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PART 2 TO THE STU AND BILLY FIC PLSSS 🙏🏻🙏🏻

Looks Can be Deceiving Pt. 2 (Stu and Billy x M! Reader)

So I totally didn't put much effort into the first part, but I appreciate all the love it has gotten :) The original request had the male reader being nice, however, I want him to also be kinda of a bimbo so apologies in advance if he doesn't feel like the same character.

Summary: Billy and Stu were fighting over you, it takes time (more than you would like to admit), but you catch on and make them play nice :)

tags: soft/bottom reader, you make Billy and Stu get along, kisses, suggestive language, Billy and Stu are a mess, cursing

link to part one

(not my fanart, just couldn't find a good gif to go alongside this :) Credit to the creator)

It took you way too long to notice the competition brewing between Billy and Stu—embarrassingly long. You weren’t dumb, not exactly, but you tended to…miss things. Like the way Billy would glower whenever Stu made you laugh a little too hard, or how Stu practically shoved himself between you and Billy whenever you were all on the couch. You thought they were just being, well, Billy and Stu. A little intense, a little weird, but harmless.

It wasn’t until you walked into the kitchen one morning and found Stu dramatically arguing with Billy over who got to “sit next to you at breakfast” that it finally clicked.

“Oh my gosh,” you said, smacking your forehead. “You guys are, like, totally fighting over me, aren’t you?”

Billy and Stu froze mid-argument, their heads snapping toward you.

“What? No,” Billy said immediately, his voice sharp and defensive.

“Yup,” Stu said at the same time, grinning like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

You tilted your head, frowning as you processed their reactions. “You are! Oh my god, that’s so cute!”

Billy groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Stu, on the other hand, lit up like a Christmas tree. “You think we’re cute?” he asked, sidling up to you with a grin.

“Yeah,” you said, giving him a sunny smile. “Like, two puppies fighting over a squeaky toy. It’s adorable!”

Billy’s jaw clenched, his dark eyes narrowing. “We’re not puppies,” he muttered.

“Of course not,” you said, patting his arm like you were trying to console him. “You’re more like, I dunno, angry alley cats or something.”

Stu burst out laughing, slapping you on the back. “Alley cats! Dude, you kill me.”

Billy didn’t laugh, but his lips twitched slightly, betraying a flicker of amusement.

From that day on, you couldn’t help but lean into it.

You weren’t exactly a mastermind, but you knew how to get a reaction—and boy, did they give you plenty to work with. It started small. Wearing slightly tighter shirts around the apartment. Stretching a little too dramatically during your workouts in the living room. Flopping onto the couch between them and resting your head on one of their shoulders, just to see who would get jealous first.

And when you realized just how much they worshipped your chest? Oh, that opened a whole new world of possibilities.

One particularly hot day, you decided shirts were overrated. You lounged around the apartment in nothing but a pair of gym shorts, your big tits on full display as you sprawled out on the couch. You pretended not to notice the way Billy’s eyes kept darting toward you or the way Stu’s grin stretched just a little too wide.

At one point, Stu plopped down beside you, his arm slinging across the back of the couch. “Damn, Big Guy,” he said, his tone teasing but low. “You trying to kill us or something?”

You blinked at him, all wide-eyed innocence. “Huh? What do you mean?”

Stu snorted, his hand twitching like he wanted to touch you but thought better of it. “I mean, walking around like that. It’s distracting, dude.”

Billy, who had been leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, scoffed. “He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

“Do not!” you protested, pouting a little. “I’m just comfortable! You guys are the ones making it weird.”

Billy’s eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a low, almost dangerous tone. “Weird, huh? Keep pushing, and you’ll find out just how ‘weird’ we can get.”

You stared at him for a moment, your pout deepening. “That sounded kinda threatening, but also kinda hot? Like, what are you gonna do? Wrestle me or something?”

Stu burst out laughing again, practically falling off the couch. “Oh, man, you’re gonna get yourself in trouble, Big Guy.”

And you should've heed his warning, easing on your teasing, but it was fun. That was until they fought back. You’d been wandering around the apartment in one of your usual lazy outfits—just a pair of boxers and a loose tank top that did absolutely nothing to hide your chest—when you felt the atmosphere shift.

It started with Stu, as always, bounding up to you with that mischievous grin of his. “Hey, Big Guy,” he said, stepping into your personal space. “You been working out more? ‘Cause those things,” he gestured at your chest, “look like they could take me out in one punch.”

You laughed, swatting at him playfully. “Oh, stop. You’re so silly.”

Before you could escape to your room, though, Billy appeared, blocking your path. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something dark and intense—that made your heart skip a beat.

“Seriously,” Billy said, his voice low and rough. “Enough’s enough.”

You blinked, glancing between them in confusion. “Enough of what?”

Stu leaned in, his grin turning wicked. “The teasing, Big Guy. You’ve been driving us insane, and we’ve had enough.”

Before you could respond, Stu’s hands were on your shoulders, pulling you down into a messy, hungry kiss. His lips moved against yours with wild abandon, his fingers gripping you like he was afraid you might slip away. When he finally pulled back, you were breathless, your mind spinning. “Whoa,” you muttered, blinking at him.

And (to make things better), Billy stepped in, his hand gripping the back of your neck as he kissed you with a slow, deliberate intensity that left you dizzy. His lips were firm, his movements calculated, like he wanted to savor every second of this moment. The heat from him was palpable, his grip possessive but not forceful—just enough to keep you still as he took what he wanted. When he finally pulled away, his dark eyes locked onto yours, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You like teasing, huh?” he murmured, his voice low and dripping with restrained heat. “Well, now it’s our turn.”

Stu, never one to be outdone, slung an arm around your shoulders, his grin as wide and wild as ever. He looked at you like a predator who’d just caught the juiciest prey. “Cancel any plans you might have, big guy,” he said with a laugh. “’Cause you’re gonna be real busy for a while.”

You blinked, still reeling, your cheeks flushed and your heart pounding so hard you swore they could hear it. “Wait…does this mean I have two boyfriends now?” you asked, your voice coming out breathless and faintly incredulous.

Stu laughed loudly, pulling you closer until your sides were pressed together. “Yes, and I hope you realize that means you’re ours. Only ours.”

Billy’s smirk softened into something more dangerous as he moved behind you, his arms wrapping around your chest from behind. His hands settled on your pecs, his fingers teasingly circling the broad muscle as he rested his chin on your shoulder. “That’s right,” he murmured, his voice a low purr. “You’re not going anywhere. And anyone who tries to take you from us?” His smirk returned, darker this time. “They’ll regret it.”

Stu nodded eagerly, his fingers brushing against the other side of your chest like they were testing the limits of your patience—or maybe just reveling in how easily they’d gotten you to blush. “Yeah, big guy. You’re stuck with us now. Two-for-one deal of the century.”

You groaned, dropping your head back against Billy’s shoulder with an exasperated laugh. “You two are insane. Both of you.”

Billy chuckled softly, his fingers tightening just enough to make your breath hitch. “Maybe. But you like us that way, don’t you?”

Stu grinned, leaning in so close his nose brushed against your cheek. “Admit it, big guy. You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And, damn it, they weren’t wrong.

[cece693]

Hello! Could you write something about how Hannibal(Hannibal NBC) fell in love with a reader(preferably male, but female is okay too!)who is also a surgeon? Perhaps they could cross paths while working on the investigation of one of the cases? And what if the reader is cold, distant and paranoid, the one who keeps everyone at arm's length. I just absolutely LOVE this parallel between Hannibal and Franklin, because Hannibal would probably be "the Franklin" in this situation. It's okay if you're uncomfortable or don't want to write it! Have a nice day!🌸🌸🌸

Give Me Attention (Hannibal Lecter x M! Reader)

Hi, I absolutely love the request because it strays so far from what Hannibal is (and believe me, I did take advantage to write a needy and pathetic Hannibal who's down for the reader.) So this might not be the most realistic but it's fun! Hope you enjoy it.

tags: down bad Hannibal, Hannibal finds reader endearing, even if they're rude, open ending??

You always prided yourself on your surgical precision, the clean lines of your incisions, the careful stitching that spoke of a quiet dedication to your craft. But the work before you now—the dissected realities of crime scenes rather than the sanitized sterility of an operating room—was a grotesque mockery of your life’s work. When Jack Crawford had approached you, his eyes weary and voice heavy with unspoken desperation, you had felt compelled to help, drawn in by the promise of stopping a monster. Little did you know, you’d be working alongside one.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter was an enigma wrapped in a facade of impeccable suits and polite smiles. From the moment you met, his gaze lingered too long, his questions probing too deeply. You wanted a professional relationship, nothing more. Yet, Hannibal seemed determined to weave himself into the very fabric of your life.

“Dr. Lecter, I appreciate your insights, but I'm quite capable of drawing my own conclusions,” you said, after he had offered yet another piercing analysis of a body you were examining. Your tone was polite but distant, an invisible barrier you continually reinforced.

“Of course, my apologies. I find our collaboration most enlightening,” Hannibal responded, his voice smooth, betraying no hint of offense. “Perhaps we could discuss our theories over dinner? I believe a change of scenery could prove invigorating.”

You paused, the scalpel in your hand hovering above cold flesh. “That won’t be necessary, Doctor. I prefer to keep my work at work.” You didn’t miss the brief shadow that crossed his face before his polite smile returned.

“As you wish.”

Despite your refusals, Hannibal’s attempts at friendship only escalated. It started with chance encounters. You’d see him at the coffee shop where you grabbed your morning espresso, a polite nod exchanged, nothing more. Then it was the bookstore you frequented on quiet Sundays, Hannibal browsing the aisles, a thoughtful expression as he picked through titles you’d just glanced at minutes before.

But it wasn’t just public spaces. It was recommendations left on your desk, notes about books or wines he thought you’d enjoy, reservations made at restaurants you’d mentioned offhandedly during meetings. It was becoming too much, his presence too suffocating.

One evening, as you were leaving Quantico, you found him waiting by your car. The parking lot was nearly empty, the streetlights casting long shadows. “Dr. Lecter, this is becoming inappropriate,” you said, your tone sharper than before.

“My intentions are purely of a friendly nature,” he explained, stepping closer. “I find your mind fascinating. It’s not often I meet someone whose intellect I admire as much.”

“You need to stop this,” you insisted. “Whatever you think is happening between us, it isn’t. I'm not interested in becoming your friend nor do I find you interesting. Now, leave me alone." You hissed, unlocking your car and sliding inside before he could respond.

Hannibal stood silently, the sharp sting of your words cutting through the cold air between you. He watched as you slid into your car, his expression unreadable, a mask of calm painted over the tumult inside him. For a moment, he remained motionless, the weight of rejection settling heavily on his shoulders.

As your car's headlights flickered on, casting long shadows on the pavement, Hannibal's thoughts churned. Rejection was an unfamiliar and unwelcome guest in his life, one he was not prepared to entertain graciously. His eyes narrowed slightly as he watched you drive away, the tail lights blurring into the growing dusk.

In the solitude of the empty parking lot, Hannibal allowed himself a rare moment of vulnerability. "Not interested," the words echoed in his mind, a stark contrast to the usual praises and desires he elicited in others. His interest in you had been genuine, profound even, transcending the usual boundaries that defined his relationships. You were a challenge, a riddle wrapped in the enigma of your own moral and professional fortitude, and he had failed to unravel you.

Turning slowly, Hannibal walked back to his own vehicle, his steps measured, the grace of his movements belying the turmoil within. As he drove home, the streets empty and bathed in the glow of streetlights, he contemplated your words.

"Leave me alone." The finality of it should have been a deterrent, a clear signal to cease and desist. But Hannibal Lecter was not a man deterred by the conventional responses of others. To him, every human interaction was a complex dance of wills and desires, and he was a master choreographer.

In the quiet of his kitchen, Hannibal poured himself a glass of Chianti, the rich red liquid swirling in the glass, a dark mirror to his thoughts. He pondered the nuances of your rejection, searching for a sliver of meaning or a crack in your armor. Was there truly no interest? Or was it a defense mechanism, a wall built to keep the world—and perhaps him—decidedly out?

"You do find me interesting," he murmured to himself, the words a whisper against the clink of the glass. "You must. The mind like yours cannot help but be intrigued by the anomalies of human behavior, and I," he paused, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "am certainly an anomaly."

Resolved, Hannibal set his glass down. Your rejection, while clear and stinging, was but another layer of the complexity that made you so fascinating. He would give you space, for now, to contemplate and perhaps to miss the dance of intellects that had begun to form between you. Patience, after all, was a virtue he possessed in abundance.

Tomorrow, Hannibal would return to Quantico, his demeanor unchanged, polite and professional. He would respect your wishes, maintaining a distance. But he would watch, and wait, and perhaps, in time, you would see that the dance was far from over. The game, as they say, was afoot, and Hannibal Lecter was never one to walk away from a challenge, especially not one as intriguing as you.

[cece693]

My Safe Place (Finnick Odair x M! Reader)

Going back to my Hunger Games phase and not enough fics for male/gender neutral readers can be found for him. So, I aim to fix it :) Hope you enjoy!

Summary: Finnick was known for his conquests whenever he traveled to the Capital, however, you were his main client—a man who didn't exactly act like the rest of the Capital society.

tags: mention of sex working, Finnick deserves better, reader is a safe place for him, President Snow being a dick, reader is different, Annie (unfortunately) is dead

The arrangement between you and Finnick was dangerous, but you didn’t care. All that mattered was giving him some semblance of safety, a fleeting escape from the nightmare President Snow had trapped him in. You never liked interacting with people, much less in the manner Finnick’s arrangement with the Capitol required. But when the murmurs began—stories of the young victor's so-called "conquests" echoing in the opulent halls—you couldn’t ignore the tug in your chest.

