Imagining playfully flirting with Ring, not really meaning anything by it, but it means the world to him. And you keep giving him more.
Thinking he's cute, loving his reactions when he gets flustered, so you keep telling him how handsome he is. Touching his shoulder and gently holding his hand. Each time his face turns red and he does his best to look unaffected. Honestly being more interested in one of the Crown, but not minding having some fun with Ring.
Little do you know that every single romantic gesture means so much more to him than you could possible imagine. His heart beats out of his chest and he thinks it must be real love. That he must be in love, and that you must be too. Why else would you look into his eyes so sincerely, and look so happy when you saw him, and rest your hand on his chest?
It's on a whim when you kiss him. Cupping his cheek with your hand so softly and how he immediately turns pink and his eyes light up. How could you not press your lips against his? And steal his first kiss. Something happens in his brain. And you're suddenly the one.
It's all fun and games until one day your teasing escalates far too quickly. But it's perfectly fine. You were alright with a one-night stand with him. But something in him snaps when you sink yourself onto him and take his ultimate first. And you finally notice this time.
He's thrusting fast into you. Panting in your ear. Going at a feral pace. Possesively wrapping his arms around you. For the first time, he's not shy and you aren't in control. It's all you can do to hold him as tight as you can, the one thing grounding you, as you whine his name over and over and your eyes widen from the intensity. He kisses your ear, whispering how he knew you were the one. How he's so lucky to have you and is never going to let you go. How he can't wait to marry you.
Elijah Mikaelson’s reaction to you asking him out would include...
there’s a loud pause in the room
you didn’t think pauses could be loud but there it was
Elijah took a good few seconds to respond
you could practically see the words sinking into his mind, being processed, sound waves being decoded and translated for meaning as all conversation works, and then it just coming out as just ???????? result in his brain
it’s a little bit adorable but a lot nerve-wracking
Elijah does the narrowed-eyes thing that he does when he’s trying to understand something
you just wait for him to reboot
you’re sort of scared that you broke him
he doesn’t exactly give you an answer
he’s more trying to figure out what just happened
he tells you that he thought he’d be the one to ask you out
you get the feeling this has to do with the whole traditional thing but you also know Elijah is, in his own words, a devote feminist.
you point this out to him
his lips quirk up in a smile and he concedes to your point
he says you can pick him up at 7
now you’re the one standing there like ??????
you can’t believe that he said it
like you kind of got the idea he would but just hearing it out loud is
warn you it’s too much, and you reinterpret it as provocation. insist you can’t handle it, and now it’s an imperative—tenacity verging on self-sabotage. some call it naïveté, pathological optimism, others plain hubris.
you prefer to think of it as ambition.
so when you first laid eyes on your boyfriend’s cock, fear didn’t enter the equation.
it’s profane, almost… anatomically satire, proportioned with the sort of excess that feels biologically improbable. hanging pendulous between his muscular thighs, thick veins laddering the shaft. when fully erect, it doesn’t stand so much as loom, weighty where it meets his pelvis. it doesn’t resemble anatomy so much as a weaponised reproductive organ.
toji observes you impassively. he’s seen the full spectrum of reactions: fascination, intimidation, nervous giggles. he expects you to pause, maybe offer some cursory remark about lube.
instead, you say, tone contemplative:
“i think i can take it.”
he guffaws—an incredulous, chest-deep sound.
“hate to break it to you doll, but that pussy’s gonna spit me out.”
you glare. “not if we practice.”
“practice,” toji repeats flatly. his hand coasts down your stomach, between your thighs, palm pressing into the puffy slick heat of your folds. “this isn’t a trial run,”
but you’re serious. dangerously so.
you begin riding him with ritualistic persistence—methodical, controlled descents. first just the swollen head. then an inch or two. then deeper. it’s excruciating. you mount him bare, palms planted on his toned abdomen, thighs shaking, jaw slack with concentration as your cunt tries to accommodate him. it’s never an easy fit. wetness doesn’t matter. neither do the fingers he feeds into you beforehand. your body clenches around him like it’s rejecting foreign matter, stretched to its threshold by thick, veined flesh that pushes into the delicate architecture inside you. the burn draws tears, always.
but like the little engine that could, you don’t stop trying.
“fuck,” toji grunts, watching your brows knit and jaw go slack as you take half of him. “you really tryna take the whole thing?”
a nod from you. and that vacant-eyed resolve stuns him into silence. he watches you with newfound respect.
after that, he begins training you in earnest: meticulous, disciplined work. his fingers press in knuckle-deep, rotating at the point where your resistance clamps tightest, coaxing that stubborn band of muscle into compliance. he tongues your clit with single-minded focus, keeps his hand moving until you shudder apart around him. once. twice. more. he uses your orgasms as leverage—softening your walls with overstimulation until your body stops resisting and starts adapting.
and still, he keeps going.
because somewhere along the line, it stopped being your fixation alone. now it’s his too. toji fucking loves it—your grit, your delusion, your refusal to concede. the dumb belief that if you commit hard enough, surely you’ll succeed.
god, he loves that.
“gonna fuck that stupid little goal right outta your head,” he smirks, cockhead wedged inside, purposefully keeping you on edge. “but keep tryin’, baby. see how far you get.”
so you do.
again. and again. and again.
until one night, breath stuttering, thighs drawn tight, tears streaking past your ears into the pillow—you manage it.
take all of him.
every excruciating inch.
for a perfect, suspended second, silence reigns. broken only by the slick, obscene sound of your cunt suctioned tight around him, and the low, stunned groan when his gaze drops down. your abdomen swells with the imprint of him, a thick, unmistakable bulge pressing outward beneath your navel.
“…fuck.” toji stares, wide-eyed—stunned, impressed, maybe even a little afraid. until you blink up at him, lashes wet as you slur dreamily.
★ book a reading ★ ★ masterlist 1 ★ ★ masterlist 2 ★
★ jupiter in the 1st house ★
house person perspective:
this overlay feels like someone turns the lights up on you. when the jupiter person is around, you feel bigger, bolder, and more noticeable. confidence expands quickly. you may feel encouraged to take up space, talk about yourself, or act on impulses you usually second-guess. optimism rises, sometimes unrealistically. their presence can make you feel lucky, supported, or like things will “work out” just because you showed up. however, there’s also excess. you might overcommit, overshare, or promise more than you can sustain. your body feels energized but stretched. excitement replaces caution.
jupiter person perspective:
you naturally see potential in the house person. their personality feels inspiring, full of promise. you encourage them openly. praise comes easily. you may push them to take risks, be confident, or aim higher without noticing when encouragement turns into pressure. to you, it feels supportive and expansive. you don’t always see where limits are being ignored.
how it plays out:
this overlay amplifies confidence, visibility, and growth. when balanced, it builds self-belief and momentum. when unbalanced, it leads to overconfidence, entitlement, or burnout from living beyond realistic limits.
