Copyright: I know that "The Mummy" and all of its characters do not, I
repeat do not, belong to me, but that doesn't stop me from having fun with
them, does it?
Note the Reader: This is my first my Mummy fanfic, and my first fanfic of this kind, so please be kind when reviewing. Basically, this is just a short one-shot vignette about a prostitute who just happens to fall in love with a character from "The Mummy." Which one, you ask? Well, you'll just have to read and find out;) BTW, this is rated R because of some sexual scenes; they're not too graphic, but do be forewarned.
Sometimes He Comes
By: Catie Graham
Sometimes, when I feel the dark enter me and the closeness of the room pull tight around me, I find myself watching the door. And, I listen. I listen to the quiet of the hallway and the buzz of the lamp spreading its faded yellow light from the ceiling. I try not to listen to the screaming from the upper apartments, but I find myself hearing it. I stare at the doorway, searching, and I can almost imagine the doorknob turning. The feeling of my breath coming faster and faster flusters me, and I can sense the flush of blood rushing up into my cheeks. I know what I'm thinking, just as I know what I'm wishing.
Sometimes he comes; more often he doesn't. When it isn't him, there's always someone else. I'm never alone, but I'm usually lonely. But, at least when it's someone else I can pretend it's him, so it's not always thankless. I can remember the smell of his hair, the warmth of his body, the soft, lilting sound of his laugh as we make love. I can almost feel his lips moving softly against my own, finding their way down my neckline, murmuring nonsense words. It's then I have passion. I don't want to stop; I want to hold on until everything in the world falls away, until all I can hear is the pattern of his breath moving in and out, until all I can feel is him inside me. And, never, never open my eyes, because sometimes, I don't know if it is him, or if I only made him that way.
But, then, I remember the first time he came to me, and I know. I remember it like it happened tonight, and as if it's been part of my life since the beginning of everything. I remember it like my world hangs on the memory, like it fills my lungs and feeds my hungering senses.
He came very late in the night, or very early in the morning. From the looks of him, I didn't want to think about where he'd been before visiting me. Comparing the man I saw that night to the man who now frequents me is like comparing the night to the day. The man who came that night was stained with sweat and dirt from what appeared to be at least a week. Apart from looking a bit haggard, he did have a somewhat handsome air. But, what I was focused on was neither his grooming habits, nor his good looks. I found myself drawn to a few spots of dried blood on a khaki jacket that looked like it hadn't been washed for as long as he had.
I hadn't been expecting him, but he said he'd just arrived in town. And, he was such a gentleman about the way he asked for my services and his sad smile was so endearing that I before I could say no, I found myself taking on a new client at four A.M. Now, my services are expensive, only fair mind you; I am the best in the city, but expensive none the less. Something about this man's array of clothing and his grimy, filth-stained hands gave me the slight inkling that he would never be able to pay. But, I didn't ask. I didn't stop to ask who he was or what he was doing here. It made no difference.
He walked toward me without confidence and without purpose and staggered lightly, though he appeared by all means to be sober. As I turned to pull my silken top over my head, I felt his eyes glue to me. He grinned, lop- sided, and I shook my head. He was the first man that I'd ever had to command to undress.
Obediently, he let the khaki jacket slide from his shoulders. An equally khaki shirt was underneath, quite more obviously bloodstained than the jacket had been. Normally, that amount of blood would have caused me to think at least twice before taking care of a new client. But, I found it harder and harder to remember that as he slowly unbuttoned the shirt, giving it care as if he hadn't noticed the state it, and the rest of his clothing for that matter, currently was in. He continued to smile at me as the shirt now fell onto the carpeting.
"Have you forgotten what you were doing?"
I smiled back. "No, why."
"You were the one who told me to undress," and he let out a half-hearted chuckle. Confused, I looked down at my own body before I realized that I had stopped halfway down the buttons of my blouse. "You are a professional, right?" And, he winked.
He sat himself on the edge of the bed, rubbing absently at a makeshift bandage that covered a bloodied area on his arm, watching closely as I finished undressing. He smiled, but I could see something glistening in his eyes. I wanted to make him happy, wanted to please him. As I let the last garment slide onto the floor, in a pile next to his own shirt, he nodded. in what? Approval? I didn't care as I let myself fall into the bed.
