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chibsandchill · 10 months ago

Text

Oliver Quick indeed

Fandom: Saltburn

Pairing: Oliver Quick x AFAB!Catton!Reader

Summary: Oliver never suspected he'd get caught, and he's not exactly against his punishment.

Warnings: NSFW content, a slight amount of dub-con, swearing, Oliver Quick, bathwater drinking, grammatical and spelling errors, Oliver is perhaps a smidge jealous of a bathtub, inappropriate use of a hairbrush

If you know me in real life and you found this�� No you didn’t.

Masterlist

Minors do not interact (seriously, don’t)

Next part

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NSFW content under the cut

The bathroom is eerily silent – too silent – after Felix’s door slams shut.

Well,

not entirely silent.

Was it possible to be jealous of a bathtub? Four legs, a scooped out body to rest in, and water. It held him you, and warmed you. It took care of the mess and when it was done you abandoned it, but it always welcomed you back.

Did it long for your return?

Like him?

Was he jealous?

Over a bath? He couldn’t be.

But Felix would be warmer in his arms, and Oliver would make sure that not even a speck of dirt would muddy him.

Oliver rinsed his mouth and leant his forehead against the cold mirror. He stared at himself. Blue eyes. Very blue eyes. Elspeth praised his eyes, fawned over them even when they first met. Told him about Venetia and how she’d just die.

Did Felix like his eyes? Were they blue enough? Too blue? India didn’t have blue eyes, or Annabelle.

Felix fucked them.

Has he ever seen Felix with someone with blue eyes? No.

Suddenly the praise sat wrong inside of him. Were they making fun of him? Did they know? Oliver knocked his forehead against the mirror once, twice, thrice before grinding his teeth together with a glare directed at his image.

He forced a smile, but not too happy. Then he frowned, but not too unhappy. They liked a broken thing, Felix’s family. But not too broken. Just broken enough for them to be able to ignore it, like a barbie doll missing a few fingers, or a book with a cracked spine.

Oliver’s father died, his mother an addict. No siblings, no money. Poor, poor Oliver Quick.

Felix liked feeling needed, appreciated,

adored.

Poor Oliver with a dead dad. So, so incredibly sad. No one else in this wide world other than Felix Catton. No friends, no siblings. Just…Felix.

The bathtub caught his eye. A posh thing, really. Like something out of a painting or a museum. His feet brought him to it before he’d even realized he moved. Oliver stroked the edges, pressed his nails against the porcelain until shivers ran down his spine. There was still some water in it. Warm, hot, taunting him. Felix had been there. A piece of him still lingering around the edges of the drain.

They had hugged once. Felix was a generous person, free with his affection to everyone around him. He had kissed Oliver’s helmet when they first met. Told him he loved him.

Did he?

Leaning over the tub and watching the water slowly circle around the drain filled him with an unfamiliar sense of thrill. Like he was watching something forbidden. A piece of him; of Felix offered on a silver platter.

Oliver didn’t hesitate as he got in the tub and got down on all fours. Pearly white globs swirling around below him. This was a gift.

Did Felix leave it to him?

He must have.

The door hadn’t been properly closed, and he moaned like a wanton whore. It was on purpose. Did he mean to tease Oliver? He did. He didn’t. Oliver was no one. Felix was everything,

Oliver’s everything.

Yes, it was a gift, and Oliver would take anything Felix gave.

It was still warm when he pressed his face against it. It coated his lips, his nose, his cheeks, his eyes. When he breathed, it followed, and he hated how it left when he exhaled. It clung to his hair.

Felix. Felix. Felix.

He wanted it on him. On. On. On. On,

in.

The tip of his tongue wetting his lips, a taste of heaven.

Oliver pressed himself closer, and closer as if to fuse himself together with the porcelain, but even then,

it would not be close enough.

He needed to be closer.

What was wrong with him?

Felix was so far away still, even as Oliver had a mouth full of his cum. He dared not swallow for he would not be separated from even a single piece of him.

“You’re a fucking freak, y’know that, Oliver?”

Oliver jolts up, almost banging his head on the faucet.

“W-what? Oh. Oh! No! I- I wasn’t- I mean- It’s-”

He felt sticky. Cold. His blood froze. Would you send him away? Tell Felix? Anger blossoms under his skin. Felix wouldn’t understand. How could he? How could perfection look at ugliness and understand? Even the light could not see in the dark. How could he understand the longing? The envy? The chest crushing feeling of being so close to the sun, being burned alive and yet always left craving more and more. Loving every second of losing yourself to another.

“You weren’t what?” You narrow your eyes.

“I was just…making sure the tap was closed properly. It’s been dripping all day and night.”

You scoff.

“It has!” Oliver tried to defend himself, wiping at his mouth with his wet sleeve.

“You’re pathetic, Oliver. I saw you… licking. We’ve all seen you stare at him. I mean, I’d say you were his shadow if you didn’t moon over that one as well! But Felix doesn’t see it. He doesn’t believe us when we tell him what a little freak Oliver Quick is.”

Oliver can’t help but feel smug at that. Felix believing him over everyone else? It made him hard.

It must’ve shown on his face for next thing Oliver knew your fingers burrowed into his hair and you forced him down into the water again. He coughs and splutters but you don’t let him up.

“ Stop it!” He protests. The water’s gone up his nose, he’s choking on it.

“What’s wrong, Ollie?” You coo. “I thought you liked drinking bathwater. I’m simply… giving you what you want.”

In his mind he begged for Felix to come save him, like he had at the pub, at uni. Felix would hate him for it. Would cast him away, away from him, away from Saltburn. He’d rather drown in the tub than have Felix come save him. He’d become part of Saltburn then.

“Please don’t tell Felix,” he managed to get out.

You hummed but offered no response.

Cruel. You were all cruel.

The drain cuts into his face, but you don’t let up.

Your breath fans over his ear. Oliver shivers. “We’ll see.”

You smell like Felix. You even sound a bit like him too. If Oliver closed his eyes he could almost pretend it was Felix who was taking his shirt off in the bath, who urged him to clean all his spill away.

It’s filthy.

“Do you want this, Oliver?”

You placed your hand flat over his bulge, cupping the hard outline of his cock. Could you feel him pulse?

He shakes his head no. He doesn’t.

Does he?

His head’s all muddled. All he can see, all he can feel,

taste,

is Felix.

One thought circles around in his head; more.

You squeeze, and Oliver moans.

“Thought so.” You whisper.

And then you’re gone.

“Keep your head down.” You order him, though Oliver hadn’t moved a muscle.

Despite how humiliating it was, he still wanted more. All he felt was longing, envy and pure want. Felix could stand in front of him, his spend in Oliver’s mouth and he’d still want more. When would Oliver be satisfied? How close could he get to Felix? Not close enough.

Oliver jumps when he feels your hands back on him. You tug at his boxers and his face grows red when you touch him.

“Well, well, well,” you said to him. “Prepared, are we?”

He shakes his head again.

“Liar.” You say as you bring your hand down on his ass. Oliver groaned and closed his eyes.

When had you grown so confident, he wondered? He had barely seen you at the estate, always hiding away in the library with Duncan standing guard by the door. Oliver mistook you for Felix once, but you had only laughed and walked away. Didn’t even turn to look at him.

And now your finger was in his ass and he was resisting the urge to grind back. You don’t even need to push his head down anymore, he wouldn’t raise it even if you ripped all his hair out.

You smoothed down some of his hair. “There we go, you poor thing.”

He doesn’t feel poor. Certainly not when your free hand is gripping his cock and stroking it so slowly it feels like torture. Even then the coil in his stomach starts to tighten, a delicious burn in his spine from bending over as he was; face down, ass up.

Then you’re pulling out your finger. He feels empty. Hungry. He hears the water splash as you run your hand through it, and then you’re touching him again. Spreading the wetness around his hole, in him, everywhere.

You slip a finger back in. Oliver groaned at the feeling.

“Can you take another?” You asked.

His forehead smacked against the porcelain from how hard he nodded. He thinks he might die if you don’t, stuck in this limbo of barely-there pleasure and coldness.

Oliver shut his eyes when you started pushing in the second one. He’s never had anyone there before. It was uncomfortable and it even hurt a little, but that ember of pleasure in his stomach when you crooked your fingers and touched that spot inside him made him want to beg for you to never go.

But then, you leave him again. Almost as if you heard his thoughts.

He sobs against the tub, but then his eyes flashed open in cold surprise as he felt something prodding at his entrance. Something smoother and colder than your fingers. “W-what’s that?”

“It’s a surprise.” You told him.

He almost thought you kind when you made him spit in your palm so you could wet his cock with it. He hadn’t thought it could get better, but when you spread it around him, gradually building up to pace again, he wants to thank you. It almost made him forget about the mystery object you were pushing into him. Almost. It was still cold, but felt better than he thought it would. He shuts his eyes again, losing himself to the pleasure.

It wasn’t long until you had him moaning and whining and grinding against the tub, against you, against whatever it was you were using against him. There wasn’t enough left of Oliver to think it embarrassing how he acted like a wanton whore. All he could think of was the tidal wave of pleasure that was building. It grew. Grew. Grew.

You push into him harder and harder. Your hand smacked against his skin until he was sure Felix could hear it. If not, then his moans would still tell the story.

“If only Felix could see you now.” You whisper in his ear, cruel and cold against the warmth of his pleasure.

Oliver whined. He almost wanted Felix to see. Almost.

“Freak.”

Oliver came harder than he ever had in his life. Rope after rope of cum landing on his stomach, in the water, on the sides of the tub. It seemed endless. He shook and cried as the wave fell over him. He was drowning. Drowning in you. In pleasure. In Felix. But you kept your hand on him, tugging and tugging even as he moaned from the overstimulation.

“Oliver Quick indeed.” You mock him. “I’ve barely even touched you.”

You tugged out the thing from his ass and threw it next to him, but Oliver didn’t have enough strength to even open his eyes. Not with how you forced him into a second orgasm, one almost more painful than pleasurable.

“Do you want me to stop?”

No. Yes. Never.

He never wanted it to stop. Even as it grew painful and he cried from it, he wanted more. He wasn’t satisfied. Not even close. He wanted more. More. More. More. More, until there was nothing left to give. Until he had taken all you had, and he alone was left. Even then would he want more.

You scoff at his lack of answer and tear your hand from him, wiping it off on his hair.

“Go on, Dog, lick it up.” You spat at him.

And he did,

addlebrained as he was, so fucked out from the pleasure he couldn’t even tell you his own name.

He licked and licked, until there was no more left, water nor cum. No more of him, no more of Felix. He had swallowed it all. All gone.

Oliver looked at you from under hooded eyes. Pleading. “Please don’t tell Felix.”

“You’re pathetic.”

You stormed out of the room, and then his eyes fell on the object you had thrown on him. The surprise,

it was Felix’s brush.

Next part

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tea-stained-notes · 1 year ago

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Benedict Bridgerton x Reader – One Last Summer

Y/N is many things: Daphne's best friend, gifted artist, new money, honorary Bridgerton – and hopelessly in love with Benedict. But when she finds herself suddenly engaged to a brutish army captain stationed in India, she is faced with the loss of everything she has grown to adore. With time running out, one last visit to Aubrey Hall will decide her fate.

Months ago I had a random phase of obsessing over Benedict Bridgerton (don't we all at some point) and dove head-first into this – then somehow took an eternity to finish it. It's angsty af, but don’t worry, there’s also plenty of Bridgerton shenanigans and tooth-rotting fluff because Benny is too adorable for this world

Warnings: angst and anxiety

Word Count: ~8400

A warm summer breeze caresses my heated skin as I finally emerge from the carriage and lay eyes on Aubrey Hall. Lush flowers and greenery adorn the inviting front and I am still taking in the sight when I notice Eloise and Penelope rounding the corner, the Bridgerton sister gesticulating in what must be one of her political rants. Behind them, Gregory and Hyacinth emerge, chasing each other and screaming in delight. My stomach swoops at the sight – how I have missed them all. “Good morning!” I call over to them, waving with an excitement I would scarcely allow myself to display anywhere else. But here, everything is different. Has always been different.

“Y/N!” They all rush over to me, enveloping me in hugs and chattering over each other. “Finally! It’s been ages!” “Daphne has been insufferable without you around!” “Come play with us!” I laugh, begging them for a moment to breathe after the journey. Daphne appears in the entryway, closely followed by Violet. I walk quickly towards my best friend, arms wide open. “Daph!” “Oh thank Goodness you have made it!” She hugs me tightly, her familiar perfume mingling with the smell of grass and sun-warmed skin. “Have you been playing croquet without me?” “Oh, has Anthony already come moaning to you about his well-deserved loss?” “I can smell it on you, along with your smugness” I say with a grin. “And your brother has grown quite even-tempered since the wedding.” “Well, unfortunately he is still the sorest loser I know.” “Which is a feat in itself amongst this competitive bunch,” Violet says with a twinkle in her eyes before taking my hands in hers and looking me up and down. “Welcome back, darling. You look thin, please do not tell me that you’re trying to fit into one of those outrageous wedding gowns that seem to be made for dolls.” I wince at the mention of my upcoming nuptials but hastily cover it up with a chuckle. “Quite the opposite, at the last fitting my seamstress was rather disgruntled that she would have to take in the waist even further. It is just a bit of a nervous stomach, with all the impending change.” “But as a young bride you should be more happy than nervous, no?” “Mama,” Daphne scolds softly, while Eloise openly rolls her eyes. “I suppose I should.” “Why not at least wait until dinner with such questions?” comes a voice from my right, “Your forwardness single-handedly erodes our renowned British reserve.” I grin at Colin before pulling him into a hug and ruffling his coiffed hair. Being a year older, I have always indulged in playing big sister with him. He sighs in feigned annoyance. “I was going to say that it’s good to see you but I am already regretting that sentiment.” “Liar,” I snicker. Violet’s glance dances between us. I believe she once suspected a blossoming romance between Colin and me, but while I love him dearly as a surrogate brother, he has never made my heart flutter. Not that I could have ever betrayed poor Penelope anyway, whose bright eyes are locked on him as always. And not that I would ever actually marry a Bridgerton. I may have dared to dream of it ten years ago, when I first met Daphne and immediately became fast friends with her despite our age difference. When her family welcomed me into their home with such fervour and warmth that I could hardly believe my luck. With my mother having died from influenza when I was little and no other siblings to grow up with, the Bridgertons became the family I could have never imagined for myself. And the idea of marrying into it one day, of making my bond with them all official, that was the greatest aspiration I could envisage. But the one brother who has always fascinated me is nowhere in sight and I try to be glad for it. “Come, let’s get you settled before the rest of the battalion descends upon you.” Daphne pulls me inside while I give a grateful smile to the servants hurrying after us with my luggage. “So where is your charming husband?” I ask as we ascend the staircase. “And little Amelia? I have been dying to see her again.” “Simon was held up by business, he will arrive in a few days. And the little one is in the gardens with her nanny. I will call for some lemonade and once you have freshened up, we shall go out to see her and catch up. You have so much to tell me.” “I last saw you two months ago and we write constantly,” I laugh. “But all the things that have happened in those two months! Your engagement first and foremost. I simply must know everything, I certainly require more detail than the few lines from your letters.” My insides squirm at her eagerness but I manage a somewhat enthusiastic nod. She comes to a stop in front of a door. “Your usual guest room is having some work done, so I had my old room prepared for you – I hope you don’t mind.” “Not at all, it will be nice, I haven’t been in there since your wedding.” “And Mama has kept it exactly the same, you know how sentimental she gets.” Daphne sounds teasing yet her smile is nothing but fond. She gives me another hug. “I am so glad you are here. I’ve missed you. We all have.” “And I have missed you.”

Once my bags and I are safely inside, I inhale deeply and take in the stillness for a moment. Arriving at any Bridgerton residence always feels like being caught in a whirlwind and as much as I love them all, it can be overwhelming at times, especially after the often stifling silence of my own home. I wander over to the window, letting my eyes trail over the gardens, alive with an abundance of colours that makes my heart sing. Until it stops abruptly. There he is. Deeply lost in his brush strokes as he recreates the wonders around him. His vest is unbuttoned, his shirt carelessly gaping open at the top, his sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. Even from afar, Benedict Bridgerton ignites a well-known fire inside of me. Whenever I am away from him, I can almost convince myself that this age-old infatuation is nothing but a figment, a silly flight of fancy. Sometimes I can almost forget about him entirely, distract myself with my artistic pursuits, with other friends or travel. But then I notice a piece of melody flowing from my fingers that somehow reminds me of him or look down at a drawing in surprise, having unconsciously once again traced his familiar features. Still I repress it, abandon the fantasy of someone so far above my station. Someone who sees me as a family friend and nothing more. And now that I am engaged to be married I should purge my mind of him entirely, yet especially in these last few weeks I have scarcely thought of anything else, convinced that my longing could not possibly grow stronger. But the mere tangibility of him unravels me completely. I long to rush downstairs to see him and at the same time it is the one thing I fear the most. After a long moment I tear my gaze away and turn to the washing bowl. To my dismay, the cool water does little to calm my racing pulse and thoughts. Clean and unpacked I head towards the door, but halt half-way. Because as always, when I am in Daphne's room, my eyes fall on the painting of us. It is wonderfully serene, the two of us sitting on a picnic blanket in the gardens. She is engrossed in a book, but I am looking over my shoulder, smiling softly at the artist. It was Benedict of course. I remember vividly how I turned around to find him crouching with a sketchbook in his hand, capturing the scene in quick strokes. His face lit up and he winked at me before deftly outlining my expression. Later he transferred the motif onto a proper canvas, so I never got to see the original sketch. I have always wondered whether I had really looked at him like that. So openly enamoured.

