#like i can give a description of the story

[mumblingsage]

I'm no expert, but some options for titles:

-Instead of a song lyric, use a quote from your story (as a reader I love these! They give a flavor of the writing and highlight what the author finds important, plus when I then read the title quote in the story I get to shout "Title Drop!" like the excited little nerd I am)

-Use a quote from the canon you're writing fic for (ditto)

-Use a line from poetry, a famous speech, a play, or other source. Maybe start a file where you jot down phrases that catch your fancy + their origins so you can easily pick one (and cite it) the next time you're stuck.

-Take a page from Friends and try "The One Where [fic premise]." Bonus round: shave off "the one where" and just use the premise title.

-A phrase that refers to the central conflict of the story (a la Pride and Prejudice)

-A phrase that refers to the role of a character in the story (I know we all knocked book titles along the lines of The Watch-Winder's Daughter, but it at least gives you a noun to work with)

-A phrase or word that refers to the theme of the story

-A descriptive image or sensory detail from the story

-Stealing a technique from poets: Make the title the first line of your fic/vice versa.

-Use a Word-A-Day Calendar or SAT vocabulary guide or random page in a dictionary to grab a term which you then try to fit into your title

-Consider a pun

-When a title isn't working, try radically remixing it. Harlan Ellison once (in the writing advice anthology Now Write! Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror) recommended coming up with 3 alternative titles for a current project, including one that's very short and one that's very long (focusing on length rather than other considerations might quiet your inner critic). In the end, none of the 3 titles might be the right choice, but it'll get creative juices flowing.

me: *writes fic*

me: great! time to post to ao3-

ao3 summary box: *exists*

me: 

ao3 summary box:

me:

ao3 summary box: 

me:

[ang3ltine]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐔𝐬 - ft Se mi x freader 18 +

Description: Story is based off an apocalyptic game. You and Se mi stumble into a pot basement and get carried away. There, Se mi realises she has a 'daddy kink'.

𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: smoking weed, smut, dirty talk, fingering , use of dildo, hard fuck , soft dom! Se mi, sub! freader

"Go on darling, cum. Cum for me I'm close too..! Cream on this dick for me right now".

Your mind was already in the clouds, already forgetting about the reason as to why you're both here. To collect supplies and scout the new area.

Yet here you were, fucking in a basement full of weed at an abandoned school.

Supplies were running dangerously low so You and Se mi were sent to get some more. Along with a scouting the new area to check for more of the 'infected'.

Mounting your horses, you both set out at dawn, beyond the gates of Jackson. It was about midday when you finally arrived at said location that your boss had give you.

Se mi wore a brown leather jacket with padding inside paired with worn out jeans. You on the other hand wore a long dark trench coat with a winter hat and thick grey jean.

No scouts had checked this area yet so you both were sent here to investigate and bring back sufficient supplies.

"So chief, what do you think? Looks like the area isn't swarmed with infected yet." Se mi pointed out while she stops beside you with her chestnut brown horse.

Rolling your eyes at the nickname given , you glance at her after putting away your map. "Look, I'm sure they're still here. They might be hiding somewhere."

Unfortunately your hunch was correct. A small hoard of infected indeed have been hiding underneath the gaps of the houses.

They had awakened after hearing the noises from the horses. Having no choice, you both had barred yourselves in an abandoned school after successfully killing a handful of the 'zombies' on the way there.

"Shit that was close," you huffed as you bring out your torchlight and grabbed Se mi's hand.

"Maybe we can find the break room and turn the generator on. Get some rest and stock up on supplies then leave. How does that sound?"

Se mi was too focused on you holding her hand since you usually don't initiate in skinship unless you wanted to. Smiling to herself, she gives your hand a light squeeze.

" Yeah sure, just don't get scared shitless if an infected happened to sneak in ", she snickered as you huffed in annoyance.

"Way to ruin the mood", you shook your head in disappointment as you both make your way further into the desolate building.

It took a while to reach the basement but you eventually did. You both were in shock as you descend the wooden planks of the stairs.

"Holy shit! There's pot down here?", Se mi whisper shouted, just in case somebody heard them.

There were mini greenhouses full of weed and someone's personal belongings scattered everywhere.

You hastily made your way to the breakers and turn the lights and heating on. " You think Old man Richie lives here?", you suggested as you look at some items and papers with charts scattered on a desk.

"Hmm probably, idk I haven't seen him in a while," Se mi says with a rolled up blunt in her mouth, already lighting it.

"You gotta be kidding me, there's no way you're trying to get high now. We're supposed to be looking for supplies!," you huffed as you went to grab the blunt from in between Se mi's lips.

She had already taken a huge drag and blowing it out. The strong smell of weed hung in the air, making you scrunch your nose. You weren't really a huge fan of it. Sw mi knew ofcourse but she's just being a little shit.

"Since we're here we might as well have some fun," Se mi drawled as she pulls you closer to her. You had to cover her mouth with your hand to block the smell from reaching your nose.

"Uh uh , not after having that crap-", you exclaimed before getting cutoff by Se mi. She quickly grabbed hold of your wrist, and brang your hand to her chest. Her heart rate had increased as you look up to see that her eyes had begun to dliate.

"See this? This is how you're making me feel right now. Absolutely crazy right now ," Se mi pointed out as her voice goes on octave deeper. Leaning down she lightly grazes your lips with hers as your breath hitches. She glances into your eyes, silently asking for your permission.

Seeing as there was no way out of this, you gave in. Pressing your lips against hers with fervent as you reach up to entangle you fingers into her raven hair. You tug at it gently, pulling out a low groan from Se mi as she deepens the kiss.

Her lips were slightly chapped but it didn't bother you as much, they were still soft. Tasting the weed on her tongue as she slowly backs you up to the sofa behind you.

Yelping as soon as she picks you up behind your legs and plops you down onto the soft cushions. They were slightly dirty but that wasn't really on your mind right now. Se mi had crawled ontop of you to pull you in for another heated kiss. Whispering sweet nothings againgst your lips while you let out soft moans. Bucking up mindlessly against her hips.

"Daddy please-," you unexpectedly let out making Se mi stop for a second. Her eyes slowly turned dark from lust as she asks you to repeat what you just said. Blinking in confusion you think back to what you said.

"Daddy please...?", Se mi sat there , sinking in the given pet name and something in her snapped. She's never been called that before, but she likes it. She really likes it.

Quickly stripping you, she left you in just your underwear. Burying her face into your neck to leave harsh kisses and bites all along your supple skin. She rips off your bra before attaching her lips onto your erected nipples, sucking and swirling around both buds carefully.

Her hand reaches down towards your heat, already feeling a wet spot on your underwear.

"Huh.. that wet for me already? Just from a few kisses?" She chuckles darkly as she removes the dainty piece of clothing onto the floor beside you.

You feel her push in her index finger into you, slowly, making sure you would feel every inch of her girthy finger. The feeling of her fingers stretching you oh so deliciously got you drooling - fuck even Se mi seemed to be enjoying this more than you. Picking up the pace, she was practically fucking you with her rough fingers. Abusing your sopping wet cunt while mindlessly sucking your boob's, taking turns on each one.

Her pace never once faltered, not when you looked so good when throwing your head back in pleasure and moaning out her name. Se mi, bit each and every inch of skin she could reach, while her fingers remained curled inside you. You were so close.

"Shit Se mi! Gonna cum - please I'm gonna..-"

"Do it. Cum all over my fingers baby" she hissed as she looks down at you through her lashes. Admiring your ruined form with a lazy smirk.

Just like that you saw white. You came so fucking hard from just her fingers, panting and trembling slightly as she helped you ride your orgasm. Until she pulls out her strap tucked underneath her jeans. " wha-- why do you have that on?", you manage to breathe out as she gently taps the plastic onto your stimulated pussy.

" Eh, idk just felt like it, you never know when you're gonna need it" she smiles cheekily as you place your head back onto the armrest of the couch. "That's really dirty of you, you know that right-?". Your breath caught in your throat as she pushes her length into your tight warm cunt. It's been a while since she's fucked you, so deep down, you were excited.

With her hands bruising your ass, she latches her lips onto your left nipple, repeating the action as her dick fucked you deep and slow. You reach down to rest your hand on her cheek and led her into a messy kiss, she responded by pushing her tongue past your lips. Exploring each and every corner of your mouth inside.

The room filled with the smell of weed, sweat and sex as the two of you made out. Se mi smirked againgst your lips as you whine in frustration because she was going too slow.

"What's wrong princess? You want me to go faster?" She muses as you nod profusely.

"Use your words~"

"Please daddy, I want you to go faster...!" Flicking on like a switch, her hands gripped your hips harshly, before thrusting into you. She buckled her hips into you , her dick bruising your cervix and making your velvet walls tighten around her.

Her fingers left marks on your skin, she reached up to grope your breasts while kissing you lazily. The weed coming into affect yet again, all while pounding your poor dripping pussy.

Her dick kept on sliding in and out of you while you guys made out on the couch. Smirking proudly at your breathless moans and cries of pleasure. You looked heavenly to her, your wispy hair fell messily around your head like a halo, and your cheeks were tinted a rosy pink.

"That's it gorgeous, keep making those sounds for me only. You like me pounding you like this? Like when I turn you into a mess?"

Oh the way she makes you crumble beneath her touch. How were you supposed to answer when she was fucking you so deeply that you've become dumbed out?

You moaned rather loudly as she presses down on the bulge her dick made on your stomach. Whimpering slightly as you scrape her toned back with your nails, feeling another orgasm approach.

"You gonna cum for me babe? I'm close too, go on cum on this dick! Cream on this dick for me right now".

Her pace quickened yet again and was pounding into you impossibly deeper. Burying the strap deep inside you 'till none of it could be seen visibly. Her grip on you was merciless as you moaned into her mouth, finally letting your orgasm wash out.

With one last harsh thrust into your dripping wet cunt, she bit down onto your neck as she too releases her cum into the plastic dildo attached to her. Your legs trembled once you came on her dick. The aftershocks from your orgasm stayed a while as you both lay together on the couch with Se mi resting ontop of you.

"Damnn, that was hot. Didn't know you had it in you darling," she shakily breathed out with a proud smile on her face, as the affect from the weed had slowly began to wear off.

"So...smart ass, how're we gonna get cleaned up?" You say after a while, crossing your arms across your chest. Glaring at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Hey, calm down. I'm sure the old geezer has a shower down here. Don't worry, we'll figure it out".

Pressing soft kisses all over your face and across the dark marks across your body. She slowly starts getting you both dressed.

At the end of the day, she only cares about you and your wellbeing. So soft aftercare is must after a long session like this.

"By the way, don't smoke weed ever again. At least not when we're scouting."

"Sure thing darling, anything for you."

Ps: sorry if this is super short but I hope you enjoy it!!

@mattm1964 @morosisss

[jennamoran]

If a strategist from Glitch were to try and go about killing a god (maybe they’ve backslided, maybe the god is just really annoying or trying to kill their friends), how would they go about doing it. What would be the best way to use Eide, Flore, Lore, or Wyrd?

-

Jenna, my readers are always asking me, how do you kill a god? But there is no one size fits all answer to killing gods.

You have to look within yourself.

You have to find the unique way of killing gods that expresses you.

-

Glitch is a game where you tell stories, and an important feature of stories about killing gods is that they are not all the same.

Some are long. Some short.

Some put their protagonists through heck. Some let them just glide through.

Stories can have very different ideas about what it takes, and what it means, to kill a god.

Gods, too, can differ.

-

If you're frustrated, looking at Glitch, trying to find the thing you're supposed to do to accomplish task X, you're misunderstanding the intended flow of play:

To kill a god, decide how you want to kill a god.

Then, express it in the form of actions.

Optionally, discover that you're misaligned with the group zeitgeist on how god-killing stories work, and adjust.

Then, the god dies, or doesn't.

If you're having trouble figuring out how you want to kill a god, then you might need to stick it on a back burner. Over time, you'll have a better understanding not just of the game options the traits provide but of how your character uses them, and some things your character might want to try will gain more dramatic weight in the group zeitgeist.

-

Decide you want to kill a god by shoving it out of your way into the street. Declare that as an everyday Ability action.

Decide you want to kill a god in a complicated flower rite. Declare that as a quest or planning miracle.

Chain it down in a place of sorrow with a Greater Invocation. Erase it with a handwave and your Wyrd. Give in to the wicked voice of your god-killing knife, that whispers to you always, and draw the curtain on the scene, and expect that when the next scene starts it will be dead.

Declare that gods aren't real, and let it poof away.

In every last case, perhaps the group goes, "Yeah, that's a satisfying answer!" Perhaps they don't. If they don't, then your action still "works," in that it happens unless in direct conflict with a stronger action, but it likely doesn't kill the god.

-

A secret is that this is not just how Glitch works.

In almost every RPG, the way you make something happen is get the group on board with that thing happening. All rules can do is help that happen.

If the rules of Glitch could make that happen then you wouldn't even have to read them, you wouldn't even have to know you were playing Glitch, you could think you were playing D&D and accidentally play Glitch instead and the rules would sort that out for you.

They can't.

-

When it comes to killing gods, the game of Glitch bestows a certain implicit authority on higher-level miracles, particularly epic miracles; miracles that take time to play out; miracles that imply in their description that they're on the right power level for killing gods.

Strategy and Greater Strategy are good ones when they apply, because you can get the players on board during the planning process, spend a while playing it out gathering narrative momentum, and then have it feel well-grounded when it works.

If you have a Talent for killing gods, then that probably works well, but also tends to reframe the game as one where you're killing a bunch of gods and more story time gets spent on the ones where there's a twist that makes it difficult. Think of the Traveller in Black; as competent as the traveller is, they still spend most of their time "in play" dealing with entities that are difficult even for them.

Greater Invocation is well-built for attacking gods.

Destruction and Greater Destruction can be good, though honestly they kind of push the GM to make a complex conflict out of it, which in turn means it's actually the Wailing Rite that would serve you best.

Flore is all kind of of one piece, but you'd definitely want to start with a Greater Glorification on a god-killing weapon.

-

If you decide in play to do something that the GM and group think you can probably do, but which they also think should feel difficult and earned, then you probably have to spend some time on either a quest or a spotlight-driven exploration of what's going on with that thing before coming up with a plan people think is cool, executing the plan, and then having the plan mostly work but devolve into some kind of chaotic complex conflict at the end to finish up the final details.

If you decide in play to kill a god ... well, probably the GM and group will believe you can, but also think it should feel difficult and earned. That's kind of what the book implies, at least.

-

In the old days---I once wrote this.

In the old days, they didn't know very much about the world. But they made maps anyway. If they had to map something they couldn't, they just drew whatever they felt like and wrote, "Here there be dragons."

We still don't know very much about the world; and there are things to map of it besides its surface.

How do you write a book?

How do you kill a god?

Can broken things be remade? Can destinies change? Is it worth the risk of hope?

Important questions, but one can only shrug, you see:

Here, there be dragons.

-

As for Glitch, I mean, like ... the game only has two rules, and they're not even a dozen words between them; some things had to be left as exercises for the reader, and the dreamer, and their group.

[trinlovessoobin]

unintentional

{wonwoo x fem! y/n}

quick description: friends to lovers. you and wonwoo both get accepted into the same collage. you both have been friends for a long time and decide to room together for collage after wonwoo gets a girlfriend he starts ignoring you, but why?

word count 5.1k

18+

[warning of content] smut, jerking off, self pleasure, drinking, oral sex, unprotected sex, pet names (baby, princess) profanity, creampie.

College dorms were a topic you didn’t want to talk about. You hated the idea of them having to share a room with a stranger?? When you got accepted into your dream college there was no way you could afford to rent a place without facing the same problem….strangers, that was until your best friend Wonwoo got accepted too. You and him have been friends since middle school he was the quiet lid and you were a nerd but you saw his Pokémon backpack and immediately knew you needed to be his friend. You both decided to take a gap year before going to college, you didn’t have financial help from your parents so you worked hard.

After jumping up and down with excitement when he told you he had been accepted too the idea sparked that maybe you won’t have to live with a stranger he wasn’t too sure about the idea since he was unemployed but that could change! And you knew his social anxiety was bad, almost worse than yours.

“A one-bedroom apartment would be the cheapest, one of us could take the bedroom and we can turn the living room into a bedroom and if we both get jobs within walking distance of the university we could take the bus to school and walk to work I believe that this is a perfectly thought out plan that would work in both of our favors. Wonwoo please please please”

Wonwoo was very smart like smart so he did the math on if this would work and we wouldn’t drown in debt lucky for you it would be cutting it close with groceries and extra spending money but it can work. You held in your pure excitement and whipped out your laptop to look at apartments.

“hey y/n. This one looks like what you were looking for except better it has a loft and a bedroom so we would still have a living room the loft goes above the kitchen, and the kitchen looks pretty nice too, not that you would be cooking since you’re terrible at it”

You punch him in the arm and take the laptop to look at the price.

“Hey, this is lower than our max price too!! Did you look at the surrounding shops or any place that would hire college students?”

Wonwoo takes back the laptop and adjusts his glasses while looking on Google Maps at the surrounding buildings.

“There are a few restaurants a tea shop and what looks like a coffee and bake shop”

“Bro they’re gonna so want me with my espresso experience, maybe they’ll hire you too! but I don’t know if I want to live and work with you that might be too much for me I might O.D from too much Wonwoo y-know?”

He gives you a side eye that sends a chill down your spine

“or we could work together because I could never get enough of you”

You give him a sarcastic smile.

“anyways… we should start saving now you have the money from your parents and I’ve been saving from work lets send an application for the apartment”

You both send in a few more applications for other places as well a month goes by you receive emails for the confirmation of tours Wonwoo goes to half while you go to the others in the end you both fall in love with the first apartment you look at the one with the loft and a bedroom it was so cheap and perfect up in the loft there was a whole wall of outlets so Wonwoo takes the loft for his gaming set up (thank god because you wanted your full privacy the loft was cute but the open walls made it feel too out in the open)

Time flew by and just like that you both were moving in together, you were a little nervous since you hear horror stories about friendships being ruined while moving in together where the two end up hating each other from seeing them so much but you had a feeling that wouldn’t happen Wonwoo and you both liked your alone time with the two separate rooms and getting jobs at separate places things seemed to be looking perfect you worked at the cafe and Wonwoo is working as a waiter for a nicer restaurant he has to take the bus but it pays well so it’s worth the journey.

��——————————————————————

“Wonwoo please can we host a housewarming party it doesn’t even have to be a lot of people just my close friends and your close friends more of a get-together than a party. I KNOW that Jeonghan has been dying to see this place since we moved in and since we’re all unpacked and-“

Wonwoo cuts you off.

“forget it y/n you know how I hate social gatherings. Jeonghan can come over eventually, we don’t need a bunch of people in our apartment to trash the place and make our neighbors hate us right away”

You cross your arms and pout, but after seeing that stern look on your arms pull your victim card.

“I was going to invite my girls anyway because I miss them. I was offering the party so you would have your friends too. I was just trying to be nice so you wouldn’t feel awkward I know you don’t talk to them. But when they come over we can just be in my room and not disturb you it’s okay”

Wonwoo huffs and pinches his nose bridge.

“fine”

You start jittering with excitement.

“thank you thank you thank you. I’m gonna text the girls.”

———————————————————————

The morning of the party you and Wonwoo went to the store you get alcohol he turned 21 a few months ago and you were turning 21 soon but you weren’t there yet so he had to go in alone but you gave him a list.

1. 2x bottles of pink Whitney

2. 3x packs of mikes hard lemonade

3. 1x bottle of Smirnoff vodka (raspberry)

While he was getting the alcohol you went to the grocery store for snacks and cups.

When everyone was there you and Wonwoo gave them a very professional tour it was very short since the apartment is very small. But made things easier for you two. You all start playing drinking games when you hear a knock on the door, you open it to see DK one of Wonwoo’s friends he is late but he is also holding two bags full of Chinese take-out.

“dk you are an angel sent from heaven”

“sorry for being late, thought I’d bring some food”

He said with a big smile while walking in.

After lots of eating and lots of drinking DK and Jeonghan went home, Mingyu stayed over, they played video games up in his loft and you and your friends all went to your room. Soyeon and Yuqi get comfortable on the floor while you and Yeji decide to share your bed it was a queen so there was more than enough room.

“hey y/n”

You hear Yuqi say from the floor.

“what’s up?”

“don’t you think it’s a little weird moving in with a boy? I mean I know you guys are just friends but at the end of the day you are a straight single woman and he’s a straight single man who knows when animal instincts kick in” They all start giggling at her comment.

“oh my god I can’t even think about doing something like that with him, I've known him for so long his this gamer nerd and I'm positive he sees me as a geek”

You turn over so your back faces them giving off the ‘im done with this conversation’ energy but Yeji had a comment.

“yeah except you’re both hot now”

“Yeji oh my god you did not just call Wonwoo hot”

“he is though!? Girl are you blind???”

“I’m going to bed goodnight, no more of this stupid talk”

The next morning all the girls went home super early you slept in a little but woke up to the smell of food, your nose followed you to the kitchen and found two tall tan beefy shirtless men in your kitchen cooking.

“what the fuck?”

They turn around and it’s Mingyu and Wonwoo, you knew Mingyu was buff because he’s constantly showing it off with his muscle tee’s and tank tops but you swear Wonwoo lives in hoodies and crewnecks it’s like they’re attached to him.

“oh good morning y/n”

Mingyu says with a smile. Wonwoo looks a little shocked to see you like he knows you’ve never seen him like this, like he’s been hiding he even gets a little flustered looking away and back to the food, Mingyu walks over to you.

“sleep well? We’re making breakfast do you want some?”

“oh um yeah I slept good and breakfast sounds great, thank you”

Mingyu was standing very close to you but you never felt intimidated by him his eyes are just so soft and it’s like there’s an imaginary tail wagging behind him at all times.

You went and sat on the couch and saw Wonwoo walk up to his loft and come back down fully clothed he was embarrassed you couldn’t help but wonder why he would be though like if you have a body like that show it off!! When Mingyu brought you over breakfast you paused him from leaving.

“hey wait, do you and Wonwoo go to the gym together or something? Because how come I had no idea he was built? I did notice that when I punch his arm when he's pissing me off it does hurt my fist but I didn’t think anything of it”

“oh yeah! We go all the time. He didn’t tell you?”

“no…. he didn’t. This whole time I thought he was a bit chubby. Like not in a bad way in a cute way but not in a cute way like like him yk but kind of endearing I guess?? That’s not the point he’s always wearing those oversized hoodies and sweats how was I supposed to know?? He was a chubby kid too”

Mingyu suppresses his laughter and walks back to the kitchen.

You can’t help but still stare at Wonwoo, for so long you had no idea he had been going to the gym, his back was so perfectly sculpted and when he turned around his abs were so defined, it was just so shocking.

———————————————————————

When school started you and Wonwoo barely saw each other, you’re classes started early and he went late and on the weekends you both worked, sometimes you would see each other in passing but it was always just a small “hey” or “how are you” never an actual conversation. You were just about to leave for work when Wonwoo came down from his loft, you didn’t even know he was home.

“hey Wonwoo, we should go get dinner i haven’t been able to talk to you in so long, like I live with you, I go to school with you, but I never see you. I miss you”

“oh. yeah, I can look at my schedule probably not till next week I have a date for my one day off this week”

“a date? You have a date!!?”

“is it that surprising y/n?”

“n-no of course not I mean-, I’m just hurt you didn’t tell me sooner”

“well I’m telling you now”

“I guess, just text me when you have a day we’ll figure it out”

It makes sense that Wonwoo has a date he’s sweet, respectful, and surprisingly built. I don’t know why I'm upset about this date that he has. You dated a guy in high school for a while maybe it’s because he’s never dated anyone or maybe he has and just didn’t tell you would have even told me if it wasn’t for today?? “fuck why am I so upset.”

You and Wonwoo never ended up having that dinner, your schedules never aligned and he ended up going on more dates with that girl he even asked you to spend the night at a friend's so he could bring her home!? if you weren’t pissed about this before you’re pissed now. When you came home she was still over.

“oh sorry, I thought you’d be gone by now, I’m y/n”

She was pretty. You take your time examining her, she is shorter than you, slimmer too.

“oh my god, Wonwoo told me about you! You’re so pretty and tall. I would hug you but sorry I'm a little sweaty right now”

You stare at her in shock, why is she sweaty!? Wonwoo walks in wearing a muscle tee and sweats.

“oh hey y/n we just got back from the gym”

Oh, thank god. Wait they’re close enough to be going to the gym together? You and Wonwoo never go to the gym together.

Another month went by without seeing Wonwoo he was completely occupied with her. until he out of nowhere Wonwoo started staying home doing nothing but eat sleep and games, your winter break was coming up and you hadn’t talked about going home in fact you still haven’t talked at all even though he’s home all the time now.

It was a Saturday night both of you were off work it was fairly late and you were pacing your room “I’m tired of his silent treatment I'm gonna go talk to him” You storm out of your room and climb up to the loft, there he was in his gaming chair like always.

“Wonwoo”

He doesn’t answer.

“Wonwoo!!”

Still, no answer so you walk over to him and tap him on the shoulder he jumps a little under your touch, so he doesn’t hear you…he takes off his headphones and pauses his game.

“what’s up y/n?”

He looks up at you completely blank-minded.

“Are you serious right now”

“huh?”

“Wonwoo what is wrong with you, we live together, we go to school together, but I haven’t seen you in months did something happen and where did your girlfriend go i mean you were with her all the time so that was a good excuse for not seeing me but now there’s no excuse you’re just avoiding me”

You feel like you are about to cry his emotionless face while you’re expressing your feelings to him and all he does is just look at you.

“well say something Wonwoo don’t just stare at me”

He stands up out of his chair and moves over to his bed and takes a deep breath,

“I’m sorry y/n”

The apology was unexpected.

“the girl I was seeing…… she uh cheated on me so that’s why she’s not around anymore”

He puts his head down like he cannot look you in the eyes while saying this, you cannot believe she cheated on him.

“Wonwoo-“

He cuts you off.

“Please don’t feel bad, please. That’s why I didn’t say anything, I feel like it was my fault like I didn’t give her enough I didn’t satisfy her”

You crouch done onto your knees in front of him so you can look him in the eyes.

“Wonwoo don’t say that you’re so much better than any man I’ve ever met you’re kind, respectful, loyal, and fuck you are hot okay. So don’t you ever doubt yourself because any girl you’re with is lucky to have you she just doesn’t see that”

He looks at you his, eyes glossy. You place your hand on his cheek

“you’re wrong,” he says a tear streaming down his cheek.

“What?”

“you’re wrong, I wasn’t giving her my all when my mind was on another girl”

You take your hands off of his face taken back.

“oh” is all you manage to say.

“fuck, y/n I can explain”

“it’s fine you don’t need to you have your feelings I mean she still cheated on you that’s her fault, she could have talked to you about her emotions instead of going out and fucking some guy… so um who’s the girl who owns your heart.”

Wonwoo holds his breath you can tell he’s thinking hard and thinking for a while.

“I- it’s unimportant”

“Wonwoo you need to talk to me more you keep pushing me away. We’ve been friends forever i know you’re not the most comfortable all the time with me but you’ve always been able to tell me if something’s wrong, that’s why I’m here”

Wonwoo stands up off the bed.

