#its plot moved rather than character moved

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Stakes in Stories

Story Stakes (in fiction writing) - what’s on the line for the characters, particularly the main character.

Types of Stakes in Stories

Fiction writers typically employ one of the following stakes when crafting a story's main plot or character.

External stakes: External stakes refer to the story's larger context or what’s going on in the world around your characters: Perhaps the protagonist needs to reach a mountaintop before an impending storm or warn the world’s top scientists of a meteorite hurtling toward Earth. External stakes give the main character a reason to act independently of their own life. External stakes work like a ticking clock, intensifying the drama as the story moves toward its climax.

Internal stakes: Internal stakes are the emotions or thoughts that compel a character to act. For example, anger, love, sentimentality, or revenge may fuel a character.

Personal stakes: Personal stakes explain what a character wants to do and why. They are the primary motivating force behind a character’s actions. Backstory can provide context for the main character‘s life and allow the reader to see things from their point of view. For example, the story's hero may need to catch a group of bad guys because they killed her parents and now plan to kidnap her betrothed.

How to Use Stakes in a Story

Raising the stakes of your story is an effective way to pique the reader‘s interest and keep them hooked. Here are a few writing tips for effectively using story stakes:

Employ multiple types of stakes. An effective method for raising a story's stakes is employing various stakes at once. Show the reader what your character wants to do and why, what external obstacles stand in their way, and how the character feels about the story’s central conflict. Use backstory to illustrate their motivation. You can also use subplots to do the same for other characters. For example, one of the side characters may want to help the protagonist because the villain killed her own loved ones, and now she’s out for revenge.

Focus on your character’s world. Even when writing about external stakes, bring it back to the central characters. The end of the world or a bomb shouldn’t be an abstraction; it should remind the protagonist about what they have to lose. Raise the stakes for the main character—maybe her daughter lives in the target zone for the bomb or the tsunami that’s about to hit the country.

Play around with points of view. Different points of view (or POVs) have different effects. You may use a first-person POV to create a sense of immediacy or write in the third person to let the reader in on information the main character doesn’t know. You can switch perspectives in a story—sometimes focusing on the protagonist's actions and then switching to the antagonist to show their motivation and stakes.

Raise the stakes for one character at a time. Rather than raise the stakes for every character in a scene, focus on increasing the stakes for one character at a time. Start with the protagonist. This will help clarify the story’s goal and give the reader a subject on which to focus.

Stakes delineate what the protagonist may gain or lose or gain as the story's central conflict plays out. High stakes are ticking time bombs that infuse a story‘s conflict with compelling drama.

A well-written character arc will include some level of backstory that gives context to what the character has risked or what moral dilemma awaits them.

Whether you’re writing an action-packed thriller, science fiction novel or mystery, or a slower-paced romance or drama, having meaningful stakes affects story structure and gets readers to care about the central dilemma.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[maybe-boys-do-love]

I wasn't obsessed with The Ex-Morning to start, but I trusted it would hit me eventually. You see, the thing I love about Lit Phadung as a director is that he never tries to be above the classic Thai BL aesthetics. The production hallmarks are all there: dialogue-heavy stories with generic comedic scoring and stable cameras theatrically focusing on people rather than any dynamic or poetic cinematography. He chooses works that bring broad, obvious characters to life for us. The work of his I've seen--the full SOTUS series, Love Mechanics, Love in Translation, and currently The Ex-Morning--is remarkably unpretentious, always skirting the line of cheesy. This all sounds hardly complimentary. And yet. And yet!

A few episodes in, his series begin to unobtrusively swell like a tide moving in with the density of the characters and thematic subtext. Episode 6 in SOTUS S inspired me to research and write a whole 20 page essay on the 4 Act structure. Episode 3's where The Ex-Morning hooked me. An example of a master at work in episode 3, we get the shipping-moment where Tam grabs Phi's hand, a perfect example of how Lit layers quiet symbols amongst the cheese of romance. The narrative set-up here gives us classic BL. Blatant skinship edited and closely framed to make it impossible to miss or misread its romantic implication. We even have a fujoshi observer to remind us the gaze we're meant to use.

fighting certain urges about the hair on Singto's hands

But P'Lit and screenwriter Aof--who I've argued appears to have adapted these techniques from P'Lit's work on SOTUS--layer this shot with other visual information. In zooming to the hands, the ring, the mala bracelet, and the act of writing get secretly highlighted amongst the yaoi content. The show has not pushed us hard to think about their meaning yet, but there's been a subtle focus on jewelry and accessorizing already and the Buddhist themes have been an emerging question, too. It's just one of many examples in the series where the questions of materialism, emotional attachments, authorship, and queer embellishments arise without hammering the audience over the head with it.

And then on top of these visual strategies, Lit consistently draws out overwhelming performances from his actors that imbue what might otherwise be camp with a raw humanism, heightening the stories beyond run-of-the-mill romcom plots. With their flawed, conflicted characters and unflinching portrayals, they're tests of empathy.

It's no surprise he's launched the careers of several renowned pairs--Kristsingto, DaouOffroad, YinWar (not their first outing, but the one that elevated them past their peers). In a P'Lit world you get to play a full range of emotions, and he's not interested in requiring violence or high-concept plots to experience those feels. It's pure romcom, with the full breadth of its possibility, which is something I adore.

Lit's not an auteur by the traditional definition. His vision's not singular, his work not so marked by his idiosyncrasies to be easily chosen out of a lineup of his peers. I think it's better for that. He intricately crafts his works so that you don't have your attention drawn to its craft or intricacy, letting the story and characters, which at first might seem silly, take hold of your soul.

[madelynhimegami]

Ms. Accord Guide

I think this might be the longest summation yet (I have not actually checked if this is true). And yet, it explains so little, doesn't it?

Accord is the most enigmatic character in the franchise.

The main thing we know for certain is that she is dedicated to keeping her students safe from external threats.

Her title is the Sorceress of White ("White Mage" in Puzzle Pop's localization, but the title is phrased strangely in Japanese, hence "of White").

Accord always speaks softly and politely, no matter who she is talking to, and no matter what the situation is.

She also has an incredible poker face. That's why she's almost always smiling, even when she's upset.

Even though she presents herself as a kindly teacher, her students find her intimidating.

Although she's the only one we ever see, Accord is (probably) not the only teacher at the school.

She also only teaches magic. Other, more traditional school subjects are also part of the curriculum.

Accord is the homeroom teacher for Amitie, Klug, and Sig's class.

Accord is very, very secretive. She seems to always know what's going on, is in on everybody's secret lore, and never explains herself.

She's not above lying about things, either. Klug once called her out for her deceptive reputation, even towards her students.

She sent her students on a wild goose chase. When one of them accidentally found out about it, she knocked said student out with a hammer, making her forget what she discovered.

(said student was also one of the ones that got moved to a different class after Sig transferred. could be a coincidence, or…)

She also spent a not-insignificant amout of Chronicle (prior to joining the party) hammering passerby that accidentally discovered her.

She was the one that requested for the delivery of the items needed to lift the Tome of Sealing's seal to Primp.

She also knew that Klug was trying to work out how to lift the seal, and even warned him to be careful about messing with things he didn't understand.

For some reason, she sees no issue with Klug continuing to carry the Tome with him at all times, even now.

Accord is aware that Klug is a not-uncommon victim of possession, and she is very aware of the Crimson Soul's plight. She also claims to hold "no ill will" towards them.

There is some very recent (but also very circumstantial) evidence that Accord would rather her students believe he doesn't get possessed at all.

When Amitie asked about why her hat was being mysterious, Accord just told her, "you are imagining it" again and again until she accepted the explanation.

Similarly, she's sidestepped every question she's been asked about Sig's arm.

She seems to always know who another character is before they've been shown to exchange a word between them before.

In fact, she knew Maguro's name before he introduced himself, and dismissed the question of how with "it's not important."

At least once, Accord has just so happened to have exactly what's demanded by the plot to proceed, all ready to go for the cast to utilize

She sets up the player (explicitly the player) with a possibly-illicit pay card for their personal use in Primp, and warns them not to tell anyone about it. Dapper Bones accepts its use in his store without question.

Despite how she presents herself, Accord is a troll. She says and does things to people for little reason other than to screw with them for laughs (or in retaliation)

One example (not mentioned above or below) is lying to a hypoglycemic Lemres about how many sugary snacks she had on her person. And then ate said sugary snack once his back was turned, while wondering out loud if Lemres will be able to recover. All because Lemres criticized her baking skill.

Another example was to give very intentionally unhelpful answers to Schezo when he asked her about Meena

Despite this, Accord does a lot to keep her students safe, as well as anybody else that may be in genuine trouble. ∴ The reason we know she's aware of Klug's possession dilema is because once, the Crimson Spirit was willing to put the body they were occupying in mortal danger for the sake of their goals. Accord stood against them to keep Klug from harm. ∴ She then lied to the other kids about what Klug had done, so they wouldn't be angry at him. ∴ At least one of the focuses of Sig's supplementary lessons is to help him control his magic. ∴ Her primary objective while Ecolo was present in Primp during 20th was to keep her students away from him until she could personally determine how much of a danger he was to them. ∴ She's prone to giving advice unprompted to people stuck in a mental spiral. ∴ She spent most of Puzzle Pop's story doing damage control, helping multiple characters who had been enthralled by the dream to return to their senses. ∴ While she did not personally do the same with Lidelle (Satan had gotten to her first), she did help Lidelle to not blame herself for what happened with her. ∴ She also helped Maguro and Ally to find whom they were searching for. ∴ She went out of her way to ensure that both Meena and Sig were protected from serious harm. ∴ Similarly, when Accord caught up to Meena, she reassured, cheered up, and encouraged Meena to be brave.

Although she is supposedly a good teacher, Accord has some very questionable teaching methods and punishments, even when overlooking the wild goose chase.

Let's just say the operative word in the second bullet point of this post is "external."

The punishment for extra lesson given because of a practice battle getting a little out of hand, and her ending up in the crossfire as a result, was to have five of her students (and a sixth who doesn't even go to that school) to go through a labyrinth in the forest, with Popoi a full-sized dragon guarding the finish line.

Failure of completing the labyrinth resulted in the punishment of a week of detention.

Accord once flunked Klug on a test because he had marked up the answer sheet wrong. Even though it was clear from looking at it that he knew the answers, just didn't mark the right space.

Sig once let ants loose in the classroom. Accord had him reinact the Little Match Girl on the coldest night of the year as punishment. In a town full of sorcerers.

Amitie was once at risk of having her soul dominated by an evil doll. Accord's method of handling it was to stand back and watch what happens

Klug was once reading a magazine (a sorcery journal, really) during a break between classes. Accord confiscated it without warning.

She then held it for the ransom of "everybody needs to pass the next test." This led to another wild goose chase for some of her students, as opposed to handing out study guides like a normal person.

According to Accord, lying to faculty is punishable by forcing the student to go directly home after school.

She is close friends with Seo, of the Spacetime Detective Agency in Intral City. For some reason, Accord is an exception to the rule that the detectives are to avoid spacetime cross-contamination.

And because you can't have one without the other (plus I don't have a seperate image for him at this writing), here's Popoi too!

Outwardly, Popoi is a normal, lifeless cat plushie that says and does nothing without Accord puppeting him via ventriloquism.

Some students (past and present) have managed to swipe Popoi long enough to examine him themselves. They confirmed that Popoi is just a plush. However, this is only physically true.

Amitie is the only one among the student body that actually believes Popoi is alive.

Beyond that, the only characters we know for sure that knows of Popoi's true nature are Akuma (since he's also a possessed plush) and Seo.

Lemres might be aware of it, but he might just be going along with the "bit."

Ecolo just flat out ignores anything Popoi says. Either he refuses to acknowledge the "bit" on principle, or knows but doesn't care about Popoi being seperate.

Popoi is not as polite as Accord, and is as catty and rude as he feels the situation merits.

Supposedly, he gives good advice when inclined to offer it.

The exact nature of Accord and Popoi's relationship is just as ambiguous as everything else about the former. It's not clear who the "boss" is between the two, or even if they're two aspects of the same entity.

Reading between the lines of Fever 2's library suggests that Popoi may have once been the lord of Ta-Toon-Da Castle, who imposed punitive tolls and taxes in his territory, and threatened Primp with military force when defied… but perhaps not.

Popoi runs the point shop in 20th Anniversary. He's very eager to take your money.

In addition to claiming to be a demon lord ("Prince of Darkness" in EN Fever 1), Popoi has also posed as a dragon. Apparently he has some shapeshifting ability, but neither of these disguises stopped him from meowing or making cat puns.

According to Seo, Popoi also claimed to be a master ninja in the past. Popoi denies this.

Popoi is not a good liar when put on the spot. This is especially evident when someone almost discovers Popoi isn't just a doll.

Popoi's name comes from an onomatopoeia that loosely translates to "yeet."

[cinnabeat]

still thinking abt fairy tail like idk if i can actually articulte why i wouldnt recommend it to anyone despite liking it so much? like its a generic shounen story but i did in fact enjoy it (until the end but thats like a staple to the genre at this point i think) but gun to my head i wouldnt be able to tell you what abt it i would change to make it better

[ducktollers]

chat im really starting to fear that spiderman 4 wont have peter be nearly as sad as i need him to be. nothing at all has happened to indicate that but i just got a bad feeling. im almost completely expecting disappointment atp im just like mj fr

[the-monkey-ruler]

I was reading The Monkey King's Daughter (you can read the whole book for an hour) and apparently the protagonist is also Guanyin's grandchild? Can Guanyin be shipped?

I mean I can’t say like what are like the moral implications of shipping GuanYin itself cause that is so not my place but I’m still going to answer this cause it kinda of interesting when it comes to modern media. First off saying that like I have never really seen romance done with GuanYin. At least in a serious way. But if I had to take a guess it can be seen as 'possible' as much as like shipping anyone in Chinese mythos, in that isn't really taken seriously at all. In a lot of modern fan spaces there are a variety of crack ships for more humorous or hypothetical situations like I have seen literally the Star of Venus shipped with Jade Emperor just cause. But I don't see much with buddhas or bodhisattvas in either post-modern media nor in fan spaces. At least that isn't Wukong or Sanzang since they are both Buddhas. And I have done a whole thing about how Wukong for decades wasn’t seen as a romantic figure until like there was a huge character reconstruction, but that isn’t usually the case for most characters.

I would say that the most mainstream instance I can think off the top of my head is The Lost Empire (2001) where it had the main character has a romantic plot with Gaunyin herself. Of course, that wasn't really a masterpiece within itself but this was considered like a 'bad choice' more so that it was just a very strange and awkward romance at that.

Funny enough I think I see more romantic for humor's sake on Guanyin in comic books or games as likes gags at most. Like in Westward comics (later a tv series) Guanyin has a celestial-turned-demon trying to pursue him that he always rejects. Another is more play for laughs but Guanyin in the Fei Ren Zai where people just don't know it's Guanyin and think she is so attractive.

I've seen some games that have Guanyin as like a pretty boy/girl but otherwise nothing even close to a romance plot. Those are more just for like aesthetics of making every character look overly attractive to sell it.

The best I can say is that is just kinda strange and a little strange personally but I can't say that it can be taken seriously. I mean Wukong is supposed to be a Buddha by the end of the novel, so if The Monkey King's Daughter has it that a buddha can have a daughter then there wouldn't be anything stopping the author from having a bodhisattva having kids.

[chicksmoothie]

• Lovedrunk — mingi

Pairing: bf!mingi x gf!reader

— Mingi and you finally decide to move in together, but truth to be told you didn’t have time for each other more than for the basics. This means you are desperate to spend time just enjoying the other’s company (and fuck, and well, it shows)

! Long fuck fic

! based on Say it like you mean it characters but not mentioning its plot

W/C: ~4.8K

Genre: smut, fluff, established relationship, madly in love

Warnings: +18, mdni (seriously), cursing (a lot), dirty talking (another lot), teasing, edging, slight possessive behaviour (from both parts), breeding kink, praise kink, size kink, honestly this is a kink compilation, raw sex (you know you shouldn’t), needy mingi & needy reader, both vibing in the same horny kind of tune, pure hornyness, dry humping, a lot of spit, oral (f receiving), making out, multiple orgasms and therefore overstim, squirting, switch dynamics (rather bratty power bottom reader x service top mingi but also kind of switching so idk?), filming, this counts as a warning too cos really madly in love should be a warning, let me know if I forgot something i hope not cos this warnings are longer than the fic already

A/N: at the end

Also: this oneshot is fiction and in no way aims to portrait anyone involved in the story

Taglist: @i01233 @tinie03 @thesupreme316 @esmedelacroix thanks for waiting ♡

His scent was all over the room after taking a shower. His arm still a bit humid and warmer than usual had you hugged close to him under the blanket. And you couldn’t see it well since it was dark in the room, but the red and white highlights flashing from the tv painting his beautiful profile and the screen reflecting on his glasses had you totally distracted.

you were trying so hard to focus on the anime you decided to watch together. You were so, so trying it…

But the way his casual and cozy look caught your breath each time you had the chance to see it since you moved in together had no hopes in changing, ever.

