☾ She is Uncatchable, Like The Shadow of The Moon ☽

Conduct and Comportment.

(Indirectly) Maj. Alastair Wimbourne x Reader. + (The appearance of an OC I created for the plot).

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gif by @night-or-blucher

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He has been discreetly warned about this particular outpost.

But, he could scarcely believe such rumors.

The Caldwell Reforms had many a battalion sent to the strategic far corners of the Indian subcontinent while others remained behind, at home, not unlike a remotely tethered twin, receiving recruits and providing potential replacement --- this bit of transit was to function as a sort of visitation of an unestablished regiment of newcomers to an established regiment of veterans acting as a host to their freshly arrived, untested brethren and the one thought that permeated second Lieutenant John Fletcher's mind was the counsel he strictly received from his Captain was do not cavort with their women.

-"Cavort, sir?"-

He distinctly remember asking while on a train heading out towards Rajapur, the dry, dusty flatlands peppered with miles of bushels of yellow grass giving way to endless wasteland of an open desert headed southeast, needing, he supposed, clarification, what cavorting exactly meant by definition in this particular case, finding it could mean one thing in England and another thing entirely in India, although the basic concept usually remained much the same across distances. His Captain was quick to illuminate him, he recalled, listing off things with the speed of a fired Gatling gun.

-"Speaking, socializing, touching, being alone unchaperoned, glancing too long. In no particular order, of course, Lieutenant. They have their rules over there."-

He explains, seeming somewhat cynically pleased with himself, the port the native server with an immaculate, crisp turban brought him balanced in sturdy fingers that seemed most experienced at drinking inside of moving vehicles. John was instantaneously perplexed and perhaps inappropriately entertained to the degree he had to chuckle in spite of himself; such was often the case when one heard something so ridiculous, that irregardless of their composure, they couldn't help but show what they really thought of what was just uttered.

Luckily, this was merely banter and not an official order in an official capacity.

-"Why,"- He lets out an amused huff of breath he didn't realize he was holding at the time, crossing his arms behind his back, the train corridor providing to be spacious enough to house two Officers shooting the breeze in-between the humid pews of side corridor coaches, while the flooring beneath their feet rattled with a familiar, thudding hum of the train cart. -"That sounds like they are prisoners! More so than wives, Captain."- John declared, thinking then he said something awfully perceptive or enlightened, not realizing then just how accidentally prophetic those words would have proved to be.

Perhaps he ought to have taken the look his Captain gave him seriously.

Quizzical and remote. Strangely knowing.

Seldom anyone understands the power of hindsight, of course.

Had he realized, had he understood, he would have asked for a transfer immediately.

Anywhere. Madras. Faridkot. Agra. India is certainly large enough.

But that first night in the outpost at Rajapur, the old, established regiment that found its house within the walls of the palatial garden fortress, Lieutenant John Fletcher did not take the warning to heart. It is not that he disdained his Commanding Officer or thought him a liar far too fond of the pleasures of a good drink. No. He just didn't feel the English are capable of it --- of what he described, perhaps being a more naive man then than he was now. He didn't believe them capable of being quite so irrationally despotic towards their own, their ladies, no less. Perhaps, in his stubborn, ignorant haughtiness, he'd write that off as a trait of a more impassioned people, but logic and propriety being the cold, sturdy background of everything he's ever known back home demanded he deem this an over exaggeration; a warning for sound comportment slightly blown out of proportions. These men weren't Genghis Khan, he thought to himself self-reassuring, sipping his cooled brandy, lonesome for the time being but quite content to simply watch and learn, observing the nighttime mingling along manicured garden grounds --- officers and their ladies walking in the moonlight. They were the Queen's men! Not a wild, wanton horde. A piece of homeland bottled up and revived so far away from its original cradle, John felt at ease here, gliding further along the shaded pavillion overgrown with vines and curtains of red Hibiscus, like he's scarcely just crossed half of the world to be here in a three month trip, both by land and sea, halting by a wooden, carved white bandstand to find a woman with her back turned standing there, looking away from the dusky, grassy promenade illuminated by lanterns and out in the wild, cultivated Eastern garden. There. See? A member of the fairer sex quite unaccompanied. Not at all as the Captain said, kept under lock and key, like in some manner of vulgar harem; John Fletcher feels validated in his assumptions as he, in wide strides, crosses the green, carpeted lawn and walks up the steps leading to you, clearing his throat discreetly as to avoid intruding too abruptly, announcing himself. -"Madam. Are you quite unchaperoned?"- He inquires, his presence causing you to turn, slightly surprised to see a stranger there. An understandable reason for confusion, truly. You chuckled soon after, seemingly charmed, if confused --- perhaps even a little flustered, which he found an endearing trait immediately. Spoke of a certain natural decorum and virtue. -"Oh, no. Excuse me."- You manage in earnest, something sweet about your countenance, even in front of a no-name somebody.