“I can’t tell you this”

He tries to walk away but you grab ahold of his leg and wrap your arms and legs around his leg to hold him in place

“NO!!”

“y/n what are you doing”

“I’m not going to let you ignore me anymore i can’t we haven’t talked in months i won’t let you get away from me I won't let you shut me out again”

“This isn’t about that I'm not shutting you out i just can’t tell you this”

Wonwoo tries to get away from you grunting and struggling and dragging you while you still latched onto his leg. he try’s to take your hands off of his leg but he trips and falls over you, you lay beneath him his hands on opposite sides of you, you notice how flustered he gets and heavy his breath is you look at him in the eyes looking back and forth between each eye you two are so close you’ve never been this close to him you can see each line on his skin. You wrap your arms around his neck and wrap your legs around his waist clinging to him like a monkey.

“you’re insane what are you doing?”

“I’m not letting go till you tell me.

“fuck.”

“why is it so hard for you to open up” your voice is muffled since your face is pushed into his arm from clinging to him.

“I’ll tell you if you let go I can’t think the way you latched onto me”

“promise you won’t run away”

“Promise”

You let go and you’re beneath him again so you move out from under him and lean against the bed and he sits on the floor cris-crossed.

“so who is she? Is it someone I know? Is that why it’s so hard I promise I won't tell”

“y/n you’re so stupid”

“well that’s rude”

He bites his bottom lip and just stares at you.

“y/n… I like you, now please don’t say anything that you don’t mean because I’m only telling you since you’re relentless for an answer I couldn’t lie, I know you don’t feel the same way and our friendship means so much to me truly”

You were shocked, this was the last thing you thought he was gonna say, but you were confused you’d never thought about him like that but every time he was with that girl you were jealous and it made you think. He is an amazing person and he is everything you look for in a man… so why not him?

“okay but at least say something because now I’m nervous”

“I don’t know what to say Wonwoo. I love you I do, I've just never thought about being anything more than friends, it’s so cliché girls and guys can’t be friends i was always so focused on beating the stereotypes. But when you were with her I admit I was jealous. She got to see you in ways I’ve never seen you, she was taking you from me. But again that could be only platonic for me. I’m a little confused right now I need to think okay?”

You stand up and he stands up too, you give him a small hug then walk away. You go to your room to think. You stay up super late just thinking and thinking and thinking. And think some more you try and picture yourself with him what would it be like? Going on dates, holding hands, kissing… your face gets flushed just thinking about him in that way. You think about doing more things with him what it would feel like to have your bodies together warm and sweaty in dark rooms, how he would touch you how his large frame would tower over you. Turns you on just thinking about him like that. You lock your door and crawl into bed pulling down your pj shorts and underwear circling your clit, you were so wet just thinking about him you place two of your fingers into yourself imagining him hey we’re Wonwoos imagining his large dominant hands you let out a moan without even realizing. If just thinking about him got you off this much you were sure you liked him more than just a friend. You needed him.

———————————————————————

It was the last week of school before winter break and so you were both cramming for exams you didn’t see each other till Friday night. He was in the kitchen making ramen when you got home he noticed you and smiled.

“want some?”

“yeah that would be great I’m starving”

You both eat in silence the only noise being the clinking of the chopsticks against the bowels. Till you clear your throat when you are finished.

“so, how were your finals?”

Wonwoo says breaking the silence.

“stressful but I think I did well”

“that’s good i think I did okay, so um we never talked about the break do we want to go home?”

“I was going to go down the 23rd wait a bit, what were you thinking?”

It was strange being able to talk to him so normally after your last talk together you wanted to tell him so bad how you felt but you were scared what if the relationship doesn’t last will you be able to go back to how it used to be? You’re more than just friends now you live together. A breakup could ruin everything.

“y/n. you look lost in thought you didn’t answer my question”

“oh! Right, I was planning on going down the 21st, are you finished with your bowl?”

“yeah I'm done”

You take your bowl and his and walk over to the sink to wash them the room grows awkward the sense of waiting is present you can tell he is waiting for your answer. You finished washing the bowls and put them to the side, let out a small sign and turned around to face him.

“Wonwoo.”

“hmm?”

“I didn’t have to think too hard about my feelings for you, they were clear that I like you, you’re everything I’ve ever looked for in a man and more you’ve always been by my side but my only worry is this, how close we are right now. You’re my best friend, we’ve gone through so much together and I would never want to ruin what we have. We live together for fuck sake.”

All he does is grin and walk over to you.

“you like me?”

“didn’t you hear the rest of what I said this is something we need to seriously think about”

He walks closer to you and puts his hands on your waist.

“I’ve thought about it. Many times, all the time”

He slowly walks you to the back of the counter hands still on your waist. You’re heart is pounding his eyes are stern not his usual soft doe eyes they’re cat-like and focused you’ve never seen him like this, it was so hot.

“Wonwoo,” you say in a soft voice you don’t even know why you said his name maybe you weren’t sure if this was real or not.

“yeah?”

You don’t respond you can feel him getting close to you trapping your body beneath him one of his hands move from your waist onto the counter him peering down at you was so intimidating yet you felt safe.

“I want you to say it again but with more meaning, tell me how you feel”

Wonwoo was so close you could feel his breath as he spoke.

“I- Wonwoo I like you a lot”

“yeah?” he says with a smile then leaning in and kissing you softly and pulling away leaving you wanting more.

“you know, the night after our talk I heard this noise it was a little loud I wasn’t sure what it was though so I climbed down my loft and saw you were in your room when I heard the noise again”

His hand moves to the side of your neck grazing your chin with his thumb.

“do you want to tell me what you were doing or who you were thinking about while doing it?”

You bite your lip and look up at him and look away flushed feeling embarrassed.

“aw don’t be embarrassed baby I’m just sad I couldn’t help you. All you could do was think about me when I was just outside your room”

He leans in and whispers.

“your moans are so pretty, I bet they’re prettier when I’m fucking you for real though”

His voice was so deep and smooth it’s never like this it sounded like it was just melting. All you could do was stare at him and listen to him.

“cat caught your tongue?”

He goes into another kiss this time more passionate and possessive his hand still on your waist and the other on your neck his tongue meets your lips asking for permission to enter, and you give it to him. Your tongues intertwining with each other both getting desperate he pulls away and you whine at the sudden stop of contact. he only stops to take off his glasses and put them on the counter beside you then lifts you onto the counter grabbing ahold of your thigh and squeezing while going back into the kiss. You place your hand beneath his shirt and a groan from the back of his throat reacts to your touch. He moves your legs to either side of him so now he’s fully pressed up against you. You tug on his shirt wanting him to take it off, he pulls away again and takes off his shirt. When going back into the kiss he goes to your neck this time leaving soft wet kisses down your neck then takes off your sleep shirt, since it was your sleep shirt you didn’t have a bra on underneath. Wonwoo places his hand on your breast and softly brushes his thumb over your hard sensitive nipple, you moan quietly from his touch.

“so sensitive and we haven’t even gotten to the good part yet”

Both his hands are now on your thighs he strokes them up and down while what looks like he’s thinking.

“my bed? Or your bed?”

You’re still a little out of breath and you think for a moment.

“my bed is closer”

Wonwoo smiles picks you up off the counter and throws you over his shoulder as if you weigh nothing and walks into your bedroom gets onto your bed them places you down. You start to take off your shorts when he stops you.

“patience”

Is all he says before leaning down on top of you and kissing you again, your fingers slide into his hair slightly pulling each time he pinches your nipple. he leaves a kiss trail down your neck onto your stomach and the waistband of your shorts. he pulls them off and spreads your legs you suddenly feel very bare. He kisses your folds then slides his index and middle finger into you, a gasp leaves your lips while he slowly pumping them in and out.

“is this what I was doing when you were touching yourself thinking about me?”

“it’s better-“ is all you managed to get out before he picks up his pace fucking you with his fingers.

You notice the bulge in his pants while it slightly rubs against your leg while he continues to do wonders with his fingers, he slightly curls them hitting your G spot and causing you to moan orgasm

“Wonwoo, take off your pants. I want to feel your dick inside me”

He pauses and grins taking his fingers out of you linking them clean and taking off his sweats along with his briefs, it was big and had girth, a drip of pre-cum on his tip, it’s not like you were a virgin you had a boyfriend your last two years of high school but this was different you’ve never wanted it this bad.

He pulls your legs closer to him and teases you, circling his tip around your hole.

“so wet for me princess”

He fully inserts himself into you as before he starts slow, one hand ahold of your leg while the other beside you keeping him up while he towers over you.

“fuck, you feel so good”

He picks up his pace leaning over you burying his face into your neck breathing heavily groaning and curing under his breath every time you pull his hair. he goes even faster thrusting into you, and the sound of moaning, clapping, and bed squeaks filling the room, wonwoo was so desperate for you your body’s were so close they were practically molding together.

“Wonu,” you say in between breaths “I’m close”

“me too princess, where do you want me to cum”

“in me….. I want you to cum in me”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m on the pill, I need you to fill me”

He smiles into your neck and bites down leaving a hickey, thrusting even faster than before a loud moan leaves your mouth as your walls clench around him cumming down his cock, he quickly cums right after you riding out his high fucking the cum right back into you. After pulling out he moves to the side of you, the room is hot and you are both sticky. You both lay on your bed panting.

“you can shower first,” Wonwoo says already standing.

You get up and give him a quick kiss on the cheek before walking out of your bedroom still fully naked and into the bathroom. You could feel his eyes on you until you were completely out of his sight.

The bathroom quickly steams up from the hot water and you hop in and start rinsing off your body, your eyes were closed you didn’t even notice the presence behind you until you felt soapy hands down your back. You jump at first and quickly turn around to face him.

“oh my god Wonwoo you scared me”

After the fear leaves you realize that Wonwoo is in the shower with you Wonwoo is in the shower with you…

“I didn’t mean to scare you, but I wasn’t quite done with you yet. I’ve waited so long for this I’m not waisting a second”

He grabs your chin and pulls you into a kiss this was rougher and more intense he was hungry for you, humming into the kiss, your bodies pressed together and you feel his cock harden and pull away for a moment. Licking your lips you kiss his neck, putting your hands on his hips and walking him to the wall of the shower, you slick your hair back with the water before getting onto your knees in front of him. Kitten licking his tip before pulling your mouth over it you only take a third of him in sucking on his tip and stroking the rest with your hands.

“fuck y/n, you’re so hot”

His comment made you want to please him even more so you take in more of him a little over half bobbing your head slightly sucking, causing him to groan and tilt his head back. So you take even more taking in all of him his tip hits the back of your throat causing you to gag, which causes him to groan even louder and grab your hair.

“Jesus fucking Christ y/n if you keep up with that I’m already gonna cum”

And so you do. Taking his full length down your throat, wonwoo holds the back of your hair slightly for support, his head is now fully tilted back against the shower wall you can tell he’s close so you pick up your pace a little bobbing up and down his cock.

“I’m gonna cum” Wonwoo says basically out of breath.

You go back to the third of it being in your mouth and jerk off his high with your hands while his seed spills into your mouth and down your throat. After taking his cock out of your mouth you stick out your tongue to show him that you swallowed, then you stand up keeping eye contact while licking your lips and the corners of your mouth making sure not to miss a single drop of him. You give him a small smile and go back to washing your body and hair while he’s still slightly leaning against the wall panting. He watches you finish showering and step out blowing him a kiss before leaving the bathroom, Wonwoo then finishes up his shower.

Once he finishes up and is all dressed he finds you lying on your stomach in bed on your phone. He jumps in and lays beside you.

“You changed the sheets”

“I had to…”

Wonwoo leans in and kisses you on the cheek.

“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” Wonwoo says wrapping his arms around you.

“If you turn off the lights I'm too lazy”

Wonwoo quickly jumps up, turns off the lights and snuggles under the covers.

“We should go down the 23rd,” you say getting beneath the covers.

“I fully one hundred percent agree,” Wonwoo says hugging you tightly.

“Goodnight Wonwoo.”

“Goodnight y/n”

—————————————————————————

Thank you so much for reading! I really enjoyed writing this and out a lot of time into it so I hope you enjoy 💟

[nyxelestia]

Tacking onto all of this, I do find it off-putting that a lot of fics ignore that he had a life before HYDRA and before the war. It only ever seems to come up in relation to Steve but not his own sense of self.

If he is going to define himself by consumer choices, why not explore what it means that he actually does have a sense of self within that paradigm...but all the things he wants to choose for himself are gone, lost to the passage of time? Why is his sense of self and identity less valid just because the ravages of time and capitalism have rendered all his preferences and choices unavailable? Is he really free to define himself if his options are limited to what is available today, but do not include what feels true to him and his live experiences?

I will add that I also suspect a lot of these fics are being heavily informed and biased by the personal experiences of the community that they were written by and for. In short, this community has way more survivors of sexual abuse and domestic violence that it has survivors of war and multigenerational poverty, and it shows. The way fandom in general tends to understand and write PTSD has less to do with war -- even the specifically American military-industrial version of it -- and more in common with surviving abuse.

I think some of that is an understandable product of the story. Most survivors of war and soldiers with PTSD were not in a long-term, on-going psychological manipulation that systematically and intentionally deconstructed their sense of self; yet that description, while extreme, is very applicable to what it feels like to be in and escape from an abusive relationships (whether a family dynamic or an intimate partner relationship).

There are many significant differences between "abuse/assault survivor PTSD" vs "war/external conflict PTSD," but I think one of the most relevant differences is the nature of the cause of trauma denying victims autonomy, agency, and self-determination.

This may not be easy to see at first because the military is so conformist. Everyone has the same uniform, code of conduct, and often the exact same lifestyle or schedule. But that's relatively superficial; it's almost a stereotype that as soon as soldiers with their first military paychecks get off base for the first time, they make a lot of bad but self-determining purchases like fancy cars and high-end consumer electronics. One of the reasons why the military as an institution is so enduring is because after this initial period of intense conformity and trauma, it's often a path of self-determination (or at least marketed as such): loans for housing, support for education, multiple career paths, etc. (The flipside being, of course, that the military can just as easily lock you into a career you don't want, or the trauma from it can make achieving any semblance of life after violence anywhere from difficult to impossible.) Meanwhile, abusive families and relationships are often exactly the opposite: superficially giving victims all the freedom in the world or only very few restrictions (at least as compared to the military), yet in practice locking victims into a specific lifestyle or path preferred by the abuser.

This manifests in the way a lot of fanfic authors write Bucky recovering from the Winter Soldier ordeal. He exercises a lot of autonomy and agency in his superficial consumer choices, yet often exercises very little real agency in the course of his life. Either he remains a superhero / supersoldier of some variety, or he has to take the extreme measure of completely dropping off the grid (and out of public eye, and often well away from everyone else in the world) to achieve any sense of peace.

A lot of Bucky Recovery fics don't really feel like a traumatized veteran or even traumatized abuse survivor moving on with their life or recovering anything significant. Instead, they have the same vibes as a military fresh recruit making dumb high-interest big purchases off-base while rushing back to base in time for PT, or someone in an abusive relationship celebrating a fancy haircut their partner likes while putting their education and career on hold for said partner. A lot of these fics feel like they make Bucky celebrate superficial appearances of autonomy and agency to obfuscate just how little self-determination he really has even after escaping HYDRA.

In a weird way, this feels like an apt metaphor not for the character but for the authors. Much like Bucky post-Winter Soldier, they cannot fathom a life of true independence from capitalism, and so envision the closest thing to it they can imagine while still remaining under the umbrella of capitalism and calling that freedom.

I am still pretty buried in work, but dropping in to comment on a trope I’ve seen popping up again and again in CA: TWS fic, which is: the horror and totality of Bucky’s deconstruction as a person is shown through the revelation that he doesn’t know what [food, clothes, music, coffee, etc] he likes, and a significant part of his reconstruction involves correcting this. 

This is very attractive trope. I enjoy reading it! But I want to turn a critical eye on it, and on my own enjoyment of it. This will surprise no one who’s been reading my blog for a long time, since I’m persistently and heavily critical of the selfist/consumerist ideology that underlies Western capitalist society. And that’s what’s going on here, really, I think: this trope is an expression of our understanding of what it means to be a person, and our anxieties about person-ness.

Keep reading

[hailruth]

Do you have any book recommendations for secular Jews? I feel really disconnected from my culture/racial identity/other Jews, but I’m not religious beyond cherishing the practices of our tradition, if that makes sense.

hmm.. i personally think that there can be no difference drawn between the culture, ethnicity, and religion of judaism. so, i don't see how a book about jewish culture could be written without reference to religion. i haven't read or encountered such books. but as a deeply religious person i haven't sought them out, so maybe others who see this can give suggestions. however, i'll try and provide some that might be what you're looking for (also quite a few of these are available on the internet archive)! i will be posting a more extensive reading list later on, so keep an eye out for that if you'd like. books marked with an asterisk are endorsed by the rabbinical council of america.

if you are completely disconnected, i can recommend these introductory books:

TORAH!!! (half-joking)

To Be a Jew: A Guide to Jewish Observance In Contemporary Life* by Rabbi Hayim Donin (my top recommendation)

Jewish Literacy: The Most Important Things to Know About the Jewish Religion, Its People, and Its History by Rabbi Joseph Telushkin (also crazy good)

Essential Judaism: A Complete Guide to Beliefs, Customs & Rituals by George Robinson (like 600 pages and textbook-like but this means that there are very thick sections on what could be described as the secular stuff)

Living a Jewish Life by Anita Diamant ("descriptive rather than prescriptive," quite liberal and a light read)

here's some stuff on specific religious subjects that may help you simply learn, whether or not you engage with the practices:

Waters of Eden: The Mystery of the Mikveh* by Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan (a mikveh should be built before a synagogue in a community which has neither, so i think jews should learn about them even if they will never use one)

The Jewish Way in Death and Mourning* & The Jewish Way in Love and Marriage* by Rabbi Maurice Lamm

Shabbos: Tasting Eternity* by Rabbi Daniel Travis

i think folklore is super important for more jews to learn about as it often reflects the collective psychology of what we were going through at the time. it's why i think it should be read/understood alongside general jewish history. i'll probably devote a separate post to info on folklore later. food and diaspora all mixed in here too:

People Love Dead Jews by Dara Horn

A History of Judaism by Martin Goodman

The Story of the Jews: Finding the Words by Simon Schama

The Book of Jewish Food: An Odyssey from Samarkand to New York by Claudia Roden

Divination, Magic, and Healing: The Book of Jewish Folklore by Rabbi Ronald Isaacs

Miriam's Tambourine: Jewish Folktales from Around the World by Howard Schwartz

okay, i think i've given a good outline. i mostly read religious-specific books so my strictly historical/food-centered recs are sparse, i apologize. it's also been forever since i've read many of these so they may have issues i don't fully remember. check on the replies/reblogs for any info about that or general corrections. i hope these helped! if i misinterpreted your ask, you can always come back to my inbox.

[stellar-solar-flare]

What Makes A Home

ex-soldier!Ari Levinson x neighbor!Reader | 2,385 words.

Themes: friends to lovers, idiots in love, competency kink if you squint, neighbors, cozy community.

Reader is female, no Y/N, no description of appearance. Nicknames 'dear' and 'honeybun' are used by Ari for Reader.

My blog is for people 18+ only, minors DNI.

Story Content Warnings: implied smut, Ari being a soldier mentioned, Ari having guilt over his past, some very minor hurt/comfort (the love is requited, they're both just idiots).

Notes: This is a made-to-order fic for the amazing @bigtreefest - I hope it brings you joy and fulfilled your prompt! Full disclosure; I wasn't able to get my hands on the movie, so I had to piece Ari's character together from his scenes on YouTube. My utmost gratitude to @steviebbboi for character consult and helping me be confident about the decisions I made in the planning stages of this fic (all mishaps mine, of course). It is also my first time writing Ari. I hope you enjoy, and all feedback is very welcome!

I do not own anything The Red Sea Diving Resort related. This is an unofficial fan work. No copyright infringement intended. This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

The house that you inherited from your great-grandaunt — who apparently despised you less than her other relatives —is definitely what a realtor would describe as ‘having plenty of potential’. But it really does have good bones, so to speak, and with the current housing market, you definitely aren’t complaining.

And the neighborhood isn’t half-bad, either. The community is close-knit, if a little nosy, helpful to the point of overbearing.

And so, they didn’t miss it when a new moving truck arrived at the house next to yours. The gossip has gone wild — the names of different special services are thrown around in the whispers like candy, even though no one can reasonably know anything about his history. Especially if he has a history as some overseas covert operator, like Mary at the end of the street keeps claiming, he certainly will keep that information to himself.

You are yet to run to him, and so you’re operating on second-hand information about him — which is mostly focusing on the fact that he’s tall and bearded and looks like he could bench press a school bus.

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but you reason that a simple welcome visit isn’t going to end with your untimely demise. You pick a nice Saturday afternoon, check that his truck is on the driveway, and make your favorite snickerdoodle recipe. With a plate of still-warm cookies under aluminum foil, you go ring his doorbell, not entirely sure why your heart is beating so hard. It’s just a decent thing to do.

It takes a few moments for him to open the door, and when he does, you are proud that your poker face holds.

“Hi,” you say to the giant at the door. “You must be Ari. I live in the house next to yours, and I thought I’d come to welcome you to the neighborhood; they did it to me too, when I moved in a few months ago. I brought snickerdoodles.”

You extend the plate to him, and he takes it. He leans one shoulder on the doorframe, and you do not swallow when you see the muscles of his arms move. His hair reaches behind his ears, and he has a nicely trimmed beard. Even in a simple — tight — white shirt and jeans, he does look like a soldier. Not violent but like there is an alertness to him, despite the amusement in his eyes.

“Hi,” he says. “Yes. I’m Ari. And you are?”

You give him your name, chuckling at the fact that you left it out in the first place.

“Nice to meet you. And thank you for the baked goods. Would you like to stay for a cup of coffee?”

He moves aside, gesturing for you to step over the threshold.

And you do.

There were a lot of things you had learned about Ari over the six months since your first meeting, that cup of coffee that somehow hadn’t felt awkward at all. He had a talent for filling moments like that with idle chatter that didn’t feel like it was just there to cover something.

It was just so Ari, how his charm was always on display and yet so inseparably a part of his very being that it didn’t feel like an act. It was just who he was. Of course, he could be a playboy — at least when it came to the charming part, since as far as you knew, there hadn’t been anyone visiting his house besides you.

You were more than certain that a fair number of ladies in the neighborhood harbored a crush. And why wouldn’t they, when Ari was the first to volunteer to any project, cracking easy jokes while he worked and being all charismatic smiles and wide shoulders ready to tackle anything.

It was that restless energy that had drawn him to your house, too. Just like you had turned up to his door that one Saturday, the next week he had turned up at yours, dressed in a flannel and jeans and carrying what looked like a heavy, well-equipped toolbox, pristinely new.

“Those gutters are going to fall off the clips soon. I could attach them better if that’s alright with you?”

Stunned, you had nodded. Sure, there was an endless list of things to attend to, and the gutters had been on your mind but then winter had come and you’d been so focused on other things. You had no idea how he noticed, and when you’d asked, he shrugged it off, mentioning something about how he had to learn how to build and maintain things out there, so you’d left the topic at that.

It was the first thing he fixed at your house, but not the last. He gravitated here, looking to do something of meaning, and he refused to hear your suggestions about paying him for the work he was doing — despite the fact that every project he poured himself into was done with the meticulousness rivaling not only someone not in the profession but with a passion to it.

Like the patio you were now sitting on your knees on, holding the plank in place for him so he could screw it onto the beam underneath from the opposite side. You’d made the mistake of mentioning over a shared dinner that you had contacted a contractor to see how much it would be to replace the deck, and he had turned up the next morning with all the necessary materials, in the exact shade of wood that you’d envisioned.

You weren’t certain that you wanted to know what strings he’d pulled to get all that so fast.

“Ari, seriously, you didn’t need to do this.”

“Nope,” he said. “But I wanted to.”

“At least let me pay for the wood,” you said. “You know, I’m a strong independent woman and I do have my own paycheck.”

“And I’m very proud of you, dear,” he said with perfect nonchalance, and you tried to ignore something twisting in your chest at that. “Just let me pick the next five movies for our movie nights and we’re even.”

You huffed, knowing that you’d be in for some underground art movies no one but Ari had ever even heard of but nodded regardless. It was literally the least you could do.

He finished screwing the plank down and reached for more screws from the box on the side — you’d begun earlier today by laying down all the planks to have an even platform to work with, and now it was just the matter of evening out the cracks in between and attaching them to the support structure. His arms moved, and his t-shirt lifted slightly as he bent to the side, revealing a slice of tanned, warm skin at his waist. You forced yourself not to stare.

The thing with Ari was that he flirted with anyone and everyone — except with you. He made the grannies laugh by asking them at the community nights if they were old enough to drink; he had the cashiers at the local grocery store sighing dreamily after him when he departed with one of his famous smiles. Everyone seemed to understand it was all fun and games, and yet you were certain you weren’t the only one here with hopes when it came to him.

But it wouldn’t be you — his complete and total lack of that kind of behavior around you was the clearest sign you could’ve asked for. He saw you in an entirely platonic light, and so you didn’t want to endanger what was a beautiful and genuinely enjoyable friendship with him by asking him if you could be more than that.

Even if sometimes the question, the why not me, burned your tongue and tried to sneak out of your throat. At least then you’d know the reason why he saw you so differently than others.

“Honeybun?” he said, yanking you out of your thoughts.

You swallowed, hoping that the question would go down too, and met his expectant gaze. He’d said something, and it had flown right past you, and now he was staring. God, you could drown in the blue of his eyes.

You were lucky to have him. He was a good friend, caring, attentive. He made you laugh at the worst of days; he was good at coming up with solutions, especially unconventional ones. You had no reason at all to feel wistful at all the nicknames, derived from different baked goods you’d made for him over the past months.

“Nothing, nothing,” you said, lowering your gaze. “Sorry. What did you need me to do?”

You heard a thump as he set the screwdriver down. He reached his hand, two fingers under your jaw tilting your face back up so that you’d look at him. There was that little wrinkle of worry between his brows and you felt a pang of guilt even as the warmth of his fingers was making your skin tingle.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he said. “We can take a break if you need a few. You’ve been somewhere far away for half the day.”

You quickly shook your head, knowing that you’d already ventured too far close to the line you didn’t want to end up crossing.

“Just a little tired, that’s all,” you said, hearing the flimsiness of the excuse even in your own ears.

He tilted his head and raised his brow; his hand was still there, under your jaw, lingering where it absolutely shouldn’t.

“I know it when you’re lying, honeybun,” he said, one corner of his mouth rising into a smirk. “Spill the beans. Do I need to kick someone’s ass? I’ll do it, you know.”

You swallowed so loud that it seemed to echo in your head like the creaking sound of thin ice.

“No, there’s no need for that. I was just wondering what’s so different about me?”

A flash of something in his eyes, gone so quickly that you could hardly tell it was there to begin with.

“Different how?” he said, strain in his voice, like he was going for some sort of normalcy and failing to grasp it.

