Summary : A mysterious stranger moves next door to you, carrying a broken heart and plenty of secrets, one of them being you. You find yourself impossibly attracted to him and like a moth to the flame you just want to burn in the mystery that surrounds him. What would happen when Eric's past would come back to haunt him in more ways than one and would threaten the peace that you have brought into his life?
✨Step out of line (Completed)
Summary : Your mother marries a man who's not much older than you, the moment you saw him at the aisle on their wedding day you found yourself wanting to get close to him and you did, you became his best friend, though you always wanted more but you never could have it, he was forbidden, he wa your stepfather. As you turned eighteen you had to leave, six years later when your father died you come back in his life only to discover the ugly truth of his relationship with your mother.
✨ Light into the Darkness (Hiatus)
Summary : Life didn't turn out how you had imagined it to be. After a drunken breakdown you call into the void for help, begging someone to hear you, to come for you, to save you from the loneliness. And he comes from the beyond.
✨ Fix you Fix me (Completed)
Summary : After your boyfriend gives you the ultimatum to lose weight before Christmas, you end up at the gym owned by a stranger you have known for years, a man who is going to fix more than just your body.
✨ On a tight leash (Completed)
Summary : A ten-day wedding celebration for your wealthy best friend turns unpredictable when you encounter an attractive man who reads you like an open book and pulls you deeper in the web of seduction and obsession . A haunted palace and a dangerous mysterious man, what could go wrong?
✨ Hold me without hurting me (Ongoing)
Summary : On a deserted road, Eric Draven crosses paths with a strange woman, you, and offers you a ride as fear spreads through the city over a killer rumored to be lurking in the shadows. You are bruised, guarded, and curiously unafraid of danger. He is quiet, withdrawn, and living far from the world in a secluded cottage deep within the woods. Both of you hiding pieces of the past and the secrets that have damaged you both beyond repair.
Summary: Roman says being a housewife is easy. Roman says he’d love to switch places with you. Between burned lasagna and stained carpets, Roman will live to regret it.
Word Count: 7002
Warnings: NSFW, oral sex m&f receiving, hand stuff, unprotected PiV sex, dub-con, mentions of breeding, sub/dom switch dynamics
MDNI, fic under the cut
Roman stares at the pink shirt balled in his fist with irritation etched onto every line of his perfect face. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, wishing you were anywhere else. Wishing you’d let Anna do the goddamn laundry like she wanted to.
“I didn’t even see it slip in, there was a-“
“Are you blind?”
You shut your mouth, swallowing hard as Roman’s steely green eyes lift to yours.
“Color blind, then?”
You shake your head a fraction. “No, I… I was distracted.”
“What,” he asks with a sigh, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, “could possibly have distracted you when you have such an easy job a monkey could do it?”
Tears prickle behind your eyes, but at the smug smirk on his mouth and the amusement sparkling in his gaze you feel your stomach churn with something harder.
“It isn’t easy being locked up in this house, Roman.”
Roman’s shoulders square as he round the counter, stalking towards you with the coiled grace of a lion going in for the kill. “My mansion not good enough for you, princess?” His voice is low and soft, the tilt to his head deadly as he closes the distance. “My staff not bending over far enough to cater to your every fucking whim?” He’s so close you can feel his breath fanning against your face, and your eyelids flutter closed for a moment as heat radiates off his body. “You can’t get one simple task right while I’m working all day every day to provide this life for you?”
Your eyes snap open at that, and you roll them. You roll your eyes at your husband, and you realize the mistake just as his fingers lace into your hair. “Roman,” you whine as his knuckles tighten, tilting your face up. “That’s too hard.”
“You have no idea the kind of pressure I’m under.” He says slowly, his voice a low purr of sound as he lifts his freshly pink shirt and nuzzles it against your cheek. “People expect me to make decisions. To be a serious ballbuster. And you,” he runs the soft material under your nose, pushing your lips apart with two cotton-clad fingers and pressing the fabric back against your tongue until you gag, “think I can do all of that in a pink fucking shirt?”
You bite down on his fingers, and Roman hums as your teeth sink against his knuckles. He withdraws them, thumb rubbing over the wet patch of your saliva darkening the shirt. “It was an accident. Red thong.”
His lips quirk into an almost smile before he forces his face into a scowl. “You need to be more careful then.”
“It’s one shirt.”
“That I pay for. You have no fucking concept of how much things cost, do you? Sitting here ordering shit on Amazon, walking around in you little fucking house dresses. Charmed fucking life.”
Your hands ball into fists at your sides. “You wanted this. You asked me to give up my career, to move away from my family and be your little housewife. I would have been just fine paying my share and it’s totally unreasonable of you to pretend you don’t know that.”
Roman scoffs, running his fingers through his hair in the way he knows distracts you. “I’m not saying I want you to go out and get a job.” His voice is liquid silk as he cups your jaw, fingers sliding into the hair behind your ear as he dips his face close. His lips brush against yours in an agonizingly soft caress. “I just expect a little gratitude when I come home, you know?”
You make a choked sound that is half protest, half moan as Roman’s tongue glides along your bottom lip and he pushes his way into your mouth, coaxing you into a slow, deep kiss. You let yourself go limp against him, waiting for the hand on your jaw to tighten, to push down. When it does you sink to your knees without complaint, licking your lips and biting your tongue to encourage your mouth to fill with saliva as Roman pulls his stiff cock from the confines of his pants and guides your face towards him.
You wrap your lips obediently around his tip, laving lightly at the salty musk of his precum before the hand on your jaw pulls you closer and his hips buck against your face to push his cock into your throat. “There you go,” he sighs, bracing his free hand on the counter. He still has the shirt wrapped around his fist, and you stare at it blurring in and out of focus as you bob your head back and forth on his length. “That’s how you say thank you.”
You hum against him, sending little shockwaves through his cock, and Roman has to grit his teeth to stop himself from moaning at how hot and wet and tight your throat always is for him. You desperately want to brace your hands on his thighs, but you know you can’t do it. He’d be furious if he thought you were trying to pull back, and the hand on your jaw would drop to your throat and that was always infinitely rougher than you could really take.
You curl your thumb into your palm and tighten your core muscles, holding yourself upright as best you can as Roman fucks up against your face, hips snapping a brutal rhythm as he drives his cock down your throat over and over again.
You look up at him, tears brimming your eyes as your throat tries to push him out, and Roman sinks his teeth into his bottom lip hard enough to puncture the soft flesh. He sucks his lip into his mouth, tongue pushing against the torn flesh as spurts of salty warm blood fill his mouth and he cums with a strangled groan, spilling his release down your throat as he swallows a heady mouthful of blood.
You focus on breathing through it as your nose is mashed against the rough thatch of hair on his pubic bone, swallowing reflexively around the cock in your throat as his cum drips down into your stomach. Roman pulls away with a little groan of protest, tucking his cock away and rubbing his thumb over your cum-slick lips. “Now apologize.”
You swallow hard. “I’m sorry about the laundry, Roman.”
“Yeah,” he coos, bending down to wrap an arm around your waist and hauling you to your feet. You expect him to let you go but he doesn’t, spinning you instead to press your back against his chest as his arms tighten around your middle and he dips his lips to your ear. “Don’t let it happen again, or I’ll be a whole lot less nice to you.”
Your bottom lip wobbles and adrenaline turns your legs to water, but there’s nothing you can do, nothing you can say to diffuse him when he’s in one of these moods. Your husband could be sweet and earnest and thoroughly wonderful at times, but he was spoiled and volatile and unpredictable, too. You’d accepted both sides of him a long time ago when you’d chosen to love him anyway, and this was the consequence of that. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, after all.
The idea comes to you later that night, when you’re brushing your teeth and staring at the grimy ring where Roman leaves his toothbrush. He never wipes the counter, and spit-slick toothpaste always pools on the side where he doesn’t bother to rinse it off. You wipe up every other day but it never makes a difference.
You rinse the countertop and finish your nighttime skincare before slipping into bed beside your husband. He’s flicking through some board papers on his tablet, one eye darting to the football game playing on his phone every couple of seconds. “Roman.”
“Mmhmm.”
“I wanna make a bet.”
Roman flicks the little switch on the side of his tablet and tosses it onto his nightstand, turning to you with a smirk. “What have you got to barter with?”
You lick over your lips, eyes dragging down Roman’s body. “Whatever you want.”
His smirk darkens, head tilting to the side as he undresses you with his eyes. “You already give me whatever I want.”
You huff, folding your arms over your chest in a way that pushes your tits against your nightgown. “Roman.”
“Okay.” He hums, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “What’s the bet?”
You swallow around a lump in your throat. “You say that being a housewife is easy.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“So I propose that… we switch places. For two weeks.”
The little smile on his face curls into a cruel smirk. “You think you could run Godfrey Industries for two weeks without fucking it up?”
“Yes. I ran an entire department before I married you, remember.”
“Oh, sure. But this is different baby, surely you see that? It would be… wildly irresponsible of me to entrust the whole company to someone so unqualified, no matter how hot you’d look in a little power-suit.”
“I’m more qualified than you.” The words blurt out in your own defense, and Roman’s eyes narrow.
“Community college for hospitality management doesn’t scream S&P500.”
“Least I went to college.” Your voice is quiet, and you wince through the words even as you say them. Shut up, shut up, shut up before he gets mad.
But Roman doesn’t. A muscle in his jaw ticks, but he remains otherwise composed, wide green eyes flicking over you as he runs through scenarios in his head.
“If you fuck it up and have to come to me before the two weeks is up, we’re having a baby.”
Your heart stutters erratically in your chest. “If I don’t, or if you call it off early… I get one night off a week.”
He frowns. “Night off from what? From me?”
“A night to do whatever I want. To go out with friends or to just read alone in the study. No responsibilities.”
Roman bites on his bottom lip. “One night a week.”
“Just one,” you soothe, climbing into his lap and lacing your fingers into his hair. “Just to do boring girl stuff that you’d hate anyway.”
His eyes drop to your mouth and he licks his lips. “I can live with that.”
You hum, shifting against his crotch through his pajama pants until you feel his cock thicken and twitch beneath you. “We have a deal, then?”
Roman’s hands drop to your hips, encouraging you to press down against him as he jerks his hips up. “Yeah, baby. Try not to lose your mind when you see me being all-“ he moans, fingers grappling with the edge of your nightgown and pulling it up over your ass. “Domestic and shit.”
You roll your eyes, dipping your head to press your lips to his. “I’ll do my best, Roman.”
Your first day as temporary CEO of Godfrey Industries goes better than you could have hoped. Even though you’re twenty minutes late, and you stumble into the building with messy hair and Roman’s cum drying on the back of your thighs from where he’d pinned you against the car and refused to let you go until he’d fucked you right there on the hood of your SUV. People are nice, and for the most part you’re expected to sit in Roman’s office and sign off on reports.
“He doesn’t usually…” Roman’s assistant rubs the back of his head. “Mr Godfrey doesn’t read them.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Do you?”
The assistant flushes. “Yes. I throw back anything I think he shouldn’t sign, point out mistakes when I see them.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“Brown, ma’am.”
“You’re more qualified to do this job than my husband is.”
The man’s cheeks are flaming. “I wouldn’t… say that.”
“Well of course not, he’d have you murdered.” You lean over the desk, pushing the files back towards him. “Relax, kid. Mr Godfrey isn’t here, is he? I think you have potential to be much more than an assistant. Read these reports, just like you do for my husband, and come back with a summary.”
He collects the papers, nodding. “I’ll go over everything twice, I swear.”
You smile, leaning back in your chair as he shuffles out of the room. There’s a picture of you on Roman’s desk, and when the light catches the glass you can see the smudge of fingerprints where he strokes your face when he’s feeling anxious. You’re seized with a sudden wave of affection for him, and you whip out your phone to call home.
His voice is a bark of sound when he picks up. “What?”
“Hey, sweetheart.” You coo. “How’s it… going?” You can hear a loud beeping in the background. Smoke alarm.
“I can’t talk now.” He snaps. “I’m fucking busy.”
“Oh, okay.” You hum, relishing in the agitation leaking through the phone speaker. “I’ll let you get on with your day then. Love you.”
“Yeah,” he spits before hanging up.
You roll your eyes. If you’d answered the phone to him like that even once he’d have taken you over his knees and spanked your ass raw, but the rules had always been different for Roman Godfrey. At least until now, anyway.
*
The house smells like burned food when you arrive home, and you blink through a film of smoke as you step into the foyer. “Roman?”
You hear a clatter from the kitchen, followed by a frustrated “Fuck!” And you work hard to suppress your smirk as you wander further into the house.
“Honey, I’m home!” You sing, and he spins on his heel, eyes wide with shock.
“You’re early.”
You shake your head, nodding towards the clock on the wall above the counter. “It’s almost six.”
“It… can’t be.” He mumbles, squinting at the clock. “Well shit.”
“Something smells…” you trail off, and Roman fixes you with a withering glare.
“That thing is fucking broken.” He jabs a long finger at the stove.
You tilt your head. “You messed up the dinner, huh?”
He grits his teeth, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “The instructions said an hour ten. It’s been like forty minutes and the bird’s burnt to shit.”
You slip past him, squinting at the dials on the oven. “Oh, sweetheart.”
“What?” He demands, coming up behind you and leaning over to look. “Fuck did I do?”
“You set the timer right but not the temperature. Look, you’ve turned the dial to max heat.”
Roman makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. “How was I supposed to know that?”
You press your lips into a line and turn, cupping his cheek. “You know, this really isn’t what I expect to come home to after a long day at the office.”
Roman’s eyes flash with something dangerous. “Very funny.”
You cluck your tongue, rubbing your thumb over his lips. “I expect dinner on the table and you on your knees like a good wife, Roman.”
He nips at the pad of your thumb. “I’m not your wife.”
“No.” You agree, pushing your thumb into his mouth to press against his tongue. “But you’ve burned dinner, and you look like shit. You know what time I get home from work, sweetheart. What could possibly have distracted you when you have such an easy job a monkey could do it?”
Roman’s eyes flicker closed, and he lowers himself awkwardly to his knees in front of you. You withdraw your thumb, tracing his lips with his own saliva.
“I’ll do better tomorrow.”
“Yeah you will,” you coo. “Because I spent all day working so you can sit around the house all day on your pretty little ass, and the least you could do is be properly grateful, right?”
Roman’s lips part as you reach down to roll your skirt up over your hips, and he leans in to nuzzle his face against your damp panties with a desperate little sob.
Roman feels his stomach settle into something close to comfort as he hooks his finger into your underwear and pulls down past your knees. He’s been failing all day, at everything, but he knows this. He’s good at this, at burying his face against your slick and sucking your clit into his mouth and lapping at you until you cum against his mouth.