I wander down the halls towards the open French doors leading into the garden when a voice pulls me from my reverie so suddenly I almost trip over my feet. “There you are.” I look up only to be met with a dazzling smile, gleaming eyes and a hint of spicy aftershave in the air. My stomach drops. “Mr. Bridgerton.” His smile falters briefly. He always insists on me calling him by his first name, yet I have never been able to. When we met he was already eighteen, a grown man at first sight. It had felt only right to address him with the same courtesy as his older brother. And even as we grew closer, as I learned of his boyish temperament, often bordering on immaturity, I never found the courage to simply call him Benedict. If only to keep up the semblance of a wall between us, a desperate attempt at shielding my heart. Not that I have ever succeeded in that endeavour. “Everyone’s been speaking of your arrival. How wonderful you have found time to join us.” “The pleasure is all mine, as always,” I reply, ignoring the pull in my chest. “Have you finished your painting?” I gesture at the art supplies in his arms. “Not quite, but I’m afraid duty calls. Some business I need to talk over with Anthony.” “Ah, I too have an enormously urgent appointment with your sister.” We share a light chuckle. “I am sure she has scheduled three hours at the least to learn all about your… plans.” The word comes out strangely forced but he catches himself quickly. “Will I see you at dinner?” “How could I ever miss one of Mrs. Brodie’s delicacies? I have had actual dreams of her rosemary chicken.” “You are not a true Bridgerton until you’ve had one of those dreams,” he says with a grin but it wavers slightly as the words sink in. He knows as well as I do that no number of dreams will ever make me a true Bridgerton. I swallow thickly before putting on a smile. “If you will excuse me, I am quite parched after the journey and Daphne has promised lemonade.” “Oh, of course, yes. Don’t let me keep you.” “Goodbye, sir.” “Until tonight, Y/N.” Something in his tone, in the way his lips curve around my name, sends shivers down my spine. With a swift curtsey I turn and practically run out into the open air.

I manage to ward off Daphne’s inquisition well enough. Yes, Captain Parker will be able to provide for me. Yes, he is handsome. Yes, my father approves of him. Luckily, we are regularly interrupted by the various Bridgerton siblings and distracted by little Amelia who is perfectly content as the centre of attention. “I am quite certain one day she will be the diamond of the season,” I declare, ruffling her hair. “Do you really think so?” Daphne is all too happy to swoon about her firstborn and I gladly steer the conversation away from my upcoming wedding. Eventually, I propose another game of croquet, having missed the previous one, and before long the dinner bell is rung. Everyone settles into the dining room and I sink into a comfortable chair, Daphne and Eloise on either side, Benedict across from me. I only notice now that we have always been seated like this during my visits and wonder if it was I who once sought out this particular arrangement. He quickly engages me in a conversation about art and music, the topics that have always connected us, and minute by minute I grow more comfortable in his presence. We fall into passionate discussions and light-hearted banter, only occasionally intercepted by the others around us. And I cannot help pondering if he has ever felt it, too. The sparkling potential between us. The mere idea of what we could have been. No matter how unrealistic, as long we were both unwed, a tiny part of my heart remained reserved for that hope. And every time I arrived at the manor to find him seemingly carefree about the future and with no bride in sight, I was flooded with relief, simultaneously blessed and cursed to hope for a little longer. Until a few weeks ago when those dreams were finally shattered. “So, are you looking forward to India?” Colin suddenly asks. “I would love to visit you there sometime, it must be incredible.” “Surely it would not be proper to interrupt their honeymoon,” Benedict says, somewhat strained. “Oh, it’s not for our honeymoon,” I reply. “My… Captain Parker will be permanently stationed there.” Benedict’s fork clatters onto the plate and we all flinch, the chatter around the table coming to a halt. “You will move to India?” He has gone frighteningly pale. “Yes. Has Daphne not told you?” “I must have,” she sputters, “when I was last in Lon–“ “No, you haven’t.” His words come out unusually harsh and my stomach twists. Everyone is staring at either him or me and Daphne’s eyes flicker between us before she forces a casual smile. “Brother, don’t be silly, I am certain I have. And either way, I shall be the one to miss her the most, no?” She puts an arm around me while giving a pointed look at Kate who quickly collects herself and pulls Anthony and Violet into a chat about their plans for the nursery. Slowly, the usual bustle recommences and I turn back to Colin. “Once we are settled in, you are more than welcome to visit. You all are, of course.” Benedict’s lips are pressed tightly together, his food forgotten.

I find little sleep that night, the image of Benedict imprinted on my mind. He seemed so genuinely upset. I expected him to miss me, of course, but the hint of melancholy I had detected in his features even before the revelation of my upcoming departure to India now haunts me. Losing him was always going to be torture but realising how it might affect him as well has doubled the pain and I start to regret this indulgence of coming to Aubrey Hall for one last summer. When the first sun rays filter through the half-opened curtains I inhale deeply, trying to infuse a little hope and joy into the beginning of this new day. And when Daphne surprises me with the idea of a relaxed breakfast in bed I almost believe it has worked. A while later we find ourselves in the parlour, Eloise engrossed in a book after Penelope’s earlier departure, Daphne rocking a fussy Amelia to sleep in her arms, and I sketching absently. I startle when Benedict walks in, slightly more dishevelled than usual. “Daph, Y/N. Just the pair I’ve been looking for.” “Good morning to you as well, dear brother,” Eloise says with a smirk. He bows excessively in her direction and I cannot help but smile at their antics. “Good morning, my darling sister.” They share a grin before he turns back to us. “I wanted to apologise for my little outburst at dinner. I was tired and the news took me by surprise.” He clears his throat. “I do hope you forgive me.” “Of course, sir,” I hasten to reply. “One could have almost suspected you of being jealous of a certain Captain Parker.” “Eloise!” Daphne chides but she too eyes her brother and me curiously. Before I can try to decipher either my feelings or his expression, Violet walks in, rubbing her hands enthusiastically. “Good morning, children! Who of you will kindly join us for a walk?” Daphne rises as Amelia starts crying once more and Violet immediately offers to take her. While they deliberate on the benefits of a walk for the baby, Benedict settles beside me, merely a few feet between us. I try to ignore the goosebumps forming on my skin at his soft smile. “May I?” He points at my sketchbook. I press it shut with hurried force. “No.” “Oh.” His face falls a little. “Forgive me, I did not mean to pry.” There is dejection in his eyes, but also confusion. I have always shared my sketches with him, just as my compositions, needlework and poetry. We have always valued each other’s opinions and advice. So naturally he is taken aback by my sudden reservedness. But how can I explain the shift from peaceful, colourful motifs to the utter gloom that has been dominating my sketches lately? The impending thunderstorms, the dark forests. And possibly worse, the countless drawings of him. Sometimes just his fingers, delicately holding a paintbrush, sometimes his entire silhouette, but mostly his boyishly handsome face that my eyes unerringly find the second I enter a room. If it scares me how much of my waking thought he is taking up – how much would it scare him? “I– I’m sorry, sir. I have not been feeling very… confident about my work lately.” “I can hardly believe that to be justified in any way. You have always possessed a raw talent I can scarcely dream of.” “That is not true.” “Well then, I challenge you.” Mischief sparkles in his eyes and an inadvertent giggle escapes me. “You mean it? We have not done that in ages.” “All the more reason to do it now.” “Y/N, are you coming?” Daphne calls across the room. “She is otherwise engaged,” Benedict grins before I can reply. “Is that so?” “Your brother has thrown down the gauntlet and I’m afraid I shall have to pick it up.” Daphne rolls her eyes, amusement playing on her lips. “Are you having one of your silly art competitions again? What is it this time?” “Portraits,” I say hastily. “We will paint each other. Fifteen minutes, as usual.” I wonder what possessed me to choose Benedict’s face as the subject, of all things. Most likely pure masochism. I do not dare gauge his reaction although I can feel his eyes on me. “Well, Amelia needs her walk now.” Daphne glances at the crying baby in Violet’s arms. “I suppose we shall see you both later. I’ll be happy to choose a winner then.” “You’re hardly impartial,” Benedict grumbles. “Neither are you when it comes to Y/N,” she retorts. Before I can begin to untangle her accusation she has breezed out the door.

Eloise is as bad a chaperone as ever, engrossed in her book a few yards away in the shade, while Benedict sets up his canvas beside me. Mine is leaning up against my chair. Despite my excessive practice I was not quite able to capture his essence. Perhaps because it felt so strikingly different from the other times he sat for me. I had asked him not to speak, as to not strain my jittery nerves even further, and he had obliged, albeit reluctantly. But with every passing second the silence between us grew heavier, along with his expression. It weighed down my piece of charcoal, making it impossible to find my usual ease in sketching. Just when I feared it might crumble between my tense fingers, Benedict murmured, “Time’s up” with a glance at his pocket watch. Before he could peek at the result I hurriedly asked for a lunch break which we spent with an unusually talkative Anthony. Now we have returned to our previous spot and he sets up his own work. “May I ask,” he says after the first few strokes, “why the quick engagement? Did you know immediately that he was the right man for you?” His jaw clenches while he firmly stares at the canvas. My hands grow clammy, clutching his watch tightly. “I could hardly afford such luxuries anymore. At four-and-twenty my chances of finding the ‘right’ man have been dwindling about as fast as my father’s faith in me receiving a proposal at all.” “You make yourself sound like an old spinster.” “Well, in the eyes of the ton I am. I should consider myself lucky to be engaged at last.” “But you don’t?” His eyes search mine intently until I drop my gaze, scared of what he might find in it. “Of course. Very lucky indeed.” Once more a long silence hangs between us. I suddenly feel impossibly tired. And as much as I want to blame the summer heat and sleepless nights, I know this weariness runs much deeper. The exhaustion of holding up the pretence that I am even remotely content with my lot. “Look at me, please,” Benedict murmurs and I follow his request without hesitation, taken aback by the deep concern in his features. He thanks me softly before resuming his quiet work. “Will you not be terribly lonely in India?” he finally asks. I bite my lip. “Not for long, I hope.” What I cannot say is that I am almost glad to go. To miss them all from so far away they will hardly feel real. To not see them fall in love and lead lives I will barely be a part of. To not sit and watch Benedict await his bride at the altar, breaking inside because it should be me walking down that aisle towards him. To not look at the children who have his wild hair and lopsided grin and not find a single trace of me in their faces. I blink away tears, desperate to change the subject before he manages to poke even more holes into my façade. “And what of your plans for the future, sir? Anything exciting on the horizon?” He pauses for a moment, seemingly debating whether to indulge me. “You will think me foolish, but lately I've been thinking about opening my own academy one day. One where your wealth and sex do not matter, where you are accepted on merit and passion alone. And perhaps when you are a personal friend of the owner.” He winks at me and I stare at him in feigned indignation. “Are you saying my merit and passion would not suffice?” “Not at all. If anything, you possess too much of both, so I would have to keep you in a private class as to not discourage the other students.” I glance down at my lap, hiding both my smile and the blush forming on my cheeks. “Well, I think, it sounds anything but foolish. You could grant opportunities to so many people who will never find them anywhere else. Promise you will write to me when that dream becomes a reality.” I look back up at him, surprised at the soft wonder in his eyes, then let mine travel down to his lips as they curve into a half-smirk. “When, not if? You flatter me.” “I believe in you. I always have. And I dearly hope that one of us will be allowed to live his dream.” Benedict swallows, all traces of mirth erased from his features. “Y/N, you–” “Time’s up,” I say, without a single glance at the watch. He bites his tongue while an entire palette of emotions flits across his face. “Here you are!” We both startle when Daphne appears beside me, placing her hands on my shoulders with a wide grin. “Brother, stop capitalising on my dear friend's time. She is my guest after all.” “And here I thought she liked to spend time with all of us,” Eloise comments and I suddenly wonder how much of our previous conversation she has eavesdropped on while appearing lost in her reading. The other Bridgertons trail behind Daphne, evidently tired from their stroll in the sun. Colin immediately snorts as he peeks at the canvas. “You cannot be painting Y/N again. Do you not have an entire portrait gallery of her already?” “Well, none of you little gremlins ever hold still for even a minute.” “I've sat for you plenty of times,” Daphne protests. “Yes, and you look like you'd rather hang every single time.” “Benedict!” Violet scolds gently. “Well, let’s see them then. You do need a few judges after all.” Despite my weak protests, both sketches are propped up beside each other a few moments later. The Bridgertons remain unusually quiet. “They are both fine works,” Violet says eventually. “But you two seem so…” “Gloomy,” Kate finishes. Everyone nods. “Did Eloise bore you with an excerpt from her book while you were drawing?” Colin quips and ducks as said book comes flying at his head. Within seconds the family is caught in familiar chaos and I let myself be dragged off to another lunch despite feeling so queasy I might never eat again. When I glance back at Benedict he only manages the barest of smiles.

The week and a half of my stay at Aubrey Hall passes in a turmoil of emotions. As much as I love spending time with the Bridgertons and try to fully revel in their company, it unnerves me. Feeling their observant eyes on me, the underlying tension in the air, I have been growing more short-tempered and nervous, increasingly avoiding the presence of the people I love the most to escape their questions, both voiced and unspoken. The portrait of Benedict lies buried in his studio. I could not bear having his charcoal eyes stare at me with the same apprehension as his soft green ones. Being around him has lost all the ease we used to share despite my infatuation. I am glad when Simon joins us, creating a distraction for Daphne and thus some room for myself. But no amount of wandering the familiar halls and gardens, hiding away in the library or furiously filling page after page of my sketchbook can calm my racing mind. Anxiety has nestled deep inside my chest, constricting my lungs and churning in my stomach. And then it arrives: My last day at the manor. They surprise me with a picnic under clear blue skies and despite my incessant sorrow it turns out rather lovely. Before long, the little ones are running around and I find myself pulled in all directions, playing and frolicking in the sun. The adults disperse as well, picking up games or strolling through the gardens in deep conversation. Eventually, I sink down onto a blanket next to Daphne and Amelia, out of breath and surprisingly cheerful. My friend looks over at me, a wistful expression on her face. “I hope you’ve been enjoying your time with us,” she says softly. “Of course,” I reply automatically. “I always do.” I let my eyes wander over the scenes around us and the despite the joy in the air, panic and despair once more rise in my throat. Cotton fills my ears, then my entire skin starts to tingle. And suddenly it comes crashing down on me. The intense finality of these last few days with the Bridgertons. The very real possibility that I might never return to Aubrey Hall, never again chatter with Daphne, joke with Colin, debate with Eloise. Never chase the younger siblings across the rolling greens or laugh at a seething Anthony after an eventful croquet match. Never have a single moment alone with Benedict. I have been a fool for believing that distance would make me miss them all any less. Because at this moment I am certain that I will be longing for these days for the rest of my life. Still, the sob that rips from my mouth takes me by surprise. “Y/N?” Daphne turns to me, little Amelia on her lap eyeing me warily. I want to reassure her but instead tears start flowing uncontrollably. “Oh my dear!” Daphne sets her daughter down on the blanket, then throws her arms around me. “Y/N, whatever is the matter?” I cannot find my voice for several minutes, overwhelmed by the most intense sorrow I have felt since my mother's passing. When I finally speak, the words come out raspy and broken. “I am going to miss you all so much.” “Well, how awful would it be if you didn't?” Daphne says, a half-smile on her lips but it fades as she inspects my face. “Is it more than that? Are you truly not looking forward to marriage at all? I know it can be daunting, Simon and I have had a rocky path as well, but now I cannot imagine a life without him.” “Because you love him!” The words come out rougher than intended and Amelia winces, her mouth curling into a frown. I quickly cradle her in my arms before she can start crying as well. Nuzzling her soft hair I avoid Daphne’s eyes. “You've always loved him, Daph. Even when you could not yet admit it to yourself, even when you did not know that he returned your feelings.” A tense pause stretches between us. “Do you truly believe you will never love Captain Parker?” she finally whispers. I bite my lip, unable to answer. “Y/N, why on earth did you accept his proposal if you cannot see a happy life with him?” I want to scream at her, want to rage at her naiveté, her inability to grasp the gravity of my situation. But I cannot. Not at my best friend who does not know and can never know how this engagement came about. “If you do not want this, I can help you,” she says softly now. “We will find a perfect match for you next season. Who knows, maybe even somewhere along the way until then?” Daphne attempts another soft smile and my tears start flowing again. If only it were this simple. She reaches for my hand while I am pressing Amelia closer with the other, relishing in her warmth and quiet babbling. “It pains me to see you like this. There must be something I can do. I realise that Anthony and I have been very lucky to have found our partners, but if it is not love that persuades you to marry, it should at least be mutual respect and fondness. I am certain we can find such a man for you, if only–” “No,” I say determinedly. “I am grateful to you, Daph, but it is too late.” “Too late because you're afraid to break off the engagement or because your heart is already taken?” I gasp. “Daphne–” “Is it someone I know?” “No, it's no one. There is no one.” I press a kiss to Amelia's head, then place her in her mother's arms. Wiping my face, I rise to my feet. “I am sorry for my outburst. Do forgive me. I just need a moment to myself.” “Y/N–” “Thank you for the picnic.” Brushing away fresh tears I flee the picture-perfect scene that now only breaks my heart.