Oh no. You had opened some floodgate and now things would be awkward from here to eternity. The only way to save this was to get it all out, and now that the water was flowing freely, there was no stopping the words from flowing out of your mouth:

“Well, it’s not a big deal, but sometimes I wonder why it is that you have this flirt going on with everyone except for me, and I mean, it’s absolutely and totally fine, you just see me thoroughly like a friend and that’s that but with what we have and all the nicknames and all that, sometimes I wish there could be more and I’m just wondering –“

And then you were wondering about nothing at all.

Ari was on you like a shot, his hands framing your face and pulling your lips on his even as he leaned towards you, and it didn’t matter that you didn’t understand. His kiss was a claim laid, one hand cupping the nape of your neck and the other wrapping around your waist even as his mouth devoured yours. He pulled back with his lips still on yours, bringing you to his lap and he was everything, everywhere, his scent and warmth and the softness of his shirt smelling like spring sun and laundry detergent, the taste of him on your tongue, the feeling of his hands mapping your body. It was just him all around you, and you fell into that just as easily as you’d once fallen into a comfortable, shared routine of friendship.

When he finally let your mouth go, you were both out of breath, and you were straddling his lap, suddenly very aware of how his feelings towards you weren’t entirely platonic at all. There was a hint of pink on his cheeks, and his hands came to cup your jaw, thumbs caressing your skin.

“You were too precious for that, honeybun,” he murmured, eyes fixed on yours. “I didn’t… When you waltzed into my house that day, it was the first time it felt like a home. You were the first time I felt at home. And putting on that face… it felt too cheap for you. And I didn’t… I couldn’t lose you. Not you. So I thought I’d be there for you. Take care of you, make you happy, and find my joy from that. When I was out there… I don’t know if I did enough, if I made a difference. I wasn’t sure I even deserved the kind of peace I felt with you.”

“Ari,” you breathed out, tears prickling in your eyes, unsure what you would’ve said even if there wasn’t a lump blocking your throat. “Ari, I…”

His thumb brushed over your kiss-swollen lips, and he shook his head ever so slightly, his gaze aflame with something that could never ever be just friendship.

“But now that I’ve had a taste of you, honey, I’m not selfless enough to give that up. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. I can’t let you go.”

“Then don’t.”

And just like that, his mouth was back, his hands diving down from your face to map the shape of your body, and the tiny moan he breathed right onto your lips sent a shiver down your back. He was holding you by the hips and you tangled both of your hands into his hair, making sure he wasn’t going anywhere without you.

“I think,” he managed in between pushes of his lips. “I think the patio can wait.”

You nodded eagerly, and he stood up with ease that sent a swooping feel of desire into your core, his hands slipping under your thighs so he could carry you. Your legs wrapped around his waist as your arms clung to him, and he made a beeline for the door that led inside.

It was a good thing that after all the work he’d done at the house, he knew exactly where the bedroom was.

Thank you for reading. Please consider leaving a comment, if you can spare the time and energy.

[tellmegoodbye]

It's my first (official) Wip Wednesday of 2025!

I couldn't decide which WIP to share, so we're double dipping today.

Thank you @thisbuildinghasfeelings @carlos-in-glasses @paperstorm @strandnreyes @bonheur-cafe @whatsintheboxmh @nisbanisba @carlossreaders @heartstringsduet and @lemonlyman-dotcom for tagging me!

This first snippet is from my spicy d/s fic, and I know @heartstringsduet will appreciate me finally sharing more of this fic.

TK Strand is no stranger to submission. He fancies himself somewhat of an expert on the subject of his own likes and dislikes, and if he happens to enjoy a little bondage here or a little dirty talk there, he's not about to shy away from that. The concept of total submission is so much bigger than that though, and TK isn't sure if he's ever been able to fully wrap his head around it. To him, there's power in being held down, knowing he can give as good as he takes, knowing that he could easily have his partner a shivering mess beneath him, but choosing to give his body over to them instead. Being overpowered and fucked so hard that he could feel it in his marked up thighs all week – that is power. That is freedom. But he would never go as far as to call it subspace – not when every description of it he's ever come across is so much deeper and fulfilling than anything he has ever experienced. Part of him wanted to chalk it up to fantasy, something that might just exist in stories that are created specifically to be thrilling and sexy. And he was okay with that. He never had any desire to create such a feeling and simultaneously turn everything he's ever known about the power of sex on its head. He's never felt safe enough. Then Carlos Reyes came barreling into his life.

This next snippet is from my murder mystery AU!

Sharp gusts of wind nip at his wrists and neck, seeking out every small expanse of exposed skin currently unprotected by the material of his APD windbreaker, which he's come to realize is a size too big on him. It figures that his uniform isn't a perfect fit just yet, but he would have preferred to find out on a warmer day is all. This must be what he gets for transferring in the middle of January. The crime scene is particularly obscured by the medical examiner's van from where he's standing, and TK can't see where Carlos went, but he's not particularly concerned with his whereabouts at the moment. He takes a deep breath and takes an inventory of the scene around him, grounding his senses with each exhale. There's a flurry of flashing lights. From cell phones, from cameras belonging to the local news station. The sound of each snap of a picture mingles with the murmurs and footsteps from onlookers, drowning out the distant sounds of traffic on the other side of the alley, where the rest of the world moves forward in spite of the tragedy before them. There's a muted commotion accumulating along the flimsy police tape. It rattles against the forceful winds, a harsh, piercing noise dragging TK's attention away from the familiar dread that lies beyond the border. He's stepped over that line so many times and faced some of the worst horrors this world has to offer, and yet taking those first steps never seems to get any easier. “Strand,” Carlos’ voice snaps through the hazy chaos. “Get over here.”

Tagging: @ironheartwriter @emsprovisions @sapphic--kiwi @literateowl @eclectic-sassycoweyes @nancys-braids @captain-gillian @alrightbuckaroo @theghostofashton @morganaspendragonss @carlos-tk @henrygrass @futures-tense @goodways @decafdino @lightningboltreader @welcometololaland @rmd-writes @reyesstrand @butchreyes + open tag!

[luv-beam]

IM BAAAACK!!! i was gonna save this as my bedtime story, but then i realized i can't stay up tonight 😭 but all the better for me bc i get to read this little masterpiece early 😌:

• when you don't just have a feeling that today isn't going to go well, but it's DESTINED not to go well... good lord time to panic! also the description of the dress is so pretty rah like the quiet dignity and refinement over opulence, rhe soft rustling of the skirts,, u can really feel the vibe of the family thru this and also the tension w the fact that yn feels everything BUT perfect

• WHISPERING THAT A LADY'S VIRTUE LIES IN RESTRAINT OHHHHHH U CANT DO THIS TO ME NOT WHEN YN LITERALLY IS LIKE RESTRAINING HERSELF FROM HER OWN DESIRES THIS WHOLE FIC U CANT

• fun fact but corsets were never meant to be suffocatingly tight; its kind of just a modern stereotype, but im not mentioning this to diss ur writing or anything !!! 😭😭 i think the tightness of the corset and yns lack of room to breathe is a really important symbol that lends to how she's really feeling. like the physical connecting to the emotional

• okay another comment abt ur imagery bc ur descriptions of the palace are utterly breathtaking 🤧 like White Room Syndrome is scared of u, tara

• i know whats gonna happen, but like the tension and suspense u create is enough to have anyone on the edge of their seats!! like u dont need future sight to be anxious abt what's gonna happen. like will yn get out of this scot-free or will something horrible happen?

• "you are a xu, do not falter" ugh all the pressure and expectations yn is burdening herself w just continue to distress and weigh her down further...

• GIVE THIS GIRL A HUG 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

• i hate that i like,,, get their mother's argument. like im on yn and hao's side fs but also... idk i think she just had sm going on and like mental struggles can be just as harmful as physical ones. im glad hao is so compassionate, and that her mother does have some sympathy for her daughter

• (but i know what comes next 😭😭😭😭😭)

• "a splendid display of athleticism" PLS IM GONNA SNORT SKFNDKFNFNF seokmin does have a knack for brightening the room :'))) even i was trying to mope w our mc, but then that line made me break lol

• HOPE CAN BE A SLIPPERY CREATURE YES WE KNOW .

• TARA U WANT ME TO CRY DONT U (´Д⊂ヽ NOT IN THE WAY U LONG FOR?? THE CHASM BTWN UR FEELINGS AND HIS INDIFFERENCE???? EEEUUUGHHHH!!!

• i hate how supportive seok is being, like hope truly is a slippery creature. i feel like me and the mc both r getting strung along goddamn......

• love the details of the lady's tea and the garden party — great worldbuilding details to get me even more immersed

• AWWWH THE NEW DRESS, HER MAMA'S ADORATION FOR HER UGH 😭😭😭 i hate knowing the future. besides that, love the imagery of the dress like i can piece it together in my mind as if im sketching it out!! its so pretty :')) def befitting of a princess

• such a "slipping thru my fingers" moment 🤧🤧 like it's so starkly different from the time yn was getting ready for the debut presentation where she was just worried and freaking out; now she and her mom are /laughing/ and tho there r expectations, this will undoubtedly ease a couple of those worries

• oh the the anticipation is killing me — and then the ball is positively dismal >~<

• I WAS WAITING FOR SEOK TO FINALLY COME BY AND OFFER A DANCE LIKE UR YNS BESTIE COME HERE AND GIVE HER A HAND BY ASKING FOR HER HAND WINK WINK

• the mamas leading an army line is so funny lol and who said women cant fight??

• BRUH i just speedran five different emotions like HOLY SHIT I LOVE SEOK > holy shit. does he love yn back? > holy shit this hurts > holy... shit... > oh fck. like the immediate realization that snaps into place when u out two and two together. i wanna say she's jumping to conclusions based on seok's initial surprise, but im also cynical like yn is being in this moment and yeah... idk

• OPEN HONEST DEVASTATING. TAKE A KNIFE THROUGH MY HEART ALREADY THE WAY THOSE THREE WORDS PUNCTURE MY CHEST

• the "how foolish of me" not only meant for the fact that she thought he'd gone into this w pure intentions, but also foolish of herself for believeing he actually wanted to dance w her, that she actually had a chance w him... oh i want to yeet myself off a cliff

• omg the argument btwn yn and hao... tensions were high, im afraid... like idk if chucking a shoe at his face was supposed to be funny but i feel yns fury and the angry tears like i know there were better ways to go abt this, but i am all for female rage!!!

• "the bitterness in ur chest is a wellspring of anguish" OHHHHHH 😭😭😭😭😭 oh 😭 like it's catching up to her now. also, just the fact that hope is so slippery and caused her to make her entire reputation crumble is just... someone give this girl a hug, she was not built for this

• YOU'VE TAKEN SOMETHING PRECIOUS FROM ME???? some might say its her dignity, her reputation, her agency,,,, but we all know what it really was... or who...... i love snarling female rage dialogue

• do u know the taylor swift "right where u left me"? yeah thats this whole next section 😭💔 baby just becomes a ghost who haunts the place she was abandoned and wronged

• THAT LAST LINE IS LIKE THE EXECUTIONER'S PULL ON THE PULLEY TO LET THE GUILLOTINE BLADE FLY. LIKE OH THE POWER OF A SINGLE LINE LIKE THAT

despite knowing what was gonna happen, it still hit so hard, or rather, EVEN HARDER this time 😭😭😭 like my mouth is pulled into a permanent frown skcnekfnjf IM SO SAD FOR HER LIKE I DONT MIND BEING A SPINSTER MYSELF, BUT THE EXPECTATIONS THAT COME W HER SOCIAL STATION WONT ALLOW HER TO BE 😭😭😭 she will forecer be haunted by her choises and foolishness and im so sad for her 😭😭😭 tara, u are a cruel (yet talented...) mistress 😭

i... will be back tmrw... 🥲👍

The Somerset Affair | Chapter 2: When the Music Stops

pairing: lsk x fem!reader genre: Bridgerton AU, friends to (?????) to eventual lovers, brother’s best friend, SLOWWWW BURNNN chapter wc: 8.8k warnings: alcohol consumption, societal expectations, crying, mentions of a panic attack (not being able to breathe), eventual smut, more to be added a/n: sorry sorry i know ch 2 took forever // as always, ENORMOUS thanks to indi @wongyuseokie for this GORGEOUSSSS banner // and to my lovely betas shu @welcometomyoasis lou @tusswrites haneul @chanranghaeys this could not have happened without you // 3rd chapter will be up faster than this one i swear!!!

summary: when the music stops and everything goes wrong, will seokmin always be there to defend you?

comment to be tagged when chapters are posted, or join the fic taglist here!

The morning of your debut should have been perfect. Every detail had been painstakingly planned over months, from the delicate lace of your gown to the pearls in your hair. But as you sit in front of your vanity, eyes bloodshot and heavy with fatigue, you know deep in your bones that this day is not destined to go smoothly.

You had stayed up the entire night, restless, thinking about Seokmin. Every word he had said, every smile, every fleeting touch that had seemed so innocent before now felt charged with meaning, occupying your thoughts and stealing away any hope of restful sleep. The result was staring back at you in the mirror: bloodshot eyes, dark circles beneath them, and lips that trembled as your maid worked tirelessly to dress you. It’s a pity – no amount of powders or rouge can hide the exhaustion and heartbreak written plainly across your face.

The soft rustling of your white debutante gown fills the room, each movement whispering of elegance and careful tradition. The gown is a masterful creation, carefully chosen by your mother months ago to reflect the quiet dignity of your family’s name. Its bodice is fitted, meticulously embroidered with the finest ivory threads that weave delicate patterns of lilies and vines across the fabric, adding dimension without overpowering.

Around the neckline, a border of tiny pearls catches the morning light, giving the gown a subtle shimmer that, like everything else about it, speaks of refinement over opulence. The gown’s sleeves, long and sheer, are trimmed in lace as fine as a spider’s web, designed to lay gently against your skin rather than cling, as if even the gown itself recognizes the demands of decorum.

The skirts cascade from the waist in a perfect fall of lace and satin, layers upon layers of gossamer fabric that float with your every step. Each layer, though fragile to the touch, is artfully arranged to maintain the gown’s perfect shape, a testament to the skill of its makers and the patience it took to assemble. At the hem, more intricate lacework peeks out, creating a subtle scalloped edge that brushes softly against the floor, finishing the gown with a grace that echoes the restraint of your mother’s discerning eye.

You cannot deny that the gown itself is a marvel, designed to highlight and enhance rather than dominate. It is beautiful, in the way a rose is beautiful—with an elegance that feels both timeless and delicate, whispering that a lady’s virtue lies in restraint, in never asking to be noticed and yet never failing to command attention.

But the corset. Oh, the corset. It felt as though it were designed to squeeze the very life from you.

“Breathe in, my lady,” your maid instructs, her voice strained from the effort of pulling at the stiff fabric. She pulls at the stays until your ribs protest in pain.

“I can’t breathe in anymore,” you bite out, trying and failing to draw in a proper breath. The corset feels like it’s made of iron, constricting your lungs until your vision begins to blur. “It’s too tight. I— I can’t—”

But your lady’s maid is relentless, ignoring your protests as she cinches you even tighter. She ties the final knot with a satisfied sigh. “There. That should hold.”

Hold? It felt more like it was keeping you prisoner, you think grimly, but before you can voice any more complaints, your mother sweeps into the room, her graceful presence filling the space with a quiet authority. Dressed in an elegant gown of soft gray silk, she pauses to take in your appearance, her sharp eyes noting every detail.

Your mother’s eyes scan your dress approvingly, but when her gaze lands on your face, her expression falters. “Dearest, you look... unwell.”

Your heart sinks. “I didn’t sleep much last night,” you confess, eyes cast downward, though you don’t dare mention why. The last thing you need is your mother knowing Seokmin has occupied your thoughts in such a way.

Your mother sighs softly and moves to stand beside you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “This day is important, darling. I had hoped you would be well-rested, but...” She trails off, her tone not unkind, but laced with concern. “There is no time now to dwell on it. The Queen waits for no one.”

You nod, feeling a rush of guilt, knowing how much effort has gone into preparing you for this moment. But the weight of the corset and your sleepless night are conspiring to make you feel utterly overwhelmed. Your mother notices, of course. She always does.

“Try not to worry too much,” she says, her voice softening, though it still holds that undercurrent of expectation. “You must keep your chin high, shoulders back. No one need know what little sleep you had. You are beautiful, my dear, no matter the circumstances.”

Her words, though comforting, do little to ease the anxiety building in your chest. But there’s no time left. Your lady’s maid places the final pearl pins in your hair, and your mother gives you a reassuring squeeze before she gestures toward the door. “It’s time.”

Your nerves flutter violently as you’re escorted downstairs and into the awaiting carriage. The ride to the palace feels both endless and far too short. Every bump in the road jostles your already-tight corset, pressing against your ribs and leaving you breathless. The palace is as magnificent as you had heard—no, it’s more. The palace itself is a marvel of architecture, an opulent structure that seems more the work of fantasy than reality. Vaulted ceilings soar impossibly high, held aloft by marble columns adorned with delicate carvings of ivy and mythical creatures that seem to come to life in the flickering candlelight. Every archway is flanked by gilded moldings, winding and curling like golden vines, each detail rendered with the precision of a master sculptor.

Each corner, each angle of the palace seems to lead to something grander than the last, as if it were designed to swallow you whole in beauty. And perhaps it is, you think, as you press a hand over your fluttering heart. For despite the elegance, there is an undeniable sense of intimidation in the sheer scale of it all—a reminder of how small you are in the face of such a place, and of the scrutiny that awaits within these towering, timeworn walls.

You can feel the architecture itself imposing upon you, weighing down like the firm hand of tradition. For a fleeting moment, you imagine yourself wandering through the palace alone, exploring every column and arch, free of the hundreds of eyes upon you. But here, now, with the gaze of history and expectation pressing down, you straighten your shoulders, drawing in a steadying breath, and follow your Mama into the Great Hall. 

The hall is grander than anything you had even dared to imagine. The polished marble floors shine like glass, capturing reflections in delicate ripples that turn the passing gowns of debutantes into pools of lace and silk. Chandeliers hang from above, so immense and dazzling that they appear to drip crystal stars. They illuminate the room with a glow that is almost celestial, casting every inch of the hall in a warmth befitting the Queen herself.

To your right and left, mirrors taller than any man stretch to the ceiling, framed in gold leaf as intricate as lacework. The mirrors hold your gaze as you pass, capturing the girls beside you as they float forward with their mothers, each one a shimmering, blushing vision in white. You see yourself in these mirrors too, and although the gown fits you perfectly, somehow you feel like you’re wearing another’s skin. For a moment, you imagine your reflection whispering back, “Are you really here?”

The walls are covered in the richest velvet, deep greens and ruby reds that somehow make the hall feel even grander, as if you’ve stepped into the very heart of royalty itself. Enormous portraits of past queens and kings line the hall, each gaze strong and serene, as if they’re assessing every girl who dares to walk beneath their painted eyes. Somewhere in your chest, a knot forms and tightens. It’s strange, the feeling of being surrounded by so much opulence, as if the walls are watching, waiting for something that only they understand.

And perhaps that’s why your breath is so unsteady, why your heartbeat seems to echo through the hall in time with your footsteps. The palace, beautiful as it is, leaves you feeling like a creature of some lesser world, an intruder who has somehow wandered into a realm that does not belong to you. It’s not so much a place as a spectacle, a stunning, overbearing reminder of all that you must live up to, of all the scrutiny you’ll face from these grand walls, these glittering chandeliers, and yes, the very Queen herself. Every step feels like you are walking deeper into a lion’s den, where your every move will be scrutinized, your worth as a young lady judged by the sharpest eyes in the kingdom.

You move with the other debutantes, each girl dressed in white, adorned with jewels and delicate veils, the picture of youth and grace. The line seems to stretch forever as you wait your turn to be announced. The air is thick with anticipation, the rustle of satin and silk as the ladies murmur quietly to one another, some excited, others as nervous as you feel. Your own dress, despite its beauty, feels like a trap. The corset restricts your every breath, and the weight of expectation presses on your shoulders like a leaden cloak.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you scan the room, your nerves growing worse by the second. And then, in the far corner, you spot them. Minghao stands with an air of composure, his eyes quietly observing the room, his presence as regal as ever. Your brother watches the proceedings with a detached elegance, his eyes flickering over the debutantes without much interest. His gaze flicks to you, and for a moment, you feel a strange sense of calm knowing your brother is watching.

But next to him, is Seokmin.

He stands taller than most, his posture rigid but his face warm, though tinged with concern. While your brother is a portrait of his birthright and title, Seokmin is different. His gaze is sharper, more intent, and when his eyes find yours, the familiar comfort of his presence makes your heart stutter. You try to remind yourself to breathe, but the memory of his touch, his words, from the night prior clings to you like a shadow.

Seokmin’s expression softens when he sees you, and for a moment, the whole room seems to fall away. His lips quirk in a small, reassuring smile, and though you try to return it, your own face feels tight, your nerves too frayed to muster anything convincing.

As if sensing your unease, Seokmin’s eyes narrow with concern. Does he notice how your corset presses too tightly into your ribs? Or how your eyes are puffy from lack of sleep? The warmth in his gaze is mixed with a flicker of something unreadable, something almost protective. You are painfully aware of his gaze, and the thought of him watching you stumble through this day feels like too much to bear.

The line of debutantes inches forward, each young lady presented with grace and poise, or at least, the appearance of it. Your nerves churn violently in your stomach as your name is finally called. Your mother tightens her grip, ever so slightly, and it’s a silent reminder – You are a Xu. Do not falter. 

“Miss Y/N Xu, sister of the Duke of Somerset,” the herald crows, and every eye in the room fixes on you. “Presented by her mother, the Right Honorable Dowager Duchess of Somerset.”

Your legs feel like jelly as you take your first step forward, your skirts swishing around you. The weight of the gown, the tightness of your corset, and the heavy stares from all corners of the room press down on you. You try to steady your breathing, but the corset refuses to allow for even that small comfort.

Just as you take a step, disaster strikes.

Your heel catches on the hem of your gown.

You stumble forward, arms flailing slightly to catch yourself, but the weight of your skirts and the tightness of your corset make it impossible to recover gracefully. A collective gasp echoes through the room, and you feel your cheeks flush with mortification.

The whispers are instant, rippling through the crowd like wildfire. You can feel the stares—sharp, judgmental, unforgiving. Your mother’s grip tightens, and though she says nothing, you can feel her disapproval radiating through her hold. She doesn’t need to scold you—not in public. But the sting of her disappointment is enough to make you want to shrink into the floor.

Still, you manage to regain your footing, if only barely. You take a shaky breath and continue forward, your knees trembling with each step. But it gets worse. With every move, the corset seems to tighten further, squeezing the breath from your lungs until black spots dance in the corners of your vision.

Just as you’re about to curtsy before the Queen, your knees buckle.

A choking cough rips from your throat, loud and desperate, echoing through the grand hall. You’re bent over at the waist, gasping for breath, your corset pressing tighter with every moment. You cough again, and again, unable to stop, your eyes watering as you struggle to compose yourself.

The Queen, perched on her throne in all her regal glory, watches with a raised eyebrow, her disapproval palpable. Her expression is one of distaste, as if you are a spectacle—an amusing disaster.

Your mother murmurs beside you, “Steady yourself,” and her grip tightens with fury and disappointment in equal measure. It’s too late. Your corset has robbed you of the ability to breathe, and the weight of the entire room’s gaze crushes you. Your vision swims again, and for one horrifying moment, you think you might faint right there in front of the Queen.

Finally, you manage to straighten yourself, gasping for air, your face flushed and tear-streaked. You risk a glance toward the far side of the room, where Minghao and Seokmin still stand.

Minghao’s face is impassive, though his eyes are dark with what could only be disappointment. Seokmin, on the other hand, looks as though he might bolt across the room to help you. His hands clench at his sides, his jaw tight as his eyes flick between you and the Queen.

The Queen’s cold, cutting voice slices through the silence. “Miss Xu,” she says slowly, her tone dripping with disapproval. “It seems you are... unwell.”

Your heart sinks into your stomach. You manage a wobbly curtsy, your knees nearly giving out beneath you again as you lower yourself.

“Perhaps Miss Y/N should reconsider her readiness for society,” the Queen continues icily. “A young lady of such delicate constitution may not be suited for the rigors of court.”

Her words land like a blow. You rise slowly, trying to keep your chin held high, though your hands tremble and your vision remains blurry from the humiliation. All you want is for this moment to end. To disappear.

As you retreat, the whispers rise in volume, filling the grand hall with gossip and speculation. You can feel the weight of every gaze on you, every judgment passed in an instant. But it is Seokmin’s gaze that you search for in the crowd. His eyes meet yours, and though they are filled with concern, they are also gentle, understanding. A small comfort in the midst of your disaster.

Your mother, ever composed, whispers to you as she leads you from the room, her voice calm but firm. “We will speak of this later, darling. But for now, we must leave with grace.”

You nod weakly, still too breathless and embarrassed to respond. And as you step out of the grand hall, the day that was supposed to mark your entrance into society feels like anything but. All you can think about is how miserably everything went wrong—and how, even in the midst of it all, Seokmin’s gaze had found yours, steady and unwavering.

The silence presses on as the carriage trundles through the city streets, each wheel hitting the cobbles with a sound like a hammer to your heart. You’re trapped, here in this carriage, with no escape from your mother’s disappointment or the day’s memories—the whispered laughter, the blunder before the Queen, and the sheer, unbearable heat of your mortification.

Minghao’s hand rests over yours for only a heartbeat, but it’s enough to keep you from crumbling entirely. Though he releases your hand quickly to avoid Mama’s watchful eye, the gesture is enough to ground you, pulling you back to this place instead of letting you spiral into all the things you could have, should have done differently.

At last, your mother clears her throat, a carefully composed sound that cuts through the quiet like a knife.

“Well,” she says, her voice clipped and precise, “that was… quite the spectacle.” Her tone is a blend of disappointment and a tight, forced restraint. “I had hoped, naturally, for a… more dignified presentation.”

You swallow, feeling the flush of embarrassment burn anew. “I—” you start, but the words catch, failing under the weight of everything you wish to explain and the knowledge that no explanation will undo what’s done.

She adjusts her gloves with a sharp, precise tug, a calculated movement that somehow manages to convey her frustration without a single word. “I trust,” she begins slowly, every syllable measured, “that you understand the gravity of today’s events.”

You swallow, focusing on the intricate embroidery of your gown, tracing the delicate threads to distract yourself from the pressing sting of her words.

“Mother, I—” you stammer, but she holds up a gloved hand, silencing you before the words even form.

“We spent months preparing for this moment,” she continues, her voice tight with restrained emotion. “Months, to ensure you would have the debut any young lady of our family should. Your dress, your bearing, every detail was attended to so you would represent us with grace, with decorum. And yet, today…” She trails off, her eyes gliding over you with a look that could curdle milk.

“It wasn’t her fault,” Minghao interjects quietly, and though his tone is gentle, there’s a faint edge to his words, as though even he cannot quite hold back his defense. He shoots a quick, sidelong glance at you, a small, reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The Queen’s hall was suffocating, and the entire affair was clearly designed to unnerve anyone in attendance.”

Your mother’s expression softens just a fraction as she regards her son, but she’s hardly swayed. “The Queen’s hall has been the site of countless debuts. If anything, the occasion called for composure, not… fainting spells.”