His hand was callused and hard as it brushed the hair from my face. But, it was warm and appreciative in the way he touched me. I could feel his breath, soft against my neck as I struggled to find a way to unbuckle his belt. But, my hands wouldn't seem to work. I worked hurriedly, frustrated, wanting in a way I never had before. I needed him inside me, not ten seconds from then, but at that moment. My own passion aroused something in him, and he grasped my shoulders, begging me.
By the time my skin was against his own, I couldn't wait, and neither could he. He pulled me to him, savagely and tenderly both at the same time, not the man who entered my apartment, but someone more alive, more knowing. He had no repercussions about taking me. But, when he did, he cried.
His lips were against my own, and I felt him bit down. The salty taste of blood entered my mouth. At first I thought it was only the heat with which I accepted him into me, but when I lifted my eyes, I saw tears running down his face, and he slowed, breathing hard. I reached up to wipe away the tears, but he shied away.
"I was so afraid," he mumbled, sobbing now, although he had never released me. "I was so afraid, afraid I'd never see anything again. Afraid, I'd never see anything so beautiful. God, you're so bloody beautiful." He buried his face in my shoulder, and I could feel the warm wetness of his tears against my skin.
I didn't know what he meant, but that didn't matter to me. "Don't be afraid anymore," I whispered. And then: "Take me again."
"What?" he whispered; I could feel fresh tears on his cheeks.
"Please, take me again." And, he did. Mumbling, his hands clumsy, not deft in their pursuits as they had been before, he did. But, I wanted him just as badly as the first time. There he was, crying and mumbling, fumbling and shaking over my body, and I needed him. Maybe not in the way he needed me, but I did.
When we finished, he pulled himself close to me, unrelenting to let me go. "I was so afraid," he mumbled again, this time his mouth warm against my brow. He ran his fingers through my tousled hair, and I caught sight of the place on his arm where the bandage had been. It had fallen off sometime during our pursuits, and now, in its place was a deep wound about the size of a quarter, just beginning to heal.
I pulled his hand down from my hair, laying it on his bare stomach. "What is it?" I asked quietly, as I traced lazy circles on his hand.
"Why I was afraid," he offered no more explanation than that, and I asked for none. He was exhausted, and slept soon, his breath coming slower and slower until I feared he no longer breathed. I kept my hand on his chest to feel the rhythm of life within him. The sun was just coming up outside the window across the room from my bed, and the pinkish-yellow light of morning sent patterns of light across his face.
And, I leaned down to the weeping cut on his arm, and kissed it. The taste of blood was on my lips, and I licked them, knowing that his life was already in me.
After that, I slept. He and I, we slept into the late morning, while I dreamt. When I woke up, he was gone; the blanket had been pulled tight around me, and something golden glinted on the rumpled sheet. There, lying where he had been, was what appeared to be a golden scepter. Running my fingers over it, trying to prove its reality to myself, I felt tears come to my own eyes. And, at the same time, I chuckled to myself. I had feared he would not pay, and now I had hoped he hadn't, while here lay a golden trinket worth more than everything I had ever made added together. My hands shaking, I held it close to me, and licked my lips, hoping to taste his blood. When I could no longer taste it, I turned to the sweet ache between my thighs to prove he had been there.
After that night, I was afraid he'd never come again. He was all I could think, all I wanted, all I needed, and all that would ruin me. Late at night, long after my other clients had gone, I'd lie in my bed, thinking of him, seeing his face, crying out when I envisioned his touch arousing me. And, I told myself I had to forget him. he'd never come again, and I was ruining a career and a reputation I'd taken years to establish for what? A childish fantasy? Something I'd read in a romance novel when I used to believe in my Prince Charming? I told myself not to cry for him, that he was nothing but a client, a well paying client, and I should be thankful for his one visit. After all, thanks to the man who made me cry with his tears and taste his life with his blood, I would have enough to live on for months to come. I should thank him, not cry bitter tears.
But, when I had decided that I'd never see his sparkling eyes or lop-sided grin again, he walked back through the dimly lit hallway, back through my door, back into my bed, and back into my life.
Now sometimes he comes; more often he doesn't. But, I wait. I do my duty when he'd not here, for the others who help to pay my way. I go on when he's not here, eating and breathing and living, as much thanks to him as to anyone else. But, what I live for. what I live for. is the moment he comes.
