#you get the aging parents who want you to continue with their legacy

[batwynn]

All the advertising I saw for Elemental:

Check out this wacky adventure between a fire person and a water person! A Tree Child Flirts with her! LOL! HEY LOOK CLOUD PEOPLE! *cartoon spring and honking noises*

Me: I don’t… want to watch that. Oh well, that’s fine.

Me actually watching it:

Oh wait, it’s a story of an immigrant family who come with nothing and build a community for themselves and their people and the weight of debt you feel to your parents who sacrificed for you to succeed but the way that that success sometimes isn’t what you want and how parental love can feel conditional when there’s a lack of clear communication and—

Me getting to the end: SHE BOWED AND HE BOWED BACK 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭💦💧💦💧💦💧💦💧💦🌊🌊🌊🌊🚿🚿🚿

[kookslastbutton]

Love's Remedy, On Fire ༓ jjk (m) l ch. I

✑ Summary: Jungkook is a romantic. He comes from a highly intelligent family who wants him to carry out the lineage. Being this way, he goes to college to be a pharmacist but his friends say college isn't just about studying! With a little persuasion, he goes to his first frat party thinking his hat will help him pick up a girl-or woman he means.

Pairing: STEM major!virgin!jungkook x STEM major!hot girl!reader

AU/genre: angst, smut, fluff, s2l, college au, mini-series

Rating: M, 18+

Word Count: 3,027

Warnings: jk is very cute and determined, jk a romantic, oc has philophobia (fear of relationships), oc is not mean here but she teases jk, feat Jackson and Jae-beom, if i missed warning lmk!

Now Playing: seven, summertime sadness, she’s kerosene, angels like you+

A/N: um ok I swear this was supposed to be a pwp crack fic about jk wanting to get laid with a hat on. This turned into a very angsty but fluffy series and I'm sorry 😬 lmk what you think and tysm for reading! 💞 I know title is sucky

ch. lI >> | series masterlist

Over the entirety of his nineteen years, Jungkook was pushed to prepare for one thing—college entrance exams.

It was a huge deal and getting into one of the leading universities in South Korea was a must for him. You see, the Jeons were nobody to laugh at with the bulk of them being high-ranking medical doctors, engineers, and lawyers. Continuing this legacy, therefore, was far from a choice, Jungkook had to follow suit.

When the results of the exams came back Jungkook passed with flying colors. It wasn't a surprise though since he spent all his time studying his ass off until the dawn. Jungkook indeed got accepted into one of the most prestigious universities in Seoul and his parents, teachers, and friends were quick to give their congratulations. He felt good too...no, he felt damn good.

Now he was here he was, standing in the middle of campus with his bag slung over one shoulder and a few orientation papers in his hand. It was still the first week of classes and he desperately needed to get to the science building. (He had chosen to follow his father's footsteps and go into biochem).

"Excuse me," he asks with nervous eyes and a wobbling lip. "Do you happen to know where the science building is? I'm late for class but I can't seem to find it."

The student he walks up to for directions looks about his age. He isn't sure if she's in her first year like him but she looks competent with the way she's standing, feet spread apart and a hand on her hip. The skirt she's sporting is incredibly short but the top is full length. She's smacking on hot pink gum as well, popping bubbles every now and then.

"Keep walking straight until you see the statue of President Kim, then take a right. The science building will be right there." You hardly spare him a glance but you make the mental note that he's cute with his fluffy black hair and big lost eyes. You consider asking his name but you shrug the feeling. He was cute yes, but he was too cute which isn't your type.

Jungkook gives a small thank you and walks off. Your directions are vague, but hopefully finding the statue will help him. After a few steps, he looks over his shoulder to see you laughing with your friend.

You have a gorgeous smile.

Probably the last time he'll see you though, he thinks. Jungkook isn't sure how he'd be with a woman given the fact he's never been with one. Surely he'd do better than half the dumbasses out there but guys like him don't stand a chance with a woman like you.

You look like you go for the experienced type and that wasn't him. He goes back to what he was doing, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Hey man, what's your name?" A young guy with bleached blonde hair slides into the seat next to him. Apparently, he wasn't the only one late. "I'm Jackson." The man goes in for a fist bump but stops when it's very obvious it won't be reciprocated.

"I'm Jungkook," he says, more concentrated on what his professor is saying than anything else. Jackson continues talking, however, despite his focused state.

"So, I'm assuming this is your first year?" Jungkook nods. "Me too. Where you from?"

"Busan."

"Cool cool, I'm from Hong Kong." Hearing this makes Jungkook shift his eyes over immediately. The last thing he expected was to meet someone from China. Was this Jackson dude just pulling his leg or was he being serious? Nevertheless, it intrigues him.

"I'm an exchange student." Jackson clarifies. "Always wanted to see what South Korea was like and I know Seoul's got a pretty thriving economy so..." He shrugs. "Figured I'd give it a go and my parents support it. As long as I stay on my doctor's track of course."

Well damn. A doctor was not what Jungkook assumed a guy like Jackson would be going for. This was a prestigious school but it's still a gen ed class they're in right now. Anyone from most majors could be taking it. If he had to guess, Jackson would be a businessman.

"Well enough about me though," Jackson quips. "What do you study?"

"Biochem. My dad works as a physician and my mom's a chemical engineer. I'm going for pharmacology."

"Shit bro," Jackson cusses freely. Jungkook doesn't mean to jump in response but he does. Being all formal talk at home, it's unventured territory. "You guys must be a family of geniuses. Wait...what's your last name?"

"Jeon?"

Jackson nearly falls back in his chair when he hears the name fall from Jungkook's lips. He covers his mouth with both hands to keep himself under wraps. "Are you serious? You're from the Jeon family? Fuck, man, I've been hearing about your family since I was a kid that's how influential your family has been in the medical industry."

Jungkook finds himself intertwining his hands. His family is well-established in what they do but it never occurred to him that they were that well-known. Sure his dad's been featured in a couple of magazines for his work and his mom's been given several awards for her research. But he didn't think they'd gone that publicly beyond their own town.

"Oh shit I'm sorry. Am I making you uncomfortable talking about this? Promise you I'm not a creep or anything!" The urgency in Jackson's tone stirs up the classroom, peers looking over at the two of them in annoyance.

"Do you mind shutting up?" A chestnut-haired boy is the first to speak up. He looks thoroughly pissed, to say the least with his cat-like eyes narrowing at the both of them. "Some of us actually want to graduate here."

"Chill out man. We're sorry." Jackson gives Jungkook a small tight-lipped smile. "We'll talk later."

"We will?"

Jackson gives him a slap on the back. "Yeah it's a given. You and I," he gestures between the two of them. "We should stick together. Being that we're both new around here and we both studying med. Also, was going to wait to tell you but I wanna go to this awesome party that goes on that kicks off the year. You'd think I'd be confident to go by myself but if you're free, I could use a buddy."

A party. Some blonde-haired boy who could very likely become the center of attention wants him, Jeon Jungkook, to go to a party? Jungkook spends most of his time playing video games, studying chem tables, and watching p—well he shouldn't say that part out loud.

"If you don't want to then I get it." Jackson scratches his head. "I don't wanna pressure you or anything. We did just meet and I just thought you looked cool so...."

"Okay." Jungkook accepts before giving it much thought. Besides studying, he was told college was a time to also let loose and have fun. Freedom and all that. That's what his friends back home told him at least. They also mentioned getting laid but...who would give him that fat chance?

If anything, maybe he'll get a friend by going to this little party. Jungkook shoots a small smile in return.

"Okay listen," Jackson says, opening the door to his black Lexus. "I heard this party gets crazy so just be smart and don't get into too much punch."

Jungkook hops in the passenger seat. "But I love punch." He straps his seatbelt in, totally unaware of the punch Jackson"s referring to.

"It's spiked Kook. And I'm guessing your alcohol tolerance is pretty low?" Jackson twists the key and pulls out of the campus parking lot. He doesn't mean to be insulting or anything but his new buddy doesn't look like the party-hardy kinda guy.

In fact, Jungkook decided to....well, wear a hat to this gig. It's not a baseball cap, beanie, or even a greasy cowboy hat.

It's a sunhat. Black at least.

"By the way Jungkook. I don't wanna sound like a dick or anything but can you explain the thing on your head? Because the rest of you looks great, black dress shirt and jeans."

"Oh um." Jungkook rubs his hands on his thighs. He's embarrassed to tell Jackson the truth but he's his buddy now, right? Maybe this can be a bonding thing for them. "I thought it was cute? I mean I wanna...ah." Jungkook lets out a nervous chuckle.

"What is it, man? I promise I won't judge."

"I wanna," he starts again. "Uhm you see I heard that if you wear something out of the ordinary that people will like you more or something. Like they'll be interested..."

"Mhm, cute and out of the ordinary things huh? What kind of people are you trying to impress Jungkook?" Jackson gives a knowing smirk. Who knew his buddy schemes these kinds of stuff.

Jungkook speeds through the answer. "Grs."

"Say it properly and slower."

"Wanna get a girl....woman! I mean...a woman." Jungkook sheepishly grins at Jackson. Please don't laugh at me, he begs silently.

"You dog!" Jackson pushes Jungkook's shoulder. "My little buddy is a man, well well well. So are you looking for a girlfriend or something else?"

"Wife!" Jungkook bugs out his eyes, no hesitation at all. Jackson struggles not to give even the slightest snort. Didn't Jungkook know what kind of party this is?

"That's very sweet but this isn't the place you're going to find a wife, Jungkook. That's more like if we were going to a speed dating thing....this, this is a frat party, little bro."

Jackson pulls up to the front of the giant, lit-up house. They could hear electronic music blasting outside and all over the lawn were shirtless guys and scantily-dressed women. Some were off making out while others were drinking in groups.

Jungkook tenses at the sight. He used to fancy black tie parties where everyone is dressed to the hill and drinking is moderate. Jackson is right, he is not finding a wife here. Dammit. But he really doesn't want to give up his hat.

"Yo Jackson," a guy with pitch-black hair greets the man with a fist bump. So that's how it's done, Jungkook observes. "Glad you could make it!"

"Jae-beom, what's good man?! I wouldn't miss this party for the world. I brought a friend." He ushers Jungkook to come forward. "This is Jungkook. He's in my class."

"Nice to meet you Jungkook!" Jae-beom moves in for a fist bump which ends up making contact with Jungkook's fist. It's not as sharp as with Jackson but it's a fist bump. "I used to work with Jackson over the summer. Always stealing my tips this man!"

"Hey, I did not do that!" Jackson gives a hearty laugh and shoves Jae-beom hard enough for him to lose his balance a little. "You kept leaving for a smoke. I had to wait your tables half the time!"

"I wasn't going for a smoke Jack—woah hey baby. What's your name?" The man shifts his focus to the girl walking past them. She has bright red lipstick, a black crop top, and jean shorts.

"Fuck off." She snaps before looking at Jungkook. "Cute hat by the way."

Everyone looks at Jungkook at that moment who's motionless. They hope to god he says something back but he only stares. The girl smirks at him and quirks her head to the side. "What's your name? I gotta friend who'd be all over you in a heartbeat, though she'd never admit it."

Jackson throws a mouth over his hand, eyes wide in amusement. This girl did not just propose Jungkook, his buddy who's looking for a wife, to get off with her friend.

"Um...yeah no. No, it's okay but thanks." Jungkook can barely sound the words. This girl in front of him was really, really hot but intimidating. "Yes thank you but I'm looking for a..."

"Don't-" Jackson lunges forward.

"Wife." Jungkook smiles at the girl a little too angelically. "I'm Jungkook though. What's your name?"

The girl bites her lip. "Well, it's too bad then Jungkook. Because you're so fucking cute and I know you'd like each other. Why don't you meet her? Even if it's just to say hi?"

Jungkook looks at Jackson who only shrugs. "Up to you man."

Jungkook makes his way through the heavy crowd. He bumps into a few people on the way but thankfully he's able to still see the girl, apparently who goes by Crystal.

Jungkook isn't convinced it's her real name but if that's what she wants to be called who is he to dispute?

Once they get to the other side of the room, Jungkook spots a woman with a tight black dress on. It falls mid-thigh and has laced-up sides. When they near the woman Jungkook feels himself sweating bullets.

"__!" Crystal taps on your shoulder. "I brought you, someone, to meet. This is Jungkook!"

You turn around, drink in hand. You look fucking stunning. Jungkook can't believe it's you. He's seeing you again and he wishes he didn't wear this damn hat now! He goes to yank it off but Crystal stops him.

"Hey, the hat's cute. Keep it on!"

"I-but," he looks at you. "But it's making me hot." You're making me hot.

You give a shrug. "Do what you want Jungkook. It's your head at stake." You take a sip of your drink. You really did not expect to see the shy guy from this morning be at a frat party. "Good to see you again."

"Oh, you know each other?"

"We had a slight run in this morning. Baby had to get to the science building." You take a scan at what he's wearing. Black shirt that cuts at the elbows, denim jeans, and sneakers. Not bad compared to the sweater he was wearing this morning.

"I'm—I'm not a baby." Jungkook can't stop himself from feeling offended. Whether you meant it to be condescending or not, he doesn't want to be seen as a baby! Especially not to you. "I'm a man, okay? I go to the gym and stuff."

"Okay I'm sorry," you say. "I just call everyone baby. I didn't mean anything."

That doesn't seem to relax Jungkook. "I can lift a fuck ton of weights too." He stops once he hears himself cuss out loud. Usually, he does that in his head....goddamn it.

"Mmm," you step towards him, careful not to touch him. Usually by now you'd already be in the bathroom getting railed by some punk but not tonight. Jungkook has your attention. "Can you now? I'm not sure if I believe you. You're kind of a twig, not to be rude or anything."

Jungkook's face turns to a darker shade, eyes piercing into yours. "I can show you I'm not lying."

"Go ahead, do what you will." You fake a yawn until you find yourself suddenly in his arms. They're a lot stronger and more muscular than you thought. "Jungkook! Put me down!"

Everyone at the party starts staring over, giggling at each other. Jungkook gives a satisfied grin. "I have you in my arms, what are you gonna do now? Not believe me again?"

"I-" You're certain your face glowing with embarrassment. "Um no, I believe you Jungkook. Please, set me down."

"Not til you say it --." He challenges-brat. "Say I'm not a baby."

"Jungkook I told you I call everyone baby. It wasn't-okay you're not a baby. Obviously, you lift a lot now please put me down."

Finally, he does what you ask, a proud face on. His hat is a little crooked so you reach out and fix it. It's a reflexive response, you don't even know what you're doing let alone Jungkook.

"Oh, sorry your hat was just-"

"Please go out with me. On a date I mean?" He's so terribly timid but he can't help himself now. He had you in his arms and you're just so beautiful and charming. He needs to know more about you. It's a must.

"Well, I-" Everyone waits for your answer, very nosy clearly. You look at Jungkook with his big eyes and pouty lips. You don't wanna say no but relationships aren't your thing. And it seems that is defiantly all he's in for.

Jungkook's shoulders sulk. He isn't expecting a yes but he was hoping that maybe you'd give him a tiny chance.

"Come on __," Crystal whispers. "Look at him. Don't you think he's cute? Like really cute?"

You look at your best friend with weary eyes. He's so cute but, there's that but. That relationship but. He's going to be the type to want to do all the couple things and snuggle and everything. Jungkook needs someone who is willing to do all the stuff and you? You're not good at any of it.

"I'm sorry Jungkook," you start. "I don't know if-"

"One date __. If it's a no I won't bother you again. I just....I just think you're really gorgeous and I wanna get to know you. That's all." He takes the hat off his head, letting his fluffy hair run free. You kinda wanna touch it if it didn't makes things weird.

His words, however, make your heart thump the tiniest amount. The only time you've ever been called gorgeous is when guys try to get in your bed. It's all you've known other than maybe from a relative. Gorgeous is used pretty regularly, you know that, but this time it's used in an entirely different context.

"I'll tell you what," he says, pulling out his phone. "I'll give you my number and if you change your mind text me or call. I won't bug you and you can delete it right after this if you want, I promise."

You end up taking his number and Jungkook leaves to go back to his buddies. "You should go out with him __," Crystal says.

"I don't know." You watch him stride away. "I'll think about it."

A/N: what am i doing? Idk im running away now bye! lmk what you think and tysm for reading! Comment/ask to be on taglist 💞

Masterlist

no reposting, copying, or translating my work– © kookslastbutton

[ascesabo]

sometimes i want to reach through the screen and shake sabo by the shoulders because. god. there's just so much going on with him.

he's first introduced through the veil of luffy's memories- here he's just another feral jungle kid, sticking it out with ace and luffy, the 'nicer' brother in young luffy's eyes. and then boom. you find out he's a runaway noble trying to escape his abusive, neglectful family- and this changes nothing, they still get to become sworn brothers, but just as quickly as this is resolved, his asshole of a dad takes the three of them hostage. and what does sabo do? he gives up the little sliver of freedom he'd fought for, is willing to become miserable and lonely again if it means ace and luffy are spared. and then he comes home to find that in his absence, his parents have already found a replacement! great!

and he doesn't even get to address how fucked up that is, because stelly runs his mouth and now sabo's too busy trying to figure out how to stop his brothers and their home from getting burnt to the ground. he never gets to give them a proper goodbye- he exhausts himself trying to reach them, but he can't because. you know. he's ten. so where does this leave sabo? ten years old, with nowhere to go- he sets out to sea to try and start over, and for the crime of wanting to escape a terrible life, he's punished with an explosion to the face. he loses his memories, his brothers lose him- and so the cycle continues.

then the army saves him, takes him in; he's essentially a child soldier, with how prodigious of a fighter he is from the get-go. but hey, he thinks he's finally found his footing, even if his past's a blur to him- then it all comes flooding back. in the worst way possible. he sees his brother's corpse and he remembers, but it doesn't matter, does it? he's too late, ace is gone, and sabo's lost ten years of a life he could have shared with his brothers. we don't even know how (if, even) he recovers from this- except for a single passing statement from koala, asking him if he's 'had that dream again' because he'd been crying in his sleep. this is never brought up or addressed again. great!plus, we never do find out if getting blown up at the ripe old age of ten could have left any lasting fire-related trauma; and if it does, what does that mean for sabo, who's pretty much made of it, now?

both of these questions are answered at once- sabo treats the fire as if it's ace. it's ace's legacy he's carrying on, and it's ace he seeks freedom for. he copes by making sure ace lives on in his flames, and how can he ever hate the fire living in him if that fire is all he has left of the brother he never got to see again?

i just have to wonder about him, because he's got so many Issues that just. don't ever get addressed? every time we see him deal with his grief (episode of sabo, his own retelling of events in dressrosa) we never really discover anything about him. i wonder how it felt to finally remember the childhood that eluded him, just to find out he was an unwanted, replacable child. how he feels, living with the knowledge that he could have done something to save ace, that he'd failed to remember the two people he loved the most? i wonder just how terribly that guilt must weigh down on him- because where luffy's already begun to heal, sabo still sees ace in everything he does. his title of flame emperor is a direct callback to ace's final attack in his fight against blackbeard. he talks to his goddamn fire like his brother is still in front of him, which is sweet and heartbreaking and, considering his backlog of unaddressed trauma... incredibly unhealthy. i know these will probably be left unresolved for the sake of moving the story forward- but god, sabo, are you okay?

[wingdingery]

Hello! I really wanted to say that your writing is amazing, I always look forward to what you upload especially for Brudick, but even just their platonic readings too caught a bit of my interest! I had a question that I felt that you probably could answer. Who do you think is closer to Bruce, Alfred or Dick? I've seen this question pop up, and usually people would say Alfred, but I feel like that's not true, though I could just be biased. So, I was wondering what do you think?

Thank you so much, anon! 💙

There’s a lot of nuance to this but ultimately I would say Dick is closer to Bruce, at least under my definition of “close”. I’m also obviously biased BUT I will try to give some context for why I think so.

(This is under the cut because, as usual, I went much longer than you probably bargained for when you asked this, but hopefully some of it will be interesting to you!)

So, first of all, Dick’s overall existence predates Alfred by a few years (Batman was created in 1939; Dick was introduced in 1940, and Alfred in 1943). Dick was also clearly meant to be Bruce’s close ally and partner from the very beginning, whereas Alfred grew into that role.

Detective Comics (1937) #38

Batman (1940) #16

These early Golden Age comics have little bearing on modern canon and characterization, but as the “birth” of these characters, I think it still provides important context – particularly regarding their relationships to each other. It’s fairly consistent across retellings that Dick and Bruce are drawn to each other because of their shared grief and trauma, and the ways they help each other work through that. At its core, and from the very beginning, their bond is a highly emotional one.

Bruce and Alfred’s is not. What’s consistent across retellings is that Alfred is the family butler, and a bond doesn’t immediately develop between them once Bruce’s parents die. In some tellings, it’s presented as simple emotional distance that Alfred doesn’t know how to cross, even to comfort a grieving child:

Batman: Dark Victory #9

Sometimes, the emotional connection existed between Alfred and Thomas and Martha. In those cases, Bruce is “Thomas and Martha’s son” who Alfred watches over in their memory, but he (at least initially) cares for Bruce as a way of caring for the Waynes’ legacy, and not for Bruce’s own sake.

Batman: The Knight #1

And this continues into Bruce’s adulthood. Even as they get closer over the years and Alfred helps Bruce with his activities as Batman, he actively maintains the employer-employee relationship between them. You could argue addressing him as “Master Bruce” is habit/formality, but regardless, it creates emotional distance between them, and Alfred consistently refers to their relationship in terms of employment, even when it’s clear they care deeply for each other.

Knightquest (Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight #60)

I should caveat here that I haven’t read a ton of solo Bruce content so there may be things I’m missing, but from what I have read, I get the sense Bruce had a lonely childhood due to the lack of emotional connection between him and Alfred. In fact, despite Alfred’s constant presence, Bruce is commonly depicted as lonely/emotionally stunted until Dick comes along.

Batman: Full Circle

Robin Annual #4

This page in Robin Annual #4 also hints at another thing I wanted to mention, which is that Alfred usually disapproves of Dick’s presence at first, and especially disapproves of Dick becoming Robin, but he comes around to it because he sees how good Dick’s presence is for Bruce. Alfred knows that he can’t give Bruce the emotional connection that he’s lacking, but Dick can.

Robin: Year One

In Alfred’s eyes, Dick is the one who Bruce can confide everything to, who can be his light and pull him back from the brink if needed. If something is going on with Bruce and Alfred doesn’t know what to do, Dick is the one he turns to.

(Not to say Alfred and Dick don’t develop their own close relationship over time, because they do! But Alfred puts a lot on Dick’s shoulders and has a lot of expectations for him when it comes to Bruce.)

52 #30

Bruce Wayne: Murderer?

Nightwing (1996) #99

Okay, that was a lot! In summary, I think it’s clear that Alfred is extremely close to Bruce. Even when they have a tense employer-employee relationship (see: the Caped Crusader show where Bruce calls him “Pennyworth” and spends most of the time treating him like an asshole boss would treat an employee) Bruce immediately trusts him with the secret of his identity as Batman. Alfred is undoubtedly loyal, and Bruce undoubtedly cares for him on some level.

But because of the origins of their relationship, their emotional connection takes time to develop, whereas Dick and Bruce’s is immediate and visceral. I really think you can argue that Bruce’s emotional connection with Dick is the first one Bruce really experiences since his parents’ death, and it’s also what actually allows his emotional connection with Alfred to develop.

I want to end with something Scott Snyder said in a 2011 interview with Comic Vine:

To me, one of the things that's really interesting about Dick Grayson […] is that relationship is pathological at times and completely endearing at others. Dick always wears his heart on his sleeve, he cares about Bruce openly. He's compassionate and empathetic. Bruce is just a darker character, and for me, he's someone who needs that connection but won't admit it. […] The idea is that Dick Grayson is also the person who is his greatest tether to humanity. When I think about the future for Bruce, I think about him either very very lonely […] or dying in the line of duty as Batman or…you know, there aren't a lot of good endings. Dick's the person that would pull him back from the edge, or even bring him down, honestly if he needed to if Bruce really went too far in some way and bring him in.