Your fingers tug and tease at his hair, nails scratching gently against his scalp, and Roman moans softly against your folds as he flicks his tongue against you with rough, precise strokes. “There you go,” you sigh. “That’s a good boy.”
Roman’s cock is almost painful he’s so hard, but he doesn’t dare to reach down to touch himself. He knows he’s lost this round, and that you’re being him to teach him a lesson. And he’d never let you touch yourself when he pushed you to your knees like this. Never.
You cum with a sultry, throaty groan, and Roman’s eyes roll back at the hot flood of your slick soaking his mouth as he swallows against you greedily. You step back on shaking legs, smearing your arousal over his lips with your thumb before sucking the digit into your own mouth.
“I’ll order pizza.” Roman says from the floor, and you nod.
“You do that. And clean this mess up, while you’re at it.”
*
Running a household is hard work, but by Thursday Roman thinks he’s gotten the hang of almost all of it. There’s a load of laundry sloshing away in the washer, and a pan of minced beef in tomato sauce bubbling on the stove, ready to be layered into a pan for lasagna.
He drops onto the couch with a beer in hand, feeling an ache deep in his bones that he’s wholly unused to. He flicks the TV on, settling back against the leather as he flits through cable channels until he settles on a rerun of some sitcom and he finally lets himself relax.
Roman is jolted from sleep by the sound of a high-pitched beeping, and he wonders for a moment when he changed his alarm tone. Then he inhales on smoke, and his eyes fly wide as reality settles in.
The beer in his hand drops to the floor as he scrambles off the couch, launching into the kitchen and pulling the blackened, dry pan of ruined meat off the heat. “Shit, shit, fuck,” he hisses as he drops it into the sink and it sizzles steam back into his face. His fingers throb with hurt from touching the red-hot handle and he sucks them into his mouth.
“Really, Roman.” Roman feels dread trickle down his spine at the sound of your voice. It had been good the last few days, greeting you at the door with a smug smirk on his face and taking your bag from you whilst you scanned the room for signs of fuckup. It had been good to watch your face fall into disappointment when you couldn’t find a single thing to criticize. It had been good to be a little bored, to feel a sense of anticipation as 5PM ticked by and he knew you’d be coming home to tell you about office drama and new initiatives.
“It wasn’t my fault.” He spins, trying his best to cover the ruined pan in the sink, but your eyes drop to the steaming mess anyway.
“No? Who else do we blame, if you’re here alone?”
Roman chews his bottom lip into his mouth. “I fell asleep.”
You hum, stepping close and taking his hand in your own. “You’re hurt.”
Roman swallows as you lift his hand to your mouth and press a light kiss to the singed tip of his finger. “It’s fine.”
“Sure,” you agree, tugging his hand to the sink and running it under the cold faucet. “My poor baby.”
Roman’s cock twitches at the sound of your voice, even if you’re mocking him just a little bit. It feels nice to be taken care of, to have your attention when he knows you spend all day surrounded by people demanding it from you. “How was work?”
“You know,” you sigh. “Same old, same old. Meetings, papers, responsibilities.” You dab his hand dry on a dishcloth and lean up to peck his cheek. “Nothing you need to worry your pretty head about.”
“I did the laundry.” He says as though it’s the same thing. As though it isn’t a small miracle that he’d managed it. “Two loads already folded, one in the machine.”
You smile at him. “That’s good, Roman. I’m proud of you for getting at least that right.”
Roman’s cheeks heat. “I’ll order something.”
You tilt your head to the side. ““That I’ll pay for. You have no fucking concept of how much things cost, do you?”
Roman grits his teeth. “Careful.”
You smirk. “Or what?”
Roman swallows hard, feeling his cock twitch and his stomach flip over. “Just… you shouldn’t talk to me that way.”
“I’ll talk to you however I like.” You say with a shrug, turning your back on him and heading to the couch. “And bring me a beer.”
Roman doesn’t know why he does it, but his legs move all on their own as he obeys your command. You hadn’t even said please, and Roman replays all the times he’d said precisely the same thing to you over the last year of your marriage. It made him feel like shit.
You’re sitting on the couch, fingers playing absently with a strand of your hair when he approaches, but you look up at him with narrowed eyes and Roman feels fresh dread settle over him as you tap your toe against the splash of his spilled beer on the hardwood floor.
“I was gunna clean that up.”
“Yeah? When?”
Roman sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and pushes it out through his teeth. “I got… I had to deal with the fucking dinner.”
“Well, you’re not dealing with that anymore, are you?”
Roman huffs, stomping into the kitchen to grab a cloth and returning to crouch beside you and soak up the spill. “You could have done this yourself.” He mutters.
You uncross your legs, your knees dropping either side of his face as Roman looks up at you. “I work hard all day, Roman. All you have to do is look after the house. It that really too much? You wanna tap out?”
For the first time in his life, Roman misses work. He misses his office and his big desk and scrolling endlessly on Instagram whilst pretending to look busy. He misses seeing other people, even if those people are simpering mouth-breathing idiots. But the thought of you all fat and full of his baby, the thought of another thing tying you to him stops him from bringing the game to an end.
“No.” He huffs, pushing your legs further apart and pressing a kiss to the front of your underwear. “Not a fucking chance.”
You sigh, relaxing against the couch as Roman lifts your legs to drop over his shoulders and he pulls your underwear to the side, burying his mouth against you like a good boy.
*
“Die! Die! Die!” Roman hisses, fingers clicking rapidly over the buttons as he destroys yet another alien. He’s sprawled over the couch in his boxers, his third beer open on the coffee table and staining a ring into the wooden surface. There’s a German yelling at him through his headset, and Roman swears as he’s wiped out by an explosion to the left. “Fuck!” He yanks his headset off, throwing his controller onto the couch beside him. “Fucking assholes.”
You clear your throat, and Roman’s mouth curves into a smirk. “Oh, hey baby.”
“Don’t hey baby me, Roman. The house is a mess.”
Roman shrugs. “Dinner’s ready. Laundry’s done. Lay off me.”
“Yeah? Why don’t you show me?”
Roman rolls his eyes, sighing as he pushes off the couch. His lounge pants are slung low on his hips, revealing the sharp jutted V of muscles either side of his stomach, and you lick your lips as you follow him into the laundry room. “Like I said, I got through your fuckin shirts and-“ Roman breaks off, staring at the wet tangle of baby-blue clothes in the washer.
“You were saying?”
Roman’s mouth opens, then closes. Opens again. “I don’t know what happened.”
You tug a pair of your panties loose from the bundle, holding them up and wrinkling your nose. “You know I’m sure these were white yesterday.”
Roman drops the pile onto the washer, sifting through the fabric until he finds a singular navy sock wrapped in the center. “Shit.”
“You think this is acceptable?” You ask slowly. “You think it’s ok to sit on your ass all day playing stupid fucking games instead of taking care of things around here?”
Roman rolls his eyes. “You want me to eat you out? You don’t have to fucking scold me to get that you know.” He reaches for you, and you take a step back. The heat of righteous fury pounds your heart into a frenzy, and the bored arrogance on your husband’s face slips as his fingers close on nothing.
“I think you need an attitude adjustment, Roman.” You sink to the floor, parting your legs and beckoning him with a crooked finger. Roman swallows, dropping slowly to his knees between your legs and splaying his palms on your thighs.
“No,” you coo. “Turn around, back to me.”
Roman frowns, but his cock twitches in interested anticipation as he settles against your chest and you reach around his body to slip your hand into his pants. “Shit,” he huffs, hips lifting against your hand as you wrap your fingers around his cock and jerk him hard. “Woah.”
“You’re bad, Roman.” You murmur, dipping your head to press your chin to his shoulder. “You burn the dinner and you wreck the floors.”
“Slow down,” he stammers. “That’s… shit can you spit on it? Goddamn.”
You don’t let up, dragging the baby-blue dyed panties off the counter behind you and pushing the damp fabric into his mouth. “You’re a shit fucking wife, Roman.”
Your thumb rubs against his slit, dragging his precum over his frenulum before yanking hard on his cock again, and Roman whines against the gag in his mouth.
“You think you can eat me out and I’ll just forget about how fucking sloppy you are around the house?”
Roman groans, hips bucking away from you like there’s anywhere to go with your fist wrapped so tightly around his cock.
It actually hurts, the rough, dry friction of your skin on his, but you turn your head and press soft kisses to his neck and Roman cries against the soaked underwear in his mouth and he takes it. He tries to talk, not sure whether he’s begging you to stop or begging you to jerk him harder, but you speed up anyway, fingers flexing against the thick vein on the underside of his cock.
“You gunna cum for me?” You whisper into his ear, and Roman moans as his hips thrust erratically up into your hand. “There you go,” you coo, nipping at the corner of his jaw as his cock thickens and twitches in your hand. “That’s a good girl.”
Those words, those condescending, awful words are his undoing. Roman’s eyes roll back as he cums, shooting thick ropes over your fingers and soaking into his shirt, whimpers muffled by the damp gag of your panties in his mouth as he arches away and then slumps against you.
Your free hand lifts to his hair, raking your nails against his skull and teasing the strands away from his face. “It’s time for you to get a haircut,” you muse absently, and Roman nods, breathless, dazed.
“You have to be more careful with the laundry,” you coo, gently pulling the wet gag from his mouth.
Roman gasps, licking his tongue over his lips. “I think you gave me road rash on my fucking cock.”
You roll your eyes, pinching his chin between your thumb and forefinger and turning his head to press a kiss to his mouth. “You’ll live, sweetheart.”
*
You strut back down the corridor towards your office after lunch, ducking your head and smiling politely at the people behind their computers. Some avoid you, some look… apprehensive. You swallow around a lump of anxiety, shrugging off the feeling until your assistant darts out from behind his desk. “Mr. Godfrey is in your, uh his office.”
You frown. “Is he now?”
“He said to tell you, uh…”
“What?”
“Well, he said, his words exactly were nice try sweetheart, but it’s Monday. I’m sorry.”
You know he added the sorry. Roman would have delivered that line with a teasing, mean smirk. “That it’s… oh.” Your stomach flips over. Two weeks up. “Thank you. I’ll… uh… I’ll go see what he wants.”
The assistant offers you a pained smile. “I get the feeling we might not… be seeing you around as much now that he’s back. And I just wanted to say that you’ve done more for this company in two weeks than Mr. Godfrey did in a year. And you’ll be missed. For what it’s worth.”
You swallow around a lump in your throat. “Thank you. It means a lot.”
“But please don’t tell him I said so.” The assistant’s eyes widen with fear, and you feel a pang of shared understanding as you nod and push open the door to his office.
“There she is,” Roman claps his hands together, and you grit your teeth at the sight of him lounging back in his chair like he owns the place before you remember that he does.
“Roman.”
“It didn’t feel good to wake up without you beside me this morning.” He says slowly. The words sound earnest, but the dark smirk on his face tells you he’s playing a game. “I expected you to lay out my suit and make my coffee.”
“I… we didn’t discuss a handover process, and I had a meeting with the people from the synth lab at ten.”
“You mean I had a meeting. My assistant woulda caught me up on the calendar, baby. He’s a dumb fuck but he can read a goddamn meeting invite.”
You grit your teeth. “He isn’t a dumb fuck. He went to Brown.”
Something dangerous flashes in Roman’s eyes as he pushes away from the desk and prowls towards you. “You two get all cozy talking about how much better you both are for going to fucking college?”
A muscle ticks in his jaw, and your nervous system kicks into overdrive as you reach for him. “It isn’t like that. I just mean… you could use him. He’s good.”
“Yeah?” Roman’s hands bracket your hips, fingers splaying over your skin and wrinkling the fabric of your dress. “You use him whilst I was slaving away over your laundry and your dinner at our house?”
“No, Roman.” You mumble, caressing your fingers against his cheek. “He read board papers. Helped with some minor decisions. I would never, you know it’s just you for me, I-“
“Shhh,” he coos, dipping his head to press a kiss to your forehead. “I know, baby. I know that.”
You sag against him, relief washing the anxiety from you for a brief, blissful moment before Roman’s fingers begin to walk down your hips and round to grope at your ass. “Roman, the windows.”
Roman flicks his eyes towards the glass walls of his office, and several pairs of eyes drop to desks. He smirks, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “Nobody’s looking.”
You swallow, fisting his shirt in your sweaty palms. “Lets talk at home. Please.”
He hums, bending his knees to crawl his fingers up under your tight dress and brush over the frilled elastic of your panties. “What’s the rush? You were so desperate to be here, weren’t you?”
You whimper as his fingers brush against your core through the thin fabric, your body flushing with arousal at his touch. “I just thought… you were still sleeping, and I didn’t know if you’d want to just… carry on for a while.”
Roman huffs a laugh, pushing you away enough to meet your eyes. The cruelty in his sends a bolt of confused arousal through you. “You thought I’d let you carry on running my company into the ground and make fuck-eyes at my assistant? The bet was two weeks. It’s been two weeks.”
“I… I’ve made improvements here. A-ask anyone, ask Pryce! Look at the forecasts for-“
You break off with a squeak as Roman’s fingers lace into your hair and he drags you towards his desk. He kicks his chair viciously and it rolls away, crashing into the back wall as he manhandles you onto the desk and pushes a hand onto your spine to keep you flat against the glass. “I don’t give a fuck,” he coos, free hand curling around the hem of your skirt and pushing it up over your ass. “You coulda increased profits by a million percent and I’d still drag you back home.”
His palm drops flat onto your ass with a smack and you yelp. “You wanna know why?” He leans in, his body pressing yours harder to the desk, and you feel his breath on your neck at the same time his stiff cock grinds against your ass. “You wanna know?”
“Y-yes, Roman.” You gasp, and Roman pulls away from you just enough to yank down his zipper and tug his cock out to rub over the slick fabric of your panties.
“Because you’re mine. I don’t want my assistant eye-fucking you, or the useless fucking cunts in R&D staring at your ass in these pencil skirts like you’re a free woman. You’re mine.”
You whine as he pushes your underwear to the side and presses the leaking head of his cock against your entrance. “Say it.”
You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry as you croak out the words. “I’m yours, Rom-ahhh,” your jaw goes slack as Roman pushes into you, giving you no time to adjust to the stretch of his size as he bottoms out and braces his hands on the desk either side of you.
“Yeah,” he huffs, pulling half out only to slam back in. “You’re mine. My little housewife.” He drops one hand to your hip, pinning you to the desk as he sets a brutal rhythm. “I gave you your two weeks, played your little game. Showed you how fucking easy you have it.”