It had been some time since you had had a quality time and chill night together due to hectic schedules at work and all the move in process, so now that the stars aligned and you had the same days off you wanted it to be as actually chill as possible and restricted every single dirty thought about pulling his glasses off and kiss him to start with.

If only his fingers were not playing with yours under the blanket. If only his shampoo wasn’t the same as yours and you didn’t weirdly get off to that because it meant you were actually living together. If only you weren’t so pent up after nearly a week without seeing each other for anything else but eating and sleeping if you were lucky.

If only you didn’t feel your heart skip a beat every time he chuckled when he found something funny happening in the anime that you were totally not watching.

If only you didn’t love him so fucking much.

Mingi turned his face your way while still smiling to check if you found the scene as funny as he did.

And you will never know what he saw on your face at this very moment, but his smile dropped and his eyes narrowed in only one second. “What’s up babychick? You don’t like the series?”

He knew exactly what was up, but he chose to play dumb for a moment. “Yes, yes, i am loving it,” you recovered quickly from your trance ”it is so interesting” and decided to play along. You smiled, lovingly, not showing how sarcastic you were actually being and on the contrary making it sound as genuine as possible.

You turned your face to the screen just in time to catch a smirk slowly growing on his face. He wanted to play? This you could do it. No problem at all.

—

The voices coming from the tv were white noise and ambient sound at this point. You had been silent since your little conversation earlier, but no words were needed when both of you were anticipating what was going to happen. You knew each other already, so you could tell that Mingi was getting impatient by how he looked at you from the corner of his eye. His tease was backfiring completely and all he could think about was him eating you out, but he didn’t want to lose just yet.

It all started to get complicated for him with you pulling up slightly at the hem of his shirt and placing your hand on his lower stomach pretending you were looking for some kind of warmth, your hand was cold you said. Sneaky girl… and eventho his breath hitched for one millisecond he continued with your little edging game.

He put his hand over yours, saying that by doing so it would warm up quicker. And it could have been an innocent gesture if only he wasn’t tracing random forms and decorating your fingers in suggestive caresses. Fucking tease… Good thing someone died in the anime in this exact moment, that way your little pout could pass as unbothered.

But you were bothered. Both of you were since long ago. All the second intentions behind the caresses, all the low whimpers you could hear from one another at every single touch and trying to contain yourselves from just lose it all and finally fuck were agonizing at this point.

You knowing he was already half hard and that your hand was dangerously close to his crotch but intentionally not daring to touch him wasn’t easy.

Him knowing you were probably already soaking through the grey leggins you used as a pijamas and he had done nothing but sit beside you and hug you yet was even less easy. How bad would it be when he got started…

You realizing the hands you originally had interlaced under the blanket were now somehow resting on your tit made you sigh.

Him realizing that your nipple was perking out and begging to be pinched, squeezed, bitten, sucked and anything possible was almost unbearable.

You and him panting quietly, suffocating in the tension that you both had slowly been creating by doing nothing but know that you wanted each other very, very badly.

You were also getting impatient, so you decided to push his buttons further and you knew exactly how. Without saying a word, you broke your cozy (yet hot) hug to slowly get up the sofa. “Where are you going?” His voice was husky and a little pouty because of your sudden distance. “I am sleepy, I think I am going to be-“

You couldn’t even finish your sentence as he grabbed your arm and pulled you down, placing you on his lap right over his hard bulge. Both of you moaned at the contact. God he was harder than you thought he would be. This rilling up game was going to be one of your favorites… “stop with the teasing, you win” you smiled in victory “i always win” well, he had to agree on that.

As soon as you leaned in to take his glasses off and give him the long awaited kiss both of you were a panting mess already. The kiss was slow and nasty, drinking in each other as if you had been wandering in a desert for ages and just found a fountain.

His hands were gripping your hips hard, knuckles white and head empty, bucking up every time you grinded your pussy along his dick through your clothes. The friction so good you could cum from just that after all the built up tension, your fingers tangled in his shirt and pulled to bring him even closer. You had the feeling that he had been too far from you for too long, otherwise you wouldn’t be this extremely horny, so needy for his touch and his skin on yours already.

“I need this out of the way” you pulled his shirt off slowly, taking your time on the motion, then yours went after, both ending rumbled on the floor.

You had to take a second to admire his topless figure under you, the dim light of the tv outlining his strong figure, and you looked at him with real adoration written in your eyes “my hand is cold again…” you bit your lip shyly, putting your hand back on his lower tummy as you had done earlier, but this time you traced the pattern of his slightly defined torso up to his chest, both hands meeting at his back and feeling his wide shoulders with featherlike touches.

“You are gonna be the end of me babe, you doing this on purpose?” his head rested on the back of the sofa, eyes lidded, tensing under your light touch and waiting impatiently for you to snap and continue what had already started.

You looked at him with such a fake surprised expression, “what do you mean? I am only admiring my pretty boyfriend” and you knew what you calling him pretty would do to him.

“I thought the game ended” he growled, eyes now on the roof and his adam’s apple bobbing while swallowing a moan at the praise “yes, and I won, so I am going to savor my price” you leaned back and took his chin to make him look at you “see how I am already? You made me wet through my pijamas, anything to say about that??”

He looked down where your leggins were indeed as soaked as he had imagined, the dark patch too close to his cock for his brain to not malfunction. “I am going to fuck you so good babychick you wont be going out of bed in three working days” that you didn’t see it coming. He was never so aggressive from the beginning, but he was in such a horny state his hands were already shaking in your hips.

“Please let me eat you out” you moaned at his begging “its all I can think about” he closed his eyes and sighed just at the thought of your dripping cunt smearing his face and your sweet flavor filling his mouth. “You are so needy…” you said and he nodded slowly and deadly serious “only for you”.

One of his hands run up to your back, the other one still gripping your hip tightly. Your boy was so strong and so big it took him zero effort to stand up carrying you on top of him. “You wanted to go to bed yeah?” You grinned “I knew you would get the hint at some point”

He had been between your legs for two orgasms already. His face a dripping mess and his thumb circling your clit slowly compared to the quick pace his tongue had set on you. Slurping, moaning in your cunt, drawing random patterns in your inner thighs with his free hand to feel your soft skin somehow. He was fucking the mattress to get some kind of friction for himself although he could cum untouched by just the sound of your moans and the way you pushed his head impossibly close to you.

The overstimulation of cumming twice with just his mouth was torture but you couldn’t think about pushing him away, that would be worse. “My girl likes to go wild with overstim?” He slurped up a drop of your cum, pulling out his tongue to show you your own creamy arousal “you think you are stretched out for me already my love?”

You couldn’t take this any longer, having him inside was your top priority in this moment so you grabbed a handful of his hair and dragged him up as he moaned in pleasure due to the sudden pain while you cried “mingi, pants off” you were already naked, but he had still these black home sweatpants that normally drove you crazy but in this moment drove you mad.

He obliged and pulled them down, revealing that he had no boxers on and letting his dripping cock spring out, red, all veins on display and you swore to god you had never seen him this hard in all the time you had been together.

You were already salivating… the stretch of his cock was always good, but this time.. oh my god you couldn’t imagine it, you had to have it.

Wide open on your bed, waiting for him to put the condom on and his dick to finally fill you up, anticipating that stretch you were aching for with little whimpers trying to escape your mouth.

And he knew it.

He was sliding his tip along your entrance, covering the condom in your slick and his own spit after his make out session with your pussy. “mingi, fuck off…” you were desperate for him “baby I really want to slam in, but I have to put it in slowly” this was half true given his size and half him getting revenge for his loss, but you were not having it.

You were always the winner for a reason: whatever he did you took it further.

You rose your hips and pushed against the tip. finally, finally opening yourself for him inch by inch. You couldn’t see it because you had closed your eyes at the feeling, but he kept them wide open in a completely fucked out expression, savoring the sight of your relaxed face for having him inside you at good fucking last.

Mingi tried, but he couldn’t keep your slow pace until the end and bottomed out in one go, gasping and falling over you, completely worn out already. “god, fuck, mingi” After a few seconds of both of you adjusting to the feeling he started moving, his body still flush against yours, he didn’t bear thinking about being the slightest bit apart from you and not feel you tense, squirm and tremble underneath him. Your sweat making it easier for you to meet his movements as if you were water.

“God…Your pussy hugs me so good baby, I love it. My fucking girl… you are mine, yeah? Answer me baby please…” and he sounded as he really needed you to give a response to that question, eyes shut and forehead pressed against yours. “Mingi…” you cupped his face with both your hands to kiss him “i am yours” you whispered between his lips and dragged your fingers to his hair to pull slightly.

His beautiful reaction every time you did so made you clench around him, making him open his eyes in shock at the sudden tightness and turning his growls even deeper.

He pretended he wasn’t, but he was so needy and so clingy. So lovedrunk for you that you saying that you belonged to him had him already close to cumming.

��There is no other one for you either” you looked at him in the eyes through your lashes, pulling off your best sultry face, “you are mine too, say it” he was shuddering, loving the way you demanded his response, bossing him around from underneath him as if the one being fucked to the brim wasn’t you.

You had him so in the palm of your hand he wouldn’t mind you closing it and crush him, how could he answer anything else than that? “I am yours baby… fuck…” and that made you giggle.

“Thanks” you pecked his lips, hugging him around his neck, legs around his waist pushing him deeper and earning a low moan from him, “baby I really won’t last today”, and it was a given since you had been fucking each other really since the moment you sat on the sofa this afternoon, “so take it easy on me and behave yeah?” he was fucking you slow, the way he knew you liked it. The way he could fill you completely and leave no single untouched spot inside you. But also the only way he would be able to keep going for a while.

And just because you were dying to see him lose his mind completely were you determined to do everything you knew he loved at the same time. Pressing kisses all over his neck till you reached his earlobe and bit it, “I am behaving right? I am being so good today, what you gonna give me, hm?”

He was panting heavily, eyes shut, both his hands at each side of your head, the vision so good and his dick so deep you nearly started crying at the unbearable thrill.

But you decided to slowly move your arms down from his neck to interlace one of his hands with your own instead. Your other hand landed on your lips, tongue full of spit ready to coat your fingers in your saliva and leaving a string behind once you finished with the task, never breaking the eye contact.

Mingi couldn’t win against you being a dirty brat, but he had even less chances of winning against your hand going down where your bodies met to push one of your soaked fingers inside your cunt, stretching you even more but making it even tighter for him.

His jaw clenched and his eyes were silently asking you if you were being fucking for real right now. And oh my god you were, so fucking for real that you started moving your finger slowly inside you and rubbing his dick on your way, moaning loud and grabbing his hand tightly, needing to hold onto something for how good it was feeling for you too.

“Fuuuuuuuuck….” Fuck it, he really didn’t stand a chance from the beginning “I am gonna cum, where do you want it? Tell me babe I won’t last much more” he knew that you loved to feel his cum all over you and you were already trembling, so close yourself.

You couldn’t imagine him pulling out from you right now nor for too long, this past weeks without any intimate contact at all were working hard on you so you didn’t have to think it twice “mingi please… cum inside”

He could never have figured you would say that, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he thought about how to answer.

“Raw baby?” He finally asked with a cry, just to make sure he was understanding it right “please…” your affirmation whisper froze him and made him almost nut on the spot.

He slowly carried on with the roll of his hips, struggling with the pace while the only thing on his mind was to piston fuck you into the bed after what you had asked him to do “you can’t say shit like that”. He was struggling, gritting his teeth and he really wanted to obey but you would regret this tomorrow, this had been said in the heat of the moment, or at least this is what he was telling himself in order not to breed you full.

But you blinked, you fucking innocently blinked pretending to be surprised, knowing how bad he wanted it and quickly slid your sticky hand out of your cunt and between your bodies to push him off and pull him out “but I can tho”.

In one swift motion and in a record time you took the condom off, tossed it somewhere on the floor and aligned his pulsing cock inside you again, painfully slowly sinking him in as you watched his face contort in pure ecstasy by the contact of your wet walls around him for the first time in months using protection.

Nothing could describe the way he felt about having you split open and raw underneath him, completely his to take. You put your arms around his neck, dragging him down to look him in the eyes again as you always liked to watch him when he reached his climax “now you can cum baby” your voice was merely a whisper, small but commanding “i will look so good with your cum dripping out later”.

And that was it. Something animalistic took over him and he started to move rougher, faster and more desperate than he ever had .

“Yeah?? You want to be full of my cum that bad??” His voice deep in the crook of your neck sending shivers through your whole body. Shit, you wanted to see his face!! but you were feeling so good at the way he thrusted into you, grinding his pelvis against your clit each time he went back inside, that you couldn’t be arsed complaining about it.

“Not enough with having me ballsdeep inside you that you also want to keep me there after I pull out??” He was testing the waters, trying to find out if he could say what he actually wanted to. But your loud moan at his words told him that he could carry on and so he did.

“You want me here?” you were far gone, dripping from your pussy to the bed and your skin burning, goosebumps all over and making the prettiest noises he had ever heard.

Never knew this would thrill him so much, but as his hand reached your belly, pressing down slightly and feeling himself moving in and out of you over your skin and going back to kiss you desperately he understood that no other raw pussy was ever gonna have him “you want me to get you pregnant tonight or what?”

Finally. He met your eyes just in time to see them roll back and flutter shut, your cry immediate “yes yes yes yes” you were begging, your cunt squeezing and sucking his cock in so hard it was getting difficult for him to slide out, seeing white ass stars as you came around him repeating his name since it was the only word you could remember.

The noises of your wet bodies crashing every time he thrusted inside you filling his ears and the warmth of your cum soaking his pelvis felt too good, “you drive me fucking insane” he growled and was now letting go, feeling you milk him dry and trembling in a pleasure he was sure he was going to get addicted to.

Cumming raw and inside after holding it in for so long only for you, he really wanted to see how your tummy grew big. “mingi…” he covered his nervous smile with your lips, still panting over your worn out body, never pulling out even after both of you came down from the shared orgasm.

Wait, “you are still hard??” you couldn’t believe it “give me another one babes, i know you can” there was nothing else in this world that had him in more bliss than your whole body response when you were cumming and he knew that nothing could ever compare to the way your walls hugged him perfectly, massaging his cock in ways nothing could do. He needed to feel it some more “you are having my kids no? we need to fill this up”. His words were going to turn you into burning ashes.

He started to move slowly again, the painful overstimulation not being enough to make him stop “but mingi I don’t think I can cum anymore” your eyebrows were beautifully frown and a tear was about to roll down your cheek when he suddenly flipped you over, you being still flush against his body but now on top of him. He fucking knew you loved being on top, completely able to adjust to his length and set your own pace. Watching him from above was one of your most personal moments.

You looked at him in disbelief, he was seriously going to play this game with you??? You straighten up, watching him dangerously challenging but still catching your breath. As soon as you leaned back and rolled your hips your thoughts about not being able to cum were already gone, his dick filling you up so good you couldn’t believe you ever said that.

You put one hand over his leg to balance yourself while grinding over his dick nice and slow “actually maybe I can…?” your other one gently reaching your belly and caressing it in a wide circle, your own touch giving you goosebumps, the gesture making him flinch at the thought of his cum inside you right where you were touching yourself, yours and his imagination going fucking wild.

He closed his eyes to savor each sensation you could pull out of him, hands running up your legs and landing on your hips to help you grind. But he really wanted to see you, so when he opened his eyes again you were still watching him, all the love you felt for him showing on your face and basically dancing on his lap, little moans escaping your mouth. His eyes on you were so raw and sincere it had you melting, a hot drop of your slick running down your boyfriends lap. How the fuck were you this lucky you didn’t know.

He was biting his bottom lip, all his feelings over the place. he loved you so much. And knowing you felt the same for him sometimes blew his mind “how am i so lucky?” you smiled at his words matching your exact thoughts, “look at me mingi, am I not lucky too?” he indeed looked at you, from your pretty face to your pretty hole sucking his cock, a husky moan leaving him.

He brought his hand to your pussy and split your lips open to watch how his cock disappeared inside you “fucking god…” he nearly came again at the sight of his release forming a ring around his base “I wish I could see this forever” and he could tell when you had a bright idea pop into your clever head, like right now.

You stopped for a second to reach out for your phone, your change of position making him pant and trying to hold you still. You popped the camera app on your screen and pressed record then offered it to him. Seriously, how was he so lucky? He was too horny to argue or question you so…

His eyes were fixed on the screen, watching you go back to moving gently on his dick but quickening your pace until you were sliding him out and bucking back in, jumping and moaning nonsenses. His dick felt so right inside you, so where it belonged to that you stopped thinking what you were saying, completely lovedrunk yourself.

