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slattlicker · 6 days ago

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Imagine, if you will, virgin gf whos just so fucking horny for Schlatt, girl is down BAD, for this man so much so that Schlatt has to be like “woah hey let’s slow down okay dont wanna hurt yourself toots” (Toots🤤🤤) and has to like pin (gently but still pinning) you down and talk to you in that like (idk what to call it) like “gentle parent” (???) voice so you don’t hurt yourself cause hes just so BIG and he could also probably potentially hurt a partner who HAS had sex before cause of his size so his partner whose never had sex? Oh hes terrified he might tear you in half of he isn’t careful.

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * baby’s first time ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: third date. a movie. a kiss. a girl too far gone to think straight—and a man trying his hardest not to ruin her. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: inspired by a not-so-little ask about a virgin reader down bad for schlatt ♡ i may have wandered into tenderness territory, and,,, i'm not sorry!!

warnings: explicit content (MDNI !!!) · virgin reader · size kink · dom/sub dynamics (soft) · thigh riding · fingering · handjob · creampie · aftercare

enjoy, ma luvs ♡

✧✧✧

the door clicks open, and schlatt steps aside like he’s done this a hundred times before.

“welcome to casa de big guy,” he says dryly. “wipe your feet, don’t judge the furniture, and if anything smells like axe body spray, it wasn’t me.”

you laugh, stepping inside. “real strong opening. totally reassuring.”

his place is… honestly, kind of nice. not in a curated, architectural digest way. just warm. lived in. the couch is stupidly big, the rug doesn’t match, and there’s an open bottle of something expensive on the kitchen counter. but it feels like him.

he closes the door behind you. “you want a drink?”

you nod. “water’s fine.”

“boring,” he says, already heading to the kitchen. “love that.”

you roll your eyes and tug off your shoes. he’s still in his button-up from dinner, sleeves rolled up, top buttons undone. the chain at his neck catches the light when he moves, and your brain short-circuits just a little.

you perch on the edge of the couch. try not to look like you’re imagining things you absolutely shouldn’t be imagining this early into a relationship.

he brings you a bottle of water and flops down beside you like gravity owes him something.

“so,” he says, stretching out with one arm behind you, “movie or mario kart?”

you glance at him. “you’re letting me choose?”

“no,” he says. “just seeing what you’d pick before i put on something i like.”

you scoff. “you’re the worst.”

he grins—wide and smug. “yeah, but i’ve got surround sound.”

you snatch the remote before he can reach for it.

“put on something you like,” you say innocently. “let me see what kind of freak you really are.”

he gives you a look. the kind that makes your stomach flip.

“careful,” he says, leaning back, spreading his legs just slightly. “you might find out.”

you raise a brow. “oh no. not—i mean, your taste.”

schlatt laughs, low and lazy. “you think i’ve got bad taste, toots?”

“i think you have questionable judgment and a subscription to every streaming service but HBO.”

“jealousy’s ugly on you,” he mutters, shifting closer, one hand sliding behind your neck like it’s nothing. “good thing you look cute in everything else.”

your breath catches.

that look in his eyes—just amused enough to be dangerous—makes it hard to think.

he leans in slow, gives you enough time to pull away.

but you don’t.

he leans in, and when those lips meet yours—it’s not just a peck. it’s hungry. it’s claiming. it’s everything you’ve been craving since date one.

your fingers tangle in his shirt. his hand cups your jaw. every nerve in your body jumps.

you press closer, breath colliding, wanting it to go further—but just as you're about to lose control, he pulls back.

with the most smug ass smile you've ever encountered.

you’re blinking, breath caught, body still hot.

he taps your water bottle like he’s reminding you to hydrate. “told you i’ve got taste.”

you stare at him, deflated and fired up all at once.

he picks up the remote again. turns the volume up. settles back.

“so,” he says. "movie."

✧✧✧

you’re nestled into the corner of the couch now, tucked under his arm, legs draped over his lap like you’ve done this a hundred times.

the movie plays—low volume, muted light, something with a plot you’re not following.

you’re too focused on the way his thumb brushes the inside of your arm. the occasional squeeze at your waist. the weight of him beneath you.

you’re warm. a little sleepy. a lot horny.

and without realizing it, you start to move.

just the tiniest roll of your hips. back into his thigh.

barely anything.

but the friction makes your breath hitch.

you do it again.

and again.

you don’t even know you’re doing it until he shifts slightly beneath you—just enough to make you freeze.

“…you good, toots?”

your eyes snap open. “what?”

he tilts his head down, chin brushing your temple. his voice is low, soft. amused.

“you keep grinding on my leg like you’re trying to make coffee or something."

you go completely still.

a beat passes. then another.

and then—humiliated—you bury your face in his chest with a groan.

“oh my god. i wasn’t—i didn’t mean to—”

his hand rubs your back slowly. “i know.”

you peek up at him, mortified. “please tell me you’re not mad.”

“mad?” he huffs a laugh and grabs the remote, clicking the movie off. “sweetheart, i’m flattered.”

he sets the remote aside, then shifts so he can face you more fully. one arm still around your waist. the other rubbing your thigh—gentle, slow.

“but listen,” he murmurs. “i gotta be honest with you, alright?”

your stomach flips.

“yeah?” you ask, quiet.

his gaze drops—thigh, hand, then back to you.

“i’ve been doing this a long time,” he says, voice low and even. “you haven’t. i know that.”

you go a little rigid in his lap. “did i… say that?”

he huffs a laugh—low and knowing. “you didn’t have to.”

“okay, well—” you sit up straighter, shrug like it’s no big deal. “i mean, i’m not completely inexperienced—”

“no?”

“i’ve done stuff.”

“stuff.”

“yes, stuff.”

he tilts his head. “like?”

you blink. “like—like things.”

he’s smiling now. “specific things?”

“god, why are you interrogating me—”

“because you keep lying, sweetheart,” he says, gently. “and you’re really, really bad at it.”

you sputter. “i’m not—i’m not lying—”

“you moaned when i kissed your neck. Once. and your whole body went stiff the second my hand hit your thigh.” he leans in, eyes dark. “you haven’t done anything.”

you go silent.

he softens. “that’s not a problem. it’s just a fact.”

you glance away—embarrassed.

“...i didn’t want to seem totally clueless.”

“baby. i like you clueless.” he cups your jaw, tilts your face back to his. “i’m not tryna scare you off. i just—look, i’m a big guy. and i can be rough without meaning to. so if we’re gonna do this—if you ever wanna go there—i gotta know it’s not just because you’re all worked up and desperate for it. i gotta know it’s you. choosing it.”

you blink.

heart hammering.

because this is not what you expected.

he smiles a little at your expression. “that surprise you?”

you nod slowly. “i just—i didn’t think you’d care.”

his brow lifts. “toots,” he mutters. “you think i’m gonna risk splitting you in half just so i can blow my load five minutes faster?”

your face burns.

but you laugh, burying your face in his chest again.

he wraps both arms around you now. holding you close.

“tell me what you want, baby,” he says, voice lower now. slower. “not what you think i wanna hear. what you want.”

you swallow.

“i don’t know,” you whisper. “i just… i wanna feel you.”

he hums.

and you feel it—in his chest, under your hands.

“yeah?” he says softly. “you think you’re ready for that?”

you nod, but it’s hesitant. you’re still tucked close. still trembling a little.

he pulls back just enough to look at you.

his eyes are soft, but there’s heat behind them. serious heat.

“you ever ridden a thigh before?”

you blink. “ridden a… what?”

his lips twitch. “that’s a no.”

“i didn’t say no,” you protest, even as your brain scrambles for anything close. “i just—I mean, it’s not exactly common—”

“it is when you know what you’re doing.”

you stare at him. “and you just… sit on it?”

he chuckles. “no, baby. you grind.”

your mouth goes dry. “oh.”

he raises a brow, watching the realization hit you. “still wanna try?”

your throat’s dry. your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt.

you nod.

“yeah,” you whisper. “okay.”

his smile is small. quiet. something between gentle and dangerous.

“attagirl.” he shifts beneath you, spreading his legs a little wider, patting his thigh. “c’mon, sweetheart. right here.”

you crawl over hesitantly, face burning, nerves crawling under your skin. the second your knees settle on either side of his leg, you realize just how big he really is.

your core is barely brushing his thigh.

you’re not even fully seated and you already feel stretched—high up, slightly off balance, comically small on top of him.

“is this… okay?” you ask quietly, looking down at him. “like—am i doing it right?”

he smiles—lazy, warm, and just a little crooked. his hands settle lightly on your hips.

“you’re perfect,” he says, thumbs stroking circles into your skin. “we’ll get you there.”

you start to move—tentative, cautious, rocking your hips forward just a little. the friction is barely there, but it already lights something up in your belly.

you shift again, trying to roll your hips in a smoother motion.

“…is this how you do it?” you ask. “i feel like i’m not…”

schlatt cuts you off with a quiet hum, and his hands tighten just slightly.

“hey. you don’t gotta know how,” he murmurs. “that’s what i’m here for.”

he lifts his thigh just a little under you, adjusting the pressure, guiding you forward with a slow tug at your hips.

“try that.”

you gasp. the contact is better. more direct.

“oh—oh, okay…”

you keep going. a little clumsier than you’d like. shifting, huffing, trying not to grind down too hard.

you look at him again. “sorry—i’m just—i don’t wanna mess it up.”

he chuckles under his breath, voice low and thick.

“baby, you’re not gonna break anything,” he says.

“but—you're so—i mean, your leg is—”

he tilts his head, smirking.

“what? big?”

you nod, mortified. “yeah. that.”

his voice dips even lower. “you ever stop to think what the rest of me might do to you if we’re not careful?”

your breath catches. you can’t answer.

he leans forward, mouth brushing your ear.

“trust me, toots,” he whispers. “you’re doin’ just fine.”

you’re trying—god, you’re trying—but every shift of your hips feels clumsy. your thighs are already shaking, and you can’t tell if it’s from the effort or the nerves or the fact that his hands haven’t left your waist since he put you there.

“i—i don’t know if i’m doing this right,” you mumble. “it feels good, but it’s not—like—how it’s supposed to be, right?”

schlatt’s eyes narrow slightly. not annoyed—just watching. reading you.

he shifts under you again, thigh flexing between your legs, dragging right where you need it.

“sweetheart,” he says, voice low and slow, “look at me.”

you do. hesitant. flushed. bottom lip caught between your teeth.

his hand cups your jaw gently—thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, just enough to make you still.

“you’re not here to perform,” he murmurs. “you’re here to feel. and feel good. got it?”

you nod, barely breathing.

“good girl.”

your breath hitches.

“you feel how wet you are right now?” he asks, one hand sliding from your waist to between your legs—pressing you down harder onto his thigh. you gasp. your hands clench at his shoulders.

“that’s what i care about,” he mutters. “not rhythm. not looking cute. just you, soaking my leg like it’s the only thing that’s ever made you feel good.”

you whimper, and he grins, a flash of teeth.

“yeah, that’s better,” he says. “that’s my girl.”

your hips start moving again. this time instinctively. not polished. not graceful. just needy.

“you hear those sounds you’re making?” he breathes, eyes locked on you. “you think i give a fuck how ‘right’ your hips are moving when you’re whimpering like that on my leg?”

your eyes flutter closed, head tipping back, and he grabs your waist again, guiding you now—gentle but firm.

“don’t stop now, baby,” he murmurs. “you’re doin’ perfect. get what you need from me.”

you’re getting there.

fast.

too fast.

your hips are stuttering now—small, frantic rolls, thighs trembling as you grind down hard enough that the seam of your underwear is soaked through.

and still, his hands stay on you. firm. supportive. in charge.

“you gonna come like this?” he asks, voice a rough whisper against your ear. “just from my thigh?”

you nod—desperate, whimpering.

“i—i think so—feels so good—”

“you poor little thing,” he mutters, teeth brushing your cheek. “you wanna come that bad? just like that? just from rubbing yourself on me?”

your breath hitches. your hands claw at his shirt.

and then—

he stops you.

big hands wrapping tight around your waist, lifting you off his thigh before you can fall over that edge.

you whine—loudly—hips twitching, eyes wide, clit pulsing and unsatisfied.

“wha—why—?! schlatt—”

“uh-uh,” he cuts you off, voice calm but firm. “i felt you getting close. didn’t say you could come, did i?”

you shake your head, nearly crying with frustration.

he shifts you in his lap, laying you back gently against the cushions, kneeling between your legs now. and you feel it—how big he is, crouched over you, gaze dark, hands trailing slow up your thighs.

“you know what your problem is, baby?”

you shake your head, still breathing hard.

“you’re too busy thinking about what it’d be like to ride me,” he murmurs, hand sliding between your legs again. “aren’t you?”

your eyes go wide.

he chuckles—dark and amused.

“you were fuckin’ fantasizing. thinking about how good i’d feel inside you. weren’t you?”

you nod helplessly.

“yeah. that’s what i thought.” he hums. “bet you got a whole little movie going in your head, me on top of you. me inside you. ruining that tight little pussy before you even know what to do with it.”

you squirm under his gaze, but he’s already tugging at the tie around your waist. undoing your dress like it’s a gift he’s taking his sweet time unwrapping.

✧✧✧

“you don’t even know what you’re asking for, do you?”

you shake your head, breath shaky. “i just—i want to feel you.”

his expression softens—but only slightly.

“you will,” he says. “but you’re gonna feel my fingers first.”

he pulls your panties aside, thick fingers brushing through your soaked folds. you gasp—hips lifting instinctively.

“you’re so wet, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “all from my thigh? from grinding like a needy little thing?”

you nod, helpless.

he slips one finger in—slowly. carefully.

you moan—high and shocked, head tipping back.

“god, you’re tight,” he breathes. “clenching already and it’s just one.”

his free hand presses gently on your belly, keeping you grounded.

“this okay?” he asks. “want me to keep going?”

you nod frantically. “please, sir—”

he smiles at that. then adds a second finger.

you cry out, legs twitching as he stretches you open—slow, steady, mercilessly gentle.

he leans in close, voice right at your ear.

“you feel stretched?” he murmurs, voice low.

you nod, lips parted, struggling to stay still.

“mm.” he smirks. “and that’s just two fingers, toots.”

his other hand trails down your thigh, thumb stroking your skin like a reward. like praise. but his tone stays calm, clinical, almost condescending.

“you’re squeezin’ so tight, i can barely move,” he says. “and you were thinkin’ you could take my cock?”

you moan again—helpless, humiliated.

he chuckles softly. “gonna hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you’re not even close. maybe if you were able to take four...”

his fingers press in deeper, curling just right—and you jolt, crying out, hands gripping the cushions like lifelines.

“shit—okay—okay—”

“you feel that?” he breathes. “that’s what a fraction of me feels like.”

you blink up at him, glassy-eyed. his shirt’s still buttoned, collar open. he hasn’t even rolled his sleeves down. meanwhile, you’re wrecked—basically naked, needy, completely undone.

he leans in, mouth at your ear.

“you’re not takin’ my cock, baby. you’re takin’ my fingers, and barely that.”

you whimper, shame heating your skin.

“and you’re doin’ your best, you are,” he soothes, voice soft now—mockingly tender. “but if i tried to fuck you tonight? you’d cry just from the tip.”

your hips twitch. you hate how wet you are from that—how your cunt clenches around his fingers like it agrees.

he feels it.

“ohhh,” he breathes, grinning. “you like that idea?”

you try to look away.

his hand grabs your jaw—gentle, but firm—and turns you back to face him.

“don’t look away now,” he murmurs. “you just squeezed around my fingers like that was the best fuckin’ thing you ever heard.”

you swallow hard, lips parted, heart slamming in your chest.

“you like the idea of crying on it, don’t you?” he presses, voice low. “sittin’ in my lap, all cockdrunk and teary, beggin’ me not to put the rest in?”

you whimper.

and that makes him grin. slow. cruel.

“jesus. you been thinkin’ about that for a while, haven’t you?”

you nod—helpless.

“how long?”

you blink, trying to gather words—but you can’t.

so he curls his fingers just right, and you gasp—back arching, thighs twitching.

“c’mon, toots,” he says, soft and coaxing. “use that mouth. tell me.”

you breathe, high and shaky. “since… our first date.”

that stuns him for a second. his brows lift—just a flicker of disbelief.

“first date?” he echoes, lips twitching. “we split a pizza and you were already thinkin’ about gettin’ split open?”

you cover your face, humiliated. “i didn’t know it’d be like this.”

he pulls your hand away—still grinning, still wrecking you with just the look in his eyes.

“like what?”

“big,” you whisper. “so big.”

his grin deepens, fingers dragging slow and deep, hitting a spot that makes your hips jerk.

“haven’t even shown you yet,” he murmurs. “but you’ve been thinkin’ about it—how wide you’d have to stretch. how it’d feel when i finally push in. that right?”

you nod, eyes wet, lips trembling. “mm-hm.”

he leans in—voice low, coaxing, wrecked.

“and now you know,” he breathes. “now you really know what you’re beggin’ for.”

then his thumb finds your clit again—circling firm, slow, devastating—and your whole body locks up.

“go on, sweetheart,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek. “come for me. just like this. just from my fingers.”

you shatter—body seizing, legs shaking, hands scrabbling for anything to hold onto. his wrist. the couch. the air. your cry breaks in your throat.

he groans low, thumb easing up, fingers still deep, drawing it out as long as he can.

“that’s it,” he whispers. “good girl. there you go.”

and then, slowly, finally, he slips his fingers out.

you whimper at the loss.

he brings them to his mouth.

licks them clean.

eyes never leaving yours.

you swallow hard, flushed and shaking and so far gone—but when he starts reaching for the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch, you blink.

“…what are you doing?”

he tilts his head, amused. “trying to wrap you up before you fall asleep sittin’ in your own afterglow.”

you frown—confused, needy, offended. “you’re just… done?”

schlatt pauses, blanket still half-unfolded. “i mean—yeah?” he says, hesitant. “was kinda hopin’ to get you cozy again…maybe finish the movie, head to bed…”

you stare at him, lips parted. “but i don’t want to sleep.”

his brow furrows. “toots…”

“no, i’m serious.” you sit up, pulling your shirt down as best you can—not that it helps, considering your whole body’s still humming from his fingers. “i don’t want to stop. not yet.”

“you just came so hard i thought you forgot your name,” he says, voice rough but not unkind. “i figured you’d wanna—”

“i didn’t come here to nap on your couch,” you say, more force behind your words now. “i came here because i like you. because i trust you. and because i knew if you touched me—really touched me—it was gonna feel this good.”

he doesn’t speak.

so you go on, cheeks burning:

“i’ve been wanting you for weeks, schlatt. but if you’re not into it—if you think i’m just some wide-eyed virgin who can’t handle you—then say that. but don’t sit there and act like you don’t want me when you’ve got a goddamn tent in your jeans.”

that makes him snort—actually snort—but the sound is low and almost pained.

he rubs the back of his neck, looking away for a beat before meeting your eyes again.

“fuck, toots,” he mutters. “it’s not that i don’t want you. jesus. believe me, i do. i’m dying over here.”

“then what?” you ask, quieter now.

his jaw ticks. “i’m tryin’ not to be the asshole who rushes a girl into something she’ll regret. especially one who’s never done it before. especially you.”

you sit still for a moment. swallow hard. then:

“i’m not rushing. i’m asking. and i’m not trying to jump straight into sex. i just… i wanna see you. i wanna touch you. i wanna make you feel good, too.”

his breath hitches.

you shift closer. rest a hand over his. “let me?”

he stares at you—searching. maybe for fear, maybe for hesitation?

but he finds neither.

“…alright,” he says, voice lower than before. “we’ll take it slow."

you nod.

and then?

he leans back on the couch and spreads his thighs—just a little.

“then c’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “you wanted to touch?”

you nod again—heart pounding.

“be gentle with it, now,” he adds, undoing his jeans. “he’s not used to sweet girls with tiny little hands.”

schlatt undoes his jeans slow, deliberate—like he’s still giving you time to change your mind.

you don’t.

can’t.

not with the way your mouth’s gone dry and your thighs are already pressing together again.

he shoves the denim down his thighs and leans back, boxers tented—massively—the outline of him enough to make your breath catch.

and then, finally, he tugs the waistband down.

you suck in a breath.

jesus.

he’s huge.

long and heavy, flushed dark at the tip, veined and thick and impossibly real. he’s hard—painfully hard—and lying against his stomach like he knows damn well you’re staring.

and you are.

because your mind’s blank.

wiped.

replaced with the single, earth-shattering thought:

there’s no way that’s fitting inside me.

but you want to try.

and then?

you notice it.

a glint of silver.

pierced—through the underside of the head. a smooth, shining barbell catching the soft lamp light, nestled against all that flushed skin like it belongs there.

your thighs press tighter.

“holy shit,” you whisper.

he raises a brow, cocky but cautious. “too much?”

you shake your head violently.

“no. no, i just—” you blink, still stunned. “it’s just… bigger than i thought. and the piercing…”

he smirks. “didn’t peg you for the kind who’d like that.”

you lick your lips. “i didn’t know i liked it.”

he lets out a low, breathless chuckle. “fuck, you’re cute.”

you reach out—hesitant at first—until your fingers brush against his length, and he exhales hard through his nose.

“careful,” he mutters. “he’s shy.”

you glance up, wide-eyed.

he’s already watching you, his gaze dark and steady, one arm thrown over the back of the couch like he’s trying to look casual—but the flex of his thigh beneath your knee gives him away.

you wrap your hand around him, featherlight.

his breath catches. “a little tighter, baby.”

you squeeze—barely.

he groans. “yeah. just like that.”

you pump once, twice, awkward and unsure. “am i…?”

“you’re doin’ so good,” he says, voice rough. “just keep goin’. nice and slow.”

you bite your lip and keep your eyes on your hand, watching the way his skin shifts, how your fingers don’t quite close all the way around.

god, he’s thick.

he guides you gently—fingers curling over yours, setting the pace, the rhythm.

“that’s it,” he murmurs. “easy, yeah? keep your hand right there—good girl.”

the praise makes your stomach flutter.

you pump again, smoother now. his hips twitch—just a little—and he sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“try twisting your wrist a little at the top,” he says, almost too calmly. “not too much. just—fuck, yeah, like that.”

you look up at him again, half-proud, half-hungry.

his jaw’s tight. he’s breathing hard. and the muscle in his thigh jumps every time you give him a firmer stroke.

you’re learning fast.

another slow pump and there it is—a bead of slick, glistening at the tip.

you blink.

then, without thinking, you lean in and press a kitten lick to it—light, curious, reverent.

he chokes.

“jesus—fuck, baby—”

you flinch back. “sorry! i didn’t—was that—?”

he huffs a breath, eyes squeezing shut like he’s trying to reset the entire planet.

“no, that was—shit, that was perfect. you’re so fucking perfect.”

you glance down again.

still curious.

still hungry.

you lean in—and this time, you press your tongue flat to the base and drag it all the way up. slow. careful. lingering at the tip with another kitten lick, like it’s instinct.

he bucks.

actually bucks.

“fuck, baby—!”

you sit back again, blinking up at him, lips slick, proud and a little uncertain.

“…did i mess up?”

he stares at you like you’ve just reinvented sex. like he can’t decide if he’s terrified or in love.

then you do it again.

same motion.

same wide eyes looking up at him.

his hand shoots out—grabs the base of his cock like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing it all over your pretty, determined face.

“okay,” he rasps. “okay, that’s enough.”

you pout. “why?”

he looks wrecked. cheeks flushed, hair mussed, thighs tensed like steel under you.

“because if you do that one more fucking time,” he growls, “i’m gonna come so hard i black out, and that’s not how i wanna finish this date.”

you blink. then slowly smile.

“…so i’m good at it?”

“sweetheart,” he huffs, tugging you into his lap again, “you’re a goddamn menace.”

he tucks you into his lap like muscle memory—your bare thighs stretched over denim, your flushed face resting against his shoulder.

his cock is still hard, still leaking, still angry at the denial.

you squirm once and feel it press against your stomach.

“…can i try?” you whisper, voice small but sure.

he stills.

“...try what, baby?”

you don’t look at him. “…taking you. at least a little.”

he goes quiet. one long beat. then another.

“you sure?” he asks finally—low, serious.

you nod. “i just… wanna see. i wanna try. i know it might not go all the way, but—”

“but you want to know how it feels,” he finishes for you, voice gentling. “you wanna feel us.”

you nod again.

he sighs like he’s aging a decade on the spot, but you catch the way his arms tighten around your waist—like he’s already imagining it.