You scoff even as your eyes roll back at the sharp pleasure-pain of his cock pummeling your insides. “Y-you messed up everything.”
Roman’s hand drops to your ass in a sharp slap before dragging you backward, closer to him so he can hold you firmly against his body and fuck up against your cervix. The sting brings tears to your eyes, and you sob into your fist as you’re dragged roughly back and forth on his cock. “Watch your fucking mouth.” He growls, leaning over you to wrap his fist around your hair and yank your head up. “Or I’ll take you out there and show them all how well their pretend CEO takes a cock.”
You whimper at the tight grip on your hair, squeezing around his cock as the new angle drives Roman’s tip against your g-spot with every thrust. Your eyes open, and you meet the wide-eyed, horrified stare of your assistant through the glass. He’s frozen in shock, sitting at his desk but with his hands static against his headset, like he’s not sure if he’s going to throw it off and come to your rescue.
You shake your head, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip as your husband’s thrusts become erratic and desperate. “Let him look.” He spits. “It’s the last time he’ll get to see you looking like this. Next time? You’ll be all fat and soft, growing my baby.”
You groan, nausea turning your stomach over as you feel him twitch and thicken inside you. “I didn’t lose the bet.”
“Yeah,” he chuckles breathlessly. “But you didn’t negotiate what happens if we both win.” You press your cheek to the cool, damp surface of the glass as Roman pins you harder. “No head for business, my pretty girl.”
You flutter your muscles around him as you feel his orgasm approaching, and Roman rewards you with his fingers as he reaches around your body to rub over your clit.
“Oh fuck, Roman,” you moan as he cums, his release painting your insides with heat as he lets out a beautiful, guttural groan. His fingers stop working against you, and you feel a pang of disappointment as he pulls out of you with a wet drag.
“Shit,” he huffs, tucking his softening cock away before easing you off the desk. His thumbs rub over the swollen lines on your hips where you’d been pressed to the edge of the desk, and he turns you around, peppering kisses over your cheeks, your forehead, your lips. “I can’t believe we just did that.”
You swallow, curling your fists in the front of his shirt and setting your rhythm to the steady thump of his heart beneath your knuckles. “We can try for a baby.”
He pulls away enough to look at you properly, and the hopeful half-smile on his full mouth sends butterflies kicking up into your stomach. “Really?”
“Any time you want.” You say, teasing one of the pearly buttons open and slipping your fingers against the warm skin over his heart. “Other than on my night off, of course.”
Roman chuckles, walking you back towards his chair and sitting with a huff, pulling you easily into his lap. You settle over his thighs, skirt still rolled up around your stomach and core messy with your arousal and the dripping of his cum as it leaks from the side of your underwear. “Of course,” he teases, working his hand between your legs and into your panties to rub his thumb against your clit. “At least until the baby comes.”
You do your best to ignore that as you focus on the tight, coiling pleasure in your core as Roman’s expert fingers unravel you. He knows exactly how to touch you, letting his fingers push inside you and curling them back precisely against your sensitive spot as his thumb works against you. “Roman, I’m gunna- your pants.”
He hums, leaning in to suck a bruise into your throat as he coaxes your orgasm out of you. “Do it, baby. Soak me. I want everybody to know how easy you cum for me. Just me.”
You whimper, hands still fisting in his shirt as your hips roll down against his hand. “I’m close,” you whisper, focusing on the gentle pressure of his fingers inside you and the rough, desperate grinding of his thumb against your clit as the coil in your stomach snaps and you feel the flood of your arousal soaking his hand, your underwear, his expensive fucking pants.
Roman lets you sit in his lap for a full five minutes, stroking his fingers up and down your spine and enjoying the way you press your tits against his chest as you squirm under the tickling touch. “Crazy to think we might have just made a baby. Conceiving the future CEO of Godfrey Industries on this fucking desk.”
You pull away from him, cupping his jaw. “We didn’t. I’m not… I don’t think I’m ovulating. I guess I’ll have to start tracking it.”
Roman wrinkles his nose. “That isn’t hot.”
“No.” You roll your eyes, leaning in to peck his lips. “But if we don’t track, it could take months. Years, even.”
“I prefer the blanket bombing approach.” He muses, splaying his warm palm on your bare thigh. “I’ll fuck you every single day. Can’t miss.”
*
You’re feeling hot and giddy, drunk on his attention as you step out of his office, but at the prickle of eyes on your skin you shrink. They know. They all know, or they will soon. You’ll be a whispered, scandalous anecdote at the water cooler before the end of the day, all your progress undone in a single hour. You tug on the hem of your dress as you walk down the long corridor away from his office, knowing he’s watching from his desk. You clench your cunt hard, but you feel the wet, slick drop as a trickle of cum seeps out of you and rolls down your bare thigh, soaking into the suede of your shoe. Tears sting in your eyes as you finally, mercifully reach the elevator, and you sag against the wall as the doors close.
You unlock your car, looking wistfully at the CEO placard on the front of the spot for the last time, when your phone buzzes. You already know who it is, and you glance up at his window where you know he’s watching even though he’s too high up for you to see him.
I love you. Lets practice again tonight.
Your heart hurts as you read over the words, but cum is drying sticky and uncomfortable on your thighs and the shame of the long walk from his office burns hot in your blood. You text back with a mean little smirk on your face and hit send before you can chicken out.
Not tonight, I’m taking my time off.
Roman’s three dots appear, disappear, appear, disappear. You press your thighs tight together in anticipation of the punishment you’ll receive later as you swing up into the cab of your SUV and head home to wait for your husband.
Okay sooooo the majority of you guys said you wanted the WIP list in advance, thank you so much for voting! It's reassuring to know I'm not being an annoying tease posting this, and it really does help keep me on track with writing them! I don't have a planned posting order, but I'll probably alternate a Roman with a non-Roman each week considering how many Roman ones there are. This should take us all the way to October...
Roman Godfrey x Reader - Hemlock Grove
Amnesia (Roman Godfrey x Reader)
Summary: Roman Godfrey is a bully. Roman Godfrey hates you. Roman Godfrey is the reason you dropped out of school and spent five years in therapy. Headlights, too bright, and a crash. You wake up in the hospital with your husband beside you, promising to take care of you with tears in his pretty green eyes. There’s something… off about him, about all of it, but you can’t put your finger on exactly what’s wrong.
Pretty in Pink (Roman Godfrey x Reader)
Summary: You’re excited to show Roman your new lingerie set when he gets home, certain it’ll cheer him up after a long day at the office. You’re very, very right.
VOYER (Roman Godfrey x Reader)
Summary: Being the new kid is hard, but it’s easier when you have a friend. You’re paired up with Peter Rumancek for everything, and you don’t mind one bit that whispers and stares follow him everywhere. That is until you draw the attention of Roman Godfrey and not only can you not shake him off, but you also can’t seem to get anybody to see how dangerous he is, either.
SOMNO (Roman Godfrey x Reader)
Summary: Roman’s had enough. Every time his eyes close and he’s almost asleep you talk or you sigh or you nudge him. He’s sick of your sleepy voice whining about how tired you are, like being his little trophy girlfriend is so goddamn tiring. But he loves you, and you’re cute and innocent when you’re drowsy, and Roman knows a sure-fire way to get you tired enough to sleep.
Trust is a two-way street (Roman Godfrey x Reader)
Summary: Cameras flash, champagne pops. It’s the happiest moment of your life, with Roman down on one knee in front of your entire family. Until your golden sister announces she’s pregnant with your new fiancés baby, that is.
Like Candy (Roman Godfrey x Reader)
Summary: Roman feels like a whore in church, sitting on your bed amongst your plushies. You literally bounce from place to place, showing him your sparkly headbands and your lip balm collection and your fucking cat, like the hissing fluffball in your arms is the pussy he came to see. Bending you over your little pink desk isn’t going to work, so Roman invites you to play a game instead.
Take me to Paris (Eric Draven x Reader x Roman Godfrey)
Summary: The final part to Three’s Company and A King Dethroned. It’s been a month since you and Eric had taught Roman Godfrey a lesson, and Eric hasn’t been able to stop thinking about you for a single moment. He knows it’s dumb, he knows it’s borderline suicidal in fact, but his stupid heart and stupider cock lead him right to your door anyway.
Crawling Inside (Roman Godfrey x Reader)
Summary: Roman Godfrey is your boyfriend. The bruises on your wrists never heal, the bitemarks on your chest blacken and multiply, and Roman holds your hand and kisses each one and tells you you’re beautiful. You wish you could sleep. You wish you could believe him.
Through the Trees (Roman Godfrey x Reader)
Summary: It isn’t a surprise that somebody wanted to kill Roman Godfrey. You’re more surprised that it had taken eighteen years for somebody to try. The problem is that when you try to sacrifice an Upir to the devil, the thing that crawls out of the forest is way, way worse than your run-of-the-mill bloodsucker. Based on Jennifers Body.
Twenty Minutes (Roman Godfrey x Reader)
Summary: After a bet goes wrong during a routine tutoring session you find yourself in Roman Godfrey’s bed. It’s all Roman’s wanted for months and he has twenty minutes to show you exactly how good it feels to take on the bad guy.
The Good Wife (Roman Godfrey x Reader)
Summary: Roman says being a housewife is easy. Roman says he’d love to switch places with you. Between burned lasagna and stained carpets, Roman will live to regret it.
Of the Flesh (Roman Godfrey x Reader)
Summary: You’re not like other girls. That might sound like a cliché, and yeah, usually it is. But even the terrifying Dr Pryce feels a chill when you’re in his lab, and people can’t look you in the eye in the street, and Roman Godfrey takes one look at your wrongness and says: “Dibs.”
Eric Draven x Reader - The Crow
Every Inch (Eric Draven x Reader)
Summary: It’s your first time, and you think your boyfriend might actually be more nervous than you. When he fixes you with his intense gaze and asks you what you think you might like, you don’t imagine he’ll be able fulfil your desires so thoroughly, but then again there’s nobody like Eric Draven.
Like a Bird from a Worm (Crow!Eric Draven x Reader x Roman Godfrey)
Summary: Good and Evil. Black and White. Things are simple for Eric since surrendering his freedom to serve the balance. You see things differently, and despite your status as a superhero, you’re still against the execution of criminals without due process. So when Roman Godfrey, CEO Billionaire of Godfrey Industries and rumored supervillain lands on The Crow’s radar, you can’t stop yourself from intervening.
Full Throttle (Eric Draven x Reader)
Summary: You’re tired. The club was too loud, but the tips weighing down your bag take the sting out of the headache building behind your eyes. You step into the silent street, look left, right, left before crossing… and you’re almost mowed down by a bike that had appeared from nowhere. You flip him off and the guy turns around, looping back to pull up alongside you. You’re about to cuss him out when he takes his helmet off and all thought is erased from your brain by how goddamn hot he is.
Willard Russell x Reader - The devil all the time
Possession is nine-tenths of the law (Willard Russell x Reader)
Summary: Willard Russell has a staring problem. Folks say it’s just because he came back different after the war, that he has a couple of screws loose these days. But there’s nothing loose in the way he watches you. When Willard makes it abundantly clear that he’s interested there isn’t a damn thing anybody can do to stop him, and you’re not sure you’d want them to, anyhow.
Don’t know what you got (til it’s gone) (Willard Russell x Reader)
Summary: Willard reluctantly agrees to marry a girl from his mother’s church because he’s sick of the way she hovers over him like he’s about to break. You’re pretty, and sweet in that innocent, homegrown way Willard’s never been able to understand. You drag him on dates, and he sullenly endures them. It shouldn’t be a surprise when you call off the engagement, but watching you walk away from him is the single worst moment of Willard Russell’s life.
A Whole Mess of Young’uns Willard Russell x Reader)
Summary: Willard is lying in the goddamn gutter when he meets the love of his life. He picks himself up, quits the bottle and becomes a man worthy of your affection. He’s ready to give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of – the house, the dog, and a whole mess of young’uns.
Insatiable (Willard Russell x Reader)
Summary: God was not with him in the Solomon Islands. God did not protect his friends from their deaths, but when Willard returns home and finds you soft and warm and waiting he knows that keeping you safe whilst he was gone is more than he could ever have hoped for. It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, waiting for his wedding night to have you in the only way that counts, but he does it. The problem is that once he’s tasted you, there’s no force on heaven or earth that can make him stop.
Simon x Reader - I rymden finns inga känslor
NSFW Alphabet with Simon
Summary: I don’t know how well this will work for Simon, but I got the request so I’ll give it a go and then probably add it to the NSFW Alphabet post where the rest of the boys are.
Overstim (Simon x Reader)
Simon hasn’t been able to stop thinking about you since you jerked him off with your hand over his mouth. He’s desperate for more, and he’s willing to submit to whatever evil plans you have in mind for just a little more of your attention.
The Boy x Reader - Boy Kills World
BOYTOY (Boy x Reader)
Summary: He’s cute. Muscular and sharp and feral, and he’s tied to your chair. Glaring up at you from pretty green eyes, every inch of him rippling with fury. There’s little point in beating him, this boy has known nothing but cruelty his whole life, if the rumors of the shaman are to be believed. You decide to take a considerably more… creative approach to torturing this touch-starved virgin.
Bill Skarsgård x Reader - RPF
Playing Footsie (Bill Skarsgård x Reader)
Summary: You hadn’t seen Bill Skarsgård in five years, so sitting down opposite him at the Chanel Tribeca Festival Artists Dinner comes as a bit of a fucking shock. Heads will roll tomorrow, but for tonight, you’re stuck trying your best to ignore him whilst Bill does everything he can to work you up.
Hopelessly Devoted (Priest!Bill Skarsgård x Reader)
Summary: There is safety in the cloth. Purpose in the collar. Purity in the prayer. Father Skarsgård does everything he can to stay away from temptation, to stay away from the pretty girl in the front row on Sundays. But then you turn up in his office with tears in your eyes and confession on your lips, and Father Skarsgård is just Bill underneath all that piety.
Mark x Reader - Assassination Nation
Mary, Mary (Mark x Reader)
Summary: Salem High School is a lot like all the other high schools you’ve been enrolled in, but Mark isn’t like all the other boys and you’re willing to do what it takes to get him to notice you.
Mickey x Reader - Villains
Patience is a Virtue (Mickey x Reader)
Summary: After Mickey almost screw up another heist by pulling his gun too early, you decide to teach him a lesson on the importance of patience. Mickey doesn’t like cock warming, not at all, but he has very little say in the matter once he’s tied to your bed.