-"I am just waiting for my husband."-

Husband.

Ah, of course.

No matter; he wouldn't allow his private disappointment to prevent him from being a perfect gentleman.

John offers his arm instinctively, if apologetically.

-"Who is he so we may find him together? I cannot abide a lady standing alone."-

He insists tenderly and indeed he could not abide by it; whether by the familiar piers of Brighton or the middle of India, he dreaded to see someone without a companion like that, even if a temporary one; you seemingly hesitate, almost as if held back by something unseen, only for your fingers to tentatively rest on the scarlet sleeve of his uniform jacket once you found he would not relent, wordlessly and patiently keeping his elbow bent until you were forced to accept it. -"If you permit me?"- He asks with a small inclination of his head, leading you down the marble steps, his eyes already scouring the crowd for whatever man you were tethered to, hoping someone will recognize you and approach you to take over, slowly walking back towards the lights and the quiet music emanating from inside the garden building, the figures reflected through the illuminated, golden windows spinning around in a waltz on the dance podium. -"That truly will not be necessary, sir ---"-You try and trail off somewhere mid-sentence, taken by some strange anxiety he couldn't name or understand at the time. Oh, but how rude of him. He has made no formal introductions. He turns slightly towards you, clicking his boots, saluting respectfully, as he would to a superior. -"Lieutenant John Fletcher. Recently arrived. At your service."- He beams there and then, a sensation interrupted only by the loosening of your grip on his polished gauntlet buttons. You look at him, really look at him, like someone who, much like the mysterious Sphinx, intended to make him privy to the secrets of the world. -"Lieutenant."- You begin with something halfway maternal and gentle in your tone, tapping his cufflinks with your other free hand as reassurance that has him catching his breath at the contact. In hindsight, he understood now that you were tenderly preparing him for the blow, maybe even trying to save him indirectly. He should have listened to you. -"I thank you for your considerate nature, but ---"- You wander off, not mincing words, instead allowing the reality of things to settle in with ease to avoid raising offense. That much was abundantly clear even then. -"Let me walk alone from here. It is for the better."- You murmur partially pleadingly, partially with unabashed kindness and John pulls back in subdued shock, unsure why on earth you would wish to, the Captain's warning en route returning to hover like a spectre. Do not cavort with the women.

They have their rules over there.

A man's voice cuts through his tense reverie.

A crown on each collar.

-"Tempting the new arrivals, are we, madam?"-

He interjects with a sardonic grin, the seams of his upturned mouth digging into the meat of his cheeks in undeniable pleasure, but the instant first impression settling upon John is one of oozing contrition, like standing face to face with a slithering, immaculately uniformed snake in the grass that was rearing to bite him. You free your hand from his, rushing over to the man in recognition and apparent joy, bare hands clasping bare hands, his white gloves tucked into his belt in a fashion most casual. Tempting...the new arrivals? What the devil did he even mean by that, tempting the new arrivals? John clears his throat again. It is simply what he did when he was nervous or did not know how to break the tension and interlude of silence.

-"This is my husband. Major Alastair Wimbourne!"-

You make introductions, linking your arms with this man instead.

John straightens his posture, quite frankly a little offended, feeling his ears burn.

Perturbed by the fact that your own husband was speaking to you thus.

Of tempting.

But rather, this cad of a Major seemed rather proud of himself for some reason.

-"Lieutenant Fletcher was the face of chivalry, Major. He was worried with me standing alone and offered to find me my pair."-

You hastily explain, admittedly, not unkindly, addressing your spouse formally.