Hours later everyone is bustling about in the parlour, impatiently awaiting dinner. I have claimed the piano in the corner and let my fingers wander over the keys, following a soft, melancholy tune. My gaze loses focus in the middle distance as I calculate the number of hours I have left here. There is no clock in the room and yet I can hear an unrelenting ticking. “Is that your latest composition?” I flinch before my eyes find Benedict's, his lacking their usual sparkle. “I– I am not certain...” I clear my throat and Daphne briefly glances over at me, worry in her features. “I'm still working on it.” “It's beautiful.” “You do not sound quite convinced,” I say with a weak attempt at a smile. “No, I mean it. Every piece you compose is beautiful. It's just... It sounds so deeply sad.” I suddenly sense how the atmosphere in the room has changed. Even the little ones have gone quiet, with everyone stealing looks of concern at me. “I am so sorry, I did not mean to ruin the mood. Please carry on.” I chuckle nervously and the Bridgertons are kind enough to return to their antics, albeit slightly forced. “Y/N, are you alright?” Benedict's voice is low but strained. I turn back to the keys, once more biting back tears. “Of course, sir. I am perfectly fine.” “You do not seem like yourself,” he murmurs. “You are usually.... softer. But also stronger. With such a zest for life. I've never seen you like this, so burdened, so sombre.” I raise my chin, attempting to look challenging rather than heartbroken at his astute observation. “And what about you, Mr. Bridgerton? These past few days you have hardly been the carefree man I've come to know.“ “Then you must know that you are the cause.” We both still. Blood is rushing in my ears as I try to steel myself for something I fear and crave in equal measure. But after a long moment he shakes his head, swallowing heavily. “I worry about you, Y/N. We all do. I know things have not always been easy for you but until now I believed our family could provide you with comfort. And if that is somehow no longer the case, surely the prospect of starting your own family should excite you.” I hopelessly rifle through my mind for an answer that might assuage him once and for all. “Dinner is ready, my lady.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “Wonderful!” Violet smiles at the servant who has appeared in the doorway, then claps her hands. Her offspring rises from floor and sofas, muttering about being starved while jostling towards the dining room. I stand up so quickly the piano stool topples over and I reach for it at the same time as Benedict. Our hands briefly touch in mid-air, sending a spark through mine before I can pull away. He stares at me, the ticking even louder than before. “Y/N, you must know that you can confide in me.” “There is nothing to confide, sir.” “Benedict.” My face runs hot at both the insistence on his first name and the multitude of my confessions boiling so close to the surface. His features soften as he subconsciously draws closer and I scramble to my feet, heart pounding wildly. “We should go, everyone is waiting.” Before he can reply I rush out of the parlour, pressing clammy hands to my cheeks to soothe the fire in them.

Dinner is strangely quiet and whenever I glance over at Benedict I find him already looking at me. For the millionth time this week I wonder if I should not have discredited his motives so quickly, should not have dismissed his attempts at forming a tighter bond between us for the fear of falling too far. Is it possible I might have misread him all these years? Too blind in my self-deprecation, too caught up in worries about money and class when he never seemed to care much for these things, when perhaps he could have easily seen beyond them? Should I have rather flown too close to the sun than never have flown at all? When the children have gone to bed I linger with the others, barely engaging in the conversation over drinks but unwilling to embark on the hours of anxious brooding in the dark ahead of me. Eventually, the yawns become more frequent and one by one the Bridgertons retire until at last Daphne and I make our way upstairs as well. I halt as we pass the library. “I’m not quite tired enough for bed. I am going to peruse the books for a while.” Daphne turns to me, deeply mournful. “Y/N, I so wish you would tell me what is going on.” I feel my bottom lip begin to quiver and shake my head vehemently. “I can’t.” “Why ever not? Are we not confidants? I have always told you everything.” “And I am so grateful for your trust and friendship.” I envelop her in a tight hug. “I will be alright. Do not worry about me.” “How can I not worry when my best friend is so clearly unhappy?” She draws back to examine me once more. “I have had my happiness. With you, with your family. That shall be enough. Not everyone finds a happy ending.” “But you so deserve it,” she says, grasping my hand. “Both you and–“ She stops herself abruptly. “Who?” “Never mind.” I want to ask again but nod instead. She seizes a candleholder from a side table and lights it with the flame of her own. “Take this. And don’t stay up too late. We will speak again in the morning.” “Goodnight, Daph.” I slip into the dark library and carefully close the door behind me. After a few deep breaths I walk around the room, lighting more candles, until I am startled by a soft knock. With a sigh I move to open the door. “Daphne, please, can we–“ The words die in my throat. Benedict stands before me, carrying a grave expression. “I need to speak with you.” “Sir, you have to leave,” I splutter. “What if someone sees us? Daphne might still be nearby.” “She was the one to tell me where to find you.” “What, why?” “Because she knows.” “Knows what?” A long pause. Then he carefully pushes past me and presses the door shut. I can do nothing but stare at him in disbelief. “Sir, you–“ “Are you fond of your...”, he clears his throat, “your fiancé?” “Excuse me?” “It's a simple question.” My chest tightens as panic once again seeps into my veins. “I am hoping I can learn to be.” His eyes burn into mine, brimming with concern. “Y/N, are you scared of him?” “Sir–“ “Benedict, please. Please.” “No. I– I'm sorry, I...” I am so tired of crying, so I bury my nails painfully into my palms to hold back the tears. Still, I am shaking before him. He slightly raises his arms, as if wanting to pull me into a hug, and I wish more than anything I could let him without risking to fall apart entirely. “You must break off the engagement.” “I can't.” “Y/N, you're terrified. That is not a life you're entering, it is torture. And it’s killing us to know that you are hurting, that you might not be safe – it’s killing me. Is he choleric? I swear, if he ever laid a hand on you, I–“ “He already has.” “What?” “At the midsummer ball. He seized me in the gardens and touched me... Kissed me. Lady Clementine saw us and reported to my father. Father claimed that we were engaged and thus we were.” Benedict has turned to the nearest bookshelf, lips in a tight line, knuckles white from grasping the wooden board like a vice. He is trembling and my stomach sinks even further. “Did you explain the situation to your father?” he presses through gritted teeth, eyes boring into the volumes before him. “Of course. But he is deathly afraid of scandal. Our standing in the ton is on such thin ice as is.” “That's not true.” “Yes, it is.” Frustration starts boiling within me, one that I have been harbouring since I first set foot into their manor on Grosvenor Square ten years ago. All this splendour, so nonchalantly taken for granted by the entire family. All those visitors so obviously enchanted by the grand Bridgertons, never questioning their rightful place in this world. “You have no idea what it's like. Your father wasn't just barely rich enough to gain some footing in the ton but not to provide you with an appealing dowry. You have never been an only child, never had to be scared that your family's legacy might crumble if you ever step out of line for even a second, even when it's not your fault!” I am vibrating with restrained anger but quickly run out of steam when his face falls along with his shoulders. “You're right,” he whispers. “Please forgive me.” “I have to apologise as well. You have been born with an array of privileges from your sex to your wealth but I know that you do not flaunt them. However, my options aren't as wonderfully unlimited.” I swallow thickly. “So you see, I cannot end this engagement. My already slim chances would be ruined, who else would make me an offer after this?” “I would.” His reply is immediate, certain, and it crashes into me without warning. My mouth is dry, every nerve in my body alight. “That is incredibly kind, but I could never accept.” My voice nearly fails me. “You deserve a grand life, Benedict.” His eyes widen at the name finally spilling from my lips where I have kept it hidden for so long. “You will be a renowned artist, a gift for society in so many ways. And you deserve a woman you adore by your side, one who will never leave a stain on your good name.” “I have already found her.” His words hit me unexpectedly at first, an instant stab of jealousy in my chest. Then a lump forms in my throat as realisation sets in. A realisation I have never allowed and am not ready for still. “But I cannot seem to make her see that she has held my heart for an entire decade. That her smile and wit and artistic endeavours captivate me more and more with every passing year. That I could have lived with her romantic disinterest in me, had she found someone whose soul matches the beauty of hers.” “Benedict...” “That my name from her lips is the sweetest sound in the world.” “Please stop.” He pauses briefly. “Are you scared of me as well?” “Yes,” I blurt out, “I have been scared of you since the moment we met because you make me forget myself. You make me forget that you are entirely out of reach, that no matter how much I love you, I–“ My hand flies to my mouth, heart slamming into my ribcage. I stumble backwards while muttering senseless apologies. Benedict is stunned into silence. It feels like years pass between us. When he finally speaks, his words are hoarse and quavering. “You... You love me? All these years every advance of mine seemed futile because you thought–“ “Please forget everything I have said. Promise me you will.” “Forget? Forget the most wonderful words I have heard in my life?” “Benedict, I’m begging you…” I give into the tears at last. Whether they are born of desperation, frustration or simple pain, I can no longer tell. He walks towards me, a barely-contained storm on his face. “I refuse to live in a world where I do not hear you say my name every single day. Where I see you but once a year, your light slowly dimming in a loveless marriage. Carrying the children of that... bastard.” Now he is crying, too. “Please do not do that to yourself. Do not submit yourself to such misery. Whether you choose me or not, I will support you. I will do whatever I can to give you a good life. The life of an artist if you want it. That I can promise you. You will always have me.” He sinks down on both knees, his fingers carefully closing around mine. “And if you do choose me... I will do the same and more. I will give you everything I've held in for so long. My love for you will never falter.” I am frantically searching for reasons to deny him because none of this could ever be real, his skin on mine, his unbelievable offer in the air. My mind is reeling, trying and failing to catch up with everything that has transpired these past few moments. Years of dreams and longing, so briskly swept aside to reveal a glimpse at a reality that must be impossible because it always has been. “What would your family say?” I say shakily. “What would everyone say?” His hold on me tightens. “You know my family adores you and would accept you with open arms, no matter the circumstances. And I could not care less about anyone else. The gossip would die, it always does. Lady Whistledown would surely distract them with something else within a week.” A rivulet of hope trickles across my heart. “Could this... could this truly be?” “Tomorrow you will meet him in the city. All you have to do is talk to him one last time. I will be there if you want me to. Heavens, the entire Bridgerton clan will be there if you want us to.” We both chuckle through the tears. “You are not alone in this, Y/N.” I let his words sink in for a long moment. “And what if I choose you?” “Then we can go into town right after to pick out a ring and speak to the vicar.” His thumbs caress my knuckles reverently. “Will you? Will you do me the incredible honour of accepting my hand?” My knees buckle and I lower myself onto the floor before him. The blazing anxiety I have grown almost accustomed to has faded into glowing embers. After having wandered through hell for weeks, I find peace in his hopeful gaze, comfort in the soft contours I am so intimately acquainted with. A kaleidoscope of memories flashes before my eyes, all tinted in new colours. It has always been there, right in front of me: He loves me. And all I have ever had to do was say yes. “The honour would be all mine, Benedict Bridgerton.” A strangled noise escapes him before his eyes frantically scan my face as if they might find a single trace of doubt there. They could never. Not anymore. His hands come up, hovering beside my cheeks. “God, I really want to– Is it alright if I–“ “Yes!” He grins, breathless and blushing. “I haven't even–“ I lunge forward and press my lips to his. It is clumsy and overwhelming but also everything I have ever wanted. He almost tumbles over in surprise, but seconds later we are completely entangled, seeking each other's mouth over and over. Heart pounding, skin aflame, I am certain this is the happiest I have ever been. Because while my body nearly gives out with the strange exhilaration of it all, I also feel perfectly safe. As if this is exactly where I belong, where everything finally makes sense. In between kisses he whispers my name like a confession of love. It is from his lips. When we finally part for air we stare at each other with endless wonder, then start smiling deliriously. I reach out to cradle his face in my palm and he leans into it with a sigh. “Ben,” I murmur, the name unfamiliar but sweet in my mouth. He beams at me. “Come here, darling.” Without hesitation I let him pull me into his lap, just as desperate to be close. I no longer care if anyone finds us like this, am no longer terrified of scandal. Not when I know for certain that I will marry the love of my life, unfazed by gossip and propriety. I nestle into the crook of his neck, deeply inhaling his scent, revelling in the warmth and solidness of his chest. His arms encircle me as I feel his heartbeat slow. Knowing it was I who made it race in the first place fills me with a fervent glow. “Do you have the slightest idea how incredible you are?” I say quietly as I lean back a little to look at him. “I cannot believe you would have provided for me if my father had turned me away.” “Without hesitation. You're everything to me, Y/N.” “What would your future wife have said?” “I cannot imagine there ever would have been a wife.” My eyes widen. “Oh Benedict…” “Never mind that.” He gives me a half-smile. “I would have had my family. And hopefully you in some way still.” My heart aches for the unhappy people we would have almost become and I pull him in for another kiss, assuring him and myself that will never be us. Then I am hit with one more realisation. “Wait, when you said that Daphne ‘knows’, did you mean...?“ “About my utter adoration for you? Sweetheart, they all know. Always have. You were the only one who never seemed to see.” “But no one ever–“ “I made sure they wouldn’t bring it up. Although you can imagine how excruciating it was for them.” “But why? Maybe one of them could have pulled me out of my head for once.” He gently caresses my face. “I wanted you to find your own way. Whether it would lead to me or not.” My heart swells with love as I lean my forehead against his. “Thank you,” I whisper. “For waiting. For saving me from myself. For everything.” “You have always been worth it.” We once again lose ourselves in a long kiss and I wonder how I would have made it through life without even a fraction of this bliss. Eventually, Benedict draws back, pure warmth in his eyes. “As much as I would like to stay here forever, I’m afraid we have to leave. Daphne may or may not still be standing guard outside.” I raise a hand to my mouth, trying in vain to suppress the giggle spilling out. He grins widely, then releases me and lets me pull him to his feet. “She is truly the best friend one could ask for.” “Oh, make no mistake, she will use this against us for the rest of our lives.” I smile up at him. “And I will cherish every second of it.”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

MASTERLIST

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict x reader #benedict bridgerton fluff

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ashsimpsalot · 6 months ago

Text

Sushi in Tokyo (Kid X Sita X Reader)

Yes this is a poly fic, the tittle is based on

MY poly anthem

You entered the cracked up flat to find Kid watching the TV by himself, so deep in the Movie he didn't even realise you were home, a smile formed on your lips, fuck, even though you're hosting two fugitives in your home, the sight is too domestic to not melt your heart.

"I'm home," you announced, closing the door behind you. You turned around to see Kid with a big smile on his lips, standing and walking towards you, as excited as a puppy.

"jaanu, I missed you," he breathed before attaching hid lips to yours, hands wrapping around your waist. You hummed in the kiss.

Once you pulled back you stared into his eyes with a smile before looking at his hair, touching them.

"your curls feels fluffier than usual," you made a comment which earned a chuckle from Kid. He hummed and have your lips a final peck. "Sita put henna on my hair, she said she got bored being stuck in this house." he explained.

The mental image of your girl just running her hands into your man's curls makes you smile.

"where is she?" he lead you to sit you on the couch with him. "she's asleep," he whispered into your hair. The man's already clingy as it is, having you work much more than usual makes Kid crave having you in his arms even more.

You being the only face that is not all over the news for the murder of Rana, Queenie and Baba Shakti, you had decided, it's safer for the them to stay at home until it all die down, then all three of you could make a run to a different region of India, maybe even crossing borders. Anywhere people can't recognise them.

But until then you have to work to supply enough money, for three people, and it's not easy. It takes way much more time than you usually work.

You glance at the blanket that is on the sofa and frowned. "you're sleeping on the couch? Did you two fought?" you asked looking at Kid.

