that night, instead rolling off the bed and crossing the chambers to his windows, before pulling back the heavy tapestries and throwing them open one by one.

The cool air is a welcoming feeling to his feverish skin, hot to the touch from hours of lovemaking under the sheets.

He stands facing the darkness, naked and at utter peace, in pure happiness. His precious girl sleeps soundly behind him, with the thick furs pulled up to her chin, hiding the most of her beneath the blankets. She is so utterly beautiful in the moonlight. It’s been three long months since his sons were born, and Aemond was beginning to hope his seed would again take. His loins ache at the thought, and he fights the sudden urge to slip in between her thighs. Perhaps she’d give him a daughter this time.

In his dreams, she wears her mother’s face, in a gown of Targaryen colors with a dragon hatchling sitting on her shoulder. She pokes him awake in the morning, and pleads for a quick ride atop Vhagar before grandmother arrives to begin her history lessons.

His daughter has his love’s eyes and smile, he thinks again, and her nose scrunches up in the same way hers does.  

I want it.

He shakes his head.

Let her rest, you fool.

When the black raven arrives at his windowpane, he is a bit confused. He waves the bird away before it could make another squawk, and stares down at the scroll taken from it, eying the blood-red ribbon tied into a pretty, tight knot around. In his head, he weighs the choices in taking it as his own. Should he…? Or should he not? His curiosity clashes with his righteousness.

Aemond decides to, in the end.

He takes the scroll to his desk, quietly lighting a small candle before taking a seat and unrolling it out to read. The writing is in pretty cursive yet smells of cheap ink, with a slight smudge staining the edge of the paper. It is addressed to his handmaid, he realizes, starting with her name that leads to a sweet congratulations on her newfound motherhood. Twins, your uncle had said. How marvelous to hear. I hope to meet them soon, my dear.

With all the love in this lifetime—your mother, Alys Rivers.

“With all the love in this lifetime,” he repeats aloud, shaking his head, refusing to believe. His fingers tighten around the letter, the tips turning a jarring white. “Your mother, Alys Rivers.”

Aemond then glares up at the woman lying in his bed, a bitter twist on his mouth. She shifts a little bit beneath his gaze, but remains relaxed and asleep and blissfully ignorant of the rising anger sparking deep inside him.

Who is she? For the first time since he met her, he asks himself that.

He should’ve suspected this.

“A bastard, Lord Beesbury, mothered by the daughter of a milk cow.”  

Aemond turns away from her, back to the darkness outside.

Her mother is a bastard rivers woman, it seems. At least that is how it reads. Alys Rivers. She carries no man’s last name in her letter. What is her daughter, if not the same as her? He picks at his mind, trying to remember if she ever mentioned her father. Aemond returns to staring up at the moon and the white stars blinking high above in the midnight sky.

He suddenly feels no desire to return to bed with her tonight.

But she is the mother of your children, his mind argues, and it leaves him irritated.

She’s given him two heirs, his first-born children, beautiful twin boys that are mirrors to their own father, himself. And the daughter he’s dreamt of…But…they’re bastards too, he then reminds himself. You love them the same way you love her, do not lie to yourself. It was not enough to ease his thoughts, and reason with him, and stop the ugly bitterness from rising in his throat.

Damn her.

Aemond stuffs the letter inside one of the desk drawers, not wishing to lay eyes on it again. Maybe he’ll burn it later in the day. He then shrugs on his robe, tying it around his waist, before leaving the room. She’ll wake up in the morning, and search for his hand buried within the sheets. When she realizes she is alone in the bed, he knows she will pout before readying to tend to her babies, like the mother he’s made her into.

Damn her.

Then she will move on to her responsibilities, like the silly, dumb handmaid she is.

Damn her.

That is all she should’ve remained, Aemond thinks, curiously calm as he strides down the hallway. He doesn’t know where he is going, but he knows he will not return this night. Bastards never amount to anything else.  

