#function of tie bar

[blisterthigh]

in bed wide awake at 7am over how good the last domino solos Could have been if she got to remain older and competent and not shoved at every man imaginable

[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.

[you-know-honey]

Hanging in Your Hands

Viktor x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 4k

←←←1/2

Viktor finds in you a love that subtly transforms him: without realizing it, he begins to take better care of himself, rest better and relieve his pain, all thanks to the peace you bring him. Finding a way to show you what he could never do with words.

N/A: English is not my native language, feel free to correct me in the comments and I will update it. Remember to share and comment if you liked it. Endnotes.

“Home sweet home…” you hum as Viktor opens the door, letting you in first like a true gentleman. You’re the first to leave your coat on the coat rack and throw your shoes somewhere in the room, walking now much more comfortably towards the kitchen.

Viktor’s home isn’t very big, but it had changed a lot since the first time you went there. Before, everything looked like a scene from the most godforsaken place, with almost no furniture and white morgue lighting. It was hard to convince him that to improve his health he also need to improve his environment. The living room was the largest room, with a functional fireplace, a second-hand coffee table and a sofa so soft it could be a piece stolen from heaven. The kitchen was the smallest, there was no table or chairs, instead there was a breakfast bar and some swivel chairs that you had taken from the academy and that Viktor had fixed. The bathroom started the hallway, followed by his office and finally his room. You had made sure that every room reflected something positive, watering plants or doing crafts like a comfort fairy. Viktor appreciated it, he had told you so many times, he didn't mind that you filled his house with your not so practical decorations, they were your personal brand and he liked it, besides spending all that time decorating, painting and remodeling gave him more reasons to love you, to get to know you perfectly and be fascinated by what he found in your being. Without you he wouldn't have managed to make his house feel and look like a real home in which to rest.

Viktor removes his jacket with precise movements. His long, deft fingers slide the dark fabric over his shoulders, revealing the impeccable shirt that sits tight against his slim figure. He folds the jacket carefully, as if he's in no hurry, and lays it over the back of the sofa. His hands move up to the knot of his tie. His fingers, always so precise, pull at the knot with ease, undoing the pressure around his neck. The gesture, so mundane to him, has a strange effect on you, an electric current running through your body. As if that weren't enough, the top button of his shirt unbuttons under his touch, revealing just a flash of skin on his pale neck. His breathing seems to relax instantly, as if the small adjustment brings him some comfort.

Viktor exhales softly, running a hand through his messy hair, unaware that this distracted gesture, combined with the shadow of exhaustion on his face, makes him look almost unattainable, like a work of art that doesn’t realize its own beauty. You feel trapped in a magnetic web that he doesn’t even know he possesses.

“That was sexy,” you mutter to yourself as you rummage through some food in the fridge.

“Excuse me?” His low voice echoes behind you, you have no idea how he moved so fast, his tone is incredulous, and his eyebrows arch slightly.

You shrug, trying to look casual as you turn to look at him, even though you know your face is probably burning. “What I said. You’re sexy. Especially when you do that without realizing it.”

His brain shuts down for a moment, processing the bold comment. “Don’t joke with me…” he finally says, leaning his cane against the fridge and trapping you in a bear hug, your hands quickly returning his, feeling the medical corset under his shirt.

“I’m not joking,” you insist, your words crashing against his bare torso, causing him to shiver slightly, which only makes his arms draw you closer to his body. “Is it so hard to believe?” you can hear his heartbeat quicken.

“Stop it…” he replies with his lips on your head.

“Too shy to receive compliments?” in his defense you are being a little more daring than usual.

His arms pull you closer to his body as if that were possible, it is clear that he wants you to stop talking, he laughs when he feels you squirm in his arms as if you are complaining.

“Y/N…” he tells you with that tone that you know is a warning, although it is not serious, you know he is having fun.

You sigh and he loosens his hug a little, enough so that you can rest your chin on his chest.

“Shall we make dinner together?” you ask, Viktor leaned in slightly, his eyes half-lidded in a warm gesture, and brushed the tip of his nose against Y/N’s in a gentle movement, barely a whisper of contact. It was an intimate exchange, full of affection and closeness, that spoke louder than any words. It was as if they shared a secret, a moment just for them, full of warmth and sweetness.

“Sure.”

Making dinner together is a very big word for what really happens in that kitchen, you prepare everything and force him to sit behind the breakfast bar to prove that everything is on point once you start the dinner. Viktor is not afraid to admit that he does not know how to cook anything other than toast and sandwiches. The kitchen is his war zone and the oven is the enemy he has yet to overcome, luckily he has you and by the time the timer in the shape of a pigeon reaches zero his stomach growls with eagerness.

“Taran!” you proudly take the lasagna out of the oven, the warm aroma fills the whole house and both of your stomachs growl desperate for food. “How is it?” you look at him expectantly.

Viktor runs his face over the steaming mold, it looks good and smells good “It’s perfect…” although he could perfectly refer to you instead of the lasagna.

“Go to the sofa, I’ll bring the dishes in a second.” still with your gloves on you push yourself over the breakfast bar to give him a chaste kiss on the lips. Cooking always puts you in a good mood, but seeing that he likes what you cook is a reward on another level.

As you serve the plates and accompany it with something to drink, you watch Viktor’s silhouette walk towards the sofa, he limps a little but that gives him a certain charm because he no longer does it in pain, the way he sits, the way he sighs as he leans his back against the back of the sofa, the way he tilts his head to look at the fire. Everything about him seems like a work of art to you, from the veins that run through his pale, thin hands, his moles that you’re sure must be a constellation in the sky, his eyes that remind you of fresh honey in a virgin forest, his laugh, secret but beautiful like the whistling of rivers in the distance. You love him like you have no idea. Thinking about him revives your spirit, releases unbridled currents of adrenaline that die for him, to reach him, to be in his arms and stay there forever.

“Enjoy” he says when he leaves the dinner on the coffee table, letting you fall on the sofa. Using a blanket to cover you both from the cold.

“Enjoy” he answers, using his arm to pull your figure closer to him and rests his head on yours.

You both eat in silence, not because you have nothing to talk about, just that your stomachs really need that lasagna, you are focused on Viktor’s plate, but this time it doesn’t seem like your tactics are needed to get him to finish eating, he really razes the plate with emotion, something that makes you feel proud. With a full stomach it’s easier to think of something to talk about.

“How about a plant?” You ask, resting your head on his chest, there’s something about his heartbeat that works better to relax you than the ocean sound records on the record players next to the window.

“A plant? Where?” he asks with a playful tone “There are already many at home.” he mentioned, pointing with his gaze to the shelf above the fireplace, full of cacti of different sizes.

“For the lab…something small with green leaves maybe with flowers...” He can hear the small tone of excitement in your voice.

Viktor looked at you curiously. “What do you want it for?”

“For you. The doctors say plants help reduce stress.”

He smiled, a wonderful expression on his face. “Do you think a plant can handle that place?”

“I have faith in it. Just like in you.”

He takes a few seconds to look at you, there is tenderness in his gaze. He is not good with plants, in fact he agreed to have cacti only because they were easy to take care of since basically nothing happened if he forgot about it for a few days, a plant like the one you wanted requires more care but… he is not willing to say no to you, if you want it that way that will be and he will take care of that plant better than anyone else.

“A plant it is then.” He sighs. His figure moves beside you, before you know it he’s picking up the plates.

“Leave the plates, I’ll wash them,” you say, quickly getting up from the couch as Viktor begins to stack the cups and plates on the coffee table.

“No need. I’ll do it,” he replies calmly, already focused on the task. His hands move with the same precision he uses in the lab, carefully stacking each plate to keep them from falling.

“Viktor, I’m your guest. You can’t wash the dishes,” you insist, stepping forward to take the plates from his hands.

He raises an eyebrow, his expression reflecting a mix of amusement and stubbornness. “Guest? You’ve been here so many times that I could claim my bedroom. There’s no point in arguing this.” You reach for the last plate, but Viktor pushes it away with a swift movement. “It’s just a small task. It’s nothing complicated.”

“But—”

“There are no ‘buts’.” He gives you a look, serious but not harsh. It’s more like a silent declaration of victory. “I’ll take care of it.”

Resigned, you sigh and cross your arms, watching him from the couch as he stacks the plates like a jenga and heads toward the kitchen. However, as he stands up with the stack of plates in his hands, he suddenly stops halfway.

For a moment, you don’t understand what’s going on. His back is slightly bent, his posture rigid. Then, he turns his face slightly toward you, his lips pressed into a tight line.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, moving closer with concern.

“A small… inconvenience,” he says in a tone that tries to sound calm, although you notice the stiffness in his voice.

You move closer and see the reason: one of the glasses is dangerously tilted, about to fall. His hands are too busy holding the others and holding onto the cane; moving just a millimeter could lead to disaster.

“Let me help you,” you offer with a smile you can’t help.

“No. It’s under control,” Viktor insists, although his tone lacks the firmness it had before.

“Sure? Because you look like you’re a second away from creating an experiment on the fragility of ceramics.”

His lips curve into a slight smile, but his attention remains fixed on the plates. With a quick but gentle movement, you slide your hands over to catch the wayward glass before it falls.

Viktor shoots you a look, his eyes shining with a mix of gratitude and resignation. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now, can you admit that you need help from time to time?”

He sighs, shaking his head as he continues on his way to the kitchen. “No. But I’ll let you believe it, this time.”

You roll your eyes in response.

“How about I wash them and you dry them?” he offers.

“Fine.”

You watch him sitting at the breakfast bar watching him thoroughly wash each plate, glass, and cutlery, drying his hands on a kitchen towel.

“All yours,” he says as he leaves the kitchen, which is too small for the two of them. “I’m going to go take a shower.”

“Do you want some company?” His figure tenses up like a cat, stopping only to turn around slightly to find a mischievous smile on your face.

“Nice try.” A stifled laugh escapes his lips before he disappears down the hall and it’s not long before you hear the sound of running water.

The dim light of the bathroom bathed the tense lines of Viktor's figure, reflecting his thinness and the sharp features that marked his skin. Viktor took off his shirt with slow, almost mechanical movements. He had always avoided looking at his nakedness in the mirror, the reflection of a weak man made him sick, but this time the mirror gave him a different image. When he took off his shirt he discovered that on his torso his ribs were barely noticeable, his abdomen was no longer sunken and even a tiny roll of fat had formed in the lower part. He was still thin, but when he touched him he felt muscles and not just his bones, his pale skin had taken on more softness and color. The wounds left by his corset had stopped being reddened furrows and were now barely noticeable.

He caressed his neck, slightly hunched, free of tension. The scars on his side, reminders of medical procedures, were no longer like cracks, but just soft marks.

As he unbuttoned his pants, he braced himself with one hand on the wall for balance. His outer brace trembled slightly. With a methodical movement, he removed the metal piece, carefully setting it aside, as if it were an extension of himself that he could not despise.

He felt like a different person, naked in front of the mirror, admiring a more vivid reflection of himself, his hands running over his muscles that were once tired and sore, now looking strong and energetic. He smiled a little, hesitantly. For the first time, he liked what he saw in the mirror and he knew who he had to thank for that.

Steam began to fill the room as he adjusted the water to hot for the comfort of his leg. Once naked, Viktor stood still for a moment, letting the moisture envelop his skin. His body, although marked by a certain fragility, radiated an unbreakable strength, feeling each scar with something other than disgust for the first time in a long time. His eyes closed, enjoying that shower like no other.

After finishing putting away the dishes, you peeked into the hallway. You found him sitting on the bed, wearing baggy pajama pants and his shirt covering his naked torso, his head in his hands and his eyes fixed on his leg. His posture was rigid, filled with a tension that you could almost feel in the air.

You didn't say anything at first, because you knew that what he needed wasn't words, but company. You approached silently, crossing the hallway and sat down next to him, placing a hand on his good knee.

"Does it hurt?" you finally asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Viktor nodded, not raising his head. "A little. There are times when... it feels like it's never going to go away." He internally cursed himself, the whole day had passed without problems, with barely any discomfort, he didn't understand why the pain decided to attack him right now, it was as if it was mocking him.

Your chest tightened at his vulnerability. You knew how much he hated showing weakness, even with you.

"Let me help…"

He stared at you for a moment, as if considering your words. He finally nodded with a sigh. You knelt in front of him, placing his leg over your lap, pushing his pajama bottoms up to his thigh, your cold fingers giving him goosebumps where you touched them. The internal mechanism of the device on his leg was simpler but no less aggressive, as you removed the straps you could hear small gasps coming from Viktor’s mouth, his hand crumpling the sheets beside him, his skin reddening as the pressure of the device disappeared. Once the device was off you followed the usual nightly ritual, sliding your hands up his leg, applying pressure to the right spot and massaging the tense muscles in his leg and foot, you were precise, almost surgical, as you moved your hands up his leg with extreme gentleness. At first his muscles were tense but slowly you felt them relax under your touch. Finally, the tense grimace changed to a placid, lazy expression of relief as the pain faded.

"Better…" he murmured after a while. His voice sounded calmer.

“See? I’m good at this.” you said as you stood up to sit beside him on his bed.

He laughed softly, his low, warm laugh filling the space. “Maybe I should hire you as my personal physical therapist.”

“You couldn’t pay me enough.” you teased, giving him a soft poke on his nose. “But lucky for you, I do this because I care about you.” Your hands slid down his back, taking the shirt with you, exposing his medical corset. It took you a little more technique to remove it, a couple of twists here and the movement of the levers on his shoulder blades were enough to make the heavy structure give way, pulling it over his head and leaving it on the floor under the nightstand. Your hands caressed his bare back, his skin pale as sweet milk and warm as the first rays of the sun in the day.

He took your hand then, bringing it to his lips to place a soft kiss on your fingers and murmur against them, “How lucky I am…”

“You have no idea…” you said, sliding your hand up his arm to his cheek. He looked totally sleepy but willing to simply adjust his posture and have your lips meet his in a slow, delicate brush, more sensation than intention. His messy hair falling over his forehead, tickling the bridge of your nose.

Without saying anything, his fingers slowly slide up your cheek, warm and a little clumsy, as if even in his sleepy state he wanted to make sure he touched you carefully. His thumb traces a small circle against your skin, and his lips, barely curved in a lazy smile, murmur your name, so low it almost seems like a sigh.

You lean into him, unable to resist the closeness he himself seeks. Viktor, so practical and rational during the day, now seems completely given over to the moment. The whole world had been reduced to that single point of contact.

There is no rush in the kiss, only a sweetness heavy with tiredness, as if sleep were pulling at him but he couldn’t help but stay with you a little longer. His lips are warm, soft, and his breathing, calm but irregular, mixes with yours.

When the kiss breaks you don’t know how, but you’ve ended up lying on the bed, his lips barely separating from yours, staying so close that you can feel the heat of his breath against your skin. His eyes half-closed, they look at you with a softness that melts any thought.

“I have a gift for you…” his voice is barely a whisper against your lips “Can you bring my bag please?” he asked, dragging one of your locks of hair behind your ear. You close your eyes, you're so comfortable that you don't want to separate from him. "Honey... please..." his words completely disarm you, the air leaves your lungs and you have to drag him back inside, it's the first time he calls you that...

You didn't expect it, you don't know what to do or say next. "I... amhmm... I... will go get your bag..." you murmur unsurely as you basically flee the room with your heart racing. You may have heard Viktor's giggle behind you but maybe it was just your nerves playing a bad joke on you.

When you returned with the bag to the room Viktor has lifted his torso from the bed and holds a small package wrapped excellently in ornate paper in his hands. You crawl to his side on the bed, cautiously dragging his bag, was sending you for it, a trick?

The air in the room is charged with a quiet expectation as Viktor leans forward slightly, holding a box wrapped in dark, elegant paper. His fingers, always careful, seem a little tenser than usual, as if the act of handing you the gift is more intimidating than he imagined.

“This is for you,” he says, his voice low but firm, though you notice the slight tremor in his words. He hands it to you, but doesn’t look directly at you; his eyes fixate on some indefinite spot, as if he’s not entirely sure how you’ll react.

You take the box, feeling the unexpected weight in your hands. You watch him, searching for some clue in his expression, but Viktor just crosses his arms, adopting a posture that could be interpreted as casual, though his slightly stiff shoulders give it away.

“Open it,” he murmurs, and his eyes finally meet yours, shining with a mix of nervousness and something deeper, something you can only describe as affection.

As you open the paper, you discover a retro-designed camera, impeccable, with a simple elegance that suits him perfectly. You blink, surprised, as he leans over to turn it on. Before you can ask, his hand rummages through his bag, showing you the small Hextech gem and to your utter astonishment he places it inside the camera mechanism. The room lights up for a moment before Viktor presses a button and the magic begins.

At first, music is the first thing you can hear, then like real magic you see a series of hologram images all around the room: you and him together at different moments, some captured in secret, others you remember clearly. Laughter, glances, small everyday gestures. Then, the photos change to your favorite things: books, landscapes, objects you love, letters you’ve never read written in his own handwriting, every detail carefully collected.

And then, his voice.

“My name is Viktor and…” he begins, his tone deep but soft, with that meticulous cadence that characterizes him. “This is for my dear Y/N. A record of shared moments, of laughter, of everything you represent to me, of everything she is and everything she have allowed me to be.”

Your eyes glaze over as the images continue: your first photo together, a romantic poem, even the portrait of you both that an artist had made on your first date after leaving the hospital, your favorite flowers, things only someone in love would choose.

“It’s an archive of memories,” his voice continues, “but also a reminder to me. That no matter how chaotic the world is, there’s always beauty in the small moments. And in all of these moments, there’s her.”

When the voice ends, the silence that remains is overwhelming, laden with emotions you can’t put into words. You look up at Viktor, who now seems unable to meet your gaze, his cheeks totally red.

“I wasn’t sure if it would be too much.." he admits, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “But I thought… maybe you’d like it. You’ve done so much for me…”

You lean into him, setting the camera aside, and wrap your hands around his neck. “Too much?” Viktor, this is perfect...”

His lips curve into a small but genuine smile, and even though he tries to hide it, you can see the relief and joy in his eyes. This gesture, so meticulous and full of love, is irrefutable proof of how much you mean to him.

The weight of what you just saw is still present in your chest, warm and overwhelming. The camera is off to the side, forgotten for the moment, because now all your attention is on him. Viktor is still in front of you, clearly nervous but trying to keep his composure, as if you don’t know how to handle your emotions at this moment.

“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly, with that analytical look that never seems to completely fade. But there’s something else in his eyes now: a mix of vulnerability and hope, as if he’s not sure if his gift had had the impact he expected.

You don’t need words to answer him.

You move toward him in one motion, your hands gripping the sides of his face before he can react. His skin is warm beneath your fingers, and for an instant, you can feel his breathing hitch, caught between wonder and anticipation.

“You’re amazing,” you murmur against his lips, and before he can process it, you kiss him.

The kiss is urgent, charged with everything you feel and everything you can’t put into words. It’s like you want to tear down any remaining doubts he might have about how much you love him. Your lips move with a desperate hunger, as if you’re seeking to etch into him every emotion he’s provoked in you.

It takes Viktor a second to react, but when he does, he kisses you back with equal intensity. His hands, ever careful, grip your waist, pulling you closer to him as if he needs to have you closer. There’s no longer any shyness in his movements, only the restrained passion of someone who’s been waiting for this moment without realizing it.

His breathing is fast, ragged, and you can feel his lips tremble slightly against yours, not out of insecurity, but from the torrent of emotions that overwhelms him. One of his arms wraps around you, while his other hand moves up to tangle in your hair, holding you with a firmness you’ve never felt from him before.

When you finally part, you’re both breathless. His eyes, normally calm and focused, now shine with a mix of wonder and devotion. His lips are red, and a smile, small but sincere, forms on his face.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” he says, his voice huskier than usual.

“Did it bother you?” you ask, still panting, your hands still on his face.

“Disturb me?..” Viktor lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head, his forehead touching yours. “I couldn’t. But… I might need another demonstration to be completely sure.”

His playful tone, combined with the way he looks at you, makes your heart race again. “Cheeky…” Without saying a word, your eyes drift to the camera still resting to the side. You take the camara with firm but hurried hands, turning it on as he looks at you with a mix of curiosity and confusion.

“What are you doing?” he asks softly, tilting his head.

“I want this saved too,” you reply with a mischievous smile, holding the camera in the air, above the both of you.

Before Viktor can react or say anything else, you lean towards him again on the bed, capturing his lips in a kiss filled with all the love you feel. This time, the kiss is more confident, more determined, as if you both know exactly what you mean to each other.