★ jupiter in the 2nd house ★
house person perspective:
this overlay feels like your sense of worth expands, sometimes faster than reality can support. when the jupiter person is around, you feel more confident about money, skills, and what you deserve. spending feels easier. generosity flows. you may feel encouraged to ask for more, charge more, or believe you’ll be supported. however, there’s a slippery edge. optimism can turn into overestimating income or underestimating consequences. security feels assumed rather than managed. emotionally, you may tie abundance to their presence, feeling richer when they’re close and uncertain when they’re not.
jupiter person perspective:
you see potential value everywhere in the house person. their talents, resources, and capacity to grow stand out to you. you encourage them to invest, expand, or believe in their worth. giving feels natural. to you, it feels supportive and uplifting. you may not notice when encouragement becomes excess or when practical limits are ignored.
how it plays out:
this overlay grows confidence around value and resources. when balanced, it builds prosperity and self-trust. when unbalanced, it leads to overspending, inflated expectations, or relying on luck instead of structure.
★ jupiter in the 3rd house ★
house person perspective:
this overlay makes your mind feel expanded and stimulated, like ideas move faster and wider than usual. when the jupiter person is around, you talk more, think bigger, and feel encouraged to share stories, opinions, and half-formed thoughts without censoring yourself. confidence in your voice increases. conversations feel optimistic and future-oriented. however, focus can scatter. you may ramble, overpromise, or gloss over details. listening becomes harder than speaking. mentally, you feel energized but slightly ungrounded. afterward, you might realize you said more than you meant to or committed to things impulsively.
jupiter person perspective:
you’re drawn to the house person’s thinking and communication style. their ideas feel promising and worth expanding. you encourage dialogue, ask big questions, and keep conversations moving forward. to you, it feels stimulating and inspiring. you may exaggerate possibilities or push optimism without noticing when realism is needed.
how it plays out:
this overlay creates enthusiastic communication, learning, and mental growth. when balanced, it builds confidence, curiosity, and shared understanding. when unbalanced, it leads to exaggeration, misinformation, or mental overload from too many ideas moving too fast.
★ jupiter in the 4th house ★
house person perspective:
this overlay feels emotionally expansive and strangely comforting. when the jupiter person is around, you feel safer, more supported, and more optimistic about your inner world. home feels warmer. emotions feel easier to express. you may open up about family, childhood, or private struggles more freely than usual. there’s a sense that things will work out on an emotional level. however, this can also lead to excess. you might idealize family dynamics, ignore unresolved issues, or overextend emotionally. comfort can turn into avoidance. your body feels heavier, more relaxed, sometimes sluggish, like you want to stay in and nest instead of move forward.
jupiter person perspective:
you naturally want to protect, uplift, and emotionally support the house person. their inner world feels meaningful to you. you encourage healing, forgiveness, and emotional growth. to you, it feels nurturing and generous. you may not notice when reassurance becomes enabling or when optimism glosses over emotional work that still needs to happen.
how it plays out:
this overlay expands emotional security and belonging. when balanced, it builds deep support and emotional safety. when unbalanced, it leads to emotional indulgence, avoidance of difficult family patterns, or stagnation disguised as comfort.
★ jupiter in the 5th house ★
house person perspective:
this overlay feels like joy gets permission to be loud. when the jupiter person is around, confidence in your creativity, humor, and self-expression expands quickly. you may feel more playful, flirtatious, and willing to take risks emotionally or romantically. attention feels abundant. you might overestimate how invincible you are in love or assume things will stay fun forever. pleasure becomes easy to justify. however, there’s a tendency toward excess. overindulging, overpromising, or ignoring emotional consequences because everything feels good right now. your body responds with high energy and adrenaline, followed by crashes.
jupiter person perspective:
you see the house person as fun, expressive, and full of potential. their creativity and joy feel contagious. you encourage risk-taking, confidence, and enjoyment. to you, it feels generous and uplifting. you may hype them up without noticing when realism or emotional responsibility is needed.
how it plays out:
this overlay amplifies romance, creativity, and pleasure. when balanced, it builds confidence, joy, and inspiration. when unbalanced, it leads to recklessness, entitlement, or emotional excess masked as “having fun.”
★ jupiter in the 6th house ★
house person perspective:
this overlay makes your daily life feel bigger than it used to be. when the jupiter person is around, you feel encouraged to improve routines, health, and productivity. work feels more meaningful. effort feels rewarded. you may take on more responsibilities with optimism, believing you can handle it all. however, there’s a hidden excess. you might overwork, overcommit, or ignore physical limits because you feel supported or capable. burnout sneaks in quietly. your body reacts with swelling schedules, skipped rest, or stress masked as motivation. “busy” starts to feel like a personality trait.
jupiter person perspective:
you see potential growth in how the house person lives day-to-day. you encourage better habits, bigger goals, and improvement. to you, this feels helpful and supportive. you may push expansion without noticing when it becomes pressure or when rest is being sacrificed for productivity.
how it plays out:
this overlay expands work ethic, health awareness, and service. when balanced, it improves routines and well-being. when unbalanced, it leads to overextension, inflated workloads, or ignoring the body in the name of growth.
★ jupiter in the 7th house ★
house person perspective:
this overlay makes relationships feel larger-than-life. when the jupiter person is around, partnership feels promising, lucky, and full of potential. you may feel more confident in relationships, more willing to commit, or more optimistic about long-term outcomes. their presence expands your belief in love, collaboration, and mutual growth. however, there’s a tendency to idealize. red flags can be reframed as “growth opportunities.” you may over-accommodate, over-trust, or assume things will resolve themselves. emotionally, you feel uplifted, but sometimes stretched. disappointment hits harder when reality doesn’t match the promise. your body feels open, energized, and outward-facing, but can crash after relational letdowns.
jupiter person perspective:
you naturally see the house person as an ideal partner. you encourage growth through relationship, often emphasizing optimism, forgiveness, and expansion together. to you, commitment feels exciting and meaningful. you may push the relationship forward quickly or gloss over practical concerns. what feels like faith and positivity to you can feel like pressure or unrealistic expectations to them.
how it plays out:
this overlay expands commitment, cooperation, and relational confidence. when balanced, it builds trust and shared growth. when unbalanced, it leads to over-idealization, imbalance, or disappointment when reality asserts itself.
★ jupiter in the 8th house ★
house person perspective:
this overlay makes everything feel deeper, riskier, and more consequential. when the jupiter person is around, you feel encouraged to open up emotionally, financially, or sexually in ways you normally guard. trust expands quickly. you may share secrets, merge resources, or take emotional risks believing growth will follow. there’s a sense that intimacy equals transformation. however, optimism can override caution. you might give too much, too soon, or assume loyalty without proof. power dynamics blur easily. your body reacts with intensity. heightened desire, emotional highs, and equally intense crashes when boundaries are crossed or expectations aren’t met.
jupiter person perspective:
you see growth potential in depth, vulnerability, and shared risk with the house person. you encourage honesty, intimacy, and emotional exploration. to you, it feels liberating and meaningful. you may underestimate how overwhelming this expansion feels or how much pressure it places on trust, finances, or emotional safety.
how it plays out:
this overlay expands intimacy, trust, and transformation. when balanced, it builds deep bonding and mutual empowerment. when unbalanced, it leads to overexposure, financial entanglement, or emotional excess disguised as “growth.”
