#English newspaper rates

[un-petit-sanctuaire]

Night Ride

Pairing: Sylus x f!MC

Genre: Fluff

Rating: General

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: You were stressing out over your work, so Sylus decided to take you on a joyride on his motorcycle that night.

Author’s Note: It’s my first Love and Deepspace fic! I’d say it’s set not long after around Nightplumes. Anyway, I haven’t written in a while, so please excuse any rustiness. Also, English is not my first language, so feel free to point out any mistakes kindly. ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ Constructive criticism and feedback are very welcome! I’d really appreciate them to help me write better in the future. Last but not least, happy reading. ♡

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡

You were pacing back and forth in Sylus’s living room that evening, a bunch of files and documents spread around you on the floor. The owner of the house himself was sitting in a nearby armchair, his hands nonchalantly flipping today’s Linkon newspaper you brought him. On his shoulder, a familiar mechanical crow sat, glancing between the newspaper and your restless movements.

Two days ago, the Association assigned you and your team a mission. The assignment was broken down into smaller individual tasks and divided equally among your team members. Yet, somehow, you felt your part was very challenging to figure out. Your assigned location was close to the N109 Zone, though—you weren’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse. Feeling that your brain might explode for working outside alone, you decided to grace a certain white-haired man with your presence in his vicinity.

And that’s how you found yourself stressing out at Sylus’s home.

“That’s it,” his voice thundered, making you jump on the spot after what seemed to be an endless staring contest with the papers in front of you. Even Mephisto let out a sharp caw, flapping its wings as it flew off, startled by his master’s sudden break from the silence. Sylus rose from his seat, turning towards where he kept his keys before adding, “Let’s go, kitten.”

“... What?” You turned your attention from your papers towards him, eyebrows knitted.

“You should see the agitated look on your face. Your task isn’t going to resolve itself unless you have a clear mind.” With a casual flick of his finger, he sent his motorcycle keys spinning into his palm. “Let’s head outside.”

“But—”

“Do I look like I take no for an answer?”

Given how much time you’d spent together lately—no thanks to the energy linkage—you seemed to understand there was probably no room for debate with him under these circumstances. “Wait, where are we going? Can’t I just stay and do my work?” Despite your protests, you found yourself trailing after him, half-running to keep up with his long strides as he headed for the door.

“Somewhere to get some fresh air,” he replied without looking back at you. With another flick of his fingers, his jacket effortlessly landed over his shoulder. “I could use some too. Your little pacing game made my head spin.” He stopped outside in front of his bike, finally turning around to hand you your usual helmet. “And no, you’re still going whether you like it or not,” he declared. His sentence sounded like a threat, but his tone was somehow gentle.

You considered for a moment. He might have a point; you wouldn’t make any progress with your head clouded by frustration. Besides, your task wasn’t due any time soon, and after working on it all day long, you desperately needed to clear your mind. Normally you would argue, but your energy had already been drained from all the thinking. Sighing, you took the helmet from his hand and slipped it on. Your fingers fumbled, trying to fasten the buckle. Sylus let out a small scoff, stepping forward to help you click it into place.

As you settled behind him on the motorcycle, his eyes found yours in the reflection of the side mirror.

“Don’t be shy, sweetie. Hold on to me.”

You hesitated for a bit and ended up gripping his jacket, not quite fully clutching onto him. “Ease up on the speed, though,” you remarked, earning a soft chuckle from him.

“Oh? You get to tell the driver how to behave, now?” he shook his head, a subtle smirk curling at the corner of his lips. “Sure, I’ll keep it civil,” he replied, though you weren’t sure if he was being genuine or merely teasing you.

With a rev of the engine, he drove out of the side street and onto the main highway. The night sky above the N109 Zone hung in its usual dark and misty state, but the city lights gradually sprung to life around you. You inhaled the cool evening air, soaking in your surroundings. You were a biker yourself, but for once, it felt refreshing to be the passenger—especially since he always took the reins when the two of you rode his motorcycle.

You slowly became aware that you were heading towards Linkon. The highway stretched before you, nearly deserted, and the night enveloped you in a hush. The breeze rustled past, making your hair dance behind you.

The bike was gaining speed.

“Sylus,” you called, yanking his jacket lightly.

“Hm?”

The teasing tone in his hum was now evident.

“Don’t pretend that I don’t notice what you’re doing,” you retorted, the wind whipping fiercely around you.

“And what is it that I’m doing besides taking you for a ride?”

And as if on cue, the motorcycle roared, surging forward with a sudden burst of speed. The unexpected acceleration forced you to cling onto him for support to the point you were practically hugging him from the back, your fingers intertwined just below his stomach. “You’re doing this on purpose!” You half-shouted, your voice barely cutting through the rush of wind. “This was supposed to be a joyride, not a race!”

You couldn’t quite discern his response, but the side mirror reflected another smug smirk playing at the corner of his lips. You rolled your eyes. Oh, how you longed to wipe that smirk off his face. Speeding could be dangerous; what if a cat or some other creature suddenly crossed your path? You had no doubt he was far exceeding the speed limit. Luckily, the road was now completely empty. It also dawned on you that you weren’t heading into the center of Linkon, but rather veering towards the outskirts.

He slowed down as the bike left the main road and entered a slightly narrower one. “Don’t tell me Miss Hunter herself never accelerates?” he finally said, amusement lacing his tone.

“I’m a law-abiding citizen,” you rebutted, not quite answering his question. You did, in fact, once or twice speed up when you needed to arrive early for urgent missions. However, you were sure as hell it had never been as fast as Sylus was driving just now. “I mean, it was thrilling, but—”

“A-ha.”

He snickered, cutting you off. “I think someone is enjoying the ride more than they’re letting on,” his sing-songy tone made you roll your eyes again. “She’s practically holding onto me for dear life.”

Looking down, you realized your arms were still encircling his waist.

You quickly let go, straightening your posture behind him. “Because I was afraid I would be thrown off with that speed of yours, that’s why,” you said, pinching his side in an attempt to hide your own fluster at being caught off-guard. “It just seemed dangerous,” you mumbled.

“Careful, sweetie, no pinching the driver now,” he teased. As if reading your mind, he added with unexpected seriousness, “Your safety always comes first. We’ll be fine as long as I have good reflexes and solid bike-handling skills, which, lucky for you, I actually do.” Another smirk was visible from behind his visor, reflected in the mirror. “Besides, did you forget that I can use my Evol to secure you in place?”

You decided to ignore his remarks. Pretty sure the more you took the bait, the more amused he would be.

You noticed the road ascending towards the hill, and soon you found yourselves leaving the city behind and entering a somewhat wooded area.

“You’re not kidnapping me, are you?”

Your question elicited a chuckle from him. “You are powerful enough to knock me down when I’m distracted, and you could easily run off with my bike, leaving me here alone,” he said casually. “What makes you think I’d be kidnapping you? No, kitten, I’m not. Aren’t you curious to know what I have planned?”

He sounded almost giddy that your brows furrowed, half-annoyed.

“Very, actually,” you snorted, growing impatient. Was teasing you his way of taking your mind off work? “But as if you’ll actually tell me what it is.”

Sylus cackled. “Correct. You’ll have to suffer with anticipation, just like always.”

You restrained yourself from launching a punch at his shoulder. The area around you grew darker, with hardly any light in sight except for Sylus’s motorcycle and the occasional flicker from the lampposts. “Well, the breeze is getting rather cold,” you complained. You were only wearing your trusted white cropped jacket, while he was comfortably clad in leather.

There was a pause before he replied rather thoughtfully, “Stick close to me.”

You scooted forward, inching slightly closer to him. You heard him add, “We’re almost there.”

The bike eventually came to a halt a few minutes later. You dismounted, placing your helmet on the seat. Sylus followed suit, ruffling his silver hair back into place. You were probably going to involuntarily stare if the landscape before you didn’t capture your attention.

“Oh, wow...”

You took in your surroundings as you stood at the top of a hill, gazing out over the twinkling city below. The sky was a deep, rich shade of navy blue, dotted with shimmering stars. Linkon was clearly visible from up here; the illuminated skyscrapers flickered like fireflies, casting a warm glow against the darkness.

“Impressed?”

Sylus’s tall figure towered beside you. You glanced at him, expecting to find a smug expression there to show you an I-told-you-so look. However, while the corners of his lips did curl upward, his gaze remained soft, overlooking the gleaming city.

You were about to pester him, ‘Oh, even the big, scary leader of Onychinus can get sappy over things like this?’ but somehow the words stayed lodged in your throat.

“I am,” was all you could manage to utter. “I never knew we could see the entire city from up here.”

“I come here a lot whenever I need a break or want to be alone,” he nodded. “Just looking down at the city makes me feel at ease.”

Were you hallucinating, or did he seem a bit more sentimental than usual?

You felt his red irises shift from the scenery towards you.

Quickly, you turned your head away from him back to the view stretched beyond. “Oh, well,” you cleared your throat. “I didn’t know you could feel stressed too. You always seem... collected.”

Sylus laughed heartily. There was a pause before he replied, “I only do what I need to do.” He slid his hands into his pockets as if his words held no weight, leaving you to ponder for a moment.

The cold wind swept between you once again, prompting you to inch a little closer to him. It was really not that bad, but you hugged your arms for some warmth.

“... Thanks for bringing me here,” you muttered.

He noticed you creeping towards him, but he didn’t say anything about it. Instead, without averting his gaze from the city lights below, he wrapped an arm around your shoulder and gently pulled you closer to share his warmth. You were surprised you didn’t object or retreat—his presence felt oddly nice and comforting.

“You’re welcome, kitten.”

There were a few seconds of comfortable silence between you. Linkon was rather quiet that night—whether it was because you were quite far from the city center or because everyone else was already in a deep slumber. The only sounds that reached your ears were the delicate breeze rustling through the bushes and the distant hum of car engines.

“You’re right. This place is perfect for clearing your mind,” you spoke after what felt like a pregnant pause.

“It indeed is,” he replied. “You know, I’ve never brought anyone here before.”

The air felt warm, a stark contrast to the cold wind earlier. Or perhaps it was just your cheeks? “Not even Luke and Kieran? Or Mephisto?” You quickly covered it up and asked rather amusedly.

“Especially not the twins,” he chuckled. “Last time they discovered my hideout, things went chaotic. I take it you know them well enough now?”

The corners of your lips twitched upwards.

He then continued, “Mephisto would be a great companion, yes, if only he didn’t get too territorial and challenge the local birds to a boxing match. You saw how he was last time during our video call when I was in the park.”

You laughed—a genuine laugh after waves of frustration throughout the whole day. It felt warm and fuzzy, but it didn’t quite fight another blow of the cold gust. Up here definitely felt colder due to the high elevation. You fully folded your arms this time.

“Cold?” you heard Sylus ask.

“A little,” you allowed yourself to approach him closer. Half your back was now covered by his towering frame. You noticed him shifting, positioning his body to block the chilly breeze, his arm still wrapped around your shoulder.

You tilted your head upwards slightly to see his face. He wasn’t looking back at you; his eyes seemed glued to the illuminated city below. Only then did you realize how soft he looked, a striking contrast to the way he had presented himself during your first encounter. You couldn’t help but wonder what was on his mind. Was he thinking about...?

“You know, most people would be enjoying the view from up here,” his voice snapped you out of your thoughts. “But someone would rather stare at my face, apparently.”

This was the second time that night you realized you were staring at him. You turned your head, frantically searching for something else to look at from the glimmering Linkon.

“Yes, sweetie, the scenery is over there.”

You could feel he was grinning.

“Shut up.”

Perhaps it was another gust of wind that made you press your back against his chest, closing the distance between the two of you. He didn’t move, but his arm was still protecting you—practically hugging you from behind now with his hand reaching across your neck. A light chuckle escaped his lips when hearing your response, and you could feel his head leaning downwards. “No denying?”

“Not answering,” you muttered. You tried not to turn your head towards him, knowing that your faces would be only inches apart.

There was another chuckle before he called you in a low murmur.

“Kitten.”

His free hand glided from his pocket to your chin, delicately coaxing your head to face him. His touch felt so careful—so cautious as if he feared you would push him away or break or explode. You could even barely feel his finger graze your skin.

“... Hm?”

Once again, somehow, you obliged without protest. You looked at him; his face was so close you could feel the warmth of his breath. His crimson eyes locked onto you, and you forced yourself to meet his gaze this time. Only a few centimeters separated your face from his. You could feel your cheeks flush once again, your heart thumping faster than usual.

“I was right,” he uttered quietly. A smirk adorned the corner of his lips, but his eyes were tender.

Your answer was barely audible when you murmured, “About what?”

“I knew you were staring at me and not the city view,” he spoke in a soft whisper. His face was very near now that you could feel his nose lightly grazed yours, his breath warm against your skin. With such closeness, you realized how nice he smelled, how the faint radiance bathed his face, how his silvery strands fluttered and danced with the breeze.

You glanced down at his lips for a split second before darting your eyes back, locking them with his again.

“Three times now,” he breathed, catching you again. “Admit defeat, kitten...”

“... Fine.” You swore you could hear your own heartbeat thundering in your ears by now. One small move forward and—

“Fine, you’re right,” you repeated.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath—your mind hazy from his proximity.

“Kitten?”

“... Yeah?”

His fingers still held your chin in place, his eyes never left yours, and his other arm remained wrapped around you. Perhaps it was his body acting like a shield, or perhaps the cold breeze ceased to exist, but you were almost sure you felt blanketed with warmth. You could feel your heart quicken, the anticipation hanging in the air like a fragile thread.

“May I...?”

Very subtly, your head nodded, and your eyes gave him the signal.

With that, Sylus closed the distance between you, and your lips met delicately. The world around you faded into a gentle hum, the city lights twinkling like distant stars as you closed your eyes. His lips were surprisingly warm, a tender caress you never expected from someone like him. The warmth radiating from him enveloped you, making you forget the chill of the night air as you melted into his kiss.

For the first time in two days, you gladly decided to ignore your work.

And perhaps scheduling future night rides with him wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.

[klausinamarink]

(saw this post and laughed at everyone’s tags and ended up writing this instead of my actual wips i should really finish whOOPs)

-

Eddie bopped his head lightly along to Mötley Crüe on his Walkman as he scribbled his ideas for the Thanksgiving oneshot. He managed to finish the gruelling biology homework and his English essay tonight, so he deserved a treat.

As he tapped his pencil against his desk, he looked up and happened to catch one Steve Harrington’s face at the window.

Eddie perked up, taking his headphones off. Steve grinned, gave his dumb finger wave, and pointed at the window. Eddie gave him a ‘wait a second’ gesture and hurried to close his door, peeking first at the living room where Wayne sat on the couch and read his newspaper. Then he swiftly moved his Mötley Crüe tape to his radio and cranked the volume up that would cover any discreet noise.

He lifted the window open, taking a moment to closely observe Steve’s face in his goofy awestruck glory. “What brings you to my balcony, Romeo?”

Steve shrugged playfully, “Doesn’t Juliet yearn for his lover to come at unknown hours under the moonlight?”

Eddie gave himself a second to turn away and cover his delightful shriek with a palm over his mouth. Goddamnit, his boyfriend is a perfect Shakespeare romantic. He leaned back in with a low whisper, “Sounds like Romeo needs an excuse to see Juliet.”

“That’ll be great since I’m literally tiptoeing on this box right now.” Steve laughed and heaved himself up with a ‘hup!’ Eddie stepped back to let his boyfriend shimmy in, but then his eyes widened in horror when he realized what was under the window in his room.

“Wait, Steve-!” Eddie cut off as Steve landed elegantly onto the small bookshelf instead of the bed because he had switched their places the previous week because his brain was on a weird day and Eddie had thought doing so might shut it up, so he has yet to reverse them.

The bookshelf toppled over on the floor, along with the lamp and other figurines. Steve himself pretty much crashed and rolled before he stopped himself on his side. He looked up at Eddie in bewilderment.

“Uhhh…”

Before either of them could say anything, Wayne burst into the room. Out of instinctive reflex, Eddie threw his bedsheets right on Steve, covering him but not really hiding him.

“What’s going on?” Wayne asked. His gaze landed on the mess and the very obvious Steve blanket lump on the floor.

“Nothing!” Eddie answered, too cheerily. “I was just dancing a lot and, uh, did this. By accident, sorry.”

Wayne stared at him, clearly not believing his ass. “…Right.” He said slowly. “Does Steve want to stay for breakfast in the morning?”

Eddie blinked innocently and, because he was the best liar in the entire world, said, “Who’s Steve?”

Steve made some muffled guffaw sound. Eddie subtly kicked him in where he hoped was in the shins. Wayne gave him another stare before coming to Steve the Blanket Lump and lifted the sheet up where Steve blinked just as innocently back.

“What’s your name, son?” Wayne asked matter of factly.

“…Steve?”

“Steve, would you like to stay for breakfast in the morning?”

Steve looked over to Eddie, who quickly shook his head no, then back at Wayne with his parent-rated charming smile. “Of course, I wouldn’t mind, Wayne.”

His uncle nodded and dropped the blanket, covering Steve again. He turned and walked out of the room, calling out, “Better not hear any more noises again!”

