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[sugarcoated-lame]

Happy to finally be caught up, but also a bit sad because this is just too good and I want to keep reading MORE!!! 😭

You’ve received plenty of life lessons on what it means to be a woman. Your grandmother, your mother, your aunts and cousins, teachers and friends. Not one of them prepared you for this. In your scope, apologies come in the form of jewelry or luxury vacations.

No one had ever prepared you for a man to look into your eyes and tell you that he is truly sorry.

“You should finish it.” Bradley tells you.

“Yeah. Maybe later.” You hum. It’s nice, to be held by him. He strokes a hand softly over your hair.

I really loved this whole part! I felt a bit crushed for her, with her thinking it was going to be just another situation of a man making her feel small after Bradley had teased her and read the letter. But him then showing her that he’s not like the other men in her life, that the way she’s been brought up isn’t the only way to be, and actually giving her a sincere apology, I just can’t get over how sweet he is with her in that moment 🥹

He’s grown up enough to know that you’ve got enough people messing with your head back home. Whatever that letter helps you realize, Bradley has already decided that he isn’t going to say a word about it.

Bradley encouraging her to finish the letter melted my heart, I’m really enjoying seeing the little ways that their dynamic changes as he gets a better understanding of her.

Three different pencil sketches sit on the paper.

The largest is in the centre. It’s of your face and your shoulders, elbows propped up against the grass and your lips pouted slightly as you study the book before you. The lashes, the slight misshape of your polo collar, the tip of your nose. He’s got it down to a science.

AND BRADLEY SKETCHING HER! AAAAH !!! Screaming and yelling, giggling and kicking my feet, I’m in love with this 🫠

When you’re old and married, maybe you’ll find the drawing and piece together the parts of Bradley that made you smile like that.

I think you mean, when you’re old and married to HIM.. haha… right? 😭👀 oh god I just love them so much, I will never recover if they don’t get a happy ending 😭

The whole argument about Robin, and then the comment about her grade had me stressed and about ready to punch Bradley in the balls once again, but I’m glad that he was able to admit that he was in the wrong and apologize!

“You’re right. I was ignoring my body — I like the way I look in this. I like my shape. I can still respect myself without covering up so much. Right?”

Omg she cut the nighty in half, love that for her!! And I love that she’s gaining more confidence and making Bradley’s life a little harder lol

I’ve already said it, but I’m seriously loving the tension and slow-burn! All the build-up, and the push-and-pull between her and Bradley is just so good and I can’t wait to see how it all comes to a head! 🫠

Aaah Katie, this series is just amazing, I adore professor Bradley and I’m so excited for more! I love seeing the both of them grappling with their feelings for the other, and now that Natasha is making a return, I’m very anxious to see what’s going to happen next!!! ☺️🫶🏼🧡💕🧡💕🧡

The Odyssey | 0.8 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

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Synopsis: Bradley keeps a close eye on the other students, nightly dinners become a regular occurrence. Malcolm feels further away than ever. A phone call in the middle of the night causes a swift change in plans.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, power imbalance (professor / student relationship), age gap (22 / 33), will be smut, virgin reader, swearing, infidelity. 18+ minors dni

…

Bradley wakes up with the sun. All of those West Coast mornings and thin, green floral curtains in his grandmother’s house. The sun spilling through them and alerting him to the Chordettes playing downstairs on grainy vinyl. That meant his mother was cleaning. Lemon-scented disinfectant, her sitting on her knees polishing the hardwood with a rag. The effortless warmth of her voice drifting through the walls.

He exhales. Sunlight seeps through his eyelids but there’s no Chordettes album today. No lemon scent. Just a dusty room and one of his students sleeping six feet away. His eyelids flutter, blinking through the early morning light. A slow turn of his neck allows him to check the clock on the nightstand and doesn’t affront the stiffness that these cheap mattresses give him either.

It’s early. About four hours before Luke would naturally rise, anyway. Bradley hits the alarm and pushes himself upright with a soft sigh. He doesn’t have to be quiet when he’s getting out of bed, that kid could sleep through a hurricane.

They have a lot in common. Lots of similarities in the way they were raised. Bradley likes him beyond just being his professor. In different circumstances, they would be friends. But, Bradley has always kept that line in the sand clear. Until now. Until you had kissed him.

Showered and dressed, Bradley’s up before most of Verona. The soles of his shoes are quiet against the cobble. Italian leather from almost a decade ago. A gift from an old friend that have held up well. The only dress shoes he’s got.

It’s bright out. Bright enough that Bradley’s squinting through his Ray-Ban caravans already, but it’s not too hot just yet. There’s a wind that makes the loose white of his button-up billow against his tanned skin, fighting to work free from being neatly tucked into his belt.

Enzo’s out on the steps by the time Bradley gets there, which means he is late. Teaching hasn’t ever been Bradley’s passion, but it makes way for him to study and — in theory — he gets his summers off. It allows him to write.

���Good morning.” Enzo greets him with a smile. Bradley’s not much for the business side of things — he would have better luck at counting the shades of blue in the sky than he would at figuring out schmoozing. Enzo knows this, and Bradley knows that he knows this. “How’s the book coming?”

“I’m not sure,” Bradley answers with a broad shrug. He tucks the gold frames of his sunglasses into the part of his shirt. “I’m not sure I’ll have it finished by the end of summer.”

Olive-skinned and about fifteen years Bradley’s senior, Enzo looks the part of a sleazy salesman even if he’s just a curator when his lips twist up into a smile. “Something’s got you a little distracted, hm?”

The straight ahead stare, the deep, slow breaths and the unwavering tight line that his lips are pressed into; Bradley’s reaction is easily readable — and Enzo’s close enough to get hit if he keeps it up. He knows that. Towing the line is his specialty.

“Just joking. Here, let’s go in.”

Three soft-sounding steps inside and Bradley’s back where he was this morning. Ten years old and laying on his back in the twin bed in the bedroom at the front of his grandmother’s house, smelling artificial lemon.

He turns his head just a little, his eyes lingering on the mop being pushed around the tile floor, as Enzo leads him further inside.

Being published is what professors dream of. Having someone decide that their little ramblings are interesting enough to publish. Bradley’s study focuses on two things that are inherently interesting to begin with — sex, and power.

His research may be tedious every now and again but the content is always rich. His morning spins by and before he knows it, it’s time to meet you again. You’re ready for him when he gets there, tugging open the door before he has knocked.

But, you don’t look excited to see him.

Cheeks flushed, your body language suggests to him that you would have a decent future as an offensive lineman. His gaze flickers up, over your head and into your seemingly innocent hotel room. Powerless as he scans the room, you just hope he can’t figure out what it is that has you so rattled.

You had aimed to finish before he had arrived but time had gotten away from you.

“So what are we doing today?” You try.

“What are you writing?” His eyes are already on it. The open stack of lined papers, torn out of the notebook already, sitting on the vanity by the wall. Your perfume is next to it and you’ve got the stationary set that your mother got you laid out neatly next to it.

“Nothing.”

He looks down. First, at your face. Wide eyes and baited breath. Then, at your hands suddenly resting against his chest like they’ll hold him in place. His lips twitch.

“Nothing?” He repeats to you. Enjoyment seeps through his words, amusement tugs at his lips and he lifts his right foot to take one step forwards. “Mind if I take a look?”

Instantly, your fingers are curling into his shirt and you’re throwing your weight at him to keep him where he is. Bradley huffs out a sound of amusement, passing you in one swift stride as you claw at his button up to slow him down.

“Don’t, Bradley, it’s stupid — I was just messing around. I don’t want you to read it.”

His fingers brush the top page as you plead with him, tugging at his sleeve, trying to change his mind. He lifts it nonetheless and shoots you a grin, making a show of clearing his throat.

“Dear Juliet,” He pronounces, turning his attention back to the page from you.

“Bradley, please don’t.” It’s not fun anymore. You’re quiet and resigned to him doing whatever he pleases. Embarrassment teems through you.

It’s a familiar kind of crushing feeling. It’s never just feeling small, it’s never that simple. It’s being made small. Every inch that you shrink, you’re squished down further until you’re nothing.

You can see it in his face, the exact moment that he reads his initials on the paper. It had seemed too personal to use his name. Back when this had seemed like a good idea at all.

He doesn’t read on. The paper sits still in his hand as he turns his head towards you. You stare back at him, preparing yourself. Tongue poised, ready to spit whatever venom he deserves after what he says next. Eyes wide, and sad.

“I’m sorry.”

He sets the paper back down as he had found it. It’s not his to discard, it wasn’t his to read. Bradley steps forwards and wraps his hands gently around both of your biceps.

“That wasn’t cool,” He tells you quietly. Bradley knows a couple of different languages, and he’s confident that he’s speaking English now, even if you’re staring at him like he isn’t. “I didn’t realize what it was. I was just trying to mess with you. I barely read any of it.”

Silent, you blink a few times. He’s still there with his big, heavy hands anchoring around your biceps. He’s waiting for you to say something back.

Slowly, your brows draw together. Your eyes flicker over every inch of his face, looking for some fault that will give up this little act.

Suddenly, your mind is made up. This is an act. He’s not sorry, men rarely are. You straighten your back and lift your chin, if you were a cat your claws would be out and ready. “You’re such an asshole.”

The clock beside your bed, the hands don’t move, and yet it feels like you can hear something ticking. Maybe your heartbeat. He’s staring back at you, not moving, but he’s going to have to soon — it’s his turn.

“I know, honey,” Bradley’s hands open and he releases your arms, only to open his and wrap you in them. Your face presses into his chest as he rubs a hand along the small of your back. “I didn’t mean to.”

You’ve received plenty of life lessons on what it means to be a woman. Your grandmother, your mother, your aunts and cousins, teachers and friends. Not one of them prepared you for this. In your scope, apologies come in the form of jewelry or luxury vacations.

No one had ever prepared you for a man to look into your eyes and tell you that he is truly sorry.

“I just wanted to put it on paper, get it out of my head,” You mumble into his shirt, inhaling the notes of wood and warm spice in his cologne. Your hand rests against his stomach now, unclenched. Your body is soft against his. You relax out of all of that tension and let him hold you. “Make some sense of it.”

His palm hugs the base of your skull, cradling you against his shoulder. His cheek rests against the top of your head. He gives you a slow nod.

“You should finish it.” Bradley tells you.

“Yeah. Maybe later.” You hum. It’s nice, to be held by him. He strokes a hand softly over your hair.

Within this city, within the walls of the first space that you have had to yourself in three weeks, in this brown hotel room — you have let yourself be his.

Tomorrow, you’ll move on to Venice. The decision is yours, to leave him and all of this insanity right here — forever between these four walls — or to let go.

Bradley’s thumb trails the nape of your neck. He can feel you deep in thought. Just once, he would like to know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours. “Could be our activity for today. Write it in Latin, think of it as a translation activity. I won’t check it.”

Lifting your head, you stare up at him, lips pursed in distaste. “If you don’t check it then what’s the point?”

“Confidence.” Bradley tells you. You feel his open palms trail your back until they hit your belt. Then, they skim around to rest safely on your waist. “The more you practice—“

“Yeah, yeah…” Both hands push against his chest as you wriggle out of his arms and turn. “Okay, I’m in.”

“Let’s sit outside. It’s a nice day.”

The eighth of June. The day you sat in a public garden opposite a fountain, laying on your front in the grass while Bradley sat in front of you, propped up against a tree. It turns out that when Bradley says he knows a place, it’s usually worth listening.

“What’s this place called?”

“Giusti Garden.” He tells you, working on something of his own in his lap.

“And what is it?” You ask him, trailing the end of your pencil through the dictionary. He looks up at you, his own pencil stilling for a second.

“A palace, originally.” Blinking through the lenses of his sunglasses, Bradley glances down at the page in front of him and back to your lips, pursed in concentration. “Pretty popular. Mozart, Gorthe, Ruskin— they’ve all visited this place.”

“Huh.” You hum.

This time when his gaze flickers up, you have moved. Your lips are parted, you tap the rubber at the end of your pencil against your bottom lip.

Mid-sentence and stuck, you turn your head towards him and he’s already looking at you. He read what was on that paper the first time. He reads hundreds of essays a year, he has mastered the art of clearing a page quickly.

Admittedly, he hadn’t gotten through the whole page, but he’d noticed that you had stopped halfway through a word at the bottom.

He read all about it. How confused you are. The new feelings and the difficult thoughts. Malcolm and how much he loves you. How guilty you are. How furious with yourself you are.

Selfishly, Bradley wonders if you’re writing the same thing now. All of those biting looks and harsh words — Bradley feels like he’s just starting to understand, and he likes the person behind it all.

He’s grown up enough to know that you’ve got enough people messing with your head back home. Whatever that letter helps you realize, Bradley has already decided that he isn’t going to say a word about it.

It’s still bright out by the time that your letter is signed and sealed, tucked into your bag. You straighten up, brushing off your front as Bradley collects his things behind you.

“Here.”

Lifting your head, you almost miss it. He watches your eyes land on the folded piece of paper extended towards you. Your lips quirk softly as you reach out and take it from him.

Breeze catches your hair, you comb it off of your forehead with one hand as you open up the paper with the other. Three different pencil sketches sit on the paper.

The largest is in the centre. It’s of your face and your shoulders, elbows propped up against the grass and your lips pouted slightly as you study the book before you. The lashes, the slight misshape of your polo collar, the tip of your nose. He’s got it down to a science.

The other two are just sketches. One of your face, turned to the side like it is in the drawing of you laying down. The last is of you looking at him, smiling. You don’t even remember what he had said. Neither does he. But he remembers that look.

“What’s this?”

Bradley just slips the pencil into the pocket of his jeans and starts walking, nudging his elbow into yours as he passes by. “You asked me to draw you, didn’t you?”

In truth, he assumes that it’s going to be a parting gift. Call him sentimental, but Bradley always leaves something to remember him by.

When he closes his eyes, he doesn’t remember his father’s face. He has seen it in pictures before, but never in memories. No, he remembers hugging his father’s legs, and sitting on his knee. He remembers the smell of tobacco.

The replacement dog tags. The gold chain. The shoes in the box in his mother’s wardrobe. The suit that Bradley never grew into — one day it was too big and the very next, he had already outgrown it. Those are what he has to piece together parts of his father.

When you’re old and married, maybe you’ll find the drawing and piece together the parts of Bradley that made you smile like that.

You trail behind him, white tennis shoes in the trimmed green grass. A white polo shirt tucked into lemon yellow shorts, your sunglasses sweeping your hair back off of your forehead.

In another life, he’d reach back and you would wrap your palm around his index finger. He would smile at you and you would be all kinds of giddy about this date.

But this isn’t that — it doesn’t work like that this time around. Someone could see you. Bradley knows now how you’re feeling. He knows that your fiancé is on your mind. He chose once, took Natasha’s choice in her own future from her. He won’t do the same to you.

“The dinner thing,” You call out from behind him, watching your shoes travel from grass to stone pavers as you pass by an intricately carved fountain. He turns his head and peers at you over the top of his sunglasses, looking over his shoulder. “Is that really every night?”

Before you’re even done with your question Bradley’s looking ahead once again, and you’re left looking at the plain white of his cotton tee stretched pliantly over the swell of his shoulders. “Until you all start treating each other with a little respect, I guess so.”

“All of us? — Come on, Bradley, don’t act like you don’t know who the problem is.” An incredulous scoff, barely paying attention to your own words as your eyes wander around the flowered garden. “She’s just a slut, and—“

He stops and turns. Your gaze snaps from double early tulips and their puffed yellow petals to Bradley standing before you — the look in his eyes is scolding before his mouth has even moved.

“Do you listen to a single thing that I say? — Seriously?” He asks you, brows drawn together and his lips pressed into a frown. You simply blink at him.

“What?”

“She’s a slut because she has sex with her boyfriend?” He challenges you, shaking his head. The past week, Bradley has been spoon-feeding you content about the sexual culture through the history of Rome. You nod like you understand and yet, you come out with bullshit like that.

He’s the one who challenged you. You simply answer back.

“She’s a slut because he’s not her boyfriend. They’ll both tell you that.” You tell him, defiance coursing through your veins in lieu of anything that might have helped you make a stronger argument.

“What does that make me? — You listen to my stories with a smile on your face. It’s not dirty until it’s someone you don’t like, huh?” Bradley asks. He’s right, you know that much. Bradley has indubitably slept with far more people than Robin possibly could have.

Still, maybe it’s his tone that makes you need to bite back so quickly. Hands on your hips and a scowl on your face, you stand off against him before the fountain. “What does it matter to you if I think she’s a slut?”

“It matters —“ Bradley stops and takes a deep breath. He leans in by three inches and you’re met with that familiar woody smell that just makes you want him even closer. “Use your brain. Whatever your mommy and daddy taught you back home is bullshit — you’re the odd one out.”

With that, he turns and starts away from you. He won’t leave you to walk home alone, but he will walk six paces ahead so that you’re clear with the fact that you have once again stepped on his nerves.

“I’m the odd one out for respecting my body?” You call out to him.

“Respecting it, ignoring it… same difference, right? — It’s your call, honey,” Bradley walks slowly closer until the toe of his sneaker brushes yours. He lowers his voice, calm. “But choosing not to have sex doesn’t make you better than Robin.”

“I’m not your honey.” You bite back.

“Right,” Bradley nods at you. He lifts his arms and drops them back against his sides incredulously. “But here we are.”

It’s an eleven minute walk back to the hotel. You stroll behind him, sullen like a scolded child. The letter feels heavy in your bag. He might not have called you a slut, but you’ve been put in your place nonetheless. The words would never pass your lips — but he’s right. The comparison’s right there in front of you, all around you. You’re living it.

She can’t be a slut for sleeping with one boy if you’re not for whatever you’ve got going on with Bradley.

You would hold it against her, crushing like a weight, if she told your story back to you. If she was the one with a fiancé at home and a professor who spent afternoons in her hotel room.

Still, your face is hot and you’re not ready to speak to him. Halfway across the herati patterned rug that covers most of the reception area, Bradley turns and looks at you as he tucks the arm of his sunglasses into the collar of his t-shirt.

Chin high and shoulders squared, your clear path is to walk right by him. Just as you always have when a man in your life has embarrassed you.

One step ahead, Bradley catches your wrist loosely, stopping you mid-stride. “Dinner’s in five. Remember?”

“I’m not going to dinner with you.” Your answer is simple and biting. Childish. He wouldn’t be surprised if you crossed your arms and stomped your foot.

“It’s not up for discussion. Everyone’s going.” Bradley explains. Right on time, he lifts his gaze and spots Pasquale headed towards the two of you from across the lobby. It’s not like he won’t have seen the two of you argue before.

He reaches you with a smile and stands at Bradley’s side. His bald head has caught the sun, reddened slightly with head. The smile lines beside his eyes always crease when he beams at Bradley. He stands almost an entire foot shorter. Looking up at him and grinning like a kid, even though he’s older than Bradley.