Kid barely loses his cool, Sita, being herself, is always clear on what she wants, what she likes and dislikes. For them to fight is very very rare.

"God, no. She kicked me out of the room because it was too hot, she said I'm a human heater," he said and lightly pouted. You let out a small laugh.

"she's right, you are a heater, and the heat of Mumbai isn't to play with. Plus your habit of hugging while you sleep isn't really helping your case." you teased, kissing his pout off. His eyebrows furrowed. "I can't even cuddle my girls without being rejected," he joked. You love it when Kid is comfortable. When it just the three of you, you get to see this side of him.

"baby?" a sleepy voice interrupted you two you turned around to see Sita with sleepy eyes standing in front of the room.

"hey, pretty girl, come here," you smiled at your girl, fuck even when she just woke up she's so incredibly beautiful. Sita sits herself between Kid and you, playfully pushing Kid away from you earning a small whine from Kid. He positione her so that she's sitting on his lap. On of her hand thrown over his shoulder she lazily kissed him

You smiled and softly placed your thumb on her chin, caressing before leading her in. She smiled and kissed you next.

"how was your nap?" Sita had thrown both her legs into your lap, you chuckled and brought her hand to kiss her palm.

"was good, without the heater bothering me." she joked, Kid tickled her side earning a yelp form her.

"Did I wake you up, sweetheart?" you asked softly, she just shook her head. Taking your hand in hers and begun her favourite pass time. Drawing random shapes on your palm.

"it's raining outside, it got cold," she replied, her fingers tracing letters in your palm. 'I <3 u` again and again and you smiled.

"is that why you came out? To be with the heater?" Kid asked, his arm thrown over your shoulder to pull you closer, you end up with your head on his chest while Sita's head on his neck.

Just what you need after a long day.

Sita didn't answer just let out a small laugh and yelp once again when he tickled her side. "Kidd!" she whined, now switching form drawing letters in your palm to kissing your fingers, almost even suckling on them.

Kid on the other hand has had his nose buried in your hair. Obviously sniffing the hell out of them.

"you two are awfully clingy today," you laughed into Kid's chest, eyes pinned on how pretty Sita's lips are kissing your fingers like that. You're glad that she's comfortable enough to let her oral fixation out and about. She used to say she's insecure about it and try not to do it in public.

"we missed you," Sita said softly before taking her head off of Kid's neck, tilting your chin and kissed your lips. You hummed into the kiss.

"hopefully this thing die down a little soon, I've got my contact for fake IDs already, even all the papers we need, just need this to die down and we can move on," Kid said and sighed. Sita though looked particularly interested. "what?" Kid asked confused. You just laughed because you know your girl all too well.

"you talking about all these matter makes her hot and bothered," you joked which made Sita blush. "hey!" she tried to defend herself before burying her face into Kid's neck, hiding from both of you.Kid chuckled and raised his hand to run it through her hair.

"hot and bothered hm?" he looked over to you with a smirk. You chucked. "such a tease," you laughed at him and kissed his lips, Sita turned her head again, pulling your hand towards her lips and kissed them again.

"i could fall asleep like this," you admitted, earning a him from Kid. A yawn escaped your lips. You looked over to Sita and chuckled when she's settled into placed your index finger into her mouth.

"I might fall asleep," you said again eyes now closed. Kid's hand that was resting on your arm softly move to pat you "sleep, I'll lift you later," you answer with a hum. You felt a kiss on your head and before you know it you're snoring like a baby.

#Spotify #kid monkey man #monkey man fanfiction #monkey man x reader #monkey man fluff #dev patel #monkey man imagine #Kid X Sita X Reader #Sita monkey man

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robertreich · 2 years ago

Video

youtube

We Need to Make Government Bigger (It’s Not What You Think)

We need to make the House of Representatives bigger!

Now I know what some might be thinking: “Make the government bigger?” Well, technically yes. But that's missing the point. We need to expand the House to make the government work better, and be more responsive to our needs.

Put simply: The House of Representatives does not have enough members to adequately represent all 334 million of us.

Now, the House hasn’t always had 435 members and it was never intended to stay the same size forever. For the first 140 years of America’s existence, a growing House of Reps was actually the norm.

It wasn’t until 1929 that Congress arbitrarily decided to cap the size of the House at 435 members. Back then, each House member represented roughly 200,000 people.

But since then, the population of the United States has more than tripled, bringing the average number of constituents up to roughly 760,000.

Compared to other democracies, we are one of the worst in terms of how many constituents a single legislator is supposed to represent. Only in India does the average representative have more constituents.

And as America continues to grow it's only going to get worse.

Think your representative doesn’t listen to you now? Just wait.

Not surprisingly, research shows that representatives from more populous House districts tend to be less accessible to their constituents, and less popular.

Thankfully, the solution is simple: allow the House to grow.

Increasing the number of representatives should be a no brainer for at least four reasons:

First, logically, more representatives would mean fewer people in each congressional district — improving the quality of representation.

Second, a larger House would be more diverse. Despite recent progress, today’s House is still overwhelmingly male, white, and middle-aged. More representatives means more opportunities for young people, people of color, and women to run for office — and win.

Third, this reduces the power of Big Money. Running an election in a smaller district would be less expensive, increasing the likelihood that people elect representatives that respond to their interests rather than big corporations and the wealthy.

Fourth, this would help reduce the Electoral College’s bias toward small states in presidential elections. As more heavily populated states gain more representatives in Congress — they also gain more electoral votes.

Now, some might say that a larger House of Representatives would be unwieldy and unmanageable.

Well, Japan, Germany, France, and the UK — countries with smaller populations than us — all have larger legislatures — and they manage just fine.

Others might say that it would be too difficult — or expensive — to accommodate more representatives in the Capitol. “Are there even enough chairs???”

Seriously?

Look, we’ve done it before. The current Capitol has been expanded to accommodate more members several times — and it can be again. A building should not be an obstacle to a more representative democracy.

Increasing the size of the House is an achievable goal.

We don’t even need a constitutional amendment. Congress only needs to pass a law to expand the number of representatives, which it’s done numerous times.

And as it happens, there is a bill — two in fact!

Each would add more than 130 seats to the House and lower the number of constituents a typical representative serves from 761,000 to a little over 570,000. Plus, there is a mechanism for adding new members down the line.

These bills are our best chance to restore the tradition of a House that grows in representation as America grows.

It’s time for us to think big — and make the People’s House live up to its name.

#youtube #democracy #government #politics #democrats #republicans #donald trump #elections #videos #video

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perpetualexistence · 9 months ago

Note

if noah was actually written as the schemer, how do you think it would have gone exactly? love your writings btw

Thank you so much! And oh, anon. Anon you've unlocked character analysis mode. I hope you're ready for a bunch of paragraphs, because that's what you're getting.

First of all, as much as I love writing a Noah who can scheme on par with Alejandro or Heather, he's a different kind of schemer than them. Noah’s a lazy character at heart, particularly season 1 Noah. This is true whether or not you believe the theory that he sabotaged himself to get out of the game early. He’s a child who was born naturally smart. He hacked his way into moderating a forum at age 5 because he truly believed he could do a better job at it. He's going to believe in working smarter rather than harder.

Thus, his scheming reflects this. If Heather is a snake, and Alejandro is an eel, then Noah is a vulture. (Specifically a white-rumped vulture since its habitat as India. This isn't actually important to the narrative. But it's important to me to have animals that share the same roots as the characters they represent.) The bird has a reputation for being evil, but isn’t really. Noah’s more opportunistic than anything. He’s the type to let other people do all the hard work before swooping in for the kill.

His plan going into Island is to latch onto the strongest competitor and ride their coat tails. He'll stay in the middle of the pack for as long as possible. Once that's no longer an option, he'll commit to winning challenges to gain immunity.

Cue Heather. He can immediately recognize that she's one to take charge and sabotage. Which is perfect for him. He presents himself as an option for being her spy for the boys once he realizes she's looking for alliances (because I do rather like this direction that canon could have taken if they had committed to him being the schemer). He lets Heather take the lead, though does offer valuable suggestions based on his observations on the other contestants.

He also commits to getting close with Lindsay. He needs her to be more loyal to him than she is to Heather. He does this by indulging in her attempts to have them all be best alliance buddies. Babes, as she calls them. Noah tries arguing that there shouldn't be an 'e' in there, and also he's not a 'babe'. Heather and her, sure. But definitely not him. Lindsay refuses to listen to this logic because he's a part of the alliance, so he's a babe, and they can just give him a makeover if he's hung up on it!

Noah and Lindsay do end up becoming legitimate friends. The potential friendship of bimbo with a heart of gold and cold little cynic is just too much for me not to have them be friends. Schemer Noah still has a heart. And if he can have a friend and a shot at the prize money, then he'll take both. Besides, it's not like he's doing her any harm in trying to keep her completely from Heather's clutches.

All the while, he's making plans for eventually betraying Heather. He establishes early on that he has a 'journal' that's clearly a diary. It doesn't have anything in it, but no one else knows that. After a few episodes, he'll complain about it going missing. Not too long after, he'll be completely quiet about the matter.

See, Noah's patient. Once he's ready to drop Heather, he'll absolutely reveal the alliance. And he'll reveal that the only reason he was a part of it was because Heather stole his journal and threatened to read it to everyone just like she'd done to Gwen. It would immediately gain him sympathy points and paint a huge target on Heather's back that he'd coast by stress-free. And who are they going to believe? The girl who's been tormenting everyone from the beginning? Or the guy who hasn't been doing much?

Part of me wants to say he'd reveal this grand plan during/after Lindsay's elimination when it is suddenly very clear the alliance is over. Either way, his plan has worked, and now he can just coast on his sympathy until he's in the final three.

He still doesn't win the season. This is due to a combination of factors, centered around one thing: his overconfidence in his intelligence. He can make a plan, and he can execute it flawlessly. But he doesn't do so well at improvising, or thinking of what comes after.

He assumed that tossing Heather aside would see her focus her effort on winning and trying not to get eliminated. He underestimated how vindictive she would be, to the point of risking her own elimination to make sure Noah doesn't win, either. He also neglected to play the social game thanks to spending most of his time spying. Sure, he has their sympathy for being used by Heather. But most of them barely know him, and they'd rather protects their own friends than go out of their way to not eliminate Noah.

I don't know when exactly he'd be eliminated. It could be either before or after Heather, though I don't see him making it to the final three. I think final three is the farthest I'd be willing to put him, because there's no way he's not quitting on the dares before Owen or Gwen.

At the playa de losers, he has a bit of an existential crisis because this is the first time his intelligence hasn't just given something to him. Lindsay helps him through it in her own Lindsay way by serving as a reminder that she isn't smart, but she's still kicking! Plus, she was still able to tell Heather off, to which he would admit he was fairly impressed with the insults she threw down. He had no idea she had it in her.

He still manages to make friends with Izzy and Eva. This mainly happens during the special when all of a sudden there's a million on the line. He throws his lot in with two of the physically strongest competitors (who don't currently hate his guts), and accidentally makes more friends along the way. (I can never abandon Team E-scope).

When World Tour hits, he knows he has to force himself to be a more active participant. He knows he can't win the physical game, so he'll just have to, ugh, put effort into the social game. He still needs someone else to latch onto to help him with that, so he settles for Owen. He tells Owen that he's trying to be more 'friendly', and Owen's more than happy to take him under his wing! He's never really done that before! It'll be fun for both of them, he promises! (Nowen to some extent is also a constant in any of my ideas).

Meanwhile he also has to keep tabs on Alejandro. He sees the guy going after Team Victory one by one, but doesn't say anything because it's not his problem. ...Until he remembers that Lindsay is in Team Victory. So now he's got to scheme a way to get Alejandro to steer his attention away from Lindsay while also making sure Alejandro doesn't figure out who he's trying to protect.

It'll probably eventually lead to him and Heather teaming up against Alejandro as an 'enemy of my enemy' pact. Except Alejandro sees this and begins to tempt Noah to join his side as well. Everyone in the trio knows that the others are trying to take advantage of them. It's very much a Mexican standoff.

Aaaaand that's all I've got! I know Season 3 wasn't as detailed as Season 1 was, but I'm getting tired as I'm writing this reply due to the time I'm writing it. Also, the ideas have straight up run out for now, so time will tell what happens.

I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, anon!

#perp answers ask #total drama #td noah #total drama noah #schemer noah #td heather #td alejandro #td lindsay

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dailyanarchistposts · 1 month ago

Text

When Elon Musk took over Twitter and the platform began to tank, the stock value plummeted, and people were leaving in droves, many of us thought he was just an arrogant doofus, a parasitic man-child who became a billionaire by throwing around free money, more recently billions in government subsidies but originally, as a kid, his massive inheritance from South African diamond mines. And he is all those things, but there is also something more going on here.

The Twitter takeover, in fact, possesses an opaque but important similarity with—of all things—the Chinese government’s COVID policy. If we assume that Musk’s many fumbles with one of the world’s largest social media platforms is nothing but a blunder, nothing but stupidity, then we miss out on an illuminating question. Which, it turns out, is the same question we miss when we assume the Chinese government’s zero tolerance COVID policy is a mere example of totalitarian inclinations or a different public health culture (both of which are explanations infused with racist stereotypes).

So what on Earth connects Elon Musk to China’s COVID policy? For one thing, one of Musk’s other companies, Tesla, became the first foreign company to wholly own a car factory in China when they opened an assembly plant in Shanghai in 2019. The Shanghai Gigafactory is one of Tesla’s largest, though it ran into problems when the government temporarily closed it down in 2020, and again in March 2022, to enforce a COVID quarantine. As the threat of new quarantines pops up, Musk might consider sending new investments to countries with weaker regulations like India. Apple, for example, is increasingly relying on India over China for iPhone production, meaning China’s COVID policy is costing them foreign direct investment.

There’s the similarity. A government policy causing a loss in revenue. A new corporate policy causing a plummet in stock value. Are we to judge both of these policies failures, or at the least, ineffective, because they lost money?

And that gets us to our central question: do companies and governments in this capitalist world system exist to make money? Is money, capital accumulation, the fundamental driving force of our world?

If it is, then both the turbulence Elon Musk has caused at Twitter and the stagnation the Chinese government has inflicted on its own economy due to its zero tolerance COVID policies have to be viewed as blunders, as they have unarguably caused a loss of economic value. However, in both cases, we might at least entertain the possibility that such an argument is reductionist if it hides other factors and outcomes that cannot be so easily quantified.

And quantification is an angle we need to explore to be able to answer this question. Even though the vagaries of international finance make it an obscure field, economic loss is easy to measure relative to qualitative forms of evaluation. Did Twitter lose value? Did the growth rate of the Chinese economy contract? Since both of these questions can be reduced to a number and real numbers are arranged along a single dimension, meaning we can always say whether one number is more or less than another number, then yes, Twitter lost value, and yes, the Chinese economy began to grow at a slower rate. So if it’s all about money, both of these policies were mistakes.

Before considering the case closed, should we be thinking about any kinds of qualitative as opposed to quantitative analysis that might illuminate the topic? After all, the knowledge systems of all the dominant institutions of our society are heavily biased in favor of quantitative and objective frameworks of thought; in fact this epistemology is central to the rationalism of the modern state and of capitalism itself, given that they allow for reproducibility and thus industrialism as both an economic and a political or war-making mode, and they allow ethical and spiritual frameworks to be subsumed into the construction of society itself, therefore making them invisible and immune to being questioned. If you want me to explain this idea more, let me know and I’ll devote some time to it in the future, but for now, let’s get back to Twitter.

What did Musk accomplish at Twitter, aside from losing unimaginably vast sums of money and showing the entire world that he’s not as intelligent as he thinks he is? He has taken a huge step to create a more right-wing media environment in what might become the biggest change to the landscape since the emergence of Fox News. True, Twitter’s algorithms always favored the specific content and also the controversy-seeking, baiting tactics of the Right. It is also true that conversation on Twitter was more often than not superficial and demeaning. However, we should not deny that anarchists and other anticapitalists saw Twitter as an important space for organizing and outreach. I had never been on social media my entire life, until finally around the end of 2019, when other anarchists convinced me that it did not make sense for me to spend so much time writing if I was going to avoid the platforms where writing and political analysis were actually being distributed in the current day.

And there are other corners of Twitter where emotional supportiveness, care, and mutual aid are actually the norm, spaces important in many people’s lives for building safety and opportunities for healing and connection, in rejection of the ableist, trans- and homophobic, racist culture that predominates in public space.

So yes, Twitter is a hellsite, but if we so quickly forget about some of the things that brought us there, we risk missing the relevance of this moment. Musk’s takeover of Twitter has enabled a fierce campaign of censorship against anarchist and other anticapitalist accounts, frequently executed by Musk himself, to such an extent that we should seriously consider that this was one of his primary motivations, more than making money. We already know that restoring Trump’s account was a motivator for him.