You clench your fists, the fabric of your dress twisting between your fingers, and look resolutely at the floor. As painful as it is to hear, you know your mother is not entirely wrong. Today was supposed to be your moment of triumph, the day you stepped forward as a young woman ready for society, carrying your family’s reputation with poise and dignity.

But instead, you remember the heat that had pressed in from all sides, the feeling of your corset cutting into your ribs, how your hands had trembled with each step. It was supposed to have been an easy task, to walk forward, cursty, and meet the Queen’s gaze with calm respect. And yet, you had felt every gaze upon you like a burn, each stumble echoing through the endless hall. And then, Seokmin’s eyes finding yours, calm and steady…

The memory stirs something warm within you, a faint flicker of relief that somehow dampens the embarrassment. The Queen’s gaze may have been unyielding, your mother’s disappointment all-consuming, but for that one moment, you had felt tethered, no longer alone.

Outside, the sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the city as the carriage continues its steady roll homeward. The silence stretches again, and the weight of it settles around you like an invisible veil. Minghao catches your eye, and though he says nothing, the look he gives you speaks volumes—a quiet reassurance, a reminder that this one day does not define you, that he still believes in you despite every misstep.

Your mother finally sighs, a faint softening in her shoulders. “We’ll regroup,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “There will be more opportunities, of course, but we’ll need to be mindful, thoughtful. A second chance may not be as kind.” She glances at you, and though her expression remains stern, there’s a glimmer of something almost like understanding.

The carriage ride stretches on in silence once more, each of you lost in thoughts. You glance out the window, watching the city roll by, lanterns casting fleeting golden glows against the carriage walls. It feels surreal, how a day so longed for turned into a series of mishaps, one after another. But as the carriage rounds a corner, you catch a memory from earlier: Seokmin’s eyes, grounding you, unwavering, somehow knowing how terrifying each step felt, how every misstep seemed amplified beneath the weight of so many watching.

As the carriage wheels finally begin to slow, approaching the gates of your family estate, you feel a shift within yourself. Today may have been a disaster, and yet, Seokmin’s gaze and Minghao’s quiet support linger, like small anchors in the storm of the day.

The drawing room is a sanctuary of elegance, its ornate moldings and rich fabrics designed to impress. Tall windows frame the view of the manicured gardens outside, sunlight pouring through in golden streams that dance across the polished wooden floor. Yet, despite the beauty surrounding you, it feels more like a gilded cage today. The delicate scent of lavender from the nearby vase does little to soothe the turmoil within.

You sit hunched over a needlepoint project, your fingers fumbling with the bright threads that feel foreign against your skin. The canvas before you, a swirl of colors and patterns, seems to mock your inability to focus. Your mind wanders far beyond the needlework, replaying the events of your disastrous debut like a never-ending nightmare. Each time you think of it, a fresh wave of humiliation washes over you, sharp and unyielding, like a thorn that refuses to dislodge itself from your heart.

“Goodness, how is one expected to focus with this nonsense?” you mutter under your breath, the needle slipping from your fingers yet again and leaving a careless knot in the thread. You curse softly, frustration bubbling to the surface.

Your mother sits comfortably in her armchair, her brow slightly furrowed as she loses herself in the pages of a novel, the rustle of paper punctuating the silence. Minghao lounges on the settee across from you, flipping through a collection of sketches, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement at his artistic efforts. Every so often, his gaze flickers towards you, a mixture of concern and curiosity etched into his features, but he respects your silence, understanding that you are still recovering from the scarring events of your debut into polite society.

Just then, the door swings open, and Seokmin steps into the room, his presence a burst of light that seems to chase away the shadows clinging to your thoughts. It has been years since the butler last announced his arrival—his visits are far too frequent now, and you can’t help but feel a mix of warmth and apprehension at his entrance. His usually buoyant demeanor is tempered by a trace of concern as he takes in the scene before him, the way your shoulders droop as if weighed down by invisible chains.

“Good morning!” he declares, his voice bright yet careful, testing the waters of your melancholy. “I do hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all,” your mother replies, glancing up from her book, her eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. “In fact, you may be just what our dear girl needs.”

You offer a small, half-hearted smile, the corners of your lips barely lifting. “And what would that be? A distraction or a dose of reality?”

Seokmin approaches, his smile as warm as the sunlight flooding the room. “A bit of both, if you’ll allow me.” He perches himself on the arm of your chair, leaning in just enough to draw your focus from the needlepoint chaos. “That was quite the debut you had, dear friend. How are you holding up?”

“Barely,” you sigh, tossing the errant needlepoint aside as if it were the source of all your woes. “I feel as if I’ve stumbled through a door marked ‘exit’ into an abyss of mortification.”

His eyes widen with sympathy, and in that moment, your heart flutters, torn between admiration and the painful reality that he may never feel the same. Seokmin has a way of making the world feel lighter, yet your feelings for him are a weight that often threatens to pull you under.

“Ah, yes,” he nods sagely, as if you have just shared the most profound wisdom. “The abyss of polite society can be quite unforgiving. I believe it’s marked with ‘no entrance’ signs, but alas, they are easily overlooked.”

Minghao chuckles softly, his attention now fully diverted from his sketches. “You do have a gift for exaggeration, Seokmin.”

“It’s a talent,” Seokmin replies, feigning an air of grandeur, his hand pressing dramatically to his heart. “But truly, do not let the Queen’s judgment define you. You are far too radiant for that.”

You snort, the sound escaping before you can suppress it. “Radiant? Is that what you call it when one trips over their own gown and nearly faints in front of our sovereign?”

“Why, yes! A splendid display of athleticism!” he shoots back, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’ve inadvertently entertained a room full of people—something they are certain to remember for ages.”

“But not in the way I had hoped,” you reply, frustration seeping into your voice as the memory of the evening flashes before your eyes, a storm of embarrassment churning within you.

“Ah, but hope can be a slippery creature,” he counters, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “What matters is how you choose to move forward. I have heard of many a lady whose debut was marred by similar accidents—yet they rise from the ashes like phoenixes, dazzling everyone with their resilience.”

“Is that your way of saying I should make a grand return to society?” You raise an eyebrow, your heart flickering with the suggestion. “Perhaps adorned in feathers and sequins to distract from my previous mistake?”

“I’d be the first to support such a feat,” he replies earnestly, the sincerity in his voice a soothing balm for your frayed nerves. But beneath your amusement lies an aching truth: his encouragement only highlights the chasm between your feelings and his indifference. He will never look at you the way you long for.

“Yes, Lord Lee, what a wonderful idea!” your mother exclaims, her book long forgotten. “The Fitzwilliam Ball is to be held in the coming weeks—what a splendid way for our darling girl to re-enter society!”

Your face falls. A ball? So soon? The very thought sends a tremor of panic racing through you. “Mama, I—”

“Yes, Mother, a splendid idea indeed,” Minghao muses, a teasing glint in his eye. When you turn your glare to him, he sticks his tongue out meanly, and Seokmin suppresses a chuckle.

You take a deep breath, fighting against the swell of anxiety rising in your chest. “I’m not certain I’m ready for another ball, not after—” you start, but the words die on your lips as Seokmin’s gaze locks onto yours. His expression is gentle yet determined, a silent encouragement that stirs something deep within you.

“Ready or not, life moves on,” he says softly, leaning closer as if sharing a secret. “You have to take the reins, even if the prospect is daunting.”

You want to believe him, to embrace his unwavering optimism, but doubt gnaws at you. Can you truly face another crowd, the whispers, the judgment? Your heart flutters erratically, caught in a tempest of affection and despair. Seokmin’s eyes shine with an earnestness that quickens your pulse, yet it only reminds you of the gulf that lies between your feelings and his casual indifference.

“Life indeed moves on,” you echo, your voice barely above a whisper, more to yourself than to anyone else. “But what if I stumble again? What if I make an even greater fool of myself?”

Seokmin’s smile falters for just a moment, replaced by a flicker of understanding that cuts through the air like a knife. “We all stumble, but that’s how we learn to rise,” he replies, his tone steady yet soft. “And besides, I’ll be there. I promise I’ll help you navigate any disaster.”

His words wrap around you like a lifeline, a flicker of hope igniting your heart. But as the warmth of his promise settles in, a cold weight begins to press upon you. You look into his eyes, searching for something more, but find only the steadfast gaze of a friend—someone who would catch you if you fell, but only as a friend.

“Right,” you murmur, the pain of acceptance settling in your chest like a stone, heavy and unyielding, a reminder of the distance between you.

The late evening light filters softly through the sheer curtains of your room, casting a warm glow that barely reaches the pile of books haphazardly stacked beside your bed. These books, filled with tales of love and adventure, have provided a much-needed refuge from the reality of your recent debut. For days now, you’ve chosen to cocoon yourself in their comforting embrace, avoiding the whispers and curious glances of society that followed you after your disastrous introduction.

You had resolutely refused to attend any of the society events your mother deemed essential—the lady’s tea, with its orchestrated conversations and veiled judgments, or the garden party, where laughter seemed to echo around you while you felt only isolation. The thought of facing the same debutantes, the same mamas, their glances lingering a moment too long on you, made your stomach churn. Instead, you preferred the solace of your room, the pages of your books offering both distraction and comfort as you lost yourself in worlds far removed from the judgmental eyes of the ton.

But tonight, your mother is insistent. At last, the Fitzwilliam Ball is upon you, and you have no escape from your mother’s gentle chiding. “Darling,” she calls gently, her voice a melody that pulls you from the pages of your latest escape. The delicate scent of lavender wafts through the air as she steps into the room, her presence commanding yet warm. It is an unusual moment—your lady’s maid typically oversees your dressing, managing the layers of fabric and the intricate details of your ensemble. But today, it is your mother who steps into that role, a significant act that carries with it the weight of her affection and a chance to bridge the gap that your previous missteps had created.

“It’s time to get ready, my dear,” she says, her tone gentle but firm, as she approaches your wardrobe. As she opens the doors, the sight of your gown hanging inside takes your breath away.

The dress, an ethereal creation of lavender silk, shimmers like moonlight trapped in fabric. The bodice is adorned with intricate embroidery that depicts delicate vines and blossoms, each stitch telling a story of artistry and care. The sleeves are fitted, with lace cascading down to create a soft ruffle at the wrist, and the skirt flows in layers, each tier of lace and silk billowing like clouds as it moves. It is a gown befitting a princess, meticulously designed to showcase your family’s esteemed standing while allowing a hint of youthful exuberance to shine through.

“This gown is truly magnificent,” you murmur, your fingers tracing the embroidered flowers as your mother gently lifts it from the wardrobe. “I can’t believe you chose it yourself.”

“Of course, I did. It’s time for your grand re-entrance to society, after all,” she replies, a smile dancing on her lips as she helps you into the gown. The fabric wraps around you like a dream, soft and luxurious, but as your mother laces the bodice, the realization of how tightly it pulls leaves you breathless. Each tug of the laces feels like a reminder of the expectations that have come to define you, but your mother’s presence softens the edges of that pressure.

Yet, it is not discomfort that fills the room. Instead, the sounds of your mother’s laughter and intelligence wrap themselves around you. Your mother’s hands are gentle as she fastens each lace, her fingers brushing against your skin in a manner that reassures you. The stern disappointment of your debut, where you felt like a shadow beneath the weight of expectations, seems to dissipate, replaced by her usual grace and kindness. As she works, her voice drifts like a melody, recounting stories from her own youth, her laughter echoing softly against the mirror as if the memories bring light to the room.

With every loop of ribbon and every gentle tug, she weaves a tapestry of love and support, a tangible reminder that tonight is not merely a duty but a celebration of who you are. As she arranges your hair into an elegant updo, delicately weaving in pearl pins that glimmer like stars, you catch a glimpse of the woman she has always been beneath the layers of propriety. The warmth of her presence washes over you, igniting a flicker of hope that perhaps tonight will mark a new beginning.

“Are you ready?” she asks, stepping back to admire her handiwork, a satisfied gleam in her eyes.

“I suppose as ready as I’ll ever be,” you reply, taking a moment to admire your reflection. The gown transforms you into a vision of beauty, yet beneath the surface, you feel a tempest of uncertainty swirling within you.

“Now, let’s see what your brother thinks.” Your mother gestures toward the door, and as you descend the staircase, your heart quickens with every step.

At the foot of the stairs, Minghao waits patiently, the embodiment of duty and familial pride. His presence, regal and calm, adds to the moment’s gravity. Dressed in a tailored coat that accentuates his stature, he stands as the dutiful son and duke, ready to escort both you and your mother to the ball. The contrast between his composed demeanor and your own fluttering heart is stark, yet comforting. As you make your way down the stairs, your mother’s gentle squeeze of your hand gives you a modicum of strength, each step drawing you closer to the world outside that awaits your return.

“Sister,” Mighao greets, mirth dancing in his eyes. “I suppose if tonight is your big night, this gown does not offend the eyes.”

“Minghao!” Your mother’s rebuke is instant, a gentle reprimand that lightens the atmosphere with her authority.

“For goodness’ sake, brother,” you admonish, donning a façade of false bravado to hide the anxiety swirling within. “It seems as if you would simply keel over before you ever paid me a proper compliment!” You attempt to feign indignation, but the corners of your mouth betray you with the hint of a smile.

As you reach the bottom step, he extends his arm, a silent invitation to escort both you and your mother to the ball. It’s a gesture of duty, but there’s an undertone of affection that brings warmth to your heart. He may be the dutiful son and duke, poised and impeccably dressed in his tailored attire, but in this moment, he is simply your brother—standing beside you as a steadfast protector against the uncertainties of the evening ahead.

Your mother glances at both of you, her eyes sparkling with pride and a hint of nostalgia. “Shall we?” she prompts, her voice carrying a note of excitement that sends a flutter through your stomach.

With a deep breath, you take Minghao’s arm, feeling the reassuring strength of his presence as he leads you both toward the waiting carriage. The air outside is brisk, filled with the scent of blooming jasmine and the distant hum of music preparing to fill the grand halls. Each step you take resonates with the rhythm of your heartbeat, a mix of trepidation and hope.

As you settle into the plush interior of the carriage, the door closes with a soft click, sealing you away from the familiar confines of home and ushering you into a world of possibility. The grandeur of the evening awaits, and as the carriage rolls forward, the cobblestones beneath you echo with the anticipation of what’s to come.

You can’t shake the feeling that this night holds the promise of something new—perhaps redemption, or at the very least, the opportunity to reclaim your place among the society that had once felt so cruel. As the carriage sways gently with each turn, you steal a glance at your mother and brother, their expressions a blend of excitement and encouragement. In this moment, surrounded by their unwavering support, you begin to believe that maybe, just maybe, tonight could be different.

Fate is certainly a cruel mistress—despite your greatest hopes, the ball is positively dismal.

The ballroom is every bit as grand as you’d imagined—no, grander. Chandeliers dripping with golden light cascade overhead, casting a warm, ethereal glow over the polished marble floor. The air is thick with the intoxicating scent of roses and jasmine, mingling with the lively music of the orchestra, where violins soar and the occasional trill of laughter punctuates the harmony. Silks and satins swirl in every direction as the season’s debutantes twirl with their suitors, their gowns a riot of color that makes you feel like a ghost in comparison.

But none of it feels as magical as you once thought it would. Instead, you stand to the side, clutching the silk of your gown, its intricate lace and delicate pearls feeling like a weight rather than a luxury. Your mother had ensured that every stitch was perfect, every detail immaculate, to help erase the memory of your disastrous debut. Yet, it hasn’t worked. The whispers haven’t stopped. Even here, amidst the splendor, you can feel the gazes sliding over you, only to dart away, as if your very presence is a reminder of your failure.

The other debutantes are radiant, their smiles bright as they are swept onto the dance floor by handsome, eligible gentlemen. But you... you might as well be invisible.

Your heart sinks as you watch them, a heavy weight settling in your chest. This is meant to be a night of joy and celebration, yet you feel like a fragile glass ornament left behind, forgotten in the bustle of a festive occasion. The laughter and music create a vibrant tapestry of life around you, but inside, you’re drowning in a sea of insecurity and self-doubt.

Just when despair threatens to envelop you entirely, a presence beside you breaks through the haze. Seokmin, as effortlessly charming as ever, sidles up, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “Quite the spectacle, isn’t it?” he remarks, his voice low so only you can hear. “I’m certain some of these mamas could lead an army with the way they maneuver their daughters.”

You blink at him, surprised by his lightheartedness. Despite the heat of embarrassment burning your cheeks, a smile pulls at your lips, momentarily pushing aside the shadows clouding your heart.

Before you can respond, he holds his hand out to you, a silent invitation, and for a moment, you hesitate. Seokmin, who could have any lady in the room, is asking you to dance? Your heart stutters, a wild flutter of hope mingling with anxiety, and you glance around, acutely aware of the whispers beginning to stir again. People are noticing the exchange, their eyes narrowing in speculation. But Seokmin stands before you, his hand outstretched, waiting with an easy confidence that momentarily disarms you.

With a deep breath, you place your gloved hand in his, and he leads you to the center of the ballroom as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The moment your feet hit the floor, however, the murmurs begin in earnest, slicing through the enchantment that had briefly settled around you.

“Isn’t that the girl?” someone whispers, just loud enough for you to hear. “The one who fainted?”

“I’d heard,” another voice chimes in, “that no one would ask her to dance. Poor dear, but what did she expect after such a performance?”

You keep your eyes firmly fixed on Seokmin, but each word is like a needle, sharp and painful, pricking at your composure. The worst of it comes when you catch sight of one of the mamas, her face set in a smirk as she whispers to her daughter—the same daughter you had once taken pianoforte lessons with. The girl lets out a small, mean-spirited laugh, and your stomach twists, the laughter echoing like a death toll.

The memory of your debut hangs over you like a dark cloud, heavy and suffocating. Your embarrassment simmers, threatening to boil over. The murmurs become unbearable, and instinctively, you move to pull away from Seokmin, ready to flee. But before you can, his grip tightens, firm but gentle.

“Leaving so soon?” he teases, his voice low and playful, a lifeline in the midst of the storm. “Didn’t your mama teach you it’s bad manners to leave in the middle of a dance?”

You try to focus on his words, on the feel of his hand in yours, but it’s no use. You feel like every eye is on you, dissecting your every movement, judging, whispering, laughing. Seokmin is a shield, but he can’t block all the venom aimed at you.

“I can’t—” you begin, your voice thick with emotion, but Seokmin cuts you off.

He reaches up, loosening a perfectly pinned curl from your hair, letting it fall gently by your cheek. His eyes are soft, almost tender, and in that moment, you feel something flutter to life in your chest. “Eyes on me, Tulip,” he murmurs, and the way he says it—so calm, so sure—makes your heart skip a beat.

For the briefest moment, you think he might love you. That despite the gossip, despite the humiliation, Seokmin sees you—the girl beneath the debutante, the one who has admired him from afar for so long. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you see Minghao. He stands by the edge of the ballroom, watching. And then—he nods. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but Seokmin notices, and he nods back.

Your blood runs cold.

You blink up at Seokmin, the warmth in your chest turning to ice. “Did you do this because Minghao asked you to?” The words slip out before you can stop them, low and desperate, laced with betrayal.

Seokmin’s brow furrows. “Do what?”

“This. The dance.” You glance around at the swirling crowd, the eyes that have never left you. “The attention. Did you ask me because he wanted you to? To salvage my prospects?”

His confusion is genuine, but the truth is written in his face—open, honest, and devastating. He hesitates, and it’s all you need to know.

“Damn you,” you whisper, voice shaking with fury and hurt. His eyes widen, shocked by the venom in your voice, the curse slipping from your lips like something foreign. “Damn you, Lee Seokmin.”

“Y/N—” he starts, his voice softening, trying to explain, to defend himself. But you don’t give him the chance.

“I thought,” you continue, the words tumbling out in a rush, “I thought you asked me because you wanted to, not because you were told to. I thought you held me in higher regard than this.” You laugh bitterly, a sound that catches in your throat. “How foolish of me.”

The onlookers are whispering more now, their curiosity piqued by the tension in the air, the way your voice trembles with barely contained emotion. But you don’t care. You’re done caring.

With a mocking curtsy, you drop your hands from his and step back. “My lord,” you say, dripping with sarcasm, “I do apologize for any inconvenience to your social standing.”

Seokmin’s eyes widen, panic flashing in them as he realizes the gravity of your words, the weight of what you’re about to do. “Y/N, wait—”

But you don’t wait. You turn on your heel and stalk toward the ballroom’s exit, your skirts swirling around you in a flurry of lilac silk and lace, your heart pounding painfully in your chest. The gasps and murmurs of the guests fade into the background as you flee, your vision blurred with unshed tears.

Behind you, Seokmin’s voice calls out, desperate, pleading. “Y/N, please—stay—”

But you don’t look back. You run.

The chill of the night air bites at your skin as you emerge from the grand ballroom, the sounds of the festivities quickly swallowed by the night. Minghao is hot on your heels, and you hear the familiar click of his shoes echoing against the cobblestone streets. As you enter the carriage, your fury erupts like a dam breaking.

“How dare you meddle in my life?” you exclaim, the words bursting forth with a fervor that sends a shiver down your spine. The tears spill over, mingling with the delicate fabric, each droplet a testament to your exasperation. “I wish to be left alone!”

Minghao, ever the picture of serene composure, raises an eyebrow, though his calm demeanor only serves to ignite your temper further. “I’m only trying to help you, dear sister,” he replies, his voice as soothing as a summer breeze.

“Help? Is that what you call this? You think I’m some delicate flower that requires your constant tending?” Your heart beats faster, each pulse an echo of your indignation. “You are not my keeper, Minghao!”

He opens his mouth, surely to deliver some well-meaning retort, but you are not in the mood for restraint. “You think I can’t manage my own affairs? That I need you to dictate who I should associate with? Let me remind you, I am not a child!”

In a fit of fury, you throw one of your shoes toward him, the delicate slipper soaring through the air; Minghao ducks just in time, the shoe landing with a soft thud against the carriage wall.

“Is this truly your idea of a civilized discussion?” he remarks, feigning offense. “Throwing footwear instead of engaging in rational discourse? My, how you’ve mastered the art of temper tantrums!”

“Better to throw a shoe than to be lectured like a schoolgirl!” you counter, your voice rising to match his. “You presume to know what is best for me, but you are merely reflecting your own apprehensions! You have no concept of my struggles!”

Minghao’s brow furrows, and for a fleeting moment, his expression softens, as if he might relent. But then he leans forward, his voice low and fervent. “And you believe that sulking in the corner will resolve anything? You are only isolating yourself further!”

“Perhaps I wish to be alone!” you declare, your voice ringing with defiance, the words spilling out like water from a broken dam. “Perhaps I grow weary of this charade, that everything is perfect when it is most decidedly not!”

A tense silence envelops the carriage, the air thick with unspoken words. You both breathe heavily, the conflict hanging between you like a fine silk thread ready to snap. The rest of the ride is steeped in a heavy silence, each passing moment thickening the air with unspoken words and unresolved feelings. You lean against the plush seat of the carriage, your gaze fixed on the world outside. The blurred lights of the city flicker past, dimming into the encroaching darkness, and with each glimmer that fades from view, a piece of your heart seems to shatter.

Inside, your thoughts spiral. Betrayal gnaws at you like a ravenous beast, devouring any remnants of confidence you had managed to muster before the ball. Seokmin was supposed to be your ally in this fight, your so-called “loyal servant”; a beacon of warmth amidst hushed whispers. Yet now, as the reality settles in, you realize he is merely Minghao's friend, not yours. 

How could you have been so naïve? Your mind races back to moments you once cherished: the laughter shared over private nicknames, the comfort of his presence when you felt small and insignificant. He had danced with you, yes, but it had been an act of duty, an obligation to your brother, not a genuine desire to hold you close. You had hoped, foolishly, that he might look beyond your failed debut, that he might understand the person beneath the gown and lace. Yet here you are, reduced to a mere pawn in a game you didn’t even want to play.

A sob catches in your throat, but you swallow it down. Instead, you grip the edges of your gown tightly, feeling the intricate lace and delicate pearls dig into your palms, until you are sure you will have bruises in the morning.

How could Seokmin have allowed himself to be used this way? Did he not care enough to stand by you when it mattered most? He had seen you, yes, but only through the lens of loyalty to Minghao, not as the woman you wished to be, not as the friend you had thought he saw.

By the time the carriage arrives at your home, the bitterness in your chest is a wellspring of anguish. The vibrant ball is now a distant memory, a dream turned nightmare, and all you can do is silently mourn the friendship you thought would endure. You glance at Minghao, his face set in a mask of determination, oblivious to the storm of emotion swirling inside you.

As you step out of the carriage, he follows closely behind, his footsteps heavy with regret. “Y/N,” he begins, his voice low and earnest, “I thought I was doing what was best for you. I thought—”

You cut him off, spinning to face him, your expression fierce with hurt. “It’s too late, brother,” you declare, the words like shards of glass spilling from your lips. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me. You’ve ruined everything.”

His eyes widen, a mixture of shock and remorse flooding his features. “I never meant to hurt you—”

“It doesn’t matter what you meant!” you snap, frustration and pain intertwining in a chaotic dance. “You acted without thinking. You’ve taken something precious from me.”

Minghao opens his mouth to argue, to defend himself, but the words die on his lips. The truth hangs in the air, heavy and palpable, as the reality of your fractured trust settles between you.

For the rest of the season, you do your best to blend into the walls at every ball, and you succeed. You become a shadow flitting between vibrant gowns and boisterous laughter. Each event becomes a blur of swirling colors and muffled sounds. You move quietly, navigating the sea of opulence with a heavy heart, wearing a mask of indifference that hides the turmoil brewing just beneath the surface.

You linger in corners, your fingers tracing the intricate patterns of wallpaper as if seeking solace in their delicate designs. The bright chandeliers above cast their warm glow on the happy couples swirling in perfect harmony, while you remain firmly anchored in your solitude, an invisible wall erected around your heart. You watch as others twirl and laugh, and your heart aches for Seokmin’s easy companionship, the lively conversations and playful banter that now feel like a distant memory.

With each passing ball, the weight of your isolation grows heavier. Minghao’s well-intentioned apologies echo in your mind, but their impact fades against the reality of your existence. You’ve become an expert at deflecting curious gazes, practicing the art of blending in so well that the laughter and music seem to wash over you like water off a duck’s back.

But it is Seokmin’s absence that echoes loudest in your heart. He might have always been your brother’s best friend, but you had hoped he would be something more—something real. As the music swells, the realization settles heavily on your shoulders: you are utterly, irrevocably alone.

Seokmin doesn’t ask you to dance again for the rest of the season. 

Tagging: @kibs-and-bits@moondustmemories@shinwonderful@ivehypnosis@gwend0lyne @thestoryofana13 @mellowamour @blissedjoon @begentlewithme-please @xabsolutelynothingx @reiofsuns2001 @mngyulvrs @mooniewrld @archivistworld @lexyraeworld @ateez-atiny380 @walkinganxiety01 @lovecleastrange

[velvetvexations]

Nursed With Kerosene Chapter One Willow World

Here it is! The first part of my serial novel, Nursed With Kerosene. This is the result of so much hard work. It's a story I've been wanting to tell for awhile, with a core cast of characters I first created as a child and many more I've created over the last few years. It's 79 pages long but it would mean the world to me if you read it and enjoy it. I really can't tell you how much this work means to me.

