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magneticecstasy · 2 months

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clandestine ✤ joel miller part i — new horizons

series masterlist & foreword | ao3

moodboard is not an illustration of how reader should look, just for the ~vibes~

fic summary: it’s september 2016, you're in your final year of sixth form college and joel miller joins the teaching staff as your new history teacher. over the course of the academic year, boundaries are blurred, crossed and ruined when joel begins to reciprocate your insatiable crush on him; what should be so wrong just feels so right.

rating: E | pairing/AU: teacher!joel x student!fem!reader

chapter warnings/tags: (6.5k) this is an 18+ fic so mdni! dubcon (due to student/teacher relationship, both parties are consenting otherwise), age gap (reader is 18, Joel is in his early 30s), power imbalance, inappropriate relationships (teacher!Joel is not a good teacher), fetishization of new-adulthood (if you squint), some pervy!Joel, inexperienced!fem!reader is hornee™, pet names (Joel calls reader darlin’, sweetheart etc.), minimal description of fem!reader where possible, reader has hair and is generally able-bodied, otherwise undescribed where possible.

a/n: ahhhh the first chapter of my first fic finally out!! i won't lie i am so nervous to post this but reading other lovely fics from the pedro pascal cinematic universe™ written by some amazing people has inspired me to write and post my own. any feedback is greatly appreciated, especially as a new writer. i hope you all enjoy the teacher!joel brainrot as much as i do.💞

account tags (let me know if you'd like to be added): @sugadolly can't wait for you to read this! hope you enjoy!💓

Tuesday 4th September

8:44am

The calm corridor echoes with the sound of your shoes hitting the ground hard as you run to your registration period before halting suddenly.

“I’m here, Mrs Marvelley,” you holler at your form tutor as you tumble into her classroom in a rush and fluster. “I’m here before quarter to,” you pant, heavy rucksack in tow, having just bolted up two flights. You arrive just as she calls your name on the attendance register, narrowly avoiding a late mark that you were keen to avoid on your last first day of school.

She rolls her eyes, and mumbles something along the lines of “You’re lucky.”

Usually punctual to form registration and lessons, you were delayed countless times this morning by classmates wishing you a belated ‘happy birthday’ for last Sunday, your 18th. Born at the start of September, you're among the oldest in your year, one of the first in your cohort to reach adulthood. Many of these conversations with friends animatedly recapped the events of your party the previous Saturday. The gathering was a typical teenage house party: no parental supervision, loud music, junk food, with a few bottles of booze and packs of cigarettes acquired on the sly through nefarious means, with way more people that you’d initially invited. Luckily, your close friends helped with the cleanup operation the next day, and your parents' trust in you remained intact and you stayed in their good books for the time being.

Realising the time, you part ways with your friends, each heading to your respective form classes, a wave of contentment washing over you. Unfortunately, someone had to go and ruin it.

Taunts of ‘look at her, MILF in the making’ , and ‘best time to start an OnlyFans is now, babe’ from a crew of boys you’ve never liked echo down the corridor. Their cruel laughter at their own remarks colour your anger a violent crimson.

“Oh, get fucked ,” you seethe through clenched teeth, flipping a middle finger in their direction, all the while praying you won’t get caught for the foul language. Turning on your heel you swiftly retreat, eager to escape the confrontation.

A few metres down the corridor, you overhear the boys’ guffaws being cut off by a chastation from a voice that’s foreign to you. Rounding the corridors’ corner, you decide to hang about and eavesdrop on the hecklers’ punishment.

“Now boys, I know y’all don’t know me yet but I don’t think this is a great introduction for my first day here.” The voice is deep, gravelly, laced with an American accent that you guess as Southern—maybe Texan if you had to be precise. Must be someone new, maybe a teacher? A member of Senior Leadership? You’re sure you’ll find out during registration if you were to ask around.

“I-I-It was only a joke, sir,” one of the crew pleaded to him. Not so big and bad now, eh?

“Oh sure , sure.” The voice drawls, laced in sarcasm. “Funny ‘cause it was lookin’ like you were botherin’ a young lady.”

“Oh sir, don’t be like that, it was just banter,” another boy pipes up.

The unknown voice lets out a deep huff. “Do you need your heads checked? Y’all were spoutin’ some real sexist things, and that ain’t a joke, boys — it’s not ‘banter’ ,” the gruff voice now raised, seething. “Seein’ as your ‘jokes’ have now landed yourselves in after school detention tonight, I think ya’ll need to come with me to get your detention slips signed.”

The group of boys groan in unison and you hear one swear under their breath. Oh shit, they’re in for it, now.

“Hey!” The pitch of his speech deepens, harsh and guttural, a threatening aura now looming in the air. “Let’s not make it two after school detentions in a row for insubordination.” The boys are now deathly silent. “I recommend y’all shut your traps and follow me. I’ll email your tutors and let them know why you’ll be late for registration. What a disappointin’ start to the year, boys…” The husky voice trails in the opposite direction, still berating and scolding the group.

You’re itching to text your friends about the clash that just went down, but just as you’re about to hit send, the bell rings for morning registration. Shit. You tuck your phone away and hustle towards your form classroom, hoping to avoid a late mark.

9:03am

Your form group was small, fewer than 15. A few of them were familiar faces from your early years in primary school, while most were friends you had made during your time at the local high school. There were also a few new acquaintances from other schools in the area, including Chelsea, notably absent from your registration period this morning.

Despite only meeting her last year when you joined the college, she’d quickly become one of your closest friends. She was in your History and English Lit/Lang classes so you often spent time together, as well as studying and revising at each others’ houses, and over time your friendship blossomed. The first year of your A-Level courses were a journey for you both: you laughed together, cried together, comforted each other through the meltdowns triggered by the towering workload and disheartening feedback on essays you’d slaved over.

This morning’s registration period is extended by 20 minutes, seeing as it’s the first day back and there’s a lot to catch up on; new schedules to coordinate and potentially revise in the case of any timetable clashes. This was to be followed by a ‘Welcome Back’ assembly held in the main hall of the sixth form college, that you don’t doubt will be boring as hell.

Your head is buried in your new school planner, setting it up for the upcoming year, when you feel a tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you are greeted by the beaming face of Chelsea.

“Chelsea! Hey!” you say, surprised but happy to see her. “Dude, you are so late.” You stand to pull her into a tight squeeze of a hug.

“Babe, I know —my car was being a bitch this morning, took forever to start,” she exhales, exasperated. She breaks the embrace, drops her backpack on the floor and sits at the desk next to you.

“Shows you for driving an absolute shitbox,” you tease, attempting to lean back into the rigid plastic seat.

“Hey, don’t talk about Gizmo like that, it’ll hurt his feelings.” Chelsea throws a mock frown at you. “Not like your hunk o’ junk is much better.”

“Guilty as charged,” you banter, arms up in mock surrender.

“ Anyway …Happy belated birthday!” she exclaims, pulling out a small, colourful badge from her bag. “I know I couldn't make it on Saturday, so I wanted to give you this now. You gotta wear it all day.”

You look at the badge; it is vibrant and cheerful decorated with hearts and stars, with a playful ‘Birthday Girl!’ written in glittery bubble letters. A mix of emotions washes over you. You are so pleased by the thoughtfulness of her gesture—Chelsea was always a giver—but a little embarrassed by the idea of wearing a badge in front of everyone on the first day back.

“Awh, Chelsea, you didn't have to…” you start, but she cuts you off.

“I know, I know, but I wanted to. You deserve a little extra celebration!” she grins, pinning the badge to your blazer proudly.

You feel a warmth spread through you. It is touching to know she had thought of you and made the effort despite missing the actual day. You glance around, noticing a few curious glances from your classmates. Embarrassment mingles with gratitude, and you smile at her warmly.

“Thanks, Chels," you say sincerely. “This means a lot.”

Chelsea flashes a wink. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

With that, you begin recalling the details of the altercation you overheard between the boys and the new staff member. You provide a concise rundown, explaining how the boys suddenly started harassing you, describing how this new, mysterious person defended you after you had presumably left. Chelsea is as astonished as you are to hear the entire story.

“Wait, you have no idea who it was? And he was American ?” Chelsea raises an eyebrow, then narrows her eyes, probing you further for details.

“Southern? I dunno. And, nope, sorry, no idea, hon,” you shrug, “I didn’t think to get a look at him. Didn’t want to get caught eavesdropping, y’know.”

Chelsea ponders, drawing out her words. “Hmm, interesting...”

“Do you know of any new teachers taking over this year?”

“Not a Scooby-Doo clue, mate,” her shoulders rising and falling in a shrug. She pauses a moment, lightly tapping the desk with her fingertips and pursing her lips. “ So … Did he sound hot?”

“Chels! You can’t say that!” You gasp, shocked at her question, hitting her arm playfully.

“Oh come on, I just wanna know the deets!”, she defends whilst punching you back in jest. “Did he sound old, young—you gotta give me something to work with?!”

“I dunno how to describe it, umm… he was…” you trail off, replaying the snippets of what you overheard like a movie.

The voice was a rich, gravelly drawl that sent shivers down your spine. His tone had a weathered maturity, a deep, husky resonance that carried the weight of experience. There was a touch of warmth, even when he was angry, like a low rumble of thunder on a hot summer night, both comforting and electrifying. It was the kind of voice that could soothe a troubled mind or set hearts racing with a whisper. The kind of voice that you were desperate to hear again, that sparked your curiosity.

“It was, like, deeper, husky— I don’t fucking know , Chels!”, you attempt to surmise before breaking out into a giggle and your cheeks warming into a blush.

“A-ha! So, he was hot! You jammy bitch.”

“We don’t even know what he looks like, so we can’t say for definite if he is or isn’t hot yet.”

“Well if he sounds fit, he probably will be.” There’s a proverb in there, somewhere, if you look hard enough.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?”, you jest. Chelsea laughs and it’s infectious, both of you giggling at your wild hypotheses.

Your conversation is cut short when Mrs Marvelley calls for the class’ attention. She begins handing out your new timetables for the year, and you grab yours from her eagerly, hoping that it’s not terrible.

“These are your timetables for this year. I’ll give you a few minutes to check them over. If there’s no issues, head up to the main hall for assembly. If there are issues, you need to go down to the admin office and speak to Mr Jones. I repeat, you need to see Mr Jones.” She spots a hand raised amongst the group. “And, no , Dan, he won’t change it so you get Fridays off, no matter how much you beg and bribe him.” A few quiet snickers ripple across the class.

Looking at the timetable, your eyes are drawn to a different set of initials where you expect to find AW, for Mr Walker, one of your lecturers who seemed as ancient as history itself.

HIST/A2

Rm. 93

A few of your other peers also spot the change too and break out into a slew of overlapping speculative discussions.

Is he dead? Wouldn’t surprise me—My sister heard he had to get a hip replacement, second one musta gave out finally—I guess Mr Walker ain’t walking anymore, hahaha, what? C’mon, it’s just a joke, Miss, be chill—Who’s JM? You reckon it’s a guy or a girl? I hope they’re nice, not like Mr Hall. He’s a dick—Can’t believe they haven’t sacked him yet.

“You good? Everything okay?” Chelsea asks, standing to collect her belongings.

“Yeah, no issues here.” You follow suit, packing your bag to leave. “‘Cept Mr Hall is still teaching History.”

“ Ugh , tell me about it. Let’s hope this fresh meat isn’t as much of a twat as he is.”

“That’s wishful thinking, Chels, but I got my fingers crossed. Anyway, time for us to be bored out of our minds for an hour. Let’s go.”

10:28am

As you’d predicted, the Welcome Back assembly dragged on for what seemed like millennia. You’d been sitting there that long that your ass had gone numb. Led by the assistant headteacher Mr Faulkner, it was the usual presentation, welcoming everyone back after the summer, a few announcement of extra-curricular activities commencing this week, with some interesting musical performances from the Music students and a refresh of the colleges’ rules, expectations and consequences:

Try your best.