“…we’re goin’ slow,” he warns.

“okay.”

“and the second it’s too much, you tell me.”

“okay.”

he looks at you for a moment—long and steady—like he’s memorizing the curve of your face.

then: “all right, sweetheart.”

you sit up.

and he leans back.

cock thick and flushed, resting against his stomach like it’s just waiting for you.

you swing a leg over, settling above him, shaky hands bracing on his chest.

“you’re gonna guide it,” he murmurs. “take your time.”

you reach down, wrap your hand around him again—he twitches in your grip—and you line him up to your entrance, already slick and fluttering and so ready.

your breath catches.

his hands come up to your hips.

“i got you,” he whispers. “don’t rush. just—go as far as you can handle, baby.”

you nod, eyes fluttering.

and slowly—so slowly—you start to sink.

the head presses in and it’s already a stretch.

you gasp.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he grits out. “jesus, you feel like a vice.”

you whimper. but don’t stop.

“an inch more, maybe,” he murmurs, watching your face. “that’s it.”

you exhale shakily.

but you want more.

your thighs tremble as you inch lower, one centimeter at a time, cunt pulling him in greedily even as your body resists.

“good girl,” he whispers, voice raw. “just like that. that’s it, sweetheart. you’re doin’ perfect.”

you make it about halfway before your body stalls and the pressure inside you starts to burn.

it’s too much.

but also—not enough.

you brace your hands on his chest, panting, thighs trembling, walls clutching him like you’re scared to let go.

“shit, baby,” he grits, hands hovering like he’s torn between helping you up or holding you down. “you—you can stop now. that’s already so much—”

you nod. you try.

you lift your hips—just barely—

but the friction is molten.

you gasp—then drop right back down with a helpless cry.

his groan punches out of him, ragged and low. your eyes fly to his.

wide. stunned. wrecked.

you grind again. shallow. experimental.

both of you moan.

“oh,” you whisper.

“fuck me,” he breathes. “do that again.”

you do.

rocking in slow, shaky circles—just halfway down, just where it feels good.

his fingers dig into your hips like anchors, his chest rising hard beneath your palms.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “you’re riding just the tip—”

“not the tip,” you pant, biting down on your lip. “i got halfway.”

he huffs a breathless laugh, brushing a hand through his hair as he looks at you—flushed, trembling, perfect.

“yeah, baby,” he says, voice rough. “you fuckin’ did. and you feel unreal.”

his hands slide lower—settling on your hips again, firm but steady. “slow it down a sec,” he murmurs, coaxing your movement into something smaller. “not just back and forth—try…rollin’ your hips. yeah, like that.”

you follow his guidance, circling your hips slowly, shallowly, and your breath stutters out at the way it drags him inside you.

“feel that?” he asks—low, careful, watching your face. “better?”

you nod, a little dazed. “s’good,” you whisper. “i—i didn’t know it could feel like this…”

“mm,” he hums, guiding you through another slow grind. “it’s different for everyone. different positions, different angles. but this—this one’s good for you, huh?”

“yeah,” you breathe. “yeah, it’s—fuck, schlatt—”

his eyes flutter shut for a second, like he’s trying to hold himself together. “legs okay?” he murmurs. “you need a break?”

they’re shaking, but not in pain. you shift a little and shake your head a bit, side to side. “just tired.”

you whimper. your head tips back, mouth falling open, cunt fluttering around him with every slow drag of your hips.

“can’t think, can you?” he murmurs, voice a gravelly purr. “too full to think. you like bein’ dumb on my cock, sweetheart?”

you nod. frantic this time. you do.

he chuckles—hoarse, wrecked.

“you’re so fuckin’ tight like this,” he groans. “fuck—every time you move, i feel your pussy pulling at me.”

you try to answer, but it comes out a whine.

“drunk on it already?” he teases, and his hand slides down—rubbing slow circles over your clit. “and i’m not even all the way in.”

that makes your whole body twitch. you bite your lip. squirm a little.

“i—maybe i can—”

“no,” he says gently, pressing his thumb a little firmer. “you don’t have to, baby. half’s already fuckin’ killin’ me.”

but it’s too late.

your body’s greedy.

you grind down again—slow, thoughtless, dizzy—and your hips roll just right, angling perfectly, and suddenly you slip.

lower.

deeper.

your eyes snap open.

he gasps—loud, choked, shocked.

you freeze.

and the second he’s all the way in—buried to the base—you scream.

not loud, but ragged. guttural. like the air’s been punched from your lungs and replaced with heat and pressure and the overwhelming stretch of being full.

you’re shaking. writhing. every nerve ending flaring at once. your hands claw at his chest. you can’t breathe. can’t think.

“oh my fuck, baby—” schlatt grits out, voice wrecked, hands flying to your hips like he’s trying to steady himself before he loses all control.

your body clenches around him on instinct—so tight, so wet, so goddamn full of him it’s like your body doesn’t know whether to panic or come.

“i didn’t mean to—” you gasp, tears in your eyes, head spinning. “i just—it just slipped—”

“i know, i know,” he breathes, voice wild, thumb brushing your hip like it might calm you down—even as his grip twitches, even as every muscle in his body begs him to move.

but he doesn’t.

not yet.

because when he looks down—it’s right there.

the base of his cock flushed dark, your folds swollen and stretched taut around him, a slick, shiny ring where your body’s clinging like it doesn’t want to let him go. like you were built for this.

he groans, deep and guttural. “jesus christ.”

you blink down at him, dazed. “what?”

“look at this,” he mutters, dragging his eyes down to where your bodies are still locked. “look at this. you’re fuckin’ made for me.”

his hand slides between your thighs—spreads you open just enough that you both get a better view.

your breath stutters.

because fuck, it’s obscene.

the size difference, the way he fills you, how swollen and stretched and stuffed you are—it’s so much. too much.

and still, your cunt clenches around him again like it wants more.

he grabs your hips—rough now, greedy—and starts grinding into you, slow but deep, like he wants to feel every inch of your walls wrapped around him, stretching, clenching, taking.

“oh, my fuck, baby—” he hisses, watching where he disappears inside you. “it fits. it fits. i can feel your cunt choking on it. look at how tight you are—look at how deep i am—fuck—”

he laughs under his breath. wrecked.

your hips twitch at his words.

you’re still panting. flushed and sensitive and wide-eyed. “i didn’t mean to take all of it—i just—i wanted more—”

“i know,” he says again, gentler now. “but all of me? on your first time?”

his head drops. his forehead rests against yours.

“fuck, you’re unreal.”

then he pulls back just an inch—slow, cautious, like he’s testing the water—and your body on top of his.

his jaw clenches. his hands twitch against your hips like he's holding back something barely contained. he drops his forehead against yours again—like he’s trying to ground himself in your skin instead of the way you feel wrapped around him.

you whimper softly, body twitching with aftershocks, and that’s when he really looks at you.

eyes wild.

lips parted.

hair a mess.

his gaze drops between your bodies—where he’s still buried, where he can feel you throbbing around him, leaking down his length—and something shifts.

he exhales.

rough. shaky. dangerous.

like he’s one wrong move from losing control all over again.

“baby—” he murmurs, voice low and fraying. “i need to—”

he cuts himself off. swallows. you watch his jaw clench.

then softer, almost pleading:

“can i take over?”

you blink up at him, dazed and glowing, still fogged with the kind of high that leaves your soul floating.

“…please,” you whisper.

“fuck yes,” he growls—and then you’re weightless.

in one swift movement, he slips out and flips you onto your back, spreading your legs with zero hesitation. the air hits your slick skin and you shiver—but he’s already there, lining himself up, kissing your knee like it’s the last gentle thing he’s got in him.

and then—

he thrusts in again. deep. hard.

the new angle makes you see stars.

his piercing brushes right there—a heavy, deliberate drag against your cervix that makes you gasp, body seizing up around him.

“there it is,” he growls, watching your face twist with pleasure-shock. “you feel that, baby? you feel me all the way up there?”

you can’t answer. your mouth is open, soundless, tears pricking at your lashes from the intensity.

he grabs your thighs, spreading you wider, pulling you down onto him like he’s got something to prove.

like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out.

“fuck—this pussy—i knew it was good, but goddamn.”

you sob out something close to his name, and he loses it.

he leans over you, caging you in with his forearms, his hips slamming into yours with loud, wet slaps that echo off the room.

“taking me so fuckin’ good,” he pants, voice right in your ear. “letting me ruin you, sweetheart. letting me fuck you dumb on your first time.”

“say it,” he demands again, voice shredded. “say it’s mine.”

and then—without thinking, without breathing, without even realizing what you’re about to say—

you choke out:

“it's already yours.”

his whole body jerks.

he stills—deep inside you, cock twitching, throbbing, fighting for control he doesn’t have.

his eyes snap open. meet yours.

and something in both of you just breaks.

the tension snaps like a wire under pressure—and you both come together.

you sob. your body locks around him. your vision goes white at the edges.

he groans—deep, animal, like he’s never felt anything like this before—and spills inside you, hips grinding down to push every drop as far in as it’ll go.

neither of you move. not at first.

just panting. shaking. stunned.

and then, slowly—so slowly—he pulls back just enough to watch it happen.

his cock slips out, wet and swollen and trembling, and a thick string of cum follows, dripping out of you in slow, obscene globs.

he watches it—entranced. then looks at you again. hair wild. eyes glassy. body still trembling with aftershocks.

he exhales, rough and ragged, like he’s trying to catch up with himself.

“shit,” he mutters. “okay. hang on, baby.”

he moves fast—but gentle. stands, tucks himself back into his boxers with one hand, and disappears down the hallway. you blink, dazed, and only just register the sound of running water.

when he returns, he’s got a warm, damp washcloth. his brows are drawn, focused—his expression all quiet care and no teasing for once.

“lift your hips for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kneeling beside you again.

you do. barely.

he takes over—one hand cradling your thigh, the other so gentle as he wipes between your legs. cleaning you. soothing you. making sure you’re okay.

“think i might’ve overdone it, huh?” he murmurs. “first time and i go feral like a fuckin’ animal…”

you shake your head, still hazy. “was perfect.”

he exhales—almost a laugh, almost a sigh—and kisses your knee.

“lift your arms,” he says next, reaching behind for the throw blanket. “we’re not sleeping on the couch. not after what we just did to it.”

you comply, sluggish and boneless. he bundles you up in the blanket like a little caterpillar in a cocoon, one arm wrapping under your legs, the other steady at your back.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, grinning to himself as he picks you up. “third date and i’ve already fucked up your ability to walk. great impression, schlatt.”

“you’re doing amazing,” you mumble into his neck, eyes heavy, lips smiling.

his condo’s quiet except for the shuffle of his steps, low muttering as he opens the door to his bedroom with his shoulder. it’s clean—cool gray sheets, big comforter, scuffed dresser with tiny tower of hats, an empty glass on the nightstand, his cologne still hanging in the air.

he sets you on the edge of the bed, then disappears into the closet.

“don’t even think about crashing in that dress,” he calls, rummaging.

you blink, foggy. “but it's...pretty comfy.”

“it’s not sleepwear, toots. catch.”

he tosses a shirt—soft, black, oversized. you tug it on with wobbly arms, his shirt swallowing your frame, no panties in sight, letting it fall down past your thighs. schlatt turns back around once you’re changed, holding out a water bottle and two pills.

“advil,” he says. “preventative. i know it’s gonna hit you in the morning.”

you swallow them, obedient, and let him help you into bed. the mattress is warm from the sheets, and you sink in immediately.

he joins you a beat later—still in his sweats, shirt rucked up slightly—and pulls the blanket over both of you. his arm slides around your waist. his other hand rests over your stomach, fingers grazing against your skin, almost tickling you.

his voice is quieter now. lower. honest.

“…you okay?”

you nod into his shoulder. “mhm.”

“wasn’t too much?”

“you asked. every time.”

a pause. then, softly:

“i’m really glad it was you.”

his fingers flex against your side. he presses a kiss to your temple.

“i know it’s only been three dates,” he murmurs, “but i really fucking like you.”

your breath catches. you tilt your head to meet his eyes.

they’re softer than you’ve ever seen them. tired. awed.

“i wanna be your boyfriend,” he says simply. “if you’ll have me.”

your chest swells. you smile.

“yeah,” you whisper. “i want that. i'd really, really like that.”

he exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours. “jesus. okay. okay, good.” he buries his face in your hair, arms tightening around you. “best third date i’ve ever had.”

you huff a sleepy laugh. “me too.”

the rest of the night settles around you in warmth and softness and the steady thump of his heartbeat, echoing against your back.

#vuewrites #jschlatt #schlatt #jschlatt x reader #schlatt x reader #jschlatt headcanons #schlatt headcanons #jschlatt imagines #schlatt imagines #jschlatt x you #schlatt x you

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the-joy-of-knowledge · 1 year ago

Text

Becoming an Intelligent Woman

My Dears,

There is no greater goal than being a fine woman who is intelligent, kind, and elegant. As much as we all want to be described with these adjectives, it takes a great amount of discipline to get there. It is very doable only if you are ready to put in the work.

Here are steps you can add to your routine in the next 4 weeks that will make you 1% more intelligent than you were before. This is a process that should become a habit not a goal. It is long term, however, I want you to devote just 4 weeks into doing these steps first and recognize the changes that follow.

Watch documentaries: This is the easiest step, we all have access to Youtube. Youtube has a great number of content on art, history, technology, food, science etc that will increase your knowledge and pique your curiosity. I really did not know much about world history especially from the perspective of World war 1 & 2, the roaring 20s, Age of Enlightenment, Jazz era, monarchies etc but with several channels dedicated to breaking down history into easily digestible forms. I have in the last 4 weeks immersed myself into these documentaries. Here are a few I watched:

The fall of monarchies

The Entire History of United Kingdom

The Eight Ages of Greece

World War 1

World War 2

The Roaring '20s

The Cuisine of the Enlightenment

2. Read Classics: I recommend starting with short classics so that you do not get easily discouraged. Try to make reading easy and interesting especially if you struggle with finishing a book. Why classics? You see, if you never went to an exclusive private school in Europe or America with well crafted syllabus that emphasized philosophy, history, art, and literary classics, you might want to know what is felt like and for me this was a strong reason. Asides that, there is so much wisdom and knowledge available in these books. In these books, you gain insights to the authors mind, the historical context of the era, the ingenuity of the author, the hidden messages, and the cultural impact of these books. Most importantly, you develop your personal philosophy from the stories and lessons you have accumulated from the lives of the characters in the books you read. Here are classics to get you started:

Animal Farm by George Orwell

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald

Candide by Voltaire

Paradise lost by John Milton

3. Study the lives of people who inspire you: I dedicate one month to each person that fascinates me. I read their biography (date of birth, background, death, influences, work, style, education, personal life) For this month, I decided to study Frank Lloyd Wright because I was fascinated by the Guggenheim Museum in New York. I began to read about his influence in American Architecture (Organic architecture, Prairie School, Usonian style), his tumultuous personal life, his difficult relationship with his mentor (Louis Sullivan), his most iconic works etc. By the end of the year I would have learned the ins and outs of people I am inspired by through books and documentaries. Here are other people I plan to learn more about:

Winston Churchill

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis

Ada Lovelace

Benjamin Franklin

Helen Keller

John Nash

Isabella Stewart Gardner

Caroline Herrera

Ernest Hemingway

Catherine the Great

Ann Lowe

My dears, I hope you enjoyed this read. I cannot wait to write more on my journey to becoming a fine woman. I urge you to do this for four weeks and see what changes you notice. Make sure to write as well, it is important to document your progress.

Cheers to a very prosperous 2024!

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bruhstories · 7 months ago

Text

Muse I

p.2 && p.3

summary: after futile attempts of producing paintings for the councillors of piltover, you finally find your muse. pairing: viktor x painter!reader warnings: suggestive content, strangers to friends-ish, angst, some swearing, afab!reader with she/her pronouns who wears skirts and dresses, somewhat canon divergent, particularly in part 2 w/c: 4k

a/n: this might be my magnum opus lol. it will come with a part 2. likes and reblogs are much appreciated and encouraged!

Paint dripped on the marble floor of your atelier — an unfortunate safety hazard that you were used to by now. You couldn't fill in the blank canvas with anything other than still life, despite being commissioned to paint portraits of every councillor, as well as a landscape of Piltover. But you lacked inspiration. Motivation. You had no muse, and councillor Salo definitely wasn't one, not with his snobbish attitude.

"I'm afraid we'll have to postpone your portrait, Councillor." You excused yourself and left the room, armed with nothing but a sketchbook and a dull pencil.

Piltover was a beautiful city, and you knew you could paint it if you just found a nice spot to view it from. Somewhere high above, where you could see it in its entirety. But until you found that perfect place, you roamed the streets, closely observing the architecture, the flora, the fauna. You walked on grass — you weren't sure it was allowed — and found a fountain, clear water trickling down the granite curves and slopes. Whoever sculpted it did a brilliant job, despite the water eroding the stone. In fact, the erosion added a certain charm to it.

You took your sandals off and sat down on a patch of grass to sketch the fountain, steady, so as to not mess up your drawing, even if it was just a guideline for your future painting. It was then when you saw him — the most beautiful creature you ever laid eyes on. His unkempt chestnut brown hair framed his face in a way that made your heart flutter, but his striking amber eyes had you hooked. Even from such a distance you could see the yellow and orange hues mixing in his irises.

Quickly flipping the page of your sketchbook, you began to draw him. Graphite slid up and down the parchment as your hand moved naturally, like it had a mind of its own. You sketched and shaded, not stopping until he did. Until another man joined him, effectively blocking your vision. No matter, your visual memory aided you in finishing the drawing, but you didn't stop there. You found your muse, and you needed to paint him.

Your nights grew restless as you juggled between painting Piltover, the councillors, and him. But he inspired you somehow, leaving only Councillor Medarda, half of the landscape, and his portrait unfinished. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't get the colour of his eyes right, and it drove you mad. You couldn't remember exactly how much yellow you needed, or how much red. Was there a hint of green? Did you need to add a drop of blue?

A soft knock on the door of your atelier startled you, and you opened it, greeting Councillor Medarda. You forgot she was due for her portrait, and invited her into your messy chamber.

"My apologies, Councillor, I didn't have the time to tidy up."

"It's quite alright. I prefer this — the raw, unfiltered creativity. Besides, I've never met an artist that's organised." She smiled. "May I?"

"Of course." You nodded, bringing her more canvases and sketches to look at.

"You truly are gifted. The colours, the highlights, you must be a prodigy." The councillor nodded. "Is that-"

You snatched the paper from her hand, clutching it at your chest.

"Sorry, that one's... personal."

"Funny. I thought I recognised that man." She pondered, and the gears in your head rotated.

"If you do know him, could you introduce us?" You chewed on your lower lip, then left to show her another one of your paintings. "I just can't get his eyes right."

"Viktor." Councillor Medarda gasped at the sheer hard work you put into the portrait. "You weren't commissioned to do this."

"Like I said, it's personal. Practice." You swiftly corrected yourself. "Yes, good practice."

"I suppose I could take you to his lab. A fair warning — you might have to bring your supplies there, because he will never leave his work to pose for a painting." She scoffed.

"I can figure something out."

Mel Medarda kept her promise after what seemed to be an eternity. Although you hadn't finished her portrait, you managed to paint a good chunk of it, laying down all the base colours and shapes. She would have to come back another day, however. You walked with her, closely trailing behind with a box full of paints, brushes and thick paper. You didn't bring his portrait with you yet, because you needed to assess him first, and you couldn’t paint anywhere else but your atelier. Sketching was different — that you could do anywhere, at any time. But painting was intimate. However, you were considering making an exception for him.

"Goor afternoon, Jayce." Councillor Medarda greeted a very cheerful, very lovestruck scientist.

You could clearly see that he was doting on her, and she tried to hide her own excitement while maintaining a professional persona. It was cute to see a respectable scientist and a reputable councillor behave like teenagers — her hitched breath, his voice cracking, the quiver of her lip, the twinkle in his eyes — they were adorable. But you were here for someone else, not to witness their blooming love in a cold lab.

"Ahem." You cleared your throat inconspicuously, feigning a cough, and she remembered her promise.

"Jayce, this is Y/N. She's been commissioned to paint portraits of the councillors. Y/N, this is Jayce Talis, scholar, scientist, politician." Mel said, and you reached out your hand to shake Jayce's while propping the box in your hand with your knee.

"Nice to meet you, miss." His grip was firm around your fingers and palm. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The councillor stifled a chuckle, her thin, delicate fingers covering her mouth. As always, Jayce thought himself to be the centre of attention. He was the centre of her attention, that much was certain.

"She's here for Viktor. Have you seen him?"

"Viktor, yes." Jayce awkwardly rubbed the back of his head, then looked at the crate in your arms. "Do you need a hand?"

"Thank you, Mr. Talis, but these materials are quite precious to me. I'd rather hold them myself, if you don't mind." You gripped the box tighter.

Jayce found it amusing how fond you were of your paintings supplies, something you had in common with Viktor. He, too, was possessive of his work, in an incredibly stubborn, annoying way.

"Very well. Follow me." The scientist said, and you and councillor Medarda walked down a corridor of marble and limestone.

In classic Piltover architecture, golden columns decorated the tall walls, with blue spheres embedded in them, contrasting the polished white floor. Whoever designed it had a keen eye for details, you thought. Jayce and Mel partook in small talk, but you didn't intrude. You much preferred memorising the way to the laboratory, the number of stairs, and the motifs on the walls.

Two wooden doors stood in front of you, intimidatingly tall. Jayce opened one of them, inviting you and councillor Medarda in first, like the gentleman he was. You were taken aback by the materials on the worktops, the tools, the lights, the runes. It was a lot to take in, and you wouldn't understand what you were taking in exactly. But behind the tables full of hammers, screwdrivers and wrenches was your muse. He was focused on something, brows furrowed and lips pursed. A tiny bead of sweat trickled down his temple, slowly reaching his jawline, and you instinctively licked your chapped lips.

"Vik!" Jayce called out, but the man offered no response, still concentrating on whatever he was doing. "You'll have to excuse him. When he's working, he seems unable to hear."

You smiled — it was a trait you both shared. Whenever you immersed yourself in painting, you couldn't pay attention to your surroundings.

"Viktor!" Jayce moved closer to the table, snapping his fingers in Viktor's face, until the man scoffed.

"Yes?" Voice laced with irritation, he finally looked up at Jayce, then behind him. "Oh."

"Viktor, this is Y/N. She's an artist." Mel's hand reached out, and with a nod, you stepped forward, placing the heavy crate on an empty chair.

"I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but I... well, how shall I put it?" You rummaged through the box and pulled out your first sketch of Viktor. "I would like to paint you."

He took the paper from your hand, amber eyes wide at the beauty of it. Viktor scanned the sketch and every detail that went into it, pale cheeks tinted pink.

"I understand if you find this awkward, or if you don't agree." You carried on, but there wasn't an ounce of emotion on his face.

"When did you do this?" Viktor asked, still staring at himself. It was like looking into a mirror, yet he couldn't recognise himself.

"A few days ago, by the fountain." You tried to guess his feelings, but he didn't let you see them. "Again, I understand you probably consider me strange for doing this, but I must paint you, sir."

"I'm flattered, miss. But perhaps Jayce would be a better candidate? You'll find he is much more appealing to the eye." He handed you back the sketch.

You glanced at Jayce, a look of disgust on your face that you tried to hide. Sure, he was objectively attractive, that you could agree on, but you didn't want that. You wanted him. You wanted your muse.

"I think it would be a great idea, Vik!" Jayce beamed at his partner. "You need a break."

"That is precisely what I don't need." Viktor rolled his eyes. "Besides, I don't want to leave my lab."

"I could do it here." You offered. "I won't talk, I won't disturb you, you won't even know I'm here."

"It's already crammed."

"Please." You leaned forward, palms slammed on his table, trying to get a better look at his eyes. You probably looked insane like that, but you didn't care — you were desperate. "If you don't like it, you can hide it, break it, burn it. It will be yours to do as you please."

Viktor was past the point of being irked. He was downright furious, but he had to shut you up somehow. And Jayce, who really needed to wipe the shit-eating grin off his face.

"Fine." He mentally scolded himself for agreeing to do something so stupid. Posing for a painting? Ridiculous.

"Thank you so much. This means the world to me!" You picked up the crate to find an unused spot in the lab.