If you want to talk about who’s been physically at Bruce’s side for longer, then sure, that’s Alfred. But that doesn’t necessarily mean Bruce feels closer to Alfred than he does to Dick. Alfred is Bruce’s loyal butler, and there isn’t much he wouldn’t do for Bruce, but he acts as Bruce’s hand.

But Dick is stated over and over again to be Bruce’s heart. So if you were to ask me who’s closest to Bruce—who he trusts with his emotions, his life, his legacy—that would be Dick, no question, every time.

Batman (2011) #11

[cruel-simmer]

So I've never done anything like this before and idk what possessed me to do it now but here we are I guess! Each generation of this challenge is inspired by a Doctor Who (2005-) companion! Some generations are more strict or packed with things to do than others. Same with how closely they stick to the life of the companions - some things are accurate, some stuff is loosely based Currently there's 11 generations with the final one being Dan Lewis plus three bonus generations. I will be updating this challenge with future companions (Ruby etc) whenever their time on the main show comes to an end. I will also be making a TS3 version of this as soon as I can that I will update this post to include a link to Check out a spreadsheet checklist version of the challenge HERE. It is simplified slightly for ease so if you plan on doing this challenge make sure to read through the full requirements below first so you don't miss anything! If you do this challenge and plan on posting it I'd love if you used #tscompanionlegacy so I can see it LAST UPDATE 10/06/24 (keep reading for details)

UPDATES 10/06/24

Complete Yaz generation overhaul

Three bonus generations (Jack, River, Nardole) added

Misc typo corrections

Changed Martha generation degree

Some generation colour switches

Heirs don't need to be the same gender, sexuality etc as the character their generation is inspired by

Normal or long lifespan is recommended

Use as few cheats as possible

All asterisk (*) mark generation requirements are optional

As your heirs age up, give them the required traits in the order that they're listed

Each generation has a colour (assigned mostly based on an outfit that the companion wears in the show) and you can use it as much or little as you like

There is a connection between each generation in their descriptions but you could ignore them and do the legacy in a random order if you wanted to

If baby specifics aren't mentioned anywhere in the generation rules assume you can have as many or few as you like as long as you have at least one to continue to legacy

Basically all of this is just a guide, you should just do what you want in order to get the most fun out of this challenge

You aren't sure what you're doing with your life. You have a tiny home, a rubbish part-time job and no real plans for the future. You're starting to think that's what your whole life is going to consist of until one day you begin to notice the new town you've moved into might be called StrangerVille for a reason. People are acting weird and keeping secrets and no one seems to wants to sort it out so you decide the person to do that will be you. This hunt for answers gives you new purpose and kick starts a love for all things science and aliens.

Aspiration: StrangerVille Mystery Traits: Jealous, Outgoing, Generous Career: Retail Employee, Scientist World: StrangerVille Colour: Pink

Live in the StrangerVille trailer park at least until your aspiration is complete

Work a part-time job as a Retail Employee

Complete the StrangerVille Mystery aspiration before becoming an Adult

Join the Scientist career ASAP after completing aspiration

Create a portal and visit Sixam

Have at least one alien baby with an alien

*Max the logic skill

*Complete the Alien collection

*Reach the top of the Scientist career

If growing up with a Scientist parent, an Alien sibling and the stories of how your parent freed StrangerVille taught you anything it's there's a lot of stuff out there that needs finding, containing and keeping track of. So you decide to make it your job to ensure that happens! It's not your whole life though. There are other things important to you as well, like love and adventure, and you do your best to make sure your job doesn't take over and leave no time for those other things.

Aspiration: Academic Traits: Genius, Romantic, Self-Assured Career: Military (Covert Operator Branch) World: Oasis Springs Colour: Dark Red

If you are an Alien, be stealthy about it in public/at work

Get a Psychology degree

Fall in love with someone who loves someone else more

Go on at least four vacations in your lifetime

Marry a co-worker

Have one child

*Max the research and debate, fitness and logic skills

*Reach the top of the Military career

*Complete the Academic aspiration

Your young adult life doesn't start out as being what you thought it would be - there's an incident with a partner who turns out to be Evil, you can't find a full-time job, living with your parents long past when they envisioned you'd be living with them starts to break down your relationship - but somewhere down the line it starts working out. You find passion in a job you're good at, a stable relationship that makes you happy, and a child you dedicate your life to protecting. You do still get under your parents feet but they don't mind as much now that you're making something of yourself.

Aspiration: Super Parent Traits: Mean, Loyal, Family-Oriented Career: Retail Employee, Tech Guru (Start-Up Entrepreneur Branch) World: Oasis Springs, then Any Colour: Light Brown

Live with your parents until they die and if you want to move out of Oasis Springs you have to wait until they die to do it

Have a rocky relationship with parents from YA onwards until you get married

Play the lottery regularly

Get into a relationship with an Evil Sim and be the one to propose to them

Either get left at the altar or have your partner die before you get married

Find a new partner and marry them

Join Tech Guru career only once you're dating your future spouse

Have one child but only after marriage

*Max the programming and parenting skills

*Reach the top of the Tech Guru career

*Complete the Super Parent aspiration

*The beginning of the next two generations are quite same-y so if you don't feel like playing both of them you could just choose one path - Amy or Rory*

Despite your loving family growing up and the best friend turned significant other that worships the ground walk on, you can't help but feel there's something missing and you want more than the cozy little life that they want. You pretend for a while - there's a whirlwind proposal, wedding and pregnancy - but it's not long before it get's too much and you start putting yourself before the people around you. You don't just want to be some small town writer. You want to be a celebrity, and you want to live like one.

Aspiration: World-Famous Celebrity Traits: Creative, Noncommittal, Self-Absorbed Career: Writer (Freelance), Actor World: Chestnut Ridge then Del Sol Valley or San Myshuno Colour: Orange

*Max childhood creative skill

Have two BFFs growing up and start dating one of them as a teen

Move to Chestnut Ridge with your partner as soon as you become a YA

Get proposed to ASAP after moving out with your partner and get married within a week

Cheat on your partner once between getting engaged and married

Get pregnant on your wedding night and name your baby after your other childhood BFF

Get divorced as an Adult and have a negative relationship with your ex that you actively make worse

After the divorce, move to either Del Sol Valley or San Myshuno (with your child) and get a job as an Actor

Don't pursue another serious relationship

*Max the acting and writing skills

*Reach the top of the Actor career

*Complete the World-Famous Celebrity aspiration

Your parent points out to you how your life is shaping up to be like theirs - they had two childhood BFFs too! and started dating one of them! - and all you can think about is how badly that worked out for them and how much you want it to work out the opposite way for you. You want a big happy family, a picket fence and maybe a dog to go with it. You know just wanting it isn't enough to make it happen though so you put in work, work your more than willing to put in, to show how dedicated you are to this kind of life.

Aspiration: Soulmate Traits: Genius, Romantic, Socially Awkward Career: Doctor World: Henford-on-Bagley Colour: Light Blue

Have two BFFs growing up and start dating one of them as a teen

Move to a new world with your partner as soon as you become a YA

Propose ASAP after moving in with your partner and get married within a week

Get pregnant on your wedding night and name your baby after your other childhood BFF

Have chickens, cows and/or llamas

Go on a date with spouse at least once a week

Have at least three biological children

Adopt at least one baby/infant

*Complete the Village Fair Ribbons collection

*Max the handiness skill

*Reach the top of the Doctor career

*Complete the Soulmate aspiration

For the most part your life is average - you're a minimum wage teacher with a dead parent and your significant other is a co-worker - but then you meet a mad Scientist who you try to just stay friends with and tell your partner not to worry about but ultimately you're too drawn to them to keep away...

Aspiration: Fount of Tomarani Knowledge Traits: Bookworm, Flirty, Perfectionist Career: Babysitter, Education (Professor Branch) World: Tomarang Colour: Mustard/Gold

Have at least one parent die of something that isn't old age

Get a part-time job as a Babysitter while a teen

*Reach top of Babysitter career

Date a fellow teacher as a YA

Make friends with a Scientist and eventually cheat on your partner with them

Leave your partner for the Scientist

Have at least one day/night out in every world

Be enemies with your Scientist partner's best friend

Have your Scientist partner make at least two clones of you (it's up to you what you do with them)

Never get married

*Max the research and debate skill

*Complete the Postcards collection

*Reach the top of Education career

*Complete Fount of Tomarani Knowledge aspiration

For a while you think a Fast Food employee is all you're destined to be which is fine you guess but you were just expecting more. On a whim you apply to university and before long you're moving in, making friends, falling in love and changing your whole life!

Aspiration: Friend of the World or Good Vampire Traits: Cheerful, Foodie, Outgoing Career: Fast Food, Astronaut (Space Ranger Branch) World: Britchester, Any Colour: Purple

Get a Fast Food part-time job as a YA

Don't start university until after reaching the top of the Fast Food part-time job

Live in a Britchester shared house while at university

Become best friends with one of your professors

Make a vampire friend who later becomes an enemy

Become a vampire

Date someone at university but break up with them by the time you graduate

Get a Physics degree

Go on at least two dates with two different Sims

Go on at least two vacations with your university professor

Reconnect with your ex from university as a late adult and give up your life as a vampire

*Max the charisma, rocket science and fitness skills

*Complete the Friend of the World or Good Vampire aspiration

*Reach the top of the Astronaut career

You're known for two things - making food and making jokes. You don't go anywhere without a sacked lunch and you always have a dad joke on hand. You can't imagine why it takes you so long to find the true love of your life. And why do they have to be gone so soon?

Aspiration: Master Chef or Angling Ace Traits: Dance Machine, Glutton, Cringe Career: Culinary (Chef Branch) World: Brindleton Bay Colour: Brown

Take a sack lunch with you whenever you go out or to work

Have at least one child

Teach your heir child to ride a bike

Don't meet the true love of your life until you're an elder

Throw a big wedding party (and dance a lot)

Have your spouse die before you do (either via an 'accident' or you can just cheat it so that your spouse is a few days older)

*Max the cooking and gourmet cooking skills

*Max the fishing skill

*Complete the fish collection

*Reach the top of the Culinary career

*Complete the Master Chef or Angling Ace aspiration

As a child your parent taught you to ride a bike and it kick started your love of sports. As a teen you became Clumsy and it knocked your confidence. As a result you pursue a job in Social Media (which you definitely enjoy but it's not quite your childhood dream of being an Athlete) and spend some time not doing many active things at all for fear of failure. Over time you find confidence in yourself and decide to dive in the deep end to get back into sports by hitting the slopes in Mt Komorebi.

Aspiration: Extreme Sports Enthusiast Traits: Active, Clumsy, Bro Career: Manual Labourer, Social Media (Internet Personality Branch), Athletic (Professional Athlete Branch) World: Any, *Mt. Komorebi Colour: Teal

Have a poor relationship with your non-heir parent

Get a part-time job as a Manual Labourer as a teen

Have a basketball hoop

Don't work your on aspiration until you're at least mid-YA

Reconnect with your teen BFF as an Adult

Meet your significant other in Mt. Komorebi

*Move to Mt. Komorebi

Once your midway through you aspiration, you can quit the Social Media career to become an Athlete (but you don't have to)

Have at least two children

*Max the video-gaming or athletic skill

*Max the skiing, snowboarding or rock-climbing skill

*Complete the Simmi collection

*Reach the top of the Athletic or Social Media career

*Complete the Extreme Sport Enthusiast aspiration

You love your job but you can't help but want more. One day you meet someone who throws into a world of potions and magic and might just give you the more that you've been wanting.

Aspiration: Spellcraft and Sorcery Traits: Gloomy, Loner, Ambitious Career: Detective World: Any Colour: Red

Don't have any friends as a teen

As a YA, become BFFS with a high ranking Spellcaster and fall in love with them quickly but don't make a move (kiss) them

Become a Spellcaster

*Quit job as a Detective

Have a film night with your sibling/s once a week

Move in with your BFF

Reveal your romantic feelings (and have at least one baby baby) with your BFF late in life

*Complete the Magical Artifacts collection

*Reach the top of the Detective career

*Complete the Spellcraft and Sorcery aspiration

Helping people (and animals) has always been in your nature so no one is shocked when you move to Sulani as soon as you are able to pursue a job in conservation to not just help the few people around you but hopefully the entire town. And you do most of it with a dog at your side.

Aspiration: Friend of the Animals Traits: Good, Dog Person, Nosy Career: Conservationist World: Sulani Colour: Black

Always have at least one dog

Be BFFs with every dog you have

Be left at the altar as a YA

Marry someone else that you've known for a while as a late Adult

Donate to charity at least twice a week

Max the pet training skill

*Max logic, handiness and charisma skills

*Reach the top of the Conservationist career

*Complete the Friend of the Animals aspiration

Aspiration: Serial Romantic Traits: Kleptomaniac, Flirty, Materialistic Career: Criminal (Oracle Branch)World: AnyColour: Dark Blue

Have a child that doesn't live in your household

Have at least four close friends

Drink a Potion of Youth a few days before aging into an Elder at least once. If you're already starting on the next generation before this point then keep this heir in the household until they've drank the potion and then after that you can move them out if you want to

*Max the mischief, programming and charisma skills

*Reach the top of the Criminal career

*Complete the Serial Romantic aspiration

Aspiration: Archaeology Scholar Traits: Bookworm, Romantic, Self-Assured Career: Writer (Author Branch)World: AnyColour: White

Get a Language and Literature degree

Don't become close with your parents until you've got your degree

Spend more time exploring the jungle than writing and explore as much of the jungle as possible

Have multiple long term partners before finding 'the one'

Have at least two spouses (with the final spouse being 'the one') over the course of your life

Have a small wedding for your final marriage and invite only your immediate family

Go on a date night with your final spouse at least once a week

Don't move in with your final spouse (or any previous partner) until you're a late Adult

*Die and have your spouse bring you back to life

*Max the archaeology and writing skills

*Complete either the Ancient Omiscan artifacts or Omiscan treasures collection

*Complete the Fossils collection

*Complete the Archaeology Scholar aspiration

Aspiration: Master Maker or Fiver-Star Property Owner Traits: Childish, Maker, Paranoid Career: Freelance Crafter World: Not Henford-on-Bagley, then Henford-on-BagleyColour: Rusty Orange

Decorate your home with things you fabricated

Be a Landlord

Be a Freelance Crafter

Create and activate at least one Servo

Marry a Sim from Henford-on-Bagley and then move there

*Max the fabrication skill

*Max the robotics skill

*Complete the Master Maker aspiration

[elephant-in-the-pride-parade]

Prodigy Recap

I love it I love it I love it I could watch it forever

I'm truly irrevokably in love. I'm done for. I'm probably going to rewatch this all month before I am satisfied I've fully taken it all in. I NEED to rewatch Mindwalk and Supernova again ASAP because knowing what I know now about the memories HJ had just recovered. I know it is going to wreck me to watch her in those episodes with S2 in mind.

My ship HELD HANDS GUYSSS. HE TOLD HER SHES HIS HOME. HE DIDNT FEEL LIKE HE BELONGED ANYWHERE UNTIL THEY MET. SHE BROKE TIME FOR HIM AGAIN AND AGAIN. HER EYES GOT SO BIG! THAT HUG LOOKED SO GOOD. (I'm getting off topic a lot but i need to get the "my ship is canon - in a way i don't hate!!!" fangirling out of my system.) breathe. breathe. okay gonna keep going.

Its gonna take me a few more watch throughs to fully wrap my head around the paradox. And around how you fit a humpback whale in the original ISS Voyager (seriously. has that been there the whole time? does OG Voyager have a whale? was she retrofitted in the AQ? did Mirror J steal a whale from 1996?) And if that timeline where KJ was lost on the infinity means shes also trapped on future solum with Chakotay or just dead. and and and... so many things. so many fic ideas. so many plot bunnies

(wait no -- shoves the plot bunnies away -- go away. not ready for more wips yet)

There. was. so. much. that I loved. it was such an ambitious story to tell in 2 seasons and oh my god, i really feel they mostly pulled it off. They brought back Voyagers legacy characters and put them to work in a plot that fit them, and it was such a joy to see them again. They stay true to who they were on Voyager - thoroughly wonderfully 100x better than on Voyager in Chakotays case. and i really believe theyre the same characters with a few more years of life since ive last met them.

And the new characters too. I love Dal and Gwyn and Rok and Murf and Zero and Jankom and Maj'el to pieces. (Majel!!! is such a perfect tribute!) I want to see so much more of Noum and Tysses. I am in tears over Adreek. God how much i want Season 3 just to see how their stories continue.

But I think... what strikes me most and what I appreciated the most was how much this show wholeheartedly respects its fans!!!

It never dumbs things down or babies it's younger audience. its very mature for a kids show. it is a great introduction to star trek and the universe without over explaining. there are storylines in these 40 episodes that would be right at home in TNG or Voyager. it's really more of a fun for the whole family show than a kids show in that way. (it says something that it's the first "cartoon" my parents have ever cared for and they are watching it wholely for themselves.) It really manages to tell the story in a framing thats aimed at kids without taking anything away from the story its telling for all ages.

And it's adult audience...

I worried about how it would feel to have enjoyed such a rich fanon universe in the 3 decades since the show ended. There were advantages to having a ship with very little canon. the fan universe thrived on how much room there was to work within. After that - having headcanoned and written and imagined so many futures for the characters - I feared having some new canon come in and make a new story for them that would invalidate so much if that imagination, or create something so unsatisfying or rigid or antithical to their last canon encounter that nothing new would be inspired by it. (P/C in Picard was like that for me)

Prodigy didnt do that. Prodigy made no grand sweeping canon for the years in between Voyagers homecoming and the new show. Prodigy didnt shoe horn any character into a rigid relationship status. Prodigy picked them up, set them on a new adventure, sprinkled in tantalyzing new details, and left a wealth of room around the events of the season and the relationships between the characters for so much fan imagination to thrive. The possibilities before and during and after the seasons for the characters are bountiful and perfect for imagining their other adventures. I couldnt have imagined my ship becoming canon (or maybe affirmed by the canon is a clearer way to put it) in a better way.

And then they went and added Tank Top Action Janeway in there as a treat.

Truly a masterpiece. i'm so grateful for this show. i hope it gets the 3rd season it so dearly deserves.

[midnightshaze13]

I must say something because since I attended the Eras shows I feel this and I need to say it.

I've been a fan since crazier came out and she appeared on the cover of a disney magazine that my mom got me because I liked the song and wanted to know more about her, around 2010. Since then, I've always respected her and her work and came more and more in love with her writing and music. That hasn't changed a bit. But these family that we used to be has changed now a lot.

Lately, I've seen on social media and at the shows of the eras that many people who attended recognized to have had hated on her in the past, but they now "adore her". Something about this feels wrong to me.

Literally, "the old taylor is dead" was made to win over the general public. She had to metaphorically kill all her previous versions that people didn't trust or tolerated; these versions of herself with which she managed to make her name in the music industry AND those are the same ones they all rejected and now they sing with their mouth full.

She was FORCED to get the approval of people like these who pointed and criticized every little nonsense*¹ about her in order to be able to do what she does now: succeed, fill stadiums with thousands of people and create a legacy which will be in the Music History books.

What I want to get at is that Taylor Swift, in order to continue growing in the industry, has had to overcome and prove wrong all of them who were at hater position 2, 3, 10 years ago.

In order to be valued and respected for her job which is creating music, and for her is specially writing her own songs, she was forced to learn how to dance "better" to beat the "she doesn't know how to dance" allegations; she had to change her dressing style and many other things like that to be what people wanted her to be so she could have the recognition she deserved previously and all.

To this day I think many don't like Taylor Swift for what she is and has been. Many people attending the Eras are people loving the results of her growing into someone "different" to earn that respect and admiration. And most of those love that performance of a (now considered) cool girl on stage that she puts on every night on the Eras more than her for what she is and more than the music.

But to all those I must say, she's on the bleachers. That's how it was and that’s the narrative most of them rejected her for. It's not okay to me that they claim to love her now that she's cheer captain, as if they never said a bad word about her.

If these people would have known taylor swift at that age when she wrote those and wasn't "cool" they may have bullied her for the same things they claim to love her for now.

These are the same people who have bullied me and my other Swift's fans friends for decades just for us liking taylor's music. I had to battle and fight for tickets & a seat at The Eras Tour against people who used to bully me at school for liking her music.

In her own words: maybe you've reframed it and in your mind you never beat my spirit black and blue. But I don't think you've changed much.

I welcome those who discover her recently with open arms. But to the "haters to fans" that "now I can see how good she is" no thanks.

I've been here through a lot watching from a distance (tumblr, youtube) and I always dreamed about going to a Taylor Swift's show. I watched the videos of the speak now world tour when my parents wouldn't let me go because I was 13 years old. I watched the Red Tour while experiencing my first romantic heartbreak and the 1989 world tour when I was 16 and decided to not have boyfriends for a long period of my life. When I started uni and had the clean speech tied to my folder binder to see it every day, these people looked at me like if I was GREEN. And then at the Uni I watched the reputation stadium tour every late night before falling asleep wondering what it must felt like to be a part of it and I grew more into the desire of traveling to a show but couldn't afford it back then. The Eras Show was amazing, it absolutely blew all of my expectations, it truly is my once in a lifetime experience that I'm so grateful for. To have been able to experience all the past eras that I dreamed of in my past.

It feels wrong to see every person who once bullied me for dreaming about it out loud back in the day standing there making their own of the lyrics that for so many time were mine to scape real life and dream.

*¹nonsense: there was this time when every day we had a battle on twitter and other social media of people attacking taylor for the absurd fact that she was blonde, rich and famous and also thin. It was like that back then, they didn't had anything else to attack her for.

[odiesdayoff]

Boss's Orders

pair: Jackson Rippner x fem!reader

summary: Jackson Rippner was hired to keep you alive, no matter the cost.

warnings/tags: suicide attempt; insensitive conversations about mental health/suicide; implied age gap; smut; choking; showering together; Jackson and reader dislike each other; Jackson loves Lisa

also on AO3 <3

If you're struggling and happen to see this note: you're not alone and it will get better <3

The hotline that I found in the U.S. is 988.

It was undeniably cliche, you were well aware of that. Standing on a ledge on a Saturday night in the so-called prime of your life. It wasn’t your fault that the classic techniques worked so well. All you needed was an easy out and as you peered down at the concrete only a few stories below, it was the right choice.

The wind was unforgiving, nearly pushing you off before you had fully decided. The people down below looked like ants. You almost felt sorry for them for having to witness your body hitting the pavement. It had to be done.

So caught up in your thoughts, you didn’t notice the creaking of the door to the stairwell and footsteps made by well-polished shoes. The man made his presence known by clearing his throat. You turned to face him, though the tips of your sneakers remained off of the ledge. “If you’re waiting for some speech about how your life is worth it, don’t bother. Get off the fucking ledge.”

His lack of sensitivity or empathy whatsoever caught you off guard. He curled his index finger for you to come closer as if you were a child…or a dog. “And if I don’t?”

He sighed. Was this too much of an inconvenience for him? “I don’t get paid, which will piss me off. Now, get down.” He pointed to the ground in front of him. Did he really think he could just command you like that?

Ignoring him, you looked at the sidewalk again. Once you stepped off, there was nothing he could do. You took a deep breath, closed your eyes, and took a step forward. You expected to fall, but the feeling never came. The man grabbed hold of your arm and roughly yanked you back on the rooftop. He allowed you to gently fall to the ground before letting you go.

He looked down at you, rolling up his sleeves. “You really can’t listen, can you? What happened? You didn’t get the concert tickets you wanted? Your crush doesn't like you back?” He feigned pity. The condescending questions felt rhetorical until he kicked your side and raised his brows, waiting for an answer.

“I’m depressed.” You coughed out. It wasn’t the entire truth, but it was the primary reason. The lack of control in your life just fed into your depression in a vicious cycle.