You are a representative of the College, in and out. Conduct yourselves in a manner that does not put the institution into disrepute.

You are in your last year now, make it count.

Surely, this all could have been in an email . It was basically the same trifle they spouted last year.

Before you feel yourself fall asleep out of boredom, the last announcement catches your attention, and urges you and Chelsea to sit up in your seats.

“Before we end our assembly today and let you go to break, I have one last announcement—an introduction, actually,” Mr Faulkner announces, wrinkled hands clasped tightly together. Microphone feedback echoes awkwardly through the speakers.

Shallow murmurs ripple across the hall. In sync, you and Chelsea flash each other a knowing look. This could be the end to the mystery that plagued you both all morning.

“As you may be aware, we had to bid farewell to our longest serving member of teaching staff, Mr Walker. Over summer, he underwent some surgery and he felt that it was in his best interest to retire after an illustrious 45 year career in teaching. He sends his best wishes for your year ahead and apologises for not being able to do so in person. We thank him for his many years at this College and wish him a speedy recovery.”

Chelsea leans to you. “ Jesus Christ, he doesn’t half go on, does he? Just get to the fucking point, man, ” she whispers before Mrs Marvelley quietly shushes her and raises a hand in a silent apology. You chuckle under your breath, silently agreeing with your friend. A shiver of excitement races down your spine, making your fingers tingle, a slow and steady anticipation building within you.

“I’d like to formally introduce you all to our newest member of staff to join our College. He is a former lecturer from across the pond and we are so grateful to have him join our department of Humanities and Social Studies. So please give a warm welcome to the stage, Mr Joel Miller.” A lulled applause breaks out across the hall. Mr Faulkner takes a step back from the mic and your eyes scan towards the front, looking for this ambiguous Mr Miller to join the stage.

And that’s when you spot him. Probably one of the most attractive people you’ve ever laid eyes on. The kind of person that makes your breath hitch, cheeks hot and heart skip a beat. You’re silently praying to a higher power he has an American accent as he climbs the few steps up to the stage.

Time feels like molasses as your eyes drink him in. His hair is a rich brown and pairs deliciously with his eyes, falling across his head in tousled waves. The boyish curls, a little dishevelled, frame his face perfectly and suggest a softness that beckons you to touch them. Though sparse in places along his strong jawline, the uneven growth of his facial hair adds an irresistibly raw, untamed allure, hinting at a blend of tenderness and roughness that you find insatiable. A textured beige blazer drapes over his broad shoulders, accentuating and hugging his physique with each movement. Underneath, you could see a burnt orange button-up shirt, which complements the warmth of his skin. An undone top button reveals a slight glimpse of his chest, firing your desire to see more .

Lost in him, your mind wanders as you envisage how his salt-and-pepper scruff would feel against the soft skin of your cheeks, peppering wet, sweet kisses trailing down your neck and body, and before arriving at the delicate creases of your thighs. Sweat drips down your back as your tummy flutters and tightens, and you cross your legs to seek any sort of purchase to relieve the building pressure in your core, a wetness beginning to pool in your underwear, cheeks blushing at the sight of him. Almost immediately you decide that you want him to absolutely ruin you.

A familiar voice drawls across the hall’s speakers, snapping you back to reality. You glance around to see if anyone noticed your reaction. Thankfully everyone is facing the front, focusing on the assembly.

“Uh, hi folks, thanks for having me,” Mr Miller utters into the microphone, a soft nervous smile blooming across his face. Bingo. Mystery solved at last.

You whack Chelsea in the side in an effort to get her attention and she whips her head round. It's him, you mouth silently, that’s the guy.

“No, shit. I told you he was gonna be fit.”

Saying he was fit felt like an understatement. He was immaculate, a commanding masculine energy radiating from him. To you, he's a masterpiece that's rough around the edges, sultry perfection with a touch of brooding reality.

“I ain’t one for public speaking so I appreciate y’all being so kind in welcoming me here today. And thank you to Mr Faulkner for that, uh, introduction,” he says, a soft chortle escaping his mouth. “I’m honoured to be joining such a prestigious department and hopefully live up to Mr Walker’s legacy. No pressure, amirite?”

He chuckles again, joined by a comforting wave of murmured chuckles from students around you. You’re transfixed, hanging onto every word he says.

“In all seriousness, ‘m looking forward to settling in, getting to teach history, doing what I love — thank you,” he finishes, punctuating the sentence with a slight nod. Taking a step back from the mic to allow Mr Faulkner to finally wrap up the assembly, you choose to ignore the assistant head and pour your focus entirely into Mr Miller.

Head tilting like a curious puppy, you pay close attention as he slides his glasses up his aquiline nose with his middle finger and runs his large hand through his hair, touseling his curls. You begin to fiddle with your delicate chain necklace, fingertips barely grazing the sensitive skin of your neck as a warm giddiness prevails over you causing your cheeks to burn harder. Jesus fucking Christ, he’s perfect.

“What? ” Chelsea whispers, poking her finger into your side. “ What did you say? ”

“Huh?” you murmur. Confused at first before awareness sets in, your eyes widen like a deer in headlights, realising what you’d whispered aloud. You’re about to respond and promise to tell her at break, when Mrs Marvelley's sharp whisper cuts through the air, causing you and Chelsea to freeze in your seats like statues.

“Girls ! That’s enough.” Arms crossed tightly across her body, she leans in to avoid drawing attention to herself as she delivers a quiet but harsh scolding. “Stay here at the end of assembly. You have detention for constant whispering. Now, be quiet . So incredibly rude,” she hisses.

Avoiding Mrs Marvelley’s scathing eye contact, both you and Chelsea offer mumbled apologies, a mix of sorry Miss and won’t do it again . For fuck’s sake. Detention was the last thing you needed on your first day back.You’re kicking yourself for sitting at the end of the row instead of the middle, where you would have quietly gossiped without getting caught usually. At least it was only technically 50% your fault with Chelsea involved, when you thought about it. You pray she didn’t overhear you gushing over the new teacher—the thought itself makes you feel nauseous.

The assembly rolls to a close at long last, and students and staff begin to file out of the main hall. In the hustle and bustle, you lose sight of Mr Miller and a feeling of longing waves over you as if you miss him already like a pathetic puppy. Meanwhile, you and Chelsea remain seated, bracing yourselves a stern lecture from your form tutor. You exchange glances every now and again, struggling to stifle your laughter despite your present situation. It’s always funny how being forbidden to speak makes everything seem so much more amusing.

11:07am

Mrs Marvelley escorts you back to her classroom at breaktime and delivers a scorned lecture as she logs the detention on her prehistoric computer, almost punching the keys of the keyboard. The computer was probably as old as you, if not older.

“Girls, I cannot believe that you were being so rude, whispering constantly like that. Every single time I looked over, you were just talking . You’re meant to be the good girls in my form class — really let me down today. Imagine what impression that makes on Mr Faulkner or even Mr Miller who’s new to this college, the pair of you gossiping like that.”

Neither you or Chelsea interrupt her, knowing better to just accept the scolding than to argue back. Admittedly, she’s laying it on a bit thick, it wasn’t like you’d committed any serious infractions or catcalled and harrassed another pupil like some people you know. It was just gossiping. All the same, you feel a pang of embarrassment in the pit of your stomach.

Mrs Marvelley twists her thin wrist to check the time on her watch.

“Alright ladies, you’ve got 10 minutes left of your detention but I need to pop out to speak to someone next door. It'll be a few minutes. Can I trust you both to stay here until I get back?”

You and Chelsea nod without saying anything. Mrs Marvelley leaves without a word and you’re both left to your own devices.

You fidget with a loose piece of thread on the hem of your skirt, running it through and round your fingers before pulling at it to snap it off. Readjusting in your seat, you let out a lengthy sigh. The previous arousal in your underwear feels a little uncomfortable now, both literally and figuratively. It’s not even lesson 3 yet and it’s been a helluva day , you muse.

“Mr Miller got you all worked up, eh?” Chelsea teases, nudging her leg into yours. It was like she read you like an open book.

“Don’t you start,” you warn, rolling your eyes, your slight irritation palpable in the sideways look. But she was right. You’d barely laid eyes on him all of 5 minutes and he was already driving you crazy. “Was it obvious?”, you ask quietly, bracing yourself for the worst possible answer that your new crush on Mr Miller was clear as day.

Chelsea’s familiar hearty laugh echoes through the room. “Only because I know you so well by now. Oh, and the fact you admitted that he was, what was it? ‘So fucking perfect’ ?” She teases, her fingers waggle in the air, forming imaginary quotation marks as she quotes you.

You groan with embarrassment. “I can’t believe I said that, I’m such a dick .” You groan again, louder this time, flopping into a pathetic lump on the desk, head buried into your arms. If the ground beneath you could split open and swallow you whole, you’d welcome it with open arms. You would prefer it actually than being stuck in college for the rest of the day.

Chelsea rubs your back, her hands radiating a warm heat as she circles your upper back, maintaining a consistent pressure. Usually when she rubs your back like this, you’re throwing up into a toilet the morning after a heavy night of binge drinking in a random field somewhere—the session hidden from your parents obviously—but it’s still comforting all the same.

“You’re alright, mate, honestly.” She insists, hands moving down to give attention to your lower back. “Nobody heard ‘cept for me. Hell, I barely heard you, but I got the message.”

Peeking out of the lump, revealing your flushed face, your eyes meet Chelsea’s. You pout at your pitiful demeanour.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

There is one last thing you need to do to feel fully assured of yourself. You offer Chelsea your little finger. “Pinky swear?”

She locks her petite finger with yours and offers a tender smile, gently nodding. “Pinky swear.”

2:04pm

The rest of the day passed without any further mishaps. You had double Spanish followed by independent study and lunch before your last period - History with the enigmatic Mr Miller. Lining up in the corridor, it feels stuffy even when you remove your thick blazer and loosen your tie. The rhythmic tapping of your fingers against your thigh does little to settle the butterflies in your tummy. You’d made a tactical judgement by standing towards the end of the line; you were waiting for Chelsea and you didn’t want to seem too keen. The shrill ring of the bell pierced through the rustle and bustle of the corridor, both clouding your mind so much you barely take notice when the rest of the line heads into the class. Mr Miller is standing at the door welcoming your class in.

His eyes lock with yours and your heart does a flip. As you make your way into class his lips curve into a soft smile, inviting and warm, and you feel like the air’s been punched out of your gut. Shit. You return with a weak smile and enter the room before you pass out.

Usually decorated with replicas of historical artefacts, boxes of old dusty textbooks and old wall displays of work from students who’d long left the college, the classroom was bare, empty like a blank canvas. The desks had been rearranged from rows of tables into groups, allowing for four people to sit. You decide to take a seat towards the front, near to where you sat last year with Chelsea. She trails in not long after you and smiles with a ‘hiya’ under her breath.

“Well, this is different.” She says scanning the classroom, unpacking her bag before sitting in the seat adjacent to you. “Least it’s not as dusty with Walker’s junk everywhere.”

“His stuff wasn’t that bad. It was just too much of it.” You follow Chelsea’s lead and get your equipment out for the lesson. As you’re getting your notebook out, your elbow nudges your pencil case and its contents spill on the floor.

“Fuck’s sake ,” you whisper under breath. Flustered, you’re about to get out of your chair when you feel a shadow over you.

“S’alright, I got it.”

Mr Miller looms over you before getting down to grab the contents of your pencil case from the floor in one swift motion. Since this morning he’s removed his blazer and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The sight of his forearms, tanned, strong and just so masculine , makes your heart flutter, a quiet thrill running through you at the thought of those arms wrapped around you, entangled together.

“There you go, darlin’.” He says, holding them out to you, a soft laugh reveals his smile lines. “Saved you gettin’ up.” Taking the handful of pens out of his hand, you swear you feel electricity in the split second his hand gazes against yours.