★ jupiter in the 9th house ★
house person perspective:
this overlay makes your sense of meaning feel expanded and energized. when the jupiter person is around, you feel encouraged to think bigger about your life, beliefs, and future. curiosity increases. you may feel inspired to travel, study, teach, or take leaps of faith you previously hesitated on. conversations feel uplifting and hopeful. however, there’s a tendency to overestimate how ready you are for big moves. details get skipped. optimism replaces planning. you may feel restless if growth isn’t happening fast enough. your body reacts with excitement and momentum, followed by impatience or frustration when reality moves slower than your vision.
jupiter person perspective:
you’re drawn to expanding the house person’s worldview. you encourage exploration, risk-taking, and belief in possibility. to you, this feels motivating and generous. you may push for “more” without noticing when grounding or follow-through is needed. what feels like inspiration to you can feel like pressure to leap before they’re ready.
how it plays out:
this overlay fuels adventure, belief, and shared vision. when balanced, it builds wisdom, confidence, and growth. when unbalanced, it leads to overconfidence, dogmatism, or chasing meaning without anchoring it in reality.
★ jupiter in the 10th house ★
house person perspective:
this overlay makes you feel seen for your potential, not just who you are right now. when the jupiter person is around, your ambition expands. confidence around career, reputation, and long-term direction increases quickly. you may feel encouraged to aim higher, take leadership roles, or believe success is inevitable. praise from them feels legitimizing. however, there’s pressure beneath the optimism. you may overcommit publicly, promise more than you can realistically deliver, or feel exposed if momentum slows. failure feels more visible. your body carries this as tension in the shoulders and back. you push forward even when tired because opportunity feels too big to miss.
jupiter person perspective:
you naturally see the house person’s future as expansive and promising. you encourage growth, recognition, and advancement. to you, this feels supportive and motivating. you may not notice when your expectations become heavy or when encouragement turns into pressure to perform or succeed quickly.
how it plays out:
this overlay expands ambition, visibility, and confidence. when balanced, it brings opportunity, mentorship, and growth. when unbalanced, it leads to overextension, public pressure, or defining worth too strongly through success.
★ jupiter in the 11th house ★
house person perspective:
this overlay makes your future feel larger and more possible. when the jupiter person is around, you feel encouraged to dream bigger, connect wider, and believe in long-term goals. friendships feel supportive. group spaces feel full of opportunity. you may feel more confident sharing ideas or stepping into communities you once felt unsure about. however, optimism can blur boundaries. you might overextend socially, promise collaboration you can’t sustain, or assume everyone shares your vision. disappointment can surface when ideals don’t match follow-through. your body feels energized in social settings but drained afterward if expectations were too high.
jupiter person perspective:
you see potential in the house person’s dreams, networks, and future direction. you encourage their goals and often act as a cheerleader or connector. to you, it feels hopeful and expansive. you may not notice when encouragement turns into unrealistic expectations or when you’re hyping ideas faster than they can materialize.
how it plays out:
this overlay expands friendships, networks, and aspirations. when balanced, it builds support and collective growth. when unbalanced, it leads to overpromising, idealizing groups, or disillusionment with community.
★ jupiter in the 12th house ★
house person perspective:
this overlay feels subtle, protective, and strangely comforting. when the jupiter person is around, you may feel safer emotionally, more forgiving, or quietly hopeful without knowing why. support feels invisible rather than overt. you might open up about fears, losses, or hidden struggles more easily. however, boundaries can blur. you may rely on faith instead of action or avoid practical solutions because things “feel okay.” emotional or spiritual bypassing is a risk. your body reacts with heaviness or drowsiness, like you’re sinking into something soothing but vague.
jupiter person perspective:
you feel compassion and goodwill toward the house person. you may want to protect, forgive, or support them behind the scenes. encouragement feels spiritual or unconditional. to you, it feels kind and generous. you may not notice when clarity is sacrificed or when optimism avoids necessary confrontation.
how it plays out:
this overlay expands compassion, faith, and subconscious support. when balanced, it offers healing and quiet protection. when unbalanced, it leads to avoidance, denial, or growth delayed by relying on hope instead of action.
★ book a reading ★ ★ masterlist 1 ★ ★ masterlist 2 ★
how to build a more beautiful life without buying anything new 🌷
refinement isn’t always about upgrading, but about removing what is meh, unnecessary, or uninspired from your life.
we often think of “elevation” in terms of acquiring more—higher-quality pieces, better routines, more sophisticated habits. but true refinement is just as much about what we remove as what we add. it’s about cutting away the excess, the mediocre, the things that subtly drain our energy or clutter our space, until only what is essential and beautiful remains. this also serves to create space to attract new and better into your daily life.
this applies to every area of life:
1. your physical space
there is an immense luxury in empty space—in a drawer that isn’t overstuffed, in a wardrobe where every piece feels intentional, in a room that allows you to breathe. removing what is uninspired or poorly made creates a sense of clarity and presence.
donate the items you keep “just in case” but never reach for
let go of objects that feel stagnant or disconnected from who you are becoming
allow space for quality, rather than trying to fill every gap with “good enough”
2. your aesthetic
instead of endlessly collecting, refining your personal style is about editing—removing the pieces that no longer resonate, so what remains is effortless, cohesive, and undeniably you.
remove everything that makes you feel "off" or doesn’t align with your self-image
embrace the confidence of repetition—having signature pieces rather than chasing variety
invest in fewer, better things, even if it means waiting longer for the right pieces
3. your schedule & commitments
a truly refined life is spacious. it’s knowing that time is the ultimate luxury and protecting it accordingly.
eliminate social obligations that feel like obligations rather than joys
identify where you’re overcommitting, and create room for deep focus and presence
simplify routines—focus on rituals that feel rich rather than forcing excessive steps
4. your mindset & energy
refinement is also an internal process. removing limiting beliefs, unhelpful habits, or outdated narratives makes space for a more intentional way of being.
unfollow content that subtly drains or distracts you
release outdated goals that no longer excite you
remove the pressure to always be more—sometimes, subtracting is the elevation
elevation isn’t just about the next level—it’s about clearing the way for what truly matters. when you strip away what is unnecessary, what remains is sharper, stronger, and infinitely more beautiful.
a/n: this is not full blown erotica! it's more of a story line ft. smut!
collin
My legs are shaking so badly I nearly set off the elevator’s motion sensor. By the time I step into the penthouse, the world is mostly nausea and endorphin afterburn, and my arms are too rubbery to properly work the lock. This is what happens when I let Lena talk me into pilates before 8AM—I come home as a puddle in a matching set with my hair leaking sweat.
The apartment is empty, or so I assume. Harry’s schedule is like a black box—inputs go in, outcomes emerge, but the process is ineffable. He leaves at 7:58 every day, a true model of punctuality and overcommitment, and the earliest he returns is dusk, or sometimes, midnight. The last two days he’s been in Philidelphia—something about a Rothko and “donor cultivation,” which I now understand just means he’s getting drunk and losing a bidding war on purpose—so my main interaction with him has been the dotted line of his location services.
But today, as I come in, the kitchen is occupied.