Eddie practically dropped to the ground, his face in his hands, and groaned aloud. This was so embarrassing. He felt Steve’s arms hugging his chest. “Eds, babe, I’m sorry but you know I would die for your uncle’s buttermilk biscuits and jams.”

He glared at his boyfriend half-heartedly. “Stealthy like a ninja, you say?”

Steve pointedly looked down at the fallen bookshelf. “Welllll, I could’ve sworn there was always a bed there-”

Eddie kissed him. “Well,” he said after they broke apart, “maybe I’ll let Romeo help me clean up and all shall be forgiven with our usual duties.”

Steve wiggled his eyebrows with a shit-eating grin. “Clean up, you say, Juliet?”

Wayne hollered at Eddie to close his bedroom door.

[lovehotelreservation]

chapter one: hi it's me you're all in danger summary: worldwide fame and a political tie or two has you--one of the biggest pop stars around--in dire need of reliable protection. thankfully you have four ex-military retirees to entrust your wellbeing to. but what happens when that protection turns possessive? rating: pg-13 (rating will increase across certain chapters) pairing: f!reader/task force 141 next chapter

as a longtime charli xcx fan, can't say i expected my brat autumn to be spent writing about the cod mfs 😭😭

-----------------

10 AM. London. Shangri-La. Hotel bar.

Somehow, being surrounded by opulence, prestige, and elegance made particular four men currently seated in the back of the space feel a bit out of place.

But they were here on a mission.

Or rather, a job now.

The days of being out on the field in camo fatigues were of the past. Now they were all seated together in suits–black and white, jacket, tie, pants and polished shoes–gin and lemon water on the table.

There was a bit of restlessness in the air and it was starting to spill out in the conversations shared amongst the four.

“Simon, would it literally kill ya to show yer mouth, man? Dae ya want the lass to think yer sick as a first impression?”

“A bit of mystery could be fun, no?”

“Are ya Scooby fuckin’ Doo or somethin?!”

“Johnny, can you keep it down? Your mohawk’s already gotten us enough looks as it is.”

“And what’s so wrong with a lil’ business casual, Kyle?!”

“Can you muppets keep it down!?”

The harsh lash of Price’s tongue had postures straightened and lips hushed.

With a sigh, he brought his fingers to his temple, wondering how he managed to save the world over and over again with these three. Still, his eyes flickered to his watch as he checked the time, a conversation from a month ago coming to mind.

“Price.”

A hand was extended out to him. Fluorescent lights at the American embassy in Paris hung above. Murmurs of French and English lingered in the air as the day proceeded.

Price grinned, returning the exchange with a firm handshake. “Miller. Good to see you standing, old friend.”

Moments later the conversation was held at Miller’s office, a familiar place during the times Price had visited. What stood out to him most was the newly framed photo of Miller and his blushing bride, Priscilla.

A miraculous matrimony all things considered.

Miller, an American ambassador. Priscilla, an activist whose loud and mighty voice helped push for change within socio-political and environmental spaces.

It wasn’t as if it was absolutely impossible for the two to meet–rather, it was just the fact they met after being held hostage alongside other world leaders and activists during a goodwill gala held at Berlin. Terror wished to deliver a haunting message to all of the world, with similar sieges held at other massive events, but thankfully the work of 141 and other allies blocked the reception.

Price glanced down at Miller’s desk, where a few pictures of a glamorous woman were splayed across files: a pop star by the name of Dollface. Formerly part of beloved girl group 4EVA, now setting the music scene alight with impeccable music production, godly vocals, and captivating choreography.

Or so he’s heard.

Right beside her was a clipped out headline from a newspaper:

Glastonbury Saved! Tragedy Averted from Terrorist Threat!

A job well done–courtesy of a certain phantom soldier.

“–I know your days of military campaigns are over, but this has been tearing Priscilla apart,” Miller sighed morosely. “While I know this is the fault of no one and she understands that change in the world comes at a cost, the fact that terrorists would target her niece’s festival performance has been haunting her.”

“Revolution does not come easy, that’s for certain,” Price mused as he glanced over at his friend’s face with an affirming nod. “Even so, it’s something still worth fighting for.”

Miller sighed out in agreement. “Of course.”

“So then.” Adjusting his posture, Price then continued, his tone light, “What can I and a few recently retired soldiers do for you, mate?”

His shoulders relaxing, Miller then reached down for one of the photos of the pop star, pushing it over towards Price. “Watch her. Protect her, please. She’s been an anxious mess ever since Glastonbury.” Gazing down at the newspaper headline clipping, he continued, “Her career’s at such a critical point and her first solo world tour’s been delayed enough as it is. Pressure’s everywhere–label, fans, the media. I know she wants more than anything to finally move forward. But–”

Gingerly picking up the photo, Price took in every single detail of the woman.

Of you.

Turning his focus back to Miller, he grinned, brows raising. “A bit of Price Protection and Co. could do wonders, yeah?”

“You’d be doing miracles, friend” was the response received, along with a vigorous nod.

Price held out his hand.

“It’s a deal.”

And now, the gang was all here, even though the gang was currently driving Price up the wall. Still, if there was anyone who he trusted to get the job done on behalf of a dear old friend, it was Gaz, Ghost, and Soap.

Or rather, from here on out: Kyle, Simon and Johnny.

It didn’t hurt that the gig paid quite handsomely–your label desperately wanted you to get back on stage one way or another. Since the Glastonbury incident, you’ve since been spending your days in London, far too afraid to leave anywhere. The plan was to slowly draw you out of your shell by planning all promotional endeavors around the UK before you would travel the world as intended.

Before any of that however, the first key matter of business is for the five of you to meet together.

10:15 AM. London. Shangri-La. Hotel bar.

“What do you lot think? Full glam or lowkey?” Kyle spoke up, now peering over to look at Johnny’s phone, who had brought up one of your music videos.

Price glanced over, seeing slick skin, big curls, gyrating hips, rouge lips, white heels, and sparkling eyes.

Such visuals were definitely not on Miller’s desk when discussing the job.

“Like right now?” Johnny queried back.

“Lowkey without question.” Simon folded his arms across his chest, his eyes peeking at Johnny’s phone, his expression reflective.

A sudden tap on the back of Price's shoulder just a moment later soon caught his attention. 

“Mr. Price…?”

He immediately turned back, the others following suit.

Johnny’s eyes widened, immediately switching off his phone to shove into his pocket.

Lowkey was correct.

A cap, oversized t-shirt with shorts hidden beneath, hair down, tennis shoes, a pair of sunglasses that were soon slipped off.

The contrast between who they saw on screen to who they were seeing now couldn’t be any more apparent.

Still, even by the way you stood before him, posture shrunken back slightly, eyes a bit downcast, voice softer than the usual bubbly vocals of your music, there was this grace, this aura that you exuded–one that spoke of a true bonafide performer rather than a mere average person.

Smiling warmly, Price held his hand out towards you for you to shake. “That would be me, dear.”

“Uncle Miller’s told me lots about you.” You smiled, bringing your hand up to take his.

So much smaller than his, he noted to himself, chuckling as he responded with, “I hope they’re my finer moments.”

Giggling in response, you affirmed, “As he said, only the best unclassified stuff. I’m Doll–” You quickly stopped yourself, opting to give your first name instead.

“Face pretty like a doll’s still,” Johnny murmured over to Kyle, who nodded in agreement.

Simon didn’t say anything but instead allowed his arms to rest by his sides, continuing to quietly observe you.

A world-renowned pop star with four former soldiers tasked to serve as her bodyguards.

Should be an easy enough job.

-----------------

thank you for reading !!! i know i tend to not really do multi-chapter pieces but idk the ghost of brat summer took over me after seeing a clip of soap and simon banter so i've been genuinely locked in with writing out this tale 🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️

subsequent chapters are going to be loosely tied together but i hope you enjoy my take on cod yumejo with this pop star otome 🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️

next chapter's up next friday !!! 🤸‍♀️🤸‍♀️

[georgiapeach30513]

How I'm Looking at You, Part 3

Summary: it's becoming too much, and you're learning so much.

Pairings: Ari Levinson X Reader

Rating: explicit

Warnings:  explicit language, explicit sexual content, first orgasm, jealousy, fingering, dry humping, mild imagines of breeding kink, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 7.8K

Previous

Series Masterlist

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics

Taking a deep breath, you lift another spoonful of the coffee soup to your lips before letting the spoon fall back in the glass with a clash. Eyes going wide as you read through the words quickly, and turn the page. The English are a different breed of people, but you have found yourself more and more immersed in their literature. Getting to a better stopping point, you dip a piece of the bread in the soup, and look towards Ari.

He’s staring directly at you. Those crystal blue eyes of his rakes over your face curiously as if he’s studying you. As if you are the most interesting thing in the world. An abandoned newspaper beside his breakfast, but how could you be more interesting than whatever was in that?

Clearing your throat, you turn your gaze back to the book, and read nothing. You can still feel his warm and curious eyes as you try to breathe. Just breathe. Going to the swimming hole has lit something in you. Something deep within your body, and it is purely physical. You want him. You want him like the characters in your books, and that just brings on even more questions.

Questions that have you fearing their answers. Was Ari even aware of the books he had given you to read? Was that his plan all along? Because there is something stirring, and you don’t know how to deal with it. Between him and what you’re reading it’s becoming too much. It fizzles lower than your belly, and you have a feeling that Ari is the only one that can fix it.

Ari shifts in his chair, and you look over towards him. If he wants your attention, he can have a bit of it. You’re almost too embarrassed and scared to give him your full attention. “I want to apologize for the other day?”

“Apologize?” You ask a bit confused. What exactly is he apologizing for? And why was the fact that he was apologizing and admitting he did something wrong — desirable? Men around here were right, and you were just to accept it.

“For the swimming hole,” you nod once, your vision turning to an odd scratch in his table. Your father would have already had that buffed out. “I think things got a bit heated, and if I crossed the line, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t. Not really,” you gulp as you try and find the words. These books have been giving you so many new words that you aren’t sure if you can or should put them into a sentence. But there is one thing that seems to be common amongst the women, “It’s just so fast. And it’s overwhelming and I don’t know how to deal with what I’m feeling,” that didn’t sound too bad.

“What exactly are you feeling?” He adjusts his seat. Putting his forearms onto the table, while he leans forward. Giving you more attention than anyone else ever has, “If you’re comfortable,” you shake your head quickly, and he smiles. He has a pretty smile. A smile that you can feel radiate all the way to your toes, and that makes no sense at all.

“We should go swimming again,” you look at him, a smile creeping up on your face. “If-if you want to, that is. I can get you a bathing suit, and you can feel free to ask me anything. I could be like an open book, if you will.”

“Anything?” He whispers out, yes, and you let those words sink a moment before nodding, and picking your book back up. You read a paragraph about fifteen times without even absorbing what the words mean. But you have to quit looking at him. You have to keep him off your mind, while you try not to explode.

Anything. Anything that you can come up with, he’s willing to answer. You need to gather your thoughts, and think about what you would like to ask him. What if you irritated him to the point that he didn’t want to answer questions anymore? You had to make these questions count for something.

Ari is a strange character. He’s intense in ways that your community isn’t. Here the men just had a stern hand. They walked around being able to do what they wanted to because they were men. They just had to stick to the Amish ways, or at least not get caught. Judging by the church service over the weekend, people are having the same thoughts about you.

You could hear the whispers, and the backwards glances. Gossiping is a sin. Ari is your friend though. He doesn’t talk about you, he talks with you. A worldly man, and he gave you his undivided attention, and even his touches.

And why shouldn’t you be friends with Ari? It’s not like you’re doing something you shouldn’t be. You’re enjoying time with him, and learning from him. That’s more like a teacher. Except — Ari doesn’t look anything like the teachers you grew up with. He’s tall, large, and thick, and he makes your body ache in weird ways. You’re sure he’s not feeling the same way as you, so it’s best to keep these feelings suppressed.

But these stupid books are not helping. There’s something within them that just makes sense. They’re answering and describing a lot of things you’ve been feeling, but how does one know if your teacher is feeling the same way? How do you know if Ari is just as much of a knotted up mess as you are?

“So,” Ari starts, whatever his train of thought was, depleting. He’s not usually one to be shy, that’s typically you.

“What?” Laying your book down, you smile up at him. “Ari, what is it?”

“If I ask, you have to promise to not get mad,” now what is he up to that would make you get mad?

“I thought we were friends?”

“Yes!” His shout makes you flinch, and you giggle at your silly reaction. “I’m sorry, but yes, we’re friends. And I’m only trying to help you out. I took a guess at…your size of bra.”

“Oh,” your eyes fall back to the table. You had read about bras. There’s no way that the scratch on the table are as exciting as you’re making it. But looking at Ari is almost painful, “You know everything I wear, I’ve made myself, right?”

Ari inhales deeply, his own eyes looking at the odd mark on the table now. He actually didn’t know that, and now he fears he’s overstepped his boundaries. You like to think the scratch resembles an upside down J, but more rounded instead of a straight like. “Do you know what a bra is?”

“Essentially, yes. But,” your cheeks flare up with embarrassment, but you refuse to let this be another moment of trying to run away from him. It’s all you feel you’re doing, running away. You stand your ground of being present with him. “I don’t wear one.”

“Do you want to? Or have I gone too far??”

The women in the books all wear bras, and you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t want to experience some of the moments in the books. Unable to answer, you just nod your head. “Do you know how to put one on?”

“I think I can figure it out. Were you about to offer to help me?” This is very much the flirting that the books talk about. His crooked little grin goes wider across his face, and his cheeks flame up. Turning rosy while you can’t stop smiling. It feels good not to be the only one that has this rumbling in your stomach.

“I may have,” his nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. “I got you some panties, and they had a matching set with the bras, and…I don’t know, I figured you might like them? They’d be pretty on you,” He’s thoughtful, if not a shameless flirt. But still it feels nice to be seen, and thought of. “I’ve heard that it can make a woman feel sexy even if nobody sees it.”

Ugh, that gross feeling settles in your craw. Anger is not becoming of an Amish woman, but this doesn't feel like anger. It feels disgusting, and it hurts. You can nearly feel it blooming outwardly in your body, and you only want him to see you in your underwear. Nobody else. You want him to stop talking about other women, even if he’s had them. You want to be the only woman on his mind.

“Maybe they can show you what it looks like then?” His brow cocks up, and you push your chair back with a loud squeak. “I think it’s time for you to get to work.”

“Are you — jealous?” His words halt you in your tracks as you purse your lips. “Darling, there is no other woman in my life but you.”

“But there was, and I don’t much like hearing about them,” of course he couldn’t understand the feeling. You are pure, while he has had others.

“They were in the past, and…”

“And did they show you their panties as well?” He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. Contemplating the best way to proceed. “I see. I’m assuming they also have mated with you.”

“You are jealous,” his words are flat, and if they were mocking you, you might not feel as angry as you do right now. “There’s nothing to be jealous about.”

“How can I be something I don’t even understand what it means? Ari, you should really go outside, and start your chores for today, while I start mine,” what you really want is for him to leave you alone while you’re left with the debilitating thoughts that won’t stop pounding through your mind.

He sighs, pushing his chair back as he goes to stand. Staring at you while you look at anything that isn’t him. The burning sting that you feel oozes into you, and makes you feel weak and filthy. You hate it, and you hate when he does that to you.

“You’re right, Darling. I’m sorry,” what he’s apologizing for, you aren’t sure, but it doesn’t fully quell the sludge bubbling in your stomach. “I figured the bedroom upstairs could be yours,” that came from nowhere. You study him as he fights for the words to say next.

“Maybe you should look in the drawers. You’re doing a great job here, and I can’t thank you enough. Take some time off today,” you start to object. Blubbering through words, but his calloused finger presses up against your pouty lips, and you’re stunned into submission.

You look up at him through your lashes, feeling smaller than you actually are. He’s massive. His size always seems to make you feel like a child. “There’s less to do here because it’s just me. As your employer, I am telling you to take it easy today. Do I make myself clear?” Your throat is dry, almost on the verge of hurting as you nod your head. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so what are you supposed to do? Continue to argue and lose? No. You’ll just accept his warning.

“Everything in that room is yours,” he says with finality as he stalks to the door, and out for the day.

You’re left reeling. Playing over every word said this morning while you try and figure out all that is happening. Big strong Ari makes you very weak in the knees, and wet. That’s what the books say, and that is what you feel. The books have a perfect way of explaining the things that are going on in your hidden areas.

These feelings you can’t explain, but the books do. But what they suggest to take care of those feelings seems forbidden. Gathering up your current book, you lift your skirts a bit as you walk up the stairs. Counting each one on the way up. Fifteen. Fifteen steps until you reach the top landing.

Journeying down the hallway, you stop and take a peek in the first room. Ari’s. He actually made the bed today, but didn’t close his drawers all the way. He told you not to work today, but you can’t let those drawers stay open, so you take a few steps to it, and close them. Looking out the window you see him squinting up at the house before he smiles, and looks back at Jacob and the other two boys.

He saw you in his room. You had no business being in here, and you wonder if he’s going to punish you for not listening to him. It didn’t matter. What’s done is done, and you’ll accept whatever punishment he deems fit. You’ll just go to your room, as Ari called it.