By rank, John notices.

Almost giving him the impression of being eager to soften some manner of blow.

Still, standing rigidly on attention, there was something about this chap he did not like.

Perhaps how damn cynical he seemed, all artificial warmth that did not reach the eyes.

He was around fellow Officers long enough to recognize when they're angry.

This man was angry.

One step away from calling him a midwit too.

-"Her pair is quite present, laddie."-

In the most icily chipper sense, this Major Wimbourne quips looking between him and his own wife, a chuckle emanating from deep inside his throat causing him to sound like a pleased tomcat with a canary in its mouth; reaching over, the gloves that were tucked between the leather straps of his belt now between his fingers as he casually slaps John's dressed hands with in passing, seemingly under the guise of being playful and nonchalant before turning to guide you away and something in him instantaneously recognized the meaning. In the old days, gentlemen would throw each other gauntlets as a challenge. Now, duelling was outlawed, but it was still a concealed sign of hostility, one you do not seem to notice, so seamless and swift being the contact. John stares at where the pale kidskin touched him, wholly perplexed. Goodness. This man despised him and he has only just met him. A shiver involuntarily passes through him despite the humidity of the night air, only then realizing he must have left his drained glass of liquor somewhere on the bandstand fencing in his eagerness to help. How he wished he had it now, fully re-filled.

-"We hope to make your acquaintance at the club with the other men, laddie."-

Major Wimbourne mentions once he and his wife have already paced away.

Backs turned.

The man's profile partially illuminated by lanterns pushed up by a venomous smile.

The condescending repeat moniker right there, as if directly making fun of him.

The invitation to join the menfolk in the joint ringing somewhat hollow.

For reasons he could not immediately decipher why.

Conduct and comportment, they had their rather unique brand of it, he intrusively concludes. These army fraternities were always insular and one was to make no mistake, all army men were men of brotherhood by proxy, be they in a remote locale or a buzzing one. They have local on-base rules nobody made me privy to. Do not cavort with the women seemed one of them.

Even though, he was not cavorting.

He was merely being...well...nice. Or at least attempting to.

Were you not warned about that too, John? That they did not even enjoy one talking to what is theirs?

-"We play games there too."-

The man adds as he and you leisurely walk away, towards the music, hand in hand.

He had not the faintest idea what that particular, cryptic comment meant.

He did find out later, though he wishes he has not.

Games! Perish the thought!

Everything his Captain warned him about on the train being true and more.

Took him a staggering three years for him to earn the right to be transfered elsewhere.

-"Of course, Major. Good evening, Major."-

He stutters finally, as if awoken from some manner of tongue-tied, confused trance.

Straightening his back and posture.

Unsure how to classify that particular interaction.

-"Madam."-

@night-or-blucher

---

I think breaking with tradition would get him genuinely angry.

And listen, for a character like Major Wimbourne, breaking with tradition can mean many things, however twisted of a tradition it may be.

It can be flat out you found with another man and thus breaking with the tradition of spousal fidelity or fidelity to your intended (him). Yes, cheating is that unforgivable variable, but then again, so is mere cavorting. It can mean trying to leave India as a whole, the outpost and by extension him and as such, as he sees it, seeking the outside world and distancing yours from the military duties of a military spouse --- namely, being stationed where he is. No. Breaking it off is not an option. It can also mean, as we would say in a modern jargon, being a snitch. Spilling the secrets or the forbidden, touchy things the regiment does and breaking what he sees as a near holy truce of camaraderie, undermining the hierarchical order of the army he serves by tampering with its reputation and credibility. It can mean taking a lover, it can mean attempting to flirt, it can mean having independent, emancipated decisions, it can mean being provocative either through dress, presentation or conduct, it can mean having freedom of movement and after a while, it can even mean having engrossed conversation with any member of the male sex simply because it is the 19th century and Major Alastair Wimbourne is entirely a product of it.

Any combination of these would downright have him be capable drawing a sword on beloved with the intention of killing, or at least teaching them a lesson they aren't likely to forget.

It is not that he doesn't love them anymore.

Quite the contrary. He sees red.

The Prince of Darkness and Things that Belong to Him.

Raymond Swan x Reader.

―

Back in the old days, people had something called Kingmakers.