To give a brief description, Nursed With Kerosene is about praxis, love, rage, friendship, compassion, humanity, horror, lesbians, capitalism, psychosis, faith, therapy, music, understanding, swords, parenting, ninja, and a lot of other things.

To give a somewhat less brief description, Nursed With Kerosene is influenced a lot by the structure of TV shows like Angel and The Librarians, featuring a team of supernatural problem-solvers dealing with things no one else can. There is also more than a dash of anime in there, because I'm a shameless weeb. My ideal medium would be a series of Newground animations in 2006.

Nursed With Kerosene is part of my setting Memoirs to Prove the Existence of the Devil. The only other released MtPtEotD story is my previously published short story Six Underground, but it actually takes place long after NWK. Having said that, like a Soulsborne, a large part of NWK is going to be slowly unraveling things. You're not intended to understand everything. Names and events and concepts get mentioned, and you don't get it, and that's the intended experience. Hopefully you feel like you want to learn more.

Memoirs to Prove the Existence of the Devil is an adaption of the Cthulhu Mythos, as well as several stories in it's orbit not nearly as remembered as the works of Lovecraft, such as Algernon Blackwood's work. I really mine the shit out of the public domain, ngl. The journey I've taken through obscure late 19th and early 20th century literature is worthy of a non-fiction book all of it's own, and I may write that someday as well.

Some content warnings:

gore

transphobia

ableism

sexual harassment

misogyny

anti-masculinity

feds

Englishmen

characters who are honestly pretty terrible people but I demand, selfishly, that you like them anyway

I hope you like it. <3

[javierpenaispunk]

Rose, Rose, Rose…

Wow. Just.. wow. I definitely wasn’t ready for the beauty of this chapter. These two lovebirds filled my heart.

I’m perfectly okay with being single but Lydia and Ben make me want to fall in love. The love, respect, admiration, passion they have for each other is beautiful.

I loved their romantic trip to Paris and how your description made me want to go back there. I’ve been to Paris many times but the way you (and Lydia) talked about it made me want to visit the places they’ve been to.

This chapter was incredibly hot, the smut was chef’s kiss and made me want to take a cold shower.

I appreciated that despite the fact that she’s the most beautiful woman in Ben’s eyes, Lydia’s insecurities are still there. It’s important to point out that it’s not that easy to get rid of them even if it hurts to hear her being so harsh to herself. I can relate to her and to her insecurities a lot and I wish I had someone like Ben to tell me to be kinder to myself.

“So, I’m going to take charge and show you exactly how fucking beautiful you are, how sexy you are, how fucking happy I am that I get to be with you.” He pauses to kiss you again. “And if I have to, like I said - I’ll do this every day for the rest of time, if necessary, until you see what a perfect goddess you are.”

🫠🫠🫠

Ben looks up at you, eyes glittering with lust and adoration. He is a supplicant before you, ready to worship, to seek and give a pleasure as sacred as it is profane. He venerates your body with his mouth. His tongue traces the outline of your hips, his lips kiss the softness of your lower belly, his teeth scrape across the thick flesh of your upper thighs. He tugs the panties down completely, parting your legs and helping you out of the garment.

“I want you to keep the stockings on, okay?”

Yup. I am 🙋🏼‍♀️

I am so excited to know what’s going to happen next. I’m in love with your story. I’m in love with your characters. I’m thankful you brought them to life.

Thank you for sharing 💜

Visiting - Chapter 12: If I Must Have A Future

(moodboard by @agentjackdaniels)

Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)

Summary: Seeking a change of scenery after her life falls apart, Lydia crosses the Atlantic and arrives in a small New England town, to spend a year expanding her intellectual horizons as a visiting professor of art history at a small liberal arts college. Her growing friendship with Ben Morales, professor of Hispanic literature, forces Lydia to confront the fallout from her past - and raises unexpected questions about the future.

Chapter summary: Spring break comes to Barrow, and with it a European trip with major consequences for Ben and Lydia.

Word count: ~18k words (I'm so sorry but HEY LOOK THEY'RE BACK!)

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Warnings (chapter specific): Smut; quite a lot of smut really; oral sex (M and F receiving); unprotected but safe PiV sex; fingering; praise kink; very mild submission kink if you squint; self-esteem and body/weight insecurity; anxiety; angst; family dynamics; strong language; alcohol consumption; references to past instances of emotional abuse; fluff

A/N: Oh, boy. This was a labour of love. An incredibly important part of their story, and one that took me ages to get ‘right’. This is not the end of Visiting - I’m planning about three more chapters, which will not be as long as this one. So there is still more to come from Ben and Lydia.

I wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who was so kind and excited about the little Christmas one-shots I wrote for this pair - sometimes I feel like my dorks are the last kind of characters people want in this fandom, and it was lovely to see that they have readers who actually care (and even miss them!). Thank you too to everyone who voted in the poll about the chapter length. You wanted the full-on 18,000 words - you’re getting it.

And a special word for @agentjackdaniels, who screamed with me when we got one of the most Benergetic red carpet looks I’ve ever seen at the Emmys, who made my gorgeous new header image, and who has helped me see more times than I’d care to admit over the last few months that I matter and make a difference, especially around here. I hope I have done the same, too.

See the Series Masterlist for an outline of Lydia’s story and background.

Chapter 11 - Chapter 13

Cross-posting to AO3 (and if you’re reading on there, too, and yelling along in the comments, love you!)

Further A/N at the end of the chapter.

The title of this chapter is a line from the Fontaines DC song “I Love You”, which is not terribly romantic, all told, but I heard it over the holidays and this lyric hit me hard: If I must have a future/I want it with you.

Taglist: FYI I’m retiring taglists as they are giving me so much trouble with people not getting notifications - follow me on @ladameecrit and turn on notifications. But just in case: @agentjackdaniels, @tessa-quayle , @vermillionwinter , @iamskyereads , @tieronecrush, @perennialdoll247 , @love-the-abyss, @javierisms, @fuckyeahdindjarin , @littlemisspascal , @khindahra , @pedrostories , @readingiskeepingmegoing , @rhoorl , @red-red-rogue , @princessanglophile , @katareyoudrilling @survivingandenduring , @trulybetty @fictionismyreality @sunnywithachanceofjavi , @joeldjarin , @lahoozaherr, @s-u-t, @its-nebuleuse

“We will shortly be beginning our descent. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.”

You have never been one for sleeping on planes. Ben, on the other hand, has been snoozing away for the last two hours, the thin airline blanket comically small on his broad frame. 

You put a hand on his arm to gently rouse him. “Love? We’re almost there.” 

He blinks awake, eyes sleepy and hair askew, and stretches out his arms. “Mmmmfff. Hi, Lyd. You excited?”

“Yeah, I am. I’m really looking forward to seeing them.” 

You’d mentioned the trip shortly after Valentine’s, during a conversation after dinner about plans for the spring break. 

Your spring visit home had been booked since well before Christmas. A few days at home, visiting your family and catching up, and then to Paris for a week of tying up loose research ends and some vacation time. 

It sounded blissful at the time. Now, your anticipation was tempered with disappointment at the prospect of leaving him here. 

“So, uh, what are you doing for spring break, love? You going west, or…”

He shrugs. “Ordinarily I’d try to get a few days in San Francisco. But everyone’s got plans and is out of town on various trips, so there’s no point.” He looks a little resigned. “So it’s time catching up on work and my reading here, I guess. Maybe do some prep for directing the student play after the vacation. When are you back from your trip?”

There’s a nervous knot in your stomach. Just ask. Just do it. 

“Could you take your reading and directing prep on the road?”

He looks perplexed. You take a deep breath. 

“What if you came with me?” 

Ben’s eyes widen. “Come with you? To see your family?”

Oh, fuck. You’ve pushed your luck. This is too weird. 

“No, don’t worry about it.” You stand up from the table and pick up your plates. “I just knew I’d miss you but it’s probably too much. It’s fine. Forget I said it.”

He follows you into your tiny kitchen and leans against the doorframe. “What if I wanted to come?”

“Wanted? I mean, you seemed totally stunned that I’d even ask.”

He shakes his head and smiles gently. “Not stunned, as such. Surprised, maybe? But not in a bad way.”

“Why surprised, then?” You cross the small linoleum floor and wrap your arms around his waist. He blushes, tucking his chin against his chest bashfully. 

“I dunno. Just that you want to bring me home with you? It… it means a lot to me.”

“It means a lot to me just to ask you, love. But you don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

He looks at you with those big dark eyes and you feel your heart swell. “But I think I’d like to. As long as that’s okay with your family, of course? I don’t want to be in the way.”

You laugh and raise your eyebrows. “In the way? I think they’d be more excited about seeing you than me.” You rest your head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “You know they think you’re great, you’ve been on the video calls. My mother asks me more about you than she does about myself.”

He wraps an arm around you and kisses the top of your head. “It’s different in person, sometimes.”

You shake your head. “Mmmm, I don’t think so in this case. You haven’t been dealing with daily queries about the welfare and wellbeing of Ben Morales. And no, she doesn’t yet seem to realise she can just call you by your first name.”

He chuckles and holds you closer. “Guess I’d better go book some flights, huh?”

Ben pushes the luggage cart towards the sliding doors and out into the bright, bustling Arrivals area, where families wait excitedly at the barrier to greet their loved ones. 

“LYDIAAAAAAAA!” 

You immediately spot your parents, standing right in the centre of the barrier, aligned with the sliding doors. It’s still very early in the morning and you wonder how long they’ve been here, waiting at the perfect spot to see the two of you emerge. 

You give Ben’s arm a reassuring squeeze as the two of you walk towards your excited family. “You’re not a stranger, love. They already love you. Remember that.”

Ben has barely exited the arrivals area when he’s enveloped in a warm embrace by your mother, who seems to have forgotten you entirely. Your father puts an arm around you and smiles widely while your mother coos over Ben. “And Ben Morales! Welcome, welcome. We’re so delighted to have you.”

Your mother has had her hair done and is dressed in an outfit that feels somewhere between “weekday lunch at a nice restaurant” and “Sunday best”. She’s also using what you and Kate refer to as her “telephone voice” when she speaks to Ben, more clipped and flatter than her usual tones. 

“Mom, he knows what you sound like normally, you don’t need to put on the fancy accent.” You hug your father tightly and notice that his eyes are shining. He’s similarly neatly dressed, wearing a nice smart-casual pair of pants and a matching shirt and v-neck light sweater. 

“I am talking normally!” your mother fires back, followed by a tinkly laugh as she tilts her head and smiles at Ben. He smiles broadly, though you know he’s shattered, and your mother gives you a look that says “See? Ben likes me.”

Your father shakes Ben’s hand before embracing him. “The two of you must be exhausted,” he says, arm still wrapped around Ben’s shoulders. “Let’s head to the car.”

Ben and your dad lead the way, your mother reaching for your hand and giving it a warm squeeze as you walk companionably a few steps behind. 

“Welcome home, pet. I’m delighted he’s here too. We’re so happy for you.” She looks ahead and appraises Ben’s broad frame as he pushes the luggage cart and chats to your father. 

“Grand big man, isn’t he?”, she says approvingly. “Don’t look at me like that, Lydia!”

“There’s milk there and bread and tea and coffee and a few biscuits and butter and a couple of bags of crisps and -“

“Mom, we’re fine. We’ll take care of ourselves. Okay?”

Your mother throws up her hands in resignation. “Alright! Just wanted to make sure you didn’t starve.” 

Kate, Marc, and their little girls have taken over your parents’ house for the duration of renovation works on their own home, and in the interests of space (and your sanity) you’d booked a small holiday flat in your hometown for the visit. Now, with Ben in tow, the privacy of the flat was even more welcome. 

“Thank you. I mean it. Now, can we please go and get some rest?” You hug her tightly and she kisses your cheek, before looking in Ben’s direction. 

“Of course. We’ll see you later, though? For something to eat? Kate and Marc and the girls are that excited to see you, I think they might burst.”

You stand beside Ben, bringing your hand to the small of his back, and wave your parents off as they return to the car. They’re not even out of earshot when you hear your father saying “He wouldn’t let her lift a single bag! Not one! Helped her all the time. Lovely chap. Very nice. Far cry from the other fucker…”

Subtlety has never been their strong point. You just hope Ben is too jet-lagged to have heard what they said.

A relaxed family meal, she said. Nothing special, she said. Come over in the early afternoon. It’s just like a Sunday lunch, she said. 

Your mother is reading Ben a list of menu options that’s longer than in some restaurants. His eyebrows rise and fall as he takes it in and considers the possibilities.

“Honestly, Mrs -“

“MARIE. I told you.”

“Honestly, Marie, I’ll just have whatever everyone else is having. It all sounds great. Do you need any help in the kitchen?”

“I most certainly do not. You can have whatever you want. You are the guest.” 

“Seriously. Whatever’s easiest.” He looks nervously at you and speaks in a low voice. “What is easiest?” 

You shrug. “Probably the beef.”

He beams at your mother and tells her he’ll have some beef. She tilts her head, smiles delightedly at him, and does that tinkly laugh again before returning to the kitchen. 

The meal is delicious but, inevitably, chaotic. Your three-year-old niece Cora, who had insisted on sitting between you and Ben (Benjamoo, as she persisted in calling him), realises quickly that the family-style service meant she could help herself to her favourite sides as and when she wanted, chubby little hands rapidly making a mark on the mashed potato and carrots. Your mother keeps asking if the food is hot enough. Kate and Marc try to talk to Ben while corralling little Evie and making sure she gets fed. 

Your father, meanwhile, veers between talking delightedly to the little girls and engaging Ben in a rapidly-shifting conversation that covers San Francisco, transatlantic flights, whether Ben liked sports, and a detailed description of the plot of a film he’d watched the week before. You couldn’t work out which film it was, but you knew it had Kevin Costner in it. Mostly because your dad kept referring to him as “Kevin Costner”, rather than by the character’s name. 

You rest a hand on Ben’s knee, under the solid dining table your father had made for the family home when you were barely two. 

“You doing okay? I know we’re a bit much…”

His warm hand covers yours and he smiles softly. 

“I’m great, Lyd. And you haven’t been to a Morales family meal yet - now that’s a bit much. Just you wait and see.”

You grin and lean your head affectionately on his shoulder for a moment, winding your fingers through his, never noticing the conspiratorial, knowing look exchanged between Kate and your mother. 

You and Ben insist on clearing the dishes, making short work of loading the dishwasher before your parents can tell you off for letting the guest do the chores. Through the kitchen window you see Cora running towards her little plastic play house, on temporary loan to your parents’ back garden while Kate and Marc’s building work is being completed. Kate follows swiftly behind, waving a soft fleece jacket at her daughter.

After wrangling Cora into her jacket, she appears at the back door. “Cora wants to know if Ben can come and visit her tea shop. Not you, Lyd. She was very clear about that. Only Benjamoo.”

He smiles happily and puts down his dish towel, before making a sympathetic face at you and kissing your cheek. “Sorry, Lyddie. I guess I better take up my invitation.” 

It’s a hilarious and adorable sight: Ben, sitting cross-legged on the mat beside Cora’s house, hair a bit messy and eyes still a little tired behind his glasses, broad-shouldered in his grey Berkeley sweatshirt and decidedly out of proportion to the pink-and-white plastic cottage. You can hear him giving Cora his order and talking rapturously about the “tea” she serves him in a little pink cup, while she giggles and claps her hands. 

Marc and your father arrive in the kitchen, your brother-in-law carrying little Evie in his arms. “Evie thinks she’s missing out on the fun with Ben and Cora,” he announces, opening the back door. “And we want to make sure Cora doesn’t try to force-feed mud cakes to your boyfriend.”

You’d been so nervous about this - not because you thought your family wouldn’t like Ben, or vice versa, but because by definition the first visit to your partner’s family feels a little like an audition of some kind. It has the potential to go horribly wrong, no matter how well prepared you are, or how many video calls you’ve had over the last couple of months.

But here he is, now, integrated happily into your close-knit family of origin, getting on famously with your parents, sister, and brother-in-law, and making your beloved little niece laugh like a drain as he pretends to drink from her toy teapot. Like he was always here. Or always meant to be here.

There’s a surge of emotions in your chest: deep love and affection, above all, but with it a reminder that your future together is by no means assured. Assuming, of course, that he wants a future together. 

“He’s good with kids, isn’t he?” 

Kate’s voice startles you. “Where did you come out of?”

“I’m stealthy when I want, Lyd. Anyway, you haven’t answered my question.”

You throw a bombastic side eye in your younger sister’s direction. “I know what you’re getting at.”

Kate shrugs, the picture of innocence. “I’m just observing.”

“Ben is a wonderful uncle. Just as I am a wonderful aunt. We like that. And that’s one of the things I love about him.” You lean on the kitchen counter, voice quieter. “So…what do you think?”

Kate arches an eyebrow in your direction. Your mother arrives in the kitchen with impeccable timing, as ever. 

“What do I think of what?”

“You know what. Who. Him. Ben.”

Your mother laughs as she fills the kettle with water and puts it on to boil for some teas and coffees. She turns round to face her two daughters. “Well, Kate, I don’t know about you, but - he wouldn’t be for me.”

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

Kate opens a cupboard and starts to take out some mugs. “I know what you mean, mom. Not really for me, either.”

“You know yourself, Kate,” your mother adds, finding a carton of milk in the fridge and filling a small milk jug, “Just not my thing at all.”

Anger spreads hot and warm across your face. “Good, because he’s not your fucking ‘thing’, he’s my thing and I can’t believe how two-faced you’re being. All sweetness and light and then saying he’s not really for you and -”

Your mother holds out a hand, expression deadpan. “Lydia, not everyone wants a man who’s kind and funny and genuine and clearly worships the ground his girlfriend walks on.”

“Exactly,” Kate chimes in. “Just because you love someone who’s really smart and nice and good with kids and is actually kind of cute in a dorky way doesn’t mean the rest of us do.”

For a moment, your confusion and anger doesn’t quite let you hear what they’re saying. “I’m not asking you to be in love with him, I’m just - oh. Oh.”

Marie and Kate burst out laughing. 

“Well, fuck the two of you. Forty-two years and you’re still winding me up.”

Your mother wraps you in a warm cuddle. “Ah, poor Lyd. We’re sorry. We just couldn’t resist.”

“He’s so lovely, Lyd,” Kate adds, embracing you from behind. “I mean it. Marc thinks so, too. I know I said at Christmas that he looked like he’d been engineered in a lab for you and it looks like I was right. And Ben’s even cuter in the flesh, not that I notice such things.” She coughs for dramatic effect. “What with being a married mother of two.”

“And he loves the bones of you, darling girl,” your mother whispers. “And sure, why wouldn’t he?”

“I don’t know about you, love, but I’m shattered.” 

Ben glances over at you and wraps his arm around your shoulders, bringing you in to nuzzle against his chest. He holds up his copy of the script for Samuel Beckett’s Endgame, multicoloured tabs fluttering like tiny flags. 

“I’m just going to work through one more scene, is that okay?”

You hum contentedly. “Of course, love. How’s it going, anyway?”

He flicks through a few pages, scanning his notes and annotations. The comparative literature students put on a play every year, towards the end of the second semester, and Ben had to step in at short notice as director after a colleague in French fell ill. “It’s a relief we’re doing it in the English translation, put it that way. I just don’t know why Jen thought I could take this on, after Michèle went on sick leave.” 

You idly rub his tummy and kiss his side through his old shirt. “Because she knows you’re great and talented and the students love you, Mr Director.”

He huffs a laugh, marks up another section, adds a tab, and closes the book before taking off his glasses and shuffling down the bed and wrapping his free arm around you. He kisses the top of your head and holds you tight. 

“Thank you for bringing me home with you.”

You open your eyes and glance up at him. “Sure they haven’t put you off?”

“It would take a lot to put me off, Lyd. Anyway, they’re great. It - it meant a lot, to be welcomed like that, by the people you love.”

He looks down at you, and you place a light kiss on his jaw, smiling at the bristle of his beard against your lips. His gaze is solemn and intense as he reaches for your hand.

“I’m serious about this, Lyd. About us. You know?”

“I know. I’m serious about us, too. Deadly serious, in fact.”

He smiles, eyes shining, and kisses you, soft and slow, pulling you closer and working a path of kisses down the side of your neck as your body writhes against his. Tiredness is forgotten, for the moment, as you slip your hand inside the waistband of his loose boxers and tug them down, fingers wrapping around his cock. Ben sighs against your chest as you stroke him, his mouth finding your nipples as his long fingers trace the wetness building between your legs. With one leg hitched across his, you angle your hips just so and guide him inside you as he whispers your name against your ear. 

After you’ve made love, Ben falls asleep mid-cuddle, and you tuck yourself against him and close your eyes. But sleep doesn’t come easy. You should be delighted, after the beautiful day you’d had. But there’s an anxiety building in the back of your mind that you can’t quite shake. 

Serious this relationship may be, but spring will soon turn to summer, and with it the prospect of being separated indefinitely by an entire ocean and several time zones. Kate was wont to remind you that you “could just do distance for a while”, and she meant well. It was intended to reassure you. 

The problem was, the more you thought about what that option would actually mean, the less comfort it provided.

Over the next couple of days, you introduce Ben to the world of your hometown, to the places and people that shaped you. It is strange, at first, to see him, whole and present, in the spaces that defined your childhood. But it is a beautifully intimate thing, sharing memories with someone you love. You lay yourself even more bare before them, revealing the you that was before they knew you. 

The two of you have, of course, shared so much about yourselves and your pasts with each other in the time since you met. But this was different. Walking with him, pointing out your old schools, old haunts, swapping memories and stories, introducing him to random relations you meet in the streets: you are quietly knotting the strands of your past - with all its love, loss, joy and sorrow - with the man who, you hope, represents your future. 

Kate and Marc insist on bringing you to dinner one night. “It’d be wrong not to,” Marc had explained as you sat in your parents’ living room, Ben playing peek-a-boo with Evie while your mother looked on approvingly. “Sure we have built-in babysitting while we’re staying with Joe and Marie.” 

Your mother’s expression shifted instantaneously, shooting daggers at your brother-in-law. “Cheeky.”

Your hometown is not known for haute cuisine, but Kate booked a table at the nicest restaurant in town and it has been a perfect evening: good food, decent wine, and the pleasure of seeing how well Ben, Kate, and Marc are getting along. You and Kate go to the bathroom at one point, and she eyeballs you as you top up your lipstick, side by side, in the mirror. 

“Think he’s passed the audition, Lyd.” She pouts and blows a kiss at her reflection. “Oh, and guess what? We’ve got a special immersive cultural experience planned for the rest of the night.”

You swivel and glare at her. “And what does that involve, exactly?”

Kate picks up her handbag and does a little shimmy on the spot. “The Roxy, Lyd. The ultimate method of integrating your lovely Benjamin into your native place.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” 

The Roxy was once the town’s cinema, built in the 1940s and made redundant by the coming of the multiplex in the 1990s. Its owners had moved swiftly, though, and transformed the Roxy into a nightclub. It was a site of memorable nights out dancing with your friends, of crying in the bathrooms when you realised your crush was interested in someone else, of bad kissing, of telling random men to fuck off when they told you to smile, of screaming with glee when “Hey Ya” came on.

 If the Roxy was a taste, it would be peach schnapps and orange squash. Its smell, meanwhile, had lodged permanently in your memory: old cigarettes, sticky carpets, cheap aftershave, vanilla musk body spray. 

She was not kidding. You and Kate sit on some banquette seating in a corner of the Roxy’s lounge - which was just a separate floor with slightly better, more old-school music - and take in the completely incongruous sight of Ben, followed by Marc, weaving his way through the habitual crowd of locals with your drinks in hand. 

“Vodka tonic for Lyddie, gin and tonic for Kate.” Ben places the glasses on the table and nestles in beside you, giving your thigh a little squeeze. He reaches for his bottle of beer and raises it slightly. “Uh, cheers, I guess?”

Kate enthusiastically clinks her swimming pool-sized glass of gin and tonic off Ben’s drink. “Cheers! Now, you have to promise me you’ll dance. Otherwise it’s not full assimilation.”

You groan audibly and stir your drink with the straw as Ben chuckles. “C’mon, Lyd, you’ve got moves.” He raises an eyebrow at you mischievously. 

You manage to stave off the inevitable for a while, finishing your first vodka tonic and about to suggest you go to the bar when a familiar opening melody sends Kate leaping out of her seat, excitedly grabbing her husband and beckoning to you. 

“AS IT WAS?!? COME OOOONNNN LYYYYD!” Kate bellows back to you and Ben from the tiny dancefloor, where Marc is already showing off a move you can only describe as “rhythmic shuffling” while mouthing Harry Styles’ lyrics.

You look at Ben. He stands, removes his jacket, and offers you his hand, smiling expectantly. His hand rests gently on the small of your back as you join your sister and brother-in-law on the dancefloor, and he pulls you in to whisper in your ear. 

“We can do better than them, can’t we?”

You laugh, leaning in as he wraps an arm around your waist, takes your hand, and helps you exorcise all those demons of heartbreak long past on the dancefloor. 

As she clambers into a taxi in the early hours of the morning, Kate turns and yells “I’m telling mom you’re bringing a boy home with you from the Roxy!”, before collapsing in hysterics as Marc takes her hand and pulls her into the car. They grin and wave at you and Ben as it disappears up the street and back towards your parents’ house.

You lean against Ben as you walk back towards the little flat you’d rented for your stay at home, sighing contentedly as he drapes an arm around your shoulders. 

“She’s right, though,” you giggle, “I’m actually bringing the hot boy home with me from the Roxy. I’ve come a long way from endless rejection and the odd bit of bad kissing.”

Ben huffs a laugh as you open the main door of the building and climb the stairs to the apartment. “Well, fuckin’ good.” He adds a sassy little head movement for emphasis. 

“Excuse me?”

“Fuckin’ good. Because what would have happened to me if you’d been swept off your feet by one of those bad kissing boys back then?” He follows you into the little entrance hall and, for all his joking tone, there’s a vulnerability lurking in his beautiful eyes.

You cradle his face in your hands. “I’d have found you one way or another, Benjamin.” A coy smile crosses your lips as you take him in - danced out, hair mussed, and so stupidly sexy you still can’t quite believe he’s real. 

Your fingers hook inside his waistband as you pull him tight to you, leading him into the living room and pushing him against the wall as you bring a hand to his crotch. “And I’d like to make the most of bringing the hottest man home from the club for once in my life, if you don’t mind. Especially seeing as he was worth the wait.”

Ben’s eyes widen and he half gasps, half chuckles as you undo his jeans and slip a hand inside his boxers, stroking his cock as you pepper his throat with tiny kisses. He leans down slightly to bring a hand under the skirt of your dress, hitching up the fabric and slipping two fingers into your panties to play with your clit as he kisses you: hungry, urgent, wanting. 

But you’ve had something else on your mind all night. You break the kiss and begin to sink to your knees, hands around Ben’s waist for balance. 

Your eyes flit up to meet his. “Let me make you feel good, darling.”