Harry stands at the stove, or more accurately, looms over it. He’s in track pants and nothing else, and the drawstring is knotted in a smug little bow like it knows I’m too wrecked to untie it one-handed. He’s holding his phone between jaw and shoulder, and his forearms are doing that unfair violin-string thing while he lowers an egg into a pan of barely moving water.
“Tell Frankfurt I don’t care if it’s still on the tarmac, insurance covers acts of God not acts of stupidity—” He sees me and instantly switches to warm honey. “I’ll call you later.”
“You’re back early,” I say, stating the obvious like it’s a federal offence.
“Last meeting got cancelled, flew in at dawn.” He nods at the barstool opposite him. “Sit before you drip on the quartz, it stains.”
My legs have entered the acceptance stage of grief, so I obey. He pours orange juice into a weighty crystal tumbler and parks it in front of me like medicine.
“How was Philidelphia?” I ask.
“Fine.” As I take a sip, he folds his arms and does a full-body scan that feels like an X-ray. “You look like you’ve been drowned.”
“Lena abducted me for pilates,” I croak, as if the words explain manslaughter. “She did not mention that it’s basically medieval torture with spa music.”
He laughs. “Fucking hell. That shit is hard, even for me.”
“Yeah, I’m surprised I lived,” I continue, because the egg is timing itself and I feel the story decaying, “anyway, you know the Carringtons?”
He rolls his eyes. “Cathryn and Al? Yes, darling. I know every socialite within a twenty-block radius,” which would be rude if it weren’t true. “But I haven’t seen them since that NYU fundraiser. You charmed them while I was hiding behind a sculpture.”
“Right. They have that son, the human lacrosse stick, totally empty upstairs. Cathryn cornered me and asked if I could tutor him.”
“Brady’s not entirely without potential, to be fair,” he murmurs, and the egg gets a gentle spin, like he’s hypnotising it. “Is that something you’d be interested in? You already abuse Columbia undergrads with thermo—do you even have time?”
“Well I’ve already done it twice a week for the last six.”
He’s freezes with his spoon poised mid-air. “You’re just mentioning this now because…”
I shrug. “Because unless you think ‘can you name three types of triangle’ is a market-moving detail, I didn’t think it was relevant.”
“Didn’t think it was relevant?” he repeats.
“Anyway—” I power through, before we get off track. “This morning at pilates she ambushed me with the news his score jumped to the fourteen-hundreds. She said, ‘Al will ring Harry this afternoon to finalise our commitment.’”
The spoon clinks on marble, and the egg starts to tornado in the pot. “How did you—what exactly did you say to them?”
“Nothing. I tutored their kid. Kid aced the test. Ergo, parental euphoria opens vault doors.”
He glares, but it’s more for show than for substance. “Collin, Al Carrington has been telling me for three years he’ll allocate ten million ‘when the stars align’ which is rich person for ‘never.’”
“Well I reckon the stars aligned as soon as Brady got his results back. Maybe you should’ve tried teaching trigonometry instead of offering to name a wing after them.”
He comes around the island and stops between my knees. His palms settle on my sweat-slick thighs and he squeezes them like he’s testing fruit for ripeness. Before I can yelp, he’s kissing me like we’re drafting a contract with our tongues. When we pull away he mutters, “You impossible, accidental genius.”
I roll my eyes, but the pulse between my legs is embarrassingly enthusiastic. “Your egg’s experiencing a tsunami.”
“Symbolic of my prior inefficiencies.” He steps away only long enough to kill the burner, then returns, sliding a plate of fruit, yoghurt, and a slab of sourdough my direction.
“So you’re not mad?” I ask, just to make sure.
He shakes his head and smiles. “Your independence turns me on disproportionately. But I do have something to tell you.”
“Oh?”
I’m still trying to decide if ten million dollars counts as a dowry when he sighs and says, “About your apartment…the city inspector red-stamped the whole building. It’s condemned.”
The juice suddenly tastes sour. “The entire…brownstone?”
“Well, that’s what happens when you find toxic mould in every unit.” He taps his phone so I can see a photo attachment of what looks like the inside of a lungs-of-London chimney, only it’s allegedly the drywall behind my bathroom mirror. “Your landlord is looking at criminal penalties. You, however, are getting your deposit and this month’s rent back by close of business.”
Part of me wants to mourn the studio—the crooked blinds, the graffiti on the windows, the patch of floor where the bed always wobbled—but mostly I feel the cave-in of options.
“You can stay here as long as you want, but I know you want an exit strategy.” Harry opens a laptop that was definitely not there five minutes ago. “My realtor sent listings. Morningside, Manhattan Valley, Washington Heights, whatever your preference is.”
“Those zip codes file taxes in a different galaxy,” I object. “That’s why I lived in the Bronx.”
“Yeah, and it took you over an hour to get to uni. The new commute is twenty-six minutes on the 1 train, thirty-one if the track’s on fire.” He tilts his head, letting the chain around his neck catch the pendant light. “Besides, you’re not paying, so your objections are decorative.”
“Decorative?”
He turns the screen and shows me a sun-lit one-bedroom on 116th with oak floors and a kitchen that doesn’t look like it was assembled from mismatched dollhouse parts. Monthly rent is a hair under six thousand. “We’ll view next weekend. If you loathe it, we’ll keep looking.”
I’m still gaping at the zeros when he flicks to the next listing— a brownstone duplex, community garden in back, laundry in unit. Then another. And another. The tabs multiply like bacteria themselves.
“I can’t afford gratitude at this exchange rate,” I mutter.
He leans across the counter and brackets my knees with his hands. “Let me be vulgar—I have more money than I could spend if I tried. I also have you. The overlap is called arithmetic.”
“I’m not unemployed. I can pay for my apartment, as long as it’s somewhere else.”
“Use your money to buy outrageous textbooks.” He kisses the corner of my mouth and reads my hesitation like it’s captioned. “I said I’d fix it. Let me fix it.”
I picture myself a year from now, contract over, addicted to filtered air and sheets with a thread count higher than my credit score.
He closes the laptop and slides the plate closer. “Eat something, please. You’re trembling.”
My post-pilates adrenaline is colliding with eviction vertigo. I bite the crust and watch him rinse the pot. I feel suddenly, stupidly possessive of this man who’s colonising my autonomy with air purifiers and municipal code.
“Next weekend,” I agree finally. “But no naming rights on the building.”
“You drive a brutal bargain, darling.”
“Non-negotiable.”
He glances back at me and nods. “Done.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The amphitheatre rises from the sod in a swoop of poured concrete, like someone dropped a Fibonacci spiral onto a suburban soccer field and left it to fossilise. Harry’s cuff brushes my knuckles as we hand our passes to a security guy who looks as thrilled to be wearing a tuxedo in this humidity as I am to be wearing four-inch heels on gravel.
We follow the signs of illuminated rectangles that look stolen from an airport down a turf ramp that leads toward the river. Harry steers me left, past a champagne tower arranged like an unstable jenga set. He plucks two flutes off the top without toppling the tower, an act of physics I file under the reasons he still wakes up interesting.
