#London knows how to function

[noturlondonboy]

The Loki server you are in, do they roleplay in there? A toxic Stan thinks they do

Hi anon! I don’t dabble a whole lot in roleplay, but to knowledge, as far as I know, there is no rp channel in that server. Please keep in mind that I could still be mistaken. If you’re thinking about joining the server but are feeling unsure, I would recommend at least checking it out to see if you like it- it has a lot to offer.

Find the server here.

[thegreatyin]

i know logically this could refer to like a dozen other candidates and the masters would probably sooner fly into the sun than assign this to the still-human-ish fledgeling of the bunch. but the mental image of cards cosplaying fires is sending me into hysterics and you can't stop me from picturing it forever

[prettyboysdontlookatexplosions]

i appreciated this study: "They Can't Read Very Well: A Study of the Reading Comprehension Skills Of English Majors At Two Midwestern Universities"

[ETA: if you are somehow finding your way here pls note some - not exhaustive!!!! - follow up notes in this reblog. sorry again i mixed up megalodons and megalosaurs]

essentially, a pair of professors set out to test their intuitive sense that students at the college level were struggling with complex text. they recruited 85 students, a mix of english majors and english education majors - so, theoretically, people focusing on literature, and people preparing to teach adolescents how to read literature - and had them read-while-summarizing the first seven paragraphs of dickens's bleak house (or as much as they made it through in the 20 minute session). they provided dictionaries and also said students could use their phones to look up whatever they wanted, including any unfamiliar words or references. they found that the majority of the students - 58%, or 49 out of the 85 students - functionally could not understand dickens at all, and only 5% - a mere 4 out of the 85 students - proved themselves proficient readers (leaving the remaining 38%, or 32 students, as what the study authors deemed "competent" students, most of whom could understand about half the literal meaning - pretty low bar for competence - although a few of whom, they note, did much better than the rest in this group if not quite well enough to be considered proficient).

what i really appreciated about this study was its qualitative descriptions of the challenges and reading behaviors of what the authors call "problematic readers" (that bottom 58%), which resonated strongly with my own experiences of students who struggle with reading. here's their blunt big picture overview of these 49 students:

The majority of these subjects could understand very little of Bleak House and did not have effective reading tactics. All had so much trouble comprehending concrete detail in consecutive clauses and phrases that they could not link the meaning of one sentence to the next. Although it was clear that these subjects did try to use various tactics while they read the passage, they were not able to use those tactics successfully. For example, 43 percent of the problematic readers tried to look up words they did not understand, but only five percent were able to look up the meaning of a word and place it back correctly into a sentence. The subjects frequently looked up a word they did not know, realized that they did not understand the sentence the word had come from, and skipped translating the sentence altogether.

the idea that they had so much trouble with every small piece of a text that they could not connect ideas on a sentence by sentence basis is very familiar to me from teaching and tutoring, as was the habit of thought seen in the example of the student who gloms on to the word "whiskers" in a sea of confusion and guesses incorrectly that a cat is present - struggling readers, in my experience, seem to use familiar nouns as stepping stones in a flood of overwhelm, hopping as best they can from one seemingly familiar image to the next. so was this observation, building off the example of a student who misses the fact that dickens is being figurative when he imagines a megalodon stalking the streets of london:

She first guesses that the dinosaur is just “bones” and then is stuck stating that the bones are “waddling, um, all up the hill” because she can see that Dickens has the dinosaur moving. Because she cannot logically tie the ideas together, she just leaves her interpretation as is and goes on to the next sentence. Like this subject, most of the problematic readers were not concerned if their literal translations of Bleak House were not coherent, so obvious logical errors never seemed to affect them. In fact, none of the readers in this category ever questioned their own interpretations of figures of speech, no matter how irrational the results. Worse, their inability to understand figurative language was constant, even though most of the subjects had spent at least two years in literature classes that discussed figures of speech. Some could correctly identify a figure of speech, and even explain its use in a sentence, but correct responses were inconsistent and haphazard. None of the problematic readers showed any evidence that they could read recursively or fix previous errors in comprehension. They would stick to their reading tactics even if they were unhappy with the results.

i have seen this repeatedly, too - actually i was particularly taken with how similar this is to the behavior of struggling readers at much younger ages - and would summarize the hypothesis i have forged over time as: struggling readers do not expect what they read to make sense. my hypothesis for why this is the case is that their reading deficits were not attended to or remediated adequately early enough, and so, in their formative years - the early to mid elementary grades - they spent a lot of time "reading" things that did not make sense to them - in fact they spent much more time doing this than they ever did reading things that did make sense to them - and so they did not internalize a meaningful subjective sense of what it feels like to actually read things.

like, i've said this before, but the year i taught third grade i had multiple students who told me they loved reading and then when i asked them about a book they were reading revealed that they had absolutely no idea what was going on - on a really basic literal level like "didn't know who said which lines of dialogue" and "couldn't identify which things or characters given pronouns referred to" - and were as best as i could tell sort of constructing their own story along the way using these little bits of things they thought they understood. that's what "reading" was, in their heads. and they were, in the curriculum/model that we used at the private school where i taught, receiving basically no support to clarify that that was not what reading was, nor any instruction that would actually help them with what they needed to do to improve (understand sentences) - and i realized over the course of that year that the master's program that had certified me in teaching elementary school had provided me with very little understanding of how to help these kids (with perhaps the sole exception of the class i took on communications disorders, not because these kids had communications disorders but because that was the only class where we ever talked, even briefly, about things like sentence structures that students may need instruction in and practice with to comprehend independently). when it comes to the literal, basic understanding of a text, the model of reading pedagogy i was taught has about 6 million little "tools" that all boil down to telling kids who functionally can't read to try harder to read. this is not productive, in my experience and opinion, for kids whose maximum effort persistently yields confusion. but things are so dysfunctional all the way up and down the ladder that you can be a senior in college majoring in english without anyone but a pair of professors with a strong work ethic noticing that you can't actually read.

couple other notes:

obviously it's a small study but i'm not sure i see a reason to believe these are particularly outlierish results (ACT scores - an imperfect metric but not a meritless one IMO for reading specifically, where the task mostly really is to read a set of texts written for the educated layperson and answer factual questions about them - were a little bit above the national average)

the study was published last year, but the research was conducted january to april 2015. so there's no pandemic influence, no AI issue - these are millennials who now would span roughly ages 28-32 (i guess it's possible one of the four first-year students was one of the very first members of gen z lol). if you're in your late 20s or early 30s, we are talking about people your age, and whatever the culprit is here, it was happening when you were in school.

i think some people might want to blame this on NCLB but i find this unconvincing for a variety of reasons. first of all, NCLB did not pass because everyone in 2001 agreed that education was super hunky-dory; in fact, the sold a story podcast outlines how an explicit goal of NCLB was to train teachers in systematic phonics instruction, because that was not the norm when NCLB was passed, and an unfortunate outcome was that phonics became politicized in ed world. second, anyone who understands anything about reading should need about ten minutes max to spend some time on standardized test prep and recognize that if your goal is truly to maximize scores... then the vast majority of your instructional time should be spent on improving actual reading skills because you actually can't meaningfully game these tests by "practicing main idea questions" (timothy shanahan addresses this briefly near the top of this post). so i find it very difficult to believe that any school that pivoted to multiple choice drill time in an attempt to boost reading scores was teaching reading effectively pre-NCLB, because no set of competent literacy professionals would think that would work even for the goal of raising test scores. third, NCLB mandated yearly testing in grades 3-8 but only one test year in high school; kansas set its reading and math test year in high school as tenth grade. so theoretically these kids all had two years of sweet sweet freedom from NCLB in which their teachers could have done whatever the fuck they wanted to teach these kids to actually read. the fact that they didn't suggests perhaps there were other problems afoot. fourth, and maybe most saliently for this particular study, the sample text was the first seven paragraphs of a novel - in other words, the exact kind of short incomplete text that NCLB allegedly demanded excessive time spent on. i'm not really sure what universe it makes sense in that students who can't read the first seven paragraphs of a novel would have become much better reader if everything else had been the same but they had been making completely wack associations based on nonsense guesses for all 300 pages instead. (if you read the study it's really clear that for problematic readers, things go off the rails immediately, in a way that a good program targeted at teaching mastery of text of 500 words or less would have done something about.)

all but 3 of the students reported A's and B's in their english classes and, again, 69% of them are juniors and seniors, so like... i mean idk kudos to these professors for being like "hold up can these kids actually read?" but clearly something is wack at the college level too [in 2015] if you can make your way through nearly an entire english major without being able to read the first seven paragraphs of a dickens novel. (once again i really do encourage you to look at the qualitative samples in the study, lest you think i am being uncharitable by summarizing understandable misunderstandings or areas of confusion that may resolve themselves with further exposure to the text as "can't read.") not to mention the fact that most students could not what they had learned in previous or current english classes and when asked to name british and american authors and/or works of the nineteenth century, roughly half the sample at each college could name at most one.

the authors of the study are struck by the fact that students who cannot parse the first 3 sentences of bleak house feel very confident about their ability to read the entire novel, and discover that this seeming disconnect is resolved by the fact that these students seem to conceptualize "reading" as "skimming and then reading sparknotes." i think it's really tempting to Kids These Days this phenomenon (although again these are people who in some cases have now been in the workforce for a decade) and categorize it as laziness or a lack of effort, but i think that there is, as i described above, a real and sincere confusion over what "reading" is in which this makes a certain logical sense because it's not like they have some store of actual reading experiences to compare it to. i also think it's pretty obvious looking at just how wildly severed from actual textual comprehension their readings are that these are not - or at least not entirely - students who could just work harder and master the entirety of bleak house all on their own. like i don't think you get from "charles dickens is describing a bunch of dinosaur bones actually walking the streets of london" to comfortably reading nineteenth century literature by just trying harder. i really just don't (and i say that acknowledging i personally have had students who like... were good readers if i was forcing them to work at it constantly... but i have also had students, including ones getting ready to enter college, who were clearly giving me everything they had and what they had was at the present moment insufficient). i think that speaks to a missing skillset that they don't know are missing, because they don't have any other experience of "reading" to compare it to.

just wanna highlight again that although they don't give the breakdown some of these students are not just english majors but english education majors a.k.a. the high school english teachers of tomorrow. some of them may be teaching high school english right now, in case anyone wishes to consider whether "maybe some high school english teachers can't read the first seven paragraphs of bleak house?" should be kept in mind when we discuss present-day educational ills.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

AI and the fatfinger economy

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me at NEW ZEALAND'S UNITY BOOKS in WELLINGTON TODAY (May 3). More tour dates (Pittsburgh, PDX, London, Manchester) here.