His breath hitches as he takes you in: hair a little messy, eyes wide and wild, lips slightly parted, the soft flesh of your tits rising and falling with your breathing. 

“Fuck, Lyd, you’re amazing.”

“That a yes?”

He swallows hard and nods rapidly. “Fuck. Yes. Yes. Please.”

You lick your lips and smile as you carefully tug down the waistband of his boxer briefs. Your mouth presses into the softest, most sensitive parts of him: a kiss, a lick, a little nip to his belly; a course plotted down from his abdomen to the hardening cock you hold in your hand. You take him into your mouth, tongue swirling gently over the tip as you stroke him, revelling in the sensation and the moans of pleasure you’re pulling from the gorgeous man above you. Ben rests his hand on the back of your head and leans back against the wall, panting harder as you find your rhythm. 

The ache between your thighs builds with his every grunt and groan. Your fingertips find your clit, rubbing little circles over it in a fruitless bid to find some relief. You ease his cock out of your mouth with a pop and Ben helps you to your feet before you take his hand and guide him to the couch.

You slip off your panties and encourage him to lie back on the sofa as you gather the skirt of your dress around your waist and straddle him. “Need to fuck you, my love.” 

He grips the flesh of your hips and thighs, fingers pressing into your body as you take him inside you and begin to ride him, relishing the slow drag of his cock as you come undone. He looks beautiful underneath you, eyes wide and shining as he watches every move of your body.

“Fuck, Lyd,” he pants, smiling up at you. “You look incredible.” He reaches up and pulls down your neckline, groping your breasts and gazing at you like you’re the sexiest thing he’s ever seen: head thrown back, eyes closed, and vocal. 

He begins to thrust up into you, finding a rhythm that complements yours, intensifying the sensation so much that you can’t help but cry out with pleasure. 

“Yes, baby…fuck, that’s so fucking good, Ben, that’s fucking it, fuck!”

“Take it, Lyddie.” His dark eyes stare into yours, hands still gripping you firmly. “Ride me, take what you need…fuck, good fucking girl. I’ll give you whatever you need, whatever you want.”

And he knows what you need, in that moment. His thick fingers slip between your thighs and find your clit, circling it over and over as you keep on fucking him. 

You come hard, the last flutters of your orgasm still working through you when Ben follows suit. He’s still inside as you bend forward to kiss him, trailing your hands over his beautiful face and through his damp hair. You rest on his chest and let the sound of his breathing start to steady you as he holds you close for a couple of moments.

“I love you so much, Lyddie,” he pants quietly, chuckling to himself. “You’re a hell of a woman.”

For your last day, Ben suggests that he might make dinner at the flat, as a gesture of thanks for your family’s hospitality. You suggest lasagne with some sides as a general crowdpleaser, borrow some dishes from your mother, and Ben gets to work while you lay the place settings. 

The lasagne is cooking away happily when your mother arrives with Kate, Marc, and the girls. You look puzzled. 

“Where’s Dad?”

Your mother rolls her eyes as Cora goes tearing off around the flat, Kate following swiftly behind. “He insisted he had to go to the football match tonight. Of course. Anyway, he said he’ll be here shortly.”

Ben emerges from the kitchen, clad in a navy and white striped apron you’d used back when you (briefly) did home economics at school. He kisses your mother and Kate on the cheek and hugs Marc, before bending down to give a delighted Cora a high five. 

“I made you a present,” she says quietly, suddenly shy. 

Ben brings himself down to her level. “A present? For me? That’s amazing.”

Kate rummages in her bag and produces a rolled-up piece of paper, handing it to Ben. “She did it all herself. Mostly.”

You stand beside him as he unfurls it and Cora looks down at her toes. The drawing features a large figure with a mop of dark wavy hair and a wide smile - “Benjamoo”, Cora points out helpfully - standing close beside a slightly smaller figure immediately recognisable as you. “Auntie Lyd,” she adds seriously, in case you weren’t aware. 

The figures’ stick arms are touching. “Holding hands,” Cora says. 

Ben looks at Cora, then up at you, and back to the little girl. “This is the best art anyone’s ever given me. I’m going to put it on my wall when I get home.” He stands, and reaches for your hand, noticing the tears threatening in your eyes. “Auntie Lyd will help. Won’t you?”

You nod and squeeze his hand. Cora starts to giggle and points at you and Ben. 

“See? Holding hands.”

Ben and Marc pop out to the nearest supermarket shortly afterwards, when you realise you had neglected to buy garlic bread. You sit in the open-plan kitchen and dining area with your mother while Kate plays with her daughters in the living room. 

“You alright, love?” Marie notices how you fiddle with the place settings and rub your fingers together, sure signs that something’s on your mind. 

“Mmm? Sorry, I was miles away. Yeah, I’m… I think so.” You exhale. “I don’t know.”

Your mother gives you a little breathing room, waiting to see if you’ll open up more. 

“It’s just… fuck. I don’t know. I - what the fuck are we going to do?”

She sighs softly and pats the back of your hand. “You and Ben?” 

“Me and Ben. It’s spring break. And there’s no clear pathway about what we’ll do when my year in Barrow ends and I have to come back to my job over this side of the ocean.”

“Well, I mean… I know you hate the thoughts of it, Lyd, but have you talked about it? Kate’s right, you could always do long-distance for a while, until you knew what you both really wanted.”

You put your head in your hands. “We’ve said that we’re very serious about the relationship.” 

“So then! There’s your answer. No?”

You look up at her mournfully. “Yes and no. Yes, we’re serious about each other. No, that doesn’t mean we have any idea how to manage the distance.”

Marie adjusts the salt and pepper cruets in the middle of the table. “People do it, Lyd. It’s a commitment but they make it work.”

You nod slowly. “I just don’t know if that’s what I want, at this stage in my life. We see each other every day. We’re practically living together.”

Your mother fans herself in mock horror. “And not a hint of a ring on the finger, goodness!”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Forty-two, mother dear. But yeah. I don’t know if I could go from that to not seeing Ben for weeks or a month or more at a time. Not now.”

“So what does that mean?”

You swallow hard. “I don’t know. One of us moves. He moves for me. I move for him. But that means trying to find a permanent academic job and in both places that’s like finding a needle in a haystack.”

“And if there’s no job? Distance as a temporary measure?”

You bite your lip. “But what if that’s still too hard?”

“So move.”

“But that means him giving up his life for me, or me uprooting for him, and being so far from all of you and from here and…” You look up at your mother, feeling like a scared little girl again.

“I love him so much, Mom. I never thought I’d love anyone like that. Never thought I’d even meet someone like that. And for him to love me in return…fuck.”

Marie shifts closer and wraps her arm around your shoulders. “I know, love. I know. You love the bones of each other. And it’s real love. Everyone can see it.”

“What do we do?”

“Lydia, I can’t tell you what to do one way or the other. Only you know what’s right for the two of you.”

You lean your head on your mother’s shoulder and she gives your hand a squeeze. “I know. It’s just - fuck, why does it have to be hard? Don’t I deserve things to work out, for once?”

“You do, pet. Of course you do. No one deserves it more.”

“Sometimes it feels crazy, y’know? This time last year I didn’t know Ben existed, and now -”

“Now it’s like you’ve known each other forever? Like you can’t imagine life without him?”

You turn to face her, and smile. “Exactly.”

“That’s love for you.” Marie purses her lips, thinking. “I’m only going to say one more thing. Your happiness.”

“Huh?”

“Lyd, for years you prioritised someone else’s happiness over your own. I know, I know, that fucker moved for you when you got the job away, I know that. But apart from that…it was all you. All you, trying to keep someone else happy and cracking under the strain.” She inhales and exhales, trying to curb the fury that still burns in her when she remembers how you were treated. 

“All I’m going to say is this: don’t worry about anyone else, Lyd. Not me, not Dad, not Kate, Marc, the girls, your job - nobody. Well, worry about Ben. But above all, prioritise your happiness. We have ours over here. It’s time for you to find yours.”

You hug her tightly. “One final question.”

She nods and waits. 

“What does Dad think of Ben? I know it wouldn’t change my feelings but given everything from the shitshow, I’d like to know he doesn’t absolutely loathe him.”

She looks at her phone and pushes away from the table, walking into the living room and opening the door of the flat. “Ask him yourself, Lyd. Here he is now.”

Your father comes into the kitchen, talking about something that happened at the local football match he’d attended that afternoon and eyes already locked on the kettle, his mind focused on making a cup of tea. 

“Joe? Lyd wants to ask you something.”

You roll your eyes at your mother. “It’s not a big deal.”

He turns around, tea caddy in hand. He’s been to this flat twice, you think, and he knows exactly where all the tea-making equipment is kept. 

 “Alright. Ask away, Lyd. Are you alright? Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I just - Dad, what do you think?”

“What do I think of what?”

“Ben. Me and Ben, specifically. But also just Ben.”

Joe switches on the kettle and leans against the kitchen counter. “Sure, my opinion isn’t what matters. What matters is how you feel. Isn’t that right?” He looks to your mother for backup. 

“I said that to her, but she said she wanted to hear from you.”

He takes a mug out of the cupboard and drops a square teabag into it. “Lydia, is everything okay? Are you having any doubts about him, is that it?”

You laugh and shake your head. “Not a one.”

“And you don’t think he’s having any doubts about you? Because if he is I’ll fucking -“

“No, Dad. He… he’s very clear about how he feels.”

Your father nods in satisfaction. “Well, that’s reassuring. Would be strange if he wasn’t, given how he is with you. At least, what we’ve seen here.” He pours the freshly boiled water over the teabag and opens the fridge in search of milk. “But the point stands. You love each other, don’t you?”

You aren’t sure if your father has ever been so open or explicit with you in asking about a romantic relationship. Perhaps, you wonder, he regretted not being more honest about his concerns over the years of your longest one. 

“We do.” Your eyes fill with tears, unexpectedly. You swallow hard. “We love each other very, very much.”

“Okay then.” He stirs his tea vigorously, the metal of the teaspoon clinking off the stoneware mug. 

“But I still want to know what you think. It matters to me. Especially - especially after the last time.”

Joe pulls out a chair and settles at the table, your mother reaching automatically for a coaster and sliding it under the mug. “Lyd, you know what I’ve always said. There’s not one person walking this earth who deserves our lovely Lydia. Not one.”

Your heart sinks a little, and you nod. You’ve heard this a lot since your ex cheated and fucked off. You never really believe it. 

“But.” Your father pauses and sips his tea. 

“But?”

He looks at you and reaches out to touch your hand. “But - that lovely man you brought home definitely comes very close indeed.”

Right on cue, the front door opens and you can hear Ben and Marc chatting companionably and laughing together. Marc does a silly little dance into the kitchen, waving the garlic bread around like glow sticks.

“Now, please don’t destroy the garlic bread before it’s even gone into the oven, Marc!”

As your mother grabs the bread and sneaks a peek at the lasagne, now browned to perfection, Ben pulls you in for a quiet word.

“Lyddie, are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”

You lean against his chest as he wraps his arms around you. “I’m okay, darling. I just needed this. Needed you.” The oven timer pings and you look at him. “Time for Professor Morales to serve us his delicious lasagne. C’mon, we can plate up before my mother takes over.”

You thought goodbyes would get easier the longer you worked away from home, but the opposite turned out to be true. Your parents are doing their usual brave face routine at the airport: Joe clearly trying not to cry, Marie overdoing the levity to distract you and stave off her own sadness at seeing you go. 

“Paris in the springtime, Lyd! It’ll be gorgeous. She’s a great tour guide, Ben, she knows it all.” 

“She’s brilliant, Marie. But you knew that before the rest of us found out.” He reaches for your hand, holding it tightly as you start to feel the tears prickling. 

He only lets go as you both embrace your parents in turn, Ben thanking them repeatedly for their kindness. Then, his fingers curl around yours again, holding you strong and steady at the entrance to departures. 

“I love you both so much, you know? We’re so grateful.”

Your mother can’t hold back her tears any more, and her wet cheek presses against yours as she pulls you in for a final hug. “We love you so much. Both of you.” 

She pulls away and holds your gaze. “Both of you. Remember what I said to you, Lydia. Remember that.”

You nod and give Ben’s hand a little squeeze. “We should probably head on through. Safe home - message me when you get back, okay? We’ll see you soon.”

You keep waving back with every sharp turn you take in the queue for security, until eventually your parents’ faces are obscured by the crowd behind you, and you face forward into the security area, still holding Ben’s hand.

“Paris par train ou Paris par bus?”

Ben shrugs as he pushes the luggage trolley. “You’re the expert, Lyddie. What’s easiest?”

You summon up the mental map of Parisian transport options that is always ticking over at the back of your mind. “Train is quicker but involves a change at Châtelet Les Halles - ugh - and then again at Bastille. Bus gets us to Opéra which means we can get right on to line 8.”

“Bus?”

“Bus.”

Ben stacks your bags carefully in one of the Roissybus’s luggage areas and exhales as he takes a seat beside you. “You know it’s been almost thirty years since I was in Paris?”

“Excusez-moi?”

He chuckles. “Came up on a very poorly-thought-out visit with some friends while I was on exchange in Málaga. Overnight trains, hostels, no money, cheap wine. I barely saw the Eiffel Tower, let alone anything else.”

The bus pulls out of Charles de Gaulle Airport and onto the motorway. You squeeze Ben’s thigh affectionately. “Isn’t it a good thing that you’ve come to Paris with a ready-made guide, then?”

He smirks and arches an eyebrow suggestively. “Oh, I’m really looking forward to doing some, er, exploring with her.” 

“Is that so?” You move your hand ever so slightly up his thigh, smiling with satisfaction as Ben gasps a little and shifts in the seat. “I always like to try out new pleasures here, you know?”

A wiggle of your eyebrows has you both giggling, leaning against each other as the bus makes good progress towards the périphérique, the motorway that rings the city, and into Paris proper. You start to point out landmarks, locations, shifting into a stream of consciousness that spans history, personal memories, places to visit, and random observations. 

Ben smiles to himself as he watches and listens, delighting in your joy and excitement as you prepare to see your old friend - to walk her streets, listen to her voice, and write another chapter in your long love story.

The advantage of Parisian connections: your friend Sophie offered you her apartment in the 11th arrondissement for the duration of your stay, as she was away in the south of France. You meet her upstairs neighbour outside the narrow, early nineteenth-century building on a quiet street just off the rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine and collect Sophie’s key, taking note of the door codes. 

“Holy shit. Look at this place!”

Ben has carried the bags up the stairs - thankfully, Sophie’s flat is on the first floor - and followed you into the little apartment. You turn and grin when you notice how entranced he looks, staring up at the wooden beams in the tiny hallway, peeking out into the communal courtyard, tilting his head this way and that to check out the books on Sophie’s shelves. 

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” You pick up your suitcase and lead the way into the bedroom, sitting on the end of the bed as you take off your shoes and wriggle your toes happily.

“It’s incredible. Exactly what you might imagine a Parisian apartment to be.” He drops his own bags in the corner and joins you on the bed, flopping back onto the mattress and yawning.

You lie back and turn to face him, resting a hand on his stomach. “Let’s do some exploring. I know we’re tired, but I want to show you around, get some dinner, buy some wine…”

The featherlight touch of his fingers, working their way under your denim blouse and stroking the soft skin of your waist, sends delicious shivers through you.

“We could do some exploring here, right now…?” he asks, eyes twinkling and a smile on his lips. 

“You know how tempting that offer is, Benjamin, but let’s restore our energy first, hmmm?”

Dinner is Vietnamese food from a tiny restaurant just around the corner, a staple favourite from your time living in the city, followed by a walk around the neighbourhood and a stop at a nearby supermarket, to stock up on some essentials and a bottle of wine. As you climb the stairs to the apartment, the fatigue from a day of travel and the underlying, gnawing anxiety about your future starts to hit you. 

You should just say it to him. Ask him outright what he wants to happen.

You push the thought down, down, as deep as it will go as you settle on Sophie’s tiny sofa and watch Ben uncork the wine in the coin cuisine, the little kitchenette tucked into a corner of the living room. You spot a portable speaker tucked on one of the bookshelves and connect it to your phone, scrolling through your playlists until you find what you want. 

“Never let it be said that you don’t cultivate an atmosphere, Lyd,” he says, handing you a glass of the purple-red wine and joining you on the couch. “Let me guess: this is a Paris-specific playlist?”

You hide your face behind one hand and peek at him through your fingers as he laughs, leaning in to kiss your cheek as Serge Gainsbourg’s ‘La chanson de Prévert’ starts to play.

He rests his head on your shoulder as you listen to the song together. It’s a favourite of yours regardless, but tonight, with the man you love so deeply but still fear losing nestled in beside you, Gainbourg’s plaintive melody and lyrics about lost love are like a punch to the gut.

“Lyddie?”

Ben is sitting up, looking at you with concern. “You look so sad, all of a sudden - you okay?”

“It’s just the song, it’s so –” You halt yourself. No. Time to say it.

“I guess I’m just really feeling how close I am to the end of my time in Barrow, that’s all.”

His chocolate-brown eyes soften and he wraps you in a warm embrace. “Still got plenty of time, Lyddie.”

“And then?”

“And then…?”

“What happens? To us, I mean.”

He looks surprised at the question. “We’ll be okay, one way or the other. Right?”

But what does that mean?

You’re too tired to ask the question, you tell yourself. In truth, you’re too scared to - not because you fear his reaction, not at all. Rather, it’s because you fear that your concerns might upset him.

Ben’s head has barely hit the pillow before he’s sound asleep, one arm draped loosely around your waist. For you, though, sleep is elusive, arriving only as the dawn starts to break over the city of light. 

You wake, exhausted, to the aroma of fresh coffee brewing and the sound of Ben pottering around the apartment, humming the melody of “La chanson de Prévert” to himself. With a groan, you remember you’d planned to do some research today and force yourself out of bed.

“Bonjour, la belle Lyddie! Du café?” Ben waves a little espresso mug at you and you nod weakly. 

He is bright and cheerful as he moves around the kitchenette, pouring the coffee and joining you at the tiny dining table that acts as a kind of divider between the kitchen and the rest of the living area. 

“Did you sleep okay?”

You look up, and his face falls when he spies the telltale redness in your eyes. “I’m taking that as a no. What’s going on, Lyd?”

A fortifying sip of the strong coffee. You sit upright and look at him, studying his beautiful face. “Darling, I meant what I said last night. About how anxious I am, how scared of what comes next, the…uncertainty of it all.”

“But we know we’re serious about each other? We talked about it,” he replies, sipping his own coffee. “You know that. Don’t you?”

“I do. I really do. And we are, but -” you pause to gather your thoughts. “But that doesn’t mean there’s an answer for what happens when I have to go home, and that’s eating away at me.”

He looks at you kindly, but you can see the confusion written all over his face. “What do you mean, exactly, Lyd? Surely we can see if circumstances change over the summer, and if not then we do distance until stuff gets figured out. Right? Things are going to be just fine.”

It’s so tempting to smile and agree, but you can’t. You owe him honesty, as much as you want clarity. 

“Is that really what you want?”

“Distance? It’s not ideal, but if it comes to it I think we can make it work and - Lyd?”

You have closed your eyes, fearful of tears falling. 

Say it. Say it. Be honest with him.

“I - I don’t think I want a long-distance relationship.”

Ben makes no effort to hide his shock. “You don’t want a long-distance thing?” He shakes his head in amazement. “Even if that’s the only option for the moment?”

“I just want certainty, not constantly saying everything would be okay or we’d see what happens when we don’t know that things will be okay, or what’s going to happen. I want you, love. I want a life with you, you know that. Don’t you?”

“But you don’t want long-distance with me.” His brow furrows and his jaw ticks as he stares at the floor. 

“I don’t know, I mean I just want what we have now, I don’t know if I could cope with the implications of that kind of distance and -”

He exhales sharply, exasperated, and reaches for his light cotton jacket. “So it’s all or nothing. You would rather have no relationship than even try distance, is that it?”

Fury and sadness mingle and build in your chest. “Ben, that’s not what I fucking said.” Your hands fall to your sides, defeated. “I’m just - fuck, I’m not finding the words right now.” 

“Well, if you find them later let me know.” He opens the door of the apartment and pauses for a moment. “See you, Lyddie.”

You sit staring into space for a good half hour at your appointed desk in the print room at the Bibliothèque nationale, before you open the grey archive box of lithographs you’d called up for the day. 

The ritual of research is familiar and soothing, a useful distraction from the memory of the argument that morning. You set out your camera and prepare your customary scraps of paper inscribed with the call number of the collection, to make it easier for you to match up images with notes when you return to the materials at home. Wherever the hell “home” is supposed to be, now. 

Assess each print. Study it. Immerse yourself in the details before photographing it and writing up your observations on your laptop. Repeat over and over, add to your research materials and stave off the metaphorical wolves circling in your brain. 

Your stomach starts to rumble just before one o’clock. The garden courtyard outside the building that houses the print room is busy, with researchers and visitors taking an al fresco lunch and chatting over coffee. Salad consumed, you take your phone out of the transparent plastic briefcase you are required to use inside the library. 

No message from him. Nothing. 

You decide to make a call. She should be on her lunch now, too. 

“Lyd! How are you? How’s Pareeeeee?” Kate’s voice is cheery and comforting, and exactly what you needed to hear. 

“Hiya… um, can you talk for a few minutes?”

She immediately knows there’s something wrong and her tone shifts. “Of course, always… Lyd, what’s happened? Are you okay?”

Deep breaths. “Kate, I think I need to make a decision and I’m fucking terrified.”

Kate pauses, aware that she doesn’t need to ask you what this is about. “Okay. Talk to me. Let’s work through it.”

BEN: When do you think you’ll be finished for the day? We should talk. I’m so sorry about this morning x

LYDIA: Probably by 4.30 or so. Do you want me to come meet you?

BEN: I’ll come to you. You want food? It’s a nice day for a picnic dinner. 

LYDIA: It is. Dinner is your choice. Meet me at the rue Vivienne exit at 4.30 or so? x

BEN: You say that as if I know where that is… I’ll find it. See you soon, Lyddie. Love you. 

Ben Morales leans against the railings of the Bibliothèque nationale and looks at his watch. He’s early, so he meanders across the street and wanders into the Galerie Vivienne, admiring the fine detail of the mosaic floors and brass light fittings that adorn the nineteenth-century covered arcade. He pauses at an antiquarian bookstore and print shop, perusing the selection of vintage postcards displayed in wooden crates outside. 

He’s standing at the entrance to the arcade when he looks up and sees you coming through the gates of the library, somehow managing to carry a backpack, tote bag, and small cross-body handbag all at once. 

You don’t notice him at first, instead turning your head in both directions as you look for him. Ben’s heart soars when he sees you, in spite of the nagging ache he’s felt in the pit of his stomach ever since the argument you’d had that morning. 

He calls out to you from across the street, raising his hand in an enthusiastic wave, and a warm, delighted smile spreads across your face when you realise he’s there, waiting for you. He’s as impossibly handsome as ever in his navy blue shirt jacket, white tshirt, and jeans, tote bag slung over one shoulder. 

You keep Kate’s words from your lunchtime conversation in the forefront of your mind. “You know what you want, Lyd. You know what you need to do.”

“Sorry, I got delayed on the way out of the print room and then it always takes longer to pack up than I’d anticipated and then I thought I should pop to the bathroom before I left and then -”

Ben interrupts your explanation with a kiss and a hug. “I’m so sorry, Lyddie. I’m sorry about this morning.” He pulls away and holds out a small, flat brown paper bag. “A peace offering.”

The bag contains a selection of vintage postcards of Paris, postmarked in the early years of the twentieth century: Notre-Dame, photographed from the Left Bank; the place de la Bastille; the facade of the Bibliotheque nationale you’d just left. 

“Some of your favourite places, right?”

You reach for his hand and lean in for a kiss. “You know me so well. Thank you, my love, they’re beautiful.” You spot a larger brown paper carrier bag in his other hand. “Dinner?”

Ben smiles, holding out the bag for your approval. “I ended up getting a selection of stuff from one of the Asian takeout places near here. And I picked up a bottle of chilled white wine, and some paper cups. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect. Let’s go, Benjamin - dinner at the Palais-Royal awaits.”

“I have to admit, I did wonder when you said we were going to a royal palace. Didn’t seem very…Lyddie.”

Ben quirks an eyebrow in your direction. You giggle as you reach into the bag of takeout and retrieve boxes of rice, steamed buns, gyoza, and nems. 

“I mean, technically it was a royal residence. But the gardens - where we are now - were public, as were the arcades and shops.” You set the boxes of food on a green metal park chair, serving as a makeshift table in front of your bench. “And it was an important location in the revolutionary period, so…”

He grins and opens the bottle of wine. “Ah! There it is. That’s my Lyd.”

His Lyd. Affection surges in your chest, and you place a hand on Ben’s knee, giving it a light squeeze as he pours some of the white wine into a paper cup and hands it to you.

He raises his own cup in your direction. “To my clever, revolutionary girl.”

You swap stories about your respective days as you dig into the food: Ben describing his informal solo tour of literary locations on the Left Bank, you talking through your finds in the print room. He shows you photos he took of Richard Wright’s apartment building, of the original site of Sylvia Beach’s Shakespeare and Company, and a selfie of himself looking completely perplexed at the plaque on the rue du Cardinal-Lemoine that refers to James Joyce as a “British writer of Irish origin.”

You burst out laughing at that one. “I’m so glad you found that. It annoys me every time I see it.”

“I sent it to Evan. He was not impressed.” He slips his phone back into his pocket and reaches for another spring roll. “And then I went and sat in the Luxembourg Gardens for a bit, worked over a little more of the play, thought about Beckett in Paris, watched the world go by. I remembered you said it was one of your favourite places to just sit and think.” 

He smiles softly, almost shyly, at you, and with a pang you remember that some serious conversation lies ahead, no matter how tempting it is to sit here forever in the Palais-Royal, eating your picnic dinner and drinking your wine surrounded by the ghosts of writers and lovers and revolutionaries long past. 

Lemon-scented wipes remove the residual traces of nems and dipping sauces from your fingers, and Ben stacks the empty food containers in the brown paper bag before topping up your paper cup of wine. You rest your head on his shoulder, and he wraps an arm around you to hold you close. 

He sips his wine and takes a deep breath. “I wanted to talk about earlier.” 

You raise your head, turn to him, and nod. He rests a hand on your thigh, tracing circles with his index finger on your leg. 

“I’m sorry if it ever felt like I was dismissing your worries, Lydia. I - well, I guess I was avoiding the issue. Like if I kept saying things would work out, they’d just… work out.”

You smile gently and reach for his hand. “Without having to make the hard call.”

He squeezes your hand and nods. “Exactly. But I did a lot of thinking about that today. About the future, about what I want - what you want.” He gives you a nervous glance.

“You were right, Lyd, long-distance couldn’t give us…I don’t want long-distance with you, either. I couldn’t, Lyd. I want what you said you want - a life, us, together. Like now.” He caresses your cheek with his thumb. “I can’t imagine anything else.”

You bring your hand to rest on his and close your eyes, feeling tears prickling against your eyelids. 

He takes a deep breath. “Lyd, look at me.” Your eyes meet his, dark and warm and serious all at once. “Lyd, I - I want to spend the rest of my life with you. That’s all I want, and - fuck, I think I’ve known I wanted that for a while now.”