You weren’t foolish. You knew how Snow operated. Finnick’s dazzling smile was just another weapon in the Capitol's arsenal, a weapon honed through coercion and manipulation. Then you overheard a conversation at a party: a woman bragging about "paying" to spend time with him. Her words were dripping with self-satisfaction, as though exploiting someone so clearly tormented was a badge of honor. It made your stomach churn.

It was easy to connect the dots. Too easy.

The first time you reached out to Finnick, it had been awkward. Not for him—he was all smooth confidence, his charm slipping into place like a second skin. But you? You couldn’t keep still, looking around the suite for cameras or hidden microphones. You didn’t trust the Capitol, and Finnick was bound to be under constant surveillance, his every move scrutinized.

Sensing your nervousness, Finnick took control of the situation, his practiced mask of seduction sliding into place. He began unbuttoning his shirt, moving toward you with a deliberate air. After all, wasn’t this why you’d invited him here? Another Capitol indulgence, another client eager to own a piece of him.

“No!” Your voice cut through the tension as you stepped back, your hand flying up to stop him. The disgust on your face was immediate and unfiltered.

Finnick froze, his hands mid-motion, and for a moment, genuine confusion flickered across his face. “Then what do you want?” he asked, clutching the throw you’d hastily handed him.

It had taken everything in you to hold his gaze. "A safe place. For you. No strings attached."

For a long, tense moment, Finnick didn’t respond. He studied you, his sea-green eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to find the trap in your words. Then, to your surprise, he laughed—a bitter, hollow sound that didn’t suit him at all.

"Safe places don’t exist in the Capitol."

"Maybe not," you admitted. "But I can try."

From then on, it became a routine. You’d send the payment—an obscene amount, just enough to satisfy the Capitol’s watchful eye—and Finnick would arrive at your apartment late at night. He always used the private entrance to avoid prying eyes. At first, neither of you talked much. Finnick would sit stiffly on the edge of your luxurious couch, his shoulders tense, his hands fidgeting with the sea-green pendant around his neck.

You ignored his discomfort, going about your nightly routine as though he wasn’t there. You’d clean the dishes left on the counter, read a book with a steaming cup of tea, or sometimes sit at your piano and let your fingers wander across the keys. You never pressed him to talk, never demanded his attention. You simply let him exist in the quiet safety of your home.

When the time was up, Finnick would stand, his expression often a mix of confusion and gratitude, before slipping out the same way he came.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Months into the arrangement, Finnick began to open up. At first, he stuck to safe topics: the ocean breeze in District 4, the salty tang of the air, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocky shore. His words painted a vivid picture of home, a place you could tell he missed deeply.

You didn’t press him for more, content to let him share whatever pieces of himself he felt comfortable giving. But then, one evening, as you were reading, Finnick spoke a name that hung heavy in the air. “Annie.” The sound of her name made him freeze for a moment, as though he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. You looked up from your book, startled by the weight in his tone but careful not to push. You simply set the book down and waited.

Finnick’s gaze fell to the pendant he always wore, his fingers tracing the smooth surface of the shell. “She was my first love,” he said quietly. “She was different from everyone else. Quiet, kind, but strong in a way most people didn’t see. She didn’t care about the Games or the Capitol. She only cared about people.”

The smile faded from his lips, replaced by a shadow of grief. “But Snow couldn’t allow that, could he? He couldn’t let me have something that made me resist.”

Finnick’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the pendant, his entire frame trembling with suppressed rage and sorrow. “He killed her,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t quick, and it wasn’t painless. He made sure I knew every detail, made sure I understood that her death was my fault."

You watched as his grief and anger boiled over. With a sharp, guttural sound of frustration, Finnick stood abruptly, grabbing a vase from a nearby table. Without hesitation, he flung it at the wall, the porcelain shattering into a million jagged pieces. The crash echoed through the room, but you didn’t flinch.

Finnick’s chest heaved as he stood there amidst the broken shards, his tear-streaked face turned toward you. The raw vulnerability in his sea-green eyes was almost too much to bear. His lip quivered as though he was fighting a battle within himself, one final attempt to keep the walls he’d built intact.

But then, those walls crumbled.

Without warning, Finnick took a shaky step forward and collapsed to his knees before you. His head fell into your lap, his arms wrapping loosely around your legs as though anchoring himself to something—anything—real. The dam inside him burst, and his sobs came in great, shuddering waves, his entire body trembling with the force of his anguish.

You froze for a moment, startled by the intensity of his collapse, but quickly recovered. Gently, you rested a hand on his head, your fingers threading through his golden tousled hair in slow, soothing motions. Your other hand settled lightly on his back, offering a steady, grounding presence.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, your voice soft but firm. “Let it out, Finnick. You’re safe here.”

His sobs grew louder, his pain pouring out in every ragged breath, every muffled cry against your knees. His tears soaked through the fabric of your pants, but you didn’t care. All that mattered was being there for him, letting him release the emotions he’d kept locked away for so long.

“I couldn’t save her,” he choked out, his voice muffled against you. “I couldn’t…I wasn’t enough.”

“Finnick, stop,” you said gently, your voice breaking with emotion. “You were enough. You loved her, and that was more than enough. What happened to Annie wasn’t your fault. Snow…Snow took her because he’s a monster, not because of anything you did.”

He didn’t respond, but his grip on your legs tightened, his trembling body pressing closer against you. You continued to stroke his hair, murmuring soft reassurances, letting him pour his heart out in the safety of your presence. As the minutes passed, his sobs began to subside, the storm of emotions giving way to quiet, exhausted tears. His breathing slowed, though his face remained buried against your knees, as if he couldn’t bear to let go just yet.

“Thank you,” he whispered hoarsely, the words barely audible, yet they carried the weight of his gratitude and trust.

From that moment, something fragile yet beautiful began to bloom between you. Finnick grew comfortable in your space, his presence no longer guarded or wary. He started accepting small gestures of care—a cup of tea, a plate of fresh fruit—with a smile that wasn’t the polished charm he wore in public, but something tender and genuine.

His smiles were rare but transformative, softening his features in a way that felt almost sacred. It wasn’t the grin of a Capitol heartthrob or a victor playing his part. It was Finnick. The real Finnick. And it was in those moments you saw him as the man he was, not the mask he was forced to wear.

Finnick’s feelings for you deepened with every visit. At first, it was subtle: the way his eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, the way his laughter grew warmer and more frequent when you were around. But over time, it became undeniable.

He found excuses to stay longer, to ask you questions about yourself—your favorite books, your childhood memories, your thoughts on the world beyond the Capitol. His curiosity was genuine, his attention focused solely on you, as though you were the one piece of sanity in his life.

And you noticed. Of course, you noticed. You weren’t blind to the way his gaze softened when it met yours, the way his voice grew quieter when he spoke your name. You weren’t stupid—you knew what it meant.

But you didn’t give in.

It wasn’t that you didn’t feel the same way. You did. Finnick had become more than a presence in your life; he had become someone you cared about deeply, someone you wanted to protect, someone whose laughter felt like sunlight breaking through a storm. But you didn’t want him to think that was all you were after. You didn’t want him to believe, even for a moment, that your care for him was tied to his charm or his body or any of the things the Capitol exploited. Finnick deserved better than that.

So you kept your distance, at least emotionally. You treated him as you always had—with quiet kindness and unwavering respect. Even as your heart ached to reach out, to tell him how much he mattered to you, you held back. Because Finnick’s worth was so much more than he realized, and you refused to let him think otherwise.

And then the 75th Hunger Games was announced.

The moment the words left President Snow’s lips—this year, the tributes shall be reaped from the existing pool of victors—you felt your chest tighten. You knew what it meant. Finnick would be going back into the arena.

When his name was called at the reaping, you watched from your apartment, your hands trembling as you gripped the armrest of your chair. Finnick’s face was calm, but you knew the storm that raged beneath the surface. You knew him too well to be fooled by the mask.

Days later, during the interviews, you sat in the same chair, your eyes glued to the television. The Capitol was abuzz with excitement, the crowd roaring with approval as Caesar Flickerman welcomed the victors one by one. And then it was Finnick’s turn. He stepped onto the stage, his signature charm firmly in place. The audience adored him, their cheers deafening as he waved and smiled. But when Caesar asked him the question that had been on everyone’s lips—is there someone special he's fighting for?—something shifted.

Finnick’s expression softened, the mask slipping just enough to reveal the man beneath. “There is,” he said simply, his voice steady but filled with emotion. The crowd erupted in gasps and murmurs, looking at each other as if he was speaking about one of them, but Finnick ignored them. "And I would like to tell them something, if you don't mind."

Caesar, ever the showman, gestured grandly for him to proceed but not before hushing the crowd.

"Though I cannot promise forever, Though the storms still rage around me, I leave my heart to you, And hope you’ll remember me kindly."

No one else knew who the poem was for. But you did.

And in that moment, it was both everything and not nearly enough.

[cece693]

No (Steve Rogers x GN! Reader)

I haven't been focusing on my asks (and I know I should) but this was just something I had to write about. Most Steve fics have a romantic plot, but what if I want to change that? No, I'm not killing anybody but saying no to marriage might be in Steve's book.

Summary: You loved Steve, but you weren't ready to make the big step in marrying him. Others don't understand or merely refuse to accept your reasoning.

tags: marriage proposal gone wrong, reader has their reasons, hurt Steve, Avengers meddling in things

The cozy glow of the living room bathed everything in warm hues, as if the universe itself cradled this moment. Steve Rogers stood before me, larger than life yet heartbreakingly human in the way he looked at me—with unyielding love that made my chest tighten. My heart thundered as he sank to one knee, his golden hair catching the light like a halo. His hand trembled slightly as he produced a small black box.

His smile was tender, adoring—the kind of smile you’d only see in fairy tales and classic romances.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he began, his voice steady but soft. “These past three years have been the best of my life, and that’s saying something for someone who’s lived as long as I have. You’ve given me a reason to keep going when everything else had faded. I love you. Will you do me the honor of becoming mine?”

The room fell silent. Too silent.

I didn’t need to turn around to know the Avengers were crowded against the door, holding their breath. My eyes dropped to the ring—a delicate, beautiful thing. So perfectly Steve. I could imagine him painstakingly choosing it, probably consulting Nat or Sam for advice. It was perfect. He was perfect.

And yet…

“Steve,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I struggled to form words. “I…I can’t.”

The silence turned suffocating. His smile faltered, and his bright blue eyes searched mine as though I’d just spoken a foreign language. “What?”

“I can’t say yes,” I said softly, my throat tightening around the words.

Before I could even attempt to explain, the door burst open, and the Avengers stormed in like a tidal wave of disbelief and judgment.

“Are you kidding me?” Tony’s voice was sharp, incredulous. “You rejected Steve Rogers? Captain America? What is wrong with you?”

“It’s not—” I tried, but Natasha’s icy glare stopped me in my tracks. Her expression was devoid of emotion, but the disappointment in her eyes cut deeper than words ever could. Even Thor, lovable Thor stood with his arms crossed, his brows furrowed, as though I’d committed some unspeakable crime.

“How could you?” Clint’s voice rang out next, loud and accusatory. “Do you even realize what it took for him to plan this? The time, the effort, the heart—and you just said no?”

“I didn’t mean to—” My voice broke, but they weren’t listening. Even Sam shook his head, muttering something about how I didn’t deserve Steve. I turned to him, desperate for support, for something. But Steve stayed silent. His shoulders slumped, his head bowed, his expression unreadable. He didn’t stop them. He didn’t defend me.

The weight of it all became too much.

“Enough!” I shouted, my voice cracking as I stood. The room fell silent, all eyes on me, but I didn’t care. Tears burned in my eyes as I glared at them. “You didn’t even let me explain! You’re all so quick to judge, to attack me, without even asking why I said no. Do you think I don’t love him? That I don’t care about him? You’re wrong.”

I turned on my heel, my voice trembling with anger and heartbreak. “I said no because I’m not ready—not because I don’t love him, but because I do. But clearly, none of you care to understand that.”

Without another word, I stormed out of the room, ignoring their calls after me. My chest felt like it was caving in, the weight of their disappointment and Steve’s silence pressing down on me until I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know where I was going, but I needed to get away.

Hours later, I sat on a bench at the edge of a quiet park, the cold night air biting at my skin. My hands were trembling, and I didn’t know if it was from the chill or the lingering hurt.

“Mind if I sit?”

I looked up to see Steve standing there, his expression soft but cautious. His voice was gentle, careful, as if he were afraid of saying the wrong thing. I nodded wordlessly, and he took a seat beside me. For a moment, neither of us spoke, the silence stretching between us. The stillness gnawed at me until I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Why are you here, Steve?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“To listen,” he said simply. His blue eyes, tired but sincere, locked onto mine. “I should’ve done that earlier.”

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening again. “You didn’t stop them,” I said, my voice breaking slightly. “You let them say all those horrible things about me, and you didn’t stop them.”

His face fell, and he reached out, hesitating for a moment before placing his hand over mine. “I know,” he said softly. “And I'm sorry. I froze. I didn’t know how to handle it. But I don’t blame you for saying no. I could never blame you for that. I just…I was surprised.”

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I shook my head. “I didn’t say no because I don’t love you, Steve. I love you so much that it hurts. You’re everything, Steve. You’re kind and patient and wonderful. But this…this is forever. And I need to know I’m the best version of myself before I make that promise to you.”

His eyes softened, though the pain lingered in the corners. “I thought…after everything we’ve been through—”

“Exactly,” I cut him off gently, my voice breaking. “After everything we’ve been through, I don’t want to rush into this and risk us falling apart. I want us to last, Steve. And I need to work through my own fears and doubts to make sure I’m ready for that kind of commitment.”