Have you noticed that all the buttons you click most frequently to invoke routine, useful functions in your device have been moved, and their former place is now taken up by a curiously butthole-esque icon that summons an unwanted AI?

https://velvetshark.com/ai-company-logos-that-look-like-buttholes

These traps for the unwary aren't accidental, but neither are they placed there solely because tech companies think that if they can trick you into using their AI, you'll be so impressed that you'll become a regular user. To understand why you find yourself repeatedly fatfingering your way into an unwanted AI interaction – and why those interactions are so hard to exit – you have to understand something about both the macro- and microeconomics of high-growth tech companies.

Growth is a heady advantage for tech companies, and not because of an ideological commitment to "growth at all costs," but because companies with growth stocks enjoy substantial, material benefits. A growth stock trades at a higher "price to earnings ratio" ("P:E") than a "mature" stock. Because of this, there are a lot of actors in the economy who will accept shares in a growing company as though they were cash (indeed, some might prefer shares to cash). This means that a growing company can outbid their rivals when acquiring other companies and/or hiring key personnel, because they can bid with shares (which they get by typing zeroes into a spreadsheet), while their rivals need cash (which they can only get by selling things or borrowing money).

The problem is that all growth ends. Google has a 90% share of the search market. Google isn't going to appreciably increase the number of searchers, short of desperate gambits like raising a billion new humans to maturity and convincing them to become Google users (this is the strategy behind Google Classroom, of course). To continue posting growth, Google needs gimmicks. For example, in 2019, Google intentionally made Search less accurate so that users would have to run multiple queries (and see multiple rounds of ads) to find the answers to their questions:

https://www.wheresyoured.at/the-men-who-killed-google/

Thanks to Google's monopoly, worsening search perversely resulted in increased earnings, and Wall Street rewarded Google by continuing to trade its stock with that prized high P:E. But for Google – and other tech giants – the most enduring and convincing growth stories comes from moving into adjacent lines of business, which is why we've lived through so many hype bubbles: metaverse, web3, cryptocurrency, and now, of course, AI.

For a company like Google, the promise of these bubbles is that it will be able to double or triple in size, by dominating an entirely new sector. With that promise comes peril: growth must eventually stop ("anything that can't go on forever eventually stops"). When that happens, the company's stock instantaneously goes from being a "growth stock" to being a "mature stock" which means that its P:E is way too high. Anyone holding growth stock knows that there will come a day when those stocks will transition, in an eyeblink, from being undervalued to being grossly overvalued, and that when that day comes, there will be a mass sell-off. If you're still holding the stock when that happens, you stand to lose bigtime:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/06/privacy-last/#exceptionally-american

So everyone holding a growth stock sleeps with one eye open and their fists poised over the "sell" button. Managers of growth companies know how jittery their investors are, and they do everything they can to keep the growth story alive, as a matter of life and death.

But mass sell-offs aren't just bad for the company – it's also very bad for the company's key employees, that is, anyone who's been given stock in addition to their salary. Those people's portfolios are extremely heavy on their employer's shares, and they stand to disproportionately lose in the event of a selloff. So they are personally motivated to keep the growth story alive.

That's where these growth-at-all-stakes maneuvers bent on capturing an adjacent sector come from. If you remember the Google Plus days, you'll remember that every Google service you interacted with had some important functionality ripped out of it and replaced with a G+-based service. To make sure that happened, Google's bosses decreed that the company's bonuses would be tied to the amount of G+ activity each division generated. In companies where bonuses can amount to 90% of your annual salary or more, this was a powerful motivator. It meant that every product team at Google was fully aligned on a project to cram G+ buttons into their product design. Whether or not these made sense for users, they always made sense for the product team, whose ability to take a fancy Christmas holiday, buy a new car, or pay their kids' private school tuition depended on getting you to use G+.

Once you understand how corporate growth stories are converted to "key performance indicators" that drive product design, many of the annoyances of digital services suddenly make a great deal of sense. You know how it's almost impossible to watch a show on a streaming video service without accidentally tapping a part of the screen that whisks you to a completely different video?

The reason you have to handle your phone like a photonegative while watching a movie – the reason every millimeter of screen real-estate has been boobytrapped with an icon that takes you somewhere else – is that streaming services believe that their customers are apt to leave when they feel like there's nothing new to watch. These bosses have made their product teams' bonuses dependent on successfully "recommending" a show you've never seen or expressed any interest in to you:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/15/the-fatfinger-economy/

Of course, bosses understand that their workers will be tempted to game this metric. They want to distinguish between "real" clicks that lead to interest in a new video, and fake fatfinger clicks that you instantaneously regret. The easiest way to distinguish between these two types of click is to measure how long you watch the new show before clicking away.

Of course, this is also entirely gameable: all the product manager has to do is take away the "back" button, so that an accidental click to a new video is extremely hard to cancel. The five seconds you spend figuring out how to get back to your show are enough to count as a successful recommendation, and the product team is that much closer to a luxury ski vacation next Christmas.

So this is why you keep invoking AI by accident, and why the AI that is so easy to invoke is so hard to dispel. Like a demon, a chatbot is much easier to summon than it is to rid yourself of.

Google is an especially grievous offender here. Familiar buttons in Gmail, Gdocs, and the Android message apps have been replaced with AI-summoning fatfinger traps. Android is filled with these pitfalls – for example, the bottom-of-screen swipe gesture used to switch between open apps now summons an AI, while ridding yourself of that AI takes multiple clicks.

This is an entirely material phenomenon. Google doesn't necessarily believe that you will ever want to use AI, but they must convince investors that their AI offerings are "getting traction." Google – like other tech companies – gets to invent metrics to prove this proposition, like "how many times did a user click on the AI button" and "how long did the user spend with the AI after clicking?" The fact that your entire "AI use" consisted of hunting for a way to get rid of the AI doesn't matter – at least, not for the purposes of maintaining Google's growth story.

Goodhart's Law holds that "When a measure becomes a target, it ceases to be a good measure." For Google and other AI narrative-pushers, every measure is designed to be a target, a line that can be made to go up, as managers and product teams align to sell the company's growth story, lest we all sell off the company's shares.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/05/02/kpis-off/#principal-agentic-ai-problem

Image: Pogrebnoj-Alexandroff (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Index_finger_%3D_to_attention.JPG

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

--

Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[bennetsbonnet]

I'm currently reading Eavesdropping on Jane Austen's England: How Our Ancestors Lived Two Centuries Ago by historians Roy and Lesley Adkins and it's a very well researched and informative book, which I highly recommend if you already know a lot about Jane Austen's life and works, but want to understand the context of her novels and how society functioned at the time.

I have to share this passage from the chapter about childbirth, which details a naval officer's response to learning that his wife had given birth while he was away at sea... because it made me think of a certain Austen couple:

It was not unusual for fathers to be absent from home when their children were born, and it took some time for the news to reach William Wilkinson, at sea in the navy, that he was a father. Finally he held the letter that his sister-in-law Fanny Platt had excitedly written from their lodgings at Kensington in London, a few hours after his daughter's birth. 'Heartily do I wish you were now here,' she said, that we might congratulate with each other on the happy arrival of your little daughter. It was born at 17 minutes past 9 o'clock this 9th day of Nov [1807].' Fanny next gave William an affectionate description: 'the precious Babe, [she] is, I think, the loveliest little creature I ever saw. [Her] eyes are dark and beautifully bright, [her] nose and chin we all agree in our opinion as to their being exactly like your own. [She] has a pretty little head with a good bit of hair, which is very dark. [She] is in good health and so plump you cannot think.' William was extremely happy, and early the next year he wrote to his wife: 'in my Prayer Book (which I keep in my desk) I have your hair, Baby's and a piece of my own. I cut mine off the other day to see the contrast. They are all in a small piece of fine India paper... and they do look very pretty, yours light, mine dark, and Baby's between both.'

After reading this, now I can't stop thinking about Captain Wentworth cutting off a piece of his hair and placing it next to a lock of Anne's hair (that he brought to sea with him so she'd be with him in some way) and a piece of their newborn baby daughter's hair!

It hurts to imagine them separated for such an important moment but if duty called and Wentworth was forced to go away, this is exactly how I imagine he would deal with the separation.

[elodieunderglass]

Hi there! I need to write A Guy who is Extremely Narrowboat, for reasons, and the Narrowboat Guy you just posted is. well. Very much that-adjacent, I suspect. Do you have advice for a) what this Guy is like, and some tips on conjuring them into existence, or b) a good place to look for Narrowboat Things? (if this ask has come in twice I am sorry. Cursed)

No worries at all!

Post references: description of original character Ken who lives on a narrowboat, post about Ken describing characteristics of a quite normal boatie, picture of Ken trying to recruit you into his band (he will teach you how to sing maybe.)

Ken is a Very Boatie Boatie so you should be able to pick or extrapolate some aspects of his character from some of those. The overall smell, of course, being woodsmoke and diesel and slightly damp wool. Personalities range from shifty and feral, to surly, to normies, to chirpy influencers, to wide-eyed wanderers, but boaters are often (not always) daytime drunk. Ken��s a sunny inclusive one that strikes a careful balance between many boatie extremes; practical enough to do a lot of his own repair and maintenance, but silly enough to always have oil on his nose. Your character can fall anywhere on these spectrums!

People who live full-time on narrowboats are incredibly diverse, ranging from prosperous retirees in custom-designed floating houses worth hundreds of K, to people who are functionally homeless. They can be people who live permanently on moorings or marinas, or continuous cruisers who are completely nomadic, (or sensible plan-ahead people who pay a “winter mooring” fee to pause the “continuous cruising” rules during winter and get the best of both worlds.) Ask five boaters and get ten opinions. There are a thousand nuances and reasons why. Some people choose the lifestyle with excitement; for some, it’s forced on them. Some are right-wingers and some are left-wing and some are anarchists, but all of them are living in someone else’s back garden on charity-owned property. The only things they have in common are some basic boater characteristics, like cork-ball keyrings and a lofty resentment against anglers, and the fact that every boater has willingly chosen to marginalise themselves.

The UK has always been hostile to nomads, but is increasingly so now, and the various inconveniences of living without a fixed address add up to some material penalties. It’s not just slightly harder to pay bills, do admin, arrange childcare, commute, vote, etc. The liveaboard narrowboat community once prided themselves on being “the last legal nomads” in the British Isles; anti-traveller legislation has increasingly soured this, with laws being passed limiting everything from the use of wood-burning stoves (positioned by the anti-biofuel lobby in the Guardian as an eco thing. In London. I ask you.) to laws making it easier to remove off-grid children from their parents. And yet, due to housing pressures and the cheap sustainability of the lifestyle, the liveaboard population hasn’t dropped.

