#Unpaid Traffic Fines

[kazifatagar]

RM4 Billion in Unpaid Traffic Fines, Singaporeans Lead the List

Over 41 million traffic fines, totaling an estimated RM4 billion, remain unpaid by offenders in Malaysia from 1990 through June of this year. Out of these summons, approximately 51,000 fines, valued at around RM5.1 million, were issued to foreign nationals from Singapore, Brunei, and Thailand. Singaporeans lead the list with 35,011 fines amounting to an estimated RM3.5 million, New Straits Times…

[surrogate-fawn]

The Purple Butterfly

((Drabble/Short story based on the backstory of a rp with @mittysins of Fawn's second surrogacy.))

{This drabble is Part 3 in a series of drabbles based on the story Mitty and I co-authored. This story will not make sense without reading the ones that come before it.}

[ Part 1 - The First Goodbye ]

[ Part 2 - Quartz and Sea Glass ]

[ Part 3 - Here! ]

Author's Note: A real-world initiative is mentioned in this story called The Purple Butterfly Project.

TW: Miscarriage, infertility, mentions of cancer, mentions of past abuse, pregnancy complications, past stillbirth/infant loss, grief and heavy emotional trauma.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Living with the Tariqs, I got to experience what it was like to be around a baby after it was born -- and every pounding headache that came with it. 

Suri was a little spitfire as soon as she hit the atmosphere, and if she was unhappy the whole house would know it. The farmhouse wasn't all that big, and the guest room where I slept ended up sharing a wall with the nursery. So, you can bet I got woken up each time her parents did. 

Those first couple nights, I would lay there in bed until Ray or Tess could stumble their way down the hall and quiet things down. Yeah, I wasn't very useful. I didn't have much of a choice, though. It was a miracle I could walk myself to the bathroom with how sore I was after Suri squirmed her way out of me. 

It wasn't just soreness from the waist-down, either. 

Being around a constantly crying newborn had an . . . unexpected effect on my body. After the birth of my son, aside from a little bit of colostrum, I had never produced breastmilk. I guess hearing Suri cry to be fed every few hours triggered something, because I suddenly had a full milk supply with nowhere to go. 

Luckily, the Tariqs had a home remedy for everything. A couple of wet washcloths over upturned bowls in the freezer made some conveniently-shaped ice packs. Without those puppies, it felt like my breasts were filled with molten lead. So, my hands were occupied most of the day. 

I felt guilty, watching either Ray or Tess get up from the couch to tend to their daughter while I was able to sit there with my hands on my boobs and continue watching TV.  

I wasn't Suri's parent, but the fact I was the one who got her there made me feel like I had to help out. 

Once I started to recover, that's exactly what I did. On a night when Suri refused to stop crying, I got up and poked my head through the cracked nursery door. 

Tess was there, looking exhausted and defeated as she held Suri on her shoulder. That baby had been screaming in her ear for at least half an hour. She jumped when she turned and saw me in the doorway. 

"Hi, Tess," I said with a sympathetic smile. 

"Hey, doll," Tess sighed, continuing to bounce Suri up and down while she paced the room. She spoke a little louder than she needed to, likely 'cause she couldn't hear herself think. "I'm sorry she woke 'ya. I got no idea what 'ta do." 

She sounded like she'd given up. This was how she was spending her night, and she'd resigned herself to it. 

I thought about waking Ray, but his paternity leave ended in the morning. He had to be up in a few hours for his civil engineering job. Even with what little I knew about salary work, I knew eight weeks of unpaid leave for a brand-new baby was bullshit. Ray would've taken the full twelve weeks, but the city was jumping down his throat about finishing the blueprints for an overpass project on-time. Tess was about to be left alone with a two-month-old for the sake of ten fewer minutes of traffic. That wasn't fair. 

"Tess, lemmie take her for a while," I said, walking into the room. "You need a break." 

"It's fine," Tess insisted. "She'll calm down . . . eventually." 

I held out my arms. "Tess. Give 'er." 

The purple bags under Tess's eyes made her look twice her age, and her pale yellow hair was a rat's nest hanging down her back. She was at her wit's end. "Okay." 

Suri weighed almost nothing as I settled her against my shoulder. It still amazed me how small babies were. They seemed so much smaller when you actually got to hold them. 

"Hey, what's wrong?" I asked Suri. My ear started to ring as she wailed into it, her cries high-pitched and distressed. I started patting her back like I'd seen her parents do. "What's wrong, baby girl? What's got you so upset?" 

Tess collapsed into the glider in the corner of the nursery, her hands rubbing circles into her temples. "I've changed her. I've fed her. I've prayed over her. I've got no idea what my own baby needs!" 

"Well, I've got no idea, either," I shrugged, my toes digging into the soft sherpa rug by the crib. I continued patting Suri's back. Her feet were pressing against my chest, as if she were trying to pull herself upright. 

"But I'm supposed 'ta know!" Tess whimpered. She ran her fingers through the knots in her hair. "I'm her mama! Mamas are supposed 'ta know what 'ta do, but I can't even calm her down!" 

"You're not a bad mama, Tess," I said, offering her a smile -- despite the continued screaming in my ear. "Trust me, I know what a-." 

The screaming was cut short with a small 'gurk', and I froze when a wet glob of spit-up slithered down my back. 

". . . think I figured it out . . ." I said, my smile now pinched.  

Suri grumbled, and I carefully held her out in front of me. Her face was still red, but her expression was pure baby bliss -- milky spittle on her chin and all. 

"Did you have a tummy ache, baby girl?" I asked. "Is that what was wrong?" 

Tess shot up from the glider, sending it bumping into the wall. "Oh, Fawn, I am so sorry!" she said, taking her daughter out of my hands. She took the burp cloth off her shoulder, as if suddenly remembering it was there, and handed it to me. "Here, clean 'yaself up." 

"S'alright," I chuckled, cringing as I wiped up the gobby mess. "I've got other shirts. At least I got her to stop crying." 

Tess looked down at the baby in the crook of her arm, and then back up at me. "Wanna try a hand at gettin' her 'ta sleep?" 

Long story short, that's how I found my new job as the Tariq's live-in babysitter.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wasn't expecting to do surrogacy again, at least not for a long while. The Tariqs were paying me a decent wage for domestic work and were kind enough to not charge me rent -- so long as I was saving a certain amount of the money each week. The last post I ever made on the surrogate agency's forums was an announcement celebrating Suri's successful home birth. After that, I let my profile go dark.

Not only did hiring me allow the Tariqs to keep their promise of helping me on my feet, it also gave them an extra set of hands around the house while Ray was at work. Tess and I worked out a system where I would work on smaller tasks while she took care of the most pressing matters. If she was feeding Suri, I was cleaning the kitchen. If she was cooking dinner, I was changing a diaper. If she had to do yardwork, I was keeping Suri entertained.  

I learned to prepare formula, wash bottles, change diapers, and play peek-a-boo like a pro in no time. 

Bath time was always a tag-team effort, though. Suri was a splasher, and her favorite bath toy was a rubber turtle called "Squirta Turta", so we usually ended up as soaked as she was. 

When Suri was being weaned off formula, we made homemade baby food with the vegetables in the garden. Turns out, placenta makes a great fertilizer. I wondered if Mom had ever used it in her flower beds -- she'd had five of them to work with by the time all of us kids were born. I wished I could ask her. I wished I could ask her about a lot of things. I also wished Suri could eat her mashed squash without trying to wear the bowl as a hat, but I didn't get that wish, either. 

This was my life for two wonderfully chaos-filled years, and I was mostly content with it.

Mostly.

I wanted to go to college. That was always my plan for after high school, but . . . plans had obviously changed. My grades hadn't been anything to brag about, so I knew from the start I'd have to pay my own way through. I had two years' worth of savings, but I didn't want to dip into it, yet. That money was meant to be the down payment on a house someday. What would be the point of spending all my money on school if I'd be right back to square one afterward? That wasn't what I wanted. I wanted to get my degree and start my life over -- I'd been waiting long enough.

After sitting down with Ray and breaking down the costs of school, I realized I barely had enough to pay for one term. There were some small scholarships I could apply for here and there, but I wasn't about to rely on winning them. There were hundreds of smarter students out there vying for the same pile of money. What chance did I have?

I mulled it over for several days without saying a word to anyone, but eventually I made up my mind. When I did, Tess was the first person I told:

"I'm gonna get pregnant again."

I announced it out of the blue as I was helping Tess with the after-dinner dishes. She was at the kitchen sink, washing. I was at the counter, drying.

The steel wool in her hand scraped to a halt. "Pardon?"

I hunched my shoulders a bit as I toweled off a plate. "I'm gonna find another couple that needs to 'rent a room'. It'll be able to pay for my degree. In full. All four years."

Tess continued washing, but she didn't acknowledge what I'd said at all.

"So . . . what do you think?" I prodded, setting stacks of dishes in the cabinet.

Tess grimaced into the soapy water, concentrating way too much on the pan she was scrubbing. "Shug, I dunno," she said. "Do 'ya really wanna do that 'ta 'yaself so soon?"

"Whatd'ya mean 'so soon'?" I scoffed. "Suri's up toddling around the house. Isn't that when most moms get pregnant again?"

"'Ya ain't a mom, yet, Fawn," Tess said, her tone lovingly blunt -- the tone that can only be learned by disciplining a toddler.

I flinched a little, but I crossed my arms over my chest to hide it. All she'd done was state a fact, but it still bit.

"I'd like to be," I mumbled. I gazed out the kitchen window and saw Ray out in the backyard with Suri. He was blowing bubbles, and she was reaching up to grab them with high-pitched screams of laughter. She chased them as they swooped lower to the ground, and then stomped on them with her tiny flip-flops when they touched the grass. "Someday."

"I know, doll. That's why I'm concerned." Tess set the pan on the drying rack. "Pregnancies are risky. Wouldn't 'ya rather have as few of 'em as possible?"

"I've had two and they went just fine," I said with a shrug. "I'm young, Tess! Isn't now the best time to use what I got? I can charge more, now that I've got experience. No student debt and money left over to save for a house! Trade nine months in exchange for the rest of my life? How could I pass that up?!"

Tess didn't say anything for a long time, she just dunked a chili pot in the dishwater and started scrubbing. I stood there in uncomfortable silence until she said:

"School can wait, 'ya know."

"No, it can't!" I protested.

"Ray and I can pay what 'ya need for classes when we start tryin' again," Tess said. "What on Earth's the point?"

"Point is," I huffed, leaning my hip against the counter, arms still crossed over my chest, "I'm almost twenty-four and I've got nothin' to show for it!"

"Fawn, 'ya gotta think about-."

"I'll still be able to help you guys out, Tess," I added. "Don't worry about that."

"It's not us I'm worryin' about," was her deadpan response.

It was frustrating as hell, but I wasn't too angry at her. I knew why she wasn't a fan of the idea.

The three of us had recently discussed growing their family in the future. The Tariqs wanted to wait until Suri was a little more independent before welcoming a second baby, so that plan was at least two more years out.

Following that conversation, we'd decided not to return to the surrogate agency we used the first time. The agency was helpful with the fine print and legal stuff, but the Tariqs had not been too thrilled to learn that a desperate, homeless, childless young woman had been allowed to become a surrogate of theirs.

"I can do it independently," I said, pleading my case. "I know how to be careful."

Tess turned to lock eyes with me. "Fawn . . . I just need 'ta know you're doin' it for the right reasons. I don't like the idea of 'ya going through all that for nothing but a stack'a cash."

"It's not just for money" I insisted. "I wouldn't go through it again for anyone, not even you guys, if I didn't find it meaningful."

Tess didn't seem any more at ease with my promises. "I just don't want 'ya health 'ta suffer. If 'ya do this, you're choosin' 'ta put 'ya body through a lot in such a short time."

I didn't argue. She was right. "I know."

Tess turned back to the sink, sighing while she rinsed out the pot. My toes curled inside my shoes.

"I want to help another couple while I still have the chance," I said, trying to justify my decision -- partially to myself. I could sense how strong Tess's disapproval was, and it was giving me serious second thoughts. "If I can't be a parent right now, I want to make it possible for other people to be parents. It makes the wait feel . . . less long."

Tess dried her hands on her long bohemian skirt and turned to gently hold my shoulders. "Doll, it's 'ya own choice. Ray and I can't stop 'ya from doin' whatever it is 'ya wanna do."

I nodded, my eyes cast down. I didn't need their permission, nor had I been asking for it, but some support would've been -- .

"Just know that we'll be here 'ta help 'ya," Tess continued. "Anything 'ya need, just ask. If you're gonna do this, I want 'ya as healthy and happy as possible."

I nodded again, this time with a smile on my face. "I'd appreciate that."

Tess wrapped me in a hug. "But please, shug," she added, patting my back, "don't put 'yaself through too much."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Easy there, doll. I've got'cha."

Tess held my curls back as I wretched into a blue emesis bag. I'd started growing my hair out in the months it took for this surrogacy to be arranged. I hadn't been thinking ahead.

I'd thought I was in the clear after I had to have Tess pull over on the highway so I could vomit up breakfast, but the antiseptic smell of the hospital kicked up my nausea again. I'd made it through the halls, but by the time I'd sat on the exam table my stomach had enough.

I choked on thick saliva and spit a mouthful of colorless bile into the bag. "Okay . . . okay, I'm good now," I spluttered as I lifted my head. I cinched the bag and handed it to the technician without looking them in the eye. "Sorry."

"Don't be," the tech laughed, "morning sickness is par for the course in here. I'll be right back, just make yourself comfortable." They dragged the privacy curtain closed behind them as they left the room.

Tess wet a paper towel in the hand sink for me. My skin was clammy and cold even before I wiped the towel across my face -- so I wasn't left feeling any better. My hands had a tremor so deep inside the tendons it registered as numbness. I raked my front teeth over my tongue to scrape away the acidic taste.

I hadn't really needed that blood test. I'd known the IVF had worked when I woke up clinging for dear life against the Earth's rotation. My head hadn't stopped spinning since, and it was two damn weeks later. The doctor overseeing my IVF had sent me in for a six-week ultrasound -- which was earlier than I'd ever had one done before -- because my hormone levels were "suspiciously high" this time around. Whatever that meant.

I'd been pumped full of fertility drugs like a chicken with GMOs for a solid four months by that point. No shit my hormones were off the charts, especially now that I was pregnant.

"It's never been this bad," I groaned, coughing on the burn in my throat.

"Yeah, that's why the doctor wants 'ya in here," Tess said with a chuckle.

"I hate it," I scowled. "I want the old morning sickness back."

"Each time is different," Tess said. "I had it once or twice before, but when I was pregnant with Ravi it never really went away." Any time Tess mentioned her angel baby, a little bit of the light left her eyes -- and I saw it happen again right there in that ultrasound room.

Tess helped me pull off my jeans and tucked my discarded underwear inside the back pocket for me. I covered my hips with the paper blanket just before the tech came back into the room.

"Looks like we're ready to start!" they chirped, taking their seat between me and the rolling ultrasound cart.

"Hang on a sec," I said, pulling up the FaceTime app on my phone. "The parents really wanna see the first ultrasound."

"Ah," the tech said with an understanding nod, "is this a surrogate situation?"

"My second time," I said with a proud grin. I pointed at Tess, who was folding my pants over the back of a chair. "I carried her baby first. Most amazing thing I've ever done."

Tess beamed at me. She was smiling, but the shadows on her face were a bit deeper than normal.

"Really now!" The tech exclaimed, keeping their peppy tone as they typed my info into the computer. "It's rare I see surrogate mothers as young as you. Bless your heart!"

"She's a trooper, that's for damn sure," Tess said, "but, God love 'er, she's been so sick."

"I'm sure your care provider can prescribe something for that at your follow-up ," the tech told me. "It won't feel this bad for much longer, sweetheart."

"It's worth it, though," I said. My phone bubbled with the ringtone of an outgoing video call. "These guys will be amazing dads."

The tech smiled at me. "I have such respect for traditional surrogates. That's a lot of sacrifice."

"Oh, no," I corrected them with a small hand wave. "This isn't traditional. These are the bio parents."

I hadn't willy-nilly accepted the first eager couple I'd found online. I'd put half a year's worth of thought into carrying this pregnancy. The Tariqs always gave me my birthday off, and I'd spent that entire day talking to prospective parents. I wanted to prove to them that I was taking this seriously; if I was doing this just for the money, I wouldn't have cared whose baby I carried. I wanted to vet my options and choose a couple that I well and truly felt honored in helping -- and the Gillespies were exactly that.

My phone screen flashed with a mixture of bright pixels before the video came into focus. An odd pair of men sat beside each other in what appeared to be either a kitchen or a dining room -- perhaps it served as both, they lived in a small condo. One was a tall, tanned athlete with a dark stubbly beard and a sculpted figure rippling beneath his loose-fitting tank top. That was Silas. The other was a willowy, ramen-haired man with thick blue octagon frames on his glasses and the quote, "It's only a passing thing, this shadow" from The Two Towers tattooed on his forearm. That was Owen.

"Hey, guys!" I said, holding my phone up and giving them a wave.

There was a slightly-too-long pause due to lag, but both guys lit up with smiles and greeted me in unison. I saw the tech looking at the screen from the corner of my eye. I could see the math trying to play out in their head.

"You don't mind if we record this, right?" Silas asked. They must've been watching from a tablet, because he reached his finger under the camera and swiped a few times as if he were checking a separate app. As he lifted his arm, a crescent of silvery scar tissue became visible from under his shirt.