His hand tightened around mine, grounding me. “Thank you for explaining things. And I respect your decision; I'll wait, as long as it takes, until you're ready to say yes."

I looked up at him, the sincerity in his eyes breaking through the wall of guilt and fear I’d built around myself. “You’re not mad?”

Steve shook his head, offering me a small, tender smile. “No. I love you too much to be mad. I just…I needed to understand. And now I do.”

Tears spilled down my cheeks, and I leaned into him, letting him wrap his arms around me. For the first time that night, I felt like I could breathe again.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “For listening. For understanding.”

“Always.”

[cece693]

mano mažylė (Father! Hannibal Lecter)

Felt like writing something angsty and then combined with my obsession of the Hannibal tv show, I questioned what it would be like for a child to be raised by Hannibal. A tiny snot covered child who is scared of the dark but as they grow up realize their father is a cannibalistic serial killer....or maybe not?

Summary: How would things turn out if Hannibal raised a child on his own? Not that good.

tags: Hannibal is a father, he's a flawed person, mistakes are made, running away, Abigail is still hated by me so she'll be an antagonist, maybe a part 2 is on it's way

The world believed you were God’s favorite, born into privilege as the only child of Dr. Hannibal Lecter. But you knew better. You loathed him. Loathed the man who shared half your DNA while the other half remained a shadow, an enigma lost to time.

It hadn’t always been this way. As a child, you adored him. You wanted his approval, his praise, his love—simple things every child should receive without question. But Hannibal Lecter had never been a good father. Not in the way that mattered.

He excelled at maintaining appearances. Your clothes were immaculate, your education rigorous, your home a work of art. Yet, for all his brilliance and sophistication, Hannibal seemed incapable of the simplest acts of fatherly affection. He never hugged you, not once in your memory. He never showed kindness that didn’t come with calculated precision, and he certainly never sought to enjoy the small, fleeting moments between a father and child.

The small drawings you'd create for him—depictions of the two of you together, your childish hand scrawling smiles and hearts—would be shoved into his desk drawer without a second glance, never hung on the walls or displayed on the fridge like other parents might. When you cried after a particularly bad nightmare, he would send you back to your room with a simple wave of his hand, his attention already elsewhere. No comfort, no embrace, no whispered assurances that it was only a dream.

Nothing you did ever produced an ounce of affection from him. But his place in Baltimore's social circle? That was another matter entirely. He prioritized his social image over the bond you craved. Dinners with influential guests, exquisite banquets, and whispered conversations about art and philosophy filled the house while he'd dismissed you to your room. The door would shut with a firm finality, his deep voice ringing with calm authority: “Go upstairs.”

Even as a child, you felt the sting of that rejection. The lavish dinners he painstakingly prepared were not for you. The carefully cultivated relationships he cherished were more valuable to him than the one he should have been building with you. You were an accessory in his meticulously curated life, a piece of his narrative rather than a person to be loved.

The resentment you buried for years began to boil over when Hannibal brought Abigail Hobbs into your home. For reasons you couldn’t understand, he treated her differently. He gave her his time, his attention—things you had long since stopped hoping for. Hannibal had even invited her into his sacred space—the kitchen. You watched from the doorway, unseen but seething, as he guided her hands on a knife, showing her how to properly julienne vegetables, his voice soft and patient. It was a thing you had only observed from afar, never experienced.

And then came the final blow—the moment that shattered the thin thread holding your heart together. You watched as Hannibal embraced Abigail, his arms wrapping securely around her small frame. One hand cradled the back of her head, his touch tender and protective, as if she were the most fragile thing in the world.

Where was this Hannibal when you needed him? Where had this version of him been when you were the child longing for his love?

You couldn’t stay. Not in that house. Not with the reminder of what he was capable of giving but had chosen not to give to you. So, you ran. You left without looking back, vowing to never forgive him for the years of cold detachment, for the love he had withheld, for the way he made you feel like an afterthought in your own life.

For Hannibal, destruction was all he knew. It was an art, a purpose, a calling. But the day he first gazed upon you—his child, swaddled in soft blankets, your tiny hand grasping his shirt—something unfamiliar stirred within him. Adoration. Pride. Perhaps even love, though he would never admit it, not even to himself.

He had never envisioned himself as a father. For all his meticulous planning, the idea of parenthood had been an abstraction, an unthinkable detour from the life he had carefully constructed. Yet, when the mother of his child informed him of your existence, a quiet certainty settled over him: you were his.

He killed her shortly after. It was nothing personal—just necessity. Hannibal Lecter did not share. He would not allow anyone else to claim you, to influence you, to take you from him. You were his blood, his creation, and that meant you belonged to him entirely.

Still, Hannibal recognized his own darkness. He knew the shadows that lingered in his mind, the hunger that defined him, were no place for an innocent child. For all his pride, a part of him hoped you would never become like him. He wanted to preserve your purity, your light, even if it meant keeping a careful distance. So, when he saw you gaining independence—first as an inquisitive toddler, then as a fiercely determined child—he began to step back. Slowly, deliberately.

He ensured you were safe and had everything you needed to prosper. The finest tutors, the best schools, the most luxurious comforts. Yet, he withheld what you truly craved: love, warmth, and connection. He refused to give you what might make you look deeper, what might tempt you to uncover the cracks in his mask. He feared that if you saw the real him, you would recoil in terror. And Hannibal, for all his control and detachment, could not bear the thought of you fearing him.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t fond of you. Quite the opposite. Hannibal cherished you in his own way, quietly and from a distance. All the small drawings you made for him as a child—brightly colored stick figures of the two of you, accompanied by phrases like “Me and Daddy!” or “Best Dad in the World!”—he carefully kept. He never displayed them, of course. That would have disrupted the pristine aesthetic of his home. Instead, he tucked them into a leather folder, hidden away in his bedroom.

When you were away at school, he would pull them out. Alone in the quiet of his space, he would trace the lines of your messy handwriting, pausing over the parts where you had clearly erased and rewritten to make it perfect. Those small, clumsy marks filled him with something unnameable—an ache that he would not call regret but might have been close to longing.

It was those words—Best Dad in the World—that kept him firm in his decision. He would not let the innocence in you fade. He would shield you from the world’s horrors and, more importantly, from his own.

But then he brought Abigail Hobbs into their house, and everything crumbled.

Hannibal had known it would stir some jealousy. Abigail was, after all, an interloper in your space, stealing his attention. He imagined it would be a passing irritation, something that could be soothed with time. What he failed to anticipate was how deeply her presence would cut. Abigail was not like you. She wasn’t innocent. Her father’s sins had already tainted her, and that darkness—the one she carried so naturally—was something Hannibal understood, even appreciated.

He allowed himself to envision a future: Abigail as your sister, a young woman who could carry the weight of his world without breaking. He imagined the two of you sitting together at his table, becoming a family that would include his dearest Will Graham. It was a beautiful picture, one he painted with great care in his mind. But Hannibal, so enraptured by this fantasy, failed to detect the resentment growing within you.

Your heart, already heavy with years of neglect, bloomed with fresh anger and hatred. Abigail had taken what little space you had in his world and filled it with her presence, her pain, her dark reflections of the fatherly affection you had longed for.

The breaking point came one evening when dinner was ready, and you failed to appear. Hannibal ascended the stairs, his movements deliberate but heavy with irritation. He thought to find you sulking in your room, perhaps brooding over a perceived slight. But when he opened the door, the truth struck him like a blade.

The dresser drawers were open, several items missing. The window was slightly ajar, letting in a cool breeze that made the curtains flutter softly. Your phone rested on the bedside table, an unspoken declaration that you did not want to be found.

And then he saw it—the note scrawled across your mirror in bold, angry letters.

I hate you.

The black marker lines were thick and uneven, etched with trembling, furious hands. For a moment, Hannibal stood frozen, the words searing into him like fire. It wasn’t just the note. It was the empty space, the absence of your presence, the finality of the choice you had made.

He stepped further into the room, his eyes scanning the remnants of you. The room still smelled faintly of your presence, but it was hollow now, like a shell. A part of him wanted to reach out and erase the words, to undo the weight they carried, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood there, the perfect stillness of his body betraying the storm within.

Hannibal Lecter rarely felt regret. But as he gazed at the angry scrawl on the mirror, the open window, and the phone you had so carefully left behind, he felt something dangerously close to it.

He had wanted to protect you. To shield you. To preserve the light he saw in you. But instead, he had driven you away. And now, the silence of the house felt unbearable. For all his careful planning, for all his control, Hannibal Lecter had made a mistake and there was no correcting it.

[cece693]

That awkward moment when you thought you saved your work as a draft but it published....apologies to those two people who viewed it 😞

[cece693]

No Feelings Allowed (Hannibal Lecter x GN! Reader)

Just something that came to me unexpectedly—Hannibal destroying his first romantic interest because he fears being human and doesn't exactly know how to love without it being destructive and ending in pain. This idea came from this small excerpt from Hannibal Rising: 'his heart died with Mischa. What is he now? There's not a word for it yet. For a lack of a better word, we'll call him a monster.' So something similar to how he feels with Will, but without cannibalism or murder. Hope you enjoy it!

Summary: Hannibal seeks to destroy his feelings because love was something the little boy from 1945 knew all too well, not the monster that had replaced him.

tags: no murder, cannibalism, Hannibal bad with feelings, hurt reader, no happy ending

The chain tightened slowly at first, a gentle pull that Hannibal could have ignored if he chose. It was metaphorical, of course, but it was there—a reminder that the monster within him was not so free after all. For years, he had lived by his own rules, indulging in his appetites when the urge struck and discarding his one night stands as one would a used utensil. There was no permanence, no attachment, no risk. Hannibal Lecter was a solitary creature by design, his life as controlled and meticulously crafted as the art on his walls.

Then there was you.

You were a subtle disruption, introduced by Jack Crawford as yet another promising agent with potential. Hannibal's first assessment was clinical: your appearance was pleasing, but not distractingly so. It was your mind that struck him, sharp and unrelenting. You approached cases with a clarity that he found rare, peeling back layers of evidence with a precision that reminded him of his own dissections. And then there was the way you looked at him—not with admiration, as so many others did, but with curiosity. You studied him, and for once, he felt the heat of a gaze that saw more than his surface.

That was his first sign of destruction.

The chain grew heavier each time you met, though Hannibal refused to acknowledge it. He dismissed the subtle tightness in his chest when you entered a room, the way his mind lingered on your sharp observations long after you'd left. It was harmless, he told himself—a fleeting fascination, born from the monster’s hunger for something extraordinary amidst the sea of mediocrity. But when his thoughts began to envision you standing beside him, bathed in blood and wearing the thrill of the hunt like a crown, Hannibal grew afraid. You were different. You weren’t just another piece to manipulate and discard.

You could be his equal.

His undoing.

Hannibal’s instinct was clear: eliminate the vulnerability, extinguish the flame before it burned him alive. It was better this way, safer to remain alone. Love was chaos. Love was weakness. And Hannibal Lecter was never weak. He planned the moment with meticulous precision, as he did all things. The next time you met, he would carefully dismantle this growing connection, severing the thread before it became something unbreakable. He had the perfect line rehearsed, a cold dismissal that would cut you down without leaving a trace of the conflict raging within him.

But then, you kissed him.

For a moment, Hannibal froze. It was as though the air had been sucked from the room, leaving only the sensation of your lips against his. Soft, yet insistent, they pressed into his own, igniting something deep within him that he thought he had buried long ago.

And then the monster stirred.

Euphoria was a word Hannibal rarely entertained, but it was the only word that fit. Your kiss was a narcotic, coursing through his veins and leaving him intoxicated. He didn’t just kiss you back; he devoured you, his hands gripping your waist as though you might vanish if he let go. For a fleeting moment, the chain around his neck loosened. The monster and the man inside him reached a fragile truce, united by the sheer intensity of what you had awakened in him.

But euphoria, like all highs, came with a crash.

Hannibal, unable to handle such revelation, sought to extinguish the fire burning within him. The wine had flowed too freely that evening, its rich aroma mingling with the tension that hung heavy in the air. Hannibal had invited Alana over under the pretense of discussing a recent case, but his true intentions were far more insidious. He needed to drown the inferno raging inside him, to snuff out the fire you had lit within him before it consumed him entirely.

Alana, ever gracious and unsuspecting, had accepted his invitation with a warm smile. They had sat in his living room, the conversation drifting from philosophy to the complexities of human emotion. Hannibal was as composed as ever, his words measured and precise, but by the third glass of wine, the monster had taken over.

It was mechanical, the way he leaned closer, brushing a stray lock of Alana's hair from her face. She had paused, a hint of surprise flickering across her features, but she didn’t pull away. Perhaps she saw it as the culmination of years of subtle flirtations, of unspoken moments between them.

Hannibal told himself it was necessary, that this act would sever the chain that bound him to you. But as their lips met and the night unfolded, he felt nothing. No passion, no joy—only emptiness. The fire within him roared louder, refusing to be extinguished by such a hollow gesture. The next morning, he was woken up by sunlight streaming through the curtains and the faint sound of Alana stirring beside him. He rose quietly, dressing with meticulous care as he always did. By the time Alana woke, he had prepared breakfast, his movements precise and practiced. She smiled at him, her eyes searching his for some sign of what the night before had meant.

Hannibal offered her nothing.

Not only had the fire refused to be extinguished, but the collar around his neck still tightened uncomfortably. The monster and the man were overcome with immense guilt—an emotion he had never allowed himself to feel until you came along. Hannibal couldn't—wouldn't—face you after his mistake. Yet, when you arrived at his office the next day, he knew you had found out.

Nobody knew about your kiss with Hannibal, so naturally, Alana would be the one to reveal her supposed "relationship" with the doctor to anyone willing to listen. Poor, trusting you had been one of the first to hear it.