By going off-grid you are commenting, politically, in some way, about the grid. By stepping out of society you are agreeing to be a little bit out of society. You simultaneously cross many social classes, and don’t leave your own life at all. Your rights and worries are now shared with the legal rights of Travellers, the Roma, fairground workers, and the unhoused - to the point where the collective term for your community is G****y, Traveller, Roma, Showmen & Boater (GTRSB). (Yes the first one’s a slur, yes people know that - it’s still a community self-description for some, and essentially you’re expected to ignore it and not use the word.) ultimately, a boatie only has to be slightly sideways. A bit self-reliant. A bit willing to be outside.

Reference books? Well, Narrow Dog to Carcassonne is an exciting account; I read Narrow Escape by Marie Browne before moving aboard and appreciated her honesty. There are a lot of influencers living aboard nowadays, but plenty of books abound. My friend Dru remains brave and true and is a trans woman in some tricky days, so you can buy some poetry books from her Etsy shop to keep her afloat and hear from boaters.

I lived aboard for years and am happy to answer questions - maybe Ken could do his own information post! A boater character is a wonderful, rich, textured thing. What would you like to know?

[maxdibert]

Propaganda I’m not falling for:

– Severus Snape as a confident man who’s got everything under control

– Severus Snape as a cold, caustic type who never loses his temper or composure

– Masculine Severus Snape

– Severus Snape as some kind of aloof male lead straight out of a cheap dark romance novel

– Severus Snape as emotionally mature

– Severus Snape not getting jealous at the drop of a hat because of his unresolved insecurities

– Severus Snape being able to control himself when something triggers him due to his deep-rooted trauma

– Severus Snape as some posh upper-class guy

– Severus Snape acting like a middle-class Londoner in the muggle world instead of the scrappy working-class kid from the slums that he actually is

– Buff, muscled Severus Snape instead of the scrawny stick of a man every elderly lady would tell to eat more

– Severus Snape as a functional adult

– Severus Snape knowing how to manage his emotions

– Severus Snape falling for someone who isn’t another dysfunctional little freak just like him

– Severus Snape’s trauma being written as a source of mystery instead of what it really is: just deeply pathetic

– Byronic Severus Snape

– Severus Snape as a character out of a Brontë novel

– Severus Snape without episodes of uncontrolled rage

– Severus Snape as some sexualised version of Edward Cullen instead of the scrawny, rabid alley cat he truly is.

[earpskeeper]

part 2 to the you're spiralin again series - part 1 can be found here

trigger warnings remain the same for this whole series and are posted on the masterlist

word count - 3k

Beth didn’t sleep that night.

Not properly. Not with the way her stomach had twisted into knots and her heart beat in patterns she couldn’t settle. She kept refreshing your Instagram, scanning every post and story. Looking for clues. For answers. For proof that Leah was wrong. But her mind kept replaying Leah’s voice over and over again. “She’s not right Beth.”

She tried to dismiss it, told herself Leah was being dramatic, that maybe you’d just had a bad night, or maybe you were just tired. But the pit in her stomach said otherwise.

So she scrolled through your socials obsessively. Every post curated, every story loud and upbeat. You in training. You on matchday. You smiling with teammates she didn’t know. All of it too polished. Too bright. Too wrong.

Then she tapped into your Close Friends story by mistake.

A mirror selfie. Flash on. Glassy eyes. A wide, forced smile. A drink in one hand, another bottle on the table behind you. “celebrating the grind 🥂💪”

It wasn’t the post that got her. It was what was in it - your knee visibly swollen in the reflection, the dark circles under your eyes, the way your body slumped just slightly.

Beth stared for a long time, heart thudding. She took a screenshot and sent it to Arsenal’s head physio.

Twenty-four hours later, your loan was terminated.

When you were told of your loan being cancelled you were full of feelings you weren’t quite sure how to express. You just knew you wanted to get out of there as fast as you could. You couldn’t quite face the embarrassment of failing at your loan club so you quickly packed a bag and got on the next train back to london. 

But not before you messaged Kyra. 

Told her you were back from loan and needed a place to crash. You were meant to be staying with Beth, had always planned on it, but when she texted to confirm, you panicked. Your chest had gone tight, your thoughts spiralled, and you couldn’t face being around her. Not like this. So you sent her a weak excuse about not wanting to be kept up by her dog, Myle. Said you needed quiet. Said you didn’t want to be a burden.

Sure, you’d shared a flat with Kyra briefly before you went off on your loan, but in your mind, that was more of an extended sleepover than a flat share. So you weren't even sure she would say yes. But she did. No hesitation. No questions.

When you arrived, the sky had turned slate grey, casting the flat in heavy shadows. It was so still inside, so quiet, it made your knock sound louder than intended.

Kyra opened the door in socks, blinking like you’d caught her mid-scroll. When she looked up and saw you standing there - hoodie up, duffel bag slack at your side, the faint trace of alcohol still clinging to your clothes - her face shifted instantly.

“Hey,” she said, gentle and concerned.

You didn’t answer. Just stepped past her, eyes on the floor. You didn’t have the energy to fake a smile, to lie, to be anyone but this version of yourself, exhausted and fragile.

Kyra didn’t push. She closed the door quietly behind you, took your bag without a word, and led you to the spare room. Heater on. Hoodie left folded at the end of the bed. Glass of water placed beside the nightstand.

She didn’t ask anything.

Not yet.

You hadn’t responded to any of Beth or Leah’s messages after dragging yourself in late last night. No call answered. Not a single text opened. Your phone might as well have been switched off. You’d been too wired to sleep, then too numb to function.

Beth had barely slept. She’d stared at her phone all night, stomach twisted, convinced you were angry at her (furious, even) for being back at Arsenal after your loan had been suddenly cancelled. She’d expected tension. Silence. Maybe even shouting.

So when she turned up first thing in the morning, earlier than any reasonable person should, she’d come bracing herself for impact. She knocked for ages - relentless and urgent - until Kyra finally stirred from sleep, rubbing her eyes as she opened the door in a haze.

“She’s... up,” Kyra said, brows furrowed. “She’s in her room. She’s been... well, she’s moving furniture?”

Beth blinked. “What?”

Kyra just stepped aside, still baffled.

Beth stepped into the flat, expecting to find you face-down in bed, curtains drawn, dead to the world like you’d been yesterday. But instead…

You were wide awake. Standing in the middle of your temporary room with flushed cheeks and too bright eyes, dragging the bed frame toward the opposite wall.

“Just thought it’d look better over there,” you chirped, breathless. “Feng shui, right?”

Beth froze in the doorway, completely thrown. “You’re… what?”

“Rearranging! Feels good to reset the space, you know?” You grinned, too big and too quick, eyes flicking from one thing to the next. Your limbs moved like you were trying to outrun your own thoughts.

Kyra hovered behind Beth, watching like she was witnessing something she couldn’t quite name.

Beth stepped further in. “Why didn’t you answer the door?”

You shrugged, still smiling. “Didn’t hear it.”

Beth blinked. “You didn’t hear that?”

“I had headphones in. Music helps me concentrate.”

Kyra shot Beth a glance. Beth frowned.

“I think we need to talk,” Beth said, her voice gentle but firm.

You kept that same smile on your face, but it didn’t touch your eyes. “Let’s do lunch after physio, yeah? Me, you, Kyra and the other girls too. Everyone’s been wanting to catch up.”

Beth hesitated. “You sure?”

“Positive,” you said brightly. “We’ll do a proper catch up. You have my word.”

Then you turned back to your half-shifted furniture, still moving like you were running out of time.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You had swung your legs on the edge of the physio table, trying not to let the tremors show. Your knee hurt like hell. Your head throbbed. The fake, buzzing energy from earlier had already begun to nosedive, and you could feel the comedown sinking in beneath your skin. Everything around you felt louder. Closer. Too close.

Grace, one of the physios, had scrolled through her notes with a calm smile. “How long’s the swelling been there?”

“A couple of weeks,” you had said, tossing it out like it was nothing.

She glanced up. “You didn’t tell anyone?”

You shrugged. “Didn’t seem urgent.”

“It looks pretty inflamed. Are you taking anything?”

“Nope. Just ice.” The lie had tasted like metal in your mouth.

Grace didn’t react. Not right away. She just nodded slowly and typed something into her tablet. “Alright, we’ll need a urine sample today. Just routine.”

Your stomach had dropped. Something cold had prickled along your spine. “Uh... can I do it after the physio session?”

“Best to do it now while we’re already logged in.”

“I just went before I came down.”

“You’ve been here less than ten minutes.”

You had forced a grin. “Bladder of steel.”

Grace’s fingers paused over her tablet. She looked at you properly then, really looked. “Bailey, you seem... jittery. Have you eaten today?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. “Had a protein bar earlier.”

She didn’t look convinced. “You’re sweating. Your heart rate’s high. Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine.” It came out too fast.

She narrowed her eyes a little. There’d been a flicker of something (suspicion, maybe) before she opened her mouth again.

But then the door had banged open, and Lotte limped in, wincing in pain.

“She rolled her ankle,” Emily Fox explained, rushing in behind her, eyes wide.

And just like that, you had seen your chance.

You’d hopped off the table, snatched up your water bottle, and backed toward the door. “I’ll be back in a bit, yeah?”

And you had been gone before anyone could stop you.

Your hands had shaken so hard it was difficult to keep your bottle steady. Your vision had swum. You’d barely registered the corridor around you until you slammed straight into someone coming the other way.

“Bailey?”

Katie McCabe.

She’d lit up instantly. “Welcome back, love.”

You couldn’t meet her eyes. Couldn’t let her see you like that. You’d muttered something (maybe a greeting, maybe an apology) and rushed past her, trying not to stumble.

Your throat had been sandpaper. Your skin had itched and buzzed. All you’d wanted was to vanish into a quiet corner.

Katie had watched you go. Her smile had faded almost immediately, concern etching deep across her face. She stood in the hallway for a moment, as if she was weighing up whether to make a big deal out of this.

She hesitated.

You’d looked… off. Not just tired or jet-lagged or overwhelmed. Wrong. Twitchy. Like your skin didn’t fit quite right. But still, she second-guessed herself. Maybe it wasn’t her place. Maybe you were just adjusting. Maybe Beth or Kyra already had it handled. 

But in the end she decided to question Beth and she opened her messages and typed:

Just saw Bails. She rushed past me. Didn’t look great. Wasn’t she supposed to grab lunch with us?

She stared at the screen, thumb tapping absently at the edge of her phone.

Should she tell someone? Should she follow you?

She didn’t move. Not yet. Just stood there in the corridor, caught between instinct and uncertainty, frowning hard as the unease curled tighter in her chest.