With the camera in one hand, you press the button, the click barely perceptible between the racing beat of your heart and the soft whisper of his breath against your lips.

When the kiss ends, you both stand there, foreheads together, sharing a soft laugh, as if the simple act of capturing that moment makes it even more special.

The photo joins the rest floating around the room, and you see the image: the two of you locked in a kiss, your hand holding the camera, his hair a little messy, and his face slightly tilted toward you, as if his entire world is contained in that instant.

“Perfect,” you say quietly, stroking your thumb along the edge of the camera before turning back to him.

Viktor looks at the photo, and though he doesn’t say anything, the soft smile on his face says it all. You grab the camera and add the image to the video, where that photo now sits as part of the collection. One more memory that encapsulates not only who you are, but what you mean to each other.

He looks at you once more, his golden eyes shining with something you could swear is pride. “I think this is my favorite memory so far,” he murmurs, taking your hand delicately, as if afraid the moment might fade away.

And in that instant, you know that no matter how much time passes, that photo—and this kiss—will always be unforgettable.

N/A: I'm sorry for the delay, my dog died and I didn't have the strength to do anything other than be in bed. I really hope you like it and it was what you expected.

[cuzxai]

what would they think - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: getting all touchy under the table while pretending you’re not about to ruin everything at a fancy event 😍👅😩

The hotel ballroom looked like it had been plucked out of a dream. Not your dream, necessarily—maybe something out of one of Rossi’s old money memories. Deep crimson curtains, floors that gleamed like polished onyx, walls lined with gold leaf and oil paintings too expensive to understand. The chandelier overhead glittered like a galaxy suspended in crystal. Live jazz drifted from a string quartet in the corner, elegant and unbothered. Even the waitstaff looked like they’d been trained by European royalty, gliding between tables with platters of rare wine and hors d’oeuvres you couldn’t pronounce.

You weren’t usually one for stuffy inter-agency functions but the BAU was getting recognition tonight and the invite had been too tempting to ignore. You knew the wine would flow, the compliments would too and more importantly—Spencer would be there in a suit. You spotted him before he spotted you. Across the ballroom, near the bar, laughing at something Garcia said. Slim-cut black tailored like sin, a soft dove-gray shirt underneath, the top two buttons undone like temptation itself. His curls were neatly pushed back but already starting to fall loose. The low light caught the sharp line of his jaw, and when he turned to look at something, his profile was so beautiful it almost knocked the air from your lungs. You crossed the room like you were pulled.

He saw you halfway there and froze. Smile faltering. Eyes catching on every part of you—hair, dress, legs, mouth. When you reached him, you were already smiling. “Criminally good,” you murmured, fingers brushing the knot of his tie.

He blinked. “What?”

“You,” you whispered, leaning close. “You look criminally good tonight.”

His breath hitched. Color bloomed on his cheeks. “That’s… an overstatement.”

You let your hand slide down his chest before stepping back. “Someone should cuff you.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he muttered before quickly excusing himself to grab champagne. You felt his eyes on you the whole time you waited.

The team was scattered but within reach—Hotch and Rossi talking near the French doors, Morgan and JJ laughing over cocktails, Emily already on her second glass of something red and expensive-looking. Garcia was practically holding court at a nearby table, bathed in sequins and charm, her laughter rising above the music.

You stayed near Spencer. It just…happened that way. Maybe it was the wine or the lighting or the way he kept glancing at you like he couldn’t help himself. Every time he reached for his glass, your fingers brushed. Every time someone came by to greet him, they greeted you too. The two of you shared a plate of appetizers. Sat together during the award speeches. Found yourselves tucked into a corner booth when the team claimed a table. And not a single soul questioned it.

“Reid,” someone said as they passed. “You and your girlfriend look incredible tonight.”

He opened his mouth to correct them but you squeezed his knee under the table and the words died in his throat. He gave a small, dazed smile instead. You’d been drinking slowly. Pacing yourself. First a glass of red, then something floral Garcia handed you, and now, wine again—warm and dark and dangerously smooth. Spencer had kept pace without realizing it. He was flushed now, skin glowing beneath the collar of his shirt, tie loosened slightly. His knee was touching yours.

“Remind me why we’re not dating?” you asked, voice low.

He turned toward you, startled.

You swirled your wine. “Everyone already thinks we are. Wouldn’t be much of a jump.”

He watched you carefully. “You’ve been drinking.”

You leaned in, brushing your shoulder against his. “You’re avoiding the question.” His lips twitched. You tilted your head, eyes half-lidded, and for a moment, it was like the rest of the room dimmed. The quartet played something slow and sultry. The air grew heavier. His gaze dropped to your mouth and stayed there a second too long.

Emily plopped into the seat beside you, pulling you both back to reality. “You two look cozy,” she teased, clearly tipsy.

“Trying to keep him out of trouble,” you said sweetly, nudging Spencer’s thigh with your own.

Morgan wandered over with drinks and slung an arm around Reid’s shoulder. “Let me guess—she’s babysitting you?”

Spencer gave a tight smile, trying to shake him off. “I’m not even drunk.”

“You look drunk,” JJ said, sipping her third prosecco.

“He always looks like that around her,” Garcia added slyly from the next table.

Laughter bubbled around the group, light and affectionate. No one was being mean. They just…saw it. Whatever it was between you. Even if neither of you had ever named it. By the time dinner rolled around, you were full of wine and warmth. The food was fancy but forgettable. Spencer barely touched his entrée. You fed him bites off your plate, teasing him every time he leaned in to take one. You licked your fork after he used it. He stared.

“You gonna eat?” you asked innocently. He reached for his water instead.

The crowd around your table shifted throughout the evening—old colleagues dropping by, agents you’d worked with once or twice. Some of them tried to flirt with you. Spencer was polite but visibly displeased. He didn’t touch you but he might as well have—his leg was pressed against yours under the table and his hand was resting on the bench behind you, close enough to feel the heat of his skin. You kept drinking. Just enough to feel the fire creep into your blood. And as the hours slipped by, your gaze drifted more and more to the way his fingers gripped the stem of his glass. The way his throat bobbed when he swallowed. The little lines around his eyes when he smiled at something someone said. God, you wanted him badly. You wanted to make him lose his composure. Right here. Right now.

And that moment came just after ten. An older man—someone Spencer clearly respected—stopped by to say hello. The music had shifted to something smooth and jazzy again. Your shoes were off under the table. Your dress had hiked up just enough to let your thigh brush his. You were sitting so close now you could smell the sandalwood in his cologne. As the man leaned in to talk shop, you shifted slightly in your seat and let your hand drift under the table. Spencer kept talking. You flattened your palm against his thigh first, letting him feel the warmth of your touch. No movement. No pressure yet. He paused in the middle of a sentence. The man didn’t seem to notice but you did. The muscle in Spencer’s leg jumped under your hand. You started tracing soft circles. Featherlight strokes through his slacks.

He coughed. Tried to recover. “Sorry—dry throat.”

You bit back a smile.

“Something wrong, Dr. Reid?” the man asked, brow raised.

Spencer’s voice came out rougher than intended. “No, no. Just—bit warm in here.”

Your hand moved higher. Slowly. Just enough to brush along the line of his growing arousal. His breath caught, the sound quiet but unmistakable. His hand curled into a fist under the table. Your fingers hadn’t stopped moving. Spencer was struggling visibly and vocally— not to show it. He was still talking to the man beside your table, still answering some question about interdepartmental coordination or statistical models or whatever the hell it was but his cadence was fractured now. Not just hesitant—frayed. Pulled tight, unraveling by the second. You could feel him hard under your palm. Hot and twitching beneath the soft fabric of his slacks. His voice cracked again and again as you traced the shape of him, slow and deliberate, a featherlight tease that made him grind his teeth and shift his hips forward like he couldn’t help it. He still hadn’t looked at you and that made it worse. He was trying to behave. Trying to stay in character—Dr. Spencer Reid, genius profiler, model guest. But underneath the table, you had him begging in silence. His whole body thrummed with tension. His hand clenched on the edge of the table so hard his knuckles had gone white.

“Your girlfriend keeping you warm?” the man said with a chuckle, nodding toward you. Spencer’s voice caught entirely.

You just smiled, lips stained with wine. “He runs cold,” you offered sweetly. “I’m just helping.”

The man clapped him on the shoulder and moved on with a final toast in your direction. Once he was out of earshot, Spencer exhaled like he’d been underwater. His head dropped forward slightly, curls falling over his eyes. “You’re gonna make me lose it,” he whispered.

You tilted your head, brushing the backs of your knuckles along his cock. “Am I?”

His hand shot down and caught your wrist. Not rough or angry, just done. He turned to you slowly, eyes dark and desperate, voice like gravel. “Come with me. Now.”

You didn’t argue. Didn’t even pretend to resist. You were already warm between your legs, skin buzzing with wine and want. You slipped your shoes back on and followed him as he stood, slipping one hand behind your back like a guide—more possessive than protective. You were halfway across the ballroom before you remembered the others. Emily raised her eyebrows. Garcia winked. Morgan wolf-whistled low under his breath. But no one said anything. They knew.

Spencer led you down a hallway gilded in shadow, the music dimming behind you. His grip on your wrist didn’t loosen until he reached a door labeled Private and slipped inside, pulling you with him. It was some kind of coatroom, maybe, or a staff lounge—low lighting, a small plush bench, racks of unused winter jackets. The air was cool and smelled faintly of cedar and starch. The second the door clicked shut behind him, he pressed you against it. Not with force. With urgency. One hand braced beside your head. The other still wrapped around your wrist. He looked at you like he’d just been dragged out to sea—like you were the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Do you have any idea,” he whispered, “what you’ve been doing to me all night?”

You blinked up at him, lips parted. “Mm. I might.”

He leaned in until your foreheads touched, breathing hard. “You don’t.”

Your free hand curled in the front of his shirt, fisting the soft material. His cock was pressed against your hip now, fully hard and twitching and you rolled your hips gently up against it. His head dropped to your shoulder.

“You kept touching me,” he said, voice low, broken. “All through dinner. Every time I tried to talk to someone, you—God, you’re insane.”

You tilted your head, letting your mouth brush the shell of his ear. “I wanted to see how long you could keep it together.”

His hand released your wrist—only to slide up the bare skin of your thigh and underneath your dress.“I’m not keeping it together anymore.” And then his fingers were on you. Hot. Firm. Possessive. He cupped you over your panties, dragging a groan from your lips. You hadn’t even realized how wet you were until he pressed the heel of his palm against your cunt, grinding slow and hard.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, mouth brushing your jaw. “Fuck. I didn’t even touch you and you’re already—”

“I touched you,” you gasped, rocking into his hand. “You started it.”

“Baby,” he muttered. “You started it the second you said I looked criminally good.”

You laughed, breathless. “Well. You did.”

He shoved your panties aside. Two fingers slid into you, deep and slow, curling the moment they bottomed out. Your head hit the door behind you. His palm cradled your cunt like he’d been starving for it—like this was what he’d been craving all night, all week, always. Your hands scrabbled for purchase on his shirt, moaning into his shoulder as he fucked you slow with his fingers. Deep and rhythmic. The soft, wet sounds of your cunt filled the room, filthy and perfect.

“You couldn’t wait, could you?” he murmured. “Had to feel me under the table. Had to get me hard in front of everyone.”

Your hips bucked. “Spence—”

“They all saw it,” he growled, curling his fingers deeper. “Morgan. JJ. Emily. They knew. You were teasing me, touching me—” You bit down on his shoulder, muffling a moan. “Say it,” he hissed, voice shaking. “Say you wanted them to see.”

“I—I didn’t care,” you whimpered. “I just wanted you. All night, Spence—fuck, your voice—your hands—your stupid wine glass, I couldn’t stop thinking about you—”

He kissed you then. Hard. Messy. Like he couldn’t take another second of not having your mouth on his. His fingers never stopped. You were grinding into his hand now, thighs shaking, slick dripping down onto his wrist. He swallowed every sound you made, kissing you like he needed it to breathe. His other hand slipped around the back of your neck, holding you steady as he fucked you open on his fingers, slow and deep and ruthless.

“I’ve wanted to do this all night,” he whispered against your lips. “Drag you somewhere dark. Fuck you like you’re mine.”

“I am yours,” you gasped. “You know I am.”

He let out a broken noise—half groan, half whimper—and pressed his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers picked up pace. You were close now. He could feel it. You knew he could.

“You gonna come for me?” he asked, breathless. “You gonna make a mess on my hand?” You nodded, unable to speak. He kissed you again—quick, desperate. “Then be good,” he murmured. “Come for me, baby. Just like this.”

And you did. You came hard and fast, clenching around his fingers, mouth open in a silent cry against his neck. He fucked you through it, slow and steady, whispering your name into your hair as your body trembled and jerked against the door. When the aftershocks faded, he pulled his fingers out slowly and sucked them into his mouth. Tasting you. Groaning low in his throat. You nearly fell over.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You taste like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “We’re not making it back to that table, are we?”

He smiled. “Not for a while.”

His hands are warm, steady on your waist, but his eyes—they’re wild. “Get on your knees,” he breathes, voice low and hoarse. “Now.”

You smile and drop slowly, the hem of your dress spilling around your legs as you sink to the floor. The marble is cold beneath your knees, but you don’t care. All you see is him—the way his chest is rising and falling, the flush climbing his throat, his trembling fingers already at his belt like he can’t stand another second of not being inside your mouth. You take over before he can fumble. “Let me.”

The belt comes loose with a soft snap. The button, then the zipper, then his slacks sliding down his hips—and he’s hard already. So hard, straining against the thin cotton of his briefs, the tip of his cock dark and wet with precum. You press a kiss against it, right through the fabric. He swears under his breath. You glance up, all big eyes and innocence. “You okay, Spence?”

His jaw tics. “Don’t fuck with me.”

You don’t. You tug his briefs down and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, already twitching in anticipation. You wrap one hand around the base and lick a slow stripe up the length, tasting salt and skin, watching him fall apart above you. He braces one hand on the wall. The other fists in your hair. The second your mouth closes around the head of his cock, he moans—soft, broken, wrecked. And you haven’t even started. You suck him slow, letting your tongue swirl over the tip, savoring the taste of him, the weight of him on your tongue. He’s perfect like this—hips twitching, thighs tensing, trying so hard to stay still. You don’t make it easy. Your hand strokes him where your mouth can’t reach, wrist twisting, wet and messy, while your lips slide deeper. Your eyes never leave his face. You want him unraveled. And you’re getting there.

“God,” he pants. “Jesus, your mouth—”

You moan softly, just so he can feel the vibration and he shudders. His grip tightens in your hair. He’s trying to guide you, trying to keep his control but you can feel the tension in his legs—how close he already is. Then you take him deeper. You flatten your tongue and push down, slow and steady, swallowing inch by inch until your nose is brushing his abdomen. His hips jerk forward on instinct and suddenly you’ve got him fully in your throat, choking slightly around him. Spencer loses it.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—”

He pulls back but you don’t let him. You moan again, pushing forward and the sound he makes is almost a sob. He rocks into your mouth. It’s instinctive—his hips bucking, slow and unsure at first, like he can’t believe he’s doing it. But the moment he feels your throat squeeze around him, the moment you moan again, desperate and soaked between your thighs. He starts fucking your mouth in earnest. Short, sharp thrusts. Not cruel or selfish. Just needy. Desperate. His hand is a vice in your hair now, guiding your rhythm, forcing your head to stay still while he slides in and out, grunting under his breath. You’re drooling, eyes watering, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth. But you don’t stop. You take it. You want it. He’s moaning, low and constant and you feel his thighs trembling on either side of you, every muscle in his body tight with effort.

“Look at me,” he growls. You do, tears smudging your mascara. Mouth stretched wide. Lips slick and swollen. And he’s so close. “God, you’re perfect,” he groans. “Fucking perfect—gonna come—gonna come, baby, fuck, don’t stop—”

You don’t. You keep sucking, keep moaning, your tongue fluttering against the underside of his cock as he fucks your throat in frantic, broken thrusts—he comes. He groans your name like a warning, head thrown back, thighs shaking as he spills down your throat, thick and hot and so much—you swallow it all without flinching, your hands digging into his hips to keep him steady. He pants above you, still rocking slightly, trying to come down. His grip on your hair loosens and he looks down at you. You’re a mess. Mascara running. Lips wet. Chin slick with spit. Your chest is heaving, your eyes still glassy and your thighs are pressed tight together because you’re still so turned on it hurts. He stares at you for a long, stunned second. You stand slowly. Fluid and confident. Your hand brushes his chest as you rise, your breath still catching from the strain. He blinks, dazed.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

Spencer laughs—hoarse, wrecked. “Am I okay?”

You step in close. Run your fingers down his chest. Press your hips forward just enough for him to feel the heat of you through your dress. You whisper,“Please fuck me.” He freezes. You’re staring up at him, lips parted, eyes pleading. Still trembling from how badly you need it. He can see it all over you—your pulse fluttering, your thighs clenched, your lips still swollen from taking him so deep. He wants to. God, he wants to. But he pulls back.

“No,” he whispers.

Your brows lift in surprise. “No?”

“No.”

You blink. “Spence—”

His hands settle on your waist. Steady. Firm. In control. “Wait until the party’s over,” he says softly. “Then I’ll fuck you how you need.” You open your mouth to argue—but his gaze darkens and something about the command in his voice still makes you throb. “Understood?”

You nod slowly. He reaches up to wipe your lip with his thumb. Straightens your dress. Fixes his tie. Then he leans down and kisses your cheek.“You’re going to be so good for me.”

You swallow hard. He opens the door, checks the hallway, then nods for you to follow. You both step out into the corridor—eyes bright, hearts pounding, not one damn person the wiser. You return to the party like nothing happened. But your knees are sore. And your panties are ruined.

[nectar-cellar]

Downtown Roles Mod Tutorial - TS3 - Mature Gameplay Ideas

NSFW 18+ mature content / a long read   

TLDR: this is a compilation/recommendation list of mods, a tutorial on how to set up NPCs, and how to tie it all together to add some mature gameplay to your save. 😈

Misukisu/Virtual Artisan had a “Downtown Roles” mod that sadly does not work anymore for the latest versions of TS3. Her mod basically allowed players to add role sims to community lots so your sims could have more NPCs to interact with, making the lots feel more alive in a mature "downtown" sort of way.

I was inspired by her mod and I want to share how you can recreate and expand her mod’s functions with Nraas Register and Arsil’s Custom Generic Role mod. Some players might already know how these mods work, but it was a new discovery for me. I didn’t know how useful role sims could be! It got the gears in my dirty mind turning.

The main purpose of this mod list/tutorial: to add role sims to community lots for your main sims to interact with, while they’re out on the town. These will be sims outside of your household. Their main “job” is to hang out at the lot. You can let the game generate new sims to fill these roles, or assign existing sims in the town to fill the roles.

Examples of role sims you can create: 

A regular patron at a dive bar for your sim to befriend or make enemies with.

A sexy single sim at a beach, gym, pool, bar or club for your sim to mingle and hook up with. 

An escort at a brothel for your sim to woohoo with (Passion mod). 

A client for your sim to sell drugs/weapons to (MonocoDoll Vile Ventures mod and Arms Dealing mod) - I have not tested this but in theory it should work. 

You can add multiple role sims on each lot. You could have a number of partygoers on a club lot/a number of escorts on a brothel lot/a number of mobsters or criminals on a warehouse lot who will always be there when your sim visits.

Why role sims?

Townies are unpredictable - you never know which lot they’ll show up on, and how long they’ll stay. Role sims will consistently be there as the supporting characters in your main sim’s story. 

Having consistent NPCs at certain locations around town can help with story-driven gameplay scenarios.

You can move a household of your own sims into town and assign them to fill various roles. See pretty NPCs around town!

If you let the game generate new sims for the roles, then it saves you the hassle of setting up new households yourself. You can always edit them later in CAS.

Limitations: 

According to Arsil, it seems like sims who are already employed (such as most townies) will be removed from their jobs if they are assigned to be role sims. So I would avoid using any employed townies for this unless you are ok with that. Use unemployed residents instead.

I believe the role sim cannot leave the lot during the designated work hours. Your sim cannot form a group with them and go to another venue. However, you can invite the sim over or hang out afterwards from the relationship panel.

Mods Needed:

Nraas Master Controller + Integration Module

Nraas Register

Arsil‘s Custom Generic Role mod (both the floor marker and the desk)

Passion (if you want your sim to be able to have sex with the role sims on the lot or have the role sims dance on the stripper pole) 

MonocoDoll’s Vile Ventures mod (if you want to create NPC clients for your sim to sell to) 

MonocoDoll’s Arms Dealing mod (if you want to create NPC clients for your sim to sell to) 

How to Set Up: 

Step 1: Install the mods listed above. Then, open the save file you want to add some downtown sleaze to. 