We are immediately intercepted by Al Carrington, who is the physical embodiment of wealth acquired through a hundred years of oil rigging. I’m acknowledged, admired, and dismissed inside of ten seconds, which is ideal because they quickly launch into a boring tennis match of “whose foundation did more for disadvantaged urban kids this year?” The answer is Harry’s, but he lets Al thinks it’s his, because there’s real shame in fact checking someone in public. Especially when they just wrote you a cheque for ten million dollars.
I sip my champagne and look around for someone else under the age of thirty. No luck. The only thing in my bracket is the install by JR, which takes up most of the amphitheatre’s south wall. It’s black and white, enormous, and was probably much more radical in the artist’s head. The faces staring out are all New Yorkers, meant to represent the polyphony of the city’s hope, but the only thing it actually accomplishes is make everyone feel surveilled while trying to use the restroom.
A hush ripples outward as the mayor ascends the portable dais. Harry’s hand lands on my shoulder as if it’s always belonged there, his thumb describing slow circles that map directly onto my pulse points. The mayor talks for a while about “new civic space” and “radical accessibility,” phrases that mean nothing and everything, depending on your status as a donor. Tom is acknowledged by name, as is Lena, who does not blink at the attention. When it’s over, everyone claps like their bonus depends on it.
“You want another?” Harry asks. He means the champagne, which I have already finished.
“Please.”
“Table two,” he says, pointing to a tented seating chart. “Find us.”
At this point, moving in a straight line is the only activity available to me. I make my way to the highest terrace, where the rows of circular tables are, and find table two in the second row, slightly off axis from the stage. Lena is already there, sitting in the seat next to my place card, which is written in copperplate next to Harry’s.
She immediately starts talking about the mayor’s speech, which I did not hear but am able to bluff through with noncommittal “hm”s and “that’s interesting”s. I’m mostly observing who’s arriving at the tables. I spot at least four more foundation people in our row, and two couples that are probably on second or third marriages, as measured by the visible age gap and the order in which they arrive—older men, then their dates, then the event manager, then someone’s bored kid.
When I glance back at Lena, it’s because Chase Benson is sliding into the seat beside her. It’s a bit surprising, but only in the sense that he’s not usually in public before 9pm. He’s wearing a white jacket and his hair is a little too long for the crowd, which means he’s making a point.
“Chase,” Lena says, as if she’s been expecting him for hours, “you’re just in time to help us rate the mayor’s performance.”
Chase beams, not at her, but at me. “Collin. I feel like I just saw you. We’re practically family now.”
I’m just registering the comfort of having another known quantity at the table when the universe snatches it away. The next chair shudders back, and a man in a dark blazer and perfect fucking hair sits down. My stomach hits my spine at seventy miles an hour—it’s Matthew.
I try to convince myself it’s just a lookalike, but then I see the way he looks at me, or rather, the way he doesn’t. He sees me, and then immediately looks through me.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt, because I am neither hallucinating nor prepared for his exchange. The one ex-boyfriend who could genuinely end my life with a phone call is four feet away, but this time I am alone and without any of the chemical weapons one might use to fortify against this.
“Nice to see you, too, Collin,” he laughs. “I’m doing research for my dissertation. Just meeting with a couple of archives in the city, and then back to Chicago.”
“You two know each other?” Chase asks.
“We go way back,” Matthew answers. “I hadn’t seen Collin since university, but then we randomly bumped into each other in Chicago last month.”
Lena, oblivious to the undercurrent, says, “Collin’s got a knack for showing up where the interesting people are. You should see what she did at the NYU fundraiser—half the floor was following her around by the end.”
“She does have that effect.”
It is at this moment that Tom and Harry return, the very picture of aesthetic opposites. Tom has taken off his sunglasses but still has the tan lines to prove he never goes indoors, and Harry has on a black linen shirt that looks like it was designed to make everyone else’s shirt feel self-conscious.
He hands me a fresh champagne flute and puts his hand on the back of my neck. I don’t know if he can sense the change in my body temperature, or if he’s just staking territory, but I am very grateful for the interference.
“Nice to see you again. Both of you,” he chimes, glancing between Chase and Matthew as if the seating arrangement is a mystery. “I didn’t know you were friends.”
Chase gestures beside him. “My foundation funds research at UIC, where Matthew’s finishing his doctorate. He’s here doing research.”
Harry’s grip on my neck tightens for a half-second, then relaxes. “Small world.”
For the next stretch, the table operates on two layers. On the surface, there is the flow of food and wine and the expected banter about real estate, sports, the state of the city’s infrastructure, as if those are the only civic topics permitted at donor tables. Below that is a pressure gradient, where every time Matthew addresses the table, his eyes cut to me as if waiting for a sign I’m about to spill my drink or lose my temper.
Lena does most of the talking, or maybe just fills every gap before anyone else can. She’s in full hostess mode, asking Chase about his work and quizzing Matthew on the pace of his research. He launches into a long, winding explanation about the phenomenology of negative space in postwar American sculpture, which is exactly as tedious as it sounds.
Halfway through dessert, he passes the grenade to me. “So, how’s your family, Collin? Your dad still on sabbatical, or did he go back to teaching?”
This is a trap, but I have no way around it. “They’re fine,” I answer. “He’s still taking time off. Might go back next year.”
Matthew frowns. “I thought sabbaticals were a year-long event. Hasn’t it been, like, half a decade?”
“Something like that.”
“Maybe it’s a soft retirement,” Tom jokes.
“And what does your dad teach, Collin?” Lena asks, who, unlike everyone else here, is not invested in social warfare as a primary means of communication.
“Philosophy.” I try to sound bored as I say it, because if you show interest, people start asking about your own thoughts, and that would require another glass of champagne at this point.
“Oh, so he’s more into thinking about stuff, not really…doing it?”
This is the most concrete understanding of the field I’ve ever witnessed. “Precisely.”
She looks pleased to have gotten it right. “Well, we all need a break from thinking from time to time.”
“I suppose when your personal life becomes a case study,” Matthew says, “it’s hard to keep teaching ethics.”
I set my fork down and fix him a look. “Say that again?”
Everyone goes silent because the question came out just as seething as I feel. There’s shared glance between Tom and Harry, and I realise nobody else understands Matthew is re-establishing himself in the social order by lightly throttling my reputation.
“What?” he laughs. “Universities can be sensitive about optics. It’s difficult to maintain authority when the lecture hall isn’t the only place people are looking.”
I scoff. “If you’re making an example, you should really choose your next words carefully.”
“I could think of a few. But I assure you, I’m speaking in the abstract,” he persists. “Philosophy is a discipline obsessed with moral consequence, and it applies to everyone equally.”
He always did prefer theory to accountability.
Harry puts his hand on my thigh, which means whatever the fuck this is, do not escalate, but I wasn’t going to.
I hold Matthew’s gaze until I see him squirm, then turn to Tom. “Anyway. You said something earlier about a stress test on the amphitheatre?”
The table looks grateful for the subject change, even if it’s to something as mundane as post-tensioning and its effects on urban landscaping. Matthew keeps glancing my way, but I focus on Tom’s monologue, and my champagne, which is cold and perfectly dry. At the opportune moment, I excuse myself to the bathroom and stand up so fast the chair nearly tips.