“Hi, guys!” He pats Bradley’s arm jovially and turns that wide, cheesy grin to you. “How is the revision going?”

Your eyes land on the professor and suddenly there’s something dark about them that has simply nothing to do with eye colour, and everything to do with the mood he put you in.

Pasquale lives in ignorant bliss for the two seconds that it takes you to settle your hands into the shallow pockets of your lemon shorts and narrow your eyes at the professor. “Bradley’s a self-righteous asshole.”

“But what else is new!” Pasquale tries. The laugh is forced out of him and nerves shake through it. He shoots Bradley an apologetic look. Bradley’s looking at you anyway.

“She got a C minus yesterday. Still trying to figure out if it was a fluke.” Bradley bites. Your eyes widen.

Sitting on his lap, wrapped in his arms as he told you how hard you had worked — how proud he was. His hand trailing your spine. His mouth soft against yours. Butterflies tearing through your stomach.

“I think I got too much sun today. I’m going to lie down. Enjoy dinner.” Fuck mandatory. Fuck every single student on this trip. Fuck this class, and fuck him in particular. Pasquale swallows softly as you turn on your heel and head for the stairs.

Bradley turns his chin towards the ceiling. He wants to like you, he wants you to like him. In the moments that you do, everything feels so easy. Like the breeze in early June. But when you’re hell bent on arguing with him — those are like those scorching hot summers back in California. Surrounding and heavy. Pressing in on him until he bites.

“A C… that’s not so bad. Right?” Pasquale asks quietly. Bradley turns his head and looks at him, there isn’t really an answer to give. A B is the average in his class, so no — a C really isn’t bad.

The thing about old Italian hotels is that they tend to be marketed towards guests looking to lead quiet lives — romantic getaways and such. Not young women fuelled by anger. The door slams and teaches you a quick lesson in cause and effect. The painting hung on the wall to the right of the bed wobbles in complaint, then bumps to the floor. The glass frame promptly shatters across the floor.

There’s an almost calm silence that follows. A few slow blinks, and the glass is still there. The frame is still shattered. There are pieces all across the floor. Bradley still said what he said.

The soles of your tennis shoes are thin and pliant, excellent for movement but not designed to fend off glass shards. Crossing the floor at that exact moment seems like far too much of a challenge. So, you press your back to the door and slide down it. Cupping your hands tight over your mouth, you clamp your eyes tightly shut and let it go.

The scream is muffled by your palms, but probably still enough to alarm other guests.

Your bag clatters haphazardly to the floor and you lift your face from your hands just long enough to examine the mess once again. Huffing out a sadder sound than you had intended, you push weakly to your feet once again.

Until today, Verona had been your favourite stop so far. Even with that spoiled, at least you have an en-suite here. You’re more careful with that door. You tug it closed and lock it behind you, toeing off each of your shoes as you go.

These old hotels have old water heaters too. You lean across to turn the shower on first and wriggle out of your shorts, dropping your polo onto the ground with them. Facing straight ahead, you stare into the little round mirror above the sink. It’s got molding all around it that was supposed to look gold once, but the peeling paint reveals brass underneath.

Your reflection stares back at you, sullen. It’s a portrait, just your head, shoulders and chest. Swallowing doesn’t make the thickness in your throat fade. You just blink at your reflection in the mirror. The cotton t-shirt bra hugged to your chest is modest and does it’s job — nothing more.

You’ve seen lingerie — you own lingerie. You have a white teddy with matching panties reserved especially for your wedding night. Bradley has most definitely seen lingerie.

A swift inhale is followed by a baited exhale.

The memory is so distinct, standing in a mall with your mother at the ripe age of twelve, watching her soured expression as she searched through the rack.

“Lace, lace, lace.” She had tutted. Back then, you had been more concerned about someone you knew seeing you here, shopping for your first bra. You hadn’t understood.

“Mom, just grab one. I want to go home. I don’t care what I wear.” You had whined, fidgeting on your feet and brushing awkwardly at the pleats of your dress. You’ll always remember the way that she had rounded on you, eyes wide like you had asked her to buy you a thong.

“Well you should, young lady!” Her voice always sounded scarier when you were younger, even though it had always been hushed and poised.

You have been a grown up for a while now. Lived outside of her home. Had your own bank account, car, clothes — and that voice still circles in your head.

The nightdress she had gotten you last Christmas is hanging on the back of the door. Malcolm hates it. He says it reminds him of his grandmother.

You look down at the thread scissors from your sewing kit resting on the shelf beside the sink. Anger has often led you to some of your best DIYs.

“So, we all have to be here… except not actually all of us.” Robin points out, leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms over her striped t-shirt. Elbow resting on the table, Bradley turns his head to look at her.

“She’s sick, Robin, leave her alone.” Abigail mutters from beside her, pushing her fork around the plate of roasted vegetables.

“No, but I heard Bradley say mandatory. So, mandatory for everyone except—“

“Robin.” Bradley sighs, sitting back in his seat and frowning at her. The restaurant is dimly lit, almost ten of them are cramped around a table in the corner, and after your argument today, Bradley just doesn’t want to hear it. “I don’t want to hear another damn word.”

This is what Bradley hates most about education. Half of the time a punishment for his students is more of a punishment for himself, which this dinner just so happens to be. He wants them to like you. He doesn’t want to hear the bitter comments and the arguing.

Everyone’s eager to get it wrapped up and over with. It’s still early by the time that he heads back to the hotel — everyone else decides to go out for drinks again, without you. Making the entire thing pointless.

The knock at your door startles you. You wince as the pin slips into the tip of your finger, inhaling sharply. Abandoning the project on the bed, you push yourself to your feet and walk over to the door. You already know who it is.

Bradley’s gaze flickers down at the sweat shorts and T-shirt you’re wearing first, then back up to your face.

“How was dinner?” You’re already turning away from him again, stepping onto the bed and tiptoeing back across the sheets. Bradley glances behind him, then steps inside and closes the door.

“Are you done sulking?” He rests his hands on the leather belt wrapped around his hips. Sewing needle in hand, you lift your head and stare, silent. “I’m allowed to disagree—“

“Fuck you,” This time, you don’t give him a chance to finish. You turn your head and continue to thread the new hem. “What you said was cruel and you know it, this isn’t about a disagreement.”

His gaze turns towards the ceiling, hands still sitting atop his belt.

“It was. I’m sorry.” He mutters with an exhale and a shake of his head. Bradley looks back at you finally. His brows draw together and he takes a step into the room. “What are you doing?”

“Hemming.” Your answer is short.

Briefly, Bradley presses his tongue into his cheek and considers just saying goodnight. Then, he notices exactly what it is that you’re working on.

“Did you cut that in half?” He’s already crossing the room and craning his neck to get a better look. Unluckily for him, you’re finished. He watches you look up at him through your lashes and lift the nightdress, then stand up from the bed. “Oh, you’re ignoring me now?”

The door to the bathroom swings shut behind you, the thin wood does nothing to muffle your voice. “I’m not ignoring you.”

Bradley’s attention has already waned. He’s looking at the paper on your nightstand. His drawing from earlier is uncurled and illuminated in the light of the lamp, below that is your address book — opened to a page with Malcolm’s name. Dotted around are little pink hearts, his number neatly written along the line.

“Are you snooping?”

Bradley flinches, turning back towards you with a swift inhale. He remains silent, lips parted as you march from the bathroom to the wood-framed mirror about three feet from where he’s standing.

Aware of his eyes on you, you study the new garment. It sits a few inches above your knee, just above mid-thigh. The sweetheart neckline keeps it sweet. Bradley’s eyes flicker briefly downwards in the reflection. With the window open, he can’t help but notice your nipples peaked against the light cotton blend.

“What’s this?” He asks quietly.

“I wanted a change.” You answer him.

He lifts his gaze to your face, just in time for you to turn and face him. Half an hour ago, you were talking to your fiancé — and yet, you’ve got no shame in searching for Bradley’s approval like this. Maybe you aren’t as pure as you had once thought, or as your mother would like you to be. But for now, standing in front of him, you aren’t ashamed.

Malcolm had called you today from his office. He was eating a sub that one of the interns had grabbed from him and he was telling you about his week. Numbers and figures.

You had thought of everything you could tell him. Juliet and the views of the city, sitting under the tree in that garden this afternoon. Bradley.

“I’m sorry that I said what I said.” Bradley tells you. Maybe it’s just because he’s desperate to get the conversation off of the light fabric you’re wearing, but something tells you that he means it. “It was childish, and you’re right, I was being cruel.

Barefoot, you take four short steps forwards until you’re standing right in front of him.

“I’m not saying you’re right — but I shouldn’t have called Robin a slut.” The admission comes with a small, lip-twitching smile. Bradley’s hands reach forwards and curl around your hips.

“She is annoying. I’ll give you that much.” Bradley concedes. Your mouth twists into an eager grin as you press closer and shift up onto your tiptoes. Bradley steadies your hips and follows you in until your mouth is on his. Slowly, sweetly. His hands skim along the yellow fabric experimentally. He hums as he pulls away from you. “So, what’s with this?”

“You’re right. I was ignoring my body — I like the way I look in this. I like my shape. I can still respect myself without covering up so much. Right?”

Fuck. Bradley stares at you for just a split-second too long. He wrestles with the realisation of what he has just done to himself. Sure, you listened to him for once and it was a decent lesson to learn — but his summer just got considerably harder.

“Do you like it?”

He trails his fingers lightly along the fabric, careful not to touch too hard and press it against your skin. Quietly, he hums. “Sure. It’s cute.”

Bradley’s mind is swimming as he is walking back to his room. Fine, he resolved the issue that he went up there to resolve. Now, he has presented himself with a much bigger one.

His hands press into the pockets of his jeans as he starts to contextualize how deep he actually is into this mess. He hasn’t ever thought about fucking a student before — not once. He detests the men he knows that fantasize of it. And yet, here he is, picturing his fingers bunching up that stupid nightdress.

“Hey, Bradley.” Luke grins, sprawled out across his bed in the dark, reading a magazine with a flashlight. Bradley flinches. The door shuts behind him and they’re in there together. “Natasha called from Turin! She told you that she’s going to be in Venice this weekend too, she asked you to call her back.”

…

Tags: @thedroneranger @batdanceq @cassiemitchell @himbos-on-ice @wkndwlff @bradshawsbaby @damrlova @fudge13 @xoxabs88xox @mak-32 @sihtricswife @callsignvenus @callsign-joyride @harper1666 @krismdavis @sheisanangell @thecitysgraveyard @sugarcoated-lame @kmc1989 @cherrycola27

[threeacttragedy]

Entry 10: The One About the Audibly Loud Lukola FanFic

I’ll address the elephant in the room. And, no, I’m not talking about Jake Dunn’s brown suit! Or, that he’s posing with a man. Or, that Tyler commented “Bellissimo!!!!” on Jake's post.

I don’t think a lot of people understood the connection I was making this morning about “Mis-Directed,” Gwilym Lee, and Jake.  So, now I feel the need to explain because I don’t want people running with a narrative that goes in the opposite direction of where I was taking it.

Sorry, JVN, you’re getting pushed to the side again. I promise, I’ll get to you one day.

Let’s go back two months…

On September 25, Nicola posted to her Instagram stories a link to Alex Babsky’s post, which was a picture of Nicola. She had her hair and make-up done but she was wearing one of her own dresses (the black dress she wore in Australia and Brazil). Babsky captioned his post “[pink bow] @nicolacoughlan in London today for…well, never mind what for actually [laughing emoji with hand over mouth] [winking emoji] [shushing emoji].” Nicola responded, “You’re amazing it was so gorgeous to see you xxx.”

Babksy’s caption sent the fandom into hysteria wondering what the hell Nicola was up to. It didn’t help that this was the same day Luke updated his Instagram bio and used “Xx” and it didn’t help that Nicola was wearing the black dress she allegedly wore on her beach walk in Brazil with Luke.

Do you want to know what I thought the photo of Nicola was from? I’m not going to lie – I thought it was pre-wedding makeup. Seriously, not kidding. It reminded me of my own wedding day. Formal hair and makeup and my own dress that was easy to take off without messing up the hair and makeup. I never said I wasn’t a little bit delulu.

On November 5, an author named Lucy Parker announced on her Instagram feed that she had a new Audible book called “Mis-Directed” being released in February 2025. The post came with pictures of Nicola wearing the black dress and the same hair and makeup as the September 25 post. Nicola (presumably) is reading the part of Hattie Murton, and Gwilym Lee (presumably) is reading the part of Anthony Rafe.

Oh, okay.

Turns out, I was wrong.

So, Nicola and Luke didn’t get married.

Fine.

I have always liked crows.

But, wait a minute – what the fuck is this Audible book about? A woman who stars in a romantic drama called “Leicester Square” (what the fuck?) which was adapted from a best-selling romance novel (what the fuck??). Then, in comes our antagonist, Anthony Rafe, who plays opposite of Hattie and, let me quote here, “But when very real chemistry sparks during their scripted love scenes, Hattie begins to think the industry’s legendarily heartless Bad Guy [Anthony] might just a have a pulse after all. And Anthony, for his part, is caught off-guard by the way his heart races when he’s around his aggravating onscreen lover. As reality starts to imitate art a little too close for comfort, the world’s most unlikely couple might just have more in common than they thought…” (what the fuck???).

Let’s start with Leicester Square. What the hell is Leicester Square? Oh, the name of the fake television show on which Hattie and Anthony star. Sure, Jan. Is it odd to anyone else that Leicester Square is the name of the location of where the London premiere of Bridgerton Season 3 took place? You know, the event that happened hours before Papsmear.

Then we have the make-believe show being adapted from a best-selling romance novel. Mmm hmm.

Let’s try and not make the connection between Luke and Anthony. Mmm hmm.

And, let’s add fuel to the fire and have two co-stars falling in love with each other.

Yeah, we get it. It’s a Lukola FanFic being read by none other than Nicola. I mean, the only way it could be any better is if Luke was reading the part of Anthony Rafe! But, no, that part is being read by Gwilym Lee (who is fantastic in everything he does, by the way).

Who is Gwilym Lee? Well, he’s an actor (my father calls him “Midsomer”). Ask Mr. Google about him. But, if you check out his Instagram feed, you will find that he knows Jake and has since, at least, 2022. Is it possible that Nicola met Gwilym through Jake? Yeah, it is.

Now, why do I find this situation intriguing? Specifically, why did I find the post from Jake this morning posing with Gwilym interesting (and a bit shady)? Let me explain.

The Jakholes took the “Mis-Directed” FanFic as shade towards the Lukolas. Yes, they went there because that FanFic does not (in the least) fit nicely into their Jakola narrative. I mean, if it wasn’t shade to the Lukolas, how weird the storyline must have been for Jake! The writing was audibly on the wall, in big red letters, but the Jakholes chose to spin it into something messier than my hair in the morning after sleeping on it wet.

What exactly is this theory? Well, per the Jakholes, Nicola hates the Lukola fandom so much that she sat and read (likely, for hours) this Lukola-coded FanFic just to spite us! I mean, Anthony is a bad boy in this story and “everyone loves to hate” him (don’t forget, Luke became the devil incarnate after Papsmear). And, Hattie is tired of the “brutal press, overly invested fans, and a cutthroat industry…[that] would give even Pollyanna an edge of cynicism.” The Jakholes believe this means Nicola is saying she’s really in love with Jake and she wants us all to know that by reading a Harlequin-style romance about a woman who falls in love with her costar! Oh, my God!! How could she?!

What in the actual fuck are the Jakholes drinking with this bullshit? I know, I know. I shouldn’t expect anything better from people who ship Jake with Nicola. In fact, if I was a Jakhole, I might buy into this conspiracy theory. But, I’m not a fucking Jakhole. And, guess what Jakholes? I don’t mind breaking the hearts of Lukolas by saying we’re probably never going to see sexy-hot Brazil pictures of Luke and Nicola, so I don’t mind telling Jakholes to put this theory back into Davy Jones’ locker and feed it to that bitch Kraken.

Let’s talk a bit further about the absurdity of this “Nicola is shading Lukola” subplot from Hell.

We will pretend Nicola hates Luke. She hates Lukola. She baits the Lukola fandom for shits and giggles.

What would this make Nicola?

It would make her a villain, for starters (and “villain” is me being extremely nice).

More importantly, it would make Nicola a PR nightmare.

Even if Nicola and Luke despised each other, do you believe Netflix, Bridgerton, and Shonda Land would allow Nicola to play games with the Lukola fandom? Talk about playing with fire!

The reality is the lines between Polin and Lukola are heavily blurred at this point. I hate to say it – and maybe a lot of you will view me as a complete asshole after I say this – but, if I learned Nicola was shading the Lukolas (therefore, in my opinion, trolling Luke), I would not be interested in Bridgerton Season 4. Or, Season 5. Or, any season after that. Or, in Nicola, for that matter. You’re welcome to have your own opinion about this but I would feel incredibly betrayed, and not just by Nicola. On top of that, for me, Polin has become Lukola. They’re so blurred, they don’t even resemble a line anymore. Maybe that’s a bad position to be in, but that’s where I’m at. Sorry, not sorry.

I’m not going to rehash the breadcrumbs left by Nicola that support Lukola – if you know, you know (or you can catch up by spending an afternoon on Tumblr). Even Luke, in his own way, leaves Lukola-coded crumbs. We also have damn convincing evidence that Netflix, Bridgerton, and Shonda Land support Lukola. I mean, even they’re blurring the lines with “Nicola and Luke’s Cutest Moments” and interestingly timed images of Polin. So, do you think they’re going to let Nicola fuck with that on a public forum?

That would be a cold, hard NO.

But, this Audible book – “Mis-Directed” – is loud and made louder because Nicola is reading it.

So, what is this Audible book? Shade? Or, Nicola being cutesy? I’m going to place my bets on the latter solely because, like I said, the Corporate Office is not going to let Nicola shade Lukola because it has a direct effect on Polin.

That’s not to say that the excitement of this Lukola-coded “Mis-Directed” FanFic wasn’t attacked by the Jakholes from all sides, and the wind – for the moment – was kicked out of it. That’s a different story for a different day.

But, what I found so intriguing about Jake’s post today is that, of all the people he could have included in his photo (because there’s obviously lots of people at this event), he chose Gwilym. And, this means people will look into Gwilym. People will realize that Gwilym is the other side of “Mis-Directed.” People will realize Jake and Gwilym are friends. People will realize that Jake’s friend is reading a Lukola-themed romance novel with Nicola.

And, if we agree that the book is not shade towards the Lukolas and we agree that Jakola is not real, what is the significance of the connection between Jake and Gwilym? Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I’m overthinking it. But, the connection – at least in my mind (and it’s been there since November 5) – is that Jake supports “Mis-Directed” because he supports Lukola and he has always been there, helping Nicola lay the breadcrumbs. He wanted people to look into Gwilym and make the connection. Jake could very well be the one who suggested Gwilym read the part of Anthony. Jake is the degree of separation.