“Thanks, sir,” you manage to say without squeaking too much.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” His velvety words dance across his tongue and you almost want to believe that he’s being this hot on purpose to torture you personally.

Returning to his teacher desk he settles in the leather office chair and begins logging in and setting up his teaching resources. He completes the attendance register with no hitches; apart from the way he says your name has your head spinning. Satisfied that he can start the lesson, he rises from the table and stands near the board, ready to present, clicker in hand.

“Alrigh’ folks, welcome to final year History, you’ve made it this far.” He leans casually against the wall in the space between his desk and the board before continuing.

“I’ll be level with you. It's period five on your first day back. It’s my first day. Your lil’ brains are probably information overloaded right now bouncing ‘round your heads.” He pauses and run his hand through his curly hair which is a lot more dishevelled compared to this morning. “I’ve had to meet almost too many people to meet within a day.”

He sounds gruff, like he’s worn his voice out from lecturing all day.

“Bet some of y’all are wondering how you’re still upright after the day you’ve had. Hell, I'm wondering how I’m still standing.” He chuckles, a rich, deep sound that seems to vibrate through you. A few from your class join in with a soft laugh. His irreverent humour puts your mind at ease and you appreciate his honesty.

“‘Won’t overload you with too many of the scary details of what’s going to happen this year but we’ll do an overview. That sounds good to y’all?” The class and you let out a mumble of agreement. “Let’s jump in then; this is your intro’ to The American Dream: reality and illusion, from 1945 to 2003.”

For the next half an hour, he shares an outline of what this year’s course will entail in terms of assessment: formative essays every few weeks to check your progress with course content, a historical enquiry assignment due in April, followed by your final exams in June. He goes on to describe some of the key events you'll study this year with confidence: the Cold War, the Civil Rights movement, the rise of popular culture and media, Watergate, the war on drugs, 9/11, and the U.S. invasion of Iraq. It’s quietly ironic that the college has asked him to teach on this module, and you wonder what Mr Miller’s perspective could offer when teaching some of the topics that he’s probably lived through himself.

The broad scope of subjects felt overwhelming looking at them in one go, yet it was the challenge you craved. History as a subject was one of your passions, even when it pushed your limits. A poor grade on a painstakingly crafted essay would upset you, but it didn't dissuade you either; it ignited a fierce resolve to prove yourself. Your old teacher Mr Walker was always so supportive of your interest in his subject, keen to hear your opinions and debate with you. His feedback on your essays was always fair, highlighting both the strengths and drawbacks in your analyses and opinions:

I like the way you’ve considered this, it enriches your main, overall argument. However, in paragraph 7, it feels a little weak and undersupported. Next time, you should consider looking at these sources I’ve suggested and how they may alter your argument. Good work on the whole — Grade: 20/25.

It was a shame that your work wasn’t appreciated by your other History teacher. Mr Hall's biassed grading, favouring certain students with A’s while giving you C’s and D’s, felt unjust. And it wasn’t because you thought your work was better; you’d heard through the grapevine that this particular group would pay seedy websites to produce their essays in all their subjects, slap their own names on the work and submit them. Others complained to Mr Walker about it but it fell on deaf ears, and lacked concrete evidence to prove the plagiarism so the issue never went further, despite it appearing to be an open secret. However on results day, your quiet determination paid off. You revelled in the sweet victory of an A, while the boys, once so favoured, faced the sting of D’s, E’s and U’s. You wondered if you’d be believed now if you brought the issue up again.

Throughout the lesson you earnestly take notes whilst you listen to his lecture, to jot down the important information and to show him that you’re listening intently, aching for a crumb of approval from the new teacher. The way he speaks commands the room, drawing the attention of the whole class, oozing a confidence that only comes with experience. Each word rolled out with a noticeable Texan accent, dripping with a natural, unforced charm.

The introductory lecture draws to a close, to your disappointment. You could listen to him talk for hours.

“I hope I ain’t completely frazzled your heads, anyone got any questions?” Mr Miller offers a slight smile as he scans the room, his brown eyes meeting yours. For a second you feel his gaze on you, praying he doesn’t see your cheeks starting to warm for what feels like the hundredth time, your uniform feeling unbearable against your skin. As luck would have it, the bell rings, saving you and the class begins to pack up their belongings.

“Oh—before you go, I have this handout you need.” He turns to collect the stack of papers from his desk. In the meanwhile, you put your blazer on and start to clear away your things at an unhurried pace, waiting for everyone else to clear the room before you ask Mr Miller about what happened this morning with the boys. Chelsea’s ready to go, looking at you expectantly.

“Chels, I’ll meet you outside. I wanna ask him something.” She nods in understanding and offers a knowing wink as she leaves.

The almost vacant classroom suddenly feels stuffy as if it will swallow you whole. Mr Miller has his back to you, shuffling and organising his already messy desk as you approach him.

“Umm, hi, Mr Miller…” you start, nibbling on your lip so hard you almost draw blood. You hear your blood pumping in your ears, heart pounding like a relentless drum.

“Oh, sorry darlin’ I didn’t realise you had a question,” he turns and sits, leaning back in his office chair, relaxed. “How can I help?” A dangerous question for your little wound up mind. I don’t know, maybe bend me over on that desk right there and fuck me so hard I forget my name?

“Uh, no, actually. It’s about something that happened this morning.” You say instead, taking a seat on the edge of the desk closest to his. Mr Miller’s expression changes, a mixture of concern and confusion, unsure of what you’re referring to. Thumbing the sleeve of your blazer, you begin to explain. “I think it was you I overheard dealing with a group of lads being a bit gross this morning…” you trail awkwardly, dropping his eye contact, hoping he catches on.

“Oh yeah, I remember now. What about it?”

“I just wanted to say thank you for sticking up for me, I—err—appreciate it.”

“ Oh… ” Realisation washes over him and he sits up in his chair. “Those boys were bothering you , huh? I’m sorry they were being like that. Ain’t right to talk to a lady like that,” he murmurs, his finger grazing against his bottom lip. The way he says it, dripping with charm, makes your heart swoon.

“You don’t need to apologise for them, they’re dickheads, anyway.” You offer a soft chuckle, feeling a little awkward about the situation.

“Dickheads they might be darlin’, but they needed to learn a lesson on how t’be respectful. Guess they don’t teach that over here.” He shrugs nonchalantly and a slim smile appears briefly on his lips.

Leaning forward in his chair he perches elbows on his knees, his large hands interlaced, he catches your eye and looks at you intently. “They bother you again, you tell me, alrigh’? I will deal with them.” He murmurs, voice deepening, eye contact unwavering. “I’m serious. Any word or comment, you come to me .”

Shit. I’ll come for you if you want. You swallow hard and you feel slick arousal begin to dampen your underwear again in response to his command.

“Yeah, ‘course. I’ll let you know,” you try your best to sound unaffected by his commanding allure.

“Not a problem, darlin’. Now, get outta here and enjoy the rest of the day.” His smile is like a gentle caress, as warm as his gaze. He rises from his chair to see you out. You hop off the desk, bag slung over your shoulder and walk over to the door.

“One last thing,” he stops just short of the door, his tall frame towering over you. You look up to him; you guess he’s shy of 6 foot. He holds the pink, sparkly ‘Birthday Girl’ badge from Chelsea, still attached to your blazer, like he was inspecting it.

Your mouth forms a small ‘o’ shape in realisation and you sigh softly, attempting to hide your embarrassed face before meeting his gaze. “It was my 18th on Sunday and my friend got me this because she missed it, and made me wear it all-day.” You let out a nervous laugh, realising how silly the situation was to explain aloud to your teacher.

A lingering smile tugs at his lips, his eyes flitting down and up your body. “Well,” he pauses, his voice dropping to a low murmur, his thumb brushing against the colourful badge before his hand grazes down your arm, sending a jolt through your body. “Happy birthday for Sunday, darlin’, I hope you got everything you wanted,” he coos.

You have to swallow hard to stop yourself from letting out a whimper in response, aching for him to touch elsewhere instead.

Your thoughts are spinning like a record of the things you can’t say right now; I want you for my birthday, that would be the best present. I want you to touch me, suck my tits, fuck me, make me cum before you ruin me. Make me feel like no one else has. I wanna make you feel so good, I wanna be good for you. I’ll be so good, I promise.

“T-Thanks,” you stutter, breath hitching. You excuse yourself before you let illicit thoughts pour out of you and make your way to the car park to meet Chelsea. Your head is spinning, replaying the interaction over and over; the sound of his gruff voice, the way he looked at you, his light touch over your blazer, the way he had you like putty in his hands. It drowns yet excites you, teetering on edge between being turned on and utterly overwhelmed, the cruel truth dawning on you.

You have a crush on your teacher and you’re probably—definitely—absolutely fucked.

Thank you for reading this to the end! If you enjoyed please extend a like or reblog (with a comment if you'd like, I love reading them <3) to support writers, it helps a ton!💞

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sunlightmurdock · 1 year

Text

The Odyssey | 0.8 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just joking. Here, let’s go in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You should finish it.” Bradley tells you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s sit outside. It’s a nice day.”

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

“What’s this place called?”

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

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

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

“Huh.” You hum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here.”

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

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

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

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

“What’s this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not your honey.” You bite back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A swift inhale is followed by a baited exhale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hemming.” Your answer is short.

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

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

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

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

“Are you snooping?”

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

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

“What’s this?” He asks quietly.

“I wanted a change.” You answer him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you like it?”

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

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

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

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

…

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

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #rooster x you #rooster bradshaw imagine #top gun smut #the odyssey #bradley bradshaw x reader

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miloformula123fan · 7 months

Note

I really want to see the arthur leclerc x verstappen! male! reader since we dont have much of him

okay, if you want something driver based instead of this mafia fic, I will be writing it at some point :)

also sorry this took me so long to get out I tossed a few options here and there before deciding on this one :)

Okay I came up with this so it’s a little different to the original moodboard, but if you want something accurate to the moodboard, see here

if you want to participate in my 100 followers event, look here :)

(hint hint: this closes on Thursday 1st March 0:00 GMT, so if you want to make a request do so soon because this is in a little more than a week when publishing this :))

Please keep requesting - y'all have awesome ideas we agree on a lot of stuff :) - my guidelines are here, and if you want some prompts, they are here.

also feel free to come in and start chatting to me in my asks, would love to get to know y'all better

and if you want to be added to my taglist lmk :)

Also…i know there’s all the shit going around about christian horner, i just want to say that i don’t condone his actions at all, and while I have left him in this fic, I am separating the character from the person.

also warnings: death, general mafia shittiness, homophobia, bad dad jos

arthur leclerc x male!verstappen!reader

“Ermitage will be safe for you, Y/N. It has kept Max safe for years and I trust their teachers. Professor Marko, who will teach english, Professor Horner who will teach history and public speaking, and Professor Dominicelli who is the head teacher all sing their praises of Max, and have helped your admission into the school. The school does not regularly take students mid year, however based on your prior behaviour and safety. I needed to send you here.”

Y/N scoffed at his fathers words. His ‘prior behaviour’ wasn’t all that bad. Max had been sent to this school for an arson attack that had almost resulted in the deaths of 5 people, including 3 of his dad’s own men. He was being sent to this school for running away from his bodyguards, drinking and making out with a boy. But Max was his father’s golden boy, and Y/N was the spare in case a rival gang took out Max. And he was sure that Max despised the 2 of the professors, based on his letters to Y/N. He seemed to adore Professor Horner, so maybe that would be Y/N’s respite.

As the car pulled up in front of the school and crunched on the gravel driveway, Y/N took a minute to admire it.

He smiled as he saw the young children running around near the junior school. He got out of the car, smiling as he felt the warm French sum combined with a small breeze. The car had pulled up on the other side of the driveway, in between 2 other buildings. One looked very traditional, however there had clearly been an extension or five as parts looked very modern with a lot of glass. The other building was gorgeous. The other building was very traditional, looking like one of Jos’ summer houses in Denmark, all white and clearly spacious, however it had a metal spiral staircase on the outside that led to the roof. Jos would’ve killed a builder if that had been left there at their house. It made the building look less professional, and even Y/N wasn’t sure that he liked it.