It’s prettier than his. Showing oddly feminine furniture that are a bit too decorative to be Amish, but you like them. Love them actually. Love the way the intricate golden vines sprawl out over the sturdy wood, but it’s inside that has got you curious. You walk over to the window, and see Ari smiling at you again. Tipping his hat before you close the curtains.

Is he watching you? Waiting to see what you think of this bedroom? Or even what’s in the closet and drawers? Which makes you wonder, what exactly is in there. Opening the door to the closet, you take a step back as your eyes flick over the frocks. So many colors. And fabrics. Tags on them let you know that they weren’t made by someone, but you adore them all the same.

Pulling out on dress, you flatten it over your body, and turn to look at a floor length mirror, that definitely isn’t Amish. Vanity is a sin. But peering into the looking glass you get the appeal. You run your fingers over the lavender material as you swish around. Trying to get a feel of what it would look like on your body before you lay it on the bed.

You should try it on. But first where are the bras, those sets, that Ari spoke about. You go to the dresser, and open up a drawer. Smiling when you see the multitude of colors and materials in there. They were beautiful. It’s one thing that truly bothered you about your community, they want to praise God because of the beauty he created, while you are left to mope around in drab tones.

Don’t bring attention to oneself. But this would be under your clothes and only you and Ari would know. These are things you would be proud to show him, and even tell him how pretty they make you feel. You choose a pretty pale pink set. The bottoms have a bit less material than what you have been wearing. But the top looks so fresh and light that you need it on your skin. And then you can try on the dress.

Maybe even show Ari, and ask what he thinks. You stare at yourself in the mirror as you put the pieces on. Spinning and turning to admire the way they fit on your body. How they hug your curves, and lift your breasts. Your fingers tickle over the cups, and your body jerks back at the sensation. That…that was a lot for very little effort. It’s only partially of how Ari makes you feel. He has you wound so tight that it’s sometimes difficult to breathe.

He makes you feel like your skin is on fire. That your blood is so hot and boiling that it physically turns your body into a furnace. Every time. The serious tone, and the way he looks at you with those pouting eyes. The intensity you feel between the two of you swells, and you need something. The books make that something seem easy, but the way you feel, and what you have been taught is anything but simple. It’s a sin. A loathsome and filthy sin. But why does his smile and touch make you feel good?

It’s something that could get you shunned out of your community. Something that nobody even talked about. It’s to be had, but kept secret. You’ve read enough in the books to know it’s not just breeding, although that seems to be a colorful time. But a pleasure that takes you out of your body and puts you into an out of body experience. You just had to ask Ari a few things about parts, and what they actually mean, and do. Maybe you’d ask him to go back to the swimming hole. You could have a picnic dinner planned, and you are not going to run away. You’re going to force yourself to stay, and learn.

“Fuck,” you hear an angry growl coming from the front door, and make your way down the stairs. His arms flail around on the porch as he removes his shirt. Legs dancing around and stomping on the shirt before he comes inside.

Welts form on his body as he starts swatting his thick chest, and you rush to him, “Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” his words stop immediately when he sees you. Sorrowful for saying that word in front of you, but the pain overtakes him as he groans, swatting at his chest again.

“Your hurt,” that much is obvious as you look over his skin. “Let me wash my hands. Yellow jackets?”

“Yeah,” his voice is strained as he follows you into the kitchen. “What do I need to do?” You give him a point to the chair, and he follows your lead. Mixing up a little concoction, you grab a towel, and kneel between his legs.

Your soft and delicate hands move over his ample chest. Stopping on each welt to make sure you remove every stinger. You can’t look up at him, but feel his eyes never leave yours, “What happened?”

“I was actually plowing, and ran right into a nest. There’s none on my back. They got in the front of my shirt, Darling,” he wants to plead to you not to get off your knees. To stay there while he has the most intrusive impure thoughts about you. You gulp, reaching up to the table, and grab your little bowl.

“It may sting a bit,” whispering as you press a hand on his broad chest. His heart is beating just as fast as yours, an he leans back, so you can lift up off your haunches. Forgetting what it is you’re supposed to be doing as you watch the rise and fall of his body. He’s beautiful, and it’s suffocating to think about how close you are. How you can still feel the heat of the sun on his skin.

“What is that?” He asks with a smile, and you remember what it is you’re supposed to be doing. Gathering up a little bit of the paste, you smooth it over the first sting, and he hisses. Everything in your body buzzes as you rub it into another sting. “Darling? You okay?”

No, you’re not, but you nod because it’s the safest thing as you spread out the salve right beside his nipple. Your eyes roll up to meet him, and you freeze. The way he is staring at you seems just right. Your body is on fire, but it doesn’t feel sinful. “I-i-i-it’s meat tenderizer,” you sound like the girls who have a boy courting them, and you can’t make the silliness stop.

“What?” The rumble of his chuckle vibrates straight to your core, and you clench your thighs together trying to make it stop. How does a laugh send sensations there? Everything Ari does makes the central area of your body fill with need. Feel the need for him to do something. Anything.

“It works, doesn’t it?” There’s heat coursing through you to Ari. Spreading between the two of you, and you can’t make things move. Your hands fall to his thighs, and you whimper at the feeling of the cords of muscle that make up the majority of him. He’s big everywhere. You just know it. The books said as much, but you don’t dare ask a question about those areas.

His mouth turns up into a soft grin as he leans forward. Inching closer and closer to you, and you’re immobilized, but not by fear. Whatever is happening you pray that it happens faster. The way that your body bends into his, curving at your back, and you look up at him.

Ari licks his lips, and lifts a hand under your chin. Holding you in place, and placing you how he wants you. His lashes splay over his cheeks as he takes a quick glance to your lips before closing his eyes, and you copy his movements. Primed and ready for his lips to brush softly against yours, and he intakes a long breath before you pucker out your own, and he gently and tenderly presses against your plump lips.

His tongue tickles on the pillows of your mouth, and they part on their own accord. Your taste buds are assaulted with the tangy taste of tea. Trying to taste more, your tongue darts out, tasting his tongue, and those thick arms wrap around your body, lifting you higher up. Swallowing every shallow breath, and every whimper that escapes you.

The two of you melt into one another. Nothing has ever felt like this, and that fuzzy feeling spreads in your belly. No lower. “Ari,” you say his name breathlessly as he gulp for air. Your lungs pain with the wide spread of oxygen, and you still hunger for Ari. He pulls you up into his lap. Refusing to remove his mouth from you, and his hands explore the curves that your dress always hides.

Kissing from your lips, down to your jaw as your body starts to rock into him. Movements you’ve never made before, and you want more. He takes his mouth to your neck, giving the sensitive column a little nibble, and you yip. Mewling out his name, and he smiles on your skin, “You like that?”

You don’t have time to ask him to make the buildup inside of you stop because the front door slings open, and booming steps walk towards the kitchen, “Ari, you…” you stand up quickly from his lap, and smooth down your skirts, shamefully looking away from Jacob. Your whole body spinning around while Ari sits in the chair nonchalantly with his legs spread wide. Both arms rest on his legs, while his hands hang over his crotch. Hiding the effect you had on him.

“Are you okay?” Jacob looks between the two of you, and you walk over to the empty sink. Staring into the porcelain like your vision can manifest dirty dishes. Don’t look at him. Don’t speak to him. He is Amish, and you’re now alone with two men. “I came to check on you. Jedidiah said you came in here cursing up a storm. We don’t like to hear such things, but for the women, especially.”

“Jacob, I’m fine. Um…meat tenderizer, does the trick every time,” Jacob looks between the two of you as Ari stands from the chair. Towering over Jacob, “Don’t barge into my house. Okay?”

“Was she…?”

“She was tending to my stings, and now I feel brand new. I’ll meet you back outside,” Jacob’s dark green eyes look over to your back, and you keep staring at the overly clean sink. Why did you have to be so sufficient? “I’ll be out shortly, Jacob.”

The boy gives a nod to Ari, and reluctantly walks away. Trying to think of any kind of scenario that could explain the quick movement that he witnessed. But Ari can only think of you. Slowly he walks over to your side, and his hand rests under chin, and he turns you to look at him, while his thumb grazes over your kiss-swollen lips.

His thoughts are only on your embarrassment and questions you have to be having right now. “Darling, what happened isn’t wrong.”

“I know, it doesn't feel wrong, it feels forbidden, and private,” he wishes there was a way to make you not feel so much guilt, but you are hardwired that way. He doesn’t want to overwhelm you, but he doesn’t know the words to say to reassure you of that. He wants you to know that what he feels for you is beyond just the physical part. That he has a need to take care of you.

The only reason he’s even entertaining this place still is because of you. He can’t say all that. Can’t say that he wants to pick you up, and set you on the counter while he lifts up your skirts, and worships you between your thighs. Fuck everyone’s small minded thoughts in this community because you deserved to be respected, loved, and cherished. And above all feel pleasure without shame.

“Ari, I can’t stop feeling funny around you.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know?” How does one explain that you what you want with him is what is going on in the books? You didn’t even know what was going on in the books. You know there are wifely duties to her husband, but you didn’t know if that’s how a wife surrendered to her husband. The women in the books receive pleasure and compliments beyond your wildest imaginations. The women here bore children. There seems to be a difference there.

“Try to explain it?”

“It feels fuzzy, and I want something that I don’t even know what it is. And I want,” you bite your lip, and Ari wants to drop to his knees. He knows that would be too much right now. But you need the edge to be taken off of you.

“Did — did you enjoy the kiss?”

“Maybe too much.”

“Why do you say that?”

You stare up at him, eyes darting all around his ridiculously handsome face, and try to think of the words that won’t embarrass you. No one has ever talked to you about kissing, or even how it would make you feel. All you know is from the books. The men in those books seem to understand, and like it.

“It’s just that arousal has pooled in my core,” his eyes go wide, and he looks towards your belly. He’s speechless. His hand grips onto the counter, knuckles whitening, and his hip juts out. You hear him audibly counting, although it’s barely spoken. “You should go back outside.”

“I should take you swimming, and have some privacy with you,” he wants to take his time with you. Lavish you with so much attention that you can’t even think straight. The way he wants to spoil you with pleasures beyond your wildest imagination.

“It’s not an actual pool,” he blows out a slow bit of air, while you try to understand what he’s thinking. It isn’t about where he takes you, it’s just about being alone and uninterrupted.

“I know exactly what is happening to your body,” of course he does because he’s made other women feel like this. You want to scream, and tell him to leave you alone.

“Because there are other women who understood these feelings, and they were more appealing to you. You don’t have to tell me about them every chance you get. Please, Ari, go finish your chores, and I will see you at dinner,” you need to end the conversation, and you begin to spin around, but he grabs ahold of your wrist, “Ari?”

“I’m not walking out that door with you feeling jealous,” you aren’t jealous. You are angry. “There might have been other women, because I wasn’t shunned into thinking that it was a sin, but no woman has ever appealed to me the way you have. No other woman has made me feel as hard as you do,” that phrase. It meant something important. That’s what the books stated. “We’re continuing this conversation at the swimming hole tonight. Don’t worry about dinner. You’re eating English pizza.”

He drops your wrist, and marches out the front door. Picking up his shirt, he shakes it out, making sure the hideous creatures that marred his skin were no longer there. He should have got another one. What did he even mean? Harder — that could only describe one thing. But you’d have to ask Ari exactly what it all meant.

You wring your hands together as you pace around his living room. You had already watched the hired hands leave, and Ari picked up his phone, and dialed a number and was gone. He told you the conversation would continue, and you want it to, but you’re nervous. Nervous about him, or what he thinks. Nervous about you and whatever your body is doing. But you like it. Really like it.

And that kiss, you are swooning so hard. He put his tongue in your mouth just like the books said. And of all the books you read, you couldn’t have been prepared for the actual alarms that went off in your body. How perfect it felt, and just how sparks flew through every limb and ligament, and you felt as if you could fly.

The books didn’t fully prepare or warn you of that. How it felt like there’s fish in your stomach swimming around. Or how you ached, and throbbed in ways you couldn’t explain, so he had to do it. He had to come clean and tell you everything, but how do you start that conversation? You know what you have to do, but you aren’t sure if you have the guts to actually do it.

Could you go through with it? Ari isn’t the average man, and you know he’s not going to fall for your — is this what games are? One book mentioned the games women played. Are you playing games with him? No. You’ve made it clear, you told him what you were feeling, and he wants to continue the conversation. And there are — things that happen in the books. Where the men put their hands, and other things, and they have opened up so many possibilities, and you want to explore them all. You think. So many questions that you need answered.

You jump back a step, and put your hands behind your back as Ari walks in through the door with a box of pizza, his bright eyes looking you up and down before motioning to the kitchen, “Do you want to eat here, or do you want to have a picnic?”

“Picnic. I think you need to cool down, and get the dirt off you,” he nods, and grabs a few sodas from the fridge, and a blanket. He starts to walk out the back door, and you skip off after him. There is a tension in the air that can physically seep through your bones, and you want it smoothed away. You know that he’s not angry with you, he’s just lacking the words to say to you.

Stopping at the swimming hole, you grab the blanket from him, and lay it out on the ground, and he places the drinks and pizza down. He tugs at his shirt, until it’s thrown onto the blanket, and you watch his muscles ripple, and he’s kicking off his boots, and yanking his pants down. Standing in front of you like the giant he is. “Are you going to join me?”

“Nobody comes out here?” He shakes his head no, starting to walk backwards to the river, and you gulp. Reaching towards your buttons, before dropping your hands. Your eyes scan over the location before you tell yourself this is what they do in the books, and you like Ari, and want to feel the way those women did.

Your fingers tremble as they undo each button one at a time, and you let your dress fall to the ground. Ari’s boxer briefs tighten instantly as he stares at your backside. The cute bikini cut of your panties having a bit of your asscheeks hanging out. The soft pink color sitting on your skin like it was painted on there.

And then you turn around with your arms covering your top. You are wearing one of the matching sets he got you. “I can’t see anything you don’t want me to see,” timidly you peel your arms away, and walk towards the river. He stands up, walking closer, and you yip. He’s bigger, like he was before. He holds up his hand and you take it, so he can assist you in the water, and get a bit more coverage than before.

“You look beautiful,” he can’t help the way his eyes move all over every bit of exposed skin.

“Vanity is a sin,” keeping you covered was the sin.

“And I’m no angel,” you knew that to be true. He was both holy and unholy. A twinge of guilt pangs in your chest, as you glance between the two of you.

“How do they fit?”

“Hmm?” He shakes his head, meeting your eyes again. He has to focus if he wants this conversation to go anywhere. But the way your nipples are pressing against that thin material has him ready to blow a loud immediately. The fabric already see through with the moisture, and it’s pointless now. You should just remove it.

“My panties. Did they fit well?”

“Yeah,” he answers dopely, and you glance away with your cheeks setting on fire. The heat spreads throughout your body, as you stare at him through the crystal clear water. He’s even bigger. And your body longs to feel him against you again.

“Remember when you told me if ever I have any questions, you’d answer?” He gives you a nod. Letting his mouth sink below water, he swims and floats all around you like a shark with his meal for the night. Circling you like his prey, while you try to find a less blatant way to ask a question.

Him surrounding you just lights everything on fire. Like your blood is lava, and even the cold river isn’t stopping it. Things are happening to you that you didn’t understand, and even if you’re overwhelmed, you don’t hate it. You want to understand it, and want to know how to quell it.

“I guess first things first,” you inhale deeply, looking at him, and unable to take your eyes away. It’s like he needs you as much as you need him, and that doesn’t even make sense. “What’s a cock?”

So much happens in such a short time. Ari inhales before his mouth can get out of the water. Choking and sputtering on the water that he sucked into his lungs, and you’re able to maneuver yourself in front of him, and you grab his face, trying to get him to calm before you sink under water. Forgetting that you can’t swim because Ari is in trouble.

He lifts you up, bringing you straight onto his body, and his eyes capture yours. You feel both of your heartbeats in the most bizarre places as he clings to you. Those thick hands splay a bit too low on your back, to the point it isn’t really just your back. He’s so big. “What did you say?”

“A cock. What is it? It’s not like a rooster, obviously.”

“I think it’s better for me to show you,” you asked the question, and he couldn’t help his slimy little comment to come out. He’d show you his cock whenever you want him to. He wants to make an offer if you see it, you have to taste it.

“What does that mean?” Holding you with one arm, he pulls your hand, placing it on his swollen underwear. You whimper as you look into his eyes, and his hand flattens on yours, guiding you to massage his bulge. “And that’s — what goes in me?” How is that ever going to fit anywhere on you?

“What?”

“And that’s where the cum is from. Mmm,” your eyes look through the water, watching your hands as it palms his cock. “Can I see it? Is this how fucking works? Your cock goes into my cunt, and you shoot your cum into my belly. Would you want to see the cum leak out of me? I have so many questions, and you’re not answering, you’re just moaning. What do you taste like?”

“You’re killing me,” no you weren’t. In the books, this is what the men wanted the women to do. They wanted to fuck them deep and hard, and fuck their mouth. This is what men want. “Where are you getting all these words from?”