An individual or a group that wields significant influence over who comes to power, by definition. And Raymond did have it outlined in a leather bound dictionary with a black pen that he kept in the drawer of his office's desk, not that he required linguistic reminders; he was just particular like that. He just wanted it to be known, that to you, that was him. Every manager, every agent, every coach, every producer in Hollywood and beyond, he thought, was a sort of Kingmaker. Queenmaker. Just Maker. The more history moved forward and things changed, the less changed and in 1936 as well a thousand years ago, Raymond Swan would've been then to you what he is now.

A creator.

Naturally, the set is too good and that is the first thing that ticks him off.

The production value seemed high even in these early stages just like he knew it would be; the staff was plentiful, cars coming and going with deliveries, the assistants active, the wardrobe was being carted around on rolling garment racks that fill the open soundstage with the sound of swishing fabric, the blazing, heated carbon arc lamps set up with such intensity one could easily mistake day for night and it took him nearly a week, he thinks as he sauntered through the set grounds led by some energized intern, to schedule an appointment with you. Him. Needing a week. To schedule an appointment with you. His own Pygmalion. Didn't they know who he was? Did they conveniently forget?

-"Raymond. Darling."-

You practically rush out of the room with your name on it with eagerly extended arms; the set cavernous and dark. Oddly cool in the California heat. Like being led through a great, big packing hangar underground and there, at its very navel where you, rushing to greet him in a long, white dressing gown. Oh, will you like that --- like those ingenues on the silver screen who accidentally shoot their wealthy husband and then cry big tears over his freshly murdered cadaver.

-"Ten minutes."-

The intern tens him off-handedly, marking something on the file they were carrying around.

Ten...minutes?

Were they giving him a time limit and orders?

With his own property?

Raymond rehersedly smiles and nods in a false sort of acceptance through the seething, cold anger bubbling up inside like a subterranean current and takes you by the offered hands in a manner most becoming friends and professional peers at a public place of work, even though if you were alone he would doubtlessly slap you. Then kiss you.

-"Don't 'darling' me, chickadee."-

He leans in and murmurs icily, lacing every passive-aggressive sound with a layer of honey while giving your fingers a squeeze of warning with his own, leading you straight back into your private dressing room, the curve of his mouth pressing upwards into the seams of his cheeks in the semblance of an artificial grin.

-"It is very hard to get to you these days."-

He coos once the door shuts behind his back with a thud.

The interior, womb-like light envelops you in a dim, orange hue.

-"Why is that? Hmm?"-

He halfway purrs, approaching you slowly.

Were you dodging him? No, no, that couldn't be it; you adored him. It was these others, filling your pretty head with notions of freedom and independence. Liberty in expression, as it were. How he despised that. When artists started droning about their rights. Artists had no rights. Each and every one of them belonged on a velvet leash held by someone who knew better. As did you.

-"Have you forgotten your old friends? So soon?"-

He quips with near infinite tenderness all while the violence inside of him caused him to see red as he propped his index finger beneath your chin affectionately, making you look at him. Melora too was beyond herself that you paid them so few visits as of late and she had the tendency to get exceedingly emotional when her toys were taken away. Raymond on the other hand tended to get murderous. He always did figure, that if he wasn't in Hollywood and the pictures industry, he would be running with Al Capone.

-"I'm sorry. They're very particular about my schedule now, Raymond. I don't like it all the time either, but it is what it is."-

You try with an excuse, eyes big and truthful, seeming genuinely apologetic and a little aggrieved and Raymond feels his head tilt as he watched you, the smile of an ingenue still etched on his face and he feels it on himself like something alien that was merely plastered there, observing you like those dogs while they're assessing whether they should attack or not, understanding that you were the good one in this story. You weren't a ladder climber. Not ruthless. Not Machiavellian. But even kind hearted people needed to be reminded of their place every once in a while.

-"Next thing you know, they'll contractually outline who you'll go to bed with too."-

He jokes, with a quip, chuckling.

Did this Director want you, was that it?

Was that why he was keeping your schedule so full? To isolate you? From him?

Keep you perpetually in a state of work and rest and work and rest?

With little in-between?

He should know.

He's done things like that.