Anger engulfed you immediately. Had the kiss meant nothing to Hannibal? Had you not been open about how different he was compared to others? But that anger quickly morphed into resignation. Of course Hannibal would think nothing of the kiss. Sure, it had been passionate, but in the grand scheme of things, you were nothing. And what did the man owe you? The kiss didn't mean anything—he wasn't tethered to you nor owed you explanations. So even if you were hurt by his actions, it was entirely your fault for falling for the unreachable.

“Congratulations, Dr. Lecter,” you said, your voice steady despite the storm raging within you. “I wish you and Alana the best.”

Hannibal’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, and for a moment, you thought you saw something—regret, perhaps, or even guilt. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the mask of calm he wore so well. “Thank you,” he replied, his tone measured, almost cautious.

You nodded, unable to trust yourself to say anything more. And what else was there to say? Words wouldn’t change what had happened, wouldn’t undo the hollow ache in your chest. The longer you stood in the presence of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, the greater the pain became—a weight pressing against your ribs, threatening to break you from within.

So, without so much as a goodbye, you turned and left his office.

The door closed behind you with a quiet click, and Hannibal’s carefully crafted composure crumbled. His posture slumped forward, the elegant mask slipping away as his hands rested heavily on the desk. He had prepared himself for your anger—your lashing out, demanding answers, shouting accusations. That would have been easier, even expected.

But your acceptance? That quiet resignation in your voice, the hollow look in your eyes—it was worse.

You believed the kiss meant nothing to him. You believed that you meant nothing to him. And that belief, that silent acceptance of your supposed disposability, tore through Hannibal in a way he could neither anticipate nor endure.

He wanted to open the door. He wanted to call you back, to stop you from walking out of his life. He wanted to tell you everything—tell you that the kiss had meant everything to him, that it had shaken him to his very core. That Alana had been nothing but a cowardly attempt to run from the vast, unfamiliar emotions you stirred within him.

He wanted to confess his fear: fear of the vulnerability you had awakened in him, fear of how much power you held over him. Fear of the love he had sworn never to feel again.

But the damage was done.

Hannibal remained seated, his gaze fixed on the door you had just walked through. The chain that had once bound him to you had been broken, but the severance did not bring the relief he had hoped for. Instead, it left him with an emptiness that consumed him.

The monster, silent for once, offered no solace. It was the man—what little remained of him—who mourned.

In the quiet of his office, Hannibal Lecter sat alone, surrounded by the life he had so meticulously constructed, and felt the unbearable weight of his loss. You were gone, and with you, the faint glimmer of humanity he had so foolishly tried to destroy.

[cece693]

Ok uh Hi am new to this I just saw the " brilliant " fic which was 👏🏻👏🏻. Sooo I was wondering if u can make a fluff fic about clint barton x male reader, if thats ok with you?

Farm Boy (Clint Barton x Male Reader)

Hello! I'm actually not that much of a Hawkeye fan so it took me a while to write this and find motivation, but I think it turned out alright. Hope you enjoy it!

Clint Barton rarely got a day off. Between Avengers missions, SHIELD calls, and the occasional intergalactic catastrophe, his time at home was precious and fleeting. But today? Today was all his. All theirs. The sun was just peeking over the horizon when Clint stretched out in bed, the familiar creak of the old farmhouse adding to the peaceful ambiance. Beside him, you were still curled up in the covers, your hair tousled and your breathing soft. Clint smiled lazily, taking a moment to watch you before slipping out of bed as quietly as he could.

The kitchen smelled like coffee and bacon a half hour later. Clint hummed to himself as he flipped pancakes, a skill honed over years of needing to impress his husband after burning a few too many breakfasts in the early days of your relationship.

“Is that bacon I smell, or am I dreaming?” Your groggy voice drifted into the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of your socked feet shuffling across the hardwood floor.

Clint turned with a grin, a spatula in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. “Morning, sleepyhead. I figured I’d let you sleep in for once, but your stomach had other plans, huh?”

You chuckled, pulling him into a quick kiss before stealing the coffee. “You know me too well.”

The morning passed in a haze of quiet domesticity. Clint insisted on dragging you outside after breakfast, despite your protests about the slight chill in the autumn air. The two of you spent hours tending to the garden, chasing a rogue chicken that had escaped its coop, and splitting logs for the fire pit. It wasn’t glamorous, but that was the point. It was simple, real, and yours.

By late afternoon, the sun was hanging low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the farm. Clint had convinced you to take a break on the porch swing, a thick blanket draped over both your laps. He leaned back, one arm around your shoulders, the other hand fiddling with a mug of cider.

“This,” Clint said, breaking the comfortable silence, “is what I miss the most when I’m away. Just being here with you. No explosions, no supervillains, no crazy missions. Just us.”

You smiled, leaning into his side. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“Don’t cry, babe. I’ll just have to kiss it all better, and that sounds like a lot of work,” he teased, though his lips were already pressing a tender kiss to your temple.

You turned to face him, eyes soft as you brushed a hand through his hair. “You know you’re a lot more than just Hawkeye to me, right? You’re my Clint. My husband. The guy who makes terrible pancakes and hogs the blanket at night.”

He smirked. “Terrible pancakes? You ate three of them this morning.”

“Details,” you replied with a grin, leaning up to kiss him. Clint melted into it, his hand coming up to cradle your face, the moment stretching out like a scene from a romance movie.

As the sky turned shades of pink and orange, Clint sighed contentedly, pulling you closer. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this life with you, but I’m not letting it go. Ever.”

You rested your head on his shoulder, your fingers intertwining with his. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go, either.” The two of you stayed on the porch swing long after the sun disappeared, wrapped in each other’s warmth, soaking up every second of Clint’s rare, perfect day off.

[cece693]

Ok but like imagine both Billy and Stu with a big tiddy goth! male! reader as their roommate lol

Reader looks intimidating but is actually really nice lol

Looks Can Be Deceiving (Stu and Billy x M! Reader)

Hi! So I'm not really that well informed on the big tiddy slang (English is not my first language) but after a quick google search I think I got the idea????? If not, then I apologize, but I hope you enjoy this :)

tags: oblivious reader, realistic billy and stu (I think), pre-relationship, open ended, might be a part 2 coming

Billy Loomis and Stu Macher weren’t exactly looking for a new friend, let alone a roommate. They’d been fine on their own, thriving in the chaos of their twisted little partnership. But when the college housing office placed them in a three-bedroom rental with some random guy, they couldn’t exactly say no. Rent was cheap, the landlord didn’t ask questions, and besides, how bad could it be?

The first time they saw you, though, they realized this arrangement was going to be…interesting.

You were standing in the living room when they arrived, setting up a bookshelf filled with horror novels and occult knickknacks. At first glance, you looked like something straight out of one of their favorite slasher films—towering, dressed in all black, tattoos peeking out from under your sleeves, with silver jewelry glinting against your pale skin. Your undercut only made you look more dangerous. Stu, never one to keep his thoughts to himself, leaned close to Billy and whispered, “Dude, do you think he’s in, like, a death cult or something?”

Billy didn’t answer, but his sharp eyes lingered on you as you turned to greet them. “Hey,” you said, your voice deep and smooth. “I made brownies. Want some?”

Stu’s jaw dropped. Billy just narrowed his eyes. And just like that, their expectations were shattered.

Over the next few days, it became clear that you weren’t at all what they expected. Despite your intimidating looks, you were ridiculously nice—almost unnervingly so. You always smiled when you saw them, greeted them with “Good morning” even if they ignored you, and even asked if they wanted anything from the grocery store before you went out. When you weren’t at class or work, you were usually in the kitchen, baking cookies or meal-prepping while blasting Bauhaus or The Cure from a tiny speaker.

Stu was instantly smitten. He started following you around like a puppy, throwing his long arms around your shoulders and declaring you his “best goth buddy.” He loved pushing your buttons just to see you scowl—like the time he “borrowed” one of your necklaces and pretended he lost it, only to give it back with an over-the-top apology. “Don’t worry,” he said, grinning up at you. “I’ll make it up to you. Wanna watch a movie? I’ll even let you pick.”

Billy, on the other hand, was harder to read. He spent a lot of time watching you from across the room, his dark eyes following your every move. You caught him staring more than once, but he always looked away before you could say anything. Unlike Stu, who was all loud jokes and obvious flirting, Billy was subtle. He’d make sarcastic comments about your goth aesthetic, only to quietly leave a new horror novel on your desk after you mentioned liking the author. He never admitted it, but you had a feeling he stayed up with you that one night you were stressed about your midterms just because he didn’t want you to be alone.

Stu and Billy’s affections, however, reached a dangerous new peak the day they stumbled into your room at the worst—or best, depending on how you looked at it—possible moment. It started innocently enough, or at least as innocently as things ever got with those two. Stu had been whining about needing help finding a charger, and Billy, clearly annoyed, suggested he ask you. Of course, "asking" wasn’t Stu’s style.

“C’mon, Big Guy!” Stu called as he shoved your door open, Billy trailing behind him. “You seen my—oh my god.”

You froze mid-motion, one arm reaching for the fresh shirt you were about to pull on, the other holding a towel you were using to dry your hair. Time seemed to stop as both of them stood there in the doorway, their eyes glued to your bare chest. No shirt. No barriers. Just you, all soft curves and broad muscle, your big tits on full display.

“Holy shit,” Stu breathed, his voice tinged with awe. His jaw practically hit the floor as he stared, unblinking. “Are you kidding me? Those things are, like, illegal.”

Billy, meanwhile, was much quieter, but no less affected. His dark eyes drank you in, his usual mask of control slipping for a moment as his gaze flicked downward, then back to your face. He swallowed hard, shifting his weight like he was trying to keep himself from stepping closer. His voice, when he finally spoke, was lower than usual. “We didn’t know you were changing.”

“No shit,” you snapped, snatching the shirt and pulling it over your head as quickly as possible. “You ever heard of knocking?”

Stu groaned, flopping dramatically against the doorframe. “Aw, don’t cover up! I was just starting to enjoy the view!”

Billy shot him a glare but didn’t argue. He was still staring at you, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You’re...built,” he said, his tone almost grudging, like the words were being dragged out of him against his will.

“Thanks, I guess?” you muttered, tugging the hem of your shirt down and crossing your arms over your chest. You could still feel their eyes on you, and it made your skin prickle with a mix of embarrassment and something you couldn’t quite name.

Stu leaned closer, his grin widening. “Dude, do you, like, know how big those are? Like, for real? You could probably drown someone with ‘em. You want to try it out?”

“Stu,” you growled, your patience wearing thin. “Get. Out.”

Billy finally stepped in, grabbing Stu by the back of his shirt and dragging him toward the door. “Come on, idiot. Let's leave him alone.”

“But Billy!” Stu whined, digging his heels in. “I wasn’t done appreciating the—”

The door slammed shut before he could finish, leaving you standing there in stunned silence. You could hear them bickering in the hallway, Stu’s voice loud and animated as always.

“I’m just saying, those are a work of art! It’s like the Mona Lisa, but, you know, better.” “You’re an idiot,” Billy muttered, but his voice was tight, like he was holding something back.

From the moment Billy and Stu got an eyeful of your assets, the dynamic in the house spiraled into utter chaos. You’d barely noticed it at first, chalking up their constant presence to boredom or a newfound interest in hanging out. But as weeks went on, their antics became harder to ignore. The snarky comments, the heated glares exchanged when you weren’t looking, the way they tripped over themselves trying to one-up each other—it was enough to make even the most oblivious person suspicious.

But not you.

Whether it was the gym incident, the pancake debacle, or the never-ending movie night arguments, you remained blissfully unaware of the brewing storm. You were too focused on your studies, your workouts, and making sure the house didn’t descend into complete disorder to notice the increasingly absurd lengths Billy and Stu were going to for your attention.

It all came to a head one particularly tense evening. You’d gone out to grab groceries, leaving Billy and Stu alone in the house. The moment the door closed behind you, the gloves came off.

“Just admit it,” Stu said, pacing the living room like a caged animal. “You’re obsessed with him.”

Billy leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression icy. “Says the guy who’s practically glued to his side 24/7.”

Stu spun around, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re just mad because he actually laughs at my jokes. When’s the last time he smiled at you?”

Billy’s jaw clenched. “Maybe he doesn’t need a fucking circus act to enjoy someone’s company.”

“Oh, right,” Stu sneered, throwing up his hands. “Because brooding in the corner like some wannabe vampire is so charming.”

“Better than acting like a hyperactive toddler,” Billy shot back, his voice dangerously low.

The argument escalated quickly, voices rising as they hurled insults back and forth. At one point, Stu picked up a couch pillow and launched it at Billy’s head, narrowly missing. Billy retaliated by shoving Stu into the wall, and for a moment, it seemed like things were about to get physical.

But then you walked in.

“Hey, guys—what the hell is going on!?” you asked, staring at the scene in front of you: Stu pinned against the wall, Billy’s hand fisted in his shirt, both of them glaring daggers at each other. They froze, turning to look at you like two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

“Uh…nothing!” Stu said quickly, plastering on his trademark grin. “Just some light wrestling. Y’know, for fun.”

Billy let go of Stu and stepped back, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. “Yeah. Just messing around.”

You raised an eyebrow but decided not to press the issue. “Okay...well, I got pizza. It'll be in the kitchen.”

As you disappeared into the other room, the tension between them simmered, but neither of them made another move. Not yet, anyway. It wasn't until later that night, after you'd gone to bed, that Billy and Stu returned to their conversation.

“This has to stop,” Billy hissed, his voice low and cold.

Stu crossed his arms, still bristling from their earlier fight. “You think I don’t know that? But what’s your solution, huh? Scare him off so neither of us gets him? Not happening, Billy Boy.”