“I love this dick” he groaned and struggled to keep the recording and it took everything in him to not throw the phone away and keep looking through the screen, “no one else is ever cumming inside me, I am all yours” you cried and threw your head back, letting out a high pitched moan as you sensed his free hand grip your hip tighter and buck up to meet your movements.

The hand where he was holding the phone completely trembling, the dirty feeling of this happening to him but also watching you getting fucked through anything that wasn’t his own eyes made it look like something nasty. And hell was he getting off to that shit, “mingi I am gonna…” “yeah, yeah please cum babychick, I am following”

Mingi had this rare gifted talent of making you cum as soon as he commanded, and so you did. The scream was loud from both parts, your pussy tightening harder than it ever had around him, not wanting him to ever leave that place “I am cumming inside again baby is that okay?” you couldn’t even manage to answer, your orgasm so hard it was taking forever for it to go down, so you only nodded fervently as a yes.

All the edging and the overstimulation from earlier skyrocketing your sensitivity. It wasn’t easy for it to happen to you but it did this time and it was recorded forever for commemorative purposes; your pussy started to spray over everything reachable around you, all his torso drenched in your squirt, the camera lens soaked and the image blurry.

Fuck it, you didn’t need to save anything else. Mingi stopped the recording and tossed the phone somewhere over the bed, sat up straight to hug you while you were still crying out his name and started to thrust harsher from bellow.

You hugged him back, curling your legs around his waist to keep him as close as you could and started to kiss him desperately, no rhythm no attention, waiting for this rollercoaster climax to end. His movements were already unsteady due to his own incoming orgasm, calling your name and saying sweet praises into your mouth as the string finally snapped and he finished inside again, making your insides warm with his hot cum.

Once he calmed down he fell on his back over the bed, hugging you still over on top of him, totally worn out and suddenly cold after what you thought had been the best orgasm you’d had.

“shit” you sighed “it is so cold” mingi smiled, completely satisfied, “let me get a towel, I will clean this mess up” he reached down to get a sample of the said mess in his finger. You couldn’t help it and licked it without thinking, “baby… don’t go there again” he was being half serious, but his still inside cock twitched weakly. You laughed at him, “baby go get that towel, I am seriously cold”.

He slid out of you, leaving you to get the promised towel, both relieved and sad at the sudden emptiness in your cunt. But… wait, it is not that empty? Your cheeks burned beet red, remembering how you had been begging him to get you pregnant. How many kinks were you gonna collect with this guy?! Your hand moved by its own, trying to find its way to your slit.

As soon as you felt it in your fingers you couldn’t stop yourself, you were putting all the cum that dripped out back in, moaning quietly at the single thought of your belly full of him again.

“need any help with that?” you looked towards the door, he was leaning against its frame, towel in hand, his smile showing his front teeth that you loved so much. You had to smile back, “yeah?”

—

A/N: Hellooo haha this took me a while.

I know it was meant to be the continuation for Say it like you mean it, but it has been so long already (two whole years to be exact) that I found no joy in these characters anymore. And as much as I tried to start them over again (seriously I had like 9 drafts about them) it always ended up being just not too good. I really wanted to give them a hot and steamy (and really long wtf) chance with this one. I think my writing got better too (not posting at all but still writing), even if english is not my mother language and therefore I am a bit limited!

I would like to improve some more for the next one, which will also be set on mingi & the chick since i am biased and i kinda got attached to some of the topics I was writing about in Say it like you mean it. So for now we have this one, but possibly the next one will fiiiiinally be SILYMI part.2? When? Who knows, no one when it comes to me i am afraid.

Anyways! I hope you enjoyed. Comments are welcome ♡

[idolomantises]

It's kind of a shame that the "anti-filler" mentality has reached a point where a lot of writers (and fans) assume that if a show isnt constantly moving the plot forward and establishing lore, its basically filler and wasting space. Personally I think its good, if not necessary for a show to slow down and just have characters hang out, or deal with smaller conflicts.

It feels like a lot of stories just want to rush to the emotional scenes with barely any build up to really make it feel earned and satisfying. I've seen fans pester creators to rush the story along and reach the next big set piece rather than take the time to really know and appreciate the characters.

Why should I care about the emotional stakes in episode 2 when I barely know a character's likes and dislikes? how they handle conflict, their approach to relationships both platonic and romantic. etc,

[writingwithcolor]

Is a Jewish Necromancer using soul energy taboo?

WWC Follower Asks:

My character is Ashkenazi Jewish and living in modern America (raised in New York, moved to the Pacific North West). He has magical talent, which presents itself in auto writing (speaking with spirits using himself as a conduit), and necromancy/death magic. I understand the Torah forbids it, and the Talmud acknowledges its existence, and read a previous answer you did regarding it. I intended to add this aspect to my character because prior to writing this magical talent, as the plot unfolded while I wrote, the character was already established as Jewish and I did not wish to erase that from him. His personal arc/story itself has a strong point of residual hauntings and healing from the past, which was how the mediumship came to exist. At this point, I am writing it as he is learning his talent, and he intends to do as little harm to the dead as possible (he will not be reanimating people). In addition, necromancy can also work in this world as a form of animancy (using the soul) to do magic. My character is against taking that energy from others (as is it is common for necromancers to take the energy of the deceased by force), and instead will tap into himself, or utilize it if it is willingly donated by another person. It possible to make this work? Are there any severe taboos involved with the idea of using soul/life energy to fuel magic that I have missed in my research? What’s your personal threshold for this idea?

One very culturally Jewish way to handle it would be if he has to bulk up and eat a lot of nourishing Bubbe ("eat eat!!") style meals when he's gonna talk to the spirits or sheydim or whatever bc he's using his own life essence to fuel the connection like "if i want to do this i need to eat 2 helpings of brisket first".

That leans heavily into emphasizing that he is drawing on his own energy, maybe he has to eat enough food for himself and the dead person too, and not sapping the strength of another (an antisemitic trope)

-Shira

I absolutely LOVE the idea of him eating for the dead person, and I think it’s Jewish by vibes even if not drawing on something specific from text (that I know of). I definitely would be wary of any magic where the other souls are diminished by working with him even if he doesn’t do it intentionally, but it sounds like you’re already on that.

I wonder also if he might take upon himself the responsibility to recite Kaddish for the deceased people he works with, to make up for disturbing them--especially if rather than recite the prayer on his own, he attends a synagogue service or gathers a minyan (prayer quorum of 10 adult Jews) to recite the prayer “Correctly,” since, some very sweet Tumblr lore aside, Kaddish is one of those prayers not traditionally recited without a minyan.

-Meir

[whencartoonsruletheworld]

Hey so like many of you, I saw that article about how people are going into college having read no classic books. And believe it or not, I've been pissed about this for years. Like the article revealed, a good chunk of American Schools don't require students to actually read books, rather they just give them an excerpt and tell them how to feel about it. Which is bullshit.

So like. As a positivity post, let's use this time to recommend actually good classic books that you've actually enjoyed reading! I know that Dracula Daily and Epic the Musical have wonderfully tricked y'all into reading Dracula and The Odyssey, and I've seen a resurgence of Picture of Dorian Gray readership out of spite for N-tflix, so let's keep the ball rolling!

My absolute favorite books of all time are The Haunting of Hill House and We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson. Classic psychological horror books about unhinged women.

I adore The Bad Seed by William March. It's widely considered to be the first "creepy child" book in American literature, so reading it now you're like "wow that's kinda cliche- oh my god this is what started it. This was ground zero."

I remember the feelings of validation I got when people realized Dracula wasn't actually a love story. For further feelings of validation, please read Frankenstein by Mary Shelley and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson. There's a lot the more popular adaptations missed out on.

Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier is an absolute gem of a book. It's a slow-build psychological study so it may not be for everyone, but damn do the plot twists hit. It's a really good book to go into blind, but I will say that its handling of abuse victims is actually insanely good for the time period it was written in.

Moving on from horror, you know people who say "I loved this book so much I couldn't put it down"? That was me as a kid reading A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Picked it up while bored at the library and was glued to it until I finished it.

Peter Pan and Wendy by JM Barrie was also a childhood favorite of mine. Next time someone bitches about Woke Casting, tell them that the original 1911 Peter Pan novel had canon nonbinary fairies.

Watership Down by Richard Adams is my sister Cori's favorite book period. If you were a Warrior Cats, Guardians of Ga'Hoole or Wings of Fire kid, you owe a metric fuckton to Watership Down and its "little animals on a big adventure" setup.

A Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry was a play and not a book first, but damn if it isn't a good fucking read. It was also named after a Langston Hughes poem, who's also an absolutely incredible author.

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury is a book I absolutely adore and will defend until the day I die. It's so friggin good, y'all, I love it more than anything. You like people breaking out of fascist brainwashing? You like reading and value knowledge? You wanna see a guy basically predict the future of television back in 1953? Read Fahrenheit.

Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain and To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee are considered required reading for a reason: they're both really good books about young white children unlearning the racial biases of their time. Huck Finn specifically has the main character being told that he will go to hell if he frees a slave, and deciding eternal damnation would be worth it.

As a sidenote, another Mark Twain book I was obsessed with as a kid was A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. Exactly what it says on the tin, incredibly insane read.

If Beale Street Could Talk by James Baldwin is a heartbreaking but powerful book and a look at the racism of the time while still centering the love the two black protagonists feel for each other. Giovanni's Room by the same author is one that focuses on a MLM man struggling with his sexuality, and it's really important to see from the perspective of a queer man living in the 50s– as well as Baldwin's autobiographical novel, Go Tell it on the Mountain.

Agatha Christie mysteries are all still absolutely iconic, but Murder on the Orient Express is such a good read whether or not you know the end twist.

Maybe-controversial-maybe-not take: Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov is a good book if you have reading comprehension. No, you're not supposed to like the main character. He pretty much spells that out for you at the end ffs.

Animal Farm by George Orwell was another favorite of mine; it was written as an obvious metaphor for the rise of fascism in Russia at the time and boy does it hit even now.

And finally, please read Shakespeare plays. As soon as you get used to their way of talking, they're not as hard to understand as people will lead you to believe. My absolute favorite is Twelfth Night- crossdressing, bisexual love triangles, yellow stockings... it's all a joy.

and those are just the ones i thought of off the top of my head! What're your guys' favorite classic books? Let's make everyone a reading list!

[yandere-writer-momo]

I decided to make this ghost incredibly desperate. He yearns and he’s so pathetic.

Yandere Short Stories:

The Love From the Dark

Yandere Victorian Ghost x Fem Reader x Author Fiancé

TW: toxic relationship, character death, descriptive MURDER, body horror and decay, suicide (mention), horror elements, Yandere themes, unhealthy relationship dynamics, PATHETIC MAN, delusional behavior, and themes that should not be romanticized in real life

The sun’s rays momentarily blinded (your name) as the moving van turned the curve up the hill towards their destination. The wind from the open window tousled her hair with its invisible fingers. A smile now painted on her face from its soothing ministrations.

This was a fresh start… one her fiancé, Clayton, insisted they take together. The Victorian home would give him the perfect inspiration to defeat his writer’s block and finish his horror book… all because the house was rumored to be haunted.

“It’s rumored to be crawling with paranormal activity. Not to mention it was a steal! It has the perfect environment for me to write a horror book. Are you not supportive of me?” Clayton’s words replayed in her mind like a tape on an endless loop.

The couple hardly spoke to one another anymore, Clayton was so consumed in his writing that he almost didn’t exist in reality anymore save for driving, sleeping, or eating.

(Your name) constantly walked on eggshells around him in order not to tip the delicate scale of their relationship towards separation. She’s been with him for so many years that she couldn’t imagine a life without him. Even though he was no longer a man she recognized.

Ten minutes later and their van finally made it to their new home… and it was the creepiest looking house she’s ever seen. Some of the grey paint was peeling on the sides and all the surrounding trees were still barren despite the season being spring. Not to mention the large murder of crows that snuggled their little black bodies on the roof.

“…this place looks like a haunted house out of a paranormal film. I’m not sure if this is a good idea-“ but she was instantly met with a scoff.

“I don’t want to hear it. This is for our future and for my book.” Clayton rolled his eyes at her concerns. “It’s only for a few months, then we can move somewhere else. It’s not like ghosts are actually real. It’s just the perfect ambience for a horror book, plus the study has a view of a cemetery on the plot.”

(Your name) glanced at the house once more, its eerie presence caused a shiver rolled down her spine.

Yet there was a familiar feeling that crept into her mind. Why did it feel like she’s been here before?

.

.

.

The moment the couple entered, they were shocked to the core. The interior was in perfect shape. It was almost as if they entered a Time Machine back to the early 19th century.

Yet what caught (your name)’s eye was the giant portrait of a woman who looked identical to her in the grand living room right above the fireplace.

She walked forward and gently placed her hand on the fireplace, her fingers traced the smooth stone in wonder. Not a spec of dust lifted onto her finger tips.

That portrait wasn’t just similar to her appearance, it was eerily her exact appearance. It was an uncanny coincidence. One that made her stomach do summersaults to the point of queasiness.

“Clayton… I don’t think we should be here.” She expressed worry once more, but he loudly clicked his tongue in disagreement.

“Tsk. It’s probably just a coincidence. You’re looking too much into it.” He then brushed past her to head up the stairs. He was determined to claim that study. He had seen its grandiose design on the realtor site prior to purchase. It even overlooked the entire manor. Whoever built this home must have been loaded.

(Your name) frowned. She just couldn’t understand why her fiancé had changed so much. He was now married to work rather than about to marry her. She was so lonely within her own relationship and that made her even more depressed.

She studied the grand room one last time a frown on her face when she noticed a different portrait that had its face torn apart. Someone must have had a fit of anger when they did that from his damaged it was.

(Your name) shook her head clear and decided to explore. Maybe this house wouldn’t be so bad…

Yet if she glanced in the corner of the room, she’d notice the eyes of the destroyed portrait in the corner had moved.

“(Your name)?” A raspy, masculine voice heaved. His voice scratchy and low like he hadn’t spoken in ages.

Black liquid oozes from the eyes of the portrait like tears. His wife came home… she was finally home.

.

.

.

(Your name) felt sick to her stomach when she saw every single room had a portrait of her likeness in it. There was no way it was a coincidence now. This was intentional.

She felt an overwhelming feeling bubble in her stomach. It was a kind of feeling that pray felt when it sensed a predator. She needed to leave. She needed to get out of here right this second.

Knock. Knock.

(Your name) knocked on the door of Clayton’s study. Her hands trembled a leaf in a strong wind. She was so scared… she needed comfort and reassurance more than anything right now.

“Clay? Clay I’m scared.” She stated outside the door.

Her fiancé didn’t answer. Her shaky hands quickly, went to hold her arms in order to soothe herself. The anxiety began to painfully, squeeze her chest.

“Clay? I’m serious. This house… something isn’t right here. There’s so many portraits. Can we please leave? Please-“

The door opened so fast, a gust of wind blew her hair back a bit. Clayton’s cognac eyes were filled with annoyance as he glanced down at her.

“Seriously? I’m writing right now, the writer’s block is finally gone. Can’t you do this attention seeking behavior some other time?” Clayton’s words were spat at her like the venom of a snake.

“Clay, I’m not lying. Please. I’m scared-“

“I don’t have time for this. I have a book to write. Why don’t you go to bed and I’ll join you after a bit, hm? It’s just a few months here so you’re going to have to deal with it.” Clayton waved her away with a flick of his left hand. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. And I doubt someone would make so many portraits that look like you.”

Before she could get in another word, the door slammed shut on her face. A frown now etched on her soft features.

She just wanted a hug and to be told it’d be okay… she hadn’t meant to annoy him.

She turned on her heel to walk away so Clayton didn’t hear her sniffle. She hated when she cried in front of people… especially when she knew he wouldn’t comfort her.

The lights flickered on the walls as she walked past. The entity lurked in the hall by the study.

“Don’t cry… don’t cry…” his raspy voice was as soft as a breeze. “Don’t leave me.”

.

.

.

(Your name) picked a room on the west wing of the house to have to herself. She was still upset about that argument with Clayton. He still had locked himself into his study like a petulant child despite the clock on the hand that hit ten o’clock at night.

She had found a portrait of a woman that looked like her in every room and expressed she was terrified yet Clayton brushed her concerns off like the typical horror movie protagonist. He insisted the paranormal didn’t exist and this was all merely a coincidence. That his priorities lied in the completion of his horror book.

Did she really mean so little to him? That writing meant more to him than his own fiancée? Haven’t she didn’t wanna think about it too long because it would only made her more upset.

She crawled into the soft queen sized bed, the curtains to her canopy kept her shaken form concealed to anyone who may past by… not that there was anyone else here but Clayton. And he was locked away in the study in the east wing.

(Your name) felt herself waver before the first few tears finally began to fall. She just couldn’t understand why Clayton had become so selfish. Was she not lovable anymore? Had she done something to make him uninterested? She just wanted to be loved again like she used to be.

