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sunlightmurdock · 7 months

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The Odyssey | 1.3 | Bradley Bradshaw x reader

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the pain of not knowing is weighing heavily on you as you arrive to your next destination. The people around you prove themselves.

warnings: enemies to lovers, power imbalance (professor / student relationship), age gap (22 / 33), swearing, infidelity, the italics at the very beginning indicate a scene involving brief attempt at sexual assault. The chapter deals heavily with themes of SA, and its aftermath. Pls take your own triggers into account while reading and feel free to message me for further info 🫶

…

“C‘mon, man, not so much as a test drive?”

Malcolm’s not in his right mind. Finals week pushed him to the brink and beyond. He’s been killing himself proving to his father that he’s worth being taken on at the firm. College is coming to an end and it’s almost time to be a man — as it grows closer, there seem to be more and more voices in his ear telling him what that entails.

Sex. Money. Power. Everything in the world is about sex, but sex is about power. Or whatever Oscar Wilde had said — he had only enrolled in that class for the credits and the added study time with you.

“Don’t talk about her like that.” He brushes the comment off with a wrinkle of his nose, bringing the bottle of whiskey to his mouth, tipping his head and pouring it back.

You’re not a possession — he’s in good enough mind to know that much. His buddy’s test drive metaphor leaves more than a sour taste in his mouth. It also leaves a sickness in his stomach and a venom twisting through his nerves.

The mention of this is already grinding at him, his blood growing hot and his feet growing restless, tapping against the aged wood below them.

“Because she’s such an angel that she won’t even let you lay a finger on her? — Yeah, she sounds like a real prize, Ashworth.” Another guy snorts. Malcolm’s head whips around to face him, his eyes narrowed.

“Has she even let you get to second base or are her tits off limits too?”

“Damn shame that she’s got that pretty mouth and you don’t have a clue what to do with it.”

“She scared that it’s going to hurt or something? — You packing a big one, Mac?”

He pushes himself swiftly up from that stiff leather armchair despite its creaks of complaint. Damn thing is older than he is. The dark liquid swishes in the bottle as he staggers away from his so-called friends. He’s heard enough.

He knows where to find you, pushing through the sea of already drunk co-eds and wrapping an arm securely around your waist, slotting himself into your gossip session with a friend.

You’re so excited to see him, greeting him with a polite kiss to the cheek and leaning into his touch. You’re always so kind to him. He has to lean in close to whisper in your ear, his voice sullen and serious, “Could I talk to you for a minute? — In private.”

It isn’t until he closes the door to one of the guys’ rooms, that he notices exactly how drunk you are. You gasp and wobble and drop down onto the bed, bursting out laughing.

He doesn’t laugh with you. Instead, he brings the bottle of whiskey to his lips and takes a long drink. Lurking in the doorway, watching you.

As the bottle drops back to his side, Malcolm just remembers watching you. He doesn’t remember walking any closer until he’s sat beside you and holding your face in his hands.

“God, Mac — how much have,” You have to pause to hiccup, covering your mouth with your hand, unaware that you’re slurring your words too. “How much have you had to drink? — You reek!”

“Just a bit.” He mumbles, the bottle heavy in his hand as he leans forwards and kisses you. You comply happily at first. Well, you seem happy enough to him, even if he does smell kind of like a distillery.

Maybe the two of you talk more, maybe you don’t. The only thing Malcolm knows is that he has securely rounded the corner into second base before you start to fuss at him. You’ve let him get this far before, what’s the big deal now?

The dress you’re wearing is a flimsy blue satin thing, not particularly festive for the holiday party, patterned with expensive looking shimmering detailing. One of them has slipped off of your shoulder to make room for his hand to slip under the velvet fabric and cup at your breast.

“Stop it — what if someone comes in?” But you’re still kind of giggling with him, grabbing at his shoulders. If you wanted him off of you, you’d say so. You have before.

You’re not that kind of girl. Malcolm scoffs to himself at the idea. Your neck is soft against his lips and your perfume drives him crazy.

“It’s just sex, it’s not a big deal.” He mutters into the crook of your jaw, and the mood flips. He feels you pushing weakly at him, all it does is bunch his sport coat and make it fall back off of his shoulders.

“Sex? — Here?” You’re not making much sense, losing your composure and your ability to form a real sentence at once. Not so classy now.

As Malcolm sits back to shrug his jacket off and looks down at you, your chest halfway exposed and your eyes struggling to track him, he feels a pang of guilt strike him. Slowing himself, his heartbeat is in his ears as he fixes your dress to cover you once more and leans down to kiss at your lips.

“I’ll marry you,” He whispers against your mouth, pleading. “I have a ring. I was going to ask you anyway. Your father loves me, you know he does. You believe me, right, honey?”

You had said yes once before. You were going to let him. After prom night, your senior year; you were going to the same college and your families liked each other. He’d gotten too drunk and screwed it. Couldn’t even get it hard. It seemed to freak you out, after that you’ve barely let him close. Now, you’re seniors again. He just needs you to say yes once more.

“Not here.” Your face wrinkles and turns away from him, maybe it’s just the smell of whiskey but the rejection damn near makes him see white. He remembers how uncoordinated your efforts to shove at his hands were.

The next thing he remembers is Catherine stumbling in looking for you, and you trying to bolt. He had caught you the first time.

You were screaming at him, shoving him, calling him a pig. He was arguing right back at you. He’s always known exactly what to say to make your argument feel paper-thin.

The second time you had run, he had let you go, picking up his half-finished whiskey and pouring it into his mouth. He knew you wouldn’t say a word to your parents, you would be too ashamed.

The last thing that you remember from that night is being downstairs, laughing with your friends, with his arm around your waist.

The drive down to the farmhouse is a little over an hour from Florence, one of the shorter journeys of your trip. No need for stops or bathroom breaks. You had settled into your seat, covered your ears, and turned the volume on the Walkman as loud as it would go.

When you were packing tapes for the trip, you hadn’t once considered to bring Christmas music. Now, you’re wracking your brain trying to remember the song that had been playing. Remember any part of that night at all.

Once she had realized what she had said, Catherine had grown defensive and apologetic. She wouldn’t tell you much. Like she was covering something.

You’ve been staring unseeingly at the Tuscan countryside as it passes you by, Kate Bush as your soundtrack. I should be crying but I just can't let it show.

He wouldn’t hurt you. This is the same man who took you out to his mother’s rose garden and gave you the most stunning Tiffany necklace you’ve ever seen as a gift. The man who hugs you so close against him, and sits through your chick-flicks with you.

Your parents adore him, and it’s their job to protect you. Your father is a wonderful judge of character, and Malcolm won his seal of approval years ago.

All these miles of land whizzing by, outside of this ugly little minivan, are starting to make you sick. You close your eyes and listen to Kate.

Oh, darling, make it go

Make it go away

Your eyes burn under your eyelids, prickling with tears. Even worse, it makes your face burn with furious heat to think of any one of these people seeing you cry. Your stomach is trembling with unease, a static feeling in your fingers and toes is the only thing reminding you that you can feel them at all.

Breathing in shakily, you squeeze your eyes more tightly closed, gritting your teeth to will the tears away.

You just need to remember. You can’t go accusing him of something awful. He’s always been so good to you. He’s your future. You just need to get your bearings, and figure it out. Maybe you had led him on. Given him the wrong idea.

It’s such a short drive, and for once, there doesn’t seem to be any drama that requires his attention. Bradley has let himself get so behind on his work that he spends the duration of the drive with his papers sprawled out across the bench, making annotations and edits.

“Whoa, look at this place!” Zoe gasps, leaning over the seats to get a look at the sprawling driveway, lined with green trees and shrubs, marking the way toward the farmhouse. It’s an incredible building, sprawling and stone, dotted with climbing plants along the walls and planted flowers in the window boxes.

Bradley closes his notebook and looks up finally, then looks across at Pasquale with a small smile.

“Did I ever tell you guys that this is where Pasquale and I met?” Bradley announces to the group, turning around in his seat to face them.

“All the way out here?”

“Yeah. We worked here together one fall.”

Bradley had heard of Alessandro’s work early into his studies. It was Natasha who got him the job here. He arrived in September and left in December, this place gets cold as the months go on. Now, it’s warm and everything is in bloom. It smells sweet and citrusy. Sandro had always sworn that the apricots grown here were the best in the country.

“Then, when Mr. Bradshaw had been accepted for his summer work here with the university, I was the first person he called to be your tour guide.” Pasquale adds with a grin as he pulls up in front of the old house. Bradley hums. Pasquale has always been a good friend to him.

As soon as the engine stops, the heavy wooden front door is thrown open and a tall man with long, dark curls comes jogging out, grinning.

“Bradley Bradshaw!” His accent is thick, but mixed. Not entirely Italian. His cheeks dimple as his grin stretches across his olive toned skin, watching Bradley tear out of the minivan and head for him.

“Sandro,” Bradley grins, grabbing hold of the slightly shorter man by his shoulders and dragging him in for a hug before leaning in close and shaking the man a bit as he chuckles out something in Italian that makes them both laugh. You miss it, barely pulling your headphones off of your ears as you step out of the van.

“I don’t know what that means but I know it was a swear word.” Abigail announces, making Bradley laugh as he turns to her again. She’s not wrong, he had happily just called Alessandro something not too dissimilar to a son of a bitch. Endearingly.

He hooks an arm around Alessandro’s shoulders and turns him coolly towards the group. “Guys, this is Alessandro Gabris. Not quite the man of the house but a hell of a storyteller.”

Alessandro turns his head and whispers something back that can only be as filthy as whatever Bradley had said to him, because it makes them both double over laughing. Their inside joke makes Pasquale laugh along with them. That autumn had been such good fun, the three of them.

Alessandro glances behind him as an older man walks out of the building, wheeling an elderly woman in a wheelchair. He smiles as he gestures to her.

“And this is my mother, Teodora Gabris.”

“Oh, I remember,” Bradley’s lips stretch into a warm grin as he breaks the haphazard formation of the group, unwraps himself from Sandro and steps towards her, crouching in front of her wheelchair, slipping his sunglasses off. The woman’s face changes, brightening with recognition. “Don’t break my heart, Dorie, you remember me too, huh?”

The crinkles beside her eyes deepen as she lifts her hand and rests it against his cheek, tilting her head to examine his face.

“The artist.” She remembers, making Bradley laugh fondly. He’s familiar with her in a way that makes both of their grins broaden as he leans in. He’s far from an artist, and she knows it. But, he has a way with words and a way with women, and that had amused her all of those years ago.

In her youth, Teodora traveled from the Kefalonian countryside to the centre of Paris, where she had trained with oil paints. She’s the real artist.

“How have you been?” He asks.

She just looks around her, gesturing to her little slice of Tuscany, blooming into the July heat, and back to him finally. Bradley nods his head, unable to shake that smile from his face. She has her little slice of heaven already, how could she not be happy?

“You haven’t aged a day.” He tells her, his large hand resting softly against her now frail wrist.

You stare between the two of them. The affection they have for each other, and the joy on her face as she remembers the boy he was. His hand sitting so gently on her skin.

“You have.” She teases, pinching his sunwarmed red cheeks. He laughs, sharing her gaze for a beat before he stands upright once again.

Of the six places that you have visited so far on this trip, Bradley has been greeted warmly by someone who once knew him in every single one of them. Even Natasha, who hates him for his betrayal, finds it in herself to revel in the safety of still being near him.

You don’t remember your interaction with him that night either. He could have done anything. He could have left you there. You can only imagine the look your mother would have given him when he took you home. You weren’t ever even particularly nice to him, you’d talked through his class all through first semester. He took you home and made sure you were safe anyway.

“Hey, are you okay?” Suddenly there’s a hand on your wrist and it feels like scalding water. You pull swiftly away from it and whip your head around to find Abigail leaning towards you, her features creased with concern.

Your cheeks are hot, and wet. Fuck, they’re wet. Quickly, you bring both hands to your face and start wiping hurriedly at your tears. You can’t bring yourself to do anything but blink dumbly at her, your shoes dragging across the dirt below you as you stumble a step back.

As he hears the question, Bradley turns and shoots a glance over his shoulder. His face falls, turning completely to do a double take as he notices your teary face.

“Hey, hey — what’s the matter?” Bradley’s size thirteen converse tennis blancs trample across the dirt and stones, long strides and heavy footfalls. Your stomach churns at the thought of those heavy hands on your skin, of his frame up close and looming over you, of getting stuck between him and the minivan behind you.

He slows as your foot slips back and fumbles for purchase in the dirt, muddying your white sneakers.

Everyone behind him is looking at you now. You’re painfully aware of the twisted up look on your face but it’s the only thing keeping you from sobbing.

Humiliation stings. All of them looking at you like you’re ridiculous. Not being able to remember. Simultaneously wanting to throw yourself into Bradley’s chest and beg him not to touch you.

Bradley lowers his voice just slightly, also well-aware of all of the eyes on you suddenly. “Look at me. What’s the matter?”

Your lip trembles, trying not to look at anyone around you. Your eyes steady on his, your throat thick and your heartbeat thundering.

“Can I talk to you about something?” You croak out.

There’s a study downstairs, just off of the living room. Bradley clicks the door shut behind him, his brows drawing together as your pace away from him.

“Honey…” He says softly, like he’s trying to soothe a cornered animal. You round on him like one, eyes wide. He’s never seen you so spooked. “Talk to me. What happened? — I can’t fix it if—“

“You can’t fix it.” Your voice cracks and gravity grows stronger, forcing you to the ground. Crumpling like a piece of paper, you curl your knees up to your chest, a sob wracking your body.

“Okay, alright,” Bradley breathes out, clicking the lock on the door and following you to the ground. You flinch as his heavy hand comes to rest against the back of your neck, stroking softly over the top of your styled hair. “Let me hear it, it’s no good keeping it to yourself.”

“Please don’t touch me,” You whisper into your knees, squeezing your eyes tightly shut. Your skin crawls, trying to picture Malcolm on top of you, wondering how you couldn’t remember. “Could you… could you just please not.” You decide finally, wiping hurriedly at the damp spots under your eyes.

He doesn’t follow. It was just last night that you were so comfortable in his arms, staring up at him with that electric, trusting look on your face. But he gently takes his hand off of you anyway.

“Is this about that phone call?” Bradley asks gently, suddenly unsure of where to put his hands. His instinct is to hold you.

Light pours in from the tall, wide window to your side. It’s far too warm, and too sunny in here for you to be feeling this awful. It feels like the ground is going to swallow you whole, if the weight in your chest doesn’t take you out first.

“Talk to me, honey. Tell me what happened.” Bradley encourages, bracing his elbows on his knees and lowering his head to try to meet your gaze.

“I think Malcolm — that night that you found me in December, I think— I think that he—“

Bradley’s eyes go round, the concerned frown on his face falling all of a sudden. He stares at you as you sob into your hands. He remembers that night so clearly. From waking up face down in a textbook chapter about Pre-raphaelite attitudes towards monogamy, to squinting to figure out what that figure in the snow was. Seeing you there, barely conscious. Practically deadweight in his arms as he had lifted you.

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

You lift your head to look at him, the colour drained from your skin, eyes pleading.

“Did he tell you this?” Bradley asks you softly.

“No. Catherine said — she said something about finding— fuck, she said something about finding him… on top of me.” Your throat is hoarse and your words are barely coming out as you try to hold back floods of tears. If you let yourself keep crying, it feels like you might not ever stop.

Bradley lifts his hand and pinches at the bridge of his nose. He inhales for six, exhales for seven. Then, he reaches out slowly and rests the tips of his fingers against the outside of your ankle.

“I don’t remember.” You choke out. He looks across at you, thinking of how proudly you had been showing off your engagement ring. No clue what an animal your fiancé was. Your lip trembles. “I don’t remember it.”

His gaze flickers immediately to your hands covering your face as the midday sun catches the rock on your ring finger, glistening in the light. You never would have said yes if you had known.

“I’m sorry, honey, I’m so sorry,” He whispers, curling his fingers softly around your ankle. It takes everything not to wrap himself around you and shield you from everything outside of these four walls. This dusty old office, sunlight shining across ever single chip and dent in these old floor boards, just you and him.

“If I wasn’t such a mess, then—“

“Hey,” His fingers squeeze softly at your ankle, prompting you to look up at him, hot tears spilling down your cheeks. He gives a soft shake of your head. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

A few seconds pass between the two of you. His fingers don’t dare inch from the safety of your ankle, if that’s as much of you as he is allowed to touch, then that’s what he’ll take.