Something was definitely wrong.

Katie watched you walk away, her arms folded tight across her chest. Something itched beneath her skin. Something that she couldn’t quite put a name to yet, but you weren’t okay. Not even close. She knew it in the way your shoulders curled inward, how you couldn’t hold her gaze.

But you were already gone.

You found a pub not far from the station. The kind with stained carpets and drawn blinds, stuck in some half forgotten time. You didn’t even hesitate. You walked straight to the bar like you belonged there.

The bartender didn’t ask questions. Just raised a brow as you muttered your order and slid a crumpled note across the counter.

Vodka, straight. Then more.

No one noticed the shaking. No one cared.

You drank until your skin felt numb. Until your thoughts stopped colliding. Until everything turned soft and slow.

You got home just before sunset, keys fumbling in the lock, footsteps uneven.

Kyra was on the sofa, half-watching some series, half scrolling on her phone when she heard the door creak open. Her head turned. She expected… something. Conversation. Excuses. Maybe even an apology.

But you didn’t say a word.

Just kicked your shoes off with a clumsy thud, hoodie still pulled low, and moved straight past her.

She blinked. “Hey, you alright? You missed lunch today.”

You mumbled something that might’ve been a “yeah,” then disappeared into your room. The door shut softly behind you.

And that was it.

But Kyra sat up straighter.

She could smell it.

Not just from your breath (though that had been sharp, metallic, unmistakable) but in your room, too. It clung to the air like static: sour and sad and hard to ignore.

Still, she said nothing.

She’d told herself not to push. Not yet. told herself you were probably just trying to get used to being back.

Every day was the same.

You’d vanish after physio or training (assuming you showed up at all) then come home just late enough to avoid proper conversation. Your smile was always too wide. Your eyes always too red.

And every night, you disappeared into that room like it was your only safe place.

Kyra never saw you eat.

She rarely saw you sleep.

But the smell - God, the smell - kept getting stronger. Not just on you, but in your room, soaked into the fabrics and corners like mould.

She knocked a few times. Lightly. Asked how you were doing, if you wanted tea, or dinner, or to sit on the couch for five damn minutes.

You always answered through the door.

“Just tired.”

“Long day.”

“Tomorrow, yeah?”

Always “tomorrow.”

It was barely past seven when Kyra woke to the sound of something hard hitting tile.

A sharp thud. Then silence.

She sat up in bed, heart racing. The silence dragged - too long, too still.

Then came the groan. Low. Choked.

She was out of her room in seconds.

The bathroom door was ajar, the light flickering from inside.

You were slumped on the floor - legs tangled, head lolling against the wall. Pale, sweating, barely conscious. One of your arms dangled uselessly over the toilet. The other was pressed against your ribs like you couldn’t quite breathe.

Kyra froze. “Bailey?”

Nothing.

She dropped to her knees beside you, panic spiking so fast it made her nauseous. “Bailey. Hey…hey, stay with me, alright? Come on.”

Your breath was shallow. The stink of alcohol filled the space. It was sharp, fresh.

She found herself checking your pulse, her own hands shaking.

You stirred with a weak noise. Tried to speak.

She held your face between her hands. “Hey. You’re okay. I’ve got you. Just stay with me.”

It took nearly twenty minutes to get you conscious enough to move, and even then, you were barely coherent.

She helped you to your room. Pulled the blankets around you. Sat at your side for the rest of the morning with her phone clutched tight in her lap, hovering over Beth’s number.

But she didn’t call.

Not yet.

The smell of instant coffee clung to the air. Rain tapped the windows in a steady rhythm, too soft to drown out the sound of you rifling through the cupboard. You were moving like your limbs were full of sand: slow, heavy, drained.

You hadn’t left the flat in two days. Not since Kyra found you crumpled in the bathroom, cheeks grey, lips cracked, vomit on the floor. The team had scheduled a rest and recovery day after a heavy training block, so there was no excuse to escape the flat. No training, just an opportunity to hide.

You’d spent the entire day and night either asleep or locked in your room with the door shut, curtains drawn. Kyra hadn’t pushed. Not yet. But today (matchday minus two) you were due back at training.

Full training with the rest of the team to get your fitness levels back up. 

And Kyra had made breakfast.

You shuffled into the kitchen, hoodie pulled low over your face, eyes shadowed and sunken. You hadn’t showered. Hadn’t really eaten, either.

Kyra stood at the kitchen counter, arms folded, her face pale with worry and sleep deprivation. She’d barely left you alone since finding you collapsed in the bathroom days ago. You hadn’t said a word about it since. In some ways you were hoping if you didn’t bring attention to it then it could be forgotten about. Like it never happened in the first place. 

But you were foolish to think that.

She set a bowl of porridge on the table, careful, tentative. “I thought we could eat before training,” she said softly.

You didn’t respond. Just filled a glass with water, your back to her.

“Bailey,” she tried again, “can we talk about what happened?”

Your hand tightened around the glass. Slowly, you turned.

Kyra caught the flicker in your eyes - not pain, not shame. Something darker. Sharper. A defense mechanism disguised as a smile.

“Talk about what?” you said lightly, voice like ice. “That I got dizzy and needed a lie down?”

Kyra’s stomach twisted. “That wasn’t dizzy, Bailey. You collapsed. You were…your skin was freezing. You could barely speak.”

You gave a hollow laugh. “I was tired. It happens.”

“Bailey…”

You slammed the glass down. “I said it happens.” The smile slipped. Your eyes were wild now, cornered.

Kyra flinched at your tone, but held her ground. “I should’ve called Beth. Or the physios. Or someone. You need help, Bails. This isn’t…this isn’t okay anymore.”

That did it.

You stepped in close. Too close.

Your voice dropped to a near whisper, deadly calm. “If you tell anyone what happened… if one word leaves your mouth…”

You leaned in. “We’re done. You hear me? I’ll pack my shit, and I’ll be out before you’re back from training.”

Kyra froze, wide eyed. “Bailey…”

“You owe me.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You owe me,” you repeated, slower this time. “Don’t forget who was there for you when you first came here. When you were crying every night in that god awful shared flat. When you couldn’t get through a single week without wanting to go home.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You begged me not to let anyone see how homesick you were. Begged me to cover for you. To sit with you at meals. To make it look like you had friends.”

Her eyes welled. “That was different.”

“Was it? Because I didn’t tell a soul. I protected you. I kept your secret. And now I’m asking you to return the favour.”

Silence.

“That’s what friends do, right?” you whispered. “They look out for each other. They don’t run their mouths when things get messy. They don’t call in help when someone just needs a day to breathe.”

She looked so small then. So unsure.

“If you tell anyone, Kyra,” you said, soft but venom laced, “we’re done.”

And with that you turned and walked out, grabbing your kit bag off the hook like nothing had happened.

The door shut behind you. Quiet. Final.

And Kyra was left stood in the kitchen, her stomach in knots.

[gallusrostromegalus]

What kind of deck would Kenpachi use for duel monsters?

Zaraki is the kind of guy who will hunt down Bakura and (gently (for Zaraki )) shake him until he does whatever the trick was that he heard about was that would turn him into a card so he could fight Exodia on foot, like the gods intended.

As for other people, because it's funny to contemplate:

Ichigo: Bad at card games, collects his deck 100% based on how much he likes the card art, inexplicably manages to make something remarkably functional, even if he nearly times out a dozen times because I'm he's reading the text on every card he draws.

Rukia: Melffys.

Chad: also Melffys

Uryuu: Understands how to run a functional deck with pendulum summoning. Cannot explain it to anyone else.

Mizuiro: Has a deck because he and Mokuba are casual acquaintances and the economics of Kaibacorp fascinate him. Plays much more competently than he thinks he does.

Keigo: plays Digimon.

Orihime: Has actually known and been online friends with Tea Gardner for longer than she's known Ichigo, because the former Los Osaka High Schooler and Now Prima Ballerina is the OTHER S-ranked Fairy Deck Player in Duel Monsters Online.

---

Gotei-13:

Duel Monsters has migrated to Soul Society via Reverse London, but only some members of the Gotei-13 know of the game, let alone play with any competence.

Mayuri likes the card art and has casually attempted to re-create some of those monsters in the flesh because he was bored.

Hitsugaya thinks it's "so lame" but if you ask him why it's lame he has remarkably well-informed opinions about the game design that could only have come from getting WAAAAY too into it at one point.

Gin played duel monsters online briefly until Aizen took an interest, because the concept of matching wits with a total stranger who couldn't see him either intrigued him. Gin taught him the basics, (these are the three scores that matter, the rest is conditions creation, you'll love it-!) and released him into the forums. Tousen enjoyed a nice three-month vacation as Aizen got addicted to online play until he entered an unranked tournament and got wasted in two turns by someone with a bunch of twee little fairies in the first round. Threw an enormous temper tantrum about it and forbade anyone, especially Gin who made it to the semi-finals, from ever mentioning the game again

Byakuya, the universal expert on all things Ambassador Wakame, took an interest in the game because he recognized the Kaibacorp Logo on a card Rukia had. There is very little Wakame Ambassador Merch in soul society because it's actually a Living World IP, and Byakuya had noted that the company that owned all things Wakame Ambassador had been purchased by Kaibacorp. He asks Rukia, who tells him all about Duel Monsters, and that there is an entire Kaibaland Theme Park a few cities over from where she was deployed in the living world.

"...would it be possible to contact this Seto Kaibacorp?" Byakuya frowns into the middle distance.

A week later, Rukia unexpectedly opens a gate into Ichigo's Bedroom at 2AM.

"Not directly but anybody can write to his company and the message might get passed along- like how Rikichi sorts all the mail addresses to you that gets sent to the sixth." Rukia shrugs. "You'd need a return address in the living world for him to write back though."

-

"Gah!" She yelps.

"THIS IS WHY YOU CALL AND WAIT FOR PERMISSION TO COME OVER!" Ichigo, home from undergrad for the week, growls at her.

"Hi Miss Rukia!" Orihime waves from on top of Ichigo, not bothering to get dressed.

"Uh, um- congratulations?" Rukia mumbles, covering her face.

"What happened now?" Ichigo groaned, reaching for his pants.

"My bro- Captain Kuchiki requests your assistance in delivering a message to a human in the living world!" She stammers, thrusting the message in his general direction.

"Rukia I don't think this will go through the postal system..." Orihime mutters taking it from her instead of putting on clothes or moving from her position on top of Ichigo.

"What? I thought we put enough stamps on it-? Gah! Please put on a shirt!" Rukia yelps.

"Rukia you know what boobs are." Orihime mutters, studying the missive. "I'll just put this in a box and mail it to them in the morning, okay?"