Meanwhile, the centrist media has given massive coverage to the Right’s “free speech” anti-censorship alibi. They continue to portray Musk as an anti-censorship figure, restoring far-Right accounts that had been banned, and they refuse to mention the accounts that Musk has been banning.

What about the Chinese government’s zero-tolerance COVID policy? Obviously, shutting everything down in a neighborhood, a city, or an entire region as soon as a rise in COVID cases is detected is going to be disruptive to the economy, as when when authorities closed down Tesla’s Shanghai Gigafactory and so many other thousands of factories. For a while now, Chinese planners and economists internationally have figures detailing how the zero-tolerance and other regulatory policies are slowing the economy and causing unemployment to skyrocket.

It’s important to mention that GDP growth is not just a metric imposed by Western observers. The Chinese Communist Party under Xi Jinping has made GDP growth targets a central part of their ruling strategy and their conceptualization of development. And yet, midway through the year, when it became clear they would not even meet their already reduced target of 5.5% growth, they chose to prioritize their restrictive no COVID policies.

Most countries in the world chose to allow a massive number of deaths in exchange for better economic growth. In the US, that’s over 1 million deaths, a figure we don’t see the media mention very often. However, the Chinese government cannot accurately be accused of humanitarianism, given that their solutions have included locking workers into their factories. In fact, their zero-tolerance COVID policy bears a striking similarity to Mao’s Four Pests Campaign, which sought to drive animals like flies and sparrows to extinction as a part of the government’s ambitious agricultural program. The purpose is less to save lives and more to eliminate external, natural forces capable of disrupting a rational, quantitative planning process.

A couple notes here, for accuracy. Mao is frequently lambasted for trying to eliminate sparrows, and the disastrous ecological consequences that policy had. At the same time (late ‘50s) and for significantly longer, the US government was trying to exterminate the wolves. Also, Western hacks and mainstream media frequently refer to socialist states as “planned economies” and NATO states as “free market economies.” Though there are significant differences in the strategies of state intervention in the economy, these labels are bogus since all modern states exist on the same continuum. The US government, from the beginning but even more so since FDR, engages in substantive economic planning, deciding which sectors will get the most capital, deciding interest rates, setting targets for inflation; and the Chinese government allows and encourages a massive private sector that is more responsive to market forces.

The reason all states engage in planning, and a more accurate framework for understanding the nature of that planning, is social control.

What is social control? The Marxist I like the most told me it is a fetishistic, meaningless category. Actually, it’s a necessary concept for explaining some glaring holes in Marxism itself and in any framework that sees capital accumulation as the be-all and end-all for understanding our society.

Musk’s actions make sense, even though they lost him $9 billion dollars, because like any capitalist he is worried about fundamental questions of social control that allow him to be a capitalist in the first place. The Chinese government’s actions make sense because developing techniques that allow a state to neutralize and surpass epidemics would greatly increase that state’s planning powers, and even if they fail they are testing and amplifying their arsenal of social control techniques, and social control is the fundamental concern of any state and thus the fundamental concern of capitalism, being an economic system entirely dependent on state power.

In this context it is worth noting that the Chinese government decided to relax their COVID policy not in early July, when they were forced to choose that policy over their economic growth targets, but at the end of November, when mass protests bordering on insurrection against the policy broke out. The policy got in the way of economic accumulation: they stuck to it. The policy got in the way of social control: they abandoned it.

Academically trained Marxists are going to be biased in favor of a quantitative analysis, like seeing capital accumulation as the fundamental force in our society, for the same reasons that all our dominant institutions are biased in favor of quantitative analysis. A qualitative analysis is not reproducible, and the modern state needs access to reproducible sciences.

This seems like a contradiction to claim that the state is fundamentally motivated by a qualitative science, like social control, and yet constantly in need of a quantitative science like capital accumulation. In fact, this contradiction traces a tense balance, a relation, that has come to shape the entire planet in these last centuries. The fundamental truth of the State is social control, an existential war waged by centralized power against all life. And the most effective motor the State has ever developed to fuel its war is not a winning religion, it’s not a more streamlined process for the transfer of power, it’s economic accumulation. Before capitalism, states were exponentially weaker, frequently overthrown by the societies they tried to dominate, even when state and society shared the hierarchical culture produced by patriarchy and organized religion.

Capitalism, which requires the enclosure of the commons and the alienation of all life, cannot exist without the planning and war-making powers of the State. And once capitalism emerged, created in a continuum by the Italian city-states, the Castillian-Aragonese state, and finally in its modern form by the Dutch state, it bestowed the states that adopted it with such power that henceforth it became the duty of every government on the planet to embrace capitalism, lest they be overwhelmed by those that already had. This sheds light on one of the reasons that colonialism spread in such a rapid wave, especially where there were already states that could be instrumentalized in the conquered territories. And it helps explain why socialism, by not rejecting the state, was fully absorbed by capitalism in the early 20th century, and why all Marxist-inspired states are fully capitalist, fully colonial, and every bit as imperialist as their geopolitical circumstances allow them to be.

Capital accumulation is a necessary motor for the state; it is also a favored metric for a quantitative science of power. Given that accumulation is a result of oppressive, exploitative processes and it cannot happen without the domination of society and nature, high rates of accumulation are generally a good indicator that state power is firmly ensconced, that the State is winning its war against life. Still, the fundamental question is that of social control. Many capitalists, as specialists, will lose sight of this as they become obsessed with their numbers game, but in the end it’s just a game, a highly useful game, and when push comes to shove, questions of social war will always be more important for the institutions of power. The trick for them is to make sure that seeking capital accumulation and seeking social control always go hand in hand, rather than entering into contradiction.

As for anticapitalist movements, we lose sight of the social war at our own risk. The reasons for this are multiple. Marxism’s predictive power regarding the development of the revolution is nil, displaying a profound lack of understanding of what revolution actually means. Attempts to combine materialist with geopolitical analysis, as with Giovanni Arrighi’s development of world systems theory (on the whole an illuminating theoretical framework) also demonstrate their inaccuracy and disconnection from living history wherever they focus too heavily on quantitative questions of capital accumulation, a weakness explored in Alex Gorrion’s “Anarchy in World Systems.” These are not just obscure questions relating to debates from past centuries, given how academic, materialist-oriented journals and discussion groups continue to falsify the history of revolutionary struggle as we live it, claiming, for example, that the major uprisings of the past two decades have occurred as a result of the crisis of accumulation, when in fact the uprisings preceded the manifestation of that crisis and have occurred in countries experiencing polar opposite moments in the kinds of crises capitalism constantly produces.

(I shouldn’t have to provide this rebuttal, but alas, experience tells me I do: it is intellectually dishonest and a waste of everyone’s time to start off by claiming that rebellion is “produced” by a specific quantitative crisis in accumulation, to then be shown that in fact rebellions are occurring in completely different economic circumstances—the crises associated with growth, the crises associated with recession, the crises associated with inflation—and then to double back around and claim that one’s original argument was that crisis produces rebellion. Given that capitalism is a constant string of crises, this is a meaningless statement with nothing predictive or scientific about it, and it sets up the dishonest strawman that non-materialists believe that rebellions come out of thin air, in no way a response to their surroundings.)

Time and again, the first sign of crisis that materialists notice is the rebellion itself, meaning they are rarely on the front lines. Those who are more present tend to be those who decide to fight back even if objective conditions are supposedly unfavorable.

For our survival, we need to understand the ways the State is designing a constant war against us, and always has been, and always will be. For our liberation, we need to understand unquantifiable life, abundance without capital, and we need to develop an intelligence for a kind of struggle that also subverts the logic of warfare. A collective sight that can perceive the battlefield but destroy the opposing army by moving sideways, by burrowing, by climbing into the trees, by turning the battlefield back into a field, a forest, a community.

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itsblasttothepast · 4 months ago

Note

Checo's time at mclaren was similar to what's happening now, no?

No, not really, for starters, the circumstances were wildy different:

When Checo was in McLaren:

He was a rookie, barely out the nest from Sauber, being teammates with the nicest guy ever (Kamui, how I miss you).

His new teammate was already a world champion (Jenson Button, 2009), and he was clearly the inexperienced for the press.

He was substituting Lewis Hamilton, another already world champion, and fan favorite. Most of the hate Checo received back then was because Hamilton moved on to Mercedes.

McLaren was in the middle of restructuring his cars, and the team was kind of a mess back then. The phrase 'that's why we hired him' was heard so many times in so many interviews...

Finally, Checo never felt part of the team entirely and they fired him like nothing. Checo's dad said that it was the ultimate betrayal for Checo, since he gave everything to be in McLaren and now he was without a seat.

And yes, he was quite hated in his time in McLaren, but mostly because Lewis left and Jenson kept complaining about Checo's driving style. Something that's the same though, when everything went wrong, everyone blamed Checo (still happening with RBR).

However, with RBR (Red Bull Racing), things were like this:

He was more experienced and had more knowledge of developing the cars, Force India and Racing Point always tried to adjust the car to Checo's needs.

Checo was part of one of Horner's teams back in GP2, so Horner knew him and followed his career in F1 (Horner's words).

RBR had problems mantaining a second driver, since the team focused on Max.

Nobody in RBR wanted Checo, except for Horner. They wanted someone from their academy, so Horner had to twist everyone's arm so they could at least consider Checo. This shows that the team didn't exactly received him with open arms.

He knew his job: Secure Max's first championship. That was the goal, he had to be the second driver that helped Max achieve the glory. One time when they interviewed Checo, they asked him about blocking Lewis and Checo said that he knew Lewis would understand because he was doing it for HIS team. He already felt part of the family, even when most didn't want him there.

He was (is) older than Max, more relaxed and also, can take the heat and pressure.

What's the difference? Yes, he was hated in McLaren, but in RBR he's the focus, even more than Max. Almost every news, rumour, post... it's about Checo, or something someone said about him. And the focus is 80% negativity because RBR is a mess team. Always followed by drama.

Oh, and a big, BIG difference, in McLaren, Checo was single and had no kids. In RBR he's married with children, and people has no boundaries by messing with them; imagine being Checo's wife and reading that the press say your husband has 'drug money' or 'mafia money' or other many racists comments.

So no, it's not the same, the hate he gets now is awfully worse. And people don't seem to understand WHY is wrong acting this way.

I still have hope for Checo moving to another team, I know he wants to retire in RBR, but if he goes to Audi (with NICOOOO), or even if I'm right and Otmar brings another team, I think the press will finally let him go and let him race in peace (one can only dream).

#anon questions #sorry about the rant #sergio perez #checo perez #otmar save my boy!

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leftoverenvy · 11 months ago

Text

Tastes Like Sugar (ch. 29)

Summary: India Mae, or Indi, is a music major, struggling to pay bills, tuition, work, and make good grades. Emily Prentiss is a BAU profiler, as well as a DC socialite thanks to her huge family fortune. The two enter into a mutually beneficial arrangement: Emily will pay for Indi's school if Indi accompanies Emily to her social functions for a few months, posing as her girlfriend. As weeks go by, the lines between their arrangement and their true feelings start to blur. But money can't buy love, right?

Pairing: India Mae Banks x Emily Prentiss; OC x Emily Prentiss

Warnings: smut; sugar baby relationships; age gap (16 years - but all over 18)

Word Count: 2.8 k

Read on Wattpad | Ao3 | Previous Chapters

Taglist: @ssa-sapphic 🧸; @5raysofsunshine 🌮; @reidselle 🦭; @swiftfiles 🐝💚; @gaelic-symphony 🎻 ; @sadgirlml 🌻💌; @hotchs-bitch 🦆 ; @multiverse-mxdness ; @madelineleong ; @scorpsik 🎨 ; @heidss

A/n: Wow, I am so so sorry that it's been so long since an update. I've finally found my joy in writing again. If you're still following this story, I cannot tell you how much your patience and loyalty means to me. Enjoy <3

Chapter 29 - Wayward

My summer with Emily was like a dream. She had only been gone on two cases, spending more regular hours in the office. We didn't comment on her unusually light case load for fear it would jinx it. I loved the time we were able to spend together with a more normal schedule. I enjoyed twisting myself around her while we watched movies on the couch. I relished the way she made me feel as she watched me play the piano. I yearned for the way she touched me every night.

Even though she had been gone for a case in Alaska for the last week, I still counted it a blessing to have had so many weeks uninterrupted by calls away. "Hi angel!" I startled, jumping halfway off the couch.

Once I had caught my breath, I smiled widely and responded, "Emily!" She flopped down next to me on the couch, pulling me in for a proper kiss. "Missed you," I mumbled between kisses. Once our frenzy had slowed down, I whispered against her neck, "I have something for you."

"That's funny, me too!" She whipped out a keychain with a photo of the Northern Lights in it.

I chuckled, sitting up to grab it and examine it more closely. "This is actually very pretty, Em. I thought these were supposed to be cheesy."

"I thought the Alaskan landscape deserved better. It was gorgeous up there; I wish you could have seen it."

"Thank you, babe. I love it." She kissed my cheek, tugging me closer.

"Now," she started, "What's this about a present for me?" I smiled bashfully, suddenly nervous to play the song I had finished for her. "I thought I was supposed to bring you presents."

"I didn't say it was a present. It's not a big deal. Just a lil something."

"Mmhm," she hummed skeptically, her eyes narrowing. "Show me." Something in Emily's glittering eyes told me she was excited by the prospect of receiving a gift. When was the last time someone had gotten her something that she really wanted?

I reluctantly left her arms and stood up. Butterflies swarmed my stomach, nerves overtaking me. This was a bad idea. I should have recorded her song and let her listen to it on her own. I felt like the biggest idiot on the planet – she was going to hate this.

"I've uh," I nervously sat down at the bench, "Been composing this summer." I had worked all summer on this composition when Emily was out of the house.

"I know, baby. You've done some really great pieces."

"Yeah, well." I swallowed thickly. I tried to think of what to say next. I thought you deserved one to show you how much I love you. Instead, I whispered, "This one's called 'Emily's Song.'" Before she could say anything, I started playing.

As soon as I pressed down on the keys, my hands knew what to do. I didn't need to think about it, muscle memory controlled my fingers. I felt myself start to tear up playing, knowing just how much love I had woven into this song. I wished I was brave enough to tell her. Embarrassed by how emotional I was, I begged my eyes to suck the tears back in, certain Emily would be appreciative but not emotional.

As I started the last part of the song, I knew that I would never love anyone like I loved Emily Prentiss. But the thought terrified me. I was only twenty-two – what did I know about love? And how could she feel even a fraction of what I felt for her?

When the final notes of the song rang through the air, I couldn't bring myself to look at Emily, far too embarrassed. I heard her sniff and then push herself off the couch. Another beat passed and I felt her arms wrap around my shoulder. "That was perfect, Indi. Thank you." She pressed a kiss to my temple, her lips lingering longer than usual. "I mean it, angel. No one's ever written a song for me before. It was absolutely beautiful."

Her lips trailed down the side of my face, lingering at the corner of my mouth and until I turned my head to kiss her back. She deepened the kiss and trailed her hands down my body to show me how much she liked the song.

- - -

Emily and I fell back into our morning routine as if we hadn't broken it during the summer. I made us breakfast as she packed her go bag for work. We ate in silence, as she read on her iPad. Breaking the quiet, she asked, "Are you ready for your first day back?"

"I guess," I responded morosely. "I liked our summer together. I liked being able to focus on music and you. No math or English essays to worry about." Emily chuckled at that, moving her dishes to the sink.

"At least you have a good first recital piece ready."

Puzzled, I asked, "Which one?"

"My song," she said, beaming with pride.

I narrowed my eyes with uncertainty. "You really think it's good enough for recital?"

"Yes I do," she affirmed. And her voice was so confident, it left no room for objection. "This will be your best semester yet!" she said positively.

"But how can I be expected to do homework when you're home if your case load keeps up like this?"

"Are you pushing for me to go away on a case?" she asked with a smirk.

"Absolutely not!" I protested. "I'm just saying, it will be hard to concentrate knowing you're home."

"We'll manage, angel." She kissed me on the forehead and moved to holster her gun to her hip. My heart skipped a beat staring at her; she made everything look sexy. "I'm off to work now. I'll text you if I'm called away." She leaned down to kiss me briefly. "I want to hear all about how your first day goes! I'll call you if I'm away, or I'll see you tonight."

"Bye, Em." When the door to the garage closed softly behind her, I sighed. I wanted to get to campus early so I could get a good seat in class. I quickly did our dishes, grabbed my backpack, and hurried out the door.

But life had a funny way of balancing itself out. I had had the best summer of my life and was already disappointed to have to go back to classes, just to receive the worst welcome back to school present: my car broke down. I called Emily in tears, worried that I was going to start the semester off on the wrong foot with my first professor.

