cece693

[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.

[cece693]

Velvet Ring Pt. 2 (Hannibal Lecter x M! Reader)

This has become my favorite thing to write and I'm thankful for the support it amassed. I wanted to delve more into Hannibal's POV so this includes things from the 1st part and his thoughts when he discovers your absence. If you want a third part, I'm down to write it. Should it be a full-on book? Hope you enjoy it!

link to part one and part three

tags: Hannibal's POV, murder, Hannibal losing it, you ran away, what did you expect?

When Hannibal Lecter first encountered you at the orphanage, you barely registered in his mind. You were just another child, trapped in that dreary place with its dull gray walls, echoing silence, and indifferent staff. He had long since learned not to trust anyone or expect kindness from others. But unlike the rest, you were different—something he would soon come to realize.

At first, your presence was little more than a curiosity to Hannibal. You never demanded his attention, never asked him to speak or fill the silence. You simply sat beside him, content to share the quiet. It unsettled him at first—this unspoken understanding, this refusal to break the stillness with the meaningless chatter he had come to expect from others. But as the days passed, he found himself looking forward to the moments when you would appear at his side. There was a comfort in the familiarity, in knowing that you would be there, sitting in that same spot as if it belonged to you both.

Little by little, you became his new routine, a constant in a world that had never offered him stability. Your quiet companionship was a thread of order in the chaos of his young life, and it began to bind you to him in ways he did not fully understand.

The first time Hannibal spoke to you, it was because the weight of his loneliness had become unbearable. His voice trembled when he asked you to stay, the vulnerability of the request more terrifying than anything he had ever faced. Yet, you stayed. Without question or hesitation, you curled up beside him in the darkness, offering warmth and quiet reassurance. From that night on, something changed. You became important to him—far more important than anyone had been since Mischa.

Mischa. Even thinking of her brought an ache to his chest that never dulled. The memory of his beloved sister haunted him, a constant reminder of his failure to protect the person he loved most. Her death was a scar on his soul, an unhealed wound festering beneath every thought and action. But with you, it was different. You were older, wiser in ways Mischa had never had the chance to become, yet there was a fragility in you, a hint of the same innocence that had once shone in Mischa's eyes.

Hannibal swore to himself that he would not fail you as he had failed her. He would protect you at all costs, even from himself if necessary. When other children taunted you or picked fights, Hannibal found ways to make them stop—quiet, calculated ways that left no doubt that harming you would have consequences. He swore to provide for you, because even at that young age, he wanted you to stay bound by his side. You wouldn't desert him; you couldn't.

But he was a fool, unable to see what was happening right in front of him. How Uncle Robert and Lady Murasaki treated you differently, subtly undermining your place in the household. To them, you were a burden, an inconvenience. They never saw the quiet strength in you, the fire beneath your calm exterior that had captivated Hannibal from the beginning. He was too focused on their future to recognize the sadness that clouded your eyes when you thought no one was looking, or the tension in your shoulders when Robert or Lady Murasaki addressed you. He was blind to the fact that, in his absence, the very people he trusted had begun to reshape the world you lived in, driving a wedge between you and him.

When Hannibal returned home after his second year away, everything fell into place with devastating clarity.

When Hannibal entered your room, he was struck by the emptiness. It was stripped bare, void of every trace of you—the familiar smell of your cologne, the worn books you loved, the little tokens of your shared moments. All of it was gone, as if you had been erased, leaving only the hollow shell of what used to be your sanctuary.

Panic clawed at Hannibal's chest, a quiet but fierce storm rising as he sought answers. His voice trembled with urgency when he asked Robert where you were. But his uncle’s reply was maddeningly calm, the rehearsed lie falling from his lips effortlessly. You had left, Robert said, seeking a life beyond the estate, searching for a fresh start—one that, apparently, didn't include him. Lady Murasaki's gentle agreement only deepened the pit forming in Hannibal's stomach, her smile serene but unconvincing as she tried to distract him with polite chatter and soothing reassurances. But she didn't understand. They didn’t get it.

They never had.

A terrible certainty settled into Hannibal’s bones, and he saw the truth as clear as daylight: they had pushed you away, driven you from the estate, from him, when he wasn’t there to stop them. He saw the guilt lurking in Robert’s darting gaze, the calculation hidden behind Lady Murasaki’s practiced calm. They had preyed on your gentleness, your quiet strength, and twisted it against you, driving a wedge between you and him. Hannibal’s heart twisted painfully as he realized just how much he had failed you. How blind he had been.

Hannibal's love for you was a fierce, consuming thing, a love that transcended the bounds of mere affection. You were not just a person to him; you were everything. You were the axis upon which his world turned, the flame that guided him through the darkest nights. He had given you his loyalty, his devotion, and he had expected that you would never leave him. He never considered that anyone—even his family—would dare to take you away. They had made the gravest mistake by underestimating just how far he was willing to go for you. They didn’t have the right to dictate his happiness, to decide who was worthy of his love. You were irreplaceable, a part of him in a way that no one else could ever be.

They had seen only the boy he used to be—the obedient, polite child they could control. But Hannibal was not that child anymore. The love he felt for you was not something fragile or tame—it was a force of nature, as enduring as the sea and as relentless as fire. They had pushed you out, believing they knew what was best, but all they had done was seal their fate. But Hannibal was not a fool—he knew that revenge had to be methodical, precise, the kind that left no loose ends. The Lecter name could not be tainted by scandal, not when he had a greater goal in mind: finding you, bringing you back, and building the future he had promised himself you would share.

He waited. He observed. He moved through the estate like a shadow, silent and unseen, watching Robert and Lady Murasaki go about their days as if nothing had changed. He bided his time, letting them believe they were safe.

The night he chose to strike was unremarkable—a quiet evening when the estate was at its most silent, and the world seemed to hold its breath. Lady Murasaki retired to her room early, and Robert remained in the library, savoring a glass of cognac. Hannibal moved through the familiar halls with the kind of calm only true predators knew. He had planned every detail, thought of every contingency. There could be no mistakes.

Lady Murasaki was first. Her room was dark, save for the soft glow of a reading lamp, and Hannibal approached her bed with a quiet reverence, his face betraying no emotion. She was sleeping, her face serene, and for a moment, he almost hesitated. But then he thought of you—the tears he had missed, the pain you had hidden, the way she had smiled at him as if she had not driven the most important person in his life away. He pulled the silk scarf she had favored so often from the drawer, wrapping it around her neck with the same gentleness he might have used to cradle a child’s head. The pressure he applied was firm but even, and her eyes snapped open, wide with shock as she tried to scream, her hands clawing uselessly at the fabric.

His expression never wavered. He watched as the life left her eyes, as the struggle turned to stillness, and he felt…nothing. No remorse, no sorrow. Only a cold satisfaction that she would never again stand in the way of what was rightfully his.

He set the scene with care, leaving enough signs of a struggle to suggest an outside intruder, someone desperate and wild. The window was cracked, a muddy footprint deliberately smeared against the sill. The jewelry box was overturned, its contents scattered—items of value missing, to suggest a robbery gone wrong. Lady Murasaki was placed carefully back in bed, the scarf discarded and replaced with bruises around her neck, as if choked by a stranger’s hands. Every detail was considered. Every loose end tied.

Robert was next. Hannibal approached him in the library with the ease of familiarity, his face a mask of calm even as his heart beat like a war drum in his chest. His uncle looked up, surprised but not alarmed, too late to notice the change in Hannibal’s eyes, the darkness that had settled there like a storm cloud. They spoke for a few moments—polite conversation, the kind that Robert always liked to indulge in late at night when he fancied himself the wise guardian. But Hannibal’s replies were mechanical, rehearsed, and when Robert’s back was turned to pour another glass of cognac, Hannibal struck with the speed of a predator.

The blade slid smoothly between his uncle's ribs, angled just right to puncture the lung and silence him before he could cry out. Robert’s eyes went wide, his mouth opening in shock, but no sound came. When the job was done, Hannibal pulled the knife free and began constructing the remainder of a break-in scene—with furniture upended and items of apparent value missing. The window was smashed from the inside, glass shards carefully spread to suggest an outsider’s entry. Hannibal even cut his own hand, letting a few drops of blood fall to the floor, to sell the story of a struggle with an unknown assailant. He knew what the authorities would look for, what they would assume. The kills were clean, but not too clean—messy enough to pass for desperate, brutal violence driven by a stranger’s greed.

He called the police himself, his voice frantic and breathless, the perfect picture of a grieving young man who had returned home to find a scene of horror awaiting him. The authorities arrived quickly, swarming the estate, asking questions that Hannibal answered with the ease of a practiced liar. He had learned from the best, after all—Lady Murasaki had taught him the art of misdirection, and Robert had trained him in the value of a well-placed lie.

The funeral was swift, attended by those who thought they knew the Lecter family, but Hannibal played his part flawlessly. He was the grieving nephew, dignified and sorrowful, a young man who had lost the last of his family to a brutal, senseless act. Sympathy poured in, and no one questioned him when he announced that he needed to leave the city, to find peace away from the place where his life had been upended. And, now, he was free. Free to search for you. His rage had not been sated, but it had been redirected—into a singular, burning purpose: to find you, to bring you back, and to ensure that nothing and no one would ever come between you again.

[cece693]

Hi, it's the anonymous who made the first request posted about Ethan. I'm so glad you did; it was great to read and I hope you don't mind me asking for more. I'm thirsty for this character. Anyway, the request is about Ethan and the male reader in a toxic relationship where the reader is controlling and seemingly abusive, which worries his friends, but in reality this behavior is encouraged by Ethan himself, who simply loves his boyfriend's possessiveness, both of them bringing out the worst in each other. PS: watch the last two Scary Movie films when you can. They're really fun!

My Boy (Ethan Landry x M! Reader)

Thanks for the request :) I will definitely try to watch the new Scream movies when I have a chance. All I know about Ethan (with a Google search and reading his Wiki entry) is that he's a dorky and geeky guy so I used that to base this. Also, I mainly focused on how you're toxic, not including Ethan since I don't know him well. Hope you enjoy it!