He can’t imagine the fear in not knowing.

You swallow softly and push onto your knees, crawling closer and pushing yourself into his chest. Bradley tucks one arm around your waist, doing his best not to cage you against him as you bury your face into his neck. You can feel him giving you room to retreat.

It’s such a strange thing, not wanting him to touch you but at the same time wanting to be held by him until the rest of the world stops. The thought of his hands on your skin makes you sick, but you want nothing more than to bury your face in the crook of his neck and pretend that none of this is happening. Like he’s not a separate man, not something to fear — just an extension of self, almost.

“It’s not your fault.” He tells you again, running his hand along your back, finally letting his eyes fall shut. Your breathing is jagged and gasping with the sobs, coming out quickly against the skin of his neck. “I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay.”

“I should remember. I — I thought I’d know, or… feel… and I don’t remember any of it.”

His stomach knots, his palm resting between your shoulder blades as he cradles you against him.

It wasn’t that long ago that he couldn’t stand the thought of you. He had taken what he had seen of you in his classroom and come to the decision that you were selfish, and spoiled, lazy. He had no idea.

Since then, he has grown to know that you’re none of those things. You’re defensive, sure, he can be too. You’re a product of your upbringing, to an extent. But you’re witty, and smart, and you’re far from selfish. Bradley has seen your curiosity up close for weeks now. Your potential weighs on his mind, it keeps him up at night thinking of the future you’d have if you just had someone tell you that you could.

He hugs you against his chest and turns his face into the crook of your neck.

“You’re gonna be okay.” He promises. There’s no way around it, or over it. He couldn’t have stopped it from happening. This isn’t about him or the way that he feels for you. He holds you close, rubbing firm circles across the length of your back for as long as you’ll let him.

“I’m sorry.” You choke out, your face buried into the warmth and familiarity of his neck. “You — You should be out there with everyone. I just need a minute.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Bradley whispers.

And he doesn’t. He sits there and holds you until he feels your breathing start to get slower and longer against him. Then, he strokes a strand of hair gently off of your face. “You feeling tired?”

“Exhausted.” You whisper.

He nods softly and kisses the top of your head. If he could, he would happily have carried you upstairs and put you to bed himself. Instead, under the watchful eye of the rest of your class, he has to point your directions from the bottom of the stairs.

“I’ll be upstairs to check on you in a bit. Get some rest.”

And he does come up a bit later. You’re not sure exactly how much later, but it’s dark when the first knock wakes you up.

See, the first knock doesn’t warrant pulling yourself out of this unfamiliar bed. The pillowcase is damp but for now, you seem to have run out of tears. The second knock is more tempting, if only to make the sound stop.

Bradley doesn’t knock a third time. Instead, he takes a quick glance at the empty hall around him and leans in close, “It’s me. Can I come in?”

You already knew it was him, there’s no real need for him to announce himself. Still, you grace him with a tired sound of acknowledgment and force yourself out of the fetal position. The old doorknob creaks and clicks, then the door itself creaks as it opens. It would be pretty difficult to sneak around in a big old house like this one.

“Hey.” Bradley greets you softly, cautiously. You offer him a tight-lipped smile. He brings a hand from behind his back and shows you a plate with roasted potatoes and vegetables — something else that you can’t quite see, a starchy baked dish.

Through no fault of his own, he doesn’t get much of a reaction from you at all. You make no effort to reach for the plate. He crosses the room and sets it down on top of the dresser.

“Brought you some dinner, and uh…” Bradley hasn’t felt sheepish since his second day of basic training, and yet, his eyes are on the floor as he pulls his other hand from behind his back. “I brought you this.”

You watch as he sets the blue fabric in front of you, folded neatly.

“Your shirt?”

He scratches at the back of his neck, walking right on by you to sit against the window ledge. Cool air bristles his nape and makes him sit up a little straighter, letting you catch his eye.

“I don’t know, I thought…” He stares at the blue fabric in your hands and gives his head a soft shake. “I don’t know what I thought, but keep it for tonight.”

He knows what his thought process was, he just can’t bring himself to say it out loud. It sounds selfish now. I thought that since I can’t be with you, maybe a piece of me might help. How ridiculous of him to make himself so important in all of this.

“Here,” He remembers, pushing himself away from the window and taking the plate in his hand again, “Come on, you should eat something, while it’s still hot. It’s good.”

You pull your knees to your chest as he perches himself on the bed beside you, setting the plate down. You settle down, crossing your legs and lifting the plate into your lap, picking up the fork.

He watches, chewing at the inside of his lip as you push the vegetables around the plate.

“How’re you feeling now?”

“Stupid for bawling my eyes out like that.” You answer him meekly, spearing the fork through a grilled red pepper, pushing it through some of the juice from the baked dish.

His eyes search across your features.

Neither one of you says anything for a moment as you shake the pepper from your fork and stab it instead through a piece of eggplant.

“You’re not stupid.” He tells you, his brows drawing together as he watches you periodically wound the food on the plate.

“He was clearly unhappy, and I didn’t even notice. My own boyfriend and I didn’t have a clue,” You jam the fork into a particularly stubborn chunk of zucchini and letting the fork clatter to the plate. Bradley stares back at you. “If he was happy then—“

”Don’t defend him to me.” Bradley interrupts you, his voice calm but grave. In a roundabout way, he understands how your thought process has led you here, but he can’t listen.

”No, I’m — I’m not. But it’s my responsibility as his partner—“

”Stop it.” Bradley deadpans. He lowers his head and meets your gaze. His tone suggests that he is growing frustrated but his eyes are another story, soft and warm, honeyed as they search across your face. “You were blacked out drunk. Whatever you think you owe him, it wasn’t his in that moment. You get that, right?”

He’s trying to help. You know that he’s trying to make it better, but it isn’t. Your nape feels hot and your throat feels sore. If he’s right, if that’s really true — if it was never your fault — then where do you go from here?

Your wedding is eighteen days after you fly home. The dress, the centre-pieces, the bridesmaids and the venue — everything is already all set up.

You suck in a soft breath and bury your face in your hands. Bradley lifts his palm and smooths a hand softly over the nape of your neck.

“Look, I just—“

“Can you go?” You breathe out shakily, dropping your hands from your face and meeting his gaze. His mouth hangs open, and you just know that he’s going to keep on talking. “Just go. Please. I want to be alone.”

Finally, he closes his mouth and gives a solemn nod.

“Okay,” He gives your shoulder a soft squeeze before standing up from the bed. “I’ll come see you tomorrow morning.”

With him gone, the quiet is worse this time. Out here in the country, there’s nothing but you wracking your brain for answers that just won’t come. At some point, you make yourself eat some of the now cold food Bradley had brought you just to settle the rumbling in your stomach.

Then, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror. It’s a tall thing with a wooden frame, angled to face the bed. Your fingers reach down and curl into the hem of your nightgown, thinking of the blue Dior dress sitting in your closet at home now. It’s around this length, one of your shorter articles of clothing. You had been so excited to find that dress.

Standing in it that day in the floor, you had felt like Cinderella, right out of the pages of a storybook. Ridiculous.

Quickly, you grab at the hem and tear it off of your body. Almost naked, you examine yourself in the reflection. Something makes you walk forwards and your eyes squint, scrutinizing the flesh before you. Wondering how much of it Malcolm has seen, really.

You wonder which parts of it come to mind, when the two men who have seen your body think about it. The softness of your stomach? The way your breasts sit? — Something different entirely, maybe. Your self-examination is short-lived and exhausting all at once.

Turning back around, you spot Bradley’s shirt sitting on the edge of the bed. It’s a soft, heavy cotton, and it smells wholly of him. It slips easily over your shoulders, your fingers working nimbly to fasten the buttons.

You tilt your head, observing the way you look wrapped in his clothes. Then, you look around the room. Without Bradley to occupy your evening, the sudden lack of television or alternate entertainment strikes you.

Stuck with little other option, you grab your walkman from the dresser and head over to your suitcase. Armed with the cassette, wrapped in Bradley’s shirt, you cross the room and settle back into this unfamiliar bed, setting the headphones over your ears. You click open the cartridge and look down at the new tape in your hand.

Written across the front of the plastic in red marker, calligraphy: Our Wedding Tape 1986. It was a parting gift. Something from your future husband to lift your spirits when you were feeling low over here.

You lay back against the pillows, closing your eyes and hitting play. Slowly, the opening chords of The Commodores’ Three Times a Lady start to play in your ears. Your stomach flips, but you inhale, squeeze your eyes tighter and it’s almost better.

It’s soft, and slow — almost like a lullaby. But, your blood is coursing so hot and fast through your veins, it feels more like you’re running a marathon. Hot tears burn behind your eyes once again, reminding you that you haven’t actually run out of them. That they might never really stop.

To touch you, to hold you, to feel you, to need you.

There’s nothing to keep us apart.

You’re once, twice, three times a lady, and I love you. I love you.

As the lyrics pause and piano chords once again fill your ears, you realize that you’re gritting your teeth. You inhale sharply and snatch the headset off of your head, tossing it harshly onto the floor and causing the walkman to bust open. The cassette falls to the floor, but at least the music stops.

You’re breathing like you’re being chased. You wipe hurriedly, wanting the tears off of you, kicking back the covers, wanting everything off of you. As you wipe the salty tears from your jaw, you remember the metal on your finger.

As with the Walkman, you tear it off and throw it. It lands atop the dresser, the light catching the diamond, it sparkles back at you like a wink.

You had been so ridiculously happy on the day that Malcolm had proposed. Surrounded by your friends and family, wearing a beautiful dress, the centre of attention. Ridiculous.

You sink back down and turn onto your side, facing away from the dresser and the winking reminder that sits atop it. Sleep comes for you quickly, taking place of the crying-induced headache and drowning out the faint Commodores chorus lurking in your mind.

You’re awoken by a soft knock on the heavy wooden door. Sunlight is already pouring in through the curtains and something tells you that you missed breakfast. This will be Bradley. You let him knock again. Then, a third time. Eyes still closed, you groan softly and press your face into the pillow as a fourth and fifth knock ring out.

Stubborn asshole. You tear the covers the rest of the way back and push up from the bed, padding across the hardwood floor and pulling the door swiftly open.

Abigail and Zoe stand outside, dressed in tank tops and shorts with bathing suit strings peaking out. Your mouth falls slack as you try to close the door to cover yourself a bit.

“Oh—“ Your eyes widen, lips parting. It’s obvious to the both of them instantly that they aren’t who you were expecting to see. “Sorry, I thought you were Bradley.”

Zoe glances at Abigail, Abigail glances at Zoe, they both look down at the slightly wrinkled blue button up that falls down to your mid thighs. Bradley wore something really similar in Venice.

“We, uh — well, we’re just heading down to the lake. We were going to swim, and get some work done. Sandro gave us some snacks and some lemonade,” Zoe has a real talent for cramming as much information into as short a breath as she can, showing you the contents of the little cotton bag on her shoulder at the same time. She stops finally, allowing herself to smile in her pause. “If you… maybe wanted to come with us.”

You neither retreat or reply. For a second too long, you just look between the two of them, completely wordless.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Abigail answers quickly, she looks at Zoe and they both quickly offer you nods of agreement. “Don’t feel like you have to—“

“No— I-I— yeah. Thanks. That would be cool.” You shift your weight from foot to foot, balancing one one, toeing at the aged floorboards under you. It feels strange, wanting so badly to go with them.

Up until you reached this threshold, you were so certain that you didn’t give a damn about the way they felt about you. Maybe you don’t, really. You sure wouldn’t if you were back home. But here, the feeling of finally being invited is something weightless.

“Cool.” Zoe smiles awkwardly back at you. You wonder if your smile looks half as apologetic as hers does.

Abigail bristles to attention, shrugging her tote closer to her body and reaching down to take Zoe’s hand. “Well, we’ll wait for you downstairs? We can all head out there together.”

They’re wearing swimsuits. You should dig your swimsuit out of your case. Maybe they’ll be upset if you make them wait too long.

“Thanks, I’ll be quick.”

And then you’re walking around the left side of the house and heading across the fields, they’re explaining how wonderful Teodora is, how she told them about a wild swimming spot just over the hill.

They’re curious about you. You were so angry in the beginning, so restless and unhappy. That seems to have faded away now. They still don’t know a single thing about you really, not as much as they would like to.

“Are you feeling better? — Bradley said you weren’t feeling well.” Abigail is tall and dark-skinned, with round glasses and her curly hair usually in two French braids. Today, she’s wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt that belonged to her father, and a pair of denim cut-offs.

“It’s not contagious, right?” Zoe adds as she trails alongside you. She’s shorter than Abigail, with dark hair and green eyes. She’s the only sophomore on the trip — you wonder what she had done to impress Bradley enough to let her come.

You shrug your shoulder bag closer to your body and make yourself smile. “Much better. I think I just didn’t drink enough water and I was tired. Just… out of sorts, I guess.”

“It’s good that Bradley was so kind to you about it,” Zoe hums absently, adjusting her thick-rimmed sunglasses. Red runner shorts and complimentary red and white striped adidas sneakers, and long tanned legs. She looks right out of a commercial — but one of the well done ones. Not cheesy or anything. “Called his office once to tell him that I couldn’t take an exam because I was super sick, that fucker didn’t believe me until I dragged myself in there and puked on those old Nikes he used to wear.”

You hum out an amused sound. That makes two of you who have puked on his shoes.

“He feels bad for me because my fiancé’s a jackass.” Maybe it’s a lie, maybe it’s the truth. You believe both sides of it, in part. Bradley does feel bad for you. But he would have held you in his arms yesterday even if he didn’t.

To them, it makes sense. There has been plenty of gossip about you over the last five weeks. Some of it, admittedly, they had engaged in. Everyone is pretty curious about why you’re getting married so young, and equally curious about all the time you’ve been spending with their cool, cocky professor.

Watching you stumble away from the group sobbing yesterday, there had been a few whispered rumours about the cause. Maybe Bradley dumped her because she wouldn’t put out. That one was especially cruel.

To Abigail, someone that heartbroken didn’t deserve to be made fun of. It had looked like your heart had been clean ripped out of your chest. She had whispered to Zoe about it last night in the darkness of their room, from the top bunk, and the two of them had decided to approach you today.

”How long have you two been together?” Abigail toes the line between prying and learning enough about you to potentially calling herself your friend. You probably should mind, but this is standard practice back home — girls who don’t care wanting information they don’t deserve. Something tells you she’s not like that.

”Since high school.” You tell her.

She slows slightly and turns her head to look back at you over her shoulder. You’re looking down at the dirt and grass and wildflowers, setting one white shoe in front of the other, denim shorts and a green blouse, that sad look on your face again. It’s different than the kind of sadness she saw in you yesterday — but it’s a look she has seen on you before.

A kind of acceptance to it, like you’re at peace with the sadness you’ve known.

”People grow a lot after high school.” It’s wonderful that you have managed to stay together. It’s probably time to call it quits. Her sentence seems unfinished and leaves you guessing, but it doesn’t condemn you to her own decision on the matter the way that Bradley’s black and white had.

You look up from the ground and meet her gaze. You smile and nod. People sure do.

Bradley gets caught up in the kitchen with Teodora as he is fixing you a plate of breakfast, guessing at your favourite morning foods. He only really dines with you in the evening.

“Is that for the girl?”

Bradley hums and nods, frowning at the cooked mushrooms. He can’t remember if you love them or hate them. After five dates, he should probably know that. He shouldn’t have been on any dates with you. They’re just mushrooms—

“She left already.” Dorie shrugs without looking up from the morning paper. Bradley’s fingers curl tighter around the plate. He turns slowly, to face her.

“She what?”

”Yes, the girl with the tattoo and the girl with the long legs,” Dorie tells him, glancing up and taking note of the panicked expression on his face. Abi and Zoe. He swallows a bit. They’ll be good to you. “They all went out by the lake to work. They’ll be back in the afternoon.”

The last time he had been here, Bradley had been hopelessly in love with another. He kept a picture of her in his wallet. Pretty little thing with her middle finger pointed right at the lense as she sunbathed topless on a beach in the south.

Teodora won’t pry, but she suspects there might be a new picture in Bradley’s wallet now.

“Oh. Right,” He sets the plate down and stares at it, unsure of what to do with the extra food now. “I… I guess I’ll get started with some work. I’ll be in the sitting room.”