I saw the tech look back to their computer with a subtle nod of their head. God love 'em, they must've been too nervous to ask.

"Go ahead! It's a special occasion," I said. "I'm gonna hand you over to Tess. We're about to start."

"Yay, Tess!" Owen said with a clap of excitement. He waved as I passed my phone over. "Hi, Tess! Where's Ray?"

"Hi, boys," Tess said with a soft grin. She adjusted herself to be closer to my side. "Ray's workin' from home today so he can watch our 'lil darlin'."

Of course the Tariqs had wanted to meet my new clients. They said it was because they wanted to vouch for me as a caring and capable surrogate; but I think it was mostly to judge the couple for themselves. The Gillespies had both Tess and Ray's number as my emergency contacts, which came in handy when they needed help with some legal paperwork.

Silas and Owen were my age, both of them twenty-four. They'd poured all their savings into the process of hiring a surrogate and had none left over for a lawyer. At the Tariq's behest, all three of us had stayed up late on a call to talk the Gillespies through the steps of writing a surrogacy contract. Silas and Owen seemed to hold a lot of respect for the Tariqs after that.

While Tess had the camera on her, I reclined on the table and put my feet in the stirrups. The paper blanket gave plenty of privacy -- which was good, because I didn't want my clients to see the long plastic wand the tech was prepping while it was in there doin' its thing. I'd never had a transvaginal ultrasound before, but apparently it was the only way to get a view of the Gillespies' baby so early.

I couldn't help but tense as I felt the rounded tip of the wand slip inside me like butter, aided by the warm jelly I was used to having on my belly. I could feel the blood flooding my face as the curved device slid under my public bone and pressed against a part of my anatomy that hadn't been reached in years -- though not for lack of trying, I had short fingers.

"Relax a little more, please," the tech said.

"Sorry . . . not used to this."

Don't judge me. I was living with my employers. The idea of one of them finding an adult toy in my room -- or worse, their daughter finding it -- made me shrivel.

I felt a subtle buzz inside my tissues when the device turned on. I bit the inside of my cheek.

"Okay, let's have a look at that baby," the tech said as they began angling the wand.

Tess flipped the phone around so the dads could see the action. I saw Owen grip his husband's bicep and pull him closer. The room was silent for a moment while the technician moved the wand around my pelvis.

"Can we listen to the heartbeat?" Owen asked, hugging Silas's arm.

"Not yet," the tech said, eyes glued to the screen. "Their little heart is only a few cells big right now. It's too quiet to pick up, but we'll hear it in a few weeks."

Owen and Silas shared a grin. I could see their story written on their faces and in the way they looked at each other. They'd been dating since high school, the odd-ball pairing of bookworm and athlete. After graduation, a preemptive doctor's appointment before Silas started testosterone saved his life:

Cervical cancer, stage two. The doctors had no choice but to take everything, but Silas chose to freeze a few of his eggs before the surgery. He'd gotten into non-competitive bodybuilding to deal with the effects of chemo, and it'd been his favorite hobby since. Luckily, Silas had been cancer-free for years -- Owen had gotten his first and only tattoo in celebration.

Now that they were newlyweds, the Gillespies were choosing to start their family right away -- knowing the frozen eggs wouldn't last forever. We'd lost a lot of hope when most of the eggs didn't thaw right, meaning we only had one shot at this. The Gillespies were more than open to adoption, but . . . having a baby together was something they'd hoped for since before Silas's diagnosis.

I'd known I wanted to step up to the plate as soon as I heard their story. I was proud to be helping such a sweet pair of guys have their much-wanted family. When I saw the way they looked at each other in that moment -- the excitement and love of a dream finally coming true -- I secretly hoped doing this for them would grant me some sort of karmatic favor.

I hoped one day I'd share that same ecstatic smile with someone, for the same happy reason.

The tech hadn't said anything for a while. They kept moving the wand from side-to-side between my hips and squinting at the screen. They took several images, judging by how often they hit the same loud button on their keyboard. They hadn't even turned the screen around, yet. I couldn't wrap my head around the baby being so hard to find -- not with the ultrasound wand jammed so far up.

"Are they hiding from 'ya?" I asked with a joking lilt. Something was starting to sink inside my chest.

"No, I see them," the tech said. They squinted harder at the screen. "Just taking their picture for the doctor."

"That's a lot of pictures," Silas commented from my phone speaker.

"Well, I . . . just want to make sure," the tech said. Their keyboard clacked as they took another image.

It felt like I'd swallowed lead. "Sure of what?"

The tech finally tilted the screen so the rest of the room could see it. In the grey-and-white fuzz on the monitor, a round dark void was highlighted in a bright yellow square. Resting in the void was a blurry white bean with a small flutter in the curve of its shape.

"So, here's the gestational sac," the tech said, outlining the yellow square with their cursor. They circled the cursor over the fluttering movement. "That's baby's nice strong heartbeat right there." 

"Silas, oh my god!" I heard Owen cry. "Look! We made that!"

The tech turned the wand slightly and the image on the screen rolled to the left. The same black void and white bean slid into view, except now it was upside-down. The tech once again circled their cursor around the flutter. "And this is another nice strong heartbeat."

 "They have two hearts?!" I gasped in panic. I realized how stupid I sounded after it was too late. "Or is it . . . ?"

The tech flicked the wand from side-to-side, and each time they did a little black void with a bean remained on the screen. It took a few back-and-forths for me to realize those weren't two different angles of the same image.

"Holy shit . . ." I wheezed. My hand covered my throat, as if that would loosen the strangling tightness that was setting in. "Holy shit . . ."

“What? What’s wrong?” I heard Silas ask, his voice glitched and laggy.

“Boys, can ‘ya see?” Tess asked, holding my phone closer to the screen. “Can ‘ya see that?”

I wanted to turn my head and see the parents’ reaction, but I could not move my eyes from the ultrasound. The Gillespies were quiet for a minute as the tech continued to swivel the image from side-to-side.

“How many embryos did you transfer?” the tech asked.

“There were only two that made it,” Silas answered. I could sense the moment reality washed over him. “Wait . . . wait, are they both there?!”

“Yep,” Tess said. I have no idea what emotion was in her tone, but it had a glaze of forced excitement. “They both took root.”

“I can’t quite get an image of both of them,” the tech said. “I’m trying, but it looks like they’re on opposite walls of the uterus. That flipped one is way up there, too. They’re hanging onto the roof like a bat.”

“A bat bean,” Owen said. His voice was flat, like the quip was a reflex.

“So . . . twins, right?” Silas asked. “We’re having twins?”

“Congratulations!” the tech chirped.

My pulse was pounding under my hand. That lump of lead was sitting hard in my guts, right alongside those two tiny beans. Two. Two beans. Holy shit. Two.

Tess turned the phone towards me and I saw the moon-eyed shock on the Gillespies’ faces. “Fawn, honey?” Tess prodded. “Wanna say something? What’dya think?”

“I . . .” My saliva felt thick and hot in my mouth. My tongue fell numb and it nearly flopped down my throat as I shot up on the table, my legs still up in the stirrups. “I think I’m gonna be sick!”

Tess jumped for a trash can. She aimed the camera at her face while I loudly wretched in the background of my clients’ first family video.

“This explains a lot,” Tess told the fathers with a sheepish grin. “Two times the baby, two times the morning sickness.”

The Gillespeies were quiet for a while, an awkward pause with only the sounds of my suffering to fill the void.

“We’re having twins, Owen,” Silas finally said, just as I was pulling my face from the trash.

“Yeah . . . wow,” Owen’s voice answered.

I heard a subtle thumping from their end, like one of them was bouncing their leg. The tempo was frantic.

“What’s wrong, Owen?” Tess asked. She held the phone to be more level with her face. 

All I heard was a harsh sniffle.

“C’mere, you big softie,” I heard Silas say.

“Don’t cry, honeybun,” Tess said. “It's a blessing!"

“I’m happy!” Owen insisted over the phone. “I’m so happy!” His voice was muffled, like he was hiding his face in his husband’s shoulder. “This is . . . whew! This is overwhelming!”

“No kidding,” Silas said with a laugh.

“No fucking kidding,” I said with my head in the trash.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took a few days for the shock to wear off. The anti-nausea pills cleared my head so I felt less like I was walking in a fever dream. Once that edge was taken off, it made reality slip in a little smoother. I was pregnant with twins. There were two little jellybeans inside me that would be two full-sized babies in eight months. That was fine. Yeah, that was fine. That had to be fine. If it wasn’t fine, I was going to start losing my mind! So, it was fine.

I mailed the printouts of the ultrasounds to the parents. They had the digital pictures I took, but those physical copies were what really mattered to them. The three of us had never met in person. They lived hundreds of miles away, in Michigan. They wouldn’t be flying down to Tennessee until it was nearing my due date, so any physical memento of their babies I could send to them was much appreciated.

I wanted the Gillespies to feel included in my pregnancy as much as possible, even if they couldn’t be with me in-person. Each week I’d take a picture of myself turned sideways in the bathroom mirror and sent it to them. I basically sent them the same picture four times in a row. There was nothing much to show except for the tummy flab I’d collected my first two times around the block. By week ten, though, I could feel that familiar little lump starting to form below my navel. I had slightly too much of a pooch for there to be any trace of a bump, though.

Almost three months in, I was surprised by how normal my pregnancy was – aside from the intense bouts of nausea I relied on my medicine for. I’d thought having twins inside me would up the difficulty level, but up to that point my life had changed very little. I still got up every day to housekeep and nanny for my allotted shift, and I did so with the same ease I did before. The only change was how much of an eye Tess kept on me. It was very annoying.

“Fawn, no!” Tess trotted up beside me and took hold of my hips. “‘Ya don’t need ‘ta be up there.”

“Stop it!” I gasped as the stack of plates in my hand jittered. “Don’t grab me like that if you don’t want me to fall!”

Tess gently pulled me down from the stepstool I’d been using to reach the cabinet. “I can take care of those,” she said, taking the stack of dishes.

“Jesus, you’d think these were your babies,” I muttered.

“It’s easy now, doll, but you’re not far off from those little ‘uns hittin’ a growth spurt.” Tess climbed the stepstool and I rolled my eyes behind her back at the oh-so-dangerous foot and a half of height she stood above. “I can go ahead and take over the chores ‘ya need help with.”

I shrugged, lifting my hands and then letting them slap down onto my thighs. “Alright. Want me to take over Suri while you handle the dishes?”

“Yes, and I’ll be wiping down the countertops and stove with bleach. So, I don’t want either of ‘ya in here until I say so.”

“Right. Grabbing snacks.”

Arms full of Cheerios, applesauce pouches and beef jerky, I joined Surinder in the living room. She was watching one of her preschooler shows on TV from inside her pop-up play tent. Her toys were strewn all over the floor – the living room had become her territory and she marked it with Duplo blocks and miniature plastic food. 

I bent over to start picking up and I grunted when the ligaments around my waist pulled tight. Tess was right about the babies, I hadn’t gotten round ligament pain so early before.

It wasn’t long before Suri crawled out of her tent and patted my leg to get my attention. “Fa! Fa!” she called my name until I turned around and acknowledged her.

“What is it, baby girl?”

“Go! . . . Go potty!”

“You gotta go potty? Okay, let’s go-oh!” I winced as I stooped to pick her up, my hands flying to my sides. There was that ligament pain again. I rubbed my hands into my lower belly, trying to work out the tension in my stretching muscles. “Let’s walk to the potty.”

I kept feeling that growing pain. I got a charlie horse in my back as I was helping Suri in the bathroom. That nerve-deep pain flared up in a ring around my hips as I sat down for dinner, but a slight adjustment in my posture made it nothing more than an annoyance. I went to bed that night safe in the knowledge I would wake up to another day of normalcy.

I woke up to my alarm, bright and early as always. I woke up to that ring of pain around my hips as I stretched out under the covers. I woke up to the sensation of wet fabric, something sticky plastered against the curve of my rear and up my lower back. I woke up to blood, both crusty brown and damp red, on my pajamas and sheets.

I woke up wanting to scream. Instead, I tip-toed past Suri’s nursery and padded down the hall to her parents’ room. I knocked once before opening the door. I was like a child needing to be comforted from a nightmare, appearing in the Tariq’s doorway and softly whispering their names until they stirred.

“Ray? Tess?” I leaned a little harder against the doorframe as I watched their silhouettes sit up in bed. “Can one of you drive me?”

Tess yawned. “Where, doll?”

“The ER.”

With the yank of a chain, Ray’s bedside lamp clicked to life. I didn’t need to scream. Tess did it for me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ray held my hand while we waited in the emergency room. I’d cleaned up and changed clothes – Ray had lent me a pair of his sweatpants, just in case I bled through my pad. All that remained of my pregnancy was sealed in a sandwich box on my lap. Tess suggested I take the large clump of blood and tissue I’d found in my underwear with me for the doctor to look at, but I hated holding that box knowing someone’s lost dream was inside.

Tess hadn’t come to the hospital with us. She stayed at the house until her parents arrived to take Suri for the day and then met us in the waiting room. I sat between them, resting my head on Tess’s shoulder while both of them wrapped an arm around me. We waited like that for over an hour.

Most of that day is a scrambled signal in my memory. There was a lot of waiting. A lot of fluorescent lights and white-beige walls. We watched TV together in the room they put me in, but I don’t remember what we watched. Only one memory of that ER visit is clear:

A nurse came in and confirmed what we already knew. They’d found the stringy prototype of a placenta in the tissue I’d passed, along with one of the gestational sacs. That was concerning, though. One. They’d only found one of the twins. There was a possibility I needed surgery, so they had to go in and see what was left. The Tariqs weren’t allowed to follow me as I was wheeled down to radiology.

The ultrasound room was dark and warm, the only light coming from the idle monitor of the computer. It was easy to close my eyes and drift into a trance as the tech smeared gel over my lower belly. I’d been scheduled for my next ultrasound in two weeks. I didn’t think I could handle seeing how empty I was.

“Did everything clear?” I asked, resting my hands over my sternum. Even if I didn’t want to see it, I still wanted to know if they were gonna have to scrape me out.

“I can’t say for certain until the doctor has a chance to look at these,” the tech said. “I’m just here to take pictures.”

I wished this was the same tech from my first ultrasound. I could’ve used their friendliness.

“I stopped cramping a while ago,” I said, “so hopefully it’s over.”

The tech rolled the wand up from my groin and I felt it press on the solid lump in the front of my hips. They were pressing hard – trying to get a good image, I assume – but eased off as they moved the wand just below my navel.

“Ope, no. Wait,” the tech said, “there’s the other one. Gosh, that one is way up there.”

Bat Bean. That’s what the Gillespies and I had been calling Baby B. We’d been calling Baby A “Jellybean”. I wondered what their real names would’ve been. My throat closed up and I had to stop wondering.

“Oh . . . my . . .” the tech said, nearly in a whisper. Then, much louder: “Well, hello there, little guy!”

“What?” I asked, opening one eye in hesitation.

I saw their face in the light of the monitor, saw the crescent moon of a smile below their reflective glasses. “It’s kicking!”

“What?!” 

My neck arched and suddenly I was staring at the high-def image of a grey gummy bear on the screen. Nubby limbs twitched as the oval-shaped body curled and uncurled, swimming around its bubble of fluid like a tiny fish. The bulbous head turned and I watched in utter amazement as Baby B’s whole body flipped over in a summersault.

The tech hit a key and a steady whop-whopa-whop-whopa played as a line of white peaks and valleys appeared below the image. “And we have a heartbeat!” they announced, all monotone gone from their demeanor.

I must’ve been in a state of shock, because my memory after that moment is almost entirely blank. I have a vague recollection of signing some paperwork and a surgeon standing over my bed, listing off possible side effects. I remember a needle going into my arm, and then my memory is a void.

My memory restarts at the point I woke up in the recovery ward. Please understand that before this point, I had never had any kind of knock-out juice. I’d never had surgery before. So, please don’t make fun of me when I admit that I woke up crying. My vision was blurry, my head was in a vice, my anti-nausea medication had worn off, and it felt like I had a cactus in my vagina. 

I saw a silhouette at my bedside, a woman’s silhouette with a ponytail of dirty-blonde hair. For a second, I thought my mom had forgiven me – I thought that someone, somehow, had reached her. I thought she cared enough to be worried about me. I reached out to her, craving to feel her hold me again. I felt horrible. I wanted my Mama to make it all better.

“M-om?” I mewled, my mouth slow and dry. 

I touched the woman’s arm, causing her to turn towards me. She wasn’t my mom – just a nurse who styled her hair the same way. “No, sorry. I’m not Mom,” she said softly. “She’s probably waiting for you outside.”

I knew she wasn’t. I felt more tears trail down my neck.

“Just lay back and try to wake up a little more,” the nurse told me, “then we’ll let your family come back and see you.”

I dipped in and out of a fugue state, gradually returning to reality as the drugs wore off. Although I couldn’t remember much before surgery, I was inately aware that my cervix had been sewn shut. There was no telling what had caused me to lose Baby A, but Baby B was still considered at-risk. Sealing the exit shut was the best bet to keep ‘em in there. The fact I was still pregnant at all after so much blood loss and cramping was miraculous. Just to be safe, they hooked my IV up to something that would stop my uterus from contracting. 