I dialed Emily's number with shaky hands, feeling the passing cars shake mine as they zoomed past me on the highway. I wasn't sure how Emily understood me through my hiccups and tears when I told her I was stuck on the shoulder of the highway.

"Shhh. Calm down, baby. It's going to be okay, I'll make all the arrangements. As soon as we're off the phone, I'll call a tow company to come get it and take it to the shop." I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, tears abating, thankful, as always, for Emily.

She continued, "In the meantime, baby, just drive the Lexus – the keys are by the door." I felt my heart rate elevate at the thought. "Or, if you'd prefer, you can Uber over to Quantico and pick up the Jag." Pick up the Jag. She said it so casually, as if driving one of her very expensive cars did not cause me extreme anxiety.

"No I do not want to "pick up the Jag!" Emily, what if I crash your car?!" I felt my face go hot at the thought, palms starting to sweat in anxiety. "You love all of these cars and they're so expensive and I'm not on your insurance!" I rushed out.

"Breathe Indi! It's just a car. And you don't have one right now. Please, take whatever car you want. Or Uber everywhere – I'll put more money in your account for it. Is that what you'd prefer?"

"No!" I nearly shouted. I took another deep breath, trying to keep in perspective that this wasn't Emily's fault and she was just trying to help. "I-" I exhaled into the phone. "I'm sorry," I deflated, "It wasn't fair to blow up at you like that. I appreciate you letting me drive the Lexus."

Sensing the storm was over, Emily said, "I'm only sorry I can't see you drive it." I could almost hear the smirk in her voice. "I'm certain you'd look damn sexy in that car."

I chuckled and swiped at the remaining tears, embarrassed I had cried so much in front of Emily. "We'll see if you still say that when I ding your Lexus," I half joked.

"Like I said," her tone more serious, "It's just a car, angel." I paused, unsure what else to say. Her voice was calming though – she calmed me. "Look, I've gotta run. I promise I'll send a tow truck, but Uber home and grab the Lexus so you aren't late for class, okay?"

"Okay," I said softly, tears welling back up in my eyes.

"I'll call you later with an update."

"Bye…" And the line went dead.

- - -

Throughout my first class, my thoughts fixated on my car and how I was going to pay for everything. Even though Emily had been paying for most everything the last few months, I wasn't sure I'd be able to afford whatever the mechanic's bill was going to be.

As my thoughts contemplated every little thing that could go wrong with my car, I missed everything my professor said. I was immensely thankful the first day was always spent going over the syllabus. I'd just have to make sure to read that thoroughly later tonight.

Over the lunch hour, Emily called. "Car's toast and probably not worth fixing." So much for easing into it, I thought. I sighed deeply. Of course life would throw this at me. Things with Emily were just too good for everything else to be going right.

"Okay…" I sighed. I mentally calculated how long I could go without a car while I built my savings up again. I also braced myself for having a conversation with Emily later about asking to go back to work; that battle wouldn't be won easily. But how else was I supposed to take on a car payment?

"I'll see you tonight, okay baby? I'm going to make sure to come home early."

- - -

Later that evening, once classes had finished, I arrived home. I was excited by the prospect of Emily coming home early, and I eagerly awaited the garage door opening to see if her car was in the garage. Once the door had raised fully, I counted three cars in the garage…except, whose car is that? In my spot, where my car should have been, was parked a shiny, new Audi. Panic swelled inside of me. I didn't want to rush to conclusions, but Emily didn't drive Audis. In fact, I had told her it was my dream car. But surely she wouldn't have irrationally bought me a car without thinking about it first.

Not seeing the Jag parked in her spot, I quickly dialed her number as I walked through the door. "Do you like it?!" she asked excitedly.

"So I'm not crazy?" I spit out, trying to control my rising temper. "You did buy me a car?"

"Yes! Do you like it?" she repeated.

"Emily…" I said in warning.

"Don't make this a big deal, India. I swear to god, don't. This isn't a big deal."

Her flippant tone fanned the flames of my anger. "It's a car, Emily. An expensive one at that." Suddenly, Emily's cavalier attitude on spending rubbed me the wrong way. I had never cared what anyone did with their money; it was theirs to do with as they pleased. But to hear firsthand how dismissive she was about such a purchase enraged me. Especially because she was wasting her money on me.

How could she not understand this? She threw money around like it was nothing. It made me feel like shit, like I was worthless. How could I ever repay someone who gave me everything? How could I ever be enough for her? I had nothing. I was nothing.

She sighed into the phone. "Can we talk about this when I get home?"

Clipped, I responded, "Great." And I hung up. Immediately, I knew I shouldn't have done that. No matter how badly she angered me, she didn't deserve to be disrespected.

I paced the living room waiting for Emily, counting out each step until I lost track. I tried to match my breathing to each tick of the clock on the wall. For forty-three minutes, I tried to calm down, anxious about our impending argument.

But no amount of mental preparation would have helped, because as soon as Emily walked through the door, we started fighting about the car.

"I don't see what the big deal is, Indi. It's a car for fuck's sake." I winced at her cursing during an argument.

"But that's exactly it, Emily! You can't understand why this is a big deal for me."

"Do you not like the car? Is that what it is? We can exchange it for any kind that you want," she offered.

"It's too much! And it wasn't part of the deal!" I shouted at her.

Shock flooded her face and she froze. Softly, almost hurt, she asked, "Do you seriously still consider this just an arrangement?" She spit the last word out as if it left a sour taste in her mouth. "You can stand there and really tell me that you still just see me as an ATM?"

"I NEVER saw you as an ATM, Emily. Of course this is more than being your sugar baby." It still didn't sit right. Rocks settled in my stomach. How could I ever get her to understand?

"Then what? You think just because I love you that should mean my support should just stop" - she snapped her fingers - "like that?"

Our argument entirely forgotten, "You love me?" I whispered, aching at the thought of her taking it back, but sick at the thought of her really meaning it. I wouldn't allow myself to believe she meant it.

"I-" She blew out a puff of air. "Yeah." Time stopped. My breathing, my thoughts – they all stopped. "I love you, Indi. I am so in love with you."

And for a split second, I almost accepted the car. But accepting this huge gift almost felt like I would be solidifying our original arrangement. I couldn't sort it out anymore. I was overwhelmed by it all. By how much I needed Emily. By how this had turned into something so different than the life I had pictured for myself. I didn't know who I was anymore; I had lost myself in a game of make believe.

Emily couldn't want me forever like I wanted her. Too soon she would realize that I could give her nothing in return. Only then, it would be too late for me. I would be too far gone, too far entrenched in the India Emily wanted me to be, the real Indi never to be seen again.

My eyes went huge at the thought. Who had I let Emily turn me into? Who had I become during this arrangement? And how had I lost myself so quickly? Suddenly, I couldn't breathe. This mansion felt like a collapsing, cardboard box. Emily's affection, once a warm, safe blanket around me, now felt like a noose.

Shaking my head, I turned and ran upstairs. When I came back down, bag packed, Emily hadn't moved an inch.

I needed distance from this life – from Emily – so I could find Indi again. But who was I without Emily? It had only been six months, and already I had no idea what life would be without her. I had pretended to be what I thought Emily wanted for so long that I forgot who I was. It didn't matter, though. Because if anything was certain it was that I could never be enough for Emily. She deserved so much more than the little I could give her.

I drove quickly back into the city, to Penelope, to my real life. I knocked on the door to what used to be my home praying Penelope was there to greet me. When she opened the door, tears flooded down my face. As I walked through the door, Pen's arms around me, I couldn't help but feel unsettled. I didn't feel at home here anymore. If I didn't fit into my old life, or into Emily's, where did I belong?

Continue to next chapter

#🌬 fics #tastes like sugar #emily prentiss #emily prentiss x oc #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss smut #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds au #wlw writing #Emily Prentiss x poc!oc

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wachinyeya · 6 months ago

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The Nepalese army says it has removed eleven tonnes of rubbish, four corpses and one skeleton from Mount Everest and two other Himalayan peaks this year.

It took troops 55 days to recover the rubbish and bodies from Everest, Nuptse and Lhotse mountains.

It is estimated that more than fifty tonnes of waste and more than 200 bodies cover Everest.

The army began conducting an annual clean-up of the mountain, which is often described as the world’s highest garbage dump, in 2019 during concerns about overcrowding and climbers queueing in dangerous conditions to reach the summit.

The five clean-ups have collected 119 tonnes of rubbish, 14 human corpses and some skeletons, the army says.

This year, authorities aimed to reduce rubbish and improve rescues by making climbers wear tracking devices and bring back their own poo.

In the future, the government plans to create a mountain rangers team to monitor rubbish and put more money toward its collection, Nepal's Department of Tourism director of mountaineering Rakesh Gurung told the BBC.

For the spring climbing season that ended in May, the government issued permits to 421 climbers, down from a record-breaking 478 last year. Those numbers do not include Nepalese guides. In total, an estimated 600 people climbed the mountain this year.

This year, eight climbers died or went missing, compared to 19 last year.

A Brit, Daniel Paterson, and his Nepalese guide, Pastenji Sherpa, are among those missing after being hit by falling ice on 21 May.

Mr Paterson’s family started a fundraiser to hire a search team to find them, but said in an update on 4 June that recovery “is not possible at this time” because of the location and danger of the operation.

Mr Gurung said the number of permits was lower this year because of the global economic situation, China also issuing permits and the national election in India which reduced the number of climbers from that country.

The number of permits will likely drop more after Nepal’s Supreme Court ordered the government in May to limit permits. The preliminary order didn't set a maximum number.

Mr Gurung says he welcomes the order and the government is thinking about reforms such as staggering climbers to reduce traffic jams at the summit.

#mount everest #environmentalism #science #environment #nature #himalayas #good news #trash #nepal #pollution

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srbachchan · 1 year ago

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DAY 5619

Jalsa, Mumbai July 6/7, 2023 Thu/Fri 1:15 AM

Apologies for missing the Calendar updates 😔 .. but making up .. 🙏🏻

🪔 .. July 04 .. was no birthday ..

🪔 .. July 05 .. birthday of Ef Shashikant Pedwal from Pune .. and Rajat Watel from Jammu ..

🪔 .. July 06 .. birthday of Ef Pronobesh Roy Choudhury from West Bengal - Kolkata ..

🪔 .. July 07 .. birthday of Ef Saurabh Bhakri from New Delhi ..

Greetings to all and the joys of the World .. ❤️ from your Ef Family .. 🙏🏻🚩

So .. a few days off .. and the days spent in reflection , rejuvenation .. not of the age kind but to gain the knowledge of what goes on inside the World of reflection .. smart yes ..

Yes ..

It is , or rather are the reflection days .. a wonder why certain ‘givens’ were given , why certain doings were being done .. why a name an act an act .. and so many other ‘whys’ ..

The curiosity widens .. and it is not the curiosity , it is the will of the mind to delve into regions which were in a sense reserved to ask or know ..

Now with age the ridicule has lessened .. now with time they that are asked or are brought into the picture by me , are convinced that the man is 81 , old decrepit and mental , bear him .. it shan’t be for long .. and the responses go on with a sense of .. ‘poor guy , so uninformed , let him be .. etc etc etc .. “

Also the temerity to seek and voice matters that may never have been done earlier have reached the stage of a fearless disposition ..

So to start with ..

Wimbledon is on .. and the Women players get Women ex champions in the commentary box to speak and inform and comment .. most of the time .. the Men players get ex men champions in the box ..

BUT ..

Typically .. give a microphone to any individual and they shall never stop talking .. and this I notice often ..

In the game of tennis or any such moment , when the entire concentration is in the players and how their mind is working etc., the commentators keep talking .. hey ! I want silence at that time .. I want to get into the mind of the player and the ladies keep commenting on past games and opinions , and moments as to why he or she played so and so and such and such ..

NOOO ..

I do not want to be disturbed by your chatter .. give me all that you have to say in the break .. when the players wipe face drink energy, eat energy chocolate, complain to the Ref , ask questions facially to their team on the stands above , lament that the crowd is not with them .. and so on ..

then talk as much as you like .. !! hahah .. its limited there isn’t it , because the Ads., start .. hahaha .. the ad., money is so needed for the commerce of the Tournament .. many of you would not know that there never used to be a break in tennis before .. the players just changed sides and carried on .. the break was deliberately introduced to give time to the Ads., to run and for their Commerce to thrive ..

AND THANK THE LORD FOR THAT .. !! I get a job too .. the Ad.s and the endorsements .. hahah !!

yes their experience and stories of past moments .. or guidance of how the game goes on and what the strategy should be - unless its an English Brit playing .. then it’s all about them even when they are losing .. it’s always the ‘sun’ coming in the eyes , the wind is blowing against them when they serve or take a smash shot .. the shadow keeps changing on the court , the linesmen are making mistakes .. ufff .. the list is endless .. even when the opponent has given a amazing shot, the comment if its a Brit will be .. ‘he was there, foot slipped, would have returned it .. ‘

the exuberant adjectives used when there is a Brit commentator for Cricket and their team players hits 4 or a 6 .. !! listen to them .. they just go on and on in praise and compliments .. !!

And for us .. it’s just a terse inform .. hehehe ..

WE THE PEOPLE OF INDIA, NOTICE ALL THIS ..

But we are a tolerant people .. just that .. ‘गले ते हथ ना लाई !’ as we would say in Punjabi ‘don’t put your threatening hand on my neck’ .. because we will thoko .. ठोको, .. .. गळ्यात हात ठेवला तर, ठोक देणार !!!

AAAh .. a favorite subject of mine .. and I love noticing and commenting in private , but today .. गळ्यात हात ठेवला तर ठोक देणार !!

“ to ask the hard question is simple ‘ .. किसी मुश्किल प्रश्न को पूछना बड़ा आसान होता है

So have asked .. and the answers shall be in the known medium !!!

Love respect .. affection and more ❤️

Amitabh Bachchan

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ceofjohnlennon · 2 years ago

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"Eventually I learned to distinguish the differences in temperament. John's granny glasses and pale skin, milk-white like the tigers in the Delhi zoo, suggested the persona of a studious intellectual, high-strung and enigmatic, carefully sifting the text of the Maharishi's wisdom for the grains of something that he could recognize as the truth. Like a lot of other people west of Suez, in Europe and America, he'd been expecting a guru to turn up, and suddenly, 'There he was in the Hilton hotel.' Yes, he said, it was great to be rich, great to be famous, but 'we're not the eternal rich men,' and money isn't what makes or sings the songs. One evening when Harrison said that 'nobody can be one hundred percent without the inner life,' Lennon told the other students at the table that the band's records served as diaries of its developing consciousness. In the photographs seen on the covers of their recent albums, he hoped and assumed that people might notice 'something going on behind the eyes other than guitar boogie.' He wasn't sure that the Maharishi was wiser than Lewis Carroll, but he knew that if a person could find within himself an inner wonderland impervious to the pressures of space and time, 'then nothing's going to shake my world.' Ringo and Paul didn't talk as much about the meditation. Yes, they had results with it. No, it wasn't a put-on, but their attitude implied that it was George's thing, and if he wanted to go to India, okay, fine, everybody went to India. Ringo missed his children and his nine cats, and he figured that he could assume the lotus position just as successfully in Liverpool. Maureen hated the flies — to the point that if there was only one fly in the room she would know exactly where it was, how it got there, and why it must be destroyed. She and Ringo had consulted the Maharishi on the subject, but the Maharishi told them that for people traveling in the realm of pure consciousness, flies no longer matter very much. 'Yes,' Ringo said, 'but that doesn't zap the flies, does it?' McCartney objected to the Maharishi's excessive adulation of the band and all its works ('the bit about being the sons of God and the saviors of mankind'), nor did he much care for the abstractions that sustained the yogi's grandiose metaphysics. 'I get a bit lost in the upper reaches of it,' he said. He also wished that the Maharishi would avoid talking to the Beatles about subjects that he, McCartney, knew something about. He found the Maharishi's support of the draft laws disillusioning; his girlfriend, Jane Asher, often wondered aloud what it would be like to see the moonlight on the Taj Mahal. Talking to Paul was easier than talking to George or to Ringo — his accent not as strong, more willing to exchange meaningless pleasantries, still fond of smoking cigarettes, his sense of humor affable and tolerant. When he showed up one day at lunch to say that he'd had a dream about being trapped in a leaking submarine of indeterminate color, it was Anneliese Braun who provided the interpretation. She clapped her hands in the enthusiastic way of a child seeing its first snowfall. 'How very nice,'x she said, wondering if McCartney appreciated the great truth with which he had been blessed. Paul smiled and said he didn't think he quite got all of it. 'Why it's the perfect meditation dream,' Anneliese said. The voyage in the submarine represented the descent into pure consciousness in the vehicle of the mantra; the leaks represented anxiety, and the surfacing of the submarine in a London street signified a happy return to society and one’s fellow men (like Ulysses coming back to Penelope), which was the purpose of all good meditation. The other people at the table applauded, and Geoffrey drew a comparison to the paintings of Hieronymous Bosch."