Step 2: Find a community lot you want to add role sims to. This could be a bar, nightclub, brothel/motel/strip club, a run-down warehouse or block of buildings, casino, etc. I have downloaded many lots from Flora2 at ModtheSims and @simsmidgen here on Tumblr that fit the gritty urban vibe.  

Step 3: Enter Build/Buy mode. You can do this from Live mode. 

Press Ctrl + Shift + C, enter this cheat: testingcheatsenabled true 

Press the Shift key and click on the ground of the community lot. 

Click on “Build on this lot”. 

You can also enter Edit Town mode to renovate the community lot. 

Step 4: Place Arsil’s Custom Generic Role floor marker or desk on the lot. Place one for each role sim you want to create. They are located in Build Mode -> Community Objects -> Misc. If the desk looks out of place, use the floor marker instead. 

Step 5: In Live mode, click on the object -> Settings to set:

The name of the role (clubgoer/stripper/escort/mobster/etc.) 

The “work” hours the sim will be on the lot for 

The days off 

The motives to freeze or not (I recommend freezing all the motives to avoid interactions being interrupted/sims complaining due to low motives) 

If the sim you want to assign to the role already lives in town, click on the object -> Nraas -> Register -> Select -> Choose criteria -> select the sim from the list. I would avoid choosing any employed townies as they may lose their job when switching to this role. Choose unemployed residents to avoid conflicts.

Remove assigned roles: click on the object to remove the sim from the role.

Step 6: In Live mode, click on City Hall -> Nraas -> Register

Allow immigration: choose whether you want new sims to be moved into town to take the roles (enable this if you want the game to generate new sims for the roles) 

Allow immigration = False: if you set this option to false, then a new option called "Find Empty Roles" should appear. You can then assign any sim to the role object you placed, from City Hall.

Allow resident assignment: choose whether you want existing unemployed townies to be randomly assigned to fill the roles (I recommend to disable this. I had Buster Clavell show up to work at my strip club. NO!)

Pay per hour: I'm not sure how to adjust the pay for each custom role but you can just leave it at the default or change it globally

Remove roles: click on the object to remove the sim from the role, or click on City Hall -> Nraas -> Register -> Global Roles -> Remove by sim

Step 7: In Live mode, give the game some time to generate the role sims. Visit the community lot and have a look at your new role sims. The role sims should autonomously interact with other sims and objects on the lot. Using Nraas Master Controller, you can take the sim into CAS to give them a makeover, edit their traits, or replace them with a sim from your sim bin. 

Step 8: Make your sim interact with the shiny new role sims and play out the storylines you always wished were possible. Public hookups, functioning brothels, selling drugs and guns - this is what The Sims 3 was made for, baby!!! 

Related Mods:

Arsil’s Exotic Dancer Stage - if you have a club community lot, you can use this mod to hire dancers. You can use role sims to add other NPCs to the club such as guests, shady business sims, or non-dancer sex workers. 

Nraas Relativity - this handy mod can slow down the speed of time so your sim can spend more time doing their "activities"

Nraas Woohooer - if you don’t want the explicit sex animations from Passion, you could use this mod instead to provide more woohoo options. 

Passion - for brothels/strip clubs, this mod will add sex animations and the ability to have role sims dance on the stripper pole. 

MonocoDoll’s Vile Ventures mod and Arms Dealing mod - you can use role sims to create more clients for your sim to sell drugs and weapons to, like different individuals/gangs/mobs. You could have different clients hanging out at different spots in the city. 

LazyDuchess Lot Population - this mod populates community lots with townies, and they can interact with the role sims you’ve created. 

Service Sims Out on the Town - this pushes service sims to visit community lots, to add even more variety to your crowds. 

Conclusion

If you made it to the end, thank you for reading. Please let me know if you try out this style of gameplay, and if you have ideas for more role sims and community lots to make. This tutorial was NSFW-oriented but you could easily adapt it to create NPCs for SFW community lots.

[ranticore]

some more horse guy fashions, specifically historical

erased the mandolin for this one goodbye mandolin i couldn't be bothered drawing you

so my thought process for this is like what would a society of, lbr, british ppl who are horses value and how would that translate into what they wear if they specifically don't have a taboo against nudity. these fashions are pre-florian conversion (florian was the guy who gave them all government-mandated shame) and considered traditional (the full coverage dresses are also traditional but to a post-florian period so those would be called like. idk. classical). they were still in use in the enclaves north of ironwall for quite a while. anyway returning to the point, the answer to 'what they value' is movement. in actual horses, herd hierarchy and social function is based off movement - free movement for animals for whom the flight response is so strong is an incredibly important thing. dominance in horses is expressed and reinforced by controlling and curtailing the movement of subordinates. for these people, free movement was enhanced by kinetic fashion - free-flowing garments like capes, loosely-pinned headgear with feathers and floaty cloth, and noise-generating devices like bells and chimes were all used to elaborate and enhance the appearance of somebody's gait. the overall look was mostly based off of morris dancers (pheasant feathers, bells on the legs, handkerchiefs) because i like the tie-in to suppression of folk dance by puritans. i think these guys would have some great folk dances

in much the same way trainers are just normal everyday footwear now, game kerchiefs/flags were worn in non-sports contexts because it suffused into the mainstream and became Cool. the flags were used in a game similar to tag rugby if you've ever seen that played (where snatching people's flags is used instead of full contact tackling, forcing someone who's been 'tagged' to stand still until the flags are returned). as i said before somewhere, centaur team sports go incredibly hard.

the tail ornaments were status symbols and in appearance a bit like the traditional show turnout of shire horses. woven grass and straw could be used for a temporary ornament like these, but metal or carved wood were really impressive, and very common gifts of favour between romantic partners. more flags could be hung there if you wanted to be really cool

variations of this style of mane décor were also employed (they loved their ribbons)

in the same time period, Ironwall fashion was a little bit different. These expensive caparisons were usually purchased secondhand after a real horse was done wearing them, with distinct front and back halves of different length. The garments would usually have the original liveries removed and replaced by generic religious iconography as few centaurs would ever have their own heraldry. Later, in the Georgian and Victorian eras, full coverage to the pasterns with a single undergarment was the only acceptable option (that's the classical style now) The rest of the picture is self-evident, but centaurs at the time wore additional... equipment on the withers which were called a variety of very colourful names but mostly referred to as gelding bars (as in, they will geld you if you sit on them). they were metal and spiked. these were introduced by the florian government to discourage the grossly inappropriate contact of one person's legs around another. previously there was no great taboo against riding on a centaur's back, it wasn't super common but nobody was like "this is basically public sex" until our pal centaur cromwell i mean florian came along and decided this was the work of the devil. young people were also made to wear these to discourage the homosocial behaviour very common to the mid-20s age groups of both sexes, and they also had a place in preventing stallions from wrestling (ironically increasing the danger of their fights because well now all we can do is stand back and kick). the wearing of these devices was mandatory. headcoverings were not strictly necessary, and neither were fully-wrapped tails, but some especially devout citizens took to it quite well.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Ok so Harry has a tendency to blatantly state out loud just how much the Dursleys don't give two shits about him (to the point that the people around him think it's just a typical teenager over exaggerating their complaints), but... Does he realise that the way he is being treated by them is wrong?

Also like, I know that the way the Dursleys treated him plays a huge part in the way Harry behaves and views himself- specifically him not thinking an adult is a reliable source of help and protection + his disastrouly low self esteem + how he doesn't respond to Snape's everything (which is the exact opposite of what James would have done) ... But what are the other ways in which he got affected and it shows? (Someone once mentioned that they hc that when feeling extreme emotions Harry tends to skip out on food and may have nearly wasted away in his second year had it not been for Ron and Hermione- which is also why they act so much like Harry's bodyguards)

Yep, Harry put no effort into hiding his abuse. He literally told anyone who would listen. By 5th year, he was making jokes about it to Ron and Hermione who seemed used to it.

Now, you've raised a few questions and I'll try to answer them to the best of my ability.

Does he realise that the way he is being treated by them is wrong?

I think he does. Most of his comments about his relatives' treatment definitely sound like Harry is very aware that he shouldn't be treated like that.

“I told you, I didn’t — but it’ll take too long to explain now — look, can you tell them at Hogwarts that the Dursleys have locked me up and won’t let me come back, and obviously I can’t magic myself out, because the Ministry’ll think that’s the second spell I’ve done in three days, so —” “Stop gibbering,” said Ron. “We’ve come to take you home with us.” “But you can’t magic me out either —” “We don’t need to,” said Ron, jerking his head toward the front seat and grinning. “You forget who I’ve got with me.” “Tie that around the bars,” said Fred, throwing the end of a rope to Harry. “If the Dursleys wake up, I’m dead,” said Harry as he tied the rope tightly around a bar and Fred revved up the car. “Don’t worry,” said Fred, “and stand back.”

(COS, page 31)

“It was cloudy, Mum!” said Fred. “You keep your mouth closed while you’re eating!” Mrs. Weasley snapped. “They were starving him, Mum!” said George. “And you!” said Mrs. Weasley, but it was with a slightly softened expression that she started cutting Harry bread and buttering it for him.

(COS, page 39)

But Harry wasn’t going to stand for this. Gone were the days when he had been forced to take every single one of the Dursleys’ stupid rules.

(GOF, page 33)

“Excellent,” said Lupin, looking up as Tonks and Harry entered. “We’ve got about a minute, I think. We should probably get out into the garden so we’re ready. Harry, I’ve left a letter telling your aunt and uncle not to worry —” “They won’t,” said Harry. “That you’re safe —” “That’ll just depress them.” “— and you’ll see them next summer.” “Do I have to?” Lupin smiled but made no answer.

(OOTP, page 54)

“You don’t seem to need many qualifications to liaise with Muggles. . . . All they want is an O.W.L. in Muggle Studies. . . . ‘Much more important is your enthusiasm, patience, and a good sense of fun!’ ” “You’d need more than a good sense of fun to liaise with my uncle,” said Harry darkly. “Good sense of when to duck, more like . . .”

(OOTP, page 657)

It seems Harry is very much aware that the way he is being treated is wrong. the younger Weasleys and Hermione are clearly aware of that too. Harry calls the Dursleys' rules stupid, he knows the Dursleys aren't treating him the way they should and that he doesn't have to take it. That he shouldn't have to take it.

Harry is kind of a best-case scenario of an abused kid and Dumbledore was so lucky Harry ended up functional enough for his plans. It could've so easily gone down differently.

Honestly, I'm enraged on Harry's behalf at how Arthur, Molly, and Lupin (and every other adult) just completely ignore his mistreatment. He really does just state plainly what's going on and has Ron, Fred, George, and Hermione backing up everything he says.

What are the other ways in which he got affected and it shows?

I do like when Harry's approach to food is affected by the Dursleys starving him, that being said, there isn't really any book evidence for it. It's an interesting headcanon to explore though. His low self-esteem, willingness to endanger himself, and his thinking that adults be counted on are definitely effects seen in the books. As for other things we do see in the books:

1. Harry is actually really quiet. He doesn't speak as much as Ron and Hermione and he's pretty awkward with social interaction. He mimics Ron in many ways since he never had any friends before him.

His approach to studying is one of the ways he mimics Ron socially. Harry actually read their school books before 1st year, he found Hedwig's name in a History of Magic. And he planned to study at the beginning of Philosopher's Stone. Then he meets Ron and realizes no one in Gryffindor except Hermione actually studies, and she is hated for it. So he didn't bother studying either, even though he planned to because he wanted to fit in.

2. Harry isn't great at emotional regulation, specifically anger. Harry is a pretty angry character and throughout the books, he actually has moments when he completely loses himself to a sense of anger.

A boiling hate erupted in Harry’s chest, leaving no place for fear. For the first time in his life, he wanted his wand back in his hand, not to defend himself, but to attack . . . to kill.

(POA, page 339)

“Madame Maxime!” said Fleur at once, striding over to her headmistress. “Zey are saying zat zis little boy is to compete also!” Somewhere under Harry’s numb disbelief he felt a ripple of anger. Little boy?

(GOF, page 275)

Harry sat there staring at Snape as the lesson began, picturing horrific things happening to him. . . . If only he knew how to do the Cruciatus Curse . . . he’d have Snape flat on his back like that spider, jerking and twitching. . . .

(GOF, page 300)

If Dudley’s friends saw him sitting here, they would be sure to make a beeline for him, and what would Dudley do then? He wouldn’t want to lose face in front of the gang, but he’d be terrified of provoking Harry. . . . It would be really fun to watch Dudley’s dilemma; to taunt him, watch him, with him powerless to respond . . . and if any of the others tried hitting Harry, Harry was ready — he had his wand . . . let them try . . . He’d love to vent some of his frustration on the boys who had once made his life hell —

(OOTP, page 11)

He does calm down the older he gets. But he definitely has a lot of anger in him.

3. Harry, in general, has a disrespect for authority. I assume this is an extension of his distrust of adults, in that no teacher or nurse ever helped him. Harry is so anti-authority and anti-orders, that he can resist the Imperius Curse decently from the first try.

Harry just doesn't do orders or authority. Actually in the earlier books, and even in books 6 and 7, Harry has his doubts about Dumbledore. He repeatedly tells people he's Dumbledore's man, but in his head, he has doubts. Like he has for any other adult with authority over him.

“Dumbledore’s been driven out of this castle by the mere memory of me!” he hissed. “He’s not as gone as you might think!” Harry retorted. He was speaking at random, wanting to scare Riddle, wishing rather than believing it to be true —

(COS, page 282)

“Because the Ministry of Magic’s still after me, and Voldemort will know all about me being an Animagus by now, Wormtail will have told him, so my big disguise is useless. There’s not much I can do for the Order of the Phoenix . . . or so Dumbledore feels.” There was something about the slightly flattened tone of voice in which Sirius uttered Dumbledore’s name that told Harry that Sirius was not very happy with the headmaster either. Harry felt a sudden upsurge of affection for his godfather.

(OOTP, pages 82-83)

He's very distrusting of adults and authority, but also his peers. He doesn't tell Ron and Hermione everything in the earlier books because he is very slow to trust. Which, makes sense for someone who grew up like he did.

4. His occasional impulsiveness is an extension of his issues with emotional regulation, I think.

5. I think Harry's cunning Slytherin streak is a result of his abuse. The Dursleys' mistreatment taught him to sneak around, to lie, to be clever. It taught him to keep a blank face when being yelled at because if he reacted it'll make it worse.

He learned how to insult the Dursleys in ways that go over Dudley's head. His little way to rebel.

6. His response to pain as well. We see it with Umbridge and the blood quill for example:

He let out a gasp of pain. The words had appeared on the parchment in what appeared to be shining red ink. At the same time, the words had appeared on the back of Harry’s right hand, cut into his skin as though traced there by a scalpel — yet even as he stared at the shining cut, the skin healed over again, leaving the place where it had been slightly redder than before but quite smooth. Harry looked around at Umbridge. She was watching him, her wide, toadlike mouth stretched in a smile. “Yes?” “Nothing,” said Harry quietly. He looked back at the parchment, placed the quill upon it once more, wrote I must not tell lies, and felt the searing pain on the back of his hand for a second time

(OOTP, page 267)

Harry can hide his pain and not react to it, and he does it well. He learned from the Dursleys that she wants to see his pain, and he isn't going to give her what she wants. Instead, he grits his teeth through it and doesn't react externally.

Even later in the book when Umbridge threatens with the Crociatus Curse, Harry just braces himself for it, not planning to break (in later books too, Harry is very willing to get hurt and just deal with it). He is willing to take torture without reacting, and I think this is something he got from the Dursleys.

These are the some other things that came to mind regarding your question. There are probably more that I can't think of now that I might add later. Harry is who he is in part because of his nightmare of a childhood. So many facets of his personality just link back to it.

[lalalanayo]

[LANA]Dopamine Set(kitchen PART)

Dopamine set for this summer!

including 20 CC

5-12 swatches

game version:1.89

thumbnail and screenshot are shown

public time:2024/7/31(free) || 2024/7/15(Tie 1) || NOW(Tie 2/3)

The table is as high as bar.

The chair has 2 versions: one is used as dining chair but it's as high as bar chair.

The trash can is functional.

You can find them easily by searching LANA/Dopamine in the game.

download link: patreon

[star-crossed-fates]

Even My Damnation Spells Your Name

Chapter 7: Written in My Pulse

Synopsis: In a city of steel and stars, you fall in love with a man the world calls a monster. He looks at you like you’ve haunted every life he’s ever lived. Sylus is danger wrapped in silk, secrets stitched into every glance, every touch, every word spoken like a spell. He’s yours before you even realize what you’re remembering.

Because this isn’t the first time.

Dreams unravel you. Memories not your own. A dragon’s death cry. A kiss beneath bloodied skies. A love too eternal to stay buried. As the past bleeds into the present, you begin to piece together the truth. Some memories burn brighter than the stars, others wound deeper than any blade.

And love, no matter how timeless, always demands a price.

Pairing: Female! MC [Named] x Sylus

Rating: Explicit 18+ [MDNI]

Spoilers: Sylus's myth cards/memories. Please note: memories might be a little different than from game for story purposes.

Warnings: NSFW, Explicit smut, including various kinks: Praise, degradation talk, first time, CP, DP, anal sex/play, probably some Dragon!Sylus smut, maybe a lot of it. Many, many more that I'm forgetting to list. Consider yourself warned. - Unlikely to be completely canon. - MC is named. Her personality is darker than in the game, far more morally grey. - Switching between MC's memories/dreams/flashbacks and current timeline. - Other love interests will not show up in this. - Some plot, but not super planned out. Basically, this is a "what if the closer they became, the more MC remembers her life with him on Philos.

You don’t belong here. The thought cycles for the third time as you sip on a flute of champagne that tastes like carbonated disappointment. Gold glitter swirls in the glass because someone somewhere decided that Linkon’s high society needed their drinks to shimmer like fairy vomit.

Nina leans into your side, grinning like she’s just found the last donut at a debrief. You’re both tucked away in a corner like delinquents at a school function. The ballroom is polished marble, decadent chandeliers, and people with names like Worthington and Deveraux discussing fiscal policy and post-Wanderer tax relief. Truly thrilling stuff.

Some wear supposedly symbolic masks, but all you can think about is how the real masks are the invisible ones, plastered in false smiles and manicured charm.

Ethan appears before you like a bad rerun, smile too wide and tie too tight. You sigh internally.

“Anira, hey!” He greets an octave too high, clearly a few drinks in. “Didn’t think I’d find you all the way over here in the… anti-social corner.”

Nina slides away with a whisper of, “Good luck,” and you silently curse her betrayal.

Ethan leans in too close. “You look incredible tonight. That dress—wow. Didn’t know Hunters cleaned up this well.”

“I clean up just fine when threatened with mandatory attendance and department-wide guilt-tripping.”

He laughs, missing the dry edge in your tone. “You know, they’ve got this whole garden terrace upstairs. Real quiet. Real private.”

You blink at him. “That sounds like a terrible place to get murdered.”

He falters, smile wilting, but rallies. “I was just saying—”

“Ethan,” you interrupt gently, “I appreciate the compliment, but I’m not looking for a terrace murder or a slow dance. I’m just here for the open bar and my annual quota of forced social interaction.”

He opens his mouth again, but you’ve already turned back to your drink, tilting it toward him slightly. “Cheers.”

Ethan slinks away, leaving you in blessed silence, or at least the closest thing to it in a ballroom filled with violins and champagne flutes. You catch yourself staring into the glittered fizz, the sound around you fading like fog against the tide.

Days have bled forward, but a name-shaped shadow stretched across your spine continues to cling. His voice still murmurs in the silence between heartbeats, echoing down a corridor of thought that shouldn’t exist.

You’ve turned it over in your mind until it splintered beneath the pressure of logic. Truth is circling just out of reach, coiled and waiting, and whatever it is, it doesn’t feel small.

It feels seismic.

There’s a tremor threading below your skin, as though some ancient part of you is beginning to stir, rising slowly from where it’s slept in the hollowed chambers of your bones.

Even now, his voice lingers in your chest, curling like smoke through the latticework of your ribs, as if your body were built to echo him. Whatever that was—whatever it still is—etched itself into the architecture of your mind, a scar that glows when you breathe too deep.