Ethan’s friends had been worried for months. They’d noticed the changes—the way Ethan slowly isolated himself, the constant presence of his boyfriend, M/N, who always seemed to hover a bit too closely, and the way Ethan would flash a nervous smile whenever M/N’s arm tightened possessively around his waist. To an outsider, it looked like a classic case of an abusive relationship, the kind where one person held all the power, and the other was too scared to leave. His friends whispered behind his back, exchanged concerned glances when they saw the way Ethan always sought permission with his eyes before speaking or the way M/N’s words always seemed to silence him in public.

But what they didn’t know, what they couldn’t possibly understand, was that this was exactly what Ethan wanted. The boy leaned into it, into the rough words, the tight grip on his arm when M/N pulled him away from anyone who dared get too close. His friends thought those marks on his wrist and neck were signs of something dark, something to be feared. But to Ethan, they were marks of love.

M/N’s fierce jealousy, his need to control every little thing—who Ethan spoke to, where he went, what he wore—was intoxicating. Ethan didn’t want soft love or gentle touches. He wanted to feel owned and consumed. Wanted to feel like he couldn't live without M/N because he was the very air needed to breathe. And M/N gave him that in spades.

The possessiveness wasn’t some accident; it was nurtured between them, a game they played. Ethan loved pushing M/N to his limits, seeing the anger flash in his eyes when someone dared talk to him, only for M/N to later drag him into a heated argument, the tension sizzling between them. Their fights were never just fights; they were foreplay, a dance of anger and passion that neither of them could resist.

Behind closed doors, their dynamic took on a whole different life. Ethan didn’t cower when M/N snapped at him; he smiled, relishing every possessive word. When M/N told him to stop talking to certain people, Ethan’s heart raced, not out of fear but out of exhilaration. He loved how it felt to be controlled, to be told what to do, to be pulled back into M/N’s orbit over and over again.

The world saw a victim in Ethan, but in reality, he was the one fanning the flames, drawing out every possessive instinct in M/N. He loved the danger of it, how far they could push before it burned them both alive. And M/N? He was more than happy to oblige, loving how Ethan craved his jealousy, how he’d provoke M/N just to see that flash of rage, knowing it would end with them entangled in each other, lost in the toxicity of their need.

Ethan’s friends just didn’t get it, and it was exhausting. If only they could mind their own business, Ethan would be a lot happier. As he spotted Tara and Sam heading his way, he groaned internally, already anticipating yet another "concerned" conversation. He briefly considered making a run for it, but they were too quick, closing in and cornering him before he could escape.

“Ethan,” Tara’s voice was firm, low, and filled with that frustratingly familiar sense of urgency. “We need to talk. It's about M/N.”

Ethan immediately tensed, his jaw tightening. Of course, it was about M/N. It was always about M/N. He narrowed his eyes at Tara, shifting his weight like a boxer getting ready for a fight. “There’s nothing to talk about, Tara,” he replied sharply, his voice cold. “I’m fine. We’re fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Sam cut in, stepping closer, her expression a mix of frustration and concern. “We’ve been watching this for months, Ethan. He’s controlling you. You don’t hang out with us anymore, you barely text—hell, you hardly even smile these days. It’s like he’s cut you off from everyone who actually cares about you.”

Ethan’s heart raced with growing anger, his fists clenching at his sides. “I’m not cut off from anyone!” His voice came out sharper than he intended, his body rigid with tension. “I’m just busy. You guys wouldn’t understand.”

“Busy?” Tara’s disbelief was evident, her eyes wide as she stepped closer, not letting him wiggle out of the conversation. “Ethan, we’ve seen the way he treats you! You flinch when he’s around. You’re constantly looking over your shoulder, like you’re waiting for him to snap. That’s not normal. That’s not healthy.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he shot back, his voice edged with frustration. “You don’t know him. He’s not what you think.”

Sam stepped forward, her tone soft but firm, like she was speaking to a child. “Ethan, listen to me. He’s not good for you. There are other guys—better guys—who’d treat you right. You don’t have to put up with this.”

“I don’t need your help!” Ethan snapped, cutting her off. His voice rose with every word, anger flashing in his eyes. He stepped back, trying to create distance, his frustration boiling over. “You want me to leave him, but I love him. Why can't anyone seem to get that?!”

Tara’s eyes softened as if she could somehow break through his anger. “Ethan, we care about you. We’re only trying to help. I’ve even got someone in mind—he’s sweet, kind, nothing like M/N. You don’t have to settle just because M/N is your first boyfriend. There are people out there who would actually treat you well.”

Ethan’s eyes widened, a flash of offense crossing his face. His lips curled into a bitter, humorless smile as he shook his head in disbelief. “Wow,” he muttered, looking down briefly before fixing Tara with a sharp glare. “I can’t believe you just managed to insult me and overstep every boundary I’ve got in one sentence.”

“That’s not what I—”

“No, I get it,” Ethan cut her off, his voice icy. “You think I’m some pathetic loser who can’t handle his own relationship, that I’m just clinging to M/N because I’m desperate. But you’re wrong. You don’t understand us at all. He’s not controlling me—I want this. I want him. You think he’s bad for me? You don’t know him like I do.”

“Ethan, you’re not seeing clearly,” Sam tried to interject, her voice pleading now. “He’s manipulating you, making you think this is love—.”

“Stop!” Ethan screamed, his fists trembling as he glared at them both. “You have no right to interfere in my life like this. M/N isn’t the problem, you are. You can’t stand that I’m not the same person I was before, that I’m happy in a way you’ll never understand. I don’t need saving—I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Tara’s face fell, her shoulders sagging as the hope of reaching him began to fade. “Ethan…”

“No,” Ethan growled. “I don’t want to hear it. Not again. Stay out of my relationship. If you can’t respect that, maybe we’re not meant to be friends.”

Without another word, Ethan turned on his heel and stormed off, leaving Tara and Sam standing in stunned silence, their concern now tinged with a deep, helpless sadness. To them, Ethan’s anger and defensiveness were just more proof of how deeply M/N had his claws in him, manipulating him into believing that this toxic love was all he deserved. But to Ethan, it wasn’t manipulation at all. It was passion, fierce and raw, the kind of love that consumed you whole—and he wouldn’t trade it for anything. He swore he'll fucking kill anyone who tried to step in between you and him.

[cece693]

Stupid Crush Pt. 2 (Nico di Angelo x Son of Poseidon)

Because many of you keep requesting a part two of my original post, I couldn't help myself :) However, you might hate me for this but I want to practice writing sad endings, so if you aren't comfortable with that, I suggest living blind.

link to part one

tags: breakup, no making up, reader tries to move on, major character death, ambiguous ending, heartbreak

Nico di Angelo had never been one to give up easily, and when it came to you, he refused to let you slip away without a fight. Even after your breakup��after the heart-wrenching conversation that left him feeling gutted and empty—Nico couldn’t accept that it was truly over. He loved you. He knew he had made mistakes, but there was no way he could let that be the end.

For weeks after your relationship had ended, Nico threw himself into trying to prove his love. He started small, hoping that maybe you’d notice: he’d offer to help with your tasks, leaving small reminders that he still cared. He lingered around the Argo II, hoping for a chance to talk, to catch your eye. But every time, you kept your distance.

But then came the war.

The final fight against Gaea loomed over them all, leaving little room for anything other than survival. The battle was brutal, stretching the demigods to their limits, and for a while, Nico had to push his desire to win you back aside. They were fighting for their lives now. There was no time for hearts and feelings when the world was on the verge of collapse.

Even as he fought with everything he had, one thought kept Nico going: you. He clung to the hope that when this was all over, when Gaea was defeated, and the war was behind them, he would have another chance. Every swing of his sword, every shadow he manipulated, every ounce of his energy was fueled by the need to return to your side. He had to survive. He had to make it back to you. The war didn't come without a cost; many campers had died in battle, and with restoration efforts taking everyone's time, Nico didn't breach you or the topic until a week later.

He took it a step further. If you didn't want to see Nico, he will leave reminders of his love. This gesture alone should tell you how much you meant to him; he was always someone who kept his emotions buried beneath layers of coldess and sarcasm. But for you, he would try. He left small letters under your door—handwritten notes that declared his love in ways that were unfamiliar to him. They were never long, just a few lines scrawled in his messy handwriting, but they held every ounce of sincerity Nico could muster:

I’m sorry. I love you. I’ll never stop loving you.

You were never the second choice. I wish I could make you see that.

I’m still here. Waiting.

He even placed his skull ring inside one of those notes, hoping that action alone would make you answer his pleads, but to no avail. Finally, after countless sleepless nights and too many failed attempts to reach you, Nico couldn’t take it anymore. He needed closure. He needed to hear your voice, even if it ended with you punching him (rightfully so.)

It was late in the evening when Nico made his way to your cabin. The sky was painted in hues of deep purple and orange, the last remnants of the sunset casting long shadows across the camp. Nico’s heart pounded in his chest, dread and hope warring within him as he stood outside your door. He knocked, and after a long moment, the door creaked open.

You stood there, framed by the soft glow of the cabin’s lanterns, your expression unreadable. You didn’t say anything at first, just stared at Nico, waiting. Nico swallowed hard, his hands trembling slightly. “Can we talk?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You hesitated, but eventually stepped aside, letting him in. The cabin was quiet, Percy nowhere to be seen. For that, Nico was thankful. He wouldn't be surprised if you had told Percy what occurred that day. He stood there for a moment, unsure where to begin. He’d rehearsed this conversation in his head a thousand times, but now that he was here, in front of you, the words felt heavy, stuck in his throat.

“I—I’ve been trying to show you that I’m sorry,” Nico started, his voice shaky. “I know I messed up. I know I hurt you. But I never wanted to. I never meant for any of this to happen.”

"Nico." You whispered softly, eyes softening. "I-I'm trying things out with Will."

Nico's world shattered. "What?" was all he could muster. He blinked rapidly, unable to process what you had just said. His mouth opened, then closed, and for a moment he looked like he was going to crumble right in front of you.

“I…I’m trying things out with Will,” you repeated, a bit more firmly this time. Your voice was gentle, but there was a finality to it that made Nico’s heart twist painfully. His gaze dropped to the floor, staring at his shoes as if they held some kind of answer he couldn’t find in your eyes.