The restrooms are on the other side of the tent, and, predictably, overdesigned. The mirrors are digital, the soap is foaming, and and there’s not a single paper towel in the whole place, just jets of air that leave your hands clammy and a little sad.
I pull out my phone and dial Connor, because I know he’ll answer on the first ring.
I do not want to cry. I am not crying.
“Collin?” he answers, like he’s been waiting by the phone all night.
“Connor, I am at this banquet thing, and guess who’s here.”
“Oh god,” he groans. “Don’t tell me. Is it Harry’s evil twin?”
“Worse. It’s Matthew Welles.”
There is a long pause. The longest in the history of our friendship. “Wait—” I hear him rustling papers, probably checking for the notes he took when I gave him a crash course on the disasters of my dating history. “Is that the one that proposed to you over a calzone, or the stalker that started the subreddit?”
“The subreddit.”
I can feel him physically recoil through the phone. “Oh. My. God. Is he—did you talk to him? Did he try anything? Do you need an alibi?”
“He’s being…himself?” I rub my forehead, feeling the pressure drop as my blood sugar dips for real. “He’s already implied my father is a basket case because I’m a nymphomaniac. In front of a bunch of people.”
“Does Harry know about the Matthew situation?”
“Absolutely not! I didn’t start escorting to erase myself from the internet just to confess as to why.”
“What do you think he’s doing there?”
“He’s getting his research funded by this guy who’s a friend of Harry’s,” I explain. “Which is just proof that elite culture is six people passing grants back and forth if I’ve ever heard it.”
“Or he’s being pragmatic,” Connor counters. “I mean, think about it. You don’t see this guy for—what—six, seven years? Then you run into him in Chicago and now all of sudden he’s in your city?”
This is not the pep-talk I was hoping for. “Or maybe I happen to live in the global art capital and it’s a genuine coincidence we’d interact in the same circles.”
“Oh, yeah. Because Matthew Welles is famous for accidental alliances. I’ll let you run the probability on that one,” he taunts. “Do you want me to show up and punch him? Because I will.”
“No,” I say, but it almost comes out as a yes. “I just—I need to not have a panic attack at the table.”
“Right, right. Okay, um…don’t let him see you’re stressed. You’re a stone. You are the table.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “I am the table.”
“He wants to get a rise out of you. That’s all it is. Don’t give him what he wants.”
“Except he always gets what he wants!”
“And so do you, Collin,” he insists, which is the exact reason I knew he was the person to call. “You’re the terror of the Ivy League, and you’re fucking a guy who owns half of the city. You’re untouchable.”
“I am the table.”
“You’re the fucking table!” he agrees. “Look, don’t keep Harry waiting on you. Rich men hate that shit. Just cut off Matthew’s oxygen—act like you don’t even remember dating him, or anything afterwards. He’s just another idiot at the tutoring centre. If you need me, send the code word and I’ll find a way to extract you.”
I pause, then realise he’s right. The worst punishment for someone like Matthew is irrelevance. Or maybe it isn’t, but I have to believe it is for the sake of my own sanity. “Right. Okay—I can do that.”
“Call me later, okay? Love you.”
“Thanks, Connor.”
We hang up, and I suddenly feel a sense of immense dread knowing I’ll have to walk back to the table and face Matthew alone. I take a minute and try to conjure up my alter-ego—the one that is more indifferent than she is afraid. Usually I find that part of myself impossible to shut off, even when I want to, but now, it feels like it’s infinitely redshifted.
I push out of the restroom, braced for the city council, but I find Harry halfway down the ramp with his back against the brutalist brick, scrolling his phone. Except he’s not just standing—he’s smoking. An actual cigarette, not even herbal.
The first thing out of my mouth is, "That’s disgusting.”
He jumps like someone has goosed him with a taser. He looks at me, then at the cigarette, and then does the most counterintuitive thing imaginable and takes a long, defiant drag.
“You were in there for a while. I was left to my own devices.”
I cross my arms. “You’re going to get cancer.”
He shrugs. “I only smoke when I’m about to murder someone.”
It’s not a joke. His eyes are stuck in a radioactive green, like an alert system for imminent violence. Then I notice he’s holding my purse in his other hand—one of those gestures that would, from anyone else, trigger an allergic reaction, but from him it almost makes sense.
I point at it. “If you want to use my lipgloss, you don’t have to ask me to get it for you.”
“Funny.” He gives the purse a little spin around his wrist and hands it over. “I brought it to you because we’re leaving.”
“What do you mean, we’re leaving?”
“I mean, we’re leaving.” His tone brooks no argument. “This whole thing is a shambles, and you look like you want to set fire to the seating chart.”
I glance over my shoulder to make sure we’re not being watched. “We can’t just leave. You’re on the committee for this.”
“Well, I can tell you’re not exactly thrilled about sitting with your ex-boyfriend.” He stubs out the cigarette on the brick and tosses it in the ashtray. “So they’ll have to survive on their own. The rest of the itinerary is just drinking, congratulating the same people over and over, and then waiting for your car from the valet.”
“Dinner’s over,” I point out. “We can just avoid him for the rest of the night.”
“You don’t want to avoid him. You want to not see him at all,” he asserts. “If I wanted to go, we’d go. So the rule stands for you, too. You don’t have to stay anywhere you don’t want to.”
I’m supposed to be arm candy, not dead weight. “It doesn’t bother me—”
“Well it bothers me,” he interrupts. “Besides, I already told everyone I have a migraine. I’m not in the mood to walk it back.”
“You lied for me?” I ask, mostly surprised he’s the one who got my mystery illness, not me.
He smirks. “I’m not completely without cunning, darling.”
In my head, Harry doesn’t make decisions that aren’t, to some degree, self-serving. The idea that he’d cede ground, on a night with seven figures in the balance, just because I had a rough go with an ex does not compute. It’s hard to conceive someone caring about my own comfort when I don’t even care about it myself.
“You’re the boss,” I surrender. I mean it in the most literal, contractually obligated way possible.
“When it matters,” he murmurs. “I just need to wash my hands. Then we can go.”
“From the one cigarette?”
He nods, already pulling open the door to the men’s room. “Nicotine is a persistent beast.”
He’s in there for a minute, max, and then out again. We exit together, down the stone path and out into the parking lot, the residual sounds of the party trailing behind us like a sad wedding conga.
We manoeuvre the pedestrian wedge between two monstrous cabs. He holds my hand the entire walk, and we stay silent. He doesn’t even ask about Matthew, which is either evidence of his superhuman manners or a sign he’s decided I’m not worth the drama. If I asked what he was thinking about, he’d say he wasn’t thinking about anything, but I know from experience that means he’s thinking about everything, all at once, and is filtering it through whichever neural sieve keeps him from self destructing.
We get about a block from his building before his phone rings. It’s not Sari’s ringtone, it’s someone from his family’s. He answers, and the accent immediately ratchets up several notches.
“Hi, Isobel.”
I listen to his side of the conversation, because the way he tries not to be an asshole is almost a sport. For once, he doesn’t sound like he’s about to sue someone, he sounds like his sister has just confessed to crashing their mom’s Audi and he’s trying to reassure her she won’t be written out of the will.