Eddie Barrish x Reader - Locked
All Your Gold (Eddie Barrish x Reader)
Summary: Privilege. It’s a word that’s followed you since the day you were born, and it’s never bothered you. Until you meet Eddie Barrish and for the first time ever you see how privilege can be a dirty word.
please write something anything about mickey, keith, merkel or dane. the forgotten boys 🙏🙏🙏😭
Motivation (Dane x Reader) - Naked Singularity
Summary: Dane is the public defender on your brother’s case and he’s… less than attentive. So you track him down at a bar after work and make sure he’ll never forget your name or the rewards coming to him if your brother goes free.
Word Count: 4346
Warnings: NSFW, oral sex m!receiving, that’s kinda it for this one!
A/N: DANE! Writing for Dane has been so fun!
MDNI, fic under the cut
“I’m really fucked this time, sis.” Your little brother stares off into the distance, eyes red rimmed and set against deep shadows like he hasn’t slept in weeks.
“Not necessarily. Some of these charges are bullshit.”
He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. They’re gunna get me on the intent to distribute, sure as shit. Doesn’t matter that they kicked my ribs in first.”
Bile rises in your throat at the memory of your brother’s broken breaths as he fought for his life after taking a six on one beating downtown. The nausea only gets worse when you remember the awful phone call to your parents where you had to tell them he was in the hospital. The pause, the silence.
“Well, he’s only got himself to blame.”
“What?”
“We’re done, honey. He’s had plenty of chances to turn his life around. Dealing drugs and fighting with police officers? No. We’re not going to help him get out of it. Not this time.” Your father’s voice had been firm, even as your mother sobbed in the background.
They hadn’t come home, hadn’t cut their Hawaii vacation short even as their only son fought for his life in the ICU. And when it had come time for charges and lawyers and money, they’d closed the family purse strings and told you that it would have to be a public defender.
It was that public defender you were talking about now. Dane. “He might not be as bad as you think.”
“Worse.” He scoffs.
“Maybe you caught him on an off day.”
Your brother fixes you with a long look. “Word around here is this guy doesn’t have good days. Worst acquittal rate in the city.”
You close your eyes. “Shit.”
“Shit.” He agrees with a sigh. “But it isn’t on you. I don’t want you to worry about me, I’m not expecting you to fix this. Mom and dad were right about me.”
“No, they weren’t.” You shoot back quickly. “You made a mistake, Alex.”
He raises an eyebrow, and you roll your eyes at him through the glass. “Okay, a lot of mistakes. But family doesn’t turn their backs on each other. I’m here. Whatever happens, I’ll be here.”
You press your fingertips to the glass, and your brother twists his mouth to the side before joining his hand with yours against the cool barrier. “I know I’ve said it before, but I’m done for good this time. However this turns out, I’m getting clean. Flying straight or whatever.”
You smile at him, but you don’t let yourself believe it. Not really. Not when he’s said as much a dozen times before and never been able to follow through. It isn’t that he's a bad guy, not really. He's just the weaker of the two of you. You’d always been the one looking after him, that’s just how it had always been. That’s how it would always be.
*
You tug the front of your baggy hoodie down over your jeans as you shuffle from one converse-clad foot to the other, back and forth, back and forth whilst the receptionist watches you with a pained sympathy. “I’m sure he’ll be right down.”
You nod tightly, and her eyes lift to something over your shoulder. She mouths incoherent words, and you turn to see what she’s looking at right as the blur of a fitted grey suit jacket disappears around the corner.
“Was that him?”
The receptionist flushes red. “I’m sorry. I guess he’s not available.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I… this isn’t a social call. I need to talk to him about my brother.”
“I’m sorry.” She says again. “I can make you an appointment for another day, but-“
“But he’s no more likely to see me another day, is he?” You scoff. “That’s goddamn perfect.”
The woman frowns. “Look,” she leans in, dropping her voice an octave. “Dane’s kinda slimy, but there are ways to get his attention.”
You swallow. “Wearing something short and tight, I imagine?”
She curls her lip. “Yeah, that’d do it.”
“Make me the next available appointment, please.”
She winks at you as she pulls up his calendar. “He’s blocked out an hour tomorrow as ‘out of office’ but I know that’s just so he can take a nap so... I’ll just… poof. An hour has opened up at three, look at that.”
You grin at her as she hands you an appointment card. “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Oh hey, one more thing,” she calls to you. “He has a thing about ears.”
“Ears?” You repeat, because you must have misheard her. You must have.
“He’s like… into them. If you have nice ears, show them off.”
*
You feel like an idiot as you fix pretty gold studs in the shape of flowers to your lobes, but it is what it is. You look yourself up and down in the mirror, turning your body back and forth as you examine your short black skirt and the low cut of your blouse. Sleazy, and apparently exactly what Dane goes for.
The receptionist gives you a thumbs-up when you approach her desk, and she calls him on speakerphone.
“Your three ‘o’ clock is here.”
“I don’t have a three ‘o’ clock.” He grumbles.
“Yes you do, I put her in yesterday when you failed to appear for your four ‘o’ clock.” She lets that hang there, and Dane sighs heavily, crackling static on the line.
“I’ll be there in a couple of minutes. Hey, Jan?”
“Mmhmm?”
“Whatcha wearing?”
“Bye, Dane.” She hangs up, rolling her eyes at you. “That’s what you’re getting.”
You fiddle absently with the gold stud in your ear. “I can handle it.”
“Your brothers real lucky to have you,” she says, and you nod. He is, actually.
Dane is pissed. He’s cranky if he doesn’t get his afternoon nap, and he’s downright murderous if he doesn’t get to jerk off before curling up on the little leather couch in his office. Jan and her stupid fucking crusade for customer service has fucked both things up for him, and he’s thinking about getting blackout wasted tonight to make up for his shitty day when he reaches the foyer and sees… hello. Long, smooth legs. Little fucking skirt. Curves that won’t quit. You lift your hand, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, and Dane sees the little glint of gold against the shapely, soft flesh of your lobes. His cock twitches with interest, forgiving him the lack of attention at the prospect of receiving some from her instead.
“Janet,” he says brightly, marching into the foyer with squared shoulders and an air of practiced importance. “Thank you so much for rescheduling this important meeting after I was unavoidably detained yesterday.”
He steps around you, in front of you, and the breath catches in his throat as you fix him with an electric stare. Pretty, pretty, too fucking pretty. “Unavoidably detained,” you repeat, your voice low and teasing. “And here I thought you came down, took one look at me and walked out again.”
Dane feels his cheeks flush pink and his stomach flip over. “No. No, I would never. I was helping a client. Single mother of three, out on the streets… turning her life around, with my help of course.”
You raise an eyebrow. “How noble.”
Dane brushes his fingers through his carefully styled hair, mopping perspiration from his brow with the palm of his hand. “All in a days work for defenders of the downtrodden. Would you follow me to my office, ma’am?”
“Ma’am,” you repeat, your low, mocking tone morphing it into a dirty word. “Lead the way, sir.”
Dane lounges back in his chair on one side of the desk whist you gracefully fold yourself into the plastic chair opposite him. Your eyes scan the walls, the accolades and awards from a time when he hadn’t been so overworked and jaded, and a crease forms between your brows. “You’ve won some pretty high profile cases.”
Dane flushes with pride, eyes following yours to a framed article about the ‘not guilty’ verdict for a businessman who had 100% embezzled company funds to fuel his gambling habit. “From time to time.”
“My brother isn’t high profile.”
Dane frowns. “Your brother… right.” He pulls a file from the bottom of a discouragingly tall stack and cracks it open for the first time ever. “Huh. Okay.” He shuts the file again. “This is small stuff. Slap on the wrist, he probably won’t even do time.”
“Even if it’s his third offense?”
Dane’s brows furrow. “Third offense?”
“You think he’ll get off with a slap on the wrist even though it’s his third offense?”
“Well no, third offense and they’d throw the book at him.”
You uncross your legs, planting your feet and leaning forward. Dane’s eyes drop to your cleavage as you bend over, and you let him get a good eyeful. “You could have at least read his fucking file before I came in here.”
“I read it.” Dane’s voice is low and distracted, his cock thickening in his slacks as his eyes trail up over your collarbones, your unblemished, bare neck, and catch on those pretty gold studs in your ears again. “Just missed that part.”
You hum, leaning back in your seat again, and Dane shakes his head as though he can physically clear it of arousal. Your new angle pushes your legs a little apart, and Dane is pretty sure he catches a flash of red panties as you cross your legs again.
“I don’t want you missing things on Alex’s case.”
Dane straightens, running his fingers down the front of the closed file. “I promise I’ll take extra care with your brother from this point on. I swear it, on my Harvard Law Degree.”
Your eyes flick to the wall again, looking for said Harvard Law Degree, and Dane stands abruptly, drawing your attention back to him.
“I appreciate you taking the time.” You say tightly, holding out your hand.
Dane reaches across the desk, wrapping his long fingers around yours. “I will do everything I can for Andy.”
“Alex.” Your eyes narrow and your fingers tighten into a death-grip on his hand, and Dane winces.
“Alex, right, right. I’ll do everything I can.”
You leave then, taking your little skirt and your nice tits and your delicate little earlobes with you, and Dane waits until he’s absolutely sure you’re gone before sinking to his knees in front of the chair you’d just vacated and pressing his face against the padded plastic, inhaling the warm residual scent of you as his hands creeps down to palm himself through his slacks.
*
The dress you’re wearing is much too tight, and the heels on your feet are much too high. You look like a damn prostitute, but the bouncer on the door lets you in with an appreciative nod and you don’t have to pay a cover charge and two guys stop you on your way to the bar so you figure you’ve hit a winner with this particular look.
You scan the room, avoiding the predatory interest of men in suits until you land on a pair of wide green eyes in a flushed, pretty-boy face. Bingo.
You approach him slowly, with the carefully practiced grace you’d repeated over and over as you walked up and down in your apartment all afternoon. The too-high hooker heels wouldn’t help one bit if you fell over and tore your dress right across your ass. Dane licks his lips as you approach, eyes shining in the low light as his finger runs nervous circles through the perspiration his glass has left on the bar top.
“Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.” He says, and you tilt your head to the side.”
“Here’s looking at you, kid.” You shoot him with a finger gun, and Dane swallows thickly.
“I don’t believe in coincidences.” His smile is guarded, and you step into his space, taking his glass and lifting it to your own lips. You kiss the rim right over the smudge of his mouth before taking a sip, and Dane’s eyes drop to watch you do it.
“I’d be offended if you thought I put on this dress for anybody else.”
You feel his fingers glide against your hip tentatively. “I made an impression then.”
You hum, leaning in, pushing his glass to his mouth and pressing his bottom lip bloodless. “You got me distressed.”
Dane frowns, trying to move away from the insistent push of the glass against his face, but you keep the pressure on as your free hand slides up his inseam and cups his soft cock through his slacks. “Couldn’t remember my brother’s name with me standing right there.”
Dane swallows, eyes fluttering closed for a moment at the heat of your hand against him. You squeeze his package again and his eyes open, a muffled moan spilling against the glass at his mouth.
You pull it back an inch, and Dane licks over the swelling as blood floods back into his lip. “I have a lot of cases, it was a momentary slip, when I’m working with the client directly I-“
He breaks off with a grunt as you wrap your fist fully around his cock through his pants and jerk the growing length. “I don’t wanna hear that shit,” you coo, leaning in close to press your lips to his cheek. “You need help remembering this case? I can be…” you dip your head to nip lightly at his jugular before sucking the flesh into your mouth, your hand working over him through his slacks. “So, so memorable.”
Dane moans, hips lifting unconsciously against your palm as his hand grips your hip painfully. “Public… sex acts are considered a Class B misdemeanor under New York Penal Law...” Dane gasps as you lick up the side of his neck and suck his earlobe into your mouth, biting down on the soft flesh.
“P-puh-public lewdness.” He stammers. “It’s hard to prosecute but not-Impossible!” His voice pitches up as you flick your tongue against his lobe, and his cock leaks heavily into his boxers.
“Well if we get caught, you’ll get me off, won’t you Dane?” You murmur, pulling away from him to knock the rest of his drink back. You put his empty glass down in front of him and withdraw your hand from his now-hard cock. He strains against the confines of his pants and you bite your lip, feeling an unexpected throb of arousal in your own core at the tightness of the fabric over his erection and the flush of color on his face.
“It would be a conflict of interest to represent you if you got caught with your hands down my pants.” He says, the words coming automatically because he’s an idiot who might well be talking himself out of fucking you.
“Huh.” You say, lifting a hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. Your fingers brush against your bare lobes, pretty and soft as you rub your fingertips against them, and if Dane hadn’t had his suspicions before now he’s certain Jan tipped you off to that particular quirk of his. He’ll be pissed about it later, but right now he can’t think of anything besides sucking that pretty little piece of flesh into his mouth and giving you a new piercing under the grind of his teeth. “Guess we should try not to get caught then.”
Dane’s grip on your hip tightens and he tugs you against his body, free hand taking a handful of your ass as he pulls you closer. “I think you should come back to my apartment.”
You raise an eyebrow. “And I think you should meet me in the bathroom in five minutes.”
*
Dane’s legs actually shake as he slides off his stool and heads for the dingy bathrooms at the back of the bar. He’s still half-expecting that this is a setup, that you’re planning to seduce him so you can get him fired from your brother’s case or something, but he’s too fucking horny to care. He knocks on the door of the last stall and you open it just enough to tug him inside with his tie wrapped in your fist.
“Hey, look, we don’t have to-“
You cut him off with a press of your mouth to his, your tongue gliding against the seam of his lips as your hands work on the buckle of his belt.
Dane groans into your mouth, his hands lifting to cup your cheeks and hold your face still so he can deepen the kiss, licking into your mouth with careful, thoughtful strokes that make your knees weak.
You work harder at his pants, yanking down the zipper and reaching into his boxers to pull his cock free. The moment you have it in your hand you pull away from the kiss, dropping to your knees on the filthy floor and wrapping your lips around his leaking tip.
“Oh shit,” he squeaks, head thumping back against the tiled wall. “You’re not… m-messing around here.”
You hum against his length, letting drool spill out to drip down his length so you can jerk him into your waiting mouth as your tongue laves against his swollen tip. You trace his salty slit with the tip of your tongue, looking up at him through thick lashes before pressing a kiss to the head of his cock. “Say his name.”
It isn’t hot, but you need to get the fucking point across.
“Huh?”
You squeeze his base harshly, bringing your other hand up to cup his balls. “My brother. Say his name. Reassure me, Dane.”
He groans, hips pushing more of his cock into your mouth. You let your throat open for him, let the fat head of his cock push against the resistance of your tonsils, and his fingers lace into your hair. “Alex,” he moans. “Your brother’s name is Alex.”