Billy was silent for a long moment, his jaw working as he mulled over his options. He hated the idea of sharing you—hated it almost as much as he hated the thought of Stu winning. But the alternative was losing you completely, and that wasn’t something he was willing to risk. “Fine.”

Stu blinked, caught off guard. “Fine what?”

“We share him,” Billy ground out, his teeth clenched.

Stu stared at him, and then a slow grin spread across his face. “Well, well, well. Didn’t think you had it in you to play nice.”

“Don’t push it,” Billy warned, his voice sharp. “This doesn’t mean I like you. It just means I like him more.”

Stu snickered. “Whatever you say, buddy. But hey, at least now we’re on the same team, right?”

Billy didn’t answer, turning on his heel and stalking off. Stu watched him go, still grinning to himself.

From that day forward, things…changed.

You didn’t notice the difference at first. If anything, Billy and Stu seemed to get along better, their bickering replaced with an odd sort of pact. They started spending more time together, which you figured was just a natural byproduct of living in close quarters. What you didn’t realize was that they were coordinating their efforts.

Stu would distract you with jokes and games while Billy silently took note of what you liked, using that information to his advantage later. Billy would lure you into long, intense conversations about movies and books, giving Stu time to swoop in with grand gestures—like the time he surprised you with a ridiculously elaborate cake “just because.”

If you were confused by their sudden teamwork, you didn’t show it. You just kept being your usual, oblivious self, completely unaware of the quiet, unspoken truce between them—or the way they both watched you like wolves circling their prey.

It wasn’t perfect. Billy still bristled every time Stu got a little too handsy with you, and Stu couldn’t resist making snide comments whenever Billy monopolized your time. But for the most part, they made it work. Because at the end of the day, they both wanted the same thing.

You.

And if sharing was the only way to keep you close, then so be it.

For now.

[cece693]

hello^^ i have a slightly odd request

would you be willing to do something with Hannibal where like the reader is just off-putting constantly? like always has a blank expression and is just really morbid to the point of weirding out other people- (also whether or not reader is another killer and their relationship is up to you :]) ((and if possible could reader have an obsession with rats? if not its fine!^^))

thank you and no pressure!!! :3

Birds of a Feather (Platonic! Hannibal Lecter x GN! Reader)

Thanks for the request. Since you gave me creative liberty with what relationship the reader has with Hannibal, I'm expanding my creativity and trying to write platonic fanfics. Due to this, and my heart belonging to Hannigram, Will makes an appearance (not Abigail though, never got into her character.) Hope you enjoy it!

Hannibal Lecter had long believed himself immune to the bonds of familial connection. His life was one of solitude by choice, his relationships shallow performances for an unknowing audience. Yet with them—the peculiar, morbid teenager now under his guardianship—something had shifted. He hadn’t planned for this. He had taken them in because he saw a reflection of himself, unpolished and raw, with the potential to be something extraordinary. What he hadn’t anticipated was how deeply he would come to care for them, not as a mentor or an observer, but as a father.

They had first come to Hannibal at their parents’ insistence, dragged into his office under a banner of concern that barely masked their parents’ disdain. They hadn’t even tried to soften the language of their complaint: “They’re morbid. Obsessed with disgusting things like rats and death. They don’t have friends, they don’t smile. They’re weird. Can you fix them?”

Hannibal had known immediately what kind of parents they were—shallow, image-obsessed individuals for whom their child’s uniqueness was an inconvenience to be smoothed over, rather than a gift to be celebrated. He despised them almost as much as they seemed to despise their child. The teenager, however, had been fascinating. When Hannibal asked why they were there, they answered with a flat, emotionless voice.

"Because my parents don’t like me. They think I’m broken."

"And are you?" Hannibal asked, his tone warm, though his eyes studied them sharply.

They had tilted their head slightly, their gaze piercing and calm. "I don’t know. I don’t care if I am."

That first session had been an exercise in subtlety. Hannibal, as always, sought to probe beneath the surface, to see the layers of a person’s mind unfold before him. But with them, there were no layers—no artifice, no carefully constructed mask. They were disarmingly blunt, their morbid interests laid bare without shame.

"I like rats," they said when Hannibal asked what brought them joy. "I have nine of them. Bubonic’s my favorite."

"And why rats?" Hannibal inquired, his curiosity piqued.

"They’re smart. Loyal. They don’t care if you’re weird. They’ll eat a corpse if you leave it there, but it’s not personal. It’s just what they do. Survival instincts."

Their answers were a study in pragmatism, unvarnished and unfiltered. Over time, Hannibal learned more about their life—how their parents had ridiculed their passions, belittled their intellect, and dismissed their feelings as irrelevant. How they had found solace in the company of creatures most would find repugnant, and how they had begun to retreat into themselves, building walls not out of fear but out of indifference.

"My parents said they’d throw them out if I didn’t stop," they admitted one day, their voice betraying the faintest tremor. "The rats. They don’t like them. They don’t like me."

"And how does that make you feel?" Hannibal asked.

They paused, their blank expression unchanging. "I’d kill them if they touched my rats."

Hannibal had smiled faintly at that, sensing not a hollow threat but a declaration of what they believed was justice. Hannibal saw his relationship with the teen as one purely beneficial to him—some form of entertainment during the stagnant moment his life had fallen into. But when the teen arrived one day in session visibly shaken and on the verge of tears, Hannibal felt immense anger.

"Tell me what happened." he said, his voice calm but edged with steel.

The teen sat down at the chair and looked at their hands, fingers trembling. "My dad killed Bubonic," they said quietly. "He was going on again about how weird it was for a person my age to be such a recluse, how disappointed he was in me for not being the child he envisioned. I didn't care, I screamed at him to leave me alone. That all I needed was my rats, he didn't listen," They sputtered, tears finally escaping their eyes.

Hannibal's hands rested lightly on the arm of his chair, though his grip tightened imperceptibly as the teen’s words sank in. Their voice, typically steady and detached, was cracking under the weight of their grief, and Hannibal found himself unprepared for the surge of emotion it evoked in him.

"What did he do?" Hannibal asked, his voice gentle, though his mind already painted the scene in vivid detail.

The teen sniffed, struggling to steady their voice. "He grabbed Bubonic. Said if I loved those 'vermin' so much, then I’d learn what happens when I waste my life on them. He threw him. Against the wall." Their hands trembled in their lap, and then clenched into fists. "I couldn’t stop him. I tried, but I couldn’t—"

Hannibal interrupted softly, his voice firm yet soothing. "It is not your fault. Bubonic’s death lies entirely with your father. You mustn’t take the blame for his cruelty."

They nodded, though their tears continued to fall. For a moment, the room was silent, save for their quiet sobs. Hannibal remained perfectly still, his expression a mask of calm, though inside, a storm brewed. He had long mastered the art of restraint, of hiding the depths of his emotions behind a practiced façade. But now, the threads of that mask were straining.

His anger was not the fiery, impulsive kind that consumed lesser men. It was cold, methodical, the kind that calculated every step of its revenge with precision. He had no doubt about what he needed to do. Bubonic’s death was an affront to the teen’s spirit, an insult to their resilience and individuality, and Hannibal would not allow such an act to go unpunished.

He rose from his chair, moving to kneel in front of them, a gesture of rare intimacy. Gently, he placed a hand on their shoulder, grounding them. His touch was firm yet comforting, like the anchor they so desperately needed.

"You loved him," Hannibal said quietly. "And that love was real. It is not diminished by what your father did. Bubonic mattered, and his memory will not be forgotten."

They looked at him, their tear-filled eyes meeting his calm, steady gaze. For the first time, Hannibal saw a flicker of something beyond their usual detachment—trust, fragile and hesitant, but there. He gave them a faint, reassuring smile, careful to keep the rage simmering inside him hidden from view.

That evening, as Hannibal sat alone in his study, the weight of his decision settled over him like a second skin. He had already made up his mind; there was no room for doubt. The teen’s father was an unworthy man, cruel and petty, whose actions had irreparably harmed his child. The wife was not better, for who would allow such affronts to happen to your child? Hannibal would ensure neither had the opportunity to inflict such pain again.

The deaths were orchestrated with Hannibal’s usual elegance. The scene was staged as a tragic home invasion, violent enough to mislead even the sharpest investigators. The teen’s parents were swept away as easily as pawns on a chessboard, leaving Hannibal free to step into the role of guardian.

It was an arrangement he presented to the authorities as a matter of practicality—after all, he was their trusted psychiatrist, a respected member of the community. And with no other family member willing to take in the 'troubled' youth, Hannibal was seen fit as a caregiver. But in truth, it was far more than that. It was an act of reclamation, a way to give the teen a life they needed and deserved.

Under Hannibal’s guidance, they began to flourish. What had once been a life of isolation and condemnation was replaced with warmth, curiosity, and purpose. Hannibal nurtured their sharp intellect, encouraging them to explore philosophy, art, and science. He fed their fascination with decay and life cycles, finding ways to weave their morbid interests into lessons that expanded their understanding of the world.

Their rats, once crammed into a small cage hidden away from disapproving eyes, now thrived in a custom-built enclosure—a miniature ecosystem of tunnels and habitats that Hannibal had crafted himself. The teenager spent hours tending to them, speaking softly to each one as though they were old friends. Slowly but surely, they grew more confident, their once-detached demeanor softened by the security of knowing they were finally, unquestionably accepted.

So, when Will Graham entered their lives, Hannibal saw an opportunity to complete the family he hadn't realized he was building. At first, Will’s presence unsettled the teen. He was different from Hannibal—more empathetic, less polished. But there was something grounding about Will’s quiet intensity, his ability to understand without needing words.

Their relationship began cautiously, with the teen watching Will from the corner of their eye during his visits, studying him as though he were one of the rats they loved so much. But Will, ever patient, allowed them to come to him on their terms. Over time, the cracks of their tentative bond filled with shared silences and soft-spoken observations.

"You remind me of my rats," the teen said one day, tilting their head at Will as they sat together in the study.

Will blinked, unsure if it was meant as an insult. "How so?"

"You’re always watching. Thinking one step ahead compared to everyone else."

Will glanced at the teenager, amused. "I don’t know if I should be flattered or mildly offended."

They shrugged, their gaze steady and calm. "It’s a compliment. Rats are survivors. They’re smart, and they don’t waste energy pretending to be something they’re not. You’re like that."

Will leaned back in his chair, folding his arms thoughtfully. "Smart and a survivor, huh? Could be worse."

"Definitely worse," they replied, their tone so matter-of-fact that it made Will laugh softly. "You’d be terrible at being fake, anyway."

SMALL TIME SKIP

Hannibal leaned back in his armchair, his fingers lightly drumming against the armrest as he observed the scene before him. It was a tableau of quiet intimacy—his beloved Will Graham, seated cross-legged on the floor, and the teenager sprawled out beside him, their rats darting around like tiny, mischievous shadows.

Will had one hand resting lightly on the floor to keep himself steady while the other hovered hesitantly near one of the rats. "So, uh," he began, his tone unsure but willing, "what happens if I try to touch it? Am I going to lose a finger?"

The teen smirked faintly, their usual neutral demeanor softening just enough to give away their amusement. "Maybe. Cholera’s got a temper, but the others are fine. You just have to be calm."

Will huffed a quiet laugh, his tension easing slightly. "Calm, huh? Should be easy enough."

"You’re always tense," the teen said bluntly, tilting their head as they watched him. "The rats can tell. You should probably breathe or something."

Hannibal’s lips curved into an indulgent smile at their candor. He adored how effortlessly they spoke their mind—so different from the guarded subtleties most people employed. And Will, bless his complex mind, seemed entirely charmed by it.

"I am breathing," Will retorted, his tone carrying a note of mock indignation. "Maybe I’m just…different from rats."

"That’s debatable," the teen quipped, though their smirk grew into something warmer as one of the bolder rats sniffed at Will’s hand before scampering up his arm.

Will froze, his eyes wide, and Hannibal chuckled softly. "It seems you’ve been accepted," he remarked, his tone rich with amusement. "An honor not given lightly, I assure you."

The teen nodded solemnly, as though Hannibal’s words were gospel. "Yeah. If Cholera likes you, you’re okay."

Will glanced between them, his lips twitching into a bemused smile. "Well, that’s a relief. I’d hate to be rejected by…Cholera."

The rat in question perched on Will’s shoulder, chittering softly, and the teen gave a rare, genuine laugh—a sound that caught both Will and Hannibal off guard. Hannibal’s chest swelled with warmth at the sight of the two bonding, the sharp edges of their respective personalities softening as they found common ground.

For Hannibal, this was more than he could have hoped for. Watching Will, the man who had captured his heart with his brilliance and empathy, and his ward, the child who had become the unexpected center of his world, grow closer felt like the culmination of something profound. He had orchestrated many things in his life, but this—this was pure serendipity.

Will, still adapting to the chaos of rats scurrying across him, glanced up at Hannibal. "You’re awfully quiet over there," he said, his voice light but curious. "Enjoying the show?"

Hannibal’s smile deepened, his eyes warm as they met Will’s. "Immensely," he replied. "It is rare to witness such harmony. You’ve both surprised me."

The teen, still laughing softly, looked between them and said, "You’re both weird, but I think that’s why this works."

Will raised an eyebrow, glancing at Hannibal. "Weird, huh? I guess I’ll take that."

"As will I," Hannibal added smoothly, his tone affectionate. "Weirdness, after all, is simply a deviation from the ordinary. And I would have no other way for our family."

The word hung in the air—family—and for a moment, all three of them sat in a comfortable silence. The fire crackled, the rats chittered, and the connection between them felt solid, unshakable. Hannibal, watching the two people he cared for most in the world bond so effortlessly, allowed himself a rare moment of unguarded happiness. This was it. This was home.

