Hello everyone,
I've been visiting this blog for many years but this is the first time I've written. I have one book already completed and I'm writing the second volume. It's a large book and I intend to post a few chapters here every Tuesday. Please let me know if there are any errors. Thank you very much.
For a second, they just breathe.
His words are still hanging there between them–obsessed with you, the whole thing, more time to figure it out–and her ribs haven’t quite caught up.
“Okay,” she manages finally, voice thin. “Rude.”
He huffs out a laugh, tired and fond. “It was literally a consented boss-level question.”
She kisses him, projector light splashing wild shapes across the ceiling, playlist sliding into yet another song about two idiots in too deep.
When they break apart, she props herself on her elbow. He looks tired and loose and too honest.
“Jack,” she says quietly.
“Pen.”
“One more,” she says. “Boss level. Then we can just… make out until our brains fall out.”
He studies her like he’s checking his reserves. The mushrooms answer for him.
“Fine,” he sighs. “Boss level. But if you ask me about my childhood, I’m ejecting.”
She hesitates, then looks down instead of at his face.
His legs lie slack and easy on the comforter. The top knee is already slightly bent toward her. Her hand moves before she finishes thinking.
“Can I…?” she starts, already sliding her fingers under the back of his knee.
He blinks, surprised by how careful she sounds. “Yeah,” he says. “You don’t have to ask, you know–”
Her fingers curl into the warm, solid back of it. He can’t help; the joint just folds over her hand, heavy and completely, ridiculously yielding.
He goes very still, watching.
She pulls.
IKEA on a Saturday is already a bad idea.
[Penelope]
I need to look at tiny fake apartments and judge strangers’ imaginary lives. Come with me.
[Jack]
Ah yes, the Swedish maze of emotional instability. I’m in.
Now they’re standing in front of the giant blue-and-yellow box, that little ocean of shopping carts glinting in the sun, the building humming with people who have opinions about storage solutions.
Penelope tucks her keys into her bag and falls into step beside him as he rolls toward the entrance, nudging his shoulder with her arm like a casual anchor.
“Okay,” she says. “Game plan: we go up, we look at fake rooms, we role-play the people who live there. Then we accidentally buy a 600-pack of tealights.”
Jack nods solemnly. “I can’t stress enough that I’m taking this very seriously.”
Automatic doors whoosh open. The blast of meatball-and-cardboard smell hits them like a wall.
Inside, the escalator to the showroom level hums, steps gliding up into the fluorescent unknown. There’s an elevator tucked off to the side, a line of strollers and carts forming.
Jack glances at the elevator once, then at the escalator, then at her.
“You good?” she asks, neutral.
He smiles, a little sideways. “Yeah. We’ll do escalator. It’s faster.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Is this… allowed?”
“Probably not,” he says lightly. “Don’t tell corporate.”
It sneaks up on her the same way everything with him does lately—under the cover of something deceivingly mundane.
Jack is on the rug doing surgery on his front casters; Penelope is half-sprawled on the sofa, socked foot nudging his shoulder like he’s magnetized.
“Okay,” he says, holding something up between thumb and forefinger. “Behold. Today’s offering to the gods of rolling resistance.”
It’s a dense black ring he’s just pulled out from the caster fork. Mostly hair. Her hair. It looks like a tiny haunted scrunchie.
She squints. “Is that… mine?”
“Yep,” he says. “Congratulations. You’ve woven yourself into my bearings.”
She frowns at it. “Can’t prove that’s mine.”
He turns his head and gives her a look. “Penelope. You shed like a golden retriever in a wind tunnel.”
She huffs a laugh. “Rude.”
“That is so gross,” she adds, but she leans in anyway. “Oh my god, it’s like a cursed Koosh ball.”
“Caster Koosh,” he corrects.
She laughs, full and helpless. “I hate that that’s good.”
He flicks the fluff into the trash bag, then spins the caster experimentally. “Hear that?”
She listens. The wheel spins almost silently.
“Sounds like nothing,” she says.
“Exactly,” he says. “The sound of improved life.”
Not really, but that would be amazing, wouldn't it?
Hi everyone, Lovis again!