An hour went by before she cried enough tears to nearly drown herself in a river of dreamless sleep.

Yet before everything went dark, she felt something icy cold cradle her face I a reverent manner. Had Clayton come to check on her? She knew he still cared deep down. That he wouldn’t let her go to bed lonely as he had in the last few months.

At least that was what her sleep addled mind allowed her to believe. It was a poor attempt of self comfort on her part, but she was too groggy to find falsity in that thought.

She let sleep take her as its prisoner once she assured herself of the who owned those cold hands. A foolish move on her part.

But those hands did not belong to her beloved Clayton… no. It was the shadowy hands of something far more sinister.

“It is you…you’ve finally come back to me.” That raspy voice echoed through the room. “I won’t mess up this time. I’ll be a good husband. I’ll take care of you…”

If only she had went with her gut feeling… Clayton’s hands were never cold.

.

.

.

(Your name) woke up to her body being wrapped comfortably in blankets and a glass of water on the bedside table. Two tabs of acetaminophen were even placed next to the crystal glass cup. A soft smile lit up her features.

Had Clayton laid with her for a bit like he used to? Oh she had missed those times so dearly. Maybe there was hope for them. He hadn’t been thoughtful in ages…

She happily accepted the glass of water and pain pills before she began to get around. She should make breakfast for them to show her appreciation.

.

.

.

Meanwhile, Clayton had fallen asleep in the study. His brown eyes slowly opened to wake up to the giant portrait of a woman that looked like (your name).

Hadn’t he covered that blasted picture up with a blanket?

He rose up to cover it once more but he noticed a paper placed on the desk written in furious red calligraphy. A writing style one would see in the 19th century rather than modern time.

Do not cover up my wife.

Wife? Who on earth wrote that?

Clayton glanced at the portrait once more, the smallest hint of unease hit him before it was gone.

This home was only for a few months. At least until his rough draft was finished. There couldn’t possibly be such a thing as ghosts, right?

He heard a knock at the door and saw his fiancée’s smiling face.

“Can we have breakfast together? It’s been a while since we’ve enjoyed a simple meal.” (Your name) smiled at Clayton who sighed.

“Maybe once I’m done with this page.” Clayton replied coolly. His amber eyes flicked back over to the writings that were scribbled on various sheets. “I’m very busy with the book.”

“…I understand.” (Your name) tried to mask her discontent with a reassuring smile, but if Clayton were to actually pay attention, he’d notice how strained the smile was. “I hope to see you soon.”

Their relationship had finally approached its finality and Clayton wasn’t even aware that the straw was about to break the camel’s back.

.

.

.

(Your name) waited a few hours in the morning for Clayton to eat with her. The warm food eventually went cold as she was met with disappointment once more.

A hiccup fell from her lips before she could stop it. A sob soon followed. There truly was no hope for this love to bloom again. The flowers of love were dead at last.

Yet in her frustration, she was unaware of the entity observed her from the shadows. A giddy gleam in his beady black eyes.

His wife… she needed him. And he wouldn’t let her down this time.

“Don’t worry, my love… I’ll make sure you love home and never want to leave me. You’ll never cry again.”

.

.

.

Clayton heard a clicking noise out in the hall. A sigh fell from his lips in annoyance. Did (your name) not understand he was busy? Wait… he promised to have breakfast with her.

Clayton turned his head toward the grandfather clock and cursed. It was nearly eight at night! Had he truly lost himself in his own little world for that long? He couldn’t imagine how upset his fiancée was…

He went to the door to open it but the handle wouldn’t budge.

Click. Click. Click. Was it locked from the outside?

“(Your name)? I’m sorry I didn’t come down for breakfast but you don’t have to lock the door.” Clayton rubbed the bridge of his nose. This wasn’t normal for her. She would never be this petty.

Click. Click. Click.

“(Your name) I’m serious. Open this door!” Clayton began to toggle the door hand even harder but it wouldn’t budge. It was almost as if the doorknob had been welded rather than locked. “(Your name)?! (Your name)-“

“She can’t hear you.” Clayton whipped his head around when he heard a raspy voice in the room with him. The hair stood up on the back of his neck when he realized he was the only person in the room.

“Who’s there?” Clayton hissed, his cognac eyes wildly searched the room. “Show yourself.”

Clayton jumped when the flames in the fireplace jumped to life. The flames nearly licked the carpet before it. What in the world?

“I don’t think someone like you could possibly comprehend what I am… so why don’t you take a seat for me, Clay.”

Before Clayton could spit out a retort, the floorboards suddenly came to life and slid him forward toward the armchair by the fireplace like a slide on a playground. What? This had to be a dream…

“You’re not a very good man.” The ghost told him. “You remind me of myself when I was alive. I was also so selfish and stubborn.”

Clayton wasn’t able to utter a word before an invisible force slammed him down to sit in the vintage recliner. The soft, mustard yellow fabric did little to calm him as the flames danced more violently in the fireplace. Ghosts weren’t real… he’s never believed in them before.

“I asked you to politely take a seat, but you seem to be the kind that has to learn the hard way.”

Clayton watched a shadowy, masculine form in the corner of the room as the figure made his way over to stand before the fireplace. His shadowy hand grasped the fire poker and stirred the wood.

“I was once a work oriented man. A wealthy merchant back then. I thought this beautiful house was all it would take to keep my lovely wife happy…” the entity continued to stir at the fire in thought. “She was so lovely, you know. So loving and kind. I took her for granted.”

Clayton could only listen in shock as the entity sighed. The ghost set down the fire poker to gently trace over the portrait of the woman who looked eerily similar to (your name).

Clayton felt a lump form in his throat. (Your name) had been so worried about those portraits and he had brushed her off. God he wished he had listened.

“My beautiful wife… it’s my fault she left me.” Bang! The entity suddenly slammed his fists into the wood above the fireplace. “She took her own life, all because I made her feel so lonely! But… but she returned to me.”

Clayton’s blood went cold as the temperature suddenly dropped in the study. What did the ghost mean by that? Was (your name) in danger?

“Listen, (your name) and I didn’t mean to disturb you. I think we will leave-“

Clayton didn’t have time to scream before the fabric of the recliner wrapped around his face and applied pressure. His fingers clawed at the wool fabric in vain.

“Leave? You’re not taking my (your name) away!” The entity hissed. Clayton soon felt more pressure held to his face and even around his throat. His hands clawed desperately at air. “This isn’t anything too personal, you’re just in the way of me reuniting with my beloved.”

Clayton felt his eyes roll back as he kept trying to fight the entity. He would never get the chance to apologize to (Your name). To tell her that he loved her. To hold her one more time and feel her kisses. He didn’t want to die. Not like this.

“Your body will do. Oh it’s been so long since I’ve had a body… I’ll take such good care of her this time. She’ll never be lonely again!”

Clayton felt his world go black, his heart finally stopped. The entity then released Clayton, the body flopped onto the floor with a thunk.

The entity stroked the purplish hue away from Clayton’s face. The entity soon hummed “here comes the bride” as he dug his shadowy hands into Clayton’s mouth to enter.

“My wife… my beautiful wife. We’re together again now.”

.

.

.

(Your name) stirred awake when she felt a hand touch her face. Her eyes slowly opened to see Clayton’s familiar silhouette.

“Clay?”

“Shh… go back to sleep, darling.” Her face scrunched up a bit in confusion. Darling? Clayton never used pet names. He always said they were childish.

But she didn’t argue when she felt a body beside hers in the bed. Clayton’s lean arms pulled her close as a nose buried itself into her neck to deeply inhale her scent.

“I missed you… I missed you so much.” He murmured into her skin before he pressed a few kisses to her neck. Yet they felt strangely cold.

“I missed you too.” She held his hand. A few tears slipped down her cheeks like a leaky faucet. “So much…”

“Shh… I’m here now.” Clayton whispered into her skin. “And I’ll never leave you alone again. I swear.”

She smiled as she let his honeyed words comfort her. It was so nice to finally be held again.

A shame this wasn’t Clayton. That he was the lonely entity that possessed this house that finally had its wish come true… a second chance.

.

.

.

(Your name) hummed as she made breakfast. The smell of bacon and fresh eggs filled the air.

For the first time in two months, Clayton came down to have breakfast with her. He sat eagerly at the table in the strangest of clothes. She didn’t know why he was wearing 18th-century clothes, but who is she to judge? She wasn’t a writer. Maybe he was in cosplay to get in the mood to write his story?

Clayton had even set the table with utmost manners he never displayed in his life. He must be really committed to this elegant character he presented himself as.

She served him his plate and paused at the weird, pungent smell he had. That was odd… Clayton never smelled like that before.

“Clay? You have a rather… peculiar scent.” (Your name) softly notified him. She knew how much Clayton hated when she was too blunt, so she always had to dance around her words in order not to hurt his feelings.

Clayton froze for a moment before he gave her a smile. “ I must be dirty from all that time I spent in the study. I’m so sorry, my darling.”

There was a pet name again. The darling…

“Clay? Are you sure you’re alright? You’ve never called me, darling before…”

Clayton’s fork and knife paused mid cut of the bacon. Another weird habit she never saw before.

“I haven’t? Do you not like it?” He asked, his brow furrowed with worry. “How about I call you my love instead?”

She shook her head and smiled. “You’ve just never used pet names before… I like them.”

Clayton then gave her a warm smile as he spoke once more. “Then I’ll call you all the pet names you’d like.”

Her heart fluttered. It had been so long since her fiancé paid attention to her and it felt so nice.

Clayton watched the way her cheeks flushed in pure joy. She looked so pretty when she was happy. He’d make sure to always keep her like that… but first he had to solve his problem with this body.

He would hate to rot so quickly on her. He would have to shove some posies in his pockets to mask the scent until he found a better solution.

.

.

.

A few days went by and she noticed Clayton bloated a bit. She didn’t trigger his gluten allergy with the toast, did she?

“Clay, do you need your EpiPen?” (Your name) asked Clayton who gave her a reassuring look.

“No, I’m fine. I just hadn’t ate with you in so long.” She smiled at his response.

“Are you sure? I’m a bit worried about you. You’re bloating…”

“I’m fine, truly.” Clayton reassured her. He wouldn’t let her see how anxious he truly was.

This body was decaying too fast… he wouldn’t be able to hold onto it. And he didn’t want to scare her with an animated corpse… he had to think of a different solution now.

.

.

.

Clayton hobbled to the basement before his body fell to the floor with a thunk. The entity cursed as he noticed the rot began in the stomach area. The temporary body was no longer viable anymore.

“You’re so useless even in death.” The entity rubbed the bridge of his nose.

He floated around the basement that held portraits of his human form from back in the day. A stern looking man with dark hair and a hooked nose was painted on each art piece… but the ghost’s favorite was the one where he was beside his wife.

“I have to find a way to keep you here.” He cried in anguish. “I can’t let you slip away again. I don’t want to be all alone…”

He lovingly traces the portrait’s face. He had waited here for over a hundred years for this second chance.

The ghost went over to the coffin in the basement before he opened it to reveal the skeleton inside. A Victorian death mask covered the skeleton’s face. This wasn’t ideal… but his old body wouldn’t smell like decay.

He could stuff the body and wear gloves… he knew his (your name) deserved more, but it’s all he could offer.

“This is for us… it’s all for us.” The ghost reassured himself as he lifted the mask for the first time in over a century.

The charade was up… and he’d have to burn Clayton’s body in the incinerator. He didn’t want Clayton to stink up the place.

.

.

.

There was not a doubt in (your name)’s mind when Clayton came to her that he wasn’t Clayton. She could no longer lie to herself.

Whoever this was, they were far too nice to her. Too chivalrous. Too gentle.

Where her fiancé once treated her with disdain, this man treated her as if she was more precious than gold.

She felt arms wrapped around her around her as the cold mask leaned on her shoulder.

“…what’s your real name?” She felt the man pause.

“W-what do you mean, my love?” He stuttered. His voice was raspy. It no longer even sounded like Clayton.

“You know what I mean.” She pulled away to turn around. Her hands gently cradled the masked face. “You’re far too sweet to me and your voice… it’s not Clayton’s.”

Hands shot up to hold her hands as a sob racked through the body of the man. She frowned in worry. This wasn’t a reaction she thought he’d have.

“I’m sorry… please don’t leave me!” Now this was a man who was desperate… it was refreshing to her.

“Shh… it’s okay. I’m not scared.” She lifted off the mask to show the face of a skeleton. A black liquid oozed from its eye sockets like a grotesque imitation of tears. The sight was something out of a horror movie, but she knew this entity didn’t want to harm her.

“I’m… I’m Frederick Anderson.” Frederick grasped her hands and pressed kisses to the back of them. Yet it felt odd since he only had his teeth exposed…

“Frederick?” She softly asked and Frederick nodded.

“I’m your husband! Well… the one last time.” He told her as he nuzzled her hands. He continued to try to kiss them. “You’re my wife… my beautiful (your name).”

She could not bring herself to be scared of him. Not when he seemed so desperate and lonely.

“Is that why you have so many portraits of me?”

“I painted them myself!” He exclaimed. “When you… died. I was so lost without you. Nothing mattered anymore. The townspeople all said I went mad, and I did. Life had no meaning if you weren’t in it!”

She listened as he began to ramble about their past life.

“I lost purpose. I had worked so hard to have this home made for us. To have the perfect place for us to start a family. I spent too long away from you.” He told her. “It’s all my fault. I should have never left you all alone… can you ever forgive me? I’ve already waited over a hundred years for you… I do not know if I can wait another century.”

“…I forgive you, Frank.” If it were possible, the skeleton became more animated.

“Frank… you haven’t called me Frank since 1853!! Oh happy day! It is so wonderful to hear it on your pretty lips again…”

She was suddenly pulled into a waltz, the skeleton hummed a cheery song from his time. Frederick was indeed romantic…

“You always wanted to dance together… I’ll dance with you all the time now!” Frederick told her while he pulled her body along in an elegant waltz. “I won’t let you down this time, I swear. We’re together again! Just my wife and I!”

They danced for several minutes until she felt the question from the back of her mind.

“…you killed Clay, didn’t you?”

“He made you cry, my love! And anyone who makes you cry doesn’t deserve to live!” Frederick exclaimed, his arms pulled her close. “I’ll scorch this world for you! Whatever you want, I’ll do it! I’ll commit atrocities in your name! Please never leave me again.”

(Your name) was frozen in his arms before she gently hugged him back. She couldn’t imagine being alone for so long… and she had without a doubt he wouldn’t let her leave anyways.

“I won’t leave you Frank. I’ll stay.” She rubbed his back as he sighed in contentment.

“Then I will be giving you my utmost attention. You are my beloved. My everything…”

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

The Telling Truth: When 'Show, Don't Tell' Doesn't Apply (You Don't Always Have To Show, Don't Tell.)

Hey there, fellow writers and beloved members of the writeblr community! 📝✨

Today, I want to talk about something that's been on my mind lately, and I have a feeling it might resonate with many of you too. It's about that age-old writing advice we've all heard a million times: "Show, don't tell." Now, don't get me wrong – it's great advice, and it has its place in our writing toolbox. But here's the thing: it's not the be-all and end-all of good writing. In fact, I'd argue that sometimes, it's perfectly okay – even necessary – to tell rather than show.

First things first, let's address the elephant in the room. The "show, don't tell" rule has been drilled into our heads since we first picked up a pen (or opened a Word document) with the intention of writing creatively. It's been repeated in writing workshops, creative writing classes, and countless craft books. And for good reason! Showing can create vivid, immersive experiences for readers, allowing them to feel like they're right there in the story.

But here's where things get a bit tricky: like any rule in writing (or in life, for that matter), it's not absolute. There are times when telling is not just acceptable, but actually preferable. And that's what you all will explore today in this hopefully understandable blog post.

Let's start by breaking down why "show, don't tell" is so popular. When we show instead of tell, we're engaging the reader's senses and emotions. We're painting a picture with words, allowing the reader to draw their own conclusions based on the details we provide. It's a powerful technique that can make our writing more engaging and memorable.

For example, instead of saying "Sarah was angry," we might write, "Sarah's fists clenched at her sides, her jaw tight as she glared at the broken vase." This gives the reader a clearer image and allows them to infer Sarah's emotional state.

But here's the thing: sometimes, we don't need or want that level of detail. Sometimes, efficiency in storytelling is more important than painting an elaborate picture. And that's where telling comes in handy.

Imagine if every single emotion, action, or piece of information in your story was shown rather than told. Your novel would probably be thousands of pages long, and your readers might get lost in the sea of details, losing sight of the main plot or character arcs.

So, when might telling be more appropriate? Let's explore some scenarios:

Summarizing less important events: If you're writing a story that spans a long period, you don't need to show every single day or event. Telling can help you summarize periods of time or less crucial events quickly, allowing you to focus on the more important parts of your story.