Viktor didn't mind your presence. You were true to your word — quiet. You didn't ask questions, didn't walk around the lab, didn't make him sit in some egregious position. In fact, he was surprised to see just how focused you were on your paintings. The fact that he didn't pose made it difficult for you to do a portrait — the whole point of it was for your model to sit still. And he did, just with his back at you, slouched and avoidant.

And you weren't always there. Bouncing between your atelier and the lab, between sleepless nights and painting, your schedule had become hectic. The bags under your eyes and poorly buttoned shirts, the strands of hair that stuck out from your updo, or the lines of green and blue on your cheeks were a dead giveaway.

But Viktor was the exact same, missing only the paint on his face and the skirt. You were like two peas in a pod, so much so that it drove Jayce up the walls to practically have two Viktors in the lab. Stubborn, hard-working, irritable, he found it ridiculous that you didn't become friends yet, or at least something more than strangers, considering how similar you were.

But you weren't strangers.

The act of transcribing one's mind, body and soul onto canvas, without losing any tiny detail in translation, was intimate in itself. You had to study Viktor, to memorise his gestures, his quirks — the way his forehead creased when he focused, how he found comfort in gripping the handle of his cane, the twinkle in his eyes when he had a brilliant idea. You didn't need words to understand him.

At first, he found it odd. Having an intruder in his lab, in the only place that brought him comfort, joy and privacy, felt violating. It definitely didn't help that you kept a close eye on him. He understood why — you needed to look at him to be able to paint him. But it was, naturally, strange. Then, he became used to you, to your shadow, your scent — of roses, cinnamon, a hint of vanilla. Viktor never grew tired of the smell of copper and smoke, but whenever you walked past him in the afternoon to set up your easel and paints and brushes, he took a very deep breath in, just to oxygenate his brain with your scent.

The utter silence in the laboratory frustrated Jayce. Since you trespassed with their consent, his partner became quieter, and you barely uttered a good morning or goodbye. He really hoped you being there would help Viktor socialise, but it did the opposite. The sound of graphite scraping on paper, or bristles on canvas was the only thing he heard in days. It was too much.

"I need a break." Jayce slammed a screwdriver on the table, startling you, but Viktor was unmoved by the sudden rattle. "Viktor?"

"I'm fine." His partner waved his hand dismissively.

"Y/N?"

You set the brush aside, then cracked your knuckles. It had been hours since you had a drink or food.

"I'll take a break. I can't be efficient if I burn out, and I still need to finish the landscape." You got up from the wooden stool to stretch.

Behind the cogs and tools, Viktor glanced at you, amber eyes fixated on your neck, trailing down your collarbone, and your half-exposed chest. He didn't know when you unbuttoned your collar, or when you bunched up your skirt, but the clothes looked like an uncomfortable confinement on you. Like they stopped your body from flowing naturally. He wondered — an intrusive, improper, shameful thought — if you sometimes painted naked. If you were more creative when not clothed. But he shook the thought away when you walked around his table to the small stove behind him.

"Would you like some tea, Mr. Scientist?"

Viktor had forgotten how sweet your voice was, like a siren lulling sailors to their demise. He nodded, back facing you. He didn't dare to look at you after picturing you nude.

"Where did you study?" Jayce asked, and you really wanted Viktor to make that sort of small talk with you.

"Ionia, the Academy of Arts." You stirred the honey in Viktor's cup of tea.

"Mel tells me you're quite talented." Jayce complimented you, and you should've thanked him.

"Talent is nothing without hard work, Mr. Talis, as I'm sure you already knew, given your career."

Viktor smiled, even if you couldn't see him. He wholeheartedly agreed with you — even if both him and Jayce were geniuses in their fields, they wouldn't have accomplished anything without sheer hard work and dedication.

"You need to stop calling us Mr. Talis and Mr. Scientist." Jayce chuckled. "You've been in our lab for weeks now. You're part of the team."

"I wouldn't say part of the team, but I do appreciate the company. I can be quite lonely in my atelier." You placed the Viktor's tea on his table.

He couldn't help but feel a slight jab from your words. He, too, was lonely when Jayce left. But he didn't make an effort not to be. Work was more important, and he hadn't yet found anything to prioritise more than that. Jayce pulled out his pocket watch, and froze.

"Shit, I must go. I'm late to my date- my meeting. Sorry, Vik. Be right back! "

"Eeh, we both know these meetings take some time." Viktor grinned.

It wasn't the first time the two of you were alone in the laboratory, but it always happened when you were both working. You, however, were taking a break, and you needed it before returning to your portrait. Sitting in complete silence, you sipped on your tea, brainstorming ideas for the title of your painting. Viktor's Portrait didn't have a nice ring to it.

"You never asked to see it." You spoke, fingers wrapped around the warm mug, interrupting him for the first time.

He didn't, because he only agreed to it to shut you and Jayce up. He was never curious to see it finished, let alone in progress. But after spending weeks in your presence, and after you said that, he couldn't deny the curiosity that bubbled in his chest. Still, by this point, he could wait a few more weeks.

"I don't have any inclinations towards the arts, Miss Painter." Viktor playfully mocked the way you called him Mr. Scientist for so long. "I doubt any feedback I give will be useful."

He sighed, rubbing his eyes. Why were there two wrenches on his table? And two cogs? Two cups of tea? No, he was seeing double, his head was pounding, ears ringing. Viktor reached out for his cane, but when he took one step, his legs wobbled, refusing to support him. You caught him, a firm grasp around his forearm, and pulled the nearest chair for him to sit down after setting aside your mug.

"I suppose I am in need of a break, too." The scientist sighed.

Lately he had been looking paler, thinner. His clothes didn't fit him like they used too, trousers loose around his waist, held only by a leather belt. You brought his cane before he even asked you for it, and dug into your bag for food. Unwrapping the muslin cloth, you offered him your lunch — bread, cheese and a few dried fruits. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

"Eat, please." You encouraged him, breaking the bread in small bites.

"No, it's your food."

"And I'm giving it to you." The stern tone of your voice had him oblige.

"I've wondered, Miss Painter-"

"Y/N." You corrected him.

"Right, Y/N. I've wondered why did you want to paint me?" He asked after swallowing the food. "I'm a broken scientist, surely you could do better with your models."

"I am doing better." You pulled a chair for yourself. "I haven't had any inspiration in a very long time, despite being commissioned to paint fairly simple things. But then I saw you, and everything changed. Like it or not, Viktor, you became my muse that day."

"Well, I'm flattered. Truly." He winced at the weight of his brace around his calf. "I need to take this off. Too tight." Viktor bent over but his vision blurred, forcing him to lean back in the chair.

"I'll do it."

"Please, I don't need pity. Just to rest." He scoffed.

"It's not pity, it's help."

"Help because you pity me."

"Help because I want to help. Have you never experienced honesty from people?" You kneeled down between his legs to get a better look at his brace.

His jaw clenched at the sight of you like that. It has been too long since he touched someone, and although your intentions were pure, he could not block his sinful thoughts from tainting his mind. You were beautiful, clever, and you shouldn't waste your time with someone like him. Yet there you were, nimble fingers working the leather straps of his brace. You pulled it off, resting it against the table behind you.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" You looked up at him, and he drowned in your doe eyes.

Oh, there were plenty of things you could do for him, he just couldn't utter them, only imagine them.

"No, I'll just rest here if that's alright with you." Viktor nodded.

"Very well. I shall get back to my painting, but please, if you need any help, tell me."

When Jayce returned, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. You were meticulously combining colours, eyeballing the necessary amount you needed to create the shades you desired. Viktor was back at his table, brace around his leg and a chair closer to him. And it was quiet, normal.

Days of hard work proved fulfilling — you had finished the landscape of Piltover, handed the portraits to each councillor, and got paid. There were other requests that you received, but they could be postponed. You were so close to finishing Viktor's portrait, and you didn't need to do it in his lab anymore, only adding minor details.

But you couldn't just gift it unframed, and so you bought a simple wooden frame that you painted yourself to match the portrait. Purple and golden. You signed it and added something only the Academy of Arts in Ionia taught — a magical rune. Focusing your intentions in it, visualising the magic in the painting, you wrapped the canvas and took it to the laboratory.

Jayce wasn't there, and you were so grateful for that, because you wanted Viktor to see it privately. You wanted to cherish that moment, just the two of you. Opening the tall wooden doors that you were so familiar with, you walked into the lab, portrait in your hands. Viktor was shocked to see you look so well put together — a dark green dress and heels that clicked with each step on the cold stone floor. He had seen you at your worst, face covered in paint and fingertips darkened by coal and graphite. But now he had the privilege to see you at your best, he thought.

"It is done." The smile on your lips was contagious.

His long fingers touched the twine knot around the canvas, almost afraid to untie it and look at the portrait, but your encouraging, eager eyes stopped him from hesitating. Viktor pulled on the string and unwrapped the paper, looking at himself. But he was different. His hair was longer, silver mixed in his brown locks. A purple cloak was wrapped around him, with golden adornments, and his cane was a staff, the handle circular and matching the golden in his outfit. The dark background was lightened by pale yellow shapes and lines, and his eyes were identical, the same amber hues he saw when he looked in a mirror.

"Have you thought of a name?" Viktor asked, still shook by how beautiful he was in that portrait.

"The Herald." You nodded.

The painting belonged in a museum, not in his bedroom to collect dust. He examined every detail, even the frame that was in harmony with him. Was that how you saw him? Like a god?

"I honestly don't know what to say. It's beautiful." Viktor's eyes narrowed down on the small rune in the corner of the canvas. "What is that?"

"Magic." You grinned. "At the Academy they taught us to weave magic into our art."

"Magic? What for?"

"Hopefully to help you get better."

"I'm afraid that is impossible, Miss Painter. But I do appreciate the thought." Viktor offered you a bittersweet smile. "How may I repay you?"

"By doing me the honour of modelling for me." You folded your arms across your chest.

"Didn't I just do that?" He snorted.

"No, you worked. I would like to study you more. Your features are unique, Viktor."

"That one I have never been called. Weak, broken, handicapped, but unique is a new one." Viktor sighed. "I think you've had enough fun, Miss Painter. I won't be an object of mockery."

You were stunned. Did he honestly think you were making fun of him? That you spent countless days and nights painting him just to ridicule him? That you lost sleep and hurt your fingers just to insult him? No. He was insulting you.

"Very well." You straightened your posture. He was not about to wound your pride. "Good luck with your work, Mr. Scientist."

#viktor #arcane #viktor x reader #viktor x you #viktor x y/n #arcane x reader #arcane x you #arcane x y/n #afab reader #viktor arcane

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fujoshirat · 2 months ago

Text

𝓢𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓼

"𝐼𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓁𝓎, 𝐼 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒷𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊. 𝒯𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝒷𝓎, 𝓌𝒽𝓎 𝒹𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓂 𝓈𝑜 𝒷𝓁𝓊𝑒? 𝒲𝒽𝓎 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝑒 𝓈𝑜 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓅𝓁𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓉𝑒𝒹? 𝑀𝒶𝓎𝒷𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓇𝒶𝓉𝑒𝒹."

Pairing: Todoroki Shouto x female reader

Warnings: slightly OOC!Shouto, DONT READ IF YOU DONT LIKE CHUBBY OR SHY READER 👹👹👹 (that’s the premise of the fic but ok), mentions of bullying, mentions unhealthy beauty standards, user has a quirk good enough to get her into the hero course at U.A. :), angst with a happy ending, inspired by "Sports" by Beach Bunny

Word Count: 2,393

A/N: Ouch, this one hurt :,) ; if you don't want female reader then use your imagination; I DO NOT CONDONE BULLYING OR BODY SHAMING, YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL JUST THE WAY YOU ARE♡

Junior high girls are mean, especially the rich kind at your school.

You’ll walk through the halls, just trying to get to class, and they’ll all greet you with their bitter honey voices and long, skinny legs. They’ll walk next to you, asking about your morning while flaunting their long, skinny legs through rolled up skirts. They won’t stop even when you reach class, and only when the teacher walks in and yells at them to get to their seats and roll down those skirts will they disperse and leave you alone.

It was a vicious cycle, the only relief being the quiet of your home—your new home.

It had been a week since you officially moved into your new neighborhood in Kawagoe City. Your father’s new position at his architectural firm had uprooted the family to the bustling city, meaning a new life for you. There wasn’t anything particularly special about the house that your family had moved into. It was located in a safe neighborhood, a ten minute walk from school, and was big enough.

The most interesting aspect of your house was, ironically the neighboring house: a grand, obviously expensive, traditional Japanese home. With two stories and marbled walls, whomever lived there obviously had a salary thrice your father’s. You found out that part was true on your second day of school, when, as you left your house, a boy your age walked out of that house, wearing the boys’ uniform for your school. His red and white hair made it obvious as to who he was: Shouto Todoroki.

Everyone knew about the mysterious son of Endeavor. The girls at your school loved to talk about him too. They loved to talk about his aloof personality, his ice-prince aura, his fascinating height, his clear skin, his flawless grades, his overwhelming strength, his father’s money. But most of all, their favorite topic to talk about was his scar. The blatant, angry red-almost maroon scar, “staining his face” as they loved to put it.

You didn’t see anything wrong with the scar, nor did you agree that it ruined his face. But you never said it out loud, a girl shy and incongruous with the others. You just kept your mouth shut, keeping to yourself and only yourself unless spoken to (but even then, keeping social interaction to a minimum).

Shouto Todoroki isn’t mean, even though he looks like he is.

It happened all by coincidence, after all, both you and him weren’t the social type. It was a stupid paper bag that ripped on your way home from your impromptu trip to the grocery store. As the flimsy material ripped in half, its contents tumbled out.

You gasped and scrambled to pick up the spilt cans of various meats and mixed vegetables, immediately dropping to your knees and gathering what you could. As you do so, your navy blue hoodie bunches up at the sides, your fingers fumbling to hold everything against your chest.

And just as you’re about to reach for the last few cans of tuna, a pair of large, calloused hands reach out and pick them up from the ground. You glance up in surprise, but then your breath hitches in your throat.

Shouto Todoroki is crouched in front of you, silently stacking the cans of tuna and wearing what seems to be his gym clothes. He’s perfectly pristine and poised, like always, except for the small cuts along his forearm. Were those from training? Blood rushes to your cheeks, and you don’t know whether it’s from embarrassment or admiration.

“Y-you don’t have to-! U-uhm-! You know…” You silently curse at yourself for stammering, only choppy phrases able to escape your mouth. The taller boy shakes his head and stands up. “It’s alright, I’m sorry for startling you.” The Shouto Todoroki is right in front of you, the strongest in your year, probably salutatorian, and practically untouchable—yet helping someone like you pick up dropped cans of tuna.

“Thank you,” you whisper, trying not to draw attention to yourself. He watches you stand up, but his gaze doesn’t focus on the obvious weight around your midsection. His eyes don’t burn into it like everyone else your age and at school, as if you don’t belong here. Instead, he even takes some of the vegetables in your hands and looks at you in the eyes.

“You live next door to me, right? Let me walk you home.” Your eyes widen, clearly not expecting such a kind gesture from anyone, especially from him. “Y-Yes, but it’s okay, you don’t have to if you’re going somewhere else. I mean, if you’re busy—” Before you can continue, the heterochromatic boy shakes his head. “I insist, and I’ll be heading home anyways.” You blink again, waiting quietly for him to say that he’s changed his mind or that he was messing with you. But when he doesn’t respond and just waits patiently with you, you sigh and murmur quietly.

“…Okay.”

And so, he walks with you. His eyes fixated on the sidewalk in front of you two, his silence mirrors your own. Once the two of you reach your house, you take the groceries from him. Right before he leaves, you dig through your small purse and pull out three small bandages. You always carry extra, just in case your clumsy mistakes lead to injury. Without a word, you hold them up to him and bow your head.

“Thank you, Todoroki-san.”

And Shouto takes it, firmly, like it means something.

“Thank you.”

And so, it began. Your shared practice of walking to school together, in the rain, in the snow, in the summer heat, and back home. It didn’t matter that you two were in different homerooms. Whomever got to the school gates first waited for the other to walk home together. Only on days when he had training immediately after school did you walk home alone, and it gradually increased as the school year progressed.

You never asked about his scar and stared at it shamelessly, and Shouto never made you feel like you were worth less because your body wasn’t skinny and lanky like the other girls in your school. You gave him bandages when he came home all bruised from training, and he shared his umbrella with you in the rain. You were both outsiders in the same world, not knowing where to belong but in the comfort of each other.

Good things never last, that was a lesson you learned in your childhood, and it seemed as if life wanted to teach you it again.

It was just going to be a mini vacation with your family to a popular camping spot in Chiba. You were only going to be gone for two day.

And when you came back, he was gone.

The Todoroki residence had a sign in front of it that preached “FOR SALE,” and seeing it made your heart break. You had gotten attached to your only friend, just to find out that he had moved without a word. When you went back to school, you learned that was that it was official: the Todorokis had moved out of town. And, according to every heartbroken girl at school, because his father wanted him to go to a different private school to prep for his high school path.

The universe had taken the one person who understood you, and it destroyed you.

You weren’t thinking about it when it happened. You were just walking through the halls of U.A., your first day of high school, looking for your homeroom with your new, self-proclaimed best friend. Setsuna Tokage keeps her arm looped around yours, her extrovert energy almost overloading you.

But it was okay, because Setsuna Tokage didn’t judge you for how your body looked and didn’t care if you were naturally shy. She saw you head towards the hero course classrooms and declared you her favorite person and hadn’t let go of your arm since.

You were smiling at something pleasant she had said, how you and her were going to make so many friends in Class 1B and have the best year ever, when you rounded the corner—

and bumped into him.

Not just anyone, not just a student.

Shouto Todoroki.

The same two-toned hair. The same scar, the same sharp gaze—only taller now, more composed. He looked so much like the boy you used to know, but different in ways that made your chest ache.

Your breath hitched. The world seemed to stop, and you held your breath.

But Shouto? Shouto didn’t react, not at first. As you were about to apologize, to ask how he was doing, he simply nodded and muttered an apology before walking away.

Was it how you looked? Though you never became the skinny supermodel that your former junior high classmates flaunted, you had lost a significant amount of weight. Was it your height? You definitely grew a few inches since you last saw him. Questions raced through your mind as you saw him walk away and silently enter the door to Class 1A.

Maybe you were too foolish to think that he would bother to remember you, let alone even think that he was as attached to you as you were to him. You forced yourself to keep walking, your new friend inspecting your arms to see if you were okay or hurt in any way. You masked the sorrow on your face with a smile, desperate not to cry, not on your first day at your prestigious high school in front of your new best friend.

And in that moment, he was gone again.

By the time that the sun had dipped low over U.A., casting golden streaks across the clean courtyard, you finally had a moment to yourself.

No extroverted friends who had “adopted” you clinging to your arm (who knew that extroverts Kendo and Pony would “adopt” you too!?!), no more boisterous male laughter, and no more overly cheerful teachers. Just you, your aching legs, and your small tote bag seated on a bench underneath a cherry tree. Sitting on the bench, you sigh and let the introvert in you heal.

You were so tired, unbelievably tired, yet the process of becoming tired was so fun. The girls in your class were so sweet and made the best jokes. You weren’t last like usual in the physical examination in hero training, in fact, you weren’t half bad. Setsuna pushing you into the seat between her and Kinoko during lunch was perhaps one of the best parts of your day.

Though it wasn’t perfect, your first day of high school was better than you had expected. People were honestly kind and welcoming. They looked past physical looks and treated people like people.

Having collected your thoughts and ready to go home, you stand up and start heading towards the school gate. You weren’t going to let Shouto’s failure to remember you ruin your entire evening (even though it hurt like hell).

But right before you even step onto the main sidewalk, fast footsteps pound against the concrete. Your name is called out, almost in desperation, and it floats in the air.

You turn around.

And there he was.

Todoroki Shouto, standing in front of you, chest rising and falling like he had just run halfway across campus. His eyes—so different from the cold detachment you had seen earlier—were wide now, searching, knowing.

“It’s you,” he says breathlessly, almost in disbelief. You could feel the raw emotion and vulnerability in his voice, and you had to blink back tears. “L/N��”

You swallow dryly and nod. “It’s me.”

For a moment, both of you just stared at each other, not knowing what to do. Silence stretched between you two, thick with everything left unsaid. Two years is indeed a long time.

Finally, he exhaled. “I didn’t want to leave.”

Your breath hitched, caught in your throat.

“I tried to convince my father to let me stay for another day, to at least say goodbye to you. But…” He didn’t need to finish his sentence, because the story’s missing pieces were filled in.

He wanted to say goodbye.

You felt your chest tighten like it did all those years ago when you realized the burning feeling in your heart. Still not speaking, the taller boy took it as his sign to continue.

“You… you changed,” he murmured quietly. You weren’t sure if he meant the way you looked or something deeper. Confused, you gave him the same truthful yet ambiguous answer.

“So did you,” you whispered back.

After pausing for what seemed like hours, Shouto drops his bag and hugs you. It was light, as if he was afraid that you would shatter, yet warm and too tempting to slip out of.

And when you reciprocated by wrapping your arms around him, his grip tightened, and the walls that you had built up in those two years had crumbled. Without warning at all, you sobbed into his embrace, releasing bottled up sadness and grief. Shouto remained quiet, his right hand gently stroking your hair to soothe you. He didn’t judge your tears, your crying face. Like how he always did, he stood there for you, a silent support that you appreciated greatly.

When you finally pulled back after shedding the last of your tears, his thumb gently rubbed against your cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you right away,” he said. “I saw you when we bumped into each other, but I didn’t let myself hope. You looked so confident and strong and…” You interrupt him with a weak laugh. “I’m still me, Todoroki-san.” His chapped lips quirk up into a small smile. “I’m glad.”

A pause, and then…

“Can… can we start over?”

His question caught you off guard, but it provided you with a happiness that rivaled the joy that your new friends from Class 1B gave you.

“I’d like that,” you nodded.

And so, Shouto picked up his bag and escorted you to the station. The walk reminded you of your old routine, the station included because of the far proximity between U.A. and your home. Neither of you spoke, comfortable in the familiar silence reminiscent of the one during your junior high routine.

The new part of this new routine? Todoroki’s hand holding yours.

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cocodotgreen · 10 months ago

Text

Today is a big day: I am sharing my first world – “Simynthos” – with all of you! I’m very nervous about it, actually. It’s the first world I ever finished!

So what kind of world is it? It's inspiration, the island of Corfu, is one of the more northern islands of Greece. It is greener than the southern islands, and the architectural style is a bit different. It has surprisingly high mountains and cute little villages with tiny orange houses and narrow roads and pathways. It has olive groves with trees more than a thousand years old, and it has beaches with some of the clearest water I ever swam in. I tried to capture Corfu's atmosphere in this little world, so that my simmies may enjoy it, too! And now I hope, your simmies will enjoy it as well :)

To make it a “quick” project (still took more than a year, though 😬) I used the existing world “Sa Pineda” by the amazing @nilxis as a base. The island itself was not created by me, I only created the houses/lots and made over the vegetation.

Even though it is on a tiny map, it is a full world with several houses. It has almost all rabbit holes, and a lot for your sims to do – well, at least considering the sizes of the place. It can be a home world as well as a vacation world with Nraas Traveler mod (can be found here).

Other than my previous builds it does contain some CC. Most of it comes with the download, but not all (you will find all links to additional CC below).

If you would like a (almost) CC-free version, please message me! I will gladly try to make it look good without CC, if I know that someone wants that! However, you will always need the rabbit hole rugs if you want the rabbit holes! But I could remove all decorative CC and try to decorate with non-cc items.

I had a lot of fun building on this little island. I also learned a lot and I hope to use all the experience I gathered from this first completed project for my next world!

Details:

tiny map (256x256)

contains CC (most of it is included in the download, but not all. Links are provided for the items not included, see below in the “Links to CC…” section.)

no Store content used

road-less

unpopulated

9 finished residential lots

17 community lots

3 dive lots

two empty lots, one community, one residential

contains most rabbit holes. The ferry provides room for additional rabbit hole rugs in case you want to place some that are not included.

Packs used: I have all expansion packs and all stuff packs installed, and have probably used items from almost all of them.

Packs you will definitely need for full functionality: Island Paradise (for the Dive Lots, the Ferry, and the All-in-One Bathrooms), Late Night for the Bars, Supernatural for the Elixir Shop, World Adventures for the Nectar Maker and the Nectar Racks, University Life for the Coffee Bar, and Ambitions for the Salon and Tattoo Studio, Showtime for the Karaoke Machine, on one lot I used the grill from Outdoor Living Stuff.