He laughed. “Depressed? Oh, please. What do you have to be depressed about?”

You knit your brows, looking up at him and deciding to ignore the question. “Why do they even care? And who are you?” The wind against your skin was almost taunting you. If things went right, you’d be in whatever afterlife existed. Yet, you were stuck here. With this guy.

He sighed. “Name’s Jackson. You’re the only heir to the throne and your family wants to protect their legacy. I thought I’d be hunting down terrorists, but I’m just babysitting a stupid girl who doesn’t know how good she’s got it.” He didn’t know you, or anything for that matter. The last thing you wanted was to live the life that your parents planned out for you. “And don’t think anything is off the table in regards to keeping you in line.”

The two of you walked through the roof door and down the stairs to your apartment. None of your protests were even acknowledged as he went straight into your kitchen and took out the knives, from steak to butter. Next were forks, scissors, box cutters, even your can opener. “That’s a bit much. Do you really think I’d kill myself with a potato peeler?” You watched as anything that could be labeled as sharp got swept into a box.

He continued to raid the cabinets. “People get creative.” You weren’t that determined to end your life, not yet, at least. The utensils clanked inside of the trashcan, it was surprising the bag was intact.

You knew that stopping him wasn’t an option, as if you had a fraction of his strength. It was time to go back to your usual coping mechanism: distracting yourself with meaningless games. Fortnite, to be more specific. The game launched and you slumped on your couch with the controller resting in your hands.

“What the hell are you doing?” He abandoned his excavation to glance at the screen. You eliminated a player, choosing to ignore the judgemental question. “That’s not even how a sniper works.”

“Like you’d know.” It was a game where eating fish gave you shield powers and anthropomorphic bananas used guns, who cared if the mechanics weren’t accurate to whatever terrorist weaponry that he was used to? You eliminated another player.

“You couldn’t even begin to imagine the things I’ve done.” Too busy listening to his constant comments, your focus wasn’t directed towards the game. Another player shot you down, losing at 38th place. They began to emote.

You sighed and set the controller down. “I’m taking a shower.” The one thing he couldn’t follow you into was the bathroom, at least, you hoped. He didn’t seem to care that much about your feelings, but seeing you naked might just cross a line.

“Fine.” He crossed his arms and watched as you made your way down the hallway and into the bathroom. You looked in the mirror, seeing your broken reflection. This was the closest you had ever truly gotten to committing the act to end your life and here you were, still here, still breathing. A shower could help. 

You turned on the water and the white noise of it hitting the tub was oddly calming. It drowned out all of the noise in your head. That’s when it hit you. The window was right there. If you left the shower running, Jackson would be none the wiser about your escape. Maybe you wouldn’t go and try to die again, at this point, anything was better than being stuck with him. Who knows what he was capable of?

The window popped open easily and you fiddled with the screen. How is it possible that it barely kept bugs out, but was so difficult for you to remove? It was baffling. 

The screen relented and you gently placed it on the ground. You only wished you had your phone with you or something other than the clothes on your back. The toilet paper holder wasn’t exactly the best method to hoist yourself through the window, though. Your shoe slipped on the roll and you had to hold onto the windowsill for dear life.

Steadying your breathing, you tried again and landed on the fire escape right below the window. You caught your breath and turned toward the stairs, only to make eye contact with Jackson with his arms crossed. “Think I’m an idiot? Turn around.” He took your shoulders and ushered you back through the bathroom window. 

He closed the window and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. One clasped around your wrist and the other on his. “Clearly, I can’t trust you enough to take a shower on your own, so I guess this will have to suffice until I escape-proof this place.”

You scowled at him, almost like a little kid who got put in time-out. “I still need to shower.”

“I’ll stand on the other side of the curtain. For modesty, I’m not a total creep.” It seemed that he had this all planned out, unfortunately for you. You reached into the shower, still running (wasted so much water and didn’t even get an escape out of it), to check the temperature. It was hot enough.

You unzipped your jeans, then looked at Jackson again. “Can you at least turn around?” He turned as much as he could, keeping his connected wrist behind his back. Your shirt and bra now hung on the handcuffed wrist, unable to get it fully off without taking the cuff off. “Um, my shirt is stuck.”

He turned around and you shot your arm up to cover your breasts. Without a word, he pulled a pocket knife out and cut through the fabric. Those were expensive, but he wouldn’t care. Now fully undressed, you took a step in the shower and slightly pulled Jackson closer to the curtain. He had pulled the sleeve of his jacket up, but the edges were still catching the stream of the faucet.

The hot water felt cathartic against your skin. You reached for your shampoo with your free hand and began to lather it into your hair. It had been a long while since you had showered, even if the idea to take one was technically a lie. Any time you tried to use the other hand, you were met with a tug of resistance from Jackson.

You tried to go on, washing the shampoo out of your hair and reaching for the conditioner bottle. You unusually used your left hand, but that one was still chained to the hitman and you nearly slipped and fell. “This isn’t working!”

“Water feels fine to me.” He was smug. Of course, he knew what you were talking about but had to make it difficult for you. You pulled the curtain back to look at him, holding it in front of your body.

“Either you unhook me or you get in here so I can actually do what I need to do.” You dramatically shut the curtain. Both options sounded bad in reality. You let the water hit you while you tried to calm yourself down.

About a minute later, Jackson pulled the curtain back and stepped in beside you. He was fully naked. A part of you wondered if he would get in with the full suit, but he seemed to be full of surprises. “Finish your damn shower.”

It was a little bit easier to reach for things and actually wash your hair, but the anxiety that he was staring directly at you was enough to make you extremely uneasy. You reached around him to grab the bar of soap and a washcloth, trying your best not to make any contact with any part of him other than his wrist.

Through it all, he just stood there. He wasn’t even in the actual shower, just getting slightly damp from being so close to it. You had never encountered such a strange man in your life.

“I’m done.” The shower almost immediately turned off. You opened the curtain and wrapped a towel around yourself. He still stood there, water dripping from the tips of his hair. “I’ll get you a towel, I guess.” You stepped out of the shower and knelt to get a towel from the lower cabinet.”

You should’ve stood up before you turned around. You were at eye-level with his dick. It looked pretty big, but it was completely soft. How could he have been naked in a shower with a woman and feel nothing? He must’ve been gay. Or asexual. Not like you could actually ask him that.

He took the towel out of your hands and wrapped it around his waist. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. You’re not my type.”

“What’s your type?” You tugged your wrist and he reluctantly followed you into your bedroom to find clothes to change into.

Once again, as if he hadn’t just watched you shower, he faced away from you. “If I wanted to feel like I’m fucking a Make-A-Wish kid whose only wish was to get dicked down, then you’d be right up my alley. I go for real women.”

Asshole.

Over the course of the next two weeks, that became your life. You couldn’t do anything without him breathing down your neck, no matter how many times you tried to show him that you could behave without the restraints. The only times that you were allowed to be alone were when you were using the bathroom (he’d attach the cuff to the cabinet door handle) and when you were in bed (cuffed to the headboard).

You stirred awake in the middle of the night, feeling the bed shake. For a second, you thought that there was some kind of earthquake. That is, until you heard soft moaning and heavy breathing.

As quietly as possible, you turned to see if the sounds matched what you were imagining. Jackson was sitting on the other side of the bed, feet on the ground, tugging at his cock with one hand and holding a photo in the other. He had no shirt on, allowing you to see the various scars and healed gunshot wounds that littered his skin. “What are you doing?”

“Take a wild guess.” His voice was a bit strained, not even breaking his concentration. He held the photo tighter.

Your eyes narrowed, and then you reached out and snatched the photo from his hand. It was a woman. She had curled auburn hair and gorgeous hazel eyes. “Who’s this? Your girlfriend?”

He grimaced. “No.”

“She’s clearly someone important if you keep a photo of her in your wallet and you jerk off to it.” Jackson tried to take the photo from you, but you pulled away. This wasn’t something you were going to back off of.

“She’s why I got stuck babysitting you instead of doing actual meaningful jobs.” He tucked his dick into his sweatpants, though there was still a noticeable tent, and faced you. “Last year, I had to convince her to change the hotel room of a politician my client wanted dead. I had to do it during a red-eye flight from Dallas to Miami. Obviously, I failed.” Taking advantage of your shock, he took the photo back.

“What if you…pretended that I was her?” You finally sat up and leaned against the headboard. He looked you up and down, his mind a bit clouded from the sheer amount of arousal still coursing through his veins. 

He gripped the photo harder, sighing. “Don’t expect me to be gentle.” 

At this point, you had to take what you could get. You shifted out of your sleep shorts and panties. Jackson wasted no time in straddling your legs and lining himself with your entrance.

It’s not that you were not aroused , but you wouldn’t say that you were. Only not entirely ready to take him just yet. You felt the stretch of his cock inside of you, straining your muscles before you could mentally prepare yourself. 

His lack of empathy showed further, taking no time to slam himself inside of you and almost jackhammer himself into completion. You whined and reached out to push against his chest. He gripped your wrist. “Shut the fuck up. You’re ruining this for me.”

His eyes were squeezed shut, face scrunching up with his own imagination taking over the situation. “Lisa…” You felt his hand press on your neck, but you knew not to protest. “You can’t escape me, Lis. You knew I’d come back for you. The only way you’re getting rid of me is with a bullet in my forehead.”

The more he spoke, the harder he fucked into you. “Wanted to take you back to your hotel, book the nicest suite, and stuff every hole of yours with my cum all night long.”

His thrusts became sloppier and you could have sworn that your face was turning purple with the amount of pressure on your windpipe. “Lisa.” He repeated her name as he came and pushed his cum deeper into you.

Once he released your neck, the first breath was almost as good as if you had actually come. He scowled down at you when he opened his eyes again. “Oh, right. You’re still here.”

[violetelderberry]

Sims 4: Wonderful Faults Legacy Challenge

General Rules and Requirements:

- There are no pack or mod requirements for this challenge, but you are welcome to use mods to make the gameplay more realistic. - Minimal money cheats allowed; you can use cheats to pay for your first starter home, but otherwise they should be avoided. - Set lifespan to normal; I usually play most of my games on long lifespan, but it could get excessive with the number of generations, so the normal lifespan is a recommendation more than anything. - And lastly, follow all generation requirements, but otherwise decide your own stories or paths for the character for things left unspecified. This challenge was designed to give inspiration while also giving the player certain creative freedoms aside from the main storyline. Have fun with it!

Generation One: The Lonely Author

Your sim has always been a lonely person who was dedicated to their work; they aren't in contact with their parents, and they overwork themselves from the lack of financial help. They struggle to pay for everything on their own, and when they eventually meet their soulmate, they are skeptical to actually engage with them because of their previously lonely life.

Generation Requirements:

- Must start off generation as an independently living teenager - Must have the creative and gloomy traits - Must write at least ten books in your lifespan - Must complete either a romantic or a creative aspiration in young adulthood - Must meet your soulmate but not immediately enter a relationship with them. Must be friends for an extended period of time first. - Must have at least two kids

Generation Two: The Sickly BusinessSim

Your parents tried their hardest at raising you, but they were extremely strict and had a few faults in their relationship, causing you to be an anxious child. You had a few creative talents of your own but decided that you didn't want to pursue a creative career after learning of your parents' struggle, and you eventually settled on going into business.

Generation Requirements:

- Must have the clumsy and erratic traits - Must max the business career - Must max guitar, logic, and charisma skills - Must adopt at least one child - Must have at least two failed relationships and never get married

Generation Three: The Exaggerative Lover

You were never really taught much about non-familial relationships in your childhood, so as you got older, you decided to surround yourself with people. You would frequently go out to parties and always make time with your friends, even if there was something that should've prevented you from doing so. You also continued this behavior into your romantic relationships, longing for connection with other people to the point where it got in the way of other aspects of your life.

Generation Requirements:

- Must have the romantic and outgoing traits - Must never decline a social gathering or phone call - Must get fired from at least one job due to skipping work to hang out with friends - Must max the charisma skill - Must have at least five long-term friends - Must never go more than a week without a partner after getting their first romantic partner

Generation Four: The Athletic Scholar

You always felt content within the social scene because your parents' openness, and because of this, you had a lot of friends to play basketball with when you were younger. You found a passion for fitness at a young age and never let your academics slip. You balanced your social, academic, and work life very gracefully, but as you really settled into the life of business, you couldn't help but feel like you wanted something more personal and passionate for your career as well.

Generation Requirements:

- Must have the active and genius traits - Must be an A student in middle and high school - Must get to level three of the business career before switching over into the athletic career - Must at least get to level five of the athletic career - Must max the fitness skill - Must get married as a young adult and never divorce - Must have a group of life-long friends

Generation Five: The Shy Chef

Your parents' openness and excitement always made you a little bit nervous, but you were thankful for the way they would always help you grow. You started cooking at a young age to find a positive outlet for your emotions, and you absolutely fell in love with it, deciding upon graduation that you wanted to turn your love for culinary skill into a full-blown career, your parents still supporting you every step of the way.

Generation Requirements:

- Must live with your parents until you decide which branch of the culinary career you want to pursue - Must have the loner trait - Must max the culinary career - Must max cooking and mixology skills - Must complete the Master Chef aspiration - Must not have any non-romantic close friends - Must not become interested in flirting until young adulthood

Generation Six: The Snobby Agent

You were always a fan of mischief as a child, pranking and tricking people at every chance you got. Your parents were never very strict, causing you to go unpunished for your behavior. As a young adult, you decided to go into the secret agent career field, the aspect of not being able to tell anyone giving you a thrill, but you weren't aware of the less enthusiastic secrets that would be brought on because of your life path.

Generation Requirements:

- Must have the mean and snob traits - Must max the secret agent career - Must max mischief, logic, and athletic skills - Must have at least five enemies and one best friend - Must have a child with a married sim - Must have a negative relationship with at least one family member

Generation Seven: The Gloomy Comedian

You went non-contact with both of your parents as soon as you entered young adulthood, causing you to be pretty financially unstable early on in your life. You were a very unhappy person during your younger years, so you decided to enter the entertainer career to make other people, and hopefully yourself, smile.

Generation Requirements:

- Must have the gloomy and goofball traits - Must enter the comedian branch of the entertainer career - Must max the charisma and comedy skills - Must live with a roommate for your entire young adult life - Must not speak to parents (after young adulthood) until you are an adult with your own children - Must marry your best friend and complete the soulmate aspiration

Generation Eight: The Gluttonous Painter

You always allowed yourself to over-enjoy life's pleasantries. You started off life in a very poor position, but your parents earning more money as you grew older caused you to indulge more in the things that you once had an absence of. You are completely content with your life and the cheerfulness that it allows you, but sometimes your indulgence allows other sims to grow frustrated with you.

Generation Requirements:

- Must have the glutton, cheerful, and art lover traits - Must reach at least level seven of the painter career - Must have a failed relationship because of the constant need for more - Must take frequent trips to the bar after or before work - Must max the comedy and painting skills and get to level five of three more skills of your choice - Must get married to a sim in the culinary career - Must have the max number of sims in a household by the end of the generation (via children and/or animals)

Generation Nine: The Bored House-Spouse

You were raised to believe that you always deserved everything that you wanted, but as you got older, you realized that you never really knew what you wanted in the first place. Your parents were both very creative, career-oriented people who had so much going on in their lives, but you ended up being a stay-at-home parent with a rich spouse. Although you were thankful that you didn't have to do much, you found yourself not wanting to do anything around the house at all, finding much more entertainment with sneaking out while your spouse was at work and going to hang out with people you knew you shouldn't be around.

Generation Requirements:

- Must have the lazy and kleptomaniac traits - Must marry a rich sim (can use cheats to give spouse a good career and house) with the jealous trait - Must have a low (but not negative) relationship with all children - Must befriend a sim in the criminal career - Must never have an official job - Must have a temporarily negative relationship with spouse once they realize that you're never home - Must make up with spouse only after arguing brings your platonic bar into the red

Generation Ten: The Loyal Gamer

You never had a close relationship with your parents. One was always at work, and the other was always running off somewhere else instead of interacting with you, but you know what you did have? A computer. You got into gaming at a really early age, and it wasn't long before you got into programming as well and realized that you could make some money off of it. However, you had another revelation later on in life after you fell in love for the first time: you didn't only want to be motivated by money and excitement like your parents, you wanted to be a good parent and partner while still maintaining your financial and career life.

Generation Requirements:

- Must have the geek, materialistic, and family-oriented traits - Must complete a parenting aspiration - Must only be with one sim for your entire life - Must hack for money as a teenager at least twice - Must max the gaming and programming skills and get the cooking skill to at least level four - Must not have a high relationship with either parent - Must be good friends with all children and pets (if you have that expansion) - Must have both biological and adoptive children - Must either join the eSports section of the Tech Guru career, or the streamer career if you have the High School Years expansion pack - All children must be at least B students in middle or high school by the end of the generation and have their own unique trait combinations and personalities

[maleyanderecafe]

The Portrait of the Late Prince (Webcomic)

Created by: bolota / maginot / Sano

Genre: Fantasy/Smut

This one is pretty short for a smut, only about 17 chapters, but I did think the story at least was pretty fun for what it's worth. I'll be honest with you, I kind of skipped the smut in this one because while it is a nice bonus, it doesn't really add too much into the story.

The story starts out with Ines being kidnapped by the revolutionary leader, Nathan to force her to paint a picture of the late prince, as she is one of the few people who has actually seen him face to face. This is so that Nathan can try to find and kill him afterwards. Initially Ines refuses, stating that she's only seen the prince a handful of times years ago and that she wouldn't be able to recreate his face making excuses that the brushes are a different type from what she normally uses. We also see Ines's journey as a painter. As a woman, she basically was shunned and discarded aside as a painter, with the only reason of her rise because of her master who saw potential in her artwork after working so hard. Nathan comes in and after his refusal basically noncons her before we get another flashback of her meeting the late prince, Enrique. She was commissioned by his family to draw a marriage portrait of him so he could be married off when he became of age. She basically has to climb up a tree to meet the prince, with them having a flirty thing of Ines kissing him so that he would shut up about insulting her master.

Ines continues to rebel against Nathan, drawing a generic blond guy to try to keep him off of her, but Nathan sees right through her and continues to have sex with her. Ines keeps fighting though as she has a strong spirit, wanting to survive and make her mark on the world through her paintings. She is eventually transferred to the capital so that she can be closer to Nathan. After another sex scene, we get a flashback to when Ines was painting Enrique, and is forced to redo it after it's tenth time. The two of them talk about their pasts, with Nathan talking about his parents deaths and Ines talking about her paintings, stating that the only way for her to gain recognition into this world is to pretend to be a male painter.

Ines finally is able to paint someone that makes Nathan satisfied and ends up bringing her to the prison cells to interrogate someone there. There, she meets Miguel, a man who sold her out many years ago. Ines starts to freak out when Miguel claims that the person in the painting is not the prince at all. Ines is afraid that Nathan will kill her then and there for deceiving him, but he ends up actually killing Miguel instead. After witnessing this murder, Ines ends up passing out due to stress with Nathan taking care of her afterwards. She ends up meeting with her master, Maestro and talking about her situation, even giving him a signal that she needs to escape, which he understands.

While Ines is painting another man, Nathan gets jealous and starts to ruin the painting, even asking if that's her type to which she responds that he's already married. The two end up going out to a lake area, a place that Ines had gone before with Enrique on their last day together. Ines recounts when she was sketching some other people that Enrique got jealous and upset, and basically throwing a little jealous tantrum. In the present, while hanging out at the lake, Ines attempts to stab Nathan with one of the painting chisels (is that what's it's called) to kill him but misses and instead just stabs his leg. She tries to run away on horseback and has the flashback memory of the last time that they met, with her confessing that her drive for painting comes from wanting to leave a legacy for her mother's name before lying about meeting again and leaving for good.

Ines wakes up to Nathan taking care of her again and here she reveals that she knew that Nathan was Enrique the entire time. She was scared of having been kidnapped, believing that the Enrique that she saw initially had changed. It seemed that originally Nathan basically joined the rebels side but when told to dispose of the "only painter that knew Enrique's face" he couldn't do it in the end. He first did it to see if she actually did remember him, and while it was a relief to his identity, it also was a blow to his pride that she might have completely forgotten about him. After a recovery period, Ines is able to walk around in the gardens more. The two of them reconcile and have sex, talking about Ines going back to paint and repainting the portrait of Nathan as he is now.

I'll be honest, I wasn't actually expecting this one to have a pretty nice and kind of sweet plot to it, but I am happy it did. I quite like Ines as a character given she is very pointed in her goals of being a painter, even during times of turmoil and well, being kidnapped. The artwork in this is also very pretty as well, and the story flowed along pretty nicely given that it's a pretty short story. She is the type to fight back and has a stubborn look on life despite basically being threatened which is kind of a cool thing to see.

Nathan/Enrique as a yandere is kind of interesting when you do know who his identity was from the start. He comes off as this more overbearing and intimidating figure but slowly becomes more and more vulnerable both in his actions and in his attire. You can kind of get the sense that he is Enrique just from how he acts about wanting the portrait and giving small clues that correspond with when they met, such as mentioning that she might climb trees and what not. He's pretty jealous both as Enrique and as Nathan, with Enrique getting jealous when Ines starts to paint other people and Nathan actually ruining her portrait. He also straight up kills the Miguel partially because he ruined Ines's life and of course imprisons her under false pretenses.

The smut itself can either be an addition or a detriment depending on how you look at it. Storywise, it makes Nathan a lot more irredeemable given that he does rape her in the story and at the end, Ines just...kind of accepts it. It's a bit weird pacing wise since it kind of just allows Ines to accept someone who raped her, but also does show that Nathan is pretty serious about getting that painting done just to know if Ines remembers him. Personally, I think it takes away from it more, since it would make a lot more sense for the two of them to have sex either after Ines reveals that Enrique and Nathan are the same person or as a ploy to get on his good side so that he won't try to kill her. Either way, I think that removing it outright probably wouldn't have actually impacted the story a lot, but this is true for a lot of smut, so it's kind of just a bonus if anything.

Overall, a surprisingly good story all things considered. There is only about 17 chapters and I think it does the pacing pretty well for the most part and like I said it's a pretty sweet story that does have a yandere character in it. If you are interested, please check it out.

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

No Net Ensnares Me

**co-written with @littlebirdsbookshelf**

Pairing: Victorian!Marcus Pike x f!reader 

Rating: Explicit (smut, 18+ only)

Word count: 20k!!!

Warnings: Arranged marriage AU; strangers to spouses to lovers; period-typical views on women, virginity, marriage, and sex; YEARNING, oh so much yearning; Marcus being a dumbass; smut: fingering, virgin!reader, unprotected PIV sex

Authors Note:  The title comes from, no surprises here, Jane Eyre. The book mentioned in this fic, The Transmission of Life, is a real book published in 1873 and is just as hilarious as it sounds. The full pdf is available online if you ever wish to cringe at what is essentially Victorian era sex-ed for men. **Happiest of birthdays to my co-writer, who spent her birthday spending time getting this amaaaaaaaaazing fic ready to post!**

Penny's Masterlist | Morgan's Masterlist

Splash! 

You wince as water hits your skirts before you have the chance to pull them up and out of the way.

Mother isn't going to want to see another dress with mud stains.

It's not your fault–if you could simply wear short trousers like your younger brother, Edward, does in the summer, you could avoid the problem altogether. If he were just a little bit wider in the hips, you could probably steal some. Next summer, perhaps. 

The water burbling in the small stream on the property is cool and refreshing, and the rush of the current makes such a pleasant, soothing sound as it cascades over the little pebbles. You pick one up–a flat, smooth one. You'd once seen Father teach Edward to skip stones, but when you had asked to learn, he had gently chastised you that it wasn't proper. You toss the stone in the same manner you remember seeing them do, but it simply plunks into the water with a small splash, not even skipping once.