For instance: "The next few weeks passed in a blur of exams and late-night study sessions." This sentence tells us what happened without going into unnecessary detail about each day.

Providing necessary background information: Sometimes, you need to give your readers some context or backstory. While you can certainly weave this information into scenes, there are times when a straightforward telling of facts is more efficient.

Example: "The war had been raging for three years before Sarah's village was attacked." This quickly gives us important context without needing to show the entire history of the war.

Establishing pace and rhythm: Alternating between showing and telling can help you control the pace of your story. Showing tends to slow things down, allowing readers to immerse themselves in a moment. Telling can speed things up, moving the story along more quickly when needed.

Clarifying complex ideas or emotions: Some concepts or feelings are abstract or complex enough that showing alone might not suffice. In these cases, a bit of telling can help ensure your readers understand what's happening.

For example: "The quantum entanglement theory had always fascinated John, but explaining it to others often left him feeling frustrated and misunderstood." Here, we're telling the reader about John's relationship with this complex scientific concept, which might be difficult to show effectively.

Maintaining your narrative voice: Sometimes, telling is simply more in line with your narrative voice or the tone of your story. This is especially true if you're writing in a more direct or conversational style.

Now, I can almost hear some of you saying, "But wait! I've always been told that showing is always better!" And I completely get it. I'm a writer myself and prioritize "Show, Don't tell." in my writing all the time. We've been conditioned to believe that showing is superior in all cases. But we can take a moment to challenge that notion.

Think about some of your favorite books. Chances are, they use a mix of showing and telling. Even the most critically acclaimed authors don't adhere strictly to "show, don't tell" all the time. They understand that good writing is about balance and knowing when to use each technique effectively.

Take, for instance, the opening line of George Orwell's "1984": "It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen." This is a perfect blend of showing and telling. Orwell shows us it's a bright, cold day (we can imagine the crisp air and clear sky), but he tells us about the clocks striking thirteen. This immediate telling gives us crucial information about the world we're entering – it's not quite like our own.

Or consider this passage from Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice": "Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character." Here, Austen is clearly telling us about Mr. Bennet's character rather than showing it through his actions. And yet, it works beautifully, giving us a quick, clear insight into both Mr. Bennet and his wife.

The key is to use both techniques strategically. So, how can you decide when to show and when to tell? Here are some tips:

Consider the importance of the information: Is this a crucial moment in your story, a pivotal emotion, or a key piece of character development? If so, it might be worth showing. If it's more of a transitional moment or background information, telling might be more appropriate.

Think about pacing: If you want to slow down and really immerse your reader in a moment, show it. If you need to move things along more quickly, tell it.

Evaluate the complexity: If you're dealing with a complex emotion or concept, consider whether showing alone will be enough to convey it clearly. Sometimes, a combination of showing and telling works best for complex ideas.

Consider your word count: If you're working with strict word count limitations (like in short stories or flash fiction), telling can help you convey necessary information more concisely.

Trust your instincts (Important): As you write more, you'll develop a feel for when showing or telling works better. Trust your gut, and don't be afraid to experiment.

Now, let's talk about how to tell effectively when you do choose to use it. Because here's the thing: telling doesn't have to be boring or flat. It can be just as engaging and stylish as showing when done well. Here are some tips for effective telling:

Use strong, specific language: Instead of using vague or generic words, opt for more specific, evocative language. For example, instead of "She was sad," you might write, "A profound melancholy settled over her."

Incorporate sensory details: Even when telling, you can include sensory information to make it more vivid. "The room was cold" becomes more engaging as "A bone-chilling cold permeated the room."

Use metaphors and similes: These can help make your telling more colorful and memorable. "His anger was like a volcano ready to erupt" paints a vivid picture without showing the anger in action.

Keep it concise: One of the advantages of telling is its efficiency. Don't negate that by being overly wordy. Get to the point, but do it with style.

Vary your sentence structure: Mix short, punchy sentences with longer, more flowing ones to create rhythm and maintain interest.

Remember, the goal is to create a seamless narrative that engages your reader. Sometimes that means showing, sometimes it means telling, and often it means a artful blend of both.

It's also worth noting that different genres and styles of writing may lean more heavily on one technique or the other. Literary fiction often employs more showing, delving deep into characters' psyches and painting elaborate scenes. Genre fiction, on the other hand, might use more telling to keep the plot moving at a brisker pace. Neither approach is inherently better – it all depends on what works best for your story and your style.

Now, I want to address something that I think many of us struggle with: the guilt or anxiety we might feel when we catch ourselves telling instead of showing. It's easy to fall into the trap of second-guessing every sentence, wondering if we should be showing more. But here's the truth: that kind of constant self-doubt can be paralyzing and ultimately detrimental to your writing process.

So, I want you to understand and think: It's okay to tell sometimes. You're not a bad writer for using telling in your work. In fact, knowing when and how to use telling effectively is a sign of a skilled writer.

Here's some practical ways to incorporate this mindset into your writing process:

First Draft Freedom: When you're writing your first draft, give yourself permission to write however it comes out. If that means more telling than showing, that's absolutely fine. The important thing is to get the story down. You can always revise and add more "showing" elements later if needed.

Revision with Purpose: When you're revising, don't automatically change every instance of telling to showing. Instead, ask yourself: Does this serve the story better as telling or showing? Consider the pacing, the importance of the information, and how it fits into the overall narrative.

Beta Readers and Feedback: When you're getting feedback on your work, pay attention to how readers respond to different sections. If they're engaged and understanding the story, then your balance of showing and telling is probably working well, regardless of which technique you're using more.

Study Your Favorite Authors: Take some time to analyze how your favorite writers use showing and telling. You might be surprised to find more instances of effective telling than you expected.

Practice Both Techniques (Important): Set aside some time to practice both showing and telling. Write the same scene twice, once focusing on showing and once on telling. This can help you develop a feel for when each technique is most effective.

Now, let's address another important point: the evolution of writing styles and reader preferences. The "show, don't tell" rule gained popularity in the early 20th century with the rise of modernist literature. But writing styles and reader tastes have continued to evolve since then.

In our current fast-paced world, where people are often reading on devices and in shorter bursts, there's sometimes a preference for more direct, efficient storytelling. This doesn't mean that showing is out of style, but it does mean that there's often room for more telling than strict adherence to "show, don't tell" would allow.

Moreover, diverse voices in literature are challenging traditional Western writing norms, including the emphasis on showing over telling. Some cultures have strong storytelling traditions that lean more heavily on telling, and as the literary world becomes more inclusive, we're seeing a beautiful variety of styles that blend showing and telling in new and exciting ways.

This brings me to an important point: your voice matters. Your unique way of telling stories is valuable. Don't let rigid adherence to any writing rule, including "show, don't tell," stifle your natural voice or the story you want to tell.

Remember, rules in writing are more like guidelines. They're tools to help us improve our craft, not unbreakable laws. The most important rule is to engage your reader and tell your story effectively. If that means more telling than the conventional wisdom suggests, then so be it.

As I wrap up this discussion, I want to leave you with a challenge: In your next writing session, consciously use both showing and telling. Pay attention to how each technique feels, how it serves your story, and how it affects the rhythm of your writing. You might discover new ways to blend these techniques that work perfectly for your unique style.

Writing is an art, not a science. There's no perfect formula, no one-size-fits-all approach. It's about finding what works for you, your story, and your readers. So embrace both showing and telling. Use them as the powerful tools they are, and don't be afraid to break the "rules" when your instincts tell you to.

Remember, every great writer started where you are now, learning the rules and then figuring out when and how to break them effectively. You're part of a long, proud tradition of storytellers, each finding their own path through the winding forest of words.

Keep writing, keep growing, and keep believing in yourself. You've got this!

Happy writing! 💖✍️ - Rin T.

Before you go, why not join us at The Write Right Society? We're a supportive Tumblr community where writers lift each other up. Whether you're a newbie or a pro, we'd love to have you! Share your work, get feedback, and connect with fellow wordsmiths, writers and aspiring authors. 

[narnian-neverlander]

What Could’ve Been [Viktor x GN!Reader]

Plot Summary: In which you find yourself in a world so similar yet so different to your own and are simply too tired of life knocking you down again and again to still play the selfless hero.

Word Count: 3,9k

Warnings: spoilers for Arcane Season 2, talk about character death and illness, suicidal thoughts, slightly suggestive at the end

A/N: I saw that alternate timeline and went ‘Ekko’s a stronger man than I am’ and went with that; actually wanted to write sth fluffy and happy, and this is wholesome-ish, but with some very bleak undertones so I might have to write some actual fluff to compensate. Also, the religious imagery wasn’t planned from the get go but it kinda happened and it is on brand for this man, I just decided to turn it on its head a little 🤷

I’m also very much using a translator for the Czech parts, so please bear with me and absolutely lemme know if you spot anything wrong!

“Interesting. When I told you about this last, you advised the exact opposite.”

You freeze mid movement, plate hovering an inch or so over the table you were setting. “Well I… I suppose I’ve changed my mind.”

The soft tap of a cane against the floor alerts you to him crossing the room, appearing in your peripheral as you put down the porcelain with shaky fingers. “A rather… hm, siginificant change in such a short time, wouldn’t you agree? Not to mention you acted like I was telling you for the first time.” He doesn’t receive an answer, so he keeps going. “I’ve had a theory for a while. I don’t believe I’ve told you about it, because really, it’s only a pipe dream at this point, but entertaining for the duller moments nonetheless: alternate timelines. The possibility of several different realities, all co-existing with each other simultaneously. Some would call the mere idea preposterous, I’m fully aware, but then again, how would we know for certain? How could we know? Unless one or more of said timelines happened to… overlap.” The silence that follows is deafening and heavy; a precursor of what’s to come. “You’re not originally from this world, are you?”

While he knows this is a conversation that needs to be had, the way you curl into yourself and seem to wither and grow small before his eyes makes him wish he could take it all back. He tries to catch your gaze, but you purposely avoid his as you drag yourself over to the couch. Body heavy and tired, you all but slump down into worn cushions, blankly staring into space as you weakly reply with “No. I’m not.”

He doesn’t move, nor does he speak, cause while he’d been expecting your answer to a degree, now that it’s out in the open he’s… unsure what to even do with it. It isn’t a worry for long, though, as you continue speaking, slow and weary. Like you had been expecting, dreading, this moment just as much as him.

“It wasn’t a… conscious choice. To come here, I mean. It was an accident really, I didn’t even know what had happened at first.” A weak chuckle. “This was a shock to me as much as it must’ve been for you.”

And what a shock it had been for you. To have been standing with your friends in the bowels of the Hexgates one minute and to wake up in an unfamiliar bed the next. Dizzily traipsing through a space that had felt familiar yet foreign all at once; pictures and mementos from times you couldn’t remember staring at you from every surface. And to have had Viktor come through the door, bag of baked goods under one arm, to find you in the living room of what should’ve been your home, looking every bit as lost as you felt. It had been a miracle you’d stayed standing then and there, with the way he’d looked: same lanky figure supported by a cane, same messy chestnut locks, same two beauty marks against the pale skin of his sharp face, same concern in his honey colored irises when he took in your state. But no dark circles borderlining bruises under his eyes, no hollowed, sunken in cheeks, no blood on his lips to betray another attack. And no Hexcore devouring him whole. Your downfall had come in the form of slender fingers gingerly wrapping around your forearm to try and steady you; a silent question and a gentle offer of help. One of those fingers wearing the very same ring you usually kept on a chain around your neck, because you’d always been too busy or too in your own head to just ask him. To offer him your heart, your life, your everything, if only he wanted it. Always too terrified of rejection, of losing him to his illness; too scared of fucking something until it was too late. And when your hand had come up in search for said necklace, a nervous habit that had developed at some point, and you’d found a matching ring on your own finger instead, you’d finally dissolved into a wailing, sobbing mess against his chest, never wanting to let go again.

And what a shock it had been for him. To have talked to you, not twenty minutes prior, an exchange of sleepy, lazy kisses and quiet murmurs, telling you he’d go get breakfast and be right back, watching as you’d curled back up under the blankets with a content sigh. To come through the door, expecting you still in bed and instead finding you in the middle of your living room, looking utterly lost and misplaced in your own home, an almost manic look in your eyes, staring at him like you’d seen a ghost. He’d approached you, carefully, like one would a wild caged animal, and then a simple touch of his had sent you into a meltdown. And at an absolute loss, he’d simply held you. Let you cry yourself to utter exhaustion in his arms, the both of you a heap on the floor, propped up against the back of the sofa. When you had finally, finally calmed down, you’d played it off as the aftershocks of a nightmare. The kind that makes you believe they’re real and keeps you trapped in them for what could feel like a lifetime. And Gods you’d looked like you had aged a lifetime while he was gone. And ever since that night you’d been… different. Getting lost in your own head more often than not. Suffering from nightmares almost every night. Migraines and something akin to epileptic seizures every once in a good while. He had let it go on, assuring you that if you needed anything he would be there for you, and in the following months, you’d seemed to settle and things had gone back to normal. Relatively. But it had been the memory loss that had made him suspicious. Or more so the fact that while some things remained, others seemed to have happened differently for you and some had never happened at all. Never having been able to leave well enough alone, he’d started digging for explanations. And now, at the end of his research, his most impossible theory proven right - he’s yet again at a loss of what to do. How to help you.

“I didn’t know how I got here, much less how to get back. From what I do understand about all of this, and it ain’t much, the thing that sent me to this world doesn’t even exist here. So at first I didn’t have much of a choice but to just… live. To pretend like everything was normal and I belonged here. But eventually I realized that even if I got the chance to go back, I didn’t want to. I wanted to be selfish, I wanted—“ Your voice cracks, thick with emotion and he watches your head drop forward like a doll’s whose strings have been cut, eyes downcast at your trembling hands. “I wanted to be happy again. And for once in my damn life I wanted it to last. It just never fucking lasts…”

Stride over to you and hold you tight, kiss you and tell you that everything would be alright, that you would figure this out together, like always. That’s what he should be doing. Every bone in his body tells him to, but just like so many other times in the past, his oh so brilliant mind prevents him. Tells him that there is no ‘together, like always’ because the person in front of him isn’t the person he’s known his whole life. Isn’t the person he married. Everything’s an ugly mess and he doesn’t mean for his next words to come across as cruel, doesn’t perceive them that way; blissfully unaware of the implications, he’s simply, truly curious.

“What would you do if you were to go back home?”

An inelegant snort leaves you and you wipe the back of your hand over your eyes in a desperate and vain attempt to stop the tears from flowing.

23 seconds.

You were counting, just to give you something to occupy your spiraling mind with, really.

23 seconds.

That’s how long it had taken him to no longer refer to this world, this apartment, him as your home. To prioritize whatever might be going in your other life. And you know it’s not fair, to be this upset with him, this version of him that you’ve been deceiving from the start; even though he has never wronged you. But you can’t help it. Guilt and regret would soon be all you’d have left again, so might as well leave him with some, too.

“Well… if I hadn’t gotten sucked into this mess, I would’ve killed myself by now. I guess I’d be getting back to that.”

The breath that escapes him sounds like you actually just sucker punched him in the gut and immediately makes you feel terrible about how casual and bitter you’d made it sound, but he’d wanted the truth and that was it. Limbs heavy und unsteady, you rise from your position on the couch and make your way over to the front door. “I’ll go take a walk or… you know, go do… whatever. Give you some space, time to think.” Your hand’s already on the door handle, but you pause and somehow find it in yourself to turn around and at least give him the courtesy of looking at him for what you’re about to say. “For what it’s worth, I never meant to let it go this far. It just became so… easy to pretend like things had always been like this. You made it easy. And while I’m sorry that I lied to you, tricked you, intentional or not, I got the chance to fall in love with you all over again. And I could never be sorry about that.”

You’re fairly certain you’ve never seen him move as fast as he does now and before you know it, you’re wrapped in a hug almost too tight, his cane landing on the carpeted floor next to you with a dull thump. “You cannot say things like that and expect me to just let you walk out of that door, I-“

Readjusting his hold on you, he cradles your head against his shoulder and loops his other arm around your middle, continuing in a hushed, gentle tone. “I can’t bear the thought of harm befalling you. Even worse, you harming yourself. In any timeline. Please, just stay. No matter what might happen in the future, just… stay with me. Right here.”

He means for it to be reassuring, comforting, loving, you know that. It’s not his fault that it has the exact opposite effect.

Wincing, a new wave of tears springs to your eyes and you remove yourself from his hold, but can’t bring yourself to let go completely; hands now linked between the two of you. “Viktor, I stole the body and life of a person you actually love. I don’t want you to force yourself to try and love me out of pity.”

“And why are you so certain that’s what this is?!” It surprises you, how genuinely upset he sounds, and a gasp is forced out of your throat when he wrenches his hands out of your grasp and his palms find your face, to force your gaze onto him and keep it there, wether you want to or not. The expression he’s wearing almost scares you; thick brows furrowed in anger and lips curled back in what could nearly be a snarl, but as soon as gold eyes find yours, red and puffy and so very desperate and grieving, whatever fire seemed to have been burning him up inside goes out all at once.