You open your mouth to respond and he shakes his head gently. “Lyddie - Lydia - I want to be with you, no matter what it takes.” Another deep breath. “And that’s why - if you want, of course, only if you want - I’ll move back with you at the end of the year. I’ve got some job alerts set up, I’ll find something, you know? I - I just want to be with you.”

“You can’t give up your whole life, darling.” Your voice is quiet as you take in the significance of what he’s telling you, what he’s offering. To his astonishment, you burst out laughing.

“What’s funny, Lyd?”

“I did a lot of thinking today, too. You know you’re all I want, don’t you?” You look at him expectantly, and he nods. “And I was going to tell you that - if you wanted - I would try to stay in the US, so that I could be with you. So that we could make a life together, plan our future.” You turn to him and grin. “But now it seems we’re still going to be on opposite sides of the pond, just with swapped continents.”

Laughter rises from Ben’s chest, emerging as a bright, wide smile and eyes crinkling with delight. He cups your face with his hands and kisses you, over and over, before pulling away abruptly. 

“Wait. You said I couldn’t give up my life, but you want to give up yours? And you know Barrow doesn’t do partner or spousal hires…”

“I mean, it wouldn’t be giving up my life. It would be living the life I want to live, with the man I adore. That’s better, no?” You reach over to brush an errant curl off his forehead. “Anyway, I can look for a position within commuting distance, right? I’d rather that than feel I had got a job I didn’t really deserve.”

He blushes slightly and looks at you from under his lashes. “Even so. I meant it, I would follow you anywhere. I’ll go wherever you want me to be, wherever you want to be.”

“Okay. How about this?” You sit up a little straighter, hands resting on his. “We’re clearly both prepared to move. So…we both start looking for jobs, you near my place and me around Barrow, and whoever gets an appointment first - that’s where we go.”

Ben looks into the middle distance and nods, turning over the proposal in his head. “That sounds like a plan, baby.” 

“Then it’s a deal?”

He grins and kisses you softly. “It’s a deal.”

The evening is bright and warm as you meander hand in hand through the narrow streets of the Marais, heading east, homeward bound. 

You spot a buzzy corner café and nudge Ben. “How about a drink, darling? Something bubbly, maybe?”

He smiles, and you know his eyes are sparkling behind his sunglasses as he squeezes your hand and follows your lead towards one of the small round tables arranged outside the café. The server is typically Parisian: efficient, polite but not overly familiar, and they take your order and return promptly with two glasses of champagne and little dishes of olives and mixed nuts. 

“À nous deux, Paris!” Ben clinks his glass to yours and you giggle as the first sip sends bubbles bursting on your tongue. 

“Quoting Balzac in the original French?! Where were you all my life, Benjamin?”

He shrugs and smiles to himself. “Could ask you the same question.”

Long, thick fingers begin to rub circles on the flesh of your thigh, feeling the heat of your skin through the light fabric of the button down sky blue shirt dress you’re wearing. You echo the gesture, tracing patterns on the back of his hand, and your expression becomes more serious, more intense, your voice quieter.

“I love you, Ben.” 

He squeezes your thigh gently. “I love you, Lyd.” 

Sipping champagne and nibbling on the snacks, you watch the world go by, content and cosy in the little bubble that is just you and him. You’re checking your appearance in the bathroom mirror when a realisation sweeps through you. Your eyes widen, mouth forming into a little “o” before stretching into a happy smile as you ascend the stairs from the basement to the main café and rejoin Ben at the table.

“So something occurred to me.”

He chases the last olive around the dish with a cocktail stick. “Mmmmm?”

“We’re doing this, aren’t we? We’re going to spend the rest of our lives together. That’s what we’ve said we want. Right? I didn’t imagine that?”

Ben lifts his head, puts down the cocktail stick, and looks into your eyes with a bemused smile on his face. “No, you didn’t. And yes, we are.” His eyes crinkle as he smiles broadly. “And isn’t it fucking wonderful?”

You nod excitedly and a surge of laughter erupts from both of you, quietened only by a warm, passionate kiss. You break away and run your fingers through the messy strands of hair around his forehead.

“I know people might think it’s soon, love. But… it’s not. I know.”

“I know too, Lyddie. When you know, you know.” He reaches for your hand and brings it to his lips. “And to be honest, I don’t think anyone who knows us will think it’s too soon.”

The server returns to take the empty glasses and dishes. “Autre chose?” [Something else?]

Ben winks at you mischievously and orders two more glasses of champagne. 

The walk back to the apartment should have taken about twenty minutes. Or at least, it would have had you not both been tipsy, incredibly happy, and unable to keep your hands off each other. 

It takes just under an hour for you to get from the Marais back into the heart of the faubourg Saint-Antoine, stopping here and there along the way to indulge in some making out in quiet side streets and passageways. 

“I’m so glad there’s only one flight of stairs,” you hiss theatrically, Ben trailing a hand over your ass as you reach the landing and the door to the flat. 

Once inside, you pull him tight to you and move swiftly in the direction of the small bedroom, fingers already hooked inside the waistband of his jeans as he holds your face in his hands and kisses you deeply, tongues sweeping over each other and lips pressed together so hard you swear they’ll be bruised by morning.

“Sit on the end of the bed, baby.” He nods and follows your instructions, undoing his jeans as he watches you standing before him. 

You start to unbutton your dress, keeping your eyes on him as you ease it off and let it fall to the floor. Ben’s eyes roam slowly over you, mouth falling open slightly as he takes in the floral print of your panties, the light blue lace of your bra, the softness and curves of your body. 

You move closer to him, standing between his legs as he wraps his arms around your lower back and buries his face against your breasts while you languidly trail your fingers through his hair. 

You pull back and look at him, immediately giggling. He still has his glasses on, and those coffee-brown eyes are half-hidden behind a fog on the lenses. 

“Let’s take these off, shall we, Professor Morales?”

The combination of champagne and a decision about your future together has made you joyful, more confident - and more direct. 

“You’re so fucking hot, you know that, baby?” 

Ben raises his eyebrows and his ears flush pink. “I don’t really think…uh…”

You kiss him, his hands moving to grab the flesh of your ass and pull you tight to his body. 

“I think you’re hot as fuck, Ben Morales, and I’m going to tell you. And show you.” You wrap your arms around his neck and encourage him to move backwards a little, so that you can straddle him. “Lemme show you how gorgeous you are to me, my love. Hmmm?”

He grins, nods, and moans as his mouth passes over the velvet skin of your heavy tits. You help him out of his white T-shirt, and pause to take in the sight of him: your thighs framing his hips and waist, his hands resting on them; his tummy, somehow both broad and solid and yet soft, pressed deliciously against your own belly; his beautiful face, eyes filled with desire, and mouth begging to devour and be devoured. 

The temptation is too strong, your hands moving to caress his face as your lips meet his again. You keep your forehead pressed to his as you break the kiss and whisper to him, murmuring about how his dark gaze can make you ache for him, what it feels like to have his lips pressed to your body. 

Your hands move slowly across his shoulders and down his back, feeling the warmth of his golden skin, the strength underneath the surface. “This beautiful body, baby,” you murmur, placing tiny kisses to his collarbone. “When you’re above me, fucking me, or about to, and I look up and see you so fucking broad and solid…”

His breathing hitches as your mouth works its way down his chest and towards his tummy, lips and tongue picking out those little patches of freckles that you love so much, teeth sometimes scraping lightly over his warm, solid middle as you carefully move your body off his and onto the floor between his legs.

“You know how fucking sexy this tummy is, baby. Told you the first night we were together.” He looks sceptical and your hands roam over the warm softness of his skin, your cunt positively aching with need at the sensation. 

“I’m serious, Ben. It’s so fucking hot, the way your body looks, the feeling of your tummy against mine…” You whine as you roll your hips and clench your thighs, and he sits up slightly to drag down his jeans and underwear, a hand wrapping around his cock as he seeks some relief of his own. 

You reach for his other hand, holding it gently as you suck each finger in turn. “I love these hands, baby.” You kiss his palm and he gasps. “I love the sight of them, the feeling of them on me, in me, the things they do to me.”

His eyes are wide and dark with lust and adoration. “Fucking hell, Lyd, you’re incredible.”

And then your fingers join his, working the base of his cock and making Ben gasp with sheer pleasure. He moves his hands up to grope and caress your breasts, long fingers slipping under the lace of your bra to play with your nipples. 

“Touch yourself,” he hisses, hands full as he massages the soft weight of your tits. You obey the instruction, keeping your eyes locked on him as you bring one hand to part your soaking folds while the other continues to jerk him off. 

Ben watches for a moment as you rub small, firm circles over the aching bundle of nerves while pleasuring him simultaneously. “Fuck, baby, this is so fucking hot. You’re so good to me.”

You’re on your knees, now, and your mouth is actually watering at the sight before you. “Can I suck your cock, baby?”

He grunts his consent. “This…” You flick your tongue over the tip. “This is fucking gorgeous.” 

“Please, Lyd.” You look up at him and he whines a little, completely turned on by the sight of you between his legs, one hand now caressing the firm muscles of his calf and the other holding his cock in place. You oblige, expertly trailing your tongue along his full length before beginning to take him, bit by bit, inside your wet mouth. 

Ben cries out your name as you continue your ministrations, looking down at you with his eyes blown wide. “I‘ll come if you keep going, baby,” he hisses. “Wanna fuck you, please. Please. Need you.”

You swirl your tongue around the tip one last time before releasing him, bringing your hands to rest again on his legs, fingers massaging the muscles of his thighs as you hum in satisfaction. 

“C’mon, Lyddie.” He gestures with his head and you stand. He pulls you to him with one hand, palm and fingers splayed across the small of your back as he tugs down your panties with the other. Two thick fingers slide into you with ease, and his eyebrows quirk with surprise.

“You’re fucking soaking?” 

The tone of his voice makes you laugh, and he chuckles against the warm softness of your belly before kissing it, over and over, as your fingers wind through his curls. 

“I told you, love, you’re so fucking hot. Don’t even have to touch me and I’m ready for you.”

Ben grins wickedly as you push him back onto the bed and straddle him again, reaching down and stroking his cock a couple of times before you ease him into you and sink down, moaning loudly as he stretches you, fills you, takes you. You’ve had each other so many times now, and yet the sensation of him inside you remains new and thrilling. 

You start to move, shifting and rolling your hips in a careful, deliberate rhythm that has the two of you sighing and gasping with deep, delicious pleasure. You lean forward to come closer to him, desperate for his touch, for the warmth of his chest against yours. He eases down the straps of your bra a little and caresses your tits as he starts to fuck up into you, meeting your movements. 

He lifts his head up, greedily seeking your lips. His hands trace the curve of your back down to your hips and ass as he watches your bodies moving together, and he smiles wistfully as he brings a finger to your clit. “God, I love fucking you, Lyd.”

You giggle and cry out at his touch, riding him harder still as you edge closer to coming. His finger draws firm, tight circles over the swollen bud, tracing the familiar path he has carved out in you so many times. “Fuck me, baby - gonna come, don’t fucking stop - you gonna come?”

He closes his eyes tightly as the fingers of his other hand press hard into your thigh, breath hitching and voice raw. “Mmmmhmm. I’m so fucking close. Hold on, can you?”

You nod and try to temporarily quell the orgasm that’s been building in you since you got him home, Ben slowing his finger’s steady movements over your soaking clit.

And then the pace increases again, and you’re there, and he’s there. Together. 

Morning announces itself with a rustle of paper and a delicious, buttery aroma. Eyes blinking open, you become conscious of Ben’s soft lips on the nape of your neck - and aware that the enticing smell is right under your nose. 

“Bonjour, Lyd.” Ben is holding an open paper bag just under your nose. “Croissant?”

You turn to face him properly and sit up in bed beside him. “Hi, darling. How long are you up?”

He reaches into the bag and takes out a croissant, before placing it on a plate and handing it to you. “Not that long. You looked so beautiful and content, I didn’t want to wake you.”

The flaky, buttery pastry melts in your mouth as you sigh with pleasure. “Jesus fucking Christ. Nothing compares.”

Ben stops just as he’s about to bite into his own croissant, throwing you a cheeky glance. “Nothing? Nothing compares? You’re sure about that?”

You rest your head on his shoulder, the cotton of his long sleeved T-shirt soft and comforting against your face. 

“Nothing compares… in the world of baked goods.”

 He nods, satisfied, and takes a mouthful of the golden viennoiserie. 

“Oh, fuck. Maybe you’re right, Lyd.”

You giggle. “Thanks for these, love. You’re so kind.”

Ben shakes his head. “As if you wouldn’t have done the same.” He chews thoughtfully on the pastry. “Anyway, I feel like I still need to make it up to you. Yesterday morning, I mean.”

“You apologised, love, and we sorted things out. It’s fine.”

He shrugs. “I just feel bad. I shouldn’t have made you feel bad. Should have known by now that you struggle with this kind of uncertainty.” Ben reaches for your left hand, bringing it to his lips. “I’m sorry, Lyd.”

“Thank you, Ben. But we’re fine. I mean it. That’s what makes a relationship work, isn’t it? Learning about each other and knowing when we need to learn or listen more.”

He nods. “Exactly. And that’s why I’m so excited to spend the rest of my life with you. No matter where that is.”

The rest of the week is spent partly in research libraries, at least in your case, but mostly in the streets and cafés and galleries and museums of the city you love so much with the man you adore. 

You watch with quiet joy as he sees Manet’s Olympia in real life for the first time, shaking his head in admiration and awe as he takes in the painting. He steps back and folds his arms. 

“She’s really something.”

“She sure is. I’d be that confident too, if I was as gorgeous as her.”

He arches an eyebrow and looks at you. “You are. Much more so.” 

You huff a laugh as you link his arm and wander off to see Courbet’s Burial at Ornans. “You want me to pose like one of Manet’s French girls, Ben?”

“Wouldn’t say no, Lyd.”

At Harry’s New York Bar, the legendary cocktail bar near the Opéra, you cuddle up in a cosy corner of the piano lounge in the basement, and drink French 75 cocktails while the resident pianist plays Gershwin late into the night. You follow your own tailor-made walking tours, spotting literary landmarks and movie locations. A night in a Saint-Germain bar ends with a visit to the late-night bookstore L’Écume des Pages (and an inevitable bag full of newly-purchased books). Ben oohs and aahs over the bouquinistes’ boxes that line the walls overlooking the Seine, unable to resist a quick perusal of their selection of rare books and vintage magazines. You share a Paris-Brest pastry from Angelina, moaning appreciatively as you devour the delicious dessert. Together, you drink coffee and sip wine and talk and laugh and people-watch to your heart’s content. 

You could never tire of Paris. Even so, Ben’s wide-eyed excitement and enthusiasm makes everything new: the landmarks, the streetscapes, the food, the drink, the sounds and smells.

And you. He has made you new, too.

You feel it in the way he looks at you when you wave your hands and wax lyrical about god knows what painting or book or historical event. It’s in the reassuring weight of his arm around your shoulders as you wander through the narrow back streets, feeling like you’re ten feet tall. It’s there in the hundreds of little opportunities he finds during each day to touch you: the small of your back as you enter a building, the back of your hand as you sit together on the Métro, the side of your mouth as he brushes away an errant croissant flake. 

It is in the moments when you stop on the street and pull him to you for a kiss, unconcerned by the Parisians tut-tutting as they have to walk around the two of you. It’s in the moans he pulls from you, and you from him, when you are tangled in bedsheets at night, or in the morning, or even - after a lunchtime trip to the movies that escalated into some heated back-row kisses - in the middle of the afternoon, languidly stretched out naked for him on the bed. 

Just like one of Manet’s French girls, he joked.

Most of all, it’s there in the light that always seems to be shining in your eyes whenever you look at him, knowing that he is yours and you his. 

“You’re a tolerant man, Ben Morales,” you say with a chuckle as you walk through the imposing gates of Père Lachaise cemetery one bright morning. “Willing to hang out in Parisian cemeteries with me as I fangirl over the tombs of people no one has cared about for a hundred years or more.”

Ben looks at the list of names on the cemetery map and smiles at you, squinting slightly behind his sunglasses. “I rather like your Gothic side, Lyddie. And I appreciate this too, you know - I want to find Balzac and Proust’s tombs, while we’re here.” He drapes an arm across your shoulders as you climb steadily up one of the winding paths leading through the oldest part of the cemetery, stopping here and there to look at some of the more unusual tombs and memorials. 

There’s a certain part of Père Lachaise, its highest point, where you can look out and see the city unfolding below. You lead him there and sit on a bench, keen for him to take in the view. Other visitors and tourists meander past with their maps, chatting in various languages about Oscar Wilde and Jim Morrison or any number of the luminaries whose remains lie alongside those of many more ordinary Parisians in this leafy enclave. 

And then it’s just the two of you, side by side, contemplative. Little birds chirp and chatter in the trees, their song a moment of peaceful stillness in the bustling city. 

Paris has a tendency to look particularly magical when you’re entering into the final hours of a visit. This evening, the fading spring sunlight cuts a path along the street below, gleaming off the windows and shop signs that line the ancient thoroughfare.

“My heart always breaks a little when I have to leave.”

Ben finishes combing back his hair, still damp from the shower and curls starting to form at the nape of his neck. He turns from the mirror just inside the door of the apartment, adjusting the collar of his white shirt. 

“This isn’t the last time, Lyddie. Not for you, not for us.”

You nod sadly, picking up your purse and slipping into a pair of dark red patent ballet flats. “I know. I’ve been telling myself that for twenty-odd years, but it never gets easier. Stupid, huh.”

He shakes his head as he reaches for your hand. “Not stupid. You love this place, and twenty-odd years is a long time to be in love.” He looks you up and down admiringly. “You’re all fancy.”

You cock your hip and strike a pose as Ben laughs. “I like to dress up for my long-term lover, the city of Paris, Monsieur Morales. Anyway, you’re all fancy too.”

“Not like you, I’m not. You look…” He exhales as he takes you in. “You look like you walked out of a perfect French movie.”

Even you have to admit he’s got a point. Sure, the outfit had been a bit of a splurge, a treat to yourself from the BHV department store. But a classic, knee-length little black dress would never go out of style. At least, that’s how you justified it. That, and the fact that it hugged your body just so, working wonders with your curves, somehow narrowing your middle and accentuating your tits and hips in a manner that was impossibly elegant and incredibly sexy. It was a marvel. 

For once, you got a flash of what Ben always told you he saw when he looked at you. It made for a pleasant change.

This evening you have accessorised with a vintage brooch and chunky brass earrings, the gold necklace Ben gave you for Valentine’s Day a permanent fixture around your neck. The spring evening is warm enough for you to get away with a dark red pashmina shawl in lieu of a jacket, though you worried bare legs might be a step too far and decided not to forego your black hold-up fishnet stockings.

Ben slips into his olive green suit jacket and you squeeze his hand. “Thank you, my love. You look beautiful, too.” 

He does. But then, he always does: his beauty is easy, natural, effortless; as obvious to you when he’s bleary-eyed and bed-headed in his old t-shirts and pyjama bottoms as it is now, with him suited and booted and looking every inch the debonair Parisian intellectual in his clear-framed glasses.

For an instant you wish you could travel back to your broken-hearted self all those years before, to tell her that a better day would come, that real love would find you when and where you least expected it, and that it would arrive in the form of a man as beautiful on the inside as he is on the outside.

Most people would say the two of you are a little overdressed for your dinner destination. But then, you aren’t most people.

You catch a glimpse of the two of you reflected in a shop window as you walk along boulevard Henri IV. You, black dress and red accessories; Ben, green suit with his top shirt buttons undone, hair combed back and starting to form soft waves a little as it dries. The fact that you are both wearing sunglasses only enhances the sense of slightly retro European chic. 

“Look at us. Not bad, hmmm?” 

Ben stops, puts down the wicker basket he’s carrying, and winds his arms around your waist, kissing the side of your neck. “Perfect.”

You stroll past a little park near the river, pointing out a reconstructed bit of the Bastille to him, and wander in the direction of the Pont Marie and onto the Île Saint-Louis. It’s a little out of the way for where you’re going, but you have a good reason. He asked you a couple of days ago what your favourite view of the city was, and you intend to show him. 

The evening sky is streaked with a palette of pale blues, pinks, oranges and reds as you reach the Pont de la Tournelle and stop to lean on the parapet of the bridge. 

“This is it.”

He stands beside you and rests his hands on the parapet, following your gaze westwards along the river, taking in the silhouette of Notre-Dame - still obscured by scaffolding - painted against the vibrant canvas of the sunset, and the curve of the quaysides as the Seine splits around the Île de la Cité. 

“This is my spot. When I stand here I feel as though I could wrap my arms around the city and as though it wraps its arms around me.” You look at Ben, a little embarrassed. “Sorry. That’s a bit weird, I know. I am aware that it is a city and I cannot hug it, please don’t run away.”

He looks at you with affectionate bemusement. “You know how beautiful that is, to have those feelings and be able to articulate them like that?” He reaches for your hand. “It isn’t weird. It’s you, and it’s wonderful.”

You rest your head on his shoulder and squeeze his hand. “The first time I came to Paris after…everything, I came here the first night. I stood here and I looked at the cathedral and the city.” You pause as the memory resurfaces. “And then I had a massive cry. See? Weird.”

Ben shakes his head and chuckles, pulling you close to him. “Not weird. Catharsis.”

“I guess it was. I was still here. Notre-Dame was still here. Paris was still here. It gave me a sense of hope, I think, for the first time. Like, I knew things would get better.”

“I’m so fucking proud of you, you know?” He kisses your forehead and leans in to murmur, cheekily, in your ear: “So did things get better?”

You wrap your arm around his waist, slipping it under his jacket so you can feel the strong muscles of his back under his shirt. “Eh, I guess you could say that.”

Dinner is simple: a baguette, a selection of cheeses and charcuterie, and a bottle of champagne. But you’ve made the effort to bring proper glasses and plates from the apartment, and you can’t fault the location: watching the river from the Quai Saint-Bernard on the left bank, waving at the people on the big tourist boats - the bateaux-mouches - as they pass. 

“Hell of a view,” Ben muses in between mouthfuls of baguette and Brillat-Savarin cheese. 

You gaze across the river at the Île Saint-Louis and smile contentedly. “It is perfection.”

He chuckles and leans in to kiss you. “I was talking about you. But Paris isn’t too bad, either.”

He looks back at the river, a smile playing on his lips, and you take a moment to admire a perfect view of your own: Ben’s handsome face in profile, hair moving gently in the breeze, the light tan he had acquired after a week of wandering in Parisian spring sunshine complementing the patches of grey-white hair at the hinge of his jaw. 

You can’t help but marvel a little at how fucking gorgeous he is. Well done, Lyd. In that instant, as you take him in, you concentrate on the wonderful feeling of calm and safety that suffuses your body when you’re with him. 

You’d only realised after the abrupt end of your last relationship that you’d spent a decade and a half walking on eggshells, constantly anxious and never wholly comfortable - even with someone who claimed to love you. You feared suggesting the simplest thing: a movie, a dinner, a holiday, lest it prompt a negative reaction or criticism.

With Ben, though? Even with the ongoing uncertainty about where, exactly, your future would be, you had never felt anything other than safe. With a clearer path ahead agreed together, the residual anxiety faded, too. 

It was a new and marvellous feeling. 

As the evening draws in, a little group of musicians set up nearby on the quay, accompanied by a cluster of couples who immediately began to dance to the band. Ben turns and smiles at the spectacle.

“They do this as soon as the weather gets warm here,” you explain, smiling widely as the dancers move around an open area on the quayside. “Sometimes it’s French classics, sometimes American big band, sometimes Latin, sometimes a more contemporary mix, like tonight.”

Ben stands up, dusts off his pants, picks up the picnic basket and extends his hand to you. 

“Would you like to dance, Lyddie?”

How can you refuse, when he’s looking like that and asking you in that voice and smiling at you with such love and affection? 

“I’m not good at this sort of thing, Ben, I warn you.”

He rolls his eyes affectionately. “Bullshit. Now: dance with me, Lyd.”

You get to your feet and he leads you in the direction of the makeshift dancefloor, leaving the picnic basket to one side as he brings you into a dance hold and begins to move, pulling you close to his body as the band and its female lead singer begin a cover of Mitski’s “My Love Mine All Mine”.

The rest of the city falls away as you dance with him, nuzzling against his neck as his hips sway gently, rhythmically against you in time to the slower tempo of the music. Ben’s lips press softly to the top of your head, and you hum in absolute contentment. 

“I love this song, you know.”

He chuckles. “I do. You sing it very beautifully in the shower, sometimes.”

“I doubt it’s beautiful.”

“Trust me. It’s beautiful.”

You nestle against him and sing along, joining in with the lyric that always made you think of him, of how he had broken through your sturdy defences, smoothing and healing the jagged, broken pieces of your soul: “My baby, here on earth/Showed me what my heart was worth”. 

You sing the words quietly against his chest, feeling the vibrations from your voice meeting the rhythm of his heartbeat in a curious music made of two lovers. As the song draws to a close, Ben tenderly lifts your chin and kisses you, enveloping you in those strong arms. Cologne, coffee, bread, paper, something that is just his: his scent, the scent of love and safety.

His big hands skim appreciatively over your figure in the new black dress as he inhales your own perfume, nose buried in the crook of your neck. “Delicious, gorgeous girl,” he murmurs against your velvet skin. “You look incredible tonight, you know?”

Ben pulls your body even tighter to his and you whine softly, the press of his broad form to yours enough to send a rush of wetness to your core. 

“I think we need to get back to the apartment, my love.”

Ben sits at the end of the bed, wearing his shirt and boxers, watching as you take off your jewellery in front of the bedroom mirror. There’s something fascinating about the ritual: how you take out your earrings and put them in their box; the way you tilt your head forward as you remove your necklace.

He still can’t believe it, sometimes, the kind of love he has with you. He’s been desperate to get you home ever since you danced close and slow on the riverbank. That fucking black dress. Driving him slowly crazy all night, every time he looked at you. It’s the way it hugs your hips, accentuates the ample, full curves of your tits, and reveals just enough of your skin to make him want to ease it off your soft, welcoming body. 

His cock twitches at the thought. 

He stands up and crosses the floor, standing behind you. His hands gently caress you as you smile at the reflection of the two of you in the mirror.

“I love this.”

Ben kisses the top of your arm. “I love this, too.”

His lips find their way along the line of your shoulder until they reach the crook of your neck. A little tug to the zipper of the dress and his mouth moves downwards, kissing and sucking at the back of your neck, hands roaming over your body and grabbing handfuls of you as he goes.

He’s pressed against your back, murmuring your name. The extent of his desire is already very much in evidence.

“Fuck, Lyddie.” His breath is warm and urgent against your neck.

“Mmmm?”

“I’ve wanted to take this off since the minute I saw you in it.”

You chuckle. “Looks that bad, huh?”

Lips still on your neck, he caresses your breasts as he shakes his head. “Looks too good on you.”

Ben licks a stripe up the side of your neck and you whine with pleasure, closing your eyes and reaching to caress his face.

“Can I take it off, my love?” His voice is lower, smokier.