She nods politely at him, he sets the plate in the fridge and leaves to gather his work things. God, he hopes they’ll be good to you. He had been so afraid that Dorie was going to tell him you had jumped on a flight back to the States. He has more time.

He was up practically all night, thinking of that loser’s hands on you. It makes him sick to remember how limp you had been in his arms when he had first picked you up from the snow.

The sitting room in the Gabris estate is sprawling — it’s a real space to entertain. There were a lot of parties here back in the day. Now, there’s a dust sheet over the piano and the nude portrait of Teodora’s lover is gone from above the mantle.

Bradley settles down into an armchair and pulls together his notes, sun pouring through the windows, a fog settling across his thoughts. 3pm. Three PM. That’s when he hears the eruption of laughter, bubbling up and spilling through the house. After that, comes the sound of wet shoes squeaking on the hardwood.

His chin propped against his fist, he cranes his neck as Zoe appears first in the hallway. She spots him and stops like a caught kid, her mouth falling open. Then, you. Then, Abi. All three of you are soaked head to toe, dripping water onto the floors.

You stare back at him dwarfing the patterned armchair, surrounded by papers, peering at you over the top of his reading glasses. He doesn’t say a thing, taking his time in looking the three of you over. Finally, his lips twitch.

”We went swimming.” Zoe breathes out, laughing.

Bradley hums against his hand, his eyes visibly flicker from your bare feet to the soaked clothes clinging to your body, and finally at your face. From behind his fist, a smirk toys at his lips.

He’s so grateful to see you look so mischievous. Anything but the way you were looking at him yesterday.

”I can see that,” He agrees, amusement dripping from his voice. Your smile turns sheepish as you cross your arms in front of your hips and shift your weight from left to right, and back again. “Did you get those pages that I asked you for all done.

”Most of ‘em.” Zoe nods. Eighty-percent still counts as most. Besides, you know that Bradley will listen if you plead your case. He hums again, a sound of understanding this time, and inches his knees further apart as he sits upright.

”Well, I take it that you’ll be a bit late to our study session.” He’s looking right at you with that devilishly handsome smile on his face, and a softness to his eyes that makes you want to pour yourself right into his lap.

“Shit,” You snap out of it, whipping your head around to look for a clock. Bradley glances down at his watch, already fully aware that you’re forty minutes late. He looks back to you, smiling. “I’ll get changed.”

”I’ll be here.” He tells you, looking back down to his work.

You glance down at the puddle you’re leaving on the floor, and then back up at the girls. They watch you blink like you’re remembering that they’re there.

“We’ll come up with you.” Abigail nods for you to go ahead and Zoe slips her palms into yours.

Bradley glances at the exchange over the top of his workbook, her hand in yours. The smile on your face as you peer back at them and head for the stairs. He bites the inside of his cheek and finally exhales.

His next breath in feels a little bit easier.

“So, how long do you usually have to spend with Bradley every afternoon?” Zoe asks, padding up the wooden stairs behind you. They creak with every step, but not enough for you to pretend not to have heard her question.

You shrug your shoulders, trying to at cool about it. Bradley would at cool about it. He doesn’t seem ashamed at all.

“It depends. He gives me different tasks to do. Sometimes we get through them quickly, other times he decides to be an ass about it.” That feels about right.

“Like class work?”

“Yeah,” You glance back over your shoulder as you reach the landing. “I’m not much use to him as a research assistant if I still don’t understand the class material. You know?”

“Right.” Abigail nods along with you.

“Well, I’d better go get dry…” You remember, gesturing to your door. They both nod along, but you don’t move. You hug your shoes and your bag to your chest and try to smile. “Thanks for inviting me today. I appreciate it.”

“Any time. You’re a good time.” Zoe grins, lifting her arm and draping it casually around Abigail’s shoulders.

Your goodbye is a brief nod and a pleased smile, before you turn and head back to your room. You strip out of your clothes and leave them to dry against the open window, then throw on something dry.

Bradley hears your shoes racing down the stairs and closes his book. You grab the archway and swing around the corner into the sitting room.

“Okay — ready.”

He braces his elbows against his knees and gives a small shake of his head, lips quirked. “Not here.”

The two of you walk along the dirt path in the opposite direction to the lake. Up ahead of you is a mile long stretch of trees, behind you is the Gabris’ courtyard. Bradley’s two paces in front with a cigarette dangling from his lips and his books tucked under his arm.

His shorts make his legs look even longer, up high on his thighs and stretched around the muscle. His sneakers still aren’t something a college professor would wear, but you’ve grown to like them. They’re very… him.

His oversized shirts and his white sneakers, and the gold pendant that sits between his collarbones are all parts of him that you have grown to adore. The curls at the nape of his neck and the way his broad shoulders slope down into his waist.

There are plenty of things that you could name.

The smell of tobacco that follows him isn’t one of those things.

“That’s a filthy habit.” You call ahead to him.

Bradley turns his head and looks at you over the top of his gold-rimmed sunglasses, grinning amusedly, “Yeah, I’ve got a couple of those. You might be familiar with a few.”

Your mouth twitches. You almost smile at him, briefly considering that downright awful habit he’s got of delving between your thighs. Then, your face twists into a strictly unamused scowl.

“Did you pick it up when you were in the Navy?” You ask, jogging to keep up with him.

“Kinda.” He answers you, looking down at you briefly before he checks ahead again. It’s not important to mention the cigarettes behind the science building in high school; that was more an act of defiance than an addiction.

“Have you ever tried to quit?”

“Is this you asking me to?” He replies, crossing over into the tree line, shade pouring over the two of you. You watch as he takes the cigarette between his fingers and flicks ash onto the floor, branches crunching under his feet.

You follow alongside him. “Would you, if I asked you to?”

“Would you put up with me being a lot grumpier?” He asks in return.

“Probably not.”

He huffs out a dry chuckle. Finally, he stubs the cigarette out. You follow him through the woods like his shadow until you reach a clearing. It’s a pleasant mix of sun and shade, a nice place to wait out the glaring afternoon heat. This is routine by now, you sit down beside each other and he tells you what you’re doing, then you each get to it.

He’s working on his book. His face gets real serious when he’s working on his book. Makes him look older, more mature. Almost makes you forget how deviously handsome he looks when he’s grinning at you, when he looks so handsome like this.

You’re translating prose. Poetry about lust and temptation. He would have switched out the curriculum but resources are limited out here, and you don’t say a word about disliking the work he has given you. He’s afraid to ask.

To burst this bubble of blissful ignorance you’ve got going, like yesterday never happened.

”So, Zoe and Abi — did you guys have fun today?” He asks without looking up from his work. That feels like a safe enough question. You’re laying on your stomach and don’t bother to stop working to look at him either.

”Mhm. Zoe’s clothes fell off the branch and got soaked, so we figured we’d all just jump in dressed. Cooled us off on the way home.”

He glances up, smiling softly. “Look at you — walking on the wild side.”

”I know, right?” You scoff.

He looks back down to his work, examining the artwork on the left page.

“So… how are you feeling today?” He asks cautiously. About Malcolm, of course. Bradley has noticed that you aren’t wearing your ring. You’d barely remembered taking it off. It doesn’t feel any different without it. It’s not exactly life-altering. It’s just jewellery.

”Mixed up,” You owe him honesty at least, considering your complicated relationship. You shrug your shoulders weakly and frown at the page. “Confused. Angry.”

He just nods.

She turns her head to look at him. Laying on his side, pretending to organise his notes, his sunglasses masking his expression.

”I don’t want it to change things.”

”How?” Bradley answers a little too quickly for a man pretending to be otherwise occupied. His brows draw together as he meets your gaze through those darkened lenses.

“Between us,” You tell him, resting your cheek against your hand and tilting your head just slightly. Laying in the grass, about a foot away from him. Close enough for him to reach out and trail his fingers from the centre of your back to the nape of your neck, and back again. You smile softly. “I like you, you know?”

…

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

#could be fixed???#will be running into the void if it isn’t #bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #rooster bradshaw imagine #rooster x you #top gun smut #professor bradley #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x you

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megamindsecretlair · 8 months

Text

Thinkin' 'Bout You, Part 3

Pairing: Big Stunna x Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. Infidelity. TOXIC FILTH. PWP, cursing, PIV, oral (female receiving) teasing/mocking, cum play, spanking, dirty talk, degradation kink, breeding kink if you squint, all consensual. Use of n-word. Referring to female anatomy as "she".

Summary: As a sneaky link, Stunna is highly demanding of your time. He doesn't care if you get caught; when he wants you, he wants you. Your man takes you to a neighborhood block party that you're determined to have fun. That is, until you're introduced to Stunna and his wife.

Word Count: 8,379k

The Secret Big Stunna Files | Part 1 | Part 2

A/N: I'm sorry!!! I didn't intend for this to be so long. Let's all say thank you to @planetblaque who always helps me achieve greatness with these ideas. I had a really suck ass day and this healed me. LOL Please, please consider commenting and reblogging to help support writers! And please put ages in bios! Or get blockt!

Taglist: @planetblaque @blackerthings @browngirldominion @we-outsiiiide @thecookiebratz @iv0rysoap @notapradagurl7 @sevikasblackgf @miyuhpapayuh @xo-goldengirl @kindofaintrovert @flydotty @judymfmoody @slippinninque @soufcakmistress @henneseyhoe @westside-rot

You haven’t seen Stunna in a little over two weeks. Lyin’ ass nigga. You were irritable and ornery. Your friends and your man noticed the difference in you and you blamed it on the planets. You blamed it on PMS. You blamed it on anything but that bum ass nigga who was just supposed to be a good time.

This nigga really had you checking your phone multiple times a day. Things between Malcolm and Stunna were ramping up. Both were on high alert and had been making moves on each side. You only knew this because your man was plugged into all that shit. He wasn’t a top dog but he wasn’t a corner boy either.

He never mentioned Stunna by name but you knew that once you heard about Malcolm, Stunna was likely doing shit too. And fuck him, you missed him.

You sucked your teeth for the hundredth time as you got ready for this funky ass block party. You were not in the mood to be around others nor were you into being shown around like a pony. It was the one area where you and your man did argue. It was like he was with you just to show his boys that he could get with you. Which was wild, because he wasn’t ugly. Not by a long shot.

You finished with your hair and makeup and looked at your stank face in the mirror. This was such bullshit. Stunna was not your man. He had an entire wife that he was likely dicking down, cooking for, and showering with presents. The more you thought about it, the more you got mad irrationally. There was no way you were catching feelings for this nigga.

You were just addicted to his dick. Addicted to the way he held you like he loved you but fucked you like he hated you. Your man was too gentle for that and it was why you loved him. But why was it so hard to get fucked?

Your pussy was mad. That’s what it was. Your pussy was calling the shots. “Guess what bitch, you belong to me,” you said. You took a deep breath and looked at yourself in the mirror.

“You are that bitch!” You told yourself. It sounded silly the first few times you tried this, but you found that the more you practiced, the more your brain listened and you truly felt like that bitch. You had two niggas sprung off of you. Not many could say that and not get caught up.

You looked at your outfit on the bed. Some silly jeans and tank combo that would have looked great on you. You didn’t want to look great. You wanted to look fuckable. You had been telling yourself that time with Stunna was limited anyway. Stunna going silent on you was the best thing that could have happened.

The trash took itself out and now you could focus on your man. Focus on getting him so hot and bothered that you cut out of the stupid ass block party early. You wanted him to be desperate to rip your clothes off. To push past that little hint of shyness he clung to in the bedroom.

You flipped through your closet as your man came into the room. “Is you ready yet?” He asked.

“Not yet. Changed my mind on my outfit,” you said.

“Gah damn! You been getting ready all day!” He said. He sucked his teeth and went back to his phone. Always on his damn phone. If he wasn’t so shy, you’d swear that he was cheating. He had the better morals of you two. And you would not pick an imaginary fight just because you were missing dick that was never yours to begin with.

You walked over to him in your dark silky panties and pressed your chest against his clothed one. “We could always stay home and have some fun,” you said. You rubbed his arms and he let out a slow breath.

“Fuck, don’t do this to me,” he said. He kissed your cheek. “I would love to take care of that. But if I don’t show my face, I ain’t family. And you do not wanna know how these niggas treat you when you ain’t family,” he said.

You rolled your eyes and peeled yourself off of him. “Come on, babe, don’t do that,” he pleaded.

He stepped forward but you lifted a hand. “Bye nigga, let me finish getting ready,” you said. You wouldn’t look at him until he sucked his teeth and went back out into the living room. You closed the door behind him with a sigh.

Was there a way to combine your man and Stunna? Stunna’s desperate neediness and your man’s quiet consideration? You liked cuddles and shit, being wrapped up in your man’s arms. But you also liked getting the coins knocked out of you.

Decisions, decisions. Maybe it was time to move on from your man. You hated to have to kick him out. You couldn’t afford this place on your own and you doubted that you’d find a new man willing to pay all your bills and not wanna move in. You loved Nandi but you could not have her as a roommate. Shit.

Now you were back in a funk as you searched through your clothes. Hanger after hanger and none of the shit felt right. Looked right. If your man didn’t want to suck the jelly out of your pussy, then you would make that nigga jealous. Make sure everyone else at the block party was thirsting after you whether they had someone or not.

Your hand stopped on a bodycon dress. Army green and ribbed. Halter neckline. Ouuu. You stared at it. You were supposed to wear this around Stunna. You used the money he gave you to buy yourself a number of dresses, sexy panties, and a few pairs of shoes. Things that you could take pictures of yourself in or have him appreciate for half a second before he was lowering you on his dick.

Well, the nigga ain’t come around. And was your life supposed to stop simply because he couldn’t be bothered to text? All that “miss you so much baby, can’t wait to get in that pussy baby” shit was all a fucking lie.

Your phone chimed from your dresser. You lifted the dress out of your closet and brought it over to the mirror. You placed it in front of you to see how your body was looking and if you wanted to wear it. You peeped your phone.

Satan: where you at, babygirl? 💦

You:

You stared at the screen debating if you should answer or not. This was your big chance to end it for good. He couldn’t have possibly thought that you were going to come running whenever he snapped his fingers. Or in this case, hit you up like everything was fine.

He had you out here acting out of character for dick. It was good dick, mind you. Phenomenal dick. But not enough to make you forget who the fuck you were.

You: out.

The three dots on your screen started up immediately and you muted his conversation. The nigga could be mad. At the end of the day, he didn’t know where you were and he wasn’t going to show up while your man was here. Stunna was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them.

You grinned as you threw on the dress, feeling immediately sexy in it. You bought it with money that wasn’t yours and you looked incredible in it. Your ass was fat and you played with your butt, looking back at yourself in the mirror to watch it jiggle. All you were missing was Megan Thee Stallion pumping through your speaker.

However, your man nixed that while you were getting ready. You typically wouldn’t let a man tell you what to do, but he did make sense. When the queen was on, it added at least one more hour to you getting ready.

You bent over in your closet to find some all white sneakers you could throw on. You had an anklet that you got on a girl’s trip to New Orleans and you wrapped the shiny green beads around your right ankle.

You found a shredded jean jacket in your closet and tossed it on. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you looked good and felt good. Your hair was in an updo and doing what it do nicely. Your makeup was flawless. You felt so pretty. Fuck all these niggas.

Weak as you were though, you couldn’t help flipping your phone back over to see the dozens of texts from Stunna.

Satan: out where?

Satan: baby?

Satan: You see me texting yo ass.

Satan: I know I been gone, but cmon

Satan: really? This what we doin’?

Satan: out where?

He began to call you by your name in the thread, getting more and more agitated the longer he didn’t receive a response. Good. Let the brat know how it feels to be ignored. Let’s not forget, he was not your man.

You left the room, putting your phone in your pocket. “Okay, ready,” you said. Your man got off of the couch and that damn phone. He whistled as he looked at your outfit.

“Damn, you look good!” He said.

“Yeah, I know,” you said. You opened the front door and descended the steps. It was a nice, breezy night for once. The heat from earlier didn’t want to lose its grip, so it was a welcome change to the unseasonable chill.

“C’mon girl, you gon’ be mad at me all night?” He asked.

“Maybe,” you said. You folded your arms across your chest and waited for him to lock up behind you. You weren’t really that upset that he didn’t want to stay home instead. It was that at the end of the day, he was always going to run behind his friends than cater to you.

Women were always expected to drop everything for their man. To fall on the proverbial sword time and time again to lift him up to greatness. Where were the niggas that…liked women?