The silence stretched on between you, heavy and suffocating. Nico’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, the weight of all his efforts—the letters, the gifts, the endless nights of regret—collapsing under the simple truth of your words. He wanted to scream, to beg you to reconsider, but his voice failed him. When he finally managed to speak, his voice was barely a whisper.

“When did this happen?” His throat felt tight, like the air was being squeezed out of him, but he forced himself to look up, to meet your gaze even though it hurt.

You hesitated, biting your lip. “A few weeks after the battle with Gaea. Will and I…we just started talking, and things…they just happened.”

Nico’s heart twisted again, sharper this time, like a knife being driven deeper. The battle with Gaea—the war that had forced him to pause his desperate attempts to win you back, the war he had survived just so he could return to your side—had been the turning point for you, but not in the way he had hoped. He’d come back, bruised and exhausted, believing that his chance would come after the fighting was done. But the war had ended, and you had already found someone else.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You exhaled slowly, the sadness in your eyes deepening. “Because I didn’t want to hurt you. I was waiting for the right moment, but there never seemed to be one. You’ve been trying so hard, and I didn’t know how to tell you that I had moved on.”

He flinched, feeling the sting of those words cut deep. His hands trembled, and he shoved them into his pockets, trying to stop them from shaking. “Moved on?” The disbelief in his voice was raw, painful. “I never stopped loving you. Every day, I thought of ways to make it right, to show you how much you mean to me.”

“I know, Nico.” Your voice was almost pleading now, as if you wanted him to understand. “I saw everything you did. The letters, the ring—you don’t know how much it meant to me. But it’s not about how much you love me, Nico. It’s about trust. It’s about how I felt and how I still feel.”

“Then why did you keep the ring?” he asked desperately, his voice breaking as he gestured towards your desk, where his skull ring still sat, untouched since the day he left it there.

You looked away, your expression pained. “Because a part of me will always care for you. You were my first love, and I’ll never forget that. But Will, he’s been there for me in a way I needed. He’s open, and he doesn’t hide from me. I needed someone who could be honest with me, and you never were.”

The words felt like a slap to Nico’s face. He stepped back, his breath hitching as he tried to hold back the tears burning in his eyes. “I wanted to be,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I tried. I tried so hard.”

“I know you did,” you said softly, a single tear slipping down your cheek. “But sometimes trying isn’t enough.”

Nico’s chest tightened, and he felt the darkness inside him stirring—the familiar, suffocating void that had always been there, lurking just beneath the surface. He’d fought so hard to keep it at bay, to be stronger for you. But now, standing in your cabin with the truth hanging between you like a wall he could never break through, he felt it closing in on him again.

“I—I have to go,” he choked out, turning away before you could see the tears welling up in his eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at you any longer, not when the weight of your rejection was crushing him from the inside out.

“Nico, wait—” you called after him, but he was already halfway to the door, his footsteps heavy and unsteady. He paused, just for a moment, his hand on the doorknob, and for a second he thought about turning back, about begging you one last time not to leave him behind. But he knew it wouldn’t matter. Your mind was made up, and no amount of pleading would change that.

Without another word, Nico stepped out into the night, the cool breeze washing over him as he made his way toward the darkness beyond. The camp was quiet, the stars twinkling overhead, but all he could see was the shattered remains of his hopes and dreams, lying in pieces around him. He had tried—he had tried so hard—but in the end, it hadn’t been enough.

As he walked away, the darkness swallowed him whole, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t try to fight it.

Three days later, the camp was still buzzing with post-war activity. You threw yourself into helping with the rebuilding, avoiding thoughts of Nico and the painful conversation that had ended it all. Will was always by your side, his presence a comfort to your wounded heart. It wasn't that you didn't love Nico anymore; you would perhaps love him for the rest of your life, but it was time to put yourself first.

One afternoon, you were helping organize the infirmary with Will when a sudden, cold chill ran down your spine. You froze, a sense of dread settling over you. Before you could say anything, a shout rang out from outside, a voice filled with panic and fear. “There’s been an attack!”

You and Will bolted out of the cabin, following the frantic crowd toward the forest’s edge. Your heart pounded in your chest as you pushed through the campers, the anxiety mounting with every step. When you finally reached the clearing, you saw them—several demigods huddled around a small, motionless figure lying in the grass.

“No,” you whispered, your blood turning to ice as you caught sight of the dark clothes, the familiar face pale and still. “Nico…”

Will was already kneeling beside him, his hands glowing with golden light as he tried to heal the deep, ragged wound that marred Nico’s side. But you could see it in his eyes—the terror, the hopelessness. The injury was too severe, the damage too great.

“No, no, no,” you said, falling to your knees beside him, your hands hovering helplessly over Nico’s broken body. His eyes fluttered open, just barely, the shadows that had once seemed so invincible now dimmed to a fragile flicker.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice a faint rasp that barely reached your ears. His gaze was distant, glassy, but somehow he managed to find yours, a small, sad smile ghosting across his lips. “I never meant to hurt you."

A sob caught in your throat as you cupped his cheek, your hands trembling. “Nico, please…Just hold on,” you begged, your voice cracking under the weight of panic and grief.

Nico’s smile wavered, his chest shuddering with the effort to breathe. “I’m…I’m so tired,” he murmured, his eyes beginning to drift shut, the pain etched into every line of his face. “I wanted to make things right…to make you…happy.” Each word came slower, his strength ebbing away with every breath he took.

“You did,” you said, your voice fierce despite the tears streaming down your cheeks. You squeezed his hand harder, as if the strength of your grip alone could keep him tethered to this world. “Nico, you did make me happy. You still do. Just stay with me. Please, Nico, don’t go.”

A tear slid down Nico's pale cheek, mingling with the blood that stained his skin. “I love you,” he whispered, the words barely a breath, his eyes locking onto yours with a desperate intensity. “Always…love you.”

“I love you too,” you choked out, pressing your forehead against his, your tears mingling with his. You felt his body go slack, his hand falling limp in your grasp. “Nico! No, please! Nico!” You held his body close, your heart breaking all over again as the truth settled over you. The boy who had fought through hell for you, who had bared his soul and faced his deepest fears, was gone.

His last breath had been a promise—a truth you’d never doubted, even when he had hurt you. But now, that truth lay heavy in your arms, lifeless and still. His body felt too small, too fragile, for someone who had carried so much pain, who had survived so much darkness. The only comfort you took was that you would see Nico again. That was a promise.

[cece693]

It's All For You (Jay Gatsby x GN! Reader)

Fun fact, one of my favorite books is The Great Gatsby. However, to this day, no one (in my opinion) has managed to fully encase what Jay represents. Character-wise, he's still the Gatsby chasing the green light, but in terms of face claim, I left him ambiguous. I know this is a very out-there fandom, and I know it won't be very popular, but it makes me happy :)

Summary: You were helping Jay see your cousin Daisy, but, somewhere down the line, you managed to become his anchor to reality.

tags: can be read with Nick in mind, Jay is an infatuated boy, clueless reader, Jay finally sees Daisy for what she is, happy ending

Daisy was enchanting. Captivating. Alluring. But none of those words seemed to fully encapsulate the aura she exuded. There was a lightness to her that drew people in, a kind of graceful detachment as if she floated through life just out of reach. Yet for all her beauty and charm, there was something elusive about her, something that kept everyone at arm's length. It was easy to be enchanted by her, to fall for the sparkling facade she wore like a second skin. And Jay Gatsby was no different—at least, that’s what I thought.

Gatsby had built a life around the idea of Daisy, a world spun from dreams and memories of a love long lost. The parties, the lavish displays, the rumors—they all pointed back to her, to the one he had let slip away. When I came to West Egg, I found myself pulled into his grand scheme to win her back. Daisy had asked for my help; I was her cousin, after all, and who better to act as a go-between, arranging encounters, helping to stage those first delicate meetings under the guise of friendly visits?

At first, Gatsby's devotion to Daisy seemed unwavering, as though he was single-mindedly determined to recapture the past. He spoke of her with reverence, like a man describing a distant star, bright and unattainable. He watched for her at every gathering, always positioned just so, as though one look from her would make all the years melt away. I helped him prepare for these moments, choosing the flowers, setting the table for tea, ensuring everything was perfect. He wanted it all to be just right for Daisy.

But as time went on, I noticed something I couldn’t quite name. The way Gatsby's gaze would flicker toward me in moments of quiet, how he would seek my approval on even the smallest details. There was a certain light in his eyes when we would linger in conversation long after the parties had ended and the rest of the world had gone to sleep. I chalked it up to Gatsby’s natural charm, to the friendship that had grown between us amid all the scheming. After all, I was helping my cousin's lost love find his way back to her.

The first real crack in the illusion came one afternoon when Gatsby and I were alone in his library, discussing the next gathering. Daisy had mentioned that she missed simpler times, the quietness of tea on a summer's day. I suggested we hold a small, intimate tea party just for the three of us, something more personal than the grand festivities that had become Gatsby's signature.

“It’s a wonderful idea,” Gatsby agreed, his voice softening as he looked at me, not in the direction of the distant green light that always seemed to capture his attention. “But it doesn’t feel right to ask so much of you, helping with all this.”

I waved off his concern. “Nonsense. I’m happy to help. If it makes Daisy smile, then it’s worth it.”

He gave a small, almost wistful smile. “I suppose it’s not just Daisy who I’m trying to make smile.”

I didn’t know what to make of that comment. I let it slide, laughing it off as a joke, but something about the way he said it stayed with me. There was a warmth in his tone that I couldn’t quite place, and in the days that followed, I began to see Gatsby in a different light.

The tea party came and went, with Daisy laughing and charming her way through the afternoon. Gatsby’s attention was on her, of course, but there was a shift, a subtle one, like a shadow moving across a wall. I found Gatsby watching me out of the corner of his eye, a lingering glance that held more than casual interest. It was as though he was trying to tell me something without words.

And then, one night, as the last strains of music from yet another party faded into the stillness, Gatsby approached me on the terrace. The moonlight cast long shadows across the lawn, and there was a hesitation in his steps that I hadn’t seen before.

“You know,” he began, leaning against the stone railing, “for the longest time, I thought everything I did was for Daisy. Every party, every bit of gold and glitter—it was all meant to bring her back to me.”