His shoulders drop and he rests his forehead against yours with a sigh, warm breath fanning over your face. “I’m sorry, moje lásko, please forgive me. I’m not angry with you, I just… I can not comprehend why you are so ready and willing to accept rejection, but will not even entertain the possibility that loving you comes as easy to me as your affections for me do to you. Why can you love every version of me, but I’m not allowed the same with every version of you?” He watches you blink owlishly, your mouth opening and closing several times and he’s not sure wether it’s endearing or heartbreaking, how clear it is that this possibility never even crossed your mind. “You act like this entire situation only penalizes me, when in reality, I’m not actually your Viktor, either, am I?”

He expects this to help, to give you a new perspective. To make it clear to you that you are both the same; you are not a villain in his story. And there is a smile on your lips, but it’s so small and sad that his stomach drops at the sight. “No, you’re not. You couldn’t be. My Viktor is gone.”

And all of a sudden, it makes so much sense. How sometimes you’d stare at him with the most haunted look in your eyes, like he was a dead man walking, ready to collapse at any given moment. How you’d grow frantic when he came back late from the academy. How you’d insisted on tagging along on the most mundane of tasks, always under the guise of wanting to spend more time with him, but really just keeping a close eye on him at all times. Though he suspects the former to be true; the chance to spend even a few more precious hours with a loved one you’d thought lost, who wouldn’t jump at that chance?

His world would simply seize spinning if you were no longer in it, he can’t even begin to imagine how you feel. How tormenting it must’ve been to see him everyday, a second chance dangling right in front of you, but never certain if you were to wake up back in a world where he was gone.

You’re in his arms again in a heartbeat, one hand carding through your hair, the other rubbing soothing patterns into your back; whispering sweet little nothings into your ear as you bury your face into the crook of his neck and sob. All so much like the day you arrived and saw him for the first time, and yet… softer. More intimate.

You stay like this until your bawling dies down to whimpers and sniffles at which point he gingerly coaxes you to look at him.

“Miláčku, listen to me. As it stands now, you have no way of going back to your original world.” He doesn’t call it your home anymore, you notice. “You did not ask for this, you did not choose this; you had it thrust upon you while going through enough pain and grief you considered taking your own life. For the love of everything, you needn’t feel guilty for wanting to use this chance to find happiness again. And you shouldn’t feel guilty if you continue to do so.” Still sniffling you gently caress his face, thumbs running over his chiseled cheekbones and heart stuttering when he leans into your touch. But then you catch sight of the ring on your finger again.

“I’m not… I’m not the person you married, Vik.” Unknowingly, you parrot his own thoughts back to him, but surprisingly enough, he finds he doesn’t much care anymore. He’s flabbergasted how he could ever even doubt for a second that it would matter which timeline you were originally from. Because it’s still you. Damn it all, it’s still you. “Maybe so. But I’ve seen the same kindness in you in those past few months that I’ve always known. The same wit. The same ambition and passion. All the things that made me love you in the first place. You said this gave you the chance to fall in love with me again; would you allow me the chance to do the same?”

The truth is, while you want to try and build a life here, you feel guilty. Guilty about the friends you left fighting a war. Guilty about taking over the life and joy of someone else, even if they are a different version of you. Guilty about forcing the man you love into a relationship with a person he technically doesn’t even know. All these months, you’d only ever reciprocated his affections, never initiated them, had barely let him touch you at all, because you’d always felt like somehow you were coercing him into cheating on someone he actually loved. But here he is now, telling you that he wants you, this version of you, all of you. Could you really do it? Leave behind everything and everyone you’ve ever known, for a chance at happiness, a fresh start? You had no guarantee that things would go smoothly in this universe either, after all. Wouldn’t you just be playing pretend for the rest of your life?

“So what, we’ll just… pretend like it’s the first time then?” you ask, a quiet breathless laugh accompanying your question. He shrugs and smiles at you. “Something like that. Falling in love with you again and again and again? I could imagine a worse fate.”

So could you. Much, much worse, in fact.

Your expression shifts somewhat without you even realizing and he immediately recognizes that he must’ve triggered some form of painful memory. He places tiny little kisses all over your face, murmuring apologies all the while and when you sigh in contentment it finally dawns on him that this is very much the first time you’ve let yourself enjoy being close with him since you got here. He doesn’t blame you; the moral dilemma that was forced on you would put anyone on edge and make them anxious about what they could allow themselves to experience without some form of consequences. He would prove to you that there would be none, he’d make sure of that; singlehandedly destroy them if they did decide to raise their ugly heads. That you didn’t always need to give and give and ask for nothing in return. That you could take what you wanted and not be punished for it. You’d taught him that after all.

“Moje světlo…?”

Gods have mercy on your soul, you never could say no to him when he used those damn pet names on you.

You crash your lips to his, desperate and practically starved; in direct contrast to all the sweet promises and gentle reassurances you just shared, there’s nothing romantic about it. It’s all tongues and teeth and absolutely filthy and it’s exactly what you need right now. Your back makes contact with the door you’d been oh so insistent on walking out of not even fifteen minutes ago, that thought now the furthest thing from your mind as his hands are already under your shirt, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Your head falls back against the worn wood with a thump as his lips find your neck, leaving marks and bruises for everyone to see and maybe the moan that escapes your throat with a broken version of his name coupled with how weak your knees already feel could’ve been embarrassing, but you don’t have it in yourself to care; it feels like it’s been years since he last kissed you like this. Touched you like this. The whine of protest as he pulls back is cut short when he drops to his knees in front of you, hands on your hips to keep you in place and placing on last kiss on your stomach before he puts some distance between you both, not more than a few inches really, but still too much for your liking. One hand goes to cover his own, while the other cups his face, trying to tug him closer again, but he refuses. Brows knitting together in confusion and frustration, you’re about to ask him what he thinks he’s doing, but he beats you to it.

“I won’t go further unless you tell me you want this.” You almost laugh, because he can not be serious. How much more obvious could you be? Your own body is doing half the talking for you, really. But of course that’s not exactly what he means. “I want you to admit to me, and more importantly to yourself, that you want this life. I want you to realize that it is perfectly alright for you to be selfish every now and again.”

His words trigger a memory from long ago, when you’d found him passed out on the desk in the lab one too many times. After you’d been done yelling at him, you’d told him that he couldn’t just always give and give and give until there was barely anything left of himself. That it was okay to be a little selfish and take things for himself every once in a while.

Take your own advice, liar.

A voice somewhere in the back of your head purrs bewitchingly and it’s right. You are still lying. Not to him though - to yourself. Telling yourself that you feel guilty for wanting to stay here, when in reality that’s how you should be feeling. But the truth, the real truth, is that you’re scared.

Scared of how little you actually care. About the friends you left fighting a war. About taking over the life and joy of someone else, even if they are a different version of you. About forcing the man you love into a relationship with a person he technically doesn’t even know. You haven’t truly cared about any of it from the get go; always too self righteous to admit it to yourself, though.

Practiced fingers slip from his cheek to the hair at the nape his neck and pull; he goes along willingly this time, head forced back and his eyes lock onto yours, right as fresh, hot tears start to travel down your face. But you’re done grieving; you are livid, plain and simple. “I want this…” you breathe out, so quiet he almost misses it. You don’t stay quiet, though, you can’t anymore, and your voice rises in volume with every sentence spoken. “I want to stay. I want a life with you. All blissful boredom and domesticity. It’s all I ever wanted. Why…? Why was even that too much to ask?!”

He doesn’t have the answer, but he does have the solution, delivered with a slight turn of his head and a kiss to your wrist.

“It wasn’t. It isn’t.”

Breaths heavy and irregular, you simply take in the sight of him: all disheveled hair and kiss swollen lips, pretty blush all the way down to his neck, eyes dark and pupils blown wide, only a thin ring of gold left, looking at you so longingly, on his knees for you and you alone; like a worshipper ready to commit any atrocity for the sake and love of their god.

“You can take what you want, anděli. No one will punish you for it. I won’t let them.”

Angel. Oh, the irony. Irony turned certainty. Certainty turned reality.

So take you would. And you wouldn’t bother looking back at the things you’d left behind.

[wingedhallows]

pairing: vi x reader | 1.1k words plot: a little slip up on your end results in a happy end authors note: hey, babes. I recieved a message - or rather a demand for more vi content and other characters so, here is a little something. hope you enjoy it :)

navigation

Her sheets are soft around you, the dim light casting gentle shadows across the room. The familiar sound of her favorite band hums in the background, a quiet, steady rhythm that blends with the warmth of the moment. You sink back against one of her pillows, feeling the comforting weight of it behind you.

Your hand rests on her thigh as she carefully drags the nail polish brush across your fingernail, her brows furrowed in concentration, The glossy black liquid glides into place, and you watch as she bites her lip, her tongue just barely peeking out in focus.

“You’re cute.” 

The words slip out before you even realize you’ve spoken them, your voice quiet - almost uncertain.

Her head snaps up in an instant, an - oh, sweet god - those sky-blue eyes.

“What?” Her voice is barely above a whisper, the tiny brush frozen mid-air as she stares at you.

Panic flares in your chest. Crap. You clear your throat, scrambling to backtrack, to smooth over the moment before it turns into something more than you meant. She wouldn’t like you back, right? Not Violet. No chance.

“I said you look like a fruit.”

The words tumble from your mouth before you’ve even fully processed them.

A fruit. Really? You mentally curse yourself. You’re the biggest idiot to walk this earth. 

Her eyebrows knit together, and she tilts her head, clearly trying to make sense of your nonsense. Oh, you’re done for.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

Her voice carries amusement, like she doesn’t believe a word you’re saying. You curse yourself—of course it doesn’t make sense. The room feels heavier, the shadows stretching longer as her gaze stays fixed on you.

What are you supposed to do now? Your hands grow clammy as you force yourself to look away, willing your heart to stop its relentless hammering.

“I heard you, you know.”

Her voice is softer this time, a gentle caress against the storm in your mind.

What?

Your eyes snap back to hers, your shoulders tensing as you sink deeper into the pillows, half-hoping they’ll swallow you whole.

“You did?” The words barely escape your lips, breathless and uncertain. Your heart stutters, beating so wildly you’re convinced it might just give out.

She nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips as she carefully drags the tiny brush over your nail, coating it in sleek black polish.

“You’re cute too.”

You swear you hear laughter in her voice. Is she enjoying this? Your stomach flips as you stare at her, and for the first time, you realize just how close she is.

“You think so?” You manage, and you curse yourself for the pathetic uncertainty in your voice. How much more embarrassing can you get?

Heat creeps up your neck, and suddenly, the room feels warmer—was it always this hot in here? She chuckles softly, moving on to your ring finger, her movements steady and precise.

“I do, yeah. Wasn’t I obvious enough?” Her voice is quiet, almost teasing, but there’s something in it that sends a shiver down your spine.

Your brows knit together. Obvious? What in the world—

“Obvious about what?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Vi keeps painting your nail, but you notice how her hand stills, just for a second.

“That I liked you.”

The confession nearly flies past you. Nearly.

Your breath catches in your throat. Your heart trips over itself. You swear you’re about to die—right here, right now, in the bliss of her fluffy sheets.

“What?” The word comes out embarrassingly weak, and you hate yourself for it.

Then, her eyes meet yours.

And for the first time since you’ve known her, you see it—vulnerability. Fear. She’s terrified. Of rejection. Of you breaking her heart. She swallows, looks away, maybe to gather the courage to keep going. When her gaze returns to yours, the faintest blush dusts her cheeks.

“I like you.”

The moment the words leave her lips, your ears ring. Your heart soars.

She likes you?

“I like you too.”

It comes out higher-pitched than you intended, but before you can feel embarrassed about it, you see her smile—small, but real.

Then she leans in.

The air shifts, suddenly too thin, like the room itself is holding its breath. Was there always this little oxygen in here?

Her hand comes up to cup your cheek, and your heart stops for a solid second.

Is this really happening?

“Can I?” she whispers, her breath brushing against your lips, sending your mind into a frenzy.

You swallow—hard—before nodding. A silent assurance. A quiet yes.

Vi doesn’t hesitate. She crashes her lips against yours, and the sensation sends a soft, helpless sound spilling from your throat. You feel like a prepubescent teenager, but you’re too blissed out to care.

You kiss her back, and for a moment, the world outside this room ceases to exist. You swear you hear the same breathless sound from her as she deepens the kiss, her tongue brushing against the seam of your lips. You don’t hesitate—you welcome her in.

The moment your tongues meet, she threads her fingers into your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. Your hands find her shoulders, clinging to her like she’s the only thing anchoring you to this moment. Your mouths move together, desperate, breathless, as if trying to make up for lost time.

Then Vi breaks the kiss, resting her forehead against yours, her breath coming just as uneven as your own.

“I think I love you,” she murmurs against your lips, and the words send a shiver down your spine.

You inhale sharply. The weight of her confession settles deep in your chest, but there’s no hesitation, no fear. Just her.

“I love you too.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, the words brushing against her skin like a secret only meant for her.

A small grin tugs at her lips. She brushes her thumb over your cheek in a slow, tender caress.

“Say it again,” she whispers.

And how could you deny her?

“I love you.” The words come out soft, reverent.

Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, her expression melting into something so blissful it makes your heart ache. When she opens them again, you swear you see stars reflected in her gaze.

“God, I love you too.” Her voice is barely more than a breath, but it’s everything.

[buckets-and-trees]

Only Your Actions Talk [I'm Your Man]

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark mafia Andy Barber x female!reader Word Count: 5.9k Summary: Andy delivers directly with his surprise when you return to Boston. But it's not what you were expecting.

Content/Warnings: forced engagement; use of pet name (sweetheart); smut (unprotected vaginal intercourse, fingering, oral: female receiving)

Author Note: Unbeknownst to you all, after Alpha April last month, I actually decided I wanted to torture everyone with I'm Your Man May and I was serious about it. 🤭 So you get this and probably at least one more piece of their story before the end of the month so long as the muse keeps cooperating... AND CREDIT to @stargazingfangirl18 for supplying me with the best idea here when I needed to pivot from an original plot point I’d planned on a long time ago that no longer seemed to fit the narrative.

Previous Part | Full Collection

It is no surprise to you that Andy is waiting on the tarmac when you land. You can spy him leaning against his Aston Martin, looking every inch the powerful man he is in a tailored suit that emphasizes his broad shoulders. His hands are casually tucked into his pockets, but there's nothing casual about the intensity of his gaze as he watches the plane taxi to a stop.

You feel your heart rate quicken despite yourself. The days away have given you clarity, but they haven't diminished the physical pull he exerts over you. If anything, the separation has heightened it, a fact that both frustrates you since you wish this were the happy version of what you would have wanted, not the machinations of one powerful and alluring man.

You've spent the flight rehearsing what you'll say about the business proposal, how you'll maintain your boundaries while still giving him what he wants most – you, by his side.

When the door opens and the stairs are secured, you descend to the tarmac with measured steps. Andy pushes away from his car the moment you appear. 

"Welcome home," he says simply as you reach the bottom of the stairs. His voice is controlled, but there's an undercurrent of something primal in his tone that makes your skin prickle with awareness. 

"Thank you," you respond, maintaining a careful distance between you, aware of Shep and Mark descending the stairs behind you. "You didn't have to come meet me yourself." 

Andy's eyes don't leave yours as he steps closer, closing the gap you've deliberately left. "Of course I did," he says, as if the alternative were unthinkable. "I've missed you." 

The simple statement shouldn't affect you as deeply as it does, but you feel a flutter in your chest nonetheless. His scent—expensive cologne with undertones of leather and something uniquely him—envelops you as he reaches out to brush a strand of hair from your face. 

His fingertips linger against your cheek, sending an electric current through your body. Before you can step back or say another word, Andy's hand slides to the nape of your neck, pulling you to him with gentle insistence. 

"I couldn't wait another moment," he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips before he claims your mouth with his. 

The kiss is devastating in its intensity—not rough, but consuming. His lips move against yours with practiced precision, coaxing rather than demanding, yet somehow leaving no room for resistance. Your hands instinctively rise to his chest, whether to push him away or pull him closer, you're not sure. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, and you open to him with a small gasp that he swallows eagerly. 

One strong arm wraps around your waist, drawing you flush against him as he explores your mouth with devastating thoroughness. The world narrows to just the two of you—the heat of his body, the skill of his mouth, the faint taste of coffee and something darker, richer that is purely Andy.

When he finally releases you, you're light-headed, your breath coming in short gasps. 

"How was your flight?" he asks, his fingers lingering against your cheek. 

"Fine," you say, finding it difficult to pull coherent words from your brain. "Smooth."

His eyes are a dark, stormy blue, but you see an undercurrent of mischief. He knows exactly how much the kiss he just dealt affected you, and he revels in it. 