When I was awake enough to feel hungry and ask for food, the Tariqs were allowed to come sit with me in my cubicle of curtains. Tess sat on the side of my bed while Ray tried to nap in his chair. It’d been nearly twelve hours since we arrived at the hospital and we were all exhausted. I barely had the energy to lift spoonfuls of chicken noodle soup to my mouth. After I’d gotten some broth and crackers down my throat, and Tess and I had run out of small talk, Tess leaned in and wrapped her arms around me.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she whispered into my ear. “I know what you’re feelin’, and it’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

They weren’t empty words – far from it. Tess had been where I was time, after time, after time. Only, for her, it was worse – those lost children were her own. Then . . . there had been Ravi. I didn’t want to imagine how his loss had felt. Well . . . perhaps I could make a light comparison, but I at least knew my son was alive and well somewhere. I wrapped my arms around Tess in return, blinking back tears.

“No, Tess,” I said, my face covered by her long flaxen hair. It smelled like her mint shampoo. “I’m sorry you went through this so many times.”

Tess held me tighter.

“Have you told them?” I asked.

“No. We wanted ‘ta hear what the doctor said first,” Tess said. “Everything’s lookin’ okay with the baby right now, but he wants ‘ya on bedrest.”

“Can you . . . please call them for me? I don’t want to hear them . . .”

“I will,” Tess said, patting my back. “I’ll go outside and let them know.”

“If they ask which one it was . . .” I sniffled and choked back a small sob. “. . . tell them we lost Jellybean.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I continued to send the Gillespies bumpdates every week. I never missed a single one. I continued mailing them printouts of their baby’s ultrasounds. We never talked or chatted about what happened, nor did we discuss medical updates about Bat Bean. For those, the Gillespies waited for either Ray or Tess to contact them. I didn’t want them to associate me – the woman carrying their one and only child – with talk of heartbreak and loss. I wanted Silas and Owen to be excited when they saw an email from me, not dread clicking on it. Ray and Tess stepped up to be the bearers of heavy news for us. My doctor had me going in for ultrasounds every two weeks, which meant a lot of baby pictures from me and a lot of medical updates from the Tariqs.

My stomach remained flat for quite a while, with just the slightest bump in my lower belly for weeks. But one morning, around fifteen weeks in, I swear I woke up looking like I’d swallowed a cantaloupe. I guess the baby had finally hit that growth spurt Tess had predicted.

His name was Milo Bennet Gillespie. Silas and Owen named him shortly after we discovered he was going to be a boy. Owen was a fan of classic books who worked at Barnes & Noble, so I had no doubt he was the one to choose the middle name. Sometimes we playfully referred to Milo as “Bat Bean”, but that nickname faded out in favor of his real name. I worried over him – a lot. I bought a home doppler online so I could check if his heart was beating. Whenever I noticed he hadn’t moved for a while, I would pull up my shirt and rub the doppler on my bump until I heard the whoosh of his pulse. The doctors kept saying everything was looking good with him, but I worried.

I was essentially given leave of my housekeeper duties until Milo was done cooking. The doctor wanted me off my feet, so I spent most of my days on the couch watching cartoons with Suri. She was observant enough to ask about my big belly in her two-word-sentence manner. Unsure how to explain the situation, I told her there was a small person living in my stomach and that his name was Milo. I even took her tiny hand and let her feel where Milo was wiggling around. She didn’t like that very much, it freaked her out and she ran to her mother. I didn’t want her to get excited for a baby that wouldn’t be coming home with me. That wouldn’t be fair to her . . . or to me. 

It wasn’t the best experience, being pregnant without the baby’s parents there. When I was growing Suri, her parents were there with me at every doctor’s visit. They took me on day trips just for fun and to make sure I had enough to eat. They were able to put their hands on my belly to feel their daughter kick, and put their lips close to my skin so she could hear their voices. Milo didn’t have that. His daddies were hundreds of miles away. They’d never felt him squirm around, only I had. He’d never heard their voices close-up, just over the phone . . . maybe. The clearest voice he’d ever heard was mine . . . and my voice wasn’t going to follow him home.

Although I had the Tariqs there to support me and love me, I felt alone in my pregnancy. Milo was just a little visitor in the household – we had no toys or bedding or bottles for him, all of that was with his fathers. After he was born, no one would mention him – his future didn’t involve us at all. I was the closest thing to a mother Milo would ever have . . . and I wasn’t going to be a part of his life. 

It was an experience I’d had before, with the last baby boy I’d held under my heart.

It took a toll. It really took a toll.

Before I knew it, I’d blown up big as a barn. I no longer had a lap when I sat down, my belly nearly reaching my knees. Milo was a big boy – the doctor estimated he was around nine pounds – and he was squishing all the fluid in my body into my lower half. My legs were hot and heavy and my feet were too swollen for my shoes, so I shuffled between the bathroom, kitchen and couch in flip-flops. God, I hated being on my feet. I spent my days either dicking around on my laptop – using my belly as a desk – or watching TV while sprawled out on the couch. 

Surinder got really upset with me one day, when I refused to play tag with her. Ray and Tess were very mindful of how much Suri “bothered” me, but I never considered it bothersome. I loved Suri, she was practically my niece. I was sure to let her know that I wanted to play with her, but my “belly buddy” was making me too tired. I made up for it with lots of hugs and kisses, and I promised that once I was feeling better we’d play tag as much as she wanted.

As soon as I hit thirty-seven weeks, I was on high alert. I’d warned my doctor that I delivered before my due date at least once before, but he wanted to keep Milo in there until he was full-term. So, he refused to remove my stitches. As miserable as I was, I agreed. I wanted Milo to bulk up as much as he could, even if it added to my discomfort. If I could give Silas and Owen a perfect, healthy baby . . . maybe it would make up for what happened. 

My body had failed one of their babies – and so help me God I was gonna force it to nurture the other! I was determined! I would make it to forty weeks!

Yet, I would not.

I pulled myself off the couch one afternoon to grab a snack and my knees almost folded. I leaned against the arm of the couch as a deep downward motion slid over my organs. My lungs were slowly relieved of their crushing burden and they eagerly filled to their maximum. I lifted the weight of my belly with one desperate hand because I had a blaring instinct about what was happening.

“Milo, don’t you dare!” I muttered under my breath.

Like a Duplo block clicking into place, Milo’s head slipped into my hips. My belly visibly dropped, I felt it shift to hit heavier in my hand. Almost immediately, I felt the baby’s heft sitting directly on my sutured cervix. I groaned and pressed my thighs together. The pain throbbed between my legs, sharper than I’d ever felt.

“Hey, Ray?” I called, knowing he was upstairs in his office.

“Yeah?” his distant voice rumbled through the ceiling.

“Can you bring me my phone?” I called. “I need to call the doctor.”

A few minutes later, Ray thumped down the creaky stairs with my cellphone. He paused when he saw me leaning over the back of the sofa, kneeling with my thighs apart. “You okay?” he asked, handing me my phone.

“I need to call the doctor and tell him I need my stitches out, like . . . tomorrow,” I said, unlocking the screen. “Milo’s in my hips, he’s not gonna wait another two weeks.”

Ray rubbed my lower back, scratching his goatee in thought. “Is he going to wait until tomorrow? You’ve been having cramps, right?”

“Yeah, but they’re irregular as hell,” I said, putting the phone up to my ear. “I’ll be in labor soon, but not that soon.”

I was wrong. I was so wrong. I was so horribly wrong.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Silas? Hi. Yeah, it’s Ray.”

“Fuck! Oh, fuck!”

“We have a situation. Fawn’s having contractions and you boys need to get on a plane right now.” Ray ground his knuckles into my back while I wailed face-down on my bed.

I gripped a bag of frozen peach slices in a towel between my thighs. My arms hugged all my pillows to my chest beneath me, and I buried my head between them to yell my way through this latest contraction. My belly was squeezed into a perfect sphere, peeking out from under my shirt as it hung down to my mattress. The contractions were actually pretty mild, all things considered. They didn’t hurt that bad at all. 

However! My body was forcing Milo down hard against my cervix. That pain was far, far worse than the contractions. His head was grinding against a closed exit, but the sheer force was spreading that exit open anyway. The baby was a battering ram and my cervix was a fortress door, splitting apart around its locks and bars with every slam. 

“Fuck, I want these stitches out!” I cried into my pillows. “I want them out!”

“Yeah . . . yeah, you can get a refund on the tickets you already bought,” Ray continued on the phone, and on my back. “I’ll book a room for you, don’t worry about that. Just focus on getting here. Bring an overnight bag for each of you and some basics for the baby. I’ll pick you up from the airport, don’t bother with an Uber.”

Tess walked into the room, a large duffel bag slung over her shoulder and her hair thrown into a messy bun. “Everything’s in the car,” she said. Her hand squeezed my shoulder until my posture relaxed and I lifted my head from the pillows. “You ready to go have a baby, ‘shug?”

I nodded. Tess helped me to my feet and I waddled down to the car doubled over and holding my belly up. Even without a contraction, the pry and pull on the strings holding my cervix closed was constant. My seam was literally about to pop. I had to recline the passenger seat as far as it could go so I could somewhat lie on my side. My contractions were regular, but very far apart; so, thank god, I didn’t have to deal with any while cramped in the car.

My chest tightened when we pulled into the hospital parking lot. I knew I’d be having the baby here. I’d prepared for it, but thinking about it was so different from doing it. Because of the complications with this pregnancy, I had no choice but to deliver in the same maternity ward I’d walked into years ago. I . . . didn’t like thinking about what I went through in that ward. 

Tess came around to my door to help haul me out, but I didn’t move. I stayed on my side, staring at the clouds hovering above the cars – they were painted with the summer sunset. 

“‘Ya want me ‘ta get a wheelchair?” Tess asked, leaning on the open car door.

“Yeah,” I sighed, resting my cheek on my hand. “Tess, I don’t wanna go in there. I wanna do this at home.”

Tess looked over her shoulder, scanning the hundreds of windows looming ten stories over us. “Me neither,” she said, then turned and hustled toward the hospital entrance.

At eleven-thirty that night, I found myself sitting on a birthing ball in a stagnant delivery room. The only light was the yellow wall lamp mounted over my bed – anything brighter and my head would pound. A monitor belt was pulled snug around my belly, leashing me to a gaggle of machines beside the bed. An IV bag of pitocin hung from a hooked pole beside me, the tubes trailing down to a needle taped in place on the back of my hand. 

I bounced on the ball, my hands braced on Tess’s knees while she sat on the side of the bed in front of me. I felt my torso squeeze and held my breath. The monitor beeped, registering a contraction.

“Blow the pain out,” Tess crooned, ghosting her fingertips up and down my arms.

I grabbed her knees and rotated my hips on the ball. A small “Ack!” bubbled up from my throat before I sucked air in through my nose and forced it out through pursed lips. I blew hard until my lungs went flat, then filled them again and continued the process. Salty water leaked from my shut eyelids and slid in thick droplets down my neck and back. I blew so I wouldn’t scream. I knew I could scream, but I didn’t want to come unglued only a few hours into active labor. Hell, my water hadn’t even broken yet. 

I could still be in control of myself, even if this birth was not going according to plan.

I was hoping labor would be smoother after the stitches were out, but they’d only caused more complications. I’d dilated quickly regardless of the sutures, already three centimeters open when the doctor snipped the strings. He’d gotten to me too late, though. The stitches had ripped small tears in my cervix as Milo’s head pulled them apart. The swelling was immense – within minutes I was sealed shut again and my labor stalled. Hence, the pitocin.

The pitocin hijacked my body, forcing it to crush inward on itself like a soda can in a hydraulic press – at a strength and speed beyond what felt natural. I had never felt labor this intensely! I would desperately cling to any self-control I had in that beige nightmare of a room.

“Mmmmh,” I hummed through my nose, my hip swivel morphing back into a bounce as the contraction eased.

“Good job,” Tess grinned at me. “You’re doin’ so good, Fawn.”

I moaned and leaned back, bracing my hands on my hips as I rode that birthing ball like a rodeo star. “Have they landed yet?”

“Doll, they ain’t on the plane yet,” Tess said. “The only direct flight they could book on such short notice leaves at one-fifteen. Ray’ll call us when they take off and when they land.”

“God,” I huffed, my chin falling onto my chest. “They gotta be here. They can’t miss this!”

“Everyone’s doin’ their best and that’s the only thing they can,” Tess said. “It’s only an hour flight. They’ll be here in time, don’tcha worry.”

My hair had grown past my shoulders during my pregnancy, and it was suffocating me. I lifted my auburn curls off my flushed neck to cool down. Tess watched me for a moment before pulling the elastic band from her hair. A cascade of blonde fell down her back, sun-bleached highlights vibrant even in the low light. Without a word she came ‘round and gathered my frizz into her hands. A few flicks of the wrist and she had my hair up in a damp, poofy bun.

Tess kneaded the back of my neck for a while. I rested against her, letting her work my muscles like dough. Milo kicked, causing a dull ‘thump’ on the doppler.

“Fawn,” Tess broke the silence, “there’s nothin’ wrong with askin’ for pain relief.”

“Don’t want it.”

“Doll, I can tell it’s hurtin’ like hell. You’re hooked up ‘ta stuff that could rocket a foal out’a ‘ya.”

“I’m. Fine.”

“Just ‘cause ‘ya managed before doesn’t mean-.”

“I don’t wanna be stuck in that bed!” I cried. “I don’t wanna lay there like a lame horse ‘til they strap me up in stirrups! I’m NOT doing that again!” 

I pulled away, using the bed’s railing to lift myself to my feet. My hand wrapped around to support my lower spine, exposed by the untied loops of my hospital gown. Tess picked up the absorbent pad on the birthing ball, folding it over to hide the bright spot of blood where I’d been sitting. I saw it, but it didn’t scare me – I knew it was from all the swelling. She retrieved the pink water cup from the table and let me drink from its straw.

“I had my baby here, too,” she finally spoke. She sat back down on the bed and smoothed her hand over the starchy sheets. “The beds feel the same.”

“Ravi was born here?” I rocked myself from foot-to-foot, holding onto the railing to keep steady. “I didn’t know that.”

“Four years ago as of January,” Tess said with a nod. “I was in here a few months before ‘ya, ‘shug. Who knows? Maybe they had us in the same room.”

God. Had it been four years already? I had a four-year-old somewhere out there and he had never seen my face. What toys did he like to play with? Did he watch the same preschooler shows that Suri and I watched together? What were his favorite foods? I wanted to know all of that. I wanted to know him! I wanted to know the sound of his voice, the color of his eyes, the texture of his hair . . . or his name.

A scar somewhere in my chest ripped open and I swear I could feel a black void pouring over my ribs like paint. I held my breath. Tears dripped from the tip of my nose and onto my belly. I was in so much pain, but not from labor. My soul was bleeding – the wound as raw as the day it was carved.

In my mind's eye, I saw myself reaching for my son as the doctor held him up. I saw my arms cradling his little naked body against my chest while he took his first breaths. I saw my lips pressing kisses into his bald, wrinkly scalp while my eyes cried phantom tears onto his skin.

None of that had happened at all – but it should have! I should have been given the chance to say goodbye – to look into his eyes and tell him how much I would always love him, even if he couldn’t see me. No, not even that. He should have stayed my baby! I should have gotten pregnant by a different man – a good man. I should have been on the pill instead of relying on his father’s cheap, oversized condoms that were probably expired. I should have fucked up my life less. I should have made a thousand better choices, so he could have stayed my baby!

I screamed along with the frantic beeping of the monitor, but all physical pain paled in comparison to the emotional. I’d cried through my heartbreak once before, but being back in that damn ward, in an identical room, brought all my grief pouring back out. Tears and liquid snot flowed down my face as I white-knuckled the bed’s railing to keep me upright. I gulped full lungs of air, only to wail and scream and sob until they were empty.

I think Tess knew my tears were from deeper down than they seemed. She leaned close and gently took hold of my contracting sides. Her palms rubbed large, soothing circles into my hardened womb. Her sympathetic eyes never left my face.

“Good girl,” she crooned. My eyes were blurry with salt water, but I thought the skin around her eyes looked red. “Scream it all out.”

“I want my baby, Tess!” I cried. “I . . .” my shoulders jerked with a sob, my diaphragm spasming from lack of air. “I n-never got to ho-hold him!” Another hiccup. “H-He’s going to think I . . . think I didn’t w-want him! But I . . . I wanted h-him so much!”

“Hushhh,” Tess shushed me. She wiped my face with the scratchy hospital blanket. “Hush now, doll. Calm ‘yaself down and get some air in.”

“Okay,” I nodded, still choking on sobs and panting for breath. “Okay . . . okay . . .” The awareness of the contraction began creeping into my brain. “Ohh . . . ohh . . . oh, shit!”

Blinded with tears, I threw my arm out to grab onto Tess. I balled her shirt collar in my hand and restarted my “blow the pain out” technique.

Tess continued massaging the sides of my belly, waiting to speak until she felt my muscles start to uncoil. “Are ‘ya sure you don’t want somethin’? I can call the nurse.”

I sniffled and wiped my eyes on my sleeve. Able to see again, I realized I hadn’t been wrong. Tess had been crying. My hand released her shirt, and my arm snaked around her shoulders to pull her into a hug.

“Tess . . . I just want you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three-thirty in the morning. We hadn’t heard anything from Ray, and even less from the Gillespies.