“Isn’t it still?” I asked, unsure of what he was getting at. “You’ve built all of this for her.”

“Yes,” he admitted, but there was a shift in his tone, a softness I hadn’t heard before. “But somewhere along the way, it stopped being about Daisy.”

The breath caught in my throat. “Then what was it about?” I managed to ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Gatsby turned to face me fully, his gaze searching mine. “It was about finding something real. I thought Daisy could give me that, but then I met you. You were there for every moment, every detail, pulling me back when I started drifting into dreams again. I started looking forward to your company, your words, your laughter.” He took a step closer, the intensity in his eyes almost overwhelming. “It was you who brought me back to reality.”

I stood frozen. “Jay,” I began, struggling to find the right words. “I—”

"You don't have to tell me anything, Y/N." Gatsby smiled, a minuscule one that conveyed just how difficult this was for him too. "I just wanted to make my interest clear."

His words hung in the air, a fragile thread connecting us in that moonlit moment. The warmth of his gaze sent a thrill racing through me, igniting something deep inside—a longing I had tried to ignore while orchestrating his reunion with Daisy. The truth crashed over me like a wave, and I realized that somewhere along the way, Jay Gatsby had become someone truly important to me.

In that electric silence, I felt the boundaries between us dissolve. I could no longer hold back. My heart surged with emotion, and before I could think, I stepped forward and closed the distance between us.

Our lips met in a fervent kiss, an eruption of pent-up desire and vulnerability. It felt like a revelation, as if everything I had been holding back rushed forth in that single moment. Gatsby’s surprise melted into a warmth that enveloped me, his hands moving to cradle my face as he kissed me back with a fervor that took my breath away.

Time seemed to stand still as we lost ourselves in each other, the world around us fading into the background. The soft rustle of the leaves and the distant hum of the night felt like a distant echo. All I could focus on was the taste of him, the way he held me as if I were a fragile dream he was afraid to lose.

[cece693]

Velvet Ring (Hannibal Lecter x M! Reader)

The only explanation I can provide for this is Hannibal Rising. His backstory is so goddam sad and I'm upset they didn't explore this concept fully in the show. So to fix this, I planned on writing a short fic about his time in the orphanage but then it escalated into this being (perhaps) my longest work yet. Hope you guys like it :)

link to part two and part three

Summary: Before Hannibal Lecter became the Chesapeake Ripper, he was a mute boy sent to an orphanage. There he meets you—a boy who slowly wins his affection. However, nothing good ever lasts.

tags: orphanage, takes place during Hannibal Rising, the reader feels abandoned, mentions of Mischa, selective muteness, fluff, sad ending, probably will write a 2nd part

The orphanage was a bleak place, a crumbling building tucked away on the outskirts of town. Its walls, gray and uninviting, seemed to absorb the children’s cries and laughter alike, turning them into distant echoes. The staff were weary, stretched too thin to offer much beyond the basics. Life was a constant struggle for survival, each child learning quickly how to fend for themselves.

It was there, amid the harsh weather and lonely corners, that you first met Hannibal Lecter. He had arrived a few months after you—a small, frail boy with pale skin and dark, almost maroon eyes that seemed too old for his face. He was silent and distant, a figure more shadow than child, who always kept to himself. The others didn’t know what to make of him and whispered rumors about him in hushed voices. Some said he was mute because of some great tragedy, others claimed he didn’t know how to speak at all. But you didn’t let this deter you.

One afternoon, while walking back to your room, you noticed the boy tucked away in a corner, with a dusty, large book laid on his lap. His eyes scanned the pages, though it was clear he wasn’t actually reading. He seemed lost in the silence, like he was trying to disappear into the worn leather cover.

For a while, you watched him from a distance. You were no stranger to loneliness yourself, and something in the way he held himself, as if he were folding inward to avoid being seen, struck a chord. Finally, after a minute of lingering in the doorway, you took a breath and approached him. “You like books?” you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hannibal didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge your presence at all. His small hands gripped the book tighter, his knuckles pale. For a moment, you considered turning away, feeling foolish for trying to reach out, but something kept you there. You sat beside him, leaving a respectful distance, and remained silent. Hannibal was undoubtedly puzzled by your behavior—no one else ever came this close to him voluntarily—but you just closed your eyes and allowed the quiet to envelop you both, the sound of him turning pages filling the empty air.

It became a routine, almost without either of you intending it. You would find him in that hallway, or sometimes in the dusty library, sitting alone with a book that he wasn’t really reading. And each time, you would sit beside him, never saying much, just sharing the space. Sometimes, you’d bring your own book, or an old blanket on cold days, but you’d always sit just close enough to show you weren’t going anywhere. You grew used to the rhythm of it, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the subtle shifts in his posture when he turned a page.

Gradually, Hannibal began to relax in your presence. He still didn’t speak, but he started to show small signs of acknowledgment. A slight nod when you sat down, or a shared glance when the other children grew loud in the distance. Occasionally, he would even slide the book between you, sharing the pages with you, as if inviting you into his quiet world. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

The first time Hannibal spoke to you was on a rainy night after the lights had gone out and the other children were already asleep. You couldn't shake the feeling that somwthing was wrong, so unable to lie still, you wandered through the darkened halls toward Hannibal's room. Slowly opening the door in case the other boy was sleeping, you, instead, found him sitting up with his knees tucked into his chest, his silhouette barely visible in the dim moonlight filtering through the narrow window.

“Hannibal?” you whispered, your voice barely carrying across the small room.

He didn’t look up, didn’t move at all, but his shoulders trembled slightly. His hands gripped the fabric of his nightpants, knuckles turning white, and when he finally spoke, his voice was barely more than a breath. “Please stay.” The words came out soft and hesitant, like he was afraid to ask for anything. His voice was laced with a vulnerability that took you by surprise, the kind that made you realize how young and fragile he truly was beneath his composed silence.

Unable to refuse, you stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind you. Hannibal shifted, making space beside him on the narrow bed, and you tiptoed closer. Without a word, you climbed in, curling up at his side, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight. He pulled the thin blanket over the both of you, the faded fabric barely providing warmth, but the shared closeness was enough.

For a while, you lay there in silence, your breaths slowly syncing as the rain drummed steadily against the window. The world outside seemed far away, and the cold, damp walls of the orphanage faded into the background. You could feel the tension in Hannibal’s body gradually easing, his form softening beside you as he leaned his head against your shoulder. It was the first time you’d ever seen him this open, the first time he had let anyone into his quiet world.

“Bad dream?” you asked softly, breaking the silence.

Hannibal nodded against your shoulder but didn’t offer any details. His small frame shivered slightly, and you found yourself encasing your arms around him, offering comfort in the only way you knew how. “It’s okay,” you murmured, hoping the words would soothe him. “I’m here.”

After that night, it became clear that you and Hannibal were each other’s only refuge. The orphanage wasn’t kind to boys who didn’t conform to its harsh expectations, and the other children often bullied the two of you—Hannibal because of his quiet strangeness, and you for your insistence on being by his side. When the taunts and jostling became too much, you would retreat together to your favorite hiding places: the dusty library with its faded books, the creaky attic where the adults rarely went, or beneath the old tree in the yard. There, you could pretend for a moment that the world wasn’t so unkind. With how close you two were, you learned of Hannibal's past and the circumstances that led him to the orphanage.

You cried with him when he disclosed the tragic circumstances surrounding Mischa's death, and in return, you confided in him about the horror that shattered your own life. You recounted the night when men stormed into your home, faces obscured and voices shouting, tearing your family apart in cold blood. The details were a blur of terror and grief, but the core of the memory remained vivid—your mother’s screams echoing in your ears, your father’s desperate attempts to protect you, and the chilling silence that followed their brutal end, a silence that swallowed your childhood whole.

In the midst of your shared sorrow, you found solace in one another, forging a deep connection that felt unbreakable. In your hopeful, naive mind, you wished that things would never change, that this fragile sanctuary you had created together could last forever. However, life was rarely that kind, and the specter of change loomed closer than either of you realized.

The end of your friendship with Hannibal Lecter began when Robert Lecter arrived to claim his nephew. On one hand, you were genuinely happy that Hannibal would be leaving the dreary confines of the orphanage. But on the other hand, a deep sadness engulfed you at the thought of losing your closest friend. The fantasy of staying together forever felt painfully fragile. But that fantasy turned reality (or so it seemed) when you learned that you would go with them.

Life at the Lecter estate was a world away from the orphanage—a sprawling house that exuded beauty and luxury at every turn, but it wasn’t the kind of refuge you had hoped for. The opulence felt cold and uninviting. Hannibal’s aunt rarely spoke to you directly, and when she did, it was with a cool formality that made it clear she had little interest in your presence. She would politely address you only when Hannibal was around, her demeanor shifting to one of disdain the moment he left the room. Her words dripped with thinly veiled contempt: “charity case,” “burden,” “unwanted.” These terms became your new reality, echoing in your mind like a refrain you couldn’t escape.

Hannibal, meanwhile, seemed blissfully unaware of the disdain his caregivers harbored toward you. He was too focused on his studies, his newfound life, and the remarkable changes unfolding around him. And why would you pit them against each other by voicing the truth? Hannibal was thriving in ways you had always imagined, and you didn’t want to disrupt his progress with your troubles.

As time passed, Hannibal was introduced to the finer things in life, from lavish dinners to exquisite art. He began to explore the world beyond the confines of his childhood, his intellect blossoming and his confidence growing. But as he embraced this new life, you felt the widening chasm between you. The warmth of your friendship became overshadowed by the shadows of his new experiences.

The second step toward the unraveling of your bond was due to Lady Murasaki, Robert Lecter’s exotic and cultured wife. She had a grace about her that was captivating, and her presence quickly became a focal point in Hannibal’s life. The two shared long conversations about art, literature, and philosophy, and he was drawn to her sophistication and depth. While you had always been a safe haven for Hannibal, Lady Murasaki introduced him to a world of complexity and allure that you simply couldn’t provide. You watched as he grew enamored with her, leaving you in the dust. You would catch glimpses of him laughing, his eyes sparkling with excitement, and it only deepened the ache in your chest. Each moment felt like another step away from the closeness you once shared.