You nod, locking your eyes on his. A frisson of excitement courses through your body as Ben eases down the rest of the zipper and eases you out of your little black dress, letting it pool at your feet. 

“Oh, fuck me. These new?”

When you bought the dress, you’d bought new lingerie, too. A bra in caramel and black lace whose delicacy belied its incredible construction, supporting your breasts perfectly. Matching underwear, high-waisted and full but completely sheer, made out of the same black lace that trimmed your bra.

And of course: the stockings.

You nod and close your eyes, trying to avoid seeing yourself in the mirror. You looked alright in the dress, but you still can’t quite face the body underneath it. Ben’s breath ghosts across your shoulder blades as he fondles your tits and kisses the top of your spine. 

“Open your eyes, Lyd.”

You hesitate.

“Lyd. Open your eyes.”

You obey. But you keep your gaze fixed on him, afraid of your own reflection, of a body that you still cannot believe anyone like him would ever really want. 

“Lyddie, please look.” Ben’s voice is firm but pleading. “Look at your beautiful face. Look at this gorgeous, sexy body.” 

He trails a finger along the contours of your breasts, tracing the lace trim of the bra. He brings his hands to your waist, to your hips, pulling you back against him ever so slightly so that you can feel how hard he is. 

You don’t think you’ll ever love your body. But, watching Ben drinking you in with his eyes, running his fingers over the black Parisian lace that clings to the most sensitive and sensual parts of you, you understand that you love the way he loves your body.

“This is what you do to me, Lyd, and I will tell you every day for the rest of our lives that you are the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” You turn to face him, his hands cupping your face as he kisses you deeply. 

He breaks away and looks into your eyes, dark irises searching yours. There’s a vulnerability there, a hint of doubt, lingering in spite of his words. 

“What is it, Lyd?”

You shrug, fingers lightly caressing the curls and waves that cluster around his ears. “I love that you think I’m beautiful. I… still don’t know if I ever will.”

He kisses you again, softer this time. “Can I at least try to convince you? Show you?”

You smile against his lips and wrap your arms around his neck. “I’d like that. Could… could you, like, take charge? For tonight?”

He quirks an eyebrow and returns your kiss, humming against your mouth. “Take charge?”

You feel embarrassment rising in your throat. You’d never really felt able to just ask for what you needed like this before. Old habits die hard.

“Ben, I never felt safe enough to ask a partner to take the lead like this…not before you.”

His expression softens. “I’d give you anything, Lyd. Anything you want.” He wraps his arms around you and pulls you to him, chin resting on your shoulder. “And I feel safe with you, too.”

You tilt your head to kiss him. “So…?”

“So, I’m going to take charge and show you exactly how fucking beautiful you are, how sexy you are, how fucking happy I am that I get to be with you.” He pauses to kiss you again. “And if I have to, like I said - I’ll do this every day for the rest of time, if necessary, until you see what a perfect goddess you are.”

Another, deeper kiss; the sensation of his broad hands on the soft skin of your tits and belly, pulling you tight to him, the press of his erection against you as he guides you to lean back against the wall and slips his fingers under the crotch of your panties, parting your folds and working your clit and pussy until you’re panting with desire and need. 

For a moment, you think he’s going to fuck you. But then slowly, steadily, Ben sinks to the ground in front of you, mouth and teeth and tongue finding the softest, most yielding parts of your body as he works his way to his knees. 

Ben looks up at you, eyes glittering with lust and adoration. He is a supplicant before you, ready to worship, to seek and give a pleasure as sacred as it is profane. He venerates your body with his mouth. His tongue traces the outline of your hips, his lips kiss the softness of your lower belly, his teeth scrape across the thick flesh of your upper thighs. He tugs the panties down completely, parting your legs and helping you out of the garment. 

“I want you to keep the stockings on, okay?”

You nod your assent. Those perfect dark eyes find yours, a flash of mischief crossing his gaze as he gently pushes a finger inside you before placing both hands firmly on your hips, pressing into your flesh. 

And then he tilts his head, just so, and you cry out as he brings his lips to your wet pussy, mouth and tongue working your entrance as his nose rubs with precision against your clit. You buck slightly against him but he holds you in place, grunting and groaning with pleasure as he goes down on you. The warmth of his breath against your core makes your cunt clench around nothing, desperate for him.

You wind your fingers through the soft waves of his hair, holding him in position and throwing your head back as you revel in every lap of his tongue, every brush of his beard against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, every nudge of that beautiful nose against your clit. He’s eating you out like you’re his last meal, your moans and writhing body seemingly only serving to spur him on. 

Even so, Ben senses that you’re holding back. The position is incredible, the sight of him, the sound of him, the feel of him making you want to come harder than you’ve ever done before. But you worry about whether your legs will give way - whether you’ll hurt him if you fall forward. 

“I’ve got you, Lyd,” he murmurs, face still buried between your thighs. “Let go. I’ve got you. You’re so close. Come for me. Want you to come like this.”

With his fingers fucking you and his lips sucking and licking at your clit, your body yields and you cry out as you come against his face. 

He stays on his knees as you ride out the orgasm, thumbs rubbing a gentle circle against your hips, before scrambling to his feet and wrapping you in his strong arms. Your legs are still trembling as you lean in and kiss him like your lives depend on it, tasting yourself on his lips. He manoeuvres you to the bed, laying you down with the utmost care. 

You look up at him as he shifts into position above you, the low light catching the traces of your release that glisten across his face and his beautiful eyes flitting greedily over your face and body. You reach up to unbutton his shirt and he shucks off his undervest. An electrical current of desire courses through you as you rake your hands over his broad shoulders and down to that soft tummy you love so much. His eyes are warm and wanting: your darling, your lover, your partner. You are safe in his hands, and you are ready to give yourself entirely to him.  

A little smile quirks at his mouth as he lies down beside you, turning on his side and trailing his long fingers across the velvet skin of your tits, still enclosed in the delicate lace of your bra. 

“Do you know how much I want you, Lyd?” he murmurs, mouth working hot, needy kisses across your breasts. 

“Tell me.”

“Want you all the time.” You can feel his cock hard against you. “Want to have all of you, want to touch and kiss and fuck every last inch of you. I’m going to use my mouth on you now, baby, okay?”

He nips and sucks at the soft flesh of your belly as you moan, pussy aching for him. “And the more I have you, the more I want you.” He finds your soaking folds again and drags two fingers through the slick, bringing them to your lips so you can suck them clean. “I love you. And I can’t get enough of you.”

You let out a half-laugh, half-groan as he pulls you to him and quickly takes off your bra, mouth finding your breasts and tongue swirling over your nipples. You slip a hand between the two of you, tugging down his boxer briefs and wrapping your fingers around his cock as you stroke him, feeling him becoming fully hard under your careful touch.

“Do you think you have another in you, my love?” 

You nod. 

“Use your words, Lyd.”

“Yes. I think so…fuck, yes sir.”

He groans loudly against you and slips his fingers back through your soaking folds, chuckling a little at the whine of pleasure you let out as his warm breath ghosts against your ear. “Fucking hell, Lyd. You look so fucking beautiful. Such a beautiful woman.” He hooks his fingers against the perfect spot inside you and you buck against him, hand still working his dick. “And such a pretty pussy, so tight and so wet for me.”

He eases you into a different position, your back against his chest as his erection nudges against you. First his hands, then - with a shuffle down the bed - his mouth caresses the plump flesh of your ass, lips and teeth scraping over the sensitive skin as you whimper. He shifts your leg up and nestles himself into position.

“Can I have you, darling?”

You whine into the bed, feeling your orgasm building and building. “Please, baby, I need you inside me - fuck, baby, please…”

“I thought I was in charge?” 

His voice is low, honeyed, hot as he whispers in your ear. It tips you closer and closer to the edge. 

“You are… I just want you so fucking much.”

“You want me to fuck you, is that it?”

“Please. Fuck me, my love. Hard as you want to.”

“Fuck, Lyd.” With a groan and some muttered expletives, Ben sinks inside you, pausing for a moment to enjoy the sensation. “Always feels so incredible inside you, baby,” he pants, one arm holding you around your tits and the other against your belly. “Just - oh, fuck - just perfect.” 

It is perfect - perfect angle, perfect feeling of him stretching you, of his hands on you. He drags himself out of your cunt slowly, steadily, making you whimper at the loss of him. A snap of his hips and he’s buried inside you again, beginning a hard rhythm that has you crying his name into the bed as he fucks you, fast and deep, the softness of your ass cushioning his thrusts as he showers you with praise. His good girl. His beautiful woman. His love. 

His. His. Only his. Repeated. Possessive. Perfect.

He shifts his hand from your belly to your pussy, working tight circles over the swollen nub of your clit as you get closer and closer, mouth sucking on the delicate flesh of your neck, never letting up the rhythm until you cry out and come on his cock, the wetness audible as he fucks you through it. 

“Good, baby?” He pulls out as you’re still coming down, easing you onto your back and settling himself on top of you, carefully parting your legs. 

You look up at him, cockdrunk, seeing stars, and with no way to express how you feel other than a satisfied whine as you pull him to you for a hungry, sloppy kiss. Ben smiles and chuckles against your lips as he reaches down to gently hook an arm under your knee as he sinks back into you with a guttural moan. 

He picks up the pace again quickly, taking you harder now, rougher, even, and gripping the headboard of the bed with his free hand. His hair is dishevelled, errant short curls falling over his brow as sweat runs in rivulets over the freckles scattered underneath the hollow of his throat and lips finding yours as you start to babble to him incoherently, surrendering to the sensation. 

He drops his hand from the headboard to find yours, pressing your hand and arm into the mattress as he holds you down while he fucks you. 

“Talk to me, Lyd. Tell me. See how much I want you? Tell me.”

You mutter filthily about how deep he is, how big he is, how you love having him inside of you, how much you want him - need him - to fill you up. But then you look at him - at his beautiful face, screwed up and teeth gritted as he makes love to you - and another urge takes over, displacing the dirty talk with something no less intense, but softer, all the same.

“I fucking love you, Ben - fuck, keep going, that’s so good, fuck…”

He groans and reaches for your breast, groping it as he nears his own release. “You’re mine, Lyddie. All mine.”

“Yours, Ben. Every bit of me. Yours, forever, like you’re fucking mine.”

“My woman…my - oh, fuck - my good fucking girl.” You know he’s really close. “Keep talking, Lyd. Want to hear it.”

“You’re mine, baby - oh god, Ben, that’s so fucking good - all mine. I’ll give you anything. Everything.”

Ben rests his head against your neck, panting and moaning as his rhythm falters. “I’m all yours, Lydia, always - f-fuck, I’m gonna…”

You hold him tight, hands across the breadth of his back. “You’ll never be alone again, baby - fuck, Ben! - gonna take care of you, gonna be our own little family…”

He positively growls as he comes inside you, your head knocking against the headboard as he snaps his hips against yours before collapsing against your body. You hold him tight, gentle, slow, one hand winding through his curls and the other reaching for his hand as you plant soft kisses along his hairline.

He eases himself out of you with a final kiss and flops back onto the mattress beside you, still trying to catch his breath and with the most beautifully blissed-out expression on his face.

“I’m just going to clean up and take these stockings off, my love,” you murmur, shifting your body to the edge of the bed. “You okay?”

Ben grins and giggles to himself as he looks at you. “I am fantastic. Don’t know my name or what year it is, but I am fucking fantastic.”

You pad back from the bathroom as quickly as you can, discarding your stockings and climbing back into bed beside him. He’s reaching for you before you’ve even settled your body on the mattress, broad hands gently rubbing your belly, your hips, the line of your breasts. His breath is steadier now, face and body completely relaxed in the gorgeous afterglow.

“You are such a beautiful man.”

Ben opens one eye and meets your gaze. “Hmmmph?”

“I said, you are such a beautiful man. Don’t dare deny it.” 

He smiles softly, closing his eyes again as your fingertips trace the line of his nose, brush against an errant curl, find the outline of the little bare patches on the side of his jaw. Your thumb swipes gently across his lower lip, fingers seeking out the texture of his moustache. 

You go to speak, and stop yourself. 

“What were you going to say, Lyddie?” His voice is heavy, sleep beckoning him.

“Nothing, I was just - no, it’s stupid.”

“Nothing stupid could ever come out of your pretty mouth.”

You giggle quietly and bring yourself even closer to him, resting your hand on his chest. He reaches up to hold it. 

“It’s just that… I don’t know. When I look at you like this, at all the little things that are just uniquely you, it feels like everything fits. You know?”

He opens his eyes again. “Everything fits?”

“It’s like, ‘aha. Yes. That.’ Like I was always meant to be looking at this face. Like there was a bit of me that I didn’t even know I was missing and it just was…it was you. Even if I didn’t know it.”

He smiles and leans in for a soft kiss. “And now everything fits.”

He wakes her with coffee and kisses, knowing how much she hates prising herself from the warmth of their shared bed. A little incentive, a way to help her avoid panic later in the morning, one of those tiny acts of love they perform for each other every day. 

She orders a taxi for a couple of hours’ time and strips the bedsheets, casting an eye over their shared luggage waiting for departure as she joins him in the living area. Having put the sheets on a wash-dry cycle, her hands rest lightly on his broad shoulders as she quickly kisses him on the cheek and heads for the bathroom to shower. Instinctively, she gathers all but their essentials - toothbrushes and paste, shower gel - and slips them in a ziploc bag, ready to go into one of their cases. 

Once he’s showered, they continue their seamless little ballet of co-operation and partnership as they prepare to depart: a reminder to empty the trash here, an almost-forgotten phone charger spotted there, last few belongings squished into their hand luggage, and a final check on their passports and tickets. She checks every drawer and cupboard one more time while he places their trash bag in the small communal dumpster in the building’s courtyard. 

It is a banal ritual: unthinking, unrehearsed, instinctive. But there’s something in the way they slot together so neatly, the way they complement each other, the easy, naturalness of it all, that speaks to a sense of partnership that works as well in the routines of everyday life as it does in the bedroom. 

He carries the cases down to the main hallway as she checks the apartment’s small windows and locks up, following him downstairs after she drops off the key to Sophie’s neighbour. 

He’s outside, standing with the bags on the pavement outside the building. The G7 taxi pulls up almost immediately, and he can’t help but smile with pride when he hears her confidently chatting away in French to the driver as they load the trunk with their luggage. 

Her hand finds his in the backseat, head resting against his shoulder. Partners. A team.

As the car heads northwards towards the edge of the city, he casts a glance at his phone. Two new job alerts, for positions at institutions in Europe. 

He resolves to check them out properly once they get home. For now, though, just a squeeze of her hand, a kiss to the top of her head, and a silent resolution that he’d follow her to the ends of the earth. 

*******

Further A/N: I'm going to make a separate post with more details on the music, the locations, and the food in this chapter...

[itacats]

In His Steady Hands

FT: Soap x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of medical conditions (dystonia), anxiety, emotional vulnerability, mild language, and descriptions of physical symptoms (tremors, spasms).

SUM: After a day at the shooting range with Soap, you find yourself grappling with fear and vulnerability. Balancing your deepening connection with him while hiding your struggles feels impossible. As the line between friendship and something more blurs, secrets, struggles, and close calls test your resolve—and Soap’s unyielding kindness may be the only thing that holds you steady.

A/N: Guess who's back with more drama? 🙌 This one’s full of feels, close calls, and popcorn disasters 🍿💔. As always, grab a cozy spot and enjoy! 🛋️✨

In His Steady Hands Masterlist

Episode 3: Secrets, Struggles, & Close Calls

The days following your trip to the shooting range are a blur of thoughts, tangled and relentless. Every moment you spent with Soap replays in your mind, but it’s not just the easy laughter or the warmth of his presence that lingers—it’s the way his sharp eyes seemed to linger on you a moment too long, the concern etched into his features when he thought you weren’t looking.

Your constant companion you’d long since resigned yourself to living with, feels heavier now. In the quiet moments, you wonder if it’s foolish to even try building something—friendship or more—when your body can betray you without warning. It’s not that Soap has done anything to make you doubt him; in fact, his kindness and understanding have been disarming. But the what-ifs are louder than logic.

What if he finds out?What if he sees you during an attack?What if he looks at you differently?

What if he thinks you’re broken?

The fear settles in your chest like a weight, pressing against your ribs and refusing to let go. The vulnerability of letting someone see the parts of you you’ve kept hidden for so long feels insurmountable. So, you make a decision: it’s safer to hide it.

In theory, it’s simple—keep your symptoms under control, avoid situations that might trigger them, and don’t let Soap get too close. But in practice, it’s exhausting.

When Soap texts you a few days later, asking if you want to grab lunch, your initial instinct is to decline. The thought of sitting across from him, worrying about every twitch or spasm, makes your stomach churn. But then you remember his laugh, the way it seems to light up a room, and against your better judgment, you agree.

At the café, the sun streams through the windows, casting warm golden light across the table, reminding you of the first time you two shared coffee together. Soap is his usual self—animated and full of stories that make you laugh despite yourself. Yet, beneath the surface, you’re hyper-aware of every movement, every slight tremor in your hands as you grip your coffee cup.

“Y’know,” he says, leaning back in his chair with a teasing grin, “you’re a bit of a mystery, aren’t you?”

The question takes you by surprise, your smile faltering for just a moment. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, his gaze steady but not probing. “Just that you’ve got this quiet way about you, but sometimes it feels like there’s a lot going on in that head of yours.”

You laugh it off, hoping he doesn’t notice the tension in your shoulders. “Maybe I just like keeping people guessing.”

Soap chuckles, but his eyes linger on you a fraction longer than usual. You can’t tell if he’s buying your deflection or filing it away for later.

As the days turn into weeks, you try your best to maintain the façade. You make sure to keep your movements deliberate, to avoid situations that might cause stress, and to brush off any slip-ups with half-hearted excuses. But Soap is observant, more than you give him credit for.

He notices the way your grip on your drink tightens when the café gets too noisy. He sees the way your leg bounces under the table when you’re deep in thought. He catches the flicker of discomfort in your eyes when someone brushes past you too quickly or the way you try to hide the exhaustion behind them.

He doesn’t say anything—yet—but you can feel the unspoken questions hanging in the air, and it terrifies you.

Every interaction feels like walking a tightrope, the fear of falling ever-present. You tell yourself it’s for the best, that keeping your dystonia hidden will protect this fragile, budding connection you’ve built with Soap. But deep down, a small voice whispers that secrets have a way of surfacing, whether you’re ready or not.

Movie night at Soap’s apartment had seemed like a safe idea—something low-key, no pressure, just a couple of movies, popcorn, and laughs. But as you step into his cozy living room, your nerves are already frayed. The air carries the buttery scent of popcorn mingled with faint hints of Soap’s cologne, a mix that should be comforting but instead sets you on edge.

Soap, in his typical fashion, is all charm and easy smiles. “Hope you like action flicks,” he says, plopping onto the couch with a grin. “I’ve got a lineup that’ll blow your mind—literally.”

You chuckle softly, setting your bag down and trying to relax. The room is warm and inviting, cluttered in a way that speaks of someone who lives fully. A half-finished puzzle sprawls across the coffee table, and a mismatched collection of mugs sits on a nearby shelf. It’s a space that feels lived in, like Soap himself—unpretentious, full of energy, and oddly comforting.

“Popcorn’s in the kitchen,” he calls as he fiddles with the remote. “Grab the drinks, too, if you don’t mind.”

You nod, eager to keep your hands busy and your mind off the nervous energy bubbling beneath your skin. The kitchen is small but efficient, the countertops cluttered with the essentials of a bachelor’s life—an empty coffee mug, a knife block, and a toaster that’s seen better days.

You carefully pick up the bowl of popcorn, butter smearing the inside of the glass, and balance a couple of cans of soda against your arm, feeling the familiar tightness begin to creep into your hands. Not now, you plead silently. Just a few more steps.

But as you turn to head back to the living room, the loud sound of a movie beginning causes your grip to falter. A sharp spasm jerks through your fingers, and the bowl slips from your grasp. The sound of shattering glass is deafening, and it feels like the whole world comes to a halt.

“Shite!” Soap’s voice is sharp with surprise, followed by the quick thud of his boots as he rushes toward you. You’re frozen, staring at the mess on the floor, your hands trembling uncontrollably.

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammer, the words tumbling out as you crouch down, desperately trying to pick up the larger shards. “I wasn’t paying attention—”

“Hey, hey, stop that.” Soap’s voice is gentle but firm as he kneels beside you, his hand closing over yours to still your movements. “Don’t touch it. You’ll cut yourself.”

His touch is grounding, steady in a way you don’t feel at the moment. You look up, and the concern etched into his features is like a punch to the gut. He doesn’t look annoyed or angry, just…worried.

“Here, sit down,” he insists, guiding you toward the couch as if you weigh nothing. “I’ve got this.”

Your protests die in your throat as he gently presses you down onto the cushions. He disappears into the kitchen for a moment, returning with a broom and dustpan, and quickly sweeps up the shattered glass and spilled popcorn.

The silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating. Your hands are still trembling, and you clasp them tightly in your lap, willing them to stop. The vulnerability of the moment feels unbearable, like a spotlight has been turned on your deepest fears.

When Soap finally sits down beside you, the mess cleaned and forgotten, he doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches you, his eyes steady and searching.

“You alright?” he asks softly, his voice devoid of judgment.

You nod quickly, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. Just…clumsy, I guess.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push, either. Instead, he leans back, his arm draping casually across the back of the couch, as if to reassure you without words. “You know, accidents happen,” he says lightly, his tone deliberately easy. “You should see the time I managed to drop a full pot of chili on the mess hall floor. Looked like a crime scene, but smelled a lot better.”

A shaky laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and Soap grins, clearly pleased. The tension in the room begins to ease, though the vulnerability still lingers at the edges.

But as the movie plays on, you feel the all-too-familiar pressure begin to build. The light tremors in your hands grow stronger, more persistent, and the tightening in your chest intensifies. You try to ignore it, hoping it’ll pass, but the sensation is too overwhelming. Your neck jerks your head, your shoulder shrugs back angrily. You feel like you’re falling apart at the seams.

Excusing yourself, you stand quickly, your body betraying you all the while. You make a beeline for the bathroom, hoping that the small, enclosed space will give you some semblance of control.

Your movements are jerky and disjointed as you make your way down the hallway. You knock over a coat rack, and a few other things tumble to the floor with a loud clatter. The noise is jarring, and your heart races and your muscles tighten further in response.

From the living room, Soap’s voice calls out, “You alright?” There’s a trace of concern in his tone, but you don’t answer.

Inside the bathroom, you lean against the sink, trying to steady your breathing. The spasms are becoming harder to control, and it feels like your body is fighting against you. Each breath feels like it could be your last with your lungs fighting to keep air inside them, but you focus on grounding yourself, the cold tile against your palms offering a fleeting sense of stability.

A few moments later, you hear Soap’s footsteps outside the door. He doesn’t knock, but his voice is soft, filled with care. “Hey, everything okay in there?”

You take another breath, steadying your voice as best as you can. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

You open the door a crack, forcing a smile as you look up at him. His face is tight with worry, and you can see the tension in his posture. But when you try to step past him, he stops you, his hand hovering just shy of your arm.

“Are you sure? You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, though your voice wavers just a little. “Really. Just needed a minute.”

Soap studies you for a long moment, his eyes soft but filled with concern. He knows it’s more than just a “minute” you needed, and for the first time, you can see that he wants to understand, wants to help.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” he says gently, his voice low. “But if you need someone to talk to… I’m here. Always.”

His words hang in the air, soft and steady, and though you feel exposed, you don’t feel judged. The storm inside you is still raging, but his presence calms the edges of it, reminding you that you’re not alone.

“I’ll be okay,” you murmur, almost to yourself. But as you say it, you know that maybe—just maybe—you don’t have to handle this all alone anymore.

Want to see what's up next? Click here!

[quil12]

The summary for the last fic I posted is genuinely the best summary that I've ever written and I can't stop rereading it

[greasydumbfuck]

watched the 2004 punisher movie yesterday with pixie and honestly i had fun 👍 some stuff was good some stuff was eh some completely irrelevant stuff made me mildly annoyed. but most of all it was funny and they had frank hang around with his tits out for multiple scenes so i mean how could i not have a great time tbh

[creative-hanyou-girl]

I don't know if anyone else feels this way but I think a big reason why I'm so chill about the changes made to the PJO show from the books is because I kind of look at each other as their own seperate canon.

Like, I read a lot of anime and manga, and anime adaptations have a huge habit for changing plot points for various reasons, and as a fan of said anime and manga, I've found that I can enjoy both versions of the same story even with the differences when I look at them as their own universe or canon. That's not to say I don't want them to be faithful or true to the source material, but if a scene or situation plays out differently for a logical or entertaining reason, than I can still appreciate that deviation from the manga even if I still like the other original version of that part more. And I can even like the reversal way if I feel an anime does something better than even the manga. But if I want to, I can look at certain moments as more canon than others because I got 2 different versions of that same scene or moment.

And, I don't know, I kind of apply that reasoning to the PJO series as well, mainly with the books, the show, and even the musical (not the movies put that right back where it came from). So far I'm loving the TV show, and while I miss some of the things they changed (like the pink poodle), this adaptation really is doing a great job with staying true to the heart and spirit of the original book that I personally am not even really bothered by the changes, especially when I remember that the books will always still be there with it's own version, or canon, of events.

Like, I will say 1 thing I adore in the books that isn't really in the show is the fact that a lot of Percy and Annabeth's "rivalry" during TLT has more to do with the rivalry between Poseidon and Athena. I just really like on how this adds a level of "forbidden friendship/love" to their relationship 'cause I personally eat the forbidden relationship trope up, especially when it's done well like with Percabeth.

Yet, even if this isn't really the reason percabeth have beef with each other in the show, I can still appreciate and enjoy that according to the show's canon, they have issues because they genuinely have problems with each other as actual people rather than their parents' rivalry, because at the end of the day, that's the PJO TV show canon, and I can always turn to the books for that version of Percabeth's "rivalry", as that is the PJO book canon.

Same goes for the characters too. I will always have and love my dark haired Percy and blond haired Annabeth in the books, but I can also welcome and love Walker's Percy and Leah's Annabeth from the show. And so far, they along with Aryan are KILLING IT as those characters.

I can love both versions of the characters.

I can love both versions of the same story.

I can look at both versions as they own seperate canon or mix them together if I so wish too (especially since both versions of PJO are written by the same guy)

And that's ok. The adaptation doesn't have to be a complete copy of the books. It doesn't have to have things play out eactly the same way. The characters don't have to look exactly the way they are described as in the books. And that's ok. I will still always have the books to love and appreciate, but I can also start to love and appreciate the new adaptation for it's new spin and twists to the same story that sets it apart as it's own canon while still staying true to the spirit of its predecessor.

Anyway, sorry if I'm not making a lot of sense. I just think the people complaining about the changes in the show are looking at it all the wrong way. The show has it's own canon just as the books have their own canon, or even the musical. At the end of the day, isn't that kind of cool to have different versions of the same story and characters? Doesn't it give you so many more options to look at the story in different ways that you can prefer or choose from? Doesn't it give you new versions of canon that you choose from? And really, as long as the PJO adaptation, or any adaptation for that matter, stays true to the heart and spirit of the original story and characters, do the changes made really matter?

[meanya]

Y'all-