I want to close this out by noting that Jake also liked the post Nicola has pinned on her Instagram grid – the black and white one about her Time 100 article. You know, the one where Nicola says, “A lot of people really want me to marry Luke.” Follow the links and it will take you to this article. That’s an interestingly placed like by Jake, in my opinion – as is his photo op with Gwilym.

[mochi-marmalade]

Easy Lovers

a/n: i am having a field day with this man. writing him is a bit difficult but reading him is SO GOOD. might post a short continued blurb of this story if people like it :3

Sunday x reader

1k words

warnings: none

You walked into the parlor, seeing Dan Heng, Sunday, March, and Himeko seated at different spots throughout the car. March and Himeko seemed to be playing some sort of game, while Sunday read a book and Dan Heng examined something. You sat by Dan Heng asking him what he was doing, and gave a brief chuckle when he explained. Sunday couldn’t help but peek at you over the cover of his novel, feeling somewhat upset that you had chosen to sit with the Vidyadhara instead of him. He’d been experiencing some inner turmoil lately, not that the feeling was new to him, though the source was. Sunday had found himself anticipating your arrival more lately, paying more attention to you, and craving your presence. It hadn’t taken him long to realize, but he was thoroughly unhappy with the outcome. Sunday was an organized man- everything he did was planned and orderly, meticulous even. This, though? He had not planned for this, not even a little, and it irked him greatly. In some ways, you were the exact opposite. You were messy, spontaneous, and clumsy, but kind and thoughtful. You were perfectly imperfect. Something about the way you gave yourself so freely to others endeared you to him. You were honest, you baked for the express members regularly, you were so, so patient, even when Sunday was not. You had nothing but love in your heart. You loved giving, loved your friends, you loved the world. Sunday saw in you what he was not, and in that, he found something worth protecting. Maybe, he thought, he saw something worth loving.

Everyone remained in the parlor until it grew late, and they gradually retired to their rooms. You and Dan Heng remained along with Sunday, who felt ill as he saw the two of you laugh together. Eventually, you yawned and stretched your arms above your head. “You should sleep soon.” Dan Heng commented. 

“Yeah, I probably should. Goodnight, then, Dan Heng.” 

“Goodnight.”

The two of you left, and Sunday sighed, closing his book and making his way to his room shortly after. He changed into his pajamas and turned on a small lamp, filling the room with soft, warm light. He sat for a moment and ran a hand through his silver hair, mulling over his inability to engage with you. It seemed so easy for you to talk to him, like it felt natural. For Sunday, though, everything before the express had been a game. His conversations were calculated and had hidden meaning behind each of them. Now that he had the opportunity to speak freely, he felt like he didn’t know how. After a while, a timid knock at the door startled him out of his thoughts. He got up and slid the door open, revealing you, dressed in pajamas and clutching a small pillow. Sunday felt his mouth run dry, managing to choke out, “What are you doing here so late?” You shifted your weight absentmindedly while you murmured, “Couldn’t sleep.” He stepped to the side so you could enter and closed the door behind you. Sunday sat on the edge of his bed and gestured for you to do the same. The two of you sat in silence for a moment before he wondered aloud, “Anything bothering you?” You shook your head. “Just not feeling well.” He turned his head to examine you as you sat gazing downwards with the pillow held close. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He said, silently berating himself for not being able to answer more considerately. You shook your head, saying, “It’s fine. I just didn’t know where else to go.” He raised an eyebrow, heart speeding up at the thought that you might trust him enough to come to him before anyone else. Silence fell for a minute again as you fidgeted with the hem of your pajama shorts. Sunday spoke up again, “Bad dream?” You nodded and your grip on the pillow in your arms grew tighter. “You can always come here.” He said reassuringly. You peered up at him hesitantly, and he prayed that his lightly blushed cheeks wouldn’t betray him.

“Sunday,” You said quietly. “Thank you.” He furrowed his brow.

“What for?”

“For entertaining me. Even if it’s just for a bit.”

He offered you a relaxed smile. “It’s no problem at all. I enjoy your company.” You smiled widely, stating, “I enjoy your company too.” Sunday’s wings fluttered a bit at that, making you huff in amusement. Seemingly out of nowhere, you asked, “What do you do?”

He gave you a bemused look. “A lot of things, I suppose. I enjoy playing instruments and reading, among other things.”

“Will you play for me sometime?”

His expression changed to one of pleasant surprise. “Sure.” You decided to pry further, wondering, “What do you play?”

“Piano, violin… That’s pretty much it.”

“Still, that’s amazing. I couldn’t play an instrument to save my life.”

Sunday smiles, pondering what’s going on in that pretty head of yours. Like usual, your thoughts are all over the place. At this point, he thinks he’s pretty much figured out that you say anything that comes to mind and is appropriate for the situation. You looked out of the window into the dark space beyond, flecked with gleaming stars. Sunday took a moment to appreciate your dreamy gaze as you admired them. How he longed to tell you that you were his most radiant star…

“How long are you going to keep staring at me?”

Sunday’s eyes widened. How long did you know he was looking at you? 

“There’s a reflection in the glass, silly.” Right, he should have taken that into account. “Ah, well, I-I’m very sorry.” He choked out, his face flushed and wings threatening to cover his face. You turned to face him and, with a grin, said, “It’s no matter. I’m just glad you feel the same.” Sunday’s embarrassment turned to bewilderment. “...Feel the same?” He questioned. He had to be absolutely sure of what you meant before he said anything else. 

Your smile dropped. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Sunday. I thought you- we-”

He took your hand in both of his and, with a breath, he managed to confirm, “I have feelings for you.” The beaming smile returned to your face, and Sunday exhaled a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. You lifted your free hand up to gingerly push away one of the wings that hovered near his face. “Me too.”

Sunday took you in his arms- warm and comforting. You leaned into him, and for a moment, the world was Sunday. In that instant, you felt as if it was all you needed.

[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.”

[littlemissmentallyunstable]

there’s been lots of requests and comments so here it is PART 3!!! (SHE’S HERE first anon, hope you survived this long second anon and it was not a dream third anon, I’m posting/making it now fourth and fifth anon)

some of you were going feral for part 2 so I hope this lives up the expectation 😭😭 if not I’m severely sorry

title: the dancer and the angel part 3

pairing: grayson hawthorne x reader

synopsis: grayson has just admitted to kissing lyra kane, the girl you’d been worried about, the girl that was stunning, the girl he said didn’t matter… he chose her over you so now what??

parts: part 1 part 2 part 4

warnings: swearing, SPOILERS FOR TGG

a/n: okay so I hate switching POVs but I felt it was necessary here and I know the start is the same as the part 2 but in Gray’s POV but trust me there is lot more

tag list: @tornqdowarnings @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @sweetlikeanangel @midiosaamor @sweetreveriee @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @zaraaaabear @thoughtdaughter3 @benny1989fredd @elysianwayy77 @maybxlle @sheisntyou @anintellectualintellectual @aleatorio1234 @adalia-jaycee @off-to-the-r4ces @lyra-kane @reminiscentreader @lyrakanefanatic @imaseabear @elizaa31

GRAYSON’S POV

Guilt has chewed me up and spat me out the whole walk back to our shared room. There’s a pulsating lump in my throat that aches relentlessly, reminding me of what I’ve done. I am a terrible person. I never deserved her and now I’ve done the worst thing I could’ve possibly done, that anyone on this whole planet could’ve ever done. And she will never forgive me for it. I wish there was a way to turn back time and alter certain events. As soon as the time machine is invented, no doubt by my very own brother Xander, I’m coming back to moments before now to stop my idiot brain from-

I can’t even think it. Maybe it’s because it makes it more real. It’s like the last few moments of my life have been erased from my brain, it’s a blank canvas and I have no paints. I know what I did but I can’t remember exact details. Still, I can taste her on my lips, an over sweet taste that was almost too sickly has now morphed into something bitter. Her perfume lingers on my clothes and adds to my ever growing headache. I don’t want to smell her, I don’t want the reminder of the awful human I have become. The monster that now inhabits my body, lives in my skin, breathes my air and poisons the people I love. The ones I truly love.

Y/n. At one point she was the only reason I was still existing, still carrying on. She somehow managed to give me the fight to keep carrying on. I got up most days because I knew I would get to see her face. And now I’m going to throw everything away, our whole relationship. Everything we’ve been through or planned to go through together. It will reduced to nothing in a few minutes.

I’m outside the door, my feet have carried me here through muscle memory. I must go in, I must face her I’m aware but I’m afraid. I’ve never felt so pathetic. I wonder if she is still asleep. Though, I can’t work out whether I’d rather she be awake or asleep. I don’t think I could bear to look at her angelic feature either way. Those wide eyes, round lips, heavenly- I can’t bear it, I’m going to lose her, all of her.

I fiddle around with the key, hoping the door will just never unlock so I don’t have to face this. The mechanism clicks, mocking me. I step in silently and face the door to lock back up again. I don’t understand why, I know I’ll be kicked out in a matter of seconds, what good will a locked door be? And yet I’m still facing the door, fumbling with the key, my back towards her. Though I can hear her getting out of bed. She’s awake. My body’s immediate response is to go into a state of paralysis. I can’t move as the guilt ridden cement hardens over my body, creating an outer shell of the cruel creature I’ve become. Her body is behind mine. I can feel her bright presence radiating her usual tentative nature.

“Are you okay?” I hear her whisper as she touches my arm so gently it stings.

It stings so sharply because I know what I’ve done. The shameful crime I’ve committed. I jerk away suddenly.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, deep concern in her tone.

It kills me. It’s a poisoned dagger wedged deep within my heart, hitting every vital artery. Her voice is so soft, so melodic. She cares so much, too much and I’m about to destroy it all. And as much as I could not say a word I couldn’t live a lie, the guilt would eat me alive. How could I look her in the eye and tell her she’d always been the only one when I know she hadn’t? She’d already noticed earlier today my distant mood. She had always been observant, vigilant about those things concerning me and I’d always been grateful. I wouldn’t have that anymore. Lyra had been on my mind earlier and I couldn’t tell her. Now she would realise.

“No,” I reply.

My voice is unfamiliar to myself, it’s sharp and blunt. It sounds horribly harsh. I could feel it hurt her, the air ripples with a touch of dimness when I hurt her. Even with my back to her it’s obvious to me. I know her so well, too well and from this day on we might drift to perfect strangers. That thought hurts me more than anything.

“Where have you been?” she says. Her voice so sweet, so innocent, cruelly naïve.

I don’t want to break her, I don’t want to do it. It would be like smashing a glass ballerina. Something so beautiful, something so delicate should be preserved not purposely broken. I force my eyes to meet hers. I immediately regret it. The soft mellow colour all melts into one, clawing at my heartstrings and ripping the organ to shreds. She’s so beautiful. How had I ever looked at any other? How had I let myself?

Suddenly I’m drowning in guilt. I don’t know how, it just comes over me suddenly. Like a tidal wave I had my back to. I’ve been swept under by an endless ocean of shame. My lungs swollen full of my own black sin. I don’t know how but I manage to choke out two shaky words.

“I’m sorry.”

My voice cracks. My voice never cracks. She knows that. I’m sturdy, I’m strong, I’m the rock that never breaks and here I am. Here I am crumbling into dust. She’s too smart to miss the signs, she’s too clever not to immediately know something so horribly wrong, her mind is too sharp not to have worked half of it out. She’d already been suspicious of Lyra. She’d already seen what might happen between us even before I did, before it did actually happen.

“Gray?” she asks, my name sounding too sweet on her tongue. The next time she says it will taste bitter, I’m sure of it. She barely whispers the word but I hear her, it rings in my mind. It forever will.

I’m full of pure regret and guilt, it wracks my soul, shaking me relentlessly back and forth until I’m dizzy with it. Remorse’s doors suddenly burst wide open, ready for my grand entrance. My hopes and dreams snicker and smirk smugly as I walk down the runway, my head hanging in embarrassment.

I need to tell her. My heart races in my chest and there’s a lump stuck in my throat, so large it’s started to block my airways. I don’t know how to get the words out, I don’t know how to talk. I feel like I’m suffering some sort of aneurysm. She looks at me, her eyebrows pinched in and eyes narrowed and then I see it. Her eyebrows part and slowly sink. She knows already.

“Tell me,” she murmurs, her voice of an angel shaking.

I close my eyes, trying to suppress the tears. I haven’t cried in years I’ve forgotten this feeling, this heavy weighted agony that ripples through me causing water to infiltrate my eyes. I bite the inside of my cheek and still my shaking hands.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, an uninvited raw desperation ripping through my voice, “I never wanted to hurt you, I never meant for it to happen, I-“

“Tell me,” she grits through her teeth sharply, her eyes glitter so beautifully fierce and fiery, like she wants to kill.

But I know she’s trying to steady her rising sadness by covering up with her fury. I can see through her, like she can see through me. I freeze and the pause elongates. The aching silence is deadly, it’s fatal. I wish she didn’t have to make me say it.

“I kissed her,” I murmur, the words making me feel sick as I say them.

“Who?” she asks, he tone low and ferocious, “who did you kiss? I want to hear you say it.”

I’m twisting a knife into her heart and I know it. But she wants me to cut deeper. She’s a woman of principle, I’ve already hurt her, I might as well do the job properly in her eyes. And I can’t deny her this. Not I’ve stripped her of her dignity, her trust, her love, her everything.

“I kissed Lyra,” I whisper, suddenly aware of the dampness on my cheeks.

A sour taste fills my mouth. The words send lightning sparks across my jaw, sending ribbons of agony down the sides of my face. The truth hurts. Literally. Tears are rolling the side of my face, but I don’t bring my hand to wipe them and nor do I stop them. I’ve never felt more broken.

But she doesn’t care, there is not pity in her eyes. Good. I don’t want he to pity me. She should hate me. She should want me to miserable and hope for me to have a lifetime of the torture I’ve just forced her to endure.

“Get out,” she murmurs, the anger bringing out her natural stunning features. A flicker of boldness in her eyes, the striking angles of her eyebrows, her strong thick lashes and her full lips.

“I’m sorry.” they’re the only words I remember how to say, through my internal fit of torment.

I expect her to hit me around the face, a good strong punch I know she can make or a sharp smack that’ll leave a red hand mark pressed against my cheek. I imagine she might scream at me and ask me all the questions I wish I had answers to. But she does none of that. She only looks at me darkly and utters two last words.

“Leave Grayson.”

I can hear the tears she’s trying to hold back, through the numb façade. I know her better than she’ll ever realise. But it’s not fair for me to stay, not after this. She’s only asking one thing of me when she should be doing so much more. So I do. I turn my back on her again. And I leave.

***

Tears pummel down my cheeks like never before. I can’t remember the last time I cried. I don’t think I’ve ever cried like this. I’m blinded by them as I stumble sideways. I don’t know where I’m going. I stand on the edge of the cliff and sink to my knees, letting out a loud guttural scream. I’m there until my throat is so raw I can’t feel it. I bite my lip so hard it draws blood. And then I’m up again and running, following a path my footsteps are dragging me towards. I can’t think straight, I’m dizzy with pain. Before I know it I’m outside the safe house on the island. My hands tremor on the handle and I swing open the door, falling to the floor for my sobs to take me over. My chest aches and burns and tightens. That’s when I realise I can’t breathe properly. I fumble around for my phone, a tear splashing into the illuminated screen. With uncontrollably shaking hands, I typed no words. Just three numbers.

911

***

The wait feels like years, maybe even decades. Each second taunts me, with a mocking tick. I’d crumbled into the corner of the room at some point and stayed there, curled up and choking on my own sorry sobs. What had I done? What had I done? What had I done?

The question circles around my head like the nostalgia of a distorted tune of a merry go round. I’ve never made such a big mistake and my life and deep down there’s a sinking sensation that is telling me I’m not going to be able to make this better. I sob, loud harsh sobs that hurt my lungs and knock the air out of my stomach. My whole being shakes with every strangled noise that escapes my lips. Grieving. I’m grieving over something I chose to throw away. It’s cruelly ironic. But I think part of me is also grieving the good man I once thought myself to be, that she made me believe I could be.

I turned my back on the one and only person in this world who just cared about me, took me for who I am and believed I could do anything. She only wanted the best, she only wanted happiness and she deserved so much more and here I am, stabbing her in the back and dancing in her blood like a madman. She was my everything and I managed to mess it up, just like everything else in my life. I can’t have normal relationships, I can’t do something without messing it up. I’m one big screw up the opposite of how the old man raised me to be. He’s looking down on me now and I can feel his disappointment, like an infection coursing through my bloodstream. I failed him, I failed my brothers, I’ve failed her, I’ve failed myself.

She thought I was better, she believed I could be more than his expectation. And I was stupid enough to believe it, encourage it and let her belive the lie too. We’re all idiots.

I can recite her favourite song, her favourite flower, her favourite food and favourite colour. I can tell you all about her favourite novels and how she orders her books on an endless bookshelf. I know that she tells people her favourite film is ‘it’s a wonderful life’ but it’s actually secretly ‘tangled’. I know she prefers to stay inside and cuddle under blankets rather than have a night out. I know she’d rather reason a thousand books than watch a thousand movies. I know she wanted a library in her dream house and two, maybe three children with her husband and I know she’d sometimes debate about getting a cat as well. I know how she loves brownie batter more than the actual brownies and can’t sleep with any lights on. I know she still uses the bunny rhyme to tie her shoelaces and how she fiddles with her collarbone when she’s nervous. I know exactly what diamond she wanted in her engagement ring and her favourite country. I know what people she despises and I know what people she adores. I know every inch of her face, every hair on her head, every sparkle in her eyes and every cell on her skin.

I know her.

I know her, but that can’t help me now. Pain ripples across the left side of my chest and my hand clamps over it as I grit my teeth to try and bear it. I hear the door creek open and can’t tell whether it comforts me or not.

“Grayson pookie!” Xander calls out, “we’re here.”

His cheerful voice doesn’t provide me with the cushion to this pain I thought it might.

“And we have some in incredibly strong whisky,” Jameson adds, I can here the mischievous grin in his voice, it’s been the same all of his life.

“My nose hairs are officially burnt off,” Xander agrees.

I can’t speak. I try to call out for them but the words die in my swollen throat.

“Where are you Gray?” Nash calls out, he sounds a little more worried than the other two but is concealing it well.

“Here,” my voice is hoarse and laboured, even I can’t recognise it.

The mood immediately shifts, you can feel it. The air becomes tainted with concern as their footsteps approach my cowering figure. The case of whiskey is dropped as there is an audible thunk as it hits the floor. I can feel their bodies enveloping around mine creating something of a circle of safety. I look up to worried face and shiny eyes.