"Yeah! Sure! Fine!" Rukia sputters, reopening the gate as fast as she can.

"REMEMBER TO CALL NEXT TIME!" Ichigo hollers after her.

-

The Brothers Kaiba stared at the message.

"I'd say it looks like someone tried to mail me from the Meji Era but I've had enough of time-travelling bourgeoisie for one lifetime." Seto grumbled.

"That's not what you were saying last night!" Atem teased from over the video call.

"I mean, if I'm doing the calculations right, and he really is offering to pay us in bullion, that's like... Ten times what the Wakame Ambassador IP is worth." Mokuba frowned at the figures laid out in neat but archaic handwriting on the medieval-looking scroll that arrived in a box, but covered with postage from six different countries inside.

"...when do you get back again?" Seto glared at Atem through the call.

"Not until June, my impatient lord of dragons." Atem smirked.

"...fuck it, let's meet this guy." Seto decided. "He can't be any weirder than everyone else I know."

-

Lord Byakuya Kuchiki was, in fact, on par with, if not actually over the median level of weirdness in Seto's circle of tolerated people.

He really did look and speak like he'd stepped out of a time machine from the late 1800's and was, indeed, completely up front and honest about purchasing the rights to Wakame Ambassador and any merchandise Kaibacorp had, with a chest full of gold bullion.

Unlike most of Seto's acquaintances-with-benefits, Lord Kuchiki was polite, addressed him with a proper level of respect, perfectly straightforward in his request and even explained that he knew he was over-paying, but he'd been on the wrong side of copyright law before, and at least some of this was overvaluing the property as insurance that someone wouldn't attempt to buy it out from under him.

"...Alright, we have a deal." Seto smirked, leaning back in his chair. "I have to ask though- why Wakame Ambassador, of all things?"

"Why the Blue Eyes White Dragon?" He gestured to the office's distinct decoration with a knowing smile. "There is no shame here- if anything, I admire the boldness with which you live your truth."

Seto squinted at him for a long moment, before slowly cracking a smile. "Alright- you tell me about Wakame Ambassador and I'll tell you about her."

-

"Unbelievable." Mokuba gaped.

"I didn't know it was possible." Muttered Rukia.

The two dark-haired, diminutive siblings of more famous older brothers regarded each other for a moment.

"Does. Does yours not talk either?" Mokuba asked, pointing into the office where Kaiba and Kuchiki had been excitedly discussing something non-stop for the better part of three hours.

"I'm lucky if I can get a dozen words out of him a week." Rukia gawked. "He. He doesn't smile like that either? What the hell??"

"Seto smiles, but it's usually a threat- I. I don't think I've ever seen him this chill before..." Mokuba marveled at the scene before them.

"Do we... Leave them to it?" Rukia muttered.

"We'll never get on any of the rides at this rate." Grumbled Karin, who had heard the words "roller coaster park" and elbowed Ichigo in the stomach to take the job of escorting the Kuchiki siblings to Kaibaland from him. "Yuzu?"

Yuzu, who had been drafted into the expedition because she could actually make sense of the high-speed rail system, closed the book she'd been reading with a sigh and stuck her head in the door.

"Mr. Kuchiki? I'm sorry to interrupt, but we left so early I didn't get to eat breakfast, and it's past lunchtime now..." She said, giving the highly manipulatable shinigami her best Precious Moments Figurine face.

"Huh?" Kaiba blinked, then look down at the clock on his desk. "...How is it one thirty?"

Kuchiki looked at something that might have been a cell phone or a large beetle. Seto had learned to stop asking those questions. "Good heavens, you must be starving! Is there a commissary or..?"

"No way, we've got a food expo going on at the Astrodome. They can have whatever they want, on me." Seto shook his head, getting up and waving for them to follow.

"What the FUCK?" Mokuba whispered.

"Oh wow!" Rukia gasped, eyes sparkling "-do you think there will be carrot cake?"

"-So tell me about this Agents Of Nori filler arc," Seto said with genuine fascination as the two men walked down the hall, leaving bewildered siblings in their wake.

-

Yugi frowned at the latest Duel Monsters expansion with concern for the better part of ten minutes before slowly looking up at Mokuba on the other side of the living room "...I feel like I missed something important."

"What?" Mokuba blinked, looking up from his CapMon spreadsheets. "Oh, yeah. Seto made a friend who got him into this bizarre old cartoon, so now there's a line of cards based on the IP. I think it's a birthday present because the guy got some author to write up a novelisation of the new Blue Eyes canon for his."

Yugi stared blankly at Mokuba.

"Seto."

"Yes."

"...Made a friend?"

"Yyyyyyep."

"...on his own? Organically?"

"Believe it or not, Seto does pay attention to your friendship speeches." Mokuba glared.

"...I'm. I'm glad? I just can't get my head around it. What did he DO?" Yugi glared.

"...It's not so much that Seto did anything so much as Mr. Kuchiki is a very similar type and degree of fucking weirdo Seto is, and due to your good influence, Seto didn't immediately panic about that and... They just kind of..." Mokuba pursed his lips, trying to think of a word, and instead interlaced his fingers. "-meshed. Like gears."

Yugi's stare went from blank befuddlement to Great fear "I cannot overstate how alarming the concept of Two Setos is. We did that once, and the universe almost ended."

"Nah, it's fine.- if anything, he's a good example." Mokuba waved. "Kuchiki has an even bigger and more proactive cadre of friends that follow him around and holler if he misbehaves, so he's a lot more domesticated than Seto is."

Yugi sat on the couch, trying to imagine a less feral Seto, and could feel himself getting a headache.

"Kuchiki also looks and acts like he stepped fresh out of the Heian-era imperial court scene." Mokuba added.

"THERE IT IS!" Yugi sighed with relief.

[rheya28]

The Crown [ Lounge + Bar] ♥ The Sims 4: Speed Build // CC

Welcome to The Crown, a haven of refined indulgence that seamlessly shifts from an upscale morning restaurant and lounge to a sophisticated evening gentlemen's club. In the daylight hours, experience culinary delights in an ambiance of polished dark wood accents, moody lights, and soft jazz.

As the sun sets, The Crown transforms into an intimate and stylish club, where discreet luxury meets thrilling entertainment. With an emphasis on sophistication, The Crown offers an unforgettable fusion of exquisite dining and sensual experiences in an atmosphere of opulence.

➽ Speed Build Video

➽ Rheya's Notes:

● In order for the adult club function to work, you must download the wicked whims mod [Download at your own risk]. ● This build does not have to be a club, it can be set as a restaurant, a lounge, or a bar. ● I am not 100% familiar with wicked whims so I will not be answering questions regarding the mod. However, I played around with it and did some playtesting as a club owner and everything is functioning correctly on my end. I advice that you look up tutorials if you're not sure to how this lot type works.

● Please make sure to turn bb.moveobjects on! ● Please DO NOT reupload or claim as your own. ● Feel free to tag me if you are using it, I love seeing my build in other peoples save file ● Feel free to edit/tweak my builds, but please make sure to credit me as the original creator! ● Thank you to all CC Creators ● Please let me know if there's any problem with the build

Sim's Featured in the video are by the talented @rhdweauni0 <3

➽ LOT DETAILS

Lot Name: The Crown Lot type: Gentlemen's Club/Str*p Club [Can be set as a lounge, restaurant or bar] Lot size: 30x30 Location: Windenburg or San MyShuno

➽ MODS

● Tool Mod by Twisted Mexi ● Wicked Whims by Turbodriver [optional: This is only required if you want to set this lot as a club] ● Functional Pool Table by Utopya

➽ CC LIST:

Note: I reuse a lot of the same cc in all my builds, specifically cc's from felixandre, HeyHarrie, Tuds, and Pierisim so if you're interested in downloading past, present, future build from me i suggest getting all their cc sets to make downloading a little easier! other creators include Sooky, Charlypancakes, Sixam, Thecluttercat, Myshunosun, awingedllama, Peacemaker. This will also ensure that the lots are complete and are not missing any items upon downloading ! CharlyPancakes ● Miscellanea [books] ● Soak [ Floor pattern, wall lamp] Amelie ● Vintage Art print #3 Severinka ●Aura Bedroom - Ceiling lamp V01, V03 ● Ceiling lamp Alpha ●Industrial Light II Ceiling B, Ceiling D Sooky ● Dark Academia Victorian Oil Paintings 01 ● Horizontal Oil Painting - landscape ● Horizontal Oil Painting - Still Life ● Vertical Oil Painting - Landscape ● Vertical Oil Painting - Portrait ● Vertical Oil Painting - Still Life The Clutter Cat ● Dandy Diary pt 1, 2 ● Hello Horses FelixAndre ● Chateau [all ] ● Berlin pt 1 ● Colonial pt 2, 3 ● Florence pt 2 ● Gatsby ● Georgian ● Grove [ all ] ● London Interior ● Paris pt 2, 3 ● Soho pt 3 House of Harlix ● Harluxe ● Livin Rum ● Orjanic Harrie ● Brownstone [all] ● Baysic ● Brutalist ● Coastal pt 2, 3, 8 ● Klean pt 3 ● Kwatei ● Octave pt 2 ● Shop the look pt 1, 2 ● Spoons pt 3 ● Jardane Kiwisim4 ● Block house dining [dining chairs] Lilac Creative ● The classic Collection Little Dica ● The even Grander Piano Myshunosun ● Garden Stories [patio lights] ● Lottie [candle] ● Simmify pt 2 [book clutter] Pierisim ● Coldbrew pt 3 ● Combles [chair] ● David Apartment pt 1, 2 ● Domain du close pt 2, 3 ● MCM pt 1, 3 ● Oak House pt 4 ● Tilable ● Winter Garden pt 1, 2 ● Wood Land Ranch pt 3 Plush Pixels ● Parisian Apartment [coffee table only] Simcredible ● Bossa Nova Ceiling lamp Simplistic ● Rusticlife area rug Sixam ● Boho Bathroom [floor tiles] Taurus Design ● Lilith Chilling Areas MycupofCC ● The Modernist [wall lamp] Tuds ● Ind Syboulette ● Ratatouille [Sign ] Utopya ● Pool Table [mod]

● DOWNLOAD Tray File and CC list: Patreon Page ● Origin ID: anrheya [previous name: applez] ● Twitter: Rheya28__ ● Tiktok: Rheya28__ ● Youtube: Rheya28__

[meazalykov]

floral fragrance

niamh charles x f!reader

nobody is obsessed with your signature scent like she is

warnings: established relationship. spicy at the end

it is rainy and the grass damp beneath your boots kind of bothers you, however, you decide to not let that stress you out today. it smells nice outside, the post-rain atmosphere making the grass look so green and smell so earthy.

to the rest of the team, it's the floral fragrance they smell and not the rain. it trails you, a soft whisper of jasmine and rose that cuts through the sharpness of sweat and turf. it’s your signature, as much a part of you as the pink training kit clinging to your frame. 

naimh, your girlfriend of three years, is already warming up across the field, her eyes finding you like they always do. 

she’s all focus but the moment she spots you, her lips curve into a smile that’s just for you.