Y/N watched as 3 men came out from the doors of the building. The 2 in front, both had greying hair and stern expressions, whispering amongst each other, while making disgusted looks towards Y/N. The third looked a little younger and shorter, with grey hair, attempting to look serious and stern as he walked towards the 2 with Y/N’s big brother in tow. Y/N smiled as his brother walked out with the teachers. He looked happy and better and less like he’d just torched a building than the last time he had seen him. Max whispered something in the younger man’s ears and the mask of sterness dropped to smile at the boy.

The group reached the pair of Verstappens, and Max let his guard down a little after shaking hands with their dad to give his baby brother a big bear hug, and provide some intel.

“Who’d he catch you with, huh?”

“Liam. At least it wasn’t bloody Frederik or he’d be here to inform you that I got caught up in the crossfire of a shooting and my funeral is tomorrow.”

“It was simply a matter of time. Anyway, you will like it here. Try and steer clear of Marko, he is incredibly strict and if it was still legal he would hang you from your arms from the roof until your shoulders dislocated. You will barely see Dominicelli, he just rocks up to greet you now, and you will never see him again. Horner is also our housemaster. He’s amazing. He’ll like you. He kinda adopted me after I told him how much of an asshole dear father is.”

“Okay.” Y/N smiled tensely as he pulled himself out of his brother’s hug and turned to greet the 3 strangers.

The first one looked old, as in old enough to retire, and had a stern face, as in someone who would scold you for laughing too hard. Someone after his fathers’ own heart he presumed. He held his hand out, and the man took it, shook it once, and then dropped his hand, as if disgusted to be touching ‘someone like Y/N’. So an old homophobe then. He then turned around and started talking to Jos, and Y/n tried to eavesdrop as he met the other men.

“Lawson has been dealt with, I’m just concerned about…”

The 2nd man, held out his hand and shook Y/n’s twice which was an improvement, at least until he dropped it.

“...he sort of always showed signs but I never thought…”

Then he tried to discreetly wipe his hand on his pants.

“...The Mercedes guys were there, if they had realised who he was…”

Y/N picked it up, and looked down at the ground, slightly awkward, unsure of what to do as the final teacher approached him.

“...Hamilton is pissed, one of his men was caught in the crossfire of trying to get Y/N out…”

Professor Horner immediately engulfed him in a tight hug.

“...see the problem is I can’t explain to anyone why they were shot in a random club on a random thursday to get my son out…”

It was the first time for a long time that Y/N was getting a hug from someone older like her dad’s age. He was so shocked that he missed the next part of Jos and Helmut’s conversation and strained to hear the next part.

“...i can’t tell them my son was in there…so now it looks like i shot up a nightclub for no reason…”

Christian started reassuring him in his ears about how he was safe here and whatnot, but all Y/N was thinking was about how he was preventing him from properly eavesdropping the conversation

“...No, no one important, a lackyman, Aron or something…”

Y/N could feel his heart drop. Paul was dead? He’d known Liam was dead, Jos had used him as an example, but he hasn’t even known that Paul was at the nightclub.

“...it’s done, there’s 2 dead bodies to dispose of, which im gonna do when i get back, but just keep an eye on him please…”

Christian seemed to realise the internal struggle that Y/N was having and started hugging him tighter to make him feel better.

“...He’s gonna get everyone killed and he will only realise when he loses his brother the consequences his actions have…”

‘I KNOW WHAT CONSEQUENCES MY ACTIONS HAVE DAD, YOU KILLED MY KIND OF BOYFRIEND IN FRONT OF ME!’ Y/N wanted to scream at his dad, but that would make him realise that he was eavesdropping and why he was actually here.

Christian felt him tense and tried to sooth him into the hug.

“Alright, that’s enough, Christian, how about we head inside?”

—

Arthur could recognise the boy walking in, but he couldn’t see the father which would help if he could work out why his body was in fight and flight mode as the boy had seen him, waved and smiled at him.

A memory flashed, of a meeting him and all his brothers together in a meeting room, as their father ran them through their highest enemies. He could remember the smile of a kid his age. He remembered Lorenzo asking how a 5 year old could be a threat…he doesn’t remember the rest or why this kid is a threat, but he remembers the goofy smile, the smile that was being flashed his way now, and the eyes that held so much happiness that seemed to hold a lot more pain now.

He couldn’t remember why this kid was in the powerpoint, so he supposed it was okay and irrelevant and smiled back, before being hurried on by Lorenzo.

---

taglist: @leosxrealm, @ghostking4m

#f1 x reader #miloformula123fan #f1 fanfic #f1 x male reader #f1 fic #f2 x reader #f2 fanfic #f2 fic #f2 x male reader #arthur leclerc x reader #arthur leclerc #arthur leclerc moodboards #arthur leclerc x male reader #arthur leclerc x you #arthur leclerc x y/n

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malarkgirlypop · 9 months

Text

The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie

YEEHAW AND HOWDY PARTNERS, ARE YA'LL ALL SADDLED UP?

This is the AU from the moodboard I created for Cowboy Malark. I have become completely obsessed with him and I have no idea who long this is going to be. But slay, if no one else likes it, that's fine I will have him all to my self ehehe.

This based on the characters from the HBO show and the actors who portray them. No hate to anyone involved.

Tag list: @deputy-buck, @ronald-speirs, @whollyjoly, @footprintsinthesxnd, @next-autopsy, (let me know if you want to be tagged in this series x)

Malarkey rose with the sun. The sound of the early birds chirping, the crisp morning air, Malarkey always liked to be the first one awake. He often pretended he was the only person alive in the world, during these times.

He sipped his coffee, sitting on the porch overlooking the ranch. They had hectares of land sprawling over the lush green mountains. On those mountains were their livestock, roaming freely on the land. Malarkey often dreamed of being one of them, no shackles holding them back, they were free to go where they pleased, unaware of the danger that surrounded them.

Don finished the bitter drink, putting his mug in the sink. His gear was packed for today, and he was ready for it.

Today they were mustering the livestock back to the main fields for health checks, shearing, deworming, breeding and the works. It was going to be a long ride; he first had to find the stock in the miles and miles of land, and then bring them back to the ranch in one piece. It wasn’t easy work, but Don was no stranger to this operation. In fact he looked forward to it. A whole day just him, the dogs and his horse. No one could ask for a better day.

“Scout, Tiller! Let’s go!” Don called the collie and cattle dogs. They raised their heads from their slumber, slowly making their way out to Don.

“Don’t look so sleepy you two, big day today.” He spoke to the dogs who stretched their long bodies.

With the two dogs in tow, Don made his way to the barn.

“Hey, Lady!” Don spoke to the horse who nickered gently back at him. He pressed his hand into the bridge of her nose and she nuzzled against him. Him and Lady went way back. He had brought her up as a foal, when her mother died. Don had hand reared the newborn all by himself. Now they were as thick as thieves, Skip and Alex often said they were somehow so alike.

Don prepped Lady for the ride. Since it was going to be a long day, he had ensured to bring water and snacks for the dogs and him. Don had also packed for an emergency stay as well, sometimes things went wrong up in the mountains, livestock could get lost or injured as he led them back down, or it could take longer for him to find them. So he ensured he packed warm gear, a tent, his sleeping bag and everything else he could need for if he was stuck for a couple nights up in the mountain. Lady could eat the greenery and drink from the river if she needed.

Don checked all of her hooves, but he knew her shoes would be fine since he was the one who had fitted them. Along with being the musterer, he also was the ranch farrier. The men often said that Don enjoyed the company of the animals more than people. They weren’t wrong, Donald often preferred to speak to the animals quietly as he worked. He would tell them all his secrets and worries, even though they couldn’t speak back he knew they understood him. But there were some people he often preferred the company of better than the animals. His Easy men. The men who worked tirelessly alongside him on the ranch. Though they weren’t related by blood, they were his chosen family. They had come from all over the country to move into the ranch and start the business. It had been shaky at the start since they didn’t have much money but after a while it all came together. The men couldn’t be happier off in their own little paradise with their friends, doing the jobs they loved. They all had their roles and took them very seriously.

Don loaded his rifle, ensuring the safety was on before slinging it over his back. Lady was all ready for the hike and so were the dogs, restlessly playing with each other in the hay.

Don led Lady out into the field with Scout and Tiller on their heels. He glanced back at the ranch, seeing all the rooms still dark with curtains pulled. He mounted up into the worn saddle, nudging Lady in her side with a click of his tongue, she was off walking.

The walk up the mountains was peaceful. The sounds of nature were calming as Don just quietly existed. These mountains were mostly untouched by human hands, only the men from Easy venturing out into the thick woods. The trees seemed to know the men. Don had been lucky, at how all the previous musterings had gone. He believed the mountains and nature knew he meant no harm and let him pass freely. Scout and Tiller didn’t go far from him, there were predators far greater and stronger than them in these woods. The dogs knew their limits of how far they would stray before it becomes too dangerous. Hence why Don carried a gun. Mountain lions, Wolves, Coyotes, and Bears were to name a few of the predators that called the forest home. Most of the livestock survived, they were smart and knew when to move. But with the mating season coming up, the birth of new animals would cause unwanted attention. That is why the mustering would be important, getting the stock down to the fields closer to the ranch for the men to keep a watchful eye on. It would cost the men a lot of stock if they weren’t to move them.

Don breathed in letting the crisp air fill his lungs. Lady began to walk slower, stopping more frequently to try and eat. Malarkey knew the ques of his horse, she was getting tired. He dismounted with ease, putting the reigns behind her head so that she could walk around and graze in the meadow he had stopped in. He gathered the supplies he needed from Lady’s saddle bags. Sitting under the shade of the big oak tree that stood alone in the field. Scout and Tiller came to rest under the tree as well, tongues lolling from their mouths as they panted. Don poured water he had carried for them into a bowl, they lapped frantically at the water getting their fill. Don also put out the food he had brought them, Scout and Tiller almost finishing their food instantly. Don chuckled watching them scoff down the food as quickly as possible.

“Gosh you act like we don’t feed you.” He teased, patting the dogs as they ate. Don soon got to his own meal once everyone else had been looked after. Pouring himself a hot drink from the flask he had brought, and chomping into the sandwich that Lipton had made him the previous night from him to take. After eating his fill, Don leaned back against the thick trunk of the tree. Resting his hat over his eyes to shield from the warm sun that filtered through the leaves. In his head he thought about where he saw the stock last. As they had walked he kept an eye out for tracks and scat to figure out how long ago the stock had moved through there. From his findings they hadn’t been at the edge of the woods where they had moved through in a while. Most likely finding shelter up in the higher mountain ranges. As most of the predators didn’t venture up that far, due to the cold and treacherous terrain. Don knew he would have to hike further up into the mountain out of the trees and into the rocky landscape if he wanted to find the stock. He sighed removing the hat from his face, they had rested long enough, it was time to move on again.

It wasn’t long before they found the edge of the woods, the trees dispersed slowly, leaving them exposed to the cold wind. Donald zipped up the front of his thick wool lined jacket, it was worn but it did the job keeping out frigid gale. The signs of the stock were getting closer as well, Don knew he was on the right track. He had spotted fresh scat and tracks from the animals, they had been here recently. He followed his intuition, but the beasts were also predictable. Don knew all of their favorite spots up in the mountain. There were certain clearings that held fresh grass for them to graze and a couple of groups of trees for shelter. They would go where they felt most safe, Don knew exactly where that was. Scout and Tiller’s ears perked, whining lowly, they had heard the stock, so they were close.