“The books. So, if you’re not in your underwear, how big is your cock. And what’s my cunt…oh my,” your eyes roll into the back of your head as his hand cups your covered mound, and you bite at your lip. Both of you rubbing each other, and it still doesn’t feel like it’s enough. Like something is missing. “What is fucking then?”

“You probably shouldn’t say that around your community. That’s a very bad word, and you’re such a naughty girl. But if you really want to know what fucking is, we got to start by stretching. Can I touch you under the panties?” He’s never prayed before this moment, but he prays you say yes. All this conversation has done is create a need to feel you from the inside.

“What?”

“It’s easier for me to show the true function of your cunt, if I can go inside of you,” you moan. Your body curves more into him, bringing your core right to his cock. Your body needs to be fucked, but you deserve to have someone make passionate love with you.

“Like finger fucking? Fingering, right? You’ll scissor your fingers inside of me, so you can stretch me out? Yes, can you show me?” His pinky moves aside your panties, and when his bare hands touch you, the moan you let out doesn’t even sound human.

“Shh, you’ve got so much repressed sexual energy, you’re about to blow before I even touch you. This right here, is your pussy, or as you like to call it your cunt,” you didn’t quite understand. His fingers roam over your split, but they were nothing compared to what you held in your hand. His fingers feel baby like. His cock that you try to wrap your hands around feel otherworldly.

“But this,” his fingers push past through your body, and you feel him in your throat. Pressing your forehead against his, and you can no longer hold his cock as you let his fingers roam around inside of you. It didn’t make any sense, and even though you know it will be frowned upon, this pleasure is too good to give up. “This beautiful hole, is your pussy. But…”

Ari’s mouth falls open as you succumb to the pleasure. Your mouth agape, and brows furrowed as you just feel him. “If I can make you come, are you going to give your pussy to me?”

“What’s coming?” he adds a second finger, and you raise your body off him a bit. The stretch is much more intense, and the fullness is mind-blowing. This is what going dumb means. There’s no thoughts, just the way that Ari is making you feel, but also how he feels inside of you. Like he belongs there. A thumb presses down on your entrance, and the sounds that flow out of your mouth make Ari moan.

“I can’t explain coming, you’ll just know. This is your clit,” his thumb circles around the little bean, and your body jumps around. You didn’t believe in magic, but if you did, it belonged in Ari’s fingertips. Your body starts rolling into him, lifting your drenched tits out of the water.

The fabric of your bra is too thin, and your nipples protrude out. If you think you’re overwhelmed, he’s a dead man. His eyes don't know what to look at. He wishes he could see his fingers dragging in and out of your heavenly pussy. Desires nothing more than to see your tits free and bouncing around as he fucks his fingers into you. But it isn’t until he feels your walls flutter, around that he just stops and enjoys what he sees.

Eyes closing tightly as he drives in harder. Faster. Curling his fingers, he hits a tender spot that takes all thoughts away. Tight circles on your clit. Everything working in harmony. Until the dam breaks, and you are gasping and panting for air. Unable to open your eyes, he lets your cunt relax around him before he pulls out his fingers, placing them directly into his mouth where he can suck off your diluted juices.

“That’s coming,” he’s so proud at how well you took him. How beautiful and perfect you looked as you came undone, and he wants to see it again. And again.

“So different from cum. Will you show me your cum?” You are trying to murder him. There’s no other way around this. You are saying all the innocent and filthy things that come to your mind, and he wants you to partake in everything. Whatever books you’re reading, he’ll buy you five thousand more, just so you continue to stay curious for him.

“I’ll paint you with my cum if that’s what you need. But, you just had your first orgasm. I think it’s time for us to eat. Maybe you can show me your pussy outside of the water,” you take some staggered breaths before you open your eyes, looking at him confused.

“But it’s your pussy now,” fuck, he says in his head, and your staring at him seriously. “But how does a cock feel going inside?”

“Not a cock,” you don’t understand. That’s what the books say. “My cock. But not today. I bet that was your first kiss today wasn’t it?” You nod your head. It’s not something that’s done. Things like that are for marriage. And you’d assume whatever his fingers were doing earlier is as well.

“And there’s other lips I can kiss that’ll make you feel even better,” Ari gives your sweet little cunt a few taps with his palm, and the way you look at him so sweetly and whisper please has things on overdrive. He maneuvers you to his front. Coaxing your legs to wrap around his waist as he grinds you on him. “Just like this. You feel how hard you made me?”

“Yeah,” you struggle to get out. “You’re so — big.”

“And you’ll learn to take every inch of me. I’ll have you stretched out so wide around my cock, and you’re going to beg for me to go harder. You’re such a sweet girl, but you want to be my filthy little slut, huh?” In the past you’ve heard those words in such negative terms. But when Ari calls you his, it has you melting into him. Arching your back, you see his eyes go to your breasts.

“You’ll suck on my pebbled peaks, too?”

“Darling, I’ll suck on every part of your body,” whimpering out his name he moves you over him harder. Grunting, growling, and deep breathing. He watches you. You’re about to get off again, and it’s a shame he can’t see your body glistening with his cum that’s about to blow all over your virgin pussy.

“Darling, I’m a sucker for you. You ready?” You nod your head excitedly as he crashes his lips into yours. He devours your moans, gifting you with his own. Creating waves in an otherwise steady river with your movements, until you feel the most beautiful warmth spurt against your skin. “That’s what you fucking do to me. I’ve never came like that before.”

He pants as he looks over your face. Your eyes are wide as they watch him. “It may be a sin, Darling, but you’re worth it,” and you think he’s worth it, too. There’s no way these Amish men could ever be so vulgar with you. It’s depraved, and you sink even further into his hell with him. Your purity be damned because you know it belongs to him.

“I think the books my sister suggested for me to get are complete and utter trash. But you keep reading, and figure out what you like. Write it down. Maybe one day I’ll not only fuck you, but fuck my cum inside of your cunt so deep, that…” he stops, what the fuck was he saying? He’s never desired for children. But the thought of you filled to the brim with his cum, and watching it drip out of you has him reeling. The thought of fucking you everyday before you go home thrills him. Have you walking around with a used pussy, and nobody knows that he took your virtue. They didn’t deserve you.

He has visions of you taking him every way possible. Sobbing out his name while he has his seed dripping out of you. But it isn’t enough. That is just for him. The lips of your pussy swollen from how hard he fucks you will be just for him. But your belly swollen and full of him, nobody could deny. He would have you and nobody else could. He’d have to save you and take you away from this disgusting place. And this is just crazy.

“But, refrain from talking about fucking, and my cock and that beautiful little pussy. Let’s keep it to just us. If you do, I’ll make sure you get to come on my cock.”

“Do I get to taste it?”

“Fuck,” he sighs. You want to try it all, and are eager, and scared, and timid, and it makes it that much more satisfying. Your little bit of jealousy ignited something inside of him. You wanted him just as much as he wanted you, and the thought of him fucking some other woman made you angry. No, it pissed you off. Made you all bratty and snippy. He wanted to push you to your knees, and shove his cock past those pouty lips to remind you the only person that is making his dick wet is you.

“Darling, the first time I come inside of you, I’ll gather the leaking cum with my cock, and let you suck it off. Two holes will be filled with me,” it sounds so — you can’t even think of words. You just know that the books and Ari are your undoing. But once that door is opened, can it fully be closed?

You had Ari inside of you, and you craved more. Addiction is a sin, but Ari was worth sinning for.

Next

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @peaches1958 @seitmai

@smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989

@pandaxnienke @rogersbarber @buckybarnesisdaddy @theinheriteddutchess @patzammit

@theolivia-graham @steviebbboi @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @kandis-mom

[mvlionheart]

34 lestappen

Mini fic / Ficlet prompts (Open)

34. Things you whispered in my ear (Halloween edition!) Max/Charles | 984 words | Rating: Teen

Dr. Leclerc's Monster

Max loves Charles. Not a big enough word, love. Charles is everything to Max. The spindle around which the thread of Max’s existence is wound. Charles is the lamplight that splashes back the inky darkness. Every moment they’re apart the tide of apprehension in his chest threatens to drown him. Charles is the tide, and the shore, and the moon. 

Max loves the lab. The small, cozy room is always fire-warm and smelling of familiar chemicals. He spends all his time in the lab, thumbing through Charles’ extensive collection of books–dusty tomes barely holding their binding, newer volumes and folios, some manuscripts from his fellow colleagues at the university. Charles would talk about them sometimes, never naming them, but assessing their intellectual acumen and scholarly integrity. 

Charles doesn’t believe in death. Max does. He feels like the expert; Charles disagrees. Any argument resulted in further reading assignments and tutting about how young Max’s mind must be. Regression, he calls it. 

He explains the terms–the reasons he’s right; hooks Max up to wires and sensors. He delights in his research and so does Max. Well, in part Max enjoys it. Charles touches him, his skin–the sensation of warmth–he craves it, but it’s like diamonds. Rare, hard, cutting. 

Max hates pain: the electricity that floods his veins, the wretched noises gutted out of him, the smell of burning flesh and the taste of iron and ash on his tongue. The pain is necessary, Charles assures him, wiping the sweat from his brow and looking at him with kind eyes.  

Sometimes it takes him back to the blank; the dark place. It’s not bad, but there’s no Charles. It’s not something he thinks while he’s there, because he’s not there, but when he comes back he feels an ache of longing–the same ache he feels when Charles steps out to go for groceries or pick up his mail, the long days he spends out. Just out. He doesn’t tell Max where he goes, just comes back with the result. 

Charles loves results. They put him in a good mood. Max’s mood reflects the weather of Charles’ disposition. Storms would roll in if the desired outcomes were not so easily grasped. He’d curse in English, then again in French. Max doesn’t know French–none of his books teach it–but he does know the sound of French: the curl and hiss of the sharp phrases as Charles stomps around the lab. 

Max doesn’t leave. Max never leaves. Charles traces the scars that wrap his bicep when he tells him. It makes Max angry sometimes–the confinement. Maybe he’d call it imprisonment after finishing The Count of Monte Cristo, if it weren’t for the way Charles touches him. Max doesn’t leave, but he does peel back some of the newspaper covering the windows. Just at one corner. The view is obscured by overgrown hedges, but Max can make out the moving shapes and colors of people. 

Charles hates people. Max thinks he doesn’t understand them. Charles is smart, but Max thinks he’s not patient enough for people. He huffs at that suggestion when Max mentions it. 

“A ridiculous assertion,” Charles scoffs. 

“The laughing man,” Max offers, thoughtfully and without malice. A man had come to the door. It was during the cold months when everything turned pale: the ground, Charles’ skin. “He was nice.” Max is right about this. It’s objectively true. He had been forthright; funny; careful with Charles as his temper soured. 

“He was not nice, Max.” Charles nears him and Max flinches. Max loves Charles, but he flinches. Charles doesn’t notice. He simply brushes a thumb over Max’s cheek. 

“Beautiful, simple, don’t think of this too hard.” 

“He said Max.” The name Charles has always called him. “He was nice.” 

Charles hates to argue–they don’t argue–so Charles doesn’t respond. But there’s a shift in the green of his eyes. Something flat and hollow, dwelling in the swirling depths, makes Max think long and hard afterward. He sits and stares at his hands, the tangle of veins under the patchwork of his skin. He knows some things are true when Charles says they are not. 

Charles loves Max. Charles hurts Max. Charles lies to Max. 

After that he read The Time Machine and The Death of Ivan Ilych, and he understands better how things can carry two different aspects in a singular, or he tries to understand. It makes a sharp pain jolt behind his eyes, then it lingers there. It helps him. He wants to continue reading, and also he doesn’t. He loves Charles, and he also fears Charles. 

The next time he’s on the table, wide leather straps holding him down, he asks Charles to clarify a part of the puzzle. 

“I’m Max, but also I am not Max?” Charles tightens the buckle at his chest. His knuckles brush the vertical scar running between his pecs. 

“Your name is Max.” Charles answers. It’s not good enough. Max makes a noise of protest as Charles presses the wooden bit between his teeth. He struggles against the straps and hears the table creak. “Stop this!” Charles demands, and Max stills. 

Max is scared of Charles. So he stills. 

“You are the only Max.” Charles whispers into his ear after a moment before leaning away. He pushes the hair off of Max’s forehead and stares into his eyes, somehow seeing and unseeing. “My beautiful Max.” 

He’s far away when he says it and he flips the switch a moment later. 

Charles works and Max suffers. 

And suffers. 

Suffers. 

Time passes and Max learns to understand why Charles doesn’t believe in death. He isn’t scared of the darkness, of the nothing, because he’s never faced it. 

Max reasons that he should. 

It’s a late night when Max wraps Charles in a hug. They don’t touch often, but to Max’s surprise Charles leans back against him. Max tightens his grip. 

Max loves Charles.

[pompadourpink]

It's a new beginning!

Hello children,

September is coming, school too for some of you - often a great moment for a bit of decluttering and a few new good resolutions. Here am I, offering myself as one of them!

As you hopefully know, I started this blog in 2016 and have been a private tutor since the beginning of the pandemic. I have room at the moment for several new students, so here is what I offer:

Classes, obviously - the typical schedule is one hour a week, sometimes one and a half, or one every two weeks, or two every two weeks; typically same day same time (I'm always happy to make adjustments if you work shifts)

Homework, if you can make the time for it. I typically prefer it to be finished by the middle of the week so that I have time to take a look and correct it, giving you the opportunity to give it a second try before class!

Depending on your preferences, either just a few activities so we can take our time, especially if you are a beginner, or something a bit more dynamic consisting in five to ten minute long activities to keep you motivated and alert (which seems to be a crowd's favourite as most of my students are neurodivergent).

Talking activities are typically answering series of questions I share from my Notion, talking about your week, summarising a book or a movie, making me guess a word or a person, or a concept I call "alien talk" where you explain something (like a vaccine or insurance) from scratch to a little red man.

Writing activities are often fictional (I have students create a little character on a website and we write an update about their life regularly), they can also be an overview of your month, a letter to quit your horrible job or convince Snoop Dog to marry you because you are a gold digger.

Transcribing activities, especially at the beginning, are either me reading very easy sentences so you can write them down and memorise the way things sound, then it's episodes from young children's shows, extracts from very famous movies, then we hit harder and turn to gameshows or podcasts.

Translating activities, from one language to another, are a written translation of the first page of a novel (I did the Secret History recently), or a newspapers article (we are working on this one at the moment); or an oral translation of songs lyrics, fairytales, children's books, muted captioned playthroughs of your favourite games on Youtube, etc.

Finally, a few games: silly quizzes, crosswords, Wordle and even Quordle, hangman, and sometimes we even sing if you're comfortable with that.

Here is the link of my website where you will find reviews and a list of what to send me to get the process started. A few things to know:

I try to make the activities fit your preferences: get me a list of what you like and that is what we will work on. If your first language is not English, I am happy to include it, I'm always eager to learn (I've been reviewing my Spanish this way!)

I work without cameras. I don't need to see your face, I just need a voice and a good Internet connection. All students are welcome, no matter if you have an accent, a stutter, or disabilities. Do not be afraid of being judged, there is none of that here.

I ask for your contact information to be able to do my billing, no one else sees it and no one will know if you give me the address of a building in your area if you feel more comfortable this way. If you prefer to have a lesson first and decide that you want to continue before sending me your info, that's also an option.

I have a student and a regular rate, depending on what you can afford, and we can make different arrangements if your country's rate makes it too difficult, I've done it before.

Please comment if you have a question!

Much love,

Rose

[princess-geek]

White Peonies (Part II)

Book: Desire & Decorum  

Series: Unspoken Desires (Modern Desire & Decorum AU)  

Summary: Another peek into the past, this time to lift the veil on Mary’s life and three generations of fascinating women of the Howard family. (Parte I here)

Main Pairing: Vincent Foredale x Mary Howard.  

Word Count: +/- 7572 words

Rating: General (but with light mentions to adult/violent situations, sickness and death).  

Notes: 💖English is not my first language. Please, excuse me for any typos /or grammatical errors. 💖Special thanks to @rosesnink for proofreading. 

💖 This is my submission for @choicesficwriterscreations ‘Fics of the week’  

On the previous chapter...

Hurting her finger, Mary snatched the ring and threw it at him. Her hand was bleeding, but what were a few scratches on a finger compared with the abyss that he had opened in her heart? 

Vincent took the ring from the floor. “Mary, my love, please, don’t do this.” 

“Don’t dare to call me that ever again! Get out of my house! Now!”

Vincent did as she had told him. Tears ran down his face as he collected his belongings. She couldn't look at him. 

As soon as he closed the door, Mary collapsed, crying her pain and screaming her fury. 

The young woman lost count of the hours she spent in that dark hole. When Mary came to her senses, she looked out the window and saw that it was a starry night. 

Her whole body hurt. As for her heart, Mary wasn't sure if it was there or not. She felt frozen. With great effort, she dragged herself from the floor to the sofa, covering herself with a blanket forgotten on the floor. It was impossible to return to the same bed where hours before they had worshipped each other and pledged their love. 