A nurse had been in to check me twice in the last hour. Milo was still in his comfy water balloon and that seemed to be cushioning him from the extra-strength contractions. I nearly started crying again when they told me his heart rate was fine and I could continue to labor on my own. With how damaged my cervix was – and how many liters of pitocin they’d given me – I’d been terrified of an emergency C-section.

By then I’d lost the use of my legs, but I refused to stay on the bed for more than a few minutes – usually just long enough to pull my knees back and let a nurse stick her fingers inside me. With the help of an orderly who’d come to swap out my IV bag, Tess had taken the mattress off the bed so I could have something soft to lie down on without feeling trapped.

I’d taken to half-lying on the floor with my arms and upper body resting on the birth ball. I couldn’t keep myself quiet during contractions any longer. Making low, rumbling noises like a cow in a ball gag was a must. It was how I was surviving. Between those moments, I was just tired. It was a relief that I couldn’t feel my cervix anymore, but that was likely because it had effaced. My eyes were heavy and full of grit, but the sixty-something seconds I had between contractions didn’t allow me to sleep.

At that point, I was beyond the mental capacity to worry about Silas and Owen. Milo and Tess were the only other people who existed in the world as transition’s brutal hand crushed me in its fist.

In hindsight, I think that’s why I didn’t panic when the pressure set in.

Tess was kneeling on pillows on the other side of the birthing ball, humming a lullaby to relax me between contractions. Her tune tapered to a halt when I shifted my hips, one leg pulling up to my side. “What’cha need, ‘shug?”

“I feel him.” I stated it like a bland fact.

My eyes were closed, but I felt Tess’s hand touch my shoulder. We’d already decided what we’d do if this happened before the Gillespies arrived.

“Alright, doll. It’s alright,” she crooned. “Lemmie come around.”

I heard the soft ‘pap pap pap’ of Tess’s socks traveling in an arch around me on the faux wood floor. Her weight settled on the mattress by my feet.

“Promise I won’t touch,” she said. “I’m just eyes.”

I grunted and rolled my leg outward to open my hips. Oh, I knew that pressure so well by that point. I knew better than to doubt my body. More pitocin mixed with my blood, drip-by-drip, through the needle in my hand. I wasn’t sure if someone should’ve removed it by then, but whatever. I was gonna use it to my advantage.

The monitor around my belly beeped. I pressed my toes down and pushed before I truly felt the pain. Milo kicked the doppler again, like he realized he was finally being evicted. After a solid ten seconds, I relaxed with a nasally whine.

“He’s coming, Tess.”

“I know, doll.” Tess gently nudged my foot to a more grounded position. “Soon as I see ‘im, I’ll call a nurse. Ain’t no one gonna put ‘ya in that bed, I’ll make sure’a that.”

I scooted up more into a half-squat, one arm draped over the ball and the other wrapping around my knee. Chin-to-chest, I used the rest of the contraction to bear down against the familiar sensation of a baby sliding down my passage. I took frequent breaths between my efforts so I wouldn’t get dizzy, panting a small “Uh . . . Uh . . . Uh” with each exhale.

I didn’t need to throw my all into pushing, the contractions were doing most of the work. Maybe that pitocin was a blessing in disguise – I don’t know if I had the energy to make progress without it. Five pushes in, and I felt my inner walls stretch around the baby. My quiet whines and grunts escalated into growls as the pain grew sharper, and I flowered open wider.

“Damn, he’s huge!” I moaned as I eased off my most recent push. Forget “Bat Bean”, the fucking Chicago Bean was coming out of me!

“Remember, you’re pushin’ out the sac, too,” Tess said.

I hugged my hiked-up leg closer to my side, teeth gnashing in my skull as my face turned purple with effort. “Ugh!” I released a small bark of pain during a brief pause, then spent the rest of the push with a low growl in my chest. 

My labia brushed the crease of my thigh, the skin bowing out and preparing to stretch. I felt the inner structure of my clit get crushed as the mass of the baby pressed its way down. It was something I’d felt before in the past during childbirth – but never to the extent that it fired electric shocks of nerve pain down both legs. My toes curled as a ghostly, stabbing pain assaulted the arches of my feet.

I relaxed against the ball with a loud huff of air. “Tess, rub the bottoms of my feet,” I begged, my head falling back against inflated rubber. Thank god she did it without question, I was too embarrassed to explain.

Two contractions later, I was mid-push when a gout of hot water splashed onto the mattress. My focus was broken by the release of pressure, and I leaned forward to peer over my belly. A saw an expanding area of wet sheets between my thighs, darkening the color of the mattress as more amniotic fluid drained from me.

“He’s makin’ his way out, doll!” Tess grabbed the blanket and bunched it up around my rear to soak up some of the mess. “You’re openin’ up!”

“Ahh!” The arm holding my knee in place flew down to pry open my leg, fingers pulling at the skin where my thigh met my groin. My body pushed for me and my perineum thinned out and spread over the head as it dropped past my tailbone. 

“Fuck, Tess!” I whined, vocal chords straining. “Fuck, he’s hurting me!”

“Take it slow,” Tess said, patting my thigh. “Let it stretch.”

I arched back against the ball as my lips bulged outward with the size of Milo’s head. The arm draped over the ball was numb, but it was the only thing keeping me upright. The room reverberated with a roar I didn’t realize was mine as I felt that all-too-familiar fire blaze to life. My entire world shrank down to that inferno between my legs. The only thought in my head was to push down into it. My fingertips migrated beneath me, pressing against the hellfire in my perineum as the flesh pulled dangerously tight. I was aware Tess got up from the floor, but I was blind and deaf to the world.

The ringing in my ears muffled the sound of the door bursting open. My eyes flew open in surprise as a gloved hand gently nudged my fingers aside and cupped my perineum. A scrubbed nurse knelt in front of me, a mask covering her face from the nose-down – but even then, her eyes smiled at me.

“Good job, Fawn!” the nurse praised me. “Baby’s crowning. You’re nearly done!”

I flinched when someone else took my leg and hiked it up to my side. It was Tess. I finally understood she must’ve run and got help. I thought I heard a cell phone ringing, but no one else reacted to it. I accepted the fact I was hallucinating.

I threw my arm around Tess’s waist, unaware my fingers were coated in blood, and held tight as I pushed again. I gasped deep and screamed as I felt myself make quick progress once the top of his head breached the air.

“Don’t stop, doll. He’s comin’,” Tess said, her lips brushing my scalp.

Sweat stung my eyes, so I kept them squeezed shut. My whole body trembled, my nerves going haywire as Milo surged forward with a massive, unstoppable push. I felt the little bump of his nose traveling through the pouch of my perineum.�� The nurse palmed the crown of his head, trying to let me stretch easily over his brow.

A loud slam caused everyone to jump, and the bright light of the hallway sent a migraine through my skull. The nurse turned to scold the two men scrambling into the room, but Tess saved the day:

“They’re the parents!” she cried. “They’re stayin’!”

I couldn’t pay attention to anything going on around me. With a roar of effort, I bore down until I heard the wet little ‘shlip’ of Milo’s head pushing free into the nurse’s hand.

“Owen! Silas! Here, now!” Tess ordered.

I heard two more bodies thump to the ground beside the floor bed.

“We’re so sorry, Fawn!” I heard a familiar voice yell – a voice that belonged to a man I’d only ever heard through the static of a screen.

“Later, Owen!” Tess snapped. “Focus on your baby right now! Do not miss this!”

I didn’t care about anything – I knew this baby was on his way out right then and there! Nothing else in my mind or body would function until he’d made his journey earth-side! I clung to Tess, who pressed my leg back wider as Milo’s thick shoulders started to press out of me.

“Push, doll. Push on ‘im hard,” she encouraged me softly, her voice like warm honey.

The nurse began pulling down on the baby, forcing his shoulder to pry my public bone out of place to come through. I don’t quite know what the sound I made was, but it didn’t sound human. The nurse pulled upward, and . . . 

“And we have a baby!” the nurse cheered as Milo’s body gushed out onto the mattress. A small trickle of leftover fluid followed his feet.

“Holy shit.“ My whole body relaxed as soon as that relief came.

My eyelids slid open when I heard that little guy make the sweetest newborn cries I’d ever heard. For a big baby, he had a small voice. Thin, blonde baby down was plastered to his scalp, and even while he was all squished and blotchy I could tell he looked like Owen.

“Oh, look how sweet!” the nurse sing-songed while she toweled Milo dry. “Isn’t he a perfect little man?”

A second nurse mysteriously appeared in the background. I peeked around Tess and saw the extra nurse fanning Silas with a laminated paper while he sat slumped against the wall, looking dazed. Owen kept looking at his husband over his shoulder, but his attention was constantly pulled back to his son.

“Oh . . . hey, guys.” I sleepily waved to the fathers. “When did you get here?”

Owen glanced back at Silas, who was rubbing his forehead and seemed to be coming around. “Just in time.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I flipped through the pictures in my phone while I rode home with Tess. Milo and I had stayed in the hospital for a few days for observation. I’d needed a few internal stitches (wow, real shocker there) and they just wanted to keep an eye on Milo because of his troublesome gestation. At first, there was a little bit of concern because of how lethargic he was – but his bloodwork was fine, so I guess he was just a sleepy lad. He wasn’t awake in any of the pictures the Gillespies and I had taken.

There were countless photos of Milo being snuggled by all of us. Ray and Suri had popped in to see me the morning after I gave birth – mostly for Suri’s sake, she’d woken up crying over not being able to find me at home. I had a picture from that morning of Tess holding Milo in the room’s armchair while Ray held Suri up so she could see what my “belly buddy” looked like. Suri somehow looked confused, disgusted and amazed all at once. My favorite picture was the one Tess had taken of me and the family together. I was sitting up in bed and holding Milo while Silas and Owen sat on either side of me. All of us – except Milo, who was asleep with a binky in his mouth – were smiling wide at the camera.

One of the first pictures in my album was of Milo swaddled like a burrito a few hours after he was born, fast asleep in the baby cot beside my bed. His name, weight and time of birth were written on a card taped above his head. Beside that card was the paper cutout of a purple butterfly. 

In Silas’s first picture with his miracle baby, he was pale as death but still smiling. He’d needed to sit down for a while after passing out, but he’d held his little boy nearly every minute in that chair. He’d held Milo while they performed his medical tests, only allowing the nurses to take him away for his first bath. In the picture I’d taken after that, Silas was gazing at Milo with all the love in his eyes that a father could give – and Milo was wrapped in a fresh blanket with an embroidered purple butterfly on the corner. The Gillespies had brought that blanket with them.

At first I’d thought the purple butterfly cutout was just a decoration choice the hospital had made; but when Milo’s first gift from his parents had the same image, I’d asked why it was showing up so often. Turns out, that hospital had adopted The Purple Butterfly Project – an initiative that offered support for patients who had lost a child in a set of multiples. The cutout on Milo’s cot was meant to celebrate the life of his “flown-away” twin, as well as make staff members and visitors aware that he was the wingless half of a pair. It took on the burden of explanation, so Silas and Owen could bond with their son without worry.

My phone buzzed with a new message from my clients. It was a selfie Owen had taken of himself and Silas at the airport, with Milo snug in a sling around Silas’s chest. The picture came with the message: “Thank you for blessing us so deeply! We hope the joy you’ve given us will be repaid – with interest! Milo is going to be showered with love every day of his life. You’re more than welcome to keep in touch with our family, Fawn. We’re happy to let you watch Milo grow up with us. Love, Owen and Silas.”

I locked my phone and sat it face-down in my lap. “Hey, Tess?” I asked, watching the road unfurl beyond the windshield as we traveled the rural roads. “When will it be my turn?”

Tess glanced at me. “For what?”

“Being happy,” I deadpanned. “I’ve made three different families happy. You and Ray, the Gillespies . . . and my son’s parents. I just wanna know when my turn is.”

The rest of the car ride passed in total silence. When we parked in front of the farmhouse, Tess turned to look at me while she unbuckled her seatbelt.

“Doll, there’s somethin’ I want ‘ya ‘ta see.”

Going upstairs was a herculean task with how stiff and full-body sore I was, but Tess held my hand and walked with me step-by-step. She brought me into the master bedroom and sat me down on her side of the bed. Tess opened her bedside drawer and pulled out a wooden box that was roughly the size of a checkerboard. She plopped down beside me and stared at the box in her lap for a moment before saying:

“I haven’t opened this since we brought it home. I couldn’t. But . . . I think now’s the time.”

I watched as Tess lifted the lid of the box, revealing a carefully folded fleece blanket with pastel stars printed on it.

“What is it?” I asked.

Tess lovingly took the small blanket in her hands and began unfolding it. Beneath the layers of fabric was a blue crystalline teddy bear sculpture holding a silver heart between its paws. Tess picked up the bear and held it in her palm – that’s how small it was.

“This is Ravi,” she said.

Once light hit the silver heart at a different angle, I saw the engraving on it: “Ravi Idris Tariq”, with a single date underneath. Tess turned the bear over in her hands so I could see the second engraving on its back: “I carried you every second of your life.”

“I wrapped ‘im in his blanket,” Tess said, her thumb stroking the bear urn’s head. “It made it feel more like I was puttin’ him down ‘ta sleep instead’a . . . y’know.”

I was too stunned to speak.

Tess set the baby blanket in the box and – tiny urn still in-hand – got up and walked to her closet. A quick rummage, and she returned with a different fleece blanket. This one was pastel rainbow colored and was covered in white stars, an inverse of the other.

“These came as a set,” Tess said. “We donated everythin’ he never got to use, except for this. This one’s special.” She rubbed the blanket on her cheek. “I prayed over this one. I asked Mother Gaia ‘ta allow my baby’s spirit ‘ta be linked to this earthly object, so that I could hold it and it would be the same as holdin’ him.”

Tess re-joined me on the side of the bed, clutching Ravi’s urn to her heart while she cuddled and kissed the rainbow blanket. “I still miss ‘im. I miss ‘im a lot,” she said. “Having this connection to him helps.”

After a minute, Tess set both blankets and the urn inside the wooden box. Then, she took my hands into her own. 

“Neither of us got ‘ta hold our little boys,” she said. “Mine was already in the arms of Mother Gaia, and yours was in the arms of his mama before you had the chance. That’s what’cha told us, right?”

I nodded, silent and enraptured. Tess smiled at me.

“Well, when you’re feelin’ more ‘yaself, I’ll teach ‘ya how to use my sewin’ machine,” she said, giving my hands a gentle squeeze. “You’ll pick out the fabric and you’ll make a baby blanket. That’ll be his baby blanket, ain’t no one else’s. I’ll ask Mother Gaia ‘ta bless it for ‘ya. When you feel all that love buildin’ up with nowhere to go, hold it. Hold your baby. He’ll be able to feel it, no matter where he is.”

I returned her smile, but my throat was almost too tight for me to speak. “I’d like that.”

We made a small shrine for Ravi’s urn on the mantle that night. Ray and Tess had Suri help set it up, explaining the existence of her elder brother to her in a way she would understand:

“Mama had a baby in her belly just like Fawn did,” Ray said, lifting Suri up so she could drop a few cut flowers from the garden beside the tiny blue bear. “That was before you were born. You were just a twinkle in Mama’s eye back then.”

“Where the baby?” Suri asked as her father plopped her back down.

“This is the baby,” Tess said, tapping on the silver heart between the bear’s paws. “He had ‘ta go back ‘ta Mother Gaia while he was still in my belly. This is where his body sleeps.”

I lit a few jarred candles and placed them on the mantle. From my back pocket, I pulled out the laminated purple butterfly cutout that had been taped to Milo’ cot at the hospital. I placed it upright against the mantle wall, so that two purple wings appeared to be sprouting from Ravi’s bear.

It wasn’t my turn to be happy, yet. I had a long way to go before I could start making my own dreams come true. Maybe school could wait a while. Maybe the money I’d earned throughout my surrogacy could be put to better use.

Maybe I was sick of staying on the path my own stupid choices had led me down. Maybe it was time I started making the choices I’d wished I’d made earlier.

I was tired of living in the shadow of grief Alexander had cast over my life. I’d lost everything because of him . . .

. . . but I was ready to start taking it back.

~ END ~

[fayes-fics]

It Had To Be You: Chapter 1 - A brand-new start

Masterpost PREV | NEXT

Pairings: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (also features Benedict Bridgerton x Genevieve Delacroix), Modern AU

Chapter Summary: A long drive from St Andrew’s to London with a virtual stranger

artwork credit: @colettebronte

Warnings: none really… some language, bickering and flirting.

Word Count: 2.9k

Authors Note: Welcome to Chapter 1 of my next multi-chapter. A modern romcom heavily inspired by When Harry Met Sally. Thank you to @makaylan and @colettebronte for reading through. I hope to update this fic every couple of weeks. Please enjoy! <3

12 Years Ago

When you pull up outside her halls of residence, she has her tongue down some man’s throat—typical Gen. 

She finally acknowledges your presence when you lower the window and cough pointedly. A few days ago, when she said her latest boyfriend needed a lift from St Andrews to London, you didn't offer; she volunteered him to join you before you could conjure a believable excuse. Someone to talk to on the long journey wouldn't be such a bad thing; you tried to convince yourself reluctantly. You were slightly worried about who he might be. Gen’s taste in men could be best described as random. Or questionable if you were feeling less charitable. But as he turns towards you, something in your chest flutters. 

Oh. 