“Help me,” I gasp for air, greedily trying to gulp down the oxygen that I feel so deprived of, “please.”

“We’re here to help you Gray,” Nash murmurs softly. His voice had always been something comforting, especially when I was younger. I wonder if he will be so kind when I tell him what I’ve done. He’s going to hate me, there’s nothing he despises more than a man who can’t respect a woman.

I shake my head and choke out another struggling sob, instead of the words I don’t know how to say. Jameson’s eyes flit between mine and Nash’s, the concern rippling across his features. He’s never looked this concerned for me in his life. I think to all the times as children I’d helped him settle after a nightmare and wiped his tears that he hated falling when the old man had humiliated him. Oh how the tables had turned. Now it was my little brother wiping my tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his touch so gentle it shocks me.

“I can’t-“ I barely get out, wrapping my hands around my neck.

“Gray…” he trails off, unmasked emotion hitting his face like a train.

“I can’t breathe,” I wheeze as the invisible blanket that was set out to suffocate me tightens over my nose and mouth.

“Hey, Gray, look at me,” Nash says, his voice smooth and reassuring, “in and out okay, in and out.”

“I can’t,” I pant, my limbs shaking embarrassingly uncontrollably.

Xander takes both of my hands into his and squeezes them until they still, “yes you can, follow Nash’s instructions okay?”

“Slowly, do it with me,” Nash nods, “in through your nose and out through your mouth.”

I do. In and out, a rhythmic pattern. Each time Nash reminds me how to breathe. There’s an aura of calmness about his voice that lulls my panic into a narcoleptic sleep. Once my breathing is halfway regulated I look at him, dead in the eye, with shaking sorrowful lips.

“I fucked up,” I sob, “I fucked up and I don’t know what to do.”

They all share a look, this is the worst state they’ve seen me and we all know it. I begin to pathetically sob uncontrollably once again, the feelings building up in my chest and tearing me apart from the inside out. It’s like a rabid pack of wolves had been set loose to feed on my internal organs. I don’t know how to stop the ocean of tears, I don’t know how to shut my mind off, I don’t know how to help myself. Reel myself in from this abominable mess I’ve become. I’m hyperventilating, my chest throbbing up and down unevenly. Nash nods towards Jameson, a short, soft, sharp nod of approval.

“Hey! Calm down!” Jameson snaps, giving me a hard slap around the face, “snap out of this!”

The shock shuts me up and the sting stops my tears. I’m back to reality instead of a wallowing mess. Nash must’ve been approving the slap I realise in the sudden cleared head I’d obtained

“Sorry,” Jameson mumbles at me, looking a little guilty.

I massage my jaw, “no I think I needed that.”

He grimaces and then softens his tone, “what happened Gray?”

I tense, growing very still, “I can’t say it out loud, I can’t, I’m awful, I’m horrible-“

“What happened?” Nash drawls.

I choke out yet another unnatural sound. Seems the slap didn’t snap me hard enough into reality. I exhale slowly. I have to say it, now or never.

“I kissed Lyra.”

The words hurt even more this time, that they did when I’d admitted it to y/n. Neither one of my brothers can mask their honest reaction.

“Oh fuck,” Jameson blurts out, “you cheated?”

Anger. He’s fuming with me. I can see the rage trailing through his eyes and blossoming into his expression.

“I didn’t mean to,” I reply, feeling like a small child.

Jameson’s eyes widen and fury flashes across his face, “how can you not mean-“

Nash shoots him a look and his mouth glues shut. Then he turns to me and I can’t quite read him yet. I gulp.

“No one does that kind of thing for no reason,” he says sternly, “I never thought you’d be the one of the four of us to ever do that, seems I was mistaken little brother.”

Disappointment. He’s disappointed. A horrible sinking feeling settles in my stomach. Nash is disappointed in me. It’s one of the worst feelings imaginable. There had only been few times in my life when he had been and I remember the feeling all too well. Shame has me in a chokehold an it’s succeeding in strangling me. I can‘t bring myself to meet his eyes, I don’t want to see that look I can feel is on his face, that look of pure disapproval.

“How did she find out?” Xander asks quietly.

Shock. He hadn’t said anything until now, but his lips had been slightly parted and he’d paled a little. He never thought I’d do this to anyone, he’s yet another person I’ve let down.

“I told her,” I murmur, “the guilt was consuming me.”

“As it should,” Jameson snaps, twitching with a fiery ferocity.

“Jamie,” Nash says, trying to keep some kind of diplomacy.

“No,” he growls, “you don’t do that to a girl, your girl, you can’t do that!”

“Don’t take the moral highground now,” I spit.

“When you’ve cheated on your girlfirend? Yeah I think I will,” he replies, the bitterness rolling off of his tongue like a deadly poison. He doesn’t know I’ve already poisoned myself with my own actions, his words can’t hurt me.

“I didn’t mean to,” I falter.

“Bullshit,” he grits through his teeth, in two definitive and threatening symbols.

“Careful Jamie,” Nash warns.

“All this is your fault anyway,” I continue, ignoring the warning.

“So it’s my fault, you kissed another girl, yeah, okay Gray,” he nods his head with a sarcastic smile.

“It is!” I exclaim, throwing my hands in the air, “if you hadn’t locked me in a room with her-“

“So it’s my fault you couldn’t keep up dick under control,” he quips, interrupting me.

“You could’ve locked me with my one of my sisters but of course you just had choose the only girl who isn’t related to me,” I seethe.

“Odette isnt related to you,” Xander pipes up. I’d forgotten he was there, that anyone besides me and Jameson were there.

“Odette is old enough to be my grandmother,” I scowl at him, immediately feeling bad as the words leave my lips, but don’t dwell on it as I turn back to Jameson, “why did you make me a player in your sick excuse of a game?”

“You can’t use the game as an excuse,” he laughs darkly.

“I will,” I reply sharply, “this is your fault and Avery’s fault too.”

“Avery? Don’t make me laugh,” he rolls his eyes.

“The game never should’ve been created by her,” I yell, “that’s why I’m in this mess!”

“No, you’re in this mess because of you,” he shouts back, “but don’t you dare bring Avery in to this it’s not her fault.”

I feel like I’m one of those circus acts, the ones that lay on a spinning board and get knives hurled at them. Only in my case the knives are the truth and they actually hit me.

“Why did you make me a player?” I ask quieter now, my voice hoarse, “why?”

“I didn’t know making you a player would result in this,” he says.

“It was so irreverent,” I snap becoming angrier by the second, a sudden burst of red overriding any rational sense in my head, “I never needed to play.”

“You can’t pin this on me Gray, if it didn’t happen with Lyra, who knows who else it would’ve happened with,” he hisses.

“So you think I’m just like this? You think this is me?” I ask him, prodding the hollow space where my heart used to be.

“I didn’t before….” he trails off, sighing, “but now I don’t know what the fucking think of you.”

“Jamie,” Nash repeats again, in the same warning tone as before. We both ignore him.

“Just because you and Avery are all peaches and roses-“

“Leave Avery out of your anger issues,” he roars defensively.

“No,” I counter, raising an eyebrow, mirroring his usual argument demeanour, “you think you’re so perfect now you’ve got your dream girl and the two of you are so much better off than the rest of us, because your love is undeniable or whatever bullshit people feed you about it-“

Jameson’s features twitch for a split second. He’s hurt, but won’t show it. He’ll refuse but I know that it hit a nerve that won’t heal for a long time. I stop mid-sentence.

“I am far from perfect, I think we both know that,” he says, in a low voice, “look you’re hurting, I get it, but I’m not going to mollycoddle you and tell you it’s okay when it’s not. I’m not going to stand here and lie to your face because as your brother that would be the worst possible thing for me to do to you.”

“My brother would try and understand what it’s like from my side,” I say, desperation clawing at my voice.

“You’re looking for a fight Grayson and it’s not going to end well, not with me,” he warns, shaking his head.

“Maybe I do want a fight, but you know you do too,” I growl rolling up my sleeves, “so fine, I’ll give you a fight Jamie.”

“I don’t want a fight, I want some justice for y/n,” he states simply, “she did nothing to deserve that Gray, she’s been so good to you, the sweetest soul on this earth and she’s helped you through a lot of shit and this is how you’re repaying her?”

“Jameson,” Nash says.

He ignores him for the third time and I can see his calm facade beginning to drop, “you think because you called a 911 and you’re here crying that I should feel sorry for you?”

“I thought you were going to be here for me,” I reply numbly, my tone dead, “clearly I’m mistaken.”

“I can’t be there for someone with no morals,” he replies, “you cheated and you’re the one who’s upset about it, how do you think she feels?”

“You think I don’t know her?” I fire back, my throat burning, “you think I don’t know exactly what she’s doing right now? I hate myself, I hate myself for doing what I did!”

“Good you should!” he screams back.

Before I know it I feel myself charges towards him, ready to throw a good punch but Nash and Xander launch onto me to quickly and managing to hold me back. Nash’s grip is so tight I don’t dare try and budge.

“Out. Now.” Nash says sharply to Jameson, “go and cool off.”

His tone sends a shiver down my spine that I won’t admit to. Jameson opens his mouth to argue.

“Jameson.”

He skulks away, with a sullen face. We all wait frozen until the door has been slammed shut. Nash lets my arm go, dropping it harshly and Xander follows suit.

“And you’re no better,” he turns to me, placing his cowboy hat on a nearby surface, “I’m only sending him away because you can’t be left alone in this mess and so the two of you don’t rip each other to pieces.”

Silence stills the room. His voice echoes but makes no sound all at the same time.

“Take a second, take a breath and we’re going to talk this through like adults,” he says, “if you want to carry on being a child then leave. Calm down, you’re not a toddler having a tantrum, you’re a grown man, act like it.”

Nash has a way of snapping me back to reality. I nod shakily.

“Talk.”

I begin, “I don’t even know why I kissed her, I didn’t mean to it just-“

“Happened?” he guesses, “no little brother, that doesn’t just happen.”

“The I don’t know Nash,” I say, tipping my head back and resting it on the wall behind me.

I hadn’t meant for it to happen. I didn’t want it to happen. It just did. She was there, just stood there. Her hands looped naturally around the back of my neck, warm and gentle, “someone sent me that ticket Grayson. I thought it was Avery but if it wasn’t…”

She trails off, her voice small and tentative. Her golden eyes filled with the utmost worry. I wanted her to know she’d be okay, that she’d have someone to keep her safe. Her arms get more comfortable around my neck. She’d felt it too, the electrifying spark between us. It was exhilarating but something about it was off, synthetic.

“Then who the hell was it?” I questioned, my hands magnetised to her cheek all of a sudden.

Lyra didn’t pull away and neither did I. I lower my head and she raised onto her toes and titled hers back a little. She was graceful, like a dancer. My lips brushed over hers. They were sweet like honey. For the first few moments it was bliss and the realisation hit, like a stone to my stomach. I jerked backwards suddenly, shaking my head.

“I can’t do this,” I said, my fingers trying to wipe her taste off of my lips, “I don’t- this isn’t-“

I was tongue-tied, not able to explain to her how wrong it was. The words wouldn’t work the way I wanted them to.

“Gray?” Lyra murmurs, a tender voice. Her amber eyes are widened and slightly confused.

“No,” I yell. She flinches and another wave of horribly strong emotion rushes over me, drowning me. “No I’m in love with someone else. I don’t know what that was. I can’t-“

I stumbled backward a few steps and the turned around and ran. Like the coward that I am.

“It did just happen,” I murmur, lifting my head from the wall to look my older brother in eye, “I swear to god, I didn’t intend for it to happen, I didn’t even know I had feelings for her.”

I can see he disagrees still and isn’t convinced. I don’t know how to prove it to him.

“Let’s establish one thing here, who do you like?” Xander asks me.

“I like Lyra,” I say slowly, “but I love y/n.”

Nash shakes his head, “if you loved her you wouldn’t have done that.”

“I made a mistake,” I press on.

“And you will pay for it and regret it for the rest of your life,” he shrugs, “it’s not what you wanted to hear but it’s the truth. Listen, I love Libby and loving someone means so many things. One of those things is that I don’t even look at other women, to me they don’t even really exist. Libby is my world and no one else even comes into the equation, so the fact is someone else came into the equation for you, meaning the love wasn’t there.”

“But it was, I felt it,” I say, my voice breaking as I press my chest.

“What do you feel for Lyra?” he asks plainly.

“I don’t know, she’s intriguing and smart and beautiful,” I murmur, “and I like her, but I don’t know if I have romantic feelings for her.”

“Then why did you kiss her?”

“Comfort? Lust? Greed? Selfishness? I don’t know it just happened,” I repeat for what feels like the hundredth time.

“Stop using that phrase as a get out clause,” Nash shakes his head, “you have to admit to yourself more than anyone that this didn’t just happen.”

“I leaned in and I put my lips of hers, and I didn’t stop it, it didn’t feel wrong straight away,” I admit out loud finally.

“It didn’t?” Xander says, looking wounded.

“No, it didn’t feel wrong until I realised what I’d done,” I say, looking down, suddenly finding my shoelaces to be the most interesting thing in the world.

No one replies for a long while. That’s when I realise how exhausted I truly am and how much I crave sleep.

“I vouched for you,” Xander says quietly, “I told her that you’d never do that, that you weren’t that guy.”

“I’m not,” I say, in denial at first. I take a moment to analyse his sentence and then come to a sickening realisation, “oh my god I am…”

“She was already anxious about where your loyalties were Gray,” he winces.

“I proved her right, I proved every worry she had right, I just proved to her that she shouldn’t have trusted me,” I spiral, hating that I hadn’t seen it sooner.

Xander looks to Nash for support for a reply.

“Yeah,” Nash sighs, “you did.”

“I need to fix this, there has to be a way-“

“Grayson,” the acuteness of his voice cuts through my sentence like a machete.

I freeze and clamp my mouth firmly shut.

“This isn’t a broken vase, you can’t glue it back together or buy a new one,” he tells me softly.

He was referring to a time where Jameson and I had been seven and eights years old. We’d been brawling of course, Hawthorne style and accidentally smashed a vase. Usually it wouldn’t matter, there were vases all over Hawthorne House and they were smashed frequently. But this wasn’t just any vase. It was nan’s priceless vase that had belonged to her daughter, our grandmother, Alice. We were never allowed within a five mile radius of it, but like the rebellious children we were, we didn’t listen. Through our fight we’d smashed the whole thing, it was truly destroyed. The two of us stayed up for nights on need gluing together the pieces only to realise it was never going to look like the original again. So we’d hunted to buy another, problem was, this vase was one of a kind. It turned out after four weeks or trying to ship a similar one in that nan had known the whole time. She didn’t speak to either of us for a good few months.

“This is real life, she is a real person and you hurt her,” he explains, “fixing this isn’t an option. There isn’t a way to fix it, there are no pieces to our back together, okay?”

I’m silent but it’s the loudest voice in the room. My face pinches together in agony. For the first time, a little of the disappointment fades and my brother’s face softens. He wraps a strong arm around me and I flop into him like a lifeless bag of nothingness. I bury my head into his shoulder and try to cry but there seems to be no tears left. He understands and holds me for a moment. Suddenly I’m six years old again and crying in Nash’s in my arms over Jameson hiding my favourite teddy bear at the time, then I’m eleven in his arms with pneumonia after being stupid enough to get caught in the rapids un the dead of winter wanting a good photograph of a rare fish, then I’m seventeen, crying over a redheaded girl who I thought I’d managed to murder. And now here I am, at twenty-two years old in his grasp once again, having made the greatest mistake of my life.

Suddenly I feel another set of arms wrap around the both of us.

“Group hug!” a familiar voice sings.

Leave it to Xander to make me crack a half smile in the darkest moments I’ve ever experienced. After a while I pull away and sigh.

“Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?” I ask, pulling away.

“Honestly?” Xander asks.

I nod

“No,” he says. I wish I could see that little glimmer of a lie in his eyes, but I can’t. And it kills me.

“Think about it like this,” he sighs, “would you forgive Eve for what she did?”

“This is not the same thing,” I reply coldly.

“Eve cheated your trust, she betrayed you,” he explains gently, “that’s exactly how she feels.”

Dread fills my every pore as I murmur lifelessly, “I’m as bad as Eve.”

“No wait,” he says, looking guilty and panicked all at the same time, “that’s not what I meant!”

“I know,” I reassure him so some of his guilt subsides, “but it’s true and now I’ve just realised.”

“Look Gray, you aren’t Eve. You’re never going to be Eve, but think of how you felt then. That’s how y/n feels,” Nash soothes, “she’s not going to just forgive you, that’s not how it works.”

“You just broke her heart Gray,” Xander adds, careful to keep his tone as light as a feather, “for a girl you just met.”

“Why am I horrible person? Why do I always find a way to mess to something good?” I groan, smacking my head on the wall behind me. There’s an audible thump as pain spreads through the back of my skull. I wonder if I can concuss myself to forget all of this, but I don’t attempt the idea.

“You don’t-“

“No I do,” I say firmly, cutting him off, “I’m not meant for love, to love or to be loved, I’m not built for it. I’m not a good enough person for it. I’m never going to find my Libby or my Max or my Avery.“

“Grayson-“ Nash begins.

“Emily knew it and now so does y/n,” I snap.

My brothers still at her name, not moving a muscle. I never bring up Emily.

“Listen to me,” Nash says sharply, getting my attention, “you are meant to be loved. You are meant to love. I love you, Xander loves you, Jameson loves you and y/n loved you too…”

The change of tense makes my soul ache.

“…but this time around, you made a mistake, a costly mistake. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve love.”

I nod numbly, robotically.

“What can I do to make it up to her?” I ask, my voice beginning to tremble, “to show her I’m sorry? Something there has to be something.”

Nash gives me a grim look and Xander’s face remains blank, they’re the only answers I need. My head sinks into my hands. The door reopens and I look back up. Jameson has returned.

He meets my eyes, “Avery’s with her.”

Blood surges through my heart and I can almost smile. He checked on her. For me.

“Is she okay?” I ask quickly.

Jameson looks at me and for a split second I almost see the ghost concern is his eyes. He shakes his head softly, “no, but she will be,” he replies, it’s an attempt to comfort me and I am grateful.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

“I’m not apologising for what I said, because I still stand by it and you won’t change my mind,” Jameson says, “but I am sorry for being so angry about it.”

“You were right,” I whisper, “you were right about me. I never deserved her, so was nothing but an angel to me and I just turned around and threw it all away. I abused the luxury I had, I stabbed her in the back and then gifted another with the knife, I’m a horrible person.”

“What you did was wrong, but that’s doesn’t make you a horrible person,” he sighs, “you need time Gray, this is going to take a lot of healing. On both sides.”

“I don’t deserve to heal, I deserve to be in pain,” I murmur, the dullness in my tone echos around the empty walls.

“Oh no, we’re not going back to emo Grayson,” Xander says quickly, shaking his head.