Mary didn't know if she had slept or not, but in the morning, she felt desperately hungry, despite not feeling like eating.  She tried to eat a couple of biscuits; however, her stomach didn’t hold them for long. 

At some point in the day, she heard Vincent at her door. He stayed there for hours, begging her to listen to him. Fortunately, a neighbour threatened to call the police if he didn't leave, and Vincent eventually did. This happened repeatedly all week. 

For days, Mary barely moved from the couch. When her tears dried up until the next round, lethargy took over her. 

Around the weekend, Mrs.  Lemay could persuade Mary to open the door. Although she had not read the article on Sunday, articles about the upcoming wedding multiplied in the newspapers over the week. 

She found her friend a wreck. Mrs.  Lemay was not going to allow the young girl to sink into heartbreak. She made Mary have a bath, changed the bedsheets, and cooked her a proper dinner. 

 

“Luckily, there is not a word about you. At least, you will not be publicly persecuted by this shadow forever.” Mrs.  Lemay tried to console her. 

“Screw my reputation.” Mary mumbled between spoons of soup. 

“Vincent was in my office looking for you, desperate for any information about your whereabouts.” 

“Screw him too! He was at my door several times. I am not interested in anything he has to say.” 

Thinking that it might bring Mary some peace, Mrs.  Lemay told her that there were rumours going around that the Foredale were broke and the marriage was purely a business deal, despite the excitement about the engagement in the magazines. 

“She’s a fat cat widow. It’s the tale as old as time: She gives the money, and he gives the title.” Mrs.  Lemay concluded.  

“It's always nice to know I am worth less than a couple of thousand pounds.” 

“If the rumours are true, he is being sold as a horse. It’s a pity.” Mary mumbled something unintelligible. “I know you are hurt and furious, I’d be too.” Mrs.  Lemay continued. “Nevertheless, this is all very odd, Mary. Vincent is in love with you in a way I've seen few people in love with someone. Since that night at St. James's, I have seen nothing in him but devotion to you. He'd rather lose an arm than make a scratch on you. I can't stop thinking there has to be a reasonable explanation for this.” 

“Of course there is. In that case, there are thousands of reasons… in her bank account.” Mary sulked. 

“He was not convinced when I claimed I couldn't help him. I’m sure he will keep trying to reach you, and I think you should give him a chance to explain himself. You might regret it if you don't,” Mrs.  Lemay insisted. 

“He betrayed my trust in him. I think I would rather have caught him in bed with her than this circus. He has been playing with me for months, like I was a doll. I won't be his or anyone else's doll.” Mary was adamant. 

“Anger and pain are not good advisors. You need to clear your head. Why don't you go spend a few days in your hometown? Some days away from London will help you organise your head and heart.” 

“I will not change my mind.” 

“You may not change your mind, but you need to think about what you're going to do from now on. Life doesn't stop just because your heart is broken.” 

Following her advice, Mary decided to spend a few weeks in Grovershire. 

Mrs.  Lemay was right. Leaving London didn't glue the pieces of her heart together. However, focusing on making repairs to her grandparents' cottage and garden made Mary find some serenity in the midst of the chaos. 

That house was full of so many good memories that even sadness gave her some respite. 

While she was cleaning up things in the kitchen, Mary found her grandmother's handmade 'Moka'. It was one of the few things that Elena had brought with her from Italy. 

“I only had three things in my suitcase: an old coat, the 'Moka' and the recipe book that I stole from my mother.” Elena told her granddaughter many times. 

When she was a little girl, Mary fascinatedly watched her grandmother prepare coffee there, as if it were a magical ritual. Her favourite part was sucking on the spoon after Elena added the sugar. 

It was the best coffee in the world, and Mary could still almost taste it. She ran to the grocery store to buy coffee beans. Replicating her grandmother's ritual made her feel really good for the rest of that day. 

Grovershire itself had little changed. Mary missed many familiar faces and came face-to-face with new ones in the neighbourhood. 

The new and old neighbours were curious about her extended stay, and, of course, theories about it soon emerged through the inhabitant’s small talk. To avoid uncomfortable questions, Mary said that her fiancé, Vincent Ford, had died in a car accident, and she was spending some time there to get herself together.  

Although it was a hoax, for her it was not entirely a lie. She really felt that the man she loved had died on that day. 

Right across the street, George Daly, her former classmate and neighbour, had married Pavarti, an Indian girl who had arrived there in their final year of high school. 

They weren't very close at that time, yet Pavarti was the first to go to the cottage to visit her. Although she was in the last trimester of her pregnancy, Pavarti helped in whatever way she could, especially in the garden. 

Between pulling weeds and planting flowers, there was time for long conversations. A deep friendship blossomed between the two young women. Pavarti was the only one who knew the truth about Vincent.  

George spent many days away because of his work, so it was common for them to cook together. One late afternoon, Pavarti was cooking dinner. Mary suddenly left the kitchen, without saying a word. Pavarti found her on the balcony. 

“If you don't feel like my fish curry and chips, just say so, you don’t need to run away from my kitchen. I have some roast lamb from the weekend in the fridge...” 

“I'm sorry, Pavarti, but I think I'll have dinner. I think the tea house's chocolate cake wasn't as fresh as it should have been.” 

“Are you sure it was just the chocolate cake? You barely touched it. In fact, you have barely eaten.” 

“Nerves are bad for my stomach. It has always happened to me since I was little.” 

“How long have you been feeling this way?” 

“I don’t know exactly, maybe for a few weeks now. Not just the stomach. Everything in me has been messed up since...that day.” Mary still had difficulties referring to the topic. 

“Have you considered the possibility of being pregnant?”  Mary looked at Pavarti as if she had uttered the most absurd of statements. Parvati went away for a while and came back with a small box in her hand. “Take it! You can do it here or at home, but the sooner you know, the better.” 

After spending most of the night looking at the little box, Mary did so. After the time stated in the instructions, the result appeared. She was so nervous that it took her some time to understand the meaning of the two lines. 

Becoming a mother was one of Mary’s dreams. They had planned a family. They joked about having a child born in that millennium and the next in the new one. They agreed on almost everything except where they would raise them. London was off the table. 

Now that dream was real, and Vincent wasn't there. And for the first time, she didn't want him there either. 

This was no longer just about her and her broken heart. On the one hand, she was terrified. It was impossible not to think about her mother's case. More than raising a baby alone, Mary was afraid that something would happen and prevent her from taking care of him or her. Unfortunately, the child would not be as lucky as she was. There were no loving grandparents to watch over her. On the other hand, finding out that a child was on the way was an unexpected comfort to her. No matter what twists and turns life had on its sleeve for her, Mary wouldn't be alone anymore. 

The blood tests confirmed her calculations. The baby would be born around November. 

“When will you tell the father the good news?” Pavarti asked her some days later. 

“I will not tell him.” 

“You should, and, deep down, you know you should. Who knows, maybe this is an opportunity for the two of you to find a way...” 

“If our love was not important enough for him to care and come to me and give a decent explanation for what happened, then I don't consider him important enough to be part of the baby's life.” 

“You are the one who didn't want to give him that opportunity!” Pavarti tried to reason with Mary. 

Mary knew she was contradicting herself, but the young woman was irreducible. Her wounded heart and pride only fuelled her stubbornness. “The wedding will be on May 2nd, do you think there is any point in doing or saying anything, Pavarti?” 

Mary told Mrs.  Lemay about her new situation. Although Mary's absence caused her inconvenience and money loss, she was the first to advise the singer to take a break to take care of the baby and herself.  

The music producers were not very happy with the news. Even though without stating it clearly, they implied that if the baby was her priority at the moment, she would lose the 'privileged place she had on their artists’ list'. 

Mary imagined that would happen. A woman with a baby was the eighth plague of Egypt. Now that she was so close, she was going back to square one. 

Baby Briar came into the world on Easter Sunday, keeping her busy while Pavarti recovered from the tough labour. Around that time, the symptoms of the first few weeks gave her a truce, and Mary began to feel better. 

The most difficult thing was the ban on coffee. When she felt like drinking coffee, Mary opened the ground coffee pot and smelled it until it satisfied her craving. 

Days later, when trying to put on her jeans, Mary became aware of her belly for the first time. It wasn't very prominent yet, but it was already noticeable that things were changing. 

By the end of the month, Mary went to London for a few days. With the wedding so close, it would be very unlikely that Vincent would be there. 

She had her first ultrasound. Hearing her baby's heartbeat for the first time made her worries disappear for a few minutes. She would never forget that beat. 

The midwife noticed that Mary was looking worriedly at the white spots that were appearing on the screen. “Don't worry, my dear, the baby is fine. With a little luck, within a few days, we'll be able to find out the baby's gender. Let me guess: You want a boy, and the father wants a girl.” She smiled. 

Mary pretended she didn't hear the question. The midwife took her hand and placed it on her belly. “You two are already a wonderful family.” 

Her savings wouldn't last forever, so Mary took the opportunity to give some concerts that Mrs.  Lemay had arranged for her. 

Returning to her flat after a concert, Mary found a man in a suit at her door. He was tall, had grey hair and a beard, and had a stern face. She recognised the same shade of blue as Vincent's eyes, but instead of his sweetness, Mary only saw coldness. 

She instinctively covered her belly with her handbag and took a few steps back. Two men grabbed her. 

“Good evening, Mary Howard. I've been looking for you everywhere. I would like to say it's a pleasure to finally meet you, but I hope this is the first and last time we meet.” 

“What do you want from me?” Mary tried to free herself from their arms. 

“Put her inside.” The Earl commanded. 

While one grabbed Mary tightly, the other found the key and opened the door. They dragged her inside and locked the door. She tried to shout, but a hand covered her mouth. 

“I thought that if I saw you with my own eyes, I would understand my son's fascination, but you are not even that pretty.” He mocked, as his eyes roamed her body. Mary noticed that he saw the bump. She felt a shiver run down her spine. “Are you with a child?” He asked. Mary didn't answer him. She could see his fury rising. “It cannot be my son’s!” Mary remained in silence. The Earl slapped her face with such force that if it weren't for the two men holding her, she would have fallen to the ground. “You damned whore, how dare you get pregnant? Wasn't it enough to be a bastard yourself? I can guess what your plan was, but this ends here!” 

For few seconds, Mary could barely hear the insults he spewed from his mouth. Her mouth was still numb from the slap. She felt the taste of blood on her tongue. “My baby will never be a bastard. I will be a mother, a father, and everything my child needs!” She cried. 

“I don't care what you or that creature you are carrying will be. You will disappear from my son’s life forever!”  

“Breaking news, Rupert Foredale: I'm the one who wants my baby to have nothing to do with your family. Unfortunately, I couldn't prevent this child from having your blood. No baby deserves to have a father who is a coward, a cheater, and liar, and much less such a despicable being like you as a grandfather.” 

The Earl was going to slap her again. Luckily, or out of charity, the bodyguards moved her out of the way of his hand. 

“I never trusted people like you. With some luck, the baby isn't even Vincent's. I warned my son several times that he could have fun, but not to be foolish. I should be used to his weaknesses by now. When I was young, I also had a lover who was an artist, a sculptress. She was very skilled with her hands...for everything.” A wicked smile appeared on his lips for a moment. “She was my lover and, I later learned, the lover of every young man in London with any money in his pocket.”  After saying it, Rupert took some papers from inside his coat. “Listen very carefully to what I will say to you, whore: you will sign the papers and disappear from my son's life forever. As I am a good Christian, in return, you will get 10,000 pounds. If you dare to open that mouth of yours about my son or what happened between you, you will rot in jail!” 

Mary spat at the contract. “My dignity is not for sale. And, unlike you, I would never sell a child to pay for my mistakes.” 

She was pushing him to the limit. The Earl was blind with rage. He wasn't used to being defied like that. Rupert tore up the agreement. He took a pistol from his pocket and placed it against Mary's forehead. 

“This was your last chance. If you or your bastard ever try to get close to us, I won't be so benevolent. I will make you botg disappear from the face of the earth even if I have to do it with my own hands.” 

In a matter of seconds, the lights went out, and they dropped Mary on the floor. As quickly as they had appeared, they disappeared into the night. 

Mary couldn't believe what just happened. From what Vincent told her, Mary knew that Earl was not a model of kindness, not even towards his own blood. She didn't expect him to rejoice over the baby; However, not even her greatest fears could imagine such brutality. 

After the shock of the first few minutes, the adrenaline subsided. She was feeling a very intense pain, but she couldn't pinpoint where it was. Her baby. The panic set in. If something had happened to the baby, she would kill the Earl with her own hands. 

Supporting herself against the wall, Mary managed to get up and call Mrs.  Lemay. She didn't care about her bruises. Mary just wanted to hear her baby's heartbeat.  

Mrs. Lemay called for a favour and rushed Mary to a private clinic. She refused to be examined without knowing if the baby was okay first. The doctor assured Mary that the baby was fine, but she only calmed down when he showed her the baby on the monitor. 

He was silent for a few minutes, looking at the small screen. Mary was about to panic again. “What’s wrong, doctor?” 

“Don’t worry, Miss. It's nothing bad. Do you know your baby’s gender?” Mary waved no. “I wasn't going to mention it because I am not absolutely sure. I think you are having a girl.” 

Upon learning that the baby was fine, Mary went into autopilot mode. Besides the bruises, the doctor found out she had a broken rib. After taking care of her, Mrs.  Lemay took the singer to her home. Exhausted, Mary slept for hours. When she awoke, Mrs.  Lemay was waiting for her with a light meal. 

“What happened was a crime, Mary. You should go to the police.” 

“I have no proofs besides my bruises. Who do you think they would believe? An Earl or a pub singer? 

“He is dangerous, Mary, and you confronted him!” Mrs. Lemay insisted. “If he was capable of doing this now, there's no guarantee that he won't do it again... or do something worse.” 

“He's afraid I will look for his son and ruin his marriage with the widow. I believe that as soon as they get married and the Earl sees I didn’t lift a finger, he will forget about me and my daughter.” 

“So, what are you going to do now? London is not safe.” 

“I'm going back to Grovershire and staying there for a while. The Earl doesn't know about my grandparents' house, or he would have gone there. It is far enough from London and from them. I need calm and security for my daughter. Then I will see what my next step will be.” 

“Have you thought about names for the baby?” Mrs.  Lemay asked to change to a happier subject. 

“Beatrice.” Mary smiled, caressing her bump. “Vincent would have liked it too.” She couldn't stop herself from thinking about it. 

“Why don't you ask him in person?” 

“Even if I wanted...which I don’t want...I can’t take that risk now. Even if we survive Rupert Foredale's wrath, you know the fate of the bastard children. My child will not be exiled to a boarding school.” 

Mary did as she said. With the help of Mrs.  Lemay and other friends from work, all of Mary's (few) belongings were loaded into a van the following night. As Vincent's forgotten objects appeared, Mrs.  Lemay discreetly saved them from the trash. She was thinking that perhaps the child would later look for a connection with the father. 

Back in Grovershire, Mary kept as low a profile as possible. Trying to camouflage, she began to introduce herself as ‘Helen’. Those who knew her found it strange. Mary justified her choice, saying she was known in London by that name. She had chosen it as a stage name in honour of her grandmother. 

People thought it was eccentric, but they eventually got used to it. 

Her belly was becoming less and less discreet. Comments on her obvious situation were inevitable, as well as comparisons with her mother's case. The most charitable hearts felt sorry for her situation. Losing her fiancé in a tragic accident and now having a child to take care of... It was a very hard blow from fate. 

The poisonous ones were not so compassionate. Their tongues distilled all kinds of gossip about her: that she was a luxury escort in London (the nastiest said directly prostitute), others that she was the rejected lover of a married man, that the child's father was in prison... Mary knew her truth, yet some days weren't easy with that background buzz. Fortunately, she had the Daly’s on her side. 

She didn't like perpetuating a lie, but it was the best truth she could tell. It would be better for both the child and her. Like her, Beatrice would not suffer for someone she had never met. Following her grandparents' example, Mary would make sure her daughter received so much love that she wouldn't miss a thing. It would protect her from Rupert and more heartbreak. 

The following ultrasounds confirmed that it was a girl and that she was growing strong and healthy. 

Meanwhile, Parvati returned to her work as a seamstress. Mary took care of Briar and in return, Pavarti was sewing her a layette fit for a princess. 

During the day, between helping out at the Dalys' house and preparing her own for the baby's arrival, neither Mary's head nor her heart had time to worry about the past or the future. However, many of the nights were full of nightmares about Rupert; others were sleepless, planning all possible future scenarios. 

On Halloween evening, Mary felt the first contractions. While Pavarti was finishing the hem of a dress, she was playing on the floor with Briar and felt an intense pain that paralysed her. Recognising the signs, Pavarti helped her get up and set her down on the sofa. 

That night was just a warning, but on Tuesday early morning, the contractions came back in force. Mary was terrified of what was happening. What the doctor and the midwife had explained, the books she had read, Pavarti's advice...all of her preparation and plans were gone. 

George and Pavarti drove her to the hospital. 

As the hours passed, the pain increased, becoming intense and almost constant. Despite telling her that she was doing great and that the baby would soon be in her arms, Mary was losing her strength. 