The Beatles in India. ㅡ From the book "With The Beatles" by Lewis Lapham.

#john lennon #paul mccartney #george harrison #ringo starr #the beatles #60s #1968 #jane asher #maureen starkey #with the beatles #lewis lapham #beatles in india #my:read

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irenethewoman · 1 year ago

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Mrs. Shelby - Chapter Two- First Shot

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December 1914, Birmingham:

As I settled into life within the Shelby household, it became apparent that observing and adapting were my best courses of action. Even though their workforce was currently absent due to the war, the Shelbys were far from ordinary laborers. When Polly and I went out shopping, I noticed passersby respectfully addressing her as "Good morning, Mrs. Grey." I had encountered workers in my grandfather's factory, but they never held such prestige and status. "Mrs. Grey," "Mrs. Shelby," "Miss Shelby" – the Shelby surname wielded an almost magical influence in Birmingham. I was beginning to grasp their line of work. The Shelbys were undoubtedly the same sort of people who had caused my father endless headaches and filled Nurse Claire with terror. Truth be told, when I had a clear understanding of their activities two months ago, I couldn't help but shudder. Gangsters weren't much better than brothels or No. 10 King's Road. It was akin to moving from one perilous situation to another. If my father knew that his little princess had landed in such a predicament, it would break his heart.

But as time passed, my perspective on the past 15 years began to shift. Yes, they were gangsters who earned their living through gambling, extortion, and collecting protection money. However, wasn't that the way of the world? How could they support such a vast family on meager factory wages? They relied on squeezing ordinary people to secure a better life, just as gangsters, politicians, and capitalists did. In essence, nobility was not fundamentally distinct; it boiled down to whether one's actions were legal or not. But who decided what was legal? If the law itself was one-sided and severe, where did justice originate? My noble relatives had either aimed to divide my inheritance due to my parents' demise or had avoided me for the same reason. After I was rebuffed when seeking aid from my aunt and uncle, I disregarded Nurse Claire's objections and ventured north alone. Furthermore, the Shelbys, the gangsters I had tried to avoid in the past, hadn't treated me unkindly. Even without the title of Baroness, I could still enjoy white bread, bacon, and chocolate that factory workers could only dream of.

After work, I'd rest on a comfortable bed by a warm fireplace. While it might not have been on par with my previous accommodations, it was leagues ahead of my recent fugitive lifestyle. All of this was thanks to the Shelbys, particularly Polly. Although she wore the mantle of the family's matriarch and appeared stern, she was not the kind of boss who criticized her employees relentlessly. In fact, she displayed more consideration for her workers than my maternal grandfather or the officials of the East India Company ever did. Beneath her veneer of cold and ruthless efficiency lay a softer, more compassionate core. While she hadn't immediately believed my story, like Ada and Martha, she had at least not sent me back to London, albeit explaining it as not wanting to "waste money on strangers."

Martha, with her oval face, was Finn and Ada's sister-in-law. Apart from her slightly protruding blue eyes, she was rather attractive. With three children to support and one more on the way, Martha was the only member of the family who could appreciate the poetry collection I had purchased with my earnings. She was kind and gentle, and she, along with Bo, regularly attended church services and provided food for the less fortunate in our community. She claimed to have been a pastor's daughter in the past, but her actions contradicted that background. I had encountered pastors before, and none of them resembled Martha. It was evident that she, too, grappled with hardship on the fringes of society.

As time passed, I found myself missing the life of a young lady from when my parents were alive. However, my new existence no longer held the same allure it had when I first escaped, and I refrained from incessantly comparing it to my past. These two months had wrought profound changes in me, challenging nearly every preconceived notion I held. Virtue and vice were not permanent fixtures in this world; no one could lay claim to absolute goodness or wickedness. It was a realm governed by natural selection, survival of the fittest. Initially, I had found this concept to be harsh, but now I recognized it as the unvarnished truth.

I no longer concealed my past. I had come from a privileged background. For the first fifteen years of my life, I had been a sheltered heiress. My sole misfortune was having a contingent of ill-fated relatives. Initially, Polly had tasked me with maintaining the household accounts and teaching the children arithmetic and reading. The Shelby family possessed few books, and the poetry collection I had purchased wasn't suitable for educational purposes. Thus, I had to buy a newspaper each morning during our grocery trips. I learned to read at the breakfast table, gradually absorbing the words.

My father had always read newspapers, both in English and German. Perhaps because my investigation had been thorough, Polly gradually began granting me access to the Shelby family's external accounts. These documents contained receipts related to horse racing, protection money, and dealings with the police station. It wasn't easy for Polly. The war had not ended as swiftly as we had anticipated, and the cost of living was steadily rising. Finn and his three nephews were still quite young. Ada had no desire to engage in the family's "business." Martha was pregnant and exceedingly gentle. This left Polly as the family's sole provider, responsible for the entire household. She had to be tough when dealing with others, ensuring her family's betterment, only to return home and seek solace in her prayer room. She was good to me, and as December approached, I planned a surprise for her on Christmas.

However, what could I possibly offer? As Bo grew more comfortable with me, I found myself assuming additional responsibilities. I had become the Shelby family's accountant, tutor, nanny, and even their cook. Despite the decent life I was leading and the kindness shown to me by the Shelbys, I still felt like an outsider. Perhaps it was because I couldn't master the art of smoking or tolerate the pungent taste of whiskey, or maybe it was because I couldn't casually toss around expletives as freely as the others did.

One day, as I finished my work and wandered the streets lost in thought, I suddenly heard Ada's scream, "How dare you! We're Shelbys!" My heart clenched in anxiety. Despite her upbringing in this environment, Ada retained an underlying romanticism and innocence that even surpassed my own. "Oh my God!" I recalled Martha mentioning the family's intention to confront Liz Stark today. I found the address and knocked on the door with urgency. Upon entering, I was greeted by chaos. "Ada!" I called out, searching for her. Please, let them be safe!

"Diana! Get your filthy hands off!" I hurried upstairs but found myself unable to open the locked door. It was then that the person who had let me in followed me up. He was tall and bald, with sparse black hair on his forehead. Even his touch on my forearm made my stomach turn. "Unlock the door," I demanded,

withdrawing the pistol from my bag and aiming it at his belly. It was a firearm Polly Shelby had loaned me, and I hadn't returned it yet. My hands trembled; it marked my first time pointing a gun at a living being. I feared that his appearance was deceptive, that he possessed greater strength than me, that I wasn't capable enough. I was anxious about getting entangled in a violent confrontation. I worried that my impulsiveness might harm Liz Stark, preventing her from earning a living. All these fears churned within me.

He seemed to notice my apprehension and boldly placed his other hand on my waist. I clenched my teeth, loaded the pistol, and jabbed it into his gut with determination. "Unlock the door for me—now!" He reluctantly acquiesced, fumbling with the key, and I allowed him to depart before rushing into the room.

Inside, I found Ada protecting Martha, while Liz Stark was being held by the hair and struggling. Another man had his back to me, undoing his belt, and turned around when he heard the door open. "Oh! We've got another visitor." He smirked, his mouth tainted by yellow nicotine stains. His lewd words, ones I didn't fully comprehend, made the man holding Stark's hair burst into laughter. "It was you who begged for this…" he muttered.

"Bam!" In a decisive moment, I fired my first shot at a living person, striking the man in the left thigh. He screamed and crumpled to the ground, clutching his injured leg and wailing like a banshee. The stench of blood and urine filled the small, enclosed space, nauseating me. I struggled to suppress the urge to vomit and aimed the gun squarely at the remaining assailant's head, "Release them. Let them go!" After firing the first shot, my hands steadied, and I possessed a firmer grip on the gun. This time, I pointed it directly at him.

"Don't mess with the Shelbys, not even with a woman." I declared firmly. Afterward, when I returned to 6 Waterley Lane, I rushed to the bathroom and, with as much grace as I could muster, promptly emptied my stomach. Gazing into the mirror afterward, I couldn't help but feel a sense of strangeness. The girl with black hair in the reflection looked pale, her mouth smeared with remnants of vomit and dirt. As I raised my hand, she mimicked the motion. I had genuinely transformed.

Martha convinced Ada and me to rest, and I prepared mulled wine for both of us. We huddled together, wrapped in blankets, sipping our drinks in silence by the warm fireplace. I, or perhaps we, were awaiting Polly's return. A gunshot had rung out; a man had been shot in a brothel, nearly disfigured. It was odd that neither Liz Stark nor Polly Shelby had received word of it. Perhaps Polly would dismiss me at the height of the impending storm, perhaps she'd grow infuriated over my use of the Shelby name. Regardless, I needed to explain myself face-to-face.

"Why did you use a gun?" Ada's question broke the silence, interrupting my reverie.

"What?" I hesitated, unable to meet her gaze, fearful that she might perceive me as a ruthless assailant.

"I noticed you often drift into thought... I mean, why did you use a gun?"

"My father taught me to hunt, ma'am, and I know how to use a shotgun." I replied, averting her eyes.

Another uncomfortable silence ensued, eventually broken by Polly Shelby's return.

Upon seeing her in the living room, relief washed over me. Even if she decided to expel me, I wouldn't be left homeless.

"Are you alright?" She checked on Ada before turning to me. I watched as she examined me, patiently waiting for her verdict.

"Go get some rest, Ada."

"Don't blame her, Aunt Polly. It was for me and Juliet that Diana fired." Polly remained silent but gave Ada's shoulder a reassuring pat before pouring herself a glass of wine. Despite the uncertainty of what lay ahead, I exchanged a reassuring glance with Ada.

"Why did you use a gun?" It seemed everyone was curious about a young woman who could wield a firearm, especially considering my age.

"My father taught me to hunt, ma'am, and I know how to use a shotgun."

"You rarely speak of your past," Polly noted, and I confessed, "But you never asked, ma'am."

Polly smiled, "I wasn't interested in a secretary's past before, but it's different now."

"My name is Diana Elizabeth Turner. My father was Baron Charles Turner, and my mother was Elizabeth Barton. I have an older brother, a younger brother, and a younger sister." I shared this information as Polly's gaze remained fixed on me.

She then put down her cup and embraced me. At that moment, tears welled up, and I allowed myself to cry. I did know how to use a shotgun, but the first time I had threatened someone with a gun, I was terrified. Fear had consumed me, fearing that his appearance concealed great strength, fearing that I wouldn't be effective enough, fearing I would become embroiled in violence, fearing for Liz Stark's safety, fearing Martha and Ada might view me as a merciless demon, and fearing Polly Shelby might expel me from her home or send me back to King's Road.

"Silly girl, go rest." Polly comforted me.

"Madam, are you going to send me away?" I asked, my tears finally subsiding.

Polly seemed to find my question amusing. "Why would I send you away? Because you protected my family?"

"Silly girl, right now, the Shelbys only need to use their guns to show Birmingham that even when the men are away, the Shelbys are untouchable. Besides, you and I are the only ones in this household who can handle a firearm."

Following that day, Polly asked me to address her as "Polly" or, like Ada and the others, as "Aunt Polly." On Christmas Eve, Polly presented me with a gift. She instructed me not to open it until everyone else had retired to their rooms. Inside the box was an elegant lady's pistol.

"The old gun I lent you belonged to Tommy. This one is more suitable for you," Polly explained, her cheeks slightly flushed from wine. "Just remember, don't let the children see it, let alone play with it, unless it's empty."

I held the unloaded pistol in my hands, examining it, and then looked up at Polly, questioning, "Who is Tommy?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you. Tommy is one of Finn and Ada's nephews, the second brother. All three brothers enlisted in the army. Tommy is a handsome young lad, inheriting his mother's striking blue eyes." Polly remarked, gazing at me. "You bear a striking resemblance to him."

"Really?" I responded, my fingers tracing the contours of the gun, my gaze still locked onto the pistol. Polly's words had left me pensive, and I couldn't find the right words to reply.

The town bell chimed, signaling midnight. I leaned down and planted a kiss on Polly Shelby's cheek. "Merry Christmas, Aunt Polly."

#tommy shelby #thomas shelby #peaky blinders #oc #fanfiction

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allthecanadianpolitics · 11 months ago

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It started with a voice mail demanding payment of some kind, then a series of missed phone calls, later came the gun shots targeting the home of a Metro Vancouver business owner whose family and community are now gripped with fear. The businessman, who spoke on the condition of anonymity, said the original message demanded a payment, “otherwise there would be consequences,” he said. At first, it seemed like a “prank” of some kind, and he didn’t take the calls seriously, but he called the would-be extortionists back.

Tagging @politicsofcanada

#cdnpoli #canada #canadian politics #canadian news #british columbia #extortion #organized crime

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nikethestatue · 1 year ago

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Chapter 1

London, England

1890

Elain Archeron

London’s Victoria Station greeted its new visitor with a cacophony of noise, chaos and excitement. Clutching the instructions and the address that she received from the stern and cold Mrs. Amren, who was the organiser of this wild scheme, Elain Archeron attempted to follow the directions inside the clamour of the train station, though it was proving to be difficult.

She’s never been to London before and now, the place terrified her. She was pushed and shoved without consideration for her gentler sex, those around her were shrieking, yelling, and shouting something all the time. There were people, whole families, whose skin tones were different from her own, whose fashions and outfits were odd and contradictory. There were people of different religions as well–she could tell Jews and Hindus and Muslims. She was educated and well-read, so she was not surprised to see those who came from Africa, and India, or even the Chinese, and scarf-clad women from Poland, or maybe Russia–but seeing them all in the flesh was overwhelming. She never imagined that people of so many various colours, sizes and shapes existed.

She continued her walk through the station, jerked off her feet by the blaring claxons from the train, clutching her travel satchel close to her chest. It had her only possessions inside–her two dresses, her unmentionables, stockings, another pair of boots, hair ribbons and pins, her spare corset, and toiletries.

Her walk was interrupted constantly, men offering rides and calling out “Miss! Miss!” to her. But she kept her eyes down and shouldered her way to the massive doors of the station.

She must be mad.

Mad.

It had to be that!

To be doing this, she couldn’t be normal.

She was here, in London of all places, alone, to meet with some mysterious man.

What if he was Jack the Ripper?

She’s read the papers–Jack the Ripper was rampaging on the streets of Whitechapel and what if Mrs. Amren was his co-conspirator? What if she lured unsuspecting country girls to London, and into the clutches of Jack the Ripper?

Elain’s read and enjoyed the tales of Sherlock Holmes, that wiley intriguing detective, who solved crimes–but if she thought about it more, why was there so much crime in London? People stole and abused and murdered others. It was horrifying.

Where she was from, St. Margaret’s Bay, the biggest crime last year was Ollie Oswald stealing Mr. Clarence’s goat, and Maggie May becoming pregnant out of wedlock. That thought sobered her right up, though still, Maggie’s out-of-wedlock babe was hardly the same thing as a mad serial killer running around the streets of London and slaughtering women of ill repute.

Elain finally existed the station and stood on the street, all her senses assaulted by even more noise, the stench of manure, hordes of jostling people who were all rushing somewhere, paper boys who were announcing the latest headlines – another Ripper murder, apparently – vendors peddling food and all sorts of items, handsome soldiers, and every spoken language imaginable. Elain recognised everything from French and Italian, to some dialects that she was unfamiliar with, Slavic, German and even Scandinavian speech. She had a knack for languages, and having spent time in Dover, with her father’s ships, she’d seen sailors, merchants and visitors from every part of the world. Stupidly, she thought that Dover was a busy city. It had nothing on this monstrosity.

She walked over to where the cabs were parked awaiting passengers.

“Good mornin’ Miss, in need of a ride?” one of the drivers asked.

“Yes, this is the address,” she handed him the paper that Mrs. Amren had given her, which had the address and all the instructions. Mrs. Amren had also given her ten pounds, which was more money than Elain’s seen in a long, long time.

She could buy so much for ten pounds! Dresses and a pair of shoes, meat pies, maybe even a pastry, tea, lodging…Her whole family survived on four-five pounds a month, and here she was, with ten pounds, six shillings and 3 pence in her pocket. Mrs. Amren told her that the tenner had come from the gentleman who took care of her travel accommodations and spending money.

Once she was situated in the carriage, they took off, the driver navigating the streets and the chaos of other cabs and pedestrians with expert precisions. Elain knew that they were going to Westminster, and she wished to see the cathedral, and the abbey, but she did not, though she was pleased that they’d be staying far away from Whitechapel.

“Dog and Hound, Miss,” the driver announced and then opened the door for her.