You roll his balls gently in your palm, massaging them carefully, and Dane’s knees buckle. You pull off his length, dribbling a thin stream of spit onto the slick head of his cock. “You don’t have to pull my hair, Dane.”
“I-I’m not, I-“
“You can put your hands where you really want to.”
Dane freezes, his fingers already twitching down towards your ears. “Jan told you.”
“I don’t mind.” You say, pressing soft kisses to his tip. “I think it’s hot.”
It doesn’t matter that you don’t. Dane’s hands skim up the sides of your jaw, thumb and forefinger pinching your earlobes as he tugs lightly, and his cock drips fresh precum onto your fist. “You got sexy ears,” he mutters. His cock throbs and twitches in your hand as if agreeing. “Pretty little things.”
“You can be rough with me,” you coo, flattening your tongue against the underside of his cock and dragging it upwards along the thick vein there. “You can cum down my throat, if you want to.”
Dane huffs an incredulous laugh, but he keeps rolling your earlobes between his thumb and forefinger and watching you with a glazed, hungry expression as you wrap your lips around his cock and sink back down until he’s seated in your throat.
“God, you’re a good sister.” He babbles. “Taking cock on your knees to… motivate me.”
You hum against him, pleased that he’s cottoned on to your scheme so quickly and doesn’t seem to mind.
He tugs a little harder on your ears and your eyes roll back, a surprising jolt of arousal slicking in your core at the rough manhandling. You shimmy your thighs closer together, squeezing them tightly against your clit for a little friction.
“You take it so well,” he moans. “I don’t get paid enough to do what I do. But if the perks looked like this more often I’d… shit…” he breaks off, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip as he grinds his pelvis harshly into your face and his cock spurts hot and heavy ropes of cum down your throat.
You swallow around him, feeling your muscles spasm against the intrusion as Dane fucks your face through the aftershocks of his orgasm. He never stops fondling your fucking ears, and they’re red and swollen and sore by the time he lets you go.
You rise to a stand, wincing at the dull ache in your knees as you stretch your legs. Dane’s leaning heavily against the wall, not yet trusting his legs to hold him up as you tuck his cock away and smooth over the hem of your dress. “I expect you to keep my brother’s case in the forefront of your busy schedule, Dane.”
He can only nod, face flushed and heart hammering as he watches you smear his cum off your lips like residual gloss. “I really will do all I can for you. I mean, for him, but.”
You lick your lips before reaching up to peck his mouth. “Get him less than 90 days and I’ll let you fuck my mouth as many times as you want.”
Dane whimpers against your lips, feeling his sensitive cock twitch and thicken again.
You pull back enough to whisper against his mouth. “Get him community service and I’ll let you fuck my pussy.”
Your fingers graze lightly over his freshly growing bulge and Dane tries to withdraw his hips, too oversensitive to handle your touch so soon.
“And Dane,” you suck his bottom lip into your mouth, nibbling on the plush flesh before releasing it and licking the taste of him from your own lips. “You get him acquitted? You can fuck my mouth, my pussy, my ass… Anything you want.” You brush your mouth against his again as your fingers rub maddeningly against his pants. “Something to think about.”
You pull away too suddenly, and Dane feels the loss like you’ve slapped him. “I’ll do my goddamn best,” he mumbles, rubbing his hand through his hair and trying very hard to will his erection away. “The cops laid into him without cause, that’ll help. Said their bodycams malfunctioned but I already put in a FOIA request so we’ll see if that’s bullshit.”
You blink at him, your stomach tightening. “You… read the file.”
Dane shrugs like it’s no big deal, though he hasn’t actually taken interest in a case in longer than he can remember. “Your brother got shitty treatment. It’s that kinda injustice that got me into the public defenders office.”
You swallow, stepping closer. Dane winces preparing for another delicious assault on his softening cock, but instead you lift your palm to cup his cheek and press your lips to his in a gentle, chaste kiss. “Thank you, Dane. I mean it.”
Dane shrugs again, feeling his chest tighten and his pulse quicken at your soft, earnest touch. “Just doing my job,” he says quietly, but he leans his face against your palm and savours the moment of contact all the same.
*
You roll your eyes at the shoes scattered haphazardly across your hallway as you pick over them and reach the front door.
“Should I wait up?” Alex calls from the couch. He’s taken over your space, his bags and clothes exploded over your living areas. You pick your way back through the mess and hover in the doorway, watching the concentrated look on his face as he kills zombies or aliens or something. The thick black monitor on his ankle flashes rhythmically, and you tap your foot against the charger on the wall. “Don’t forget to change the batteries on that thing tonight.”
The sound of death and gunfire cuts off as your brother pauses his game. “You not coming home tonight?”
You shrug, but you can feel a blush creeping up your neck and you know Alex has clocked it too.
“I have some business to attend to.”
The business was waiting outside your building right now, gripping onto his rucksack like his life depended on it. The contents of said bag weighed on him, shame and excitement mixing into the perfect cocktail to keep him half-hard and manic as he waits for you.
Alex hadn’t done a single minute of jailtime, once the footage of his assault had come to light. No community service, and once the judge deemed the initial search unlawful, all the charges had just been… dropped.
And Dane had felt like a seedy, greedy asshole as he’d turned in the courtroom to catch your eye, but you’d winked and pressed your tongue to the inside of your cheek in a ridiculously sexy reminder of the evening you’d spent on your knees for him, and he’d been glad of the tight fit of his boxers concealing his erection as he’d distracted himself with paperwork and congratulatory handshakes.
You push through the door to your building, looking radiant in the pretty pink dress he’d picked out. He leans in and you peck his lips obediently, eyeing the bag slung over his shoulder. “What am I in for?”
Dane grins, a blush staining his cheeks as he offers you his arm. “You offered me everything, sweetheart. I’m cashing in big time.”
“Will I need to take time off work?” You tease, and Dane pauses, considering this.
“No. But I wouldn’t recommend any strenuous activity for at least forty-eight hours after I’m done with you.”
You swallow, arousal throbbing in your core. “Yeah?”
Dane stops walking, pinning you to the dark glass front of a closed store and cupping your jaw. “Anything I want, remember?” He says softly, brushing his lips against yours as his breath fans warm over your face. “Your mouth, your pussy, your ass. All mine.”
“My brother’s sleeping on my couch with an ankle monitor,” you mumble, breathless as Dane’s thigh presses between your legs.
“Yeah,” he coos, nuzzling his nose against your cheek before pulling back and taking your hand in his. “You’re welcome.”
Summary: Henry has been offered a spot for his art in the local gallery, he can't decide what piece to hand in, you help him.
Word count: 2227
A/N - I've been writing up all your wonderful requests, I just thought I'd post this while I continue perfecting the others, enjoy!
The town of Battlecreek had always been a quiet one. Away from the city, no high rise buildings or loud teenagers. Most of the people in this town were quiet, thoughtful and purposeful with their words. It had been a shock to your system when you moved, the silence mostly, the way the air filled your senses, natural and unbothered by the humans surrounding it.
The first few weeks had been a little difficult, everyone was so familiar with each other that you felt a little out of place. You often opted to go out at night, enjoying the fact you actually could, unlike in the city. It was during these nights that you met Henry. He was awkward to begin with, he wouldn't speak unless he was spoken to but something in your gut told you to keep persisting with him so you did. One night down at the creek you noticed a book in his bag you kept this information tucked away in your mind. You also liked to read, so when Henry was silent one night, you brought up books.
“I went to the bookstore today and grabbed some classics. Charles Dickens, Jane Austin and Thomas Hardy I always wanted to read more when I lived in the city, I just never had time” you didn't dare to look at Henry laying beside you in the grass. You didn't want him to feel nervous.
Henry swallowed thickly urging himself to build up a little courage and speak, he loved books. This should be easy, he thought. It didn't stop his palms from sweating and his breath from catching though.
“I read a lot, mostly poetry um sometimes the history of art and stuff. I really like Jane Austin”
You didn't push him anymore that night. You decided to give him time to open up. And over the next few months that's exactly what happened. Slowly but surely you were welcomed into the world of Henry Pearl. Where art and escapism ruled over everything.
The truth was Henry struggled with reality. Anyone who's lived knows reality sucks. Henry was no exception. The skin condition he was born with left him isolated and alone for practically his entire childhood, no school, no collage, no life during the day. He often felt like a creature. Maybe a vampire but no, he could never be so selfish and take someone else's life even by accident. He slept all day and was up all night, that's where the similarities ended.
By the age of 10 Henry had begun painting, houses mostly, houses that maybe the characters in his beloved books may have wanted. This became his routine, going down to the creek then spending his nights alone in his room, painting and reading. Hoping to escape the reality of his quiet existence with characters and stories that felt loud and distracting. Well that was until you came along and shook everything up. Now you were part of the routine, he looked for you and you always waited for him. He would walk you home and wait for you to wave out your bedroom window before he walked away with a smile on his face.
You soon became the inspiration for his paintings, he would find himself doodling your face or you laying in the grass while you read something he had recommended. He never showed them to you but he was proud of them. Proud to have something that was rooted in a happy reality.
After months of being persistent with Henry he did let you in. Into his home, his room. You would stay with him most of the night after your late shift at the diner. He would talk to you about what he had been reading, his love of history. It was magical to watch his face become animated as he did. He sometimes showed you his paintings, the ones of the houses and the English countryside. Henry seemed shy at the idea of talking about them. So you never pushed until you saw the perfect one.
“Henry, did you paint this? this is amazing” Henry watched your eyes sparkle as you held the canvas, his favourite piece actually. The Victorian cottage with a beautiful garden outside and a church spire delicately placed in the background with the sun shining faintly.
“Yeah I guess I did” he laughed a little wanting to change the subject but he knew he wanted to ask for your help with something.
A few weeks prior Henry had been contacted by the local gallery, they offered him a spot for his art if he wanted, everyone in town knew he painted. His mother had made sure of it. He accepted the spot but he didn't realise how hard it would be to choose just one of his creations to be shown to people. It was rare that he shared his art. He wanted to get it right.
“A-actually I wanted to ask you somethin’ If you don't mind” he rubbed the back of his neck. You could tell he was trying to open up, so you just nodded and let him take his time.
“I've been offered a spot for one of my art pieces at the little gallery down the street, I can't decide which one could you help- you know only if you have time I-”
“of course I will Henry, show me the ones you're considering” you sat on the edge of his bed, leaving space for the paintings. You watched as he grabbed 3 from his paint covered desk near the window. He didn't look at you when he put them down on the bed next to you, he was slightly afraid that you wouldn't like them.
You looked at each one carefully. You understood the weight of the trust he was putting in you. You had gotten to know Henry's body language and you could see he was tense. Avoiding eye contact, arms folded over his chest occasionally scratching the back of his neck just to keep his hands busy. Each painting was beautiful. Three different seasons based around the same view.
The third one caught and kept your attention the most though. The autumn leaves left untidy on the fading grass, the trees that looked like skeletons, the simple cottage house covered in a golden hue by the sun. It was like the view you'd always wished for when you lived in the city, the house you'd like to buy one day. You'd never told anyone that. That was a little secret you kept for yourself for when the world felt meaningless.
“I think this is the one Henry, it's stunning. I'm no artist but this one is perfect” you whispered while still looking at the painting.
“You think so? I thought they were all too repetitive or somethin” he started to settle again, his anxiety eased by the honesty in your voice. He was glad he hadn't misplaced his trust.
“I mean the passage of time is often an inspiration for artists, I love all of these but the Autumn one is special Henry”
“Thank you for sayin that, I don't really share my work” he started to move the paintings off the bed, putting them back on his old but well loved desk.
For the rest of that night neither of you talked about his art. You told him stories about the city you used to live in and Henry told you he was grateful to never have been to the city. It sounded like his worst nightmare. That night after you left, he began to work on a new art piece, the one he really wanted to hand into the gallery.
Over the next two weeks Henry hid the new painting from you, he felt a small pang of guilt over lying to you but he hoped you'd enjoy the surprise of his new work, maybe even proud of him for it.
You met Henry at the Gallery on Sunday night, wearing a cardigan just in case the weather changed. The gallery often stayed open late for Henry as they knew he couldn’t visit during the day. You felt excited to see his work on display, it wasn't something to take for granted and you knew this wasn't something he would usually do. you'd encouraged him, through your kind words and willingness to listen to his ideas. You spotted him immediately, leaning against the wall, holding the strap of his bag, carefully scanning the crowd for you, his face lit up when you approached.
“Hey you actually made it” he sounded surprised and it caught you a little off guard, did he really think you wouldn't come?
“Course I did, I wouldn't want to miss my favourite artist's first painting in a gallery” you walked past him to enter the building. But you didn't miss the blush that crept up to his cheeks. He quickly followed behind you, excited to see your reaction to the new work.
The gallery was quiet, like it always was. You’d been a few times but it was too quiet for your liking. You walked past other pieces seeing familiar names next to them, it was a sweet celebration of local creations. Now Henry was part of it. His A3 sized painting was hung on the wall next to the window, exactly where he had asked to be placed. When you stood in front of it, you didn’t immediately notice a difference until you looked at the fading grass where a person now lay reading.
You felt Henry’s presence next to you, nervously watching to see when the penny would drop. The person looked a lot like you, the same shoes digging into the ground, the book open but not too much to protect the spine. Even the clothes, it looked so much like you, then you saw the book the person was holding, charles dickens. Your favourite. You dropped your head and laughed a little in disbelief.
“Henry, is that me in the painting?” you looked at his innocent face, still trying to decipher if you liked it or not.
“Yeah I guess, just kinda happened the night I showed you the others” a beautifully genuine smile played on his lips as he looked at you then the painting. “So do you like it?” he asked nervously.
Nobody had ever done something as kind as this for you before. A few tears threatened to fall as you took in what he had done and the impact you’d clearly had on him. “I love it so much, it’s beautiful, thank you” you stared ahead trying to hide your tearful eyes from him.
“I just saw how much you liked the original, you seemed so connected to it, like you wanted to be in it or somethin, so I put you in it” his explanation made the tears spill. You stayed quiet but nodded.
“Are you sure you like it, you seem quiet” he looked at you properly then and saw the tears. “Oh I’m sorry Y/N I didn’t wanna upset you, I can swap it out for the original”
“No, don't you dare do that, I love it. you were right I did want to be in it, that’s why I’m crying, you didn’t upset me I swear” you assured him and he felt the odd feeling in his chest settle. “Good I’m glad, I’m kinda proud of this one”
You reached for his hand and held it tightly, neither of you regularly gave each other physician affection, but when you did it was always nice. He wrapped his hand around yours holding tightly. “You should be proud of it, all of it”
You both stayed a little longer, you admired the brush strokes, the colour choices, the way it seemed vibrant but fading rapidly all at the same time. Henry did his typical thing and walked you home, the silence was nice, easy and understanding. Before you could go inside, Henry reached into his bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“Here I want you to have this” you unfolded the paper to see a stretch. One of you where you were waving out your bedroom window. “Henry this is so sweet, I can’t keep this” He chose to ignore what you said.