With a little huff of laughter, you sit on one of the large boulders on the side of the stream and wiggle your toes around in the water. This is where you feel most at peace. Not at finishing school, where you were forced to endure hours upon hours of dance, embroidery, sewing, and etiquette lessons. Nor at home, where your mother seems to follow you about looking for faults to critique and your father spends all of his attention on raising Edward to be the next man of the house.

No, despite the relentless and unending teasing you’ve endured for it at the hands of your finishing school peers, you feel most at home when you are running free through the woods or cooling your bare feet in the water.

Most unbecoming! 

The words ring loud and clear in your brain, and in your mother’s voice, no less. You aren’t sure why she’s so ridiculously concerned with raising you up to marry off–not when Edward will surely continue in your father’s footsteps, carrying on the family legacy. Besides, you’re quite a few years past marrying age, now, and if your betrothal was so very important, wouldn’t they have shipped you off to the first man that would have you?

You smile wickedly to yourself. Perhaps the problem is that there is no man that would have you. 

Feral creature, your headmistresses had thrown the accusation like so many embroidery needles through fabric. Unmarriageable. Unmanageable. Horrid and brash, like a boy. 

Well, if the shoe fits… you’re happy to languish as an old maid–why, soon you’ll have aged enough to earn the label of eccentric! You snort. An old maid. At twenty-eight. You’ve hardly even left your county; let alone seen anything of the world. You’ve done nothing, traveled nowhere, not even attended university, because such things were ‘not for ladies of your station.’

No, you are quite fine remaining unwed. Being someone’s wife was just one more way for them to entrap you.

Upon your return to the house, your parents are waiting for you in the sitting room just inside the front hall.

"Excellent news, sweetling," your father says as you enter, brandishing a letter. "We’ve had a letter from The Earl! The Pikes have agreed to the union of our two families in marriage."

"Fifteen seems rather young, does it not?" you comment, shooting a look at Edward, who sticks out his tongue. "Not very husbandly behavior, brother."

"Silly child," your mother scolds, never one to find humor in any situation, "the Pikes have only one child; a son. You are to be married to Lord Marcus Pike in a fortnight."

"A fortnight?" The words are practically shrieked as you whirl around to face your parents. 

"Don't shout so, dearest," your mother adds, a false sweetness in her words. 

"He's a good man by all accounts," your father interjects. "Well bred, and of course dreadfully wealthy. It will be a good match for our families."

"Am I to be a meal ticket?" you ask, your voice quieter as you come to grips with the gravity of the situation.

"Sweetling," your father begins, but you back away, horrified. 

"Don't 'sweetling' me," you snap. "Where was my input in any of this? Don't I deserve to know my… my…"

"Fiancé," your brother finishes, unhelpfully.

"I don't know what he looks like," you say. "I don't even know how old he is."

"He's…" your mother glances at the letter again, "eight and thirty."

"And unmarried? What's wrong with him?" you demand.

"Now, now, sweetling. There's nothing wrong with the man."

"How do you know? Have you met him?"

"I–" Your father searches for an answer, but can't seem to find one. 

"We'll all have met in a fortnight," your mother interjects. "So it hardly matters, discussing such things now."

"It matters to me," you mutter. Gathering your skirts in one hand, you start for the stairs. 

"Dearest," Mother cries. "Your skirts!"

"They'll wash," you snap. "I've got bigger things to worry about now, don't I?"

You tramp up the stairs in a huff, ready to throw yourself onto your bed and scream into your pillow, wallowing in the unfairness of it all, but just before you throw the door shut, your mother is there, having followed you.

"I would like to rest–" you offer weakly.

"I feel the need to warn you," she says, pushing past your protest, "that this kind of unladylike behavior will not be appropriate for a married woman of your status. You cannot run about the woods like a feral animal; you will have responsibilities. Duties. We have not yet spoken, you and I, of what it is to please a husband–"

"And we won't begin now," you interrupt. "Mother, I'm tired. I wish to lie down."

You don’t wait for her to leave before collapsing inelegantly on your bed and burying your face in the covers. Blessedly, she says nothing more, leaving you to sulk in your misery.

Married. To a man you’ve never even met. Realistically, you knew this day would come, eventually. At the age of twenty-eight, being unwed was starting to be an unusual condition. All of your peers have been wives for quite some time; most of them already surrounded by children. You suppose you should be grateful to your parents for waiting this long–although you know that part of their apparent difficulty in finding a match was directly caused by your advancing years. The last prospect had declined your father’s offer and had instead asked for the hand of your neighbor’s daughter–who was not yet even twenty years!

You have to admit, that one stung a little–even if you felt nowhere near ready to be someone’s wife. The weight of that responsibility has always felt so suffocating, when all you ever wanted to do was be yourself. You wonder if any other wives ever have the urge to run through the woods at night, wiggle their toes in the middle of a mud puddle, or lay in the grass and stare at the stars.

You’re sure that your betrothed would not want a wife who behaved in such a way.

You create an image in your mind of the man you’re to marry. He must be objectionable, in some way, to have remained a bachelor for so long. Perhaps he’s disfigured, or his breath is horrid, or… oh God–what if he’s cruel?

You shake the thought away–too horrifying to think of. 

With an anxious mind and heavy heart, you manage to fall asleep.

“Straighten your back.”

“I’ve been sitting in a cramped carriage for over three hours,” you remark, trying not to clench your jaw in irritation at your mother’s reminder.

“Well, you’re not in one now, so do try and act like it, dearest.”

You grit your teeth and put an exaggerated curve in your spine, sticking your chin up and looking haughtily down your nose as you, your parents, and your brother walk up the stairs to the manor house currently occupied by Lord Pike, the only son of the Earl of Tennesley.

Lining either side of the stairs are the home’s staff, each bowing and curtsying as you pass them. At the front door, a large contingency awaits–his parents, you presume, perhaps some relatives, and there, standing at the front of the group, is a man.

At first glance, there’s nothing outwardly objectionable about him, as you had feared. He’s dressed smartly in a black frock coat, a maroon waistcoat, and a tie of damask silk neatly centered under his crisply starched collar. As your eyes dart over his figure a second time, you notice the gold albert chain glinting at the left side of his waist, and an amber tie pin tucked neatly below the knot. He’s tall, but not overly so, with dark brown hair that seems to be doing everything it can to escape its styling. As you warily march up the stairs, your feet seeming heavier with every step, you can make out his features. His lips are soft and plush, his eyes dark as he watches your approach. He might be a decade your senior, but his looks are still boyish and youthful. 

He stands rigidly and formally: his arms ramrod straight at his sides, and his chin lifted. His jaw is tense, but you can see the flicker of nervousness in his eyes–an anxiety that matches your own.

It disappears quickly as you walk the final steps to come face to face with him, so much so that you suddenly wonder if you’d simply imagined it in the first place, projecting your own feelings onto the face of a stranger.

The man steps forward to meet you, stiffly extending his hand and clearing his throat. 

“What a privilege and an honor it is to meet you,” he intones, his tone just as uptight as the rest of him. 

For a moment, you’re frozen to the spot–until your mother elbows you in the ribs, hitting the boning of your too-tight corset and making you inhale sharply; it causes you to remember yourself and your manners.

“I am grateful for your generous hospitality, Lord Pike,” you say, your formal tone barely recognizable to your own ears. You extend a gloved hand for him to take, and he does–clasping it gently and drawing it to his lips for a soft kiss.

You drop your eyes, unable to look directly at the action.

“Marcus, please,” he says, much more quietly this time, and without the unbearable rigidity from before. “We are to be wed, after all.”

You don’t know what to say to the man, so you say nothing. 

The two of you stand in silence, almost daring one another to speak first.

“What lovely grounds,” your mother says cheerfully beside you. “So many delightful flowers.”

Lord Pike–Marcus–awkwardly clears his throat for the second time. When he speaks, his voice is formal again, and a touch too loud.

“I had tea prepared for us in the drawing room,” he announces. “You’ve come a long way, you must be in need of refreshment.”

“How very lovely,” you answer, imitating and even exaggerating the man’s too-formal tone. If Marcus notices your mocking, he doesn’t show it, but your mother shoots you a look of warning.

Flanked by your parents, you follow your betrothed to an ornate sitting room. At first, you head straight for one of the single chairs, but at your mother's stern look, you reluctantly sink down onto a loveseat–one whose other cushion is already occupied by one Lord Pike.

He smiles at you, but something about it seems disingenuous. 

"Lovely weather, is it not?"

"I find it rather disagreeable," you answer stiffly, even though the sun is shining and the temperature mild.

"Dreadful," Marcus amends, seemingly wanting to agree with whatever you say. "It smells of rain."

"According to the almanac, it won't rain for another week at least," you counter. 

"Quite true. Tea?" he asks, holding out a delicate cup that looks comically small in his hand.

You take the proffered teacup but don't drink. 

"What sorts of activities interest you?" he asks, with the air of someone who isn't actually interested in the answer.

"I find the process of setting water to boil quite enthralling," you remark, still using the same artificially formal tone. "I like to trim the hedges in the garden by picking one leaf at a time. And you?" You smile sweetly at your betrothed, who looks entirely confused.

"I… I enjoy reading," he stammers, "taking walks of the evening." He glances over at his own father. "Hunts, of course."

"How exhilarating," you gush. "Snuffing the life out of unsuspecting animals sounds thrilling."

Edward snorts into his tea. You don't dare venture a glance at your own parents, who must surely be wondering if the arrangement was going to end within the first five minutes of meeting.

Your brother, on the other hand, delights in Marcus’ apparent anxiety with a sardonic grin.

“So, Marcus, I hear you have traveled the continent quite extensively?” Edward asks with an air of geniality. Beside him on the settee, you try to force a grin down. You know where his line of questioning is headed, having fallen into the same trap yourself many times over. 

“Yes,” Marcus nods, “In that part of the globe, I’ve traveled quite extensively through much of France, Germany, Italy, and the middle east” 

“Ah, then you must be quite excited to hear we’ve been linked to the continent by telephone!” 

Marcus pales, fidgeting surreptitiously with his shirt-cuff. “I can’t say I was aware of that.” 

“It was in the paper at least this last fortnight!” Edward exclaims, feigning surprise and pointedly ignoring the heavy stare of your father from the other side of the room. 

“Well, I…” Marcus fumbles as that steadfast exterior of his cracks for just a moment, revealing the anxiety beneath. In mere seconds, he recovers his constitution, his expression blank and amiable once again. “I am afraid I haven’t spent as much time as I ought on events as of late, though I will be sure to rectify that.” 

“No matter, no matter,” Edmund smiles, putting on the air of a man much older than his years, as is his talent. “You are a very busy man, I’m sure.” 

“Indeed,” Marcus nods, watching you and your brother briefly lock eyes before quickly returning your gazes to your plates. 

"The church in the village, that shall be the venue of the wedding, correct?" your mother interrupts, attempting to salvage the conversation before the table falls into silence. 

"Indeed," Mrs. Pike responds. "It has been decorated handsomely for the occasion, of course."

The two women start their own conversation regarding tomorrow's ceremony, leaving you and Marcus to fall silent. 

"Does the tea not suit you?”

You frown and look over at your betrothed. “Pardon?”

“You have not taken a single sip.”

You stare down at the liquid in the too-ornate cup. In the comfort of your own home, you enjoy sitting by the window and looking out over the garden, a steaming cup of tea in your lap. Here, however, the thought of drinking anything this rigid man gives you turns your stomach.

“I hate tea,” you lie.

Marcus blinks dumbly, taken off-guard by your blunt statement. After a split second of staring, he recovers; he schools his expression back into aloof disinterest. “I sincerely apologise for the misunderstanding. I can have some coffee brought up, or some hot water with lemon. I can arrange for milk–”

“No.”

At your interruption, he falls silent, and doesn’t attempt to speak to you again for the rest of the afternoon. 

When evening falls, you and your family are shown to the guest wing of the manor. You’ll sleep here tonight, but tomorrow… you shudder. Tomorrow, you’ll be sleeping in the bed of a man you barely know, on the night of your marriage.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling. Edward is already snoring, and your parents’ breaths are deep and even with sleep as well–all three of them apparently unconcerned and unbothered by the fact that, two days from now, they shall ride away in their carriage, leaving their oldest child in the arms of a stranger.

You do not know how long you drift, prisoner to your own rapidly-swirling thoughts, but when sleep finally claims you, your dreams are likewise disquieting.

Your body doesn’t feel like your own. You’re an outside observer, looking down on the girl–woman–in an ornate white dress. 

Part of your lightheadedness, you suppose, is the fault of the corset underneath–laced perhaps a bit tighter than medically recommended. That, combined with the suffocating silk fabric of the wedding dress and the weight of the veil on your head, and you’re hotter and more uncomfortable than you’ve ever felt in your life.

You stand outside the doors to the church like a statue, your expression as grey and somber as stone, when your mother joins you.

“They’re nearly ready,” she explains. “The organist was late.”

You nod, about to place your hand on the door handle, when she stops you.

“Wait. We didn’t talk about—about your duties, about what you should come to expect tonight.”

“Mother–” you mutter, shaking your head, but she continues.

“Please,” she says, her voice softer than you’ve ever heard, making you frown and look at her face–which is etched with concern. “I want you to be prepared. I want you to understand and expect that there will be pain, so that you do not react unfavorably in the moment.”

“Pain?” you repeat, the nerves you didn’t think could grow any higher reaching a crescendo–and just moments before you’re to walk down the aisle.

“It won’t always be painful,” your mother adds. “It may not be enjoyable, but in time, you will come to appreciate it.”

“If it’s not enjoyable, then why do people do it?” you ask pointedly, arching an eyebrow and glowering in her direction.

“He will find it to be enjoyable,” she explains gently. “And it’s your duty as a wife to please your husband.”

With that, she ushers you–stunned and open-mouthed–through the church doors to meet your fate.

The cacophony of the organ is drowned out by your heart hammering in your ribcage as you slowly walk down the aisle. Your betrothed is already there, of course, and staring intently with those deep brown eyes of his. As you enter the room, his lips part almost of their own accord, and he looks almost stunned to see you. 

His gaze is intolerable–boring into you as you turn and face him at the dias, and you wish you could tell him to look somewhere else. The preacher speaks, but you don’t hear the words over the rushing of blood in your ears. Your chest hurts, the top of your too-tightly fitted corset digging into your ribs and your hips painfully, and above all else, you’re simply angry. 

You recite your vows in a monotone, staring blankly at Marcus’s chest as the ceremony proceeds. You don’t even realize the officiant has said the words “man and wife” until Marcus–your new husband–squeezes your hands to get your attention.

“We’re supposed to kiss,” he announces, as if you didn’t understand how a wedding worked.

“Yes,” you agree flatly, but remaining where you are and not stepping closer at all. In the end, Marcus is the one who moves, stepping forward to press a stiff, chaste kiss on your unpuckered lips. 

And just like that, you’ve become somebody’s wife.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to eat anything, trussed up the way you are. You barely have room for air, let alone any of the mountains of food on the table in front of you. You push some potatoes around your plate with your fork, listening to Marcus make unbearable small-talk with your father. His mother and yours are deep in a discussion about embroidery, and your brother is telling Marcus’s father about his schooling. You’re the only one without a conversation partner.

"Is the food not to your liking?"

It takes you longer than usual to realize someone is speaking to you. You glance up and realize that your new husband is watching you with concern written all over his face. 

"What?"

"The food," he repeats. "You've barely eaten."

"Not hungry, I suppose," you lie. You're starving, but the cursed undergarments your mother forced you into are digging into your stomach uncomfortably already.

"Better eat up," Marcus's father says with a laugh. "You'll both need your energy!"

The men at the table erupt with laughter, alongside a few tittering giggles from the other married ladies in the room, but you and Marcus sit awkwardly silent and unsmiling. 

"Indeed, we've kept these two newlyweds apart for long enough," your mother adds, as though the two of you are deeply in love and not mere strangers until just yesterday.

With your heart in your throat, you allow yourself to be ushered up and away from the table by Marcus’ mother. She leads you through the large manor house, chattering gently at your elbow. If you had any room in your mind to think much about her, you might have thought she was attempting to be kind–removing you for a while from the icy gaze of your mother–but your thoughts are too full of dread to take much notice of her. With a small smile, she takes your hands in hers and bids you a good night, informing you that Marcus would join you in only a moment. 

Then, down another corridor, she disappears. 

Again, anger simmers up inside you at the fact that you’ve been left like a child waiting to be collected from school. However, instead of waiting for your governess, you’ve been left to wait for your husband to collect you, as if you were no more than a piece of chattel to be moved from one location to the next. 

Still, you don’t dare move from in front of the large oak doors. 

At either side of you, the corridor stretches out, funneling all sounds down toward you. You can hear other family members retiring for the night, guests finding their rooms, and the soft, whispering chatter of staff and maids as they receive instruction. 

One voice you recognise out of the rest–the voice of your mother somewhere to your right. You listen, straining to hear her words as she speaks in quiet tones to some other unknown person. 

“Ensure that in the morning you personally collect the linens from the room,” she murmurs, her voice fading as she disappears somewhere into the unfamiliar halls of the house. “Any sheets are to be brought to myself and the countess so it may be proven that she wed her only son to a proper young lady of good morals.” 

With that, your anger boils over. It becomes a growing, frothing thing in your stomach, filling you up until you think you might scream out at the indignity of it all. 

Does the whole house know of the humiliation you are about to suffer? Are they all listening at keyholes and in servant corridors? It seems that even the most intimate moment of your life is to be a public spectacle! 

Before you can stalk after her in a fit rage, heavy steps to your left freeze you in your place. 

Your new husband and his father–who looks a little worse for drink, in your opinion–round the corner of the corridor to your left. 

Something akin to relief passes across Marcus’ expression. 

The Earl, leaning over to his son, whispers something in his ear–something that has your new husband forcing a smile. Without a word to you, he politely bids his father a pleasant evening before gently guiding you into his bedroom with a hand at your lower back. The moment the door closes behind you, however, he immediately moves away, nearly retreating across the room, and his smile falls.

“I would not–” he swallows, looking down at the floor. “I cannot, in good conscience, accept a partner who is unwilling,” he murmurs.

“I am willing, my lord,” you say stiffly, because you know it’s what you’re supposed to say. Inside, however, your heart is racing as you remember your mother’s words from earlier. I want you to understand and expect that there will be pain, so that you do not react unfavorably in the moment. You suppress a shudder of nerves.

Marcus’s eyes shoot up to meet yours, his gaze dark and discerning. 

“No,” he says softly. “No, I do not believe that to be true.”

It’s your turn to swallow and look at the floor. It’s not–of course it isn’t. You’d rather sleep in this corset all night than consummate your marriage, but surely, if like your mother said, he’d find the act enjoyable, he would want to fulfill this expected–and anticipated–duty? You shake your head, not understanding, but Marcus doesn’t budge.

“Listen,” he entreats. “I cannot ask such a thing from you. You can have your own quarters if you like, after everyone leaves. I had a wing of the manor prepared; it can be yours, all yours, if you’d rather not share–well, if you’d like your own space.”

You nod, too stunned to speak at first, but then you remember: “But how will we… the sheet,” you say weakly.

Marcus smiles–and you realise that it looks different than all the other expressions on his face that you’ve witnessed thus far, but you’re not sure why. You watch, confused, as he strides over to a small cabinet and opens it, withdrawing a small vial.

“What on earth–” 

“It’s paint,” he explains. “A bit of crimson pigment. We spill a few drops on the sheet, and no one will know the difference.”

“Why–” you begin, shaking your head in disbelief. “Why would you do such a thing? Lie to our families?”

“I’ve made quite a few vows today already, but I’d like to offer one more to you now,” your husband says quietly. “I vow to never hurt you. I vow that I will never share this bed with you unless you wish it. You are to be my partner in life–equals–and I will not take that which isn’t enthusiastically offered to me. On my life, I swear this to you.”

The man’s sincerity stuns you into silence. He stares at you entreatingly, his eyebrows upturned and his eyes wide with uncertainty.

“Is this… amenable, to you?” he asks awkwardly, holding up the vial of red pigment again.

“Y-Yes,” you answer, nodding quickly. “Yes. I–thank you.”

You watch, fascinated, as Marcus pulls out a little eyedropper and spills a couple of droplets on the sheet. The colour stands out sharply against the white fabric, and you find yourself entranced by the way it bleeds into the fibers of the material. 

“There,” he says simply, replacing the lid and hiding the vial in the cabinet again. 

You take a deep, relieved breath in. Or you try to–it feels as though your lungs can only inflate to half of their capacity. You have to get out of these torturous clothes. 

“Would you ring for a maid to assist me with my outer garments?” you ask, your voice stiff with formality again as you grapple with the prospect of undressing in front of a near stranger. Although you’ll be able to keep your chemise on, shedding your outer layers still brings more vulnerability than you’re comfortable with.

“That would surely give our little game away,” Marcus says with a little half-smile, “and alert the entire manor to what we aren’t doing.”

“Oh.” You stare down at the floor again. He’s right, of course. 

“You’re uncomfortable,” he observes quietly. “You’ve hardly been able to breathe all evening.”

“My mother was a bit ambitious with the laces,” you say dryly. 

“Let me help,” Marcus pleads softly. “I–I’ll be careful, and I won’t… look, or anything but I–you can’t possibly sleep in all of that.” He takes a cautious step toward you, his expression open and unguarded as he approaches. “Simply say the words, and I’ll–”

Rather than speak, you turn your back to him, wordlessly offering the row of tiny buttons on your wedding dress for him to undo. He doesn’t speak either, silently starting at the top of the row and gently working his way down. The quiet is almost companionable as he works, undoing button after button until he’s able to carefully draw the garment down your shoulders.

“Good heavens, this thing weighs a ton,” he muses, letting the ornate white fabric crumple to the floor in an inelegant heap. “How on earth do you stay upright with all these skirts as well?”

Despite your anxious and dour mood, you cannot stop the quiet laugh that escapes your lips at his gentle teasing. 

“We womenfolk are secretly stronger than anyone realises,” you joke as you begin removing your petticoats and your bustle cage, letting them all pool at your feet before stepping out of them. 

“I’m certain that’s the truth,” your husband responds, a small smile colouring the tone of his voice, softening it.

With your underclothes now out of the way–save for your chemise and drawers–you can feel the warmth of Marcus’s hands as they come to the laces of your corset. 

“My God, this is–” he murmurs with a frown. “However do you endure such a thing?”

You shrug, not knowing how to answer. It’s not like you had a choice in the matter.

“I had no idea,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.” He quickly loosens the garment, his hands working far quicker than they had while unbuttoning your dress in his apparent urgency. As you undo the hooks at the front, he helps to draw it away from your body and then casts it aside with a soft tsk. “If you’d like to burn it, I would gladly supply you with a match.”

“It’s my finest corset,” you remark, tipping your head back and taking in your first full breath since that morning, sighing in relief as you stretch at the waist, finally unencumbered by boning meant to keep you upright. 

“An oxymoron,” he says dryly. 

Suddenly remembering himself, Marcus steps back comically fast, turning around and averting his eyes in your state of undress. Cheeks heating with embarrassment, you quickly rid yourself of your shoes and dart over to the bed, pulling the covers up to your chin.

You keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling as you listen to the sound of your new husband undressing. You can only glance out of the corner of your eye as he slips into bed beside you, and you realise he's still wearing his undershirt and trousers just before he extinguishes the lamp.

Marcus’s bed is large enough that a wide gulf of unused mattress spreads out between the two of you, even without hugging the very edge of it–which you do. You curl into yourself, listening to the unfamiliar sound of another person breathing beside you as you attempt to relax your body and mind enough that sleep will claim you.

It's a big undertaking; your mind continues to whirl for what seems like hours before you feel the pull of dreams.

Neither you nor Marcus speak again until morning. 

Come daylight, Marcus calls for the footman to have your things brought to his room, immediately excusing himself to give you privacy as you wait for your lady’s maid–your own having been relieved of her position by your parents despite your protests. She introduces herself as Bridget in a somewhat anxious voice. She’s about the same age as yourself; meek, though she has a warm smile as she shows you to the ladies bath and dressing room. Through the door, you watch another maid enter and begin her duties. Another maid, this one obviously of higher rank, gathers the bedding to be washed, and you watch as the little red stain is carried out of the room. 