“No, I haven’t spoken with her since the last incident,” Harry says. He’s careful to keep my hand in his while he talks, as if the continuity of skin contact is actually of importance right now. “Well, I thought she’d be in Portugal by now. She told me it was just a short trip—”
He goes quiet, shrugs a lot, and says things like “right” and “absolutely” but never anything specific. Isobel is clearly unloading, and I can tell he wants to say something cruel or at least accurate, but he flattens it out with neutral affirmations.
At his building, the doorman opens the door and greets us by name. Harry gives him a polite nod, and the the brass doors to the elevator roll aside as silent as the end of a library aisle.
“I know. I know she makes it impossible sometimes. No, I’m not siding with her. I’m just…” he glances at me and smiles, “you know how she gets when you contradict her, just—just let her have it, alright? It’s not worth the spectacle.”
He unlocks the door to the penthouse, flicks the lights on, and does his security sweep—front rooms, kitchen, the balcony, always the same order. I kick off my shoes, and Harry keeps walking toward the guest corridor. Not the usual hand-off in the kitchen, not the rote goodnight. I follow—too tired to be curious, too curious to be tired—and stop outside the guest bath’s double doors.
He’s drawing me a bath. He has learned, in the time we’ve known each other, that this is what shortcuts my emotional fallout, so he’ll start it and then leave me alone. This is how he nurtures, through absence as much as presence.
“She’s not going to apologise, Iz,” he says into the phone. “Don’t put yourself through it.”
Harry sees my reflection in the mirror and gestures for me to turn around, so I do. I feel his fingers on the zipper of my dress, sliding it down, and then his hands are gone. He steps around me and closes the door behind him, leaving me in the cathedral of a bathroom.
By the time I’m undressed and my hair is up, room is already steamy. He’s adjusted the water temperature exactly, just shy of intolerable. I sink deep and let the air bubbles chase the evening out of my pores.
About five minutes later, just as my mind starts to drift, there’s a knock at the door. Harry opens it immediately; the knock was just a polite formality.
He’s holding a bowl of sliced strawberries in one hand, a glass of water in the other, and is wearing nothing but a pair of slutty running shorts. He sets both on the rim and asks, “Want anything else? Glass of wine?”
I consider pretending to be asleep, but then I remember he’d probably call an ambulance, so I just shake my head and try to arrange my limbs under the bubbles. “No. Just you.”
He looks at me with a hint of admiration. “You want me to feed you, or just watch?”
“Whatever brings you joy.” I pluck a strawberry from the bowl and pop it in my mouth, then scoot forward to make room. “Or you could get in. I promise not to drown you.”
“I’ll take the risk,” he says. He peels off his shorts. Boxers, too, which I suppose is standard practice for bath entry. Every time I see him undress I find myself offended by how well he wears nudity, like he’s been engineered for sex. He slides into the bath behind me, a sigh escaping his lips like he’s just been granted a rare and exquisite mercy.
There is a brief period of adjustment, because every bathroom in his apartment has been designed by architects who have never actually bathed. My back settles against his chest as his knees bracket my hips, and his hands find my shoulders, kneading out the knots until the muscles give up their grudge notes.
“You’re tense.”
I tilt my head back until it rests in the hollow of his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m breathing.”
He works the pressure points until until I can feel the muscles start to unclench. “You really shouldn’t stress so much, Collin.”
“You’re one to talk.”
He makes a noise like he might actually dunk my head and shoves a strawberry in my mouth. “Shut up.”
I try not to choke on it from laughter, and he goes back to rubbing my shoulders. After a while, I realise I am holding my arms across my chest, so I force them to relax—which is harder than it sounds—and let my hands drift onto his knees. The heat from the water and the density of his chest against my back have nearly short circuited my ability to recall why I spent the last two hours in a fight or flight state.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I was hoping he had forgotten. “About what?”
“Collin,” he pleads, sounding almost disappointed. “Come on, love.”
I sigh. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think.”
One of his hands slides across my collarbone and gently twists the necklace I’m wearing, and the other ghosts over the inside of my thigh exactly once before retreating. It’s an offer wrapped in denial, and my hips instantly tilt in silent negotiation. “Is that why you wanted me to stay? Hoping I’d provide a distraction?”
“So what if it is?”
He hums in response and starts tracing my collarbone again. I try to think about surface tension, the relative permeability of skin to heat, whether it’s possible to calculate the precise displacement required to make us both overflow. But the moment Harry’s palm slides under my left breast and starts tracing my nipple, the only thing I can compute is how fast my heart is beating. The skin is already tight and hyperreactive from the temperature, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a noise.
The other hand slips back into the water and parts my legs. His fingers drift upward, teasing along the inside of my thigh, never quite landing where I want them. It’s humiliating to be this aroused with so little input, but I can’t help it.
His lips touch my ear, the softest version of a shove. “Ask nicely, Collin. I can give you anything you want—you just have to ask.”
“Please touch me,” I whimper, not caring how desperate it sounds.
He explores slowly—slowly being his benchmark tonight—until he finds my aching clit. He starts with the barest pressure, just enough to make me grind my hips forward. I’m slick, even underwater, and his fingers glide with humiliating ease. As he touches me, he shifts his hips and I feel the undeniable, very hard evidence that he’s just as turned on as I am. He’s not shy about it, either—he rocks up, pressing himself against my lower back, just enough to make sure I notice.
“I like knowing you want it,” he remarks. “That you need it.”
“Fuck,” I moan. “I—I need it.”
I try to hold it together, but he starts kissing my neck in tandem with the rhythm of his fingers, and that’s my achilles heel. I tip my head back further, giving him full access, and feel the helium expansion of want in my gut.
He says something about me being sensitive, but I can’t even form words anymore. The pressure builds and builds until I’m right on the edge of orgasm when, like every other time, my body does the thing it always does and slams the door shut. I want to come so badly it’s painful, but I’m afraid to let go. I flatten my breathing, visualising wave interference and the concept of two crests meeting, then cancelling each other out, but really I’m just trying not to panic.
I need to change the subject. Fast.
My arm hooks around his shoulder, letting me twist just enough to catch his lips with mine. Somewhere mid kiss he groans something that sounds like my name but with extra syllables—music to my ears—and I reach down, wrapping my hand around his cock. Anything to distract both of us from my brain’s last-second derailment.
“Do you want me?” he asks, as if there’s a right answer.
I moan into his mouth, which is obviously a yes, but he bites my lip and demands, “Say it.”
“I want you,” I gasp. “Fuck—I want you inside me.”
He grabs my waist and repositions me forward so my legs are on either side of him, my calves hooking behind his thighs. I angle his cock and slowly sink down. The first inch steals the air so thoroughly we both forget noise is a concept, and his gaze is locked on mine as I take his full length.
Water is a terrible liar; it magnifies every thrust and droplet into orchestral feedback. Harry’s got a ruthless grip on my hips, his fingers branding marks through the film of bubbles. One hand releases, bringing a thumb back to my clit, but I already feel the quake approaching again, so I grab his wrist and redirect it to the side of my arse.