You shift your weight, heels biting into your ankles with the elegance of a slow betrayal. Across the ballroom, Nina is contorting her face into a tragedy of epic proportions behind a flute of champagne. You stifle a laugh with a breath of a smile, slanted and too tired to bloom fully.

You’re supposed to be paying attention. To the speeches. The fundraiser. The orchestral swell of ego in tuxedos. But your mind keeps backsliding back to him. He lives in the part of your brain that won’t shut up at night, the yearning that never learned to behave.

The air shifts as if the room exhales all at once and forgets how to breathe back in. Everyone's attention snaps to the ballroom doors as if fate has just walked in. You follow their lines of sight, but truthfully, you already know who you’re going to see.

Sylus.

Stars curse you; he looks like sin dressed in shadow. Tailored black suit, the kind that drinks the light and kisses every sharp line of him. Silver hair styled like moonlight frozen mid-fall. Those eyes burning infernal, steady as eclipses, unbothered by the sea of teeth and secrets around him as if he’s already named every threat in the room and deemed them unworthy.

He looks like a god built for ruin.

He walks toward you without breaking stride. Every movement is smooth, intentional, and unapologetically lethal, like he could waltz his way into heaven or hell, and neither would dare stop him.

Nina appears by your side, staring at him with a kind of reverent awe. She leans toward you, eyes wide. “Anira… Is that him?”

You don’t answer, because Sylus is already standing in front of you with a little curve of his mouth that makes the room fall away. “Evening, hope I’m not late.”

Before your brain can even attempt a reboot, Nina barrels past you like a one-woman stampede. “Oh my god,” she exclaims, grabbing his hand like she’s meeting a celebrity. “You’re him, aren’t you?”

Sylus raises an elegant brow. “Him?”

“The mystery guy Anira’s been daydreaming about! The one she’s been doodling in the margins of her reports and drooling over during briefings—”

It comes out in one long, horrifying breath. You make a very specific, strangled, soul-leaving-your-body kind of sound. You are torn between three options: Launching yourself out the nearest window. Stuffing Nina into a decorative urn. Simply dropping dead on the spot and letting the gods sort it out.

Sylus’s eyes, twin shards of garnet dusk, cut to you with a glint that dances like a secret on the edge of his mouth. “It better be me she’s been drooling over.”

Your eyes narrow, but he’s already giving you a look—half-amused, half-daring—a sidelong little tilt of the head that sends heat pooling low in your spine.

“I’ve been daydreaming about food, actually,” you say coolly, folding your arms like a shield you know won’t help. “Particularly dumplings. Very romantic dumplings.”

“Oh, I see,” he sulks, as though deeply wounded. “So I’ve been replaced by steamed carbs.”

“Not replaced,” you correct sweetly. “Just… prioritized.”

Nina looks between the two of you, grinning like she’s watching her favourite drama unfold in real time. “Oh, this is way better than what I imagined. You guys flirt like it’s a sport.”

Sylus chuckles smugly. “I do enjoy a bit of cardio.”

You shoot him a look. “Try walking home.”

Nina gives you a not-so-subtle wink and excuses herself. “I’m gonna go find more champagne and definitely not eavesdrop from ten feet away.”

She vanishes before you can stop her, leaving you alone with a man who is absolutely going to ruin your night in the most spectacular way possible.

Sylus leans in just a little, just enough for only you to hear. “Dumplings, huh?”

“Don’t you have a zone to rule?”

He grins. “Later. Right now, I’m prioritizing.”

You stand there with your arms still crossed, trying to recalibrate while he towers over you like he belongs in this room and every room you’ll ever walk into.

“What are you doing here, Sylus?”

His eyes sweep across your face slowly, and you’re painfully aware of how close he is. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he states.

You open your mouth to protest, but… you have. You’ve buried yourself in reports, doubled your hours at the range, and even let Nina drag you to a yoga class that almost snapped your spine in half just to keep your mind away from silver hair, red eyes, and the memories that are not your own.

He tilts his head slightly. “So I thought I’d come to you.”

Your heart gives a stupid lurch in your chest, and not even your snarky reflexes can save you fast enough. “Risky move,” you manage. “This room is full of Hunters.”

He shrugs, elegant and unbothered. “I’m not worried.” His expression shifts. Quietly, like it slips out before he can think better of it, he admits, “I wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

It hits you right in the sternum. You blink, stunned for half a second. Of course, that’s when fate decides to intervene.

“Anira,” your name drops like a threat.

You flinch.

Ethan. You can already smell the whisky on his breath before he’s in range. He’s not sloshed, but he’s definitely had enough to inflate his ego to critical mass.

He zeroes in on Sylus, shoulders squaring like a cat puffing its fur. “This guy bothering you?”

Sylus straightens from his lean, smooth-as-poured-silk. “Not yet. Should I be?"

“You her boyfriend?” Ethan sneers.

You cough loudly, stepping between them before Ethan combusts from sheer alpha energy. “Alright, that’s enough testosterone for one evening.”

Ethan glares but backs off a little, muttering under his breath about needing another drink. Sylus watches him with amused pity, like a wolf indulging a housecat that thinks it’s a lion.

“Was that the part where I was supposed to be intimidated?” he asks mildly.

“Don’t tease him,” you grumble. “He’s harmless.”

“Mm. He wanted to fight me with his feelings.”

You snort. “You’re such an ass.”

“Only when it works,” he retorts, offering you his hand. “Dance with me?”

The moment your fingers brush, it’s like flipping a switch. The ballroom narrows to a single thread of gravity, and you’re caught in the pull. One of his hands finds the small of your back, the other cradles your fingers with maddening reverence, as if holding a live flame he’s dying to be burned by.

It’s entirely appropriate. Chaste even. It still makes your thighs press together under your dress. He sets your skin alight, nerves singing in tongues you never learned but suddenly understand. The music is slow and classic, but his fingers drift just enough to keep your skin buzzing.

It’s the kind of wanting that lives in marrow, that speaks in the language of forgotten nights and what-if dreams. Your traitorous mind can’t stop imagining the ruin of your name on his lips, shattered on pleasure, spat like sin, or moaned like prayer.

Either would wreck you.

You catch your lower lip with your teeth, and his eyes dip like you’ve whispered scripture. The space between you vanishes one stolen breath at a time.

Sylus moves like he’s written this rhythm into his blood. Every shift of his frame is perfectly measured, like he’s dancing along the edge of a blade and daring you to fall. His thumb traces a lazy circle in that tender hollow where your spine curves inward, a single motion that steals every coherent thought from your skull.

Your pulse hammers, frantic. Your breath stutters, catching like it’s tangled in lace. You’re dizzy with want, drunk on proximity. You wonder if he knows and is enjoying every second of your undoing.

You tilt your head back to meet his gaze and immediately wish you hadn’t. His eyes catch the chandelier light like garnets left too long in the sun, dark and burning, swallowing the fire whole. There’s hunger in them, old and barely leashed, that doesn’t ask permission. It prowls through your thoughts, curling into the hollow places you pretend don’t ache for him.

His thumb brushes a fraction lower, and your knees go weak. You curse these heels. You curse this dress. You curse the way your body is learning the shape of his with terrifying ease, already memorizing every shift of his weight, every breath he draws.

He’s not even trying, and still, restraint feels like a dying language on your tongue. You long to kiss him until the world forgets its name. Until yours dissolves between his teeth. Until your mouth knows nothing but the shape of him—his hunger, his heat, his name said like a secret too dangerous to keep.

Your entire body is trembling with the effort it takes not to crawl into his arms and do something deeply inadvisable right here on the glossy ballroom floor, in front of half the city’s elite and at least three people who’d probably faint.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you whisper.

Sylus leans just close enough that his lips nearly brush the shell of your ear. “Only if I’m losing.”

His breath is warm, and it sends a full-body shiver down your spine. Just when your mind starts conjuring images you absolutely should not entertain in public, he pulls back slightly to search your face with a tenderness that undoes you more than anything else.

“You look beautiful tonight.” It rumbles from him, soft as midnight rain and unbearably sincere.

You laugh, a breathless sound that barely escapes your lips. “And you look like the reason women make bad decisions in hotel elevators.”

He grins, slow as sin and twice as inviting. “Then I suppose the real question is…” He leans in, “Are you planning to make any bad decisions tonight, kitten?”

Bad decisions happen to be your favourite.

The air shivers between you, charged like stormlight caught in glass. Your blood has gone molten, your skin too tight for your bones.

And your mouth?

Your mouth aches with the ghost of a kiss not yet taken, like it’s already forgotten how to be untouched.

You don’t remember the drive. Only fragments like the blur of city lights smeared across the windows, the low hum of the engine swallowed by the sound of your pulse.

But his hand, you remember. Resting on your thigh like it had always belonged there, casual in its possession, maddening in its restraint. Each idle sweep of his thumb, an unfinished sentence on your skin. The way he looked at you parked beneath the hush of a red light, like he could taste the tension and was deciding whether to bite down or let you squirm.

Now, you’re inside a mansion that feels like it stepped out of another lifetime—sleek obsidian stonework with ceilings high enough to trap stars. The moment the door clicks shut, restraint fucking shatters. You’re on him like gravity has surrendered to want, hands splayed against his chest, chasing the rhythm of his breath as if it holds the key to yours. You kiss him like hunger given shape, a raw, relentless pull that strips the air from your lungs and replaces it with heat.

He stumbles back, laughter coiled tight in his throat but never quite escaping, his spine catching the wall in the shadowed mouth of the entryway. One brow lifts, carved in smug approval, but you don’t pause to admire it.

Your mouth is already reclaiming his. He tastes like dark promises and defiance, like a man who’s never known hesitation and doesn’t plan to start now. His hands find your waist, fingers flexing once, twice, before pulling you closer, until even the breath between you is stolen and shared.

You move like your body was born knowing the weight of him, the shape of him, and how to make him falter with nothing but touch.

You’re done holding back. His suit jacket slips from his shoulders, pooling at your feet without ceremony. Your fingers dive into the buttons of his shirt, too eager to care about precision. One snaps off and skitters across the floor, and his chest trembles with the unmistakable rhythm of a smothered laugh.

“Sylus,” you murmur against his neck, “don’t start.”

“I haven’t said a word.”

“But you’re thinking loud enough to make me bite you.”

He leans in, just enough that his lips almost brush your ear. His voice is smoke and velvet and amusement edged with hunger. “Then bite.”

So you do, just above his collarbone, sharp enough to make him hiss, sharp enough to make his grip tighten.

“Fuck,” he breathes, half-laugh, half-curse. “You’re dangerous when you’re done being polite.”

You pull back, flushed and furious with wanting, the taste of him still lingering on your tongue. “I’ve been good. So good, Sylus. Letting you circle me like you’ve got all the time in the world while I burn under your hands. But I’m done playing spectator to your self-control.”

His smile could tear a lesser woman in two. “You’re ready to lose control?”

Your nails dig into the edge of his shirt. “No. I’m ready to make you lose yours.”

His breath catches, but it’s the silence that follows that undoes you. His smirk doesn’t just fade. It shatters. His crimson eyes darken, catching the low light like coals stirred from slumber, like he’s been pacing the edge of this moment for far too long, waiting for you to open the cage and invite the fall.

“If you’re going to break, then let it be against me,” he purrs, voice scraped raw. One hand finds your wrist and guides your hand slowly over his heaving chest. “Be greedy with me. Take what you want. Show me what you desire.”

He kisses you like he already knows the shape of your hunger. One hand at the back of your neck, the other splayed at your waist, anchoring you to the present even as he dismantles it. His mouth moves slowly at first, teasing, letting you lean into him with an impatience you don’t bother hiding.

You melt forward with no resistance, pressing against him like you’re desperate to blur the lines between where you end and he begins. Your hands roam across the taut landscape of his chest, memorizing every rise and hollow like scripture.

Sylus presses you into the nearest wall with intent. His lips graze your jaw, the scrape of his teeth followed by the velvet flick of his tongue at your throat. It’s a worship, indecent in how reverent it feels. A slow descent into delirium.

His fingertips trace the arc of your hips, slipping just beneath the hem of your dress as if coaxing permission from your skin. Every drag of contact kindles that feral throb that’s lived too long between your thighs.

You reach for his belt, unthreading it in a single fluid motion. His breath stutters, but he doesn’t stop you. He watches. Still. Waiting.

His eyes are fire made flesh, burning without smoke, without apology. He lets you lead, and that power in your hands is as heady as the scent of his skin.

His hands begin to rise, fingers trailing up your thigh. When he reaches the edge of where your restraint erodes, you freeze.

“Wait.”

It comes out too fast, too sharp. Your body tenses against him. Sylus stops immediately. Not just his hands, but everything. The teasing drops from his face like a veil being drawn back, revealing gentle concern.

He leans back just enough to give you space without letting go. “What’s wrong?”

You feel the words clawing at your throat—hesitating now that they’re at the edge of your tongue. Your face burns. Your hands tremble just slightly where they rest on his chest, and you hate that after being so bold, this is what trips you up.

You force the words out, fumbling, letting your eyes fall to the floor. “I haven’t… done this before.”

His fingers brush under your chin, lifting your face back to his. “Anira.” He says your name like a prayer dragged over embers. His thumb drags lightly over your lower lip, slow enough to make your stomach clench. “If you need me to go slower… or stop entirely… say the word.”

You shake your head. “I don’t want you to stop.”

He smiles, slow, molten, deliciously dangerous. “Good, because I don’t think I could.”

His mouth finds yours like a vow etched in flame. No longer a question, but the answer to every agony you’ve carried in silence. The kiss is deep and devastating, a communion that unmakes you by degrees, trading breath for longing, hesitation for fervour.

His fingers slip beneath the delicate straps of your dress, touch scorching where it lands. He traces the slope of your shoulders as though memorizing the way you unravel for him. Inch by excruciating inch, he guides the fabric down, letting it sigh to the floor.

The air bites at your exposed flesh, but you barely register the chill. His hands are already there, anchoring you to his warmth, stealing your breath before the cold can even hope to claim it.

His strong arms curve around you, and he lifts you from the ground. You cling to him out of instinct, legs curling at his waist. He carries you through the hallway without looking away, like letting go of your gaze might break the spell between you.

The bedroom door eases open with a nudge of his foot, shadows stretching across the floor in soft waves. He lays you down with care that borders on reverence, and he stands over you for a single breathless second—eyes aflame, chest rising like he’s been holding his need on a blade’s edge.

You reach for him, fingers curling into the open edges of his shirt, and you drag it down his arms, knuckles brushing against taut muscle. The fabric slips from his shoulders like water over stone, catching at his elbows before he shrugs it free.

He’s cut from tension and midnight shadow, each breath stretching across his chest like he’s straining to keep himself from devouring you whole. You sit up slightly, palms sliding along the hard planes of him, nails grazing the dip beneath his collarbones, and the way his breath stutters makes heat coil low in your belly.

“You’re not real,” you murmur against his skin, lips brushing his sternum. “You can’t be.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, but it’s ragged around the edges. “Then don’t stop touching me,” he whispers, voice frayed. “Remind me I am.”

Sylus kisses you like he’s trying to collapse time, like if he goes deep enough, he’ll find the first moment your soul ever touched his. You can’t tell if this is longing or memory, but it’s splitting through you, like lightning seeking its twin in the open sky. You arch toward him, drawn by instinct, or fate, or the echo of home.

His hands skim over your breasts, teasing you through the lace of your bra before sliding around to unhook it with a deft flick. The air hits your overheated skin, and you shiver, nipples pebbling in the chill. He takes your pert nipple into his hot, wet mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. You don’t even realize you’ve whimpered until he smirks against your skin.

He groans softly, his hand slipping down your stomach and between your thighs to cup your pussy through your soaked panties. The heat of him, the pressure, makes you rock instinctively against his touch. All you feel is need, ancient and aching, like your soul is crawling back toward someone it never stopped belonging to.

His fingers slip beneath the delicate lace, brushing against your dripping lips. You gasp, hips bucking as he parts you gently, circling your clit with feather-light strokes that leave you aching for more.

Sylus’s hands move like your body is a language he once knew and is now relearning, one searing syllable at a time. You can’t tell if you’re trembling from want or memory. Only that his hands are both the cause and the cure.

His fingers hook into your underwear, tugging them slowly down your thighs. You lift your hips to help him, breath coming faster now, anticipation coiling tight in your core.

When you’re exposed and wanting before him, the hungry way he looks at you sends a shiver racing down your spine. His palm slowly ghosts back up your leg, and he has this look about him, as if he’s both savouring and mourning each caress.

You’ve never pined for safety the way you ache to unravel in his hands, to be stripped down to whatever soul he can summon from you. He holds you like he’s memorizing the shape of your surrender. Like he wants the echo of it on his palms for the rest of time.

“You undo me.” His breath is hot against your throat as his fingers glide through your seam, teasing and exploring as you tremble. “Every fucking time. Like you were made to break me open.”

He circles your clit with maddening slowness, drawing out your pleasure. You drown in sensation, in him, in an echo older than memory, rising too wild for the cage of your skin. Breath forgets you when he touches you. You become shards of want scattered across his palms, his lips, the low burn of his voice when he whispers your name.

One finger slips lower, circling your entrance tentatively before pressing inside. A broken whimper escapes your lips at the unfamiliar intrusion, the stretching sensation as he works you open. Your inner walls flutter and clench, trying to draw him deeper.

Your hips rock to meet his strokes, chasing the burgeoning bliss. He adds a second finger, pumping slowly, carefully. Letting you adjust to the feeling of him moving inside you. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing firm circles as his fingers thrust deeper, pushing you to the edge.

You run your hands over him like you’re mapping starlight, tracing muscle and shadow, wondering how something so solid can feel so celestial beneath your fingertips.

The tension snaps. Your release doesn’t shatter; it blooms. Fire unfolding in your belly, in your chest, in your throat, until all you can do is cry out his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known.

Sylus gentles as he works you through it, panting heavily as your pussy spasms around his plunging fingers. He doesn’t withdraw until he’s worked every last shockwave from your writhing body.

Your fingers brush the sharp lines of his hips, tracing the edge where fabric clings too tightly to skin. He watches you with maddening stillness, like a creature caught between indulgence and self-control.

You toy with the button at his waist, slip the fastening loose, and his breath hitches, not loud, not sharp, but enough to make your pulse stumble. The zipper yields with a sigh, metal teeth parting like a secret you’ve coaxed free, and when you ease the fabric down over the sculpted lines of his thighs, he finally moves—just enough to let them fall away.

Your breath catches at the sight of him, thick and hard and intimidatingly large. A pearl of moisture glistens at the swollen tip, and your mouth waters with the urge to taste.

The sight of him makes your breath stall in your throat. Like he was never meant for anything so mundane as clothing, like his body was carved to be seen in shadow and low light, to be touched in reverence.

Sylus settles his hips between your thighs, the hot brand of his heavy cock nestling against your soaked slit. “Do you want it, kitten?”

Do you want it? Holy fuck. There’s no word for the way your body aches. No language is vast enough for the need. It’s not just want—it’s famine. It’s centuries of thirst. It’s a hunger born before this lifetime, one your soul remembers even if your mind does not.

Every nerve in your body sings a single answer, louder than breath, louder than blood. You want it like you’re drowning and he’s the only air that’s ever mattered. You want it like it might destroy you, and you’ll fucking thank him for the ruin.

In answer, you reach down and wrap your fingers around his shaft, marvelling at the girth of him. He hisses through his teeth, hips jerking reflexively into your palm.

You give him a languid stroke from root to tip and guide him to your entrance. Even in the haze of desire, you tense instinctively. He's so much bigger than his fingers, hard and hot and heavy.

Sylus pauses, sensing your hesitation. He brushes a tender kiss to your forehead, your cheek, and the corner of your mouth. "We can stop," he reassures, voice settling low, a promise dragged over gravel, like he’s swallowing fire to keep you from burning "If it's too much, we can—”

“I think I’ve been waiting for you longer than I’ve even been alive," you interject. 

Your legs wrap around him and urge him forward, breath catching as he begins to push inside. It’s overwhelming, the feeling of him filling you inch by devastating inch. Your body yields to the insistent press of his, inner walls fluttering and clenching around his length.

“Breathe for me, sweetie,” he cajoles, brushing his lips to your ear. “You’re shaking. Is it too much?”

Your fingers find his back because you need to feel the way his muscles shift, like coiled storms under your palms. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He goes slowly, letting you adjust. The burn of it, the mind-bending stretch, has your toes curling. You make a choked little sound, low and pleading, hips rising as if your body is begging without your permission.