During one of the strongest contractions, for the first time in months, she wished Vincent was there beside her. For a few moments, she was filled with a whirlwind of memories with him. She could almost hear his voice smoothing her. Another strong contraction brought her back to reality. There was no use dwelling on the past. Her daughter was all that mattered now. 

After hours of pain and fear, at nightfall on November 2, 1994, her daughter was born. Hearing the sweet shrill sound of her daughter's cries was a relief. Having Beatrice in her arms for the first time was a new kind of happiness she never thought possible. 

Even though she was ruddy and grumpy like all newborns, in Mary's eyes, Beatrice was the pinnacle of cuteness, with her full cheeks, thick brown hair, and big eyes. 

Around midnight, Beatrice fell asleep in her mother's arms. Exhausted, Mary also fell into a deep sleep.  

A couple of hours later, she woke up with a start, thinking she heard the baby crying. Everything was quiet in the ward, including her daughter. However, the door was ajar. Mary saw a pair of eyes watching them through the crack. “Who is there?” She asked instinctively, placing herself in front of the crib. The pair of eyes disappeared.  

The next morning, after making sure that everything was fine with both of them, the issue of the father inevitably arose. Again, Mary told the best truth she could:  she had met the father at a party, they had spent the night together, and they had never seen each other again. She claimed she didn't know any information about him other than his first name. 

While she was trying to breastfeed Beatrice, a social worker with dubious intentions came to talk to her, asking some questions, pointing out the challenges of being a young single mother and the possibility of giving her baby up for adoption.  

Mary was about to lose patience with her when the Dalys came in to visit them. The couple promptly shooed the nosy woman away. Pavarti helped Mary dress Beatrice and put a small pink bow on her head. Then, George took the first portrait of Beatrice.  

Briar was very curious about the new baby, whimpering if they moved her away from the crib. 

Rocking her daughter by the window, the light illuminated every detail of her features. Mary noticed that Beatrice had a lot of Vincent in her. How she wished she could make Rupert eat his words. 

A couple of days later, mother and daughter were back home. “Welcome home, my love.” Mary kissed her daughter's head. “It may not be Buckingham Palace, but we're going to make it our realm.” 

 As long as she was well fed, Beatrice was (most days) an easy baby. Despite some sleepless nights, the many health scares typical of newborns, and hormone shenanigans, Mary felt like she was in a bubble of happiness. Her daughter's birth had not miraculously healed her heart, but she was the glue that was holding the pieces together. 

As the weeks went by, Beatrice was growing healthy and becoming more active and playful.  

Mary's savings were dwindling at the same rate. 

There weren't many job opportunities there, so Mary had to take a job at a local pub. Since Pavarti worked from home, she took care of the two babies during the day. At the end of the day, Mary helped her friend taking home some simpler pieces of clothing and making small sewing arrangements. She had never felt so grateful for the hours her grandmother forced her to learn how to sew. Despite it, she felt like she could never repay the kindness they showed her. 

The young mother felt exhausted every night, but holding her daughter in her arms, playing with her, smelling her sweet scent, seeing how much she was growing day by day gave Mary the strength to carry one each morning. 

Beatrice never lacked anything necessary, even if that sometimes meant just soup for Mary’s dinner. There were many things she wanted to give her daughter, but she couldn't afford them, even if it might be lacking, Mary made up for it with love. 

-----

The year 1999 began full of hope. Although it wasn't technically the turn of the millennium, there was in the air the excitement of the end of an era, with a world of possibilities knocking on the door. 

Now that the girls were a little older, the Dalys were planning to have another child. Mary was considering changing careers. Her idea was to return to the music world by giving private lessons. 

Unfortunately, in April, a series of attacks shocked the United Kingdom and destroyed the dreams of the young family. George Daly was passing through Brick Lane on his way to meet his last client for the month when a nail bomb exploded. He did not survive his injuries and passed away a couple of days later. 

Parvati was devastated. She cried for the loss of the love of her life and the loss of everything that Briar would not have with her father, even though she was too young to fully understand what had happened. 

Mary knew what a broken heart felt like. However, what Pavarti was suffering was beyond her understanding. Despite the troubled separation, the hurt, the anger, she knew that the love of her life was alive and well. There was always a faint light in her heart, even if her mind denied it.  

Part of her friend had died with him that day. Mary knew it would not be possible to heal that wound. For months, every day, Mary fought the darkness that threatened to swallow Pavarti. She was determined to take care of the parts of her friend that remained, just as Pavarti had done with her. 

----------------------- 

All children grow up too quickly in their parent's eyes, and Mary felt that it was in the blink of an eye that Beatrice went from a baby to a primary school girl. 

Apart from the struggle to get her up from bed in the mornings, some occasional tantrums, and some shenanigans here and there, Mary felt blessed. Beatrice was very curious, eager to learn, always exploring the small world around her and asking many questions, some trivial, some more philosophical.  

Even though she was little more than a child, Mary realised that her daughter had inherited her wit and passion. It gave her some peace of mind. Having a sharp spirit would protect her and help her succeed in whatever path she chose. 

Mary wanted to teach her how to play the piano, but her daughter didn't seem to have the muse of music awake inside her, although Beatrice's voice was naturally in tune. 

Nonetheless, as she grew up, the Vincent features stood out more and more in her, and not just physically. Like her father, Beatrice loved books, always asking to read stories. When an adult couldn’t read to her, she made up her own stories with what she saw in the illustrations and told them to Briar or to her dolls. 

One night, Mary was sitting on her daughter's bed, dog-tired, praying for Beatrice to choose a small book. What was her surprise when her daughter appeared in the bedroom with her copy of 'Pride and Prejudice' in her hands. 

“It's too long for a bedtime story.” 

“I didn't ask you to read me everything at once. I was thinking about one chapter per night.” 

“It's a story for older girls. You're going to find it boring.” 

“How older?” Her inquisitive mode had just turned on.  

That was a good question. Mary used her own example to answer, “Girls who are fourteen or fifteen.” 

“I am five, it’s not that different! Plus, you always choose good stories, so I'm sure it won't be boring. I have seen you read it more than once.” 

“You're going to regret asking me for this. It would be much more fun when you read it by yourself.” In vain, Mary tried to change her mind. She started reading the famous first lines. 

“IT IS A TRUTH universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. 

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters. 

“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?” 

Night after night, chapter after chapter, Beatrice paid close attention to each line. Sometimes the sleep overcame the girl: however, there was use in trying to trick her. She always knew which page they were on before falling asleep. The reading took weeks, which ended up making story time easier for Mary. 

With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them. 

“The end.” She dramatically closed the book. “So, what do you think?” Mary asked. 

“It's a little like fairy tales, but without fairies? Mr Darcy is a little grumpy for Prince Charming. Her aunt fits the evil witch role, though. But I loved it!” As she tucked her in, Beatrice asked, “Do you think there are many Mr Darcys out there?” 

“If you look for yours, you will find him.” 

“How will I know?” 

“You will know it. You will feel it. Your heart will scream it.” 

“Papa was yours?” 

Mary still had difficulty dealing with questions about Vincent. For Beatrice, she had chosen to keep the narrative of the father who died in a car accident days before their wedding day. Despite her inquisitive nature, Beatrice rarely questioned Mary about it. Probably because the girl saw the pain in her eyes when the subject was mentioned. 

She had only asked her once to see a photograph of him. Mary made up the excuse that all his photos had been lost when they moved to Grovershire. She was sad but didn't ask again. 

“All love stories are different. Like Darcy and Lizzie, there were some differences between us, but, unlike her, I think I loved your dad from day one.” 

Mary had only seen him again in person once. They were visiting Mrs.  Lemay in London for a weekend. Walking through Hyde Park, Mrs.  Lemay was further ahead with Beatrice by the hand. Mary had stayed behind, enjoying the rare moment of peace that a mother of a toddler can have. There was a street stall selling ice cream, and she decided to go over to buy some. As she got closer, she saw him. She saw them: Vincent, his wife, an older boy, and a boy a little younger than Beatrice, buying ice cream as well. 

That sight left her breathless and with a piercing pain in her stomach. It was a difficult feeling to explain. It had been a little more than a couple of years, however, while it seemed like the same Vincent, it was as if their past was just a dream or the delirium of a feverish night. 

The youngest son was throwing a tantrum, and Vincent patiently tried to calm him down. He seemed to have become the fantastic father she knew he could be and that she had dreamed of for her and their children. 

Mary turned away and walked forward, quickening her pace. There was no reason for her to torture herself with the past, suffer the present, and tempt fate. Such an encounter would only make things worse. 

----------------------- 

As soon as Beatrice learned to read, Mary got her a library card. If on the one hand this freed her from the daily bedtime story, but on the other, it stirred even more her daughter's eagerness. Mary often had to go to the library to return books that Beatrice stubbornly brought home, despite not being appropriate for her age. 

Every night, Mary had to go back to her room to make her turn off the light and go to sleep. On Friday nights, she knew that her daughter, after being caught in the act, would read another chapter under the blankets by flashlight, however, she decided to pretend that she didn't know about it. 

----------------------- 

February, 2004 

Sitting in the doctor's waiting room, Mary tried to focus on the gossip magazine. Her limbs were heavy and sore from trying to control her nerves. 

It wouldn't be anything serious, Mary repeated to herself. She had always been a healthy lass. She was just an exhausted mother, like many others. Like Pavarti, who had insisted on accompanying her to the appointment. There was a wedding dress to urgently finish, yet there she was. The years did not expunge the loss, but they brought back the light of her best friend. 

Daughters full of energy in Year 5, long hours of work, little sleep, months without a moment for themselves, bills hard to pay alone, the need to start preparing the girls' future... No wonder they were both in shambles. 

At Pavarti's insistence, there she was, fearing the worst, hoping for the best. 

“Helen Howard!” the nurse called. Mary wanted to get up, but her legs didn't allow her to do so for a few seconds. 

After some small talk, the doctor delivered the news in the politest and least dramatic way possible. “The cancer is aggressive, and it’s in an advanced stage. However, you are a woman in the prime.  The sick cells have used your strength to multiply, but that same strength can be used in your favour...” He proceeded to explain the options available in her case. 

Mary feared the suffering caused by the treatments, she feared the doctor's lack of certainty, she feared death... but, above all, she was terrified by the idea of her little girl being alone in the world. 

Leaving the doctor's office, Mary didn't know what to feel or what to think. It was as if she were possessed by a sharp pain, a paralysing numbness, while at the same time she was diving into a bottomless, icy lake. 

Then the anger and frustration came. ‘Why her? Hadn't she suffered enough already?’ 

As the days went by, Mary wasn’t still conformed to the diagnosis, but took control of what was in her hands. 

For Beatrice and a future with her, Mary made her mind up to religiously follow the treatments. Even if she couldn’t escape, any chance of spending more time with her daughter would be worth every discomfort. 

In the following days, Mary's biggest concern was how to tell her about it. Unfortunately, or fortunately, children are very perceptive. So, it didn't take long for Beatrice to ask her mother directly what was happening. 

Mary stopped chopping the vegetables for the soup and took a deep breath. She couldn't break down in front of her daughter. To buy some time, Mary poured two glasses of juice for both of them. After a couple of sips, the first shaky words left his lips.  

“As you know, I had some medical exams. I went to the doctor last week to get the results. I am very ill, my love.” She tried to find gracious words in the English language, but emotions rushed things. “I have ovarian cancer. I am starting treatments next week.” 

Beatrice was silent for a while. Mary could see in her daughter's expressions that she was processing what she had just heard. “But, after it, you're going to be okay, right?” She looked up at Mary with her big, sweet hazel eyes. 

Mary didn't want to lie to her, but she didn't want to be overly optimistic. "I will do my best. The doctors will do their best, and with a little faith everything, will be okay.” 

+++++++ 

Her grandmother got a similar surgery years ago as a preventative measure; therefore, the operation didn't scare her. Mary knew the secret was to get plenty of rest, so as she did, at least, as much as mother can do. 

On the other hand, chemotherapy treatments were knocking her down. Pregnancy nausea was a child's play compared to what she was feeling. After the sessions, Mary felt so weak that she could barely get out of bed for days. When she finally started to feel better, it was time to do another one. 

If it weren't for Beatrice, Mary was sure she couldn’t bear it. 

As soon as her hair began to fall like leaves in autumn, she decided to cut it very short. Mary had always loved and pampered her hair, and her grandmother was to blame. She loved her granddaughter's hair and spent hours doing elaborate hairstyles. Elena Howard used to say, 'Tira più un capello di donna che cento paia di buoi'' (‘one hair of woman pulls more than a hundred pairs of oxen’). Mary only many years later understood the full meaning of these words. 

However, more than her hurt vanity, seeing Beatrice cry when she faced her like that for the first time was much more painful. 

Since Mary couldn’t afford a decent wig, she chose to wear headscarves. Parvati, using all the scraps of beautiful fabrics, sewed her headscarves in all patterns and colours. 

+++++++ 

Despite all the ups and downs, Mary was enjoying that summer. 

One more time in her life, she has a lot to be thankful for Parvati. Her friend was being tireless with her, spending the most critical nights close to her, preparing meals, taking care of Beatrice, driving her to and from the hospital... Mary knew she could never repay her, so she prayed that life would reward her with the same kindness. 

Thanks to Pavarti's generosity, Mary was able to dedicate what little energy she had to her little girl, keeping these precious moments in her heart.  

Beatrice spoiled her as best she could, with little gifts and affection. She was always ready to help, no matter the task. It filled Mary's heart with pride. Her daughter's love was what kept her standing. 

The fear of the future often made her think about Vincent. She was sure that Pavarti would look out for her daughter, however, if the worst happened, at least Beatrice would have someone else to turn to. 

Rupert had died a few years earlier, so he was no longer a threat. The years and the paths taken changed both of them, but Mary believed that his heart had not changed. 

She was convinced that when he found out about Beatrice, Vincent would not excuse himself from his obligations. She also didn't doubt that, as time went by, they would love each other very much. 

So, Mary started making arrangements. Since she didn't want there to be any doubt about her daughter's paternity, she took a sample of Beatrice's hair for them to analyse. 

Along with the samples and some photographs, Mary enclosed a letter from her to Vincent in an envelope. It took days, crumpled papers, and many tears to write that letter. Later, she would just need to instruct Pavarti on how to get that to Vincent. 

At the end of September, hope fell away with the leaves. Despite the treatments, the new exams showed that it had spread to other parts of the body. The doctor was almost as dejected as she was. 

“Just tell me how long I have.” Mary asked through tears. 

“I can't give guarantees about anyone's life, Miss Howard. Sometimes there are real miracles in the human body.” The doctor tried to comfort her. 

“I prefer the truth, doctor. Please.” 

“A couple of months, no more than Christmas.” 

“Will it be painful?” 

“There are several ways to make that period smoother, if that's your wish.” 

“Having to go is bad enough, don’t you think?” 

Back home, Mary didn't have the courage to face her daughter. Parvati took Beatrice home for an impromptu sleepover party. 

When the girls fell asleep, Pavarti sneaked over to the Howards' house. It would be a very difficult night for Mary. 

After many cups of tea and many more tears, Mary resolved, “This will take me to my grave, but I won't let it take away the shreds of happiness. My daughter and I deserve better than spending our final weeks in misery.” 

From that moment on, Mary focused on enjoying every minute with her girl, the epitome of her happiness. 

“When are you going to tell her?” Pavarti asked. 

“I do not know how, but not for now. When I feel it's closer. I don't want her to cry before the time.” 

*November 2004*

Giggles were filling the air. Two little girls were playing tag, running around carefree. 

Mary was sitting in her small garden, feeling severe pains, in spite of the medications. She held a mug of strong coffee in her hands, one of the few things that gave her energy. 

The autumn sun in her bones was her only comfort. That and seeing her daughter happy. 

Taking small, warm sips, Mary reflected on the past thirty years. So much had happened! In her short life there were adventures that would fill a lifetime. Losses along the way, setbacks, broken dreams...but also good friends, many happy days...and, best of all, Beatrice. Mary would go all the way again for the opportunity to share her life with Beatrice. 

She was already missing what wasn't going to live with her. Beatrice looks at her and smiles. She is missing two teeth that fell out the other day. Mary knows she won't see her new teeth, yet she smiles back. 

‘How do we prepare a child for our death, Pavarti?' Mary asked her friend, who was sitting next to her.  