I used a lot of furniture from the Seasons and the Pets expansions. This is non-functional, but the world will look different if you do not have these expansion.

A word of warning (please read this!):

This world is TINY! But for its size I packed A LOT into it. This means, however, that lots and buildings are on the small to tiny side. So not all game options may be available on all lots.

The Weather-Stone may not spawn due to lack of a suitable location.

There is some kelp visible from map view next to one of the dive lots. I could not find a way to remove it, unfortunately, although I tried everything I could think of. If it bothers you the workaround is this: Go into edit town, select build on the dive lot. Without doing anything leave build mode and leave edit town. Now the kelp should not be visible anymore for this in-game-session. You will have to do it over again the next time you start up your save, though.

The proximity to community lots will mean that you can hear the noise from concerts, movies and sports events or even just music very loudly on some residential lots. I recommend you turn down the volume of music and effects in the game options to around ¼ of the bar. You will still hear the sounds on the residential lots, but not as loudly. Update: Follow these instructions to mute rabbit hole sounds if they bother you! 2nd Update: @ohrudi made a mod to mute all rabbit hole sounds completely! I highly recommend that mod for Simynthos! See recommended mods below for the link!

I advise against playing with horses on Simynthos due to the limited space and the lag they can cause. See recommended mods section below for more details.

Snow may look black in some places, mostly on or near the paths due to me having to paint under the walkways I placed. Sa Pineda already came with 8 terrain paints. I decided not to change the terrain paint, as it was very nicely done by the creator, and also snow is probably a rare occurrence on Corfu. If you want to, you can just disable snow/winter in the options.

Highly recommended mods for performance and functionality:

TheSweetSimmer’s Pick Up Toddler Fix: If you want to play with families you will absolutely need this mod! Without it you may not be able to pick up toddlers at all due to the limited space inside some of the houses.

OhRudi's Rabbit Holes Without Sounds Mod: This mod was inspired by the annoyance of the rabbit hole sounds in Simynthos. Thanks you so much @ohrudi for the amazing work! It will mute the rabbit hole sounds permanently and you will be able to enjoy the quiet island village life I intended for sims to experience on Simynthos!

OhRudi’s space saving mods: I recommend all of ohRudi’s space saving mods for this world:

“Fix: Pets need less space”

“Fix: Sims need less space”

“Fix: Guitar needs less space for playing”

“Fix: Bass needs less space for playing”

Nraas Register: Horses will cause lag on Simynthos due to the limited space on the island and the extensive space that horses need for routing (even with ohRudi’s mod), so I recommend disabling horses in the game options and using nraas Register mod to deactivate wild horses completely.

Nraas Debug Enabler: The dive lots on Simynthos have the same problem that all dive lots seem to have: If you want to explore the caves, you will need to reset them first. If you forget your sim will be reset to the beach. Best way to do this is using Nraas “Debug Enabler” mod (click on cave > Nraas > Debug Enabler > Options: Name of Cave > Object > Reset).

Nraas Go Here: I generally recommend Nraas Go Here mods “Teleport for everyone” option, just in case a sim or a pet gets stuck somewhere.

Other recommended mods (optional):

You can have functioning Greek restaurants on Simynthos if you use these two mods together:

icarus_allsorts’s “Eat Outside Restaurants”

Cinderellimouse’s “Cooking and Ingredients Overhaul”

Both mods combined will allow you to set the menu for the diner or bistro rabbit hole to Greek dishes (or any other dishes you prefer) and order these dishes from a waiter on the lot. How cool is that?!

Links to CC that’s not included in the download:

You will need these Jynx rabbit hole rugs (Pets Fix), from this thread on MTS:

Late Night rabbit hole rugs (Pets fix)

Base Game rabbit hole rugs (Pets fix)

You will need the Left and Right versions of this mattress for two sims to sleep in a double bed that is placed against a wall.

I recommend you use @nilxis beautiful “Mediterranian Day” lighting mod.

Credits:

Thanks to @nilxis, the creator of „Sa Pineda“, for the beautiful base to this world. The island on which Simynthos was build is entirely their creation. I did not change the island itself or the terrain painting outside the lots (except for some places where I placed the walkways/paths). All credit for that goes to them! You can find the original version here. Also make sure to check out their other worlds, while you‘ re at it. They are some of my favorite worlds!

Thanks also to @aroundthesims for their amazing CC! If you do not know their website yet, you should definitely check it out! They have a lot of really cool items!

Thanks to @nornities for their extremely helpful CAW guide here. Unfortunately I only found this guide when Simynthos was almost finished. I could have avoided some of the mistakes I made, had I found it sooner!

Some of you may know, that I am not the first to make a Greek version of Sa Pineda. Back in 2016 Vendela created Simtorini. This super cute world has the typical blue and white houses another Greek island, Santorini, is famous for. Go check it out here.

Download (SimFileShare)

Alternative Download (Dropbox)

#sims 3 #sims 3 cc #sims3 #thesims3 #ts3 #ts3cc #the sims3 #ts3 worlds #sims3 world #sims 3 custom world #sims 3 worlds #sa pineda #simynthos #world download

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scoutofmymind · 5 months ago

Note

i just saw you reblogged an Anora post😍 would u ever be interested in writing a reader x Luigi prompt inspired by that movie? love your writing girl you are just so fantastic

Losing Dogs — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW - MNDI, sex work, rich as fuck Luigi, Dancer!Reader, p in v, come eating (whoooops), reader is addicted to uncertainty.

Wc: 7,158 (This is an unfinished work, I’m willing to continue if requests for it are substantial, but for the sake of keeping it on Tumblr and not posting it on Ao3, I had to stop where I did 💕)

Notes; Luigi Mangione, heir to a Sicilian real estate empire and alleged regular at underground poker clubs where he watches rather than plays, never expected to find himself falling for a dancer at Sapphire.

Click here for part 2

"It's actually funny," Luigi mumbles, more to himself than his companions, wedged between his two cousins fresh off the plane from Sicily.

Tony, the giant of the family, shares Luigi's sharp features but stretched larger, like someone had taken Luigi's face and expanded it to fit a bruiser's frame. Then there's Lorenzo — shorter but somehow taking up just as much space, his body a testament to long hours at his father's dockyard; the scar splitting his right eyebrow catches sunlight every time he smirks. “First time on American soil in what, five years? And this is where you had to come firs-“

The door is swung open, the facade is deceptively plain — just black marble and smoked glass, a discreet Sapphire etched in gold above the door marks this as their destination.

The bouncer, a mountain in a tailored suit, doesn't bark or posture like the ones on cheaper doors. He just stands there, radiating quiet competence, his earpiece gleaming. "IDs," he requests, somehow making the single word sound both polite and non-negotiable.

His eyes linger on the Italian passports, but his face betrays nothing.

Inside the antechamber, it's all dark wood and soft amber lighting and a woman in a pencil skirt recites the house rules with practiced efficiency: no phones on the floor, no photographs, minimum table service in VIP is $500, and — she pauses here, sliding elegant paperwork across the marble counter — there's the matter of the $200 per person convenience fee that will be withdrawn immediately.

Tony balks slightly at this. "Two hundred just to walk in?"

"It's to ensure our clientele maintains a certain standard," she explains, her smile professional but cooling several degrees. "The amount is credited toward your evening's entertainment, of course."

Lorenzo elbows Tony, muttering something in rapid Italian about American prices, but Luigi slides his card across, knowing this is how places like this filter out the tourists and trouble-makers.

Through the second set of doors, bass pulses like a heartbeat, but it's still muffled, promising rather than announcing, and the air smells of expensive perfume and aged whiskey, not beer and desperation.

The main floor unfolds before them like a fever dream in black marble. Sapphires reputation for being high end suddenly makes visceral sense — everything gleams with the kind of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself.

The lighting is precise, strategic; LEDs trace abstract patterns across coffered ceilings while hidden spots paint the stages in liquid gold. "Dio," breathes Tony, his complaints about the entrance fee forgotten.

Three circular stages dominate the space, each with its own constellation of private tables, but it's the architecture that catches Luigi's eye — the way the room seems to spiral inward like a nautilus shell, the tables far enough apart that conversations stay private, close enough to feel intimate with the performance space.

A hostess materializes — there's no other word for how smoothly she appears — in a black dress that costs more than most people's monthly rent. "Gentlemen, will you be joining us at the bar, or would you prefer a table?" Her eyes flick to Lorenzo's Rolex, Tony's Brunello Cucinelli jacket, making rapid calculations.

"Table," Lorenzo says before anyone else can speak. "Something close." His English is heavily accented but the universal language of status needs no translation.

She leads them through the crowd — if you can call it that. The usual press of bodies you'd expect in a club is absent here.

Instead, there's space, carefully crafted distance.

Men in suits that cost more than Beamers speak in low voices, and a tech billionaire Luigi recognizes from CNBC sits alone, staring into middle distance while a dancer performs with the kind of grace that suggests formal training.

They're led to a half-moon booth with a perfect view of the main stage. The leather is butter-soft, the table's surface black glass that seems to swallow light, with a subtle panel of buttons for service inlaid near the edge.

"Your server will be with you shortly," the hostess says, then hesitates. "And gentlemen? I'd recommend staying for the next set."

That's when Luigi notices the music tumbles into something that isn’t the typical club thunder — instead, it's something classical, deconstructed and woven through with electronic elements; Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major, he realizes, but reimagined as something darker, more modern.

The server approaches with the same calculated grace as the hostess, but there's something different in her manner — a hint of genuine warmth. "Welcome to Sapphire. I'm Aria." She sets down crystal water glasses with practiced precision. "Our special tonight is the 1982 Macallan, though—“ her eyes drift meaningfully to Luigi, "We also make an exceptional Manhattan.”

Before anyone can order, the lights shift — subtle at first, then with purpose.

The deconstructed Chopin fades into silence, the main stage, empty moments ago, now holds a single figure in darkness, and the murmur of conversation around them dies without prompting.

A single cello note cuts through the quiet, followed by another, building a melody that feels both ancient and startlingly modern.

As the music swells, light bleeds onto the stage, revealing her.

Her whose movement matches the music's duality — classical technique fractured and reassembled into something hypnotic.

She doesn't dance around the pole so much as she seems to bend gravity to her will, each transition so fluid it looks like liquid mercury.

Luigi notices something else.

The crowd's reaction.

These men, who deal in billions and shape markets with a phone call, are completely still. It's not the typical attention of a gentleman's club — it’s the silence of an audience witnessing something they don't quite understand but can't look away from.

Both Tony and Lorenzo order bottles with the casual arrogance of men used to throwing money around, and Luigi can't tear his eyes away long enough to ask about their other cocktails.

He's never been much for bourbon, but right now he doesn't care — the performance has him in a trance that no spirit could match.

It's not long before he hears his cousins acting up, murmuring something to each other in their native tongue, that lyrical Italian that Luigi understands but rarely speaks, his own command of it lost somewhere between private schools and college lectures.

“Where's her tits?” Lorenzo mutters, Tony leaning in to complain right behind him, “I thought this was a strip club?”

Luigi furrows his brows, the spell broken.

He turns his broad chest toward them both, pausing only to acknowledge the two women who parade over their bottles of champagne with divine precision and grace, their movements a stark contrast to his cousins' crude commentary. "You buy a fuckin' room if you want tits," he growls, flicking his finger first in Tony's direction, then Lorenzo's, each gesture sharp as a warning shot. "Don't put a bad name on us, cugini — Papa has investments here."

The cousins exchange glances but settle back, chastened more by the mention of their uncle than Luigi's reprimand.

On stage, the music shifts again — something even darker now, all cello and static — and her routine evolves with it, the control is absolute, each movement deliberate yet somehow wild, like watching lightning decide where to strike.

The pole becomes less prop and more partner, an extension of her artistry rather than its center, and Luigi finds himself leaning forward, elbows on his knees, aware that he's staring but far past caring.

He notices details his cousins miss — the way her muscles tell stories of dedication, how her face reveals nothing and everything at once.

There's mathematics in her movement, philosophy in her form.

A sharp sound of crystal meeting crystal breaks his concentration — Lorenzo, already refilling his glass, the champagne sloshing slightly over the rim.

The cousin catches Luigi's glare and shrugs, muttering something that sounds like an apology but isn't while Tony's attention has already wandered to one of the cocktail waitresses, his earlier complaints forgotten in favor of more immediate distractions.

Reluctantly, the music fades and she descends from the stage with the same fluid grace that marked her performance, moving through the club like water finding its path, stopping at tables where regulars sit with their crystal glasses and dollar bills.

Luigi, needing air — or space— or both, makes his way to the bar, leaving his cousins to their champagne and their increasingly loud discussions about Italian soccer to a couple of women who couldn’t care less, but would open a ear to anything if it meant getting them in a private room.

"Sanpellegrino," he murmurs to a bartender, suddenly wanting clarity rather than clouds. The sparkling water arrives in a glass with lime, and that's when he sees her — the girl who was just on stage —materialized a few seats down, leaning across the bar to speak with the bartender.

Her right hand rests on the polished wood, and there, in delicate script across her inner wrist: "God is dead."

Before he can stop himself, the words leave his mouth, soft but clear: "And we have killed him.”

Your head turns, eyes finding his with an intensity that makes him forget the rest of Nietzsche's proclamation, and for a moment, the club, his cousins, everything else fades away.

You tilt your head slightly, a subtle smile playing at the corner of your mouth. "Most people just ask if it's about Satan," you grin, your voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Or they try to save my soul."

Luigi takes a slow sip of his sparkling water that tickles his nose, appreciating the irony. "Nietzsche would've had thoughts about both responses." He gestures to the empty seat between them. "Though I doubt he ever imagined his words would end up here.”

"Oh, I don't know," your voice becomes airy and light, sliding onto the stool next to him, closer than the one he'd indicated. "The death of God, the birth of tragedy, eternal recurrence — seems fitting for a club where people come to forget." You eye him, take inventory of his posture, what he’s wearing, and the sparkling water he’s drinking. "Besides, what better place to question values?"

Luigi finds himself leaning in slightly, aware that this conversation is rapidly becoming more intriguing than anything happening on stage, or back at the table with his cousins. "So, you studied philosophy?" he asks, though it's more statement than question.

"Columbia," you answer, then add with a knowing look, "Before you ask — yes, this is how I pay for it. And no, I'm not looking for rescue from this life of sin."

The directness catches him off guard, but he appreciates it. "NYU. Comp Sci.” he offers in return. "And I wouldn't presume to rescue anyone who quotes Nietzsche.”

"Let me guess," your eyes scan him with amused precision, "You were more Camus than Nietzsche?"

Luigi can't help but smile, caught between surprise and appreciation. "The Myth of Sisyphus was my thesis," he admits. "Though these days I'm pushing more rocks up hills than contemplating them."

A glance over his shoulder reminds him of his cousins' presence — they're still at the table, but their attention has shifted to their phones, probably already bored without the promised spectacle they came for, or having scared the girls enough to deny them private rooms.

He feels a shift in the air as one of the floor managers approaches — the kind of interruption that seems inevitable in a place like this, and you notice too, but instead of immediately pulling away, you reach for a cocktail napkin and a pen from behind the bar.

"Speaking of eternal recurrence," you scribble over the napkin, "I'm here Thursdays and Fridays. If you want to continue our discussion about the death of God, or-“ you slide it toward him, "the birth of tragedy."

•

Thursday.

Oh, Thursday, Thursday, Thursday.

"Happy thirsty Thursday, bitches!" Julia's voice rings through the dressing room as she weaves between vanity stations, balancing a bottle of Prosecco.

You're perched on the counter, nose nearly touching the mirror, wielding your liquid eyeliner with the precision of a surgeon — or at least attempting to.

"Honey," Julia pauses behind you, pressing a cool glass into your hand while gently easing you back from the mirror, which has begun to fog from your focused breathing. "Don't you make enough for some contacts? I swear you're going to give yourself a repetitive stress injury.”

You accept the prosecco without turning from your reflection, then the shot she presses into your other hand. The old rule echoes in your mind — drinking before shifts is bad business — but tonight feels different.

It wasn't any one thing that set this mood — but maybe it was the way your boots crunched through dirty ice on your trek from the subway, or how the wind cut right through that orange and brown balaclava your mother had knitted, sent from Santa Monic with a note saying "stay warm".

You sit by the bar, chin propped on your fist as you survey the crowd through half-lidded eyes.

The regulars hunch over their drinks like old friends, while first-timers betray themselves with darting glances and tentative sips. Music thrums through the floorboards —some nameless pop song stripped down and remixed until only the bassline remains, vibrating in your chest like a second heartbeat.

His "Hey" materializes beside you, soft enough that it nearly dissolves into the din. You don't need to look to know it's him — that particular shadow in charcoal grey wool.

He's shed the usual entourage of boisterous cousins, and there's something different in his approach — a hesitation in steps that usually claim every room they enter.

You turn, "Sanpellegrino?" A ghost of a smile plays at your lips as the glass catches the low light. His face is different tonight — something raw beneath the polished exterior, like fresh paint that hasn't quite dried.

"About last week," he begins, easing onto the barstool as if it might disappear beneath him. "The, uh — your number - it -"

"Let me guess." You slide his drink across the mahogany with practiced grace. "Either your suit met an untimely end at the cleaners with it still in the pocket, or one of those cousins of yours lifted it."

Breaking your cardinal rule — never give your number to a customer — only to have it vanish feels like the universe's personal punchline.

Seven digits sacrificed to whatever deity presides over dry cleaning.

Luigi's grimace tells you everything. "Dry cleaning," he confesses, shoulders dropping slightly. "My housekeeper has a scorched-earth policy with receipts. By the time I realized-“ He lifts the glass, ice clicking against crystal. "I spent the week with Camus instead. Came strapped with counterarguments about the fundamental absurdity of existence."

You find yourself fighting back a smile.

In five years of working here, you've had countless men try to continue conversations, usually with tired lines about destiny or missed connections, but none of them ever showed up having done philosophical homework.

"Well," you say, leaning against the bar, "you did make it on a Thursday. That's something Sisyphus would appreciate — the eternal return and all that." You glance at the clock, then back at him. "Let's hear your defense of absurdism.” You find yourself reaching for his hand, your usual pitch tumbling out like second nature. "We could continue this conversation somewhere more private?"

The words hang there for a moment, and you watch his expression shift from philosophical intensity to something more certain.

In the private room, you move sinuously to music that's now more vibration than sound, while he dissects existentialism with the intensity of a doctoral candidate defending his thesis.

Even as you straddle him, skin gleaming in the low light, he's animated — one hand conducting an invisible orchestra while the other remains fixed to the armrest like it's been superglued there. His voice never wavers as he explains how Sisyphus's comprehension of his eternal task is actually his triumph over the gods.

"— and if we examine the boulder as a metaphor for societal expectations—" He's still lecturing while you execute a move that's earned you countless thousands, your body folded into an artful display of flexibility, each movement a masterpiece of calculated seduction.

"Babe," you cut in, flowing back into his lap with liquid grace. You press your palm against his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath expensive wool. "Are you even into this?" Your voice carries equal parts amusement and genuine curiosity. For the first time tonight, he falls silent.

Luigi freezes mid-sentence, mouth still shaped around 'existentialism,' blinking like someone emerging from a trance. "What? Of course I'm- Why would you think-"

"Because I've been doing inverted crosses and Russian splits for fifteen minutes, and you're more invested in French philosophy than the fact that I'm practically naked in your lap."

Color floods his neck, creeping up like watercolor on wet paper. "I just- I thought- You seemed so engaged in our discussion last week, and I spent days researching, and-" He drags fingers through dark curls, leaving them charmingly disheveled. "I'm completely fucking this up, aren't I?"

You laugh, soft and genuine, settling deeper into his lap as your arms drape over his rigid shoulders. "Most guys in here pretend to be intellectuals to get closer to the dancers. You might be the first one pretending not to notice my body to prove you actually are one."

"I notice," he blurts, then looks like he wants to dissolve into the leather seat. "God- I mean, I'm extremely aware. I just thought if I-"

"Luigi," you interrupt, oddly moved by his fumbling sincerity, "you can appreciate both Camus and tits. The universe is absurd enough for both."

His laugh is nervous but genuine, shoulders finally releasing their tension beneath your touch. "I suppose that would be a false dichotomy." Then, after a pause where his eyes actually — finally —trace your silhouette, "Though I have to admit, I'm finding it considerably harder to focus on French existentialism now that I'm not actively trying to ignore-“

"My existence preceding my essence?" You smirk, rolling your hips in a way that makes his breath catch, his head resting on the crushed velvet back of the chair beneath him, his eyes stuck on yours in a narrow gaze.

"That's — uh - that's Sartre, not Camus," he manages, hands still firmly gripped on the armrests like they're keeping him anchored to reality.

"Look at you, still managing to be pedantic." You run a finger down the cable knit of his sweater — Hermès, you notice, because of course it is. "You can touch me, you know. Club rules allow it in private rooms, and I'm giving you permission. Unless you'd rather discuss Kierkegaard's views on anxiety?"

His hands finally leave the armrests, hovering uncertainly near your waist. "I actually did read some Kierkegaard this week too," he admits, and you can't help but laugh at his commitment to the bit. "But maybe,” his hands finally settle on your hips, warm through the thin fabric of your tiny, ruffed lace bottoms, "we could table the philosophical discussion for now?"

"There he is," you murmur, noting how his pupils have dilated, his cheeks having gone pink, his aura radiating like a halo around him in the soft neon light of the shared private room, another dancer nearby with a regular client. "Though I have to say, this is the first time I've had to actively encourage a client to be less respectful."

•

Three months in, and you're lounging by his infinity pool overlooking Central Park. The Upper East Side condo had been a surprise — you'd known he was wealthy from his clothes and manners, but this was old money, generations of it seeping from every handcrafted molding and imported marble tile.

You adjust the Van Cleef he gave you last week — "Just because," he'd said, as if dropping $50K on jewelry was as casual as picking up coffee, and you run your fingers over the spine of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, thinking about power dynamics and the eternal dance between giving and taking — every gift, every dinner, every weekend in the Hamptons — you catalog them mentally, like entries in a ledger.

Not because you're calculating, but because you've learned that everything has a price, even if it's not immediately apparent.

Luigi looks at you like you're an answer to a question he never knew to ask, and when he kisses you, it's reverent, like you're something precious. When he talks about the future, it's with a certainty that would be frightening if you let yourself think about it too deeply.

But you've spent years understanding the transactional nature of desire.

Even as you feel yourself falling into the gravity of his affection, there's a part of you that remains detached, analytical. You recognize his love — it's evident in every gesture, every thoughtful gift, every time he shows up at the club just to drive you home after your shift, never asking you to quit, never making demands.

Your own feelings are more complicated.

You care for him, deeply even, but there's always that voice in the back of your mind tallying the cost of everything, wondering when the bill will come due, because it always does.

It's not that you don't feel love — it's that you've learned to view love itself as another form of currency, something to be exchanged, measured, quantified.

You’re snapped out of your daze when Luigi emerges from the townhouses study nook, still clutching his Advanced Algorithms textbook at his side. He's in his final semester, juggling classes with the machine learning research project he's hoping will revolutionize his family's investment firm.

The place isn't his — it's his parents', who spend most of their time at their place in Puglia.

"My brain is absolutely fried," he groans, collapsing onto the lounge chair beside you, a loud sigh following. "If I have to debug one more recursive function or optimize another binary search tree, I might actually lose it."

You close your Beauvoir and look at him with amusement. "The heir apparent to the Mangione empire, defeated by code?"

"Don't," he mumbles into the cushion. "Papa’s already called twice today to remind me about graduation expectations. Apparently, anything less than building the next revolutionary trading algorithm would be an embarrassment to five generations of Mangione bankers."

You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into your touch like a cat — for a moment, you see him as he really is, not the polished future tech innovator, not the philosophy-quoting client, but just a 24-year-old kid trying to live up to impossible expectations.

Moving from your own lounge chair to his, you settle into his lap with a practiced grace that blurs the line between habit and performance, your hands splayed across his chest, and you can feel his heartbeat quickening beneath your fingers.

"What would you think if -“ you lean down, pressing kisses along his collarbone, tasting the salty skin of spring and expensive cologne, "I were to treat you tonight?" Your voice carries the same silky tone you use at the club, but there's something else there too — something that makes you uncomfortable if you think about it too hard.