Aemond hasn’t spoken to her in three days, dismissing his handmaid from his bedchamber before he retires for the evening. She no longer fetches his hot baths or crawls beneath the blankets with him. He hasn’t allowed it. He avoids the nursey too, where he knows his twin sons sleep in their cots, too young to notice their father’s absence. Aemond walks the halls of the Red Keep, as he has walked a thousand times before, but disregards all the rooms where he knows her presence painfully lingers.

She does not fight nor question him. He knows she won’t.

“Aemond.”

He hears her voice in his slumber, always- sometimes in a breathless whisper, and most times in a scream, or a whimper, or an anguished howl. She always manages to find him, following him into his dreams and nightmares and antagonizing him into insanity. Her shadow stands over his bed. And around her neck dangles the sapphire necklace, while her pretty eyes weep both tears and blood.

“Aemond, please!” she cries, bawling up the sides of her dress in her fist. The plain cloth is stained in dried blood, splashed across her belly and thighs. “Aemond, please, I need you, husband!”

“AEMOND.”

This time tonight, it causes Aemond Targaryen to jerk upright, pulled from a horrible nightmare that still clouds his thoughts. The sheets are tangled between his fingers, and his heart is heaving heavily within his breast. He hears her voice echoing, begging for her husband. “Aemond.” His attention quickly darts to the door, where his mother stands, tall and regal and noticeably pissed. She calls his name again loudly. Although still groggy, he stumbles his way towards her.  

His mother does not greet him. Instead, her brown eyes remain on his empty bed, skimming across the sheets and the way the heavy fur blanket nearly hangs off the foot of his bed. He must’ve kicked it off him during his sleep.

She frowns at the sight, before looking back at him.

“So it is true, then.”

Aemond rubs at his eye, tilting his head in confusion. “What is true, mother?”

“That she hasn’t been seen in your room for the past three days; instead, she’s returned to her old room across the castle, where the other maids sleep. Three days, and three nights.” His mother spoke in anger, yet her face remained a mask that betrayed nothing. It is one thing he greatly admired about her, in the same way it terrified him the most. “And you haven’t visited your sons as well, I’m told.”

He flushes. “I’ve been busy,” he grumbles, shifting on his bare feet. “I’ll see them tomorrow, in the morning after we break fast together.”

“Tomorrow? You’ll see them tomorrow? AEMOND!” she shouts, incredulous. Her hair hangs loosely around her face, and she pushes a thick strand behind her right ear. “You wanted these babies so badly, and yet you are beginning to neglect them before their second nameday. Have you lost all fucking sense?!”

Aemond bites his tongue in an attempt to keep his own temper from flaring up in response to her yelling. He says nothing in return, which he knows only upsets his mother further.

“What has happened, Aemond?” she asks. “This is unlike you. You love those boys, and that girl too.”

“Nothing,” he says, a bit too quickly. “Nothing has happened. I’ve simply been too busy to play anymore games with her.”

“Games? Games?! That is all shit,” his mother blazes. “Utter shit. Do not begin to take me as a fucking fool, Aemond. I am not your father, and I am not your brother, and eldest sister either. Now you tell me, boy, what has happened.”

Aemond sighs. “She’s a bastard—‘innit the truth, mother?” He meets her eyes and feels his poor heart sinking at the silent shock that instantly falls across her features and the way she makes no move to deny it. “A bastard.” Saying it aloud, it makes him wish to return to his bed, and curl up in his sheets, completely hidden from this cruel world that damned him to fall in love with a stupid bastard girl. “A damn, no good, bastard girl from Harrehnal—”

But he is then cut off by a sharp backhand blow to the side of his face that quickly sends him stumbling two steps back, almost falling hard against the wall. Aemond holds his cheek, breath hitching as he brushes a tender finger against the already reddening skin that he knows will surely show a dark bruise on the morrow. It feels hot, and it stings. He looks up at his mother, who has never hit him before.

“How dare you speak of her in such a way,” she spits, purpled with rage. Her hand twitches at her side, as if she itches to slap him again. He deserves it, he thinks. “HOW DARE YOU. She is the mother of your children, and you dare behold her with such loathing venom?”

“AND YOU DID NOT THINK TO TELL ME BEFOREHAND?” he shouts back, half hurt from the realization that she watched him fall smitten with the bastard, and never thought to tell him the truth. “She is the cousin of those bastards that took my eye, their own blood!”