@jeanele ❣  @missameliep ​  ❣   @regencylady1810 ​ ❣  @i-put-the-sin-in-sinclaire  ❣ @whenyourheartskipsabeat ❣ @xjustin-ethansgirliex  ❣ @rosesnink ❣  @gardeningourmet❣ @paisleylovergirl  ❣ @dailydoseofchoices  ❣  @rhyssescups ❣   @lorircreates  ❣  @lorirwritesfanfic ❣ @walkerduchess  ❣ @indiacater ❣ @kinkypot ❣ @ezekielbhandarivalleros ❣ @anotherbeingsworld ❣ @hellooliviaolivia ❣ @pixel-writer19  ❣ @sinclaire-ity  ❣ @marlcasters ❣ @bhartigat81 ❣ @lyannacyrill706 ❣ @daddytyrilstarfury  ❣ @secretaryunpaid ❣ @allisonreilynn ❣ @fauxleaves ❣ @twinkleallnight ❣ @kingliam2019 ❣ @iloveethanramsey ❣ @surewhyynot ❣ @yvettegolx  ❣ @itlivesinpixelberry ❣  @chutchoices ❣ @electroniccreatorwerewolf  ❣ @spookycolorpeanut  ❣ @peonierose ❣ @quixoticdreamer16   ❣ @lilyoffandoms   ❣ @tessa-liam ❣ @storyofmychoices ❣ @dutifullynuttywitch ❣ @ladylamrian

[killervelveteenrabbit]

"The Ghost and Molly McGee", Ten Years After

Molly’s ongoing work to improve the economic, cultural, and mental well-being of Brighton has earned her the love and respect of everyone in town, a few write-ups in statewide and national publications… and a full scholarship to the University of Iowa’s civil and environmental engineering program. She’s returned to Brighton, working for City Hall as assistant city planner (with her dad as her boss, which isn’t awkward at all, really) while earning her master’s online.

Molly wasn’t alone while she attended UI—Libby was her dormmate all four years that she was there. She earned a scholarship of her own, majoring in English. She also returned to Brighton after graduating, becoming a part-time reporter for the town newspaper while helping run her mother’s bookstore. All of this is in addition to her literary career. Matias, her father, took a second look at the fantasy novel she wrote and realized it was publication-worthy. It wasn’t a best seller, but the royalties from this and two other books Libby has written since let her live comfortably and pursue her passions in life. Her latest project is a series of books helping small children understand and live with the effects of divorce.

Molly and Ollie hit a rough patch after an admittedly stupid argument during their senior year of high school, and their two-month breakup proved just as hard on their respective families as it was on each other. They got back together just in time for graduation from Brighton High, only to part ways as Molly went to UI and Oliver headed for Iowa State. But they carried out a successful medium-distance relationship (it was only a two-hour drive between the two campuses).

Ollie has parlayed his experience as a researcher for his parents’ MeTube videos into a career as a freelance researcher for an assortment of psychological and medical foundations. While he travels all over the Midwest and occasionally beyond, he’s based out of Brighton… specifically, the rental house he shares with Molly. Ollie and Molly are practically married already, but their parents are eager for them to make it official. The couple are waiting a while to save enough money to stage the dream wedding and after-party they always wanted without breaking the bank.

Several years ago, an ill-advised deal involving a shipment of counterfeit designer smartwatches and the Uzbek mafia landed Darryl in hotter water than usual. He’s lucky all he got away with was lockdown in juvie until his 21st birthday… which got commuted to two hundred hours of community service and time served due to an unexpected (and slightly suspicious) governor’s pardon. At any rate, the whole debacle soured Darryl on similar schemes. He’s kept his nose clean since then, barring a few school detentions. He takes business courses at a local community college with plans to transfer to a four-year institution this fall. His current side hustle involves promotions and advertising for assorted boutiques and under-21 nightclubs that have popped up in Brighton's revitalized downtown.

June lives away from home, majoring at Drake University. But she remains Darryl’s best friend, the only person outside his family who’s consistently been there for him after his schemes blew up in his face—figuratively and almost literally; she was the one who detected that leak in the ammonium nitrate storage tank Darryl stashed out near the water tower. They even dated for a while before mutually acknowledging the situation was “weird” and deciding they were better off as friends. On a related note, maybe Esther shouldn’t have paid out all that money to have her wedding dress remade.

Pete and Sharon are still happily married. Pete takes great pride in the improvements he’s helped make for his adopted hometown of Brighton, and he’s especially flattered that his daughter is following in his footsteps. The town’s successes have become Pete’s successes—in the last ten years, he’s fixed up the family home and bought his first non-used car. He’s even dusted off his vinyl for a few gigs at some of the new clubs downtown. Meanwhile, Sharon offers painting classes at the local community center and retirement home. These days, she primarily uses her Gig Pig account to set up painting parties in and around town, sometimes as far out as Perfektborg.

The Chens’ enlightenment about the true nature of ghosts has led them to step away from their “Ghost Chaser Chens” MeTube channel. Ruben has had far more luck marketing his brand of small-batch root beer, now available in grocery and convenience stores all over the state. Recently, Esther inspired Ruben to introduce a “spiked” version flavored with Habanero peppers. Reception has been mixed.

Grandma Nin and her friend Patty are the self-described “Bad Girls of Brighton Hills”, but their adventures have proven more constructive than mischievous. They’ve organized concerts at the bandshell, joined the Senior Construction Crew on home-repair projects for needy families, and hosted a weekly potluck dinner/board game session in the home’s cafeteria. These dinners always feature Patty’s homemade gumbo—Nin helped her fine-tune the recipe so now it’s actually edible.

The McGees look forward to David and Emmie’s annual visits, a chance to catch up with family and connect with their heritage. The Thai lessons Molly took on Triolingo have helped her feel slightly more at ease when the Suksais come to call. Also, Sharon has tried practicing some Thai dishes, with Pete’s assistance and (critically) while Nin isn’t in the vicinity.

A year after Davenport’s closed its doors, the family rolled the dice and started a supermarket specializing in organic groceries, local produce, and hard-to-find foreign brands… items Bizmart couldn’t or wouldn’t accommodate. The gamble paid off, and Davenport's Turnip Patch sells and ships to customers across the region—yes, even to Perfektborg. (Sharon and Nin are frequent visitors since they carry Thai specialties like jackfruit, pandan extract, and even durian.) Andrea maintains the store’s computer systems but pointedly avoids appearing in advertising. She’s back on her socials, but not as an influencer. Her “Girl Code” series on MeTube provides tips and tricks for entry-level coding enthusiasts. The videos feature occasional cameos by her girlfriend Alina, who’s also taken an interest in the subject.

Three months after Scratch cast off his Chairman’s robes, they settled upon the recently departed spirit of a retired manager of an IRS branch office. Since then, the Ghost Council has basked in bureaucratic bliss, leaving the denizens of Ghost World alone and happy. Not long after Todd left, Molly conducted a séance and told Geoff what happened to Scratch. He realizes it will be a while before he sees his friend again, but at least he has Jeff to keep him company.

Todd and Adia have photographed wild horse herds in Montana, kayaked off the Antarctic Peninsula, biked through Croatia, snorkeled with manta rays in Hawaii, and helped refurbish a centuries-old mosque in Brunei… and that’s just in the last year! Their adventures included a meditation retreat in India where Todd astrally projected his spirit out of his body for a few minutes. He “came back” talking about a young lady back in Brighton who showed him how to live even though he was already “dead”. On their next swing back to the United States, Molly is the first person they plan to visit.

[communist-manifesto-daily]

Socialism: Utopian and Scientific - Part 12

[ First | Prev | Table of Contents | Next ]

In England, the bourgeoisie never held undivided sway. Even the victory of 1832 left the landed aristocracy in almost exclusive possession of all the leading Government offices. The meekness with which the middle-class submitted to this remained inconceivable to me until the great Liberal manufacturer, Mr. W. A. Forster, in a public speech, implored the young men of Bradford to learn French, as a means to get on in the world, and quoted from his own experience how sheepish he looked when, as a Cabinet Minister, he had to move in society where French was, at least, as necessary as English! 

The fact was, the English middle-class of that time were, as a rule, quite uneducated upstarts, and could not help leaving to the aristocracy those superior Government places where other qualifications were required than mere insular narrowness and insular conceit, seasoned by business sharpness. [2] Even now the endless newspaper debates about middle-class education show that the English middle-class does not yet consider itself good enough for the best education, and looks to something more modest. Thus, even after the repeal of the Corn Laws, it appeared a matter of course that the men who had carried the day – the Cobdens, Brights, Forsters, etc. – should remain excluded from a share in the official government of the country, until 20 years afterwards a new Reform Act opened to them the door of the Cabinet. The English bourgeoisie are, up to the present day, so deeply penetrated by a sense of their social inferiority that they keep up, at their own expense and that of the nation, an ornamental caste of drones to represent the nation worthily at all State functions; and they consider themselves highly honored whenever one of themselves is found worthy of admission into this select and privileged body, manufactured, after all, by themselves.

[2] And even in business matters, the conceit of national Chauvinism is but a sorry adviser. Up to quite recently, the average English manufacturer considered it derogatory for an Englishman to speak any language but his own, and felt rather proud than otherwise of the fact that "poor devils" of foreigners settled in England and took off his hands the trouble of disposing of his products abroad. He never noticed that these foreigners, mostly Germans, thus got command of a very large part of British foreign trade, imports and exports, and that the direct foreign trade of Englishmen became limited, almost entirely, to the colonies, China, the United States, and South America. Nor did he notice that these Germans traded with other Germans abroad, who gradually organized a complete network of commercial colonies all over the world. But, when Germany, about 40 years ago [c.1850], seriously began manufacturing for export, this network served her admirably in her transformation, in so short a time, from a corn-exporting into a first-rate manufacturing country. Then, about 10 years ago, the British manufacturer got frightened, and asked his ambassadors and consuls how it was that he could no longer keep his customers together. The unanimous answer was:

You don't learn customer's language but expect him to speak your own;

You don't even try to suit your customer's wants, habits, and tastes, but expect him to conform to your English ones.

[ First | Prev | Table of Contents | Next ]

[ao3feed-superbat]

That one time Batman accidentally fell in love

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/ZT9moAr by JarJarBlink182 “Obviously you haven’t had the privilege to see the newspaper today. You’re in it.” There was an annoyed response, sounding deep with sleep “I usually am.” Clark was struggling to keep his calm now. “Yes, well, I’m also in the newspaper. According to your beloved city, we are homosexual lovers that came out of the closet last night.” Bruce turned to face him at that, one eyebrow rose up in surprise. “Huh. That’s a new one.” Words: 32505, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Categories: M/M Characters: Batman, Superman, Bruce Wayne, Brucie Wayne, Clark Kent Relationships: Batman/Superman, Bruce Wayne/ Clark Kent - Relationship Additional Tags: Fluff, Fake Dating read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/ZT9moAr

[ohsalome]

Again and again and again I see (mostly) westerners accusing Ukraine of "opressing russian-speaking minority" by our language law (without reading the language law itself, obviously). It really looks like people have some kind of pavlovian reflex to the word "minority", immediately jumping to the assumption that minority = opressed by the majority. But a minority by numbers does not automatically mean minority by power. Billionaires, too, make up a minority of population, does that mean that they are opressed by the majority class? Are gaelige speakers in Ireland priveleged in comparison to the English? Are Elon Musk's white emerald mine owning family opressed by the majority black African population?

For the 1000th time, the relationship between Ukraine and russia is that between colonised and coloniser. It is russian identity, russian language, russian culture, russian world that has been privileged on the territory of ukraine for at least last 400 years. It is ukrainian language, ukrainian culture, ukrainian identity that people have been repressed and killed for.

russian propaganda takes this assumption westerners have about how the world fuctions (minority=oppressed) and uses it to twist the reality. To make you believe that Ukrainians somehow "deserve" to be genocided. To make you believe that it's the best course of action for the West to abandon Ukraine to be raped and plundered by russia. But we can call it "peace", because russians won't allow western journalists to report on it, and we all know that if the west doesn't talk about something, it means it doesn't exist :))))

Here are statistics about the "opression of russian language" from 2012 - during the presidency of Viktor Yanukovich, russian puppet and a literal mafioso [source]:

More than 60% of the total circulation of newspapers, 83% of magazines, and about 87% of books (most of which are imported from Russia) are published in Russian in Ukraine.

In October 2012, only 28% of the prime time on the top 8 TV channels was devoted to Ukrainian-language programs, 44% to Russian-language programs and 28% to bilingual programs.

On the 6 top-rated radio stations, songs in Ukrainian account for only 3.4% of the total number of songs in prime time (last year - 4.6%). At the same time, songs in Russian account for 60% of the total number of songs.

Out of 290 restaurants in 29 cities, only 50% of them have signs in Ukrainian, 46% have menus in Ukrainian, and only 36% have employees who answer Ukrainian to Ukrainian-speaking customers (in another 11%, employees switched to Ukrainian during the conversation).

The "oppression of russian speakers in Ukraine" is nothing but the tyranny of russian chauvinism and imperialism losing its footing. Y'all had no trouble understanding how white ethnonationalists complaining about "the great replacement" is nothing but fear of losing the privilege. Y'all had no trouble understanding that "white cis male is the most opressed person" is a moral panic not grounded in the real power structure of the western society. But in this question, you've decided to ally with the opressor.

[stephensmithuk]

The Hound of the Baskervilles: The Stapletons of Merripit House

A mullion is a vertical divider in a window.

A scullery maid was the lowest ranking female servant in the household, who would wash the dishes and sometimes the clothing too. Snow White and Cinderella started off in this role.

It would take Watson around two hours to walk to Grimpen. I've done longer walks and I suppose he would have done so in his Army days.

A grocer is a person who runs a grocery, which in British English is analagous to a general store, where you would buy most everyday items, including the most common newspapers and magazines. We would also distinguish these days between the larger supermarket (grocery store) and the smaller corner shop (what New Yorkers would call a bodega); frequently run by immigrants or their immediate descendants. This is an example of the latter.

I do not know how common it was then, but today it is very common, even in major cities, to have a Post Office counter as part of another store such as a corner shop; these franchised businesses are run by subpostmasters. The Post Office, as well as post, provides banking services for both its own financial business and for other banks or building societies. The computer system that was used for financial transactions by them, Horizon, is currently at the centre of a major scandal.

Dartmoor has many peat bogs. The Ordnance Survey maps give their general location, but their exact size varies depending on conditions. Walkers frequently end up in them by accident or lack of experience; safe routes are marked out, but not always easy to see. The vast majority are not that deep and the worst that will happen is a case of smelly, muddy embarrassment. However, some are deeper, where you can end up with a risk of hypothermia - there are no less than four volunteer Mountain Rescue teams in the area to help people in difficulty.

Then some are straight up lethal, especially to animals. A gallop is the fastest horse speed setting - a horse can run at around 25 to 30mph for up to three kilometres before getting winded. So, not a good idea to do it on boggy land.

Grimpen Mire is believed to have been inspired by Fox Tor Mire:

There are 14 species of bittern. One of them is the Eurasian bittern, which was indeed extinct in the UK for a while when this story takes place and is still only here in limited numbers with its habitat. The species as a whole currently rated "Least Concern" but in decline.

The Neolithic period lasted from c.10,000 BC to c.2,000 BC, being the final period of the Stone Age. There is a timber track pathway in Somerset, the oldest recorded road, dating back to c. 3,838 BC.

Cyclopides was an old name for several species of South African Skipper butterflies. They tend to be found in southern Africa, not Dartmoor:

Miss Stapleton must deem the situation urgent to leave without her hat; people did not as a general rule go hatless in this period, even the poorest usually had some form of cap.

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

Shadows Heir

by Ash_Asto Ra's al Ghul, the Demon's Head, watches Batman and Robin as they pursue criminals. Tim's attention is drawn to him because of his meticulous movements and quick calculations. Ra's eyes enlarge in admiration for Tim's ability, and he is captivated by his untapped potential. Tim's room contains Batman posters, newspaper clips, and mystery novels. Late that night, Tim came near to figuring out Batman's true identity, but his focus on his work caused him to ignore changes in his surroundings. A tap on his window startled him, and he opened a decorative envelope with instructions to follow clues and discover his fate. Tim spent the next few nights hunting clues, deciphering riddles & codes, and dodging traps. He finally approached a warehouse on the outskirts of Gotham, when Ra's al Ghul appeared from the shadows. Ra's greeted Tim and allowed him to join the League of Assassins and perfect his talents. Tim hesitated, but Ra's smirked and threateningly invited him to join the League of Assassins. Before he could react, a dart embedded in his skin, knocked him out and landed in Ra's arms. Ra mumbled, "Your new life begins soon." Words: 746, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Series: Part 1 of The Obsidian Empire Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types, Batman (Comics), Batman: The Animated Series, Batman and Robin (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Robin (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice - All Media Types, Young Justice (Comics) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: Gen Characters: Tim Drake (DCU), Ra's al Ghul, Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd Relationships: Tim Drake & Ra's al Ghul, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne Additional Tags: Young Tim Drake, Civilian Tim Drake, Tim Drake is Not Robin (DCU), Tim Drake is Not Red Robin, The League of Assassins (DCU), Kidnapping, Dark Tim Drake, League of Assassins Tim Drake, Assassin Tim Drake, Bad Person Ra's al Ghul, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Jason Todd is Robin, Tim Drake is Not a Batfamily Member, Evil Ra's al Ghul, Manipulative Ra's al Ghul, Grooming, Training, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen via https://ift.tt/GU1n49X

[midnightpink]

catharsis

read it here on ao3

by: dollcewrites

It's been six years since Izuku graduated.

It's been six years since he confessed to his childhood friend; his classmate and his inspiration.

It's been six years since he deleted Bakugou's number, asked his friends not to mention the name, spent every last effort of his heart turning off the TV and averting his eyes from the newspapers.

It's been six, long, long years since he gave up on Katsuki Bakugou ever loving him back.