He doesn't always cry when he takes me, and he laughs louder and more often now. He's funnier than I thought, and smart, complete with one-liners that always draw me down onto the bed, breathless with laughter. He's clean now too, always in khaki, with freshly washed hair that always smells of soap and linen and man. He has a purpose, although he claims he doesn't. He drinks and he gambles, and he has fun, and is not always sober when he comes to me, but he's always the same man that came on that first night, fumbling and crying. He has a certain air of importance about him and knows it; I like that about him. He never doubts. He's rich I know now, and once I might have cared, but that makes no matter anymore.
What does matter is that he loves; he loves his family in a way I admire and envy, wishing I could love someone like that. Often he talks of his sister and his now newborn nephew, and I know. I see how he loves them, and I worry for anyone who would try to hurt them.
He tells me I saved him that night. He tells I'm beautiful, and touches my face like he'll never forget it. And, he still concentrates when I undress, just the way he did the first time, as if I might disappear if he turned his head away for the moment. He doesn't always cry when he takes me now, but sometimes he does. Other times he laughs, or just smiles silently in that way that tells me to be calm. But, he always takes me with raw passion and silken tenderness. And, even if I didn't want to, I would have no choice but to surrender.
Sometimes he comes; more often he doesn't. Tonight is one of those nights when I watch the door, praying so hard for the doorknob to turn that my stomach turns to butterflies. I watch the lamp flicker and count the seconds until the clock on the wall tells me the time is four.
And, the doorknob turns. It is him; I can feel it. I want to run to him, have him take me in his arms. I want to sob into his khaki jacket, telling him that I love him with all my heart, that he's the only reason I'm alive, to please him only. I want to take him right there, whispering that he is the only man I have ever loved, the only man I could ever love. Oh God, I want to.
But, I don't. I just look at him, and smile shyly, and drop my blouse to the floor. He smiles back.
"I've missed you." He kisses me gently, as he shrugs the jacket onto the floor next to my blouse. But, all I can see is the man who entered my room the first night, all I can focus on is where the blood stains were, and how each line of his face was caked with dirt. All I can feel is his muddy tears on my fingertips.
And, in my mind, I remember, and I'm screaming: "I love you, I love you. I love only you, Jonathan Carnahan!" But, I only smile, because for all the feelings he has for me, he can never; he will never, love me.
Note the Reader: This is my first my Mummy fanfic, and my first fanfic of this kind, so please be kind when reviewing. Basically, this is just a short one-shot vignette about a prostitute who just happens to fall in love with a character from "The Mummy." Which one, you ask? Well, you'll just have to read and find out;) BTW, this is rated R because of some sexual scenes; they're not too graphic, but do be forewarned.
Sometimes He Comes
By: Catie Graham
Sometimes, when I feel the dark enter me and the closeness of the room pull tight around me, I find myself watching the door. And, I listen. I listen to the quiet of the hallway and the buzz of the lamp spreading its faded yellow light from the ceiling. I try not to listen to the screaming from the upper apartments, but I find myself hearing it. I stare at the doorway, searching, and I can almost imagine the doorknob turning. The feeling of my breath coming faster and faster flusters me, and I can sense the flush of blood rushing up into my cheeks. I know what I'm thinking, just as I know what I'm wishing.
Sometimes he comes; more often he doesn't. When it isn't him, there's always someone else. I'm never alone, but I'm usually lonely. But, at least when it's someone else I can pretend it's him, so it's not always thankless. I can remember the smell of his hair, the warmth of his body, the soft, lilting sound of his laugh as we make love. I can almost feel his lips moving softly against my own, finding their way down my neckline, murmuring nonsense words. It's then I have passion. I don't want to stop; I want to hold on until everything in the world falls away, until all I can hear is the pattern of his breath moving in and out, until all I can feel is him inside me. And, never, never open my eyes, because sometimes, I don't know if it is him, or if I only made him that way.
But, then, I remember the first time he came to me, and I know. I remember it like it happened tonight, and as if it's been part of my life since the beginning of everything. I remember it like my world hangs on the memory, like it fills my lungs and feeds my hungering senses.
He came very late in the night, or very early in the morning. From the looks of him, I didn't want to think about where he'd been before visiting me. Comparing the man I saw that night to the man who now frequents me is like comparing the night to the day. The man who came that night was stained with sweat and dirt from what appeared to be at least a week. Apart from looking a bit haggard, he did have a somewhat handsome air. But, what I was focused on was neither his grooming habits, nor his good looks. I found myself drawn to a few spots of dried blood on a khaki jacket that looked like it hadn't been washed for as long as he had.