"I'm glad to hear it," Andy says, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. "I've arranged for Mark and Shep to take your luggage home. You're coming with me." 

You glance back at your security detail, who are already efficiently unloading your bags from the plane. They don't seem surprised by this arrangement. 

"Where are we going?" you ask, finding your voice. 

"That's part of your surprise," Andy replies, taking your hand and leading you toward his car. "I told you I had something special planned for your return." 

The memory of his words during your late-night phone call sends heat rushing to your cheeks. As if reading your thoughts, Andy's lips curve into a knowing smile. 

"Not that," he murmurs, opening the passenger door for you. "At least, not yet." 

As you slide into the buttery leather seat, you notice a small gift box nestled in the console between the seats. It's wrapped in elegant silver paper with a black satin ribbon.

"What's this?" you ask as Andy slides into the driver's seat beside you. 

"The first part of your welcome home," he says, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. "Open it." 

Your fingers tremble slightly as you reach for the box. The paper comes away easily, revealing a black velvet jewelry case. Inside, nestled against dark satin, is a delicate platinum bracelet studded with sapphires that match Andy's eyes perfectly. 

"It's beautiful," you whisper, genuinely moved by the gesture despite your determination to maintain emotional distance. 

"Allow me," Andy says, taking the bracelet and your wrist in his hands. His fingers brush against your pulse point as he secures the clasp, and you wonder if he can feel your heart racing beneath his touch. The sapphires catch the light, winking up at you like tiny fragments of the ocean.

"Thank you," you say softly, turning your wrist to admire how the stones shimmer. 

"It suits you," Andy replies, his voice a low rumble that reverberates through you. "I had it made specifically for you."

Of course he did. Nothing off-the-shelf would do for Andy Barber.

He starts the car, the engine purring to life beneath you. As he pulls away from the airfield, you notice his driving is different today—less aggressive, more measured. His right hand leaves the wheel to rest on your thigh, the weight of it both comforting and possessive. 

"Did you enjoy your time with Thea?" he asks casually, though you sense the question is anything but. 

"Yes," you answer honestly. "It was good to reconnect. She's looking forward to the wedding." 

Andy's lips curve slightly. "Is she now? I look forward to meeting the woman who's had your ear these past few days."

"I think you'll like her," you say, though you're not entirely sure that's true. Thea is fiercely protective and sharp as a tack—the kind of woman who sees through pretense. But then again, so do you, and look where that's gotten you. 

"I'm sure I will," Andy responds, his thumb tracing idle circles on your thigh as he navigates through traffic. "Anyone important to you is important to me." 

His words sound sincere, but you've learned to look beneath the surface with Andy. Everything has layers, calculations, purposes beyond the obvious. 

"She's my best friend, Andy. She wants what's best for me."

"As do I," he says smoothly, his hand squeezing your thigh gently. "I'm not threatened by her influence."

You study his profile as he drives, the strong line of his jaw, the confident set of his shoulders. It's hard to imagine Andy threatened by anyone.

You’re quiet for a moment more, then ask, "You're not upset that I left?" 

Andy's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly before relaxing again. "I wasn't thrilled," he admits, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "But I can understand wanting space. And I knew you'd come back.” 

You chew on the inside of your lip. He’s so seemingly nonchalant about this, and you’re not sure if it’s the truth or if he’s saving his unhappiness for later. 

"You knew I'd come back?" you ask, genuinely curious. "Were you really so sure? Or was that just hope?”

Andy's eyes flick to yours briefly before returning to the road. 

"Both, perhaps. But I've learned that holding too tightly to what I want can sometimes cause it to slip through my fingers."

The admission surprises you—it's more self-awareness than you expected from him. You find yourself wondering if your absence truly affected him, if he spent sleepless nights thinking of you the way you thought of him.

"Where are we going?" 

"Patience, sweetheart," Andy says, his thumb continuing its maddening circles on your thigh. "We're almost there."

The car winds through the city, eventually turning onto a tree-lined street in one of Boston's most exclusive neighborhoods. Andy pulls up in front of a stunning brownstone with elegant bay windows and a wrought iron fence. The façade is immaculately maintained, with potted plants flanking the entrance and delicate lace curtains visible through the windows.

"What is this place?" you ask as Andy helps you from the car, his hand lingering at the small of your back. 

"This," he says with a hint of pride, "is the home of Olivia Beauchamp." 

The name strikes a chord of recognition. "The French pastry chef? The one with the three-year waiting list for wedding cakes?" 

Andy's lips quirk into a satisfied smile. "The very same." 

He guides you up the steps to the door, which opens before he can even knock. A slender woman in her sixties with silver-streaked dark hair and piercing gray eyes stands in the doorway. She's dressed impeccably in a simple black short-sleeved sweater and dark jeans and a crisp white apron. 

"Andy Barber," she greets with a delicate French accent, her eyes appraising you with open curiosity. "And this must be your fiancée. Please, come in." 

Andy's hand presses gently against your lower back as he guides you inside. The entryway opens to a bright, airy space that smells of sugar and butter and something floral—possibly orange blossom. Your mouth waters instantly. 

"Madame Beauchamp has graciously agreed to create our wedding cake," Andy explains, watching your reaction closely. "I thought we might enjoy a private tasting this afternoon." 

You look at him in disbelief. "A private tasting? But the waiting list is—"

"Not for friends of the Beauchamp family," Olivia interjects with a slight smile. "Andy's mother was very dear to me.”

This new piece of information catches you off guard. Andy rarely speaks of his mother, and you've gleaned only fragments about her from passing comments. To hear her mentioned so casually by this world-renowned chef opens a window into a part of Andy's life you've barely glimpsed.

"Come, come," Olivia gestures toward a sunlit room at the back of the house. "Everything is prepared." 

The kitchen is a chef's dream—gleaming copper pots hanging from a rack, marble countertops, and state-of-the-art equipment that somehow blends seamlessly with the historic character of the brownstone. In the center stands a large island where an array of exquisite cake samples awaits, each one a miniature work of art. 

"Please, sit," Olivia says, indicating two stools at the island. "I have prepared six variations for you to consider." 

As you settle onto the stool, Andy sits very close on the stool next to you, and his knee settles against yours under the table. The warmth of his leg against yours is distracting, but you force yourself to focus on the beautiful array of desserts before you. Each sample is meticulously crafted—tiny perfect cakes with different fillings and decorative elements that showcase Olivia's legendary skill.

"These are all original creations," Olivia explains, her hands moving with elegant precision as she arranges delicate forks beside each sample. "I design each cake specifically for the couple after understanding their personalities and preferences." 

You glance at Andy, wondering how much he's told her about you—about the unusual circumstances of your engagement. 

"The first," Olivia continues, gesturing to a small, perfect square of cake with layers of what appears to be champagne-colored sponge and a pearlescent frosting, "is vanilla bean with champagne buttercream and fresh raspberries." 

She slides the plate toward you, and Andy nods for you to try it first. The cake practically melts on your tongue—light yet decadent, with a subtle hint of champagne that complements the vanilla perfectly. 

"Oh wow," you murmur, unable to contain your reaction. "That's incredible." 

Andy watches your face with undisguised pleasure before taking his own bite. His eyes close briefly as he savors the flavor, and when they open again, they're fixed on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. 

"Delicious," he agrees, though his gaze suggests he's not just talking about the cake. 

Olivia smiles knowingly as she presents the next sample. "This is Earl Grey tea cake with honey lavender buttercream and candied lemon." 

It is equally exquisite—the tea flavor subtle but distinct, perfectly balanced with the floral notes of the buttercream. You find yourself making small sounds of appreciation as you taste each sample: a dark chocolate cake with salted caramel and fig preserves; a pistachio cake with rosewater and cardamom; a lemon cake with thyme and blackberry; and finally, an almond cake with orange blossom water and a hint of saffron that tastes like sunshine incarnate.

"They're all extraordinary," you say honestly, setting down your fork after the final sample. "I don't know how we could possibly choose." 

Olivia beams at your praise, her sharp eyes darting between you and Andy. "The cake should reflect both of you—your tastes, your story together." She focuses her attention on you. "Which speaks to you most?" 

You consider the question carefully, aware of Andy watching you intently. "The chocolate with salted caramel was divine, but…" You hesitate, glancing at the remains of the almond cake. "There's something about the almond and orange blossom that feels special."

"An excellent choice," Olivia nods approvingly. "And you, Andy?"

Andy's fingers brush against yours on the table, a seemingly casual touch that sends electricity up your arm. "I'm partial to the chocolate myself, but the almond has a certain brightness that reminds me of you."

The compliment catches you off guard, and for a moment, you forget your carefully maintained walls. Your lips curve into a genuine smile before you can stop yourself. 

"Perhaps," Olivia suggests, her eyes twinkling with wisdom that comes from decades of watching couples make decisions, "we could create something that incorporates both? A dark chocolate cake with layers of almond and orange blossom?" 

"That sounds perfect," you say, surprised by how much you mean it. 

Olivia begins to sketch on a notepad, her pencil moving with swift, sure strokes. "I envision four tiers, perhaps with a cascade of sugar flowers in shades of cream and pale gold. Simple but elegant."

"Beautiful," you say, genuinely moved by her artistry and attention to detail.

"I trust your vision completely, Olivia," Andy adds, his hand covers yours completely now, his thumb stroking your wrist just below the new sapphire bracelet.

The pastry chef studies you both for a moment, her keen eyes missing nothing. "I believe I understand what kind of cake will suit you perfectly," she says with a knowing smile. "A marriage of contrasts—dark and light, sweet and complex."

You feel a flush creep up your neck at her words. The metaphor isn't lost on you.

"Now," Olivia continues, setting her sketch aside, "would you like some tea while we discuss the details?"

Before either of you can answer, she's already moving to a copper kettle on the stove, her movements graceful and efficient. The kitchen fills with the gentle hiss of boiling water as she prepares a pot of fragrant tea.

"Let me show you some designs while you digest," she says, disappearing into another room only to return with a large portfolio. "These are some of my recent creations. Perhaps they will inspire us." 

As she flips through pages of stunning wedding cakes, each more elaborate than the last, you feel Andy's breath warm against your ear. 

"Are you pleased?" he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear. 

"It's incredible," you admit honestly. "How did you manage this?" 

His lips curve against your ear. "I told you, Olivia knew my mother. Some connections run deeper than business." 

There's something in his tone that makes you wonder about the history there—another piece of the Andy Barber puzzle you've yet to fully understand.

"You knew Andy's mother?" you ask, curiosity finally overriding your stunned appreciation of the exclusive opportunity before you.

Olivia's eyes soften with memory. "Yes, we were neighbors for a time, both trying to forge a way in this world one day after another, and we became rather close." Her gaze shifts to Andy, something like affection warming her severe features. "This boy spent many summers in my kitchen, stealing chocolate and getting underfoot."

Andy's expression is unreadable, but there's a hint of tenderness in his voice when he says, "Madame Beauchamp taught me that patience yields the sweetest rewards."

"A lesson you clearly still struggle with," she replies with a knowing look that makes you wonder just how much this woman understands.

Olivia's keen eyes shift between you and Andy, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Your fiancé was always a determined child. When he wanted something, he would not rest until it was his." She pours the tea with practiced grace. "But I taught him that some things cannot be rushed—good pastry, fine wine, true connections." 

You accept the delicate porcelain cup she offers, the warmth seeping into your fingers. "I can't imagine Andy as a child," you admit, stealing a glance at him. 

"Oh, he was a serious little boy," Olivia says, her accent thickening with nostalgia. "Always watching, learning, studying. Even then." 

Andy's hand slides to your lower back, his touch possessive yet gentle. "Madame exaggerates. I was merely curious." 

"Curious enough to dissect my kitchen timer to see how it worked," Olivia retorts with a fond shake of her head. "And then rebuild it better than before." 

You can't help but smile at this glimpse of Andy as a child—methodical, inquisitive, already showing signs of the man he would become. It humanizes him in a way few things have since you've known him. 

"He would sit at the counter," Olivia continues, gesturing to where you're seated now, "and watch me for hours. Most children his age couldn't sit still for five minutes, but Andy… he observed everything."

"Some habits never change," you murmur, and Andy's fingers press gently against your spine in acknowledgment. 

Olivia studies you with renewed interest. "You understand him better than you let on, I think." 

The observation catches you off guard, and you take a sip of tea to hide your discomfort. The fragrant liquid coats your tongue—jasmine and something citrusy—as you consider how to respond.

"We're still learning about each other," you say diplomatically, aware of Andy's intense gaze on your profile. 

"As it should be," Olivia nods sagely. "The discovery never ends, even after decades together. My Henri and I were married many years before he passed, and he still surprised me in our final days."

There's a wistfulness in her voice that touches something deep within you. You have chosen your fate, but you wonder if you and Andy will have that—years of discovery, of peeling back layers to reveal something new. Or will you only ever be an object to him? 

"Now," Olivia says, her professional demeanor returning as she taps a perfectly manicured nail against a design in her sketchbook. "This design incorporates the architectural elements of your venue. The clean lines, the subtle gold accents—they would complement both the richness of the chocolate and the brightness of the almond."

You lean forward, genuinely interested despite yourself. The sketch shows an elegant four-tier cake with intricate geometric patterns that somehow manage to look both modern and timeless. 

"It's beautiful," you say, meaning it. The design is sophisticated without being showy—exactly what you would have chosen if you'd had months to plan instead of weeks. 

"I thought you might appreciate the balance," Olivia says, her shrewd eyes missing nothing. "Strong foundation, delicate details." 

Andy's hand slides from your back to your thigh beneath the counter, his touch both possessive and oddly reassuring. "It's perfect," he agrees. "Just like our wedding will be." 

You feel a flutter of anxiety at his words. 

The wedding. It looms before you like a beautiful mirage—an event you still can't quite believe is happening in just weeks. You force yourself to focus on the present, on the exquisite cake designs and the warmth of Olivia's kitchen rather than the whirlwind that awaits. 

You glance at your watch, realizing you've been at Olivia's for quite some time. The afternoon has slipped away in a haze of exquisite flavors and surprising revelations about Andy's past. It feels strange to see this softer side of him, to witness the genuine respect in Olivia's eyes when she looks at him.

"The wedding is in just under three weeks," Andy tells Olivia, his thumb tracing small circles on your leg. "I know it's short notice, but I hope that won't be a problem."

Olivia raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. "For anyone else, impossible. For you..." She sighs dramatically, but there's affection beneath her exasperation. "I will make it happen."

Andy is so unexpectedly normal on the drive home from the cake sampling at Olivia Beauchamp’s house you’re not sure what to make of it. 

He chats easily about the wedding plans, about how he thinks Olivia's cake will be the perfect centerpiece for the reception, how he should note with your team to arrange for lighting that will highlight the sugar work she's planning for the cake. It's almost as if you're just any normal couple planning their wedding, not a man who orchestrated your entire engagement and the woman who's both drawn to and terrified by him.

"You're quiet," Andy observes as you turn onto the winding road that leads to his estate. His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining with casual intimacy. "Tired from the flight?" 

"Just processing," you admit, watching the trees blur past the window. "It was nice meeting Olivia. Seeing that side of you." 

Andy's thumb strokes the over the back of your hand. "What side is that?"

You hesitate, choosing your words carefully.

"The side that has history," you offer, meeting his gaze as the car slows at the estate gates. "The boy who stole chocolate and broke kitchen timers. It makes you seem..." 

"Human?" Andy supplies, a hint of amusement coloring his voice. 

"Real," you correct him. "Most of the time you seem like this perfect, polished creation. Seeing glimpses of your past helps me understand how you became you."

He considers this as the gates swing open. "Does that change anything for you?" 

The question hangs between you, weighted with implications. You study his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes even when they're fixed on the road ahead. 

"I don't know yet," you answer honestly. 

Andy's expression shifts subtly, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his features before his usual mask of control returns. "Olivia knew me during a formative time. Before I fully understood what I was capable of."

The car crunches up the gravel driveway toward the house—your house now, though it still feels like his domain. He drives around to the back and pulls into the palatial garage that houses his collection of luxury vehicles. As Andy brings the car to a stop, he turns to you, his eyes searching yours.

"Did you enjoy my surprise?" he asks.

"Yes," you answer honestly. "It was thoughtful. Perfect, actually."

His smile is genuine, and it transforms his face in a way that makes your heart flutter traitorously. 

"I'm glad," Andy says, his voice dropping to that low register that always sends shivers down your spine. "And it's not all I have planned."

He kills the engine, and the sudden silence in the garage feels charged with electricity. The lighting coming into the car casts shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the intensity in his eyes as he turns fully toward you.

"I missed you," he says simply, the words hanging between you like a confession. His hand slides to the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. "More than I expected to." 

Before you can respond, his mouth is on yours, hungry and demanding. This kiss is nothing like the one at the airfield—it's raw, possessive, unleashed. His tongue sweeps past your lips without preamble, claiming you with an urgency that steals your breath. 