“And? It is the truth, yes, that she is a riverlands bastard, born to a woman at Harrenhal. Lord Larys is her true uncle, who brought her to us at my request. But damn you, Aemond, that girl is so fucking in love with you.”

All his words fall stuck in his throat, and he fails to push them out.

“Have you nothing more to say?”

His queen mother sniffs when he says nothing, shaking her head. “Unbelievable. Perhaps it is best she drinks the moon tea, lest she gives you another child that you won’t love nor appreciate because of its mother’s unfortunate bastardy.” Aemond remains silent, and her mouth drops into another scowl. “You lied to me when you promised that you would never be your father or Aegon.”

I am not, he wants to scream out. His knees buckle in weakness at her cruel words, and the sheer disappointment laced within them. It hurts worse than her slap.

I love her so much, I swear, and my boys too. I love anything she gives me, and I promise…I promise…I promise…

“You, Aemond, carry their eyes and hair and nose, everyone can see. But I know the truth now—you carry their pig attitude as well,” she remarks, pushing herself toward him. “I’ll send her back to her mother, I promise, and find another handmaid for you, one that is to your liking.”  

She says not another word, instead turning to the houseguard that had accompanied her to his hall. “I’m tired. Please help me back to my bedchamber,” she asks, pressing her fingertips against his temple. “I would appreciate such, my good knight.”

His mother leaves him silent and still, sad and scared and helpless and heartbroken, staring down at his toes as they grow damp from his tears.

tag list for "his handmaid's tales": @aemondsblog @dc-marvel-girl96 @neobanguniverse @missalycat21 @enchantingcupcakecollectionfan @padfooteyes @alexizodd @avidreader73 @the-common-cowgirl @inlovewithhisblueeyes @elegantsplendour @katzarantos @fan-goddess @okfashionista @randomdragonfires @aemvnd @mochimommy2002 @fangirlninja67 @iiamthehybrid @bellstwd @katzarantos @crazymusicgirl104

taglist for everything aemond: @randomdragonfires @aemvnd @moonteas @chompchompluke

[ghostsgrl666]

pt.3 ghost x handmaiden!reader during the manor's summer solstice festival, both two drinks past tipsy and unafraid to sit next to each other at one of the tables, surrounded by the music and the dancing of the villagers. At first just pinkies touching as your palms lay flat on the wood, but by the end of the night you're fully in ghost's lap, whispering in his ear until he's had enough of your squirming and warm breath in the evening's breeze. He's about to carry you off to his quarters when

some other servant girls pull you away, quickly adorning you in a golden poppy crown and a garland of braided wildflowers before pulling you to the center of the field to dance. He watches you perform the well worn steps with the other women, summoning a good omen for the upcoming harvest and thanking god for the longest day of the year, your eyes sparkling as they crinkle with joy. Soon the music slows to something low that vibrates through ghost as you approach him, dragging him up to dance with all of the other couples, this time pulled close together and moving in one current around the field as the air thickens with the implications of the dance's origins. An ancient fertility ritual, the perfect excuse as he practically kneads into your hips, working his grip down to your ass. You keep one hand firm on his chest in a pathetic attempt to reach his shoulder while the other is on his jaw, tracing the strong lines that surround such a soft mouth. Eventually the heat of your heavy breaths against each other melts into kissing as your bodies inch impossibly closer together between leather and linen. You can feel him hard against your stomach, and he actually almost cries when you finally reach down to faint traace the outline of it. You run together in the encroaching darkness, recklessly flying downhill to the castle, laughing with your hands entwined until you crash throuhg the door of his quarters. Half of you lands on the bed so he manhandles you all the way up to the pillows, big hands desperately searching under your skirts. When he finds your dripping heat you gasp, blood pounding as he finally reveals that devilish smirk. He quickly licks his fingers clean before succumbing to your pleas, thrusting into with one harsh motion that splits you open. He has to wrap his lips around your tongue to quiet the sounds you make, but eventually he gives in as his heavy grunts turn into panting moans. Before you can even register, one sharp push into the deepest part of you sends you burning over the edge. He fucks you through the eternity of it and then some, shushing you teasingly when it becomes too much. After countless waves of ecstasy you can feel his bulky arms start to shake, so you tell him you love him and he immediately comes, spurting hot into you as he grits curses in your ear. "Fuck, love," is the only thing you can make out as he rolls off of you and mumbles into your shoulder. Breathing hard, he finds your hand beside his and squeezes it without looking up at you, but you know what it means.