“you smell like a bloody garden again,” she teases later, when you’re stretching side by side. the woman’s voice is low, meant only for your ears, and her hand brushes yours deliberately as she adjusts her shin guards.

“you love it,” you shoot back grinning, “don’t pretend you’re not sniffing me every chance you get.”

naimh laughs with a sound that makes your chest feel light. she leans closer, her breath warm against your ear, “guilty, but i can’t help it when you’re this distracting.”

on the pitch, you and naimh move like you’re tethered by something invisible. you’re a midfielder, weaving through opponents as your sharp passes get to your forwards. naimh, your defender, is a shield, her presence steady. 

during a tense moment against arsenal, an opponent barrels toward you. the ball is knocked off of your feet as you tumble to the ground but naimh is there, intercepting with a clean pass up to catarina that sends the ball rolling out of danger. 

as she gets up, she winks at you. during a corner kick from cat, you catch a faint trace of your girlfriend’s cedarwood-scented deodorant mixing with your floral notes since she stands behind you. 

after the whistle blows with london staying blue (ahhhh) you’re both sweaty and exhilarated. 

naimh jogs over, slinging an arm around your shoulders. 

“you were brilliant out there,” she says, her voice soft but proud, “that assist to sandy was filthy.”

“you weren’t bad yourself,” you reply, leaning into her. your fragrance clings to you even now, and you notice her inhale subtly, her eyes half-closing for a second.

“keep wearing that scent, and i’m not letting you out of my sight tonight,” she murmurs, her tone playful but edged with something deeper.

outside of football, your love blooms in quiet moments. you and naimh share a flat in london, a cozy space filled with plants you both tend to and framed photos of your travels while with the club team (and national team if you’re english). 

one saturday morning, you’re in the kitchen, brewing coffee, your floral perfume lingering in the air. you’re wearing a loose sweater and jeans, your hair still slightly messy from nine hours of sleep, but naimh can’t stop staring. 

she’s sprawled on the couch, pretending to scroll through her phone, but her eyes keep drifting to you.

“stop doing that. you’re gonna burn a hole through me,” you call out, pouring coffee into two mugs.

“sorry, can’t help it,” she says, setting her phone down and crossing the room. you know she is never sorry. 

she wraps her arms around your waist from behind, her chin resting on your shoulder. 

“you smell so good, it’s unfair. like, how am i supposed to function knowing you’re in my senses?”

you laugh while turning in her arms to face her, “you’re dramatic.”

“and you’re addictive,” she counters, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. naimh’s lips linger, and you feel her breathe you in, like your scent is something she needs to ground herself. 

“i’d bottle you if i could.”

you spend the day wandering through a local market, hand in hand. naimh insists on buying you a new perfume. it is a floral one, of course, with notes of peony and lily. 

“it’s not as good as yours,” she says as you test it on your wrist, “but it’ll do for when you’re not around.”

you roll your eyes but spritz it on, and she pulls you close right there in the shop, ignoring the amused glance from the cashier. 

“yep,” she says, her nose brushing your wrist, “still prefer the original.”

another evening, after a long training session, you’re both at a team dinner. the restaurant is calm but your teammates laughing and causing chaotic conversations. naimh’s attention is on you. 

you’re seated next to her, your floral scent mingling with the aroma of pasta and wine. she’s got her hand resting on your thigh under the table, her thumb tracing lazy circles.

“you’re quiet tonight,” you say, leaning toward her.

“just thinking about how lucky i am,” she replies, her voice soft enough that only you can hear. 

“you, this team, us. and, you know, how you smell better than anything in this place.”

you nudge her with your elbow, but your cheeks warm, “shut up, you’re such a simp.”

“only for you,” she says, squeezing your thigh gently. naimh’s bright eyes hold yours, and for a moment, the noise of the restaurant fades. it’s just you and her. teammates notice, but decide to just leave you to yourselves and leave the teasing for another day.

later, when you’re back home, the mood shifts. you’re in the bedroom, changing into pajamas, and naimh is watching you from the bed, her gaze intense. you catch her eye and pause, a smirk tugging at your lips. 

“what?”

“come here,” she says, her voice low and inviting. 

you do, and she pulls you onto her lap, her hands sliding under your shirt to rest on your hips. “you have no idea what you do to me,” she murmurs, her lips brushing your collarbone. your floral scent is stronger here, warm from your skin, and she breathes it in like it’s a drug. 

naimh’s kisses trail lower, teasing but deliberate, and you feel her smile against your skin as you shiver. 

she whispers, “you are going be the death of me.”

you laugh softly, but it catches in your throat as her hands wander, her touch light but electric. it’s a dance of restraint and want, her adoration woven into every brush of her lips. you pull her closer, and the world narrows to the heat of her, and the floral notes that cling to you.

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

morbid meeting - spencer reid x fem!reader

reader runs into a stranger in a coffee shop—a very smart stranger

genre: fluff wc: 800 warnings: reader is supposed to be alt/goth, mentioned kissing, kidnapping of an umbrella, mentions of serial killers and morgues a/n: requested by @westanleovaldito!!! ty:) also it's come to my attention that not everyone knows what a london fog is????

The rain made your hair much flatter than you had in mind when you back-combed it this morning. It’s a miracle it managed to not get soaked completely if we’re looking on the bright side.

But who are you kidding? You suck at looking on the bright side.

So you pat down your hair and shake off your umbrella.

You wonder to yourself if the craving for a London fog was really worth the wet tights (not to mention the scribbled-on Converse that most definitely don’t have stick men on them anymore). You’ll have to remind yourself to hold a wake for said stick men.

The shorts you put on this morning were a better idea before you saw Mother Nature’s idea of a good time.

Your feet move quickly to the back of the line.

“Excuse me?” You turn to see a tall man with shaggy hair and a satchel. An awkward smile adorns his boyish face–a face you could see yourself kissing. But that’s irrelevant.

A tilt of your head conveys your confusion and you're sure your wide eyes do too.

“Sorry, just–uh–is that your umbrella?” he asks, pointing toward the door.

When you look in the direction he’s gesturing toward, there’s–of course–a man walking out the door with your black and white polka dot umbrella.

“Shit!”

His head dips as his eyes lock onto his shoes. With your jaw slack, your head shifts back to him and, naturally, you follow his gaze down.

A complete 180, you grin. “Nice shoes.”

Your eyes meet and he mirrors the curve of your lips. “Thanks. You, too.”

“They–um–used to be nicer but, y’know, rain,” you shrug awkwardly.

“I understand,” he nods, that same smile on his face, “I’m really sorry about your umbrella, by the way.”

The way his nose scrunches makes you want to look at him longer. You’re blushing and you don’t even know his name.

“It’s okay! I like the rain.”

An honest, adoring look lands on you right before he says, “me, too! Did you know that the average speed of rain is fourteen miles per hour or twenty-two point five three zero eight kilometers per hour?”

Something about how he knows that makes you admire him. You mean, who just has that knowledge tucked away? Except maybe you.

“Did you know that the chainsaw was originally invented to assist in childbirth?” you chime happily.

His jaw goes slack in what you assume is impression.

“I did! Uh, th–there are roughly fifty active serial killers in the United States at all times.”

You giggle. “I knew that, I watch my crime shows. You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

It’s obvious he wasn’t expecting quite a response but he recovers. “Okay… Did you know that, in the mid eighteen hundreds, morgues brought in more onlookers than museums?”

“They did?” you narrow your eyes in curiosity.

He nods eagerly, a curl falling loose in front of his face. “Around forty thousand visitors a day! Children drew the largest crowds.”

“Wow,” you smile. You bite down on your crimson lip bashfully before muttering a soft, “you’re smart.”

You watch his throat bob as he swallows. A meek, gentle–and honestly adorable–”thank you,” leaves his lips.

You nod and your pupils dilate while they trace every curve and slope of his face. He has on a button-down and a tie, a cardigan on to keep him warm. The rain outside has started to dry, leaving messy but defined curls behind. His shoes are also muddy, yet, still cleaner than yours.

“Box Jellyfish possess at least twenty-four functional eyes,” he whispers under his breath as if to defeat the silence.

A soft giggle leaves your lips. “You just… know that?”

Proud of himself, he nods. “I read a lot.”

“Oh, yeah? What–”

“What can I get for you?” the barista asks.

And you’re pulled out of your real world reverie. The dreamy haze you found yourself in with a complete stranger.

How curious is that?

Your mouth opens to speak but you find it near impossible to get a word out. “Oh! Uh–” you clear your throat, “a medium London fog, please? Extra foam.”

The change in your red leather wallet practically hits the poor girl in the face with how quickly your manicured fingers ruffle through it. But the swiftness in which you pay doesn’t help you, because the minute you tell her the name for the order, the stranger–the one that’s not so strange–his phone starts ringing.

“It’s–uh–work, I’m sorry, I have to–I have to go,” he rambles, hand slipping into his satchel for a cellular device you haven’t seen in five years.

“It’s okay! I… it was nice…” and he answers the call, tongue sweeping across his lips. You continue to yourself, “talking to you…”

Peculiar.

Yet, you find yourself interested.

[saturnville]

georgia peach.

pairing: lewis hamilton x black oc (lola monroe) summary: he's a boy from london. she's a girl from georgia, and she's a sight to behold. warnings: none. reference: georgia peach by latto tags: @boujiestpoet @mauvecherie-writes @saintslewis @greedyjudge2 @vile-harlot @emjayewrites @ggaslyp1 @neewrites @cocobutterqwueen an: we may expand on this, we may not. depends on the reception of it all. enjoy

The lights were dim. The air was thick with the smell of expensive champagne, spilled Crown Royal, and the low hum of conversation and loud laughs among the guest’s inhabitants. It was another spring night among socialites, close friends, and acquaintances. A get-together to welcome the warm weather and good vibes. It just so happened to have fallen on a day when he won the race. The thrill of victory seemed routine; ass-kissers and loud claps on his back and shoulders of pride and congratulations. Not much seemed to change. Until she walked in. 

The room seemed to tilt the moment her silhouette appeared in the doorway. His head snapped to the entrance, and for a moment, the chaos of the function faded into the background. He was unfamiliar with her, but she was nothing like the women who usually orbited his world. There was a southern sway in her walk that was slow, deliberate, and oozing with confidence. Her hips curved in ways that made his heart race, and the sparkle from the grillz that adorned her teeth caught the low light, matching his own. 