Admittedly, he couldn't help but admire a man for trying.

-"Raymond."-

You click your tongue, sliding your chin away from the support of his finger.

Flustered, were you? Tenderly admonishing him for the suggestion?

Your cheeks were red and it wasn't the rouge.

He slowly starts walking you backwards, towards the bed that was in the corner.

Right next to the boudoir makeup table illuminated with a garland of vanity lights.

He did not like other men in charge of you.

He did not like other men around you in general.

He ought to have you cast in Little Women next, but knowing what he knew about this business and the chaos and complications that often came with an all-female cast, that wasn't a guarantee either. He should have cast in a stage play were you monologue in a theatre alone for two hours. But who would watch that? Everyone, if he marketed it well.

He would watch it.

-"You do know you still belong to me, don't you?"-

Raymond reminds with a near eternal sense of calm, hand coming to cup your cheek, giving it a gentle caress; once your eyes widen in uncertainty, he decides on a rare mercy and chooses to water down the impact of his words, if only barely. -"On paper, that is?"- He adds with the sweetness of a hungry widow spider wrapping a silken net around the mate it intended to devour later. This movie would make it big. It would propel you to unimaginable heights and he didn't like that. He miscalculated, he could confess as much now, in hindsight. You being a star on a sky of your own would mean you wouldn't need him anymore and he liked that even less. He intended to peel you out of here before you slipped out of his grasp forever, even if it meant hauling you off and into the Rolls that was waiting outside, making it seem like you merely had a mental breakdown and run off yourself. Actors under stress, overburdened by work and the sudden influx of budding stardom have been known to do that. He had a lodge manor out on the slopes of Mount Shasta, outside of San Francisco. He could just keep you there indefinitely, should he choose, with nothing but woodland and rock for miles and miles. -"The Director..."- You begin, only to be interrupted -"The director."- He repeats with undeniable, amused contempt, as if though uttering a particularly dirty, profane word. Of course. The director. The director became an affront to him the minute he started raising you up on a pedestal. Matinees he wasn't present on? A dinner with royalty overseas? It had to stop. Next thing he knew, you'd meet someone who'd whisk you away. Someone big. Your very own Clark Gable. His hand reaches out to tug at the hem of your dressing gown at your shoulder blades once he feels the back of your legs hit the edge of your cot. He scoots down slightly to pick you up suddenly, hovering you above where you slept nowadays. In this...den. Too many bouquets of flowers, too many postcards, too many gifts, too many stuffed animals, both opened and unopened, too many letters lined the walls. They'd take you away from him if he didn't act now, breach of contract be damned. -"I don't like the clothes, I don't like the room, I don't like the staff, I don't like the makeup and I don't like the bed."- He lists all of his grievances off, observing you with what he deemed as affection, cradling you lifted, swaying you swilightly, left and right, left and right, the light swish of movement causing your robe to fall unto the cot like a an ivory curtain. None of those people had any business dressing you like an extra at a set where they shoot stag films, abundant success or no success.

Only he had that right.

-"We have a much better bed at Swan Studios, if you recall."-

The tip of his nose nearly brushes against yours as he whispers, holding the leverage.

You have been lovers before, yes; never quite stopped.

In every way but the legal and the official, you lived as common-law spouses.

Throughout your entire early tenure in his production studio and up until very recently.

You haven't slept with him since the shooting of this picture started.

And that fact had him vexed. Most vexed.

-"The prince of darkness' own black satin. A charcoal cloud to sink into. Remember how it felt."-

Raymond coos, slowly lowering your right on your own subpar bed and its utilitarian white sheets, wondering briskly if his ten minutes were up, listening the chatter, noise and the sounds of activity from beyond the cocoon of this door. Ten minutes was all he needed for seduction when the situation was urgent. Occasionally, when he upped the ante, he needed even less. He could simply threaten to release certain images of you he had and ring up certain newspapers editors that owed him certain favours to do an impromptu release containing a salacious scoop concerning a rising Starlet by tomorrow morning. You peer up at him from the pillow he was looming over, blissfully unaware of the thoughts germinating in his mind, your hand in repose holding his the way sweethearts do as he stood, admiring the patch of skin where your neck ended and your chest began, imagining sinking his teeth into that bit of no man's land that belonged only to him like in those German Expressionist movies.