He looks different to her usual choices. He appears rich, just from a glance. But the sort of rich that dresses in ratty clothes as a style choice rather than out of economic necessity. His jeans are distressed around the knees, and there’s an almost threadbare patch right around his rather shapely - don't look there, you admonish yourself - arse. He wears a faded grey t-shirt and converse that are speckled with paint.

“Y/n, meet Ben,” he nods briefly before she pulls him back for another completely inappropriate kiss.

Ben...? Really, Gen? Matching names is a bit too fucking twee.

As they break away, he tosses his bags in the boot of your car and, after another round of tonsil tennis, climbs into your passenger seat. He smiles crookedly, and you see his blueish eyes catch a ray of late Spring sun; his voice instantly makes you shift in your seat as you exchange hellos. Definitely a posh boy. Definitely a playboy. Definitely not the type to keep his bed empty for long. You already dislike him. You especially dislike how attractive your body seems to find him, despite yourself.

This is going to be a long journey.

“You want to drive the first shift?” you ask politely.

“You are already there,” he shrugs, “go right ahead.”

As Gen becomes a waving figure in your rearview mirror, something tells you you will likely never see her again. It's that time when life goes in a million different directions—the end of university. You've been here for your undergraduate course. Apparently, he has been here for his master's in Fine Arts. 

“What takes you to London?” he asks as you pull out of the university grounds.

“I'm going to be a journalist,” you state proudly.

He laughs. “You and the rest of the world.” 

You bristle at his amusement. You are a talented writer; you know it will happen for you someday. You have a summer internship at the Guardian. Okay, it's unpaid, but it's a start.

“You?” you shoot back, squinting in the sun.

“Artist. I’m setting up a studio in Hoxton.”

Urgh. That's so achingly trendy you actually want to smack him.

Your phone buzzes, and you check it discreetly at the next traffic light. It's from Gen.

Yep, I know exactly what you are thinking. Posh boy twat. His cock is amazing though. Safe travels x

You squeak and drop your phone into the footwell. Ben cuts you a curious sideways glance. 

“I can grab it,” he offers rather chivalrously as he sees you groping blindly around your feet as the light turns green.

“No!” you startle, “it's fine, just uhh leave it there, I don't need it. I know the way to Edinburgh from here.” your voice takes on a high-pitched quality that sounds ridiculous even to your own ears.

He seems to stare at your profile for an inordinate amount of time.

“Gen said you were a little high-strung,” he says drolly.

You frown over at him. “I'm just particular,” you argue back.

He laughs and looks out the window. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes, I do,” you prickle, “that’s a disgusting habit, and you should give it up.”

“She said you were opinionated too,” he adds, his tone so casual and laid back it just makes you more wound up.

“My car, my rules,” you retort, glancing irritated in your rearview at the lorry getting far too familiar with your rear bumper.

“That's fair enough.” 

He suddenly lunges for something in the backseat, twisting so his t-shirt rides up, his whole body thrust towards you. You see a flash of toned abdominal muscle and a tantalising line of hair disappearing into his jeans.

You quickly cut your eyes back to the road and have to slam on the brake not to hit the car in front, praying momentarily that the lorry behind is paying more attention than you are. Damn him. 

“Fucking hell!” he exclaims, falling back into his seat and grabbing the dashboard to right himself.

“Sorry,” you mumble, knowing you are blushing. “Can you please not do that when I'm driving?”

“Do what?” he feigns ignorance, but you can tell he knows exactly what just happened, the cocky bastard.

“Climb into the backseat,” you grumble.

“I leaned back to grab something; I didn't climb anywhere,” he disputes, shaking a packet at you. “This is for your benefit, I might add,” he says pointedly, ripping open the box and fishing out a nicotine patch.

“Well, just sit still, please,” you huff, spying a flash of very shapely bicep out of the corner of your eye as he rolls up the sleeve and slaps on the patch.

“Yeah, not highly strung at all,” he mutters under his breath.

Yep. You absolutely want to kick him.

—

It’s almost 2 hours later and lunchtime when you pull into the services just outside Glasgow, needing a toilet break.

“Want a sausage roll?” he asks casually, stretching his limbs in a somewhat distracting manner as you lock the doors. Out of the car now, you realise he's taller than you expected; around 6 feet would be your guess. 

“No thanks, I uhh don't eat that stuff. I made a salad; I'm just going to eat that,” you respond, tapping the little bag on your shoulder.

“You made a salad? For a road trip?” he looks at you like you have three heads, and again your dander is up.

“Nothing wrong with being prepared,” you sniff.

He chuckles and shrugs a shoulder as you wander into the building and agree to meet at a table after.

Just as you are neatly drizzling your salad dressing, he saunters over a bright red plastic tray in hand, holding an assortment of beige foods and a large bottle of Coke. You can’t school your horror at the contents of his plate.

“What?” he laughs, taking a seat next to you.

“If smoking doesn't kill you, that might,” you say airily.

“You really do have just so many opinions,” he looks at you as if you are some fascinating species, dons a stupid broad grin and takes a huge bite.

“Am I wrong though?” you raise an eyebrow in challenge, waiting for him to take the bait. Instead, he changes tack.

“Gen never said you were so pretty,” his statement, muffled around the sausage roll, is so matter of fact that you don't think you heard him correctly for a split-second.

“Excuse me?!?”  you can't hide the disdain in your voice. “You are Gen’s boyfriend,” you say slowly.

“So?”

“So you shouldn't be flirting with me!” you explain, feeling as if it's unnecessary to do so.

He laughs so hard that some pastry sprays across the table. “I'm not!” he dismisses.

“Yes, you are!” your indignancy rising.

“Can’t I say you are pretty without it being flirtatious?” he posits.

“No!”

“Okay, fine,” he capitulates, wiping his greased fingers on a paper serviette, “I take it back.”

“Well, that’s just rude,” you huff.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don't want you to say anything! Just… don't notice me at all! You are dating my friend!” your voice again takes on that shrill quality you dislike.

“Sorry,” he raises his hands in defeat. Then after a few moments of silence where you just poke at your lettuce leaves, your eyes meet again. “Genuinely,” his hand on his chest, “I am sorry. I'm an artist. I can't help but notice objectively beautiful things. I truly meant nothing untoward,” the sincerity taking you slightly aback. 

You would think it a line he’s using, but his hazy blue eyes somehow give away the truth—he means every word. You are also trying to ignore how the words, ‘objectively beautiful’, echo in your head. 

“Well… just… remember, Gen is my friend; I don't want her hurt,” you volley back defensively.

“Neither do I,” he replies, taking a sip of his drink and turning to look out of the nearby window.

The fact you notice an adorable little bump in the profile of his nose is something you pretend doesn't happen.

—

It's mid-afternoon when the rain rolls in somewhere in the Borders. He had taken over driving duty at the rest stop. You were initially concerned about handing the keys to your mum’s old Ford Focus, but to be fair, he seems a sensible enough driver. 

“Music?” he asks brightly as he flicks on the wipers.

“An old iPod is connected via the aux,” you shrug. 

“Oh, what's on it?” he queries.

“God, all sorts. A lot of 90s indie stuff and Britpop, Im afraid.”

“Brilliant! Put on some Blur.”

You perk up. “Really? I thought us too young for Blur,” you jest.

“I’ve got a few years on you, remember?” he chuckles as you select a random shuffle of their music.

As the opening chords of Country House ring out, he starts to nod his head comedically.

“City dweller, successful fella,” you both chant in unison as the song starts, and you giggle.

You find yourselves singing along loudly. It appears he knows all the words as much as you do.

“I'm a professional cynic, but my heart's not in it,” you say loudly as he points for you to take that line.

“I'm paying the price of living life at the limit,” he picks up as you mirror the gesture. 

Your fleeting thought is that the lyrics are the right choice for your different personalities somehow. Or what you know of him so far.

“He lives in a house, a very big house in the country!!!” you both almost yell, laughing heartily around the words.

And that's how the next twenty minutes are spent. Singing along slightly tunelessly to Blur as you cross the border into England, and the journey continues.

—

You stop at motorway services outside Manchester around tea time, having listened to most of your Blur back catalogue and lots of Pulp too. You frown as he tucks into a Big Mac and fries as you pick at a soup and roll. 

As you eat, you quarrel about the best American 90s sitcom - Friends or Frasier - you claim the latter until he plumbs for Seinfeld instead at the last minute. You throw down your spoon in annoyance that he changed the rules of his own game, splashing your jumper, which makes you even more pissed off. You make him get up and recycle your empty soup bowl for you, pettily refusing to get out of your chair. He counters that you look adorable when you have a tantrum, and you snatch the keys, threatening to drive off without him. To the people around you, you look, to all intents and purposes, like a bickering married couple, not someone you only met a few hours prior.

When you hit the road, you take over driving duty again. You plan to drive the rest of the way to London; it should only be another three and a half hours.

After his junk food dinner, he passes out in the passenger seat for over two hours. You don’t mind the silence; it’s a novel respite from your squabbling. And if you steal a few glances at his very attractive face as it lolls around, well, you’re not going to admit that to anyone. (What you don’t see is his eyes opening periodically and staring at you, too, between drifts of sleep.)

It’s almost certain you have never met anyone in your 22 years on this earth that you spar with more than him. But it’s not bitter; it’s just like you are so opposite you can't help but be drawn to each other’s orbits, even if all you do is rile each other up. You’ve never met anyone quite so contrarian as him. Or anyone quite as troubling to your hormones. You want to smack his face AND pull him in for a deep kiss, jump on his lap and grind hard. It’s quite the most disconcerting thing.

__

It’s just after 10 pm when he offers to take over driving duty again on the outskirts of London, as he knows it quite well. His family have a pied-a-terre in Mayfair. Yup, posh twat. However, you’re grateful for the offer, this being your first time in the city except for brief day trips as a child. And as the suburbs give way to the glow of the inner city, you are talking, well, arguing, about movies. Specifically, Titanic that he claims Gen made him sit through last week.

“You're wrong”, you argue, shaking your head.

“There was room on that door for both of them,” he defends.

“It would have sunk if he climbed on too. He did the right, noble thing, sacrificing himself like that,” you assert.

“Please, they could have laid on top of one another and kept it mostly afloat. It’s not as if it would be a big issue; they already had sex, for fuck’s sake,” he counters, waving his hand.

“Yeah, but so what? Sex is great, but it’s not a reason to risk both of you dying by SINKING THE DAMN DOOR,” you huff.

“Oh, I see,” he gloats.

“What? What do you see?” you shoot back, riled up. This man’s ability to get under your skin is almost frightening.

“Obviously, you haven’t had great sex yet,” he shrugs, staring ahead as he drives. 

“Yes, I bloody have!”

“No, you haven’t,” the dismissive tone is so irritating.

“So have!” 

He chuckles. “Okay then. Who? Who have you had great sex with?”

You flick through your collage of university experiences. A mixed bag, if you were honest. Then a triumphant smirk covers your face.

“Melissa.” 

The smirk grows wider as he swerves the car a little, almost taking out a delivery cyclist, and snaps his head over at you. You can practically see his brain buffering. He was expecting a dull boy’s name so that he could argue back.

“Tell me more,” his voice has dropped an octave and goosebumps erupt on your upper arms at the sound.

“She knew her way around between a woman’s legs,” you shrug, meeting his eyes and feeling temporarily unmoored by how dilated they suddenly are, rubbing your bicep instinctually to tamp the evidence of the effect he has had on you, hidden beneath your jumper though it is.

“Tongue and fingers?” His question is soft.

“Whole face and hands,” you counter, not missing how his tongue shoots out to lick, then bite his parched lip and his subtle shift in his seat.

The idea of him physically turned on by the mental picture he is building for himself should make you affronted. Instead, your hand itches to shock him, reach out and grab him, order him to keep driving as you palm him over his jeans. You are horrified by where your thoughts turn. This is your friend's boyfriend. You can’t stand him… can you? 

“Lucky lady,” he mutters.

“Yeah, I was,” you tilt your head to one side in reminiscence.

“I was talking about Melissa,” he replies, and you don’t know how to respond to that. So you don’t. You just reach for your bag of Maltesers you bought at the last petrol station and snag one.

“How’s far til yours?” You ask, changing the subject.

“Hmm, interesting,” he says thoughtfully but doesn’t elucidate. “Not long now, we’re passing Swiss Cottage,” he responds as if that’s supposed to mean something to you.

Suddenly a hand is hovering right before you, almost brushing your breast.

“What?” You frown, pretending not to jump.

“Malteser,” he requests, raising an eyebrow and glancing over.

“You should have bought some for yourself at the last stop if you wanted some,” you volley back, smirking and popping another into your mouth obnoxiously.

“You aren’t very likeable sometimes, you know,” he pouts, withdrawing his hand when he realises you mean it.

“I am to people I like,” you counter.

“Guess we are not going to be friends then,” he says sarcastically.

“Guess not,” you chime back.  “It's a shame; you were the only person I knew in London...”

And as he pulls up outside some fancy building in Mayfair, you shake hands somewhat stiffly after helping him unload his bags. You part ways without exchanging information. Such a strangely abrupt ending to your twelve-hour trip where it seems you ran the gamut of human emotion together. You try not to be too bothered by it as you follow your sat nav towards the less salubrious environs of Leytonstone, where you have rented a studio flat—deciding to put Ben Bridgerton as far out of your mind as possible. You doubt you’ll ever see his face again. After all, what are the chances in this big city?

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya

[fleckcmscott]

Silver Dollar

Summary: An outage in Gotham provides the perfect opportunity for a special night.

Words: 4,629

Warnings: Smut

A/N: This story was prompted by a request from @iartsometimes! 💜 It's probably a little tamer than intended. 🤭 Thank you for the request! Also, much appreciation to @sweet-nothings04 for low-lighting visibility tips. 😂 🌃

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

The graffiti plastered bathroom plunged into darkness.

Arthur stiffened where he stood, blinked into the blackness. His vision did not become clearer. Grumbling, he tucked himself into his pants and stepped back from the urinal. The handle took two tugs to flush. He fumbled for the sink, gave his palms a rinse shorter than the Gotham Department of Health recommended. Paper pharmacy bag in hand, he opened the exit's steel door and headed northwest. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glaring, August sun.

Gotham had gone crazy in record time.

People spilled out of luncheonettes, crowds crammed shop doorways. Traffic lights refused to light and pedestrian signals refused to signal. Horns blared in the building pandemonium. A passenger yelled out of a taxicab and flipped the bird, while the driver pounded the steering wheel. Chaos repeated block after block. The Stutton Cowboy on the center billboard ("Price is good. Flavor is everything.") no longer waved. His cigarette hand hovered over his mouth in shock.

Arthur was prepared. Whether due to bad writing or an unpaid bill, he'd spent his share of evenings smoking in the dark. This was something he was good at, an event he could take the lead in.

Bumping a fleeing college kid who had a bottle of vodka hidden under his arm, Arthur shouldered his way into the nearest grocery. Squeezed by a couple of oh lords, maneuvered through murmurs and gripes, and ran through a mental inventory of the drawers in 4A. The day dimmed as he neared the rear aisles. When he arrived at the Home Needs section, he crouched between an abandoned cart and a baby stroller.

He squinted at the battery rack. AAs for the radio, Ds for the flashlight. Maybe some candles, just in case...

An ever-expanding line of shoppers accelerated the beads of sweat on the young cashier's forehead. Handwritten receipts and totals by calculator took twice as long. Arthur sidled to the next line, overseen by a matronly woman wearing a paisley wrap dress who did all the math in her head.

"I'm gonna need a drink after today," she said as he approached the counter.

It took a moment for him to realize she was looking for a kindred spirit. A rapid blink, a subtle nod. "Yeah. Me, too." He eyed a row of bottles on the shelf behind her. That'd make his reply believable.

She followed his stare, stretched to grab a green bottle with an art nouveau label, and put it on the counter.

Vermouth. He wasn't familiar with that word. It sounded exotic, like a fine imported thing. It was a screw top instead of a cork, which he tended to frown on. Uncorking a bottle together was romantic, whereas this was akin to opening a liter of seltzer. He was about to decline it when the price tag froze him. At $14.99, it was more expensive than any wine he'd ever had.

Maybe it really was a fine, imported thing.

"Is it good?" he asked. He picked it up, studied the back as if a connoisseur.

"One of our best sellers."