I hadn't been expecting him, but he said he'd just arrived in town. And, he was such a gentleman about the way he asked for my services and his sad smile was so endearing that I before I could say no, I found myself taking on a new client at four A.M. Now, my services are expensive, only fair mind you; I am the best in the city, but expensive none the less. Something about this man's array of clothing and his grimy, filth-stained hands gave me the slight inkling that he would never be able to pay. But, I didn't ask. I didn't stop to ask who he was or what he was doing here. It made no difference.
He walked toward me without confidence and without purpose and staggered lightly, though he appeared by all means to be sober. As I turned to pull my silken top over my head, I felt his eyes glue to me. He grinned, lop- sided, and I shook my head. He was the first man that I'd ever had to command to undress.
Obediently, he let the khaki jacket slide from his shoulders. An equally khaki shirt was underneath, quite more obviously bloodstained than the jacket had been. Normally, that amount of blood would have caused me to think at least twice before taking care of a new client. But, I found it harder and harder to remember that as he slowly unbuttoned the shirt, giving it care as if he hadn't noticed the state it, and the rest of his clothing for that matter, currently was in. He continued to smile at me as the shirt now fell onto the carpeting.
"Have you forgotten what you were doing?"
I smiled back. "No, why."
"You were the one who told me to undress," and he let out a half-hearted chuckle. Confused, I looked down at my own body before I realized that I had stopped halfway down the buttons of my blouse. "You are a professional, right?" And, he winked.
He sat himself on the edge of the bed, rubbing absently at a makeshift bandage that covered a bloodied area on his arm, watching closely as I finished undressing. He smiled, but I could see something glistening in his eyes. I wanted to make him happy, wanted to please him. As I let the last garment slide onto the floor, in a pile next to his own shirt, he nodded. in what? Approval? I didn't care as I let myself fall into the bed.
His hand was callused and hard as it brushed the hair from my face. But, it was warm and appreciative in the way he touched me. I could feel his breath, soft against my neck as I struggled to find a way to unbuckle his belt. But, my hands wouldn't seem to work. I worked hurriedly, frustrated, wanting in a way I never had before. I needed him inside me, not ten seconds from then, but at that moment. My own passion aroused something in him, and he grasped my shoulders, begging me.
By the time my skin was against his own, I couldn't wait, and neither could he. He pulled me to him, savagely and tenderly both at the same time, not the man who entered my apartment, but someone more alive, more knowing. He had no repercussions about taking me. But, when he did, he cried.
His lips were against my own, and I felt him bit down. The salty taste of blood entered my mouth. At first I thought it was only the heat with which I accepted him into me, but when I lifted my eyes, I saw tears running down his face, and he slowed, breathing hard. I reached up to wipe away the tears, but he shied away.
"I was so afraid," he mumbled, sobbing now, although he had never released me. "I was so afraid, afraid I'd never see anything again. Afraid, I'd never see anything so beautiful. God, you're so bloody beautiful." He buried his face in my shoulder, and I could feel the warm wetness of his tears against my skin.
I didn't know what he meant, but that didn't matter to me. "Don't be afraid anymore," I whispered. And then: "Take me again."
"What?" he whispered; I could feel fresh tears on his cheeks.
"Please, take me again." And, he did. Mumbling, his hands clumsy, not deft in their pursuits as they had been before, he did. But, I wanted him just as badly as the first time. There he was, crying and mumbling, fumbling and shaking over my body, and I needed him. Maybe not in the way he needed me, but I did.
When we finished, he pulled himself close to me, unrelenting to let me go. "I was so afraid," he mumbled again, this time his mouth warm against my brow. He ran his fingers through my tousled hair, and I caught sight of the place on his arm where the bandage had been. It had fallen off sometime during our pursuits, and now, in its place was a deep wound about the size of a quarter, just beginning to heal.
I pulled his hand down from my hair, laying it on his bare stomach. "What is it?" I asked quietly, as I traced lazy circles on his hand.
"Why I was afraid," he offered no more explanation than that, and I asked for none. He was exhausted, and slept soon, his breath coming slower and slower until I feared he no longer breathed. I kept my hand on his chest to feel the rhythm of life within him. The sun was just coming up outside the window across the room from my bed, and the pinkish-yellow light of morning sent patterns of light across his face.