The Lecter estate became a gilded cage for you, a beautiful facade hiding the pain of feeling increasingly isolated. As Hannibal ventured further into this new world, you were left to navigate your own feelings of abandonment and despair. The spark that had once ignited your friendship now flickered precariously, and the bond that felt so unbreakable began to fray at the edges. You were losing him, and despite your best efforts to maintain the connection, the chasm between you widened, leaving you to grapple with the haunting realization that your childhood dream of being together forever was slipping away, replaced by a painful loneliness you had never experienced, even in your time inside the orphanage.

Eventually, the strain became too much. When Hannibal had gone off to college, and his calls to you became less frequent, the loneliness settled like a heavy fog in your heart. Hannibal's silence spoke volumes. What Lady Murasaki had been saying was true—you were a burden to Hannibal, holding him back from blooming to his true potential. And so, one night, you packed your belongings and disappeared, leaving behind a world of cold marble and elegant emptiness. You convinced yourself that you were better off alone. He was better off without you.

[cece693]

Olá, você está aberto a pedidos? Se sim, posso solicitar uma história de Ethan Landry (Scream VI) com um leitor masculino.

Poderia ter algo com Ethan Landry obcecado pelo leitor tipo Joe de you aí o leitor descobre e o Ethan sequestra ele igual o Joe faz com back

You Belong To Me (Ethan Landry x M! Reader)

Thanks for the request. As I've stated before, I haven't watched any of the new Scream movies, so some of the information might not be accurate. I hope you enjoy it!

Summary: Ethan is obsessed with you. So when you manage to discover he's the masked killer, Ethan sees no other choice than to kidnap you.

You didn't consider Ethan Landry a friend. More like an acquaintance. He wasn’t the kind of guy to stand out in a crowd—shy, awkward, the kind of person who stayed at the edge of conversations, almost too easy to overlook. You’d barely exchanged a word with him beyond the occasional nod in class. To you, he was just another face in the sea of college students.

But to Ethan, you were everything.

It started as a creeping suspicion that something wasn’t right. The killings had started months ago—violent, gruesome, and seemingly random. Students whispered about the Ghostface killer, the terror gripping the campus. Some people thought the attacks were personal, while others believed it was all just chaos without purpose.

You didn’t give it much thought at first. That was until weird things started happening around you. Little things, things that felt off. Your stuff went missing—a hoodie here, a notebook there. You’d see someone out of the corner of your eye, just a shadow, but every time you turned around, no one was there. You’d get the feeling that someone was watching, even when you were alone.

And then you found the messages.

A dozen missed calls from an unknown number, voicemails that were just the sound of breathing. Texts that said strange things: “You’re so handsome when you think no one’s watching.” Another: “They don’t deserve you, but I do.” It made your skin crawl. You thought it was some kind of prank—until the bodies started piling up.

People you knew. A guy from your dorm. A girl you’d once gone on a date with. And it hit you—every person who’d been killed had some connection to you. Not close connections, but they were enough to put you on edge. Someone was targeting people around you. Someone was getting closer.

You started paying attention to the people in your life, trying to figure out who could be behind it. That’s when you noticed Ethan—awkward, clumsy Ethan—showing up a little too often. Sitting just a little too close in class. Staring just a little too long from across the cafeteria.

One night, unable to shake the gnawing feeling in your gut, you decided to follow him.

You never expected it to be so easy. Ethan had no idea you were tailing him, walking a few steps behind as he slipped into the old theater building. You ducked behind pillars and crept through hallways, your heart racing. Why would Ethan be here this late?

Then you saw him. Ethan, standing in the center of the empty backstage area, staring down at the iconic white mask in his hands—Ghostface. Your stomach dropped.

Ethan exhaled slowly, like holding the mask was some kind of religious experience. His fingers traced the edges reverently, like it was a piece of art he adored. “It was you…” you whispered, your voice barely audible. But it was loud enough.

Ethan’s head snapped toward you, his eyes widening in shock. For a moment, the mask slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor. “Y/N…” he whispered your name like a prayer. His surprise melted into something far more dangerous—excitement. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”

You turned to run, but you didn’t get far. Ethan was fast—faster than you ever thought possible. He tackled you from behind, his arms wrapping around you in a vice grip. You hit the ground hard, the air forced from your lungs. “Shhh,” Ethan whispered in your ear, pressing you down. "Don't fight. You don’t understand. This is a good thing. It’s what’s meant to be.”

You struggled, clawing at the floor, but Ethan was relentless. He pressed something cold and sharp against your throat—a knife.

“Don’t make me hurt you, Y/N.” he whispered, his breath hot on your neck. “I don’t want to hurt you. I love you.” Those words froze you in place, every muscle in your body locking up. This wasn’t love. This was madness. Feeling blood trailing down the left side of your face, you felt Ethan's hand going to your head before darkness consumed you.

When you woke, your wrists were bound with rope, and the rough bite of duct tape was pressed over your mouth. The dim light above buzzed faintly, casting shadows across the basement. It reeked of dust, old wood, and something metallic—blood.

Ethan sat across from you on an old couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he was waiting for you to wake up. When your eyes met his, his face split into a smile—a wide, boyish grin, as if the two of you were old friends and stood up. “You’re awake!” he said brightly. “I was getting worried. You hit your head pretty hard.”

You tried to scream against the tape, thrashing against the ropes. “You're scared,” he said, almost as if he were hurt by it. He crouched down beside you, his eyes searching your face. “But you don’t have to be. I’d never hurt you, Y/N.” He reached out to touch your cheek, and you flinched, your skin recoiling from the feel of his hand. “Everything I’ve done…I did for us,” he whispered, his voice carrying a note of desperation. “Can’t you see that?”

You glared at him, fury rising despite the terror that coursed through you. The tape over your mouth prevented you from speaking, but your eyes screamed the truth—This isn’t love.

He seemed to sense your defiance because the calm in his expression cracked, and for a moment, you saw the darkness beneath the mask of his boyish charm. “You don’t believe me,” he said, almost accusingly, his eyes narrowing as if you were the one who had wronged him.

“You don’t understand,” Ethan hissed, beginning to pace. “Nobody understands.” His voice grew sharper, each word edged with frustration. “You’ve been surrounded by people who don’t even see you—people who don’t deserve you.” He stopped and smiled at you. “But I do. I see you, Y/N. I know who you really are.”

You shook your head, fighting against the tears that threatened to spill. You had to get through to him—had to find a way to reason with him, no matter how deranged he was. You made a muffled sound behind the tape, pleading with your eyes for him to remove it.

Ethan hesitated, his gaze flickering over your face. He approached cautiously, like someone might approach a wounded animal. “You’re not going to scream, are you?” he asked, tilting his head. When you didn’t move, he reached for the tape and slowly peeled it off, the adhesive burning as it pulled away from your skin.

You drew in a shuddering breath. “This isn’t love, Ethan,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “It’s obsession.”

He flinched as if you had struck him. “No…” His voice wavered, but the intensity in his eyes remained. “It’s not an obsession. I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you. You were different.” He spoke as though he was trying to convince himself as much as you. “I had to protect you. I had to make sure no one got in the way.”

“And what about all those people you killed?” you asked, your voice rising with desperation. “Were they just in the way?”

His expression hardened, his jaw clenching. “They weren’t important.” His tone was cold now, detached, as though he were speaking about objects instead of people. “Not like you.” He moved closer, his hand gripping your shoulder with an alarming intensity. “You’re special, Y/N. Don’t you see?”

“No, Ethan!” you snapped, your voice shaking. “I’m not special, and this isn’t some romantic story. You’re sick. You need help.”

The words seemed to hit him like a physical blow. His grip on your shoulder tightened painfully before he yanked his hand away, his face twisting with a mix of anger and hurt.

Ethan's eyes darted toward the clock, and his frown deepened, as if he was weighing his options or calculating something in his head. His gaze shifted back to you, and for a moment, there was an almost regretful look in his eyes—like he wished things could be different, as if he genuinely believed this was all for the best.

“Maybe you don’t understand now,” he said quietly, his voice softening into something that almost sounded like pity. “But you will…you’ll see.” He took a step closer, his hand reaching up to brush your hair out of your face. “I have some things I need to take care of,” he continued, his tone unsettlingly calm. “But I promise, I’ll be back soon.”

Before you could say another word, he grabbed the roll of duct tape from the table and ripped off a piece, pressing it back over your mouth, smoothing it down with the same gentle care as if he were tucking you in for bed. His gaze lingered on yours, dark eyes gleaming with devotion. Then, without warning, he tilted his head and leaned in—his lips brushing against the tape covering your mouth in a lingering kiss. It was soft and disturbingly intimate, like a lover’s farewell.

“There,” he whispered against the tape, his lips still inches from yours. “Perfect.” He pulled back slowly, savoring the moment as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I’ll be back soon, Y/N," Ethan promised, a twisted kind of love in his voice. "I’ll make sure no one comes between us ever again."

[cece693]

Bet Pt. 2 (Klaus Mikaelson x M! Reader)

If you haven't read the first part, here's the link. But to catch up, basically male reader is confused about who Klaus really is—evil hybrid vs. sweet, caring man. However, when Klaus is willing to show you where the cure is, are you willing to leave whatever you have with Klaus behind?

tags: reader makes a choice, happy ending, Klaus is a sweet boy, the Salvatore brothers are pissed

You hadn’t stepped foot in the Mikaelson mansion since Klaus had revealed his feelings. Every time you tried, something stopped you. The weight of his confession—his unexpected vulnerability—left you feeling more confused than ever. You couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine, not when your mind was torn between the life you had before and the life Klaus was offering you.

It wasn’t him you were angry at. In fact, you couldn’t blame Klaus for being honest, for laying his cards on the table and letting you see a side of him that few others did. No, all your frustration, all the pent-up anger, was directed at yourself. Because if Klaus had made his offer before you truly got to know him—if he had mentioned the cure before you saw the man behind the hybrid—you wouldn’t have hesitated to take it. You would’ve agreed to anything just to be human again. But now things weren’t so simple.