The dogs led the way, using their strong noses and keen senses to track the animals down. Don followed behind them, Lady working hard up the hill. She was an Australian stock horse, she could run fast but only for short bursts. Lady was known for her hardy breed, endurance, sure footedness, agility, and good temperament. She was the loveliest horse they had on the ranch. Well that’s what Don said but he was biased since he raised her. The men all had their own horse, they all had stories of how they came into possession of the horse that they owned. But the men all loved their animals fiercely, they were part of the family.

The dogs Scout and Tiller were also Don’s. Scout’s mother, Winters’ dog, Poppy had given birth to the litter after Lew’s dog, Whiskey, had gotten her pregnant. They had a big litter of 10, Don had chosen the runt, which was Scout. She was a good dog, one of the best herders in the packs of mutts they had on the ranch. Don trained her tirelessly, but Collies were smart and keen herders, it was easy for her to pick up. Tiller, the cattle dog, was found on the side of the street. Some low life had dumped him on the side of the highway, left for dead. Don had made Skip turn all the way back around in a loop so he could pick him up. He had cared for all his animals with so much love, the men often teased that he had chosen all of the outcasts, the unlucky ones. Don didn't see them as that though, they were strong and resilient, fighting against all odds to survive.

Don could now hear the stock, their low moo’s echoed around the mountain. They arrived just out of sight from the herd.

“Tiller cast.” Don called to the dog, who immediately sprinited off to round up the herd. He ran around the stray cows from the group nipping at their heels to get them to move in the direction he wanted.

“Scout hold!” Don told Scout, she stood her ground at the front of the herd stopping them from moving as Tiller rounded them into a neat group. Scout darted from side to side at the front, staring down the cows that tried to move without her permission.

“Come bye, Tiller!” Don instructed the dog to go clockwise around the stock, to ensure all of the cows were in the group.

With Tiller at the back and Scout at the front, they could usher the herd down the hill. The cows knew to follow, so the dogs didn’t have to work too hard. But they were there in case one of the cows tried to stray from the group.

“Scout stand. Tiller speak up!” Don commanded the dogs. Scout eased up on her position, letting the stock move forward, as Tiller barked at the herd to get them moving. They were all experienced with this drill, even the cows knew it well. It wasn’t long before they were off down the mountains again.

The dogs ensured the herd stayed together and Don followed up the rear. It was getting later in the evening, the sun was setting quickly. It wouldn’t be safe to move in the dark, as it was easy to get lost in the thick woods. Also the low visibility increased the risk of injury from all parties, and Don wasn’t going to risk the health of his animals to get back to the ranch in one day.

There was an overflow field only about 10 minutes away from here, Don could get them all there in time in the fenced field so they could all rest safely for the night.

Scout in the front of the herd started barking, Don looked to see what was going on. It wasn’t normal for her to bark since she was a silent herding dog. Don clicked his tongue getting Lady to move a bit faster as he made his way to the front of the group. Scout growled into the thick woods with her hackles raised. There was something out there. Don was quick pulling the gun from his back and flicking off the safety. He raised it, eyes scanning the dense trees, looking for a sign of movement. Scout still stood growling and snapping at the trees, she was disturbed by whatever was out there. It wasn’t often Don encountered the predators that lurked in the forest, but he knew what he had to do to keep himself and the rest of the group safe.

Don’s ear perked as a twig snapped close by, a lot closer than he assumed the creature was. He cocked the gun, readying himself to fire.

“Please! Don’t shoot!”

#omg #this was so fun to write #learnt how to herd cattle for this #watch me now move to a farm #to show off my new skills #band of brothers #hbo war #donald malarkey #fanfic

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 2 years

Text

snowdrop, part one

A/N: (found the gif used in the moodboard on pinterest, I'm sorry I do not know the creator)

summary: “Excuse me, do you work here?”

warnings: Gideon!daughter!reader, reid wears glasses pre s1 because I said so (at least in this fic), literally just fluff, coffee-based flirting, kissing

word count: 1908

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist

series masterlist - next part

“Excuse me, do you work here?”

You stopped dead in your tracks, book halfway pushed back onto the shelf. Looking over your shoulder, you saw a lanky man with heavy glasses resting on his little nose.

“I-, yeah,” you quickly spat out, turning to face him completely, “what can I do for you?”

“I was trying to find Chaucer, but I, um, can’t,” he explained, shrugging his brown leather satchel back up into place on his shoulder.

“Oh, well, let me show you,” you walked around the corner with him in tow, “it’s right over-,” your finger scanned down the dark shelf, but both it and your sentence fell short when you found the designated spot to be empty, “oh, I see why. You must have not been the only one in the medieval mood,” you flashed him a small smile.

“Seems so,” he said slowly, his eyes taking their time washing over your face.

“You know what?” you snapped your fingers, “I think there might be a few more down in the archive, but I think they might be the kind that you’re not allowed to take home with you…”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” his face lit up at your words, “I was just gonna read a few right here during my break anyway.”

Your eyebrows shot up, “a few?” Chaucer wasn’t exactly what you would call light reading…

“Yeah, I, um,” you saw him struggle to figure out how much to explain, “yeah…”

“Alright,” you slowly started making your way in the direction of the front desk and where the staircase to the basement was located, “I will be right back,” you assured him, seeing him flash you a cute tight-lipped smile before he disappeared from your view completely.

“Good news!” you were still somewhat out of breath from how you’d rushed back up the stairs to see the patiently waiting man again, “I found a copy of The Book of the Duchess!” you held the old book over your head.

“Perfect!” he looked at you as if you’d just done a magic trick, “thank you so much.”

“Just, doing my job,” you suddenly felt yourself getting nervous under his warm gaze.

“Still,” his hand brushed against yours as you handed him the hardcover, “thank you. I’ve been feeling a little homesick the past few days, so maybe this will do the trick. Thank you, um,” you followed his wandering vision to stare down at your own chest, “I’m sorry,” he blushed, quickly averting his gaze, “I wasn’t looking at your-… I was just trying to see if you were wearing a nametag, which you are not… I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay” you smiled, honestly finding his reaction kinda cute, “my name is Y/n.”

“Y/n,” face still a tomato, he reached out his hand, “I’m Spencer.”

Grabbing it with your own, you couldn’t stop the small giggle that fought to escape your chest, “it’s nice to meet you, Spencer. So, what are you studying?”

“Oh, I’m not a student here,” he let go of your faintly clammy palm, “my boss just teaches here, and I’m still new on the job, so he’s allowed me to shadow him for a while just in the beginning.”

“Really? What do you work-“ your question was cut short as the elderly librarian snapped at you.

“Y/n!” you whipped around to see her holding out the phone to you, the cord no longer curly from how she tried to reach you, “it’s your brother on the line. Says it’s urgent. “

“Oh,” damn your older brother’s timing. Maybe if he’d just given you a bit longer, you would be the one calling about relationship drama and not the other way around, “I’m sorry Spencer, I really need to take that,” maybe Ava had kicked him out again? Not the first time and undoubtedly not the last.

“Yeah, yeah, no, you go,” he rushed out, waving an encouraging hand, “talk to your brother.”

“Okay,” you slowly backed up, “enjoy the book. Hope it works in making you feel a bit more at home.”

“Me too,” he bit down on the corner of his bottom lip in order to restrain his rapidly rising smile, “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Now around the counter, the other librarian impatiently handed the telephone off to you, “yeah, see you,” and as you raised the phone up to your ear to hear Stephen midsentence, mumbling something, you mouthed Spencer a small bye before finally forcing your eyes off of him and turning your attention elsewhere.

Not a day went by where you didn’t see Spencer. Every break he got, even if it wasn’t a long one, he would spend it in the library.

He kept on asking you where certain books were, and even though it had to be just poor excuses to talk to you, you still jumped at it every single time, eagerly helping him even if the book was literally right in front of his own nose. Every time he as much as glanced up at you from the pages of the book he was speeding through, you blushed like a little schoolgirl who’d never even been in the same room as a boy.

One day, after a few weeks of this routine, he’d caught you right before your own break. Maybe you were just feeling confident that day or maybe, time had finally caused you to get over the initial high his presence gave you, nevertheless, you’d asked if he wanted to check out the cafe across campus.

You’d never been there before, didn’t really know why, maybe it was just that every time you wanted a cup of coffee, you went for the easy, comfortable option and not venture out on some great quest. You had a feeling that he’d understand, so that’s just how you’d worded it, to essentially hold your hand while you checked out a new place.

Understand he did. Nearly stumbling over his own feet in anticipation.

And that innocent little coffee-based flirting was probably what led to this.

“Dad, I’m fine, really,” you spoke into the sage green phone and leaned against the front desk, bumping it with your hip softly, “you don’t need to wait for me to get off work.”

“You sure? Because it’s only a few hours.”

“Yeah, you just use that time to go shopping for dinner or something.”

“Alright,” he sighed contently. Even though the reason for your father’s leave still weighed heavy on his shoulders, the ample time you suddenly got to spend with him felt like a gift.

“Oh, and get ready to lose within like six moves tonight,” you smiled, dreaming of the many games of chess you always played when he came over for your weekly dinner.

“Six?”

“Yeah, well, I learnt from the best,” you sang, turning just in time to see a familiar tall figure move through the library doors. He was balancing two beige to-go coffee cups in his hands and hastily making his way towards you, “hey, I gotta run, okay?”

“Okay, see you tonight,” your father spoke, but his words didn’t really cling to you as all you could focus on was the smile on the fast-approaching man, “I love you, honey.”

“Love you too, dad, bye,” you hung up just in time for Spencer to come to a stop right on the other side of the counter. “Hi,” you felt your heartbeat start to pick up at his sudden presence.

“Hey,” Spencer beamed, sliding one of the coffee cups over the high desk to you, “here…”

Staring at the paper cup in pure awe for a good while, you blinked up at him again and asked, “is that for me?”

“Yep,” he nodded timidly, taking a small sip of his own.

“Did you just come here to bring me a cup of coffee?” you picked it up and brought it closer to your smiling lips.

“No, no, I, um,” he not so subtly scrambled his brain for an excuse, “well, I also wanted to read something…”

“Hm,” you took a sip of the steaming beverage, “good thing you came to a library then.”

“Yeah, right,” he giggled softly, wincing cutely at himself.

“So,” you leaned over the counter, closing in on him, fully aware of just how low cut your shirt of the day was, “what’ll it be today?”

“I, um, uh, m-maybe something on hydrology?”

“Hydrology?”

“Yeah…”

“Okay, well, if there are any up here, there should be over in 551,” you pointed to the designated section, “but I think that’s the kind of thing we keep mostly down in the archive.”

Biting his bottom lip, he asked softly, “can I come with you?”

“Downstairs?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not really supposed to bring anyone down there without the proper authorisation…”

“Right, yeah, sorry,” he glanced down, shaking his head.

Setting down the drink, you grabbed the crammed bundle of keys off the desk, “let’s go.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” you glanced around you to check for the other librarian, “just, don’t bring the coffee,” you snatched it from his fingers and set it down before he could smuggle it with him, “Debby would actually kill me if I allowed food or drinks of any kind down there.”

Chuckling, he followed your lead, sneaking down the dark staircase you exposed with the click of the lock.

Switching on the flickering light, you noted how Spencer’s face too lit up from the vision of the hoard of books now at his fingertips.

“Wow,” he breathed out, moving almost as if the tomes were calling his name.

“I know,” you followed him as he wandered through the maze-like basement like a kid in a toy shop.

“How do you not just spend all of your time down here?” he glanced over his shoulder at you, “this is amazing,” he uttered, ghosting his fingers over a few of the delicate spines.

Fighting to remember the task at hand, you blanked, “I, um, hydrology.”

“Yeah,” it seemed like it took him a second to remember what you were talking about.

“It should be over here,” you walked past him, deeper down the narrow path. “Here,” your eyes flickered to find the correct Dewey decimal number. “So, um,” your breath got caught in your throat as he stopped close enough for his arm to brush up against yours, “I don’t know, do you just wanna take a look at what there is or-“

Your babbling was cut off as you glanced over, just to gauge his response and was instead greeted by his lips softly pressing up against your own. Your fingers quickly came up to the sides of his neck as you felt your balance begin to sway.