"Mm?" His voice is gentle, soft but frayed around the edges. You can hear the weight of those endless phone calls with his father in it — arguments about the family's ventures, about graduation expectations, about codes both computational and criminal that you don't yet know about. "How so?"

You kiss your way up his neck, buying time, wondering when exactly you started using intimacy as currency, even outside of work.

His hands settle on your hips, and they're trembling slightly — from exhaustion or desire or both.

"Let me take care of you," you murmur against his jaw. "No thinking about algorithms or binary trees or whatever your father wants-“ You feel him tense slightly at the mention of his father, but you continue, "Just us."

He draws back just enough to study your face, and there's something in his gaze that makes your breath catch — like he's reading between the lines of your carefully constructed script, past the glitter and practiced smiles to something you thought you'd buried deep enough that no one would find it.

His thumb ghosts across your lower lip, and you brace yourself — waiting for him to name the thing you both see; how you turn every genuine connection into a filed entry, every moment of vulnerability into a debt to be repaid.

Instead, his voice comes soft as a confession, “You don't have to earn your place here, you know."

The words land like a punch to the chest, stealing your breath mid-motion.

Because isn't that exactly what you've been doing all these years — keeping a running tally, maintaining equilibrium, treating your heart like a balance sheet?

Even here, you're performing mental arithmetic — calculating the precise exchange rate between vulnerability and safety, between affection given and security received.

You recover with the grace of long practice, muscle memory sliding you back into familiar patterns. "Maybe I just want to," you say, but there's a tremor in your voice that betrays you, a hairline crack in carefully maintained armor.

His hands come up to cradle your face like you're something precious, something breakable, and he's looking at you with that devastating combination of tenderness and insight that makes your flight instincts scream. "Tell me what you're thinking," he whispers into the space between you. "Really thinking."

And that's the problem, isn't it?

You're thinking about debt and worth and the price of everything. You're thinking about how many private club dances it would take to equal the necklace around your throat. You're thinking about the way his family's wealth feels like a weight even as it lifts you up.

You think about the way he watches you – not just your body moving through practiced routines, but the quick flash of your wit, the sharp edges of your mind. How he's never once suggested you quit, never tried to "save" you from choices that were always yours to make. How he handles your thoughts with the same reverence others reserve for your curves.

And somewhere beneath the ledgers and calculations, beneath the careful arithmetic of survival, something dangerous is blooming — something that tastes like truth and terrifies you more than any amount of nakedness ever could.

So instead of words, you answer with your mouth against his, and for once there's no performance in it, no mental tallying of what this kiss might be worth.

His fingers thread through your hair like he's memorizing you, and for one crystalline moment, you let the numbers fall away, let yourself exist in the simple miracle of being wanted exactly as you are.

"May I ask something?" Luigi whispers softly against your lips, his palms pressing into your back as if he could somehow draw you closer, make you more real.

"With those manners, you can do just about anything, Lu." you murmur, rolling your hips against his with an urgency that would never appear in your calculated club performances.

"Well," he clears his throat, and you can feel him stalling beneath you. His request had tumbled out rushed and nervous, like ripping off a bandaid, words escaping before he could think better of them. "My parents are coming back from Sicily soon — they do usually in spring." He looks at you sheepishly, sweat beading on his brow. "And we do this dinner-“

You lean up slowly from his neck where you'd been losing yourself in the essence of him, in this space where things are simple. Where there are no student loans crushing your shoulders, no club schedules dictating your nights, no complicated family dynamics lurking beneath perfectly polished surfaces.

"Mm, is that so?" you murmur, studying the way his throat moves when he swallows, the tension gathering in his jaw.

"It is," Luigi says, blinking up at you like he's emerging from deep water. His fingers find the strings of your bikini, twisting them absently — an unconscious tell, like he needs something physical to hold onto while his usually precise mind fumbles for words.

This is the same man who can explain market derivatives or quantum entanglement without breaking stride, but now his throat works visibly, precision failing him when it matters most.

"And- well," he swallows, those clever fingers still tangled in thin strings against your skin, "it wouldn't necessarily be about meeting them - you know- as much as it would be about - uh..."

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face, oddly touched by this glimpse of the infamous Luigi Mangione – who can debate quantum mechanics in three languages – tripping over a simple invitation. "Are you asking me to be your dinner date?"

Your mind immediately unfolds a scene worthy of Gatsby — crystal chandeliers refracting old money whispers, wines older than your grandmother, silverware that could pay off your student loans. You know whatever you're picturing probably falls short of the actual Mangione world, but you let yourself imagine anyway.

His hands are still at your hips, thumbs brushing against bare skin in that absent way of his, like touching you is as natural as breathing. "Not exactly," he admits, and there's something in his voice that makes your heart skip. "I'm asking you to be my date. Period."

The implication settles between you like morning dew — delicate but impossible to ignore.

"Luigi," you breathe, and for once, you're the one struggling for words. “I-“

He shifts beneath you, spine straightening as one arm anchors you against him. His other hand finds your cheek, and those eyes — amber-bright, search your face with an intensity that sends a shiver through you, despite the winter bleeding into a blazing spring.

"I'm asking you to let me introduce you to my family. Properly. As the woman I—" He stops, and you can see the gears turning, watch him weigh each syllable with the same meticulous protection he applies to his billion-dollar code. "I care so much for you."

The words hang between you, heavy with everything he's not quite saying, and you realize this might be the first time in his life Luigi Mangione has chosen imprecise language.

That "care" is a placeholder, a variable waiting to be defined by something larger, something neither of you are quite ready to name.

The words hover between you like smoke, dense with unspoken weight — family legacies, billion-dollar empires, carefully segregated worlds. You think about everything you've heard whispered at the club about the Mangione name, about old money and new power, about the precise way Luigi has always kept his family's orbit separate from your shared nights.

And yet here he is, offering to bridge the gap.

"What do they think of me?"

Something flickers across his face — subtle, but you've learned to read the micro-expressions that betray his thoughts. "My sister already likes you," he says, each word measured and deliberate, his fingers still tracing absent patterns on your skin. "She says you're different — real."

But you notice the careful omission. "And your parents?"

Luigi's jaw tightens just enough to catch the light differently. "My mother," he begins, then seems to reset. "She's traditional. Concerned about appearances. But she'll come around."

The weight of what he's not saying about his father fills the space between his words. "And your father?"

His eyes catch yours, something dark and protective flashing in them. "My father is calculating. He's had his goons look into you." Luigi's fingers press slightly harder into your hips, like he's trying to hold you in place against some unseen current. "He knows about the club. Your student loans. Everything."

"Of course he does," you murmur. You're not shocked about him knowing your connection to the club — given his investment portfolio, that was inevitable — but the thought of strangers dissecting your life still leaves you feeling raw. "And?"

"And he thinks you're either a liability, or an asset. He hasn't decided which yet." Luigi's honesty cuts clean and quick, but his thumbs trace gentle circles against your ribs like an apology. "That's part of why this dinner is important. He'll be watching how you handle yourself."

"A test?" The word tastes bitter.

"Everything's a test with him."

There's something in his voice — not quite resentment, not quite resignation, but somewhere in the territory between the two.

You wonder how many tests Luigi has passed, failed, or refused to take over the years.

You stare down at him, your hands settling over his where they anchor you at your hips. The world seems to quiet around you — just the whisper of leaves in the breeze and distant city sounds filtering through the moment like white noise.

He doesn't shy away from your scrutiny.

Instead, those eyes hold yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch — pleading, vulnerable in a way that seems almost impossible for someone born into his world of calculated moves and careful masks.

But you can't help but appreciate the absurdity of it all.

Your first real conversation had been about existentialism, of all things — you'd challenged his clinical view of human behavior as merely predictable patterns, and he'd been intrigued by your passionate defense of life's beautiful chaos.

Now here you are, living proof of his father's worst nightmare

An unpredictable variable in their carefully ordered world.

Luigi, heir of Marco Mangione, a rich, sophisticated in his own right, business mogul of some sort — important and wealthy enough, you know, for one of his three children to buy the club dancer he’s been seeing for three months a fifty thousand dollar piece of jewelry between an eggs Benedict breakfast and an Eleven Madison Park dinner.

But also Luigi — who showed up at 2 AM after your shift with mint chocolate chip ice cream melting in his Maserati's cup holder, because you'd texted about craving it.

Luigi, who got brain freeze from eating too fast while you both sat in his parked car, you still in your platform heels and him in his $5,000 suit, sharing a single spoon and laughing about nothing.

The duality strikes you; the man who moves billions through digital empires with a keystroke is the one who remembers how you take your coffee. The Mangione heir, and the boy who gets adorably flustered when you wear his dress shirts around.

Then, your mind drifts back to last week's conversation with Julia.

You'd been perched in your usual spot on the dressing room counter, legs swinging, while she sat at her vanity.

"Saw your boy at Paradiso," she'd said, casual in that deliberate way that meant it wasn't casual at all.

Your hands had stilled on your stockings.

Paradiso.

Not just a casino — the casino. Where million-dollar hands were dealt in back rooms and real business happened over whiskey and poker chips.

"He was with his father." Julia had turned then, arm draped over her chair back, dark eyes serious despite her light tone. "Spitting image, those two. But Luigi wasn't playing." She'd paused, checking to see if you were really listening. "He was doing that thing he does — you know, when his brain goes all Beautiful Mind? But he wasn't counting cards. He was watching. Patterns. Players. Money movement."

"His daddy kept introducing him around," Julia had added softly. "To men who looked like they buy countries.”

You realize that this uncertainty is something that fuels your curiosity further — and if you're honest with yourself, it's part of what draws you to him.

You'd seen that same distant look Julia described, but in softer moments; Luigi calculating the exact trajectory needed for a paper airplane to sail from your bedroom window to the fountain below, his hands moving through the air as he mapped invisible vectors.

Or the night he'd gotten excited explaining market microstructures, his brilliant mind spinning beautiful patterns from chaos.

But there's another side to those patterns now.

Its power flows, influence matrices, the invisible algorithms that govern his father's world — and Luigi reads them all like sheet music, even if he never talks about the song they're playing.

His hands tighten slightly on your hips, bringing you back to the present moment; to those brown eyes still watching you, waiting for an answer about a dinner that suddenly feels like more than just meeting the family.

You wonder if he's already mapped out all the variables of this moment.

The invitation isn't just about meeting his mother, enduring his father's scrutiny, or bearing his siblings judgment. It's about acknowledging what you've been carefully not discussing — that falling for Luigi Mangione means entering a world where dinner parties are strategic moves and casual observations can carry the weight of corporate empires.

You think about the way he looks at you sometimes, like you're a glorious aberration in his ordered universe.

"You're thinking too hard," he murmurs, and there's that smile — the real one, not the calculated curve he shows to his professors and business partners. "It's just dinner."

But you both know it's not.

You trace your fingers along his jaw, feeling the slight tension there. "Your father's going to hate me.” you say, but what you mean is: I see the patterns too, even if we don't talk about them.

His eyes darken with something between worry and pride. Because you do see — maybe not the complex mathematics of power and influence that he tracks, but you see him.

The brilliant mind that draws patterns out of mayhem, and the heart that chose disorder anyway.

•

You could spend forever like this with him, lost in the heat of morning light. Luigi's head falls back, eyes half-lidded and languid, looking at you like you're some Renaissance masterpiece come to life.

The months together have stripped away any need for performance, leaving only this raw, honest thing between you.

"You need—" Your words dissolve into a gasp as his hands map the contours of your skin with quiet worship, your hips working over him in gentle circles. "T-to help me pick out a dress."

He lets out a low sound from deep in his throat, his palms steady against your back as he guides you down. The world tilts, and suddenly, he’s above you — lean muscle and sun-warmed skin, haloed by the morning light streaming through the windows. “Mhmm,” Luigi groans, the gold chain around his neck swinging with each rhythmic thrust.

You grasp that same chain, pulling him closer, and he quickly obliges. “Tell me how good it feels,” you whisper against his lips. For a moment, his hips falter, an uncoordinated tempo, but he quickly regains his rhythm. “You’re too quiet today.”

Usually, Luigi would be breathless and chatty, his praise flowing like a devoted worshipper at the feet of a saint. But today, you can sense his anxiety, and it stirs your own.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathes, his spit-slicked kisses trailing over your chest, warm tongue tracing your nipples before moving to your neck. “You know you’re my-“ he’s cut off by another low moan, “my sweet girl.”

You’re not convinced, studying his features to find some sort of hidden answer there, but all you can assume is that he’s nervous about the party — about his parents, his grandparents, his siblings, distant relatives — and it does nothing to ease your own nerves.

He whimpers, truly whimpers, your body filled with warmth from the inside out, Luigi riding out the last of his orgasm for every bit it was worth and yet you’d gone rather ridged, shoving his chest down slowly between your legs. “Clean up your mess.” You murmur, more as a demand, which you’d learned rather quickly Luigi liked very much being told what to do.

He’s eager, always.

He first trails his tongue along your thighs, descending to the mess he left inside you, threatening to stain the sheets. “Good boy,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair—this wouldn’t be the first time he’s tasted himself from you, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last if you had any say in it. “What’s with the radio silence?”

Despite the sight before you — the devotion, the raw intimacy — you can't help but ask.

“I-I’m just tired, I guess.” Luigi is lying, of course; a tired man doesn’t have sex for three hours. He stares at you, his eyes glossy and his mouth slick with his own pleasure, making it hard to take him seriously, yet he looks at you as if he has something to prove.

“Is it about the party?” you ask, gently wiping his mouth with your thumb. “Be honest, Lu.”

He blinks at you several times before allowing himself a slow nod, still lying there between your legs. In this moment, you're both stripped of your usual armor — him without his tailored suits and careful control, you without your practiced distance.

"Should I just-" You close your legs and sit up, leaving him there on sheets. Even now, part of you still wants to solve this for him, make it easier. "Not go? Would it just be easier if I didn't?"

"No." Luigi rises quickly to his knees, crawling across the vast expanse of his bed toward you. The California king makes your studio apartment mattress feel like a child's cot in comparison. "Baby— fuck," he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture so uncharacteristically unpolished it makes your chest ache. He shakes his head, sighing. "I'm just — yeah, of course I'm nervous." His hands lift in frustration, fingers splayed like he's trying to grasp the right words from the air. "This is the first time I've ever done this."

You turn to look at him finally, having kept your gaze fixed on the Manhattan skyline outside his window. It's easier than seeing him like this — mouth still glistening, cheeks flushed, all his careful composure undone by pleasure and something deeper. "First time you've done what, Lu?"

There's a weighted silence between you, his eyes meeting yours before darting away like he can't quite hold your gaze. It reminds you of those first nights at the club, when he'd try to maintain that perfect Mangione composure while coming undone beneath your hands.

"I've never introduced anyone to my parents." The admission hangs heavy. Luigi's had his share of lovers — you both know this, have discussed the parade of socialites and models that graced his bed through high school and beyond.

But none of them made it past the velvet rope of family approval.

None of them earned a seat at the Mangione table.

You see it now in the slight tremor of his hands, the tension in his shoulders — he's not just afraid of his father's judgment or his mother's disapproval.

He's afraid of the worlds colliding; your straightforward honesty meeting his family's carefully orchestrated performance, the raw truth of what you share together being dissected under crystal chandelier light.

“Fuck.”

#req #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic #I need to learn when to stop yapping

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drabblejester · 8 months ago

Note

I love your impression of Sampo!! Like yeah, he'd do This™ and That™ as according to your posts. Like, I think yours has the most simplest yet most accurate depiction of Sampo here!

Could I request Sampo, Gallagher, and Mr. Reca would do on their first date? Inspired from the other ask you did for 'overhearing the confession'

-G⭐

what VARIOUS HSR GUYS would do on your FIRST DATE!

requested by: G⭐️ !!

pairings: sampo, gallagher, and reca x gn!reader

content warnings: none!!!

comments: TYSM FOR THAT MY LIEGE.. i usually ‘dumb’ my sampo down actually bc theres no way i can fit all my thoughts on him into one little postHEEHE!!!

GALLAGHER:

he’d take you to his bar!! easy as that. it’s nothing grand or special, just his good ol bar. he serves you up a few drinks and you have a great time!

mostly, you guys talk. gossip about people, random tabloids you both found, fun facts about the other, etc. that’s also how you get to find out about misha and sleepie (and you adore both of them <3)

he’s much more gentle and warm towards you, quieting down his voice a bit so he isn’t that startling. he still has his drawl and everything, just in a lighter tone. in general it seems like he just got a bit younger!!

he jokes about you helping him out with the bar later, and you agree. so as a ‘second’ date, you guys get to work together! yippee! you get paid with free drinks and your first kiss with him <3

SAMPO:

you guys go visit some historical sites in belobog together!! he’s VERY knowledgable in them, and takes his time with you. you cruise through museums and even out in the cold, pointing at abandoned machinery and cool architecture

he absolutely talks more than you no matter how talkative you may be. partially out of ‘i want this date to go well and for them to see how cool i am’ and also out of ‘I AM SO NERVOUS RN’. thankfully he has a very engaging voice, and you love listening to him ramble :3

he tells a few tall tales in between, typical stories and fairytales that kids would like to hear. makes sense seeing as how he does talk with hook a lot.. and even at your age, they’re still fun and interesting! he’s an incredibly good storyteller

and at the end of the day, he wraps his dingy little jacket around your shoulders and takes you back to wherever he lives. he gives you a few snacks and the most delicious DIY hot chocolate ever before asking you SO many questions about how you thought of the date. you mumble something good before you fall asleep, which is enough for him <3

MR. RECA:

as he said before, he wants to cast you in the starring role of a romance movie with him as your lovely boyfriend. he makes PLENTY of jokes about it too, constantly rambling about how fun it’ll be. it counts as a first date i guess???

you two are an AMAZING duo together onstage and offstage!! his performance is amazing to the point where you actually feel like you’ve fallen for him impossibly more… the role he’s playing is a cheesy romantic ol guy, and AEONSS ABOVEE if you don’t treasure it

he lets you customize your role however you want! so you decide to simply play as yourself to max out your reca romance exposure. he plays along and switches the script around just for you, before going on set to dance around with you a while more

at the end of the day, both of you make lovely comments on your acting (although you weren’t really playing a character), laughing about certain moments in the scenes before he sends you home. and of course, he waits for you to enter your house before he leaves, just like his little gentleman role in the movie <3

i’m going to make some ramen my lieges do you want any

#writing blog #x reader #honkai star rail #ask blog #honkai star rail x reader #hoyoverse #headcanons #gallagher #gallagher x reader #hsr gallagher #sampo #sampo koski #sampo x reader #mr reca #mr reca x reader

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shesimsplayer · 8 months ago

Text

shine bright like a diamonds..

I think this is going to be my favourite category.

I was inspired to create Aaliyah by the singer Tyla, so let's think of her as a prototype, so here are a few facts about her biography:

Age: 28 years old, birthday June 15, 1996, zodiac sign: gemini

Living: Oasis Springs, Aaliyah lives in a luxurious, expansive mansion in Oasis Springs. Her home has been featured in lifestyle magazines for its blend of modern architecture and artistic decor.

Musical Genre: Aaliyah is a versatile artist who seamlessly combines elements of pop and jazz in a style she calls "Jazz-Pop Soul." This approach, with its rich jazz undertones and catchy pop rhythms, appeals to a wide audience and has made her music memorable.

Influences: she draws inspiration from classic jazz legends like Nina Simone and contemporary pop icons such as Alicia Keys. Her sound includes touches of blues and R&B, giving her songs a soulful, emotionally resonant quality.

Early Beginnings: she started her musical journey at just 16, singing in local clubs where her powerful voice and magnetic presence quickly attracted attention. She was discovered by a producer and signed her first record deal at 20.

Awards and Recognition: Aaliyah has earned multiple Grammy nominations and won the "Best New Artist" award during her first year in the industry. Critics have praised her unique ability to infuse jazz nuances into popular music.

Fashion: her style is both chic and eclectic, often featuring a mix of designer brands with bold, unique statement pieces.

Hobbies: Outside of music, Aaliyah has a passion for art and painting. She also actively supports local artists, hosting exhibitions in her home to showcase their work.

Personal Life: A huge basketball fan, Aaliyah often attends games in her free time. She’s been open about her admiration for a well-known NBA star, with whom she’s rumored to share a close connection. Fans speculate about a budding romance, though she remains tight-lipped about the details.

Lots recommended: The Osasis Restaraunt, SBA Stadium, Techo Azul

With her deep roots in jazz and a flair for pop appeal, Aaliyah Lawson stands out as one of the most dynamic performers of her generation.

All rights belong to the creators, and huge thanks to them for the custom content.

If you have any problems, don't be shy and text me. But hopefully everything will be fine. If you add Aaliyah to your gameplay, tag me under posts, I'll be insanely happy!

DOWNLOAD

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silvernightabyss · 9 months ago

Text

“Who says the protagonist's life has to be happy?” - Chapter 1

Yandere Hero x gn!Reader

Isekai, who among us hasn't dreamed of it? Well, get it signed. Try not to throw yourself into the arms of the protagonist as soon as you see him. Remember, you may know everything about him, but he's seeing you for the first time. The thoughts of the protagonist come as a gift.

How many references do you want? Yes.

word count: 2.9k Prologue/Chapter 1

It's been two weeks since you've been in the fantasy world of the novel. Adapting has been difficult, even though you've inherited fragmentary memories of the original owner of the body. The unfamiliar people, surroundings, etiquette, and architecture were very disconcerting. To your shame, you spent your first night sobbing quietly in your room in the temple. The only thing you were probably lucky about was that you weren't a member of the church, just a hired sewist. Given the fact that the high priest was the one who raped Evan, you had no desire to see the man, whose name was Donavan. Make sure you memorize that shithead's name and if you ever summon a demon, sell his soul.

In fact, you hadn't seen him or Evan since you'd been in this world. And while the first pleased you, the second disappointed you. As you learned by asking the servants, Evan and his team were on a quest to destroy one of the demon lords living in a poisonous swamp. This happened at the beginning of the first volume, as you may recall. And what the author thought to add the location of the poison swamp, in all games it was always the most annoying part. Probably because the author was an insufferable evil bastard who drew inspiration from the most annoying things created by human hands. A sudden wave of anger almost ripped the thin fabric in your hands in half. Then you stroked it quickly, as if to comfort it, removing the creases that had formed.

Poor Evan was going to get poisoned by some nasty animal and come back to the temple with a fever for a week. Sad, of course, but nothing that with your level of power you could change. The day after the isekai, you tried a little magic. Find some chakra, mana core, nen or something. But no. All you got was to feel like an idiot for half an hour, huffing and puffing like a pissed-off hedgehog. No transmigrator buffs. No annoying system or divine companion. Nothing. That made you completely powerless to help Evan. It was frustrating, angry, and made you want to bang your head against the wall. Your modern upbringing couldn't allow you to ignore someone else's misfortune. If you worked in the kitchen, you would surely spit in the soups and drinks that are made especially for the High Priest. Unfortunately, those are the only petty thoughts of revenge you could afford.

Part of you just wanted to leave, good thing sewing skills were embedded in your subcortex, and you could find work somewhere else, not in a place where you knew one hero suffered every day. You wince. Thinking about it like that made you feel bad about yourself. It was vile to think of leaving. As the only person with knowledge of the situation, you had to stay and try to help in any way you could. Even if your attempts would be fruitless in the end.

You spent the next two hours diligently embroidering new robes and fixing old ones where the fabric was too worn. Unpleasant thoughts of varying degrees of intrusiveness kept popping into your head, but you studiously ignored them. Their content was something like “To be or not to be”, only your option was “To stay or not to stay”.

After you finished your work, you picked up a pile of robes and went to turn them in to the storekeeper. The temple was beautiful, even to your unassuming eye. The entire continent worshiped the Creator who made the world and the gods they created to help look after the people. In fact, you remembered from the book that the mythology of Evan's world was very interesting. Incredibly written and detailed lore describing events from ancient times to the present day. Some of the knowledge you had already forgotten, but for example you remembered that the Irin continent, where the main story took place, was named after the god's favorite angel.

The central temple of the capital was dedicated to the Creator. Numerous frescoes on the ceiling depicted the creation of the world and the races that inhabited it. For the first week, you walked with your head up, and more than once you were on the verge of falling. The tall, graceful steles also drew attention to the care with which the flowers and leaves were molded, as if they were real and the spell had just turned them to stone a moment ago. The garden wasn't to be forgotten, you'd only been there once, but it was already completely engraved in your heart. Score one for staying. Overall to summarize the temple was beautiful, the priests friendly. So why the hell is this place of paradise run by this goddamn pervert! The Creator's eyes are blown out of their heads to let a man like that in charge of their temple? Unbearable.