Niggas fuck with women, tough. It’s some type of rite of passage to get a girlfriend, treat her nice, get some loving. But it was always an argument outside of that. Where to eat, what to do. And when you made a fuss that you actually had interests that did not involve watching niggas play 2k with their boys on the mic, suddenly you were nagging too much and needed to go sit down.

The system was fucking broken. Niggas got their freedom and acted the fuck up. You knew it wasn’t all niggas. But you were damn tired of searching through the haystack for a good needle.

Finished, he moved beside you and grabbed your hand. You snatched it back and took off down the street. The block party wasn’t too far so you didn’t have to worry about sweating out your hair and makeup. But it was a brisk walk that you set. Maybe the exercise would burn off this lingering pressure.

Pressure that felt like you were going to combust from not getting some dick. Not even your man touched you. Because you were in such a pouty mood over Stunna’s dumb ass.

The further you walked, you heard music and laughter. Seasoned aromas from the grill made your mouth water as you thought of what you would get. Some ribs? Chicken? You couldn’t decide as your stomach rumbled letting you know that it was past time to eat.

Your man put his arm around you, pretending to his boys that all was fine and that you were the love of his life. Sometimes you don't feel like it. You let him though. It was easier than listening to him bitch and complain later that night.

The party seemed to ramp up as true night made everyone relax and hang out. The music was thumping and people were greeting each other, playing spades in the corner, or talkin’ shit. You spotted Nandi and Brooke over by the drinks and you kissed your man’s cheek and told him where you were going.

“Girl, what’s wrong with you now?” Brooke asked.

“What are you talking about?” You asked. You grabbed some Hennessy off of the table and poured a generous amount. You took a sip, letting the sweet cognac burn your throat.

“Yo ass always got a damn attitude now, snapping at people and shit.” Nandi held her hand out for the Henny and you handed it to her.

“I just be going through shit!” You said. You sipped more and the alcohol slowly worked through your system. Your shoulders loosened up and you swayed to the music. You may have drunk it a little too fast, but that was okay. You’ll get something to eat and it'll balance itself out.

“Shit like what?” Nandi asked.

You felt cornered by your girls and you eyed them both. The urge to spill everything was strong. Strong enough that you even opened your mouth but you resisted at the last moment. You sipped your drink and looked around for the food.

“Just shit,” you sighed.

Brooke looped her arm through yours and you walked as a trio towards the food. Heavenly aromas of chicken and ribs made your mouth water. The mac n cheese was almost gone so you knew it must’ve been fire.

“You gotta stop keeping stuff bottled up inside. That’s why ya ass mad all the time,” Nandi said.

“Mhm, that’s right. You know we got you!” Brooke said and shook you. You giggled even though you weren’t truly up to it. You didn’t want them to worry about you.

“I’m fine, I promise. I’m just sick of my man sometimes,” you confessed. There, they could chew on that.

“You know he treat you good, which is rare these days,” Brooke said.

“Preach on it!” Nandi raised her hand as if she was in church and agreed. You giggled and shook your heads at them. It was hard to be in a pissy mood when they were around.

You had managed to avoid checking your phone all night. You were sure Stunna sent all kinds of nasty messages calling you out of your name. Not knowing what he said was giving you a power trip. He could have gone radio silent. He could be fuming. The world would never know.

For the first time in two weeks, that boulder on your back felt lighter. You grinned at your friends, letting the alcohol give you a bit of “fuck it” attitude. Your man dragged you to this bullshit but that didn’t mean you couldn’t have fun.

“Uh oh, we in trouble,” Brooke said.

Nandi called you by your nickname, the one that meant no responsibilities. Or a fake name you gave to dusty niggas who were only entertaining for an hour. You grabbed a plate of food, the steam reaching through the styrofoam plate.

You sat and chit-chatted with your girls, cleaning your plate clean. Then you grabbed another drink and headed to the middle of the street, singing and rapping along to the current song.

You had drawn a small crowd, people following your lead to dance. A circle formed with people taking turns showing off their moves. Choruses of “ayes” and “okays” were chanted in unison, turning it into a giant communal experience.

Someone tapped on your shoulder and you turned to see your boyfriend. “Hey baby!” You said. You threw your hands around his neck and kissed him sloppily. He kissed you back, chuckling at your changing attitude.

“Feelin’ good off that drink, huh?” He asked.

“Real good,” you slurred slightly. Your eyes were half mast and you were swaying to the music. You were glad you wore sneakers. Trying to be cute while gone on the drink was not a sexy combination.

“Come on, I want you to meet some of my peoples,” he said.

You sighed and stomped your foot. “But I’m having fun!” You said.

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s real quick, I promise,” he said. He kissed your cheek and you groaned.

“Fine,” you said. You told your girls that you’d be right back and they better hold your spot. They giggled and agreed, telling you to hurry back.

Your man held your hand as you walked onto the sidewalk. You walked towards a couple. There was a plump woman with beautiful curly hair, a dark pink shirt and leggings. The man wore a gray Henley with the top two buttons undone. The sleeves were pulled up on his forearms. A gold chain sparkled every so often as the street lamps hit it.

“Baby, this is LaTrice and her husband Big Stunna,” your man said.

Your breath seized in your chest. You would have coughed if you had any air in your lungs. Your lips stretched into a smile as you shook hands with LaTrice. “Nice to meet you,” you said.

It was only by experience and repetition that made you recite the words automatically. She smiled at you. “I love your hair,” you said and grinned.

“Thank you! I love yours!” She said.

Stunna’s hand was warm in yours. Even smack in the middle of your significant others, he held on a second too long. “Nice to meet you too,” you said. You kept eye contact with him to a minimum.

The alcohol in your gut turned sour as you ran your tongue across your teeth. Your heart beat thundered in your chest. Your man pulled you into his side and you wrapped your arm around his middle and damn near leaned your head on his shoulder.

“We know each other from way back on the block. LaTrice didn’t play that shit. You weren’t gonna bully her,” your man was saying.

“Damn right. Fuck anyone who try,” she said. She fist-bumped your man and you smiled.

“You must have embarrassing stories about him from way back when,” you said. As long as you focused on LaTrice, you were okay. You were vibrating with energy. There was unrestrained anger, irrational jealousy, and outright longing. You just wanted to sink into Stunna’s arms and breath in his delicious cologne.

He looked damn, fucking good too. That Henley and chain combo was doing wonders on your body. Hearing him laugh was making your pussy throb and thighs clench. You crossed your legs and then immediately uncrossed them. You didn’t want Stunna to get the wrong impression.

LaTrice pulled a few stories out about your man and you teased him, throwing extras on it. You poked at his cheek and hip bumped him. You squeezed his cheeks and planted a little kiss there at all the stories LaTrice told you.

You weren’t doing it to make Stunna mad. Okay, you weren’t only doing it to make Stunna mad. You were a little too gone, tipsy on its way to drunk, and you couldn’t help feeling up on him. You damn sure couldn’t do it to Stunna.

“So what do you do?” Stunna asked you.

You were forced to look at him. The venom in his eyes could fell a horse. You swallowed a painful lump in your throat and you cleared it by drinking more. Stunna brought his own cup to his face.

He threw his arm around LaTrice and hugged her close. You explained your shit job and downplayed the description. It wasn’t a glamorous job and it didn’t really matter because he already knew this shit.

Fucking bastard. You licked your lips and tangled your hand with your mans. “Baby, I need another drink,” you said.

Your man looked like he wanted to die. As if you were committing some kind of grievous sin by asking for a drink around Stunna. Yeah, yeah, you knew the mu’fucka was important. Didn’t mean shit. Your other personality was out tonight and she was still in “fuck it” mode.

“Ya’ll have a good evening,” Stunna said. His eyes were for you though. He was not smiling. You smiled sweetly.

“It was great meeting you both!” You said. You turned away with your man and walked down the street toward the drink table.

“Yo, what the fuck?” Your man asked, as soon as you were out of earshot of Stunna and his wife.

“What?” You asked.

You poured yourself some more drink. As you did, your traitorous eyes went in search of Stunna. He was already facing you. He had positioned himself to stand facing the street. His boys were talking to him, but he was drinking from his red cup and eyeing you.

You turned away to look at your man, already sipping your own drink. Maybe you could drink enough to bypass the horny. You were already planning to ambush your man after this was over and finally get some dick. But after seeing Stunna…

“You know what! I’m trynna introduce you to my world and you off being rude and shit. Those people are important! You can’t just worry ‘bout yourself when they around!”

You waved your hand at him. “Back up, nigga and quit talkin’ to me like that,” you said. “I don’t give a fuck who it is!”

“You need to. Because all that money you like spending? Come from him,” he said.

Your face split open and you started to snicker. Stunna was paying for your lifestyle twice. It really shouldn’t be funny. You did really feel bad about stepping out on your man. There was no excuse for it.

But your man just had no fucking idea. You looked back towards Stunna who was still watching you like a hawk. You leaned closer to your man. “You know I appreciate everything you do for me, baby,” you said.

You tried to kiss his cheek to put on a good show for Stunna. Your man moved his cheek at the last moment. “I fuckin’ hate when you get drunk,” he said.

“I just fuckin’ hate you. You bummy ass nigga,” you said.

“You just get mean. You can’t handle that shit. You need to figure out why you chasin’ that shit so hard,” he said.

“Say another fuckin’ word,” you said. Your words were slow and measured.

“You’re a mean ass drunk!” He said.

You laughed and got closer to him. “Don’t bring yo ass home tonight,” you said. You walked away, walking back over to your girls and the music. You were out of Stunna’s eyesight. You were burning.

Fire danced just beneath your skin. The Henny made a dangerous cocktail in your gut. You were horny as hell, pussy throbbing and aching just from looking at Stunna. But you were also mad as hell. Why were you trying so hard to make this shit work with your man?

You were clearly total opposites. Wanting different things. Hell, he looked dead at yo ass in your panties and no bra and thought, “Time to go be with my niggas.” What? All this ass and…nothing?

You told your friends what happened and a chorus of, “Fuck that nigga” rang out. You agreed. But it did nothing to put out the fire inside you.

You just needed relief! You needed that sweet relief that came from a thorough claiming. You were sweating as if you ran a marathon but you refused to take off your jacket. You didn’t want Stunna walking by to stare at what wasn’t his.

You sighed as you pulled out your phone.

Satan: OH, like that?

Satan: You gon’ wear the dress I got you for that nigga? Kissin’ on him all in my fucki’n face??

Satan: Just ain’t gon’ answer me, now? That’s what we doin’?

You put the phone away and focused on your girls. You were going to have fun and that was all there was to it. The music turned up louder, the circle still going. You hopped in the middle and began to twerk, shaking your ass and putting the bodycon to good use. You knew your ass was jiggling in all of the right ways.

When you left the circle, your eyes immediately found Stunna. He was standing with LaTrice with his arm around her and sipping out of his red cup. You wiped the sweat from your brow and rolled your eyes.

Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him.

You cheered your girls on as they danced but you were starting to get woozy from the drink. You stumbled over to the drink table, grabbing some water.

“Say what’s up shawty.” You looked up and scrunched up your face. A dusty mu’fucka dared to talk to you. His teeth were yellow and stained brown, crooked, and his nose went in the opposite direction of where it should be. His outfit was a size too big, hanging off of his thin frame.

“The sky, nigga,” you said and sucked down the water.

He sucked his teeth and called you a bitch. Whatever. You stumbled closer to the nearest house so you could lean against it. Your eyes were crossing. The ground was spinning beneath you. You put the cool water bottle against your forehead.

“Shit,” you groaned. You did drink too much. Henny always made you act the fuck up. And you always regretted it. And yet, when you went out to a function again, Henny was the first thing you reached for.

You took deep breaths until the lights stopped spinning in front of you. You lost track of Stunna. Wherever he was, you knew he was wrapped around LaTrice. You had no right to be jealous but you were. You wanted to be tucked under his arm. Shown around by him.

It was corny when your man did it but if Stunna did it, you’d preen and giggle like a schoolgirl.

You stood up, ready to head back to your girls when something gripped your hand and yanked. You took a deep breath, ready to scream.

“Shhhh,” Stunna said. His other hand covered your mouth to prevent you from screaming and giving yourself away.

He pulled you in between houses, past the gated fence, and into a random neighbor’s backyard. There was a tiny shed back there with a door already propped open. You struggled against Stunna’s hold but he held firm.

He tossed you inside the shed and you stumbled over boxes and knick knacks on the ground. There was a table in the back filled with various tools. Stunna closed the door, shrouding you in total darkness.

“Turn on the light,” you said.

“No. Fuck you think you doin’?” He asked.

You could only rely on your intuition and the scent of his cologne as he crowded your space. “Move nigga!” You screamed, pushing against his chest. He barrelled forward until your ass pressed against the table.

“You don’t answer my fuckin’ text messages and then you show up here with that nigga?” He asked.

“That nigga is my man! You are not!” You pushed against him again, but your mind was back to swirling. Tipping. It was somehow worse in the dark. Robbed of sight to keep your equilibrium, the ground felt shakier than ever.

“Fuck that and you know it!” He yelled.

“Fuck you, Stunna! You’re here with your whole ass wife! What, you was gon’ fuck me on your way to the block party? Make LaTrice sit out in the car while I suck your dick?”

You placed your hands behind you, to steady yourself on the table. It was still in use so it wasn’t overly dusty, but it was still gross. You hated this. You hated being so near him and couldn’t claim him. Couldn’t name these feelings inside.

“And if I did? Your little ass belong to me,” he said. His hand found your throat and you hated how you responded. Hated that your eyes crossed and thighs clenched.

“I don’t belong to shit,” you said.

“Mhm, bet you if I lift this dress, that pussy gon’ be singing for me,” he said. He brought his lips close to yours but didn’t kiss you. He smelled like he drank just as much as you did tonight.

Your hands gripped his wrist. His smooth skin was hot to the touch. “Stunna, this is fucked up,” you said.

“You sayin’ I’m lying?” His lips moved against yours as he spoke. He was so damn close. He breathed out and you breathed in. It made it dirtier and naughtier that you couldn’t see him.

“Tell me I’m lyin’ and I’ll leave this mu’fucka right now. Tell me you ain’t fuckin’ dripping under that sexy ass dress. Shaking that ass that’s meant for me. You know I’on like that shit,” he whispered.

“This is my dress, Stunna.” You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t even lie. “Where’s LaTrice?”

“Answer my fuckin’ questions!” He slammed the table behind you and you flinched away. He still held you by the throat so you couldn’t escape him. Lord above help you, but you were even wetter.

“I’m not answering shit, nigga!” You yelled.

He chuckled and a fan of sweet alcohol fell across your face. He finally kissed you roughly, pressing his lips to yours enough to bend your head back painfully. You melted instantly, moaning and leaning into the kiss.

He pulled away just as roughly and sneered. “Tell me you want me to rock that shit,” he said. He placed his forehead against yours and breathed for a few moments.

You wished you could see his face. You wished you could see him in the light of day. But it would always be sneaking around with him.

“Fuck you, Stunna,” you said. You reached down to feel his chest. Lowered your hand until you were cupping him. He groaned from the contact. He was already so long and thick. His erection was straining against his jeans and you moaned.

He began to kiss you again, moving his hand from your throat. He gripped and squeezed your booty, molding his big hands to the globe of your ass. You moaned, finally feeling some kind of comfort. Some kind of proof that you meant something to somebody.

His tongue was thick against yours, exploring every corner of your mouth. You heated up for entirely different reasons. He moaned into the kiss, stepping closer. His erection pressed against your belly and you moaned.

Your pussy already clenched, thinking of that dick sliding inside of you.

As he kissed you, his hands slid your dress up. You helped him and moaned when cold air hit your legs. He moved his hands beneath your panties, growling at finding it wet. “Knew yo ass was fuckin’ soaked.”

“You know Henny makes me horny,” you said.

“I make you fuckin’ horny. Quit playin’ with me,” he said.

“Know your lane,” you said. He chuckled and kissed you again, sweet this time. You didn’t want sweet. You bit his lip and he hissed, jerking back from you.

He was right back to kissing you with more force. He lifted you and helped you sit on the table. You dangled off of the edge. He scooted in between your legs. “My lane is between these thighs. My lane is making you scream my name while I’m in that shit,” he whispered against your lips. He trailed kisses down your neck. He unzipped his pants and lowered them, scooting you closer to the edge.

He placed his mouth over your titty through the fabric and he bit down enough to tug on your nipple. “Oh fuck!”