[themotherofhorses]

awww thank you vv much !! 💞

i remember seeing that it is one of your favorite tropes, so do you have any fic recs for aemond x servant/maid/handmaid

hiii!! yes!! it is one of my favorite tropes!! here are the ones that came to mind (i likely missed some)

consequences by @targaryenrealnessdarling was one of my first fics i really got obsessed with in the fandom and it changed my brain chemistry permanently. its beautifully written and heart wrenching.

his handmaid's tales by @themotherofhorses is lovely and full of fluff for the handmaid and aemond. recently she's previewed an angsty ending to the series (one of two endings, i believe) that ripped me in two (in a good way).

take me down to the river, and bathe me clean by @randomdragonfires is a must read if you love obsessive aemond like i do, this is perfect. obsession, servant and religious themes all wrapped into one.

the softest whisper and the dearest embrace by @flowerandblood are amazing as well, hagi has a beautiful way with words and every piece of hers is a work of art in its own. these two are of the same story with the latter being an alternate ending.

last time around by @valeskafics is fun and delicious and the dynamic between cheeky reader and aemond is so entertaining and bel's smut never misses.

these are the first ones that came to mind from this ask and its more than likely i missed some that i love -- i am also always open to have recommendations dropped in my asks for this trope.

[lilspooky-doll]

True Happiness Headcanons

pairing — Aegon II Targaryen x Handmaid! Reader

themes — canon targcest, fluff, aegon is a soft boi, au! aegon, one bad word (that's it, just the one), female! reader, mentions of pregnancy and childbirth, children (warning in and of itself), some healing for Alicent, one mention of child death, just very fluffy headcanons

author's note — hello again, lovelies! this was going to be a two-parter but i decided to condense it down into one post. it wasn't realy as long as i though it was lol but, it involves the different headcanons of their lives from when they first met all the way into the bits of their lives that i didn't really touch on in the original parts. i have plans for a more canon version of aegon soon and it will be a very dark fic overall. so i hope you enjoy these little fluffy tidbits!!

ADOLESCENCE

Once Aegon trusted her, he started teaching her Valyrian in attempt to be able to speak to one another throughout the Keep without word getting back to Otto or his mother

Sure, his siblings could slightly understand what they spoke of but, there was no need to eavesdrop on something that was working

Aegon loves his hair being played with whether it’s just fingers combing through the strands or braids being plaited into small sections before gently being pulled apart

There has been a few times that he has fallen asleep with his head in her lap in the early days of them being close to one another

More open to one another, she taught Aegon how to braid hair so at the end of the day when they debrief about their days, she would play with his hair as he talked and he would braid her hair as she spoke

On rough days, she would read aloud or recite stories that her mother and father would tell her when she was young

Aegon would hoard his snacks that he would collect throughout his scheduled day and have her try some when they are together

When Aegon began to develop feelings for her, he would leave little bundles of dragon’s breath he picked throughout his day on her bed

She started reciprocating by leaving notes and poems in Valyrian under his pillow for him to find when he would rest for the night

Sporadically during the week, Aegon would take his supper in his chambers as a way of innocently courting her despite the differences in their statuses

She was the one to help Aegon with cutting his hair when the length began to bother him; the braided strands of cut hair are hidden away as a souvenir in her bedroom chambers

ADULTHOOD

Aegon is a giver in every sense of the word

He always tries to take care of her like how she takes care of him

He enjoys the warm feeling in his belly every time he saw her smile or laugh

Every few nights, Aegon would sneak them away to the pit for an evening ride on Sunfyre

The older they get, the more everyone began to notice how much he’s changed

He stopped picking on Aemond; 

