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goobieboobie · 7 months

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ultraviolence 0.1

| 70s pornstar! joel miller x preachers daughter! reader

Your prayers aren't enough to keep big, bad Joel away...

Warnings (for this chap!): abortion references and allusions, child/domestic abuse, prostitution allusions, kind of dubcon allusions (reader is misled by Jeremiah abt getting pregnant???), mentions of guns, young reader (roughly 19-20), barely legal sex work (person referenced is a senior is highschool, she's 18 but not explicitly stated), extreme dubcon for sex work (reader rlly doesn't want to do it, but is convinced), creepy scary man MDNI!!

“How’d you end up here, baby?”

You’d been asked the question about a hundred times a day since you arrived in LA, church dress tattered and knee-high socks torn. Carmen had taken you in, dragging you away from the bus stop the second you’d stepped foot off of the Grey Rabbit, exhausted from a night-long drive from Texas.

She picked you up after her shift on the street corner, so delirious from her night that she thought she’d imagined you. “You looked straight outta the gospel, kid, thought you might be my guardian angel.”

She turned out to be more of a guardian angel to you than anything else, setting you up in her overcrowded three-bedroom near Venice. Even though you’d had to share a bed with her for the first weeks of your arrival, you were happy to not be destitute.

She was the first one to ask the question, her roommate, Laura, a high school senior only a year or two younger than you, right by her side. “So, how’d you end up here, honey?” Carmen had a sugary sweet Southern lilt to her voice, different from the rural Texan accent you’d developed over the years.

You’d rehashed the night of your escape to her and Laura, from getting caught with Jeremiah in the barn to running barefoot to the cross-country bus station three miles away from the farm, lantern guiding your path.

“Dontcha think California’s a bit overkill? What is it, two thousand miles away from yer Daddy?” Carmen clearly didn’t understand the will her father possessed. He would tear apart every town within a thousand miles to find his wayward daughter, to save the child in her womb.

It had happened weeks ago, the life inside you was probably only the size of a pea; that didn’t matter to Daddy. It wasn’t easy to get condoms in a small town like yours, and even harder to get your pediatrician (an avid member of your church) to prescribe you birth control. Jeremiah had insisted it was fine, there was no risk of getting pregnant your first time, the odds were against you.

Daddy had found out the night you left, so angry he shook your body around like a ragdoll and slapped you around the living room in front of your sisters and mother. He had already chased Jeremiah away, shotgun in hand, your pleas of “But Daddy, I love him!” falling on deaf ears.

You cried and cried while he asked you to give him one good reason to not chase him down and shoot him dead. You had panicked, shouted that you were pregnant, needed him to help you raise the baby, but that had just spurred him on, made him angrier.

He was so blind with rage, yelling like a drunkard, that you managed to make it out through the front door, running nimbly through the dark woods near the house before he could catch up.

Carmen took you to the clinic the next morning, holding your hand as you walked past the bus stop from the morning before.“Poor lil’ thing, can’t go raisin’ a baby when yer just one yerself.”

You cried in the waiting room, cried in the doctor’s office, cried as it happened, cried when it was done and over with. You only stopped when the doctor asked that damned question.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he pushed his glasses up his crooked nose, you imagined it was bent from a punch years ago, maybe a patient with more gut than you, “How’d you end up here?”

When you walked back to the house, legs achy and stomach twisting, Carmen stopped you in the middle of the sidewalk, putting her hands down hard on your shoulders, making you look up at her. “Don’t answer to nosy assholes like him.” She took her hands off of you. “Ever.” She sniffed. “You don’t owe ‘em shit.”

Two weeks into your stay, Laura set up a meeting with a friend of hers to talk about a job he had for you. It was already cramped in the little house, there were five other girls staying in the other rooms, even worse in the room you were staying in.

“I don’t know what kinda job he’s got for me, he ain’t even met me yet. Don’t know a thing about me.” Laura made sure to dress you up real nice for the meeting, styling you in the best of Carmen’s clothes, the more scandalous ones you hadn’t been stealing from her closet.

“Don’t you worry about it, doll.” She stuck out her tongue in concentration as she fixed your hair. “Harry’s not bad, you’ll get used to him. He’ll be totally into your whole farmer’s daughter thing.”

“Not a farmer’s daughter.” You grumbled back, annoyed at the prospect of meeting this Harry. Anyone who wanted to meet this late at night was surely up to no good.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Laura walked you down to the club you were meeting at, skipping the line and heading right to the bouncer. He took one look at you and the young girl next to you and lifted the velvet rope. Laura squealed at you.

Harry was easy to pick out in a crowd. He looked sleazy, like the type of guy to make wayward deals with newly legal girls. He wore gold aviators, despite the night around you and the darkness of the club. He took them off when he saw Laura, his eyes were distinctly red.

“My little Laura Lee!” He exclaimed when he saw her, reaching his arms out to pull her down on his lap and plant a deep kiss on her lips. You could see his tongue move into her mouth.