"Are you feeling well this morn, Lady Pike?" your lady’s maid asks timidly as she begins setting out your clothing.  

"Quite well," you answer tightly, hoping the waver in your voice doesn't betray you. 

Once dressed in your favorite maroon day-dress, your new husband escorts you to the dining room for a small breakfast before your families depart. The meal is dreadfully awkward; every head in the room is turned toward the two of you as you pick politely at a piece of toast. You know your mother would disapprove if you attacked your food with the hunger you secretly felt–having not eaten a true meal since yesterday morning. You wonder to yourself if the breakfast will still be available when everyone leaves and you can gorge yourself freely.

You sneak a glance at your husband. Would he think you rude, too? 

Perhaps you could steal down to the kitchens later and help yourself. Besides, if there is  anything finishing school has taught you, it is that being on the side of the staff will make your life exponentially easier. 

Again, neither you nor Marcus speak to one another. He’s stiff and formal again, and you suddenly find yourself longing for the way he spoke to you last night when you were finally alone–for the first time since meeting. The upright rigidity with which he holds himself in public was gone, then–replaced with concern, sincerity… and warmth. 

He had looked upon you with kind, understanding eyes. Eyes that are now staring at the food on his plate with vague disinterest.

Finally, after Marcus’ own family has departed, your parents prepare to take their leave. You hug each of them in turn, before wrapping Edward in a tight embrace. 

“Be good,” you whisper to him, your voice filled with emotion. “Don’t neglect your studies. Don’t play pranks on your tutors.” 

“What if they’re very good pranks?” your baby brother whispers back.

You laugh quietly, and a lone tear escapes, rolling down your cheek. “Only if you promise to describe it in detail in your letters.”

“I will if you promise to not turn into an old, boring hag, now that you’re married,” he returns.

“By my life, I shall be just as difficult as before.”

You watch your family depart with shining eyes, willing your tears to hold themselves at bay until you can retreat to your own chamber–wherever it may be–and cry in private. For now, you force a smile on your face and join your new husband in waving farewell as the last of the wedding guests depart, leaving the two of you alone.

“Never have I been more relieved to see the departure of guests,” Marcus remarks beside you. 

Your mirth takes you by surprise, and a watery giggle escapes your lips even as another tear falls.

He turns to look at you, his brow furrowing in concern as he sees your tears. 

“We shall visit often, if you would like,” he says quietly. “And we can have them over anytime you please.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. You’ll miss them, of course, but it’s the finality of the situation that’s truly the source of your grief. You’re alone. In an unfamiliar house. With a stranger.

Your husband.

“I should like to show you around,” he says carefully. “If you’re amenable to such a thing? Or if you’d rather I begin and end the tour with your chambers, I’d be more than happy to do so.”

Your first instinct is to immediately lock yourself in your quarters and never come out, but before you can tell him, a moment of clarity causes you to pause. You could certainly spend this day and all your days sulking in your rooms, but in the end, the only one that hurts is you. That’s no way to live in your own house, now is it?

“It is quite a large manor,” you say carefully, “and I’ve yet seen very little of it.”

A wide, toothy smile spreads across your new husband’s face, and you finally realise what’s different about this particular expression: 

It’s completely and utterly genuine.

“Of course.” He seems surprised that you agreed to his request, but he quickly schools his expression into one of practiced formality–although his eyes still twinkle with mirth as he offers you his arm. “My lady.”

Despite yourself, you offer him a small smile and carefully tuck your hand into the crook of his elbow, and, placing his hand over your own, he gently guides you back inside.

Though your new husband’s manor house is quite large, it’s older and far less grand than most country houses you’re used to–houses filled to the brim with highly polished marble, bright rooms, and brightly dyed drapings that hurt your eyes. The main halls and the rooms used most often by guests have obviously been updated quite beautifully to suit current fashions, but as you allow Marcus to lead you slowly through the house, you see that the smaller halls and rooms used only by the sole owner of the home have remained mostly untouched. The tapestry lined rooms are somewhat dim, but at the same time they are cozy and warm–reminding you of the castles and knights that your governess used to tell you stories of to help you fall asleep.

The silent and unmoved man you married disappears once again, and the excited, talkative man that piques your curiosity takes his place. Marcus points out where additions have been made over the centuries, where old stone walls have been rebuilt and repaired, where the original 12th century walls once stood. He tells you stories of boyhood summers here, of the nooks and crannies of this old house that he explored as a youth. 

It isn't until the tour of the home is entirely over that you finally gather up the courage to speak. 

“If it is not too much to ask, why do you live apart from your family? Surely your father has a much larger and grander home than this?”

“That he does,” Marcus says, politely taking your hand as he leads you down the stairs. “Although I cannot call it home. I recall very little of my time there as a young boy. Once I was old enough, I went to Eaton for my schooling, then on to Cambridge.” 

“That I can understand,” you answer. “I never felt much at home in my own house, and most of my girlhood was spent away at school.” 

Your husband nods, falling silent again for a brief moment. He seems to be turning words around in his mind, or perhaps deciding whether or not to speak or to move on.

“This house was my uncle’s–my father’s younger brother,” he begins, quieter and less assured than before. “He was a bachelor all his life, and so he was almost a second father to me, just as I was the son he did not have… and when he died, he left the manor and the land to me. He knew I’d get far more use from it than anyone else–that I would find a home in it, rather than just another house.” 

At the bottom of the stair, your husband stops, his hand still holding onto yours. 

“I want you to feel at home here, just as I do,” Marcus says. “For it is your home too, after all.”

“And yet one door remains closed to me,” you remark, thinking of the one room you had passed by without entering.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Just my–my study.”

“Oh.” you look down at your hands. “Of course. I–I apologise, I overstepped.”

“No,” Marcus says emphatically. “No, of course not it’s just–”

“–private.”

“–messy.”

The two of you speak at the same time.

“Oh.”

“I–here, let me show you.” Grabbing your hand, Marcus pulls you down a side corridor, back to the large oak doors that had remained closed. 

On opening the door, your husband lets you step into the room first, though you find yourself frozen at the sheer overwhelming number of things to look at. The room is littered all about with papers and open books on every available surface. Workbenches and small tables are scattered about haphazardly, and pressed up against the single window sits a grand desk covered over with test tubes, flasks, bunsen burners, and the like, making the room look more like a chemical laboratory than a gentleman’s study. There’s a comfortable armchair tucked into one corner of the room, and a well-worn sofa in another corner. Each wall is lined with tall bookshelves that reach right up to the ceiling, packed with every sort of books you could imagine, interspersed with artifacts and small sculptures. 

However, what captures your immediate attention is the two large easels stood side by side against one wall, yet another table holding a curious brass instrument between the two of them. 

On each easel stands a painting which, to your eye, looks identical to the other. 

"Why do you have two of the same painting?" you ask.

"Oh!" Marcus looks excited as he stands by your side and joins you in staring at the wall. "It's quite the interesting story. See, one of these artworks is worth hundreds of thousands of pounds. The other is a rather convincing fake someone was trying to sell off to the British Museum."

"Which one is which?"

"Ah, that's the question, isn't it!" Your new husband claps his hands excitedly, looking more animated than you've ever seen him. "And it's a question that stumped even Scotland Yard. But look!" he dashes over to a paint-splattered workbench, which is covered with hundreds of little vials and dishes. 

"At what am I looking?" you ask, eyes raking over the untidy desk with a confused frown. 

"Pigment analysis. If you take samples from each canvas, you'll find that one was made with the most high-quality oils, and the other with a cheap imitation."

"What… what is all of this?" you ask, inspecting the little vials scattered all over the table.

"Paint. It's… my specialty, in a way."

“Your specialty,” you repeat.

“In my travels, the subject that has always interested me the most is art,” Marcus explains. “My uncle left an extensive collection, of course, but what truly fascinates me is the thriving market for forgeries.” He walks over to his desk and retrieves a pile of papers, looking down at them with an eager expression as he talks. “Do you know how many museums around the world have fallen victim to an extraordinarily convincing fake?”

“Quite a lot, I’m guessing?” you answer with a shrug.

“So many!” he exclaims, smiling happily at your response. “It intrigued me. I began to study the techniques of forgery; how to determine the genuine from the counterfeit. I’ve worked with the British Museum, with the Louvre, the Alte Pinakothek in Germany…”

“So you are a detective?” you ask, astounded at this new revelation about the man you’d just married.

“I am… an independent contractor, I suppose you’d say,” Marcus answers, picking up a test tube of old paint and examining it as he talks. “I’ve worked with the police in various countries, but I also take cases from individual collectors across the continent. I’ve invented several different methods of pigment analysis, as you can see.” He pauses, taking in your bewildered expression. “You think me strange,” he chuckles, though you can hear the self-deprecation clear through his geniality. 

“Yes.”

If he’s hurt by your blunt answer, he doesn’t show it. Slowly, ever so slowly, he approaches you–as one would a wild animal. You stare at him as he stops in front of you–closer than he had been at your wedding–and gently takes both of your hands in his.

“I know I’m nobody’s first choice,” he says softly, staring down at your clasped hands. “I know you had little say in the matter. But I hope–” his breath stutters, “–I hope you can eventually see me as a companion. That we could become friends, even. I would only wish for you to be happy here. You will want for nothing–not if I can help it. Anything you desire, anything you wish for, you will have it.” 

“I can’t say I want for many things. Books. A garden I can disappear into whenever I please.” 

“My library is yours. Anything you wish to read.”

Your eyes rake over his cramped shelves hungrily. “Are you certain?” 

“Of course,” Marcus answers, sounding surprised. “What is mine is now also yours, now that we are man and wife.”

“Oh,” you intone quietly. Of course–you didn’t even think of the possibility that these books could be considered yours as well.

“I’d like to show you one more thing,” your husband says softly, interrupting your train of thought.

“Of course.”

He extends his arm, and you take it again, surprised at how natural it feels for your hand to be gently enclosed at the crook of his elbow. You walk together down the stairs of the front hall and outside.

“The grounds are quite extensive,” Marcus explains as you walk. “It would take quite some time to explore them all, but in light of our conversation, I want you to see something.”

You walk for what seems like ages, until you come up to an old and obviously unused garden. Unlike the rest of the immaculate landscaping, this portion has grown over quite a bit with vines and weeds, although the structure is still sturdy, if weathered by age.

“This section was my uncle’s garden. It has fallen into disrepair, obviously,” he remarks. “But with a bit of care, it could be a beautiful little hideaway once again. It’s private, lush, and a perfect place to disappear into any time you wish for an escape.”

Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, touched as you are by the man’s thoughtfulness, and also at the trust he bestowed in you by giving you free roam of something that once belonged to his beloved uncle.

“It can be yours to do as you please,” he continues. “Any type of greenery you wish, any decoration you desire. You can set one of the groundskeepers to toil in it, or you can do the work yourself if you prefer. Anything you want or need–it’s yours.”

“I’d like to do the work myself, if that’s all right,” you tell him quietly. “I’d–I’d like a project. Something to occupy my days.”

“I fully understand,” Marcus says with a smile, and you smile too–thinking of his chaotic study.

He pulls out his pocket watch and examines it. “Would you look at that,” he remarks. “It’s lunchtime.”

Your stomach rumbles loudly–and to your mortification, Marcus hears it.

"Hungry?" he chuckles. 

"By either etiquette or corset, I have not had a proper meal since yesterday morning," you say truthfully. 

Marcus’s mouth falls open. "Surely you jest."

"I'm afraid not."

"And I've had you walking all over the countryside," he mutters to himself. "For goodness' sake, come eat."

You take his arm again–leaning against him somewhat, because you are rather dizzy–and trek back to the manor.

The luncheon is quite meager, not intended to be a proper meal, but Marcus quickly pulls one of the footmen aside.

"If you could, George, have Mrs. Stoker prepare a second course for luncheon? I think we will require quite a bit more than what she prepared," he tells him, eyes flicking anxiously toward you. "The poor thing is famished, please."

As the footman nods and retreats from the room, Marcus guides you to a chair and pulls it out for you to sink down. He immediately hands you a piece of bread and butter, which you accept and start to chew gratefully, no longer caring about proper etiquette. 

You tear through all the food on the table, refilling your plate when the footmen bring more as requested by your husband. He digs in too, and the two of you eat in content silence for quite some time before he speaks again.

"I've neglected you. I'm sorry."

You shrug your shoulders dismissively. "It is quite alright."

"A good husband should see to the needs of his wife," Marcus says seriously, and for some reason, the words cause warmth to course throughout your body.

You don't know what to do with the feeling, so you push it–and him–away. 

"I don't need someone to fuss over me," you remark shortly.

"Of course," he says immediately. "I'm sorry. In truth, I don't know how to be a good husband. I regret the many mistakes I will surely make."

"In this, we may be a good match," you comment. "I know nothing of being a wife, and I fear I may be a lousy one."

"I don't think you possibly could be," Marcus says, so softly that the words are barely audible in the room.

Taken aback by the quiet sincerity in his voice, you suddenly want nothing more than to be by yourself. After all, you haven’t had a single moment alone in days, and you find yourself longing for solitude. 

"I should like to retire to my bedroom for a little while to rest," you announce, standing from your chair abruptly. Marcus stands too, ever clinging rigidly to etiquette. You give the man a curt nod before turning and fleeing from the room.

When the door to your bedroom clicks shut behind you, your chest heaves in relief, and you sink down to the floor where you stand, too emotionally exhausted to go any further.

Looking around the room, you note that your trunks have already been opened, your things put away. The work of the manor's servants, you think with a sigh. This, more than any other of the overwhelming events of the past two days, makes your situation feel real. You live here, now. All your belongings are here. 

With a shaky breath, you stand and begin to look around the room, starting with the little writing desk by the large bay windows. Lifting the lid, you find that all of your stationary and ink has been put away in the little compartments and shelves within. Despite your exhaustion, you smile. Whoever had put your things away had done it in almost exactly the same manner as you would have done yourself.

Even more curious now, you continue walking around the room. What few books your parents had allowed you to own have been put away on the bookshelves. Mostly etiquette manuals, you found their value in making witty annotations and jokes in the margins. Your journals are here also, and you open the oldest one, smiling sadly at the careful cursive of your seventeen year-old self. 

Putting that one aside, you instead pick up the one on the other end with the deep blue cover and only around half of the pages filled. Head over-full of thoughts and worries, you sit down at the little desk to write.

"Your Lady!" a timid voice calls out, interrupting your reverie some time later. 

“Who is it?” 

“It is Bridget, your lady.” 

“Oh, yes, come in!” you call back, quickly trying to wipe away the frustrated tears that have escaped at steady intervals as your pen scraped across the paper of your journal.  

You turn to see the young woman smiling at you expectantly with her hands clasped in front of her body. 

"It is about time to get you dressed for dinner, your lady," Bridget announces, already headed for the smaller bath and dressing room adjoining your bedroom. 

Dinner is a formal affair, just as it was at your parents' home. Your new lady's maid helps you to dress in one of your nicest gowns and pulls your hair back into delicate plaits that cascade down your back.

You meet Marcus in the large banquet hall. Despite having seen each other just a few hours before, he takes your hand in greeting and kisses it gently. 

"My lady."

"My lord," you return stiffly, wanting to remain aloof.

He appears as though he has more to say, but he suddenly shuts his mouth and extends his arm. "Shall we?"

Unlike the lunch parlor, the dinner table is long and foreboding. You sit at one end, and Marcus sits at the other, so far apart that you can’t distinguish his expressions–nor his words. 

"What?" you call out in response to something you didn't understand. 

"The soup is quite good!" Marcus repeats, raising his voice so that it rings out in the large, formal dining room. 

"Yes!" you return at the same volume. "I wanted to thank you, husband, for taking me to see that garden earlier. It truly meant–"

"What?"

"I said—oh for goodness' sake." You abruptly stand, causing Marcus to shoot to his feet as well. He, along with the footman, watches in alarm as you grab your cutlery and march down the endless table and sit down in the seat next to him, instead.

He seems stunned beyond words, at a loss of how to respond to your actions. You help yourself to another serving of ham while he hesitantly sinks back down into his seat.

"This is quite a large table," you comment lightly. "I prefer to be able to hear my dinner-mates."

"I usually eat in the drawing room," Marcus confesses quietly. "This room is too large and formal for one man."

"It is hardly different with two."

"That settles it," he says, smiling. "Tomorrow we shall have dinner there, instead. The sun comes in through the windows at this time of evening; it's quite lovely in there at this hour."

You cast your eyes around the banquet hall. It's an interior room; all the lighting comes from the lamps on the walls. It might be the grandest space in the entire manor, but to you, it’s stuffy and imposing.

"I would like that, my lord."

"Marcus."

"...Marcus."

Your new husband smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with contentment.

"May I ask a question of you, Marcus?"

"Of course."

"I'd like to know more about the pigment analysis you were talking about earlier, and the scientific method. I find it quite fascinating."

Marcus’s eyes widen in surprise and confusion. "Truly?" 

"Why, of course. My father forbade me from learning such things–said science was too complex for a woman's brain to handle."

"Nonsense. I know of quite a few women in the scientific field who could best some of the most learned scholars.” His voice rings out in the room with a conviction that surprises you–and him. Blinking rapidly, he continues, quieter and more cautious. “I could teach you," he offers quietly. "If–if you'd like."

"You would do that?"

"Of course! We can go there after dinner. I can have coffee and a light dessert sent up for us as well."

You find yourself smiling–really, truly smiling–for the first time since coming here. Eating sweets after dinner? Reading books? Discussing science? It's everything your parents used to forbid in one single evening.

"I would like that," you tell Marcus, and he grins back. 

You stay in his study until the last candle burns down to the wick. When the light flickers, the man looks up from his book in alarm and looks at his pocketwatch.

"Good heavens, it's nearly midnight. Come, let me walk you to your rooms," Marcus says quietly. 

"Oh, but I'm still–" you protest, clutching your own book defensively. 

“Take it with you,” he insists. “Take an entire armful, and then come back tomorrow for an armful more. I meant what I said–these books are yours, too.”

In the end, you only leave with the one you’re currently looking through. You tuck it under one arm and slip your other hand into the crook of Marcus’s elbow, allowing him to escort you through manor and back to the rooms he’s designated to be yours. After bidding you good night, he gently takes your hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For the book, the–the garden, for… everything, really. I was afraid I would be quite sad today but… I had a nice time.”

Something about your words causes Marcus to stiffen. Gone is the excitement in his smile as he had explained his experiments with pigment. Gone is the fondness in his eyes as he had told you to take every book in his study if you so desired. Gone is the warmth against the back of your hand; he drops your hand and clears his throat awkwardly.

“It is quite late,” he remarks stiffly. “Far too late to be up wandering the halls. Sleep well, my… my wife.” His expression, just before he turns and marches back the way he came, is troubled. 

Confused by the sudden change in his character, you open the doors with a frown and slip inside your chambers.

A strange man, indeed.

The days that follow surprise you in their companionability. You and your new husband fall into a pleasant routine: You have breakfast together before retreating to your separate occupations–you to toil in the garden and he to his study to work on his cases. After a light lunch, he will often accompany you on the grounds, complimenting the rapid metamorphosis from overgrown weeds to flowers and shrubs, neatly planted in a row and perfectly maintained. When you tire of gardening, you join him in his study–sometimes simply reading in his leather armchair while he works at his desk, and sometimes listening curiously as he explains his methods.

As Marcus had promised, you have quickly grown to see him as a companion of sorts. His company is pleasant, his conversation enjoyable. He is, on occasion, dreadfully formal–but you like to hypothesize that this is more a product of his upbringing than a true indicator of his personality. 

It does grate on you, though–especially when the weight of expectation seems to stop his mirth dead in its tracks. He will laugh at something silly you’ve said or done, and then abruptly clear his throat and look away, making you feel as though he finds your joking distasteful. 

You enjoy him most in his study. He seems most at home among the chaos of the room, and it is where he is most likely to forget himself–becoming animated and eager rather than stiff and unsmiling. True to his word, he teaches you; reading introductory tomes on the scientific method and recreating some of the experiments outlined within. Despite your inexperience in this field, Marcus never talks down to you–he seems to delight in having a conversation partner, especially one who takes interest in the same subjects.

In the evenings, you dine in the less-formal parlor rather than the banquet hall you detest so. The sun illuminates the entire room, sending multicoloured prisms across the table wherever a beam hits the crystal glassware. 

Before the sun sets entirely but after the summer heat of midday has abated, you stroll across the grounds on Marcus’s arm. He tells you of his upbringing, of his schooling, and of his travels across the continent, and you cannot help but listen with rapt attention. You study his face in profile, following the line of his aquiline nose and watching the shape of his lips as he speaks. The evening light bathes his skin in golden light and makes his dark eyes appear almost amber.

You cannot deny that your husband is quite a handsome man.

Yet every night, Marcus escorts you back to your quarters, presses a soft, warm kiss on the back of your hand, and quietly–and formally–bids you goodnight. Not once does he ask for your company, nor does he ever seem to touch you anywhere else but your hands. A large part of you is grateful, of course, but a much smaller–and quickly growing–part of you is beginning to wonder if your marriage will remain a chaste, cautious friendship for all of your days. 

It is the same part of you that pretends to feel the warmth of his lips on your hand hours after he’s wished you goodnight.

Approximately a month after your arrival at Pike Manor, your husband announces over breakfast that he has been called to London for a case. 

“When are you to leave?” you ask, looking up in surprise.

“Right away; I should be on the road already, but I did not want to be hungry for the journey.”

“I see.” You nod, choosing to ignore the pang of jealousy in the pit of your stomach at the prospect of seeing the city. “I wish you great success in your sleuthing.”

Marcus grins. “It’s quite an interesting one,” he says, taking a folded letter out of his waistcoat pocket. “Several paintings intended for auction at Sotheby’s have simply disappeared into thin air, only to be mysteriously replaced several days later.”

“Why on earth would the thief bring them back?” you ask, intrigued. “Unless… oh! You don’t believe they were truly returned, do you? They were replaced with forgeries.”

Your husband’s smile widens. “Such an astute observation, indeed. That is why I have been called to investigate.” Stuffing the last of his breakfast into his mouth rather inelegantly, he stands and walks hastily to the front hall.

“I may be back quite late in the evening, so do not feel the need to wait up for my return,” Marcus says, pulling on his ulster coat at the door. “While I am in the city, is there anything you should desire I retrieve for you?” 

“None that comes to my mind,” you answer cordially. “Have a good trip.” 

“I think I am beginning to learn your little expressions. Come, be truthful with me.” A mischievous, teasing look twinkles in his dark eyes, a hint of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Anything you desire shall be yours. That was my promise, was it not?” 

Your face heats. “It was.”  

“Then I shall ask again, is there anything you are wanting of?” 

“If it isn’t much trouble, could you bring back some blank notebooks and…maybe more ink?”

“The ink you use to write your letters?” 

“Yes. If it isn’t any trouble, of course. I could retrieve the empty bottle for you if–” 

“No need, I already know the one you’re speaking of. I’ll return with a new bottle and a spare for you.” 

“Thank you, husband.” 

Hesitatingly, Marcus leans toward you. Then, with the utmost caution, he leans down and presses a single chaste kiss to your cheek. 

The soft press of his lips to your skin sends a little thrill through you, rooting you to the spot where you stand. When he straightens up once more, the softest of expressions washes over his features. 

“I shall send a wire should I be kept in the city any longer than expected,” he says, reaching out to give a gentle squeeze to your hand. “Have a good day, my darling.” 

His affectionate endearment has your heart fluttering in your chest, unsure if you should smile or if you should pull away. 

“I shall. Have a safe journey, Marcus.” 

You watch through the curtains as the carriage pulls away from the manor and eventually disappears from sight. Only when you can see no trace of your husband do you slowly bring your hand to your cheek, pressing lightly against the spot where his lips had touched.