Then, she spoke.

“Y’all out here celebrating without me?” Her voice was a melody of sweet Southern charm, the accent like honey on his ears.

He had seen her, but never like this. The rumors floated around about her—some girl from Georgia who had recently taken the marketing world by storm—but he had never paid much attention. Tonight, though, she was all he could see.

Lewis tried to remain composed, but when her eyes met his, a slow smile curled her lips, revealing those grillz. Damn. She wore them better than he ever could. She was temptation incarnate, and he knew he was in trouble the moment she began to walk toward him, her scent intoxicatingly close. Every step she took seemed to pull him further into her orbit, until they were standing face to face, inches apart.

“I hear you’re the man of the hour.” Her tone was teasing, like she already knew the effect she had on him. “Congratulations.”

His usual quick wit abandoned him. He nodded, eyes fixated on hers. He couldn't help but notice the way her lips parted slightly as she spoke, the smooth cadence of her voice. The thickness of her lip gloss caught his eye. And her curves, unapologetically bold, made his palms itch. He wanted to reach out, to feel if the softness he imagined matched what he saw.

"That’s what they say." He finally managed, his voice a little rougher than intended.

She smirked, catching him in a moment of weakness. "You gonna stand there all night, or offer me a drink?"

Lewis chuckled. “What’s your preference?” He led her to the bar which was littered with half-empty glasses and covered with sticky liquid, sugar, and failed date requests. The smell was strong, to which he grimanced. She raised an eyebrow. “Not a drinker?” 

Lewis shook his head. “Gave it up a while ago.”

She nodded once. She, too, gave up drinking, at least frequently some time ago. She had the party phase during her undergraduate and graduate days, but one day after her 30th birthday, she decided she’d only drink twice a month in social settings, with a limit of one drink. She couldn’t believe she was using her last drink pass of the month and it was only the 17th, but for a chance to see how far under his skin she could get, she’d take it. 

“Understood. I’ll take a lemon drop.” She kept her eyes on him as he interacted with the bartender on her behalf. “Thank you.” 

“So,” he started cooly. “I see your face. Don’t know your name.” 

She paused to thank the bartender, took a sip, and moaned lowly. Lewis closed his eyes momentarily. To hear that sound once again. It was quiet, but it managed to rumble his loins. “Lola Monroe,” she said after some time. 

“Lola Monroe.” Lewis tasted her name on his tongue. Savory with a hint of sweetness. There must have been some lingering beneath her seemingly hard exterior. “That’s pretty. Real pretty."

“Thank you,” she replied bashfully. She recovered quickly and brought the glass to her lips, her gaze trained on his as the rim covered the lower half of her face. Her dark eyes bore into his, and he could feel his inhibitions slipping. Her eyes were beautiful, a dark shade of brown with hints of honey that one might mistake for flirtation. She had long eyelashes, too. With every bat of them, Lewis’s knees nearly buckled. She knew how to sweep a man off his feet. 

Lewis cleared his throat and took a step toward her. He studied her reaction. She hadn’t moved an inch. “You always hold staring contests with the guys you see?” 

Lola’s lips curled into a smirk as she lowered her glass, maintaining eye contact. The corners of her mouth hinted at the mischief that swirled through her mind. She was aware of her actions. He knew it. She knew it. She tilted her head slightly, her voice low and laced with a challenge. 

“Only those who look like them can be taken down a notch…or two.” That thick, Southern draw wrapped around her words like a warm hug, but the underlying confidence did not go unnoticed. 

Lewis’s interest piqued. Not only was this woman a whirlwind, but she was not phased by him, his status, or the money in his pocket. In fact, it wasn’t of interest at all. She found joy in interacting with him as if he was just a regular guy. That drew him in. 

“Is that right?” He leaned in, testing her boundaries. His lips parted as his tongue circled on the grillz that covered his teeth. Her eyes lowered. “Are you sure you want to keep testing me, Lola?”

Lola brought her lips to the glass again, this time making sure she had his attention as her tongue caressed the rim. “Do you think you’re the only one capable of a challenge, Mr. Hamilton?” Yet again, her tone and demeanor showed she wasn’t phased by him. The tension was there, and it cut like a knife. 

The race chuckled lowly. He tried to keep his cool; he indeed did, but the attraction was undeniable. The women he’d seen were diverse, but Lola Monroe was something else. She was a force.

“Is that what you think?” His voice dropped lower, teasing the air between them. She looked him up and down, taking in his jawline and the intensity in his eyes. A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips as she leaned closer, her voice dropping even lower. Her lips brushed against his ear as she said, “I don’t think. I know.”

[my-great-big-book-of-fan-fiction]

Loved your story with the blabbermouth reader! How do you think she got together with L / what was the first thing he noticed about her?

Thank you so much! This is my take on their first meet:

L, in his earlier years of detective work, went on a bit of an efficiency spree. It was during this time he had found his trademark sitting position, his taste for sweets...and his taste for you.

It started with a walk.

He read that walking can increase serotonin and dopamine, which in turn, would assist in brain function.

So he went on a walk through some market area of London. He didn't enjoy it very much; it was loud, it smelt bad, it was dirty, which was why he decided to stop inside the nearest Cafe to calm down a little.

It was nearly empty, just a man at the counter, and a woman cleaning the esspresso machine. He took a look at the display case, and found himself endlessly pleased by the options. He decided on a strawberry-cream croissant, as well as a black coffee he would load up with sugar by himself.

He stepped to the till, and waited for service.

The woman was humming to herself, something small and made-up.

"Excuse me."

"Oh!" She whipped around, and stumbled to the counter.

She was pretty. She smelled like coffee and cake. She was you.

"Sorry, I was just cleaning, you know that thing exploded on me yesterday and I knew it was time to-"

"Could I place my order?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry!"

He relays his request and you scribble it on a notepad. For what, he didn't know- you were the only one working, and there weren't any other orders to mix it up with.

He picked a corner to sit in, and studied you as you worked. You had this little smile on your face, as if everything was easy. How could someone smile like that? Like nothing mattered?

You poured his cup, and set it to the side. He watched as you rummaged through the display case, grabbing a moist, ganache filled chocolate cake. For the man at the counter, he presumed.

To his suprise, you grab the coffee, and march over to him, setting the cake before him. You nearly walk off, but he grabs your apron.

"I ordered the croissant."

Your brows furrow. "I could have sworn..." you mutter, taking out your notepad. Then, you relax. "Ohhhhh, I see! Yeah, while you were ordering, I was thinking about how good chocolate cake would be, so halfway through writing your order, I accidentally wrote chocolate cake! My bad!" You giggle, pick up the cake, and hurry off to fix it.

He understands why you were so blithe now:

You were stupid.

Stupid as the day was long.

But not everyone can be as gifted as himself, he understands.

He thumbs at his lip, and blinks as you plate up his snack. Stupid or not, you do look lovely in that pink apron. You rush the croissant to him, and set it down. "Alright, I'm sure I've got it this time," you say triumphantly.

He glances at the sweet. The strawberries are cut into little hearts. "Thank you." You can go now.

"Hey, I was curious," you start, shifting your weight to one hip. "Why are you so weird?"

He tilts his head. "How do you mean?"

"Well, you're sitting funny, and your hair is all messy, and you sort of look like you're sick. Are you sick? We make a good tea for if you're sick-"

"I'm not sick."

"Then...why are you like that?"

"...I am how I am because it's natural to me."

You nod slowly. "I see. I s'pose guys who are good-looking have quirks, too," you hum.

And like that, you're gone, off to wipe down tables.

Good looking?

He's never been referred to as...good looking. Funny looking, weird looking, gross looking, but never good looking. He tilts his head to one side as you wipe down a table, and notice a wobble. You get on your knees to try and look at the foot that's off-balance, but the issue is very clearly the way it's been bolted under the top. If you looked up, you would see one of the bolts is loose. You stand, and hit your head.

He takes a sip of his coffee, absorbed, only to immediately spit it out. He never added the sugar. There's a container of sugar packets at his table, and he empties it trying to sweeten the coffee to perfection.

Eventually, he does take a bite of the croissant, when you've gone to the back.

It was the best croissant he's ever had.

Perfectly flakey on the outside, chewy on the inside, buttery and sweet, blending with the strawberry-cream to create something entirely addicting.

He finishes it in three bites.

Once you return from the back room, he stands from his seat and walks to the front. He realizes he's never paid...and you were likely supposed to ask him to before serving him.

You run his total, swipe his card, and mindlessly ask him about gratuity, as if you did anything more than walk his food to him incorrectly.

He tips 93%.

Or, he tries to.

"Oh, your total was 11.23."

"Yes."

"Well- it's just that you typed in 21.73, which is wayyy more than you need."

"That's your tip."

"...it's a big tip...that's like? What?"

He opens his mouth to answer, but you beat him to it.

"93.49%? Or, I guess more specifically, 93.4995548%?"

He blinks. Yes, that was right. "You did that in your head?"

You shrug. "Yeah, I guess. Math's easy, it's just numbers."

How complex you were.

"that tip is meant for you. Keep it."

You beam. "Really? Thanks!" You allow the transaction, and hand him his receipt.

"I have a question."

You look up at him, a polite smile on your face. "Sure, what is it?"

"Who bakes your croissants?"

"Me do! I-I mean, I do," you laugh. You looked incredibly flustered.

"You do?"

"Yeah, I make most of this stuff, 'specially since my parents are out for the summer."

"How old are you?"

"Nineteen. But I can handle this place myself!"

He doubted it, you made far too many mistakes for only two customers to be present.

"These are their recipes?"

"No, a lot of it's mine."

"You must be very dedicated."

"It's not hard. I just gotta wake up early and bake everything, clean up, set up the shop, prep the coffee machines, set the tables, turn on the open sign-"

"I need to be leaving now."

"Oh...alright! Thanks for coming in!"

He nods, and exits the building.

Flawless woman.

He would be returning tomorrow.

[angel-of-the-moons]

Need Steven with a freak. Let’s say he’s been dating this girl for a while and he’s ready to take it to the next step. He’s super worried he’ll make you all uncomfortable and stuff when he asks but the next thing he know he’s being ridden till the break of dawn

(I’m ovulating I am so sorry-)

OMG SAMESIES AND I. AM. ✨FERAL✨ RN

Please

Steven Grant x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Smut, just smut af, protected sex (implant), oral sex (m!receiving) creampie, overstimulation

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: This lil dress here is what I had in mind for the outfit in the start. (I'm a sucker for sunflower patterns)

🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒

It had to be tonight. He just couldn't take it anymore. None of them could.