If you chose the cure, you would be giving up everything. Your brothers, your friends, Klaus. And the thought of leaving him behind, of never knowing what could have been, filled you with a sense of dread you hadn’t expected. When you were with him, you felt more like yourself than you had in centuries. He made you feel alive in ways that weren’t tied to your vampiric instincts. He challenged you, but he also supported you. He saw you for who you were, not just the person you used to be or the vampire you had become. And that was terrifying yet exhilarating.

After another night of pacing and weighing your options, you knew you had to confront the reality of your choice. You needed to speak to your brothers, to make them understand where you stood. You found Damon and Stefan in the parlor, just as you had anticipated. They were both quiet, sipping on their bourbon, when you stepped inside. Damon glanced up first, his gaze sharpening as he saw the determined expression on your face.

“So, have you finally made up your mind?” Damon asked, raising an eyebrow.

You took a breath and nodded. “I have,” you said, and the words came out steadier than you felt. “I’m not taking the cure. I’ve decided to stay as I am.”

A flicker of relief passed over Stefan’s face, though Damon’s reaction was less encouraging. “Good,” Damon replied dryly, “glad you’ve come to your senses and aren’t throwing everything away for some idiotic human fantasy. I guess that means you’re done with the whole Klaus thing, too, right?”

“No. I’m staying a vampire, but I’m also choosing to be with Klaus.”

The room seemed to grow colder, the silence stretching taut as a bowstring. Stefan’s relief evaporated, his brow furrowing with concern. Damon’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing as if you had just confessed to the most unforgivable sin.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Damon spat, standing up so quickly the couch scraped against the floor. “You’re really choosing that monster over your own family? Do you even hear yourself?”

“It’s not like that,” you argued, feeling a surge of defensiveness rising in your chest. “This isn’t about choosing him over you—it’s about choosing the life I want. I’m not going to keep living the way I have, pretending things are fine between us. We haven’t been a real family for a long time.”

“So you think the answer is running into the arms of a psychopath?” Damon shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Newsflash, little brother: Klaus doesn’t know how to love. He’s a manipulative bastard who will use you until there’s nothing left. He's incapable of it.”

A bitter laugh escaped you as you met his gaze head-on. “And who are you to lecture me about love, Damon?” you shot back, anger seeping into your tone. “The man who fell for Katherine—twice? Or maybe it’s Stefan, the one who has been tangled up in an endless cycle with Elena for years, pretending that it’s love instead of just addiction?”

Stefan recoiled at your words, and Damon’s jaw tightened. The room was thick with tension, the brothers struggling to form a response. "I'm not some pawn in his game, Damon. Nor does he have me under a spell. Klaus has been honest with me, more than you have! When was the last time any of us truly cared about each other without some kind of ulterior motive?”

Stefan stepped forward. “We’re not saying you can’t choose your own path,” he said softly, “but Klaus is dangerous. You can’t deny that. You know what he’s capable of.”

“And we aren’t?” you shot back, your gaze moving between your brothers. “Let’s not act like we’re saints. We’ve all done terrible things, and we’ve all hurt people. Just because we did it for reasons we thought were justified doesn’t make us any better than him.”

Damon clenched his jaw, his expression dark with frustration. “You’re going to regret this,” he warned, his tone low and threatening. “You’re choosing him over us, and when it all falls apart, don’t expect us to come running.”

The weight of his words hit you harder than you’d expected, but you refused to show it. “If that’s the way you see it,” you replied quietly, “then maybe we were never truly brothers to begin with.”

The walk to the Mikaelson mansion felt like shedding an old skin, leaving behind a life that no longer fit. When you arrived, Klaus was there waiting, as if he had sensed the moment you had made up your mind. His expression softened the instant he saw you, a mixture of hope and relief glimmering in his eyes.

“So, you’ve come to a decision?” he asked, his voice steady but with a hint of vulnerability underneath.

You took a step closer, meeting his gaze with determination. “I have,” you said. “I’m staying.”

Klaus’s breath seemed to catch in his throat, his eyes darkening with an emotion that you had rarely seen before—something close to joy, but tempered by the shadow of all the years he had lived without it. He reached out, cupping your face in his hands with a tenderness that defied his reputation.

“Then you’ve made the right choice,” he murmured, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw. “And I promise, you won’t ever regret it, love.”

[cece693]

It Should've Been Me (Peeta Mellark x Male! Reader)

I don't know why there isn't much male reader fanfics for the Hunger Games, but I aim to change that. Especially when there are interesting characters such as Finnick and Johanna, but I'm playing it safe and beginning with Peeta.

Summary: M/N Evergreen didn't feel like a victor, especially when it cost the life of his sister, Katniss. Forced to wear a smile and continue living life as 'normal', the only person who seems to recognize his brokeness is the boy with the bread, Peeta Mellark.

M/N Evergreen didn’t feel like a victor, not when winning cost the life of his sister, Katniss. It was supposed to be her. She was the one with the spark, the one who inspired others to believe in something more. But now she was gone, and all that was left was him—a hollow reminder of what should have been. He knew he should be grateful; the Capitol's train pulling into District 12 meant he got to come home. But what kind of home was it when the only person who ever made it feel that way was dead?

Effie Trinket’s voice was a distant hum, urging him to “put on a happy face, darling.” Smile for the cameras, for the sponsors, for the charade of a victory tour that awaited him. He didn’t smile. He didn’t move. Even if he forced the corners of his lips upward, the emptiness in his eyes would betray him. The train doors slid open, and all he could do was stare blankly as the frigid air of District 12 rushed in, filling his lungs with the sharp scent of coal dust. The lenses of dozens of cameras zoomed in, capturing the haunted look that had become a permanent fixture on his face.

He heard Effie clear her throat nervously as she stepped out ahead of him, trying to drum up some semblance of a greeting from the sullen crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, our victor, M/N Everdeen!” Her voice rang out with all the bubbly enthusiasm she could muster, but the words fell flat.

As the Capitol’s cameras continued to click and whir, M/N forced himself to walk through the motions of the victor’s return. He let Effie guide him onto the stage, his limbs moving mechanically, as though they belonged to someone else. He could hear the rehearsed speech forming on her lips, filled with empty praise and hollow encouragement. He heard his own voice, flat and monotone, echo her words when prompted, thanking the Capitol for its generosity and the people of District 12 for their support.

But the truth was, he didn’t feel like a victor, and he never would. He was just another casualty of the Hunger Games—only, he happened to still be breathing.

The days passed in a blur for M/N Everdeen, though he barely noticed the shift from one to the next. Returning to District 12 should have felt like a relief—home, where things were familiar. But the place seemed alien to him now, like he was wandering through a ghost town where all the buildings and people were merely pale shadows of what they once were. Even the Seam, which always bustled with life despite its poverty, felt quieter, as if the town itself was grieving. Maybe it was.

At home, his mother had returned to the land of the living, as much as she could. She moved around the house with a new purpose, cooking and cleaning with a mechanical precision that betrayed the emptiness in her eyes. M/N knew it wasn’t for him; it was for Prim. Their mother clung to her youngest, constantly checking on her and making sure she ate, slept, and stayed warm. M/N could see her fighting against the hollowness, desperately trying to appear whole for Prim’s sake. For him, too, though he wasn’t sure why she bothered.

M/N hadn’t eaten since he stepped off the train. Every meal placed in front of him felt like an insult to Katniss’s memory—he shouldn’t get to eat, shouldn’t get to live while she was gone. His mother and Prim had seemed to silently agree on a pact not to let him waste away, though. If he refused breakfast, his mother would leave it on the table for him to find later. If he tried to hide in his room during dinner, Prim would seek him out, dragging him to the kitchen. They were relentless in their quiet determination to keep him alive.

Today, he couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to get out, to escape the house where Katniss’s absence hung like a shroud over everything. He slipped out the back door and walked toward the edge of the district, to the fence that separated District 12 from the woods. It was supposed to be electrified, but the power rarely ran this far out, and he easily found a gap to slip through. The forest beckoned to him, promising solitude and silence—two things he desperately craved. For a few moments, he felt the faintest hint of peace as he wandered deeper into the trees, letting the thick canopy above dim the harsh sunlight.

But he wasn’t alone for long.

“M/N.” a voice called softly from behind him.

He froze, recognizing the voice before he even turned around. Peeta Mellark was standing there, a few paces back, watching him with that same quiet intensity he’d had since the day M/N returned. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t wearing that charming expression he often showed in public. Instead, his face was open, unguarded, as though he’d stripped away all pretense.

“What are you doing here?” M/N asked, his voice raw from disuse.

Peeta stepped closer, careful not to startle him, as if M/N were a wounded animal. “I saw you come out here,” he replied. “I was worried.”

M/N let out a bitter laugh. “You shouldn’t be,” he muttered, turning his gaze back to the forest. “If I don’t come back, I’m sure everyone would understand.”

“Don’t say that,” Peeta said sharply, the sudden firmness in his voice cutting through the quiet. “You don’t get to give up. Not after everything…”

“Everything?” M/N scoffed, spinning to face him. “What did I survive for, Peeta? There’s no victory here. I’m alive, but she’s gone. And now I have to pretend like any of this is okay?”

“You survived because Katniss wanted you to,” Peeta said, stepping closer again. “She fought for you—”

“I don’t need a lecture about my own sister,” M/N interrupted, his voice rising. “You don’t know what it was like! You weren’t there! I should have protected her, but I couldn’t even do that. All I could do was… was watch as she—” His voice broke, the words dissolving into a choked sob.

He turned away from Peeta, trembling as his chest tightened painfully. He had spent every waking moment since returning home forcing himself not to break, swallowing back his grief until it clawed at his throat, but now it surged forward like a flood. He didn’t know how to stop it.

“It's not your fault,” Peeta’s voice was gentle, and when M/N felt a hand on his shoulder, he flinched but didn’t pull away. “You did everything you could.”

M/N shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “It wasn’t enough,” he whispered. “It’ll never be enough. She’s gone because of me.”

Peeta’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him in close. M/N’s legs buckled, and he collapsed into Peeta’s embrace, his sobs breaking free in jagged gasps. Peeta held him tightly, steadying him as he sank to the forest floor. He murmured soothing words, though M/N couldn’t make out the exact phrases—only that there was a calm, reassuring rhythm in the sound of Peeta’s voice.