You sit in your chamber and attempt to write, but the open window, with its curtains blowing gently in the breeze, calls to you. A picnic in your garden is what this day calls for, you decide. Grinning, you snap your journal shut and wander down the hallway to Marcus’s study. You shall retrieve a new book to read, then steal down to the kitchens to cajole Mrs. Stoker into giving you a parcel of snacks to bring outside with you. It won’t be a difficult task; Marcus’s cook is already rather sweet on you, and always sends extra treats up to his study for you after dinner.

No, the most difficult undertaking will be to select your reading material for the afternoon. You’ve gone through so many already; you started with his many science books–being eager to read on an as-of-yet forbidden topic, but today, Marcus’s collection of fiction calls to you. 

You walk by the worn leather armchair that your husband often reads in, and the book resting on the side catches your eye. You cock your head to the side to read the words emblazoned on the front: 

The Transmission of Life: Counsels on the Nature and Hygiene of the Masculine Function

What on earth? Frowning at your husband’s choice of reading material, you open to the bookmarked page and read the heading a little more than halfway down the page–Of Marital Relations.

Why is he reading such a thing? Both curious and emboldened, you read on. ‘The best mothers, wives, and managers of households know little or nothing of the sexual pleasure. Love of home, children, and domestic duties are the only passions they feel. As a rule, the modest woman submits to her husband, but only to please him; and, but for the desire of maternity, would far rather be relieved from his attentions.’ 

You can see that the book has quite a lot of notations written in the margins; however next to this passage, there is simply one solitary question mark inscribed in pencil. You understand the sentiment; reading such words causes your heart to pound rapidly in your chest at the implications of the author. Is this true? Are home and children the only thing you are capable of loving? At the present moment, at least, you desire neither.

You flip backwards through the pages with a stormy expression, searching for more answers. A page with a great deal of markings-out catches your eye, and you scan what was, apparently, an offending passage to Marcus: ‘The husband should be aware that while as a rule the first conjugal approaches are painful to the new wife, and therefore that she only submits and cannot enjoy them, this pain should not be excessively severe, nor should it last for any great length of time.

At the mention of marriage consummation, your face heats; you snap the book shut in an instant and back away from the leather armchair as though the tome had burned you.

You don’t know what to make of any of it. First, the fact that Marcus has chosen such a title as reading material; secondly, that the content within the pages should speak about a wife’s role in marriage in such plain and unpleasant-sounding terms. Thirdly, you cannot decipher the meaning of the marginalia. Does it suggest that Marcus is seemingly just as disturbed by the idea of your apparent frigidity as you currently are–backed against his bookshelf, your hand over your mouth as you take in what you’ve just seen? Or do they mean something else entirely?

You cannot come to grips with the words written, in plain ink, on the pages of the book–in direct opposition, it seems, to the feelings that stir within you at times. Are women, as the book suggests, without any passions outside of raising a home and children? In your own experience, sometimes you feel as though you are so overcome with emotion that you may explode–and oftentimes this is what brings you to such ‘unladylike’ ventures as running through the woods, shouting curses at your younger brother when he vexes you, or, most recently, being unable to take your eyes off of your husband as he simply goes about life.

You study his fingers as he turns the pages in his books; you watch his lips move every time he so much as utters a syllable; you analyse his gait out of the corner of your eye when he approaches you. The modest woman submits to her husband, but only to please him. Perhaps this is the issue; you have hardly been considered a ‘modest woman’ at any time in your life, and could not care less about pleasing a husband, especially if it is to your apparent detriment. 

Indeed, if your headmistress at finishing school could see you know, she would attribute your immodest behavior to remaining unmarried for so long. Now that you are somebody’s wife, it is quite possible that you may never be the type of woman the author thinks you must be. Is this what Marcus wants? Does he read the book because he is intent on modeling this image of masculinity? And what, if any, is your place in this picture?

After this puzzling revelation, you wish for an escape more than ever. An adventure. You now know exactly which novel you wish to read. Humming to yourself, you grab the copy of Around the World in Eighty Days and quickly flee the study, leaving Marcus’s book–and hopefully the feelings it stirred within you–far behind you. 

Mrs. Stoker fills a picnic blanket with nearly more food than you can carry before shooing you out of the kitchens, scolding you in her low, scratchy voice about “unbecoming behaviour for a lady”–but delivered with a fond twinkle in her eye. Arms laden with bread, cheese, and fruit, you make your way across the grounds and into the familiar little garden that you’ve made your own. You’ve tried your best to retain the wild, lush feeling of the setting–planting lots of creeping vines and winding morning glories around the lattices. It feels like escaping into a jungle, or into a secret little world that’s yours and yours alone. As you find a place to settle for the afternoon, you wonder idly if this was the very same place Marcus’ uncle came to escape the world–a world he never felt he belonged to. 

Spreading the blanket (and your feast) out around you, you settle on the grass, kick off your shoes, and wiggle your toes contentedly in the sunshine. You pull off a chunk of warm bread and take a bite, humming in satisfaction as you open your book and begin to read.

You lose yourself in Phileas Fogg’s adventures for quite some time, not coming up for air until the shadows have switched places and begun to lengthen in the late afternoon sun. You could stay out here all evening, but your body is beginning to ache, sitting on the ground as you are, and even though nothing remains of your little feast–you threw quite a lot of bread to the birds–you are feeling quite hungry again. 

You don’t bother dressing for dinner, and you tell Bridget so when she arrives at your room, dismissing her and telling her to enjoy her own evening. You have a small supper in the parlor, and you’re taken by surprise at how much the silence unsettles you. In so little time, you’ve become accustomed to Marcus’s presence in your life. Just as you now feel perfectly at home in what was once an unfamiliar and forbidding house, you feel at home with the man who inhabits it, as well. 

It is almost as if… you miss him.

At any rate, being without him in this large house is strangely unsettling. You find yourself retreating to the study, seeking out the familiarity of habit, and; you must admit to yourself, surrounding yourself with things that remind you of your husband. It smells of him, this room–like leather, paint, and old books, and if you close your eyes, you can detect something underneath–something deeper, muskier, and more masculine.

You settle into the soft settee rather than his armchair–not wishing to acknowledge the book you’d snooped through earlier that day–and open Jules Verne again. You read as the night falls and for quite some time after; and still, Marcus has not yet returned. It is so late that you have to retrieve more oil for the lamp, but you continue to keep your silent vigil rather than retreat to bed. You’ve waited this long, after all, and he surely cannot be much longer…

Not a quarter of an hour later, you hear familiar footsteps approaching down the hall. The sound of passers-by is quite common, with all of the manor’s staff, but these are not the light feet of scullery maids. No, they are heavier, confident–striding with purpose as they reach the door to the study. The door opens, and there, looking at you with surprise, is your husband. Lord Pike.

“The hour is late,” he remarks softly. “I quite expected you to be already asleep.”

“I have been absorbed in a book,” you tell him, “and did not realize the time.” It’s not quite a lie.

Marcus glances at the spine and grins. “Have you circumvented the world in the time it took me to go to London and back?”

“I have indeed; your train must have been delayed,” you tease. 

“It was indeed. Twice, in fact,” he laughs. “Next time, perhaps, I shall travel by balloon.”

You snort, rather unladylike, at his playfulness. “I should like to see such a sight.”

His eyes are bright and full of mirth as he responds. “Seeing as you have already done it, I should like you to come along as my navigator.”

“Ha! We shall find ourselves in the middle of the ocean, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps we will just take the train, then.” Your husband smiles warmly and pulls a small parcel out of his coat. “Your new journals and ink will not last forever, after all.”

You gasp softly as he deposits the package in your lap. The ink is the same–just the type you prefer–but the journals are far more ornate: bound in leather, with thick, cream-coloured paper. You examine each one in turn, carefully holding them in your hands to look at the beautiful cover designs, then flipping through the blank pages. At the bottom of the pile is a magazine–a copy of The Strand–which you hold out to him, expecting it to be something he purchased for himself that was mistakenly wrapped together with your journals, but Marcus simply shakes his head and gently pushes it back in your direction. 

“The new Holmes story has been published. I read it myself on the train, and… well, I thought of you and how you might enjoy it.” He clears his throat awkwardly, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he watches the realisation wash over you.

“This is… for me?” you ask, eyes widening.

“But of course.” He smiles softly, extending his hand to you. “But I’d caution against starting it at this hour; it’s one of those stories that you cannot put down again until finished.”

When he escorts you back to your quarters, he seems hesitant to let go of your hand after he kisses it. His eyes search yours; that strange, unfamiliar fire seems to dance within his pupils. Before you can stop yourself, you suddenly throw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder and giving into the urge to breathe him in. His arms are so warm; his chest so strong and broad, and for a moment, you simply allow yourself to melt into his embrace. 

Marcus stiffens at first, his sharp intake of breath indicating his surprise at your actions, but after just a moment, you feel his hands press against your back, pulling you closer.

“Good night, Marcus,” you whisper into his suit coat.

“Good night, my darling.”

He releases you and steps back, but his hands still seem to gravitate toward you even as you separate–although they stop short of touching you. You can’t bring yourself to move, even though you’d both already said good-night. Unsure of what to say, you simply stand before him in awkward silence for a few torturous minutes before growing skittish and retreating into your bedroom.

When the door clicks shut, however, you turn and gently place your palm on the wood. Closing your eyes, you imagine the warmth of Marcus’s palm pressing back.

The next day is oppressively hot. Too hot to continue working in the garden, but sitting indoors in the still air seems almost worse. You take your leave of Marcus in his study and retreat to the woods at the back of the property. The shade and the breeze finally makes the heat tolerable, and you smile to yourself as you start to explore. You've always loved wandering through your own woods, and this is your first opportunity to walk through the forest at Pike manor.

As you delve deeper into the trees, you realize that you can hear the faint sound of water. Grinning wider, the sound propels you forward, ducking under branches and stepping around bushes until you find the source: a little stream babbling through the undergrowth. 

Seeing the water, you suddenly feel as though you cannot tolerate your shoes a moment longer; you sit down on the ground–likely getting dirt down the back of your canary-yellow dress, but you hardly mind–and start to unlace your boots. 

The first step into the cool water causes a giddy laugh to escape from your throat. For the first time since coming here, you feel like yourself again, just for a moment–happy, wild, and free.

Your focus is on the little minnows darting around your toes, and you don't hear the sound of footsteps moving toward you through the leaves. 

"What on earth are you doing?"

You startle, turning around at the sound of your husband's voice behind you. 

"M-Marcus! I–I'm cooling my feet in the stream I found."

 "You've wandered quite far away," he comments, his expression slightly wary. 

"Am I not allowed to do so?"

"No! I-I mean yes! Of course you're allowed, I was simply… surprised at how deep in the wilderness you are, Lady wife."

"I won't get lost," you promise. "I used to do this all the time back home."

Marcus is silent for a few moments as he watches you.

"...Is the water quite refreshing?" he asks, looking curious. 

"It feels wonderful," you answer. 

You study him as several conflicting expressions seem to flicker across his face. Uncertainty, curiosity, wariness, and then–longing.

"Could… could I join you?" he asks quietly. 

Your grin must be incandescent as you nod rapidly up and down.

Marcus swings his head around, looking for somewhere to sit. When he finds nothing, to your surprise, he plops down on the ground and starts to untie his shoes. 

You watch giddily as he tucks his socks inside his shoes and sets them aside before carefully climbing down the bank. 

He lets out a rather undignified yelp at the first touch of water to his bare feet. 

"Cold!" 

You laugh outright at the shock on your husband's face. 

"Does it not feel refreshing?" you ask playfully.

"As refreshing as running barefoot into the snow in January."

"That's quite the overreaction; this water must be twenty degrees cooler than snow, at least."

"It must be the difference in temperature between the outside air and the water that makes it so very shocking," Marcus says with a little chuckle. 

"You just need to get used to it," you say with a sly grin. 

"How exactly am I supposed to do that?"

Before you can evaluate the wisdom of the idea, you kick your foot through the water, sending a wave of water to splash against his trousers.

Marcus gasps, staring down at the dark stain in shock. You stand frozen to the spot, suddenly worried that you've gone too far. 

"I cannot believe you did that," he murmurs, but a small smile is spreading across his face as he talks. "You wild creature."

And he bends down, sticks his hand in the current, and sends a cascade of water back in your direction. 

You shriek in surprise and delight, kicking more water at him before taking off, splashing barefoot down the stream with your husband at your heels.

You let out another loud peal of laughter when you feel the cold water hit your bodice from behind. 

"You'll wish you hadn't done that!"

"Is that so?" he teases, just as you turn and cup the water again, sending it as high as you can into the air. 

It hits him squarely in the chest. He gasps in shock as his white shirt is drenched through, the sopping material plastering to his skin. He looks down at it, then back up at you with a glint in his eye that you've never seen before. 

Giggling nervously, you take a few steps backward, but your foot lands on a smooth, flat stone slick with algae, and suddenly your legs are out in front of you as you come down hard into the deepest part of the stream.

For a moment, neither of you move. Your chest heaves from the surprise submersion into the water. You're completely soaked from head to toe; droplets of water drip from your hair, down onto your skin, and into your bodice. 

Marcus's expression has turned from playful to horrified. He surges forward, helping you back up to your feet in a panic.

"Oh my goodness," he mutters over and over again, and you start to giggle.

"Your dress is surely ruined," he says regretfully. "They'll never be able to get the mud stains out."

"I can simply wear it whenever I come down here to the stream," you tell him, but he's shaking his head and frowning. 

"This… my behaviour has been far from appropriate," he murmurs. 

"We were having fun," you say quietly, your face falling as that rigid, formal expression you hate returns.

"It is unbecoming for people of our station," he announces stiffly. "Where are your shoes; I shall bring them to you and help you home."

"But I'm–"

"We've gotten quite wet enough, I believe," Marcus says sternly. "Come along."

You trail after him stormily, feeling more like a scolded dog and less like a wife.

You remember his promise from weeks before, on your wedding night: that the two of you were to be partners–and equals. Right now, you feel nothing but.

"I'm going to bathe before dinner," Marcus announces as he marches through the front doors to the manor. "You should do the same before you catch cold."

"Mar–Husband," you murmur sorrowfully.

"I'm afraid the mud will never come out of this shirt, either," he comments, talking more to himself than to you. 

Heart heavy, you climb the stairs after him and head for your chambers. You don't quite understand your husband. At times, he seems to be a warm and playful person; other times, he's cold and forbidding. 

It's as though he's two different men at once. One of those men scares you somewhat. The other–well, you aren't quite sure what to call the feeling that stirs in your belly when he looks at you with those mischievous, yet kind eyes.

That man–he's a friend, a companion. He reads with you in the evenings and laughs at your silly jokes. He kisses your hand at the end of every day when he bids you good night, and it's becoming your favorite part of the day. His lips are warm and soft on your skin, and every night you go to bed wondering what they'd feel like on your lips.

You wish you could call up how it had felt when he had kissed you at your wedding. You can barely remember the day, much less the brief moment that his lips had been on yours. Even if it was purely for the ceremony, even if it had no feeling or meaning behind it, even if his face had been contorted into that formal mask that you've grown to despise…

You wish you could feel it again. 

"My goodness! What on earth happened to you, my lady?" your maid cries at the sight of you: wet, bedraggled, and covered in mud in your doorway. 

"T'is a hot day; I was playing in the stream."

"I fear your dress is ruined, my lady." 

"Why is everyone so concerned about my clothing?" you snap, exasperated and grief-stricken. "Is this entire household so very preoccupied with what I do and where I go?"

"I'm sorry, my lady."

"Is anyone allowed to have fun, or is that forbidden as well?"

"Pardon?"

"Your lord is the most frustrating, confusing man I have ever had the displeasure of knowing," you mumble as the wet material of your dress is peeled away from your skin and discarded on the floor with a wet plop.

"Lord Pike is your husband," she points out.

"And who is my husband? I'm afraid I do not know the man I married. He's kind, and then he's cold. He laughs, and then suddenly forgets how to smile. I do not know if he finds me to be a worthy companion or if he simply tolerates my presence."

"My lord has been alone for quite some time," Bridget says quietly. "He does not know how to have a friend, much less a wife."

"Does he even want one?"

"Did you wish to become one?" she asks pointedly, and you fall quiet again.

"Pardon my boldness, Lady, but I have not seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you."

"What, with disdain?" you snort.

"Your bath is ready," Bridget says quietly.

You slip into the water–blessedly cool, thank goodness–and close your eyes.

"I hear the weather will break tonight," your maid says conversationally, and you can tell she's desperate to change the subject. "We are long overdue for some rain."

"We are," you agree. "My garden needs it sorely."

"As do the crops, of course."

"Of course."

You’re dressed in deep emerald green velvet. Gold brocade is embroidered into the bodice of the dress and on the hem of your velvet skirts, your shoulders exposed to the cool, still air of the manor. It’s quite stunning, and if you weren’t feeling so affronted by your husband this evening, you’d delight in his gaze, in the way his wide eyes always dart back and forth over your form as he reverently breathes “Beautiful” every time he meets you at the top of the stairs for dinner. 

You meet Marcus there as always, but when he begins to turn away from the parlor, you make a questioning noise in your throat.

"The evening sun is currently streaming into the parlor," Marcus says by way of explanation. "With today’s heat, it is intolerably warm in that wing of the house, and far cooler in the banquet hall."

"I see," you answer tightly. You allow him to escort you into the dark, stuffy room instead.

He’s quiet as he eats, seemingly not willing, or perhaps able, to make conversation as he has on previous evenings. He stares into the middle distance as he chews, and you can’t tell if he’s lost in thought or simply avoiding eye contact.

“Does a case occupy your thoughts tonight?” you ask, putting as much gentleness into your voice as possible to attempt to guide him back to you.

“Nothing you need to be concerned with,” Marcus says tightly, shaking his head and stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork. Looking down at his plate as he is, he can’t see your resulting ire. 

You don’t attempt to engage with him again for the rest of the meal. Afterward, when the footmen start to clear the dishes, you abruptly excuse yourself, walking quickly out of the darkening banquet hall and heading straight for the heavy oak doors at the front entrance to the manor.

It's already beginning to sprinkle as you lift your skirts and run across the lawn toward your garden. It hardly matters; you can tolerate the stuffy house and your equally-stuffy husband not one moment longer.

The droplets cool your forehead and you laugh humorlessly at the notion that you may be scolded for turning up soaking wet twice in one day. It isn't simply the weather making you hot. Anger and some other emotion you cannot begin to name simmers in your blood. 

You cannot stand him. You simply cannot stand him and yet—why does the sight of your husband make your heart ache in your chest? Why can you not seem to erase the image in your mind's eye of Marcus standing in the creek shaking with laughter, the planes of his chest showing through his soaked shirt? 

But no–that behaviour was unbecoming. For him, or for you? Could he, as your mother warned, not abide by your carefree nature? Did he think himself above simple joys such as splashing one’s bare feet in cool water?

A tear mixes with the rain on your face as you run, but you hardly realise it. In no time at all, you're collapsing on your favorite stone bench in your garden, head in your hands. As you sit, the rain begins to pick up, turning from light sprinkles to a veritable downpour. You straighten, watching the droplets pelt the leaves of the vines climbing up the lattice next to you.

The night is already beginning to fall, but in the twilight, you can still make out the figure of Lord Marcus Pike running in your direction carrying an umbrella, and you sigh loudly in consternation.

"Insistent on catching your death today, are we?" he remarks when he reaches the bench, somewhat out of breath. 

"I’m confident that no one has died from a rainstorm in the middle of July."

"Still, to find you sopping wet on not one, but two occasions in the same day suggests a pattern of behaviour."

"Of unbecoming behaviour?" you mutter, turning away from him to stare at the rain. Silence falls. You make no effort to move from your spot on the middle of the bench, nor do you acknowledge the man again until, finally, he speaks.

"Please, tell me what have I done to upset you so?"

"I'm not upset."

"You are sitting in the dark in the rain," Marcus points out.

"I can do what I wish; it is my garden. You said so yourself."

"I did not imagine this particular situation when I said it."

"You should have considered every possible outcome before making promises like that."

"You are being ridiculous."

"I'm not."

You turn to meet his gaze–glaring at him, allowing all the indignance and fury show through in your expression. He glowers back with pursed lips and a clenched jaw, but his eyes are swimming with… some strange, unidentified emotion that makes them black and shining as coals.

"You vex me, you know that?"

"Oh, I vex you?" you retort.

"I don't know what to do or say around you. You're so… beautiful, and I lose all sense of reason whenever I'm near you."

“That is hardly an excuse for being horrid.”

“You think me horrid? All I ever wish for–all I strive to be–is to be a good husband and a good man.” 

"Yes, and every time I think I get close to knowing the type of man you truly are, you close yourself off to me, and I'm left wondering if I married a ghost."

"I did not want you to think me improper–"

"Propriety be damned!" you shout, standing up to advance on your husband in a fit of fury. "I'd rather spend my days reading science books and running barefoot through the creek then do another cursed thing that everyone else considers to be 'proper'!"

Marcus is silent for a moment–his expression blank as he regards you, standing an arm’s length away and breathing hard from your paroxysm of hostility. You’re afraid your outburst has angered him past repair–that he’s going to tell you to pack your things and go back to your parents’ house to live out the rest of your days–but when he opens his mouth, it’s not an admonition that spills from his lips, nor is it an order to leave. It is a soft plea, barely audible over the cacophony of the rainstorm.

"I should like to kiss you."

No sooner do the words leave his lips than you find yourself stepping into Marcus’ arms. Your mouths collide in a fit of fervency, his lips hot against your own rain-chilled skin. What feels almost like an electric shock courses through your body. Months of restrained passion–whether it be out of pining for the man you’d married, or because he rankles your nerves so profusely–pours out of your body and into the kiss. You clutch at him, your fists balling into the material of his dampened shirt as you drown in the feel of his lips on yours.

A gasp inadvertently draws itself into your lungs as you pull away, looking up into the eyes of your husband and finally seeing the man you’ve grown to admire–to love–staring back at you in astonishment. He says nothing, but simply shakes his head in utter disbelief, cradles your cheeks in his hands, and pulls you back to him. 

When once you’d stiffened at the touch of his lips, you now melt into the feeling of it. After the first tentative kiss, Marcus is emboldened; his hands gently guide your head to one side, and he to the other–slanting your mouths together in a deeper and more tender kiss. Nothing exists outside of this moment–not your families’ arrangement without either of your choosing, nor the expectations thrust upon you as a wife of a high-born aristocrat. Even your husband’s unbearable rigidity is nowhere to be seen as he presses closer and closer still, one of his hands coming to your lower back and bringing your bodies flush together.

No, the only thing you can feel from Marcus is passion. Even the rain pelting on your head is a distant notion–merely a trivial inconvenience–compared to the love and tenderness in his embrace. He holds you as one might a priceless artefact–rare, precious, and utterly cherished.  

Your shiver when the wind picks up has less to do with the rapidly falling temperatures and more with the way Marcus is still holding your cheek in his palm as though you'll break, and yet at the same time kissing you like he'll never need air again.

Even so, the action makes him pull back with a little chuckle. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and you can't help but giggle back.

“Let us go inside before we catch our deaths,” he whispers, still smiling. He extends his hand, and, still looking up at him with wide-eyed disbelief, you take it. The wind whips around you as you both run toward the manor. Marcus tries in vain to keep the umbrella over your head, but after just a few minutes, the whole thing turns inside out in a particularly strong gust of wind. 

“Leave it,” you laugh as he tries to right it again and cover you from the rain. “I can’t get any wetter.”

The wind finally wrenches it from his grasp, and he joins in your laughter as it sails away into the night. Hand in hand, you run through the storm until you’re crashing through the front entrance, laughing hysterically, out of breath, and drenched from head to toe. The moment you’re safe inside, Marcus reaches for you again, winding his arms around your waist and pressing his lips to yours. 