He was able to maneuver things around for Helaena to marry Aemond; 

She would help him in her free time to catch insects to deliver to Helaena at the end of the day

They all begin to appreciate each other more

On days where there isn’t anything scheduled for them, picnics were organized for all of them in the Godswood and when Daeron is visiting from Oldtown, he is along for the trip

It’s the smallest things he does for them and they love how much he’s matured 

Aemond has thanked aegon for helping his betrothal

Alicent has walked in on them on multiple occasions

 She found them cuddled up on the couch him asleep and her playing with his hair; 

During a festival in the streets, she’s witnessed them dancing to the music and cheers that could be heard from the windows

Aegon has talking to Rhaenyra not long before their marriage as a way to bridge the gap between them

Rhaenyra’s shock receiving his letters wore off when she read that he had fallen in love with his handmaid and he planned to wed her much like she and daemon did

He offers Rhaenyra’s children sanctuary if Alicent or Otto ever tried to change the succession; this was his way of trying to ensure that he has no ill will towards her and her family anymore

She has them do their  wedding at Dragonstone under Valyrian tradition

Aegon uses a refitted ring of his for her to wear as a sign of marriage and he purposefully wears only one ring on his left hand

After the fight in her solar, Alicent still tries to force a betrothal upon Aegon

It immediately fails as every one of the betrothal letters Alicent sent out are either met with no response or word of outrage that she would try to arrange a second marriage; worried about another Maegor situation

Eventually, Alicent starts to love and respected Aegon the way that she does with her other children

Aegon didn’t instigate the nephews during that family dinner

Otto has tried to manipulate her but she’s far too aware of his games for his liking (gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss)

FAMILY

She became pregnant not long after their wedding and Aegon quietly announces the news to a select few people; in person: Aemond, Helaena and Alicent, by letter: Rhaenyra during a regular correspondence he has with her

After learning the news, Alicent starts to make an effort to know her and help her with what she needs as a way to make amends

Aegon handling her pregnancy like a pro 

Constantly he was catering to her every need and trying to make her comfortable

He always tried to make sure she didn’t get hurt while doing the few chores that she wanted to do (she comes from a long line of headstrong women who will not let a pregnancy stop them from doing what needs to be done)

He usually ended up just helping her with what she needed to do 

When it came time for their first born, Baelon, to make his appearance, she kicked out all of the maids and Maesters demanding only for Aegon to stay

Of course, he was well out of his depths but she tried to prep him the best she could the last several days leading up to the birth

Baelon was born with no complications with only his parents in the room and was never away from his mother despite the disgruntled protests that she used a nursemaid for the baby boy

Shortly after his birth, they set up a more secure and secretive correspondence between them and her family in hopes that if the time comes and Otto does something stupid, they could safely flee to hid away

Alicent is definitely a better grandmother than she was a mother

She routinely sets up for long relaxing midday activities for all her grandchildren so, she can spend time with them and the little cousins can grow together while their parents can relax worry-free

There’s 2 children who were born before they fled: Baelon & Alysanne. Once they settle on the homestead, they have twin girls: Laera and Rhaela with one more boy, Aerion

The children are raised with equal love from their parents and are raised under the belief that although they are technically royalty, they will learn to be kind and considerate of those around them

Raised to put the work into what they want just like their mother was raised before she left to work at the Red Keep

The Boys are strong but not emotionally stunted. They are taught that emotions are okay to have and apart of who they are

No toxic masculinity bullshit

The girls are taught to defend and protect themselves. They are physically strong and can use any weapon they can get their hands on if they need to

THE DANCE OF THE DRAGONS

The second they get to the Dornish marshlands, Aegon dyes his hair brown to hide better (brunette! Aegon all the way)

Once they settled on the family homestead, it didn’t take long for Aegon to fit in with her family

He actually quite likes the hard work that the family does everyday to make sure that everything runs smoothly

Aegon still keeps in regular contact with his family whether it be his siblings or even Rhaenyra; he always tries to maintain some semblance of what is happening with them as he escapes the plan that was to be forced upon him