Your boots thudded loudly and angrily on the marble floor, and you continued on your way. The servants and priests you encountered preferred to avoid you in a wide arc, sensing in their gut the dark and heavy aura you gave off. With the power you put into opening the door, you could shred a mountain to pieces with a single blow. Yeah, like that bald guy, that's how powerful you were at that moment. The storekeeper didn't even lift his head from the paper he was looking at. Inwardly, you marveled a little at his restraint; you yourself would have jumped on the spot if you had been rushed in with such a bang. More calmly you approached the not-young man whose most prominent feature was his giant-hooked nose.

“I brought the robes, where should I put them?” Your voice rumbles through the room.

The man nodded vaguely toward a neighboring room filled with baskets full of robes. The servants had to wash and dry the robes before handing them back to the priests. Why the freshly sewn robes had to be washed was a big question, but not of your mind. You were about to leave when you were stopped by the storekeeper.

“Go to the infirmary and get the medicine for the hero. His chambers are in the east wing of the temple on the third floor.”

During your entire stay in the room, the storekeeper didn't even look at you, and after he gave you the order, he started acting as if you weren't even here. Well, the main thing is that he didn't yell. You shrugged your shoulders and left the room.

The stone-face test was successfully passed, the die rolled on a twenty! In fact, your heart was racing, and your palms were unpleasantly sweaty. Did all this mean you would be able to see Evan? You didn't even know he'd returned. With an effort of will, you suppressed the joyful scream that burst from your mouth. You're going to see the protagonist of this damn novel. Almost dancing, you hurried toward the infirmary.

The nurse, whose name was Ellen, gave you your medication as soon as she heard that you had come from the storekeeper. The girl explained that because of the upcoming festival dedicated to the Creator, all the servants were busy preparing for the sacred rituals. Mentally, you tsked. That no servant could spare time for the precious hero of the Church? Nonsense, of course, but nonsense that plays right into your hands. Having memorized what to give and in what dosage, you headed for the eastern wing.

The corridors became more and more empty with every turn, as if you were entering a forbidden zone. The atmosphere was oppressive and growing colder with each step. A creak sounded very close to you, made you jump on the spot and freeze. It was scary to turn around. You didn't want to see the ghost behind you. On bending legs, you turned around and ….Mmm No, that's just your overactive imagination working for the bread. There was nothing behind you. Nothing in the front, either. Cussing under your breath, you continued walking. Isekai had definitely taken a toll on your nerves. Shame they hadn't invented valerian here yet.

The doors to Evan's chambers were carved, decorated with ornaments of flowers. You knocked hesitantly, and when there was no answer, you knocked again, but louder. Maybe he was asleep? What was to be done? The nurse had said the medication had to be timed to avoid making him feel worse. The doorknob in your hand felt like a ticket to heaven or hell. Praying in your mind to who you didn't know, you pushed it down. With a quiet click, the door opened. Like a mouse about to steal cheese, you quietly slipped through the gap and closed the door behind you. You hoped Evan wasn't a cat that would eat you for entering without permission.

The main hero's chambers were green, very green, not because the walls and furniture were that color, but because of the dozens or even hundreds of pots with various plants. As a half-elf, Evan had the ability to understand and talk to plants. For a long time in the novel, they were his only friends, listening to all his sorrows. Sighing sadly, you headed for the door behind, which was presumably the bedroom.

Evan lay on the bed, resting peacefully, deep in sleep. The blanket lay in a bunched pile at the half elf's feet. His complexion was very pale with blue veins clearly visible, there were deep bruises under his eyes, and his breathing was intermittent and heavy. Despite this, he was still more handsome than the sleeping beauty herself. If you thought the comparison was inappropriate, just never mind. On tiptoe, you moved closer and leaned over the sleeping hero. Handsome. You especially liked the way his leafy green hair curled around his pointy ears. You wanted to catch one strand between your fingers and then watch it curl back. You weren't weird. Not at all.

You put the tray of medicine on the bedside table with a little more clatter than you'd like, but Evan didn't wake up, thankfully. The half elf's forehead was scalding hot, and you jerked your hand away quickly. Looking around, you spotted a basin of water on the other side of the room and quickly soaked the rag you'd grabbed from the tray before placing it on Evan's forehead. That's better. Satisfied, you smiled to yourself.

The question of how to medicate the unconscious hero was still open. You frankly didn't want to wake him up. You remembered from the book that Evan's condition was extremely serious, and he didn't come to his senses at all. Rest is the best medicine. It's better if you quietly do your business and leave, and he won't even know you're in his chambers. Shit, that sounded like some kind of thief.

Pass the cure with a kiss? You shook your head frantically as soon as the thought crossed your mind. God, you'd read too many romance novels. Conscience and morality would never allow you to violate Evan's personal boundaries like that, considering how they'd already been violated by the high priest. Besides, it would be despicable to do that to any person.

But then what were you supposed to do? You'd just have to pour the drugs into Evan's mouth and hope he didn't choke. That's about what you did, luckily without becoming a hero killer. Now comes the most difficult and embarrassing part. Ellen gave you an ointment to rub into the half elf's chest. The medical reasons behind this you almost completely missed, and you only had to take on faith the necessity of this action. Evan wouldn't like it if someone he didn't know undressed him and started performing medical procedures on him. Right? So something had to be done about it.

One of the scraps of fabric Ellen put on the tray caught your eye. It's perfect. You'll pretend to be a butler, covering your eyes with a strip of fabric so as not to embarrass your mistress. Master. You mean Evan. Quickly and tightly tying the band, you found yourself in darkness. With suddenly trembling hands you fumbled for the collar of the half elf's shirt and from it, you easily reached the buttons. Normally you would have easily done it in less than a minute, but now deprived of sight and incredibly embarrassed; each of your actions was stretched to the point of impossibility. After an eternity according to your internal clock, you finally managed this undeniably difficult task.

So it was time for the ointment, which was as green as you remembered and smelled like bumps or something else freshly herbal. Incredibly embarrassed by your own actions, you rubbed the ointment in as fast as you could without lingering on any part of Evan's skin. What's a stupid trail? A relieved exhale escaped you when this torture finally stopped. Ellen had said the ointment should absorb very quickly, literally in less than a minute, and in your head you drummed your fingers on your thigh, ticking off the seconds. When the time was up, you hoped for it towards the end you began to speed up the count, with all care you covered Evan with the blanket. The nurse had said the fever would go down very quickly, which meant the half elf could get cold.

And so it was done! Now you could leave with a clear conscience. You pulled the bandage off your eyes, blinked in the light, and hurriedly picked up the tray, leaving the room. Before you passed through the doorway, you took one last look at Evan, still sleeping peacefully. Handsome even when he's sick. Nodding affirmatively at that thought, you headed back to the infirmary to return the medication to the nurse.

***

Evan woke up when someone started undoing the buttons of his sleeping shirt. His first thought was that it was Donavan, so the only thing he could do was lie there and not fight back. Was he sick of his powerlessness? So sick that he wanted to open his chest with his hands and rip out his damn heart, which sometimes allowed itself to hope for the best. The half elf left his eyes closed, not wanting to look at the high priest's ugly face, twisted with desire. He could still visualize it all too well, anyway. A convulsion shot through his arm and he clawed his fingers into the sheets, his nails almost tearing the fabric.

Halfway through the unbuttoning, Evan suddenly realized that the fingers that sometimes grazed his skin were different from Donovan's skinny, knotted fingers, the pads of which were covered with calluses. In addition, a strange chill spread from his forehead down his body. Was it the damp cloth? It was only because of the two factors above that he actually opened his eyes and saw you. The snort that almost came out of his mouth, he held back with an incredible effort of will. A blindfold? It was ridiculous, even more ridiculous than the mix of slime deer and owl he'd met in the swamp. Ridiculous but oddly cute. The mere thought that he might be uncomfortable being stared at half-naked had never occurred to anyone. With already great interest and friendliness, he began to consider your appearance.

When you reached for the green jar, he recognized it as an antipyretic. A spark of realization lit him up, and Evan bit his lip. He was ready for the feeling of a thousand little insects crawling under his skin, but your touch didn't disgust him. Evan blinked perplexedly when he realized this. Short and medically detached, your touch was devoid of any lust. Noticing your fingers trembling, Evan concluded that at the very least you were awkward. Later his guess was confirmed by your tapping on your thigh, too uneven and often out of rhythm to be a sign of boredom or impatience. The blanket you covered him with forced him to smile slightly. A display of simple human caring that he had always been deprived of. The thought made him feel unpleasantly empty inside.

When your fingers reached for the bandage, Evan closed his eyes as quickly as possible, not even knowing why. He didn't have an answer to that question. Listening to the quiet rustling of the fabric of your clothes and the tinkling of the medicine on the tray made his heart feel lighter for some reason. It was as if you were not a randomly sent servant, but someone close to him who genuinely cared about him.

The creak of the door alerted him to your departure, but with his keen hearing, he could still hear your footsteps outside his chambers. As soon as they were gone, Evan sat up on the bed, causing the cloth on his forehead to fall down. Silently, he twirled it in his hands. His head felt strangely empty. Perhaps the only question that bothered him now was; who are you? Meeting you had irrevocably changed something in him, as if he had been a broken clock just now starting to run.

Evan rolled back over, sinking into the soft mattress, and returned the cloth to his forehead. The next time you two meet, once he's recovered enough to walk, he'll be sure to ask your name. With that thought, his exhausted mind took to its realm of Morpheus.

Reblogs, comments, are always greatly appreciated! ヽ(o^ ^o)ﾉ

#silwernight writes #my oc evan #yandere elf #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere #yandere hero #yandere x you #yandere x darling

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harmonyrae · 4 days ago

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Ivy League

Spring Semester : Freshman Year🌸🌷☔️📚

Premise: Based on this post by PomeRinn aka @waterrinmelonn All the boys are modern rich international kids going to a prestigious university. They’re attending Yale, an Ivy League University in the American Northeast. They're all the same age. My FMC will end up with only one of them in the end.

Content Warnings: Mildly Suggestive & Explicit Language. Tooth-rotting fluff. Caleb angst. Mentions of animal abuse (they’re fine) & drugs (but it’s not). To be safe, 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 7k

Part One

If you thought going home for winter break would be relaxing, you were very wrong. Right after finals, the student lead newspaper announced they were going to bring on new writers. The deadline for the application, which required a sample article, was before classes began in the spring. You’d spent all break curled up in bed with your laptop, writing and re-writing.

Caleb had successfully dragged you to a New Years party, but when midnight struck and Marsha Matthews kissed him you left early. To his credit, he didn’t initiate, but he had danced with her most of the night so you can’t blame Marsha for thinking he was interested. He spent the rest of the break trying to apologize. The road trip back to Yale was tense, but you finally broke the silence to try and smooth things over. When he dropped you off at your dorm room things certainly felt a little more normal.

Tara texted, letting you know she’d be arriving on campus a day late so you had the room to yourself for the night. You made yourself comfortable and revisited your application. You’d written a political piece about voting, a review for a new horror movie you saw with Caleb before Thanksgiving, a historical piece about the architecture at Yale, but nothing felt good enough. It wasn’t you. So you started writing a random short story, hoping it would inspire you.

Childhood best friends who went to college together, finding purpose, plot twists, it was fun to just write for the sake of writing. While you got the creative juices flowing, you still had no direction for the sample. A soft knock at your door makes you jump, you’d left it unlocked since you were in a cocoon of blankets and pillows, far too cozy to emerge to answer the door.

“Come in!”

The door opens slowly, the hinges squeaking, Sylus pokes his head inside, smirking when he sees you curled up on your bed. You had the hood of the hoodie Tara gave you for Christmas pulled up so the cat ears flopped forward, you knew what was coming.

“I didn’t realize you’d like my nickname for you that much, kitten.”

You roll your eyes and beckon for him to come in. He strolls in, leaving the door open. He sits at the end of your bed, kicking his boots off before tucking his feet under your throw blanket.

“Making yourself at home?” You feel his toe poke your thigh and you swat his foot. He chuckles, damn, you’ve missed that sound.

“What are you working on? The semester hasn’t even started yet.”

Rubbing your temples, you groan, frustration boiling over.

“The student paper is hiring new writers and I… I thought maybe I should apply. Now I’m not so sure. The application is killing me.”

“The student paper? Have you decided on a major then?”

You shake your head, closing your laptop and pulling a giant snowman plushie onto your lap. Your dorm room was still decorated for the holidays and you’re sure Tara won’t want to take it all down until at least February. And you wouldn’t fight her on it. Resting your chin on the snowman’s head, you close your eyes.

“I’m still undecided. But I like writing, so I thought I’d at least apply and see what happens.”

“You should.” He pokes your thigh again. “Let me guess, they want a sample of your writing?”

Opening your laptop, you pull up your best piece and pass it over to him. He reads silently, fully aware that you’re watching his every move. His brows pinch together, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

“This is… good.”

“You hate it.”

“No. It is good, it just… isn’t you.” He senses it too.

“I have two days until the deadline. Maybe I should just–”

“I have an idea.” Sylus interrupts. You cross your legs and sit up straighter. “What about… an interview with the son of a famous model?”

You’re gonna throw up.

“And maybe some exclusive pictures from his short lived modeling career?”

“You modeled?!” Your voice cracks and he rubs his chin, trying to appear deep in thought.

“What? You don’t think I’d make a good model?”

Yeah, you’re gonna throw up.

“No! I mean, yes, you would… But I… I just…” He lifts his hand to stop your blabbering.

“I’m sorry, you’re just too fun to tease.” You huff and cross your arms, like a kitten hissing but tucking her claws away. “I modeled as a kid, did a couple shoots with my mom. I’d have to check with her, make sure it’s okay. Your article would probably end up on the internet, don’t want to make her life harder. That energy is reserved for my old man.”

You raise a brow, he’s never mentioned his dad. Now it seems like that is very much on purpose. You lean forward and squeeze your plushie tighter.

“You really don’t have to do that.”

“Do you want to join the paper?” You hesitate, nodding slowly. “Then let me help.”

“You’re sure you want your childhood photos passed around campus?”

“It’s better than someone finding shit online. This way, I control the narrative.”

He pulls out his phone, holding it to his ear a second later. Your eyes widen, is he calling his mom? Right now? Is this really happening?

“Privet Mama.” Oh good god, he speaks Russian. Of course he does, why are you surprised?

“Yest' zapros.”

He speaks quickly, even if you knew basic Russian you doubt you’d be able to follow. You watch him, when he blushes you immediately cover your mouth to stop from smiling. A rough around the edges guy like Sylus blushing is too precious. He glances at you, catching you staring. He smirks and rolls his shoulders back.

”Spasibo, Mama, lyublyu tebya. Do svidaniya.”

He hangs up, but continues to stare at his phone. Just as you’re about to say something, your phone dings. When you pull up the text from him, you see there’s at least a dozen images attached. Without even looking at the pictures, you launch yourself forward and wrap your arms around his neck. You cringe as you realize how silly you must look, but his hands slide up to hug you back.

It’s only after you hear someone clear their throat that you move. You look up to see Caleb in your doorway. Your stomach drops, while you knew the hug was innocent, you’re sure it didn’t look that way to him. With Sylus sitting on your bed, half tucked under a blanket.

“Caleb! Sylus is helping me write my sample article for the newspaper application!”

He nods slowly, his shoulders tense. You wiggle your way out of your cozy cocoon and walk over to him. He hands you a bag of takeout, before turning to leave. You step into the hallway after him and grab his arm.

“Caleb… stop.” He stops, but doesn’t turn around. “He really is helping me with the application. I know it looked like… I know…”

“You said it yourself, Pips.” He spins to face you. “On the drive back, you said we’re adults. We can do what we want, with who we want. You said you wouldn’t stop me, so I won’t stop you.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. You watch him walk down the hall and through the door to the stairwell. You think about chasing after him, sitting him down, forcing him to listen. You know it wouldn’t help make this any easier. You know how you feel. You love Caleb, but you’re not in love with him. Your eyes water the more you think about losing him completely.

“You okay?” Sylus comes up behind you, his voice low. When you don’t respond, he cautiously puts an arm around your shoulder. “I can talk to him, if you want?”

“No. No… Let’s uhh…” You back away from Sylus and re-enter your room, putting the takeout on your desk. “Let’s start your interview. Go over the photos and all that.”

He humors you, lets you avoid the “Caleb situation” for a while longer. He returns to his spot on your bed and you open a new document, deciding then and there to pour your sorrow into writing the best damn sample piece the editors will ever read.

🌸🌷☔️📚

Your application is immediately accepted and your piece is published in the next issue. Tara made a collage of the photos: glitter glue, stickers, the works. She put it right on the door to your room. Sylus didn’t mind the extra attention, he barely paid any attention to it actually. Girls asked him to sign their copies, even when you - the author - were right next to him. He started putting symbols instead of his name in English. The girls didn’t care, they’d flip their hair and wave as they walked away. When you finally asked him about it, his smile turned devious.

“It’s Korean.”

“Is it your name?” He laughs. “What are you writing then?!”

“It’s different everytime. Sometimes it’s just ‘rice’ or ‘potato’.”

You cover your mouth to stifle your giggles. His laugh gets louder, drawing the attention of those around you in the dining hall.

“You’re a menace.”

“And you’re my partner in crime.” He says with a wink.

Your class load wasn’t too stressful, more gen-ed courses. But you decided to spice things up, especially since you haven’t declared your major. What possessed you to sign up for a ceramics class? You had two weeks of pottery lessons your freshman year of high school and suddenly you have the confidence to take a college level course? Okay. Sure. Thankfully, you lucked out with Rafayel in your class. When your first attempt at the wheel turned into utter chaos he voluntarily sat next to you. He regularly left class with splatters of clay all over his clothes, but he never complained.

“I can help you get a feel for it, if you want?” He offered.

“I can’t believe I need a tutor for ceramics.” You mumble, staring at the misshapen lump of clay before you.

“Come on now cutie… You’re not awful, you’re just not good.”

“Rafayel!”

He snickers while he moves his stool behind you. Before you can ask, he sits and wraps his arms around you.

“You’ve seen that movie 'Ghost,' right?”

You, in fact, have never seen the movie, but you knew exactly what he was referring to. You tried to push his hands away, your cheeks burning from the proximity.

“Don’t worry, I’m just helping you with your hand placement. I won’t kiss you or anything.” He pauses. “Unless you want me to.”

You toss a sideways glance over your shoulder, catching his wink. You attempt to relax and take a few deep breaths, letting Rafayel settle behind you and take your hands in his. He dips his hand in your water bucket and prepares the clay. Slowly moving your hands, he controls the pedal. He doesn’t apply too much pressure, just enough to let the clay glide through your fingers. His hands slide up to your wrists and your arms tremble slightly, you feel his breath on your neck as he chuckles.

“Relax cutie, your wrists are too stiff. There, like that. Now apply some pressure here.”

His fingers press on the outside of your hand below your pinkie. At the same time, he lifts your hands higher, bringing the clay into a cylinder shape. You smile, instead of falling to the side the clay holds up.

“Instead of digging in, use the curve of your thumb… No no, don’t use your arms, let your hands apply the pressure.”

His fingertips trace your thumb before moving to straighten your fingers and directing the clay back down. You can’t hear the rest of the class, or Ms. Brentwood going over the midterm project requirements. Just Rafayel, his steady breaths against your neck, and your heartbeat.

With his guidance, you learn to make a pretty damn good mug. You draw up plans for your midterm project for a collection of mugs that fit together. You barely realize you’ve designed each mug to suit each of your friends. 🌸🌷☔️📚

Caleb has never given you the silent treatment before, luckily he only lasted a few weeks into the semester before barging into your room. Tara tip toes out and across the hall, you don’t miss how she leaves the boys room door cracked and peeks through.

“I hate this. Are we just not friends anymore? Is that what this is?” He says, hands on his hips.

You close your laptop, this conversation is long overdue.

“Caleb, you’re my best friend. I… I hate that we haven’t talked.”

He sits at the end of your bed, keeping his distance.

“Then how do we fix this?”

“We talk, like we used to. Attack one problem at a time, no hiding.”

He nods, finally looking up. You can see it in his eyes, he’s afraid. Is he afraid to hurt your feelings or that you’ll hurt his? You’re not sure, but he takes the leap anyway. The conversation that night stretches on. Tara eventually interrupts to bring you both food and to grab her laptop before retreating back across the hall. There’s no yelling, no pretending, no stone left unturned. By the time he leaves you’re unsure what will happen next with him, but there’s no doubt about how he feels.

“You’re right, there is a difference between loving someone and being in love with someone. I’ve always assumed they were one and the same. I never imagined a life where we weren’t together. But, I guess… I guess I have to figure out how I really feel. Just… ugh…”

“I’m not going anywhere, Caleb. I promise.”

You close the distance and hold him for what feels like hours. He’s tense, but he doesn’t push you away. Regardless of what happens, he’s your closest friend, you love him. And honestly? You won’t let him walk away, not after everything you’ve been through together.

Caleb still joins the group for movie nights and dinner, but he keeps his distance for a while. You respect his space, letting him come to you. Eventually, he starts smiling again, sharing the latest gossip, showing you pictures of his new model airplane. Your new normal is tested when he shares he has been tapped by a fraternity. The same one Mark “the asshole” Blakely belongs to.

“Sigma Chi? Mark is a member, isn’t he? Why’d you want to be a part of a frat of assholes?”

You don’t hide your frustration, pushing away the coffee he brought to drive your point home. Someone behind you shushes you and you lift your hand to flip them off. You hear a scoff and roll your eyes. Just because you’re in a library doesn’t mean you have to be silent, fucks sake. Caleb grins, at least your ire is directed at someone else for the moment.

“Correction. He was a member.”

You raise your brow. Caleb looks at Zayne, who’s sitting beside you. Turning to Zayne, you see a smirk. Great, Sylus is rubbing off on him, he’s smirking now.

“After what happened at the tailgate, Zayne and I found Nathan Finley - the president of the frat - and informed him about Mark's behavior. Finley took care of it. Turns out he appreciated our efforts and personally tapped me, he wanted to tap Zayne, but…”

“I told him I wouldn’t have time to participate in any fraternity events due to my rigorous course schedule and volunteer activities.”

If Zayne isn’t in class, he’s studying. If he isn’t studying, he’s volunteering at Yale New Haven Hospital. And if he isn’t there, he’s sleeping. He does disappear for a few hours on Tuesday nights, you’ve caught him sneaking out a few times. He still won’t tell you where he’s going.

“I’m still going to drag you to at least one party before you graduate.” You poke his arm.

“Uh huh, sure.” Sylus’s sarcasm is rubbing off on him too.

Caleb gets accepted into Sigma Chi fairly quickly and is already bragging about the parties. He keeps most of the brotherhood bonding a secret, but given how quickly he’s put on muscle you’re guessing it involves dumbbells.

So far, you’re enjoying your second semester at Yale. Until the second week of February arrived and threw a curveball in the shape of a social media post announcing the details for a Yale tradition you somehow overlooked.

🌸🌷☔️📚

“Oh my god! Oh my GOD!” Tara squeals.

You drop your biology book on your face with a grunt and roll over to look at her. She scrambles off her bed and slips on her snow boots. You swing your legs off your bed and toss your textbook to the side.

Something’s afoot.

“What? What is it?”

She grabs her coat and sprints from the room. You chase after her and watch as she runs down the hall towards the stairwell.

“Tara? What the hell is going on?!”

“Freshman Screw! This Friday!”

Twirling around, she gives you a pointed look.

“You better find me a good date!”

And then she’s gone, down the stairwell and out into the snow. By the time you get back to your room you’ve still not quite processed the information she provided. What the fuck is this “Freshman Screw”? Sitting back on your bed, you’re about to pick up your textbook when your phone dings. Tara tagged you in a comment on Instagram.

The official Yale page was a snoozefest, but the student lead pages were always on top of campus events. You pull up the “Yale Girlies” page and check the post Tara commented on. The post reminds students about an official dance hosted by Student Affairs. Swiping, you read the details. That’s when it clicks and you silently scream.

“Freshman Screw is upon us! Yes, it’s officially known as the First-Year Formal, but we know what it’s all about. Ladies, it’s time to find the perfect date for your roomie. Will their night end in ecstasy? Or will you ‘screw’ them over and save a hottie for yourself? It’s up to you!”