He pulled your panties to the side and then you were gasping at the fullness of him. The sheer magnitude of being filled with him. This was also a new position for you. He had bent you in so many ways before, but it was never this intimate. This close. Pressed chest to chest and breathing each other in.

He began to rock inside of you, pulling all the way out and then slamming back in. “Daddy’s sorry,” he said.

“Fuck!” You cried out. Your thighs tingled as you locked them around his waist. He pressed sweet kisses to your forehead, cheeks, and lips. You held on to his shoulders because right now, that was the only solid thing for you. In the darkness, you didn’t know which way was up or down. There was just him.

“I know this little attitude is because you’re mad at me. Because I promised to deliver and I dipped. I had to take care of some business but I won’t be gone that long no more,” he said.

As he spoke, he rammed inside of you, sliding with ease aided by your horniness and the alcohol.

“You can’t promise that,” you said. “Ouue, shit.”

How did he make every glide seem different? Every hip thrust a different word, every groan a different tune? You felt weightless, gone off of the Henny as you were, but you were also attuned to everything he was doing. Moving. Saying.

“I can. And I’m sayin’ I’m sorry. That Daddy gon’ stick around and take care of his princess,” he said.

You moved your hands down to press against his chest. He knew he was swinging too much dick to be going at this type of pace. He moved your hand and placed it behind you, using force to keep your hand where he wanted it.

“Fuck you, I got a man,” you said. Stunna switched up his strokes so that he seemed to hit deeper and you cried out, throwing your head back.

“Yeah, me,” he said. He pressed his lips against yours and you were both fighting for control. Fighting with wet, sloppy kisses to see who would win out on top. Mama ain’t raise a quitter, so even as he tried his hardest to make you fold, you wouldn’t.

Not until he gave up control of your hands and brought those long fingers to your clit. You were already coasting close to your orgasm but you were holding it at bay. Too focused on making him see that you didn’t belong to each other.

He hissed and moaned when he made contact and you were gone, clutching to him and screaming out your orgasm.

“Say my name, baby. I’m the one making you feel this,” he said. He continued to flick your clit as you convulsed and broke. Shattered.

“Fuck! Stunna!” You finally relented. Let him have this fucking victory. Let him have it all. If only he could keep doing this. Keep bringing you to the edge over and over again and letting you fall over it safely into his arms.

“Sound so pretty when you cum. Daddy gon’ make it up to you. Can you get away tonight?”

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But your other persona was still out, still riding the drink, so you nodded. “I’ll have the house to myself,” you said.

He continued to ram into you chasing his own pleasure while you were still trying to recover from yours. He kissed you, sloppy again until he was moaning and releasing inside of you. He pumped a few more times as if he wanted to keep it all in there with just the power of his dick.

You giggled a bit and stilled, dick convulsing. “What’s so funny?”

You goofily told him and he chuckled, kissing your forehead. “Goofy ass. I’ll see you in an hour,” he said. He kissed you as he slipped out of you. He kissed you while he zipped himself back up. He kissed you while he moved your panties and helped you off of the table.

He cupped your face in his warm hands and kissed you, tongue licking your lips. “An hour,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah, hurry up,” you said.

He left first, slipping out of the shed and back into the thunderous noise of the party. You stayed behind, five minutes and then ten minutes. You were still trying to catch your breath. Still trying to piece yourself back together after finally getting what you wanted.

At what cost though?

When you were sure that you could walk without falling, you left the shed and closed the door behind you. The party was starting to wind down anyway. Your friends were dancing on random men so you didn’t bother saying bye. You didn’t see your man either. Good fucking riddance. Asshole.

You walked home in a dreamy haze, the alcohol still buzzing through your veins. You overindulged, that was on you. But you were also finally getting a night with Stunna. An entire night where you could find and lose each other’s bodies over and over again.

Making it home, you entered the house and locked it behind you. You had some time before Stunna showed up, so you stripped down to your bra and panties, threw on some good R&B music, and dipped into your personal stash of Hennessy.

You were swaying to the music when you heard the soft knock on your back door. You crept to it and peeked behind the curtain. Stunna stood there in all his glory, that Henley was still doing wonders on you even though you already got your orgasm.

As soon as you let him in, he grabbed the drink from your hand and shot it back. “I could have poured you one,” you said.

“What’s yours is mine,” he said.

You rolled your eyes. He was still trying to push that he was your man. Despite showing his wife all around the block. But you weren’t here to argue. You weren’t here to lie.

You walked into his arms and tilted your head up. He grinned, wrapping his hands around your waist, fingers sliding down to grip your ass. “You forgive me?” He asked.

“Nope. I’m trynna see what apology dick feel like,” you said. He laughed, throwing his head back. You cherished the sight.

He swayed to the music, dancing with you. You put your head on his chest and rocked with him. The music filled you up like water pouring from a cup. But there was a deep urge, a yearning to consume him.

You pulled him by the hand towards the back bedroom. You had kept all the lights off in the house. Not that you were trying to hide what was going on in here, by much. But you had found something in the darkness with him and you wanted to know if it was still there.

In the bedroom, moonlight slanted through your blinds illuminating part of the bed. Stunna was mostly in shadow as he stood beside you. Part of his face was brightened by the moonlight and you took a moment to breathe him in. Take your time. If one night was all you had like this, then you wanted to make it last.

“Apology dick huh?” He asked.

You nodded. “I kinda like you sayin’ sorry for once,” you said.

He laughed and pulled you closer, wrapping his hands around you once more. He kissed you and nibbled on your lips. “I am very, truly, deeply sorry,” he said. He slowly pronounced each word so there was no confusion.

He cupped your cheeks and kissed both sides, both of your eyes, across your forehead, and finished on your lips. He kissed both of your hands, bringing it to his lips with a quiet sigh. He dropped down to his knees and kissed your bare tummy, lips tickling you as he spoke. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for making you worry.”

He pulled your panties down and helped you step out of them. He kissed your thighs and then gently pushed you onto the bed. You sat down and he grabbed your feet, fiddled with your anklet with a smile and then planted soft kisses there and then rubbed them.

You moaned and closed your eyes. You didn’t think that your feet hurt all that much. You wore comfortable sneakers. But his thumb pressed into your arch and your back curved, thrusting your titties out.

He spread your legs and then set to work taking off his shirt. He kneeled closer, breathing deeply. His tongue darted out and began to lick and tease your entrance. He used his hands to spread you open, bare yourself in the most primal of ways.

He glanced up at you and you grinned at him. He then got to work eating you out like it was his entire reason for breathing. His lips teased your clit. His tongue darted in and out of your entrance. You were a moaning, crooning, sloppy mess under his masterful tongue.

Your fingers slid into his hair and tugged and pulled as you licked your dry lips and caved to the unrelenting pleasure. He made out with your pussy. So much so, you half thought you were intruding on a private moment.

You sat up a little to look at him at work. It was like he was praying between your thighs. On his knees, devoted to your pleasure. He worshiped at your altar, moaned hymns into your pussy, and gave offerings with his tongue.

One of his hands left you and you heard his zipper get pulled down. He moaned and the vibrations tickled your clit. His arm jerked as he pleasured himself while he made out with your pussy.

Your pussy fluttered and a moment later, you were clinging to his head as you smashed your pussy into his face, cumming without abandon. You screamed and cried out, shaking and trembling with pleasure.

Stunna stood up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. His chain looked damn good around his throat. He stepped out of his shoes, pants, and briefs. He made you sit up so he could take your bra off.

“Forgive me?” He asked.

“I ain’t heard no apology,” you mumbled.

“Like that?” He asked. “Yo little bratty ass get on my fuckin’ nerves.” He smiled but you knew that you really did get on his fuckin’ nerves. It should make you want to behave. He was really good when you behaved.

Before you could respond, he grabbed your ankles and yanked you further down the bed. You yelped and giggled as his gaze turned feral. His eyes were drooping, smiling out the corner of his mouth.

He pulled your legs up higher to rest on his shoulders. Your toes barely reached behind his neck. He lined himself up dipping into your pussy once, twice, and then slammed in on the third one.

“Shit!” You yelled. You dug your elbows into the mattress to try and get up. He held firm to your thighs.

Then he pushed forward, your knees grazing your chest. You heaved but couldn’t find enough air. “St-Stu-”

“I missed you too, baby. Now accept my goddamn apology,” he said. He rammed inside you.

Your eyes crossed and your body drooped down onto the bed, all the fight leaving you. He smacked your face, a tiny sting bringing you back to the present. “You gon’ accept my apology?”

“Nuh,” you moaned. He couldn’t expect you to speak while he had you in this position. He already fit snug as a bug, but now he felt even tighter. Your pussy sucked him in and didn’t let go. Didn’t want to let him go.

He had to feel the quake in your thighs. See the desperation on your face. The way you gasped and wailed for air.

“Grippin’ the fuck outta this dick. Fuck! Missed this fuckin’ pussy. Daddy missed the fuck outta this pussy,” he moaned.

Tears sprang to your eyes as you needed air but needed to cum even more. He pushed forward still, rutting inside of you. His chain bounced on his chest with the force of his thrusts. Your legs had no choice but to bend and open wide to accommodate him. He pushed your thighs as far back as they could go. Damn near touching the bed.

Stunna moved his face towards your titties, suckling them into his mouth and pulling.

“Stunna! Stunna! Fuck, that shit hurt!” You yelled. Hurt and felt so good, so magical. The bite of pain was its own shot of alcohol. He lifted his head and watched your eyes get watery.

“Accept my fuckin’ apology,” he said.

“No-o,” you moaned.

He increased the pressure of his thrusts, slamming into you with force. You scooted up the bed with each intense stroke. Pressure built up in your hips. Your hearing went out one ear. A tinny ring fought for dominance in your mind but you could only focus on that elusive feeling.

That whisper of an orgasm. The calm before the storm.

His balls slapped your ass. Your essence pooled out of you and soaked your thighs. Made a mess on the sheets. His grunting joined the fray. The moonlight caught glimpses of his sweat pouring down his face.

“You ain’t gettin’ this nut till you accept my goddamn apology,” he said. He started to slow down, slowing his strokes but they were no less powerful. That whisper was starting to drift on the wind.

“Wait!” You said.

“Yo hungry ass want this nut, don’t you?” He asked.

“Yes!”

“Been needin’ this nut so you can act right, huh?” His hips dipped with his stroke and you moaned.

“Yes! Fuck!” You cried and bounced on his dick, needing him to go faster. He was already impossibly deep, the Henny making him last longer like a little demon.

“You gon’ answer my texts?” He asked.

“Stunna, please, baby. Please! I’ll be good,” you whined. You didn’t know how the balance of power shifted. You didn’t know where you lost him. Perhaps he was just out of apologies to dole out, not used to the word falling from his lips.

He slipped out of you and you cried out, reaching for his hands to pull him back towards you. He grinned evilly and stroked himself a few times before joining you on the bed.

He laid down on his side and then pulled your right leg up. His right arm came around to keep it up. Satisfied that you would keep your leg in the air, he grabbed his dick and slapped it against your pussy.

The wet smacks and hint of pain made you moan and bite your lip. “You gon’ answer my texts,” he said, his voice raspy and low. He slid inside you and you groaned.

His arm came up to pinch your nipples, tugging on them as he started to move faster, slide in deeper. He pulled a little too hard and you cried. “Yes! Daddy, fuck! Yes, I’ll answer your texts!”

“All of my texts. Don’t you ever leave me on read again,” his pants blew across your ears as he slammed inside of you. He moaned and groaned, couldn’t help his dick from burrowing inside you and carving a space with his name on it.

“I won’t!” You moaned.

He moved his hand to your mouth, pushing three fingers inside. You happily sucked on his fingers, your head growing fuzzier.

“Shh, Daddy’s talkin’,” he said.

Your wet gulps and moans quieted down as he kept going. “You’re my fuckin’ bitch. And when I wanna get in this pussy, ain’t shit you can do to stop me. If I wanna fuck you before a party and got LaTrice outside in the whip, the fuck you gon’ do?”

Oh god. You were on that precipice again. Your lower belly ached. Pussy throbbed. Talk of his wife waiting outside while he fucked you stupid should not turn you on. And yet you were leaping off of the cliff.

Your body was soaring, flying, so high in the sky that you couldn’t see the bottom anymore. He moved his fingers away so he could hear your cursing, moaning, and screaming as you flooded his dick with your essence. Your whole body shook and convulsed.

Stunna wrapped his hand around your throat and thrust in earnest. You thought he was already hitting your shit, but he got up on his elbow and thrust as if there was no end in sight. As if you could consume him. Gobble him up.

“Accept my fuckin’ apology,” he screamed in your ear.

“I forgive you!” You managed to say around the hand on your throat.

Like it was the starting whistle, Stunna moaned and pushed inside, climaxing. His eyes rolled back, mouth open wide, as a shiver overtook him. Like he had been tense these past two weeks, bottled up, and found heaven as he came.

“Sheeit,” you whined as you felt his dick pulse and stuff you to the brim.

Stunna shook himself and slipped out, lifting up higher so he could watch his cum slip out. “Goddamn, babygirl,” he said. His cum continued to leak out and he groaned, pushing himself back in.

“St-Stunna!” You cried.

“I know baby, I can’t help it,” he said. He kissed your cheek and moved down to your neck, sucking on the tender meat.

Stunna eventually stilled, slipping back out and laying back against the sheets. The moonlight hit him just so and you sighed, both at the picture and the intense moment.

You couldn’t move. You were blissfully fucked out, pleasantly sore, and so deliriously happy you had no words.

Stunna stared at the ceiling with you, too busy gasping for air to say much of anything as well.

The moment didn’t need words. It transcended them. You always thought it was bullshit that you shared energy when you had sex. The shit just always felt good. But with Stunna, it was incredible. Mind-blowing. There was definitely a give and take of energies. You just weren’t sure what you would gain from him or what he took from you.

Stunna snaked his hand down towards you to tangle his hand with yours. You smiled as sleep tugged at you. Your blinks slowed until your eyelids were practically stuck together. You fell asleep to the soothing snores of Stunna.

The Secret Big Stunna Files | Part 1 | Part 2

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rainee-da · 4 months

Note

Hello how's your day!! I wanna request fluff for the Walkis (the six critters) if that's okay... Thank you very much!!!!

URGRHRH I JUST RLLY LIKE YOUR WRITINGS HUEGSGSJAJKAK

🍀 Lay Down in Their Lap [2]

CHARACTER ❥ Lévis Rosequartz 🧲 / Charles Contini 📞 / Galuf Gargaron 👅 / Kenny Clark 🧊 / Malcolm Curtis 🪲 / Lovie Rosequartz ⚡

W A R N I N G ⚠️ R-15 for suggestive themes on some / BIG SPOILER for anime watchers!!!! / might be too OOC for you.

L É V I S R O S E Q U A R T Z 🧲

Scarlet red creeped from his neck up to his face. He stares at you with a bewildered look, unable to comprehend your 'ridiculous' request.

"H-huh?! Y-you want t-to... s-sleep... my l-lap... are you insane?! Stop acting like an idiot!" he shrieked as he scooted back to the edge of the bench.

He tried. He swears to the mightiest God or Goddess up there that he tried his absolute best to stay firm. He tried to kept a stern posture while you're looking at him like a kicked puppy.

After all, laying on people's lap in broad daylight on school ground is too lovey-dovey! too scandalous!

What would everyone think?! What would his FATHER think?!

But his resolution dwindling as rapidly as it could when you asked him again. This time fully utilizing those puppy-eyes to its maximum capacity.

"F-Fine! Just do whatever you want!" he snapped with an angry tone as he finally scooted closer and slumped his back against the bench, grabbing his abandoned book and flipping it to random page.

His mind is gearing at a rapid pace as he tried to calm his nerves, his damaged eyes now started to feel itchy. That's fine though, just act as if you didn't care and all would be fine, right?

The rumble in his mind shatters when he finally felt that soft pressure against thighs. He, embarrassingly, lets out a high-pitched low screech and he almost bang his nape to the bench.

"I-Idiot! Stop moving around so much!" he barked weakly as he squirmed in his seat, while you simply nuzzle onto his thighs. Uncaring of his outward misery.

He swears to God you'll make him die from heart attack one of these days…

He gulped, face scarlet red and teeth gritting as he stares down at your peaceful expression. His brain fixated onto your facial features, silently making it his new fixation.

His hand moves to move the strand that is in the way of your face. And his index finger accidentally brush against your lips...