“It’s the first time I ever drew you, after you told me you liked reading. You didn’t push me or rush me, you let me be myself, I realised how much I liked you that night”
“I always knew I liked you” you laughed and looked at him smiling too. He put his hands in his pocket diverting his gaze, worried about the answer you might give him to his next question.
“I uh, I wanted to ask if you’d go out with me maybe? Like just for a date or someth-”
“Yes, you tell me when and where and I’ll be there” there was no hesitation in your answer. There didn’t need to be. But Henry was relieved nevertheless. You planted a chaste kiss on his cheek and then went inside. You waved at your bedroom window, Henry waved back, then started drawing you again. He put the stretch through your letter box for you to find in the morning with the time and the place for the date.
Tagged by my lovely friend @sheree-says-stuff to answer some questions! Thank youuuu 🫂🤍
Questions for mutuals you want to get to know better
reading: Fahrenheit 451! I need to pick it up back again though.
last series: I’ve been watching All Creatures Great & Small lately and I’m absolutely in love with it! I highly recommend it, especially if you love the found family troupe, the countryside, and animals
last movie: Nouvelle Vague directed by Richard Linklater (His films are some of my favorites 😁)
last song: Getting In Tune by The Who
coffee or tea: Both. Both is good. There’s nothing like a good cup of tea though
working on: Not being too hard on myself and giving myself grace
Tagging: @ghostbrarian @cokesympathy @https-clem @morgleaf @softasadove @basiilforsale @spaceradars @boowilburybff and whoever else would like to do it!
reading: on the road but I'm kinda having a tough time with it so I need to commit. also god only knows, the brian wilson autobiography
last series: so me and @headlesskat were kinda watching this reality show called playing it straight together as a laugh... first the uk then the american version. it's really funny
last movie: some like it hot with @headlesskat
last song: hey joe by the byrds also coincidentally listened to with @headlesskat (don't question it)
coffee or tea: coffee!! I am a big fan of tea as well but coffee is definitely my comfort drink
working on: feeling more comfortable and able to be myself infront of other people
reading: closing time (joseph heller), hank & jim (scott eyman)
last series: he & she
last movie: rope (1948) if we dont count the fact im halfway through a citizen kane rewatch and my friend got me through like 20 minutes of phm before i went to sleep
last song: bleecker street (simon & garfunkel)
coffee or tea: tea all tje way with a butt ton of sugar and milk
reading: good question . i think i'm gonna start tipping point by malcolm gladwell soon , or their eyes were watching god by zora hurston ..
last series: the summer hikaru died :^)
last movie: project hail mary (ooooo i wonder who tried to make da big arlo watch it ..)
last song: i had to check but suburbia overture i believe .
coffee or tea: coffee with a lot of sugar and creamer
working on: ?? depends . might be my current oc oneshot . might be finishing a movie . might be drawing . might be brainstorming ideas for more poetry . don't ask me that shit ever again
Reading: Jury Town by Stephen Frey, The Stranger by Albert Camus, An Arsonists's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England, That's Not What Happened by Kody Keplinger, and Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir (It's weird for me to not read multiple books at a time, it feels unnatural)
Last series: I've been rewatching all of Dexter for probably the final time until at least a decade passes. I like the series but it's painful for me to watch so after I finish it I'm not touching it for years.
Last movie: Airplane!
Last song: Paralyzed by The Legendary Stardust Cowboy (You should listen to it, just saying)
Coffee or Tea: Neither. They both taste terrible to me, personally
Working On: Too many things, but I guess the one with most relevance is that I'm trying to learn a lot of historical things and read a lot of books before fall.
(I tagged almost all of my mutuals ‘cause I really wanna know more about y’all. DM me or sent me an ask if you don’t want to be tagged now and/or in the future)
Thank youuu @keysandthesea for the tag, I can't believe I make the fav blogs list?? Amazing! My answers are going to make it seem like I'm unhealthily obsessed with Bill Skarsgård (I am) so sorry about that, I'm just in a very Bill-ish place at the moment!
Reading: Rereading Hemlock Grove
Last series: Just finished a rewatch of Clark
Last movie: Naked Singularity (we see a pattern developing here)
Last song: SVEALAND - Lia Larsson
Coffee or tea: Coffee mainlined directly into my veins 1234 times a day
Working on: A oneshot for Dane (hence the Naked Singularity watch) and decorating the library in my new house
Tagging a couple of besties: @bryandanielson-yes @brightnessluvworld @starzgard @elyseesarchive @coryoslut @goosegreenwood
Thanks @thedevotchka for tagging me, now I'm stressed (I'm KIDDING. I just have no idea how Tumblr works, I basically use it for fanfiction, so I hope I don't mess anything up. But that's so sweet of you to want to know me better 🥹❤️)
reading: currently rereading "Verity" by Colleen Hoover, I loved it back then, and I'm curious how the movie adaptation will turn out. So basically remembering the details.
last series: "Off Campus". And I don't really get the hype around this show, because… I was just bored watching it? Like, it's great that it features healthy relationships, and I do like the characters, but the tropes are way too overused. Though, I should probably mention that I haven't read the book it's based on.
last movie: Ironically, "The Housemaid". I just watched it yesterday. Tragically, no Roman there. But it was still fun though.
last song: "There There" by Radiohead. Literally playing now.
coffee or tea: Tea. I'm not a coffee person, so I drink A LOT of tea. Black. Green. Herbal. ALL KINDS. I absolutely love tea.
working on: Post-World Cup recovery: trying to return to normal life and forget football exists for the next four years.
Omg, I've been contemplating on what to request lol (btw, I love reading your work. Truly amazing talent.)
I hope the request is not too much, but the core idea is this..
Roman uses a paid hotline service meant for emotional dumping. It is not therapy exactly but a private service people can choose when they want someone to talk to without real life consequences. The service assigns each paid user (Roman as the user) one specific person a week at a time, and then switches them to someone new when the week ends. If the paid user wants to keep the same person longer, they have to pay extra.
Roman has been using the service for over a year, always anonymously. He never gives his real name and never lets the calls become too personal in a direct way, but he keeps coming back for the "venting without the consequences" behind it.
Then one day, the reader is the new voice assigned to him.
The story would eventually lead to them meeting in real life, but the slow build should come from the hotline conversations first, with the reader slowly realizing that Roman may not be as anonymous or as distant as he claims to be. Since Roman has already crossed into something more obsessive.
:D
tystnar i luren (Roman Godfrey x Reader)
Summary: Roman’s been calling the hotline for over a year. He doesn’t know why he does it really, seeing as he has to change so many details to avoid the listener figuring out who he is. But he does find it cathartic to be able to vent without any real life consequences. Until he’s assigned a new voice, your voice, and Roman feels every word and every exhale like you’re speaking directly into his bloodstream. It’s no problem at all to find out who you are, where you live, where you go. You don’t mind talking to the boy on the phone until you realize that he may not be as anonymous or as distant as he claims to be.
Word Count: 13,154
Warnings: NSFW, masturbation, stalking, murder, slight gore, non-con, oral sex, PiV sex, blasphemy? DEAD DOVE, for the love of GOD DO NOT EAT.
Hey @derrylov3 I’m sorry if I took this in a direction you weren’t expecting, but thank you so much for the great prompt and your patience whilst I worked on it. I hope you like this mess of a fic anyway <3
MDNI, fic under the cut
Roman spins an elastic band on the tip of his finger absently, listening to the grating voice through his phone speaker with growing irritation. The guy is full of shit, but Roman isn’t in a hurry to hang up. It isn’t like he has anything better to do, anyway.
“And I think, you know, you should speak to somebody about these impulses.”
Roman hums. “I’m speaking to you, aren’t I?”
The man sighs. “The service isn’t a replacement for actual therapy, Sir.”
“Sir.” Roman repeats. “How old do you think I am?”
“We’re not supposed to speculate. And I certainly can’t ask. This is an anonymous call, it’s all set out in our guide on the website. I’d be happy to send you a link to-“
“I’ve read the goddamn manifesto.” Roman drawls. “I don’t need therapy. I’m not interested in being psychoanalysed.”
“Alright.” The man sighs again. “So what do you want to talk about?”
Roman chews the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Brooke Bluebell.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line, and Roman wonders if he’s gone too far before he’s even gotten started.
“Did you know her?” The man’s voice is strained, and Roman feels a prickle on the back of his neck.
“Did you?”
“She went to my school.”
Roman sits up, licking over his lips as his attention fixes on the call. “They found her in Hemlock Grove. What was she doing there?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t know her know her. Did you… do you want to talk about how it made you feel? We’ve had a lot of calls about her.”
Roman scoffs. “No, I don’t feel any type of way about it. And I didn’t know her or anything. I live in the city.”
“Alright then. What do you wanna talk about?”
“How she died.”
Roman hears the hitching of the man’s breath on the other side of the call, and his shoulders sag.
“I’m not comfortable discussing that, sir.”
Roman doesn’t bother to carry on the call. He hangs up, throwing his phone onto the bed and flopping down onto his back. There were only two days until he’d be assigned another operator. He could wait two days.
*
You tap your fingers against the rim of your coffee cup and lean back in your chair. Jacob’s eyes appear over the top of the partition dividing your cubicles, and he wiggles his eyebrows. “You’re on graveyard?”
You shrug. “Pays better.”
Jacob stands up, hooking his messenger bag over his head. “Sure, but you get all the weirdos. Heavy breathing, masturbators. Not sure the time and a half is worth it.”
“Go enjoy your freedom, Jay.”
Jacob salutes you, turning on his heel and making for the doors as you boot up your computer and fix your headset on.
A call connects within a minute, and you relax back into your seat. “Good evening, you’re through to the JUST TALK hotline. How are you doing?”
“I like your voice.”
You cover your microphone and sigh before scanning over your script. “Thank you, sir. What do you want to talk about?”
“What are you wearing?”
“That isn’t what this is about, sir. I’m here for you to talk about whatever you-“
“Whatever I want, right? That’s what I’m paying… uh, three dollars a minute for. You can lie to me if you want, I don’t care.”
“Okay.” You huff. You were so fucking sick of the perverts, clogging up the line and preventing you from reaching people who actually needed to use the service for venting their emotional problems. “I’m wearing thigh-high boots and a thong.”
The man chuckles. “Kinky.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
The man sighs. “I’m not like, a pervert or anything.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he teases. “It’s late. Aren’t you tired?”
“No.” You lied, picking up your coffee and taking a sip.
The man exhales loudly. “I’m tired.”
You sit up straighter, eyes flicking over your script. “Just can’t sleep, or?”
“Or.” He repeats. “I should sleep. But I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” There’s a pause, and you’re about to feed him one of the prompts from your screen when he continues. “I’m scared of what I’ll see when I close my eyes.”
Roman swallows hard, sucking the inside of his cheek against his teeth until he winces. That was a little bit too close to the truth, and his heart hammers against his ribs with the thrill of it.
“You get nightmares?” Your voice is soft, sweet. Melodic in a way that tickles against his skin like a caress.
“Doesn’t everybody?”
There’s silence for a long time, like you’re considering this instead of reading from a script, and Roman feels anticipation as he waits for your response.
“I suppose.” You say carefully. “Though usually the risk isn’t enough to stop people from wanting to sleep.”
Roman’ breath catches in his throat. “The risk. Right.”
He doesn’t say anything else, and you skim read through the script for the ‘filling pauses’ section. “Have you considered… a bedtime routine?”
Roman huffs a laugh. He doesn’t have a deep voice exactly, but it’s melodic and there’s a rough edge to it that sends a little flutter through your stomach. “Like I’m six?”
“No. I mean, well maybe. Just a routine. Drink something warm, dim the lights. Maybe take a bath.”
“Sounds nice,” Roman hums. “You thinking about me naked now?”
You scoff. “I don’t know what you look like, remember? And anyway, no.”
“No?” Roman feels the smile splitting across his face. It makes his cheeks hurt. He doesn’t smile much these days, or at least not genuinely. “What are you thinking about then?”
“I’m not the one paying three dollars a minute.”
“No, but I wanna know.” Roman does. He’s genuinely interested in the soft, sweet voice on the other side of the phone. You’re charming, and you don’t make him feel like he’s talking to a robot.
“What do you dream about?”
Roman licks over his lips, a million violent images flashing through his mind. “You wanna know all the gory details?”
“If you want to share them.”
“The last guy told me off.”
You tsk. “Well I won’t. You can tell me anything.”
Roman chuckles, the sound dark and low and shooting right through you. “I dream about people dying.”
“People you know? Loved ones?”
Roman thinks about that. “Loved ones.” He repeats. He thinks about his mother, his sister, his cousin. He thinks about their faces covered in blood, terror in their eyes, and his cock twitches. “Sometimes, I guess.”
“I think that’s normal.”
Roman bites back a smile as his hand wanders over the front of his loose pajama pants. Would you still think it’s normal if you knew how hard he’d gotten thinking about his mom being eviscerated? Probably fucking not.
“You think I’m normal?”
“There are worse things to be called.”
Roman hums, fingers slipping beneath his waistband to trail against his stiffening length. “Yeah? Like what?”
You hear it – the change in his breathing. The little hitch, the shallow in and out. You know the sound. You don’t work the graveyard shift at any phoneline open to the public and not get to know the sound of someone jerking off. You could hang up, report him. You’d be given to somebody else and this creep would get a warning, or a ban if he’s a repeat offender. But he hasn’t said anything creepy yet, and you’re invested in the conversation a little too much.
“You want me to call you names?” You let your own voice drop an octave, and the man on the other end of the phone sighs.
“Yeah.”
“Like… if I told you that having dreams about your loved ones dying is decidedly not normal? That it makes you a freak?”
The man makes a choked little sound, so close to a moan that your own breath hitches in your throat. “Yeah, I’m a freak.”
“That violent thoughts, even unconsciously, often lead to violent impulses… violent actions. That you might be dangerous.”
The man groans then, and you lick your lips. Your mouth feels impossibly dry, and your eyes dart side to side with paranoia that someone is listening. You know the calls are recorded, and that you’re so far off script now that you’d be fired if somebody heard you. If the caller reported you… but he isn’t going to.