[cece693]

The Better Brother (Damon Salvatore x M! Reader)

A small pet peeve of mine regarding Damon Salvatore fics is how people sometimes gloss over the wave of self loathing this man possesses. Since childhood he's had to bear constant comparisons with Stefan—how he wasn't enough, not as kind, etc.—so in my mind, if he does find someone he would absolutely push them away. That gave rise to this fic!

Summary: Damon finally found the one, however, thoughts of self-hatred and the constant comparison to his 'better' brother had him doubting if he even was deserving of such future.

tags: sad, in my feelings, break up, Damon thinking he's underserving, self hatred

Damon leaned against the bar of the Mystic Grill, the amber liquid in his glass catching the dim light. He swirled the bourbon absently, his mind not on the drink but on the man standing at the dartboard, a soft laugh escaping his lips as he teased Stefan for his missed throw.

M/N had come into Damon’s life like a hurricane—wild, passionate, and with a kindness that made him feel human for the first time in decades. He wasn’t supposed to fall this hard. But now that he had, every insecurity Damon carried weighed heavier on him.

He drained the glass and set it down with a little too much force, drawing a glance from M/N. Damon met his eyes and forced a smirk, but it didn’t quite reach his own. M/N tilted his head, his expression softening with concern, and made his way back over. “What’s got you brooding over here?” he teased, bumping Damon’s shoulder as he slid onto the stool beside him.

Damon shrugged, reaching for the bottle to pour himself another. “Just thinking about how life is unfairly cruel to us handsome, brooding types.”

M/N didn’t laugh. He didn’t fall for Damon’s deflections anymore.

“You’ve been distant all week,” he noted, his voice quieter now. “What’s really going on?”

Damon’s grip on the glass tightened. He hated how easily M/N saw through him, hated how good he was for him. And most of all, he hated himself for ruining what they had before it could even bloom. But Damon knew how this story ended. It was always the same. Stefan was the hero, the savior, the one who got the happy ending. Damon was the shadow lurking behind, destined to lose.

“You should go back to your darts game,” Damon said, his voice cold now, deliberately so. “I’m fine.”

M/N stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. “I know you don’t believe this, but you don’t have to push me away every time you get scared, Damon.”

Scared.

The word stung because it was true.

Later that night, Damon found himself alone in the Salvatore boarding house. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows across the room, but its warmth didn’t reach him. He sat on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, a photograph clutched in his hand.

In the photo, they were both smiling—genuine, unguarded. Damon hardly recognized himself in that moment, caught off guard by M/N’s infectious energy. The picture had been taken at the Mystic Falls Winter Festival, a day Damon had reluctantly agreed to attend. M/N had dragged him to the Ferris wheel, teasing him about being afraid of heights.

Damon hadn’t been afraid—not of the heights, at least. But the way M/N had looked at him at the top, with so much trust and warmth, had sent a different kind of fear coursing through him. For a brief moment, suspended in the sky with M/N’s laughter ringing in his ears, it felt like the world wasn’t so bleak.

He clenched his jaw and stared at the photograph for a long time, his fingers trembling slightly. “You don’t deserve this,” he muttered to himself. “You don’t deserve him.”

With a sharp breath, he shoved the picture into the drawer of the side table and slammed it shut. This was the right thing to do. Even if it hurt. Even if it tore him apart.

The next day, Stefan found Damon in the parlor. The sunlight streaming through the windows only emphasized how wrecked the oldest Salvatore looked. He was slouched in the armchair, a near-empty bottle of bourbon in front of him, his eyes distant and unfocused, as if he had been staring into nothingness for hours.

“What did you do?” Stefan’s voice cut through the oppressive silence of the room, sharp and demanding.

Damon let out a low chuckle, the sound bitter and hollow. “Relax, Saint Stefan,” he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I did you a favor.”

Stefan’s brows furrowed as he stepped closer, his tone tightening with frustration. “What the hell does that mean?”

Damon finally lifted his gaze, his trademark smirk flickering onto his face. “He’s all yours now,” he said, the words carrying a mix of resignation and self-loathing.

He didn’t need to ask to know what Damon meant. “You broke up with him,” Stefan said, his tone flat, more a statement than a question.

Damon shrugged, his nonchalance forced and brittle. “Better for everyone that way,” he muttered, grabbing the bottle and taking another swig.

Stefan wasn’t having it. He crossed the room in two strides and snatched the bottle from Damon’s hand, setting it firmly on the table out of reach. “Better for everyone or better for you?” he snapped, his voice cutting through Damon’s feigned indifference.

Damon’s smirk flickered. He slouched further into the chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “Don’t get all noble on me, brother. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? A clean slate? No more complications? No more me standing in the way?”

Stefan stared at him, incredulous. “You really think I wanted this? That I wanted you to destroy the best thing that’s ever happened to you?”

“Spare me the lecture, Stefan,” Damon said, his tone sharp, though it lacked its usual bite. “He’ll be fine. Hell, he’ll probably thank me someday.”

Stefan shook his head, his frustration mounting. “You don’t get it, do you? M/N doesn’t want me. He never has. He chose you, Damon. And instead of fighting for him, you pushed him away because you’re too much of a coward to believe you deserve him.”

Damon’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists on the armrests of the chair. “Coward? Is that what you think I am?”

“Yes,” Stefan shot back without hesitation. “You’re so scared of being happy, of someone actually loving you for who you are, that you’d rather sabotage it before they can leave you. You think that’s noble? It’s not. It’s pathetic.”

Damon stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor as he loomed over Stefan. “Don’t you dare lecture me about love, Stefan. You’ve been handed every happy ending on a silver platter while I’ve had to fight for scraps.”

“And this time, you didn’t even fight,” Stefan countered, his voice soft but firm. “You just gave up. And you hurt him in the process.”

Damon’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it had come. He turned away, staring into the dying embers of the fireplace. “You don’t understand,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “He deserves better. Better than me.”

“Maybe that’s not your choice to make, Damon. Maybe he already decided that you’re what he wants. And maybe…just maybe, you should let yourself believe it.”

Damon didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The words sat heavy in his chest, pressing against the fragile walls he’d built around his heart. He clenched his jaw, his eyes burning as he stared into the fire, willing the tears to stay where they were. Stefan sighed, his frustration softening into something closer to pity. “You’re going to regret this,” he said quietly. “And when you do, I just hope it’s not too late.”

He turned and left the room, leaving Damon alone once again.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire. Damon sank back into his chair, staring at the empty spot on the table where the bourbon bottle had been.

Deep down, he knew Stefan was right.

But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

And that was the curse of being Damon Salvatore.

[cece693]

Why Didn't You Tell Me? (Damon Salvatore x M! Vamp Reader)

I got an ask some months ago about writing more Damon Salvatore fics and here I am delivering said request. This was something sporadically, so sorry if it's not my best work. Enjoy!

Summary: You were bitten by a werewolf after saving Damon, as usual. However, even with death looming over your head, it was comforting knowing your unrequired crush had been saved.

tags: werewolf bite, at death's door, soft Damon, open-ended, revealing feelings

The moonlight filtered weakly through the heavy curtains of the Salvatore boarding house, casting soft, pale beams over the quiet room. Damon sat slumped in a chair beside the bed, his piercing blue eyes fixed on the figure lying motionless under the thick covers. M/N—his closest friend, his confidant—was pale, even for a vampire, his usual vibrant strength dimmed to a faint glimmer. Damon clenched his jaw, the weight of helplessness bearing down on him as he watched his friend deteriorate before his eyes.

It had happened so fast, the chaos of the fight against the werewolves blurring the details. Damon hadn’t even noticed his friend was bitten until they stumbled through the doors of his home, bloodied and exhausted. Watching as M/N sagged into the nearest chair with a ragged gasp, it was there that Damon's sharp eyes caught the ugly, festering wound on his forearm. He froze, stomach sinking as he stalked forward. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Damon demanded, his voice low and filled with a tremor he couldn’t hide.

“It’s nothing,” M/N murmured, though his voice cracked, and Damon could see the sweat beading on his brow. “I didn’t want you to worry.” And now, as the hours dragged into the late night, Damon could do nothing but watch as M/N fell asleep. The pain beginning to take hold.

This couldn't be the end.

Damon's eyes burned, though he refused to let the tears fall. Vampires weren’t supposed to cry, weren’t supposed to feel this deeply, and yet here he was, on the edge of losing the only person who had ever managed to see through the mask he wore. M/N, who never judged him for his flaws but never let him off the hook either. M/N, who had thrown himself into danger without a second thought to protect him.

And now, he was paying the price.

“You idiot,” Damon muttered, his voice shaking. “Always thinking about everyone else, always putting me first. Did you think I’d be okay with this? Watching you die just because you wanted to save me?"

He exhaled sharply, his hand hovering above M/N's head before brushing through his hair, a gesture so tender it surprised even him.“You can’t do this to me,” Damon whispered, his voice breaking. “You can’t leave me here. Do you know how much you mean to me? How much you…” He trailed off, the words catching in his throat. He shook his head, his thumb brushing lightly against M/N’s temple. “You’re everything, okay? You’re—” He swallowed hard, his chest tightening. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

The days dragged on like a cruel, unending nightmare. Each passing hour brought M/N closer to the edge, and Damon was powerless to stop it. The venom from the werewolf bite was spreading, the blackened veins crawling further along M/N’s skin, sapping what little strength he had left.

The third day was the worst. M/N’s breaths had grown shallow, his voice barely a rasp as he tried to speak. Damon was at his side, dabbing a cool cloth across his forehead, but when M/N’s bloodshot eyes met Damon’s, there was something different in them.

“Please.” He whispered, his voice cracked and raw.

“Hey, I told you, save your strength.”

But M/N shook his head weakly, his lips trembling as he forced out the words. “I can’t…I can’t do this anymore. It hurts too much.”

Damon froze, his body stiffening as the weight of M/N’s plea hit him. “No,” he said firmly, his voice sharper than he intended. “Don’t even think about asking me that.”

Tears welled in M/N’s eyes, his expression crumpling in anguish. “I don’t want to die like this,” he whispered. “Not like this. Not slowly, not in this much pain.”

Damon shook his head violently, standing abruptly and pacing the room, his hands running through his hair. “Stop it,” he snapped, his voice breaking. “Stop saying things like that. I’m not letting you go. I’ll find a cure—I don’t care what it takes. You just…you have to hold on.”

M/N’s voice was barely audible, but it cut Damon to his core. “You can’t save me.”

Damon spun back to him, his eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare give up on me,” he growled, storming back to the bed. “Don’t you dare. If you think I’m going to just sit here and let you die, you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

M/N’s tears fell silently, his body trembling as he leaned back into the pillows, the fight in him fading. Damon’s heart shattered at the sight, but his resolve only hardened. He pressed a hand to M/N’s cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears. “I’m going to fix this,” he said softly, his voice trembling with emotion. “You hear me? I don’t care what I have to do, who I have to kill—I’m not losing you.”

The moments Damon wasn't at M/N's side he spent scouring every possible lead to a cure. He looked through every book, made call after call to anyone who might help, and even considered reaching out to Klaus himself, though he knew the Original would only use the situation to torment him further. Still, Damon refused to give up, the very idea of a world without M/N driving him to the brink of madness.

Every time he returned to M/N’s side, the sight of him growing weaker, his pain evident in every movement, twisted Damon’s heart further. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t think of anything but saving him. By the fifth day, Damon sat on the edge of the bed, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. M/N was barely conscious now, his breaths shallow and uneven. Damon reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly as he leaned closer.

“You told me once that I didn’t have a future,” he murmured, his voice low and raw. “That I didn’t think about what comes next, stuck on the past. Well, guess what? I don’t care about the future if you’re not in it. If you go, I go. Simple as that.”

The words hung heavy in the air, a promise and a plea all at once. Damon pressed his forehead to M/N's, his hand gripping the other's with strength as if he could anchor him to life through sheer force of will. Damon would save him—or he would die trying.

[cece693]

tony stark x male reader who’s kinda shy and quiet but crazy good at math and science and all those equations. something fluffy and cute thank youuuuuuu

Brilliant (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

Announcement: for those who have been following my Velvet Ring trilogy fic, I've created an AO3 account where I intend to flesh out the story. Here's the link! Also, since I'm not smart myself, I didn't go in-depth about science and calculations, so forgive me :(

Tony Stark was many things: a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist—but being in a committed relationship? That wasn’t exactly the headline he wanted plastered all over the news. Not because he was ashamed—far from it—but because Tony had learned the hard way that the world had a way of ruining what mattered most. And you? You mattered more than anything.

You were everything Tony wasn’t—quiet, thoughtful, reserved. While Tony thrived in the spotlight, you thrived in the solace of your work, diving deep into equations and theories that would leave most people with a headache. You were a prodigy in your own right, a quiet storm of brilliance and ingenuity. The kind of man who didn’t seek recognition, only results. Tony couldn’t help but admire that about you—and, though he’d never admit it out loud, you kept him grounded in a way no one else could.

Tonight, you were sprawled out on the couch in your shared apartment, wearing a faded hoodie and sweatpants you’d stolen from Tony long ago. A notebook rested on your lap, filled with scribbled formulas and diagrams. The room was quiet, save for the occasional scratch of your pen against paper.

The sound of the front door opening broke your focus. Tony stepped inside, tie loosened and suit jacket draped over his arm. He looked tired, but his eyes lit up when they landed on you.

“Hey, handsome,” he greeted, his voice warm as he crossed the room. “What did I say about math after ten?”

You glanced up, rolling your eyes. “You said it’s a house rule. I said it’s not enforceable.”