Why is it moist? Can he try it-

Your face will ended up being littered with a bunch of tiny shred of paper. Because the man above you is apparently too nervous and ending up grinding down on his book with his teeth.

C H A R L E S C O N T I N I 📞

"Y-yes? Sure, sure... of course, Mama... W-what? My voice? O-oh, I'm just cold... It's winter a-after all.. Yes, yes, of course I'm using the b-blank...kkket.... you gave me... Really, I'm fine!"

The one and only Charles Contini is, in fact, not fine. His face is currently match that of a boiling hot kettle.

His body trembles, hand almost dropping his phone as he attempts (but failed) to gave you his meanest death-glare.

But you didn't care. You just swing your head on his thigh mischievously then get your head back inside his shirt, doing whatever you want.

His other hand desperately yanked the fabric of your clothes, teeth gritting and in the break of speaking to his mother on the phone he mouthed to you a word 'please', his lips is now visibly trembling.

You, somehow had managed to make him hate talking to his mother right at this moment.

"Y-yeah yeah... Mama, I reallly think I gotta-Hhhah... Y-yeah really, I'm fine... I swear I'm fine! N-now Igottagobyeeee-" click, finally the torture is over.

He exhales loudly as he plopped his body on the bed. He rolled his body to the side, forcefully ripping you out of his lap. He mumbles, "You're unbelieveable," as he rubbed his face with his palm.

You though, didn't care. You simply take a peek to his face with a smug look on your face, clearly satisfied. Fueling his irritation more.

Out of nowhere though, the tables has turned. He startling you by moving so fast and now you're pinned down on the bed, with him on top of you.

He smirked at you, tilting his head to the side. He looks so menacing... and hot.

"Mama said that I shouldn't play rough with others... but," he purrs quietly as his hand roamed to your sides, and his other hands pick up the strand of your hair and brings it to his mouth, giving it a peck.

His head leans closer, breath brushing againts the skin of your neck and he let out a low chuckle. Your reaction is simply too adorable.

"... I think a punishment is due, don't you think?"

Don't be weird lol he just tickled your sides lmaoooo of course I'm not insinuating anything hahahahhahaa-

G A L U F G A R G A R O N 👅

"I-is this okay? Are you comfortable?" he stutters nervously, both of his hand hovers awkwardly over your relaxes figure on his lap, not knowing where to put it.

On your hair? What if he accidentally yank it? On your stomach? What if he pushed on it too hard? On your chest? Uh-

He snapped out of his turmoil when you mentioned that his shaking hand is currently sweating a river, and it's dripping down on you.

"Huh?! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to please don't hate me-" please guide this poor lad. He never done this with anyone ever before. He's seriously gonna combust into acid mess!

His jitter and stutter earning him a few sore spot in his tongue due to him accidentally biting into it when trying to talk or move. It's a wonder that he managed to NOT bite it off.

His breath hitches when you grabbed his hand gently and guide it to rest flat on your hair, telling him to try playing with it as a start. THIS IS THE START?!

He swears if he accidentally hurt you he'll yank his limb off.

As the time passed by though, he started to calmed down as his mind focused on each strand of your hair. A faint blush tinted his cheek and by the time you realized it, he's in the middle of braiding your hair into a tiny parts. All the time checking your facial expression for any sign of discomfort.

His eyes rounded into what seemed like a doe-eye and his face relaxed, the corner of his mouth is quirked upwards into a small smile. He seems happy... until-

"WHAT'CHA LOOKING AT?!" He suddenly barked with eyes glaring to the side. Panicked, your head follows his direction and you saw his gang standing over there with face full of variation of expression.

Before you managed to speak your mind, your boyfriend's voice boomed across the place as he barked the word "SCRAM", making those group of teens scramble away into obscurity, almost stumbling onto each other.

"They're so noisy, I swear to God..." he mumble quietly, his eyes trailing back to meet your surprised expression. He avert his eyes shyly and he's back to his previous mode, stumbling over his word.

"I-I'm sorry, you must be surprised right?" he stated meekly as his hand silently encouraging you to lay back on his lap. "It's just my friends, they're being noisy as per usual. I hope I didn't scare you..."

Honestly, the duality of this man is mind-boggling.

K E N N Y C L A R K 🧊

"Calm down, no one's gonna now," he said nonchalantly, patting your hair without looking at you as his hand flipped through the pages of his module.

The both of you are in the library right now, and as it should be; nobody should be flirting in the library. Getting caught holding hands in itself will earn the culprit an one-day ban from accessing the library.

But did your boyfriend care? Of course not.

Because if he cares you wouldn't be in this situation right now; head pressed down onto his lap with one hand while he busying himself, studying for finals.

He reasoned that your love is his 'battery', therefore you should be 'charging him'. Whatever that means.

Sometimes he'll look down on his lap to check on you. He'll pinch on your cheek to make you look at him and he'll blow you a kiss. With a face devoid of any emotions.

Though his face seems stoic, he's actually secretly gushing inside his mind. He swears that that your misery flustered face is so adorable! That blushing cheek, wavering eyes... it brings warm to his chest.

All of that gushy-mushy inside his mind, while you're nervously checking around the room. Afraid to find the librarian striding in without any time for you to react.

The both of you have been banned from the library for far too many times. And finals week is not the ideal time for that to happen.

Noticing your distress, he closed his eyes and sighed softly. His hand relaxed and he stopped putting pressure onto your head. Giving you a chance to finally scrambled out of his lap and act normal!

But that's too boring for him.

That's why now he wrapped his hand around your shoulder and pulling you closer. Effectively making you lean on his shoulder.

But that's not enough for him, no! so he uses his hand to tilted your head upwards, making you face him while he leans closer to rubbed the tip of his nose to yours. Enjoying the reaction he earned from you.

"Rest assured, my angel," he mumbled quietly, intentionally breathing through his mouth so it would brush onto your lips. "After all, our love is always stealthy, it will flies under the radar." yikes

You might be hallucinating but you swear that you saw a glimpes of his lips quirked upwards slightly as he leans closer slowly, tilting his head, almost touching your lips...

"MR. CLARK WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING IN MY LIBRARY?!"

On a positive note, if you get a bad grades for final, you're free to blame him now! Yay!

M A L C O L M C U R T I S 🪲

"Are you bored, my dear?" his voice is calm and soothing as he push the strand of hair that is in your face to the side, his other hand is brushing through the back of your hair gently.

He look to the side and stares at his fishing equipment that he put up by the edge of the river. It's been an hour and no fish has taken the bait yet.

He's not surprised though. Fishing is a long, waiting game after all. Especially if one decides to not use a lure. For him though, that's what makes it even more satisfying if he managed to catch one.

You lay on the grass with your head on his lap. Moaning and groaning about 'stupid fish not knowing what a fine cuisine is'. A low chuckles escapes his mouth, muffled by the tube in his mouth.

"Well, it's indeed taking longer than usual for fish to take my bait. I'm experimenting with the new bug after all," and that made you pouted. Something that he adores the most.

He's always hesitant to bring you with him fishing, knowing that you'll not be entertained. But for some reasons you always insisting on coming along, and every time his lap always ended up as your pillow.

Not that he minded though. You seemed relaxed and content as you nuzzle onto his thigh. And that's all he wanted, for you to be comfortable around him.

Not many people can bear to look at his... face. People often stated that 'it's the face that can only be loved by his mother'.

Not you though... you seems to think that his face is ethereal, as if he's one of Michelangelo's masterpiece. He never knew why you seems to think that way... but it warms his heart.

You suddenly shrieked, almost making him jump to defensive position and activate his magic. He frantically look to the side and his eyes widened when his fishing rod had finally started to twitch.

He moves away as you woke up from his lap and quickly keep a hold to the fishing rod, slowly reeling it in and strategically stopped to not startle anything that is currently taking his bait.

Meanwhile his heart thump against his chest, hearing you yelling encouragements to him as if you're a cheerleader.

And... voila! It's a baby catfish.

He stares at the wiggling little fish at the end of of his rod with a deadpanned expression, while you currently laughing your ass off.

He looks towards your direction, and he was stunned in silence as he stares at your amused face. It was simply... beautiful.

He knew his hobby is boring for you. But if it can make you laugh like this... he hopes you'll never get bored coming along with him.

He feels serene, at peace, all because of you.

L O V I E R O S E Q U A R T Z ⚡

"Oh, Hi... sorry, but Lévis is not here" he greets you with a soft voice as you come to his room, closing the book he's been reading and giving you his full attention as you walked to his bed.

His eyes widened in surprised when you, as usual, told him that you're here to hang out with him. A faint blushes painted his cheek as he let out a sweet laugh, "Oh, of course! please, come sit by me. I was starting to get bored myself."

He never gets used to you visiting him for some reasons. Even after a year of him being sick and losing his magic, he never did.

After being bedridden, it's rare for him to met people other than Lévis. His father never even consider him exist anymore, deeming him to be a defective product.

Maybe the last time he met his father was more than half a year ago? when he dragged him to this room?

All of that didn't surprised him though, he was just happy that his brother didn't meet the same fate as him. He believes all of this happen as a karma for never tried to stand up for his brother.

For you to stick around and visiting him every other weekend though, just to hang out with him and nothing else, is never failed to surprised him. I mean, why? he was weak now, everybody leaves, why won't you?

He giggles as he scoots a bit to give you space. As per usual, you'll get on his bed and put your head on his lap. Hugging his thin thigh in a koala grip as if it's your lifeline.

The pressure was a bit too tight, but it was fully welcomed. The extra warmth from your body is radiating and creeping to his heart, warming the negative thoughts away.

"How was school? anything interesting?" he questioned while brushing his hand to your hair, and his sweet smile never fades as he listens to your story. His eyes radiating with adoration as he stares down at you.

For him, your story was always interesting. Even if all you gonna talk in your entire visit is only about the shitty new cafeteria menu you had on school, it was all very interesting for him.

If you mentioned about his smile towards you, he'll giggle and cup your cheeks before giving your lips a small peck, "It's because I love you so much. You're so cute!"

Any reactions you gave him after that will earned you more peck for him. Don't scoot away from his lap though, he'll be sad! and he'll use his entire energy if he should to drag you back to his lap.

In his weakened state, all whom stay by his side other than Lévis is only you. For him, you're the breathe of fresh air in this cramped, lavish space.

Your existence stuck in his mind, and it's what keeps him going through the day as he dealt with the illness in his body.

As he pressed his forehead on top of yours, he mutters a soft 'thank you' before sighing, enjoying your presence by his side.

He'll trade everything in the world, for you to stay by his side... forever.

By the way, Lévis is currently outside of his room the entire time, holding a tray of food, wondering if he should go in and become a cockblock or not.

I'm currently as good as a constipated bull right now And THANK YOUUUUU SM BOO I'M HAPPY THAT YOU LIKE MY WRITING! 😭😭😭 UEEEEEEEEEEEE-

Since you didn't specify what type of scenario you would want me to write, I used this prompt to write for them. If this is not what you mean, feel free to send another request!!!

I put Lovie in as a curve ball because I'm curious on how I myself would interpret a character that only appeared in the few panels. But unexpectedly Malcolm ended up being the hardest one. I paused writing for a day just because of him lol.

Anyway, thank you @doughnuts-eater for your request! Sorry it takes too long for me to write! I hope you and everyone else will enjoy this one too! 🍀

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small-sinclair · 1 year

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Breaking Walls

Vampire!Brahms Heelshire x preg.fem!reader

welcomed reader: @hao-ming-8

Tw: biting, blood, killing/murder, bone breaking, angry Brahms, reader being used as a shield, gun, proofread twice but might have grammar mistakes

You woke up to the sound of the backdoor glass shattering.

Your head jerked up from the pillows, sleep still in your eyes. You didn't want to move because Brahms had you in a cuddle, his face pressed in your stomach, his wild brown curls covering his burn, and he looked so beautiful in your arms. At first, you thought it was nothing but part of a dream, but you heard shoes crunching over broken glass.

You placed a kiss in Brahms's hair before getting up. Maybe it's nothing, but it doesn't hurt to look, right? Maybe Malcolm forgot his keys again? No, he forgets a lot of things but not the keys. Also, it's the middle of the night! He's at home with his two dogs. He can't be here at this hour.

If your mind is playing tricks on you, however, it's worth the trip; you needed a glass of water anyways. Yeah, you can get water from the bathroom sink, but the water didn't taste right? Ever since you got pregnant, you would only drink water from the kitchen sink and nowhere else. If you tired to drink from the bathroom sinks, you would throw-up. Two months in and you're still learning new things. You're tired and sleepy, but water and a mysterious noises called you.

You put on Brahms's jacket and slipped on your bunny slippers, still getting the sleep out of your eyes. You really hoped it was mice breaking something or some very angry racoon throwing rocks like last week. Brahms fought the little guy and killed it with his teeth, his fangs ripping it apart like a dog on a chew toy. You held a funeral for the little guy and had Malcolm get a racoon statue as a grave stone marker. You had Brahms read aloud a written apology to the dead racoon before you lowered the critter into the earth.

R.I.P. Ted the Racoon, who's buried in the backyard, you thought as you sneaked down the steps. Maybe Ted's family has come for revenge. You couldn't help but give a silly smile at the thought of Brahms fighting another racoon. He's so hot cute when his fangs are out. His eyes would shine brighter and his smile looked so breath taking. What a king, my man. He's the Racoon Slayer.

When you got closer to the backdoor, you froze.

Standing by the good china, a taller, stronger man had his back turned as he hurriedly took the good silver from the drawer. Standing next to him, a smaller man in a ski mask held the bag.

Out of reaction, you turned on the lights, making the men freeze.

"What in the hell do you think you're doing?" You snapped confused, sleep finally starting to leave. When you saw the handgun in the back pocket of the smaller man, your eyes grew wide. You did not think this through. "Oh... shit."

The smaller one was the first to jump to run after you as soon as you started towards the staircase again. "Brahms! Brahms, help--!"

His hand covered your mouth as he pulled you backwards, the taller man starting to hurry to get things packed. "Come on, Dylan! We got enough!"

"The bitch screamed for help!" The smaller one shouted. "There's another here!"

The taller man turned, his eyes glowing from under the ski mask. "Then let's get out of here! We got enough silver-!"

Within the walls, the sound of wood breaking and paint chipping echoed. The lights above you flickered and broke, it sounded like a freight train inside the walls. You struggled to get out of his grasp, but he squeezed harder around your skin. If he leaves bruises on you, all type of mercy will go out the window. Your eyes darted around the room as the smaller man took out his gun, taking it off safety.

Suddenly, silence.

You closed your eyes and started to cry silently, a whimper escaping from the back of your throat.

And that's all Brahms needs to hear.

From the right side of the taller man, Brahms burst through the wall roughly, taking down the taller man. The man didn't have time to react as Brahms took a piece of wood and stabbed him in his lower chest, burying it in deep. Brahms threw him to the side, his back snapping as soon as it hit the broken door, and sunk to the floor.

When his eyes flashed to you, his soft puppy eyes turned to a blood red, maskless. He hissed at the man, his fangs bared and bright, his body tense with danger and murder. He looked at you then at the man, hate burning his lungs. How dare he have a gun against your skin. Your his. You're not supposed to feel fear while you're in his house, your home. He promised you that since he married you in the spring.

And the baby--

The gun pressed against your throat as the shorter man said, "Move and she dies, I swear--!"

He didn't finish that statement. In a blink, he was thrown back into the wall, his back going through it. Brahms pushed you away, and you fell on back and scurried away as Brahms entered the wall.

Close your eyes and count to 100, y/n. This is going to be ugly.

The man looked up at horror of Brahms and tried to shot, but Brahms broke his hand. "How dare you," he hissed through his teeth. "How dare you come into my house," his grip tighten, "try to steal my wife away from me," his grip tightened until his bones stated to shatter all over again. The man screamed but Brahms didn't let up. "You threatened her, my darling, with a gun! My y/n with a gun! My child, that she carries, with a bullet!" Brahms twisted his arm back violently, snapping his shoulder in two.

"Please," the man whimpers pathetically. "Mercy--"

"Fuck your mercy," his accent was heavy. "Fuck your begs. It left as soon as you thought it was a good idea," he yanked the man to his feet until he was dangling in the air, "to put my wife and child in harms way!" The more he thought about you almost getting hurt, the more he hated the men. The more he hated the fact that they were in his house. Near you. Touching and bruising you. Scaring you. He hated them. He ate himself. He loves you. "Never again," he growled, his fangs growing longer and sharper. "Never. Again."