“Wow,” you breathed out, almost tipping over as he pulled back.

“Wow?” he misread your stunned expression and started to loosen his grip around your waist.

“Yeah,” you let a shaky exhale flow from your smile before pulling him down for more.

“Y/n?” you heard the heavy door creak open, “are you down here?”

Tearing away from each other, you felt a string of saliva snap back against your face, disconnecting you completely. The sound of your co-worker’s voice had been like a smack to the back of your head, “yes?” you squeaked through your swollen lips.

“We need you back upstairs,” Debby demanded.

“Yep, yep,” you clasped your palm over Spencer’s lips as soon as you saw them threaten a laugh, “I’ll be right up!”

next part

#snowdrop #spencer reid x gideon daughter!reader #lea’s writing #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid hc #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid comfort #spencer reid series #spencer reid x fem!reader

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that-angry-noldo · 1 year

Note

Any good Silmarillion blog recs?

yeah!!! (grabs my mutuals in tow) you're gonna get recommended So Much good silmarillion blogs anon

@thelordofgifs is the one and only person i trust with maglor and maedhros unconditionally. her writing is beautiful and often heartbreaking and she has one of the most genius ideas on this site. also if you happen to care for eldacar she's your person

@actual-bill-potts is one of the best writers i encountered!! her writing is beautiful and full of feels, especially in the all his towers cast down fic (it is amazing please give it a go)

@swanmaids is your person for elwing/eärendil and everyone tied to them. she's an amazing writer too with lots of (often heartbreaking) ideas

@southfarthing has beautiful gifsets and interesting meta and is generally a great person

@arafinweanappreciation has all things arafinwean which is good and should be appreciated more

@dreamingthroughthenoise - wonderful fics, especially for maglor and finrod

@outofangband is THE worldbuilding blog! i'm more than sure they have an answer or idea to every question, no matter how obscure it gets. They have one of the best meta and writing out there, especially concerning Maedhros and CoH characters. also their moodboards are beautiful. absolutely recommend giving them a follow

now to the art - @raven-dame has great character designs

@histemar's art is breathtaking

@thelien-art - great drawings and designs!!

now the non-mutuals

@warrioreowynofrohan - amazing and well-thought meta

@carlandrea - based takes and amazing art. if you love cats the musical you're in for surprise

@elyksina - art so good you want to eat it

@redbootsindoriath - amazing comics and hilarious ideas, i'd definitely recommend giving them a follow!!!

#noldo answers

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late-to-the-party-81 · 1 year

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Never-ending nightmare

AN: this is my entry for @cockslutpadalecki’s 15 sentence challenge and in Lisa’s honour I’ve decided to make this a follow-up to the fic I wrote for the last challenge of her’s I joined in with - Yesterday’s Dream, Today’s Nightmare. Thanks to @navybrat817 for spitballing with me and providing some of the dialogue. Dialogue prompt from Lisa's list in bold.

Beta’d by @lunarbuck

Dividers by @firefly-graphics and moodboard/banners by me. Please note - pics in moodboard do not reflect the size or ethnicity of the reader. My reader is a blank slate for you to imagine as you will.

Master list

Relationship: Dark Ransom x Reader, Dark Ari x Reader

Word Count: 600

CW: THIS IS A DARK FIC - Implied Non Con/Rape, but not described in detail, Basement wife vibes, kidnap, drugging, violence, major angst and despair, no happy ending.

You’d lost track of the days since that fateful ‘first day at work’ when Ransom had drugged you, violated you, and then later, when you were unconscious, taken you to what was probably his home. You hadn’t seen anything outside of this room and it’s en-suite, other than what little you could view through the small, high window when you stood right on your toes; a few trees and hills.You’d seen a lot of Ransom though, more than you’d ever wanted to, and there was nothing you could do to stop him - you were shackled by your ankle to the bed, naked and unable to escape him or his voracious appetites.

You’d struggled at first - fought him tooth and nail, as he laughed and cuffed you around the head to disorientate you, before pinning you down with his big hands and even bigger body, taking what he wanted, despite - and probably egged on by - your cries. Eventually you gave up fighting - it did nothing apart from wear you down, leaving you battered and bruised - and lying limp and blank seemed to take the fun out of it for Ransom, which you considered a win, albeit a small one.

Days passed, blending together one after the other after the other, and the only thing you didn’t know was what time he’d appear to torture you, be that mentally, physically or both. He forced you to wash and to eat and drink, and you swore he was drugging you - you were alway light and floaty when you were in the bathtub, almost able to forget the how and why of you being here until he dragged you out and did what he wanted.

However, one day the monotony was broken when Ransom entered your room with another man in tow; shaggy, dark blonde hair with an even shaggier beard, and both so tall and broad it should have scared you, but his eyes, as blue as the ocean, seemed, initially at least, so kind. You looked at the stranger, your own eyes wide and imploring - maybe you could appeal to his better instincts, convince him to help you escape and release you from this living hell? When Ransom nipped into your bathroom to wash up, you turned to the man and pleaded with him, asking him to help you, but as you rambled his expression darken, and showed more and more amusement, making your heart sink - this man was a friend of Ransom’s and was no doubt as bad as him.

“Hey, Ran - your girl here asked me to let her go, and if she’s asking that, she isn’t broken - just means you don’t know how to play with your toys,” he commented with a smirk as your captor returned, drying his hands on the small hand towel.They both looked at you darkly, and you felt a new frisson of fear run down your spine - if Ransom on his own was bad, him and this friend of his together was going to be downright terrifying.

With a condescending smile, Ransom approached, and for the first time in days - or was it weeks - you scrabbled away, ankle chain clanking, using the bed as a futile barrier, panic rising in your body despite your efforts.

“Is that so - maybe I should get you a collar so you don't forget who you belong to, even though I’m gonna let Ari play every once in a while.”

He dragged you onto the bed as you screamed and kicked, watching the stranger - Ari - start to shed his clothes and knowing you were never going to get away.

Tag list: @jobean12-blog @tuiccim @yarnforbrains @flordeamatista @krissy25 @bodeckersdiamonddoll @goldylions @wheezy-stucky @doasyoudesireandlive @chemtrails-club @seitmai @talia-rumlow @peaches1958 @pono-pura-vida @writing-for-marvel

#dark!ransom drysdale #dark!ari levinson #ransom drysdale x reader #ari levinson x reader #look ma i did it - fifteen sentences #dark fic #late writes

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chickycherrycola · 9 months

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(no place like) home for the holidays

Its Christmas Eve! Which means its FINALLY TIME for me to unveil the very special project I've been working on! I got a Christmas-y, holiday-themed idea in my head several weeks ago that started out as a few loosely connected scenes, and eventually spiraled into a whole-ass novel 😅 and today I am so pleased to present my most recent labor of love to the Soul Eater fandom: (no place like) home for the holidays. Its centered around Soul and Maka visiting Soul's family for the holidays, and its fluffy, its sappy, its pine-scented, and its so so mushy. I really hope that if you read it, that you enjoy 💝🎄

As always, I gotta give a special shout-out to @moriohpissky for all of her assistance bringing this fic to life. Thank you Leah for the beta read, the idea bouncing, and the assistance with the lovely moodboard! 💕

I'll be posting a chapter a day until the end of the year, starting with Chapter 1 today!

Rating: T

Summary: After a bit of convincing from his overzealous but well-meaning older brother, Soul returns to his hometown in upstate New York for Christmas with his meister in tow. It's been more than ten years since he's been home, and along the way, he'll have to contend with more than just a long-buried past - travel delays, shitty motel rooms with less-than-ideal sleeping arrangements, Wes's horrible ugly sweaters, and, perhaps most daunting of all... his feelings for Maka.

Preview of Chapter 1 under the cut, or read the whole chapter on Ao3!

Ch 1: All I Want For Christmas Is You

His phone rings just as he’s realizing he might be the slightest bit inebriated.

Incoming Call…

Wes

The only reason Soul picks up the phone is because he's on his fourth cup of eggnog - or is it his fifth? Truthfully, he's lost count at this point - and he'd woefully underestimated the potency of one sixteen-ounce pour of eggnog, let alone four or five of them.

(A rookie mistake, honestly, given that this year's Christmas party libations had been supplied by Black Star.)

Before he can think twice about it, he's swiping the green answer button and pressing his phone to the side of his face.

"'Sup?"

It's perhaps a bit too casual a greeting, considering he hasn't spoken to his brother in… months, now.

"Well, color me surprised," Wes chirps through the speaker, and Soul can't help how he cringes in response. "Is that you, little bro, or do my ears deceive me? I suppose I’ve simply forgotten what your voice sounds like, after all this time."

"…Should've sent you straight to voicemail."

"Oh, yes, voicemail, I love leaving those,” Wes hums thoughtfully. “Do you know, I’ve even taken to writing out my messages before I call you. Pity, I was quite excited about this one.”

Soul removes the phone from the side of his face and holds the top of it against his forehead as he draws in a long, slow breath, in part to dredge up his quickly dwindling patience, and in part in an effort to stop the room as it perilously spins around him.

Goddamn eggnog. Goddamn his brother.

When he holds the phone back up to his ear, he asks, as evenly as he can:

"What do you want, Wes?"

“I should think it's fairly obvious,” comes his brother’s reply. “I want to talk to you, Soul. If the fact that I continue to call you once per week despite your insistence on not answering doesn’t make that clear enough.”

"Alright," Soul leans backward against the kitchen counter and crosses one leg over the other. "So talk. Here I am."

Against all better judgment, he brings the red solo cup back to his lips and takes a hearty sip from the spiked eggnog sloshing around inside.

If he must converse with his older brother, maintaining his current level of intoxication will at least make it a tolerable experience.

“Jesus, Soul,” Wes laughs. “Don’t make it sound like talking to me is a death sentence, I just want to chat. What’s new, how’s life, how’s the… what is your title again? Death Knife?”

“Death Scythe.”

“Right! Silly me. How’s the Death Scythe thing going? No ulterior motives, I swear.”

Soul narrows his eyes in suspicion.

“I didn’t ask if you had any ulterior motives.”

Read the rest on Ao3!

#soul eater #soul eater fanfiction #soul x maka #soul eater evans #maka albarn #christmas fic #cherry writes #an evans family christmas

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theoverlyenthusiasticwriter · 6 months

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Fenrys x Azriel Masterlist

So, for context, in all of these headcannons, Fenrys accidentally fell into Velaris while working for Maeve (pre-Aelin) and while Rhys was still under the mountain. He doesn't speak the language, so Mor uses her magic as kind of an automatic translator that doesn't work on writing or music.

*These are not in order. Some of them may also occur after Fenrys leaves Velaris and finds his way back fifty years later*

Read more on Ao3

Migraine

Fenrys knows something's wrong, and he's not about to let Azriel suffer without help.

Better?

Fenrys Moonbeam was accidentally teleported to Velaris fifty years ago. Finally, he has the chance to return, with his lover in tow, only Velaris has a few more characters than he remembers.

Speak my language

Fenrys explores the restraints of the magic Mor uses to translate everything for him in Velaris.

Howl

This is the moment that Azriel and Fenrys fall in love with each other. Well, maybe not the moment, but the realization.

Woof

They're falling for each other. They both know it. There's no going back now. On the evening of Fenrys' birthday in Prythian, Azriel takes him out to a secret spot.

*****

Extras:

Moodboard

Thoughts

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #sarah j maas #acomaf #acowar #acofas #a court of thorns and roses #my fanfiction #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfiction #throne of glass fenrys #fenrys moonbeam #fenriel #fenrys x azriel #azriel #crack ship

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sunlightmurdock · 5 months

Text

AETERNA | Prologue

SYNOPSIS: WHAT’S THE USE IN MAKING PLANS? IT’S ALL INEVITABLE ANYWAY.