"Andy," you gasp against his lips, your hands instinctively coming up to grip his shoulders. His kiss is consuming, desperate in a way that makes your head spin and your body respond despite all your carefully constructed walls.

"Out," he commands against your mouth, already reaching for his door handle. "Now." 

You comply, stepping out into the cool air of the garage on shaky legs. Before you can fully orient yourself, Andy is there, crowding you against the car, his body hard and insistent against yours. 

"Three days," he murmurs, his voice rough with need as he presses his forehead to yours. "Three days without you felt like an eternity." 

His confession sends a thrill through you—this powerful, controlled man admitting weakness, admitting need. His hands frame your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with surprising tenderness. 

"I thought about you every minute," he confesses, his voice rough with desire. "Every single minute you were gone."

And the next second his mouth is trailing down your neck, leaving a path of fire in its wake. You arch against him instinctively, your body responding to his touch despite your wish to resist him. 

"Turn around," he growls against your throat, his hands already working at the buttons of your blouse. 

You obey without thinking, your body responding to his command before your mind can process it. His broad chest presses against your back as his hands slip beneath your partially opened blouse, palming your breasts through the thin fabric of your bra. 

"I need you," Andy breathes against your ear, his voice raw with an emotion that sounds almost like reverence. "Right here. Right now." 

"Andy," you gasp, aware of your surroundings. "We're in the garage."

"No one will disturb us," he assures you, his breath hot against your neck. "The staff knows better."

His hands slide down to your hips, then forward to undo the fastening of your jeans, pushing them down your legs in one fluid motion. Cool air kisses your exposed skin as Andy presses you forward, caging you in against the side of his Aston Martin. The metal is cool against your heated skin, a stark contrast to the burning heat of Andy's body behind you.

His hands are everywhere at once—skimming over your hips, gripping your waist, sliding up to cup your breasts. The contrast between his suit-covered body and your increasing nakedness adds to the wild, forbidden nature of the moment. You hear the telltale sound of his belt being unbuckled, the soft hiss of his zipper lowering. 

"I've thought about this," Andy murmurs against your ear, his voice a dark promise. "Bending you over, taking you hard and fast the moment you returned to me." 

You should protest—you came back with plans to discuss boundaries, to establish a more equal footing. But your body betrays you, arching back against him, seeking the hardness you can feel pressing against you. 

"Look at you," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "So eager for me, even after running away." 

"I didn't run—" you begin to protest, but your words dissolve into a gasp as he pushes two fingers inside you.

"Didn't you?" Andy's voice is dangerously soft against your ear as his thumb circles your clit with devastating precision. "Stockholm is quite far for a casual visit with a friend."

You try to focus, to maintain some semblance of control. 

"It was just a visit," you manage between shallow breaths, trying to hold onto your composure as his fingers work their magic inside you. 

"Was it?" His teeth graze your earlobe, making you shiver. "Or were you testing me? Testing us?" 

You don't answer, can't answer as he curls his fingers in that way that makes your knees weak. Your palms press flat against the cool metal of the car, seeking stability as pleasure builds within you. 

"I think you needed to know if I would let you go," Andy continues, his voice a seductive rumble against your skin. "If I would chase you or wait for you to return on your own." 

His fingers withdraw suddenly, leaving you aching and empty. But then he pushes inside you in one powerful thrust, filling you completely. The sensation is overwhelming—the stretch, the fullness, the sheer pleasure of him buried deep inside you. Your breath escapes in a broken moan as your body adjusts to his intrusion.

"Is that what you wanted to know?" Andy's voice is strained with the effort of restraint as he holds still inside you, letting you adjust to his size. His hands grip your hips with bruising intensity. "If I would wait or chase?" 

"Andy," you gasp, unable to form a coherent thought as he begins to move, setting a punishing rhythm that has you clinging to the car for support. 

"Answer me," he demands, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, pulling just enough to arch your neck. "Is that why you left?" 

"Yes," you admit, the truth torn from you by the relentless pleasure building with each thrust. "I needed... space to think clearly."

His pace slows momentarily, becoming more deliberate, each stroke deep, punctuating how you ached to feel him inside you again.

"And did you?" Andy's lips brush the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Think clearly?"

"Yes," you gasp as he ruts inside you. "I did."

"We'll discuss your thoughts later," he promises, his voice dark with desire. "Right now, I need to remind you where you belong."

The possessive words should anger you, but instead, they send a fresh wave of heat through your core and you clench around him.

"Tell me you want this," Andy demands, his voice incredibly serious despite the tension coiled in his body. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you," you confess, the words spilling from your lips without hesitation. "I always wanted you."

The admission seems to ignite something primal in Andy. His movements become more urgent, more demanding as he drives into you with renewed purpose. One hand slides around to find your center, fingers circling with expert precision while the other maintains a firm grip on your hip, holding you in place for his onslaught of pleasure. 

"You're mine," he growls against your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin beneath your ear. "Say it." 

The words catch in your throat. You want to give him what he wants—what part of you wants too—but something holds you back. A flicker of resistance, a need to maintain some small piece of yourself that isn't completely consumed by him.

Andy senses your hesitation, his rhythm faltering for just a moment. Then his lips curve against your neck in a knowing smile. "Still fighting me," he murmurs, not sounding disappointed but almost pleased. "That's alright, sweetheart. 

We have time."

His hips snap forward with renewed purpose, each thrust driving deeper than the last. Your fingers curl against the cool metal of the car, seeking purchase as pleasure builds relentlessly within you.

"I can feel how your body responds to me," Andy continues, his voice strained with exertion but still commanding. "How you tighten around me when I claim you. How close you are already," he purrs, the vibration of his voice against your skin making you shiver. "Come for me. Let me feel it."

His fingers work magic against your clit as his cock fills you completely, and the dual sensation pushes you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you with unexpected force, making you cry out his name as your inner walls clench around him. The sound echoes in the cavernous garage, your voice bouncing back to you as if to emphasize your surrender. 

Andy groans in response, his rhythm faltering as your body pulses around him. "That's it," he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot and ragged. "Give me everything." 

He continues to thrust through your orgasm, prolonging the waves of pleasure until you're trembling beneath him. Only then does he allow himself release, burying himself deep inside you with a groan. 

You feel the warm pulse of his release inside you, your body still trembling with aftershocks as he holds you firmly against the car. Andy's forehead rests against your shoulder, his breathing ragged against your skin. For a moment, neither of you moves, joined together in the aftermath of passion. 

The garage is silent except for your mingled breathing and the occasional clicks of the cooling engine. Andy's body presses into you, holding you captive between him and the cool metal of the Aston Martin. The contrast of temperatures—his heat behind you, the car's chill against your front—mirrors the contradictions that define your relationship with him.

His hands slide up your sides in a possessive caress, and his lips find the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. He presses a tender kiss there, then another, working his way along the curve of your neck.

"Don't move," he murmurs against your skin, the command gentle but unmistakable.

You feel him withdraw from your body, leaving you empty and a little shaky. But his hands grip your hips firmly, steadying you and keeping you in place. Then, to your shock, he sinks to his knees behind you.

"Andy, what are you—" Your question dissolves into a gasp as you feel his mouth against your most intimate flesh, his tongue sliding through your combined release.

The sensation is overwhelming—intimate and obscenely erotic. His tongue explores you thoroughly, cleaning away the evidence of your passion with reverent attention. Your fingers curl against the sleek metal of the car as your overstimulated body responds despite itself, a new tension building where you thought only sensitivity remained.

"Andy," you breathe, not sure if you're protesting or encouraging. 

He makes a sound against your flesh—part growl, part hum of approval—and the vibration sends a fresh jolt of pleasure through you. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open for his ministrations as he devours you with single-minded focus. 

When your second orgasm washes over you, it's gentler but somehow more profound than the first. You slump against the car, utterly spent, as Andy rises behind you. His hands are gentler now as he turns you to face him. His mouth claims yours in a searing kiss, allowing you to taste the mingled essence of your bodies on his tongue. It's filthy and possessive and utterly intoxicating.

You feel thoroughly and utterly disheveled, but when he finally pulls back, he looks remarkably composed apart from the darkness in his eyes and the slight flush on his cheekbones.

"Welcome home," he says. 

What did you think about meeting someone from Andy's past? And was this what you expected from him when you returned from your jetaway to Stockholm?

NEXT PART: By the End of the Night

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[i-messed-up-big-time]

Someone Precious II

Caleb x Non MC Reader

a/n: seeing all of you guys really like the first part defo made me feel all warm and giggly! so thank you for all of your lovely comments! also i am not well versed in the realm of medicine/hospitals and stuff so please bear with me as i write the scenes dealing with those, i most likely will briefly touch on those and not go into too much detail. also i finally got a desk and a monitor so now i can do all my writing in comfort rather than hunched over on my bed! Also this part doesn't really have much Caleb unless you include reader thinking about him. another side note, this part will be short but i will write more for the other parts, i just needed this one to be on its own focusing on the pregnancy a bit so that in the other parts i can focus on the relationships with MC, Caleb etc.

also i dont think i mentioned this in my previous part but ill make sure to add it to my masterlist description, the setting of this series will be taking place in a world where ever, evols and wanderers do not exist. some aspects of the characters and how they met have been tweaked to fit with the plot, so pls dont come at me if something isnt how you remember it in the game.

Divider creds @/cafekitsune

tags: angst, hurt/comfort, reader is female and is AFAB, pregnancy,

word count: 1.7k

masterlist

series masterlist

taglist: @aneertawrites @eurydiceknowshesloved @angelichiaro @nommingonfood @ynovaes @animegamerfox @melonssoup @iamawkwardandshy @novthirty @rosevelt632 @sleepless-cloudy @justpassingdontworry @sleepykittyenergy @ijustwannabeyourmuse @iiyumii @eolivy @asakiyu

You sat there numb, your thoughts were a broken record.

'I'm pregnant.'

That's all your brain could handle at the moment. MC sat next to you in silence, rubbing a soothing hand on your back,

She knew that right now what you needed was comfort through gestures and not words, so she just waited patiently until you were ready to say something.

No matter what decision you made, she was ready to support you.

●・○・●・○・●・

A couple of hours had passed, you still hadn't spoken up but you had moved to lie in your bed.

MC had gone out to get some lunch, which left you alone with your thougthts.

If there was one thing you had come to a conclusion for, it was that you were going to keep the baby.

Call it a motherly instinct, but you didn't have the heart to abandon an innocent soul.

It wasn't long before MC came back, calling you to come to the dining room. She had gotten your favourite takeaway hoping that it would cheer you up a little bit, and it did.

You smiled as you helped her set the table. As you guys were unpacking the food you decided to finally tell her what was going through your head.

"I'm going to keep the baby. I don't want to abandon an innocent soul and I've always wanted a child, it just didn't happen the way I would have hoped."

You said with a sad smile as you placed a hand on your stomach.

You had dreamed of having a family, more specifically with Caleb. In a way you got your wish, but it felt like fate was cruel for granting it the way they did.

You're still young, you don't even know if you'll even be a good mother. But there's one thing for sure, you have the best possible support system you could ever ask for.

MC's smile mirrored your own.

Dinner was spent in silence, it was comfortable. MC didn't push you for a conversation and you were grateful for that.

●・○・●・○・●・

It had been a week since the news, and now you were here standing in front of Akso Hospital.

You were feeling nervous, a part of you felt like you would be judged for the reason of your visit, but you knew that was just the anxiety talking.

Taking a deep breath you walked in, it was now or never.

The nurse at the reception desk was sweet, her tone and gaze held no judgement as she guided me to the examination room.

You got settled and just laid there staring at the ceiling, you tried to keep your thoughts positive and light, but your thoughts kept drifting back to Caleb.

What it would be like to have him here with you. Would he reassure you? Would he be as nervous as you are?

All these 'what ifs' that'll never become a reality. You could only hope that you could be enough for your child.

●・○・●・○・●・

Your appointment confirmed exactly what those pregnancy tests said, you were six weeks pregnant.

You knew Caleb was the father. He was your first, and honestly your last.

At this moment in time your heart didn't have the ability to love another. He was everything you wanted in a man.

Maybe I should re-evaluate what a man is.

You thought bitterly, but you chided yourself just as quickly as that thought came.

You didn't want to think of him that way or think negatively at all, not wanting those feelings to affect your health and bring any complications for your child.

"It's ok my baby, mommy and Aunty MC will make sure you never feel insecure about not having a father."

Your words were not only to comfort your child, but also to comfort yourself.

●・○・●・○・●・

6 weeks later

You were back at Akso Hospital again, this time it was for a follow up appointment.

MC had taken time off work to come with you this time, saying how it's part of her aunty duties.

It was cute, and it never failed to put a smile on your face when she would talk excitedly about all the things she would do with her future niece or nephew.

You had assumed this check up would be the same as the first one, just a normal procedure to make sure that the baby and mum are doing ok.

Boy were you in for a treat.

As your doctor moved the wand around your growing belly you noticed something on the screen that you didn't see last time.

"Congratulations! It seems you'll be having twins."

MC let out the loudest squeal known to man at the news, you could practically feel her excitement radiating off of her.

You matched her energy with a smile on your face.

I guess my little family just grew by one.

You thought to yourself.

"Would you guys like to know the gender or do you want to keep it a surprise?"

Your doctor asked. You personally wanted to keep it as a surprise because you could already see the gears turning in MC's head.

You knew exactly what she was planning and in all honesty, you wanted to let her have her way.

She was your rock and sole supporter through all of this, you would feel bad if you didn't let her do what she wanted.

"I'd like for it to be kept a secret but by all means let her know, I can tell she's dying of curiosity."

You let out a soft laugh, your doctor cleaned up the gel and helped you up.

MC gave you a big hug before you made your way outside.

It didn't take long before MC came skipping out the room, her smile was so bright you thought you might go blind.

That night MC treated you to dinner and insane amount of sweets, which totally satiated the cravings you were having.

●・○・●・○・●・

6 months later

You were in your final trimester, it was a relatively easy going pregnancy, if you ignore the fact that you feel like a walking balloon.

Most of your days were spent in bed as the weight of your stomach made it hard to move around too much.

It was times like these that it made you think of Caleb. Even though you had promised yourself that you wouldn't, but at the end of the day you were still madly in love with a man who ghosted you after your first time.

Crazy isn't it? Your heart was a fool in love while your brain tried to be the rational one, but every now and then you would give in to the thoughts of what would have happened if he didn't run off.

Would he be here helping you through all of this? If he were to come back, how would you confront him?

You could only pray that he didn't show up in front of you any time soon, because the moment he did you would give him a beating of a lifetime.

Your due date was somewhat nearby but not close enough yet. You had your hospital bag packed and a baby carrier all ready to go right by the door. That way you and MC wouldn't be scrambling around last minute trying to find everything.

You were feeling nervous, you didn't know what the delivery would be like and you worried for your babies, wondering if you could make up for the lack of father figure they would have in their life.

You had taken a look at the time and had noticed it was quite late and MC had yet to come back from work. Just as you were about to give her a call, you heard the sound of the door being unlocked.

MC walked in holding a multitude of things, the most obvious one being balloons that read Boy or Girl?

"Surprise!"

MC exclaims, you don't know if it was just you or the hormones but you started bawling. The love that you felt was immense, no words could explain it.

You waddled over to MC to help her but she waved you off and told you to take a seat on the couch as she set things up.

You waddled back to the couch and settled in to the cushions as MC worked quick with her set up.

As soon as she was done she set up her phone so that it would capture the background and us.

"We're gonna do this trend I saw on social media, so just follow my lead."

MC gave a brief explanation and you nodded in understanding.

"Hi I'm your Aunt MC and I think you guys are gonna be two beautiful baby girls."

You giggled, you knew that she already knew the genders but thought it was cute that she wanted to at least pretend that she didn't know.

"Hi my babies, I'm your mommy and I think you guys will be beautiful boy and girl."

You always wanted a daughter and a son, but you also would be happy with either gender as long as they were healthy.

"Okay, now we're gonna do the gender reveal. Take this glass and close your eyes, on the count of three we'll push it into the cakes and see what the genders are."

MC pushed one cake towards you and placed the other one in front of her.

Following her instructions, you placed the glass over the cake and closed your eyes.

"One, two, three!"

You brought the glass down and prayed you actually got some cake in there and not just frosting.

"Ok open your eyes!"

You could hear the smile in her voice.

You opened your eyes and looked at your glass and then MC's, they were both blue.

You pulled MC into a hug, you don't know if it was the hormones or the situation but you started crying, they were happy tears.

You felt so happy that you had such an amazing friend by your side, you didn't even wanna think what life would've been like if she wasn't in it.

In the midst of all the emotions and excitement you didn't notice the seat under you getting wet until you started to feel like you may have peed your pants.

You pulled back from MC and said,

"I think my water just broke."