When the plan Otto sets in place happens with Aemond as the usurper, they coordinate for all of the children from both his full siblings and half sibling to be safely hidden away on the homestead to prevent any possible bloodshed of the innocent

The plan went into effect too late as Lucerys was brutally killed on accident

As much as it pained Rhaenyra that she lost her children, she is happy that she can now safely know that they are away from this disaster

As a sign of thanks, Rhaenyra sent some of Syrax’s eggs so that Aegon’s children had a chance at being a dragon rider like their cousins

The Dance did not last long with Aemond as the usurper since he had no real standing like Aegon, first born son, or Rhaenyra, first born and declared heir

The Dance was more of a fight between councils and not nearly as bloody as canon

Once Otto was found to be the one pulling the strings, he was sentenced to death and the Targaryen children by Alicent bent their knee at Rhaenyra being the true Targaryen heir after Viserys

[romana-after-dark]

“Blessed be the fruit”

“May the lord open”

The Handmaids Tale AU

Commander!Joel Miller x Darkish!Handmaid!Reader

Summary: A few decades into Gilead’s conception, you head into your first posting as a handmaid after an affair with a guardian landed you in trouble. Determined to keep your head low in order to keep your son safe, you take on the moniker of OfJoel. Commander Miller has very little to do with you and mrs. Miller regards you with disgust, however you find solace in an unlikely friendship with Commander Miller’s daughter from a handmaid 14 years ago, Ellie who just got done with wives school. You and your friend, Ofthomas start teacher her and her friend Reilly under her mothers nose. Slowly, Commander Miller begins spending time with you and you begin to learn more about the man he was before and an affair begins outside the confines of the ceremony. Although initially you go along with it out if survival, you find yourself falling for the version of Joel you saw in these late night rendezvous.

Which Joel is really him, and how will he react when his own daughters secrets are revealed?

Content and Warnings: DARK JOEL! DUB CON!

Although no violent rape happens like in TWW, reader is under systemic misogyny and a society of ritualized sex abuse. Everything other than the violent rape scenes, everything that happen in either The Handmaids Tale book or show are liable to happen here including but not limited to discussion of rape, child abuse, child marriage, ritualized sexual abuse, sexual abuse in general, acts of violence, major character deaths, mentions of miscarriage but never shown and never pregnancies we know of. Big ole homophobia warning, specifically in regards to lesbophobia. As for Joel, PIV sex, breeding kink, degrading (slut, whore etc but thing like Raider!joel) forced breeding and breeding kink, power dynamics, Joel is not the good guy but he’s also not the worst, slightly rough sex but not violent. Cucking, reader cucks joel's wife, is dark, participates in non con.

Warnings are liable to be added as the story goes but I’ll always update. As always if I miss something please tell me, but i extensively label my warnings and in the end media consumption is your own choice. If you would like to know if this is a happy ending or not you can message me and I’ll tell you that way I don’t spoil for everyone but you can decide if this is for you.

Immersability: Reader has long hair, can conceive children theoretically. At one point, she has to pose as Ellie's mother and I know this can be loaded in terms of skin tone. I am no genetics expert but I know dark skinned parents can have white passing children, like Lional Richie and Nicle Richie. It's up to you to see if this is going to take you out of the story or not.

Undecided amount of chapters

Chapter 1: You meet your first commander, his family, and your new walking partner

Chapter 2: Your first ceremony, and you see something you aren’t supposed to.

Chapter 3: Everything is not as it seems in either Miller household.

Chapter 4: it’s smut.

Flashback Bonus Chapter: Insight into Tommy, Angela, and Joel's relationship.

Chapter 5: Joel takes you somewhere special. Tommy is involved.

Bonus Chapter: Tommy and Angela

Chapter 6: Gina gets what’s coming.

Chapter 7: Tommy, Joel, OfJoel and Angela explore

Finale (part 1): Ellie gets caught.

Finale (Part 2): Joel fixes it

If you are interested, please comment or say so in a Reblog! Rebloging a masterlist is super helpful to get a series off the ground well!

Thank you so much for your support!

[themotherofhorses]

a pretty and wealthy highborn lady of house baratheon?? nahh.

a riverlands milk cow’s only heifer calf?? yes pls.