But Steven was the worst about his urges. He felt awkward and worried it would chase you away, the first girlfriend he ever got to finally have; all the others didn't understand his... Problems.

Problems he later learned were triggered by Marc (and in some cases, Jake), but you? You took them in stride, like a duck to water.

The moment he first saw you, his breath had been sucked right out of him. Marc and Jake went dead silent, too.

It was a gloomy, dreary day; the rain coming down in heavy droplets, casting a grim light down on the London streets.

But there you were, walking around the museum, looking at exhibits and scribbling notes in your tiny notebook with oh, so many post-its sticking out, fattening the tiny book until it looked close to bursting.

You were the only ray of sunshine on that day, your yellow dress that hugged your body just right, little sunflowers covering the fabric. Your hair done just the right way to accentuate your face as your eyes studied each artifact and bauble you saw.

To say the boys were instantly smitten was an understatement.

It took weeks of bumping into you to work up the courage to talk to you, and it was only when you came in to buy a rather dinky looking scarab plushie in the gift shop. It's this conversation where he finds out you're in school, trying to become an archaeologist and historian.

Steven's dream girl, and he had hearts in his eyes at every word you spoke.

He couldn't help but blubber out a request for a date, and you agreed.

The rest... History in the making.

You'd been dating for two months, but already he could feel the pull of urges he didn't necessarily indulge in often.

Sure, he, Marc and Jake could indulge in it themselves, trying to take the edge off. But sometimes it felt like the more he indulged in it, the more intense his fantasies got.

He simply couldn't keep tugging his cock for momentary relief anymore, imagining it was your soft hand, your mouth, your tits or something else wrapped around his cock that had him practically drooling: your sweet cunt.

But tonight? Tonight was the night. He was afraid to bring it up because he didn't want you to feel like he was moving too fast; and he could barely function when you admitted you were a little surprised he waited so long. (And teased him a little for how sometimes he just wasn't stealthy when trying to conceal a surprise boner.)

You'd told him that you thought about him too, and that you were more than willing to let him indulge.

But it was from there that you found out that Steven had never actually been intimate with anyone. Jake and Marc had, yes. But poor Steven has just never had the luck.

And that's how Steven found himself in this precarious situation, you on your knees, your pretty little mouth wrapped around his cock as you bobbed your head so sweetly, tongue laving around his length, hollowing and sucking your cheeks with every drag, tracing the vein that ran up the side of him.

He couldn't stop with the babbling praises, the sweet petting in your hair.

Honestly, if you knew he was this weak? You'd have jumped his bones a lot sooner. Probably after the fourth or fifth date. It was rare you found someone who was intellectually a joy to talk to (not excluding Marc and Jake) who was so handsome and sweet to you.

One hand was thrust down into your panties, playing with yourself, dress hiked up so you could have better access as you continue sucking him off, the lewd sounds coming from both of you more suited to a pornography than the quiet air of his flat.

You could feel your orgasm cresting already, but you knew that you didn't want to just cum on your fingers like you had so many times before, you wanted to feel Steven inside of you and god did you want to drain him for everything he had.

Steven made a whine, babbling your name again.

"L-luv, I'm--I'm gonna--ugh--"

He couldn't even get the sentence out before you felt him spill down your throat, his hips bucking suddenly you gagged, carefully adjusting so you didn't choke as he pumped his load into your greedy mouth.

Well... you weren't surprised he didn't last very long...

He immediately started rattling off apologies that had you giggling.

God damn, you were going to enjoy draining him. Maybe Marc and Jake, too.

The blush that spread up to his ears made him look absolutely adorable.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--" He stammered out, covering his face. "In--in your mouth, I--"

With the fluid grace of a cat you climb into his lap, straddling him.

You cup his cheeks and kiss him softly, before pulling away.

"You're alright." You assure him, peppering his adorable face with kisses.

It's when he squeezes your thighs and ruts up into you, his face buried in your neck that you realize he's still hard.

You bite your lip and kiss his ear.

"Steven, do you want me to ride you?"

"Ohgodsyesplease." He breathes out on a whimper.

You hastily line his cock up with your hole and sink down, taking him in inch by delicious inch until you're stretched beautifully around him.

You tip your head back with a groan. He certainly had girth for days, that was for sure.

"I'm... Already close. Can you help me?" You say, giving him a sweet pout that makes his heart jump up into his throat.

"Y-yes, I can--"

The way he keeps cutting himself off makes you want to cuddle him and cover him with kisses, but at the same time fuck him until his legs go numb.

Maybe you'd do the former later.

You pull his fingers into your mouth and he makes a soft moan when you suck his fingers, swirling your tongue around his calloused digits until you deemed them wet enough.

Then, you guide his hand down your body to your throbbing clit, and show him the rhythm that'd work for you best.

"Try to keep it in time with me, m'kay?" You groan, grinding down on him in one slow, languid movement.

His eyes roll back, but he nods and keeps his fingers over your clit, massaging the bundle of nerves in time with each downward stroke of your hips.

Every bit of him had you aching, from his electric touches to his fat cock spearing you open and fucking your weeping pussy in the best way possible, you kicked yourself mentally again for not bringing up sex sooner.

Steven's cock felt far better inside of you than your fingers or your toys at home. He felt hot, he felt real. And real is what you'd been lacking lately.

Whatever Steven would give you, you planned on taking happily. You would--

Your eyes flutter open when Steven suddenly arches his back and hits you deeper than you expected him to; opening your mouth in a quiet cry, no sound escapes as your orgasm hits you and Steven continues swiping at your clit, fucking you from below as you shudder and collapse on top of him as he continues breathing on the hot embers of your orgasm to keep it going for as long as possible.

"Please." He whines in your ear.

"Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease."

"In-inside--" You whimper, biting down on his shoulder, earning a toe-curling moan from him.

"You can do it inside."

He grits his teeth and let's out a hissing cry, veins popping in his neck and forehead as he fucks his spend up into you, his orgasm burning and flaying his nerves raw as he pumps you full.

He drops back onto the cushions of the couch and sofa, breathing hard, desperately trying to drag oxygen back into his lungs.

Reality however, is a cruel mistress and he looks down at where you two were connected.

"Oh, b-bloody hell. I--I didn't--"

"Relax, hon." You giggle, leaning back with one hand braced on one of his knees for support, your other hand trailing lazily down to where his cock still split you open, his cum leaking out around his length. The sight of you sent a dizzying spiral through him.

"I'm safe, promise. I have an implant. Still good for another three years."

The thought that he could keep doing this for three years--

His mind went blank when you grind down on his lap, feeling his cock stir to life despite the fact he was now exhausted.

"L-luv, I... I don't think I can..." He panted desperately.

Your brace your hands on his chest and start bouncing on his lap, grinning wickedly the whole time.

"I'm gonna keep going until I drain you dry, sweetheart. Get comfortable."

The gulp he made was audible in the space you shared, as was the sinful slap of skin on skin.

[shanastoryteller]

Merry bday! A continuation of Enola Holmes marrying the viscount of Basilweather would be really cool 😀

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

She wrinkles her nose when Tewksbury passes over her cup of tea with two sugars, unstirred, and she knows.

She puts down the cup too quickly, blood pounding in her ears, and Tewksbury frowns, reaching for her hand. "Enola?"

"Got to go," she says, pushing herself to standing, almost just leaves him sitting there, hand outstretched, but he's her husband and she loves him, so she darts over to smack a kiss on his lips before she's running for the door.

"Enola!" he calls out again, but now he sounds less worried and more exasperated, which is better, which is good. There's nothing for him to worry about.

She wants her mother, who's banned from London and is causing political unrest in Southern France currently, or Edith, who's doing something clever and illegal in Scotland. She'd take Victoria, but Mycroft will be there, and he's the last person she wants to see right now. Sherlock, while beloved, is useless, but his boy is a doctor.

She drops in at 221B Baker Street, picking the lock like always, and is relieved that Sherlock is still asleep and decides not to have any opinions on the various bones scattered about the kitchen table. She assumes there's a reasonable explanation for them.

"Oh, Enola!" John grins and shoves some femurs to the side to make space at the table. "Here, join me, would you like some oatmeal? Are you looking for your brother? I can wake him-"

"I'm pregnant," she blurts out, then bites her bottom lip.

John blinks once, then twice, then says with a gentleness that had made her like him in the first place - because Sherlock wanted to be gentle, but was quite bad at it, so someone had to teach him - "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

Wanted seems like not the correct word, although of course it is, because she and Tewksbury had been, not trying, but not-not trying, which probably amounted to the same thing, considering how often they - well.

"I can fix it," he says, voice low and serious, "if it's something that needs to be fixed."

Enola lets out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "No. No, it doesn't need to be fixed."

She loves that he offered. She loves John, more her brother than Mycroft will ever be, sometimes even more her brother than Sherlock is. If nothing else, her brothers had picked their partners well. Victoria and John are a delight.

John is the functional one between them, explosions and skeletons notwithstanding. John is the one that coaxed her brother into a proper relationship and John is the one that knew they were like parents to all the Irregulars and John isn't normal but he grew up normal.

"Are you worried something's wrong?" he asks. "I can look you over."

"No," she says, although, "I mean, yes, that'd be nice because Tewksbury will go spare, but no, I'm not worried anything's wrong."

He leans back in his chair, looking her over, and after almost ten years of dealing with her and Sherlock and even occasionally Mycroft he can read them almost as well as they can read everyone else.

"It's alright to be scared," he says finally. "Lots of women are when they find out, even when it's wanted, even when the baby's healthy."

"I'm not scared," she says, but for the first time her words feel like a lie. "I shouldn't be scared. What do I have to be scared of?"

She wishes her mother was here.

Will her children miss her like this too?

Sometimes she misses her mother even when she's right in front of her, and if nothing else, she's her mother's daughter.

John gets to his feet, stand in front of her, and opens his arms. She looks away even as she steps forward, like if she doesn't look at him when she does it then it doesn't count as weakness.

His arms close around her. He smells like chai and antiseptic and it's only years of association that make the combination comforting. "I can't wait to be an uncle."

He'll be an uncle. Sherlock will be an uncle. Even Mycroft, and Victoria will be delighted to be an aunt, and to raise her children with Enola's. Of course there's her mother-in-law, and Tewksbury's uncle, who have been angling for her to have a child from the day they married.

There's Tewksbury, who loves her, who isn't going to die on her or leave her if either of them have anything to say about it, who isn't going to leave her to raise their children the way her mother raised her.

Alone.

She's been saying she wasn't going to do this alone from the beginning, but standing here in Sherlock's kitchen, with John holding her steady, she really believes it.