It was a public house and also offered lodgings and once Elain exited the cab, she thought that it looked presentable and clean. The facade of the building was well-kept, brick, with garlands of wisteria wrapping around the lower part of the building and the very large bay window. Once she paid for the ride, she walked inside–she’s been to public houses and taverns before–but this one looked very well kept, with a beautiful walnut bar, all sorts of hunting pictures and engravings on the walls, and burgundy and green seats. There were not many patrons milling around, but it was also only 10:30 am.

Elain approached the proprietor, just like Mrs. Amren told her to do and said, “Good morning. I am here to see Mr. Arthur Johnson.”

The man straightened at the mention of the name, and then quickly and accommodatingly told her, “Follow me, Miss.”

“Where are we going?” Elain whispered, baulking at the invitation.

“Mr. Johnson is waiting for you Miss. My understanding is that he wished to have a conversation with you in private.”

Elain’s never been with a man in private, let alone in an unfamiliar city, but what choice did she have? She already felt like she signed her life away, when she was meeting with Mrs. Amren. The woman had a heap of papers and documents for Elain to sign, mostly about confidentiality and non-disclosure of any information that she was to learn. There were financial papers as well, but Mrs. Amren told her that they would be finalised should the contract be signed.

They stopped at one of the doors and the proprietor knocked. A man’s voice answered promptly.

“Enter.”

“You may proceed, Miss,” he told Elain and then stepped aside.

This is where I die, was her only thought.

It was definitely Jack the Ripper. There have been whispers that he came from the upper classes, maybe even nobility, and she was going to meet him right now and he was going to skin her alive. And then her body would be baked into meat pies, just like Sweeney Todd did it. They said that the mad barber did not exist, but Elain begged to differ. Stories like that didn’t just happen to be written due to someone’s fevered imagination. He must have existed.

So she would be abused, killed and then will end up in a pie.

He sat in a wingback chair.

That’s all she saw when she finally dared to enter the room. The man. The gentleman.

A very tall man by the looks of it, considering how far his long legs stretched. He was dressed in all black, elegantly, in a way Elain wasn’t used to seeing men dressed on a Thursday morning. His jacket was stylishly tailored and his boots were perfectly polished. However, it was the man’s face that gave Elain pause. He was handsome to an unusual degree, the panes of his face sharp and sensual at once. Large, slightly slanted eyes of a peculiar colour regarded her with detachment and mild scrutiny. When he licked his full lower lip, Elain couldn't help but notice the movement and she balled her hands at her sides, suddenly feeling tense and hot. He had the look of a foreigner about him–dark bronze skin, thick black hair cut unusually long on top, and those strange light hazel eyes.

“Elain Archeron, I presume,” he asked at last, and his voice was deep, low and just as sensual as the rest of him. Like a whisper of black silk in the wind. The accent was unfailingly upper crust.

“I am, my lord,” she confirmed and curtsied.

“Please sit,” he gestured to the sofa across from his chair.

She did as she was told and noticed that he held a photograph of her in his fingers. His hands were large, with long, strong fingers, but surprisingly, the hands were covered in thick scars–burn scars from what Elain could gauge. Mrs. Amren said that the photograph was a requirement and Elain was forced to travel to Dover to have her photograph taken. It was expensive, and she needed to sit in the same position, unmoving and silent, for almost seven minutes. In the end, she didn’t even think that the photograph looked like her. But following her handing the photograph off to Mrs. Amren, she received an invitation to travel to London–-she supposed that it did the trick.

“How was your journey?” he asked politely.

“Very nice, thank you, my lord.”

“I wished to have our conversation first, if you don’t mind, and then you may rest.”

“Of course,” she agreed. Her fingers were shaking and she attempted to hide them in the folds of her skirt, though she was sure that he noticed it.

His tone was light when he assured her, “there is no need to be nervous. I believe we ought to have a talk first and you aren’t obligated to anything, and neither am I.”

She nodded and allowed him to talk, because it was just easier. Her throat was tight and her mouth dry. Her dress felt itchy against her skin and the collar borderline was suffocating.

He stood up and she had to crane her neck to take in his full height–he was probably six and a half feet tall, and when he moved to pour water into a glass, she definitely noticed how thickly muscled his arms and shoulders were, and how slender he was otherwise, trim and lean and strong. He handed her the glass and then leaned against the desk, crossing his legs at the ankles and drumming his fingers on the surface.

“I am Azriel, Lord Night, the Duke of Velaris,” he announced simply.

Elain’s hand stopped mid-way to her lips, as she stared at him wordlessly.

She’d assumed that he would be a nobleman, perhaps a baron, maybe a count, but a duke? The Velaris family was well-known: it was said that they came to Britain all the way back with William the Conqueror. It couldn’t possibly be the same Velaris? Could it?

“I am sorry, my lord,” Elain said softly. “You are the Duke of Velaris?”

He nodded, “the very same”.

“But…” she bit her lip, “I was under the impression that you were married, my lord? To Lady Morrigan?”

The lovely Lady Morrigan, Countess of Hewn, was renowned for her beauty. Elain had seen her in newspapers and other publications. The Velaris-Hewn nuptials was the society wedding of the year just a couple of years back.

“I am,” he confirmed calmly. “And since you are bound by our confidentiality agreement, I will disclose that my lady wife had suffered a grave incident last year. She was thrown by her horse, and had broken her spine. Unfortunately, she suffered a brain bleed from her injuries as well. She is my wife and will remain so until she or I die. But alas, she is bed-bound and without sense or consciousness. Now, you must understand that her condition is not known to anyone, other than my most trusted servants and her nurses. It must remain so until I produce an heir. The child must be mine, and upon the birth, we shall announce that Lady Morrigan suffered compilation in labour.”

Elain sighed and murmured, “I am sorry, my lord. For you and your lady wife. It is truly tragic and I am…just sorry.”

He cocked his head and regarded her quietly for a while.

She’d only known him for about fifteen minutes, but she could already see how observant he was, methodical even. There was a calmness about him, an almost predatory stillness, and she sensed that he dwelled in some dark places inside his head. Perhaps it was the sorrow resulting from his wife’s condition, or maybe something in his past, but this was a man of secrets and unanswered questions.

“May I ask some questions of you?” he inquired at last.

Elain sipped her water and nodded once.

He didn't use any props, not notes or correspondence, when he said,

“Elain Archeron, twenty-one years old, the middle of three sisters. Tell me, why are you, of all people, responded to my advertisement?”

“We need the money, my lord,” she admitted plainly.

“There are other ways to get money,” he noted, his dark brow raised. “You are a maid of gentle breeding based on your family’s history–a merchant father, a mother who was from a well-to-do family. Surely you can think of other ways to…” he stopped and scrubbed his scarred hand over his chin, before continuing, “tell me, why?”

“My father has lost his fortune,” Elain explained, her voice quiet. “My younger sister has a disease of the stomach that makes her vomit and she is frail and weak. She needs medicines, which we cannot afford. My older sister is a proud woman and…” her voice trailed. How could she explain Nesta? She couldn’t. Nesta was smart, even cunning, but she was better suited for running an estate or even a business. Haughty, proud and demanding is what Nesta was. But she was not one for sacrifices. “And that leaves me. I…well, I answered the advertisement in The Times, and was contacted by Mrs. Amren. We met and discussed the offer…and,” she swallowed, “I am interested.”

“What do you understand of the offer and the proposal?” he asked seriously.

She tugged on her skirt and peered down, looking at the floor.

Quietly, she answered,

“A gentleman requires the services of a female to produce a child, an heir. The gentleman is willing to pay ten thousand pounds for the child and…well, would pay all throughout the pregnancy…That is all.”

He sighed and turned, his movements measured and languid, as he walked to the window and clasped his hands behind his back, as he looked out on the busy Vincent Street.

“I fear, Miss Archeron, that you are underestimating the commitment that this ordeal would require of you,” he said, almost to himself.

Elain’s heart dropped.

He wasn’t interested.

He did ot find her comely or appealing or satisfactory. Perhaps he liked her photograph, but seeing her in person made him change his mind.

Ten thousand pounds was an astronomical amount of money.

It was enormous. At the height of their success, the Archeron family wealth was estimated at about fifteen thousand pounds, which made Elain and her sisters very appealing on the marriage market. To have a large portion of that fortune come back to them would guarantee a bright future for all–they could all marry well, they could cure Feyre’s illness, they could operate on their father’s mangled leg and send him to Italy or France to recuperate. They could have fine homes and wardrobes and servants.

Currently, they existed on about four pounds a month, for the four of them. If they were lucky.

“I don’t think that I am, my lord,” Elain found it in herself to answer boldly and firmly. “I understand what is required.”

“You understand that you must lie with me,” he was still not looking at her, and therefore couldn’t see her flaming cheeks, “and have relations with me as if I were your husband. You would be required to do so at my beckoning and pleasure, for at least six months,”

“What happens after six months?” she interrupted him, confused.

He turned his head and explained,

“I am willing to allot six months for the conception to take place. Children are usually not made in a day…it may take time, and I realise that. I feel that six months is an adequate amount of time for you to conceive. If you don’t, then we will part ways, since clearly we would not be compatible enough to create a child together.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek and then asked,

“And if I don't…conceive that is? What happens then?”

He shrugged,

“You will be paid five hundred pounds for your troubles and you will leave. Naturally, you will be bound by the non-disclosure agreement for the rest of your life. That extends to me as well, Miss Archeron. If we proceed with this…arrangement…whatever the outcome is, your name will not be mentioned or besmirched, so that you have a chance at a successful marriage with a man of your choosing.”

“I appreciate that, my lord,” she said sincerely.

He went back to the desk and gathered a stack of papers in his hands, though he did not give them to her yet. He was clearly still deciding on something, his brow furrowed. At last, he said,

“These are the financial terms of the arrangement, Miss Archeron. If we proceed, you will sign and retain a copy for yourself.

“Again, I urge you to consider everything with utmost seriousness,” he pressed. “This is not a trivial matter. Your involvement with me may last up to a year and a half. It is quite a long time for a woman of your age to dedicate to a…male. One who will not marry you in the end, and whom you shan’t see again.

“Furthermore, if there is a child, it will be wholly mine.”

A shudder ran through Elain and she suddenly became cold. When he put it like that, it did give her pause. Because in exchange for the money, she would be required to give up her baby. Theoretically she understood that–when she began corresponding with Mrs. Amren, and when they finally met, this was thoroughly discussed. But seeing this man in the flesh, even briefly imagining that there would be…coital relations involved, though Elain wasn’t quite sure precisely what it all entailed, and then there would potentially be a pregnancy, which was something that was often fraught with dangers, only to end in a painful labour, and then…the separation. Permanent separation from a baby that she’d give birth to. From the man too. Yes, he was strikingly handsome–to her great relief–but she knew that she was in danger of developing feelings for him, which he surely would never reciprocate. He had his poor wife and was devoted to her, and was only after an heir to carry his name and his legacy. Elain would be left without love, without companionship, without her babe, but with money. She supposed that she could have more children, but the idea of giving up her son or daughter seemed terrifying. Her firstborn.

Azriel looked up at her and watched the warring emotions that danced on her face.

“Would you like me to read out the terms?” he asked at last, his expression slightly softened, even kinder.

She swallowed and nodded.

He glanced at the first page and began reading.

“The female in the arrangement is expected to be an unmarried and unbetrothed maid, of good moral standing and a virgin. She is to be free of diseases and for the duration of the arrangement she may not be seen with a male or engage in any manner of relations with a male other than the Requestor.

She would enter into the arrangement willingly and would be required to have sexual intercourse with the Requestor at his bidding. The Requestor shall not physically hurt, slap, hit, abuse or force the female, and will not verbally insult or berate her. If the female is unwilling or unable to have sexual relations with the Requestor, she is to notify him immediately and provide an explanation as to the cause. Relations are not required from the female when she has her monthly flow.

The female is expected to live on premises of the Requestor’s abode and accompany him upon his travels. She shall have her private room(s) at the dwellings. She is not expected to sleep with the Requestor or share his private quarters. The female is required to maintain her decorum at all times, and may not fraternise with the help. The female is not to divulge any part of the agreement to anyone, including her family. The female will not occupy a place at the servants’ quarters and will not partake in meals with them. The female will have a maid of her own to assist her with personal matters.

Upon conception, the female is to remain at the Requestor’s home, under the care of his physicians. She is to maintain a healthy lifestyle, to ensure a successful pregnancy. She will be assisted during her labour by a midwife, a doula, nurses and physicians. Upon delivery of the child, the female will be allowed to bond and nurse the infant for up to one week (if she wishes to do so). After one week of recovery, the child will be removed from the female’s care and presence. At that time, the arrangement would be considered fulfilled and would be terminated.

The Requestor guarantees the following payments:

£1000 for taking the female’s virginity

£50 weekly stipend, for up to six months of service

£50 weekly stipend for the duration of the pregnancy

£1000 for labour and delivery

£10,000 for the birth of a live child

All legal fees, room and board, wardrobe allowance, personal and beauty treatments, transportation, et cetera would be provided by the Requestor.

The female may be allowed to spend Christmas with her family (up to one week), as well as one week of her choosing as a personal holiday.”

He did not ask whether she was agreeable to the contract, but simply handed it to her and said,

“Read this over and be thorough. Any questions, you should ask me.”

Elain didn't answer for a while, but he didn’t seem impatient, and wasn’t put off by the awkward silence between them. Instead, he went over to a sideboard upon which stood a decanter and some glasses and poured himself a drink of whatever it was.

She finally broke the silence and said,

“This is much more than ten thousand.”

It seemed that she took him by surprise with her comment and he looked at her with expectation.

“The contract was for ten…this is closer to twenty,” she pushed.

“Is that a problem?” he queried.

“I just…” she blushed, “I don’t want to be unfair. I was fine with ten. Why a thousand for the virginity?”

He sat back in the wing chair and sipped his drink, before saying,

“Seems only fair. I would be taking something that doesn’t belong to me and isn’t intended for me to take. You ought to be compensated for that.”

Theoretically, what he was saying made sense to her, but it seemed so…transactional. And, of course, it was a transaction. There were no feelings involved.

Craning his head side to side, he added after a pause,

“The pleasure is free, if that makes you feel better. I won’t be charging for it, and I won’t be paying for it either. You can enjoy it free and clear.”

If that meant to be a lighthearted comment of some sort, it didn’t land, because Elain looked at him, perplexed and said. “What pleasure?”

He chuckled softly, “Sexual pleasure, Miss Archeron.”

“There is no pleasure in relations such as those,” she argued primly.

He leaned back in his chair, relaxing into the leather and smiled at her, though the curve of his beautiful mouth was both challenging and sinister.

“And you are an expert then?”

Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, and she couldn’t even believe that she was discussing this with a man she didn’t know.

“I am no expert, my lord,” she told him, “but what pleasure could there be? It is an act designed to propagate the species.”

He propped his head on his fist, crossing his long, muscular legs and swaying his boot-clad foot casually. A lock of his silky black hair fell on his forehead and Elain had the insane urge to go and fix it for him. His handsomeness didn’t help. Elain had feared that the man would be old and paunchy, sweaty and balding. Why else would one need to contract for a woman to give him a child? She figured maybe he was missing limbs, or had distorted features, or perhaps some unappealing trait…but she definitely, definitely did not expect Lord Night. She had some parameters that she had set for herself in regards to the arrangement–if the gentleman seemed brutish, if his looks made her squeamish, if he had a visible disease or if his visage repelled her, she would not have gone along with the scheme. As much as she needed the money, she also knew that she wouldn’t have a child with someone cruel or unappealing. She wanted her baby to live in a loving environment and with a parent who’d want them and care for them.

The problem was that Lord Night’s appearance quickly overrode her good sense. It wasn’t something that she ever considered–that he would be so handsome and so titled that she’d forget all her common sense and all the expectations that she had prior to meeting him.

Stumbling a bit over her own tongue, she asked at last,

“What sort of pleasure is there?”

“Ahhmm Miss Archeron,” he smiled at her, “why do you think people have lost their minds and morals through the centuries over love?”

It was an excellent question, to which Elain did not have an answer. Why indeed?

“Well, perhaps, you will have the chance to find out,” he got up and straightened his jacket.

“I do not want love, my lord,” Elain insisted brusquely.

He nodded slowly,

“Yes, yes. I know. You need the money.”

“I do.”

“Then don’t fall in love, Miss Archeron,” he suggested.

But why did it sound like a challenge.

“Take the rest of the day to think about everything,” he told her. “These rooms are yours for the night. You may order food and drink. St. John’s Gardens are not far–should you wish to take a stroll.

“I will call upon you tomorrow, at 10 am, and I expect an answer.”

* UK £10,000.00 in 1890 would be equivalent to £1,644,035.82 in 2023, an absolute change of £1,634,035.82 and a cumulative change of 16,340.36%.

#elriel #pro elriel #elriel fanfiction #my writing #elain archeron #azriel and elain #azriel #elain x azriel #elain #fanfic writer #the agreement #ACOTAR fanfiction #acotar fanfic

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