@themotherofhorses Whenever Aemond sees Handmaid

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

By His Command 1

Summary: you arrive at your new household to serve. (Handmaid AU)

Warning: this series will contain violence, dystopian aspects, rape and noncon, blood, coercion, possible pregnancy and other dark elements. Please read these warnings and beware.

Character: Lloyd Hansen

Note: you're screaming at me, why are you starting another AU and I got my fingers in my ears like na nana boo noo.

Oh and there may be more commanders to come...

Anyway, thoughts and prayers welcome for my lost soul. Also feedback and comments if you dont mind. Maybe a reblog. 💕💕💕💕

You watch the cloud of your breath in the cold air. The grey sky stretches endlessly on, as flat as anything else in this pallid world. A white blur trims the edge of your vision, that every present brim, a facsimile of a halo. You are not a fallen angel but a disgraced sinner, sentenced to penance, fated to serve another's salvation.

You clasp your hands together, red gloves chafing roughly, wool scratching your raw skin. You look down at the scarlet ripples, the endless crimson that marks you for exactly what you are. You pull at a stray thread and let it fall away.

You raise your head and stare at the opaque screen that separates you from the man in black. The guardian drives on across the fields paled by an early frost, dried grasses wilted beneath the premature winter. You take another frigid breath and lean forward, hovering your hand before the small vent in the door. Nothing.

You sit back. You know better than to complain. There is no one for you to complain to. No one who cares. You are not a person with feelings and thoughts. You are a vessel, to be filled and emptied over and over. You repress a shudder and keep your welling eyes aimed out the tinted window.

You dip your head and hide beneath the broad brim of your white bonnet. You clutch your hands tight and wade through the mounting panic in your chest. The women who left the centre didn't often come back, and when they did, it was never pleasant. Still, you would give anything to go back. There you know what the worst and the best is.

You don't know much of what awaits you, only that it floods you with dread. A commander and his wife, but what else? Will he be cruel? Will she hate you? Will you be able to do what you were trained to?

You part your hands and bring them up your arms, hugging yourself. You can't remember the last time anyone held you. The last time anyone dared touch you. Even when you laid screaming before the other handmaids, hands bloody, back welted, no one dared come near you, no one thought to comfort you.

The SUV turns and you force your eyelids apart. You sniffle and wipe your nose with the coarse wool glove. There is a low stone fence that trails the long winding road towards a tall gate. The tires slow as your heart piques and you choke on terror.

At a halt, you hear the man's voice in the front seat, through the barrier that divides you. For order, for chasteness, for your debasement. You are not worthy. You are emblazoned as a blasphemer.

The car rolls on, jerking you back against the seat. A slow draw that brings into view shedding hedges, stone benches, a fountain, a lawn that expands before you. You watch the birds flutter, marveling at their peace, and a leaf drifts down in a calm path to the ground. A serenity that so starkly counterbalances the chaos blooming in your chest.

You veer around the curved arm of the driveway and once more stop. The engine rolls over and quiets. The front door opens and you flinch. Steps tramp and come around, a shadow awaiting you on the otherside as the locks slide back.

The guardian opens the door and you grab the red valise on your feet. You turn your legs over the side of the seat and step out, heels clacking off the hard stone. The man steps back, gripping the strap of his gun.

"Go," he nods his chin in the direction of the house.

You look over at the grand facades, stone and mortar in a centurion style, rooves high and looming, a balcony with a naked trellis below. You gulp and march forward, grasping the round handle of your bag with both hands. The man trails you, keeping you on course as his steps echo your own.

You get to the first step and raise your foot, setting in on the stope edge. The front door opens and steals your attention from the hem of your skirt. You look up as a Martha emerges in her green smock and apron. Her faces is blotchy and her grimace is deepset.

"Come, OfLloyd," she beckons you with a curt wave, "we must prepare for the Commander's return."

[elle4228]

"I try to make you cry" I cried looking at the tags WHO IS GLORIFYING THE HANDMAID'S TALE AND THROWING DIRT ON MY SWEET LITTLE POOKIE BEAR????