He gave the matron a one shoulder shrug, half-commitment about to go full. "I'll take it."

~~~~~

Y/N strode the hallowed halls of Gotham City District Court. On the corner of Badger Boulevard and Olsen, the granite behemoth belied the civil servants who were paid far too little to deal with far too much.

Adjusting the bag on her shoulder, she ambled down the checkerboard floor towards the clerk's window. Rita, her favorite, was working today. Rita returned every call, always helped with a combination of sarcasm and cheer.

"And what did you bring me today? she asked when Y/N plopped her canvas bag on the counter. Rita stopped watering her shaggy spider plant and walked to the window.

"A motion to continue the Caruso case and a dozen new filings. You can send the invoice for the filing fees to my office." Y/N split the stack of folders into three slim piles and pushed them through the gap under the glass. "How did your bowling league do last night?"

"We're one game away from regionals! I'm trying to convince my husband to-"

A loud pop echoed down the corridor, bounced along the linoleum, ricocheted off horsehair plaster. The air conditioner's hum devolved to a grinding whir. Bright fluorescents gave way to dingey emergency beams, crisscrossing through dusty, recycled air.

Hand on hip, Y/N looked up. "Did you misplace the electric bill?"

"Great. Judge Harkness is in the middle of a jury trial on the fourth floor. He hates taking the stairs." The clerk covered her face, glanced at Y/N's folders through parted fingers. "I'm not sure when I'll get these processed."

"That's all right. I just wanted them off my desk. I haven't seen the surface in six months." She retrieved a business card from her purse, pushed it to join the files, a gesture repeated every visit to Rita, a reminder to reach out. "Don't forget to update me on your tournament. And don't let His Honor forget who actually runs this place."

When she arrived at Dube & Ellis after a fifty-two-minute walk - all subways stations were cordoned off - she was sweltering. Polyester didn't breathe and it comprised seventy-two percent of her wardrobe. That Terry had done exactly the wrong thing by drawing back the vertical blinds on each and every window was typical. "There's not enough light in here! The whole city's out!"

She unbuttoned her collar and dropped in her chair. Normally her Sanyo desk fan would rattle and grate. Now she'd give her whole paycheck for a hint of its cool breeze.

Power outages had been a feature of many seasons in Missouri. Tornado season and sticky season, window season and squirrel on the transformer season. One night a drunk driver had slammed his Studebaker into a utility pole three houses down. It'd crushed Mr. Walter's front porch and left the road without electricity for two days.

Her mother had instructed them not to open the refrigerator unless they knew what they wanted. Shut the doors to the hottest rooms and placed rolled towels at the bottom to keep air from seeping in. Though she'd loved how the sun filtered through her lace curtains, she'd kept the drapes shut. They'd lit candles at night. She'd done needlepoint in her favorite chair and watched her husband play cards with their daughters until bed. A real family affair.

Daubing beads from his brow with a handkerchief, Phil stood in the center of the room. His expression said keeping them there any longer would be an OSHA violation. He wasn't wrong. The office had become the least relaxing sauna on the east coast.

"You've all put in a lot of work today." He spoke in the voice of a grandfather and daubed again. "I know it wasn't easy. I guess there's no sense in us staying any longer. If the power's not back tomorrow-" A gulp here, as if he couldn't believe what he was about to say. "Enjoy a long weekend. My wife'll be glad to have me home. I think."

Y/N stole a glance at her watch: 4:42 PM. A whole eighteen minutes early. Though it wasn't a lot, she got how hard it was for a workaholic like Phil to give them five. Offering a soft smile, she went to him and stuck out her hand. The corner of his mouth twisted wryly before he accepted.

She gave his arm a collegial pat. "We're as caught up as we can be, so feel free to stop sweating."

~~~~~

The next morning's breakfast: cornflakes and blueberries. Y/N gave the milk a good sniff before pouring. With the microwave, toaster, and stove out of commission, oatmeal, toast, and eggs were off the menu. (Not that Arthur complained about the latter.)

They'd discussed how to use what was left in the fridge and freezer before it all went bad, but salads wouldn't work for every meal, and they were only two people. The Caswells across the hall, the neighbors who'd gotten their mail while they were in Missouri, had a grill. Y/N gave them a package of ground beef and a bag of frozen vegetables.

Arthur let his spoon clatter in the kitchen sink and rinsed his bowl. (It was a good and joyful thing that the water - and therefore the toilet - still worked.) "You know, I should go the children's clinic."

"Do you have a gig?" She sipped her orange juice.

"No. But it's boring hanging around all day without the TV. They hire me a lot. I'll go for free."

She rose, rubbed the small of his back. "That's so sweet, Arthur. And very kind."

"You could come with me." He paused, pressed his lips together. She'd seen him on street corners but hadn't witnessed the entirety of his performance. Even with her unending support, he suspected an all-out clown show would be the one place she'd feel out of place. He dared a glance her way.

And found a wide-eyed expression of approval. She cupped his hips, planted a wet kiss to his cheek. "You couldn't keep me away."

In the cab downtown, excitement bloomed in him, unfurling in a great wave of nervous joy. Knuckles intertwined, he hugged the prop bag on his lap, thighs jiggling. "Do you think they'll mind me just showing up?"

"No." She shook her head, placed a soothing palm on his knee. "They'll be happy to get a break in the monotony. It's a medical facility, they'll have generators, but the staff are going home to no power. They could use a laugh. The kids definitely could, too."

The Philomena Children's Clinic was squat for Gotham. Five stories of alternating beige concrete and polycarbonate windows, shaped into a squared-off U. Moss hung from the side of the porte-cochere, green clumps littered the pavement. Cartoon animals played on the entrance doors, giraffes and bears in happy acrylics.

When he checked in unannounced, Gertel the receptionist had a snotty face, but he'd learned not to take it personally. She liked order, worked eight to eight, even on holidays, and her only hobbies were the anagram puzzles in the newspaper and Harlequin romances. She was a tough egg to crack. The most he'd gotten was a pinched smile, a thin line of conceit.

Once he'd procured visitor badges for Y/N and himself, he went to the staff room to change. White base, blue triangles at the eyes, exaggerated red grin, bald wig with green curls, patched brown pants. He'd skipped his checkered suit jacket for a white lab coat, a long ago find from the secondhand store.

Rather than congregating in the common area, the kids remained in their rooms. The change put a limitation on his usual song and dance. Without those trappings, he wasn't quite sure what to do. He hesitated in the doorway of 201, thumbed a flat balloon in his pocket. When the little girl watching Sesame Street gave a small wave, he wiggled the worry from his shoulders and stepped forward.

Stephanie showed him a picture she'd drawn, all crayon streaks and misshapen house. In turn he crafted a balloon hat, put it on her head and told her to get well soon. A youngster next door, no more than five, told Arthur all about Misty, his golden retriever, and how much he missed her.

When Kevin, swallowed by an oversized robe, IV drip drip dripping, started to cry, Arthur's chest hollowed out. The boy hadn't seen his mom in two days. Being alone in a hospital was hard, a fact Arthur had lived. He plucked a prop handkerchief from his breast pocket, pressed it into the boy's tiny hands, pushed the corner of his mouth up with his thumb. "You'll see her soon," he said, words carrying a conviction he hoped was right.

Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted Y/N chatting with an RN at the nurse's station. He went into the corridor to eavesdrop, knelt beside a girl in a wheelchair smothered with pink and purple stickers, Heather plastered across the side panel.

"It was nice of him to come," Linda said. "A lot of their parents can't afford the cab fare to get out here, with the subway out and all. And if they're not working, they aren't getting paid. He's always excellent with the children - sometimes he's just like them. Do you have any at home?"

Heather leaned in, prodded his shoulder. "Who's that lady?" she asked, pointing at Y/N.

"That lady?" He grinned from ear to ear. "That's Mrs. Carnival."

The girl gaped in astonishment. "She's not a clown?"

~~~~~

Stolen sheets hung from the railing at both ends of the fire escape. A forest green acrylic blanket obscured the front. A floral comforter, retrieved on tiptoe from the bedroom closet, covered the wrought iron platform. Two wine glasses and vermouth stood on the steps. All that was left was to tune the radio to easy listening, which Arthur did, treading lightly to avoid a stubbed toe.

Nodding, he smiled at his handwork. Well, at the blurred shapes he could detect in the dimness. He looked skyward. With the sun below the horizon and the usual light pollution gone, the night was sparkling.

Candlestick in hand, he eased the bedroom door ajar and sidled through. Gold flickered through the dark, a softening glow. Y/N was an unmoving lump on the mattress. Leg dangling out from the sheet, her half-slip a line on her thigh. Though sleep now came easier, her ability to nap stoked an ember of envy. Midday snoozes happened only after a bit of afternoon delight. She'd tired early, around quarter past six. If he let her doze any longer, she'd be locked in a daze brewing coffee at 2:00 AM.

Hot wax stung the web between his thumb and forefinger. He hissed, shook his hand, shoved the candle on the nightstand. The edge of the mattress sunk under his weight. He grasped the cotton sheet. Dragged it from her shoulder. Revealed the lace trim of her ivory chemise. A brief mumble fell from her mouth, a wet sucking sound. Her fingers curled into the pillow. He pulled the sheet down further. It puddled to the floor.

Stretching one arm, she rolled back to wince at the candle, then at him. "What time is it?"

"Nine-thirty."

That jolted her awake. "I slept too long."

"Mabel called earlier."

"What did she want?"

"She said the blackouts were on the news. I let her know we're all right."

A tender caress to her calf, which felt like silk in his palm. Images of the romantic evening he was about to have with his wife played in his head, a loop that made his stomach all aflutter.

Y/N boosted herself on her elbows. "You have that look."

"What look?"

"The look that means you're up to something," she said, brow arched to her hairline.

Part chuckle, part scoff, he laughed. She read him too well. While it made surprises harder to hide, it pleased more than it annoyed. He stood, offered his hand. "Come here," he said. She accepted, pausing long enough to blow out the flame. He led her to the fire escape and sat on the comforter.

Halfway behind the glass door, she clutched her arms over her chest. "Arthur, I can't go out like this."

"No one'll see you." He gestured at the impromptu walls. Besides, he was six feet away and her form was barely more than a shadow. "And without all the lights, you might be able to see the stars. The way you did back home. Like you told me in the park."

A beam bloomed across her face, what he imagined might be a faint blush. Bent at the waist, she slipped into the half moon's light. One hand on the doorknob, a lifeline in case she reconsidered. Her fingertips relented one by one. First the pinky, last the middle. She settled to his left, knee pulled to her chest, the other leg folded under.

Arthur shuffled closer so they were hip to hip, reached behind her for the wine glasses and bottle with the art nouveau label.

Y/N snagged it from him, squinted at it. "Vermouth?" She held the bottle while he twisted the cap. "My mother used to drink this before bed in the summer. And she rubbed it on Mabel's gums when she was teething. Whiskey, too."

When he brought the goblet of garnet colored liquid to his lips, his nose wrinkled. The liquor smelled like an overgrown garden. He dared a small sip, anyway - and bitterness coated his tongue. He winced, sputtering. "This taste weird. This was supposed to be wine."

"It is, just a different type." She drank long and deep then drank again. "This one's not bad. Strong on the cloves but it'll get the job done."

A news bulletin interrupted the animated notes of Herb Alpert's Tijuana Brass. "In what authorities are calling a historic event, Gotham's five boroughs remain dark tonight - including McKean Island. We're assured safety measures are in place and the maximum-security wing remains in lockdown. Though the extent of the damage is unknown, we're happy to report that crews from Pennsylvania and New York are on their way to our fair city to lend a hand. Police Chief Miles O'Hara and Mayor Thomas Wayne are urging calm and-"

"That's enough of that." Y/N flipped the off switch. "You know the best part of all this? Wayne Tower is just as dark as everywhere else."

Unable to stop a chuckle, Arthur shook his head. She wasn't one for holding grudges, but the ones she did carry lived in the lines of her palms, plain enough for any flimflam psychic to read.

But he didn't want her to talk about that, not now. And he knew of a guaranteed method to distract her, to bring her back to where he wanted. He refilled her drink and clinked their glasses.

Second helping swallowed, she inched her bottom forward to lay on her back, arm tucked beneath her head. "It was wonderful to see you work today. Thank you for inviting me. I'm sorry it took so long."

"Well, you come to my standup shows." Only a month ago, she'd recorded his performance and given him tips over Thai. He stretched out next to her, set his still full glass on the steps. "The girl in the wheelchair asked who you were. She was surprised Mrs. Carnival isn't a clown."

"As surprised as everybody was that I married one?"

A hitched laugh. He fiddled with his trousers' belt loops. "I guess."

"There's a magic wand." She pointed at the skies. "By the moon, to the right."

Arthur hummed a contented hum, let his eyelids flutter shut. The street was peaceful, as still as he'd ever heard it. With most shops and restaurants shut down, the list of leisure options fit on a postage stamp. It was a moment to capture, preserve, like swirls in a vase.

A breeze rustled the sheets, blew across them, carried Y/N's natural scent straight to his nostrils. Warm and spicy, like roasted vanilla edged with musk. He breathed deeply, needing to fill his lungs with her anew. Sighing happily, he turned to her.

Silver gleams turned her skin to gossamer, dusk smudged her features. Feathered brown locks merged with the vines on the bedspread's pattern. Her breast threatened to fall out of the armhole of her lingerie.

Christ. They were outside. He hadn't planned on getting aroused. But the longer he looked at her, the harder he got.

Y/N sipped, balanced her stemware on her sternum. "Thank you for tonight, too. You're always so thoughtful." A simple sentiment but exactly what he longed to hear. An affirmation, a pledge to love him further.

But before he could respond in kind, the glass between her breasts began to tip...

He caught it, a splash hitting his wrist, crimson droplets landing on her collarbone. He set it on the step, bent to seize her lips. An unpleasant earthiness covered them. He licked it away, coaxed back her sweetness.

Gigging, she broke away. "Was this your plan? To get me out here and ply me with drink?" The hand on his shoulder dragged to his cheek. The breathy voice she adopted shot straight down his spine. "To take advantage of me?"

It wasn't but he didn't have to tell her that. He nudged closer, his erection grazing her thigh. "Maybe."

A slow smile of pleasure. "I like that plan."

Her palms snuck under his t-shirt, forced it upwards as she explored his body. Nails swirled at his abdomen. It grew taut, stuttered at the sensations, her tickles and temptations. When she reached his pecs she gave a firm pinch. At his displeased grunt, a wicked laugh left her, bawdy and amorous. A clear sign of what they were up to.

His thumb followed her chemise's ribbon strap. His hand fell to her side, skimmed her rounded hip, the delectable curve of her leg. Her half-slip had a daring slit. He slid through, drew lazy circles on her inner thigh.

She shivered. "You're not making it easy to be quiet."

Fingertips traced her panties' elastic leg. Heat emanated from her core, luring him nearer and nearer. Her swallowed whimper rushed him there. Slick and wet, the nylon gusset clung to her vulva.

He'd grown deft at touching her, even in the dark. He trailed a careful stripe along her labia. Inner lips were a prominent line through the fabric, her clitoral hood a plump ridge. Light and rapid he flicked his nail across it. Her pelvis snapped up, held. Millimeter ruts chasing his scrapes, fingers digging his back.

A shudder racked him. His forehead pressed to hers. "If we had more room, I'd taste you." She pressed her lips together, a squeal trapped behind them.

The same breeze that'd carried her scent could very well carry her hungry little whines around the block. So he captured her mouth with his. It started off tender and shallow but was soon all encompassing. She raked through his hair, tugged and tugged again. His tongue sought hers, caressed, collided. Teeth bumped with a muted click.

Sharp gasps. Her neck, her breasts, her entire being arching into him. Desperate push-pulls. He pressed on, strokes licks of fire on her clit. Mewling built in the back of her throat. He heard it in her shallow pants, felt it in how she gripped his bicep. Her thighs trembled, vulva throbbing in his hand.

"Ah!" She squeaked, a strangled, undignified sound.

Snorting, he shoved her sweaty face into the crook of his neck, caught the cries she couldn't stop. (Long ago, she'd offered to visit his apartment on her lunch break - with the explicit promise she could be quiet. He hadn't taken her up on it. Phew!) Her grip on his shirt tightened. One leg went straight, the other knee brushed his cock. Stillness punctuated by tremors. He kissed her temple, slowed his caress to a languid pace.

Legs akimbo, she blinked at him. Signaled silence with a finger to her lips. She balanced on her knees, shed her panties, patted the spot where she'd lain. He scooted over immediately. When he tried to sit, she pushed him to lie on his back. Moving to straddle him, she unbuttoned and unzipped his fly. He made no move to stop her.

Y/N braced herself on his chest, reached between them to press him to her entrance. She began to ease herself onto him, ease him inside her. But he told her to stop.

A strap fell down her upper arm, loosened her camisole to accentuate her cleavage and reveal a breast. Her nipple poked out, its dusky brown a tantalizing contrast to her white skin. Moonlight sculpted the apple of her cheek in whirls of silver. The stars shone about her head, caught in her tresses like sequins on an evening gown.

A pleasant fuzziness swept through him. Nearly three years and he was still drawn to her like a magnet. He'd bet his life that'd be the same case in twenty.

She cocked her head. "What is it?"

He brushed her hair behind her shoulder. Lowered the other strap. "Perfect," he said, smiling as his heart swelled. "You look perfect."

Teeth pressed her lower lip in a shy smile. When she bent to kiss him, her nipples dragged up his chest, prickled his flesh. She shifted the angle of her pelvis forward, the angle that rubbed her clit on his public bone. The one that left his black curls a matted, wet mess.

A sensuous thrust, her hips rolled in a seductive circle. "I want you to come," she whispered, and licked his bottom lip.

One foot braced on the grate beneath him, which bit even through the comforter. He bucked into her, into that heady stretch of her slippery heat. As if testing their connection, she raised up until he nearly flopped out, until only the glans remained. Then her walls encompassed him once more. Clutching, grasping. A steady rhythm. Relentless motion that bewitched and bewildered.

He cleared his throat to keep from crying out, channeled the urge to groan into grabbing the baluster behind his head. Her pinky brushed the strong sinew of his neck, her tongue followed his collarbone. Tightness in his loins spread to his abdomen, crawled through his limbs.

A burst of light, white and pulsing, formed behind his eyelids. Fire rippled through his veins, a scarlet flush of satisfaction. He bit the inside of his cheek, permitted one weak whimper to escape. She held herself in place while he finished, in the way she knew he liked. Stroked the tension from his dimples until they melted into a smile.

Slack and sated, his arm dropped to the ground. He puffed out his chest and cheeks and huffed. On a swift peck, she began to push herself up.

Just then, the Caswells' glass door creaked. Sluggish steps, like a hiker stuck in the mud. Y/N ducked on top of Arthur, held her breath. A hurdy gurdy voice called from inside. "...should have added it to the list last week. Where are you going? Louie L'Amour's about to start on GPR!" The rattle of a far-off rotary phone. "Oh, I bet that's your mother. She's called every hour!"

"I never said you have to answer it!" A resigned sigh, the click of a lighter. Arthur could almost hear the man deflate.

"The heat must be getting to them," Y/N said. "I think he'll be out here awhile."

Arthur murmured into her hair. "If you weren't so sweet, we wouldn't be in this jam." A playful swat to her bottom.

Laughter tickled his neck. She lifted herself a couple inches, pulled up the straps of her camisole. Careful to remain discreet, she grabbed her panties, clambered off him, and duck walked towards the living room. One foot beyond the threshold and she scampered out of sight.

He zipped his trousers, straightened his shirt, stretched as he stood, stuck a hand in his pocket to appear nonchalant. He grabbed the radio and headed inside. The rest he'd retrieve ten minutes later, when the neighbor would be forced to answer to his mother.

As he entered, Y/N emerged from the bathroom. His feet stumbled to a stop, his brain blanked. She'd shed her clothing and now stood nude before him. His stomach again went all aflutter.

"Let's repeat all that as soon as we can.” She curled her fingers around his wrist, not giving him a moment to resist. “By candlelight. In our bed."