“I think about them all cut up.” He whispers, and if you strain through the rough static of his breathing you can almost hear the slap of skin on skin as he touches himself. “I think about being the one holding the knife.”
“Sick.” You hiss, pressing your own thighs together. “You’re a sicko. A pervert. A freak.”
Roman cums with a whimper, shooting white over his fist and staining the soft satin of his sheets. “I am.” He gasps, smearing his release against the leg of his pajama pants before running his palm back through his hair. “That was… against the rules.” He huffs a laugh.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Roman pulls the phone away from his ear to stare at the screen for a moment. He wishes he knew what you looked like, especially right now. Because there’s no way in hell you hadn’t clocked what he was doing, and you hadn’t ended the call. You’d played along. “Right. Well, thanks. I feel better.”
“I bet you do.”
Roman feels a fresh bolt of heat run through his stomach and straight into his cock at the loaded, teasing tone. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Goodnight.”
*
The cafeteria is too fucking loud. People are still crying over Brooke Bluebell like she hadn’t been worm food for the better part of a month. It was all performative bullshit and Roman is in no mood to entertain another round of deifying the little slut. So he thumbs his smokes from his jacket and pushes on the fire exit to eat lunch in his car alone.
He’d been using JUST TALK for over a year, since the number had been handed out in one of his classes after a kid he didn’t know had died of cancer. Roman had rolled his eyes, but something about the concept had gotten under his skin. Being a GODFREY in a small town built by Godfreys meant anonymity was unattainable. Everywhere he went his own name was whispered back to him. Everything he did was reported back to his mother in one way or another. Roman had been suffocating under the weight of his own name since the moment he was born. Talking anonymously, in a space where he literally couldn’t give his name? Well, that was a hell of a concept, wasn’t it?
Not all of the operators had been good, and it was pretty annoying to have to wait a week before switching to another one when he really couldn’t get something going, but it was also kinda nice to have the routine of calling the same person for a couple of days. They always remembered what he’d said, and some of them even asked questions.
And it wasn’t that Roman liked to lie, it’s just that it was fun. It was fun to be this guy or that guy, to have problems he’d seen on TV shows. It was a little like roleplay, and Roman really liked roleplay in certain specific, clothing-optional situations.
He’d been a teen with a freshly pregnant, under-aged girlfriend. He’d been a homeless runaway, living on the railroads. He’d been a heroin addict on the verge of turning tricks. That one had been so fun he’d kept it up for three straight weeks, slowly horrifying the operators with his tales of debauchery and abuse.
Roman strokes his thumb over the blank screen on his phone. He shouldn’t call. He has the same timeslot every night. There’s no reason at all to suspect you’d be working. But he wants to hear your voice. He hits speed dial 3 and waits for the usual options, before selecting to continue his call from the previous day.
There’s silence, and then a ringing. Roman holds his breath, sandwich forgotten on his dashboard as his entire being hones into the sound of the ringing.
“You’re early.” Your voice, your voice slips through the receiver and Roman eases back against his seat, melting into the leather as his whole nervous system relaxes.
“I’m still gunna call tonight.”
“Double dipping.”
Roman laughs. “If you wanna call it that.”
“So what’s up?”
Roman hesitates. The words are on the tip of his tongue, the real words. “I’m on lunch. Bored.”
You roll your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “Rough day at the office?”
“Something like that. Dealing with other people’s bullshit is exhausting.”
You laugh then, and Roman feels a little giddy. “Preaching to the choir. Not that I mind.”
“I exhaust you, huh?”
You chew your lip for a moment, eyes flicking up as your supervisor walks past your cubicle. “Not at all, sir. I’m here to listen.”
Roman bristles. “Sir. Should I call you ma’am?”
“You can call me whatever you like.” You wince as soon as the words leave your mouth, knowing how they sound.
Roman feels his face flushing, and he tilts his rear-view mirror down to watch the spread of blood under his skin. “You called me a lot of names last night.”
“You asked me to.” Your face tingles with the embarrassment of remembering it. With the shame of what you did after, when you came on your own fingers in the shower before bed thinking about the breathy little sounds he’d made when you called him a freak.
“You always do what you’re told?” Roman feels his cock stirring to life again. He’s not about to jerk off in the middle of the day on school grounds, but his cock doesn’t seem to know that. He’s developing a pavlovian response to the sound of your voice after just two phone calls. It’s pathetic. He’s pretty sure he’s addicted.
“When I’m on the clock.” You drum your fingers against the desk. “All our calls are recorded you know.”
“I know.”
“You could get banned for… certain behaviors.”
Roman scoffs. “You could get fired for encouraging them.”
And you want to disagree with him, but he isn’t wrong. “How did you sleep last night?”
Roman sighs. “Like shit.”
“You take that bath?”
“No.” He shifts in his seat, relaxing against the headrest. “I had a dream though.”
“You wanna tell me about it?”
“No.” He sighs. “There’s this girl. Who died, near where I live.”
“In the dream?”
“In real life.” Roman swallows thickly, digging his nails into his thigh. “But I dreamed that I killed her. I gutted her like a deer and I ate her heart right out of her chest.”
“Sounds like a nightmare.”
“Didn’t feel like one.” Roman exhales shakily. “Woke up so hard I couldn’t think straight.”
You don’t need to ask him what he means. “Despite what I said last night… you can’t control your dreams. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Roman hums. “I wasn’t sad when she died. I knew her, but I wasn’t sad.”
“Death is complicated. Everybody handles it differently.”
“I went to the place where she it happened. Sat on the ground in the middle of the night. There was still blood in the dirt.”
You don’t dare even breathe.
“Laid there looking up at the sky, thinking about how it was the last thing she ever saw as that monster ripped out her insides. Thought about how much it must have hurt, how scared she must have been, and you know what?”
“What?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but Roman doesn’t think it’s out of disgust. It sounds more like… reverence.
“I liked it.” Roman’s voice drops to a whisper too, matching yours.
“It…” you swallow as your throat catches. “It turned you on.”
“I really am a freak, aren’t I?” Roman mumbles.
You feel like all the air is being sucked out of your lungs and into the speaker. “There are worse things to be called.”
*
Everybody chatters around him as the final bell rings, talking excitedly about weekend plans and parties and whatever the fuck else they’ve got going on for the next two days.
“Why so blue?” Letha asks, falling into step beside her cousin as he trudges for the parking lot. “It’s Friday, didn’t you get the memo?”
Roman did. Friday meant the end of the week, of his week. It meant the end of his late night conversations with you, and Roman was so, so not ready for them to end. Not when he felt so entirely seen for the first time in his goddamn life.
“Are you going to Ashley Valentines party tonight?” Letha tries again.
“No.”
“You never come out anymore.” Letha’s voice is a little whiny, and Roman bites back a bitchy retort that she’d definitely make him regret.
“I just don’t feel like it Leth, alright? Drop it.”
Letha does, and she stops walking as Roman pushes out of the building, dropping him in the process. Roman pretends it doesn’t matter at all as he climbs into the driver’s seat of his jag and peels out of the lot.
“Hey, psycho,” your voice teases out of the receiver, and Roman feels the easy, automatic grin spreading over his face as he drops onto his bed. His pajama pants are already pulled half down, cock twitching against the strip of elastic at the sound of your voice. “How’s it going?”
Roman shrugs before remembering you can’t fucking see him. “It’s Friday.”
“Right. You wanna tell me about your weekend plans?”
Roman scowls down at the phone. Why is everybody treating the weekend like it’s some big special deal all of a sudden? Rubbing his face in the thing he’s about to lose. “It’s… I’ll get switched to somebody else tomorrow.”
“Oh.” The air leaks out of you like a cut balloon. “How does that… make you feel?”
Roman scoffs. “Quite frankly like shit.”
“Okay.” Your stomach flutters at his open admission. “Because you feel you’ve been able to open up to me?”
Roman makes a non-committal sound. “You’re easy to talk to. You aren’t trying to police me.”
“Well I’m glad you’ve been… satisfied with my services.” The implication is clear and you let it hang there.
Roman runs his fingers over the soft skin of his shaft, but his cock doesn’t so much as stir. He’s too fucking sad to jerk off, actually. “More than.” He says quietly. “I don’t want to stop talking.”
You chew your bottom lip for a moment, considering your options before resorting to the scripted response to client attachment like a goddamn coward. “The next operator will be perfectly qualified to discuss your concerns with you. I can leave notes on your file so you don’t have to explain everything again, and-“
“I don’t wanna stop talking to you.” His certainty bolts through you like electricity, and you press your knuckles against your mouth to suppress a sound that would be far from professional.
“The 7 day limit is in place to stop attachments from-“
“Stop reading from your fucking script.” Roman sucks in a breath. “Please.”
You spin in your office chair, fixing your gaze on a pushpin in the cushioned wall of your cubicle instead. “You’re not supposed to want to talk to a specific person. It isn’t about me.”
“Yeah, well.” Roman huffs. “We haven’t exactly been following all the rules of engagement, have we?”
“No, but the system will allocate you a new operator tomorrow. There isn’t anything-“
“You could give me your number. Your real number.”
Roman feels the silence stretching between you like a million tiny needles prickling over his skin.
“No.”
He actually, physically flinches at the word, even though your tone remains soft and even. It’s devastating, and Roman is almost dizzy with how relieved he is that you said no. Because as much as he doesn’t want to lose you, he isn’t at all ready for you to know who he is.
“But… you can extend your time with me. It’s on the website.” Your voice is strained, and Roman doesn’t stop to think about why as he puts the call on speaker and pulls up the JUSTTALK website.
“Holy shit.”
“It costs two bucks more.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the cost. I can just… request to keep you?”
You flush at his words. “It isn’t recommended.”
“But I can do it?” Roman’s thumb hovers over the request button.
“You can do it.”
*
Roman would have paid double, triple. He’d have paid whatever it cost, and when he calls Saturday night and you pick up with your usual biting greeting, he almost sobs with relief.
“Risky,” he teases. “What if my request hadn’t gone through and you just called a brand new user a psycho?”
You laugh. “I knew it was you. You might not have a name in the system, but you have a user ID.”
“Oh yeah? What’s mine?”
“197768.”
Roman hums. “So that’s what you moan when you’re touching yourself at night?”
You scoff, but your cheeks heat and a throb of arousal pulses between your legs. “Sure. And you’re moaning ‘Ohhh yeah, JUSTTALK operator who calls me a pervert, fuck me.” You put on an exaggerated moaning voice, and even though you laugh afterwards Roman is fucking floored. His cock is twitching to life, and he doesn’t even attempt to resist the impulse as he reaches into his pants and wraps a loose fist around himself.
“I mean, you’re not far off.” He mutters, jerking himself slowly, fingers teasing around the swelling head of his cock.
“I’m flattered.”
“Most girls would be freaked out. By a lot of stuff.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t need him to. “I’m not most girls.”
Roman huffs a laugh, rubbing his thumb viciously against his leaking slit until he winces. “No you most certainly are not. And thank fuck for that.”
You hear the change in the pattern of his breathing, and you wriggle in your seat. “What do you want to talk about?”
Roman makes a little sound in the back of his throat. “Another girl died.”
“In your dream or…”
“Both,” he spits, releasing his cock to dribble saliva onto his palm before returning to the slow, teasing squeezes up and down his length. “Same as before, some kind of animal. And then I’m the animal.”
“Right.” You whisper. “And it feels… you feel…”
“So fucking good,” he moans, picking up the pace. “I pry her ribs open with my bare hands and it’s so hot and wet and fucking tight.”
You press your thighs together, shaking your head like you can clear the dark, sinful thoughts invading your own mind. “Your hands are your hands? Not… claws or anything?”
Roman scoffs. “No. My hands. It’s me. I’m ripping her apart, all that blood running down my arms. She’s still alive, but she isn’t screaming.”
“No?”
“No-oh,” Roman groans. “She’s moaning. She’s moaning like she’s getting fucked.”
“Oh.” You listen as his breathing becomes erratic, deep inhales and shaky exhales with the ghost of a whine in the undertones.
“Tell me it’s bad,” he whimpers. “Tell me I’m bad.”
You swallow thickly. “These thoughts are… they’re dangerous. They’re deviant.”
“Yeah,” he whispers.
“You should be disgusted with yourself.” Your fingers wander between your legs, pressing your palm harshly against the crotch of your jeans just for the barest relief from the awful, pulsing waves of your arousal. “I-I’m disgusted by you.”
“Yeah?” Roman groans. “You think I’m ugly?”
You pause, debating how far you’re going to let this go, but then he whimpers. “You’re ugly. You’re an ugly person. You’re thinking about a dead girl and you’re jerking off while you do it. You’re a freak.”
Roman cums with a strangled moan, squeezing his release harshly out to splash against his bedsheets before falling back onto the mattress. “Fuck.”
You suck in a deep breath, pushing it slowly out through your mouth. “You feel better?”
Roman huffs a laugh. “You sound tired.”
You hum. “It’s been a long day. I was on dayshift.”
Roman frowns. “It’s past ten. Isn’t this like, against labor laws or some shit?”
You twist your mouth to the side, considering how much to tell him. You don’t want him to read anything into it. “I stayed late.”
“Why?” Roman knows, he knows but he wants you to say it. Wants the words to sing through him in your voice.
“I wanted to talk to you, and you always call at nine forty-five.”
Roman’s heart flutters in his chest like it’s trying to escape, and he runs his hand through his hair, feeling flustered and nervous even though you can’t see him.
He imagines you sitting in your little cubicle, legs pressed together delicately as you worry the sleeves of your sweatshirt. Imagines you biting your lips until they’re ruddy. “Well, I won’t say I’m not glad for it. But I think you’ve earned your time off.”
“I know,” you sigh. “There’s a coffee place right near where I work that stays open really late and I think I’ll get a milkshake to reward myself.”
Roman smiles at the thought of it. “What’s your flavor?”
You hum. “Usually I’m straight up strawberry, but I feel like a twist tonight. Maybe something chocolate.”
“I’m so happy you’re not a vanilla girl.” He teases, and you laugh. “You should get going. Lombardos closes at ten-thirty.”
“Alright. Goodnight, psycho.”
He hangs up, and you’re halfway to the exit when you finally register what he said.
Roman pulls up your Instagram page, settling under his sheets and flicking through your latest post. You’d attended a concert with some friends over the weekend, and he’s a little hurt that you hadn’t told him about it. But then again, you never told him anything about yourself, and he had to remind himself that he wasn’t supposed to know, either.
You look happy in the pictures, grinning easily at the camera and wrapping your arms around your friends, and Roman caresses his thumb over a close up picture of your face with a smudge of sunscreen on your cheek. He could almost swipe it off, that’s how fucking real you look. Your face is momentarily obscured by a heart and Roman wonders whether he’s somehow manifesting his arousal through sheer will when he realizes.