For a long while, M/N cried in Peeta’s arms, clutching at his shirt as if afraid to let go. It wasn’t fair, not to Peeta, not to anyone, to have to bear the weight of his grief like this. But Peeta stayed, anchoring him through the storm of emotion until, at last, M/N’s sobs quieted, leaving him drained and hollow.

When he finally pulled back, Peeta’s shirt was soaked with tears, but he didn’t seem to mind. He looked down at M/N with an expression so full of understanding it hurt. “You’re not alone, you know,” he said softly. “You don’t have to go through this by yourself.”

M/N shook his head, his voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to keep going.”

Peeta’s hand found his, squeezing gently. “One step at a time. That’s all you need to do for now.” The words weren’t a solution, but they were something—a fragile thread of hope in a world that felt impossibly dark. And for the first time since returning to District 12, M/N didn’t feel completely lost. He still didn’t know how to live without Katniss, but with Peeta’s arm around his shoulders, guiding him back toward the fence, he thought maybe, just maybe, he could figure it out. One step at a time.

[cece693]

I absolutely loved well mannered son. I think it was some of your best work. I hope we have a sequel

Well Mannered Son Pt. 2 (Norman Bates x M! Reader)

Thanks for the sweet words. I initially wanted it to just be a stand-alone, but then I thought about it and wanted to show more of Norman's psycho side.

link to part one

After that kiss, Norman's world spiraled into a hazy blur, where nothing seemed real except the lingering warmth of your lips against his own. He clung to that memory, obsessively replaying it like a film loop in his mind—the taste of you, the heat of your breath, the way your hands had pulled him in as though you couldn’t bear to let him go. The vacancy sign outside flickered through the rain-streaked window, casting dim shadows that danced across the motel room. The storm was relentless, drumming steadily against the roof, keeping others at bay while he indulged in the fantasy of what could be.

But then, the loud chime of the door’s bell shattered his dreamlike state, snapping him back to reality. His heart clenched when he heard your voice mingling with another, lighter and sickeningly sweet. His eyes darted outside, narrowing when he saw you speaking to a woman. Marion, she had said her name was. Pretty, young, with a smile that shone through the rain as she leaned in just a little too close.

Norman’s jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the windowsill. The way she stood there, flirting with you so brazenly… and you didn’t push her away. You didn’t tell her you were his. No, instead, you just stood there and let her laugh, let her touch your arm like she had any right to. It was maddening. If you had kissed him, it had to mean something, didn’t it? That you loved him? That you wanted him? There was no other explanation.

"Look at her, Norman," Mother's voice slithered through his thoughts, dripping with scorn. "She's trying to steal him away. She thinks she can take what's yours. Are you just going to stand there and let it happen?"

For once, her words felt like a welcome comfort, wrapping around his mind like a cocoon. She was right. He wasn’t going to let some cheap little nobody take you away from him. You were his. It was fate. And fate wouldn’t be denied—not by some worthless girl who had wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time.

"There’s only one way to deal with a trespasser, Norman," Mother whispered, her tone laced with dark approval. "Make sure she never touches what’s yours again." The thought was a sudden, visceral rush, adrenaline coursing through him as he grabbed the knife.

When the deed was done, Marion’s lifeless eyes stared back at him from the blood-soaked bathroom floor. Her face was a grotesque mask of shock, a silent accusation that no longer held any power. Norman stood over her, breathing heavily, the metallic tang of blood filling the air, but instead of the usual horror that followed these moments, there was only calm. Satisfaction. A perverse kind of pride in knowing that he had protected what was his. She would never come between you again. No one would.

When you appeared in the doorway, Norman’s heart lurched. There you were, the object of his every fevered thought, every restless night. Your gaze swept over the scene, taking in the gore with a calm that seemed to resonate through the air. There was no revulsion in your eyes, no fear—just a faint glimmer of amusement, a dark fondness as you stepped closer, your boots leaving faint, bloody prints on the tile.

"You really didn’t like her, did you?" Your voice was low, a teasing growl that sent a shudder down Norman’s spine. You reached out, your hand curling around his jaw, tilting his face up to meet your gaze. Your touch was firm, commanding, making his breath hitch.

"I—I couldn’t let her take you," Norman stammered, his wide eyes glistening with a frantic devotion that bordered on madness. He leaned into your touch like a starving man who had finally found his sustenance. "You're mine…I…I know you feel it too. You have to…You wouldn’t have kissed me if you didn’t love me."

Your chuckle was dark, vibrating against his skin as you leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his ear. "I never said I didn’t like it, Norman," you murmured, your voice dripping with amusement. "It’s adorable, really, how far you'd go just to keep me."

Norman’s breath hitched, his pupils dilating as your words washed over him like a caress. Your approval was intoxicating, making his pulse race and his limbs tremble with a strange mixture of fear and desire. The knife slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor as you pulled him closer, crashing your lips into his with a raw, possessive intensity that made his head spin.

"I’m not going anywhere," you whispered against his mouth, your fingers threading through his hair and tightening just enough to make him gasp. "But know that I also will kill whoever thinks they can steal you away from me."

[cece693]

Doing What's Right (Edward Cullen x GN! Reader)

Summary: You came to stand as witness to Renesmee's unique nature, even when your history with her father was less than ideal.

tags: no happy ending, reader is Edward's ex, Bella is dead, Renesmee is an innocent child

The air was thick with tension as you stood with Renesmee by your side, her small hand clutched in yours as the Volturi gathered in a crescent. Aro’s hand gripped Edward, his expression one of gleeful intrigue as he delved into Edward’s thoughts. The ancient vampire's red eyes gleamed with an unsettling kind of satisfaction, the curiosity of a predator who had just discovered a rare, curious prey.

"Fascinating," Aro breathed, his voice silkier than usual. "Such a peculiar existence this child has—neither fully human, nor entirely one of us." His gaze flicked to Renesmee, lingering in a way that made your grip tighten around the girl's hand. "And yet, you all risk so much for her."

Edward flinched slightly but remained silent, his jaw set tight as Aro continued to sift through his mind. The Volturi leader's eyes then shifted to you, a curious spark alighting in their depths.

“And you,” he said, addressing you directly, “I sense a profound depth of loyalty in you, though not exactly to this coven.” His smile curled higher, as though amused by his own words. “What makes you stand beside them given your...rocky history with Edward?”

The remark hit its mark, but you didn’t flinch. “I stand for what’s just,” you replied coolly. “No more, no less.”

Aro chuckled softly, releasing Edward from his grip. “Very well,” he said, turning to his guard. “It appears the child poses no danger. For now, at least.” With a languid wave of his hand, Aro signaled to his guard to retreat. You exhaled slowly, the tension in your shoulders finally releasing. Renesmee, still clutching your hand, looked up at you with wide, worried eyes, but you gave her a reassuring nod.

“It’s over,” you whispered to her, your voice soft but firm. “You’re safe now.”

Those words seemed to break the tense atmosphere as the vampires quickly rejoiced, hugging loved ones and letting smiles appear on their faces. However, you slipped back from the group. You needed space, the pain you tried to hide these last weeks threatening to appear. Running toward the Cullen home, you wanted to leave before anyone took notice, but it was too late.

Edward cornered you just as you turned down an empty corridor, his expression a mixture of hope and desperation. “Please, just give me a chance to explain,” he began, his voice quieter than usual. “There’s so much I need to say—”

You shook your head, already feeling the familiar ache in your chest that you’d worked so hard to bury. “What’s there to explain, Edward?” you asked, turning to face him, your voice tinged with exhaustion. “You made your choice. You chose Bella. End of story.”

His expression faltered, but he took a step closer. “I know what I did,” he said, his voice strained. “I know I made the wrong choice, and I—” His voice broke, and for a moment, you thought you saw genuine regret in his eyes. “I lost both of you. I lost everything.”

Your eyes narrowed. “That was the risk you took when you picked her over me,” you replied, your tone cold and unforgiving. “And now you’re here trying to salvage what’s left because you realized it didn’t turn out the way you thought it would.”

“She was my bloodsinger,” he said, as if the explanation could somehow erase the hurt that had carved itself into you over the years. “It was impossible to resist—”

“And I was your mate,” you cut in, voice rising despite yourself. “That was supposed to mean something. But you couldn’t resist your obsession long enough to think about what you were sacrificing."

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his composure visibly cracking. “I know,” he whispered. “I know I failed you, and I know I failed her. But…you were there for Renesmee today. You fought for her—you saved her. Doesn’t that mean something? Can’t we at least try to start over?”

The look in his eyes—the hope, the desperation—it was almost enough to make you hesitate. Almost. “No,” you said, shaking your head. “We’re not starting over, Edward. There’s nothing left to rebuild. I protected Renesmee because it was right, because she’s innocent and didn’t deserve to be caught up in all this. But don’t confuse that with wanting anything to do with you.”

He took another step closer, his hand reaching out as if to touch you, to bridge the chasm between you. “But I still—”

“You still what?” you interrupted, the bitterness seeping into your tone. “You still love me? Do you even know what that means anymore? You loved Bella, too, remember? And look where that got you. It got her dead, and it got you standing here trying to scrape together pieces of a life you threw away.”

His hand fell back to his side, the weight of your words settling over him. For a moment, you thought he might finally give up, finally accept that he had lost you for good. But his gaze remained fixed on you, a silent plea lingering in his eyes.

“Please,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t leave me again.”

You felt a pang of something—regret, pity, maybe even a shred of the love that once existed between you—but you pushed it away, locked it down deep inside where it couldn’t hurt you anymore. “I already did,” you said quietly. “The moment you chose Bella over me, I walked away. And I’m not coming back.”

[cece693]

Hi, are you open to requests? If so, can I request an Ethan Landry (Scream VI) story with a dominant male reader?

I wanted something with Ethan feeling hurt because his friends are accusing him when he could end up dying for being their friend and not feeling valued in the group and his boyfriend defending him in that scene where Chad was accusing him. Whether or not Ethan is actually Ghostface, I'll leave it up to you.