~~~~~

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[sholiofic]

July Break Bingo: Break In

Prompt: Break In / Home Invasion / Burglary / Financial Struggles / Unpaid Bills 900 words, Biggles, gen; set sometime in the 1950s

It had been a long mission, not difficult as such, but the investigation into a smuggling ring had them out of the country for some weeks. The other three were still in France, but Biggles had by necessity taken a quick hop across the Channel to sort out some things back at the Home Office. As the meetings and paperwork ended up running late into the evening, he was unable to resist the urge to sleep for a few hours in his own bed.

But he found that, despite his exhaustion, sleep was difficult. The others were fine, or had been when he'd spoken to Algy earlier in the evening. Still, it sat badly for him to be here when they were over there. He rolled over, punched his pillow, and was drowsily wondering if it was worth getting up for a cup of tea when something he couldn't quite identify, a half-heard sound, caused him to jerk fully awake again.

He lay still, listening. He was about to assume that it was a half-waking dream or, more likely, some sound of traffic or passing pedestrians outside, when there was a faint snick that was indisputably a door being closed very quietly.

It might have come from elsewhere in the building, but he thought it sounded like the door to their flat.

Biggles sat up quietly and swung his legs out of bed. Barefoot, in pyjamas, moving stealthily, he eased open the nightstand drawer in which he kept his pistol. Gripping it, he rose and made his way carefully to the door of his room.

He had not closed it completely, as was his habit, and now he eased it open and stood still, listening.

There were small rustling noises, as of papers being shuffled around, and once he glimpsed the tiniest flash of light, on a part of the wall unlikely to catch headlights from the street.

Movement. A dark figure, visible briefly due to the small torch half-concealed in one hand, passed across the entrance to the hall. Biggles, who had been entirely tense and then rigid at the first hint of movement, relaxed a little and lowered the pistol.

He padded barefoot to the sitting room. The figure was now bent over the desk in the corner, examining its contents with the torch. Biggles took a few silent steps into the room and turned on a lamp.

"Good evening, von Stalhein," he said, as the dark figure shot upright so abruptly that his feet nearly left the floor and whirled with catlike suddenness. "Or morning, I'm not sure how late it is."

Von Stalhein was dressed in a dark suit of clothes with a dark scarf around his neck and matching black gloves. He reached into one pocket, then saw the pistol in Biggles's hand and froze.

"Do put that away, and I'll put mine away. What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here? You're supposed to be in France." Von Stalhein straightened his back and took his hand out of his pocket, regarding Biggles stonily. "Are you going to arrest me?"

"I'm considering it," Biggles said, "but I'd rather find out what you're up to. Would you care for a cup of tea?"

Von Stalhein eyed the door, but Biggles was between him and it, so he turned his attention back to Biggles with chilly defiance. "You want to interrogate me with tea?"

"No, the tea is because I was going to make myself a cup anyway, and I'd be a poor host if I didn't offer you any. Would you care to take your gun and place it on the desk there? You can put your torch there too."

Von Stalhein eyed the door again, but then he sighed a little, took out a small Mauser pistol -- Biggles tensed again, very slightly, during this operation -- and after a small hesitation, set it on the edge of the desk. He snapped off the torch, which had been contributing its thin, useless beam to the lamplight, and added it to the small collection of displaced papers on which he had laid the gun.

"Happy?" he asked dryly, raising his hands in the air a little.

Biggles put his own pistol in his pocket. "Happy enough. Put those down, you're not a prisoner. Although I will request your parole while you're within these walls -- or at least your word that you won't make me regret not handcuffing you to something."

Von Stalhein grimaced, looking like he'd bit down on something sour. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather arrest me?"

"Not at the moment. Do you take sugar in your tea? I would like to know what business has you creeping around my sitting room like a sneak thief. Really, this behavior is beneath you." Biggles felt a slight smile tug at his mouth. "Though I'll have to let Algy know that the brand new state-of-the-art lock he insisted on having installed didn't stand up to a determined burglary attempt."

"You can tell him that it took me some minutes," von Stalhein said. He cast one last, longing look at the door, but he came along readily to the kitchen, and on the second repetition of the question, admitted that he did want sugar in his tea, and a dash of milk.

[submission4]

The Bounty Hunter 1

“You’re crazy, ma’am,” Enrico told the young woman he had brought home from the club that night, matter of factly, “I ain’t never heard of Enrico Martinez. You are so barking up the wrong tree!”

Undercover bounty hunter Jessica Hyde, on just her second case with the Domina Bail Agency Inc smiled slightly as she pulled out a set of handcuffs and manacles. “Now, Enrico, honey,” the bogus party girl said gently, “you know that isn’t true. In fact, you are under arrest for fraud, theft and 25 unpaid traffic violations fines.” Enrico looked aghast. “Twenty five? No way, witch! My brother used my car for at least ten of those!” Jessica smiled sweetly at the jerk, who suddenly clasped his hands over his mouth. “I want my lawyer, babe!” he exclaimed.

Source: Cuffs Domina video available on Clips4Sale

[dismyzz]

its okay guys she's such an amazing driver (she has 4 speeding tickets and unpaid traffic fines)

[angelincris]

10 Must-Know Facts About Digital Marketing

1. The Digital Marketing Landscape:

Digital marketing encompasses various online avenues and methods to connect and interact with a specific audience. This includes social media, search engines, email marketing, content marketing, and more.

2. SEO: Search Engine Optimisation

Search engine optimization (SEO) revolves around fine-tuning your online content to appear higher in search engine results. It serves to enhance your website’s visibility and generate organic (unpaid) traffic.

3. Content is King:

Superior content acts as the foundation of digital marketing. Whether it’s articles, videos, or social media posts, compelling content captivates and engages your audience.

4. Social Media Presence:

A robust presence on social media platforms is paramount. It’s where you interact with your audience, distribute content, and build your brand identity.

5. Email Marketing:

Email marketing remains an effective tool for nurturing leads, promoting products, and engaging with customers.

6. Pay-per-click advertising:

Pay-per-click (PPC) advertising entails running advertisements on platforms like Google or Facebook, where you pay solely when a user clicks on your ad. It proves to be a budget-friendly method to access your target audience.

7. Mobile Optimisation:

With a substantial portion of internet traffic coming from mobile devices, it’s vital to guarantee that your digital marketing strategies are mobile-friendly.

8. Analytics and Data:

Analytics tools furnish valuable insights into your digital marketing undertakings. Understanding data is indispensable for gauging the success of your campaigns and forming decisions based on data.

9. Targeted Marketing:

Digital marketing enables you to aim at specific demographics, interests, and behaviours. This precision guarantees that your efforts are reaching the appropriate audience.

10. Evolving Trends:

The digital marketing landscape is constantly in flux. Staying current with the most recent trends and technologies is pivotal for achieving success.

Consider ACTE Technologies Digital Marketing Course, a top institute that provides comprehensive digital marketing courses, if you want to start your digital marketing path with experienced assistance. Their knowledgeable teachers can provide you with the skills and information you need to succeed in the field of digital marketing.

[enterprisewired]

SEO vs. SEM: Navigating the Digital Marketing Maze for Business Triumph

In the dynamic and ever-evolving landscape of the digital realm, where algorithms seem to change as quickly as viral memes, two acronyms hold immense power: SEO and SEM. You’ve probably heard these terms whispered at marketing conferences or discussed in hushed tones among tech-savvy entrepreneurs. But what exactly are they, and more importantly, how can they be the secret sauce to propelling your business to new heights in the competitive online arena? Fear not, for this article is your compass through the labyrinth of SEO vs. SEM, unraveling their mysteries and revealing how each can be harnessed to not just bolster your online presence, but drive real business results.

SEO vs. SEM – it’s not just a tug of war between letters. It’s a strategic tango between organic growth and instant visibility, between the allure of long-term investments and the seduction of immediate results. In the following sections, we’ll venture deeper into the enchanting realms of SEO and SEM, unveiling their unique attributes and the business boons they bestow. Whether you’re a seasoned digital voyager or just dipping your toes into the pixelated waters, this guide promises insights that could be your compass to navigate the intricate map of digital marketing, steering your business towards the treasure trove of online success.

Deciphering the Terminology: SEO vs. SEM

Let’s embark on our journey by decoding the terminology. SEO, Search Engine Optimization, is a multifaceted approach that involves refining your website’s content, structure, and technical aspects to enhance its organic (non-paid) visibility on Search Engine Results Pages (SERPs). This intricate process includes optimizing elements such as keywords, meta descriptions, headers, images, and overall site architecture to align with the ever-evolving algorithms of search engines. The primary objective is to ascend the ranks of organic search results, leading to targeted and unpaid traffic flow to your website.

In contrast, SEM, or Search Engine Marketing, casts a broader net by encompassing a range of techniques that amplify your website’s presence on SERPs. SEM encompasses both paid advertising, often referred to as Pay-Per-Click (PPC) advertising, and organic strategies that include SEO. PPC ads materialize prominently at the top or bottom of search results, distinguished by the “Ad” label, offering immediate visibility. Organic strategies, however, are centered on bolstering a website’s position through optimization methods like SEO.

The Clash: SEO vs. SEM

Having established the disparities between SEO and SEM, let’s navigate through their divergent characteristics and the benefits they confer to businesses.

1. Nature of Traffic Generation

When we talk about SEO vs. SEM, the most fundamental distinction lies in the nature of the traffic generated. SEO orbits around organic traffic, representing users who click on your website’s link sans direct monetary transaction. This breed of traffic serves as a testament to your website’s relevance and authority, factors esteemed by search engines. Conversely, SEM encompasses paid traffic, channeled through advertisements. This avenue offers instantaneous visibility but necessitates a financial allocation to sustain the flow of visitors.

2. Financial Considerations

SEO is often likened to a long-term investment. Although it doesn’t entail direct payments for clicks, it demands consistent effort and temporal investment to fine-tune your website’s content and technical components. The fruition of these endeavors may take several months or even longer. Conversely, SEM entails the monetary component via paid advertising, necessitating payment for every click or impression based on your chosen keywords. It’s imperative to judiciously manage your budget to prevent excessive spending.

3. Velocity of Results

Velocity becomes a critical factor when assessing results. SEM triumphs in this aspect, thanks to the swift visibility it bestows. PPC ads promptly place your website at the forefront of search results, directing traffic from the very moment the campaign launches. This immediacy proves advantageous for time-sensitive promotions and product debuts. Conversely, SEO necessitates patience. Search engines require time to crawl, index, evaluate content relevance, and subsequently reflect improved rankings on SERPs.

4. Long-Term Strategy vs. Immediate Impact

SEO stands as a testament to the adage “slow and steady wins the race.” It’s a strategic investment tailored for the long haul, with cumulative efforts resulting in augmented organic rankings and sustained traffic. In contrast, SEM frequently caters to short-term campaigns or scenarios demanding immediate outcomes. Its flexible nature permits swift activation or deactivation based on prevailing business objectives.

Realizing Business Advantages: SEO vs. SEM

Having dissected the foundational disparities, let’s unravel how these strategies can profoundly benefit your business:

Benefits of SEO

Cost-Effective Long-Term Approach: Despite the initial time and resource investment, the long-term dividends of SEO frequently outweigh the upfront expenses. Elevated organic rankings translate to consistent traffic without recurrent payments for clicks.

Credibility and Trust Amplification: Organic search results enjoy heightened credibility and trust among users. Ascending the organic ranks underscores your brand’s authority within your industry.

Augmented Click-Through Rates: Research corroborates that organic results garner superior click-through rates compared to paid ads. The inclination to trust organic listings propels users to favorably interact with them.

Expansive Visibility: Adhering to SEO best practices not only bolsters your website’s standing on standard SERPs but also extends visibility across other search features, such as featured snippets, local packs, and knowledge graphs.

Benefits of SEM

Instantaneous Visibility Gratification: SEM fulfills the desire for immediate visibility. The launch of SEM campaigns places your ads prominently on search results pages, generating rapid traffic influx—ideal for time-bound promotions.

Laser-Targeted Precision: SEM platforms empower you to pinpoint specific keywords, demographics, geographic regions, and even optimal ad display times. This precision ensures that your ads reach the most pertinent audience.

Flexibility and Mastery: SEM campaigns are dynamic and modifiable in real time. This agility permits adjustments and optimizations based on real-time performance data, maximizing the utility of your budget.

Heightened Brand Awareness: Even if users opt not to click on your ads, the consistent exposure can tangibly heighten brand recognition and awareness.

The Culmination

In the ever-evolving digital landscape, comprehending the divergence between SEO and SEM is pivotal in orchestrating a digital marketing strategy tailored to your business’s needs. While SEO offers a cost-effective, trust-amplifying, and credibility-building long-term journey, SEM delivers rapid visibility gratification and laser-targeted precision. The optimal approach often resides in weaving a tapestry of both strategies, striking a harmonious balance to meet your business objectives. Ultimately, the decision to leverage SEO or SEM hinges on your business’s unique goals, resources, and timeline constraints. Embrace these strategies judiciously, and watch your business flourish in the digital expanse.

[memoriae-lectoris]

Just one double-parked car was the traffic equivalent of axing the whole lane. Of the illegally parked cars, half had placards. Many of those belonged to diplomats: the arrival of the United Nations in New York, in 1950, had attracted a population of incorrigible parking scofflaws to Manhattan, concentrated around the Oscar Niemeyer skyscraper on the East River and the consulates and offices that dotted the city’s east side.

Diplomats could not be held accountable for parking tickets, though that did not stop agents like Ana Russi from ticketing their luxury sedans. Between March and October 1977, representatives of the Soviet Union in New York received more than 6,500 parking tickets. Israel racked up almost 5,000. Nigeria, Ghana, and Turkey were not far behind. Two diplomats from the West African nation of Guinea had, respectively, 526 and 525 unpaid parking tickets apiece.

A later study, of the period 1997 to 2002, found that the number of parking violations per diplomat was strongly correlated with measures of national corruption—and with less favorable popular views of the United States. Israel and Turkey had really cleaned up their act by that point, and—along with countries such as Burkina Faso, Colombia, Canada, Ireland, Japan, and the Netherlands—recorded no parking citations. The leaders this time around were Kuwait, Egypt, Chad, Sudan, and Bulgaria. Violations by diplomats from Muslim countries fell by 80 percent after the September 11 attacks, though they soon rebounded.

[…] So with Mayor Koch’s support, he told his tow trucks it was open season on diplomats’ DPL plates. Traffic on the east Midtown streets flowed again; the west-side tow pound, stuffed with Mercedes and Jaguars and BMWs, began to resemble the parking lot of a country club. The State Department liaison to the UN called city hall in a huff. “The British say they can’t live with your plan because of security needs. The Soviets are outraged. Our diplomats get all sorts of privileges overseas, you know, and already some countries are threatening retaliation.”

Flanked by a representative from Foggy Bottom, Schwartz was summoned to the General Assembly to answer for his aggressive towing policies—prompting a rare moment of international harmony. “The Israelis and the Arabs were getting along; Iran and Iraq, which were then at war, were offering each other coffee. All united in attacking me,” he recalled. “If someone were taking a tour of the UN at that moment, he might think I had the answer for world peace.” Such was the rapt attention in the room. Diplomacy prevailed. It was not until 2002 that, at the behest of the technocratic mayor Michael Bloomberg, the U.S. Senate passed the Clinton-Schumer amendment, which allowed the city to tow diplomats’ cars and instructed the State Department to deduct the unpaid fines from U.S. government aid.

Parking violations plummeted.

[shosiblog]

What is the Full Form of SEM in Digital Marketing?

In the evolving world of digital marketing, businesses constantly seek effective ways to boost online visibility and reach their target audience. One of the most powerful strategies is SEM, a term you might hear frequently but might not fully understand. SEM stands for Search Engine Marketing—a broad and impactful approach to promoting businesses through paid advertising on search engines like Google, Bing, and Yahoo. Let’s dive into what SEM entails, how it works, and why it’s an essential tool in digital marketing.