Lately I’ve been jumping back and forth between several story projects. It’s fun… but also a terrible strategy if I ever want to finish even one of them. Since I simply can’t decide which one to focus on, I figured I’d let you choose for me. Hah, problem solved, right?
Below are first chapters to three brand-new stories, each featuring a guy with cerebral palsy in a different setting. Please use the poll at the end to vote for the one you’d like to see developed into a full story.*
*Author is making no promises whatsoever...
Story 1: Assisting David
Laura works as a personal assistant for David. One day he trusts her enough to admit that he’s never had an orgasm in his life. Laura—who’s very much in tune with bodily pleasures herself—is determined to change that. But it turns out to be far more complicated than she expected, blurring first professional, then emotional lines.
Story 2: Third Wheel
Ethan has a crush on his flatmate Jared… until he discovers Jared is actually in a relationship with his newly returned boyfriend, Tyler. Ethan can't decide which is worse: finding out that Tyler is indeed ridiculously attractive, or listening to the two of them having very enthusiastic sex on the other side of the wall each night.
Story 3: Benjamin, the Dragon, and I
Lea finds herself unexpectedly drawn to Benjamin, her professor’s son. He’s unlike any other boy she’s ever dated—down to his power wheelchair and the fact that he needs help with the simplest tasks. To make things even more complicated, Lea is almost convinced that his assistant, Vivienne, breathes fire.
So yes… you can probably see why choosing just one is impossible for me.
Thanks for helping me out! 💛
Lovis
Edit:
The poll is now closed. Thanks for voting, everyone! I’m so glad you’re enjoying the stories, and you’ve made the decision clear: Story 3 wins with 39 votes! Yay—confetti, fireworks, Lea possibly getting drunk and falling into Benjamin’s lap… oh wait, too early!
Honorable mentions go to Story 1 with 22 votes and Story 2 with 7 votes. Oodles of love for these stories and for everyone supporting them!
I’m really looking forward to writing Benjamin and Lea’s story, and I hope to hear from you sometime soon(-ish). Have a wonderful holiday and a happy New Year, everyone!
We IKEA It
The first thing Penelope notices is that her spine hurts in a very specific sex dimension came to visit way.
The second thing she notices is that Jack is awake.
Not up, not doing anything. Just awake in that quiet, half-still way he gets when he’s thinking but pretending he isn’t.
He’s propped on his elbow, hair wrecked, one hand resting on the side of her knee like her leg is a normal place for his palm to live. The sheets are everywhere. The room is gray and soft with late-morning light. Her shirt is gone. His shirt is gone. The world is technically functioning without them.
Which feels suspicious.
Penelope blinks once. Twice.
Jack’s hand shifts.
His fingers slide off her knee and hook under his own leg—quick, routine—just repositioning so something isn’t pulling weird. It’s nothing. It’s not even a thought.
Her brain, because it hates her, immediately offers up a highlight reel anyway.
The way he moved. The way he’d looked at her. The way he’d said Tell me like it wasn’t a joke.
They’re supposed to be winding down.
Movie credits rolling on mute, lamp on low, his bedroom a soft mess of clothes and books and the glass she left on his nightstand two days ago and never reclaimed. He’s on his back, bare-chested, propped half against the headboard. She’s on her side next to him, wearing one of his shirts and a pair of underwear that keeps trying to ruin his focus.
But she’s quiet.
Not content-quiet. Brain-spiral quiet.
He nudges her with his elbow. “Alright,” he says. “What’s chewing on you?”
“Nothing,” she lies, without even trying.
“Penelope. Come on.”
She makes a face, still looking at the TV. “It’s dumb.”
“Perfect,” he says. “Those are my favorite ones.”
She exhales, cheeks puffing out. “I still don’t know how to be regular about it.”
He goes quiet for a second, thumb drawing slow circles on her hip.
“Regular about what,” he prompts, even though he definitely knows.
“About the drawer being open,” she says flatly. “The thing I used to compartmentalize is just… everywhere now. All the time. Normal world and the world where I’m completely gone for you. I don’t know how to exist in both.”
His mouth twitches. “Both places?”