“I agree with Xander on this one,” Nash nods, readjusting his cowboy hat.

“I don’t want to hear you blasting my chemical romance at three a.m and then denying it later again, you came out of that phase we’re not going back there,” Jameson tells me.

I bark out a laugh that thaws my icy chest. I then bite the inside of my cheek.

“I can’t fix this, can I?” I say, looking at the ground,

Nash shakes his head softly.

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t be fixed,” Xander says.

“You’ll get through this Gray,” Jamie agrees, “I know it.”

The room grows still.

“Can we drink that whiskey now?” I ask, to cut through the silence. I feel like getting drunk, I feel like I need some relief.

“Big brother,” Xander nods at Nash handing him the bottle.

“Little brother,” he tips his cowboy hat in reply before taking the bottle into his hands and cracking it open.

“Let me pour these things properly,” Nash grins, “Jamie, come help.”

“Wait me too!” Xander jumps up,

“Stay with Gray,” he shakes his head.

“I don’t need to be babysat,” I grumble, annoyance written all over my face.

“I want to watch them pour whiskey properly,” Xander explains, “so I can impress Max.”

My eyebrows fly to my forehead, “Max drinks?”

“No I want to impress her though,” he grins.

‘You’re an odd human,” I almost laugh, tilting my head to the side.

“Why ta very much!” he says, almost skipping away.

Once I know they’re all gone, I lean back on the wall, my heart feeling a tiny bit less heavy. The pain isn’t gone. I think I’ve just gone numb. I feel hollow, empty, nothingness. Guilt is still gnawing at my insides but slower. A satifying clink against the fragile rim of the glass takes me out of my own head for a split second. There are hushed voices from the kitchen, I notice. I walk over to the door that lay ajar, I lean in to listen.

“We need to tell him,” it sounds like Jameson.

“Not now,” the accent indicates Nash.

“Then when?” Xander’s voice asks, “how long can we prolong it.”

“I can hear you,” I tell them, raising my voice a little.

They turn to face me, awkwardly remaining silent. The expressions on their faces don’t offer me comfort.

“Whatever it is, spit it out,” I say, “it’s not like tonight could get any worse.”

They share a look. Apparently it can. I feel sick to my stomach.

I can barely breathe, “who died?”

“No one has died,” Xander says quickly, “yet.”

“What?” I say, my tone deadly,

Nash glares at him, then turns back to me. There’s sorrow laced delicately, deep within his hazel irises.

“Gray,” he says gently, “Gray we hate to do this but…”

“What? What is it?” I ask urgently.

“Gigi’s missing.”

The words shock me to my core. I feel my throat begin the close up as panic returns with a smirk and triumphant greeting. My whole world has collapsed in less than 24 hours.

***

YOUR POV

I don’t hate him. Call me naive or call me stupid. But I don’t. I don’t think I ever could. The kind of love I have for him is unconditional, irrevocable. Time can’t heal a wound this deep and although it is still fresh now, I can tell. But if he were to say sorry I think I would forgive him every time. And if he asked me back I’d fall into his arms into an instant. And I hate myself for it, it’s stupid and it’s a little cruel. How easily I would take him back after what he did. I know I shouldn’t but something inside of me is drawn to him. Like an invisible magnet has been planted in our hearts. I wish I didn’t love so hard, fall so deeply, maybe I wouldn’t get hurt so badly. But it’s in my nature, it’s who I am. I wonder if he knows how much pain I’m in, the rippling agony that rolls across my chest relentlessly with no hint as to when it will cease. I’m tired of being the second choice but unfortunately I wouldn’t mind being his. And I know it’s completely stupid of me to think that way, completely wrong but love makes you do stupid things so they say. I sit on the beach, by the sea in a state of numbness. Silent tears roll down my tears as the waves lap my feet. Deja vu washes over me and the memories of Grayson and I the night of the game flash through my mind.

I grip his hand and run with him as he guides me the just beyond the shore. He sits down swiftly on the sand and pulls me down to sit between his legs. I lean my back onto his chest and let him nuzzle his face into my collarbone.

“I love you,” he whispers, kissing my neck, “only you.”

Only me, huh? Only me…

The waves crash against the rocks, hurtling a salty spray towards me. I hear footsteps and turn around. Avery stands there, a mournful expression over her delicate face. She knows. I stumble towards her and collapse into her arms in a fit of uncontrollable sobs now and she holds me. Her touch is gentle and warm but it’s nothing compared to his. I realise he might never hold me in his arms again and I cry even harder.

***

I don’t hold Lyra accountable. She is not to blame. Some girls in my position might dream about different ways to brutally murder her but I can only ask what comfort would it bring me? My feelings are already dead, what good is more pain doing?

There was a choice that Grayson Hawthorne was given: his dancer or his angel. He chose his dancer and I hope he’s happy. Because angels have wings and we rise up stronger.

idk guys I think I wrote Grayson’s POV really awfully to be honest… also I feel like the 911 meet up was not like their normal ones where they try and like do something (e.g drink or dare) and then talk about the pain but that’s bc Grayson was in such a mess and then they had to drop the bomb that Gigi was missing. so anywayyyss…

I am sorry this took so long and I hope it lived up to any expectation you wanted it too (sorry if it didn’t) and I hope you enjoyed 🤍🤍 thanks for reading as always

TIG masterlist

[yuurei20]

Hello! Sorry if this was asked before, but my friends and I are trying to make sense of the timeline where the characters became housewardens and the circumstances of it (like Riddle becoming one within a week via duel). Could you help us? 🥹❤️

Hello hello! Thank you for this question! 🌹🦁🐙🦦👑💀🐉

This was touched upon a little bit a little before (Q: Do you know how Malleus got the dorm leader position?) and we just had an interesting revelation on JP 👀

In summary: 1) Riddle: Year 1, taken by force 2) Leona, Year 2, taken by force 3) Azul: Year 2, unknown 4) Kalim: Year 2, nominated 5) Vil: Year 3, nominated 6) Idia: Year 3, nominated 7) Malleus: Unconfirmed, Unknown

In detail: Riddle took the Housewarden position by force (as you say!) a week into his first year at NRC.

Riddle says that he has been Housewarden the second-longest of the Book 6 team after Leona, who also took the position by force when he became a 2nd-year student.

It was confirmed in the novel that Leona repeated his 2nd year, meaning that novel-Leona has been housewarden for three years, but we might not yet have an in-game confirmation of this timeline.

We know Azul was promoted at the same time as Idia (his 2nd year, Idia's 3rd year), but all we know if the circumstances is that he "laid the groundwork" in advance it took him a while to set up "without making too many waves." (more here)

Kalim was appointed to the Housewarden position in his second year by the previous housewarden, who was one of his own relatives.

Vil was nominated by the previous housewarden and has also said, "the Pomefiore member most adept at mixing poisons gets to serve as dorm leader."

In Malleus' dorm vignette he asks Leona and Riddle about housewarden meeting of the previous year, which seems to insinuate he became housewarden this year just like Azul, Kalim and Idia.

Idia says that Riddle has been housewarden longer than himself, so it seems he is also a member of the "first time housewarden" group.

Idia was also nominated to the position by the previous housewarden, which he actually turned down, but Ortho convinced him to accept on the basis that there is no one else in Ignihyde more capable than him. (more here)

Malleus is the biggest question mark, but!

In the latest JP chapter Idia has a comment that Leona and Malleus have both been Housewardens longer than Riddle 🦁🐉

This might be confirming that Malleus became Housewarden in his first year and Leona repeated either his 2nd or 3rd year, making them both Housewardens for three years :>

Technically still conjecture, but not impossible!

[mncxbe]

ANNE DONT MIND ME PLS you write so good and reading these drabbles made me want to request one of my own !!

imagine professor!dazai giving u an extra lesson after class 🤭 it's 12 from the list btw <3

CHIYO MY DEAR♡ i'm so happy you requested this one. hope you like it. I made Dazai a literature professor👀♡

12 — Professor!char giving you an extra lesson after class

ღೀ๋࣭ ⭑𝒄𝒘: lowkey unethical, sex toys, semi-public space, creampie

"Keep reading, bella, you're halfway there."

Your professor's voice carried a hint of mockery as he soothed your thigh with a hand, pushing the silicone toy deeper inside you. You winced at the sensation, shooting Dazai a desperate glance over your shoulder.

Osamu Dazai was the new literature professor at your college– some prodigy kid who finished his PHD by the age of 25 and whose novels sold like hot cakes and now everyone was singing him praise. Frankly, you weren't too impressed by his accomplishments, but he was the only professor in the whole faculty who actually encouraged you to write something different, out of the norm; so you did anything to stay on his good side.

Even if it meant helping him around the office and fucking him from time to time. Not that you'd complain, Dazai was incredibly good looking and knew how to please a woman.

So naturally, when your professor asked you to come to his office after class you expected a quick fuck, as usual.

But the smug bastard had you bent over his desk with your panties lowered mid-thigh and a vibrator shoved up your pussy, making you read the assignments your colleagues turned in while he made snide comments on the side.

"Was that supposed to be a metaphor? 'The mist of the summer evening' what's that supposed to mean? God, I swear these texts are getting worse and worse..."

"Ngh– 'samu please" you whined, shifting your hips "Can't we just do this later?" The ache between your legs was almost unbearable, you needed him inside you, not that stupid toy.

"Sorry, bella, I have to grade this paper by 6. The kid's coming to discuss it" he mused, watching your walls clench around the toy with keen eyes. God, your pussy was divine– his pants were tightening just by looking at you.

Reaching a hand towards you, Dazai touched your folds, gathering your slick and smearing it all over the inner part of your thighs. "My, my, you're dripping, dear. Better hurry up and finish reading if you want me to fuck you properly" His deft digits found your bundle of nerves and gave it teasing flicks.

Your mind was starting to get foggy, the sentences melting into a jumble of letters as you struggled to read the last paragraph out loud. It was painfully embarrassing, the way your body jolted up as he drew slow circles on your clit with his thumb, how desperate you were to have him inside you. All the while, Dazai was toying with you, playing with your pussy like it was his favourite toy.

The second you were done with your paper you let it fall on the desk next to you. "Done, I'm done." you huffed out, looking over your shoulder to see Dazai's teasing smile.

"Good job, bella. I think it's worth at least 60 points. I mean, it's a progress from the last assignment he turned in. What do you think?"

I think you should stop messing around and fuck me already– you wanted to say back but all that came out of your mouth was a breathy yes, sir. i'd say so too.

The man got up from his chair and slowly ran a hand through your hair. You could hear him unbuckle his belt and lower the zipper of his suit pants, your hips swaying in anticipation. "You're such a pretty girl" he hummed, removing the toy from your pussy with a wet pop and alligning himself at your entrance "And obedient too. I think you deserve a reward ah shiit—"

A broken whine slipped from his lips as he slammed himself inside you, the grip he had on your hips growing fiercer. Fuck, your cunt was basically sucking him in. You were so damn perfect he swore he could spend all day fucking you and it wouldn't be enough.

Your moans filled the tiny office, the smell of your arousal lingering in the air, fueling the man's need. His hips snapped against yours, the tip of his cock hitting your sweet spot with each thrust. "Y-you're so tight bella think 'm gonna– fuck i'm gonna cum soon"

"Me too me too 'samu" you mewled as the tight knot in the pit of your stomach snapped and you came around his cock, soaking it in your juices.

It wasn't a surprise you came so fast, he'd been edging you for hours and you were so sensitive. Even now as your walls pulsed around him, Dazai's fingers found your puffy clit and your body jolted up. "W-wait 'samu you can't I just–"

"Want you to cum again with me, donna. Can you do that for me?" he huffed out and your pussy fluttered at the sound of his breathy, whiny moans, pressure building up in your core again.

When the two of you reached your high again, his hips halted flush against yours, his milky cum shooting deep inside you. The man's breath was ragged and he hissed when he slightly pulled out, watching the sticky substance form a ring at the base of his cock as it dribbled out of your hole.

Something sparked inside him at that moment and he quickly flipped you over, caging you between his arms as he leaned over your frame. Droplets of sweat clung to the tips of his hair as he pressed his forehead against yours "Can we do it again?"

"But Dazai we just–" you wanted to protest but he cut you off with a deep thrust, making you choke out a moan.

"Don't care bella you don't understand what you do to me I can't get enough of you" he sighed, slowly, almost lovingly, rocking his hips against yours, his lips ghosting over your cheeks, jaw and down the expanse of your neck, making you shudder. You'd lie if you said that his confession didn't stir something inside you too.

Before you could answer, a knock on the door snapped both of you out of the intimate moment you were sharing. "Um... professor? You said I could come by at 6 so we can discuss my paper"

𐙚prompts closed

[scoonsalicious]

1/Uncovered

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Pocket!Reader

Summary: Family is complicated. Family is messy. Family is what you make it.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, mention of sexual situations.

Word Count: 2.8k

Previously On...: Fuck the one-shots-- we're in miniseries territory now, baby! Consider this a kind of teaser that bridges us from Unwanted to Unbroken.

A/N: I HAVE MISSED YOU. I HAVE MISSED THEM. WELCOME BACK, BITCHES!

No release schedule for this one, though-- sorry. We going in raw.

Banner by my beloved @mrsbuckybarnes1917; poor recolor by me.

If you ever feel so inclined to support my work, hop on over to buy me a coffee; it's much appreciated! <3

NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when new story parts drop, please follow @scoonsaliciousupdates

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

Laying on the chaise lounge on the apartment terrace, you lazily ran your fingers through Bucky’s soft hair as he rested his head against you. The two of you were taking the rare break in your busy schedules to enjoy some quiet reading time– you had finally convinced Bucky to read To Kill a Mockingbird after trying to (poorly, in your opinion, but you were a science nerd, not a literary major) explain how it was the most important piece of American Literature ever written. He’d argued with you, firmly stating that title belonged to The Jungle, and while you didn’t discount the importance of Upton Sinclair’s work, you failed to see how he could make the distinction when he’d missed out on almost one hundred years of The Great American Novel. 

He’d only conceded to giving it a chance once you promised to reread it along with him, so you could discuss it together and now, here you were, enjoying the cool breeze that came in off the Hudson that cut through the late Summer heat, letting your imagination wander along with the adventures of Scout, Jem, and Dill. 

“Gotta say, sweets,” Bucky said absentmindedly as he turned a page, “kinda surprised you love this book so much. Over a hundred pages in and nobody’s having sex; doesn’t seem like your kinda story.”

“Shut up,” you chastised him, playfully tugging on a strand of his chestnut locks. “Not all my interests are smut-related, thank you.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Bucky chuckled as he stroked his fingers along your thigh where it rested next to his side. “Always such a dirty mind to go with that dirty mouth.”

You tried to suppress the shiver that went through your body at his touch, but it was like trying to keep the sun’s rays from warming your skin– impossible. He was already lying between your legs on the chaise while you read, his head resting comfortably on the soft curve of your stomach, his vibranium arm propped posessively over your knee. 

“Behave,” you warned him, though your voice didn’t hold any real heat. “We’re supposed to be reading.” You both knew that, if Bucky really wanted to distract you from the book in favor of other more… intimate activities, it wouldn’t take much work for him to do so, and you wouldn’t even be mad about it. 

Though you couldn’t see it from the way you were laying, you could easily picture the smirk that was gracing his face in your mind’s eye. “Okay, okay,” he conceded. “I’ll be good, I promise.” 

You wanted to believe him, but the way he kept teasing you by drawing soft patterns on the skin of your leg with his fingertips told you otherwise. You’d tried to ignore him, but you were only human. 

“Bucky,” you groaned in frustration as his fingers climbed ever higher along the outside of your thigh. “You are not playing fair!”

Bucky tilted his head back so he could look at you. “Whaddaya mean, doll?” he asked, his face the picture of innocence. “I’m just readin’ my book. Not m’fault, you’re so sensitive.”

You rolled your eyes at him; you were minutes away from just tossing the book to the ground and locking your legs around him, and you knew he knew it, too.

Before you could make a move, though, your phone began pinging with incoming alerts, one after the other, in a seemingly neverending barage of notitifcations. You frowned as you both turned to stare at the device where it sat on the coffee table. 

“Who’s textin’ you like a crazy person?” Bucky asked, slowly sitting up between your legs to look back at you.

You shook your head and frowned. “That’s not my text tone,” you told him. “That’s my Google Alerts notification.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed and he leaned forward, picking your phone up from the table. “May I?” he asked, inclining his head toward it. 

“Please,” you nodded, granting him permission to unlock your phone and check the notifications as you sat up straighter, pulling your knees against your chest.

Bucky quickly tapped in your passcode and began scanning the screen. You were grateful he’d taken the initiative to look for you– there was only one thing you’d ever set a Google Alert for: your own name, and every time you received one, your heart would stop in your chest, convinced that this time, someone would have uncovered the truth about your abusive past and the horrible things that had been done to you as a child.

You weren’t ashamed of what you’d endured. No, the years of sexual assualt you’d suffered at the hands of your mother’s boyfriend and the men he pimped you out to had made you stronger, given you courage, tenacity, drive to make something of yourself, but the secrets of your past were yours to divulge at your discretion, and you’d lived under a constant cloud of fear that one day, the choice of who to share that information with would be taken from you.

After a moment, Bucky sighed and held out the phone to you. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said softly, and you felt your heart seize in your chest. “Looks like we’ve finally been found out.”

With a confused frown, you took the phone from Bucky and glanced down at the screen. You were suddenly hit with the wildest sense of deja vu as you read the headlines that filled the page, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh at how you’d worried over nothing, or cry over the memories the headlines invoked:

Cold War Love Affair: Winter Soldier Caught in Scandalous Romance with Stark Exec!

Winter Soldier’s Shocking Romance: Bucky Barnes Steals Cap's Flame, Sparks Fly at Avengers’ Tower!

Captain America Left in the Cold? Winter Soldier Spotted Getting Cozy with Stark Industries CTO!

Is Bucky Barnes Breaking the Bro Code? Winter Soldier Moves In on Captain America’s Girl!

Demotion in Rank? Stark Industry��s Tech Queen Downgrades from Captain to Sergeant!

Winter Soldier & Stark's Leading Lady: Romance Heats Up Between Avengers' Baddest and Brightest!

You ended up breathing out a relieved laugh. Your past remained behind closed doors, exactly where you wanted it to stay and, unlike the last time you found yourself the subject of tabloid fodder, at least you were being romantically linked to the right man for a change. Granted, you could have done without the implication that you and Steve had any sort of romantic history, but you’d take what you could get when it came to these vultures.

Bucky, however, looked like he was about to be sick.

“Baby?” you asked tentatively as you put the phone down and picked up his hand. “Are you okay? Why do you look so upset?”

Bucky exhaled loudly and looked up at you through his lashes. “I’m so sorry, Pocket,” he said softly.