He bottoms out with a wrecked moan, buried to the hilt inside your tight heat. Your eyes flutter closed, breath coming in shallow pants as your body slowly relaxes. You feel split open, impaled on his girth. Every breath shifts him inside you, scrawling voltage down your limbs in a feverish script only your bones can read.

Experimentally, you roll your hips. Sylus groans, low and guttural, fingers digging into your thighs. Emboldened, you do it again, revelling in the drag of him, the exquisite friction. His breath tangles mid-air, suspended on a thread of sensation, as your body sinks him deeper.

Your hips shift restlessly, needing friction, needing movement to ease the building ache. He answers with a slow, deep stroke that makes your body chime in celestial static, constellations stuttering across your nerves like Morse code from a god.

A low moan escapes your kiss-swollen lips as he sets a steady rhythm of long, measured thrusts that have every vein and ridge of him sliding along your walls, hitting places inside you that you never knew existed.

It's all so new, so intense, that you are stripped of thought, pared down to pulse and craving and the echo of his name in your bones.

"Anira," he pants, voice fracturing on a moan, like the first crack in obsidian threaded with zeal he no longer bothers to hide. “You’re going to make me come just by squeezing me like that.”

When he moans your name, it doesn’t sound like a man losing control; it sounds like a man remembering something sacred. You’d let him ruin you a thousand times if it meant hearing your name in his mouth again.

Your head falls back, lips parting on a silent cry as his cock drags over that sensitive spot inside you again and again. Every kiss, every thrust, feels like falling upward, like being pulled into some higher place where pleasure doesn’t have a name strong enough.

“S-Sylus.” His name breaks from your lips like a spell that’s been waiting lifetimes to be spoken again.

“Say my name again,” he urges in a threadbare whisper fraying against your ear like it might fall apart. “I want to know how it sounds when it belongs to you.”

You recite his name like the word existed before time and your mouth was made to speak it. He reaches between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen pearl, sweeping over the sensitive nub as his hips stutter out of rhythm.

The added stimulation has ecstasy cracking open the sky behind your ribs, and every nerve becomes a burning sun. It’s as if he’s dragging the heavens through your skin, one breath at a time.

Your cunt clenches around his pistoning shaft, pulsing and fluttering as your orgasm rips through you. Your thighs tremble, toes curling as he fucks you through it. You are no longer a person, only sensation strung on the edge of his breath.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, breath hot and damp against your skin. You feel him throb and swell inside you, stretching you impossibly wider. His body trembles, and he mutters, half-formed and desperate, trying to tether himself to restraint. His control has always been a fortress—cold, towering, impenetrable—now it crumbles for you. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t—”

His words dissolve into a rugged groan, hips snapping forward as he spills himself inside you. You feel the hot rush of his release, the pulsing of his cock as he empties himself in long, shuddering spurts.

He repeats your name like it’s salvation, like you’re the shore his body crashes against, again and again, until he’s nothing but waves and you are the sea that drowns him.

For long moments, you lie tangled together, his softening cock still buried inside you as you both come down from the high. Your cunt throbs, pleasantly sore and still fluttering intermittently.

Reluctantly, he withdraws. You both hiss at the sensation, oversensitive flesh protesting the movement. A trickle of his release seeps out of you, warm and wet against your thighs.

He rolls to the side, pulling you with him until you're draped across his chest, head pillowed on his shoulder. You lie there in the hush that follows the storm. The world outside doesn’t matter. It’s just you and the man who peeled you open like a hymn and worshipped every fragile breath you gave him.

Your legs tingle in the most exquisite way, and your lips are swollen from too many kisses and not enough of them all at once.

He exhales, the sound low and molten, and you glance over to find his crimson eyes half-lidded. “Are you alright?”

You nod, a little dazed. “I think I’m dreaming.”

A slow, crooked smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “If you are, don’t wake up.”

You shift, your body sore and sated, and curl in closer. His scent pools in the hollow of your throat—red sandalwood and the scorched-sweet edge of burned amber.

Neither of you speaks. There’s no need. He brushes his fingers through your hair, over and over, like he’s memorizing the texture of trust. Does he feel it too, this impossible thread stitched between your bones and his?

“Say something,” you murmur into his chest, the words muffled by his heartbeat.

“Something?” he echoes, amused.

“Sylus,” you tut.

His breath is warm against your skin, and you can feel the slowly steadying rhythm of his pulse in your chest as you lie against him.

His voice cuts through the quiet. “You always wanted me to speak. Every time, like… you needed to hear it to know you’re not dreaming.” You shift against him slightly, tilting your head to look up at his face, but his expression gives you nothing. Just an unreadable calm, like the surface of still water veiling the pull of a hidden current far beneath. That odd, unwelcome feeling creeps up your spine.

What does he mean?

Fuck. I hope the wait was worth it. 😅

 Chapter Masterlist 

A03 [Cross-posted] 

Taglist: @mcdepressed290, @animecrazy76, @harmonyrae, @for-hearthand-home, @redseablooming

Take care everyone and enjoy! ☺️

[jeannyjaykaydeh]

Movie Lessons

(Part 3/3)

Part 2:

Part 1:

Alastor x Reader

A new day is dawning. Today you are up earlier than usual again. This time, however, you have no big plans. You just couldn't sleep anymore.

You walk down the stairs of the hotel and look around the lobby: Nobody seems to be awake yet. But before you decide to sit down at the bar and drink your tea alone, you see Alastor sitting on one of the bar stools. With his eyes lowered on the whisky glass in front of him, he seems absent-minded, as if he were in distress.

The Radio Demon and sorrow? These words don't really go together in a sentence.

You walk over to the bar to go behind the counter and make yourself a cup of tea. But just as you are about to fill the pot with water, you hear a snap of fingers and as you raise your head, you see that Alastor has conjured up a cup of freshly brewed, wonderfully fragrant tea for you.

‘Thank you,’ you say, smiling slightly shyly, and then you go to the bar stool and sit down.

You look at Alastor. He is still staring at his glass.

And then you take a deep breath and dare to ask him: ‘What's wrong?’

As if he has been torn from his deep thoughts, he jolts and looks at you, almost inconspicuously.

His smile turns into a grin that expresses false cheerfulness, and he replies: ‘What makes you think there's something wrong, my dear? Do you really think I'm one of those miserable souls trying to drown my sorrows in whisky and hoping that someone like you will play therapist and treat me? Ahaha, then you know me very badly, Y/N.’

Even though you expected this kind of reply from the radio demon, you are still a little offended and regret approaching him.

You turn away from him and pick up your teacup to inhale the fragrant vapours. You close your eyes with relish and sink into the pleasant atmosphere created by the fruity taste with a delicate hint of vanilla.

‘Anyway, how was the film?’ Alastor's voice suddenly pulls you out of your meditative state.

You open your eyes again, but keep them fixed on the cup. Slightly disgusted, you make a face and answer: ‘Pretty bad. Bad actors, hardly any action, a story with little content and insanely clichéd. For the most part, romantic films are simply unimaginative and don't exactly treat the relationship or women respectfully.’

You mutter the last sentence to yourself, but Alastor understands every single word. You can't see it, but a satisfied smile is forming on his lips as he looks at you.

He says, ‘Haha, I see what you mean, darling. Love films have no sense of truth.’

Now you turn to him again. Your look shows confusion and with a surprised laugh you ask: ‘How would you know? Since when does the great Radio Demon stoop to the level of a soap opera?’

‘Well my dear,’ Alastor raises an eyebrow and adjusts his bow tie, ’I am full of surprises, after all. But don't think that I have studied a picture box for my own amusement. And please don't think that I have even the slightest enthusiasm for inferior romantic performances. However, I am not spared the necessity to develop and learn occasionally.’

You sceptically eye the man next to you and nod hesitantly to show him that you understand what he has explained.

‘And... what have you learned?’ you now want to know, overcome with curiosity.

‘That the world can never function the way these strange stories suggest. A man will never win a woman's heart with such behaviour. This constant romanticisation of patriarchal conditions and the constant assumption that love can only be expressed through creativity and grand, extravagant acts, as well as the belief that all women want the same thing, is poison for human souls, and I am not surprised that there are so many of them in hell.’

You are momentarily taken aback. Then you realise that Alastor's critical words about patriarchy turn you on a little, and then it becomes clear to you as if with a snap of your fingers, and you remember the moment when Alastor almost killed you with a bouquet of flowers. He just said something about trying to learn something about films, and suddenly all the strange situations fall into place like pieces of a puzzle and it becomes clear what he was trying to do: he wanted to invite you on a date, and he tried to do so by looking at a method from a romantic film, copying it and trying it on you.

Your heart melts at this realisation and you now find the radio demon cuter than ever.

And you feel a little sorry for him.

There is a brief silence between you. You take a big sip of your tea cup - the tea tastes fantastic!

Then you put the cup down in front of you, think for a while and it doesn't take long for something to come to mind.

You smile slightly and reply to his speech from earlier: ‘I fully agree with you. Above all, who says that a woman always has to be wooed? She could also take the initiative and ask a man out if she is interested.’

Alastor looks at you questioningly and it seems as if he already knows the answer, because he is also good at reading between the lines. Before he can say anything, you get up from your bar stool, take his hand, kiss the back of his hand, and with an intense and charming look in his eyes, you ask: ‘Alastor. Would you like to go on a date with me?’

Amused, the radio demon begins to smile and he replies with a joking chuckle: ‘Oh, my dear Y/N. You really know what a man wants.’

[lovings4turn]

୭ 🗝️ ✧ ˚. 🪩 don't delete the kisses . . . (l.n.)

— you and lando walk a fine line between ‘just friends’ and something more. but sometimes, it seems like love just isn't meant for you (2.6k words)

+ mentions of drinking and clubs, a lot of miscommunication and pining but i promise it's somewhat fluffy. based on don't delete the kisses by wolf alice.

+ part two | divider from cafekitsune

lando: where r u???? 02:43

lando: y/nnnn:(( 02:45

lando: charls told me you left 02:48

lando: get hmome safe 02:49

you didn't mean to pull an irish goodbye, honestly. but the club was far too loud, and you were nowhere near drunk enough to tolerate the remixed house music and overpriced drinks for any longer.

the easiest option was simply to slip out unnoticed, send a quick text to let everyone know you were okay, and head home alone. if you'd mention your wanting to leave early, no doubt at least three of your friends would decide to leave with you in solidarity, no matter how much you insisted they stay and enjoy their night. that way, everyone was happy.

after confirming that the car you were about to climb into was your uber, you sank into the plush seat, offering your driver a tired half-smile through his rear view mirror. you were thankful that he seemed to understand you weren’t quite in the mood for conversation, and the rest of the ride was silent save for the music playing from his radio.

pressing your forehead to the glass of the window, you allowed your eyes to flutter closed as you thought over the events of the night, replaying every last detail in your head.

it had all started with the fucking shirt. 

official galas and nice dinners meant that you were no stranger to lando wearing nice shirts, the sleeves cuffed and a tie usually hanging around his neck. but when lando greeted you with a hug, his ironically named black button-down unbuttoned to the point that it could be considered obscene, you almost forgot how to function. warm skin pressed against your own, and you hated yourself for realising just how perfectly you moulded against his chest. 

never had you been more thankful for the presence of max verstappen, whose offer of heading to the bar allowed you the perfect chance to slip away and regain your composure. the red bull driver made small talk with you as the bartender took your orders, and you responded politely, nodding when you were supposed to and laughing along to the odd joke. 

but like a moth to a flame, you couldn’t keep your eyes from falling back onto lando. 

somehow even in a packed, lively club, lando’s presence shone the brightest out of all the partygoers. worst of all, he didn’t even have to do anything special. he was simply standing there, nimble fingers wrapped around a cup that you assumed contained a vodka soda as he laughed with his friends. dark curls had started to slip into his eyes, whatever he’d used to style them clearly wearing off as he began to sweat a little. 

even doing nothing, he managed to look like he’d fallen from heaven right into your life. 

someone up there clearly had it out for you, as lando scanned the room and caught your eye. to look away would only incriminate you further, make it look like you had been caught doing something you shouldn’t be, so you smiled. lando shot you a toothy grin back, eyes scrunched shut with the enthusiasm of it. 

a cold glass thrust into your palm stole away your attention, and you turned to meet the knowing smirk of max. he nursed his own drink, and one thick brow was raised in a silent question. though he never spoke, it was clear that he knew something was going on between you and lando.

maybe he didn’t want to embarrass you, or maybe he truly didn’t care, but whatever the reason max didn’t vocalise any of his thoughts to you. he simply nodded back over to where your group was standing and gestured for you to walk ahead of him. as you made your way back to the group, you suppressed the urge to worry your bottom lip between your teeth.

to anyone else, the interaction wouldn’t be much to think about. max had caught you, what, smiling at your friend? it was hardly criminal activity. you were just overthinking, the rational part of your brain insisted. but the other part took max’s expression and ran with it.

if max had noticed you harboured certain feelings for lando, then who else had drawn the same conclusions? the last thing you wanted was to be caught staring longingly over at lando, stars in your eyes and a far away look. 

in circles like these, people talked, and where formula one drivers went, gossip’s eye was never far around the corner. you’d seen it happen before to other drivers, countless tweets and headlines about who they were caught talking to or dancing with, and the last thing you needed was the speculation of the public on your relationship with lando.

sobered by this thought, you brought the paper straw to your lips, taking a long sip of your gin and tonic and hoping the alcohol would calm you down a little. much to your relief, almost upon arrival you were dragged into a nonsensical conversation with george, alex and lily. george’s slurred speech and alex’s loud laughter granted you a distraction, though it would be a lie to say that your eyes didn’t constantly wander back to lando.

but the heart wants what it wants, and so you couldn’t ignore him forever.

not even a second after an upbeat, bass-heavy song reverberated through the club’s speakers did lando appear by your side, grinning wildly.

“y/n! i’ve been looking for you, come dance w’me!” he shouted, dipping his head down to position his mouth next to your ear.

hot breath tickled your skin, and you shuddered slightly as lando’s larger hand enveloped your own, allowing him to drag you through the crowds towards the dance floor. every now and then, he’d peer over his shoulder to ensure you were still with him, the smile never leaving his lips. everything around him seemed to fade, the bright lights and crowds eclipsed by his radiance. 

the crowd seemed to open up around him, blooming like a flower to grant you both more than enough space to dance comfortably without the threat of being hit by stray limbs. lando didn’t even let you get your bearings before he spun you around, high pitched laughter managing to meet your ears even over the pounding music. 

it was impossible not to laugh too. you reached up onto your tiptoes, hand still in lando’s own, and spun him around in return. thanks to his height advantage, lando had to duck a little to make the move work, but his hair still brushed against your bare wrist as he passed under it. the tickle travelled along your skin like lightning, leaving goosebumps. 

dancing had never been either of your strong suits. even after years of clubbing together, it seemed that each night out was another chance to try to learn exactly what it was you were supposed to do on the dancefloors of clubs and bars, yet you never cared too much.

around lando, everything felt right.

you two continued to dance, mirroring each other's sloppy movements. lando shot you a faux insulted look as you imitated his default dance move, awkwardly moving one arm around to the beat and pointing to the ceiling.

"i do not look like that!" he protested, struggling to keep up his irritated act.

you only shrugged, smirking slightly as you continued to mock him.

another bass-heavy, sultry song began to play, and you dropped your hands. a re-evaluation of how you were supposed to dance was much needed, but lando was one step ahead of you.

without a second thought, lando's hands came to rest on your hips. he took a step closer to you, moving to the beat and prompting you to move along with him.

how you were still breathing was a miracle. 

lando was so lost in the music that he was oblivious to your abrupt change in demeanour. suddenly, everything was heightened. even the slightest brush of lando's thumb burned through the fabric of your dress, and you'd gladly bear the marks of the searing touch if it was proof he'd been there at all.

delight soon turned to nerves, as the butterflies in your stomach quickly evolved into wasps, prickly and angry. you'd gotten carried away, dancing with lando like this, and it was beginning to catch up with you. 

"i need some air!" you blurted.

lando's eyes snapped open, roaming over your face in concern. he lifted his hand to your face, but to do what, he was unsure. you cursed inwardly at his reaction, his kicked puppy look making you feel even worse.

before he could question you, you forced a wide smile, waving your hand dismissively. "i'm fine! go have fun," you promised, patting his shoulder firmly.

after lando had turned his back, you’d wasted no time in making your way to the club’s exit. just before you could slip through the doorway, you made eye contact with charles. the man only gave you an understanding nod, deciding it wasn’t worth it to pester you to stay.

cold wind whipped your cheeks, and for the first time in hours, you felt like you could breathe properly. haphazard texts were sent to a handful of people you’d seen tonight, and you’d ordered an uber straight after.

all that was left to do now was sit with your thoughts.

maybe romance wasn’t meant for you. maybe lando wasn’t meant for you. like some sort of divine intervention, your apartment came into view before you could spiral too far.

the familiar sight broke you from your daydream, as your focus now lay on getting out of the car and into your apartment without falling over or dropping anything. it was a welcome distraction from the thoughts of lando that plagued your mind.

it’s like your own head was conspiring against you: even when he wasn’t physically around, you still found a way to gravitate towards him.

there were few sights better than that of your freshly made bed, the sheets practically begging you to slip beneath them and go to sleep. unfortunately, you still needed to change out of your club outfit. and take off your makeup. and text lando back. 

fumbling around in your bag for your phone, you let out a triumphant noise and perched on the end of your bed to type out your reply.

y/n: sorry lan, i just-

[MESSAGE DELETED]

y/n: i'm home! sorry for leaving like that, it was-

[MESSAGE DELETED]

you groaned, pressing the palms of your hands into your eyes in an attempt to ground yourself. there was no reason you should be overthinking a text to lando, of all people. after a deep sigh, you let your fingers dance over the keyboard, rewriting yet another poor excuse for leaving unannounced.

y/n: home safe! sorry for disappearing, couldn't find u before i left and the uber was outside xx

your finger hovered over the 'send' button before you made one final, crucial revision to the text.

y/n: home safe! sorry for disappearing, couldn't find u before i left and the uber was outside:( 03:24

checking the time at the top of your screen, you figured that lando probably wouldn’t respond until morning. well, afternoon, more likely.

you’d been on countless nights out with lando before; by now his drunken behaviours were engraved into your brain.

like clockwork, lando would hit a certain level of drunk and abandon his phone altogether, opting to sling an arm around someone’s shoulder - usually yours - and drag them off to dance. he wouldn’t even think about his phone until the next morning, checking his messages after finding the device tangled somewhere within the sheets of his bed.

sleep quickly became your top priority. as tempted as you were to just lay down in your current state, you knew that the future, sober you would regret it. in your eyes, you deserved an award for dragging yourself to the bathroom and removing your makeup carefully, not without performing a shorter rendition of your skincare routine and brushing your teeth.

yes, your clothes were bundled up and thrown into the corner of your room, and you opted for an old t-shirt - frustratingly, one of lando’s - instead of a set of pyjamas, but you were only human. 

exhaustion seemed to take over you the moment that your head hit the pillow, and you let out a soft sigh of relief as sleep began to take its hold. messy curls and a bright smile was the last thing on your mind as you finally lost consciousness.

meanwhile, the other drivers were still in the club with no intentions of slowing down.

lando squinted at the bright screen of his phone, vaguely able to decipher the letters that made up your text. a sigh of relief escaped him as he realised you had gotten home safely, but disappointment still sat heavy in his chest.

“she’s home,” he shouted in oscar’s ear, though his teammate hadn’t asked.

oscar didn’t have to ask who lando was talking about to understand. he’d noticed that lando’s head had operated on a swivel from the moment he’d realised that you were nowhere to be found. he was like an owl, spinning around in a way that dizzied him, all in the hopes of catching a glimpse of you.

if ever questioned about the pout that settled on his lips, lando would probably blame the alcohol for causing his dramatics to be heightened. of course he wasn’t actually that upset that you’d opted to leave a little earlier, not at all.

“that’s good! she say why she left?” oscar shouted back, dipping his head down so lando could hear him a little better over the chaos of the club.

his question made lando frown further. 

“no.”

though it was in response to oscar’s question, lando’s answer was directed more towards himself, voice barely above a mumble. he’d only just realised that you hadn’t actually mentioned why you’d left the club early, just why you didn’t say goodbye.

deep in thought, lando’s brow furrowed as he tried to piece together some sort of timeline. last he’d seen you, you had been dancing together, having what he thought was a great time. okay, maybe his hands had wandered a little further than he’d expected, but it didn’t mean anything. he just got caught up in the moment, the fabric of your clothes beneath his hands far too tempting for him to be able to think clearly. 

fuck, what if he’d made you uncomfortable? 

lando knew that he became more touchy when he was drunk, his desire for affection growing exponentially as his propensity for shame decreased. your personal space became his, too. it was common for him to sling his arms around your waist, or rest his head on your shoulder as the night grew longer, but he’d never gripped your hips like that until tonight.

it would explain why you were in such a hurry to leave, not stopping to say goodbye to anyone and give them the chance to persuade you to stay for just one more dance. he’d overstepped an unspoken boundary in your friendship, and panic began to bubble in the pit of his stomach. 

lando swallowed thickly before standing up, garnering a confused look from the australian sitting next to him. 