He's Not The Killer (Ethan Landry x Dom! Male Reader)

So I have a confession to make...I actually haven't seen any of the newest Scream films, so this fic might not be accurate to the plot, but I tried my best :)

The dorm room buzzed with tension, thick enough to cut with a knife. The group was on edge, paranoia creeping in after every attack, every mysterious disappearance. But this time, it wasn’t just suspicion in the air—it was betrayal.

Chad paced back and forth, his gaze fixed on Ethan with a mixture of anger and suspicion. “How do we know you’re not the one behind all of this?” he snapped, the accusation hanging in the air like a death sentence. “You showed up late the night it happened. You were unaccounted for, and every time something goes down, you have an excuse.”

Ethan’s face paled, his lips parting in shock. “Chad, come on,” he stammered, his voice trembling. “You seriously think I’d hurt any of you? I’ve been through all this with you! Why would I—”

“Because it’s always the quiet ones,” Chad interrupted, his voice low and accusing. “It’s the ones nobody suspects until it’s too late. How do we know you’re not playing us? Huh?”

You pushed yourself off the wall, stepping forward to place yourself between Ethan and Chad. “That's enough. You’re just pointing fingers because you’re scared and you don’t know what to do. But throwing accusations around isn’t helping anyone. Ethan isn’t Ghostface.”

Chad took a step closer, glaring at you. "And what guarantees you that? Are you only defending him because you're sleeping with him? Or is it because you’re getting your dick sucked and can't think straight?"

The words hit you like a freight train, your blood boiling in an instant. The rest of the room fell into stunned silence, the air sucked right out of it. Without thinking, your fist flew out, colliding with Chad's jaw in a swift, brutal motion. The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed off the walls, and Chad stumbled back, clutching his face with a pained grunt.

“You son of a bitch!” Chad roared, springing forward and tackling you to the ground. The two of you hit the floor hard, wrestling in a mess of tangled limbs and swinging fists. You felt a fist connect with your ribcage, sending a shock of pain up your spine, but you pushed through it, shoving Chad off you and launching yourself back at him. You landed a solid punch to his cheek, knocking his head to the side, but Chad was quick to retaliate, delivering a blow to your temple that left your vision swimming.

“Look at you, getting violent just because someone questioned your precious boyfriend,” he spat, wiping the blood from his split lip. “He’s got you wrapped around his little finger, and you don’t even see it.” The utter hatred found in Chad's voice caused you to deliver another punch to his jaw, when Ethan's voice cut through the haze.

"Stop it!" You felt his hands gripping your shoulders, pulling you back with a force that didn’t seem possible for him. “Enough! Both of you!” There was a tremor in his voice, and when you finally looked at him, his eyes were glossy with unshed tears.

The fight bled out of you as you stared at Ethan’s face, his expression raw and hurt. He tugged on your arm, guiding you away from Chad, who was cradling his jaw. Ethan pulled you towards the corner of the room, out of earshot from the others, his grip on your wrist surprisingly firm.

Once you were out of sight, he dropped his hand, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. “What the hell was that?” he whispered, his voice strained. “You didn’t have to do that. You didn’t have to—”

“I wasn’t about to let him talk about you like that,” you cut in, your voice soft but firm. “He crossed a line, Ethan. I don’t care if everyone else is losing their heads and pointing fingers; I’m not going to stand by and let them treat you like you’re the killer.”

Ethan's eyes searched your face, as if trying to find some hint of doubt, some indication that you didn’t really mean what you were saying. “You…you really don’t think I’m Ghostface?” His voice cracked, as if he didn’t even believe it himself.

You reached out, cupping his face gently. “I know you,” you murmured. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me—or any of us. You’re not the killer, Ethan. I’m sure of it.”

He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as if savoring the reassurance. But deep inside, a darkness stirred—a quiet, insidious voice that he’d tried to ignore for so long. Because he was Ghostface.

Ethan’s mind raced with the realization that while you stood there defending him, fighting for him, he had already planned his next moves. The upcoming murders were inevitable—painful, brutal, but necessary. Yet, as you looked at him with nothing but trust and concern, the promise formed in his mind with the clarity of a vow: you would be the sole survivor. You would be spared, kept safe from the carnage he was about to unleash. He would make sure of it, no matter the cost.

The guilt briefly pricked at him, but it was drowned out by something darker—something possessive. He needed to keep you safe, even if it meant everyone else had to die for it. Ethan opened his eyes and gave you a small, broken smile. "Thank you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I…I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You pulled him into a tight embrace, your fingers threading through his hair as you held him close. “You don’t have to worry about that,” you said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

In Ethan's mind, however, the words took on a different meaning. You’re not going anywhere, he repeated silently, the thought cold and final. Not while I'm around. As his arms wrapped around you, his expression softened into something genuine and loving—yet beneath it, the darkness lingered, hidden just out of view, waiting for the right moment to strike.

[cece693]

Handcuffs (Hannibal Lecter x GN! Reader)

Just wanted a break from writing Percy Jackson fics, so here's something for my favorite slasher :)

Summary: You made Hannibal Lecter fall in love with you, however, that doesn't mean that your cannibal suddenly turns into a normal person. You can't declaw a predator, nor do you want to.

tags: possessive Hannibal, reader loves him, insecurity, handcuffs, no funny business though ☹️

Hannibal was a man of little emotions, his person suit knitted tightly to conceal the darkness he harbored within. But after he met you, that meticulous facade he had spent his entire life perfecting turned to nothing. He allowed you to see him—see past the elegant, cultured mask to the predator lurking beneath. You saw the monster Hannibal Lecter was, and loved him regardless. You didn’t flinch from the truths others would fear, didn’t shy away from the hunger in his eyes or the blood on his hands. You accepted him, wholly, and in that acceptance, Hannibal found a kind of vulnerability he had never allowed himself to feel.

So, to be frightened of losing that bond—over something as trivial as a fleeting conversation—was not irrational to him. You and he were bound together, sewn tightly by an unspoken understanding, an irrevocable trust. It was not love in the conventional sense; it was something deeper, darker, like two conjoined twins who could not survive a separation. You were his, and the very idea of another daring to encroach on what belonged to him was an affront Hannibal could not tolerate.

You lay on the bed, one wrist tethered to the headboard by a pair of handcuffs. The metal was cool and unyielding against your skin, biting just enough to remind you of your restraints without truly hurting. Hannibal stood beside you, his form still as he observed you with that unnerving intensity, his eyes reflecting the dim light like those of a wolf caught between the urge to protect its territory and to devour it whole.

There was no anger in his face, only a calm so controlled it bordered on unnerving. It was the kind of calm that came before a storm—before a decision was made, or a life was taken. You knew better than to argue. The situation was absurd in its own way, but also unmistakably Hannibal. This was his way of showing love, his twisted, possessive proof that he could not and would not risk losing you. After all, if he didn’t care, you would not be breathing right now.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” you said quietly, meeting his gaze with steady resolve. “You know that, Hannibal.”

He remained silent, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he watched you. Then he took a step closer, his fingers brushing over the curve of your cheek, trailing down to your jaw. The touch was gentle, but there was a possessiveness in the way his thumb grazed your skin.“The fault is not yours,” he conceded, his voice a low murmur. “But there are others—pigs—who think they can encroach upon what is mine.”

He moved his hand lower, letting his fingers curl around the cuff on your wrist. “I am not a man who shares,” he continued, his voice like dark velvet, smooth but edged with something dangerous. “Nor am I one who takes kindly to trespassers. You belong to me.”

“And I do,” you replied softly, letting the words fall between you like a vow. “You don’t have to worry. No one else even comes close.”

For a moment, Hannibal's expression softened, though only slightly. He leaned in, so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with something unmistakably him. “You speak as though you understand,” he whispered, his lips brushing lightly against your ear, “but humans are fickle creatures. Even the strongest bonds can unravel if pulled upon by the wrong hands.”

You tilted your head just enough for it to hover near his ear. A whisper, a vow. “Not ours. Not this.” You rattled the cuff slightly for emphasis, giving a faint smile. “You don’t need these, Hannibal. You know I’m not going anywhere.”

A shadow of something almost like doubt flickered in Hannibal's face, which you didn't catch. Hannibal was not a man who often second-guessed himself, but when it came to you, there was a vulnerability he despised, a quiet dread that perhaps, one day, he would wake to find you gone.

Instead of unlocking the cuff, Hannibal eased himself onto the bed beside you. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he slid close, his arm looping around your waist with a possessive grip that didn’t quite loosen. He pressed his chest against your side, his legs intertwining with yours as though to form a barrier, ensuring you could not slip away even if you wanted to.

You felt his breath stir the hairs on the back of your neck as he spoke, his voice low and almost tender. “It is not you I distrust,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. “It is the world. The world is full of banal, foolish people who do not understand the bond we share. I will not allow anyone to fracture it.”

His hand moved up your back, his fingers splaying against your spine as though grounding himself in the reality of your presence. “You have spoiled me, my dear,” he continued, his tone dropping to a near whisper, “with your loyalty, with your love. And now, I am left with the knowledge that I could not bear to be without you.”

You nestled closer to him, feeling the tension gradually bleed from his form as he adjusted his hold around you. The handcuff remained fastened, but it felt less like a restraint now, more like a reminder of his claim on you. His thumb traced small circles over your skin, soothing in its rhythm.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said softly, your voice laced with affection. “You’re stuck with me, Hannibal. Whether you like it or not.”

He let out a low, almost inaudible chuckle, a rare sound that warmed your heart and made you fall more in love with this monster. “Indeed,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there as though he could seal the promise into your skin. “And I would not have it any other way.”

As his breathing began to slow, the grip around your waist eased just enough to allow you to shift comfortably against him. But even in sleep, his arm remained draped over you, his fingers curling possessively into the fabric of your clothes. It was a silent promise, a wordless reminder that even in his most vulnerable moments, he would not let you go.

You listened to the rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat, steady and strong, a soothing lullaby that seemed almost out of place for a man who carried so much darkness inside him. But it was real—just like his love for you, just like the monster you had chosen to love in return.

As the darkness of the room wrapped around you both, you let your eyes close, feeling the weight of his possessiveness settle over you like a protective shroud. There was comfort in knowing that you belonged to him—and that he belonged to you in return, even if it was in the most unconventional, twisted way.