You looked at him, baffled by his demeanor. “Sorry? Buck… what on earth do you have to be sorry about? So people finally found out about us– so what? It’s not like we were ever keeping us a secret.”

“I know,” he sighed, running his hands through his hair, “but this…” he nodded toward the phone, “this can’t be good for your reputation. I can’t be good for your reputation.”

“Fuck my reputation,” you scoffed playfully, picking up the phone as you began looking through the headlines again. “Baby, the only people who’s opinions of me I give a shit about are you and the people who live in the Tower. I couldn’t possibly care less what the general public thinks of me. We don’t owe them anything. We don’t belong to them.” 

Bucky gave you a look as though you were being incredibly naive. “Sweetheart, people hate me. They wanna see me locked away for the rest of my life for the things I’ve done. They’re gonna look at you, and they’re not gonna see the brilliant, amazing woman that you are. They’re gonna see someone willing to date a monster. And they’re gonna judge you for it. They’re gonna treat you differently because of it, punish you for loving me, and I’m so sorry for that.”

You barked out an unintended laugh as you reviewed the comments on one of the articles. “Baby, I don’t think you have to worry about that.” He looked at you with a puzzled expression. “Oh, they definitely seem to hate me, alright,” you added, turning the phone back for him to look at, “but it’s not for the reasons you think.”

He curiously took the phone from your hands and scrolled through the comments, his face growing more and more angry as he read: bbarneslover: Ugh, how does she land Bucky Barnes? She's literally just… a nerd. → makemehowlcommando: Wow, really? Her? Guess even superheroes lower their standards sometimes.       → bbarneslover: I could treat him way better. What does she even have that the rest of us don't?

→ wintersoldierwifu: How much ya’ll wanna bet it’s just a PR stunt?!

→ hydrahottie4bucky: She better watch out. Bucky deserves someone who actually appreciates him—not someone chasing clout who fucked his best friend! → wokeupwithbucky: I can’t believe Bucky would fall for someone like her! It should be me! →hydrahottie4bucky: She’s only with him because of the Avengers connection, not because she cares about him! → bucky’snaughtynightmare: She couldn’t care less about Bucky’s trauma. She’s just after the Avengers clout, obviously. → barnesinmybedroom: Bitch probably doesn’t even understand Bucky's past like real fans do!

→ bucky'snaughtynightmare: First Captain America, now Bucky? I don’t want to call slut, but… → bbarneslover: Girl’s out here collecting Avengers like Pokémon. We all know the rumors about her and Tony Stark. → bucky’snaughtynightmare: Pathetic. What, is there some “Collect All Avengers” achievement we don’t know about?

→ barnesridesmerough: I’m sorry, but how does a glorified IT girl snag two Avengers? Must be some kind of tech magic.     → bucky’snaughtynightmare: Magic tech vagina, maybe.

→ makemehowlcommando: She’s just Cap’s leftovers. Bucky deserves so much better than some sloppy seconds! → bucky’sbadgirl: It’s obviously a attention thing for her. Can’t believe Bucky’s falling for this! → barnesridesmerough: I give it a month before he comes to his senses and dumps her. She’s not right for him! → makemehowlcommando: LOL, she won’t last a week. He’ll get bored and dump her for someone interesting. → barnesridesmerough: From your lips to Bucky’s ears! Ugh, this girl sucks!

→ brooklynbadboylover: Daddy? Sorry. Daddy? Sorry. Why does he make me so feral?! → bucky’sbadgirl: He could choke me out any day. Either with his arm or his dick, idc… → darkchocolate78: Ya’ll need Jesus. Besides. I think they're cute together.

The scowl on Bucky’s face was almost adorable as you watched him grow offended on your behalf. “How do we get them to take this stuff down?” he asked you. 

You gently took the phone back from him and began typing away at the comments section. “Not really much we can do about it, Buckaroo,” you told him. “Once it’s on the internet, it’s pretty much forever.

Bucky frowned at your lack of concern. “I’m not just gonna sit back and let a bunch of strangers talk shit about you like that, Pocket.”

“I’ve heard much worse, trust me,” you said with a shrug. “Besides, why should I be mad when they’re just jealous? I can’t blame them. You’re fucking delicious. I feel sorry for them for not being me.” You quirked an eyebrow at him over your phone, trying to be playful, but he wasn’t having it. You snorted as you finished typing. “Besides, I’m not doing ‘nothing.’” You grinned as you turned your phone back to him so he could see what you just typed. → BuckyBarnesFucker69: Oh, I’m sure she sucks alright… like a fucking Hoover. Probably the only reason he’s kept her around as long as he has. Only thing a mouth like that is good for. “Pocket, this…” Bucky spluttered, “this is awful! I—” He stopped and turned to look at you as you started laughing maniacally. His gaze went between you and the comment in front of him, then back again. “You’re BuckyBarnesFucker69, aren’t you?”

You bit your lip, trying to fight the grin that was desperate to escape across your face. “Mayyyyybee,” you offered mischieviously. 

Bucky glared at you, a combination of confusion and frustration clouding his features. “Why the fuck would you play into this?” he asked. “It’s like… you’re letting them bully you.”

His indignance on your behalf warmed your heart and you scooted closer to him to wrap your arms around his neck. “It’s very sexy that you want to defend my honor, Buck,” you said, pressing your lips to the stubble on his cheek. “But you don’t have to worry about it– I’m in on the joke, now. They think they’re laughing at me, but they don’t realize they’re actually laughing with me. So, I win.”

Bucky’s gaze was skeptical as studied your face. “You’re certifiable. You realize that, right?” he asked eventually, a slight smile pulling at the edge of his lips. 

“Uh huh,” you agreed with an enthusiastic nod. “But you love my brand of crazy.”

Bucky sighed dramatically. “God help me, I do,” he said, pulling you down into his lap. He brushed a strand of hair away from your face before his gaze turned serious again. “Are you sure this is all okay, though, doll?” he asked.

You repositioned yourself on his lap, straddling his thighs as you turned to face him. “I’m sure,” you told him. “I know it’s hard for you to believe sometimes, but I’m proud to be your girl, Bucky Barnes. I don’t care if the whole world knows it. Fuck, I want them to know it. I want them to look at you and see the man I see, every time. To see all the good things about you that I love so much.”

Bucky’s gaze turned soft as he stroked your cheek with his flesh thumb. “And what are all the good things you love about me?”

You pulled back slightly, giving him a wary look. “Oh, fishing for compliments now, are we?” you teased.

The grin he gave you was enough to light a fire low in your belly. “Maybe one or two,” he admitted cheekily. 

“You have a magic dick,” you told him with a grin. Your natural instinct was to make a joke of it, and you thought you were going to keep going in that vein, but in the moment, you suddenly felt the need to be serious, to be honest with him. “You’re a good man. Even after everything you’ve been through, you still try. No one would ever fault you if you just threw in the towel and said ‘fuck it, I’m done,’ but that’s not who you are. You keep fighting, even when you don’t have to, but you do it because it’s the right thing to do. You do it so that other people won’t suffer the way you were made to suffer. 

“You make me laugh, Bucky. You’re warm, and kind, and yeah, you occasionally fuck up sometimes, but you learn from it. You’re always striving to be a better version of yourself, and you make me want to be a better version of myself, too. You–” you had to pause to clear your throat. Somewhere along the way, you realized you’d started getting worked up with emotion. 

“You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I know… I know I’m not always an easy person to love. I know I have my issues, and a lot of guys would have looked at all my damage and probably just run in the opposite direction, but not you. You’ve never been anything but patient and loving and gentle with me.” You choked back a soft sob. “I never thought anyone would ever be able to love me, with my history and my baggage, but there you were. And baby, you love me better than I could have ever even wished for, because despite everything you’ve been through, you have such a big heart. And that’s what I love about you the most– they put you through hell, and you’d be well within your rights to turn your back on the entire fucking planet, but you don’t. You choose to save it. Every damned day, you make the choice to be a good man. And I fucking love you for it.” 

You sniffed and wiped at your face, your hand coming away wet with tears. “Shit,” you laughed, embarrassed at the way your emotions had taken over. “Was not planning on going full-drama on you. Should have just stuck with the ‘magic dick’ part. Sorry.”

Bucky was silent as you regained your composure, looking at you with an intensity that unnerved you.

“Say something, Buck," you chuckled in an awkward attempt to relieve the tension you felt under his gaze, "otherwise I’m going to think I embarrassed myself right out of this relationship.” You weren’t sure what you wanted him to say to you– just reassure you hadn’t made a complete fool of yourself in front of him, you supposed, but when he opened his mouth, he took you completely by surprise.

“Marry me.”

<- Previous / Next ->

[sgiandubh]

When Cait married Tony she said they would honeymoon in Italy when it, meaning OL, was over. Good way to get it paid for by OL related appearance next March. Too bad she has to put up with Sam for a couple of hours. Sam, who said many times how he hated S2 costumes and was teased much by Meril, because he didn't like the feminine look. Too much like his true nature. He will certainly bring one of his prostitutes over past 3 years, Ashley being the latest, if her unnecessary week in UK last week for for anything else. 4 trips to Scotland for her in a year. It's clear which business she's really in.

Dear Business She Is Really In Anon,

I think you should be ashamed of yourself, for writing plain libel with no other arguments than your own twisted, bitter and irrelevant world view. If you consider that Ashley Hearn is a prostitute, just because she traveled four times to Scotland since late May 2024, then you are nothing more than a sad, sad troll, who thinks thousands of other women who happen to work in the marketing and sales sectors, all over the world, are also whores, right? You know very well all her trips have been more than thoroughly documented and you also know they did have a tangible impact, as far as that company is concerned. You should also get your fucking timeline straight before you treat us to your word vomit, because even the hatred you gratuitously spread around must have, technically speaking, at least some modicum of plausibility. She did not start to work for SS one year ago, punk: she started to work for them on May 21st 2024, which is exactly six months.

When C married McGill there is no way for you to tell what she said. You weren't there, you are a damn Social Zero and you just rely on word-of-mouth and ridiculously contradictory press releases and interviews. A honeymoon takes a week-end perhaps only in your shanty town and making the ball's organizers 'pay for it' is beyond ridiculous, including as far as C herself might be concerned (what is she, a cheap profiteer?) - supposing that 'relationship' would be anything more than a mutually convenient arrangement of sorts, of course. Sorry, but not the case.

Yeah, too bad she had to put up with S, against all odds, for eleven years, now. This is what really wrecks your pea brain, right? That, and being proven wrong and embarrassingly dumb, over and over again.

For your next endeavor, I suggest you'd turn your attention to your homeland telenovelas (you misspelled Maril Davis' name like a Brazilian and that is a dead giveaway).

Talvez Escrava Isaura seja uma substituição decente e mais acessível? Há reviravoltas baratas (gaslighting, veneno, delírio) o suficiente para mantê-la ocupada por um bom tempo.

You may wonder why I still answer your tragically ridiculous comments? Well, because it is time for someone to shame you and also show the true, dull and derisory colors of your stupid monomania.

[Later edit]: in no way did I want to imply anything negative about Brazil or its culture. I could have definitely better used one of the bajillion other Globo productions, dealing with Carioca intrigue and/or football wives. If I haven't, it is just because Escrava Isaura was a huge international success even in the Nineties, and remembered as such by many. While I am sensitive to the social and political inacceptable problem of slavery, I maintain that the 1976 adaptation of Guimarães's novel is simplistic and formulaic enough, hence more appropriate for Anon. I am sorry if my poor joke was construed differently and I apologize to all the people who might be offended. If you know me, you'd also know I am probably the last person to disrespect your country and culture.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Study Buddy 3

Warnings:this series will include dark elements which may include bullying, noncon or dubcon, or violent behaviour. Mind the warnings.

Summary: a group project leads to a tense partnership.

Character: Walter Marshall

Big thanks to those who read! Feedback always helps inspire and you know I’m always happy to chat about possibilities! Please reblog and comment ❤️

Despite his prickliness, Walter doesn’t shy away from contributing to the work. You watch him thumb through his well-worn copy of the novel, notes scribbled in the margins and tabs stuck to different marks. The only difficult part is making yourself heard. 

“Hmm,” he shifts his chair closer to you, dragging it around the sharp corner, “I like how you worded that but I think you should move it.” 

He points to one sentence then shifts his aim further down. You reread and nod. “I guess that makes more sense.” 

He grumbles. Even agreeing with him seems to disappoint him. You sit back and stretch out your fingers. 

“Do you mind if I use your bathroom quick?” You asks. 

“Sure, down the hall,” he gestures over his shoulder. 

“Thanks, uh, won’t be long.” 

You get up and step around him, his chair leaving only a narrow path between him and the wall. You hook around into the hallway and make yourself as small as you can, afraid to disturb anything. Somehow, you think he’d no if you only dusted off a shelf or tugged on a curtain. 

You find the bathroom and as much as you want to hide, you don’t waste your time. Or his. The quicker this is over, the better. You figure, once you get a full draft done, you can agree to edit in the shared doc. 

You dry your hands with the plain waffled hand towel then flip back the lock. As you emerge, a rattling cough greets you from just beside the doorway. It’s that girl, Faye. His daughter. 

“Ooh, sorry, I wasn’t meaning to...” you begin as she leans heavily on the frame and shivers. She has a blanket around her shoulders as she chatters, he skin clammy, and her eyes about to roll back. “Um, Faye, was it? Are you alright?” 

“Mmmm,” she hums. “Mom?” 

You wince as she murmurs something else you can’t make out. She slips down the wall and you barely manage to catch her. She’s thin but tall. As you hold her up, you feel the heat radiating from her. 

“Here,” you help her through the door and sit her down on the closed toilet seat. She hunches forward and shakes uncontrollably. You touch her forehead. She’s as hot as a kettle. “I should get your dad...” 

“Mommy?” She whines and you flinch again. Walter didn’t mention a wife but she must have a mother, rigiht? 

“Okay,” you turn and search the small cupboard mounted behind the door.  

You take a wash cloth and delicately fold it, then wet it in the sink with cold water. You wring it out and spread it over her forehead. You guide her hands to the edges and have her lean back as her head tips. 

“Stay like that, okay? I’ll be right back.” 

“I’m so cold,” she babbles. 

“I know,” you wring your hand around a single finger. “Um, one sec.” 

You watch her for a moment, making sure she doesn’t slide one way or the other, then leave her. You hurry back down the hall. You find Walter jabbing the keys on his own. 

“Uh, Walter?” You eke out. “Faye uh...” 

“What?” He looks over his shoulder, a crease in his forehead. 

“She’s not feeling very well. She has a pretty bad fever,” you say. 

He sighs and stands up. You back out of his way and let him past. He heads down the hallway and you keep your distance. You stay a few feet away as you watch him approach the bathroom door. He looks inside and you hear Faye’s monotonous drone. 

“Shit,” he growls as he enters. 

You don’t want to intrude. You hesitate, wavering on your feet, then turn back. It’s none of your business. Not until your name stops you. You turn back to the hall. 

“Um, yeah?” 

“Can you come here?” Walter calls. 

It’s not so much a question as an order. You slowly advance down the hall and peek around the frame. Walter kneels before his daughter as she slumps forward and mutters senselessly. 

“I need you to hold onto her or she’ll fall.” 

“Okay,” you move into the tight space and he stands, holding her by her shoulders. You grab her and she leans into you. 

He looks down at her and shakes his head, “goddamnit. I got night shift...” 

His voice trails off and he turns, stepping around you to get to the door. He strides out heavily and you look down at the girl quivering against you. She reaches to cling to the front of your sweater. 

“Do you want some water or something?” You offer. 

“My head hurts,” she whines. 

You ease back and bend to come to a level with her. You stretch your arm across her shoulders to support her. She coughs, “my belly hurts.” 

You sniff. You’re not equipped for this. You have a hard enough time taking care of yourself. 

“Alright.” You take the cloth from her hand. You get her to lean back again and run more water over the cloth. You bring it back to her forehead. “Do you want to lay down?” 

She gurgles and nods. Before you can go get her dad, she latches onto you. She pulls herself up and you can only help. You don’t know what else to do. 

You let her lead you to her room and you get her into bed. You fix the cloth over her head and she moans. You frown. 

“What are you doing?” Walter startles you and you turn to find him in the doorway. 

“Do you have Aspirin? And ice?” You ask. “She needs to stay hydrated. The aspirin should break her fever.” 

“I don’t... know. Maybe in the car.” 

“I have some in my purse,” you insist. “And ice? You have that?” 

“Sure,” he answers as you approach him. He watches you with that stoic sense of disapproval. “I’ll get some.” 

“Yeah, er, thanks.” You utter, confounded how a study session turned into this. 

[the-dark-parade]

WARNINGS! THIS STORY CONTAINS... angst + fluff + lilia×fem reader

A/N: Dear souls, for the moment, thank you for waiting! Once more, I hope my work pleases you. If you are not comfortable with this, feel free to leave. If you would like a version with male reader instead, please request it. Just for your info, my prev fic is still on hiatus. One of these days I'll make a masterlist of my works... Likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated. I'm already starting part 3, sorry if this story doesn't fit your expectations!

Now, the parade continues its second destination...

Part 2

You're in a shitty story as a mob, what more could go wrong?

(if only this was a dream...)

.............................

...you open your eyes.

You opened your eyes!

You opened your goddamn eyes already, and even pinched yourself! Hard!

Once, twice, thrice, twisted it, pulled it, you basically tried everything you could!

But..

...you just couldn't get out of this dream.

The walls, ceiling, bed, and everything around you just screamed "this is war".

How, you may ask?

Well for starters, you're in.. a tent, it seems. Low quality.

The bedding doesn't even feel like bedding. It's just some fabric over.. grass. Literal. Grass.

But the worst part about this are 3 main things.

You could feel pain from wounds. (1 covers your whole head and 2 others for your arms. They all ache and itch under all those bandages. You didn't want to believe it at first, but fuck it's itchy as hell.)

As if that wasn't enough, you could hear. Too well for comfort. And you may ask how that's a bad thing.

Well it is. A major, major bad thing. You could hear basically everything between an estimated 10-20 meters, but you're not too sure. From other people's heavy breathing to crickets outside, it felt like everything was being mega-phoned into your ears. Even things you never noticed or heard before were at the noise level of people mumbling.

It is absolutely horrible. Your eardrums feel like exploding, (you hope it's not bleeding at this point) but the bandage around your head helps ever so slightly. You curse this newfound ability.

On top of that, you could also smell the blood, rot, and dirt from all directions. (Like your sense of hearing, your sense of smell has never been this good, even if it's just slightly better than your usual sense of smell. It's just that your surroundings stink and you wish you had a nose-block.)

Luckily, you could still sit up, so you did.

And guess what you saw?

Well, it should be obvious. As if the smells that invaded your nose and overwhelmed you wasn't a tell-tale sign already.

And so, you glanced at your surroundings with a swift turn of your head and eyes. Was it just you, but could you see better?