Tara wouldn’t screw you over with an awkward blind date. She’s too nice for that. Plus, she’s been dying to set you up with someone. However, the alternative is just as terrifying. You don’t want your blind date to expect anything from you. Not that you’re opposed to the idea… Shit, you need to find a date for her too!

“This year's theme is ‘Classy Valentine’s’ - you better hope your roomie tells your date to bring you flowers. Remember to make those meet-cutes CUTE!”

Meet-cutes? You scroll down to read the other comments and find a few people asking the same question. The replies explain the tradition of your roomie setting up a ‘unique’ way for you to meet your date. People share their stories, everything from scavenger hunts to having to wear a silly hat and have your date find you. Tara is not going to let you out of this one.

Tara teases you the whole week, mentioning different guys she’s considering asking for you. Begging you for a hint about who you found for her. It was actually pretty easy to find someone for Tara, you knew her type and who had a crush on her. She might hate you, but she’s talked about Andrew non-stop since meeting him in her sociology class. He agreed in a heartbeat and offered to help you figure out the “meeting” part.

“You never know, your date might be closer than you think.”

You’re sitting on the floor in front of your standing mirror applying your makeup before class when she says this. So of course, you panic. She wouldn’t. Would she?

“He was actually really excited, it was adorable.” She puts a fresh mug of coffee on your desk before grabbing her backpack. “Two more days, babe!”

She slips out of the room before you can interrogate her. This week, you definitely hate her.

Friday finally arrives, this has been the longest week of your life. It’s rare that the dance falls on Valentine’s Day itself, so it makes sense why they decided to lean into the corniness of the holiday. Your dress is perfect for the theme. Blush pink, a sweetheart neckline, ruffles and rose appliques on the skirt that hits right at mid-thigh. You almost didn’t bring it with you, but your mom reminded you of her 3 golden rules when it came to clothing while you were packing. Quality over quantity, know your colors, and pack for every occasion.

Tara was still going through her dress options by the time you finished curling your hair. She was torn between a shiny pink mini dress and a sultry red midi dress with cutouts.

“Try them on again if you’re still not sure.” You offer.

“Per your instructions, I need to be at the bookstore by 6:30 and I am not going to be even a second late! It’s been killing me all week, I’ve given you more hints than you’ve given me!”

You smirk and shimmy into your dress. Tara approaches and zips up the back before you even ask. Crouching to secure the straps of your heels, you look up to see her staring blankly into her closet. Finally feeling guilty, you stand and go to her bed to pick up the red dress.

“According to your date, they’ll be wearing a red tie. Go with the red.” Tara squeals and hugs you before shedding her robe to slip on her dress.

You watch from your window as Tara navigates the icy sidewalk in her heels on her way to the library. The only instructions she gave you involved you going to the urban meadows on Science Hill and sitting on a bench.

“You’ll know which bench, trust me.”

Trekking through the muddy terrain in strappy heels was not your idea of a good time. Especially since there were still piles of snow and patches of ice. If you fall and ruin your dress, you’re making your mystery date pay for the drycleaning.

The meadow was barren at this time of year, but there were still string lights from the holidays. And it was peaceful. The sun had set, darkness dropping the temperature even further. But as you walked along the cobblestone path, it felt peaceful. There were only a handful of benches, while you weren’t sure what you were looking for it shouldn’t be too difficult, right?

Sure enough, there was a little red bag sitting on one of the benches. You cautiously sit down and poke the bag. When nothing bad happens, you take a peak inside. Bird food? You look around, there weren’t too many birds out at this time of night. With no note, you’d have to make an educated guess. Tossing a few handfuls out onto the pathway in front of you, you wait. A minute passes, and then another. A cardinal lands and pecks at the seeds, its bright red feathers seem to attract other birds and after another minute you have a little bird audience. You’ve never fed birds like this before, it’s strangely relaxing.

A loud caw seemingly ruins the moment, followed by twigs breaking. You sit up, suddenly anxious. A loud crack draws your attention to the tree across from you. Looking up, you see something falling.

THUNK

Birds scatter and fly in different directions as a metal object hits the ground. Hard. Standing, you approach the object and lean forward to inspect the damage.

“Looks like he still needs some work…”

You whirl around to see Sylus walking up the path.

“When I lost the signal I assumed a squirrel got him.”

He crouches and picks up the object. Once Sylus dusts it off, you realize it’s a bird. A rather large metal crow. You have a million questions, but all of them die on your tongue as you take in Sylus’s appearance. His signature dark torn jeans remain, but instead of a t-shirt or hoodie, he has a fitted black dress shirt. Tucked in and buttoned up. A red tie hangs loosely around his neck so the top button can remain undone. Instead of a suit jacket, he has his leather jacket. And instead of his go-to boots, he’s wearing dress shoes. You didn’t even know he owned shoes like that. He looks… good. Really good.

Then it hits you.

“You’re my date?” You didn’t mean to sound so surprised, but your brain feels like mush at the mere thought of being on an actual date with this man.

“Disappointed, kitten?” He sounds… worried?

“No! I mean, I just… I didn’t… Sorry, my brain is malfunctioning.” You joke.

He laughs, thankfully. He stands and tucks the metal bird under his arm.

“It’s alright, he malfunctioned too. Kinda ruined the surprise, but I tried, right?”

You eye the bird and raise a brow.

“Ahh, right. It’s a project I’ve been working on since before break. He’s going to be my final project for robotics next year. A couple upperclassmen told me to get started on my project early if I want to actually pass. Turns out the professor is a hardass.”

“Wait, you built this? Hold on… you said ‘him’? Does he have a name?”

Sylus smiles and steps forward, offering his free arm to you.

“We should head to the Commons, the party has already started.”

You wrap your hand around his arm and allow him to guide you. He’s careful not to walk too fast, knowing you’re already wobbly in your heels.

“I’m still deciding on a name.” He muses.

“What’s your favorite at the moment?”

“I’m feeling out ‘Draco,’ but keeping my options open.”

Sylus makes a pitstop to drop off ‘Draco’ at his room. You’re surprised to find Zayne is gone, when you ask Sylus he shrugs.

“He’s been disappearing on Friday nights now. Not just on Tuesdays.”

“You noticed that too? Do you have any idea where he’s going?”

He chuckles as he wraps his arm around your waist, keeping you close as you step back outside into the cold. By the time you and Sylus arrive at the Commons, you’ve come up with a handful of theories. Did he join a secret society? Have a secret girlfriend? Started an affair with a teacher? Both of you agree the truth is probably far less dramatic.

The Commons has been turned into a romantic hideaway. Hundreds of paper hearts hang from the ceiling amongst warm twinkle lights. A makeshift photobooth sits against the backwall, balloon arches and gorgeous flower arrangements offering various backdrops. There’s a few tables and chairs available, each with a luxurious red tablecloth and rose bouquets at the center. A table of treats is fully stocked - Zayne would have a field day. Brownies, cookies, cakes, a chocolate fountain. You make a mental note to sneak a plate out for him.

The DJ must have been given the instructions to only play cheesy romance songs. You cringe, deciding you will not dance to a single song they played at your Senior Prom. Bad memories.

“Scale of 1-10, how good are my chances at seeing you dance tonight?”

You want to make a snarky comment, but lose your nerve with the way the low lighting makes his eyes even more enchanting. He helps you out of your coat and passes it, along with his own, to the coat check attendant. You shiver as you adjust to the temperature, your fingers still numb from your time outside. Sylus offers his hand and you stare.

“If you’d rather just sit and talk, I’m yours for the night kitten. We can do whatever you like.”

There’s no smirk or wink, he simply offers his companionship and you aren’t opposed. You sigh and take his hand. He immediately covers your hand with his, thawing your fingers with his palms. As you walk through the crowd, you notice a few girls giving you dirty looks. You’re tempted to call out to them, reminding them that their roommates are to blame, not you. Speaking of roommates, you spot Tara dancing with Andrew. The way she’s batting her lashes and swaying her hips tells you all you need to know. She’s a happy girl.

“Tara seems to be enjoying herself.” Sylus whispers into your ear.

“She’s been flirting with him since last semester. I had to ask him.”

When Tara spots you, she pulls Andrew close, pressing her body against his. She gives you a thumbs up over his shoulder and you cover your mouth to chuckle. She eyes Sylus. She points at him, then points at you, then points at him again. Their silent conversation must have been impactful because Sylus leans in.

“Dance with me.” It’s not a question, but strangely, you’re not turned off by his command.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you let him lead you towards the dance floor. His hand settles on the small of your back, holding your other hand to his chest. The songs have slowed down, couples swaying, some getting a little handsy. You keep your eyes on Sylus, trying to keep your nerves in check.

“You still haven’t chosen a major?” His question surprises you, but you nod anyway. “What’s holding you back?”

“I… I guess I just don’t know what I want to do with my life. I don’t want to end up studying something I don’t really like and end up working a job I despise until retirement.”

Without realizing it, you’re much closer to him. Instead of backing away, you allow yourself to melt into his embrace. With your body flush against his, you try to continue the conversation.

“My dad’s worked in finance his whole life and I can tell he’s miserable. He reminisces about his time in high school and college a lot. How he played football, wanted to coach, but then my mom got pregnant with my brothers.”

“You have brothers?”

“Oh, yeah, I guess I don’t really talk about them. They’re twins, six years older than me. We weren’t close, they always had each other. But I had Caleb, so…”

Mentioning Caleb brings on a wave of sadness. Is he attending tonight? Would he be okay seeing you with Sylus? Who is he with? Are they nice? Okay, you’re doomspiraling again… Now you’re flustered, accidentally stepping on Sylus’s foot.

“Shit… sorry.”

“It’s okay. Your brothers, after they were born your dad had to, let me guess, ‘get serious’ and find a career to support a family, right?”

“Yup… By the time I was born he was in a management position. I don’t know, he’s never been happy. I don’t want that for me.”

“You do realize if you study something you later hate, you can go back to college. Study something else, change careers. Just because your dad didn’t doesn’t mean you can’t.”

The music changed to something more upbeat, but neither of you noticed. He continued to sway and your focus remains on him.

“I know… I guess I worry that if I get married, have kids, I’ll be in a similar position. No time for silly dreams.”

“There’s always time for silly dreams. No matter how old you get. Or how many responsibilities you have. Don’t settle, but don’t try to predict the future. Allow your interests to change and if that means you have to return to these hallowed halls when you’re 30, so be it.”

He makes it sound so easy, so simple.

“It’s more complicated than that though.”

“Sure. Life happens. Some of it bad, some of it good. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re capable. And smart. If you want something, I have no doubt you’ll get it.”

His confidence in you is inspiring. You wish you believed in yourself that much. Sylus’s thumb traces your cheek and you wince. He wipes away a tear, you didn’t even realize you were getting so emotional. Sylus leads you away from the dance floor and back to the entrance. He retrieves your coats and helps you into yours.

“Come on. Let’s go somewhere quiet.”

You don’t argue. You know Tara will be livid that you didn’t get any cheesy photobooth pictures with Sylus, but you have a feeling you’ve ruined your makeup. Sylus brings you back to your dorm, holding your hand as you climb the stairs in wet heels.

“Do you think Tara will notice if a couple packets of hot chocolate go missing from her stash?”

“Yes.” He hangs his head and sighs dramatically. “But I’ll replace them.”

He follows you into your room and watches as you slip off your heels, shoving your frozen toes into plush slippers. Without changing completely, you hang your winter coat on your desk chair and grab a hoodie. Sylus turns on Tara’s machine and heats up some water while you clean out two mugs. Once you have your hot chocolate, you sit on the edge of your bed with him. A comfortable silence settles and you feel more at peace than you have in weeks. The stress of ‘what to do with your future’ has been eating you alive.

“Thank you.” You mumble into your mug, just above a whisper.

“Are you thanking your hot chocolate?”

You hit his arm playfully and he laughs again. That hearty, rich laugh you’ve grown fond of.

“I’m thanking you. I’ve been overthinking this major stuff and I guess I needed someone to put things into perspective. So… thank you.”

He looks at you with a gentle smile. His leg rests against yours, his elbow bumping yours as you take another sip.

“I meant it, you know. I have no doubt you’ll be just fine. You just have to stop doubting yourself.” He nudges you with his elbow. “You’re pretty impressive when you want to be.”

Before you get the chance to respond, you see movement outside of your door. Leaning forward, you look into the hall and see Zayne trying to unlock his door. You point and Sylus follows your gaze. But instead of being sneaky, Sylus stands and strolls over to the door.

“And where have you been, young man?” His voice acting could use some work.

Zayne jumps, he hunches forward and doesn’t look back.

“Sy-Sylus? That’s not funny.”

Sylus chuckles, but as he gets closer to Zayne his smile falls.

“Zayne? What do you have there?”

You damn near sprint over to the door to stand on your toes to get a peek. Zayne is still hunched forward, using his body to shield something. Sylus puts a hand on his shoulder and he tries to shrug him off.

“Zayne.” Sylus’s voice turns serious.

“Just promise you won’t say anything.”

Sylus and you exchange a worried glance. Sylus nods and Zayne turns around to reveal a small cardboard box. You step up and reach for the lid, as soon as you open it Zayne is shushing you.

“Oh my god Zayne! Where did you–”

“Can we save this conversation until we are inside the room?” He cuts you off and nods to Sylus, who has the most adorable shocked expression. “Sylus, please…”

Sylus quickly opens the door to their room. All three of you file inside and as soon as the door is closed you’re quietly squealing and pulling the lid fully off the box.

“Oh my goodness, look at these babies!!”

Inside the box are three kittens, two black and an orange tabby, all three with stunning bright blue eyes. You’re giggling like a fool while the trio stare up at you, but as soon as you notice them shivering you turn to Zayne in a rage.

“Zayne, they’re freezing!”

Zayne passes you the box and starts gathering blankets and some of his t-shirts to form a little bed in his closet. One of the kittens lets out a tiny meow and you’re tearing up instantly. Reaching out, you let the kittens sniff your fingers. The orange kitten licks your hand while one of the black kittens backs up against the corner silently hissing.

When Zayne returns he reaches into the box and picks up the black kittens, ignoring their pitiful attempts at swatting his palm. He moves them to the little bed he created. You carefully pick up the orange kitten and let them climb up your hoodie to get closer to your face.

“Zayne. What. The. Fuck.” Sylus whispers.

“They were rescued today, the only foster available can’t get them until the morning. There’s no one staying at the shelter overnight tonight and they need to be monitored. I would have called, but I knew you were going to the event.”

You sit down next to the closet and try to pet the other kittens. They’ve calmed down a bit, now that they’re no longer being jostled around. Zayne moves his space heater closer before grabbing a plastic baggie of a white powder from his pocket.

“Oh kittens and drugs, great!” Sylus sighs, flopping down onto his bed.

“It’s not drugs, it’s kitten formula.”

Zayne mixes a bit of formula with water. All three kittens start meowing when he kneels down to offer the mixture. Placing the orange kitten with its siblings, you watch as they clumsily eat their meal. You turn to Zayne and cross your arms.

“Okay, spill. What the hell is going on?”

Sylus moves closer, sitting on Zayne’s bed to listen in.

“I’ve been… volunteering at the animal shelter since the semester began. Every Tuesday and –”

“That’s where you’ve been going?! Not an affair with a teacher, you owe me 5 bucks.” Sylus claps and you shush him.

“...Every Tuesday and Friday night. They do a lot of legal work to rescue animals from abusive homes. These kittens were rescued from a breeder who… I’d rather not say what they did. These are Ojos Azules, they’re a rare breed, very valuable. If I left them at the shelter they might have become more hostile by the time the foster showed up.”

“Well this little guy isn’t hostile at all.” You rub the top of the orange kitten’s head.

“True, but his sisters are very anxious.” He picks at a bandage on his hand. “I couldn’t leave them.”

You look at Sylus, who is rubbing his temples with a somber expression.

“Zayne, if our RA comes by…”

“I know… I know. It’s just for tonight. I swear.”

“Sylus?”

He looks up and immediately regrets it. You hold up the orange kitten, a milk droplet stuck to his chin, his plump belly swaying. You hide your face behind the cat.

“Sylus, please don’t make me go back out into the cold. I like it here with the nice man with glasses. It’s warm and cozy.”

Zayne smiles, the first uninhibited smile you’ve seen from him since you met him. Sylus rolls his eyes and groans, he stands and starts cleaning up some of his things off the floor.

“Fine, but if they piss on anything, you two are cleaning it up.”

You quickly run back to your room to change into old sweats and a t-shirt, leaving your dress on the floor. Zayne has made up a makeshift litter box in the hopes they’ll ‘figure it out.’ Sylus checks the hall every 30 minutes like clockwork to make sure the RAs don’t make their rounds too early. You remind him they’ll most likely skip rounds given the event and how many ‘unauthorized sleepovers’ there might be. Still, he checks and shushes you every time you giggle too loudly over their feline guests.

“Orange kitten, what would you name him?” Zayne gives you that look. “Oh come on, humor me.” He sighs.

“I’m not sure. Maybe Hippo, for Hippocrates? Or… Galen?” You stare at him. “He was a Greek physician and philosopher.”

“Okay, Sylus!” He looks up from where he’s hunched over his mechanical bird. “One of the girls, what would you name her?”

He leans back, not even bothering to argue with you. You know damn well it’s a bad idea to name them, you can’t get attached.

“Lilith.”

“Really? A demon?”

“The one who hissed at you. That one. She’s a little demon.” He turns back to his work, but glances over, smiling as the very kitten he’s referring to falls asleep in your arms.

“I suppose you’ll be naming the last one?” Zayne asks.

“Dream.” You reply.

Sylus stops tinkering for a moment, smiling to himself. He finally joins you and Zayne on the floor to socialize with the kittens.

It’s not long before you’re fast asleep with all three curled up on your chest. Zayne drapes a blanket over your legs and angles the closet door to keep you hidden. He takes a break to take a shower while Sylus keeps watch. He stands over you, admiring the way you scrunch your nose and huff in your sleep. A knock at the door makes you twitch, but you remain asleep. Sylus cracks the door open.

“Is my roommate here?” Tara stares at him, her expression a mix of hope and worry. Sylus is relieved it’s just Tara, he lets the door open a bit wider. Tara’s eyes widen, she crosses her arms and smirks. Sylus had shed his formal attire when you changed into sweats. He was changing into a hoodie when Tara knocked. She stares at his bare chest and waits for him to explain. As it dawns on him what this must look like, he shakes his head.

“No no no… now hold on. I was just changing. We weren’t–”

Tara holds up her hands.

“You don’t kiss and tell, I get it. I was just making sure she’s okay before I head over to Andrew’s. Tell her I’ll be back in the morning?” Sylus nods. “And use protection!”

Sylus grunts as Tara skips down the hallway towards a waiting Andrew. Sylus quickly closes the door and pulls his hoodie on. He sits beside you, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. The orange kitten stretches and almost rolls off your chest, Sylus quickly grabs him. Instead of putting him back, he lifts him up, holding him at eye level. He lets out a tiny meow before yawning, his tongue sticking out and his eyes squeezing shut. Sylus closes his eyes briefly, steeling his nerves. When he opens them to see the baby falling asleep in his hand.

“For fucks sake…” 🌸🌷☔️📚

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙: (If you'd like to be added to the Ivy League taglist comment a🎓) @trishiepo0 @not-so-quite-human @kitsunetori @babyx91 @libriomancer @lilyadora @crowskitten22 @letharue @silverbrain @alastor-simp @drama-trauma @0tterteeth @mysticcollectionvoid @godzillaglitter @godoffuckedupcats @klmpun @ariallaisawesome @spidy-spider01 @ankitavminkook @m00nchildwrites @plsdonttakemyname @hauntedbysmutm0 @withering-dream @lostwingz2236 @simpfortheseven @bubbleteakittyy @stellar-seas @babylilxc @havenhope-art @lly5duck @freddy-2002-blog @sylus-hunter @plzdonutpercieveme @saybeyonce @red-f1sh-blue-f1sh

AN: A few things: (1) Yes, 'Freshman Screw' is a real thing at Yale. (2) Zayne & cats are the perfect combo, you cannot change my mind. (3) Sylus with an orange cat is everything to me. (4) Finally wrote that pottery wheel scene with Rafayel - bless. (5) Mephisto being incomplete and falling from a tree makes me laugh every time.

AN #2: I am in a writing frenzy, I wake up excited to write it. So, it'll probably be updated fairly quickly. It's just SO CUTE OKAY!

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monokuromuheaven · 5 months ago

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Interview With Actor Carlos Diehz

“I’m kind of a nerd, really,” says the 53-year-old. “When I find something I like I get really deep into it.”

(…)

The casting process for Benitez took three months, and by the time Diehz booked the part after several rounds of auditions and was flown to Rome – where most of the filming took place – he had put those self-proclaimed nerd tendencies to good use.

“I spent a lot of time studying the other actors, particularly Ralph Fiennes,” he says.

“All my scenes are with him, so I watched a lot of his interviews and movies and I would pull my chair right up to the screen to look at his expressions, how he plays certain situations, the hints he gives. Even his breathing.

“So when it was just the two of us, I would not be distracted trying to find out his dynamic.

“Because so much of acting is reacting, you have to inspire confidence in the other performer and try to follow their rhythm, but you have to be as natural as possible. Ralph is a master of that."

Diehz might be considered something of an apprentice. Growing up in a suburb of Mexico City, he enjoyed the arts but was hesitant to perform. Prior to landing Conclave, his appearances had been limited to short films and student projects.

Spending such a significant portion of his outside the world of acting has, Diehz believes, equipped him with a greater range of experiences to draw from.

“They say that youth is a defect that gets corrected with age,” he says with a smile. (:D)

“When you are young you don’t have these experiences, like playing someone who has gone through divorce and you haven’t experienced that. You have to be very observant, you need to have a notion of what it is like.

“Having worked for years in architecture and construction, sometimes in leadership positions, it gives you the experience and courage to stand up in front of an audience and deliver bad news in a way that maintains the trust of your clients.

“There is no second take, no rehearsal, no script, you have to improvise and drive these situations to a good ending."

“Sometimes it goes wrong. But you have to deal with the consequences and keep moving on."

“So architecture is like acting in a lot of ways. I wouldn’t say it makes it easier, but I think it means you have a larger range of real-life emotions and experiences to pick from.”

“You are who you are, it’s what you do about it. That’s what matters” as Diehz puts it.

And in Benitez, Diehz found someone he immediately resonated with. Many of the character’s values, Diehz reveals, align with those of his younger self.

“When I was 19 years old I had a mystical phase in my life,” he says.

“I found God after an existential crisis and I was so excited. I got really deep into faith and spirituality. That’s how I learned about people like Saint Francis of Assisi.

“He refused all the luxury and privilege from his family to help the poor. I wanted to be like that."

“Then life happened, but when this character came along I felt as though I was playing someone that I wanted to be at one point in my life."

“Ok, I’m not as deep, spiritual or peaceful as Benitez but it was a good reminder of what I could be."

“And that was very rewarding. Benitez is one of those characters worth taking home with you.”

Home, it seems, plays an important part in Diehz’s life. While he is happy to ride the crest of the Conclave wave for a while longer – an experience he admits has been “surreal” – he seems equally content embracing life’s more simple pleasures, be it painting or karaoke in his living room.

“I mostly sing songs from the 1980s,” he adds. “I really love Sweet Child O’ Mine by Guns N’ Roses. It’s incredible.”

Source

#Carlos watching Ralph on a screen TwT he was PRACTICING!!#Carlos Diehz #Conclave #Conclave 2024 #Im putting all the interviews at unholy hours but idk #When I'm obsessed I want to read all the things available so that's what Im doing right now #making things more easy tehehe

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daman19942 · 1 year ago

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TSR CC Recommendations: TS2 Lot Builders

Nobody asked for this but I have a little time on my hands and I said I might do it, so here is a list of some TSR lot builders who I recommend checking out. A few notes under the cut before we get started (all details under the cut, as well, in case you aren't interested in my preamble):

This is not meant to be paid promotion for TSR. I believe TSR asking users to pay for their CC is ridiculous, especially for a 19 year old game they haven't supported in 7 years. But I spent many years uploading there during the peak-TS2 / pre-TS3 era and know there is great CC in their archives that newer players may not know about. And unlike TheSims2.com, which has sadly shuffled off this mortal coil, TSR's content is still available to freely download (assuming you can stomach the pop-ups and wait times)

This post will only be about lot builders because that was what I was primarily uploading and downloading in this era. I was friendly with some of the creators I am about to list, but none of them are still active members of the TS2 community.