“i need another drink. i’ll be back.”

before oscar could even speak, lando had disappeared into the thronging mass of the party without another word.

🏷️ tags : @faerieroyal @starriesworlds @itscrzy @srrcsm

[fairyboygenius]

lifeguard!ghost is shirtless at the pool. my personal headcanon is that he overheats easily and wearing a shirt would be a sensory nightmare for him. he’s almost comically big for the lifeguard chair and can never quite sit properly- one foot propped up on the armrest, manspreading to the extreme. the red swim trunks are tight around those tree trunk thighs. he does wear underwear under the trunks to avoid chafing and for monster dick purposes. he’s maskless at the pool (again with the overheating) but in the dining hall or out on camp, he wears a black gaiter made with cooling fabric over the bottom half of his face. off the chair, he wears athletic shorts and loose t shirts. sometimes they have a gimmicky phrase or a dad joke, other times they’re just a plain color. he does in fact tan (an impeccable bronze) and though he’s missing canon scars, he’s covered in moles, stretch marks, acne scars, scars from his father and a thick layer of golden hair on his chest. he has nipple piercings- two silver bars. the sleeve is still dark and moody because of course- a byproduct of his punk anarchist tendencies from sixth form & his first year of university. he still wears dog tags. shaves his face and nothing else.

lifeguard!butch!gaz is wearing a sports bra and swim trunks on the stand (she does not wear underwear). both red, both designed for function over fashion. she also manspreads on the chair, big sunglasses over her eyes as she observes critically. she wears her hair in short twists, and when she’s on the stand, she wraps it up in multicolored scarves. wash day is a pain in the ass in the camp showers, but she’s used to it. off the stand, she’s mostly wearing basketball or cargo shorts and boxy t shirts or muscle tees. the shirts are old concert tees from her moms and sisters. on cold mornings, she wears an oversized flannel on top of her shirt. the stack of faded friendship bracelets on her wrist never comes off- especially not the ones her dove gave her. a heart-shaped purple carabiner hangs from her backpack straps, the perfect place to hook her blue owala covered in stickers. she burns fairly easily when she’s not reapplying sunscreen, especially on her stomach and shoulders. she’s got a nose ring and a few tattoos- an anchor, an old school bird, a full-color hammerhead shark, a bunny. all in places hidden away from prying eyes. she takes the rest of her piercings out for the summer. she doesn’t shave, letting it all grow. (not pictured: sodapop in bi panic mode seeing ghost and gaz both man spreading on the stand)

STEAM specialist!butch!soap mostly exists in loose, baggy pants or boys’ basketball shorts and simple, athletic tank tops. he loves to flex and show off the beginnings of muscles, developed at camp. she’s also got a stack of quickly accumulated friendship bracelets. his shaggy, tangled wolf cut has an undercut, and she never has a hair tie. his carabiner is simple, classic- green like her backpack and bedding. she burns, turning tomato-red without consistenly reapplying sunscreen. he’s scared of needles and only has one tattoo. it’s on her right thigh, a tiny double venus easily hidden. when the kids ask what it means, he can smile vaguely and go back to staring at her coworker. when he gets to swim, she’s wearing an oversized t shirt over an athletic one-piece or wearing something similar to gaz. he hasn’t touched a razor in 7 years and ignores stares from people. sometimes she puts on goggles during experiments- not because they’re needed for baking soda volcanoes, but to make kids laugh & turn into a “serious scientist” for the day.

ranger john price dresses like my dad. he mostly wear jeans and plain t shirts, cargo pants and shorts making their way into his rotation fairly often. he’s partial to a flannel shirt- during the spring and fall, he’ll wear one unbuttoned enough to let the thick brown fur on his chest peek out. tattoos from his time in the military decorate his arms, chest, and legs. a bucket/boonie hat sits on his head when he’s working. his skin is leathery and tanned from these last few years working in the sun. he’s, of course, got the beard and mustache still, smelling like musk and trees. the happy trail is visible when he’s chopping wood and the bottom of his shirts ride up.

[friendlyneighborhoodslut]

The Roommate Agreement | 2-The Chaos Theory.

Pairing(s)/Tropes—Eventual Steve Harrington X Reader, slow burn/friends to lovers.

Summary—Reader gets a taste of the chaos that comes with the boys of Apartment 406D, and they offer her the solution to her problems.

Warnings/Extras—Strong language, bad parents, bugs, drinking and smoking, brief bar fight and mild violence. Drunk people being dumb. Steve and Reader shamelessly flirting. Eddie’s his weirdo self (we love him though). MDNI, 18+! Let me know if I missed anything!

MASTERLIST | | PREVIOUS PART | | NEXT PART

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

The smell of bacon mixes with the faint drift of three separate colonges, wafting through the apartment. I sit up out of my brother’s bed, feeling guilty that I took his bed and he slept on the couch. At the foot of the bed, a pair of fuzzy pink sweats and a matching sweater sit folded neatly. They’re clothes from my closet back at the Dorm, and I can tell by the meticulous fold that it’s my brother’s doing. I’m questioning his methods, wondering if he’s secretly been able to teleport this whole time, when a familiar feminine laugh echos down the hallway.

I quickly change and tie my hair up, practically sprinting down the hallway to the kitchen.

Daizy sits at the bar counter, coffee mug in hand, chatting it up with the boys. Steve cooks breakfast while Ben sits shoulder-to-shoulder with Daizy, working on his laptop. Eddie is in the living room, cleaning up beer cans and pizza boxes from after I went to bed last night.

“Bug! How dare you not call me last night?!” Daizy perks up.

I shudder. “I thought we agreed to let that nickname die,” I complain. “How’d you even find out I was here?”

“That nickname dies with me. And I called her,” Ben says casually, not looking up from the screen.

I shove him a bit but he is unwavering. I take a seat next to him.

“Bug, huh?” A sly smile cracks Steve’s features as he flips a sunny-side-up egg onto a plate, pushing it across the counter over to me. Our eyes meet and my face grows hot. I take the plate from him, staring down at it, and I wonder how he knew I’ll only eat my eggs sunny-side-up.

Maybe he’s a witch. It’d explain why he’s so pretty.

“She hates bugs, loathes them,” Daizy teases. “Been that way since birth,”

Daizy and I are three months, eighteen days, four hours and fifty-three seconds apart. Our moms are—were—best friends since high school, all the way up until her mom passed away two years ago from breast cancer. It was terminal by the time they found it. It must’ve unlocked a part of Daizy’s brain I suppose was hidden all this time, because since her mother’s passing she’s been to the doctor for ‘precautionary checks’ every Monday, without fail. She’s obsessed with it, to the point she ceases to function right for the rest of the week if she misses her appointment. Her biggest fear used to be deep water, but I don’t think it is anymore.

Daizy and my brother swear up and down that I’ve been scared of bugs since I could walk, but I swear I don’t remember being afraid of them until I accidentally stomped on a fire-ant hill when I was 5. They were everywhere, in my hair and on my eyelashes. I could see them, red blobs with antennas and six—disgusting—little legs, clouding my vision. I’d had itty-bitty bites that stung like hell for weeks all over my body, and my vendetta against ants specifically was forged during that time.

“How’d you get my clothes?” I ask Daizy because, let’s be honest, it was most definitely her that pulled off the heist. She’s like some sort of criminal mastermind.

“Got your roommate’s car towed then snuck in while she was distracted,” she tells me casually, chewing on some bacon.

Ben and I don’t flinch at Daizy’s usual temperament, but Steve’s eyebrows raise in a dumbfounded expression.

Eddie laughs from the living room. “I like her.”

“Where are you gonna go? Obviously not back to the Dorms, placements over,” Daizy recalls how I’d just barely cut it for getting placed with a roommate, because I didn’t find out I’d been accepted until a few weeks ago.

I shrug. “I’ll get an apartment nearby. Cut school down to part time so I can work enough to afford it,” It sounds so easy in theory; better said than done.

“You are not sacrificing school. No way,” Ben’s voice is raised, agitated. We all turn to look at him. He rubs his temples. “I watched you spend most your life trying to get into a school like this. I can’t let you put it on the back burner now. Academics first,”

“Okay Dad,” I scoff, but as I look up at him, I realize how much he really does resemble our father. He’s got his nose and the way it flares when he’s upset, the same eyes that wrinkle in the corners because he’s always squinting in thought. Most of all, he’s got that same perpetual look on his face: disapproval, disappointment.

“What am I supposed to do, then?”

His resolve fumbles a bit. He peeks at Steve through his lashes, whom simply shrugs and vaguely gestures to Daizy and I. I furrow my brows as they exchange some sort of bizarre telepathic communication, until my brother speaks. “I—we—will figure it out. For now I’ve rented a storage unit for your stuff. Pest control’s gonna come by tomorrow and bomb it for bugs,” he reaches into the pocket of his blazer, pulling out a metal ring with three keys on it.

“More moving, just how I wanted to spend my weekend,” Daizy half-heartedly jokes.

“Shop’s closed today. I’ll help,” Eddie offers, joining us in the kitchen. He snags a strip of bacon off of Steve’s plate, earning him a mild-tempered grunt.

Ben gives Eddie a foreboding glare. “Behave yourself, Munson,”

He shrugs. “Don’t I always?” He winks at me, and I’m positive it’s mostly to piss off my brother.

“I’ve gotta go to work,” Steve announces, sliding his plate to Eddie before moving to grab his coat from the rack by the door. I find myself wondering what someone like him does for work. I wrack my brain, then wrack and wrack some more. Then I question why I even care so much.

“Hey, I’ll be down after work for a drink. I need to talk to you about something,”

They make eye contact and, there they go with that wordless conversation. It freaks me out but I try to disregard it, as it’s none of my business. Though I am morbidly curious.

Ben also throws on his coat and grabs his briefcase. I know he works for a local law firm as a pre-law intern. A cushy job with across the board benefits, tuition assistance and a generous salary. Some call it luck but I see it for what it is; that he worked his ass off for that job. I remember when he’d call me every night after his interview, anxiously awaiting their response. That was two years ago, and now he’s only a year away from taking the bar and becoming a practicing lawyer.

“Edward, listen to me,” Ben instructs, pointing at Eddie as he inhales his breakfast. He makes a Hmph? Noise, half paying attention. “Wear plastic around your feet. Don’t bring any of those damn things into the apartment.”

“Yes boss.” Eddie rolls his eyes, saluting him. I snort and Daizy giggles.

I shake my head. Ben’s the same old big brother I remember with the soul of an old man, except now he’s seemingly keeping this apartment full of 20-something boys from falling apart. It’s endearing but also makes my chest pang with resentment. He’s replaced taking care of his real family in exchange for these college students. Not that I hold any of it against them. How would they know?

The door closes behind Ben and Steve, plunging the room into silence with a deafening click.

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

My brother must believe I own much more things than I actually do.

The massive storage unit sits mostly empty, an echo bouncing off its metal walls. I laid my books and clothes out on the concrete floor, just in case something decided to crawl into the crevices to hide. The thought makes me shudder and tense.

Eddie made crude joke about ‘finally seeing a girl’s underwear’, and while I’d typically be embarrassed, all I could do was laugh. His presence is a different level of infectious, like it’s impossible to be upset around him.

Luckily, Hailey was nowhere to be found while we were at the Dormitory. Class hasn’t started yet, so I’m left to assume she’s out looking for her next murder victim. Once the last box has been torn apart and the unit is locked down tight, Eddie drives us in his rickety van up to the University Housing office.

“Do you go to school here?” Daizy asks from the back seat.

Eddie laughs. “What, me? Hell no. I go to the DePaul across town,”

“The School of Music?” I inquire.

“The one and only,” he chortles.

“Gonna be a rockstar someday or what?” I joke.

“That’s the dream. Don’t worry, I’ll still write to you when I’m famous,” He jokes, parking in front of the administration building.

I stare at the front doors, the thought of crossing them daunting. Daizy reaches for me, squeezing my shoulder. ‘You’ve got this,’ she tells me silently, and I nod, unbuckling my frayed seatbelt and hopping out of the van.

There’s a singular woman at the desk, round face screwed up with annoyance. She doesn’t look up from her computer, and I cough awkwardly in hopes of getting her attention. She continues to type, unamused.

“Uh, hello?” It comes out ruder than I intend, and I cringe. She looks up at me through hooded, tired eyes. “I signed my housing contract a couple days ago but I need to move out. How do I go about doing that?”

She sighs loudly, rolling backward to grab forms off the desk behind her. She slaps the stack of papers in front of me. “You’ll need to provide ample reasoning for the contract termination. After we review we will determine how much of the semester you are financially liable for.”

“Financially liable? I don’t even live there,” I complain.

“It’s just like renting, sweetheart. You sign the contract, you pay the bill. You’ve got a week to bring all of these back.” She calls me sweetheart in that condescending, professional tone that makes my blood boil. I snatch the papers off the desk, forcing myself to be the bigger person and not glare at her. She is unbothered, turning back to her computer.

I storm back to the van with a scowl on my face and annoyance clouding my judgement.

“I take it that didn’t go well,” Daizy tests.

I groan, reaching behind me to show her the papers. She takes the stack from me. “What the fuck is this?”

“Bullshit, is what it is,” I tell her. Eddie extends his hand out to Daizy and she hands over the paperwork.

He scans it thoughtfully. “Don’t sign these. Talk to Benny about it first,” he tells me.

“I don’t need his help.” I scowl stubbornly, taking the papers back. I’ve learned my lesson in relying on people, and my brother is no exception to that. Besides, he’s helped me out enough. Daizy too.

Eddie opens his mouth to say something but his jaw snaps shut, an unreadable expression on his face. He silently puts the car in reverse, pulling out of the parking space.

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

I scroll through job sites on my laptop, mass applying to anything and everything. I stopped reading the job descriptions and qualifications about thirteen applications ago. Something will stick, I’m sure of it.

Back home, I worked as a barista right out of high school. I had impulsively moved in with my boyfriend at the time a week after graduation, and I needed a job to pay the bills stat. The local coffee shop graciously hired me. The job stuck, the boyfriend did not. Good riddance.

But now I’m jobless and boyfriendless, the latter of which doesn’t really bother me.

I know Ben’s right, even if I’ll never admit it aloud. I spent two grueling years applying to UChicago; poured my heart out into admissions essays, paid insane application fees. And for—what? To give up now? It’s not an option.

Eddie sits across the room on a beanbag chair, plucking at his electric guitar, occasionally adjusting the amp.

“You’re much nicer than your brother, y’kow,” Eddie breaks the silence so suddenly it’s startling.

I peek up from the screen. He’s looking at me with adorning eyes, curiosity playing on his lashes.

“Thank you?”

“Why’s that?”

“Why’s what?”

He leans back “Why are you so much nicer than Benny?”

I shrug, closing my laptop. “He took the brunt of the force from our parents. He endured eighteen years of pure torture. I wasn’t really affected until I was sixteen, when he moved out,” I hug my laptop close to my chest. “I understood, then. Why he is the way he is. Just doing the best with what was given to him. I tried to be there for him, but it’s hard when you’ve got no idea what to do,”

The silence between us is palpable. Finally, he speaks. “Well, thank God for you then. He would’ve turned out much worse if you weren’t there to keep him straight.”

I never thought of it that way, I want to tell him, but the whole conversation’s got me so uncomfortable that I let it die instead. Despite the topic, and his obvious flirting throughout the day, I’m not unsettled by my alone time with Eddie. He’s got a charm to him, and I gravitate towards him in a platonic way. I imagine us as good friends, and I’m sure we would’ve been in any other circumstance. But he’s my brother’s roommate, not my friend, and I try to keep that in mind.

He claps his hands and stands abruptly. “Well, Sweetheart. I think you’ve had enough depression for the week. Time for some fun,” he reaches out to me, wiggling his fingers decorated in bulky silver rings.

“Don’t call me that,” I complain but take his hand, standing up with a grunt.

“Get dressed,” he instructs, ignoring me.

“With what clothes, exactly?” I gesture to my pajamas and beaten up sneakers I’d worn the entire day, my clothing still stuck in a storage unit downtown.

He thinks for a minute, then his eyes light up. He dashes down the hall, into his bedroom—the second door on the right—and comes out a couple minutes later with clothes thrown over his forearm.

“Here, try this on,” he extends his arm, a little black dress and hanging around it.

I look up at him. “Why do you have women’s clothes?”

“Would you believe me if I told you they’re my sister’s?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t wanna know.”

“You’re foul,” I giggle. “I’m not wearing that!”

“Alright, new plan then,” he tosses the dress onto the couch before digging into the pocket of his ripped jeans. Retrieving his beaten cellphone that clings to life, he holds it to his ear.

“Who are you—“ he cuts me off with a raised pointer finger in a ‘one minute’ gesture. I roll my eyes.

“Daizy. Yeah It’s Eddie,” my heart drops. “Hey listen. I’ve got a situation. No, she’s fine… but uh, we need a dress. Preferably a short one,” he says the last part as he glances at me, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

I bury my face in my hands to hide my embarrassment.

“Yup. Bring it all. You’re coming with us. See you in a bit. Buh-bye.” he hangs up, shoving the decimated phone back into his pocket.

“Why do you have Daizy’s number?” I cross my arms over my chest.

“Why do you ask so many questions?” He retorts. “Take a shower. I’m sure Benny wouldn’t mind you using his. Unless, of course, you’d like to share,”

I twist my face and lightly shove his shoulder. “Gross.”

He energetically hops off back to his bedroom, his exclamation echoing down the hall, “Get ready!”

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

The Hub is a temperate college bar tucked into the corner of a strip of small businesses with apartments above them. The bouncer lets us skip the line and doesn’t bother to check our IDs. He tells Eddie to enjoy himself but to watch out for the owner Gary. Whatever that means. There’s two pool tables on the back end and flat screen TVs sit on every wall, each streaming a different sport. The hardwood floor’s seen better days, the roughest part being around the bar at the center of the room. It’s a loud Friday night: music blasts and drunk people shout over each other. A group of guys badly sing a karaoke cover of ‘My Girl’.

Daizy and I walk hand-in-hand. I tug her along, following Eddie. The only way I don’t lose him in the crowd is to follow that giant head of hair he has, bobbing in and out of the masses. Finally, we reach the bar, and Eddie leaps onto someone wearing a long coat, wrapping his arms around their shoulders.

Ben jumps, startled, turning to look at us. His angry expression melts instantly and he sighs. “Jesus, you scared me. What’re you guys doing here?” He glances at Daizy and I, dresses short and low cut, heels dangerously tall and enough hairspray in our hair to suffocate someone. He rubs his temples. “What’re you wearing?”

Grumpy old man, I tease him in my head.

From behind the bar, Steve sets a beer in front of Ben. “Eddie, you know you’re banned from…” the words die on his lips as I step from behind Eddie. He tries—and fails—not to make it obvious that he looks me up and down. “Uh, hi,” he breathes. He looks so handsome, his hair combed back with a few stray strands tickling his forehead, dressed in blue jeans and a t shirt that hugs his chest, a bar towel flung over his shoulder.

My whole body sets on fire. I clamber up, feeling like the wind was knocked out of my lungs. What is happening to me? “Hi,” it’s a meek, pitiful nose, but he flashes me that award-winning grin anyways.

Eddie seems amused, cackling with the likeness of a hyena. Ben is obviously agitated. He grabs his beer off the bar, standing to catch Daizy’s wrist in his hands. He tugs her away and she gives me a look I can only describe as confusion and excitement mixed together.

“Just a PBR Stevie, then you can go back to staring at the pretty girl,” Eddie teases, leaning on the counter.

Steve peels his eyes off of mine to glare at him. “You’re a pain in the ass,” he complains, reaching under the counter and retrieving a can. He cracks it open, cheap beer splattering them. “If Gary asks, Joey served you. He doesn’t know you’ve been 86’d.”

“Request beers from Joey. Got it.” He makes a mental note, cheers-ing us before disappearing into the crowd as well.

I watch Eddie leave and when I look back at Steve, he's already looking at me, propped against the bar. A surge of bravery rattles through my chest and I sit in front of him. The space between us is minuscule now, the scent of his cologne leaving an intoxicating haze in our shared air.