To your not-so-surprising surprise, there were so. many. injured yet beautiful people(?) - in your brain, you understood that they were people (at least in looks) but their ears were pointy.

...

Curiosity kills the cat, huh?

Well you surely understood that idiom the moment you touched your own ears.

With what you sensed through the bandages on your entire right arm, your fears turned out to be true.

... it's pointy.

Your ears are fucking pointy.

Haha. Hahaha.

This is not a fucking dream.

This is not.. a dream, is it?

And if all those things, no, people, no, you suppose they're called faes, are real...

Then.. did you truly die from reading that shitty novel?

...

...oh.

You wonder about your friends and family, (if you even had any in the first place) but decide to suppress those thoughts before you get a panic attack.

Anyways, onto your next move!

So, using your experience of reading so much fanfiction, you know just what to do!

Thus, you muster up my courage and reach out a hand to the lady(?) man(?) fae.

Their face was covered with some sort of mask. And you decide to go with she for pronouns as her hair is long.

After scanning the place with your eyes for a bit, you notice that everyone had some sort of mask beside them.

...exactly like the ones that were in that shitty novel...

"urm... what.. date is it now? And where are we? I'm a bit confused."

...you hope she doesn't see how much you're sweating. Is it even a she? You rack your brain, yet you can't figure it out due to the mask. You just decide to call her "green sheep" cause the mask she's wearing is green, and it's a sheep.

She responds back.. something. You somehow understand what she's talking about even though my human - not human - ears cannot comprehend it.

What you managed to catch was "Briar", exactly the same name as the fae's country in the book.

But what you suppose was slightly better was the date. It was 10 years before the main story would end.

After that would be the d day, the day were you and everyone else in this country die.

It's okay, everything's okay!

You are NOT freaking out!

(...not here, at least.)

...

...you want to cry.

Your injuries still hurt and your bandages still itch. Even after so many days of lying in bed.

(...but it's not like that's the only reason.)

Anyways, you suck it up.

It's the only thing you can do now anyways.

-

-

-

The days pass by pretty slowly. You can't believe it's only been a week since you got here. It feels so much longer than that.

Day after day, you get a new memory of who "you" used to be.

You suppose it's better for you...

Like clockwork, you apply the little amount of ointment you're given, change the bandages on your wounds, resist the urge to scratch, eat, exercise as much as I can, sleep and repeat.

It's not so bad after some time.

...

...haha, who are you joking?

You've resorted to talking (in your head, you're not that big of a weirdo!) to yourself because you're so lonely and have no friends here.

Your hand twitches from time to time because you forget you don't have your phone with you anymore.

Everyone is extremely tense and stressed out, not just you.

At night, you're unable to sleep, and not just because your hearing has gotten exceptionally better.

The clanging of swords, the whispers and the different people being shuffled in day after day keeps you up at night.

And even if you do sleep, all you have are nightmares.

Dreams of the modern life you used to have.

It isn't so unbelievably strange that you miss it now. Anyone in your shoes would. The convenience and comfort it came with was extremely addicting.

The more you think about it, the more you can't sleep.

And thus, you lay awake in bed, eyes open, just hearing the tick of the clock.

How long has it been?

How long will you be here?

You're scared. You're lonely. You want to go home. Badly.

...

...But you can't do a single thing about it, and you start to feel numb and accept your fate. It's highly unlikely at this rate.

You just wish this is all a bad dream.

.............................

A/N: You're in denial and will soon have a mental breakdown hahaha! I'm pretty sure my writing style changed, so sorry if you dislike it. Stay tuned for part 3!! Sorry for the long ass waiting times I'll try to post more often 😔😔😔

It'll take a few more chapters til lilia comes idk though but kinda slow burn??

extra for males:

You wake up and wonder.. is your ding dong still there?!

You check your pants and come to a horrible realization...

IT'S GONEEEEEEE!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

😞😞😞😞😔😔😔😔😔😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[hanniesbrat]

the boy is mine | k.mg | teaser

pet play w mingyu

pairing: kim mingyu x reader

genre: strangers -> fucking lol, bit of crack kinda?, smut, fluff

wc: ~300 (full fic: hopefully ~ 3k… but we all know me… it’ll be a novel)

synopsis: when one of your best friends (who also happens to be a frat bro), seungcheol, invites you to his halloween party, you hesitantly accept. you were never really the party type… but one guy, one of his friends to be exact, might single handedly change that.

a/n: HAPPY HALLOWEEN !!!!! you GUYS you guys omg you guys this is fucking pathetic how much i’m putting into this like im just supposed to be making this for kinktober so like…. mayyyyybe 2k words tops right ? nah yall im at like 1k and mc has JUST laid eyes on him so… yeah. ill def be cutting it down regardless. anyways… ummmm if you guys end up liking the full kinktober installment of this, i may make it a series ? or at least a two parter ? idk i think mc and gyu may have some insane chemistry maybe ????? o.O room for growth and a cutesie little spark ? maybe ? anyway lemme stfu HERES THE TEASER !!!!!

ALSO!!! it’s not too late to be added for the tag list for this last kinktober installment!!! comment if you’d like to be added!! <3 esp since i don’t know the official drop date im so sorry

“what’s up?” you look over at chan who’s finishing your drink up, and he’s got his phone between his ear and shoulder. “oh shit okay! we’ll be right out!” he hung up, sliding the phone in his pocket, then turned around handing you your drink. “pretty lady,” he smiled. “cheol lets go. that was vernon, they’re outside.” he said, patting cheol on the shoulder, making his way out of the kitchen hurriedly.

“okay! you two wait right here, i’ll be back.” seungcheol requested, then ran after chan.

“oh god,” you walked forward to the counter and turned so your back was leaning on it with yuqi. you two looked out from the kitchen, into the crowd of people that had seemingly gotten significantly larger since you’d arrived minutes ago. “they’ve all gotta be members of the mystery inc huh…” you trailed off.

“i wonder what poor guy they got to be scooby,” yuqi empathized.

“i bet it’s soonyoung.”

“be so fucking for real, y/n. he’s a fucking tiger every year,” yuqi said pointedly. she was right.

just then, the room got significantly more quiet which meant- oh those boys and their group entrances…

it was never anything elaborate, but they did have to make their presence known. cheol almost always walking in first as the rest of the boys followed.

you and yuqi made your way out of the kitchen to the living room, disregarding cheol’s words from earlier. you two managed to push toward the front of the swarm of people that were gathered near the door. shouts then could be heard from all over, praising the commitment of all the boys. first cheol as fred, then chan as daphne walking alongside wonwoo as velma, and last but not least vernon as shaggy and… not soonyoung as scooby. “who the fuck is that?” you nearly drooled leaning over into yuqi’s ear.

tag list: @skzooluvr @jenoslutie @map0fthes0ul7 @unlikelysublimekryptonite @goblynnrockz @actuallynarii @glttrlix @ninigyuuu

[candycandy00]

Roses in the Sky - An Original Alien x Reader Story Part 10

In a future where humanity huddles in decaying domed cities controlled by alien invaders, you and your best friend Anna work as make-shift nurses in a tiny clinic run by the young doctor Terrian. The city is ruled by the aliens' violent, half-breed offspring who serve as brutal overseers. You and Anna have always tried to avoid these overseers at all cost, but your life is changed when one of those same terrifying offspring is brought into the clinic, injured and unconscious.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

This is an original Alien (well half alien) x Fem Reader story! I hope everyone who enjoys my fanfiction will give this a shot! Any feedback whatsoever would be loved! I’ve already written this story so it’s not going to delay my fanfics. Just thought I might post chapters of this between fanfics if anyone is interested.

Slow burn, as this is a novel-length story, but there will be smut in later chapters! Also: violence, blood, rape attempts, death of side characters, etc.

When morning came, you sat up in bed and stretched, for once glancing at the clock without fear. It was your day off, and you intended to enjoy it as much as you could, starting with sleeping in.

You climbed lazily out of bed and walked into the kitchen for breakfast. Vartan was standing by the table, fully dressed. You blinked and tried to focus your vision. "This is unusual," you commented, eyeing his uniform.

"I would like to leave the apartment today."

The words came bluntly, steadily, like someone banging a sharp rhythm on a drum. You heard them, could not possibly mistake them, but still you leaned against the counter and said, "What?"

"I would like to leave today," he repeated, seeming somewhat confused by the need to say it again.

You stared at him for a second, then crossed your arms over your chest. "Alright. Go on. I'm not making you stay or anything. You barged in here to begin with." At some point you realized your hands were balled into fists. Why were you so angry?

He looked at you blankly. "Am I troubling you?"

You frowned. "No, but you're standing here acting like you're asking for my permission to leave. What do you want me to do? Beg you to stay?"

Somewhere in the back of your mind you knew you should watch your tongue, that arguing with a half-breed was never a good idea, but you just couldn't stop yourself.

He still looked rather confused. "I thought I did need your permission. I am living in your home. You still have the right to make me return to the Tower."

It was your turn to look confused. "Wait, what are you talking about? How can I make you return to the Tower if you're going back there today anyway?"

"But... I am not going back to the Tower today," Vartan said.

"You just said you want to leave today!"

"Yes, I would like to leave the apartment for a short while. There is a place I would like to visit."

You immediately reddened. "Oh! Sorry! I totally misunderstood you. Yeah, you can go out for a while. Just don't let any of my neighbors see you."

"Of course," he replied, seemingly oblivious to your embarrassment. He walked toward the door, then stopped and looked back. "Would you like to come with me?"

"Uh, that kinda depends on where you're going," you said.

"Don't worry. I will not be seeing any of my kind."

You smiled. "Okay, then. Just give me a minute to get dressed." You left him to wait in the kitchen while you went to your room to pull on some jeans and a white cotton shirt. The neckline was a little low, with small, thin lace trim. You had been told by Terrian and Anna, on separate occasions, that you looked especially nice in white. You fixed your hair then looked in the mirror. You smiled to yourself, satisfied with your looks.

Would Vartan be satisfied? Why did you even think that question?

You met him in the kitchen, and he nodded to you without a word. You felt a tinge of disappointment. He didn't even seem to notice that you looked better than usual.

He opened the front door, and you edged past him so you could look both ways, making sure no one was in the hall. When the way seemed clear, you headed toward the stairs and motioned for him to follow. You did the same thing on the ground floor, thankful that your apartment building was never very crowded to begin with.

Once you were outside on the street, Vartan took the lead. You followed nervously behind him as he walked along the pavement. You tried to keep a small distance between the two of you, so that you could easily separate from him if he ran into any of the other half-breeds. You were unsure how they would react to seeing him with a human, and you didn't want him to get into any more trouble than he already had.

Luckily, the walk through town was uneventful, and soon the two of you were standing in front of an incredibly tall, crumbling building. You looked up toward the top, squinting your eyes against the red haze of the sky. It was probably the tallest building in Gallica, aside from the Tower.

"Is this it?" You asked, hoping you didn't sound disappointed.

He nodded and stepped through the open doorway. You followed, and together you and Vartan climbed several flights of stairs. They were steep, and in such disrepair that you occasionally had to skip a step that looked unsafe. The walls were cracked and filthy, covered in long faded graffiti. There had been a handrail at one point, apparently, but it was mostly in broken pieces now. 

After reaching the sixth floor, you grabbed his arm from behind, signaling him to wait. You sat down on the steps and panted. "Sorry, I need a little break."

He sat down beside you and watched you patiently. There wasn't so much as a drop of sweat on his face, and his breathing was completely even. "Take as long as you need," he told you. 

"You half-breeds are pretty amazing. Do you ever get tired?"

"Sometimes," he replied, looking away from you.

"So what's at the top?" you asked, pointing toward the roof that looked so very far away.

"Nothing important. You will see."

You stared at him curiously, wondering what he wanted to show you. He met your gaze and you blinked. "Um, how many stairs do we have to climb?" you asked quickly.

He stood up. "I will carry you."

"What?"

"I will carry you the rest of the way. Stand up."

You got to your feet slowly and he turned his back to you, squatting slightly. You stared at his back, a wave of heat spreading through your face, under your skin. Your heart raced. It was such a silly thing, getting a piggyback ride from him, but you had never really touched him before. Not outside of sewing up his wound or helping him to a cot.

He looked at you over his shoulder. "Get on," he said flatly.

You carefully reached forward and wrapped your arms around his neck, pressed your body against his back, and lifted your knees until he took hold of them and stood up straight. You were immediately surprised by how effortless he made it seem. He didn't so much as grunt as he climbed the rest of the stairs with you on his back.

The whole way up, you couldn’t shake the bizarre feeling of familiarity. Like a phantom memory that was too hazy to remember clearly. 

When he reached the door to the roof, he eased you back to your feet. You looked at the floor, red creeping into your cheeks. "Thanks," you said.

He gave no response as he opened the door and walked out onto the roof. You followed him to the ragged fence at the northern edge and stood beside him as he looked out over the city. Not too terribly far away, you could see the Tower, and at this height, you could make out more of its details than ever before.

As you had thought, the top of the tower was connected to the very center of the dome, like a support beam. What you didn't expect to see, however, was a large mechanical device protruding from the top of the tower. It resembled some kind of cannon pointing upwards, and a gazebo-like room surrounded it. You could barely make out a single half-breed standing near the device, like a soldier standing guard.

"What is that?" you asked.

Vartan followed your gaze to the device. "It is the machine that operates the dome."

"Well, I kinda guessed that. How does it work?"

"I'm not entirely sure," he responded. "I know that the Pagoda's technology powers it, and every three years we must recharge it."

"And why is it being guarded?"

"In the past, humans have tried to reach the machine and destroy it, believing they could escape the city if the dome was removed."

Your jaw dropped. "That's crazy! Everything's frozen outside! If they turned the dome off, we'd all die!"

"Yes, and that is why we guard it. Even we half-breeds could not survive for very long without the dome. I believe some humans think we are lying about the outside, to keep them from trying to escape."

You were quiet then. For the very first time, you understood why there might be a need for the half-breeds. Still, their ruthless behavior couldn't be overlooked. You glanced at Vartan, whose eyes were fixed on another section of the Tower, slightly lower down.

"Do you see those vehicles?" he asked you, pointing to an open floor a third of the way down the Tower. On it, you could see several things that you could only describe as misshapen cars with no wheels and far fewer windows. You nodded and he went on. 

"Those are called Flyers by the half-breeds. They are capable of traveling through space. The Pagoda use them occasionally to visit the mother ship. Half-breeds are not allowed to touch them, but we do see them being flown from time to time."

You were listening intently. This was the most Vartan had said in the entire time you’d known him.

He paused to look at you, then turned his eyes back toward the Flyers. "I... often think about... climbing into a Flyer and leaving this world."

Your eyes widened. You watched Vartan's face as he continued to stare at the Flyers, and you saw a hint of longing there, a hint of despair. You didn't know what to say to him. You were terrified of saying the wrong thing, something that would make him regret sharing such a private thought with you.

He looked at you again, and there was still a shade of sadness in his usually unreadable eyes. "I do not know why I wanted to bring you here, but thank you for coming with me."

"I'm glad you brought me here," you said. "I'm glad I got to know a little more about you."

He looked mildly surprised. "You want to know about me?"

You felt the familiar blush heating up your face. "Well, yeah. You're living with me and all."

"I see," he said. "I will tell you anything you want to know."

"Anything?" you asked, somewhat skeptical. He nodded, and your mind flew into a frenzy as you tried to decide what you most wanted to know. A million questions popped into your head, and you struggled to quickly sort them out. Suddenly you remembered Nariah's story about her mother. "Do you know anything about your human parent?"

Vartan's face seemed to freeze instantly, and you winced, certain you had asked the wrong thing. He looked back toward the Tower. "My mother was human," he started, speaking slowly as if carefully choosing his words. "Half-breeds are kept away from their human parents, because the Pagoda do not want us to be influenced by our human sides. Most human parents are killed anyway."

You nodded, having already heard most of this from Nariah. You said nothing and waited, making it clear that you wanted him to go on.

"My mother was kept alive for several years after I was born. I have a younger brother. He lives in a different domed city, and I only see him every so often. It’s been two years since we last met. We share both a mother and a father, which is rare among us."

You continued to remain silent, eagerly waiting for more.

Vartan's eyes were still fixed on the Tower. "I did meet my mother, if that is what you want to know. On the day she was scheduled to be executed, she somehow escaped from her cell and ran through the Tower, searching for me. She found me by spotting my father walking into my room. When she reached me, she wrapped her arms around me and began crying. She said she had to see me at least once before dying."

You were struck by the difference in Vartan's tone compared to Nariah's. Something about his voice seemed calm, almost nostalgic, as he recounted the story.

He finally turned his face to you as he finished. "I do not know why, but my father did nothing to stop her as my mother held me. She whispered many things into my ear, telling me that I am human, that I should never forget my humanity, that this is my world too. My father only spoke when she asked him where my brother was. The Pagoda guards rushed in after that and pulled her away from me. They dragged her out of the room, to be executed. As she disappeared into the hall, she screamed to my father, 'Please take care of our child!' and they were the last words I heard from her."

You waited for a moment, to be sure he was done talking, before speaking. "It sounds like your mother was very brave."

Vartan nodded his head slightly. "I find my memory of her... comforting. That is strange, isn't it?" he asked you. "A human would be troubled by such a memory, of watching their mother be dragged away to death. A Pagoda would not feel anything at all. I feel I am... different."

It occurred to you that it was that brief meeting with his mother that made Vartan different. In those small moments in which his mother had held him in her arms, she had managed to awaken something in him - something human. "Maybe you find it comforting because it reminds you that you were loved," you told him gently. "Your mother must have loved you a lot, even before seeing you, to go to those lengths to meet you."

Vartan lowered his eyes. "I could not return her love. I didn’t know how. I never even spoke to her. I was motionless the whole time she was there."

"I'm sure she understood. She loved you, no matter what. She told your father to take care of you, right? Speaking of which, isn't it strange for your father to allow her to hold you?"

Vartan's expression changed slightly, from a flicker of sadness to a flicker of something like pride. "My father is strange among the Pagoda. He is often criticized by the others for being eccentric. There was a rumor among the half-breeds that my father is not one hundred percent pure Pagoda, that his distant ancestors had mated with another race. I do not know if this is true or not. There were also rumors that his relationship with my mother was viewed as inappropriate somehow."

You smiled, amused by the fact that Vartan seemed pleased with his "eccentric" father. Perhaps Vartan's human-like behavior was a result of his parents, both of whom seemed rather extraordinary themselves. "He sounds like the only Pagoda I'd ever want to meet," you said. "What do they look like, by the way?"

"They look much like half-breeds," Vartan said, "but they are taller, with longer arms and legs. Their eyes have many colors, all on each eye. They wear dark robes, and keep their hair very long."

You found yourself trying to picture Vartan's father, a tall man with long black hair and rainbow eyes. The image just looked silly, so you changed the subject. "There is one more thing I'd like to ask. Is that okay?"