WORD COUNT: 2550

MASTERLIST

MOODBOARD

PLAYLIST

quick lil a/n: this isn’t an OC fic, audrey will just be a recurring character who is mentioned through the fic and this spooky lil prologue is her origin story I guess 🫶 we meet reader in chapter 1

…

Audrey Weiss began her last morning the way that most people do: unknowingly. Unknowing in the sense that it was the last time she would bark at her sister to get out of the bathroom, or sigh too loudly when her mother asked her to take the trash out.

Mere weeks from graduation, her focus should have been college in the fall and summer trips and prom. Instead, she was thinking much shorter term — simply of her plans for that evening.

She had ducked out of her parents’ three-bed ranch style in the middle of Saturday morning breakfast, headed for the indubitably more important venture of tackling La Mesa Shopping Mall with her best friend, Suzie Clarke. Once Girl Scouts together, Audrey and Susanne were attached at the hip even now that they were all grown.

Suzie Clarke was the first person the police would speak to the next day, after Audrey was reported missing.

Exactly three weeks and four days from her high school graduation, big things were on the horizon for Audrey. She had been accepted into some pretty good schools for that fall, but her pick was Mount Holyoke — she was going to be a lawyer.

At the mall, she had found the most gorgeous jumpsuit. A peach color that made her brown hair look like pure silk with a crochet floral middle and bell bottoms that made her legs look a mile long. Something awful grown-up for a girl like Audie, but that was the point.

Then, back home, she had considered leaving her large, round wire-framed glasses on their vanity. They made her eyes look ten times bigger and unnatural, and her mouth look small — but she probably wouldn’t look too stellar if she couldn’t see either. These opinions were her own, formed by middle school boys from years passed.

To her baby sister, her glasses made Audie look awfully smart. There’s an old People magazine in their mother’s dresser that shows Barbara Streisand in a dark-framed pair of eyeglasses; Audie could look just like that if she combed her hair a bit.

To make matters worse after deciding that her glasses would make the cut, before she could make it to the safety of Stacy’s car, Audie’s mother had forced a denim jacket over her shoulders and told her to mind the weather. Like it was ever that cold around there.

Still, Audrey’s confidence was unwavered. She looked dynamite in her new jumpsuit, and four weeks into the long stretch that eighteen years old was supposed to be, she looked grown-up for the very first time, even with the glasses.

For the sixth time since March Third, 1977, Audrey Weiss bought a ticket and visited the circus on the outskirts of her hometown.

Santa Paloma, Arizona, was a safe place and only a stone’s throw from Phoenix. It had a movie theater and a couple of arcades, plenty of playgrounds, and a roller rink. Still, Audrey wasn’t interested in hanging out at any of those places.

No, she had her sights set bigger. Older. She wanted more than the other girls her age. Maybe if the boys her age had been kinder, this wouldn’t have been the case.

That’s why she was here, and why this sixth visit was going to be special; she had met a guy. In her killer new jumpsuit, with her hair done like Farah Fawcett, and her Mom’s lipstick coating her lips — her mind was all made up, tonight was the night that she was going to make her move.

Restless in every sense of the word, Audrey had lept out from the backseat of Stacy’s bubblegum blue MGB roadster first, her heart aflutter and her friends in tow. The late April sky was ablaze, orange and pink. It was quite the send off.

Children laughing and screaming, Audrey knew her way around the circus attractions well by now. She bid her friends goodbye with knowingly exchanged giggles, and started to walk. They had discussed Audrey’s plan in great detail by the point of its execution.

Brown leather sandals, barely leaving footprints across red dirt; she was gentle like that. Neon lights surrounding her, she passes by the carousel where she had first seen the man of her dreams for the last time. Its chimes sing her a goodbye as she disappears deeper into the Friday night bustle.

Eager, grinning faces surround her in a blur as Audrey strolls down the midway. A nervous, fast-feeling energy buzzes through her trembling limbs. The ring toss to her right, the shooting game to her left, her sights set straight ahead.

She had been too nervous to pick at the meatloaf her mother had made, and the air had smelled of warm popcorn and sugar. Her stomach growled, leaving no room for butterflies.

Amidst the epic orange and pink, the sky threatened to grow dark behind the looming, spinning ferris wheel.

Audrey left behind the painted faces and the smiles, the smell of sugar and the sound of shrieking laughter. Echoes of the excitement rang out behind her as she left it all behind. Her destination was beyond the fair, behind one of the big, red and white glossed storage trucks. Even in her killer new jumpsuit, Audrey had gone unnoticed.

One confident foot in front of the other, she squared her shoulders like the older girls do and kicked through that soft red dirt. Weaving between caravans, campers and trailers, restlessly brushing her hair back off of her shoulders and bringing it back in place.

A familiar whistled tune guided her where she intended to go.

Jake can usually be found whistling an Elvis tune.

His shirt slung over his shoulder, he passed between the lodgings coolly, headed to his camper to prepare for the show. Maybe he heard her coming, maybe he saw her feet under the caravans. By the time Audrey had rounded the corner, he had stopped and was staring at her.

He animated again, after a moment of static.

Jake was the star of the show, and to Audrey Weiss on that night in particular, he was just about the center of the universe. Tall, and gorgeous, with a strong jaw and a long, straight nose. Blond hair and golden skin, and green eyes. Muscles like something out of a comic book.

And despite being all of those things, Jake was nice, too.

“Hey, Aud-Ball.” Like odd-ball. But his way of teasing her wasn’t cruel like everyone else’s. He shot her a cool grin, his broad shoulders making his white tank stretch taught as he passed by her with no intention of stopping for a chat; again, in the kindest way. “You lost?”

This was far from their first conversation, but it was the first time she had gotten brave like this. There are signs all over the place saying staff quarters are off limits. She shouldn’t have been back there. She should have waited until after the show — Jake always came out to hang out front after the show was done, she could have found him then.

“No,” She wavered. A pit in her stomach and a lump in her throat, she looked down at the dirt and her glasses slipped a bit on the bridge of her nose. “I… wanted to see you.”

Jake can be real friendly. Too friendly, if you were to ask some of the folks around camp. Too friendly with ladies sometimes, too. That’s not what this was. When Audrey showed up for the second weekend, after Jake had complimented her glasses and told her she was funny — he had known she needed a friend. That’s all.

He played dumb.

“What for?” He stopped by the door of his trailer and took a moment to look at her. A slight heel to her sandals, a brand-new outfit, and magazine-worthy hair. He knew exactly what for.

She kicked and toed at the dirt, her eyes on the ground in a sheepish manner that tarnished all that work she had put into looking grown-up. “… I dunno.”

He looked behind her, and then around the two of them. The bustle of the fair sounded so far away. His grin settled into something friendly, but detached. The kind of look you get from a waiter when it comes time to decide on how much to tip.

“You lose your friends?” She never came alone. She had come with her parents that first weekend. She had looked so sad.

“No.” In her kicking and toeing at the ground, Audrey had wandered a bit closer to him. Close enough that he could smell her mother’s perfume on her neck, because she thought it was more mature than her own.

He took his shirt from his shoulder and wrung it in his hands, bootprints in the mud as he put some distance between the two of them. “Look, you know you’re not supposed to be back here. House rules.”

She looked up at him through those big glasses.

“Well, I mean—“

“Really. You should go.” He said more firmly. He was looking at her differently. The kindness in his eyes was gone and all that’s there was pity. In an instant, Audrey Weiss is crushed.

This wasn’t the first time she had been hurt by a boy. She had a tendency to read too much into things, to want things too much. There was a boy in ninth grade, he hadn’t ever liked her — she had convinced herself that he did. She had been so humiliated.

Jake watched her face crumple completely before him, and he was reminded of exactly what he saw in her that first weekend. A scared little girl with a heart full of sadness. He looked to the ground, feeling like he had knocked her to the dirt himself. She did look sweet in her new get-up.

“I’ll find you after the show.” Jake had offered.

Dejected, Audrey fiddled with the leg seam of her jumpsuit. She looked at the ground, and despite having no children, Jake got a glimpse at what it might look like if he had one to scold. She nodded her head weakly.

His lips twitched, his smile almost apologetic as he tapped at the side of his trailer and swung one foot in. “Alright.”

She presses her lips taut, staring at the indent she had toed into the dirt.

Jake hesitated by the door. He couldn’t stand the thought of letting her go, looking so sad. “Thanks for stoppin’ by— your hair looks killer, Audie.”

And so, Audrey had sulked back through the site and found her friends. With her being back so soon, and looking so cheesed — they hadn’t asked questions. They had bought her a coke, and taken their seats inside of the Big Top.

He said he would find her after, but to a girl like Audrey, that could mean a lot of things. Most of them were not good. As the lights dimmed and the familiar introductory drumbeat rattled out, Audrey just wanted to go home.

As he had five times before, the ringmaster burst out into the center of the area and threw his arms into the air, starting the evening with his usual speech. Audrey sipped sadly at her Coca-Cola from the stands. Jake comes on second for the first part of his act, right behind the ringmaster.

Audrey knew his routine like the back of her hand. Once again, she was not picked to be his assistant. As always, he was incredible.

At 9pm, the show had finished and the crowds were filing out. The fairground was even more abuzz than it had been earlier, the sky was a deep indigo, and Audrey really wasn’t in the mood to listen to Jake tell her that she just wasn’t his type. She wanted to be, so badly.

”I’ll pull the car around.” Stacy had told her saddened friend, already thinking that they could stop for milkshakes on the way home to cheer her up. Audrey had nodded absently, wondering where Jake had planned to find her.

“Come on, watch me hook a duck. I’ll win you something.” Suzie was Audrey’s best friend for a reason, after all. She looped her arm through Audrey’s and led her over to the attraction. She had just let go for a second, to take the pole from the attendant.

Audrey had just looked away for a moment. Well, maybe a few moments. It hadn’t felt like very long.

She stared across the sea of people, finding him in the spaces between. His eyes were settled right on hers, green and as kind as they always had been.

Standing over by the house of mirrors, Jake was wearing the same clothes he had been earlier, his shirt discarded over his right shoulder and his white tank stretched across his chest. He had gotten changed out of his show clothes quickly. Maybe he was excited to see her.

She bit at the inside of her cheek, nervous tingles making her fidget on her feet.

He straightened up, and cocked his head sharply to the side. The right side of his mouth tugged toward his ear like something was funny. He untucked his hand from his pocket, and pushed away from the support beam.

There was no goodbye, no ‘I’ll be back in a second’ — the plan was clear — Audrey hadn’t felt the need to waste time bringing her friends up to speed, that could be done in the morning. Light-footed, her brown sandals barely marked the soft dirt beneath her feet.

He had turned and reached for the door, watching her over his shoulder. Her eyes scanned across the neon red signage above him as he disappeared into the Hall of Mirrors. The door fell shut behind him.

Audrey’s heartbeat hammered like a snare drum. Her entire nervous system could keep easy pace with a Lynyrd Skynyrd record. Her dad loved those guys.

The sky darkened behind her, the metal handle cold under her palm as she opened up the door. She leaned inside, and peered around, half-way inside. “Jake?”

The halls between all the mirrors had to be lit somehow, and someone chose blood-red bulbs. Darkness in the corners of the reflections, red illuminations right through the center. Audrey took one sure-footed step inside, her mouth twitching toward a nervous smile.

She let go of her breath and smiled. Sticking her fingers out, she touched her own reflection right in front of her. Filtered red, she looked so different. Her hair really did look killer. Her glasses hadn’t ever looked that awful. She trailed her hand softly along the glass as a marker, following the whistle tune.

Butterflies tickled her tummy. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and let the door fall shut behind her, her second step less-certain. “Jake, are you in here?”

Of course he was, she had just seen him walk right in. To banish her doubts further, a whistle rings out from deeper within the maze. Unmistakably the first eight notes of Elvis’ I’ll Never Fall in Love Again — the song Audrey listened to in her bedroom when she thought of him. How incredible, that he had picked that song.