He takes a deep breath, chest swelling. "What can I get you?"

I shrug. "Didn't bring my ID. I think it's still in the storage unit being debugged," I say with a bitter laugh.

"Don't worry about it," he chuckles, filling a glass with ice. "December 14, 1995. 12:14 AM," he recalls, pointing a finger at me.

My heart drops into my stomach. "How do you..?" I can't even finish my sentence. Just my luck, the beautiful one's a stalker.

He chuckles. "He talks about the day you were born like it was the best day of his life," he nods behind me and I spin on the stool. Ben is flirting with Daizy, carefully brushing her curls off her shoulder. I compress my grin into a tight smile, looking back at Steve.

“Tequila Sunrise. Make it a double, please,”

“Huh. I struck you as a vodka girl. Well’s fine?” He tests, shaking the bottle tequila in his hand. I nod, infatuated as I watch him move.

Get it together.

He slides the drink across the bar, shit eating grin on is face. “Tell me; does tequila make you mean or melt your clothes off? I’m cool with either, just wanna be prepared,”

Is he… flirting with me?

I snort and cover the lower half of my face with my hand. “Oh, God. Does that usually work on girls?”

His smile is so bright. Even under the dim lighting and tacky disco lights from the karaoke machine, I can see the light in his chocolate eyes. He props himself up against the back bar, muscles tensing as he looks down at me. Suddenly all the stories Ben’s told me of his Freshman year Dorm roommate turning out to be his best friend that saved him from himself make total sense. Steve’s comforting in a familiar way, like the second you’ve met him you feel like you’ve known him for years.

“Is it working?” He asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I haven’t been flirted with since high school and, in all honesty, I’m kind of freaking out. Made worse by the fact this is my brother’s best friend and roommate, I decide I need to tread lightly despite what the burn between my legs and the pounding in my chest begs.

“Is it?” I tease.

His eyebrows raise and he lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “You look great tonight, by the way,” he compliments.

I sip my drink, the burn of cheap liquor on my tongue. “Thanks. It was Eddie’s idea,” I admit. Why would I say that? I internally cringe.

“Sounds like him…”

“Hey,” I lean forward, not noticing the way my boobs spill out of the top of this dress. Steve’s face twists a bit and he looks anywhere but me. “Does Eddie have a sister?”

“No?” Steve replies, bewildered.

“Son of a bitch,” I whisper. I knew it. Disgusting.

“Why do you…” he trails off, looking over my shoulder, a concerned look on his face. I spin around again, groaning when I see Eddie going back and forth with a burly man. Round beer belly and a beard to his chest, the guy’s got a hundred pounds on Eddie easily. “Ah, shit.” I hear Steve exasperate behind me.

Without thinking I stand up. Steve calls my name but I ignore him. The men begin shoving each other. I spot Daizy and Ben dancing in the crowd, pacing towards them as fast as these heels will allow me. I whistle and Daizy’s head snaps in my direction. I point frantically at Eddie and her face falls. Once I’ve confirmed they’re following me, I dash to Eddie and the man.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be up on random girls at the bar, jackass!” The man shouts, shoving Eddie hard. There’s a little redhead in a red skirt and tube top watching the two men argue, arms awkwardly folded across her chest. Oh boy. What’ve you gotten yourself into now, Eddie?

Eddie raises his arms, palms forward in surrender. “My bad Lumberjack John, I'll back off,"

“You son of a—“ he raises his fist.

“Hey!” I pull Eddie back a bit but shield my body with his in case the man decides to swing. I’m not getting punched for Eddie’s endeavors, that’s for sure. “I’m so sorry about my friend here, he’s a little,” I pretend to shield my mouth from Eddie’s view, breathing the words stupid to the man. “He gets confused easily. It’s my fault, I should’ve been watching him closer,”

“I’m not—“ Eddie starts.

“Eddie!” I cut him off just as Ben makes it to us. "Stop talking," I instruct sternly.

Ben pulls Eddie back with force, shoving him behind us.

“Let’s all calm down okay?” Ben attempts to defuse.

"Your buddy's got no business talkin' to my nineteen-year-old daughter. What're you, thirty?" the man spits.

"Daughter?! Nineteen?!" Eddie turns green, and I think he might vomit. He doesn't bother to correct the man and tell him he's actually 23.

You've done it now, idiot.

"How'd you even get in here?" I snap, looking from her to her father. His face is pale. "Did you sneak your teenage daughter into a bar?!"

Completely unprovoked--or maybe my question caused it, not that we're pointing fingers here-- the man lunges for Ben, landing a solid right hook to his jaw. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Steve leap over the bar and begin a dash towards us.

The daughter leaps towards me, punching me square in the eye.

Now if you've never been knocked straight in the eye socket, the feeling is incomprehensible until it's happened to you. A pain so intense it makes you sick. It knocks me to the floor, the air sucked out of my lungs like a deflated Whoopee Cushion.

The Hub doesn't take long to devolve into utter chaos, food flying and punches thrown. Strangers fighting just because someone else started it. I've never been in a bar brawl until now. I know it's loud but I can barely hear it, my ears ringing as I lay feeling dead on the floor.

My head is killing me.

A man in white scoops me up off the floor.

An Angel. Goddammit, I'm dead. Always knew I'd die in a stupid way.

"You're alright, Sunny. I got you." Steve's voice is deep and hushed, his lips practically pressed into my hair as he whispers only for me to hear.

Funny. I don't remember him wearing white.

My ears still ring, so I think he says Honey instead of Sunny, and it makes me laugh because I imagine I'm the opposite of something sweet. Disappointing, like when you bite into a chocolate chip cookie and it's actually oatmeal raisin.

He must wonder why I'm laughing. If I don't die, then I'll have to let him in on the joke.

The air is cold and dark. We're outside. I'm loaded up into a car I don't recognize, but it smells like a mix of Steve's cologne and aged leather. Steve hands the keys to Daizy. I know it's her because, despite my blurry vision, I can still make out her sequin dress.

I focus really hard on staying awake, recalling that when at risk of a concussion, to not fall asleep.

Do not fall asleep.

⊱ ────── {⋆❉⋆} ────── ⊰

I lay my head on Daizy's lap as she presses a sack of frozen peas on my swollen eye. The expired painkillers she'd dug out of Ben's medicine cabinet do very little to soothe the sharp pain in my skull.

Trying desperately to think of anything but the fiasco at the bar, I fail miserably. I can only imagine what kind of crap Steve's got to deal with because of us. Ben tells me that Steve’s actually the manager at the Hub, and that this isn’t the first time Eddie’s gotten into trouble there. It’s a bad look for Steve, made worse by Ben and I’s involvement.

Eddie sits in the beanbag chair picking at his nails anxiously. Ben holds a bag of frozen broccoli to his jaw, glaring at Eddie from the couch by my feet.

"You fuckin' idiot," Ben snipes.

Eddie surrenders. "I didn't know she was nineteen!"

"You called him a Lumberjack, Ed!"

The door opens and shuts quickly. I sit up too fast and my head swirls. Daizy holds my head--which feels far too large for my neck--in her hands.

Steve tosses his jacket on the coat rack. He stares at us, hands on his hips. "Well, I fired the doorman. Thank you, Eddie," he says bitterly.

Granted, the bouncer should've never let a teenager slip into the Hub, but I still feel guilty.

Steve joins us in the living room, leaning over the sofa to rough up Ben's hair. "How's your face?"

"Feels like I just got punched," Ben groans.

Steve's eyes shift to me. He leans in a bit, gently taking the peas out of Daizy's hand and lifting them off my eye. He grimaces. "Nasty shiner, Sunny. You’re trouble, y’know that? It follows you,”

Sunny. Not Honey. I still don't get it.

His closeness makes me nervous. I try to think of something to say to ease the tension, pressing the frozen vegetable to my skin, making it tingle. “Deterministic Chaos Theory,” I mumble sleepily.

“The—What now?” Eddie wonders aloud.

“Small changes can be exponentially amplified, causing large and unpredictable consequences,” I define, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. “An environment can be rewritten by what is essentially Butterfly Effect. Learned about it in my pre-reqs.”

“Could’ve just said Butterfly Effect,” Ben complains. “You just wanted to sound smart.”

I kick him lightly. He flinches and chuckles.

"How are you feeling?" Daizy asks.

I swallow. "Pissed. I didn't get to finish my drink,"

Everyone shares a laugh at that.

"I'll make you plenty more while you stay here." the words come out of Steve's mouth so casually that I assume I didn't hear him right. My eyes bulge out of my head as I look around. Eddie gives me a massive smile, one of many I’ve gotten form him today, clapping his hands together. My eyes fall on my brother.

He shrugs. "We've got Jesse’s old room. It's yours, if you want it." Jesse must be the fourth guy that used to live here, his unoccupied bedroom at the end of the hall.

My jaw hits the floor, a prickling pain searing under my skin. The idea sound preposterous at first, three boys and a girl in one old apartment, but then I realize I’m in no position to decline and they’re doing me a favor. “Are you guys serious?”

“As a heart attack, Sweetheart,” Eddie jests. Steve plays with his hair and nods giddily.

Ben says ‘don’t call her that’ just as I say ‘don’t call me that’, prompting us to look at each other.

“We’re not letting you go back to the Dorms or letting you drop classes. Besides, we need someone to pay Jesse’s rent if we wanna keep living here,” Ben lightens the mood with a joke but I can tell he’s dead serious by the look in his eyes.

I crane my neck to look back at Daizy. She smiles big, nodding. You should do it, I swear I can hear her voice in my head.

Everyone’s eyes are on me. It makes me uncomfortable and I squirm, mulling over my answer. This feels a lot like being reliant on others, which is something I refuse to do. Not that I’ve got much of a choice, the alternatives far worse than the option in front of me. What’s the worst that could happen? I purse my lips together and nod. “Fuck it. Let’s do it.”

“You heard her boys!” Eddie stands up, leaping over the coffee table and pouncing on Steve. “There’s a lady in Apartment 406D!” He wraps his arms around Steve’s shoulders, attempting to pull him onto the ground. Ben scolds them both. ‘Better knock it off before you break something’, or something like that. I’m not paying attention, just watching them wrestle like twelve year olds in the dim lamplight.

As we sit there in our natural element, I realize this is what my life is like now for the foreseeable future. It’ll be tough for sure. I’ve never lived with a man I wasn’t related to, let alone this many at once. I’m outnumbered, predicting that I’ll be begging Daizy to come up to Chicago to give me a reprieve from all the boy in this house.

Despite my reservations, I smile at the trio as they argue about something unbeknownst to me.

There are far worse ways to spend my days.

⊱ ────── {⋆��⋆} ────── ⊰

**I edited this intoxicated, pls let me know if I missed anything**

Wanna be tagged? Just ask!

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@spookysace24

[pastanest]

Spencer Reid x she/her!reader

A/N: this just might be the steamiest thing I’ve written since I was a 14 year old on wattpad doing god’s work. anyway, merry christmas sluts x

warnings: suggestive but not outright smut, use of petnames, soft!dom Spencer

Orbit

Prison can have longterm effects on a person, regardless of the duration of time spent behind bars. If you were to ask Spencer Reid what aspect of him was impacted most greatly by his sentence, he would tell you it was his brain; more specifically, his ability to think. Now, he finds himself taking 60 minutes to make deductions that previously would have taken him 60 seconds. Time spent locked in a cage has left his mind feeling like it never left; his skull no longer feels metaphorically big enough for him to organize his thoughts, separate them for long enough to distinguish them. The incredibly open mind that Spencer has always had is most often a jumbled, frustrating mess, which only exacerbates the frustration already found there. That is, until you enter a room.

He hasn’t said it to you explicitly, but if anyone asked, Spencer would be unable to deny your innate ability to help him. It’s almost poetic, the way he views you, like you’re the moon to his planet of thoughts; you calm his tides simply by being in his orbit. By existing in his space, you soothe his mind enough to just think, and he’s incapable of ever taking that for granted.

While he can’t spell that out to you without risking mortification over your natural assistance to him with a brain function that should come naturally to him, you are a qualified profiler who has come to understand - in your own way - that Spencer just needs to be around you, sometimes. And he acknowledges that you have an understanding of this, of course. So, when there’s a knock at your hotel room door at 2am, and you scramble out of bed, throwing on an oversized t-shirt and running to the door to find him standing on your doorstep, the surprise that flashes across both of your faces is not something Spencer had predicted.

You are surprised because you can’t help wondering if your thoughts inadvertently summoned Spencer to your doorstep, still wearing his button-up shirt, tie and suit pants that you’d seen him in when working the case together today. On the other hand, Spencer is surprised to find you standing before him wearing nothing more than an oversized t-shirt, from what he can see, alongside the visible signs of you appearing to be…flustered? Your chest rises and falls with heavy pants, your cheeks are flushed, and your pupils are dilated in a way that perhaps only Spencer would notice, but he most definitely notices.

“Spencer! Wh- Come in!” You stumble over your own words, stepping aside to grant him passage into your hotel room.

He strides past you, a firm frown etched on his face. He had thoughts he needed to organize, hence his untimely arrival, but now you have presented him with an entirely new enigma that is his personal mission to crack.

Spencer takes a seat on an armchair in the corner of your hotel room, while you sit on the edge of the bed, notably turned almost completely away from him while you fight to regain some composure; a futile effort, because Spencer has already ruled out exercise (determining you wouldn’t be exercising at this hour or in this room), stress (because he’d have picked up on an irregularity when working alongside you at some point today), and a medical issue (much to your own present demise, you default to him for any questions regarding your health because you trust his expertise) as probable causes, which leads him to a particularly interesting conclusion, in two seconds flat.

“Is everything…okay?” You manage to ask him, and it’s as though you added that shy inflection to your voice just to tick another box on the list in Spencer’s mind, confirming his previous hypothesis without ever intending to.

“Yes, I just needed to think.” What he previously thought he needed to think about is entirely irrelevant now, but he digresses. “Are you…okay?” Spencer returns your question with the same wording, but without the shyness you so graciously included. He’s still making deductions, because he can’t risk acting on his current conclusion until he knows it to be true beyond reasonable doubt.

“Me? Oh, yeah! I’m fine!” You laugh lightly.

Overcompensating, Spencer makes a mental note, ticking another box on the list found in his mind.

A silence settles between you, one that he enforces with purpose. From where he sits in the corner of the room, he watches you like you’re the most fascinating study in human history. Which, he would argue, you are. The way you squirm, aware of Spencer’s gaze on you despite not even looking at him, has him fighting a smirk. There’s a shared awareness in the silence, an acknowledgement of the fact that you and your…chosen activities, are completely exposed to him in this moment, and he’s letting you simmer in that reality for a moment, allowing you time to adjust to that.

The next words Spencer speaks are very carefully chosen, and in that, they knock the air from your lungs.

“What were you thinking about?” The subtext is so clear he could have left the guise of a question out entirely, but there’s an air of respect in that he elects to ignore the access he has to completely embarrassing you. His voice is too quiet for anyone in the next rooms to overhear, so his respectfully tame phrasing is for your benefit, alone, but the answer he’s searching for is clear.

You swallow, hard.

There is no use in lying, not to a man currently counting the microseconds between every breath you take to accurately profile your body’s responses to this interrogation.

“You.”

And never before has Doctor Spencer Reid had a single word eradicate all 187 of his IQ points. It’s as though he can feel them stacking themselves back up in his brain in a frantic, trembling mess. Obviously, that was the answer he had hoped for, but to actually hear you say it goes far beyond any ability he has to accurately predict his own response, particularly when you spoke with a submissive tone that was not possible for him to miss.

5.7 seconds later, when Spencer has regained control over his motor functions, he clears his throat, grateful that you aren’t looking at him to have seen him lose his own composure momentarily.

“Is this the first time you’ve thought of me outside of a professional capacity?” And the award for least seductive means of phrasing an otherwise very erotic question goes to…

In Spencer’s defense, it is much easier for him to speak so formally and from a more analytical standpoint. If he lets his emotions take hold now, he may miss a piece of information from you that could be crucial to maximizing this opportunity for you both.

“No.” You answer, your voice more timid now, barely above a whisper.

In your defense, you wouldn’t even regard it as thinking of Spencer ‘outside of a professional capacity’, because you have a running hypothesis that he’d be a professional in that area of life, too.

Still, Spencer hears the anxiety building in your words - or lack thereof - and what they confess to him. The last thing he wants is to overwhelm you. At least, not like this.

Rising from the armchair he’d been occupying, he takes the few strides necessary to stand in front of you, towering over you while you remain sitting on the edge of the bed, your head hanging in shame.

“How many times?” Spencer’s voice is also quieter now, softer, but it’s far from timid. He’s being gentle with you, but his question is a demand for an answer.

You shrug without meeting his gaze, and Spencer raises an eyebrow down at you.

“Words, baby.”

And those two words are enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

“I-I don’t know, haven’t kept count.” You stammer, heart spluttering in your chest.

“Let me do the math for you, then.” Spencer muses, tucking his hands into his pockets as he observes you with a soft smile and darkened eyes. “When was the first time?”

You gulp.

“Do I have to ask for your words again?” That’s a warning.

“N-No, I’m just trying to think.” You try to defend yourself, your face feeling hot.

“You don’t need to do any thinking right now, baby, that’s my job.” Spencer soothes you. “Was it during your first week with the BAU?” He questions softly.

“…Yes.”

And that ignites Spencer’s synapses.

“From your first day, we were sent on a case that we worked tirelessly on. The first night was spent on the jet, second night you were so exhausted you slept on a couch in the office while I carried on working, third night I had to wake you in your hotel room at 3am due to a development on the case and I could tell you were in REM sleep by then, so you wouldn’t have had time that night, either. That means it was either the fourth night after we met, in your hotel room, or the fifth night after we arrived back home. Do you remember which?” Spencer asks gently, this time crouching down to be eye-level with you, looking at you with what you can only describe as puppy-dog eyes.

“…In the hotel.” You admit bashfully, meeting Spencer’s gaze for just long enough to see a flicker of his resolve crumbling.

You couldn’t even wait until you got back home? Bad girl. But he’ll keep such a notion to himself, for now.

“That’s good, thank you for telling me,” He praises instead, tucking your hair behind your ears from where he crouches in front of you, while you remain seated on the edge of the bed. “And since then, would you say it’s been once a week, or more?”

Your eyebrows furrow at this question, and Spencer is quick to amend it.

“Do those choices for answers not suit you, sweet girl?” He coo’s, watching you fall into a submissive headspace like it’s second nature for you.

“No…Once a week, but not just…one time.” You struggle to say, your voice sounding small, but you’re melting into the sensation of Spencer’s fingertips dancing over your cheek.

“I see,” He muses, trying his best not to reveal the fact that his brain is short circuiting over that information. See? Imagine if he’d rushed into this and missed out on hearing you admit that! He’d have rather been shot. Again.

“How many times is it usually?” This question has piqued Spencer’s interest more than he cares to admit, but he conceals that well.

“…Three.” You breathe.

“And how many times tonight?” His own voice is a whisper now, his fingertips trailing down your neck.

“Two,” You begin to say, and Spencer’s mind is already sounding like a casino with every machine hitting a jackpot in unison, before you add. “…and a half.”

It takes Spencer a solid second, and a second of being solid, to process that.

“I interrupted you?” There’s a huskiness to his voice that was not there before, and when you nod, he clears his throat. “Oh, I’m sorry, baby. Can I make it up to you?” And while he stands back up to his full height to lean over you, you instinctively fall back against the bed in what appears to be a practiced mating dance between you, despite it being the very first time.

“Can I?” It’s only when Spencer repeats his question that you realize you are yet to respond. In your defense, you had forgotten your own name because of the hazel in his eyes.

“Yes.” No sooner has the breathy word passed your lips, than his lips descended on the side of your neck.

Spencer’s stubble maps a trail down your throat, gently scratching at the skin while his lips leave tingling kisses in his wake. But if you think Spencer Reid’s mind has stopped working just yet, you are sorely mistaken.

“You said usually around three, implying that is your minimum,” His voice is deeper than you’ve ever heard it, his lips nipping at the shell of your ear. “-so that’s a minimum of three orgasms a week for the twenty weeks since we met, that’s a total of 60, but we should leave room for anomalies, so let’s round that up to 70, just to be as accurate as possible.” Spencer murmurs. “Is it always me you think of?” He’s incapable of masking the hope found in his own voice.

You nod frantically.

“Words, baby.” This time, that reminder is punctuated by a soft bite to your neck.