You respond in kind, the fire in your belly igniting despite the chill in the air. You can’t get enough of the feel of them–they’re soft, warm, and pliant, and they move against you with a passion that causes a soft sound of pleasure to escape your throat. It’s a foreign sound to your ears–one you’ve never heard yourself make before, but Marcus groans softly in response. 

“Marcus,” you sigh softly. 

“Darling,” he murmurs against your lips, and you shiver again. “You’re shaking. Should I… should I escort you to your chambers so that you may… get dry, and go to bed–if that’s what you wish?”

“No, please,” you shake your head, looking frantic. “Please, I–I need–”

You can’t give voice to what stirs inside of you, but you know you can’t bear to part from your husband for a moment. Marcus seems to understand somewhat; his eyes soften even further, and he takes your hand again, pulling you forward until you're standing at the doors to his own quarters. Rather than enter, though, he turns and palms your cheek, his eyes raking over you in desperation. 

“On our wedding night, I made you a promise,” he whispers. “I promised that I’d never share my bed with you unless you wish for it. I need you to tell me—is this what you truly wish?”

“I don’t know,” you admit in a small voice. “I simply know I do not wish to be parted from you at this moment.”

“Then come,” Marcus murmurs softly. “Come in, and let us at least get dry and warm again.”

He takes your hands in his and pulls you gently forward–and all the while, his eyes never once leave yours. 

You can't help but think about how different tonight is from the first time you were in this room. He had barely looked at you then; you were terrified and upset and couldn't stand to be near him. Now, you cling to him, seeking the comfort of his lips again as he walks backwards into his bedroom with his arms around you. 

When you finally break apart, you make a soft noise of protest, but Marcus holds out his hand placatingly, disappearing for a brief moment before returning with an armful of large Turkish bath towels that he drops onto the settee next to him. He takes one, and, with a playful smile, gently covers your dripping hair and squeezes the water out of the ends.

"Turn around, if you would like," Marcus murmurs, a little quiver in his voice.

You obey with your heart in your throat. This, too, feels much different than your wedding night. He gently moves your damp hair to the side and slowly begins to unfasten the buttons at the back of your dress. One by one, he gently sheds your clothes, casting aside the wet emerald dress and your undergarments. Each layer brings you closer to being bare in front of him for the first time, and when you're down to just your chemise and your drawers, you can feel yourself trembling slightly. 

"It's all right," Marcus whispers softly in your ear. "I won't look–not yet."

He helps pull your chemise over your head as you kick your drawers away, and then blindly reaches for another large bath towel and wraps it around you, pressing a soft kiss to your bare shoulder as he does.

His kindness and patience makes something swell within you. You turn to face him, eyes wide as you slowly lift your hand to his cheek. His eyes flutter open again at your touch, and his gaze is dark and longing as he turns slightly to kiss your palm. 

Holding your eyes, Marcus's hands come to the buttons of his vest, quickly shedding the outer garment before undoing his shirt. You swallow thickly as each inch of bare skin is revealed to you. 

You want this. Oh, God, do you want this. But why? Each touch, each kiss makes you feel as though you're burning from the inside out, but if your mother was right that it would only bring you pain, why does it feel as though you'll die if you stop?

Marcus hastily towels off his hair, making it stand on end, before drying his chest and unbuttoning the front of his trousers. You tear your gaze away and stare at the floor as your heart hammers loudly in your chest. You focus on breathing until you feel him gently take your hand and lead you forward until you’re standing next to his bed. Rather than guide you to lie down, however, he simply steps closer, slowly encircling you with his arms and bringing your bodies close. The large bath towels cover both of your delicate areas, but the feel of his bare arms and chest still causes heat to work its way up your spine.

You sigh softly–you can’t describe how comforting it is to be in Marcus’s arms. Any latent fear about what’s to come is pushed aside as he slowly guides your mouth to his again. And again. And again. Soon, you’re clutching at him, panting softly into every kiss as he makes fire ignite in your chest. 

As naked as you are to each other, Marcus’s hands remain chaste. One gently clasps the back of your neck, keeping you just as he wants–against his lips. The other palms your jaw, his thumb brushing slowly back and forth against your cheekbone. You gasp ever so slightly into his kiss, and, as you part your lips, his tongue gently slips inside. 

The gasp turns ragged. A surprised noise is trapped in your throat and you all but throw your arms around his shoulders, hardly even realising how your nails are digging into his skin or that your chests are pressed together with the towel trapped between you. You aren’t entirely sure what you’re doing, but you return in kind, parting your lips and cautiously touching your tongue to his. 

Marcus groans softly, the grip on your neck tightening imperceptibly as you open to him. It feels wild–you aren’t in control of your own reactions; you can hardly contain your response to his kisses. You’re barely aware of the little whimpers coming from your own throat, let alone being able to stop them from escaping. Yet Marcus only presses closer.

“Come–” he murmurs–shakily, but smiling–against your lips, “–Please, God, before I fall over.”

You giggle breathlessly and allow him to guide you gently down onto the bed. As soon as you’re horizontal, with your husband hovering over you with awe etched into his expression, however; the fear returns. Your mother’s voice returns. When Marcus ducks his head to kiss you again, you know he feels the change in you; he pulls back quickly, eyes raking over your face in confusion and alarm.

“Darling, what troubles you?” 

“I am fine,” you answer, but the waver in your voice makes the words hardly convincing.

Marcus studies you, two little creases on his brow as he tries to make sense of the change in mood. His gaze softens; his lips part in worry.

“Are you frightened?” His lips barely move as he speaks.

“I was told that it would be painful,” you answer. You feel as though maybe you should have lied to protect him, but the honesty comes to your lips quickly at the open concern in your husband’s eyes.  “And that I will not enjoy it.” 

Understanding and horror washes over Marcus’s face. 

“No. No. I cannot–I could never—” he stammers. “Darling… I will never hurt you.” The words are thick and rasping with heavy emotion. “I would sooner die.”

But your own mother had said—

“Can you even promise such a thing?” you ask skeptically.

Marcus takes your face in his hands and presses a soft, warm kiss to your forehead. “I can, and I will. It does not need to hurt,” he promises. “It shouldn’t. I can–I can bring you pleasure. If you would trust me–?”

You want to be wary, but all you can see in his eyes is honesty and sincerity. Despite the man’s stiff demeanor, despite his rigidity, despite his awkward, stilted small talk–he’s never been anything but kind to you. 

You believe him. Of course you do.

“I trust you,” you answer softly.

Marcus smiles shakily. “I am glad,” he whispers. He kisses you again–urgently, and full of passion. This time, you return his affections.

“I should like to see you,” he confesses quietly. “May I?”

Breathlessly, you nod. Your heart is in your throat as he gently takes hold of the edge of the bath towel and slowly draws it out from where it’s tucked neatly around your chest. He keeps his eyes on yours the entire time instead of looking at the skin that he’s exposing. He doesn’t stop until you’re entirely bare, your nipples pebbling slightly in the cool air of the bedroom. 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers–and yet, he hasn’t taken his eyes off of yours. Only when you smile back does Marcus finally drop his gaze. His breath catches as the sight of you, and at the utter longing in his expression, you find yourself feeling… beautiful. Enticing. Like a woman.

“I think it is only fair,” you say with a playful formality, “that you render yourself likewise uncovered, my lord.”

Marcus’s grin is cheeky, full of mischief and affection. “I cannot possibly refuse such a polite request,” he teases. 

At your behest, he slowly draws the towel out from around his hips.

You gulp. 

“Shhh,” Marcus urges, winding his arm around your waist and pulling you against him. “I do not want for you to be afraid of me.”

“Oh,” you exhale quietly, overcome by the feel of so much skin. He kisses you again, and his hands wander–skimming down your spine, clutching softly at your waist, and–oh, God–moving down to grasp your hip as your bodies slowly move together. 

True to his word, it does feel… pleasurable, thus far. The warmth and softness of his skin against yours makes you dizzy with need, and when his lips leave yours to trail a path of kisses down to your neck, you find yourself arching your spine to bring him closer. You can feel the stiffness of his length pressing insistently against your thigh, and you find yourself wondering when he will… well, when he will put it inside.

Instead, however, his hand slowly moves inward from its place at your hip, until his fingers are brushing gently at the little bud between your legs. The light touch is at the same time foreign and perfect. You gasp wantonly at the feel of him touching you in a place so very intimate in nature. His breath is hot against your neck as he pants, open mouthed, while his fingers explore the uncharted territory. 

"How I've longed for this–for you," he groans raggedly into your skin. “Oh, my darling wife. Tell me—Tell me that you have desired for this moment.”

“I–oh–” you whimper as his fingers begin to slowly circle around the little bundle of nerves. “I did not know that–M-Marcus–I did not know it could feel–” Sparks of desire–of pleasure–shoot up and down your spine at his touch. “I have… thought of you,” you confess to him. “I have imagined your lips on mine many times, but I did not know–”

“Did not know… what?” Marcus asks gently, pulling back to look into your eyes as… something within you… builds. 

“That this could feel… s-so…” 

“Yes?” Your husband’s eyes are wild, his voice breathless and rough with pleasure, and as he watches you try to form words, that feeling inside of you reaches a crescendo.

“Wh–oh!” you cry out, your lips parting of their own accord. Your core pulses rhythmically, and all the tension seems to leave your body, somehow pulled out of you by the movement of Marcus’s fingers. 

“Oh my,” you gasp, as soon as you regain the ability to speak. “Oh, God.”

Marcus is breathing just as heavily as you are. His eyes are greedy, raking over your face and watching how you writhe on the bed as a result of his actions.

You slump, spent, on the pillows as the strong surge of ecstasy finally abates. “Marcus,” you murmur, staring up at him in utter disbelief.

“I did promise,” he says with a shaky grin. 

“I want—oh,” you sigh. “Can you do that again?”

“I will do it as many times as you ask,” Marcus grins, palming your jaw and giving you a gentle–yet somehow still passionate–kiss. “And perhaps a few more besides.”

Holding your gaze, he sucks a finger into his mouth and then brings the hand back down between your legs. This time, his hand explores deeper, past the little bundle of nerves and down to your centre. His touch is light through your folds at first, then grows bolder as the finger slips gently inside of you. 

You cry out in pleasure again. The feeling is the same as before, yet somehow different. It causes the same thrill to rise inside of you, but with his finger now inside, that feeling is stronger. Deeper. 

“Oh, yes,” Marcus whispers reverently as he pushes the digit even further inside. You can only pant open-mouthed as he buries it to the hilt, sheathed inside your heat. “Oh, my darling, I fear I will never tire of this,” he murmurs, a small smile on his face as he watches your intense reactions. And then… and then… the finger starts to move, thrusting slowly in and out of your channel, and you lose all sense of reason.

“...believe… I… should be the pers–oh! …saying that,” you manage to stammer.

“Yes,” your husband urges, the heel of his hand pressing flush against you as he continues the dizzying movement of his finger inside of you. “Yes, never tire of it either, I beg of you,” he murmurs, kissing your jawline, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead– “Let me have you like this always. In my bed, at my side, just–oh, love, just say you will stay.”

“I will,” you promise, as the coil of heat and tension inside of you tightens, tightens, tightens. “I will, Marcus, I will.”

With a little choked-off gasp, you fall apart around his finger as waves of pleasure crash against you for the second time. Marcus leans forward, his forehead touching yours as your heartbeat gradually begins to slow. 

“Tell me,” he whispers roughly. “Tell me I can–oh, please.”

“Yes,” you agree, nodding rapidly up and down. “Yes, Marcus.”

“I won’t hurt you,” he promises again, desperation and longing in his voice. “On my life, I will not.”

“I know.” You nod again. 

Slowly, keeping his eyes glued to your reaction, Marcus moves between your parted legs and covers your body with his, keeping most of his weight on his elbows so that he doesn’t cause you any discomfort. He kisses you again–softly, slowly–as one hand reaches in between your bodies. 

You feel him notch at your entrance, and you whimper softly–in anticipation or trepidation, you do not know.

“Eyes on me,” Marcus whispers. “Don’t be afraid.”

He pushes forward, and just the tip of him slips inside, but merely that seems already enough to fill you to the brim. He continues until he meets some resistance part of the way in, and stops. His eyes are wide and anxious, those two little creases returning to the center of his brow, and you know, suddenly, what he needs to do. 

“Just do it,” you nod, closing your eyes.

He lowers his head, and you feel his lips, warm and gentle on one closed eyelid, just before he swiftly sheathes himself to the hilt, pushing through any barrier that yet remained.

You cry out softly–although more in shock than in pain–and Marcus makes little soothing noises in your ear as he stills again and waits for you to adjust. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, kissing your face over and over again. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m all right,” you assure him. “I am. You didn’t hurt me.”

“I want all that you feel to be pleasure,” Marcus whispers. “Only that. Never pain.”

“I know.”

He flexes his hips experimentally, and you feel the movement deep inside of you. 

“Oh–” a ragged, wanton noise tears its way out of your throat.

“Yes?”

“Again,” you demand.

Again, your husband moves, and something stirs in your belly, at the base of your spine. Rhythmically, he undulates against you, his skin sliding against yours and his shaft hitting something you’ve never even dreamed of, bringing you an ecstasy you never knew existed.

Your hands scrabble at Marcus’s shoulders as you desperately seek out his mouth, kissing him messily as the pleasure yet again begins to rise within you. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before–God, you never knew such a feeling could occur within you, that your body could be so alight with desire.

Your bodies become slick with perspiration as you move, but it only makes the experience even more sensual. Marcus’s hair is falling forward over his forehead, his eyes dark, burning coals as he takes you over and over again. Feeling your enthusiastic response, he speeds up–hitting something deeper and harder as he does.

You keen for him. With no thoughts left in your head, you babble incoherently as your pleasure builds, and it only seems to spur him on. 

“I–oh! I–Marcus, oh, love, it–it feels so—please, never–never stop. Oh, my love, it–ah!” 

Something deep within you snaps, and your entire body convulses with ecstasy as you come undone. Marcus groans in response, a broken, pleasure-soaked sound that sends chills down your spine. 

“Feels so good,” he moans. “Oh, darling, I’m going to–” 

He seems to lose his rhythm; his hips stutter once, twice, and then he stills, burying himself to the hilt and nearly crushing your bodies together in his passion.

Some time passes; although exactly how much, you do not know. All you know is that Marcus is wrapped around you–or you around him, perhaps–and his length is still buried within you. The deep stretch of him abates as you lie there, forgetting all else but the feeling of being held so closely, and so tenderly. After minutes or hours, he stirs–making you groan softly in protest–but he only chuckles deeply and pulls back to look at you with fondness in his eyes. 

“Darling,” he murmurs. “My darling wife.”

“Marcus,” you answer back, voice still full of awe and amazement.

“You are so beautiful like this,” he says reverently. “Please–would you stay here with me tonight?”

“If this is what happens when we are in the same bed, I fear I may never return to my own quarters,” you grin.

Marcus chuckles. “And I fear we may lose a little sleep over the coming days if you allow me such privileges.”

Kissing the tip of your nose, he finally slips from within you, eliciting a little hiss of discomfort from you that causes his eyes to widen in alarm.

“Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “It is not pain, exactly; I am not entirely sure how to describe it. I simply feel… different. As if I’ve just run a great distance, and my legs are burning from overuse, and yet it does not detract from the exhilaration of running in the first place.”

Your husband laughs softly again. “Then I will let you rest for tonight, I think,” he teases. “Let me get these bath towels out of the way, and then I’ll turn out the lights.”

You shift your weight as Marcus draws the towel out from where it’s still resting underneath you and casts it to the side of the room. As you roll to one side, his sharp intake of breath makes you startle slightly, unsure of the cause until you follow his gaze to the sheet below. You exhale softly in surprise at the small smear of blood–barely larger than that which would come from pricking one’s finger–staining the linens just underneath where you had been joined.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Marcus asks quietly.

“I am,” you promise. 

“I suppose our families got what they wanted after all,” he says, shaking his head with a chuckle. 

“And it serves them right that they’re not here to see it,” you say, your voice clipped and short. “I much prefer these matters to be private and on my own schedule, thank you very much.”

“On this, my lady, we agree completely.” 

Marcus shoots you a smile–that lovely, crooked, mischievous grin that you adore so much–before getting up and extinguishing the lamps, bathing the room in darkness. You feel the mattress dip as he slides back in beside you, but he seems to hesitate before touching you again.

“Marcus?” you whisper.

“Yes?”

“Will you hold me as you were before?”

Arms immediately wind around you and pull you flush against him, your back to his chest. He holds you tightly and tenderly, burying his face in your skin where your neck and shoulder meet.

“Marcus,” you whisper again, even softer than before.

He makes a soft questioning noise against your skin.

“Don’t be distant to me in the morning,” you plead softly, before you can think better of it. “I can’t bear it.”

“Distant?” Marcus sounds confused.

“You are playful one moment and standoffish the next. You look at me with fondness, but then speak to me with a rigidity that doesn’t fit your expression. You laugh, but then you stop yourself as though you’re afraid to do it. I do not know which type of man is the one I am married to, but I must tell you I detest the man who acts cold and aloof.”

Your husband is quiet for a long time–long enough that you aren’t sure if your outburst has angered him, or if, perhaps, he’s fallen asleep. When he speaks, it nearly startles you, despite the low volume of his voice in your ear.

“I am truly sorry,” he begins, and you can hear the regret in his tone. “I did tell you, I–I do not know how to be a good husband to you. I only know what I’ve been told; I was assured repeatedly that no woman would want an eccentric or unserious husband."

“Oh. Oh,” you say softly, as the realization washes over you. Suddenly, all of your husband’s strange and erratic behavior makes sense as the puzzle pieces fall into place. “You know, I was told no man would want a strong-willed and stubborn wife."

Marcus’s grip tightens at your words. You can feel his mouth open and close, but he stops short of speaking, so you continue.

“I like you this way,” you admit quietly.

“Which way is that?” he rumbles.

“Warm. Smiling. Luminous.”

His sharp, stunned intake of breath cools your skin. 

“And I like you wild and barefoot and running through my creek,” Marcus murmurs back. “Although that image does pale in comparison, now that I know how you look in my bed.”

“I quite believed that you didn’t like me at all,” you confess. 

“I believed the same, especially when you disagreed with every word upon our first meeting.”

You giggle softly. “I am sorry–I was rather upset by the entire situation.”

“And now?” Marcus’s voice is careful. Vulnerable.

“I did not know you then,” you tell him. “I did not know the shape of your smile, nor the sound of your laugh. I did not know your desk is splattered with paint or that your shelves are covered with books that you read to me in the softest, sweetest voice. I did not know the mischief in your eyes or… or the warmth of your lips,” you say, dropping your volume to a whisper. “Nor the feel of your bare skin against mine just as it is now. All I knew was the rigid, closed-off man I saw before me, but now I know his secret,” you tease. 

“And what might that be?”

You wiggle your hips playfully as you settle into Marcus’s arms, your eyes finally starting to feel heavy with sleep.

“That you’re just as wild as me.”

*

fin

[anamoon63]

"The future only belongs to the future itself, and the future is Electric Youth".

Okay so, Time Traveler (The Crane Legacy) wasn’t a story in the beginning, it started as just gameplay about a young guy from the future, Robin Crane, a plumbot builder, who travels to the past and meets the woman of his dreams. Robin had a concern, though, in the Oasis Landing population files, no descendants of his were listed, so he became obsessed that he should start having kids right away, so much so, that he got into all the trouble that gave rise to the story.

Then, you know me, I started planning and writing a plot, taking posed photos for the characters, using special saves in both Aurora Skies and Oasis Landing to stage scenes, etc. And, since I had to follow a script, my characters’ lives were kind of on pause. But… in the original Aurora Skies save, where everything started, time and life continued to pass for the Cranes and the Shens (Juliette’s family), something that doesn’t happen in my story saves, where, due to technical reasons, life takes much longer to pass.

I've tried to keep secret what happens in the original Aurora Skies' save, so as not to spoil the story, but since Time Traveler is about, well, time traveling, lol, I thought we could do a little six-year time jump from 2017 to 2023 in order to introduce the next generation (3rd actually) of the Crane dynasty. So, without further ado, I present to you the third generation of Cranes.

From left to right: Carrie, Wanda, Rowan, Jessica, and Collin. Rowan and Jessica are the oldest with 8 (real life) years; and Collin, Carrie and Wanda are 6 (real life) years old. (Yes, they're all the same height cause I don't use height sliders in order not to mess my game).

As we already know, these five kids are all Robin's children, from three different moms, which are Juliette Shen (Rowan's mom) Kaleigh Chandelace (Collin's mom) and Ann Conners (Jessi, Carrie and Wanda's mom). Despite this, they love each other as if they were full siblings, cause they all have something in common: they have the same father, and some of them, (I am not telling which ones), also share Robin's alien genes. They are currently living their lives at the fullest, learning about their alien powers and preparing to compete among themselves to be Robin's successor. Who of them will make it? I still don't know so I can't tell, and if I knew I wouldn't tell. 😉

Sorry if this post was too long, or if it seemed like a spoiler, it's just I'm so happy with how this generation turned out that I couldn't resist, and I just can't wait for them to grow so I can tell their stories. 😋

I take this opportunity to say that Time Traveler (the actual story) is not over, it will be back, though maybe not too soon. I'm currently writing the episodes of Part Three: To the Moon and Back, where we will go to Robin's rescue after his abduction by an alien ship, and where, contrary to this post, we'll go back one generation to meet Robin's long-lost parents. It's a long way to go, but eventually we'll get there, then we'll let Robin take a rest as we move on to this brand new third generation. Of course, I want to give my endless thanks to Bee @poses-by-bee, @gabrielabenacci, @anasaquasims and Rayne's Factory and for the poses. As well as to @aroundthesims, @anzuchansims, @ifcasims, @plumdrops, lillka, blakegriplingph (MTS), and sketchbook pixels for the kids' hair and clothing. Proper credits and links here below: POSES

Child Friendship Poses, Child emotion Storytelling Poses, and Child Sit Poses by Bee. Child Posepack by Gaby's Creations. Cute Kid Poses by Rayne's Factory. Child Poses Shy by Anasaquasims.

CLOTHING, HAIR AND SHOES

Jessica: Loose top with Tulle Skirt, Cute Cardigan for Girls and Shine Leggings by Lillka; T-Bar Pointy School Shoes by Blakegriplingph (MTS). Jessica's hair: Nightcrawler Deep S3 Age Conversion by Plumbdrops. Carrie: Ruffle top with Cotton Jacket by Lillka; River (Shorts) by Sketchbook Pixels; Darte 77 Vans Old Skool by Anzuchansims. Carrie's hair is N03 Thyme, also by Anzuchansims. Wanda: Zipped Hoddie 4to3 conversion by ATS3 (Around the Sims 3), Winter Shorts by Lillka, Darte 77 Vans Old Skool by Anzuchansims. Wanda's hair is Anto - Milano by IfcaSims. Rowan: Sforzinda SP42 Hoodie, Studio-K Giruto Multi Pocket Pants and Darte 77/Pixicat Old Boots, all by Anzuchansims. Rowan's hair is Wingssims ER0914 also by Anzuchansims. Collin: Darte Coat and Hoodie, Darte 77 Jeans and Darte 77/Pixicat Old Boots, all by Anzuchansims. Collin's hair is Anto Male 75 by TTS -My Bluebook

Thank you very much to you all for making my game beautiful, interesting and fun. 🤗💗

The quote at the beginning of this post, is from Electric Youth, by Debbie Gibson, one of my all-time favorite songs. 😉✨

[itmeansiris]

The Solar System Legacy Challenge: Accomplishments Gen 1 pt.75

The night Kason and M made up, Beckett never stopped by or called. M had sent him a text but didn't think much of it when he didn't respond, concluding that the date had either been really good or was another one to file with the growing list of failed dates Beckett had been on.

The next day was a free day for most of the Gratz household besides Kason, who had work. He spent the morning tending to the plants in the garden, it was secretly his baby. He had planted and nurtured every plant that grew there. Recently he decided reluctantly to leave Spirit to take over caring for the garden while he focused on work. There was a promotion coming up and with his outstanding performance, he was hoping to secure it by the end of the weekend.

