LavenderJam
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“My good King Elessar,” Gandalf said, with a twinkle in his eye. “You are troubled.”
“Gandalf,” said Aragorn, looking up at his dear, wise friend, “I can feel every mile I have walked, every battle I’ve fought, every death-blow I’ve wrought. My work is just beginning but I am weary. It was not hard to summon strength for battle. But peacetime? I am being tested already. Yes. Yes. I am troubled.”
(Aragorn wrestles with kingship while waiting for his queen.)
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Constellations by LavenderJam
Fandoms: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, His Dark Materials (TV), The Book of Dust - Philip Pullman
08 Jul 2024
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“And in every narrative, there are gaps...” - Philip Pullman, Lantern Slides
This is a collection of one-shots, Lantern-Slide-style bites that expand on the original trilogy or the fics I’ve already written about it. Tags, warnings & any necessary context for each chapter will be in that chapter’s beginning notes.
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Cold Spell by LavenderJam
Fandoms: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, His Dark Materials (TV), The Book of Dust - Philip Pullman
20 Dec 2023
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“Your mouth may pretend that you want me to leave,” he said, as his hand reached between the folds of her robe and made itself at home between the folds of her vulva. She was still sopping, of course, her own fluids, his semen and saliva, and a fresh flood of moisture, from the unexpected touch. “But your body, as always, betrays you.”
She should’ve pulled away and slapped him, then forced him out into the snow as bare as the day he was born. But what would be the point? No one else knew he was here. No one else would bother her, this close to Christmas. There was nowhere else for him to go. And she wanted him to keep touching her, quite desperately. So much so that she was already rocking against him, and one of his fingers was already inside her.
“You’ll have to earn your keep,” she said instead.
“My pleasure,” he said. Not two minutes later, he’d positioned her on the windowsill with her back against the icy glass and buried his head between her legs.
(Marisa and Asriel spend Christmas snowed in.)
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But a Dream by LavenderJam
Fandoms: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, His Dark Materials (TV), The Book of Dust - Philip Pullman
22 Jun 2023
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He pulled over just after the bridge, the air cool and dank, sea-green light reflected from the river onto the bridge’s underside, where it danced like a star system in flux, and then he moved towards the other end of the boat. There was a stone staircase just beside them, leading down from St Sophia’s lawn to the river’s towpath, and it was a bright spot of sunlight in his peripheral vision. As Asriel ran his hand along the punt’s prow and got a splinter, the sunlight was blocked by something, and a shadow fell across the stone steps.
He looked up and calmly met her eyes. Her dress was lilac and sheer, her nails cerise, her suede heels a sensual, vaginal pink. Her dark hair was soft, curled, and shining. Her daemon’s fur was similarly bright, gold like sunlight, or the metal of her wedding band.
“And what do we have here?” she said, sipping from a flute of champagne. “Was that you causing havoc, as per usual?”
(Three estranged people spend a summer day’s in a boat.)
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Bad Apple by LavenderJam
Fandoms: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, His Dark Materials (TV), The Book of Dust - Philip Pullman
16 Dec 2022
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Lyra had chosen the book quickly, not because she didn’t care about that evening’s story, but because she loved to lie in Mother’s blankets and watch as Mother rubbed away her layers of paint and metal; as she revealed the woman who was only Lyra’s mother beneath. Then came the silk pajamas, the lavender pillow mist, the twin mugs of hot chocolatl. The story, read aloud in French, their secret language in the heart of London. The forgotten prayer, even though both Lyra’s schoolteachers and their priest said that praying before rest was a necessity. The lights turned out, Mother’s arms opened, Pantalaimon and Mother’s dæmon sitting sentinel at their feet. Mother’s arms were Lyra’s favourite place to sleep in all the world; as a young girl, she’d hoped that she’d always be allowed to snooze in that warm, safe embrace, the smell of Mother’s potions and perfumes perfusing her dreams forever.
Such was the way of Lyra Coulter’s little life. (Marisa raises Lyra herself.)