The preview pics might be a little rough and the architecture styles will likely feel very dated compared to the most popular styles these days, which are more colorful, cluttered, and use 3t2 and 4t2 conversions. Re: the previews: too many of us were using free trials of PaintShopPro back then, and TSR limited us to 2 previews, so we did our best. Re: the styles: unlike pre-2010's CAS CC, which was full of hand painted and "realistic" textures (LOL), these are the same objects you can find in the game today, just being used in different ways! Sometimes for the first time! And, yes, while some of these creators used CC, it was mostly Homecrafter walls and floors, as you'll see below.

This was also the hey-day of CFE lot building, which has certainly fallen out of favor to more traditional builds (in part because graphics cards have improved and these types of builds don't look as good in 2024, and also because the great CFE experimenters, builders, and tutorial writers are no longer part of the community and their original discoveries are gone as well - I am happy to go down a massive rabbit hole on this piece of TS2 history if anyone else cares, but trust me, you don't have to care).

Alright that is enough caveating, here are some recs! (Links are in the creator's names and they take you to their Lots, though many of them have other creations, too).

Lord Tiko Speaking of great CFE builders! Lord Tiko built spaceships, boats, pagodas, domes, windmills and bridges, oh so many bridges before retiring mid-TS2 because of health issues. He was one of the first builders to take Daihtnaoz7's single and double bridge tutorials and apply them to really big lots. I'm still not sure how he built the Venice Rialto Bridge, or his other European water lots. Overall, a massive inspiration to me when I was prioritizing CFE builds.

Hatshepsut My favorite "traditional" home builder, and someone I considered a friend. She specialized in English and American builds, and I had many of Hat's houses in my old saves and was impressed by her range and decorating style which was (for the time) more varied than many of her peers. Knew how to take great preview pics of her houses, too.

Tigerblue Another builder I corresponded with, Tigerblue was probably the least prolific uploader on this list for sheer number of uploads, but she also crossed a range of styles. Her builds leaned way into specific styles (see the previews, these were all part of consistent sets of 3,4, or even 10 lots), but this was also what happened when a new EP dropped and everyone raced to uploaded builds using as many of the new objects and styles as possible. Tigerblue just happened to be better at it than most of us.

Cyclonesue Do current TS2 players know Cyclonesue? Because it's hard to think of someone who had a bigger impact on building and decorating of the era, first with her English and Tudor builds and later with her extremely distinct grunge creations. Seriously, check out her Urban Renewal series and the corresponding objects. Iconic stuff that surely now feels frozen in time. I probably only played 20% of her lots that I downloaded, but they still make for great hood decor. Like Tiko, someone who happily experimented with CFE.

Illiana The creator who inspired me to make this list is, ironically, the one on it who I know the least about (she is a Featured Artist but not in the Hall of Fame, whatever that means). I just started playing her Tri-Annyas fraternity house and have a few other lots floating around my game. She built in a range of styles, from classical to modern to Twikki Island to grunge. Revisiting some of them in-game, the TSR previews do not do them justice.

*EXHALES* If you made it to this point, kudos to you. I'm sure there are creators I've forgotten, and houses I haven't linked to, but this is a good starting point for digging into some of the eclectic builds the TSR(chives) have to offer (I just coined that, is it clever? It is not). Maybe I'll do a Part 2 if people like this.

If you have any favorites of your own, let me know what I missed! And as I do with my old Exchange re-uploads, I am tagging @sims2packrat and @oldasscustomcontent for general TS2 history awareness!

#the sims 2 #ts2 #sims2cc #not mine #the sims 2 archive #thesimsresource #tsr #tsr lots #lord tiko #hatshepsut #tigerblue #cyclonesue #illiana

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simsi45 · 1 year ago

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The Sims 4 Amber House Pack - PUBLIC RELEASE!

youtube

CLICK HERE TO GO TO THE PATREON PAGE!

Oh...my...GOD!!! I can't believe this is actually happening....

After 3 years of hard work, I am here to welcome everyone to:

The Sims 4 Amber House Pack!

It's time to create your own mission style dream house, with this collection of 345 brand new and hella cool build/buy mode items, inspired by Dontnod's "Life is Strange: Before the Storm" game.

EARLY ACCESS: You can get the pack right now, on my PATREON on the 3-5$ tiers, or wait for the 12th of May for the public release!

Please read EVERYTHING included in the post as it contains useful information about the pack!

DISCLAIMER: Simsi45 or The Sims 4 Amber House Pack is NOT affiliated or associated with Electronic Arts, Square Enix, Deck Nine or Dontnod in ANY way. This is a purely fanmade pack made by me, a fan of both games that wanted to get the best of both worlds.

FEATURES:

345 new items (including sofas, tables, decor, windows, doors and much much more!)

Search for "amberhouse", "lis", "simsi45" to find most of the items in the build/buy catalog.

Custom original names and descriptions. (the best I could come up with :P)

Tons of custom recolors (based on original textures) to mix and match items more easily.

Heavy modification on original meshes and textures, including english text turned into simlish.

Everything has been playtested thoroughly.

Included are a couple of easter egg items from The Sims 2 that I thought fit the theme well.

New lot I made showcased in the trailer and pics (found in the gallery under my tag @simsi45_mods) a recreation of Rachel Amber's house.

LOT INSTALLATION:

Included in the pack is the lot recreation of the Amber House that's featured in the pictures and videos.

You can get the lot by:

Using the gallery. Make a search under my EA id: @simsi45_mods and download the lot as usual. I've included customized pictures to identify my own lot more easily. Make sure you have the "enable custom content" tag ENABLED for the lot to show up in the results.

If you have difficulties using the gallery you can download the lot tray files from the bottom of the post, and move them inside your own tray folder. This can be found in your documents/electronic arts/the sims 4/ tray folder. This way you can install the lot without the need of the gallery.

NOTES:

~ The pack is in an EARLY-ACCESS STATE! I have dedicated a lot of time to test everything but I'm a team of just a single person. If you find any issues please let me know so I can take a look.

~ Because of the amount of items the size of the pack is quite big. I tried my best to make everything as compact as possible with the final size being 1.5 GB of required free space.

~ The majority of the meshes and textures of these items are ripped straight from the LIS: Before the Storm game, and then each individual item (both mesh and textures) has been heavily modified and edited to fit and function properly within the Sims 4 game's engine. That's why some items will look identical to the original game, some look somewhat different, and some are brand new meshes I made using the original items.

~ Some of the original ripped meshes' poly counts were WAY too high so I had to lower the polygons so The Sims 4 wouldn't explode when filling a lot with them. I lowered the polygons and edited most of the items as much as possible without compromising their original look too much. In other words I tried to find the best balance between looks and performance and after lots of testing on my moderate PC system, I can confirm the game runs super smoothly on my end.

BACKSTORY ABOUT THE PACK (no spoilers):

This pack started with an idea I got back in 2017 when I first played Life Is Strange Before The Storm. When visiting the Amber house, I immediately fell in love with it as I am huge fan of the craftsman architectural style, it's literally all I'd want my dream house to be. The art team has done an incredible job on it, and as I personally find the art style of the Life is Strange series and The Sims 4 to fit very well with each other, I wanted to make these assets available for The Sims 4. Of course back then this all seemed impossible, however a few years later in 2020 during quarantine I revisited the idea as it had been stuck on my wishlist ever since.

To make a long story short, this project has been in the works for about 3 years now, and after a lot of hard work, head scratching and quite a few sleepless nights I managed to overcome all the obstacles I came across (which were a lot mind you) and I'm honestly hoping you'll be as pleased with the results as I am. Seriously this exceeded my expectations as it started as a small little pack for my personal use, to what I'd consider an expansion pack's (or even more) worth of build/buy content.

INSTALLATION:

Due to the size of the pack I had to split it up into multiple parts. You will need a .RAR extractor unpack it. More specifically:

1 -> Download ALL 6 parts of the pack and put them ALL in the same folder. 2 -> Right click the 1st part .RAR file named "Simsi45 - The Sims 4 Amber House Pack.part1" and click "Extract Here" 3 -> Once that's finished a package file will appear, this is the entire pack and you can now move that into The Sims 4/Mods. Simple as that!

CREDITS & THANKS:

~Dontnod, Square Enix, Deck Nine for the original meshes & textures ripped from Life is Strange: Before the Storm that were used to create most of the items.

~EA for some meshes & textures used to convert some items from The Sims 2.

Special thank you to all the patreon members that stuck with me throughout me developing the pack. Although not many I really appreciate every single one of you for the support you've given me and for sticking around!

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homeofatlas · 3 months ago

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Only Tonight (And Maybe Tomorrow Too)

Summary: Vaguely Before sunrise Au. Elisa and reader meet and can’t help but feel drawn together for a night of philosophy, romance, adventures and a once in a lifetime kind of love.

Authors note: based on this one ask someone posted a while ago idk who about Elisa and the reader meeting at a wedding and spending the night getting to know each other i think. Also yes loosely inspired by that one greta monologue about love. Yall i too wish this was written better with more depth and detail but I can only justify so much writing during exam season. When I show up to the loser competition and then I’m there but I’m talking to someone I think is hot.

WC: 3.6K

Warnings: Swearing and Some Suggestive Content bc Elisa be hot.

3 PM

Weddings are stressful. Between your outfit, the gift, and your family you’d been stressed out enough for a lifetime and it was only 3 pm. Is there anything worse than being at your younger cousin's wedding and having all your relatives bombarding you with questions asking when it was your turn? You didn’t think so. On top of all this you’d been relegated to being the person who fetches everything for everyone who needs a water, an eyelash curler, or a set of pearl earrings. You loved your cousin, your aunt, and all your female relatives who were cooing over the bride but it was a little much.

Your cousin had always had a flair for the dramatic, so when you received the invitation saying you were invited to her destination wedding in Malta you hadn’t been surprised. In fact you’d welcomed the vacation. The stunning water and architecture had been an amazing get away from the writer's block you’d been experiencing……... .except for when you’d been around your family. Cost wise you knew it was better to share a room with your mom but for your sanity you’d opted to stay elsewhere.

Finally when the wedding arrived you were relieved. Five days of amazing weather and smothering family, you were ready to go home tomorrow morning. Back to your real life in Paris, where you’d taken a job as a secretary while you wrote your next play. It had been months since you’d last touched your latest ideas though. You’d been hoping this trip would be what you needed to start writing again but you hadn’t found anything truly inspiring….yet.

Being sent to go grab more tissues for the bride's mother you slipped out of the bride's dressing room again. Making your way down the hall to where you knew the elevator was you pulled out your phone to check the time.

3:15

Great, only 18 more hours before your flight tomorrow you thought.

Looking up you only see yourself about to crash into someone wearing a suit before you actually do. You immediately look up and make eye contact with what’s possibly the most gorgeous human you’ve ever seen. Their arms come up to grab your biceps to stabilise both of you. Tan with freckles lining her cheeks and nose, her furrowed eyebrows pulling together even tighter as she puts together that you’ve just crashed into her and haven’t said anything.

Crap, you haven’t said anything.

Say something, anything but just staring at her. Her arms begin to lower trailing down your arms before dropping to her sides completely.

Finally the word burst from you,

“Oh my god i’m so sorry I wasn’t looking where I was going, I was distracted, that one's on me, again i’m so-”

“It’s okay” She quickly interjects, a soft french lilt to her heavy voice.

A small smile begins to grow on her face. As she continues to look at you she shakes her head laughing to herself and walking away.

You feel your cheeks growing hotter. Only you would crash into the hottest real life person you’ve ever seen in a desperate escape from your family. You wince in embarrassment thinking about it. You look back to see where the woman has gone only to see her turning the corner. Damn it.

From down the hall you hear a door click open, you expect to hear a close instead, your mothers voice calling your name.

Shit, the tissues.

6:30 PM

After what you have to admit was a lovely ceremony, comes the game of how to indirectly tell people you’re gay without coming out explicitly when they ask if you even have a boyfriend yet. Your cousin did a marvellous job of choosing the flowers, the music, the venue, everything down to the last minute detail was gorgeous. It’s hard to imagine someone you used to push on the swings as being married. You remember the days where you’d hide in pillow forts and talk about your future children's names and what your weddings would look like. You’re glad she got to have the picture perfect wedding she always dreamed of with a husband who loves her dearly.

Excusing yourself from the table you go up to the buffet which holds finger foods to eat through the reception. Deciding on which fruits you feel like adding to your plate you barely notice when someone else grabs a plate and comes to stand beside you.

Breaking you out of your trance you hear the voice that’s been replaying in your head for hours.

“It’s like you’re stalking me.” She teases.

You exhale slightly in lieu of a laugh, relieved the person standing beside you is someone you might actually like.

“Fancy seeing you here.” You tease back.

Glancing to your left you see she’s ditched the black blazer leaving her in a white button up with black dress pants. Running your eyes up and down her you are thoroughly impressed. Her legs look especially toned in the dress pants telling you this is NOT someone who skips leg day.

“Are you with the bride or groom?” She asks.

“Oh neither, I’m crashing this wedding. I'm only here for the free food.” You answer, gesturing to the fruit tray in front of you.

She stares at you as if unsure whether or not you’re joking.

“I’m kidding,” You laugh and lean over to nudge her shoulder. “I’m the bride's cousin.”

Her brows part and she begins to laugh again. Good god, you could listen to that sound forever and never get bored of hearing it.

Once she finishes you ask how she knows the happy couple.

“Family friend of the grooms, you know the groomsmen de almeida? He’s my brother.”

As she points to a figure on the dance floor you begin to recognize him, you had seen him during the ceremony. You’d also met him and his family at the rehearsal dinner last night, but you definitely would have remembered this girl.

“I met him last night. I think I met your mom and dad too. Didn’t see you though, I think i would have remembered that”

“Haha I flew in this morning, I’m a footballer for PSG feminine so I had training up until yesterday. I fly out again tomorrow morning.”

“Me too. Maybe I’ll see you there?”

“Maybe you will.”

Your gazes linger.

It’s been so long since you bantered with someone so easily. This girl was already making you feel things you’d forgotten how to feel and you’d only know her for five minutes. You had to prolong this conversation.

“I’m y/n.” You stuck out your palm for a hand shake.

“Elisa.” She responds, her warm hand reaching out to grab your extended hand.

The small smile gracing her face takes your breath away.

As your touch lingers a slow song starts. You see couples begin to wrap their arms around each other and sway. You never feel more single than right now at weddings. Although with this beautiful woman who is no doubt taken but you’re going to ignore that for your own sanity right now, it feels less lonely than it usually does. Trying to think of something to say, you breathe in to ask about her work, or her favourite colour, or why she gets up in the morning, she steals the breath from your throat by asking if you like to dance.

“Never been a dancer per say but yes I dance”

“Come with me.” She gestures over to what must be the table where she’s been seated and your legs take you with her. She puts down her plate of food before taking yours as well and placing it next to hers before turning around and extending a hand. Her eyes flicker from you to the dance floor. It’s crazy to be able to communicate with someone this well when you just met them right? This has to be some kind of sick twisted sapphic dream where a gorgeous athletic masc is asking you to dance with her on your last night on a beautiful island in Europe. There’s no way your life is real right now. But if it is a dream you’re going to make the most of it. You place your hand in hers again and let yourself be led to the dance floor.

She pulls you around to face her and pulls your arms up her shoulders while hers wind around your waist. She’s too good at this, you think. Smiling to yourself you mentally roll your eyes. This girl.

“What?” she asks looking at your smiling face.

“Nothing…..Just laughing at you and your moves.” How are you already comfortable enough with her to tease her?

Elisa scoffs playfully. “Me and my moves," she says. “Tell me the moves aren’t working.”

She cocks an eyebrow at you.

You stay silent. She’s got you there. But you’ll be damned if she knows it before you let her.

“The moves aren't working.” You say as you let your face go slack and your eyes fall blank as if you’re looking straight through her. All traces of your earlier engagement gone in an instant.

“You can’t trick me with the deadpan again, it only works once, cherie.”

“Oh, rats.” You remove one of your hands from her shoulders to swing it diagonally while snapping.

She smiles widely and laughs at your actions. The older couples around you look over and you only feel a little bad because you made her laugh. Have you ever felt like you understood someone before you really knew them? It must be the romantic in you because swaying back and forth with her laughing right now feels like a rush of adrenaline and like you just crossed the threshold of being home after a long day. If she isn’t single, you’re going to have to kill someone.

11 PM

You’d talked and laughed all evening. It’s been a long time since someone made you feel alive. Your cheeks feel tired from smiling so much, when was the last time that had happened? You can’t even remember.

People are starting to wrap up and leave the wedding. She’s not technically part of the wedding so she’ll be leaving soon. Your mind is racing to find some excuse to see her again or keep these good vibes going. This is the lightest you’ve felt in a while. As you're going through your catalogue of excuses to get her to stay or go or anything as long as you’re together, you’re startled by a soft touch to your arm. She’s looking at you again, god will that ever get less scary? She’s maintained eye contact with you most of the night and is an active listener as you regaled her with childhood stories about the bride. It’s no less electric then it was the first moment you ever looked into those brown eyes. You can feel your heartbeat throughout your entire body, pulsing at the heat of her slight touch.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

Shit, you think. She stole my line.

You feel bashful all of a sudden, what if she can see your mind racing trying to get her to stay? What if she thinks you’re some kind of creep? Worse, what if she’s actually hitting on you? In first aid training they should really cover how to restart your own heart after an attractive person, a hot person, let’s not downplay it here, the most mouth wateringly beautiful person you’ve seen in your whole life, asks you to get out of here with them. Suddenly the oversight seems fatal.

Deep breath. You can be cool about this. You give her a small smile trying to not appear too eager.

“Yeah, I really do.”

3 AM

Your legs have a burning sensation in them from the running around, dancing, and hours of walking you and Elisa have done. You feel as though you’ve walked the entire island of Malta. Not true, of course, but it feels like it with how tired you are. Yet you can’t imagine being anywhere else in the world right now than in the quiet warm night next to an interesting, beautiful, heartbreakingly charming girl. You’re praying to god this isn’t just a you feeling. Can she feel the easy dynamic between you two? The shoulder bumps, easy laughter, and meaningful conversations have flowed between you two all night. You’ve never believed in magic or soulmates but tonight, her, this moment in time, it’s making you question those beliefs. The soft glow of streetlights and lights spilling out from shops open late add to the ambiance of the warm, if not slightly breezy night. This is perfect. This is everything your hopeless romantic heart could ever want. It feels straight out of a movie or some cheesy book, meet-cute with a dorky girl and cool charismatic athlete, they get along really well and somehow have chemistry, cue falling in love montage, the almost kiss, the third act miscommunication, the eventual resolution. Okay well you could do without the miscommunication but this night? It’s so making the falling in love moments montage.

Your fingers brush against each other and your breath catches in your throat. This is insane. You feel electrified, as if someone just took defibrillators to your chest and you were still conscious. You’re loving every minute of it. You’re brave enough to reach out a little and brush purposely against hers again. The tips of fingers tangle together momentarily before the breeze parts them. Emboldened by what could be you reach out and tangle your fingers fully in hers so you’re holding hands on a dimly lit street.

You’re trying hard not to look like a tomato, you're blushing so hard. What's even more embarrassing is how you’re already thinking about a great story this night would be to tell your future kids about, holy crow you need to get it together. This momentary lapse in silence for the first time all night is so peaceful, a bit like falling into your moms embrace when you aren't feeling well. The silence cradles you in her arms safely cooing you into sleep. You see her look down at your entwined hands and the sides of her lips pull up. You breathe a little easier. She squeezes your hand to let you know she’s okay with it. You’re already coming up with secret gestures to let each into your feelings.

The walk back to the hotel is mostly silent. Tiredness creeping over you both. It had been a long day from start to finish. You still don’t want this night to end though. You’re so close to everything you’ve always wanted. You’re debating whether or not it would be creepy to invite her to your room when you arrive at the hotel. You don’t want to sleep with her, okay yes you do but not now, maybe tomorrow when you have the energy to really give it your all, you just want to be next to her and exist in her space. You want her arms wrapped around you and to lay your head in the crook of her neck. You want to feel her skin warm with fatigue. Distantly you wonder if this is a liking women thing or truly a you and her thing.

In the elevator up to your floors you lean your head on her shoulder, her hand leaves yours to duck around your back and pull you into her so her hand drapes over your waist. Keeping you close. You like this more than anything. Top 3 sensations ever. The doors slide open knocking your moment of paradise away. You shuffle out and then this is it. The goodbye. Oh fuck you’re far too tired to do this properly. You should say something suave and charming that will make her want to keep in touch. A swooping sensation appears in your belly at the thought of never seeing her again. That can’t happen.

“I think-,” The tiredness is making you entirely too truthful and too much and she hasn’t gone running for the hills yet so that has to count for something right. You bite your lip as you debate whether to continue on. You’re standing in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the hotel but she’s gorgeous everywhere, how is this even fair? “I think-,” Your tongue feels almost numb, your eyes can’t stay open any longer. “I think this is how the poets must feel about different worlds, you know? Like the multiverse but it’s between people. Lovers, people who love each other. That secret language.” What are you even fucking saying but you think she gets it because she’s just as tired and shes nodding and smiling and this quiet moment, oh god you want to live here forever, on the precipice of something great, life changing.

“Yeah no I get it. I feel like that tonight too.”

It occurs to you that you don’t even know if she likes you as more than a friend or even thinks you’re pretty at all. Which is cool, you could totally live with that…..yeah no. Love at first sight is bullshit but you’re thinking this is pretty close to it. More like I think you’re going to be the love of my life realization at 9 hours ish into knowing you sight. This is the moment in the movie where you almost kiss. You don’t even register the heat of her body extremely close to yours until you feel warm breath ghosting along your cheek with a small kiss left there. You wish you were more awake, but you feel like you’re being lit on fire while being weighed down at the same time. You’ve never cursed the human need to sleep more. You have better things to do!

She pulls away and tucks a hair behind your ear. Your hair must be so knotty from the wind. Ugh you’re probably an eye sore right now, not cute. She’s looking at you the same way she looked at the boats in the harbour and up at the sky earlier though. Full of awe and wonder. Like she’s looking into a world beyond her. Your heart clenches painfully. Please, Please, Please. You don’t know what you’re pleading for but you need more. Her nose brushes against yours and you aren’t breathing. Her lips ghost across your cheekbone and trail to your ear. The palm of her hand rests against your hip. The heat is burning through your clothes.

“If I give you my number, are you going to call?” She breathes into your hair with a smile.

You’re nodding at a ferocious speed. Yes, absolutely you’re going to call. You’re going to blow up her phone. You tilt your head to angle your lips towards her ear. How can she make anything sound dirty? It’s a talent truly.

“Yes” I will do anything for you.

You feel strung out. Tired and drunk on attraction. A shiver runs down your spine at her proximity. You want her hot hands all over you. You think if she whispered in your ear you could probably climax from her voice alone. You want to groan and throw your head back thinking about it. Your fingers in her hair, the smell of her around you, in you-

Best to cut that thought off there. You were always a bit turned on when you got tired. Doesn’t help that you have a professional athlete trying to give you her number and whispering in your ear too.

She pulls back and smirks at you like she can tell what you’re thinking. She’s good at that. She’s either going to be great for you or your downfall. You’ll take both. You always did like the myth of Icarus. And just like that she's swaying into you again. This time she’s got a hand around the side of your neck pulling you to her and one hand on your hip and those lips you’ve been staring at all night are on yours. Holy shit, you could never have daydreamed it would feel this good. She tastes like the food you ate earlier and something sweet. This must be what ambrosia tastes like. She pulls back slightly panting a into the small gap between you,

“Sorry, I had to do that once, just in case you don’t call.”

“Trust me,” You breathe partially into her mouth. “I’m going to call.”

Then the heat of her is gone just as soon as it came. You hadn’t realized the hard line of her body was fully pressed against yours until it’s gone, leaving you to break into goosebumps in the hall. She walks backwards until she goes to turn around the corner where her room is. Before she leaves your sight she drops a wink and a lazy smile at you. You think you’re starstruck. As you wander back to your room you think just maybe you’ll have tonight and maybe tomorrow too.

#elisa de almeida x reader #woso x reader #elisa de almeida #élisa de almeida #woso #yall im sorry okay #this one has been in the drafts for ages #i have another one imma try and complete soon #enjoy this treat while i ignore my other responsibilities #for everyone who sent asks this is for you

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