“Y-Yes, you, always you, every time.” You shudder. And who can blame you, when you’ve always known him to be capable of this?

“So I’m responsible for approximately 70 of your orgasms, without ever having touched you.” Spencer almost can’t believe it, but he can hear how smug he is in his own ears.

One of his hands presses into the sheets beside your head, holding himself up, but his other hand squeezes at your waist through the fabric of your oversized shirt, and he groans into the crook of your neck in approval.

“So soft.” He praises, wanting nothing more than to worship at the altar that is you.

Spencer’s fingertips trace the hem of your oversized shirt, the warm skin of your thighs tempting him beyond his previous ability to comprehend.

“May I?” He requests, ever the gentleman.

“Please.” You answer with the best synonym for ‘yes’ in this context that Spencer could have hoped for.

And he doesn’t hesitate. Long fingers slowly raise the hem of your shirt, bringing it up until it’s just above your belly button, and he lays his palm flat against your stomach, the skin fluttering under his touch. While his lips continue to lavish your neck, collarbone and ear, his free hand descends to the band of your panties, but doesn’t slip beneath it. A whine passes your lips when his hand continues its path south, and you feel him smirk against your neck, until his own breathing shudders.

“Oh, baby…” He groans, having never been more thrilled to feel a soaked piece of fabric in his life. “Look at you, look at the mess you’ve made of yourself. Poor little love.” Spencer coo’s.

But when you shake your head, he halts his movements completely.

“What is it, baby? You want to stop? That’s okay.” He immediately falls into a softness intended to comfort you, not wanting you to feel even remotely uncomfortable or upset. His kisses move to your cheek, each one an act of devotion. “It’s okay. Being in a submissive headspace can be incredibly overwhelming at times, and you can always tell me if it does. We don’t ever have to do anything that you don’t want to do, sweet girl. In fact-“

It’s only when you turn your head to meet Spencer’s lips with your own, that you manage to stop his ramble and his entire train of thought.

“It’s not that.” You’re quick to reassure him, not wanting him to overthink about having breached your boundaries.

“Then…what?” Spencer asks, looking into your eyes with the most sincere concern.

“I just wanted to correct you, because I didn’t make a mess of myself. You made a mess of me.” You smile up at him, and the sweetness with which you say something so sinful is enough to make Spencer’s heart drop right out of his chest.

In all his years, he has never understood the sensation of blood rushing away from his brain, more than he does right now.

His gaze softens with both relief and arousal, a sigh passing his lips that evolves into a light chuckle, before his lips fall to yours again, meeting you in a heated kiss. And when Spencer’s hand continues its previous path, he feels your thighs part, and a growl of some description rumbles in his throat.

“That’s my girl.”

That possessive title causes a delighted shudder to rock through you, which Spencer makes a prominent mental note of.

“70’s the number to beat.” He whispers in your ear seductively, and your jaw falls open.

“In one night?!” It’s more of a squeak than a question, but it makes Spencer laugh into the crook of your neck as his lips descend it.

“As much as I’d love to ruin your body for anyone other than me, I think that just might ruin you entirely, which isn’t my aim. But…” He bites at your neck. “I can promise you, you’re getting more than three.”

From where you lie, you can feel something pressing against your thigh that tells you it’s going to be a very, very long night.

[nizhspo]

hiiii baby 😛 walk with me... c o n t r o l by pnd with collegeau!atsumu... maybe you haven't seen him since before spring break and now you both are on campus and now he's missing it....

OR OR OR freak in you or let's get married by pnd with osamu where y'all are flirting and giving each other song recs and he puts this on

but you can go with whatever vibes the songs give to you i trust you completely 🫂🫂

hi baeee u always know how to put me to work i got u!! took me a MINUTE but i got u.. and now we’re starting off w osamu for freak in you

you don’t really know the birthday girl. she’s one of those mutual-friends-of-a-friend types, pretty, loud, with an invite list full of people who dress like they know their angles.

the rooftop venue is warm with bodies and music, a dim kind of golden that flatters everyone.

you came for your friend, not the function. and it was only beneficial that you happened to live in the building, which made it easier to say yes, easier to slide into something fitted and sleek, easier to tell yourself you’d only stay for a drink or two.

you’ve been pacing the party like a pro, drink in hand, shoulders back, heels silent. you complimented the DJ. you asked where the host got her earrings. you held eye contact, just long enough to be polite.

you weren’t trying to be seen tonight, just polite. but someone saw you anyway.

…

he catches you in the kitchen.

it’s not even really a kitchen, just the sleek, tucked-away back bar where caterers refill glasses and cool trays of shrimp cocktail sit untouched. it’s quieter here. colder.

you’re bent slightly at the waist, peering into the wine fridge, when he speaks, low, warm:

“red or white?”

you glance over your shoulder.

he’s leaned up against the counter, sleeves rolled and collar slightly crooked. thick wrist, nice watch, broad in a way that doesn’t look intentional but still takes up space. his tie’s loose like it never mattered. glass already in hand. he looks like he’s been standing there a while, just watching.

you straighten, tilt your head. “whatever you’re having.”

his mouth quirks. “bold. i could be drinking anything.”

you shrug. “well you and your brother seem like you drink well.”

“that’s more his vibe,” he says, flicking his chin toward the crowd. “i’m just here for the food. he’s more of the life of the party.”

you glance toward the passed hors d’oeuvres. “don’t sell yourself short. i saw a few eyes on you.”

his lips twitch. “you been watching me?”

“i’d like to consider myself observant,” you say, voice as cool as the wine in your hand.

but before you move, your eyes drag over him, slow, unhurried. you take your time. appreciate the view.

he’s in a gray button-up, open at the throat, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms thick with strength, not vanity. his watch gleams, understated but clean. pants tailored well, no flash, just fit, like everything on him was chosen with quiet intent. his stance is relaxed, like he knows there’s nothing in this room he has to prove himself to. not even you.

you let your gaze climb all the way back up to his mouth, tilted just slightly, that not-quite-a-smirk, and then meet his eyes. steady. calm. curious.

you take a slow sip from your glass, pulse ticking at your throat. and then—you turn.

on your way out, a small plate glints under the low light. one of those tiny, sculpted bites meant to look more expensive than it tastes. you lift it with a flick of your fingers, still mid-step, and your hip brushes his. barely.

but he makes a noise for it—a low, rough hum that slips from his throat like approval, like surprise wrapped in satisfaction.

it slips right down your spine.

you clutch your glass a little tighter. don’t even mean to. and you don’t look back. not yet. not until the balcony door opens, cool air curling against your skin, and you hear his footsteps fall in right behind yours.

he doesn’t say anything. but he follows.

…

the balcony’s half-empty and quieter.

city lights below, warm string bulbs above. some people are sitting, legs crossed over bench seats, chatting soft. there’s a couple on the far side, kissing softly under the fairy lights, and you two stay near the middle. it’s colder out here. your friend’s somewhere deep inside, caught in conversation, but you’re not checking for her right now.

you take a bite. make a face.

“not good?” he asks, just behind you.

you chew slow, nose scrunching. “it’s trying too hard. little overcooked. tastes like it wants to be five-star, but the execution’s off.”

he makes a low hum. “picky?”

“just know what i like.”

you look up at him. he’s watching you again. same lazy lean against the railing, one brow lifted like he’s trying to decode you in real-time.

“lucky for you,” he says, “i know how to cook.”

you raise an eyebrow. “what kind of line is that?”

he lifts both hands slightly, like he’s innocent. “not a line. it’s just what i do.”

“mhm,” you hum. “you a caterer or something?”

he grins, like he likes that you’re guessing. “nah. own a few places.”

“oh, so you’re rich?” you tease, popping another bite into your mouth, still unimpressed.

he chuckles, gaze flicking over your face like he’s clocking your tone, the curve of your mouth. “depends who’s asking.”

“a girl who’s eaten at damn near every decent place in this city,” you say, brushing crumbs off your fingers. “what’s the name?”

he tells you.

you pause. blink. “wait, the one with the spicy miso grits?”

“that’s the one.”

you laugh, full and surprised. “get the fuck outta here. i love that place. you really own it?”

he nods once, still calm. “yeah.”

your smile curves slow, crooked. “okay, i see you, guy fieri,” you say, tilting your head just enough to make it playful. “droppin’ restaurant names like you didn’t just casually change my whole dinner rotation.”

he huffs a laugh, eyes glinting. doesn’t deny it. “you didn’t seem like the type care.”

you tip your head, eyes narrowing just a little. “i didn’t say i was. but now i might.”

his gaze lingers, and it’s not passive.

it’s focused. deliberate. like he’s letting his eyes trace you slow and easy, undressing you in his head without ever losing that calm look on his face. he watches the way your dress fits over your hips. the way your collarbone catches the light. the little way your lips move when you take a sip.

he doesn’t try to hide it. doesn’t leer.

just stands there, looking at you like he’s already decided he wants you, and he’s willing to wait just long enough to see if you want him back.

“you always this composed?” he asks.

you snort softly. “you always this nosy?”

“just like to know who i’m talking to.”

you swirl your drink, letting the ice clink. “and what do you think you’ve learned so far?”

he says nothing for a long second. then:

“i think,” he says, slow, like he’s still thinking it through, “you’re the kind of woman that plays it real cool till someone actually earns it.”

that one makes you laugh. warm, genuine. you nudge his shoulder. “and you think you’ve earned it?”

he watches you pick up your glass again. watches you sip. his smile deepens. still doesn’t move closer. just lets you shift the space yourself.

“i think i’m doing alright.”

and he is.

you’re both smiling now, the kind that stays even after the punchline. like you’ve been talking longer than you meant to, like the rest of the party’s fallen away.

you steal a second bite off your plate, make a face again. “you sure you know how to cook? because if you made this, i got questions.”

he grins. “don’t insult me like that, i’m just here as a guest. i got better taste than whatever this is.”

“oh yeah?” you raise an eyebrow. “prove it.”

he shrugs. “say the word. i’ll cook for you tomorrow.”

“tomorrow?” you laugh, tilting your head. “bold of you to assume you’re getting my number.”

“i assumed nothing,” he says smoothly. “just planting a seed.”

you snort. “oh, so you’re a gardener and a chef. is there anything you don’t do?”

he leans in a touch, eyes glinting, “dance. sing. flirt too loud.” then adds, softer, “but i’m learning.”

you grin at that. “mm. slow and subtle?”

“only way that works on you,” he says, and it hits, low, quiet, smooth enough that your breath catches just a little.

you look down, smile, take another sip. “i work in marketing, by the way,” you say after a pause.

he hums. “makes sense. you got that pitch-perfect kind of voice.”

“you saying I’m trying to sell you something?”

“nah,” he says. “saying i’d probably buy it if you did.”

that earns another laugh out of you, the kind that shakes your shoulders. you nudge his arm. “what about you? where do you live?”

he gives you a look, amused. “don’t make that face.”

“what face?”

“that ‘maybe i’ll run into you’ face. i live here.”

you blink. “you mean in this city?”

he laughs now. “no. like here here. same building as this venue. top floors are residential.”

you stare at him. “shut up. i live here.”

“you’re lying.”

“apartment 7B.”

he stares for a second. “you’re joking.”

you look at him harder. “you’re not.”

he shakes his head slowly, smiling wide now. “6A.”

your jaw drops. you smack his arm. “there’s no way i’ve been walking past you in the elevator lobby all this time.”

“guess i don’t make much noise,” he says, leaning back on the railing.

you tilt your head, grinning. “or maybe you just weren’t lookin’ before.”

his gaze lingers. sharp now. “oh, i’m lookin’ now.”

the words land between you with a heat that neither of you try to soften.

your glass is low. the wind moves through again, cool, enough to make your skin prickle, enough for your arms to fold in instinctively, and without a word, he shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. smooth. practiced. his fingers brush your arms on the way down, slow and warm. like they could stay there.

you don’t pull away. you just breathe in the scent of him, smoke, pepper, maybe cedar, and let it settle over you like he belongs there. “least i could do,” he says low.

and this time, you don’t even try to fight the smile. you just let it sit. then motion with your chin.

“well, neighbor,” you murmur, eyes glinting, “you gonna walk me to my door or just stand there looking like trouble?”

he chuckles, low, warm, deep in his chest, and nods once.

then follows.

opens the door for you, again and again.

the building’s quieter now. the party still hums faintly from a few floors below, but the residential level is softer, hushed lighting, echoey halls, that stillness that settles over polished floors after dark.

you walk side by side toward the elevator, steps in sync without trying. osamu’s jacket still hangs from your shoulders, warm with his cologne and the shape of him. you scroll through your phone absently, thumb hovering over a message towards your friend.

[you: heading back upstairs. i’m good.]

you send it as the elevator dings open. inside, it’s just the two of you.

he hits the button for your floor.

you shift to the side, fingers grazing the chrome railing as you lean back slightly, half turned toward him. the silence isn’t awkward. it stretches long and comfortable, thick with the kind of awareness that doesn’t need words.

he stands close. not pressed to you, not crowding. just close enough that the air feels charged. his hands are in his pockets. his shoulders roll with the movement of the elevator, heavy and steady, like he’s been holding in something all night.

then—ding, your phone buzzes again. not a vibrate. a ringtone. make a mil by partynextdoor rings out loud and clear into the quiet.

you flinch. “shit.” you scramble to silence it, thumb tapping hard, embarrassed.

he’s already raising an eyebrow. “pnd?” he asks, voice dipping low. amused.

you shrug, sheepish. “yeah. me and my best friend saw him live in chicago. changed each other’s ringtones after that. hers is make a mil. mine’s curious.”

he grins a little at that, leaning against the wall now. “good taste. that your favorite?”

the elevator opens before you can answer. you both step out. the hallway’s dim, lit with soft sconces, shadows pooling around your feet as you walk toward your door.

your steps slow as you reach it. your keys slide out, but you don’t unlock it yet. you stay in the doorway, back leaning gently against the frame, eyes still on him.

“mine’s dreamin’,” you say. voice quieter now, but not uncertain. “i don’t know if you’ve ever heard it.”

he makes a low sound. “no, no. i know that one.”

he’s already pulling out his phone, smirking like he’s about to say something smart, like he’s laughing at a joke only the two of you are in on. “i think this ones my personal favorite though.”

his thumb taps. his speaker clicks on. and “freak in you” slips into the air between you.

you blink. then laugh, warm and real.

“oh?” you murmur, raising an eyebrow, lips curling into a slow smirk. “real subtle.”

“what?” he says, playing innocent. “you don’t like it?”

you shift a little where you lean, one foot still outside your door, body angled toward him. the jacket slips slightly down your shoulder. your eyes don’t leave his.

“i like it fine,” you say. “just think it’s funny.”

he cocks his head. “what is?”

“the way you’re asking without asking.”

he doesn’t blink. doesn’t flinch. “and if i was?”

you let the moment thicken. let the silence between you stretch just long enough to taste.

then you push off the doorframe, step into his space like it’s always been yours. your voice drops, honey-slick and unbothered.

“then maybe you’re not the only one wondering.”

your fingers trail lightly up his arm. then your palm rests on his chest, casual. slow. enough.

he exhales like he’s been holding it all night, shoulders dropping just a bit, jaw tight.

you glance down, then back at him. your hand lingers.

and just above the beat, you murmur—

“wanna find out?”

yay the end!! here you can click for the atsumu part<3

[theodorecanaryhood]

Platonic

Jason Todd x Male reader

Family functions were the worst, you had no love for them at all. Your parents knew but still forced you to be there.

You were the youngest son, and your parents and older siblings always tormented you for the fact you hadn’t found anyone yet.

You stood in your bedroom staring in the mirror, holding up a red tie and a blue tie.

‘The red ones nice’ Jason said as he walked in the room.

His white shirt and black suit pants complemented his body, he’d agreed to go with you as your ‘boyfriend’ for the night.

You’d forewarned that the two of you would be sharing a room as it was overnight at your parents house.

‘Great, red it is’ you said, throwing it around your neck and tying it.

Jason smiled a little as he put on his black blazer, picking up his mustang keys.

‘It’s a long drive, you ready?’ Jason asked as you smiled.

‘Yeah’

The two of you drive to your family function, you dreading that you agreed to go. You didn’t like the fact you were flying to your family about having a boyfriend. But you also couldn’t bare the stress of having your singledom thrown in your face again.

‘Right, before we head inside. Is there anything we should do?’ Jason asked as he parked the car. You looked at him confused.

‘What you mean?’ You asked, Jason smiled.

‘We have to convince the family we’re a couple, also I have to convince them I’m gay’ Jason made his point.

‘Maybe just hold hands …. I guess I can hold onto your arm’ you suggested. Jason nodded.

‘What about kissing?’ Jason asked, you raised an eyebrow.

‘If you’re comfortable, but we don’t have to’ you said.

The two of you got out of the car, walking toward the venue. Jason smiled as he took your hand in his, preparing himself for the charade you two would put on.

You’d been friends with Jason a few years now, he had no issues at all with you being gay. But, he also didn’t like the idea of you being picked on by family for still being single.

He happily agreed to be your pretend boyfriend for a night or two.

The two of you stepped inside holding hands, both suited up as you walked towards your parents.

‘Mum, dad?’ You called out gently as they turned around and saw you, both smiling.

‘Y/n’ your mum cheered as she hugged you. Your dad doing the same.

‘And who’s this?’ Your father asked, looking Jason up and down.

‘This is Jason, my boyfriend’ you smiled as Jason introduced himself to the parents.

It was a busy event, and you gladly paraded your ‘boyfriend’ for the night. Your siblings meeting him too.

There was never an issue of running into the family while being out as you lived in Gotham City, they lived in Metropolis. It was a long way for them to travel to even see you.

Jason did a really good job at pretending he was with you, you didn’t think he’d be as into it as he seemed to be.

‘How am I doing?’ Jason asked you as the two of you stopped for a drink.

‘Great’ you smiled, your parents looking at the two of you from across the bar.

‘Your parents are looking’ Jason whispered, not wanting to make you anxious.

‘Do they seem suspicious?’ You asked curiously as Jason nodded a little.

‘Think so’

You thought maybe you’d been caught out and that was when Jason took a leap, holding onto your face and giving you a kiss. A few seconds, but it was deep.

‘Still looking?’ You asked as Jason peaked, he smiled a little as he nodded.

‘Yeah, not suspicious anymore it seems’ Jason said as he realised he was still holding onto your face.

The two of you had a drink together before you both got alerted it was coming to an end. Jason opted to drive the two of you to your parents house .

‘You ok about sharing a room?’ You asked him as he stopped outside your parents house.

He just nodded in response, opening the car door and the two of you heading into the house.

It was a nice house, too many bedrooms for a small amount of people. Much like Wayne manor. Jason was impressed by it, more so the artwork on the walls.

‘Y/n, why don’t you show Jason your room?’ Your mum said as you took Jason’s hand and lead him upstairs.

Giving Jason a tour of the house that was too big, too flashy and far too loud with artwork on the walls.

Jason sat with you drinking tea with your parents, him getting to know the family better. He found it quite funny how they were being so nice to you considering the stories he’s heard of what they’re really like.

It came to bedtime, Jason went to your room with you as you stood in the room.

‘Thank you again, for doing this for me. It’s a lot to ask I know’ you said as Jason shook his head a little.

‘Don’t sweat it, it’s great’ Jason smiled as he stripped his suit shirt and pants off. You doing the same.

‘You can have the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor’ you said as Jason took your arm.

‘No, please. You can sleep in the bed too’ Jason spoke quick as you looked into his eyes.

‘You sure?’ You asked as he nodded. You got into bed and lay next to him.

Jason fell asleep pretty quickly but you didn’t, your head raced. You kept thinking about the kiss you shared.

You know Jason is straight and has no interest beyond friendship with you, but you couldn’t help it. You’d never seen this side of him before.

Once you managed to fall asleep, it wasn’t long before the sun was up for its rounds. You groaned at the sight of the it as your bedroom door creaked open slowly.

‘Morning, you want coffee?’ Your mum smiled as you nodded.

Looking and seeing Jason still fast asleep next to you.

You couldn’t remember the last time your parents were this nice to you, you wondered if it was only because you’d brought a guy home.

It didn’t matter as it was time to head home after a couple of hours, Jason was smiling and holding your hand to the car.

Giving you a small kiss in the cheek as you got into the car. Once off your parents property and headed back to Gotham City, the charade would be over.

Jason hummed a little to the tune on the radio, eyes focused on the road. He suddenly turned to you.

‘If you need to do this again, let me know’ Jason suggested.

You smiled as you nodded, Jason went back to looking at the road. He was your saviour for the weekend. And you would never be able to thank him enough.