Tony smirked, plucking the notebook from your hands before dropping it onto the coffee table. Sitting beside you, he wrapped one arm around your shoulders, your head tucked into the crook of his neck. “You were late,” you muttered, resting your head against his shoulder. “Everything okay?”

“Just the usual corporate nonsense,” Tony replied, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You know how it is—saving the world, keeping the board happy. Exhausting, really. I’m practically a saint.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, but instead of responding, your eyes kept flickering toward the discarded notebook on the table. After a moment, you shifted slightly in his hold, trying to reach for it. Tony groaned dramatically, tightening his grip.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, pulling you closer. “I just got home, and you’re trying to ditch me for math? Do you have any idea how lonely I’ve been? I’ve been deprived of your presence all day, and this—” he gestured at the notebook—“is more important?”

You bit back a laugh, managing to wiggle out of his grasp. “I promise it'll be worth it."

Tony crossed his arms, slumping back against the couch like a sulking child. “Fine, but if I die from lack of cuddles and attention it's on you.”

Grabbing the notebook, you turned back to him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You look fine. And for the record, this 'math' you're referring to is yours."

That caught his attention. His brows furrowed as he sat up straighter, his earlier theatrics forgotten. “Mine?”

You nodded, flipping open the notebook and holding it out to him. “You mentioned the other night that you were having issues with stabilizing the power output on the Iron Man suit. I’ve been working on it.”

Tony’s eyes scanned the pages, his expression softening with each line he read. Your neat handwriting detailed calculations, theories, and possible solutions. You’d even diagrammed potential fixes, complete with annotations on how they’d improve efficiency. “You’ve been working on this?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “For me?”

“Well, yeah,” you said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “I know it’s been frustrating you, so I thought I’d try to help.”

For once, Tony Stark was speechless. His eyes flickered between you and the notebook, the weight of your gesture hitting him like a freight train. You’d spent your time—not for your own research or projects, but to solve one of his problems. It wasn’t just the effort or the brilliance of your work—it was the care behind it, the way you always seemed to go out of your way to make his life a little easier.

Tony set the notebook aside, reaching for you instead. His hands cupped your face, his gaze warm and filled with an emotion he rarely let himself feel this deeply. “You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice thick with gratitude. “I don’t deserve you.”

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours, soft and full of affection. It wasn’t the usual teasing kiss he’d steal when he was being playful—it was deeper, more vulnerable. A silent thank you, a promise that he’d never take you for granted. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he smiled. “You’re too good to me.”

You laughed softly, your hands resting on his chest. “You’re worth it, Stark. Even if you are a little dramatic sometimes.” Tony chuckled, pulling you into another kiss, his heart full and his mind already spinning with ideas. If this was what it felt like to be loved by you, then he never wanted to let it go.

[cece693]

Captive (Michael Myers x GN! Reader)

Hello! So I'm trying to get back into writing and this idea came to me instantly. I hope you guys enjoy :)

Summary: You were a witness to one of Michael's killings, however, instead of killing you, he'd taken you as a prisoner. How odd...

tags: captive reader, wrong place wrong time, Michael finds you cute, I guess????

It had started out as an ordinary night in Haddonfield. You’d been walking home from a late shift at the diner, the brisk October air nipping at your cheeks, when you heard the first scream. It was faint but unmistakable—a high-pitched sound of terror that froze you in your tracks. Against every instinct telling you to run the other way, you stepped toward the noise, peering down the shadowy alley.

That’s when you saw him.

A towering figure in a white mask, broad shoulders framed by the dim glow of a flickering streetlight, his hand gripping the handle of a knife still dripping with blood. At his feet lay a crumpled body, lifeless. You couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped your lips, and in that split second, his head snapped toward you.

You ran.

Feet pounding against the pavement, lungs burning, you sprinted as fast as you could. But it didn’t matter. He was faster, quieter, and before you knew it, a hand had clamped over your mouth, pulling you into darkness.

When you woke up, you were in an unfamiliar room. The walls were bare, the single window boarded up. The only light came from a dim bulb overhead, casting eerie shadows. You wanted to try the door, but before you could stand, the door clicked open. Michael entered, carrying a tray of food—a bowl of soup, some bread, and a glass of water. The sight was so absurd it almost made you laugh. This was the infamous killer, the Boogeyman of Haddonfield, and he was bringing you dinner like you were some houseguest? You didn’t move as he placed the tray on the small table by the bed. His movements were methodical, deliberate, and he didn’t utter a single word.

Then, he reached out—a calloused hand moving toward your face, his intent unclear. You jerked back instinctively, scooting as far away as the bed would allow. His hand froze mid-air, and his head tilted slightly as if puzzled by your reaction. This was the first of many strange interactions.

Over the following days, his behavior became increasingly bizarre. He never spoke, never even made a sound, but his presence was constant. He would sit in the corner of the room, watching you with an intensity that made your skin crawl. If you tried to engage him, asking why he hadn’t killed you or begging to be let go, he would simply tilt his head, his silence more unnerving than any response could have been.

Once, you woke up to find him standing over you, holding a tattered blanket he must have found somewhere. He draped it over your shoulders like he thought you might be cold. Another time, you caught him fiddling with a small, broken toy—a doll missing an arm—before carefully placing it on your makeshift nightstand, as though it was some kind of gift.

The most unsettling thing, though, was how he seemed fixated on your hair. He would often reach out to touch it, running his fingers through the strands like he was petting some fragile, delicate creature. If you recoiled or tried to stop him, he would pause, head tilting, as though trying to understand why you didn’t like it.

One evening, the absurdity of it all reached a peak. He entered the room holding a scraggly bouquet of flowers—wild ones he must have picked outside. He placed them awkwardly on the tray of food, stepping back to watch your reaction. When you didn’t immediately reach for them, he shifted his weight, almost…impatiently.

You realized then that this wasn’t just captivity. Michael Myers, the man who had slaughtered so many without hesitation, was trying to take care of you. Protect you. Maybe even…keep you.

But why?

You were just some random witness, a bystander who had seen too much. There was no reason for him to spare you, let alone act as though you were something to be nurtured. The absurdity of it all was maddening—his eerie, unspoken obsession transforming your imprisonment into a surreal nightmare. And yet, no matter how gentle his gestures, you couldn’t forget what you’d seen in that alley. The cold efficiency of his kills, the way his knife had gleamed under the streetlight. You were living with a monster who treated you like a cherished pet, and every moment you wondered when—or if—that mask of strange tenderness would slip.

[cece693]

Velvet Ring Pt. 3 (Hannibal Lecter x M! Reader)

Sorry for the short hiatus, but life comes first :) I have read your comments and delivered part three of Velvet Ring. Many say this should be a full-length novel, so I'm considering going to Ao3 and posting it there. More info to come, but I hope you enjoy it!

link to part one and part two

The months that followed your departure were a slow descent into madness for Hannibal, a feverish chase that consumed him with a depth he hadn’t known was possible. He had no doubt you were alive—he would have felt it otherwise, sensed the hollow ache in his soul if you had truly been lost. Yet, no matter how many leads he pursued, no matter the lengths he went to, you remained elusive, slipping from his grasp like water.

He contacted private investigators, each more skilled than the last, paying them handsome sums for information that ultimately led nowhere. Hannibal monitored hospitals, social service records, border crossings, tracking every lead that might hint at your presence, yet all he found was emptiness. His health took a toll—his once sturdy frame became thin, his skin turning sickly pale due to the lack of sunlight as the man feverously searched through papers. But his nights were the worst of it.

Sleep, once a rare respite, became his most unforgiving tormentor, an unbidden invitation into his memory palace, where every hall and chamber held your presence. In every room, you were there, waiting with that quiet intensity he could never forget, your gaze piercing him with unspoken questions. He would step forward, his hands trembling as he reached out.

"Please," Hannibal whispered, his voice breaking in a way it never did in the waking world. "Please, come back to me." And each time he reached for you, tried to bridge the impossible chasm he had created, he would awaken, gasping and cold, his hand outstretched to empty air, the harsh reality a cruel slap in the face. He knew he would never find peace, not without you. His life, his plans, his ambition—all of it was hollow now, stripped of all meaning.

But then, after months of nothing but anguish and shadows, he heard a whisper—a sighting in a small, secluded town, someone matching your description. It was faint, the kind of rumor easily dismissed as coincidence by anyone else. But Hannibal clung to it with an iron grip, the flicker of hope it rekindled blazing into a fire within him. Without hesitation, he set out, leaving no time to rest, crossing miles with a singular determination to find you.

Hannibal arrived at dusk, the air heavy and cool, exhaustion tugging at his every step, but a fierce anticipation overriding all else. He scanned the cobblestone streets, his gaze sharp and hungry, studying every face. Just as his hope began to waver, there you were—across the street, holding a small bag, engaged in conversation.

Hannibal’s heart seized as his eyes locked onto you, his breath catching at the sight of you after so long. But then, his gaze drifted to the woman beside you, her hand resting lightly on your arm as she leaned in, laughing softly at something you said. Something primal stirred within him, a dark flame fanned by jealousy, possessiveness, and the betrayal he felt as he watched you sharing even a fragment of your life with another.

Without hesitation, he crossed the cobblestone street, his steps unyielding, his gaze fixed intently on you. As he approached, the woman looked up, startled, and her grip on you tightened as she registered the intensity in his eyes. His face remained composed, but there was an edge to his expression, a darkness that radiated in the tight line of his jaw, the way his gaze lingered just a moment too long on her hand resting on your arm.

"M/N,” he said softly, his voice carrying a quiet intensity that was both familiar and unsettling. The way he said it—both a question and an accusation—made you freeze, your eyes widening as they locked onto him. Hannibal took in sick delight at the way you removed the woman's hold on your arm, a unconscious sign that you did something wrong and knew it.

Turning to the woman, Hannibal smiled, cold and unyielding. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, his tone dripping with a courtesy that felt more like a threat than an introduction. "I'm Hannibal Lecter, and who might you be?"

She cleared her throat, her unease evident. “I'm Anna. Pietro's friend." Her voice was unsteady, unsure of how to respond to the quiet menace in his gaze. Hannibal didn't care that you had created a fake identity, the moniker friend, being of more importance. There was ambiguity in it—a loose, undefined boundary that could mean anything or nothing at all. The lack of clarity fanned the flame of his resentment, and he relished the discomfort that flashed in Anna’s eyes as his stare intensified.

"A friend,” he repeated, his voice soft but edged with subtle derision. His gaze flicked over her with a dispassionate coldness before returning to you. “I wasn’t aware Pietro had developed such… casual acquaintances during his time away.” His tone held a faint sneer, and he continued, turning back to her with a faint smile. “Tell me, Anna, how long have you been acquainted with him?”

Anna’s gaze darted nervously between you and Hannibal, the weight of his intense scrutiny pressing down on her. “Just a few weeks,” she replied, voice faltering slightly under his sharp gaze.

"Wonderful,” Hannibal murmured, his smile tightening, “then I assume he’ll be quick to abandon you in favor of company more suited to his needs. Pietro has a habit of seeking company that doesn’t benefit him—shallow, fleeting connections, if you will.” His words were like barbed silk, each one crafted to cut deeper.

“Hannibal!” you interjected sharply, your tone stern, your eyes flashing with a mix of anger and frustration. You took a step forward, trying to draw his attention away from Anna, who looked close to tears.

Hannibal’s gaze shifted back to you, a faint glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “My apologies,” he said softly, his voice dangerously smooth, “I merely assumed that you’d be accustomed to my honesty by now.”

You clenched your jaw, leveling him with a glare. “Your honesty is cruelty, Hannibal,” you said firmly. “And I don’t appreciate you taking your issues out on someone who has nothing to do with this.” Hannibal seethed, watching as you turned your gaze back unto that pig leaning into her ear, whispering something unintelligible. His hands clenched at his sides, his entire posture radiating a barely restrained fury.

“Anna has nothing to do with this, Hannibal,” you said firmly, once the wretched pig had left. “I won’t stand here and let you humiliate her just because she's been kind during my stay here."

“Humiliate?” Hannibal repeated, his voice cold and dripping with disdain. “The only humiliation here is watching you pretend this… distraction somehow compensates for what you left behind. But if that’s the kind of company you now keep, perhaps I overestimated your standards as well.”

You narrowed your eyes, anger flaring. “That’s enough,” you warned, stepping forward. “I didn’t ask you to come here, and I certainly didn’t ask for your opinions on my choices.”

Hannibal scoffed, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “Your choices?” he echoed, his voice rising, each word dripping with venom. “They weren’t just your choices. They were ours. When you abandoned me without a word, as if what we had was disposable, your choice became mine.”

For a brief moment, his gaze softened, the fury and bitterness fading to reveal something raw, something painfully human. His face transformed, stripped of the cold, unshakable control he had always exuded—even as children, when he had towered over others with a quiet, invincible strength. It was as if a mask had fallen away, and you saw, perhaps for the first time, that beneath his formidable presence, Hannibal was vulnerable and, terrifyingly, capable of being hurt.

Hannibal’s voice softened, a glimmer of both sorrow and fierce determination in his eyes as he gently brushed his thumb along your cheek. “But I forgive you,” he murmured, his words filled with tenderness. “But tell me this: why didn’t you tell me Lady Murasaki and Robert treated you horribly? I would have put an end to their horrid behavior if I’d known.”

The weight of his forgiveness, his readiness to overlook the pain of your absence, only made the guilt settle deeper in your chest. You took a shaky breath, looking down as the words you’d hidden so carefully finally began to spill out. “I thought…I thought I was protecting you,” you said softly, your voice barely more than a whisper. “They’re your family, Hannibal. I didn’t want to be the reason you fought with them. And a part of me was scared. That if you spoke with them, you'll realize that they were right. That I was undeserving of you."