She bit at her bottom lip to keep from smiling, and called out one last time. “Jake?”

NEXT CHAPTER

TELL ME WHAT YOU THOUGHT

tags: @sunflowercharlie13 @spinning-away @eloquentdreamer @a-reader-and-a-writer @breezyweazybeezy @mel119g @blaircharlotte @hersuitisbanana @aragorn-02 @one-sweet-gubler @chrysalismuh @xzyzycxdd @atarmychick007 @ximehs @ah9242 @gleefulleve @nnatel @topherwrites @princesskreator @seitmai @d0main-expansion @yepyeahuhhuh @cherrycola27 @ohtobeleah @roosterbruiser

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #jake seresin #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #rooster bradshaw imagine #rooster x you #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw x female reader #jake hangman seresin #Jake hangman seresin x reader #Jake seresin x reader #Jake seresin au #top gun: maverick au #bradley bradshaw au #aeterna #aeterna: updates

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demetriandelibinaryboyfriends · 7 months

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You turned our song down, baby, what for? You had lit candles on the dashboard Red roses growing out of the door Wanna say something you never said before

We were driving down Sunset You know I love fast cars Passed by where we first met Damn, we made it so far

Red eyes from the red light And that just set the mood You say you’re obsessed with me So I took a second …and I said me too

I’m obsessed with me as much as you Say you’d die for me, I’d die for me too And if I lost you, I’d still have me, I can’t lose When you say that you’re obsessed with me, me too

I did my hair like waves on the beach This dress so tight you can’t even speak My heels so high I might get a nose bleed Music’s so loud, but I hear your heartbeat

We were driving down Sunset You know I love fast cars Passed by where we first met Damn, we made it so far

Red eyes from the red light And that just set the mood You say you’re obsessed with me So I took a second …and I said me too

I’m obsessed with me as much as you Say you’d die for me, I’d die for me too And if I lost you, I’d still have me, I can’t lose When you say that you're obsessed with me, me too

***

HIIIII SORRY GOTTA CRAM IN A COUPLE LAST MINUTE SUBMISSIONS BEFORE THE END OF FEMSLASH FEBRUARY

Okay, but tbh!!! I pair this song with YasMoon because of course I do, I pair everything with YasMoon, but it could easily work for S1 Yasmine x Anyone. That girl's egotism was absolutely UNMATCHED.

This song is honestly so perfect for S1 YasMoon at its most absolutely, shamelessly, rancidly toxic, and I am feral about it. Like, Moon practically worshiped the ground Yasmine walked on--to the point she just kept doing shit she was clearly uncomfortable with to please her girlfriend best friend. Like she laughed at all Yasmine's mean jokes, even though we know Moon isn't really a mean-spirited person! She let Yasmine boot Sam out of their clique (AND her fancy red Mercedes-Benz!), even though she would've readily taken Sam back if she apologized! She sat by Yasmine and watched their ex-friend get slut-shamed by the entire cafeteria, even though she clearly disapproved! Idk, sure sounds like someone's a little bit obsessed with impressing Ms. Off-Brand Regina George. But what do I know 💅

Also, yes, I absolutely believe these girls spent their off-screen time in Season 1 going on joyrides down Sunset Boulevard, blasting every generic pop-rock song they can get their manicured hands on, wearing stilettos and slutty dresses to get one another hot and bothered, gifting each other rose bouquets, having blatant fire hazards in their cars for the "sultry vibes," and fucking nasty in the most secluded corners of Encino. Both the back of that Range Rover and the back of that Benz have seem some action, I'm sure 👀

ALSO "You know I love fast cars" dying because Yasmine canonically does??? She loves cars so fast that they ram into the prized Pontiac Firebirds of jaded, ex-karate-champion alcoholics and bash them up so bad that said alcoholics have to get towed to their ex-karate-rival's car dealership and end up restarting an evil snake dojo out of spite. Was it worth it, Yas??? Was your love of fast cars worth kick-starting a martial arts war for the soul of the San Fernando Valley???

Kind of really like how this moodboard came out D: The scarlet, orange, yellow-blonde, and Slutty Pink™️combination goes so hard for them, imo. Also matches up with the colors these lesbians loves to wear, so!!! Yasmine and Moon love their oranges and reds and pinks 🧡❤️🩷 Coincidentally, a couple of those colors feature prominently in a certain flag...

YASMOON TAG LIST LET'S GOOOOO @multifandom-lesbian09 @karatecaulfield @themasterusersblog @ficusin @gemini-sensei @elisiassideb1tch

As always, moodboard pic credits available upon request! Hopefully more YasMoon soon to come ❤️❤️❤️

#yasmoon #yasmine x moon #moon x yasmine #aesthetic #moodboard #yasmine cobra kai #moon cobra kai #cobra kai #cobra kai season 1 #femslash #femslash february #femslashfeb2024 #wlw #sapphic #lesbian

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psychedelicstardust-gvf · 9 months

Text

Hazy Confessions | Part One

Moodboard here

Sam x Reader (College AU)

~1.5k words

18+ Minors DNI (no smut, but there's weed here)

Warnings: implied marijuana use, more warnings in future chapters

Posting a short first chapter for now so I don't bail on posting the rest later. I can't get the idea of smoking with Sam out of my head, so here's the product of that.

~~~

Your first year of college has not gone at all how you expected it would so far. Before you moved across the country to Michigan for school, you never would have expected to be where you are. You expected to move out here and keep to yourself, maybe make a few surface-level friends to help in your classes, and overall, just stay on the down low until the end of the year.

In your first class of the fall semester, you found yourself sitting next to this eccentric boy about your age. He struck up a conversation with you immediately, telling you it was his first day as well, and asked if you wanted to hang out sometime. At first, you were hesitant, wanting to stick to your plan of not getting too attached, but after spending a few hours with him after class, you found yourself gravitating toward this boy you met. He even gave you a nickname, Flower, on the day you met because you had embroidered flowers all over your backpack.

Four months later, you consider Sam your best friend, and you two are rarely apart. You spend most of your free time with him, hanging out in your dorm after classes since it’s so close to campus, hanging at his apartment on the weekends, and occasionally sleeping over at each other’s places.

One thing in particular you love about your friendship with Sam is the weekly ritual you two started a month after meeting each other. Every Friday night, you show up at Sam’s door with a bag of snacks, dressed in comfy clothes, and an overnight bag in tow. You started sleeping over at Sam’s on the weekends because his apartment is surrounded by nature, and you like to escape the busy atmosphere of your on-campus dorm whenever possible.

So, like clockwork, Friday night rolls around and you are standing outside Sam’s door with all the supplies you gathered. Slinging your overnight bag and snack tote over your shoulder, you knock on the door. It only takes a few seconds for it to swing open, Sam bringing you into a hug as soon as you walk through the doorway. “Flower!” He squeezes you by the shoulders, “It’s been so long!”

You roll your eyes at his exclamation, having seen him earlier in the day on campus. “It’s literally been 4 hours, dumbass, now take these bags.”

“Of course, my lady,” he says, taking the bags and bowing exaggeratedly at you.

You giggle at him, then walk across the room to the corner his bed is pushed against and make yourself at home. You loved Sam’s apartment. It was a studio on the first floor of his building, nestled in a back corner with a view of the woods. It was a refreshing escape from the view at your apartment, which was mostly other concrete buildings and bustling students.

Sam placed your bags on his desk chair before picking up his laptop and opening a random streaming service. “Any requests?” he asks as he starts connecting the laptop to the small TV mounted on the wall above his desk.

“Nope, whatever you want Sammy boy, I’m not picky.” He gave you a small smile, which you return, and then he turns around to begin browsing for something to watch. In truth, you never really care what you all watch together, you just enjoying the time you spend together. There’s no doubt about the feelings you're harboring towards Sam, but there was no reason to make anything of them. You’ve been through this same situation before, where you catch feelings for a close friend, and they see you as nothing more than that. A friend. The friendship you have with Sam is so perfect, so easy, there’s no way you could let a fleeting crush ruin that.

“Okay,” Sam speaks up from his place at the desk, “how does Finding Nemo sound?” he asks, turning to face you with a little smirk adorning his lips.

“Sure, sounds good to me, I haven’t watched it in forever.” Smiling at you, he displays the movie on the TV rather than the small computer screen. You maneuver yourself around his bed, trying to find a comfortable position to watch the movie while also leaving room for him. When you finally settle into a comfy spot, you notice a small bag of weed sitting by his pillow before he can press play on the movie. “Ooh, Sammy, what’s this?” you ask, moving to pick up the bag.

He turns around to look at you, shrugging. “Oh, um, it’s just something I’ve been trying. Jake gave me some.” You notice him fiddling with his fingers in front of him, a slightly nervous demeanor now overtaking the relaxed one from a few moments ago. “I meant to put it away before you got here if I’m being honest.”

You feel confused by his statement. “Why is that?” you ask, feeling a tinge of sadness that he didn’t want to share this with you.

He moves across the small room, sitting next to you on the edge of his bed. “I don’t know, I guess I just didn’t know how you’d feel about it.” He gently takes the baggie from your hands, holding it in his lap.

You felt a wave of sympathy wash over you. “Sammy, I wish you didn’t feel like that, but I promise I’m fine with it.”

He finally looks up at you, a small smile on his lips. “Really?”

You put your hand on his knee and gave it a few pats, “Yes, really, why wouldn't I be?" You pause for a moment, trying to think of something to say. “How long have you been doing it?”

He didn’t answer for a few seconds, like he was trying to recall when he started. “Maybe a few weeks? I’m not really sure. Jake brought it up a while ago, but I was never really interested until recently.”

This time, you don’t respond for a while. The silence was far from awkward though. The two of you are very comfortable in each other’s presence. You finally speak up, “Will you show me how?”

He snaps his head to look at you, not expecting you to say that. “Um, yeah,” the nervous energy returned ever so slightly. “Are you sure? I mean you don’t have to if you don’t want to, and I wouldn’t say anything if you didn’t, no pressure-”

“Sammyyy,” you cut him off, “Stop overthinking so much. Relax, it’s just me.” You grab one of his shoulders, squeezing it reassuringly and give him a small smile.

He smiles back at you, then gets up off the bed to kneel in front of his nightstand. “Okay then let me just get some stuff ready.” He shuffled miscellaneous items around in the drawer before pulling out a pack of rolling papers, a grinder, a rolling tray, and his lighter. “I really only have this if that’s okay.” He moved to sit next to you again, crossing his legs under him and laying the items out between you two. You folded your own legs underneath yourself, now sitting facing Sam.

You had smoked weed before, but the last time you tried it was months back home with some friends from high school, and it wasn't exactly a smooth and efficient sesh. You barely remembered how to roll a joint, but you figure you could give it your best try if Sam was willing to share this experience with you. You pull the tray into your lap, pull a rolling paper out of the package, and reach for the baggie of weed Sam was holding between his fingers.

You could feel his hesitation, his body tense and unmoving. You could barely see him breathing. “Hey,” you put your hands on the bed in front of you and lean forward to meet his eyes, “It’s just me. Everything is fine, relax.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just nervous. I’ve never done this with anyone else. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad it’s with you but I can’t help it.”

You felt a pang in your chest. This was a side of Sam you didn’t see very often. Sam is very confident and outgoing most of the time, knowing how to keep a conversation moving and scatter light jokes where they are appropriate. This Sam, anxious and insecure, was one that came out very rarely, and you felt lucky that he was comfortable letting this side of himself show around you.

In an attempt to calm his nerves, you moved over to lean against the wall his bed was pushed up against. You pat the space next to you and look at him with a gentle expression. “Come on, sit next to me. We’ll do this together.”

He seemed to relax at your gesture, crawling across the bed and plopping down next to you. You pulled the tray back into your lap and start to roll a joint.

~~~~~~~

Part Two

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