With a terrible noise leaving the attacker, the sound of the man's neck being torn from his body made you want to throw-up.

You slowly sat up as you watched Brahms come out of the broken wall, his mouth covered in rich blood from his kill, chest heaving heavily. His eyes scanned the room and saw the other man, who laid across from you, taking shallow breaths. You looked at your husband then back at the man. He didn't do anything wrong to you; he wanted to leave and call it a night! Truth to be told, you felt bad for him. He was just looking for a score, not to be killed by a ragging vampire husband. You looked between him and Brahms as you watched him breath heavily.

"Let me take care of him, doll," Brahms said in his real voice, deep and low, the corner of his lip twitching in anger. "You'll never see him again-"

"Brahms, wait," you were shaky as you stood between him and the dying man. Your hands went up and cupped his cheeks. "Honey, he's almost dead. He didn't hurt me or wanted to harm me; he wanted to leave."

"He came into our house, y/n," Brahms's voice was heavy in anger as he looked at the man gasping. "I can take care of the rat."

"Then make it fast?" You asked. "I don't want him to suffer more than he already has, okay?" You thumbed away some of the blood on the corner of his mouth. "He's done nothing wrong towards me." His eyes fell back on you, and his soft brown and blue eyes returned. He leaned into your hands and took deep breaths, but your hands left him, lowering them to your side.

He looked at you confused as you were careful to step away and over the broken glass. You crouched next to the dying man and held his hand. Your grandmother said that it's bad to die alone, and it's the worst feeling in the world. You frowned as you listened to his broken apologies, and you offered a sad smile.

"Thank you for not hurting me," you whispered. "I'm sorry that it has to be this way."

You felt Brahms standing over you, and you looked up, letting him know that you were ready, that it was okay for him to do the kill. You know it's in his nature, but he always made sure you're not in the room. He helps you stand and ushered you out of the room to the front hallway.

He kisses your hands, whispering in his voice, "Be right back, y/n."

"Please, Brahms," you said again, taking his hand. "Please be good? Make it fast?" He doesn't answer you, but he squeezed your hand and left you alone.

You stand and wait alone in the dark. You held your stomach as you waited, nervous and scared. The moments later, the light turned off and Brahms emerged from the darkness. He lowered his head on your shoulder and left a blood stain kiss on your neck, his fangs brushing your skin.

Your hands raked through his curls as you leaned into his chest, closing your eyes, allowing yourself to cry again.

"Never again," Brahms murmurs in his childish voice. "Never face scary noises by yourself again." His hand grip your arms gently before scooping you up and carried you back to bed.

You leaned into his chest a he carried you up the steps. "Did he suffer?"

"No," he answers childishly. "I was good. I listened. I promise." You looked up at him and touched his scared face. He leaned into it and kissed your palm. "Brahms was good."

You couldn't help but smile as you lean against him. "Good boy," you whispered, tears slowing down. "Good boy, Brahms."

He takes you back into the bedroom and lays you down. He leaves and washes up in the bathroom. When he comes back, he wasn't wearing a shirt as he came back into bed. He kisses your lips twice, one to say 'I love you' and one for 'goodnight', and wrapped his arms around your side, burying his face to be close to his child once more. Your hands went through his curls, again, then closed your eyes. After a few shaky breaths, you were back to sleep.

#brahms x you #brahms heelshire x reader #brahms heelsire x reader #brahms heelshire #brahms the boy #brahms the doll #the boy #the boy 2016 #vampire!brahms heelshire #vampire!brahms #slasher fic #slasher fanfic #slasher #the boy fanfiction #the boy fanfic #slasher fanfiction #brahms heelshire fanfis #brahms heelshire x you #brahms heelshire x y/n

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perpetualprocrastinationisme · 3 months

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Ragnor as the TWP Gang’s Warlock

Artist: @cassandrajean

A vague expression passed over Malcolm’s face. “I can’t remember precisely. Magnus, stop bothering Emma and Julian,” he said, and there was a tinge of something like annoyance in his voice. Professional jealousy, Emma guessed. “This is my domain. You’ve got your own hopeless humans in New York.” - Lady Midnight

Anyway, back to breakfast and the knock on the door. It was Ragnor, looking a sprightly shade of green, like an English meadow. He sailed right past Julian and began inspecting the drapes. Well, he was probably inspecting something magical, like the curse, but to me it looked like he was inspecting the curtains and the wallpaper. Maybe he’s thinking of decorating his own place. Or maybe he was just giving Julian some time alone with Ty, because Ty was still standing on the stairs, with a duffel bag over his arm, looking adorably awkward. - Secrets of Blackthorn Hall

Bruce, I swear at one point Ragnor told a joke in Coptic and Ty laughed. They’re hardcore over there at the Scholomance. Maybe too hardcore for me. - Secrets of Blackthorn Hall

So, judging from The Dark Artifices and The Mortal Instruments, it seems like every book's gang of characters has a specific warlock that they trust more than any other. I know Magnus is very prominent in both of TMI and TDA but TDA had an extra focus on Malcolm (unfortunately). I know the focus on Malcolm was due to the resurrection of Annabel but I feel like TWP might have a new warlock that they trust: Ragnor Fell. Ragnor doesn't show much affection to anyone but he seems to at least have a bit of a soft spot for Ty. Ragnor let him portal to Blackthorn Manor with him, was sensitive to giving him time with Julian, and has even joked with him in Coptic. I feel like this will lead to Ty leaning on a Ragnor a bit, and subsequently the whole TWP gang, throughout the series. Besides his familiarity with Ragnor there is also the fact that Magnus is married to the Consul and they'll almost definitely be breaking Clave rules on their quests.

However, there is another Warlock that might be extra inclined to help them...

Artist: @lariablog

"Catarina gave me a hot water bottle too," Ty said. He reached into the box and unwrapped the bundle of blanket enough to put the hot water bottle in as well. Then he began to drip water onto the lynx's mouth until the was wet all around its face. - Ghosts of the Shadow Market He was lying in bed in the infirmary, looking very pale. Catarina Loss was by his side, and a boy that Livvy recognized from Ty's classes. Anush. - Ghosts of the Shadow Market

I have been putting together a curriculum with the help of Prof. Loss, aimed in the direction of of investigation and detection. - Ty in Secrets of Blackthorn Hall

"I took Ephraim to America and raised him there. He never knew what he was or who he was. He was a happy boy, a good boy. He was my boy." - Catarina in Ghosts of the Shadow Market

Catarina Loss. Catarina seems to be very supportive of Ty at the Scholomance but she also has plenty of connections to Kit, even though both of them may not realize it yet. With Kit being the Lost Heir, Catarina raised and protected his great-something grandfather and would probably feel a connection with Kit. Like Ty, she also seems to trust Anush. I can picture Anush aiding Ty in TLKOF by finding information for him at the Scholomance while he's on his roadtrip with Ty which Catarina could help with. Catarina seems to be an especially nurturing person, I feel like she might disapprove of some of the things that the gang may do but I feel like at the end of the day she would help them.

I honestly hope it works out that Catarina is their main Warlock. To me, she's one of the coolest characters in the whole series and I wish her story could be explored more in TWP. I guess we'll have to wait to find out!

I would love to hear your thoughts/theories on this :)

Artist: @cassandrajean

Beatiful Ragnor and Catarina art to finish a post that's a bit long! Thanks for reading to here, I hope you have a great day :)

#ragnor fell #catarina loss #ty blackthorn #tiberius blackthorn #kit herondale #anush joshi #ephraim herondale #twp #the wicked powers #the shadowhunter chronicles #shadowhunters #cassandra clare #tlkof #the last king of faerie #the scholomance #sobh #secrets of blackthorn hall #ghosts of the shadow market

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the-californicationist · 5 months

Text

WIP Game

Thanks for the tag @ethereal-night-fairy

Rules: In a new post, post the names of all the files in your WIP folder regardless of how nondescript or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet and tell us about it!

I have taken a big step back lately because of my work, but I do have some things I'm slowly putting paragraphs into.

Long Fics in Progress

Ursa Major - Bear!Price x Female Reader - John Price is a hot, lumberjack werebear. This is the most self-indulgent fic I've ever written, and I will not apologize. Updates are weekly, for the most part.

The Sin Eater - Monster!Price x Female Reader - A dark, monster fic based off of the Jekyll and Hyde paradigm. Co-authored with amazing @vampirekilmerfic, but updates are extremely slow. It's a hard fic for me to write.

The Window - Poly!141 x Female Reader - Pregnancy fic with a poly/reverse harem theme. This should've stayed a one-shot, honestly. I don't know what the heck I'm doing with this.

The Fox & The Hound - PornStar!Soap x Female Reader - I love this fic so much. I should just stop, but I can't let it go. For some reason, this story just lives in my heart rent-free.

My Brother's Keeper - Regency!Price x Female Reader - Unpublished arranged marriage childhood friends-to-lovers dual virginity fic with a huge twist. It'll probably come out midsummer? I think.

Doubt Thou the Stars - Space!Price x Alien!Female OC - Unpublished space fic where John Price is basically Malcolm Reynolds from Firefly. Self-indulgent and weird. I might never publish it because it's so odd.

The Cube - Ghost x Female Reader - We don't talk about The Cube. But, it's there... lurking.

One-Shots in Progress

Down the Hatch - Gaz x Female Reader - Gaz convinces you to fuck him inside a tank.

Pas de Deux - Ghost x Ballerina!Female Reader - Inspired by an ask, but a bit of a divergence from the original request. Ghost falls for Gaz's sister as she performs as Odette in Swan Lake.

Against Medical Advice - Price x Female Reader - Inspired by an ask where Price gets shot in the thigh and ends up convincing you, his medic, to get nasty with him anyways.

A Knight's Errand - Medieval!141 x Female Reader - In order to avoid a dangerous foreign king from being eligible to marry their queen, her knights work hard to ensure that she is with-child, securing her position on the throne. (I think this fic already exists? I don't remember the name of it, though. But, that's why it's unpublished. Maybe it's a two-cakes situation, but I don't want to publish it and have it be so similar that it repeats their original idea.)

I hope some of these are interesting to y'all! Feel free to ask me about them if you have questions.

No pressure tags: @vampirekilmerfic @gemmahale @kit-williams @deadbranch @ceilidho

#call of duty fanfic #cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod #call of duty #fanfics #my wips

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sleepynegress · 11 months

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So, I'm Watching Dollar Tree The Gilded Age: The Buccaneers (I apologize that this is a long one folks because of ADHD Romantic Period Drama w/ ~Color~ tangents)...

Okay... So, I have to preface this by admitting that Bridgerton never has been my great big thing. It's a cake sculpted from cotton candy.

Pretty and sweet, but not much substance. And very much leaning on the "fantasy" so everyone can enjoy the costume romance fun (but it does please me to see my marginalized players, playing well...). -Using an author's works as a base, who not only started with an all-white palette but was flippant and insulting in response to the idea of inclusion... And yet...

I'm just saying, it is something that the woman who walked away from ABC because an exec didn't respect her enough to get a Disney pass for her family, went on to make that lucrative author's uplift deal with, instead of say, Beverly Jenkins. I love underdog romances that aren't the typical het white bread. Give me the canon gays (I never got slash...but I love when it's canon, especially with color), the big girls, the dark brown skin girls, the Black couples, and the interracials, especially when both are BIPOC and there's no lag in charm/looks in the lighter half in some expertly lit, dressed, confection that makes everyone look as gorgeous as they actually are and there's all kinds of soft plotting and chemistry. Bridgerton for all its lazy ways of handling color, gave that. Everybody is hot. And the people that studios have typically just pretended either weren't "invented" yet or were all living horrible tortured lives of enslavement got to get the sweet costumed wooing, will-they-won't-they, ~romance~ treatment. But... being an obscure Black history nerd... I'm neurodivergent, so I have some deep-dive GEMS that I'll mention here that I NEED TO SEE DONE WELL, before I die. FYI I called Dido Elizabeth Belle a good 8 years before that was actually made. It is frustrating to see some of the ACTUAL interesting capacities in which some actual existing Black folks in history who did live interesting, not tragic lives, not given the big glossy budget, well-written renderings they deserve... In lieu of what has now, firmly taken hold as a trend, colorblind casting in known white works. See recent adaptations of David Copperfield, Persuasion, Tom Jones, & Great Expectations,

and now, this The Buccaneers (which like I said, is Dollar Tree, and *worse* the colorblind cast sister Conchita is using her regular-eggular Cali accent and...is not a compelling actress & her man is a jar of mayo) and baby...them costumes are Reign-levels of anachronistic/bad. It's the lazy jump onto the trend Shonda exploded, and Mr. Malcolm's List started (yeah, that short film was put on YouTube a full year before Bridgerton debuted). So, my point... Instead of *just* doing colorblind casting in old classic white period works... I need to see these ACTUAL GREAT stories of and/or written by or about the colorful people who lived in those societies. And this is where it could get long... but I'll do my best to keep it short... EXAMPLES that were gotten right and those *I need to see adapted*: ____

Interview With The Vampire is inclusive color-AWARE casting... The showrunner went beyond and actually rewrote the narrative to make sure the inclusion wasn't lazily done, but actually improved the depth of the source IMO. And I believe the showrunner is a queer white man. It just takes empathy and effort.

Passing... is a moody slow-burn horror based upon an actual work written by a Black woman in that period, and adapted by a white-passing WOC who not only lived the theme, but rendered it expertly.

Belle is often pointed to as a good example, but my nerd-ass knows Gugu's beyond AMAZING handling of the material elevated it.

Too much was changed from the reality of her life (IMO), still...Most period dramas are about as "true" and yall know I was not a fan of Sam Reid's over-dramatic ass in this... (yelling in that damn carriage for what?!) but he is PERFECT in IWTV. Sanditon being made, despite the typical side-character Black character issues...really was a reset because Miss Austen had already envisioned, in her day and above her class(!) a Black heiress as a character getting the Austen treatment, w/o any modifications the salty and ignorant would prefer to think is beyond "true history". ----- I have a little hopeful part in my brain that wishes it had the power to will capable adaptions of the lives of Carlotta Stewart Lai - middle-class educated Black woman who became a teacher & lived an "Anne of Green Gables" type of Edwardian life (more interesting really) surfing, having "bathing parties," and teaching Hawaiians with her Black family, Portuguese, Hawaiian and Chinese friends on the big island... Her life was w/o the stereotypes people assume all Black Americans lived in Victorian/Edwardian "America".

Gustav Badin, a Black man who was "Chessmaster" of the Swedish Royal Court in the 1700's...was in charge of the Royal family's secrets after the Queen's passing, really gives me intelligent queer Black man energy in his portrait and lived out a non-tragic life in a VERY white space many don't know we occupied.

And The Hunters... Who already have a short film and I've posted about it here... but I would LOVE to see an actual rendering of their lives in the Klondike, with their gold and silver prospects and son grandson Buster and daughter Teslin in Edwardian Canada.

(that is Teslin at the highest point in the photo, named after the lake she was born at)

(and the Hunters' grandson Buster ice-fishing)

All this to say... Now, that I've thoroughly veered away from my review of a middling show... I WISH THESE DAMN SHOWRUNNERS used a little effort in research and imagination and gave us more "true to life" renderings of Black life (and life of color, in these romanticized spaces) that isn't tragic nor the patronizin inclusive "fantasy"... That feels like it's smirking at me while saying "we know you weren't ~really~ here, but here! have a cookie!!" These people existed.

You don't have to *just* make inclusive versions of white works with the lie that you have to do that because thee above people ~didn't exist~. Nor do you have to be lazy when you do!! (see: IWTV) Right now, for me... It feels like for the most part we're in a period of very shallow "advancement" in period rep. And I'm saying if little old me can find the actual stories that could make AMAZING true history-based media. Why can't the more powerful people do the same?? P.S.

You already know I'm fresh off being mad about that shitty Bass Reeves show...but I'm even madder because I can't even say, "just make sure its made by Black people," because Jeymes Samuel (AKA Bullitts) gave us skinny biracial StageCoach Mary!!!

---NO!! I will never stop being mad about it!!

DO BETTER!! Have the empathy and care for the material, regardless, and don't rest on "I know what I'm doing because I'm Black" That male gaze won out over truth in The Harder They Fall *smh*

P.P.S I get the feeling the lazy adaptions are about cash-grabbing, what they see as a trend, and being all the ready to jump back into the whitewashed business as usual, that ain't true to *all* actual histories nor (as Austen proved) fictions of those eras or spaces.