Words: 15,071, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English 

Collections: My Hero Academia, GBFOAT: Greatest BakuDeku Fics Of All Time 💥🥦, best fics <3, Katsuki & Izuku: An Embarrassment of Riches, HighQualityBNHAFics, SpicyGoodness, Best of BakuDeku, Kylo's BNHA Recommendation Stories :D, S

Fandom: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Bakugou Katsuki, Midoriya Izuku, Todoroki Shouto, Kirishima Eijirou, Kaminari Denki, Ashido Mina, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Shinsou Hitoshi

Relationship: Bakugou Katsuki & Midoriya Izuku, Bakugou Katsuki/Midoriya Izuku

Additional Tags:  Switching, Set in the future, big big emotions, Angst and Pining, But also fluff and smut, pro heroes, Canon-Typical Violence, listen the first half is lowkey heartbreaking yeah, but the second half will mend ur heart a hundred times over

[happyely2]

Pairing: Portuguese D. Ace x Fem!Reader

Rating: 18+ | The rating will be red this time, so if you are a minor skip this reading or highlight your age in your bio.| sex scenes, cuddles, and much more very explicit.

Summary: 31 prompts for 31 days of October. Life on Moby Dick is always hectic and has become more so since Ace boarded this ship and became part of the family.

✒️Prompts taken from the contest (even if I don't participate) organized by the Italian Fanwriter page. I only translated the prompts into English, I hope you like it.✒️

🌊Writober PumpSea🌊 #day 2 - Stump

The newspaper had arrived as usual early in the morning and had been dropped onto the main deck.

"They upgraded the new kids sizes!" Halta had said as he quickly entered the dining room with the new wanted posters.

In a short time the bets had already started.

"Who is this straw hat?" Satch looked at the poster of a new novel that roamed the northern sea.

"Did you say straw hat?" You asked, taking the poster from Satch’s hand and looking carefully at it, a straw hair, a thirty-two-tooth smile you knew well, a wound under your left eye. That was Luffy, Ace’s younger brother.

"ACEEEE! Your brother just got a new bounty!" You shouted to get the attention of the guy who had just entered the kitchen. You knew how proud Ace was of his little brother.

"I can’t believe it! The wretch did it in the end." Ace said, taking the bounty you gave him and smiling at you. Yeah, even if they weren’t blood brothers, that smile was the same.

"Sooner or later you’re gonna have to introduce me to all of you, brother." You said by leaving a kiss on his naked shoulder. Ace had started spinning shirtless, partly because of the amount of muscle he had put on at that time by training with the other commanders.

"I hope as soon as possible, you two will get along just fine." Ace said kissing you on the forehead.

"Avoid them early in the morning or do them in private." Satch threw himself on you two, holding you warmly and Ace with a little more strength.

He hadn’t gotten used to the idea of you two. Or rather, she still didn’t want to accept the fact that her little sister had found a boyfriend and had grown up as a woman.

"Satch!" You both called him and laughed at each other.

"Little sister! You must come here now!" The voice of one of Dad’s nurses distracted you for a moment and allowed you to remember the commitment you made with them.

"I have to go, see you at lunch, Ace." You said by getting out of Satch’s grips and kissing Ace on the lips, you went to the nurses to help them with the inventory for the medicine.

"See you after Love." Ace said earning an increase in strength in Satch’s iron grip.

"What did you do Ace! Before he greeted me too, now only you exist!" Satch was playing the exasperated, overprotective older brother.

"Satch isn’t just our little sister anymore, she’s Ace now." Izo had slapped him on the shoulder and laughed, he was the most normal of all.

"ACE!" But Ace had turned into a flame and slipped away, had taken a fast sandwich and had gone out at great strides: "I’m going to show Dad the size of Luffy." and he had gone away among the other companions.

"These young people of today."

"Satch we all know that you want to go back to their age stop." Marco had said by hitting the chef with the newspaper. The room was soon filled with laughter over laughter.

The hours had passed quickly and you the girls had decided to take a short break with the tea that you love brought a few minutes before.

"Today I did not have time to read the newspaper, have you seen the photos?"

"What photos?" You asked closing the notebook of your notes. You had to make a large supply of medicines at the next landing.

"Shanks the Red! Look here, little sister." His size had arrived in front of you and you couldn’t help but say that the photographer in question had been very good at capturing the close-up of Shanks' face.

"There’s a whole picture in the paper."

All the girls rushed to see him and soon began to sigh.

"Have you seen what a man he is?!"

"The scar looks great on him! When I would give to kiss him."

"Just kiss her? Honey, I could do anything with this man."

And then the comments started to arrive, you were used to it and you weren’t shocked.

"But the L rule? This man absolutely spoils it!"

"Of course."

L rule? Now what were they inventing at that time? Your sisters were pretty gossip about sex and most things and you had learned by listening to them.

"Sis, what do you think?"

"Me? Hmm, Shanks is a handsome, mature man, maybe he can do a lot of things... even though he’s missing an arm." You answered by looking at the photo. No, he wasn’t ugly at all, he was handsome and dangerous, he was still an emperor.

Maybe you shouldn’t have made such a strong comment, also because the girls had gone crazy and you got caught between gossip and shrieks of euphoria for that detail of the missing arm that generated allusion without any censorship for all the time that the newspaper was opened and for every photo that came from there to little, All this lasted until lunchtime when you finally got out because you had your date with Ace.

And there too there were comments. You would have wanted to kill them for what they told you, they needed a man in their life, a good one to satisfy them to avoid things like that.

You wouldn’t have expected, as you walked, to be grabbed by the arm and brought into Ace’s room.

Ace had just kidnapped you and shut your mouth, his look didn’t promise anything good, he seemed to be pissed.

God, what happened? What did Satch do? Did he say too much?

You tried to say something, but Ace’s hand was pressing on your lips, and what came out was just a bunch of wadding sounds.

"Why is that?" she asked, looking straight into your eyes.

What the hell he was talking about.

"I heard you with Dad’s nurses." He then said by locking the door behind you and releasing your mouth but not the arms that were anchored to the door.

"Ace what do you want..." You realized shortly after what Ace was talking about and you were speechless.

You did not expect to see Ace so jealous, in short, everyone knows that Shanks is a big deal and you spontaneously said it while chatting with other nurses of Dad (they also gave you right) Now you find yourself on the wall with your hands pinned over you by Ace: "So that guy with his Stump could give you the same pleasure that I give you?"

Fuck.

He’s jealous as hell.

"What are you thinking, Ace!" You said trying to free yourself. Or you would have fixed it properly, starting from those soft cheeks that he found himself, as he dared only think that you would bang Shanks the red, He could be your real biological father for how long you deferred age had.

Ace weighed you down and carried you on his bed, tying your hands with his red pearl necklace. If you wanted to stop him, you could have freed yourself easily, that’s what he wanted to tell you with his gesture.

"Ace... Honey listen, we were just chatting with the girls. It’s obvious that I prefer making love to you than to Shanks!" You told him to jump off the mattress and face him right in the eye.

"Sorry, and that... I overheard the comments and I don’t know what got into me." In the end, Ace wasn’t angry, like he could be with you, but he felt such jealousy while you were talking about the emperor and he got a little carried away.

You smiled at him, rubbing his nose with his and he kissed you passionately until brought back on the mattress.

"But still, I can give you more pleasure than that." It had become a matter of principle.

You laughed softly while you hooked your legs to his and kissed him again.

"I don’t know, why don’t you show me?" You deliberately provoked him, because you liked his possessive and dominant side in some situations, but you loved his sweet and passionate side.

Ace took the challenge on the fly, grinning and starting to kiss your neck, biting a little bit harder into the soft skin and leaving a showy mark on your white neck. Her hands slipped on your blouse that was opened without too much ceremony revealing the swimsuit that you were wearing as a bra that day, a piece with two small triangles that did not cover even a quarter of your busty breasts.

Ace looked at you with a slightly more perverted smirk and you brushed against him in response.

"Did you have an appointment with someone?" He whispered to you in your ear, her warm breath gave you little chills of pleasure.

"Who knows, maybe you, maybe not." You answered by holding back a groan when her hand pulled off a triangle of your costume to tightly squeeze the breasts underneath it. You found yourself standing on the side with your hands still tied by the necklace, staring at the bedroom door while Ace was behind you.

You settled back with your hips and felt his presence touching your butt and a groan came out of your lips.

God, he was hard and big.

Ace smiled at you as he bit your neck and another groan left your lips, he was playing dirty, so dirty because he went to get your sensitive points.

"Aceee..." His name was the only thing you could say when you heard her never touch your breasts and play with them. Your boobs were taken, squeezed, lifted, rubbed against her rough palms, and not to mention her nipples, Ace knew they were your weak spot, so weak.

He had pinched them a little with his fingertips and they had become hard in a short time, you needed more attention but they were slow to arrive.

You protested in the kiss he gave you by turning your neck and slightly pulling your hair.

And then he went down to kiss your breasts and other moans came out of your mouth when he started sucking one nipple hard and squeezing the other between the middle finger and index finger while his other hand was going down to your shorts to get him out of the way.

You pulled him by the hair to cut yourself some slack, but Ace bit you harder, leaving his teeth marks around your reddened halo.

A trickle of saliva still connected it to your nipple.

"You’re a brat." You said pulling his hair again, with your hands stuck, you couldn’t do anything else, you could only scratch his back.

"You provoke me so much love, you need to be punished for talking about another man and not just me." Jealous, he was jealous of you and your thoughts.

He kissed you thoughtfully as his pants and boxers reached your clothing on the ground, along with your shoes.

And now you’re standing there, under him in just a costume and a blouse that won’t last much longer, while his erection is pressing against your entrance.

And Ace at that point took more time to act, going down with your fingertips along your hips and scratching and biting them properly, until you get to the laces of the white costume you were wearing.

You were soaked you could see it from the stain that had been created and on which his cock pressed hard.

"Aceeee...." You called his name again eager to continue.

Your fiancé smiled devilishly as he turned you upside down, you ended up on your belly, your ass on deck, and his hands wandering on your ass and your back.

"Who has only one arm could do this?" He asked you while with one hand he squeezed your breast and with the other he penetrated you to prepare. You saw and stars at that time and your scream of pleasure was the best answer for Ace, he prepared you for a while, until he established that you were quite lubed up.

"I can go on or you can’t go on anymore." He asked, kissing your shoulder and bringing your arm to support your pelvis. You haven’t done it that way yet.

"I can go on." You responded by rubbing your sex on his erection and snatching a moan of pleasure, that was your own little victory.

And then Ace didn’t hesitate, he squeezed your hips hard, and he came in with one push in you.

You squeezed the sheets until your fingers whitened so as not to scream too loud and crash half the ship into your cabin.

Ace kissed your back, your shoulders, your neck and rubbed you on your clitoris to make you feel better so you could get used to him. It burned worse than before, maybe because it was a new pose that allowed him to touch deeper points that you didn’t even know you had.

"Can I?" He asked you, whispering in your ear, and then his tender side emerged again to lull and cuddle you.

You nodded by pushing your hips back against him and biting the pillow because your notes had touched shades you didn’t think you would reach. Ace supported you by starting to move slowly within you, at a slow pace to allow you to get used to it, he held you by the right side, while with his left hand he crept back in and your folds to give you more pleasure.

You started to indulge him after a while when your inner walls got better used to his presence and his urges started to get deeper and more confused.

You were dangerously close to the edge, you could feel it from his heartbeat and how Ace had bent over you, resting his chin on your shoulder and pushing deeper and deeper.

"Only you can give me a pleasure like this." You whispered in his ear when the last push came that allowed you to come together.

The bed was a mess of displaced blankets and your liquids, you stayed in that position for a while, until you found a minimum of strength and lucidity. Ace separated from you, getting rid of his column and putting it back around his neck, drew you into a warm, sweaty hug, getting rid of your now-ruined shirt and swimsuit.

And Ace had started to pamper you like only he could, caresses, scratches, little kisses on the skin.

You smeared yourself on him at one point, you on top and he on the bottom and started playing with his rebellious ebony clumps.

"Ace what the L rule?" You asked out of the blue.

"You really don’t know?" Ace was a bit surprised because he knew that the old man’s nurses were gossips to death and laughed heartily as he began to explain that infamous rule: "Those who are tall have small, while those who are short are very gifted." He explained by showing you the two ways of getting L with index and thumb.

"Then you dispelled the myth." You said as you grabbed his hand and kissed him.

Your Ace turned red for that statement but at the same time he was struck by a rush of pride that prompted him to kiss you again.

You both laughed, cuddling a little bit more, until you both remembered lunch with everyone else.

"Oh my God, we’re not gonna be okay today." You said jumping in the air and running into Ace’s bathroom to check for bites and hickeys, that was a lot.

"We could always sneak into the kitchen and get food on the sly." Ace said as he reached out and grabbed his hips.

Two shots to the door made you turn, before this was opened by a kick of Satch.

Or if you were dead.

"So it’s lunch time and we all eat together!" The cook said, looking at you and closing the door a second later, "Have the decency to cover yourself, not to keep us waiting and to be a little more discreet."

And nothing would save you from the gossip you thought while you were quickly recovering clothes to wear from Ace’s closet.

"Little sister but that..."

"Izo please it’s not the time." You told your brother you could cover your neck with your hair.

"We hadn’t seen Ace in a shirt in a long time." The long black-haired man whispered to you, bringing a hand to chuckle, while Ace took yours to calm you down. Satch’s screams were heard all over the ship.

And the whole thing had happened by a simple allusion to a stump, you thought while crossing the threshold of the dining room as if nothing had happened.

[goldtracing]

APH Russia – Headcanons I

I would like to point out that I originally wrote this before 24.02.2022 and didn’t publish this until now due to current event. Now I have decided just to go ahead these are low-budget anime characters that I’m talking about and f anybody who links this to ongoing geopolitical events

Is surprisingly proficient in German and French. Both were court languages of his at the one or the other point in history, his German also being spread amongst the wider populace and influencing Russian. Speaks both languages with a bit of an accent, yet if he puts enough effort in it, his accent can be nearly untraceable.

As for other languages – he is also fluent in Tatar and Mongolian, although in the later he is far better with speaking and listening than writing. This is also the case with all the other languages spoken in his territory. This is due to his past under the khans. As for English and Chinese – with both he tends to be on the very formal side, with his speech precise and usually devoid of slang and abbreviations. It is because he learned much of those two languages from literature or also scientific reports.

When it comes to Russian he can be very eloquent, having a preference for puns and other plays of words. Can and will criticise others for their grammar, although if he is public and in a formal setting, he would be more tactful and quiet about remarking it.

Has a penchant for literature and opera and plays. Visits the theatre regularly and knows all the ballets by heart. Personally keeps a small notebook where he critiques and rates books and performances. Sometimes he sends them in to a newspaper or an online site.

Writes poety in his free time and sends some of them to his sisters or humans that are close to him at the time. Can also recite all of Pushkin’s poems in his sleep.

Aside from that, he has a love for fairy tales. Not the sanitised, censored versions that Disney and the Grimm brother’s have made so popular, rather the cautionary tales as they were actually intended, The brutal versions where people suffer and suffer and suffer.

Else has written multiple essays and the human condition, often taking characters for classics to elaborate on his points. These are texts that near nobody has seen. Ivan has split them up and hidden them on his various properties.  

Has taken formal dance lessons in ballet and the classics. Loves to dance at balls and is surprisingly elegant while doing so for somebody his size. However, he really shies away from dancing tango, salsa and other dances where both partners get really close and even handsy with each other. If at all, he would have to be really close to his dance partner to even contemplate to doing the Latin American dances.

Other than that, he is also good when it comes to folk dances and possess enough stamina to dance dances such as the Barynya for hours. Has the appropriate leg muscles and flexibility.

Surprisingly, (or not) his dancing skills translate into his fighting style. Can go on for hours without taking any enhancements or sleeping, all while remaining smooth and precise in his movements, like they been choreographed and practised time and time again. He can make difficult movement seem easy.

For centuries he favoured combat with a sword. One of his favourite ones was a curved sabre – a kilij – that he stole as a war trophy from Turkey when the latter was the Ottoman empire. Later, he evolved to be a crack shot with the pistole – he got caught up in a lot of duels when they came into fashion. During the WWII, he was part of a tank crew. Due to the tight space of the T-34, he often suffered sore joints and cramps in his muscles. Also developed an especially thick skull during this time, both literally and metaphorically.

Ivan has participated in the making of multiple movies as an advisor. He makes sure that historical films are historically accurate. Seeing that Russia is big on war movies, Ivan has a lot to do.

Additionally, he is quite a patron for the arts. He has multiple oil paintings in his old mansion. Personally, he paints either an impressionist art style or in the vividly coloured art styles that are native to Russia, such as Gzhel, Khokhloma and Zhostovo.

Adding on to that – there is nothing in his homes that is really plain. He has a sense for the aesthetically pleasing and even opulence. The woodwork is carved and whittled, the ceramic adorn with paintings and the metal work ornate. His living surroundings might have been a bit plainer during Soviet times, however I think he would have pulled a few strings that would have allowed him to keep his old possessions.