And, I leaned down to the weeping cut on his arm, and kissed it. The taste of blood was on my lips, and I licked them, knowing that his life was already in me.
After that, I slept. He and I, we slept into the late morning, while I dreamt. When I woke up, he was gone; the blanket had been pulled tight around me, and something golden glinted on the rumpled sheet. There, lying where he had been, was what appeared to be a golden scepter. Running my fingers over it, trying to prove its reality to myself, I felt tears come to my own eyes. And, at the same time, I chuckled to myself. I had feared he would not pay, and now I had hoped he hadn't, while here lay a golden trinket worth more than everything I had ever made added together. My hands shaking, I held it close to me, and licked my lips, hoping to taste his blood. When I could no longer taste it, I turned to the sweet ache between my thighs to prove he had been there.
After that night, I was afraid he'd never come again. He was all I could think, all I wanted, all I needed, and all that would ruin me. Late at night, long after my other clients had gone, I'd lie in my bed, thinking of him, seeing his face, crying out when I envisioned his touch arousing me. And, I told myself I had to forget him. he'd never come again, and I was ruining a career and a reputation I'd taken years to establish for what? A childish fantasy? Something I'd read in a romance novel when I used to believe in my Prince Charming? I told myself not to cry for him, that he was nothing but a client, a well paying client, and I should be thankful for his one visit. After all, thanks to the man who made me cry with his tears and taste his life with his blood, I would have enough to live on for months to come. I should thank him, not cry bitter tears.
But, when I had decided that I'd never see his sparkling eyes or lop-sided grin again, he walked back through the dimly lit hallway, back through my door, back into my bed, and back into my life.
Now sometimes he comes; more often he doesn't. But, I wait. I do my duty when he'd not here, for the others who help to pay my way. I go on when he's not here, eating and breathing and living, as much thanks to him as to anyone else. But, what I live for. what I live for. is the moment he comes.
He doesn't always cry when he takes me, and he laughs louder and more often now. He's funnier than I thought, and smart, complete with one-liners that always draw me down onto the bed, breathless with laughter. He's clean now too, always in khaki, with freshly washed hair that always smells of soap and linen and man. He has a purpose, although he claims he doesn't. He drinks and he gambles, and he has fun, and is not always sober when he comes to me, but he's always the same man that came on that first night, fumbling and crying. He has a certain air of importance about him and knows it; I like that about him. He never doubts. He's rich I know now, and once I might have cared, but that makes no matter anymore.
What does matter is that he loves; he loves his family in a way I admire and envy, wishing I could love someone like that. Often he talks of his sister and his now newborn nephew, and I know. I see how he loves them, and I worry for anyone who would try to hurt them.
He tells me I saved him that night. He tells I'm beautiful, and touches my face like he'll never forget it. And, he still concentrates when I undress, just the way he did the first time, as if I might disappear if he turned his head away for the moment. He doesn't always cry when he takes me now, but sometimes he does. Other times he laughs, or just smiles silently in that way that tells me to be calm. But, he always takes me with raw passion and silken tenderness. And, even if I didn't want to, I would have no choice but to surrender.
Sometimes he comes; more often he doesn't. Tonight is one of those nights when I watch the door, praying so hard for the doorknob to turn that my stomach turns to butterflies. I watch the lamp flicker and count the seconds until the clock on the wall tells me the time is four.
And, the doorknob turns. It is him; I can feel it. I want to run to him, have him take me in his arms. I want to sob into his khaki jacket, telling him that I love him with all my heart, that he's the only reason I'm alive, to please him only. I want to take him right there, whispering that he is the only man I have ever loved, the only man I could ever love. Oh God, I want to.
But, I don't. I just look at him, and smile shyly, and drop my blouse to the floor. He smiles back.
"I've missed you." He kisses me gently, as he shrugs the jacket onto the floor next to my blouse. But, all I can see is the man who entered my room the first night, all I can focus on is where the blood stains were, and how each line of his face was caked with dirt. All I can feel is his muddy tears on my fingertips.
And, in my mind, I remember, and I'm screaming: "I love you, I love you. I love only you, Jonathan Carnahan!" But, I only smile, because for all the feelings he has for me, he can never; he will never, love me.