“You must be the sweet kid little Laurie was tellin’ me about.” He smiled at you, pulled you close. You could smell the liquor on his break, could see the white on his nose.

“Oh, she’s real good, Harry!” Laura hung on his arm, looking deep in his eyes. He wasn’t looking at her; he was sizing you up.

“Could lean into that whole innocence thing, I guess. If that’s your cuppa tea.” His eyes raked down your body, lingering at the short hem of Carmen’s white dress, one of her only semi-modest pieces. “You a virgin, babydoll?”

Your face heated, so angry you’re sure your ears were turning red. You stuttered at him for a second before Laura took over. “Don’t be silly, Harry! You think I’d bring you some blushing virgin?” The irony wasn’t lost on you. “She’s got loads of experience!”

“I don’t know, Laur, some’ll pay a pretty penny for an untouched one.” He took your’s and Laura’s arms, dragging you to the booth he was previously sat at.

“No, no, I didn’t bring her here to work a corner like me and Carm! She’s nowhere near ready for that typa shit!” Laura burst into a fit of giggles. “I thought you could help her out like you did Meg, maybe produce some for her, get her in with the directors, y’know.” Harry weighed his options.

“I dunno know, Laurie…”

“What the hell is goin’ on.” You gained sense of yourself again, tired of being talked about but not talked to. You should’ve laid Harry out for the question he asked you before, wished you did like Carmen had told you. You were still thinking about doing it.

Harry looked at your face for the first time that evening, eyes focused on yours, not anywhere else, even as he asked Laura, “Did you tell her? You naughty little thing…”

Maybe you were wrong, maybe the being talked about was worse than the talked to. Staring into his eyes felt like staring into a bottomless pit, felt like you were looking the Devil right in the face.

“Well, damn! I thought you figured it out! Didn’t know I needed to spell it out for a smarty pants like you!” Laura giggled again. You were getting real tired of that.

Harry spoke up for her. “It’s porn, honey.” You blinked at him, sputtered again. “No big deal. Won’t make you do nothin’ crazy.” He winked. “Not yet, at least.”

“I-I don’t, I’m not that kinda- Who would even-”

“Honey, you don’t gotta do it if you don’t wanna. Nobody’s makin’ you do nothin’.” He leaned forward on the table between y’all, forearms on the sticky wood soaked from past drunks. “It would be a real shame if you said no, though. After all the work little Laura went through to set this up for you. Betcha could make it real big too.” He scooted around the edge of the booth, saddled himself up next to you.

“You’re real pretty, y’know. Bet a lotta people would want to see you like that. I know I would.” He brushed a piece of hair behind your ear and leaned close to you. “Wouldn’t have to put Laura and Carm out any more, could get a place of your own. ‘M sure you’d be famous, you’d be a star.” His words were sounding more and more like gospel; the ideas he was laying out made your head spin.

“Really, I’m not that kinda girl. I’m a Christian.”

He groaned loud in your ear, knocking his head back in frustration. “Aren’t we all?” He grabbed the back of your neck, forcing your face centimeters away from his. You could see the cap in his front tooth. “Baby, you want this. I know you do, otherwise why would you have come. You knew all along what this meeting was for, even if you don’t think you did.” “I-I really didn’t-”

“Yes, you did. Subconsciously, you knew that the only reason I would meet a shy little thing like you was for somethin’ like this. Especially given the crowd you’ve taken to.” Maybe he was right, you knew that there would be some kind of bad business at this kinda place, this late at night.

Your eyes met Laura’s, almost having forgotten she was there. She had a big, bright smile on her face. She had taken you in off the street, had given you everything she had. She wouldn’t lead you astray.

“So,” Harry started, turning your gaze back to his, “Will you do me the honors of representin’ you. I would love to have your name attached to mine.” You nodded your head, earning a yellowed smile from the man in front of you. “But, I have some questions, some things I need to know before-” “We’ll get to that babydoll, just let me worry about all that.” He leaned back, put his arms around you and Laura. “Now, tell me, how’d you end up here, baby?”

A/N: promise we'll meet joel in next chap i'm just trying to lay the groundwork!!!! also if anyone is interested in me sharing the playlist pls lemme know i'll do it i've been listening to it to inspire me!!! also this is not beta read, if anyone would like to beta read for me i would be so honored and grateful bless it

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #the last of us #tlou #tlou fic #f!reader #fanfic #tlou au #pornstar!joel

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goobieboobie · 7 months

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meow meow purrrr

The Odyssey | 0.8 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Moodboard | Recommended Listening

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just joking. Here, let’s go in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You should finish it.” Bradley tells you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s sit outside. It’s a nice day.”

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

“What’s this place called?”

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

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

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

“Huh.” You hum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here.”

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

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

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

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

“What’s this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not your honey.” You bite back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A swift inhale is followed by a baited exhale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hemming.” Your answer is short.

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

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

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

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

“Are you snooping?”

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

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

“What’s this?” He asks quietly.

“I wanted a change.” You answer him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you like it?”

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

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

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

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

…

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