M, on the other hand, had gotten the kids fed, dealt with a squabble between Venus and Aphrodite, who seemed to constantly be at each other's throats, settled them into their own individual activities, and decided she was feeling creative. For the cosmic duo, the storm was mostly behind them, which was ironic considering a huge thunderstorm was rolling into the Bay.

M was supposed to take Aphrodite to Chestnut Ridge that same Saturday but she'd gotten a call Friday night from the Ranch instruction. They'd been forced to cancel all horseback riding lessons due to the storm. The Weather channels were predicting it would be 4-days long. Dite had been looking forward to this trip all week it was all she'd talked about before school or during dinner. She had jam-packed all her free time after school and violin practice reading equestrian books or watching the Pony up Kids Channel whenever Venus wasn't hogging the Livingroom tv playing video games.

(Call takes place Friday night)

When M took the call Dite had shadowed her every move. M had paced the span of the first floor, trying to get something worked out.

M: We had classes set up for tomorrow afternoon. Yes. I understand. No, no thank you that's fine. The last weekend works just as well. I really appreciate that. Thank you again. Bye.

She'd barely removed the phone from her ear when Dite jumped her.

Aphrodite: So?!

Ishtar was in the living room watching the continued news coverage. It droned on about the strange 4 day storm affecting Chestnut Ridge but moving quickly into other areas like Evergreen Harbor and Henford-on-Bagley.

M: *sighs* Here's the deal. It's not raining here yet, but the thunderstorm is already in Chestnut Ridge and should start here later today. They don't think it's safe to take the horses out.

M was internally holding her breath. Aphrodite's' response was unexpected for any 7-year-old girl but Dite was special.

Aphrodite: That's okay Mom. I don't want any of the Horses or their babies to get hurt. The horses don't really like the thunder and the lightening.

M was in awe of her daughter and how mature she'd become despite her young age. M rewarded her with spectacular news.

M: Well I spoke with the owner Byron and he booked us for a weekend, to give you personal lessons and he's agreed to do indoor and outdoor lessons. That will give you more riding range and if the weather doesn't hold up they won't have to cancel again.

Aphrodite lit up.

Aphrodite: I get 2 days of riding lessons?

M cherished moments like these, when she could make her children happy and they looked at her with admiration and love.

M: Hmm, yes you get two days of private lessons from Byron himself. We'll get to stay in a hotel and try the local food. But, you're not upset we can't go tomorrow?

M asked wanting to snuff out the guilt she felt at the possibility of disappointing Dite. She had made Dite a promise and she'd wanted to keep it.

Aphrodite: Are you kidding this is awesome! I can't believe I get to take private lessons and sleep in a hotel! Can I call and tell Kelsey? Oh, and Mom, can we still buy me my own riding gear, please?

Her begging was unnecessary. M wasn't the type of parent that said no.

M: After school on Tuesday we can go shopping deal?

Dite jumped up and down too excited to express her agreement with words.

M: I'll take that as a yes. Go on, go call Kelsey.

Having taken care of that the day before, with no other plans M settled into her office to finish the remaining chapters of The Court of Slumbering Fae. Her deadline was coming up and she didn't want to give Takara a reason to come down on her. She was already working overtime dealing with the media. She'd gotten the photos removed and was working on Mercurys slander case against the reporters who had taken Paris' false information and tried to spread it like wildfire. Luckily Takara was like a tsunami, she was known for putting out fires immediately and would take out anyone who stood in her path to get it done.

Zohreh on the other hand was having a rough day. Lately, he'd been clingy and Kason was the parent of his unwavering affection at the moment. So when Kason left for work later that afternoon it was no surprise he threw a tantrum. He stood by the front door crying his heart out till Ishtar came over to comfort him.

Ishtar: Zoh what's the matter?

Zohreh: Dadaa w-weave Zohweh!

Ishtar: Come here Zoh. It's okay Daddy's coming back. I'm going to change. You go wait in the office with Mommy and then when I'm dressed we can play! Okay?

He kissed his brothers forehead and walked him to the office then went to change. Once inside he quickly found trouble. M paused her writing to interrupt his destructive search.

M: Zohreh? Can Mommy help you find something?

He trained his soft green eyes on her and pouted.

Zohreh: No. I wait for Ishtaw to pay.

His pale green eyes and curly blond hair made her think of his adult double. It warmed her heart to see so much of Kason in her youngest son, consider the triplets seemed to favor her with their dark hair and moss green eyes. Ishtar had taken on her exotic Tomarang coloring while the girls were fairer toned like their father.

M: How about some company while you wait.

She joined him on the floor as he babbled about Dada, his toys, and his favorite (and only brother) Ishtar until his mood lightened. Ishtar returned and took Zohreh out front to play, leaving their mom to work.

The afternoon passed by uneventfully after that. The kids kept busy while M worked on her book, until Spirit had summoned everyone from their respective activities to have lunch. At 7pm Kason returned home to find Spirit reading on the porch. He greeted her before heading inside to find all the kids gathered in the entryway helping Ishtar complete his school project.

Kason: Hey guys. Where's your mom?

Triplets: Hi Dad!

Ishtar: She's still in her office.

M emerged having heard the voices outside the door. She strolled over to Kason greeting him and sharing good news.

M: Welcome home handsome. The book is finished. I sent it to Takara for last minute edits before publishing.

She whispered with a hint of lust and excitement as she hugged him the sight of him making her instantly flirty. He pulled back showering her with kisses.

Kason: Mmm, you brilliant woman. I can't wait to read it.

She nipped at his bottom lip. His response was low and seductive.

Kason: Save some of that for later. I'll make it worth the wait. You'll never believe what happened today?

He mumbled between kisses.

Venus: Hello we are still here. Gross!

Ishtar giggled and Aphrodite sighed and shook her head at her sister's comment. Kason kissed M's nose one more time for good measure before putting a little distance between them to stop the mock gagging noises coming from Venus.

M: So? What happened?

A mischievous smile spread across his face.

Kason: Nope. You have to guess.

M: Hmmm. Paris quit?

She said only half-joking. Kason snorted.

Kason: Good one, but no we aren't that fortunate. One more and then I'll tell you.

M: Hmm. You..you got the promotion?

Kason shook his head enthusiastically the smile on his face full of pride his eyes shone with accomplishment. He had worked for Bay's Robotic Engineers for almost 8 years. He had been hired mid-level due to his degree but that hadn't stopped him from putting in his all to impress Greg and earn his keep. He'd moved through the ranks fairly quickly, his progress only halted when he needed to take time off after the triplets and Zohreh were born. He had even put up with training Paris and all the craziness that came with having her work for the company. His focus never wavered, he had a goal and finally he could ring the bell on his career. Being promoted to the head of the department he was now Bay's Robotic Engineers new Master of Machines and he could finally call himself a master of his trade.

M: Congratulations!! I'm so proud of you! Guys Daddy got the top promotion at work today!

The triplets jump up to join their parents excited to be a part of Dads big news.

Ishtar: Congratulations Dad! You're like the lord of the robots now!

Venus: Dad does that mean that you're the boss? That's so cool you get to tell everyone what to do.

Aphrodite: Yay Daddy!

Comet barked loudly running around the family's feet with confused excitement. Zohreh toddles out of the living room and M picks him up waiting for Kason to finish with the triplets. She brings Zohreh over to Kason and Zoh immediately squirmed reaching for his father.

Zohreh: DADA!

Kason: Hey buddy!

Zohreh: Zohweh missed you

Kason snuggled his son close.

Kason: I missed you too Zoh. I'm sorry I had to leave earlier Mommy told me you had a hard day but your big brother kept you company. Good job Ish.

Ishtar smiled up at his dad with fulfillment. Zoh just snuggled closer happy to be back in his father's arms. They stood around laughing and congratulating him. Kason was euphoric, his life felt whole. He was at the top of his dream career, he'd found and married his soulmate, and though they'd found trouble their marriage was stronger in the outcome. He was making good money and felt he and M were laying a secure foundation of wealth for their children to inherit when they were gone. The only thing worth perfecting now was his parenting. His kids were his life and he wanted to be the patriarch they felt they could always come to for love, knowledge, and protection. What else could be worth his time and dedication now that his personal life goals had been met? Kason had always been a great father but when it came to his children he knew there was always room for improvement. His parents hadn't been perfect and he knew the same was true of himself and M even though he felt she was as close to perfect as a parent could get.

He started by joining the triplets in tackling their school projects. When all the castles were complete and everyone was cleaned up for the night they gathered in the backyard to celebrate and enjoy each other's company. The clouds were low and ready to open and unleash rain at any moment but it wasn't raining yet. So they roasted marshmallows and hot dogs while Kason played the guitar (another of his hidden talents) while Spirit told ghost stories in anticipation of spooky day which was only a week away.

Around 11 the first signs of rain became evident as the droplets fell on the fire, the logs hissed in protest, leaving faint wisp of smoke in their wake as it tried to smothered small portions of the flames. Everyone found shelter inside while Kason stayed behind to ensure the fire was properly extinguished. Feeling full, accomplished, and filled to the brim with love for each other the family turned in for the night.

Previous Next

Beginning

Sidebar: It felt like Kason and M needed a break. Just a day to work on their own careers and spend time with their kids and each other. I also wanted to give a quick update on what was happening with the photos online. With M being a celebrity there had to be some fallout from her husband being called a cheater online. M has an active slander case against the paparazzi which I will include the results of in a later post. Also, I had no idea that Tucker was in the house or by the fire when I took the last couple of pictures. I didn't notice him till everyone was going to bed and got the notification thanking us for hanging out with him.

I sent M and Aphrodite to Chestnut Ridge to go horseback riding when I got there, there was this crazy thunderstorm going on (I forgot to reinstall my sul sul weather app by littlemssam) so I added the Friday night call because apparently something is wrong in Chestnut Ridge and there was like a 4-day thunderstorm almost none stop.

Poses: @elen-shine Homecoming

cc: @ravasheencc Fantastical Play Rug

[yuurei20]

Riddle Info Compilation part 1: Upbringing

Riddle has a voice line of, “I read that the Queen of Hearts had a very amicable marriage. If there’s a secret to that, I wish I could share it with my parents.”

We do not hear much about his father, though he do know that both of his parents were (past tense?) famous magical healers.

Trey says that “Everyone where we’re from knew their names. His mom was especially talented, and she really wanted Riddle to live up to her legacy.”

We learn from Trey that every aspect of Riddle’s life growing up was planned down to the minute, including what he ate, wore, what soap he used and who his friends were.

Trey says that Riddle obediently completed every task he was assigned in order to please his parents, mastering his unique magic by the age of 10, and turning the enforcement of strict rules into a major part of his own personality.

When asked what job he would like to have in the future Riddle responds, “A…medical mage, I suppose”, saying that he was raised to take up the same mantle as his parents, but after serving as Heartslabyul’s housewarden he has taken an interest in the legal profession.

Riddle has a similar conversation with Azul, saying that becoming a medical mage was his original plan but he has developed an interest in the law. Azul recommends that he gets licensed in every field that interests him, saying, “Wth your talent, you could excel in any field you wanted. It would be a waste to settle for just one!”

Azul says, “It’s frustrating to see so clearly the difference between me and someone who’s worked hard their whole life,” and Riddle responds that he doubt that Azul would have the same ambition and drive that he does to day if he had focused solely on his studies that way that Riddle himself did as a child. 

Azul warns, “One moment of inattention and you might find me giving the valedictorian speech at graduation,” but Riddle responds, I’ll continue to stand at the fore as long as I’m in school—and after it as well. I won’t lose to anyone, ever. Not even you.”

Azul makes a comment on how “one has to make sacrifices to make their dreams a reality” which seems to resonate with Riddle.

Riddle is good at crossword puzzles because they were the only form of entertainment that he was allowed growing up. Riddle says that, as a child, he started creating his own crossword puzzles so that he could give them to Trey and Chenya one day. (He was never allowed to see Trey and Chenya again, however, prior to NRC, which would explain why he now has a collection of over 3,000 handmade crosswords.)

There are occasional references to how Riddle is still learning things about normal, everyday life for a student his age due to his harsh upbringing: he apologizes to Deuce for failing to “learn the appropriate customer etiquette” while purchasing mystery bags during News Year’s, which he heard from Cater is “a popular youth activity.”

Riddle says that he never participated in the Halloween events for children in his hometown so he is not well-informed on what goes on, but he does say that he only ends up drenched when bobbing for apples, so he may have some experience from somewhere.

Riddle says his household “wasn’t overly concerned with holidays” so they didn’t do anything in particular for Halloween.

“In fact, I wasn’t even allowed to walk around outside on days like this. I was a little jealous of kids who could dress up and go trick-or-treating.”

Epel responds, “Your parents sound really strict. But you don’t have to follow their rules now that you’re here at school, right? This is your chance to let loose and have fun!”

Riddle says he will consider it, and Epel invites him to celebrate in his hometown.

[mrsnerdygirl]

Sixteen year old Tom Riddle stood frozen in front of the destroyed house . It was scary , dark and abolished , just like his life , his soul , this was his legacy . He approached the huge house , noticing the dead snake on the doorframe , that was hanging there , its eyes opened , two dark slits , warning everyone who dared to try and enter the mess , that his mother used to call home , or at least he thought she did . Tom had never met his mother , he didn’t know what she looked like , nor how her touch felt , how her voice sounded , but that was amazing . Words couldn’t describe how mad he was with her, how much rage he held against his birth giver . For some reason though , his rage towards his mother couldn’t compare to the many emotions he held against that man , that man that was the reason he is Tom Marvolo Riddle .

When he entered he met his uncle , the man that without knowing it had changed his life . He went there to take a piece of that bloodline with him , the bloodline that would end soon , because he couldn’t continue it, not with the curse on his back , not with his own name following him around , like a ghost whose destiny was to hunt him . He came out knowing where his father lived , knowing that a piece of his own DNA was alive , breathing every day , knowing that Tom existed , never bothering to look for him . “Of course not , thought the young boy , he wouldn’t look for the witch’s son.”

He was so close to his blood , to his living relatives . He never knew how his mother looked like , but when he left the Gaunt house, the ring of Salazar Slytherin tightly wrapped on his hand , he knew, nothing like him , because Tom and his father shared more than their name , they shared a face . As he went up the hill , he hoped that the mad man was wrong , that he was mistaken , because Tom couldn’t think of a worse curse than having to live with the image of that muggle .

He stood in front of the mansion , it was beautiful , well kept , the opposite of the house that stood not too far way . He gazed through the window , looking at the grant entryway , filled with expensive souvenirs. He opened the door , and put a silencing charm on himself , insuring that whoever occupied the house wouldn’t be able to hear him . On that richly decorated hallway , stood young Tom Riddle , gazing back at his own face . On top of the grant staircase hang the portrait of a boy , who must have been his age . He sat on a chair , in the middle of his haughty looking parents . They were like all the rich people Tom had met , haughty , wealthy , rude and full of themselves , so sure on their riches , that they forgot about everything else . They were not on the level of the pureblood families , the children of which he associated with . Tom stared in his own eyes , painted perfectly on the boy’s face , no not just any boy , his father , the man who abounded him , who left him alone in poverty , to suffer while he ran off to his rich family .

The curse was real , he shared the same filthy blood , name and face as the muggle . Without knowing why he went through the wooden door on his right , where he clearly heard voices . The drawing room matched the outside of the house , rich looking , impressive even . Three heads turned his way . The older man , who he saw in the portrait got up first , like his wife and son , still in his dinner clothing , looking shocked and angry : “Who are you ?” , his voice was loud , harsh and rude . Without thinking much about it , he lifted his wand , and a shiny lightning came out , hitting him straight to his chest . The woman screamed , but soon , not even a second later , she too dropped dead , eyes opened , staring at the ceiling . “Mother ? what have you done ? what in the bloody hell are you ? “ , Tom stared at eyes as dark as his , at features the same as his , he never cared about his looks , not until he realized he could use them to get what he wanted , but for some reason now he was angry at the looks of this man . His “father “ raised his hand , and Tom noticed a wedding band . Perhaps he was engaged , perhaps married, and that just made him madder , because someone got to have this man in his life , a child got to have this man , when all Tom wanted as a kid was for his dad , or a relative even , to come and take him away forever . Someone like him , who understood his ideas , because they were the same , they were just like him . He waited for so long , not knowing that the hero he wished for didn’t care , the hero had forgotten about him , hadn’t bothered thinking beyond the muggle village . Tom smirked at Tom senior’s expression , and this time he spoke , feeling the wave of power radiate through his arm to the wand ; “Avada Kadavra “ .

It wasn’t the first time he used the spell , it wouldn’t be the last , but it surely felt different . He killed his father’s family , his own blood , made a Horcrux , separated a part of his soul once again , and blamed Morfin Gaunt for everything . He walked away from the houses ,leaving Little Hangleton behind , together with his family history , vowing to build a name for himself , one that would have nothing to do with his past , one that people would fear and would recognize as great and powerful , one that would be his and his only .

So , i dont know how accurate this is but in my opinion, Tom didnt know his dad lived in the village, because noone knew who his dad was , so noone could have told him about it . I think he just went in the village to see his mum's house as well as get the ring . I also think that he didnt want to kill him uncle to make the Horcrux , but i dont know who he was planning to kill , maybe a muggle and then frame his uncle ? Anyways so yeah that was my version of what happened to the Riddles .

[isfjmel-phleg]

You know that panel in the recent Superboy miniseries of Clark hugging Kon? That's an important panel. It depicts something that took literally thirty years to happen.

Because Clark, in his loving but complicated relationship with Kon, has a history of rather restrained (genuine! kind! but restrained) physical affection with him.

In the aftermath of Clark's return, when the particulars of Kon's background are addressed, the two of them go from Kon's struggling under a firm grip intended to keep him from getting violent to a cordial, businesslike handshake before Kon flies off on his solo adventures.

(Adventures of Superman 1987 #506)

Most of their encounters for a while afterward are concentrated on work, but even when Clark shows up for a kindly pep talk now and then, he tends to keep his physical distance from Kon. His younger alternate-universe counterpart is more open, giving Kon an approving hand on the shoulder on their first encounter. It takes Kon's almost dying for the Clark of his world to bestow a comparable gesture. And note in the aftermath of Kon's illness, which left him unable to age, physical contact between them is focused on the S-shield, which represents the legacy that Kon must live up to. These two are friendly, but they're not close.

(Superboy 1994 #8, 40, 41)

The warmth increases when Clark bestows Kon's name. As he compares Kon to the original Kryptonian Kon-El, he mirrors the hand-on-shoulder gesture between Jor-El and the original Kon-El that Kon experienced in a simulation he just went through. Clark will continue to use this gesture or a similar hand-holding one in moments of genuine affection for Kon. But there's still a bit of distance in it. He's literally keeping Kon at arm's length.

(And look! Similar gesture from younger alternate-universe Clark, as before.)

(Superboy 1994 #59, 60, 70, 62)

Similar kindly but distant gestures as Kon bonds with him as in his Clark persona. (Clark thinks that Kon thinks that this is a separate relationship with a different person--but unbeknownst to him, Kon has learned his secret identity.) Note the handshake that mirrors the one from Kon's send-off.

(Superman 1987 #155)

When their ages are reversed during the Sins of Youth event, the bonding through hands on shoulders becomes more frequent and more reciprocal now that they feel more like peers. This doesn't last though. For the rest of Kon's YJ era, he and Clark don't really show any further physical affection, even in more emotionally fraught moments, like their shared grief in the aftermath of the Worlds at War event. When Clark finally intervenes in Kon's life and brings him to live with the Kents--accepting him into his human family, a very loving act--he does so while maintaining physical distance.

(Sins of Youth: Superboy Sr. and Superman Jr. #1)

Kon is too much in awe of Clark to initiate physical affection himself. And Clark...is he trying to keep up the image of the kindly but remote ideal to look up to? Does he think he might embarrass this teenager by hugging him? Has he not fully worked through his reluctance to get close to this boy who was intended to be his replacement? Or perhaps something else? Hard to say.

But maybe the physical affection becomes more frequent and less distant in Kon's t-shirt era, now that Kon is living with Clark's parents and is considered part of the family?

Nope. Nothing changes. Hand-holding and shoulder-touching every now and then.

(Teen Titans 2003 #1 / Action Comics #816, 817 / Superman 1987 #220)

When Kon is killed, Clark avoids the infamous Death of Supergirl body-carrying pose that Kon pictured him doing in a nightmare about his own death (on some level, is this an expression of Kon's wanting Clark to react to his loss with strong emotion, wanting that assurance that he is valued by the man he looks up to most?)...

(Young Justice 1998 #35)

...and simply touches the shield on Kon's shirt, as he did long ago while reminding Kon of what he must live up to. It's a sincere expression of grief, but still restrained, especially compared to, say, Kon's friends' reaction to his death.

(Infinite Crisis #7)

Kon's return from the dead is a joyous occasion that requires an especial outburst of affection, so...hands on both shoulders. Still at arm's length.

(Final Crisis: Legion of Three Worlds #5)

And so it continues.

(Adventure Comics 2009 #1)

I'm showing you all this to cement the established pattern, because Clark's physical affection with Kon in the present continuity has a noticeably different energy.

This is a familiar gesture, as Kon has returned to the continuity and everyone is trying to make sense of him.

(Action Comics #1022)

But after the day is saved and Clark brings Kon back to the Kents' farm as an official reintegration into the family, there's a warmth in how he reaches out to Kon that's new. He still does the shoulder thing, but now he's even half-hugging him sometimes! On another occasion, he's affectionately ruffling Kon's hair like an older brother. There seems to have been a change in the relationship, or at least in Clark's expression of it.

(Action Comics #1028, 1047)

And it all culminates in this lovely moment after Kon returns to the family after running away in a moment of feeling alienated and unneeded. Clark hugs Kon close just as he would any other family member--his parents, his wife, his cousin, his sons (deliberate plural to include Chris!). Even after the hug is over, the affectionate contact goes on for the rest of the scene. Instead of keeping Kon at arm's length, it's like he can't let go of him lest he run off again.

(Superboy: The Man of Tomorrow #6)

So why did this moment take thirty real-world years to happen? Perhaps it could be chalked up to the sensibilities of the turn of the millennium in how male characters could interact (did you know that none of the boys in YJ 1998 ever hug each other?), but at the same time it's not uncommon for young male heroes written during this time to be hugged by their male mentor/parental figures. There are a lot of Bart-Max hugs. Bart and Wally at least once. Bruce has been known to hug Tim. Even Ray's jerkface father hugs him. So this pattern with Clark and Kon stands out.

Kon's receiving this kind of physical affection from Clark is important for several reasons. It's a sign of familial acceptance. Of course Kon has been part of the family ever since he received his name or went to live with the Kents (however you want to look at it). Clark has considered Kon his brother for a very long time and cares about him a lot. Yet there has been a pattern of physical distance in how he relates to him. Willingness to embrace him like this is a way to reassure Kon that he is wanted, that he is loved, that he is as much a part of the family as anyone else. This has always been true, but for someone as tactile in nature as Kon, this gesture would be especially meaningful.

He hasn't grown up with a lot of healthy physical affection. I don't have time now to do a systematic search of his solo for precise evidence, but if I recall correctly, physical affection for him generally occurs in a romantic context only, not from family or guardians. This lack of positive touch might contribute to his eagerness for quick, passionate romance, but it also makes him vulnerable to those who exploit his desire for this connection for their own ends. Knockout is very physical with him. So is Tana. He's not really getting any positive, healthy physical affection to contrast with that of his abusers. But he needs it.

It's also a sign of personal closeness. For a long time Clark tends to be very private and reserved about himself around Kon, uncomfortable with any kind of vulnerability around his intended replacement--even while emphasizing to Kon that he trusts and values him. Clark has understandable reasons for holding back, but his being able to reach a point where he's comfortable enough to fully interact with Kon as a brother in ways that go beyond words marks an important development in their relationship.