Hannibal’s face darkened, a storm brewing in his eyes as he took in your words, his jaw clenching. He felt a rush of anger swell within him, barely tempered by the knowledge that Robert and Lady Murasaki—those who had dared to make you feel so small, so undeserving—had already been dealt with. Even so, a bitter regret simmered beneath his composure, a twisted satisfaction tainted by the thought that he could have made their ends far more painful, a true testament to the suffering they had inflicted on you.

"That couldn’t be further from the truth, beloved." His hand moved to cup your face, his fingers warm against your skin as he tilted your chin, his gaze softening with an intensity that stole your breath. His voice, quiet yet filled with unwavering conviction, wrapped around you like a protective embrace.

“Don’t you see?” Hannibal continued, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your cheek. “Without you, my life would have been empty, hollow. They convinced you that you were an obstacle, something in the way of greatness, but they couldn’t have been more wrong. You are my anchor, the one who kept me grounded when everything else felt meaningless. My purpose.” His voice grew rough, carrying the weight of all he’d felt, all he’d kept buried.

Hannibal leaned closer, his forehead resting gently against yours, his voice softening. “They saw the depth of what we shared, and it frightened them. They knew I would choose you over anything they could offer, over any legacy or loyalty. And so, they made you believe you were unworthy, hoping to drive us apart.” He shook his head, the faintest hint of sorrow in his eyes. “But they were wrong. I am yours, and without you, I am nothing but a shadow.”

You felt the warmth of his words seeping into you, soothing the ache that their lies had left, dissolving the doubts that had plagued you for so long. His gaze held yours, his hand still cupping your face with a gentleness that belied his intensity. “Promise me,” he murmured, his voice almost pleading, “that you will never doubt your place beside me again. That you won't ever leave my side again.”

Your heart swelled, and with a trembling smile, you nodded, leaning into his touch. “I promise, Hannibal.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips, filled with both relief and the unspoken vow that no one would ever come between you again. “Then we begin anew,” he whispered, brushing his lips softly over your forehead. “Together, as it was always meant to be.”

[cece693]

Can We Kill Her? (Jasper Whitlock x M! Vamp Reader)

This is a short thing I wrote before focusing on the next parts of Velvet Ring. It's not my best work (in my opinion), but it's fun. Hope you enjoy it!

Summary: Jasper really needs to be given an award for not killing the human, Bella Swan, for encroaching on what's his.

tags: jealous Jasper, petty Jasper, Edward is dumb, Bella bashing, The Cullens are no help, Rosalie is cool, Bella is obsessed with the wrong brother

Jasper's hands clenched into fists, the tension rippling through his body like a coiled spring ready to snap. His amber eyes burned with a dark intensity as he stood by the car, watching Bella Swan hover around you like a fucking mosquito. The human girl had no idea what kind of fire she was playing with, and Jasper wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep his composure.

"I’ll kill her, I swear I’ll fucking kill her." he muttered under his breath, his Southern drawl sharper than usual, laced with venom. His eyes narrowed into slits as Bella smiled shyly up at you. This wasn’t the first time, and it was becoming increasingly clear that she had no intention of giving up. She was delusional, Jasper thought. There was no other explanation for her behavior. The girl believed she had a chance with you. As if you would want an appetizer when you already had a whole ass buffet. (Rosalie was really rubbing off on the soldier; his confidence and bluntness even scared him sometimes.)

"Jasper," Talking about his 'twin', Rosalie wore a smug smirk, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against her arm as she leaned against the car, unbothered. "She’s not worth the effort. Do you really believe M/N would be unfateful, much less with her? I will kill him myself if that ever happens." Despite the playfulness in her words, Jasper knew she was being reassuring in her own way, showing that she cared about you both.

Alice, who usually would intervene whenever someone bad mouthed the human, remained silent. Her eyes were fixed on Bella, a rare flicker of disapproval crossing her face. The future she had seen didn’t include Bella vying for your affections, and it unnerved her to no end. But, honestly, whatever included Bella Swan was irritating in itself.

Edward, on the other hand, stood like a statue, glowering. He was seething—his plan to play the hero had spectacularly backfired. Saving Bella from being crushed by that van hadn’t worked as he’d hoped. Instead of falling into his arms, Bella had transferred all her admiration, her obsession, onto you. This caused quite a rift in your non-existent relationship: it wasn't your fault Bella thought you were better than him, that just spoke to how Edward should change himself to attract a mate.

"Bella, stop." Your voice caused the rest of the Cullen siblings to look in your direction. "I tried to be nice, but perhaps I need to be blunt. I don't like you that way. However, you know who does?—Edward. My obnoxious, melodramatic..."

“Is he really trying to be a wingman while insulting you, Edward?” Emmett’s booming voice interrupted with a chuckle, and he shot you a grin, clearly amused by the unexpected turn of events. “Damn, that’s harsh, but at least he’s being honest.”

“Emmett, shut up!” Edward’s hiss was sharp, his patience fraying by the second.

Bella looked at you as if you just revealed you killed her father; face downcast, eyes brimming with tears. You didn't like it one bit. It was as if she didn't listen to what you were saying. Was she deaf?—why did God curse him with these good looks and personality? "Okay, look. I'm sorry, but I had to get that out there. I hope you take my advice, though. Perhaps a dinner at our house might help you see Edward in a new light."

At your words, Bella's mood visibly brightened. Now it was up to your brother Edward to do the rest. Leaving the human standing there, you returned to your siblings, who all had a range of angry, amused, and jealous expressions. But none mattered more than Jasper, whose fury made you feel gooey inside. "Babe," you whispered, "Don't give me that face. I'm just helping Edward finally get his head out of his ass and make a move."

"Does that also include you being on that said date and fucking her because our dear virgin brother is scared? This is not helping, this is just pushing her delusion further." Jasper glared at you, crossing his arms so as not to allow you to wrap yourself around him.

"Jasper, I think you're overreacting—"

"Really?! You know what. Fine, go play hero. But no sex for a month." You stood there, stunned, as the words sank in. A whole month? Jasper wasn’t bluffing, and you knew it. His cold, distant gaze as he settled into the back seat made that abundantly clear. Emmett’s booming laughter only made it worse, the sound grating against your nerves.

“Jasper, wait.” you called, but he didn’t even turn his head. Instead, he closed the car door with a loud thud, shutting himself away in an impenetrable wall of silence.

“Man, he’s really pissed,” Emmett teased, giving you a friendly slap on the shoulder that nearly knocked you off balance. “A whole month, huh? That’s rough, dude. Should’ve just told Bella to take a hike.”

“Yeah, thanks for the advice, Emmett.” you muttered sarcastically, throwing him a dirty look as he continued to snicker. You didn’t need his commentary right now, not when Jasper’s anger was already weighing so heavily on your chest.

You took a deep breath, pushing down the swirl of frustration and anxiety. There was no turning back now. This whole mess was your own doing, and the only way out was to see it through to the end. With a sigh, you opened the car door and slid into the driver's seat, casting a sideways glance at Jasper, who sat stiffly in the back, his arms crossed and his expression resolutely turned away.

The drive home was painfully silent. Jasper didn’t say a word, didn’t even look at you. His silence was worse than any argument, every second dragging out like an eternity. When you finally pulled up to the house, he got out of the car, slammed the door behind him, and headed inside without waiting for you.

Bella didn't waste time inviting herself to their home the next day. Edward picked her up, leaving you to deal with the tension between you and Jasper. The silent treatment from your husband was torture. You thrived off attention and affection, so even if it seemed exaggerated to others, you did feel like you were dying...again.

When Bella arrived, dressed in that blue dress that looked far too formal for a simple dinner, you felt your unease grow. Her eyes were glued to you the second she stepped through the door, blatantly forgetting about Edward, who was beside her, helping place her sweater on the coat rack. “Bella,” you said, forcing a polite smile. “I’m glad you could make it.”

She smiled, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes as she stepped closer. “Thanks for inviting me, M/N. I’m really happy to be here.”

“Of course,” you replied, trying not to wince at the clear undertone in her words. She was still holding on to that fantasy, just as Jasper had feared. You needed to put an end to it—and quickly. "I hope Edward will continue with the house tour. After all, he's the most excited about your company."

Bella nodded furiously, but it was clear she was just agreeing with you for the sake of it. Sighing, you motioned for the couple to head to the kitchen where the rest of the Cullens were preparing dinner. Bella conversed amicably with Esme, who was all too eager to meet this human who managed to steal her son's heart, but Carlisle's greeting was clipped. It's clear who knew more about the current tension and disapproved of Edward's love interest.

"And finally, we have Jasper, M/N's fiance." Edward finished, sighing when Bella's face fell.

"But I thought—"

"Well, you thought wrong." Jasper hissed, eyes narrowed at the human as he pushed himself from the corner of the room. He stood beside M/N, his hand wrapping around the slightly (taller/shorter) man.

"Jasper." Esme sternly said.

"No, I'm tired of watching how she throws herself at my soon-to-be husband. M/N has been pretty clear that he's not interested, yet Bella continues to push. Have some fucking respect for yourself."

"But you two are so young to be getting married—" Was Bella's only response to Jasper's statement, causing half of the room to roll their eyes. Now it was just sad and pathetic.

"Bella, we've been together for some time now. Do you really believe we would be making such a decision if we weren't sure?" It was M/N who replied, snuggling the cold body of his husband. Oh, how he missed this. "Now, with that out of the way, I believe Edward would be thrilled to continue with the tour."

[cece693]

Clean and Tidy (Brahms Heelshire x GN Reader)

Since it's October, I want to provide at least a fic for some of my like (not love) slashers. First in line is Brahams from the movie The Boy (2016.) Beware it's short and not my best work.

Summary: The Heelshire's never posted that nanny ad. After all, you were perfect for the job. Not only were you Brahms's nanny, but you were also the caretaker of the house when the Heelshire's were away.

tags: neat/clean freak reader, Malcolm gets killed, never liked him tbh, Brahms is a kitten with claws

The house stood still and silent, a heavy darkness pressing against the tall windows. Outside, the mist clung to the forest like a second skin, thick and immovable, drowning the world in a damp chill. The Heelshires were away again, leaving me to keep the sprawling estate in order. It was a duty I took seriously—order and cleanliness were my sanctuary against the madness that sometimes threatened to swallow this house whole.

And, of course, there was Brahms.

"Come on, Brahms," I said, crouching to examine the muddy footprints he'd left in the kitchen. "You know the rules. No mud in the house."

There was a rustle, a shift in the shadows, and he emerged from behind the pantry door. His face, obscured by his mask, tilted downward like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. "I’m sorry," he said, voice muffled and low. "It was raining."

"Well, it’s still no excuse. Upstairs, now," I ordered, pointing toward the staircase. "Shower, and I’ll clean this up."

He hesitated only momentarily before nodding and slipping away. I watched him go, a mixture of fondness and exasperation warming my chest. He could be dangerous, I knew that. But with me, Brahms was different. Gentle. Almost eager to please.

Everything had been routine, until that night.

Malcolm had come by with the groceries. He was the delivery boy from town, bright-eyed and persistent, always lingering longer than necessary. I’d noticed the way his gaze lingered on me, the way his smiles grew bolder over time, but I’d never encouraged him. Yet, that night, as I was wiping down the kitchen counters, he cornered me, his hand slipping over mine.

"You know," he said, voice low, "you don’t have to stay cooped up here all the time. I could take you out—just the two of us. No one would have to know."

I pulled my hand away, disgust churning in my stomach. "I’m fine where I am, Malcolm. You should go." He didn’t listen. He moved closer, his hand reaching for my waist. I froze, my mind whirling, caught between indignation and the sudden sense of danger that flared hot in my chest. Then I heard it—a soft rustling, a creak from behind the pantry.

"Malcolm, I’m serious." I warned, my voice sharp. "Leave."

But before he could say another word, Brahms was there, stepping out from the darkness. He moved with a speed and ferocity I had never seen before, slamming Malcolm against the wall. There was a flash of panic in Malcolm’s eyes, a gasp—cut off too soon. It was over in seconds. Brahms was breathing hard, his body trembling, and Malcolm lay crumpled on the floor, his eyes wide and unseeing. Blood stained Brahms' crisp white shirt, bright and stark against the fabric. I should have felt something—fear, horror, anything—but all I felt was a strange calm.

"Brahms." I whispered. He turned to me, the mask hiding his face but not the hunch in his posture. He was waiting for a reprimand, for anger, for anything that would push him back into the shadows. Instead, I stepped forward, my eyes narrowing as I took in the crimson staining his shirt. "Look at you," I said, my voice almost a sigh, "you've ruined your shirt. How many times have I told you to be careful?"

His head tilted, confusion and a flicker of relief warring in his eyes. "I’m sorry." he whispered. I didn’t answer. I turned away, stepping around the body without a second glance, moving to the kitchen sink to wet a rag. Behind me, Brahms watched, still as a statue, his gaze never leaving me as I crossed the floor to him. I began wiping the blood from his hands, my touch brisk and efficient.

"I'll have to dispose of that shirt and the body, which is on the verge of staining the carpet—"

"I’ll clean it." Brahms offered quickly, his voice hoarse. He was eager to please again, desperate for approval.

"Good." I met his eyes, my expression stern but gentle. "But next time, Brahms, be more careful. Bloodstains are a nightmare to get out."

He nodded, something like a smile hidden beneath the mask. There was a glimmer of gratitude, of understanding that I wouldn’t send him away, that I wouldn’t abandon him like the rest. I didn’t say another word as I watched him slip off to dispose of the evidence, like a cat slinking off with its prize. The house was mine to care for, and that meant caring for Brahms—the strange, broken boy who, for reasons I couldn’t quite name, trusted me to stay.