He groans when I move his hand, but he obeys. The water sloshes over the edge, sending a thin sheet down the side of the marble, but neither of us cares. With each thrust, the head of his cock drags against the tightest, most sensitive part of me, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from screaming.
“Collin,” he gasps, “you feel so good.”
He grabs a fistful of my hair, tilts my head back, and kisses along my neck until I’m gasping. The feeling is perfect, but I’m still wary of chasing anything beyond this. I’m too afraid of hitting the wall again, so I stay focused on the control rather than the pleasure.
We settle on a languid rhythm, more roll than thrust, and fuck long enough for the water to start cooling and my knees to go numb. I lose track of everything except the pressure building and the look on his face as he watches me ride him.
I get the sense he’s been holding out, waiting for me to finish before he does, but after a while he moans, “I can’t—fuck—I’m gonna cum.”
He jerks my hips down and cums so hard I can feel his cock twitching inside me, pulse after pulse, until the heat fills me and the rest of the world is just steam and strawberry. My thighs ache in the most pleasing way, and I rest my head in the crook of his shoulder as we both catch our breath.
Eventually, he strokes my back. “Alright?”
“Mhmm,” I reply.
We sit there a moment, just breathing, and then we towel off in relative silence. He pulls on the same shorts he wore in, and I throw on one of his tshirts and a pair of sleep shorts.
We relocate. To call it lounging or sitting would understate the sense of two displaced animals arranging themselves on neutral ground. Apparently Harry is performing a seasonal affective disorder exorcism—he’s got the fire on. I settle on the corner of the sofa in the living room with my laptop, because despite all the day’s drama, the ungraded stack of first-year physics quizzes in my inbox will not fuck off and die.
He sits beside me with his legs propped on the ottoman and a book open in his lap. I did not even consider the idea that he’d read for pleasure; I thought he ingested all his information in angry, one-page PDFs. I find myself watching him to see if he’s faking it, but he’s genuinely absorbed it the story, turning page after page and occasionally looking slighted by the author’s descriptions.
Grading is somehow less of a challenge than usual. Either the students have caught on to my no late work policy, or someone has started an answer-sharing ring, because every submission is, if not excellent, then at least correct. I knock out ten in a row, and then a text from Connor pops up.
Connor: i’m assuming nothing else happened with ratthew? just awkward eye contact for three hours?
Me: harry made us leave after i hung up with you
Me: i think he’s grossed out by the fact i’ve dated before
The response is instantaneous.
Connor: oh he’s whipped. that’s hot
I almost chuckle, so I try to cover it up with a cough, but Harry has already noticed the shift in my attention. “You’re grading at half speed,” he observes. “Is it because of the day, or because you keep staring at me when you think I’m not looking?”
I refuse to blush. “A little from column A, a little from column B.”
He gives me a look that is somehow both offended and intimate, and then we go back to our orbits. Within minutes, he’s deep in his book, one hand curled around the spine and the other absently tracing patterns on my thigh under the throw blanket.
If this were a movie, there’d be a montage of us doing this exact thing for a full academic year—me grading, him reading, the ticking of a life that pretends to be secure. But it’s not a movie, and the scene only looks this peaceful because we’re both consciously refusing to talk about the things that are hanging over it.
Systems can look stable right up until they aren’t.
Hi, so after I read several HDG stories, interacting with the community and writing my on short fic (I'm hopefully finished soon), I not only realized that HDG is a comfort setting for me, but also why.
One important reason is that there is someone who loves you and thinks that you are cute and adorable. Which is a stark contrast to the villainization of trans women by transphobes. So being a small, adorable and cute pet just feels nice. I also like headpats and cuddles, which is a plus.
Another important reason is that I miss being a child. As a child I was unaware of so many problems, that I practically lived in a protected bubble. Where I lived there was and is peace and to me war was something in the past that would not happen again where I lived and the army was just there because nations just have an army, but not because there was ever any danger of actually being attacked. I was also unaware of discrimination, famines, genocide, refugees who had to flee from where they lived and to often died during their way to safety. I was also unaware of the mistreatment of refugees and that states actually would stop them from finding a safe place, even if everyone in their shoes would have wanted the same. I was unaware of all the problems discussed and fought over in politics and the big societal problems in general. The place I grew up was and is luckily still a nice place and to me back then there was no reason why this would ever change, because I was unaware of climate change too.
Now as an young adult I am aware of all those problems and more, but I feel unable to change things in the world, because I feel small and insignificant, in a bad way, because the powers that be are either not able or willing to fix those problems. I can also not go back to naivety and just pretend that those problems aren't there and the people around the world are not suffering. But with the Affini in charge I could, because they would fix all those problems and more (like poverty). All those problems we were unable to fix ourselves.
I also miss that I did not have any real responsibilities at all and that I didn't have to do much back then.
Now I often feel overwhelmed with everything I have to do. I have to make sure I get my medical care and that my insurance pays for it. I have to inform so many institutions that about changes like a gender or name change. I have to uphold the commitments I said I would do, because I thought they sounded interesting and I want to help others and feel bad for solely depending on others. I have to think about so many stuff that it is often too much and I forget something, often less important things, but sometimes also important things.
As a floret I would have none of these problems, because mommy takes care of those things and makes sure I don't get overwhelmed. She would also stop me from overcommitting and assure me that I do enough just by being a cute little floret.
cianna i just got my heart shattered into a million pieces unexpectedly by someone i was with for 2.5 years and was committed to, apparently their feelings changed over the course of a month and they’re not serious about me anymore 😭 ik this is like, sort of lesbian overcommitted bullshit and you seem to have a very careful slow approach to relationships but you talk about attachment a lot and learning to let go of people, i’m struggling not to blame myself for being imperfect even though i did my best and they weren’t willing to talk about things with me or put in the work, i still feel like if i could just convince them this is crazy they won’t leave me. do u have any advice for letting go and not blaming myself or trying to fix it.
Omg I don’t think it’s lesbian overcommitted bullshit at all… literally everyone has felt this way. I think the first and primary answer is radical acceptance. You have to accept that they probably grieved the relationship far before they got the courage to tell you they’re ready to move on, and you also have to accept that you don’t need to be a perfect saint and they a villain for your hurt feelings to be valid. You probably weren’t perfect - none of us are. I don’t know the exact context of the relationship, so I can’t tell you who was “wrong” and who was “right,” but what I can say is very few of us are perfect in any given context, and from the sounds of it you really did try your best to communicate and bridge that gap. You can’t force someone to love you. All trying will do is cause them to be resentful/feel controlled. Sometimes it’s because they don’t wanna put in the effort, other times it’s because of an irreconcilable difference, still other times their feelings simply changed course over time and no one can do anything about that. You have to radically accept that it’s their right to decide that this relationship is no longer for them. You also have to radically accept your feelings and accept that you will naturally be incredibly hurt by this. But forcing someone to see your side and love you again will do nothing but widen the distance. It’s not fair to them and it’s not even fair to you. I’ve felt this so many times and I feel like the key really is just allowing myself to grieve, then radically accepting that things may always change and that I can’t force anyone to stay just because their presence in my life brings me comfort. I’m a person who deserves love that’s not forced, and they’re a person who deserves to not be forced into loving me.