P.P.P.S. On The Glided Age!! I do love that the Fellowes drama has Erica Armstrong Dunbar (known for her book and research on Ona Judge -another figure whose story needs to be adapted!!!- the Black woman who successfully escaped enslavement from George Washington's household and was doggedly pursued by him throughout her life) and Salli Richardson-Whitfield as producers... so, Denee Benton's Peggy is authentic... but as much as I like The Gilded Age, I want to combine Fellowes comfort drama... with a CENTRALIZED Black character... Why can't someone do all of it correctly?? WHY??!!!

#I am so sorry...#I may have to attempt to do a video essay on youtube to truly cover what I want to fully say in this..I #blah blah #meta #the buccaneers #the gilded age #bridgerton #black history #marginalized folks in period dramas in comfort period drama is what I want #and done WELL!!#give me sarah forbes bonnetta's life

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freddie-77-ao3 · 1 year

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pjo characters as quotes

Thalia:

“I *Audible sigh* I really can’t believe I have to say this, but *another sigh* when someone tells you not to run down the stairs, you do not jump out the window. Thank you.”

"Legally all of us are dead except Percy, so sir, the cops are going to have a lot of trouble finding records of us.”

“For the love of Zeus? What love? He doesn’t have any, except for himself and power.”

Nico:

“As the only person here who did not, at one point or another, have a crush on Luke Castellan, I’m choosing where we’re eating today. And it's Mcdonalds.”

Travis:

“I have to wonder how many ping pong tables Clarisse has destroyed in her time at camp, oh wait no i don’t. The number is thirty-seven”

“I am a very good person, I just choose not to act on it.”

“Good fucking gods- wait no, the gods aren’t good. Uh, fucking gods. Yeah, that seems more accurate.”

Connor:

‘I have enough money to last for the rest of my life, but I have to die by tuesday.’

“I will pay a nickel for the first person to kill me. Please and thank you.”

“I’ve made a lot of bad decisions today. Most of them involve the soda machine at noodles and co.”

Clarisse:

“Oh, me? I’m the tooth fairy, here to steal your bones.”

“zeus may have fucked his way through the family tree but Percy's gonna fight his way through it.”

Clovis:

“Obviously he has harvesting god trauma, I mean: Titan of time, Goddess of Springtime/Queen of the Underworld, Kronide 2.0, Trip-oh something.. “ about nico (Kronos/Persephone/Demeter/Triptolemos)

Miranda:

“All of our most emotional, important, or depressing conversations happen over a ping pong or card game, and I’m not entirely sure that’s healthy.”

Chris:

“What am I? Well, personally I think of myself as human, but I suppose technically I’m only half human, so maybe just a being of pure chaos. As for why I’m on your lawn, I have no clue, sir.”

Cecil:

“Hold on, if I’m jewish, and you’re an atheist, then who’s going to acknowledge the god in the kitchen?”

Drew:

“What? Ignoring a situation? There is no situation and therefore I have nothing to ignore.”

“My fuck, do you remember that time when Miranda bought a parenting book, and then highlighted it and added names according to the issues everyone had? Say what you will about her, but that was the ultimate power move.”

Malcolm:

"I would say get a room but yours is the same as mine, please try to remember that."

"Morning? Sorry, that wasn't meant to be a question. I mean, I know it's morning. But I meant 'good morning'—"

Katie:

“You look delicious… i mean beautiful- wait, pretty? Handsome? Hot? Yeah. You look hot today.”

Percy:

“Who needs health? I have chicken nuggets.”

#pjo #incorrect quotes #clarisse la rue #percy jackson #katie gardner #malcolm pace #drew tanaka #cecil markowitz #chris rodriguez #clovis #miranda gardiner #travis stoll #thalia grace #nico di angelo #connor stoll

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m-a-salter · 7 months

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Why is Peter Capaldi so hot? Part Three.

[part 1] [part 2] [part 4]

In Part One and Part Two we considered (1) Mr. Capaldi's physical characteristics and (2-3) behaviors. In this part, we will consider his acting roles in relation to his hotness. This is essentially the sub-question, "Is Peter Capaldi hot, or am I just in love with several of his characters?" My contention is that, as long as your relationship with him remains parasocial, it is not an important distinction.

And for those of us who have not been brainwashed by moral purity cultures within fandom, this holds for (4) his good, appealing characters and (5) his potentially evil characters. They are hot in different ways, but all are hot.

4. Highly lovable characters

Call me old-fashioned, but nothing is hotter than goodness.

4.1 Danny Oldsen, Local Hero (1983): I am aware that some people don't think there is any relationship between a character being an adorable precious cinnamon roll and the actor playing the character being hot. Those people are entitled to their opinions.

4.2 Randall Brown, The Hour (2012): Principled, highly competent, dapper, and with a tragic backstory, in my mind, the hotness of Randall Brown infuses everything Peter Capaldi does.

4.3 The Doctor, Doctor Who (2014-17): Has anyone read this far who doesn't think the twelfth Doctor is hot? I personally have a particular soft spot for the soft smile.

5. Slightly or majorly evil characters, but in a sexy way

5.1 Malcolm Tucker, The Thick of It (2005-2012) and In the Loop (2009).

5.2 Cardinal Richelieu, The Musketeers (2014): He didn't get to have as much sex as the other characters in this show, but he still wore a lot of leather.

5.3 Daniel Hegarty, Criminal Record (2024): All cops are bastards, some are sexy bastards in well-tailored suits.

[part 1] [part 2] [part 4]

#peter capaldi #local hero #danny oldsen #the hour #randall brown #doctor who #twelfth doctor #the thick of it #malcolm tucker #the musketeers #cardinal richelieu #criminal record #daniel hegarty #my edit

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slasher-male-wife · 1 year

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Male reader making slashers realize they're queer

Because it's pride month and also because I've come across a lot of undisclosed fem reader stuff I decided to write this. The reader isn't specifically cis but they are seen as a man. I know Adam isn't a slasher but I've got Saw on the brain.

Includes: RZ Michael Myers, Brahms Heelshire, Martin Mathias, Severen, Adam Faulkner and Bo Sinclair

Warnings: Slashers checking out reader, flirting, internalized homophobia on slashers part, reader wears "revealing" clothes (tank tops, shorts, being shirtless), vague descriptions of readers body, stalking kind of, mention of drinking blood in Martins bit

RZ Michael Myers

Michael noticed you moved into the same neighborhood as the Myers house. He finally saw you one hot summer day when you were outside doing yard work. You're wearing cut off jean shorts and a tight tank top. Michael questioned why you would wear something like this as a man.

But he couldn't deny that he enjoyed watching you work. Michael never explicitly knew anything about sexuality. He just knew if you weren't dating someone of the opposite gender, you'd be ostracized. But he couldn't help tilting his head as you wiped away sweat on your forehead while you mowed your lawn.

Michael felt the voice in his head telling him to attack you quiet down as a funny feeling bloomed in his stomach. He felt this way before when he saw something that excited him. But why would a man excite him like this? Michael went through any explanation he could in his mind while he watched you finish up your mowing. But eventually he realized, he might be attracted to you.

He momentarily thought about what other people would say, when he remembers he doesn't care. Watching you work out in your yard made him feel funny, and pushed away the voice in his head telling him to kill. He's felt this way before. But it was brief and usually only happened with women. You went back inside after you were done and Michael made a mental note of where your house is. He's most definitely going to be visiting you later Y/N.

Brahms Heelshire

Brahms was delighted to learn he'd be getting a new grocery boy. Malcolm was annoying and that was before he stole Greta away from him. Now that he's hired a new grocery boy he's been anxious to meet you. The day finally came and he rushed in the walls to the door to meet you.

You entered the house and looked around, groceries in hand. You'd been told no one was home today so you made your way into the kitchen. Brahms follows you and he can't help but admire you. He's gone without seeing anyone for awhile and now seeing you is making him feel funny, like the way he did with Greta.

You set down the groceries in the kitchen and start to unpack them. Brahms watches as that funny feeling only grows. He's only felt this way about women before. He can't feel this way about a man right? His parents would have told him if he could. He puts a hand on his stomach to try and stop the feeling as you keep moving around the kitchen.

Brahms guesses boys can like other boys. He's never though about that before however. Maybe it's just the fact that he's been alone for so long that's making him feel this way. Maybe he just needs a better look at you. Brahms knocks gently on the wall and you turn your head to look over. He knocks again and you walk over to the wall.

Now that you're closer, Brahms funny feeling grows very strong. Could he really like other boys? He looks at your beautiful eyes and wonders what your lips would feel like if he were to kiss you. He watches as you walk away from the wall and you finish putting away the groceries. Maybe he could get you to stay and watch the doll for a few days, or forever.

Martin Mathias

Martin is making another grocery delivery. He knocks on your door and you open it, not wearing a shirt. You give him a smile and he smiles back shyly, looking back down at your shirtless chest.

"Oh you must be here to deliver my groceries. I'm Y/n. Your name is Martin right?" You ask. Martin nods, "Well come in. My wallet's in the kitchen." You walk away and he follows you, shutting the door behind him. He feels weird after seeing you shirtless. His eyes have always lingered on shirtless men and barely clothed men whenever he saw them. He follows you into the kitchen and sets down your groceries, looking back down at your chest again.

"Do you live alone Y/N? Or do you have a girlfriend?" He asks as you pull out your wallet.

"Oh no I live alone. If we're being honest, women don't interest me too much." Martin tries to understand what you mean by that as you hand him some money.

"Why are you shirtless?" He asks, resisting the urge to reach out and touch your stomach.

"Oh well I was just working on building some furniture upstairs. I could actually use some help on building it if you wouldn't mind." Martin pockets the money and shakes his head.

"I don't mind." You smile again and pat his shoulder, that weird feeling returning. It's like the feeling he gets when he sees a pretty woman passing by, but this time he doesn't want to drink your blood. He follows you upstairs and looks into your rooms before entering one with a half built bookcase.

"So I need someone to hold this down while I screw the back in." You explain, showing Martin what to do. He follows your instructions and holds it down while you screw it in. But the entire time he's just watching you. He's heard the term 'homosexual' be used in the past to describe men who love other men. Martin never considered himself to be a homosexual. But now looking at you, he might be one after all.

Severen

Severen leaves his room as it fully turns into night. The moon's high up in the sky and the soft yellow lights outside of the motel rooms shines down on him. He lights up a cigarette and starts to walk. He doesn't need to feed just yet, so picking up a pretty girl is the next best bet. He turns a corner and notices you standing in front of a vending machine.

Something comes over him in those first few moments he sees you. Despite being alive for a hundred and something years he's still denying the weird feeling he gets around certain men. Maybe it's the fact that he's full from his last feed, or some random courage, but he puts his cigarette between his lips and makes his way over to you.

"What's a young man like you doing at a motel like this?" He asks, looking you up and down. You turn your attention to him and smile.

"Well this young man is taking a road trip on a budget and this is the best motel he could find," You turn your attention back to the vending machine, "I didn't know it came with attractive men too." You whisper to yourself, pressing a button. Severen's smile grows wider and he takes a long drag from his cigarette.

"Hell I'm on a road trip too sweet thing. I never knew there would be such pretty boys here too. Now how about we go back to my room and play some cards." His smile grows smug as he taps off the ash from his cigarette. You hear the can of soda fall and you pick it up, turning your attention back to him.

"Well this 'pretty boy' was hoping to go out tonight. I never expected to have company but if you wanna come with me I heard of a great bar near here, the kind of the stone wall variety," You crack open your can and take a sip. Severen's smile only grows when he hears the mention of a bar.

"I'll take you up on that sugar. I'd like to buy you a nice drink tonight." This time your smile grows.

"I'm in room 22. How about you meet me there in half an hour. What's your name handsome?" You ask, taking another sip from your can.

"I'm Severen. I'm also very pleased to meet you."

"Well I'm Y/n. I'll see you in half an hour Severen." You turn around and head back to your room. He can't deny it any longer, he's definitely bisexual.

Adam Faulkner

Adam knocks on your apartment door. He's spoken to you over the phone about hiring him to take pictures of your work for a portfolio. He looks around the hallway, soaking in how much nicer this place is than his apartment. You open the door and greet him with a smile.

He immediately notices how attractive you look, then he notices your choice of shorts and shirt, both covered in fake blood, something peeling up and other unidentifiable stains.

"Oh you must be Adam. Please come in, come in. I'm working on something right now but I've got some other stuff ready for you to shoot." He nods his head and enters your apartment, which is much nicer than his, as he expected. He looks over at your living room and sees a white sheet hug up for a back drop and lots of Styrofoam heads, each with a different special effects makeup look.

"Your place is really nice," He says, looking over at you as you walk into the kitchen. He follows you and finds you in the middle of working on another Styrofoam head. This one has a rotting, zombies face on it, "You're really good at this stuff." He says, trying to distract himself from how hot you look. Adam know's he's not gay, he can't be gay. You smile and pick up a brush.

"Oh thank you. I've been doing this since I was a teenager. I need to update my portfolio and you're affordable and a great photographer. I just need to finish up this one look and we can get started." You say, putting some color on the brush and applying it on the mask.

"Yeah that sounds great. Do you have any roommates or anything I should be aware of?" He asks, more interested in if you're dating someone than anything else. He's telling himself it's just curiosity, it's not like he's gay or anything. You shake your head.

"I live alone, but I am looking for a roommate, ever since my partner and I broke up," You tell him, setting down your brush. Adam feels better when he hears you're single, but not because he wants to date you or anything, "Alright let's get started." You say, picking up the head and walking into your living room. Adam follows behind you and tries not to stare too low.

You set up the first head and look back over at him. Adam is setting up his camera on it's stand, trying to ignore his sweaty hands. But when he looks back at you adjusting the head, he can't deny it anymore. He finds a man hot as hell.

Bo Sinclair

Lester told him about someone coming into town. His exact words were "Not to be a prude or anything, but he's showing a little too much skin." Bo laughed it off and waited for you at the gas station. But when you walk in it takes Bo some effort to not laugh too loud. Your tank top and cut off denim shorts reminds him of when he was a teenager. But it also gives him another thought, one he quickly pushes away.

"Howdy, what do ya need?" He asks. You walk up to the counter and give him a warm smile.

"You'll have to forgive me I'm not any good with cars but the man who drove me here said my car is low on oil and I needed to buy some." Bo nods his head and looks you up and down.

"When was the last time you changed your oil?" Your eyes widen and you press your lips tightly together.

"You're supposed to change your car's oil? Well shit I've been driving it for about a year now. Is that bad?" Bo smiles smugly as those thoughts return, and he tries to think about why these thoughts keep happening. Just because he thinks you're a little hot and stupid doesn't mean he's gay.

"Well I'll tell you what. We can go pick up your car in my tow truck and bring it back here to fix it up. Are you here with anyone else? I don't wanna keep your girlfriend waiting or anything." Your smile returns and you shake your head.

"Oh no I'm alone. I don't have a partner to come with me on these road trips." Your language tips Bo off and he quickly decides what he should do with you. He feels around his pocket, pretending to look for something.

"Shoot you know what? I forgot my keys up at my house. Why don't you come with me real quick to go get them sugar." You chuckle and nod your head.

"I've got plenty of time sir you don't need to worry." As he's walking around the counter at the gas station it finally hits him that maybe he really is gay.

"I promise you've got nothing to worry about darlin' and please, call me Bo."

#michael myers x you #michael myers x y/n #rz myers x reader #brahms x reader #brahms heelsire x reader #martin mathias x reader #severen x reader #adam faulkner x reader #adam faulkner stanheight x reader #bo sinclair x you #bo sinclair x y/n #bo sinclair x reader #slasher x y/n #slasher x reader #slasher fanfiction

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changingplumbob · 9 days

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Malcolm: Alright, who’s ready for burgers

Byron: Daddy Daddy, me and Mummy made castle

Malcolm: That’s nice. Jessica will you and Will be eating

Jessica: If we can

Malcolm: Baby can you call Johnny and see if he’s still coming, I want to know how many to make

I had figured Johnny would have some flash gig or hot date booked with it being the holiday but he let me know he was free for us.

#StruckByLoveLegacy #sims 4 #the sims #simblr #my sims #ts4 #active simblr #SBL created by fruitysimsy and hellohopesims #SBL01 #SBL01W09

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sunlightmurdock · 1 year

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The Odyssey | 0.8 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Moodboard | Recommended Listening

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.”

…

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