"Yes," he answered, eyes on yours.

You tried to think of a way to word your question. You had been wondering for some time now about how many women Vartan had been with. As Terrian had said before, a half-breed with a willing human was rare, but you had difficulty imagining Vartan raping someone. Then again, you would have had trouble imagining him tearing a man's head off if you hadn't seen it first hand. You took a deep breath and looked him in the face. "Have you had sex with lots of women?"

He quickly looked away, as if embarrassed, and you dreaded his answer. He kept his eyes on the ground as he opened his mouth to speak. "No, not 'lots'. One."

"One?"

"I have been with one girl."

"Why only one?" you asked, the question popping out of your mouth before you could stop yourself. Half-breeds were known for their carnal exploits. They seemed to be far more hormonal than humans, and that was saying something.

He seemed highly uncomfortable with the topic, but he answered you anyway. "I did not find it to be a pleasant experience. The girl... was crying. I was very young, younger than her, but she probably thought I was older. The other half-breeds told me what to do, and I followed their directions. I did not know why she was crying. Just before it was over, I realized that she was crying because she did not want to..." He stopped talking there, unable to finish the sentence. He paused, then continued. "I did not enjoy it, doing such a thing to that crying girl, so I did not do it again."

You felt tears welling up in your eyes. Vartan had been just as much a victim as the girl, he'd been a child manipulated into doing something he would feel guilty over for the rest of his life. You reached out and placed a hand lightly on his arm. "You can't be blamed for that. You didn't know what you were doing."

He looked at your hand. "Is there anything else you would like to know?"

You reddened. "Um, have you ever thought about trying it with a human who wants to do  it?”

He looked at your face. "I have experienced physical desire, yes. And I have wondered what it would be like, with a girl who is not crying."

Your face burned a little more as you asked the next question. "Have you felt any, uh, desire for me?"

He didn't hesitate. "Yes."

"Really? When?"

His voice was still mechanical. "When I woke up in the clinic and saw you in your underwear. When you looked straight at me in the alley and told me I owed you. When you came out of your room the morning after I came to your house. When I woke up that evening to find you standing over me."

You were shocked. All those times, he'd given no indication that he felt any attraction to you at all. He must have been holding himself back because of his past experience with sex. You couldn't resist smiling. You felt a surge of confidence. "If you thought I wanted to, would you want to be with me?"

He seemed surprised by the question, his eyebrows raising as he looked at her. "Yes."

That was all you needed to hear. You wrapped your arms around his neck and stood on your toes, pressing your lips to his. He slowly lifted his hands and placed them on your back, carefully and gently, obviously unsure of the action. For several seconds, he remained rigid and still, to the point that you began to feel embarrassed. Then, as if he had simply been waiting to be certain you really did want this, he suddenly pressed himself against you, his hands moving over your body, his mouth hungry on yours. It was like a dam had broken, and all the desires and needs and aches came pouring out, washing over you.

Half-breeds were supremely hormonal creatures. Vartan, you discovered, wasn't quite as different from the others as you first thought.

He peeled off your clothes in a hurry, as if waiting even one moment to see your body was agony for him. When you were stripped bare, you stood before him, blushing and crossing one arm over your chest. You’d seen him naked before, so you knew. He was perfection, and you… you were human. 

But when you worked up the nerve to look at his face, you found him staring at you with an expression of awe, a look you’d never seen a half breed wear before. “You’re beautiful,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice made you drop your arm to your side. He looked as if he wanted to take you immediately, but he stood rooted to the spot as he asked, “Can I touch you?”

You nodded, but then quickly held one hand up to signal for him to wait. “First, take your clothes off too.”

It was too embarrassing to be the only one naked. 

“Okay,” he said, pulling off his uniform and leaving it in a neat pile on the cracked concrete. When he turned to face you, you were surprised to find him already hard. He was much bigger erect than he was when you saw him naked before, and seeing his arousal made your face flush with heat. 

You’d never done anything like this before, so you were uncertain of how to proceed. Vartan’s experience was severely lacking, but his own desire seemed to be spurring him on. He stepped closer to you and wrapped his arms around you, pulling your naked body against his. Ahh, his skin felt so smooth and warm. His hands slid down your back, to your ass, where they squeezed lightly. 

You tilted your face up and kissed him again as his hands roamed over you, aggressive yet gentle. You remembered a time when the thought of a half breed touching you was the most terrifying thing you could imagine. But Vartan’s touch was warm and careful. 

He paused to get his long jacket from the pile of clothes and spread it out like a blanket. Then the two of you sank down onto it, him on top of you. He hovered over you for a moment, then said, “I’d like to try something I read in one of your books. Can I?”

Your mind raced to try to imagine what he read. Those books were full of ridiculously unrealistic sex scenes. But he seemed excited to try whatever it was, so you nodded. 

He slid down, parting your legs before leaning forward and licking a stripe up your wet slit. You shivered, rising up on your elbows to look down at him in shock. From what you’d heard, half breeds were usually far too preoccupied with their own pleasure to put much effort into pleasing a human partner. Of course Vartan would be different. 

His tongue slipped between your folds, and you don’t know if he intended it or not, but he licked right over your clit, making you gasp. He looked up at you then, his bi-colored eyes watching your face. “The book was right,” he said, “it is delicious.”

This made you blush furiously, instinctively covering your face with your hands as you muttered, “Oh my god.”

You heard Vartan’s voice, soft and uncertain. “I’m sorry, is this unpleasant for you? The woman in the book enjoyed it very much.”

Moving your hands, you looked down at him. “It feels really good. It’s just kind of embarrassing.”

He was looking back at you with concern. “Do you want me to continue?”

“Yes!” you said, a little too enthusiastically. He smiled, then went back to work pleasuring you with his mouth. You laid back, trying to relax despite your nerves being on fire. A gorgeous half breed was between your legs, gently licking your clit, acting as if you were bestowing some wonderful privilege upon him for allowing it. Oh god, it felt too good! Your legs quivered, your back arched, and your hands gripped fistfuls of his jacket beneath you. 

You climaxed with a moan, your body trembling as he pulled back and watched you, enraptured by the sight of your orgasm. You panted to catch your breath, then he moved closer, pushing your legs up, bending them at the knees. You felt his tip brush against your entrance, and found him staring at your face, as if waiting for one more confirmation. Given his history, you understood. You smiled up at him and put your hands on his shoulders, pulling him closer. 

When he finally pushed into you, it was a slow and careful motion. He didn’t want to hurt you, but your own desire was reaching its peak. You wanted him all the way inside you, and you wanted it now. You bucked your hips against him, urging him to go deeper, faster. You wanted to feel every inch of him. 

And he complied, thrusting in, over and over, his breaths hitching in his throat and his eyes sliding closed. You moaned and twitched beneath him, your arms around his neck, trying to pull him even closer. 

His cock pulsed inside you, throbbing with pleasure, hitting a spot deep within you that had you gasping. His face hovered above yours, and he looked so beautiful, like angel. 

When you came again, clutching him ever tighter, he buried his face in your neck, kissing your throat as his own climax hit. You felt his seed shoot deep into your core, and you felt content. At that moment, the Pagoda, Gallica, the entire world dissolved into the distance. For you, all that existed were you, Vartan, and the red sky looming over your heads.

Tag List:

@scrumptiouslampwobblercop

[monamoe]

Banging my head against the wall with some Riordanverse canon ships (or canon ages) before explaining how I would have done them

(no hate to Rick Riordan! I love his books and his writing style, but I do have problems with some of the writing choices he made). First I’ll start with the age gap relationships.

What I hate about the age gaps:

We didn’t need 16 year old Frank with 14 year old Hazel, because those are two wildly different age groups! To put it in a highschool setting, Hazel would be in Year 8-9 while Frank would be in Year 10 more or less?? He wodukve had his driving license when she hadn’t even done her IGCSEs. When he turned 18 she’d be 16. SIXTEEN. Bruh.

We didn’t need 16 year old Walt with 13 year old Sadie. Same problems as Frazel except worse by one year. (HE’D BE 18 WHEN SHE WOULD BE 15.)

And we didn’t need the 1000+ couples with under 18 characters! Especially with some of the character’s that are thousands of years old’s mythologies! (You know what I’m talking about).

How I would have written them!:

Frank x Hazel:

I assumed Frank was 15 or 14 tbh 💀 I don’t get why he needed to be 16?? It has no plot relevance and also it’s weird considering him and Hazel get together. I love Frazel but like… what is the point? Their relationship isn’t that terrible development wise, jsut kind of bland ig (in my opinion). I’d definitely have given them a lot more development and moments together before dating. I’d also like to make a point that their friendship was already going strong and they had a close bond before dating! If I were to rewrite the books in my own taste idk if I’d even make them get together? I think I appreciate them more when they have a deep bond without a labeled relationship. They’re close and they love eachother, and they want to be committed to eachother, but they don’t want to be dating <3

I also wanted to mention before going into Walt x Sadie that both Hazel and Sadie fall into the trope thingy Rick does where younger POC girls (Hazel is African American, Sadie is mixed) are paired up with 16 year olds. And it’s just really really weird. I’m white so I won’t comment too deeply on this, but I have read a really good essay about it somewhere but I sadly can’t find it :( if I do I’ll put it here.

Walt x Sadie

When I first read TKC, my first impression of Walt was a paragraph that described his appearance (random but I HATE HATE HATE his design in one of the graphic novels. He looks so adult and it’s weird since Sadie clearly has a crush on him. I don’t like the designs for many of the graphic novels in general ngl) and his age, which I read as fourteen, since it explicitly said he was two years younger than Carter. I can’t find the paragraph now, but every other source has said that he’s 16. Bc of this, I read the books assuming he was just a year older than Sadie and I still believe it even if it’s not canon. I wouldn’t change much about their relationship except age Sadie up to 15 and Walt down to 15 as well.

Now for the 1000+ relationships:

Anubis x Sadie x Walt

For Anubis x Sadie x Walt, I already did a sort of essay about how I would have written him and his relationship to Sadie to an extent (Idk how to link posts sorry😔 look up Anubis or TKC on my page and it should appear), even if I haven’t talked about his relationship to Walt yet (bc despite not being explicit, it’s clearly obvious Walt and Anubis are also dating, it’s not a situation we’re two guys love one girl, it’s a poly relationship). I wanted to mention it bc I thought it’d be weird not to talk about him.

Calypso x Leo / Calypso x Percy

Stop. It’s one thing to make a ship similar to Leo x Calypso were they both are at the same maturity rate while also having one be immortal, it’s another to make a teen date a goddess who has a mythological history of rape and SA?? No matter if the translation or copy of the Odyssey you own makes the ‘cheating’ consensual, the implications are STILL THERE. In PJO I also find Calypso bossy (which normally wouldn’t bother me? I’m also bossy so it’s jot that deep), rude and downright vindictive. The curse she put on Annabeth that happened in Tartarus? The blame on Percy for ‘leaving her’ and the whole ‘he promised to free me from my prison’ when he LITERALLY DIDNT. Percy promised to build her a garden in his city (or something like that sorry 😭), not to free her. Just. In general this relationship makes me feel icky and I heavily dislike it.

So that’s all for now, I’m tired, gn everyone! If I missed anything or got anything wrong feel free to correct me <3

[ssbooks]

Day 13

One of you, one of my many wonderful supporters, asked what my purpose was for writing my novel. I’d love to give a shoutout to whoever commented this (I can’t seem to find you anywhere! Your comment has been eaten alive by my feed). I’ve spent the last 30 minutes looking for you… So either the comment was deleted, or I’m insane. (The last one is already true.) Anyway, since I can’t remember who you are, if you’d be so kind as to speak up, I can properly express my gratitude. That would be much appreciated! Now, onto your question…

Why did I start writing my novel? Note from future me: I did not mean for things to get this dark, but they did. So heads up.

When I started writing this, I was not in the best place—not mentally, not physically. (Imagine living in a three-room house with 10 people plus food storage—not fun.) But my biggest struggle was the mental part.

I craved love from my parents. I wanted them to notice: Hey, I’m in a bad place. Please help me. I’m drowning. But they were struggling—hard—with their own issues. Looking back, it was selfish of me to want more when they were dealing with so much.

My dad wasn’t getting any sleep. An average night for him was 2–3 hours of sleep, and this went on for more than two years. He was constantly stressed and physically worked himself to exhaustion.

Meanwhile, my mom had to protect us from my dad’s anger, keep all eight of us in check, and somehow manage our acre and garden. (For those who don’t know, a garden that size is massive—we lived off that thing.)

I kept everything to myself back then, trying to wear the mask of a happy, positive girl. Sometimes, though, the feelings slipped out. My mother would try to be there for me, but she was mentally exhausted—and had been for at least two years, if not longer. My pain was dragging her down, adding a burden she couldn’t carry.

I dove deep into stories: books, comics, anything I could get my hands on. Eventually, though, we stopped going to the library because we lived too far away. So I turned to the internet. I found webtoons and read everything I could find there. It wasn’t a healthy relationship—me and my computer. I’d stay up until six in the morning just reading, only going to bed when my dad woke up to go to work.

When my mom found out, she turned off all my access to the internet. It wasn’t just because I was misusing it; it was because I was keeping secrets. I was acting shady. I couldn’t function without spending hours at a time on a device. I wasn’t participating in family life. I was draining them, a dead weight, at a time when my family needed me most. My mom was the only one keeping us all afloat.

I’m sorry, Mom.

When I began writing my story, there wasn’t some grand spark. No fire burned in me as I thought about it. Honestly, I felt nothing.

The only reason I started at all was because I saw how much I was hurting my family. I saw the slump I had put them in. I saw their pain—the pain I helped cause—and I decided I needed to do something with my life instead of just moping. I needed to decide for myself what I wanted to do.

So, I began writing. At first, it was just an idea. That first draft is completely unrecognizable compared to what I have now.

And honestly? For something that started out as a half-hearted attempt, it’s really taking shape. I love it now. I feel that fire, that spark, and I cherish it.

So, what inspired you to write?

Also a note from future me: this is heavily unedited so it's missing some details, and may have a lot of flaws.

[elissanatok]

﹒•˒⟿⭒「﹒•𝙈𝙤𝙤𝙣𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚 ❞」ʿʿ ⟿☼

↳🪶💌⭒˞˔˙ː❛ -„𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖨 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖾. 𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾."✹⋮

summary: In which the middle child of the clearwater family suddenly gets pulled out of her peacefull and secure lifestyle, just to enter a world of shifters, vampires and love triangles.

◌༄۵ ! 𝔧𝔞𝔠𝔬𝔟 𝔟𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔨 !

! 𝖳𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 !

I hope you enjoy reading my story! Show me you're here, write a comment, vote, make a girl happy ;)<3

englisch is not my first language, please feel free to kindly point out the mistakes that are possibly made

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨

﹒•˒⟿⭒「﹒• 𝗋 𝖺 𝗂 𝗇  ❞」ʿʿ ⟿☼

......................

there was not much one could wear at the reservation. half of the people ran around like it was august all year long, but not Olivia. she put on a pair of socks, a pair of fluffy socks and her boots. her thick coat almost hid her completely as she stepped down her porch. mutt was making a squeaking sound under her shoes, the brown liquid spraying against her jeans, as she walked to her jeep. the tiny yellow car being her only way into town.

she wanted to get a book, nothing else.

she did not expect to be thrown to the ground by the most fragile force that could have ever run into her. she looked up into brown eyes. the girl's hand being stuffed in thick gloves reached out to her. "g-god I'm so sorry. I really didn't mean to." Olivia nodded. her bum was wet and her hands were red and itchy from the ground, but she forced a light smile. "It's alright. don't worry. could have happened to me too." she tried stepping around the brunette and into the store, stuffing her hands back into her coat. the girl stepped aside, smiling uncomfortably and left a second later.

"bella!", she had heard a familiar voice call, but didn't bother turning around and taking a look. she wasn't bella and she had hurt herself enough already.

the rain fell harshly against the windows of the bookstore, then the window of her car, and the windows of her bedroom. it had been raining for a few days now, which annoyed her just a little bit. spending hours in her bed reading and watching movies was something she loved. but she hated going to school during the rain, because when she went in and when she stepped out, she would get wet, and being wet was something entirely different than watching the rain through her window.

a knock on her door made her look up from her novel. she smiled when she saw the brown hair of her brother, but rolled her eyes when she saw the second one. paul grinned. he was content in her room. it smelled of lavender and honey and her. "what do you want?", she asked and sat up slightly. seth let himself fall on her bed, while the older boy sat down in her chair. he inhaled the air carefully. honey, lavender and something he really, really did not like. he threw a nasty look at her coat, which was hanging around the wooden chair.

"we wanted to know if you would like to eat at sams today. emily asked about you, you know", paul told her, while watching her intently. she had not been at sams for a few years now. not since he had broken up with her sister. she liked emily, she loved her, she was her cousin, but that did not change the sour taste in her mouth whenever they talked about her. "Not today. tell her thanks tho please.", she smiled slightly, looking down at her book again.

paul exhaled a loud breath. he had already expected her answer. "you know, she and leah talked. they're on good terms now.", he told her, while seth threw her and annoyed look. she shook her head. she had to talk to leah first, after that she could decide if she would allow herself back there.

"okay. bye olli.", he called, as he jumped from her chair and jogged out of her room with her brother hot on his heels. she shook her head. she had just as much energy as they had in their little toes.

......................

the day went by slow, even slower than usual. the tv had the nerve to stop working and olivia's mother was starting to get annoyed with everything around her. her job, her house, the dishes, the tv and her children. Olli didn't really blame herself, she had spent the whole day in her room, and was sure that she could not have possibly annoyed anyone.

Oh how wrong she was. her sister could get annoyed by anything. anything. and she truly loved her younger sister, but the fact that Sam and her whole pack had confronted her about her sister's absence, and asked her to talk to her, definitely ruined her mood. she felt like it was her fault that they had to miss her, pulling Olivia on her side after the breakup and away from emily. not like she was that close to anybody in the pack except her cousin. when Olli thought about them, she could only remember a few faces, a few names here and there, but she didn't miss anybody.

so when Leah stormed straight towards her the second she came home, she didn't really see the problem. yes, Leah was probably right. she should come to see Emily the next time she had the chance, but when she heard that everybody had been missing her, she got confused. "everybody? Sam?", Leah nodded her head. "Yeah, Sam. Paul's also a pain in my ass." Olivia rolled her eyes at that. "yeah I will come. Alright?"

she didn't feel excited about visiting them. not at all.

she didn't even know who them really were. she knew that her siblings and a few other teens hung around them a lot, she didn't understand why. she knew that seth never brought anybody home except Paul, and her sister was always careful with throwing names around, but she ignored it, trying to be happy for her siblings after all they had been through. she just wished she could be a little bit more like them.

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Taglist @lowkeysaurus