If he had to blackmail you to get you home, he would.

Melora couldn't stop crying as of late.

-"Did you have yourself driven all this way just to come and tell me you hate the movie you yourself set me up with before shooting has even started properly?"-

You stretch and yawn affectionately, like a well-pampered, capricious house-cat pleased by its master's attentions, smacking the nail right on its head, getting to the root of the problem.

-"Why?"-

You ask, uncertain, lashes blinking rapidly.

Why indeed.

Because you were about to be propelled to international stardom.

You didn't even realize it yet, but his intuition and experience were never wrong.

A mere few months from now, once this movie was out and running, little girls would be keeping your picture glued to their desks, emulating how you walk, talk and do your hair and boys would daydream about fucking you in a parking lot and you would have no need of old Mr. Raymond Swan anymore, that's why. They'd set you up with some copy-cat of Rudolph Valentino as a sham-marriage PR stunt to sell periodicals to people interested in your public courtship or you'd imagine yourself in love some English Duke who makes a hobby out of marrying newly-minted Hollywood actresses and you'd be otherwise occupied. Too occupied for him. Too unavailable for him. Unreachable. The doors would be closed. He would have no way of getting to you if you went and aligned yourself to people more powerful than him. And to lose you forever? He'd rather have you thrown into the Pacific Ocean. Or lock you away in a sanatorium somewhere out in Brentwood.

-"Because I have better things in mind for you. Don't rush to thank me."-

He lies, trying to sound nonchalant and casual about it.

But, lie he does.

He had nothing better in mind. Nothing at all.

Unless you count facelessly narrating an evening radio drama then yes, why not.

That sort of thing stunted many an aspirational careers and it would stunt yours too.

Like an atrophied limb wholly misused; an Olympic athlete about to strike gold reduced to sitting on a couch.

There's a knock on the door.

Then another.

His ten minutes was up, it seemed and he leans down over the bed to kiss you.

Wrapping his arms around your eager shoulders to lift you up just so.

Tilting your neck back so he could go deep; as deep as he liked.

The type of stuff, he thought, movie posters could envy.

-"Come away. Now. Who loves you more than me anyway? Who knows more about love?"-

Raymond murmurs once you separate and it seemingly takes a moment for you to regain your composure and catch your breath, eyes fluttered shut slowly opening as your head reclined in his hands overflowing with your spilled hair, throat bent backwards in a sensual, gentle repose, having surrendered --- He was close. Oh, so close to having you eating from the palm of his hand again. He wasn't lying, you know? He did know everything about love --- his career in grooming and raising singers, actors and dancers from nothing to something and dealing with all the natural, expected emotional roller-coasters that come with that taught him all about the human heart and its irrational, often illogical secrets, like a master alchemist, he felt he was one of those rare people in Hollywood who found the formula to turn a common metal into liquid gold. He knew it was the most potent thing in the world. Passion and affection. It could have a rising acteur abandon their star project to elope with their married producer. It could also have the producer resort to any means necessary to get what he wants.

-"They'll sue me, my love."-

You chuckle a little, but the concern in your voice was undeniable.

You lace your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck as he lifts you to stand.

Yes; the staggering losses would be in the millions. This Director would have to recast you and quickly. The entire set would be in a disarray. They might even have to re-write the script; re-do the hand drawn posters. Have entire casting calls. Do new screen-tests. Re-do the promotional material, re-create the costuming meant for you with new measurements --- do nearly everything from scratch. But whatever Swan Productions loses now by tampering with this process, it'll make back with the lawsuit. Raymond would simply have his lawyers lie the work conditions were inadequate. Looking you up and down in your robe slipping down your shoulders, he knew just the thing he could make up to win a potential case. A lecherous boss was always a classic that wins the hearts of the jury; he might've been projecting with that one, he thinks, amusedly. There's a knock on the door again, no doubt the pesky intern respectfully calling your name, the sound of it muffled by the walls.

At that point, he has you by the hand and abruptly steps out, leaving with you.

The prince of darkness always comes back for the things that belonged to him.

He might've been a Kingmaker, but he was also, when needed, a King unmaker.

-"Not if I do it to them first."-