What is SEM?

Search Engine Marketing (SEM) is a digital marketing strategy that uses paid advertisements to appear on search engine results pages (SERPs). Unlike SEO (Search Engine Optimization), which focuses on organic, unpaid rankings, SEM leverages paid ads to help businesses reach users actively searching for specific products or services. Through SEM, businesses can drive immediate visibility and traffic by bidding on keywords that are relevant to their offerings.

Key Components of SEM

To understand SEM, let’s break down some of its primary components:

Keyword Bidding

SEM operates on a Pay-Per-Click (PPC) model, where businesses bid on keywords they want their ads to show up for. The higher your bid (and ad quality), the more likely your ad will appear at the top of search results.

Ad Creation

Crafting compelling ads is crucial in SEM. Ad copy should be engaging and include a clear call-to-action (CTA) to attract clicks. This is where businesses showcase the value they offer and why users should click on their ad over others.

Targeting Options

SEM allows precise audience targeting based on location, device type, time of day, and even specific demographics, ensuring your ads reach users who are most likely to convert.

Quality Score

Platforms like Google Ads assess your ad’s Quality Score, which evaluates factors like relevance, click-through rate (CTR), and landing page quality. A higher Quality Score can improve your ad placement and reduce your cost-per-click.

Performance Tracking

SEM platforms offer in-depth analytics, allowing businesses to track metrics like impressions, CTR, and conversions. This data is essential for optimizing campaigns, managing budgets, and measuring return on investment (ROI).

How Does SEM Work?

The SEM process can be summarized in a few steps:

Identify Campaign Goals: Define what you want to achieve with SEM, such as increased traffic, more leads, or higher sales.

Keyword Research: Conduct research to identify keywords that potential customers are likely to use when searching for your products or services.

Set Budget and Bidding Strategy: Establish a budget and bidding approach, choosing between automated or manual bidding based on your goals and resources.

Create Ads: Design eye-catching ads with strong messaging, highlighting your unique offerings.

Launch and Monitor: Once the campaign goes live, monitor its performance closely. Analyze data to see which ads perform best and make adjustments as needed to improve results.

Why SEM is Important in Digital Marketing

Instant Visibility

SEM provides immediate exposure. Unlike SEO, which requires time to rank organically, SEM ensures your ad appears at the top of search results as soon as you launch the campaign.

Targeted Reach

With SEM, you can define exactly who sees your ads based on location, demographics, and even the device they’re using. This targeting capability helps attract high-quality leads more likely to convert.

Measurable Results

SEM allows you to track your ads’ performance in real-time, measuring key metrics like CTR, cost-per-click (CPC), and conversions. These insights help you fine-tune your strategy and maximize ROI.

Flexibility and Budget Control

With SEM, you can set your daily budget and maximum bid, allowing you to stay within budget and only pay when someone clicks on your ad. This makes SEM highly adaptable for businesses of all sizes.

Enhanced Brand Awareness

Even if users don’t click on your ads, simply appearing at the top of search results increases brand visibility. This can lead to greater brand recognition and credibility over time.

How SEM Differs from SEO

While SEM and SEO share the goal of increasing visibility, they work in different ways:AspectSEM (Search Engine Marketing)SEO (Search Engine Optimization)CostPay-per-click; ongoing budget requiredFree; focuses on long-term, organic growthResults SpeedInstant visibility once campaign is liveTakes time, often months, to rank organicallyLongevityAds stop appearing once you stop payingResults last longer, providing sustainable trafficControlComplete control over positioning and budgetNo direct control over ranking positionTargetingHighly targeted; can filter by demographics, location, and moreBased on search intent and relevant content

When to Use SEM in Your Marketing Strategy

SEM is highly effective for businesses looking to drive immediate traffic, test marketing messages, or promote seasonal products and events. It’s especially useful for new businesses seeking quick exposure or companies operating in highly competitive markets where organic ranking alone may be challenging.

Ready to Boost Your Business with SEM?

Whether you’re a new business looking for immediate visibility or an established brand wanting to expand your reach, SEM is a powerful tool in digital marketing.

Need assistance setting up or managing SEM campaigns? As a leading Digital Marketing Agency in Tamil Nadu, we specialize in creating targeted SEM campaigns that drive results. Contact us today to start reaching more customers and growing your business with effective SEM strategies!

[armadillo-new-media]

The Significance of SEO for Your Website & Business

In today’s digital landscape, Search Engine Optimization (SEO) is paramount for websites, regardless of their purpose. The core objective of any website is to connect with its intended audience, and achieving this relies on one vital factor: being discoverable on Google, the dominant search engine.

Google, with its over 90% market share, stands as the gateway through which users worldwide access online information. Optimizing your website for Google is akin to placing your business on the busiest online thoroughfare, enhancing the likelihood of attracting attention and engagement.

SEO revolves around improving your website’s ranking on Google’s search results pages. A higher ranking equates to enhanced visibility, which translates to increased organic traffic. This is where SEO excels. By fine-tuning your website’s content, structure, and performance, you position it to ascend Google’s search rankings, drawing more users to your digital doorstep.

In contrast to paid advertising, SEO offers a cost-effective means of promoting your website. SEO focuses on attracting organic, unpaid traffic. Instead of ongoing expenses for advertisements, you invest in the long-term health of your online presence. A well-optimized site consistently ranks high in Google’s listings, ensuring a steady stream of organic traffic without recurring costs.

A crucial element of SEO is selecting the right keywords and target areas. Specificity and alignment with high-search-volume terms are key. Armadillo specializes in this area, analyzing keywords, assessing search volumes, and evaluating competition to optimize your website’s content, images, and code effectively.

Read More:-

[fayes-fics]

It Had To Be You: Upcoming Fic Excerpt

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Rating: Teen and Up, except one chapter which could be skipped

Summary: Modern AU romcom. A love story heavily inspired by When Harry Met Sally.

Note: Hi all, as a Valentine's Day gift to you all, I present below the opening scene of my upcoming multi-chapter - It Had To Be You. I plan to start publishing this in March. I hope you enjoy <3

UPDATE: full fic is now posted HERE

12 Years Ago

When you pull up outside her halls of residence, she has her tongue down some man’s throat—typical Gen. 

She finally acknowledges your presence when you lower the window and cough pointedly. A few days ago, when she said her latest boyfriend needed a lift from St Andrews to London, you didn't offer; she volunteered him to join you before you could conjure a believable excuse. Someone to talk to on the long journey wouldn't be such a bad thing; you tried to convince yourself reluctantly. You were slightly worried about who he might be. Gen’s taste in men could be best described as random. Or questionable if you were feeling less charitable. But as he turns towards you, something in your chest flutters. 

Oh. 

He looks different to her usual choices. He appears rich, just from a glance. But the sort of rich that dresses in ratty clothes as a style choice rather than out of economic necessity. His jeans are distressed around the knees, and there’s an almost threadbare patch right around his rather shapely - don't look there, you admonish yourself - arse. He wears a faded grey t-shirt and converse that are speckled with paint.

“Y/n, meet Ben,” he nods briefly before she pulls him back for another completely inappropriate kiss.

Ben...? Really, Gen? Matching names is a bit too fucking twee.

As they break away, he tosses his bags in the boot of your car and, after another round of tonsil tennis, climbs into your passenger seat. He smiles crookedly, and you see his blueish eyes catch a ray of late Spring sun; his voice instantly makes you shift in your seat as you exchange hellos. Definitely a posh boy. Definitely a playboy. Definitely not the type to keep his bed empty for long. You already dislike him. You especially dislike how attractive your body seems to find him, despite yourself.

This is going to be a long journey.

“You want to drive the first shift?” you ask politely.

“You are already there,” he shrugs, “go right ahead.”

As Gen becomes a waving figure in your rearview mirror, something tells you you will likely never see her again. It's that time when life goes in a million different directions—the end of university. You've been here for your undergraduate course. Apparently, he has been here for his master's in Fine Art. 

“What takes you to London?” he asks as you pull out of the university grounds.

“I'm going to be a journalist,” you state proudly.

He laughs. “You and the rest of the world.” 

You bristle at his amusement. You are a talented writer; you know it will happen for you someday. You have a summer internship at the Guardian. Okay, it's unpaid, but it's a start.

“You?” you shoot back, squinting in the sun.

“Artist. I’m setting up a studio in Hoxton.”

Urgh. That's so achingly trendy you actually want to smack him.

Your phone buzzes, and you check it discreetly at the next traffic light. It's from Gen.

I know exactly what you are thinking. Posh boy twat. His cock is amazing though. Safe travels x

You squeak and drop your phone into the footwell. Ben cuts you a curious sideways glance. 

“I can grab it,” he offers rather chivalrously as he sees you groping blindly around your feet as the light turns green.

“No!” you startle, “it's fine, just uhh leave it there, I don't need it. I know the way to Edinburgh from here.” your voice takes on a high-pitched quality that sounds ridiculous even to your own ears.

He seems to stare at your profile for an inordinate amount of time.

“Gen said you were a little high-strung,” he says drolly.

You frown over at him. “I'm just particular,” you argue back.

He laughs and looks out the window. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes, I do,” you prickle, “that’s a disgusting habit, and you should give it up.”

“She said you were opinionated too,” he adds, his tone so casual and laid back it just makes you more wound up.

“My car, my rules,” you retort, glancing irritated in your rearview at the lorry getting far too familiar with your rear bumper.

“That's fair enough.” 

He suddenly lunges for something in the backseat, twisting, so his t-shirt rides up, his whole body thrust towards you. You see a flash of toned abdominal muscle and a tantalising line of hair disappearing into his jeans.

You quickly cut your eyes back to the road and have to slam on the brake not to hit the car in front, praying momentarily that the lorry behind is paying more attention than you are. Damn him. 

“Fucking hell!” he exclaims, falling back into his seat and grabbing the dashboard to right himself.

“Sorry,” you mumble, knowing you are blushing. “Can you please not do that when I'm driving?”

“Do what?” he feigns ignorance, but you can tell he knows exactly what just happened, the cocky bastard.

“Climb into the backseat,” you grumble.

“I leaned back to grab something; I didn't climb anywhere,” he disputes, shaking a packet at you. “This is for your benefit, I might add,” he says pointedly, ripping open the box and fishing out a nicotine patch.

“Well, just sit still, please,” you huff, spying a flash of very shapely bicep out of the corner of your eye as he rolls up the sleeve and slaps on the patch.

“Yeah, not highly strung at all,” he mutters under his breath.

Yep. You absolutely want to kick him.

[blogs1145]

How to Easily Pay Traffic Fines in Abu Dhabi: A Step-by using-Step Guide

Everyone wants to keep away from paying visitors fines, however errors can take place sometimes. Traffic legal guidelines in Abu Dhabi are carefully enforced to guarantee every body's safety on the roads. It is vital which you deal with a site visitors first-rate fast in order to keep away from similarly repercussions. Thankfully, due to the many convenient fee choices available, Abu Dhabi's exquisite fee tradition has emerged as actual. This guide will stroll you through the simple method of paying your traffic' consequences in Abu Dhabi, permitting you to rapidly settle the issue and resume your complete riding revel in.

Understanding the Importance of Fine Payment in Abu Dhabi

Understanding the importance of paying fines on time is vital earlier than moving directly to the procedures for purchasing a high-quality rate in Abu Dhabi. Delaying the price of your site visitors fines can result in extra charges, riding license suspension, or even prison movement. Furthermore, unpaid fines can have an effect on your potential to renew your vehicle registration, that can result in more extreme consequences if stuck using with out a valid registration.

The appropriate news is that Abu Dhabi gives more than one methods for paying fines, making it simpler to stay compliant and keep away from these troubles. From online systems to convenient kiosks, there’s a solution for each motive force’s preference.

Step-by using-Step Guide to Paying Traffic Fines in Abu Dhabi

Step 1: Check for Outstanding Fines

The first step is to test whether you've got any superb traffic fines. This can be completed on-line, both via the Abu Dhabi Police internet site or the TAMM portal, which is a complete authorities carrier platform for Abu Dhabi citizens. You can also take a look at the use of the Abu Dhabi Police cell app.

Here’s how you may test fines the use of the TAMM website:

Visit the reputable TAMM website (www.Tamm.Abudhabi).

Navigate to the "Public Services" phase.

Click on "Traffic Violations Inquiry."

Enter your automobile info (registration code number) or your Emirates ID to view any pending fines.

After you've got had your fines checked, note the infractions and the amount you owe. Verify the statistics one extra time earlier than finishing the payment.

Step 2: Select Your Mode of Payment

Abu Dhabi gives several handy approaches to pay your site visitors fines. You can pick the approach that works quality for you based totally on your vicinity and get entry to to the net. Below are the most normally used techniques:

Payment on line through the Abu Dhabi Police website or TAMM Online fee via the Abu Dhabi Police website or the TAMM portal is the most handy choice for plenty. This is the way you do it:

Go into your account at the Abu Dhabi Police or TAMM web sites.

Go to the “Pay Fines” phase.

Enter your info and follow the on-display screen commands to complete the fee the usage of a credit or debit card.

Pros: Available 24/7, rapid, and easy.

Cons: Requires internet access and a valid charge card.

Abu Dhabi Police Mobile App Another convenient option is paying through the Abu Dhabi Police cell app. The app is available on both iOS and Android devices and gives a person-friendly manner to view and pay fines without delay from your cellphone.

Download the Abu Dhabi Police app from the App Store or Google Play.

Register with your details or log in in case you have already got an account.

Navigate to the excellent payment segment and comply with the stairs to make your fee.

Pros: Convenient for on-the-pass bills, clean get entry to to nice records.

Cons: Requires a smartphone and internet connection.

Payment at Traffic Police Service Centers For people who decide upon face-to-face transactions, you could pay your site visitors fines in character at Abu Dhabi Traffic Police Service Centers. Simply go to one of the carrier facilities, provide your car or non-public information, and make the payment.

Pros: Good for those with out internet get admission to or credit playing cards.

Cons: Time-eating; may also require waiting in line.

Kiosks and Self-Service Machines You can also pay fines at self-provider kiosks located throughout Abu Dhabi. These machines will let you check and pay fines quickly and without difficulty.

Pros: Conveniently located in malls and public areas; no need for internet access.

Cons: Limited availability of machines.

Banks and ATMs Some banks in Abu Dhabi offer the choice to pay site visitors fines through their cellular banking apps or ATMs. Check together with your financial institution to peer if they provide this provider.

Pros: Convenient if you already use mobile banking or ATMs regularly.

Cons: Not all banks offer this provider.

Step three: Complete the Payment

Once you've got selected your fee approach, continue with the transaction. Make certain to verify the first-class quantity and make sure the price is going via successfully. Most platforms will provide you with a receipt or confirmation number. It’s a great concept to shop or print this in your records, if you want proof of price later.

Step four: Check for Any Remaining Fines

After making the charge, double-check your high-quality reputation at the TAMM portal or Abu Dhabi Police app to ensure that all fines had been cleared. This step enables keep away from any future surprises while renewing your automobile registration or managing legal matters.

Additional Tips for Fine Payment in Abu Dhabi

Set Reminders: If you get hold of a visitors fine, make certain to set a reminder for yourself to pay it before the due date. This will help you avoid any overdue price penalties.

Take Advantage of Discounts: Abu Dhabi on occasion offers discounts on site visitors fines if they are paid inside a positive period. Keep a watch on legitimate bulletins from Abu Dhabi Police to take gain of these gives.

Check for Fine Payment Installment Options: Some banks provide installment fee plans for large fines, allowing you to pay off your dues over a few months with out stressing your price range.

Conclusion

Paying traffic fines in Abu Dhabi has turn out to be greater reachable than ever. With multiple structures presenting nice fee options, such as online portals, cellular apps, and self-carrier kiosks, drivers can pick out the technique that fits them excellent. By following this step-through-step guide, you could manage first-rate price in Abu Dhabi successfully, avoid similarly penalties, and ensure that you stay compliant with the city’s visitors legal guidelines.

[buttercupkg66]

A Portland mayoral candidate has come under fire after it emerged she has had her drivers' license suspended six times over a litany of traffic offenses and missed court dates.

Carmen Rubio was forced to defend her atrocious driving record further after it emerged she recently hit a parked Tesla and walked away.

The incident forms part of a long line of traffic offenses over the last 20 years, including 150 tickets and citations.

The progressive candidate has also had her unpaid fines to debt collectors on at least 100 occasions.

[michaeltroiano]

Navigating Warrants in Las Vegas: Why You Need a Warrant Lawyer

If you have an outstanding warrant in Las Vegas, it’s crucial to address it promptly. Warrants, whether for failing to appear in court, unpaid tickets, or more serious criminal charges, can lead to unexpected arrests, hefty fines, and other legal complications. A Las Vegas warrant lawyer specializes in helping individuals resolve these warrants efficiently and without unnecessary penalties.

Another advantage is their deep knowledge of local laws and legal procedures. They can quickly assess your situation and determine the best course of action, whether it involves contesting the warrant or negotiating a reduced sentence.

Don’t wait for a routine traffic stop or other encounters with law enforcement to discover your outstanding warrant. Contacting a Las Vegas warrant lawyer can help you avoid arrest, reduce stress, and ensure your legal rights are protected throughout the process.