He unlikes the picture with shaking fingers before throwing his phone across his bedroom and burying his face against his pillow with a frustrated scream.
*
Roman shuts himself in the bathroom and pulls his phone from his jeans. He’s three minutes late, and he feels the urgency in his bloodstream as he hits speed dial and drums his fingers against the edge of the bathtub.
“I thought maybe you’d forgotten about me.” You say, and Roman feels the tension relax from his shoulders.
“Never. There was a line for the bathroom.”
“Don’t tell me you called me from the toilet.”
“Alright, I won’t.”
“Please.”
“No.” He laughs. “I’m at a party. I’m in the bathroom but I’m not like, using the bathroom. Just wanted some privacy.”
“You know you can just not call if you’re busy. You don’t get charged for missing a day.”
Roman scoffs like you’ve said something stupid, because you have. “Like you wouldn’t cry yourself to sleep if I stood you up.”
It’s your turn to scoff, but your face heats with a pleasant warmth at his teasing. “What do you want to talk about?”
Roman hums. “I’m not in a position to… do what I usually do. So I wanna talk about you.”
You swallow. “That isn’t allowed.”
“You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to.”
“Alright.” You stick your finger through the fraying hole on the sleeve of your sweater. “Ask me.”
“Why do you work at the hotline?”
“Money is okay, and I like talking to people.”
“You work a lot.”
“Not a lot a lot. But sure. I have bills.”
“How old are you?” Roman already knows this, but he wants to see if you’ll lie.
“Old enough to have student loans.”
Roman grins at himself in the mirror like an idiot. “Psych major?”
“Lit.”
Roman knows this too, could pull up your fucking diploma on his phone right now if he wanted to. Your professors had praised your ‘fresh, unique tone’ and Roman agrees with them. Your tone gets him hard every single day, after all.
“You ever had a client pay for more time?”
You pause, and Roman holds his breath. He doesn’t know how he’ll feel if you say yes. “No.”
“Does it bother you that I’m still yours?”
You close your eyes, this conversation feeling much too intimate for the bleak strip lighting of your office and the low buzz of hollow chatter on all sides. “No.”
Roman swallows. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Do you think about me outside of work?” Roman’s voice shakes a little with how badly he wants the answer to be yes.
“I don’t even know what you look like.” Your voice is barely there, and Roman presses the phone so close to his ear that he hears the screen creak in protest.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?” He demands.
“Yeah. I think about you outside of work.”
Roman sucks in a breath, his heart somersaulting up into his throat where he has to choke to force it back down. “I think about-“
“Roman there are other people out here!” Someone shouts from outside, banging on the door. Roman flinches, smothering the speaker with the palm of his hand.
“Gimme five goddamn seconds!” He shouts before lifting the phone to his ear again. “I gotta go.”
You don’t respond as he hangs up. The name reverberates around your skull. Logan. His name was Logan.
*
“No charge,” Ritchie says, holding his hand up when you pull your card from your purse.
“What?”
“Your drink is paid for.” You look around, following his eyes to the man sitting at a table by the window. He lifts his fingers in a little wiggle before burying his nose in his book.
“Weird.”
“I think it’s like a pay-it-forward thing. You could pay for the lady behind you.”
“Oh.” You consider this.
“She ordered a white mocha. Same price as your shake.”
“Oh. Alright.” You shrug, tapping your card on the machine and moving to the pick-up counter to wait for your drink. Ritchie leaves the register to deliver your drink personally with a wink. “The guy is staring at you by the way. Has been pretty much the whole time.”
You glance round, but his face is still obscured by his book. “Sure he has.”
Ritchie shrugs. “I’m just saying. He’s cute. And his card was all black. One of those premium accounts. He’s probably loaded.”
You roll your eyes. “I don’t need a sugar daddy. And besides, he looks younger than me. It’s probably his parents money.”
Ritchie shrugs again. “I wouldn’t kick him out of bed is all.”
“You wouldn’t kick Donald Trump out of bed.”
He grips his chest. “That’s crossing a line, bitch.”
You wince. “I know. I knew it as I said it. I’m sorry for putting that image in your head.”
“I’ll forgive you if you go thank the hot boytoy for buying your drink.”
“I’m not that sorry.”
“C’mon. My cable got cut off, I’m dying for entertainment.”
“No way. He’ll probably think I’m a total freak, and he’s reading. I don’t wanna disturb him.”
“I’ll slip you an extra shot of espresso whenever you work the morning shift.”
You sigh, thinking about the sweet, sweet rush of caffeine that free boost will give you. “Fine.”
You approach the table slowly, your feet trudging like a condemned woman on her way to the gallows. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but the barista mentioned that you paid for my drink and I just wanted to say-“
The man drops his book, and the words die on your tongue. Piercing green eyes bore into you, and his full, pretty mouth quirks into a playful smirk. He’s hot. He is ridiculously, tongue-tyingly hot. “Don’t mention it.”
You feel a blush creeping across your face as your stomach flips over. This is pathetic. You’ve never had such a visceral experience to just talking with a guy before. Well, except for…
“It was really nice of you, that’s all. So thanks. I’ll let you get back to your book.”
You turn, and you freeze at the feeling of his fingers wrapping around your wrist. Big hands, the backs of them littered with raised veins. Long fingers pressing against the point of your pulse until you’re lightheaded.
“Why don’t you join me?”
“I have to get to work.”
Roman’s smile tightens. He knows you don’t start until noon today. You have hours, and there’s a laptop in your tote bag. You come to this coffee shop three mornings a week to work on a screenplay you’ve been writing for over a year. But he can’t know that, and you cant know that he knows that, so he forces his fingers to release you instead of pulling you into his lap like he wants to. “Suit yourself.”
You step away, your legs wobbling like your bones are dissolving under the weight of his unblinking stare. Hungry. That’s what he looks like, with those enormous eyes in his angular face. He looks hungry. The butterflies flittering uneasily in your stomach seem to ignite under his gaze, and you rush for the exit without looking back.
Roman’s sitting in the parking lot outside the JUST TALK offices when he calls you. You’re only thirty minutes into your shift, but he’d skipped school to see you in person this morning and he doesn’t have anything better to do until four, so he calls you.
“It’s been a while since you’ve called so early.”
“Yeah, well.” Roman’s surprised by the agitation in his own voice at hearing your light-hearted teasing. You’d been so cold and squirmy this morning, and it pissed him off. Hadn’t you felt it? The connection between the two of you, the obvious, aching tension? Because Roman had. He’d felt it the moment you’d stepped into the coffee shop behind him. He’d felt your pulse under his own skin for every agonizing second, but you’d walked away from him like he was a stranger. And it pissed him off.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
There’s silence as you try to think of what to say. He’s never called in a mood like this before, and you find yourself flicking back through the fucking script to figure out a way to snap him out of it.
“Has something happened? We can talk about it.”
Roman huffs. “There’s this girl.”
Your stomach twists uncomfortably. You don’t want to hear about a girl. You remember the voice through his speaker at the party, and you wonder if she’s the girl, and you hate her.
“And you’ve had… something’s happened with her?”
“No.” Roman’s tone is clipped, annoyed. “She totally fucking aired me.”
“Oh.” You feel relief and guilt wash through you, one after the other after the other. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You’re sorry. Yeah.” Roman rolls his eyes, though you can’t see it. “I mean, what does a guy have to do, right?”
“Right.”
“Like, look. I get girls, okay? It’s never been like, a problem for me.”
“No, I wouldn’t think so.”
“No.” Roman agrees, shifting in his seat and drumming his fingers against his steering wheel in agitation. “Not to like… I’ve never had a girlfriend or anything.”
You blink. “Then what do you-“
“Fucking.” He says. “I’ve fucked a lot of girls. A lot.”
You swallow thickly, hating the way your clit throbs in response. “Okay.”
“But this girl is… different.” He sighs heavily, and you feel that awful gnawing jealousy again.
“What makes her different?”
“She sees me. Like, who I am. On the inside.”
“Like how… I do?”
His breath hitches, and you listen to the silence with your heart in your throat. “Yeah. She sees the ugly parts.”
“And… she doesn’t want you?”
Roman leans forward, pressing his forehead harshly into the stretched leather of the steering wheel between his fists. “I thought maybe she did.”
“So what changed? If she’d given you indication that she did like you, why would she change her mind?”
Roman considers this. Nothing had changed, really. He called you every night, he revealed every violent, despicable thing he wanted to do, and you listened. You let him. And here you were, still fucking listening.
“It’s my face.”
“Your face.”
“She… doesn’t like the way I look. She likes talking to me, but she doesn’t like the way I look. Like I can fucking do anything about that.”
You shake your head, brows furrowing. It almost sounds like he’s talking about… but he can’t be. You don’t have a damned clue what he looks like. You’d considered trying to find him, but knowing his name was Logan and that he lived somewhere in Pennsylvania was less than nothing to go on.
“I find that hard to believe. I think you might have to just suck it up and confront her.”
Roman scoffs. “Oh yeah, that’ll fucking help.”
“It would provide some clarity.” You argue. “Sometimes you have to be brave, right?”
“Oh right, like you’d know anything about it.” He scoffs. “Been working on that fucking thing for a year and it’s never left your goddamn drafts.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I have to go. I’ll call tomorrow, don’t stay late today because I’m not calling back.”
He hangs up, and you feel the absurd sting of tears in your eyes as you wait for your next call to connect.
*
It isn’t the same guy. It can’t be. But his eyes are impossible to forget. They seem to glow in the neon lights of the club, fixed on you as you dance with a girlfriend. There’s too much alcohol in your bloodstream, and the music thumps through your veins as you sway in time with the beat.
“Do you see that guy by the bar?” You ask your friend. “Don’t make it obvious.”
She swings her head dramatically, and you roll your eyes as she fixes on the man. “Oh, shit. Yeah.”
“He’s looking over here, right?”
“He’s looking at you.”
“I thought so. I think I’ve seen him before.”
“Yeah?” Mary tilts her head to the side, assessing him, and the man’s mouth splits into a smirk visible all the way across the club floor. “He looks… off.”
He chooses that moment to push away from the bar and move closer, seamlessly slipping through the packed mass of bodies until he’s standing right in front of you.
“Hi.”His voice is low, the teasing smirk still plastered on his full mouth. Pretty. Predatory.
“Hi.” You manage.
“Can I buy you a drink? Just you.”
You swallow, feeling a fluttering of unease in your stomach. “I’m with a friend.”
“I’m sure she’ll survive without you.”
“Actually, no.” Mary grabs your arm, yanking you half behind her. “She isn’t interested. Fuck off before I call security.”
Roman feels the rage wash over him in a cool, impenetrable wave as you’re dragged away from him. You shoot him a look, something tense on your face, but you don’t pull away from your bitch fucking friend. You don’t come back to him, and the rage soaks into his bones with a deadly, precise inevitability.
He’s smoking, leaning against the wall of the club as people spill out. He watches you get into a cab, watches you wave frantically out of the window as your friend laughs on the sidewalk. You’re drunk. You’re blackout drunk, and the urge to get in his car and follow you home is almost overwhelming. But then your friend pulls out her phone, and he sees her smug bitch face lit by the screen, and the rage rattles his bones with such force he jerks away from the wall and stomps towards her on mechanical legs.
“You all alone?” Her head shoots up, her face tensing as she takes him in.
“I’m waiting for my Uber.”
“It isn’t safe out here for a pretty girl to be on her own.”
She looks again, her expression guarded but curious as she rakes her eyes over him. Roman wonders if his mask is in place, the pretty, disarming boy mask. Her mouth lifts into a suggestive smile, and his shoulders relax. “I thought you were interested in my friend.”
Roman shakes his head. “Just following girl code. Gotta get with your friends, right?”
She rolls her eyes, but she takes a half-step forward. Roman smells alcohol on her breath as her fingers slip into the front of his jacket to caress against the hard planes of his chest, and she hums appreciatively. “If you wanna be my lover.”
Roman doesn’t have to force the smirk. He doesn’t have to force himself to get hard either, his cock is jumping to attention at the thought of all the things he’s going to do to this stuck-up fucking bitch. “My lucky night I guess.”
*
The sound of the connection in your headset splits through your skull, and you suppress a whimper as the first call of the evening connects. It’s almost impossible, listening to the woman sob in a high-pitched voice about her husband leaving her when you’re nursing the worst hangover of your life. But you force yourself to keep going, to focus, to say the right things, and eventually the headache begins to ease.
You see his number flash up on your screen and accept the call almost too eagerly. “Thank God.”
The man chuckles. “You missed me?”
“It’s been a long night.”
Roman hums his agreement as his fingers wander absently up and down the exposed flesh beside him. “You’re on the late shift.”
“Yeah. I needed it, too. I went out last night. Like properly.”
“Oh yeah? How was it?”
“It was fine. My friend really wanted to try this club in the city. Not really my thing, but I had fun. I got drunk.”
Roman laughs. “I bet you did.” There’s silence for a beat. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want to talk about?”
There’s an edge to his voice, and you straighten in your seat. “Right! Right, sorry. What do you want to talk about tonight?”
“I saw the girl again. You know, the girl.”
“I see. How did it go?”
Roman scoffs. “Worse than last time.”
“I’m sorry. I… do you think maybe it’s time to let this one go?”
“No fuckin way.” Roman’s shaking his head even though you can’t see it. “I’m just getting started.”
You don’t know why his words send a shiver down your spine, or why you enjoy it. “What will you do next, then?”
“I fucked her friend last night.”
You suck in a breath. “Oh. How was it?”
Roman hums, eyes raking over the body in bed beside him as he runs his finger down her bare spine. “Clarifying.”
“Clarifying?” You repeat, your mouth feeling thick and dry, like its stuffed with cottonwool. Jealousy. You’re jealous again. Jesus Christ.
“I learned something about myself with her.”
“What’s that?”
He hums, his fingers dipping below the line of the sheet to slick through the ruin of her ass. His nails trace the edge of a bitemark, the perfect, incriminating indent of his teeth, and he sighs. “I’m not just a freak.”
“No?” Your voice is breathy, and Roman feels his cock stir at the sound of it combined with the feeling of blood and viscera coating his fingers.
“No.” He repeats softly. “I’m a monster.”
*
You’re woken from a dead sleep early on Sunday morning, and you answer in sheer confusion at the unknown number flashing up on your screen. Mary never made it home from the club, and her roommate calls you because apparently you may well have been the last person to see her. Guilt churns like nausea in your guts as you recall climbing into a cab and not fighting her when she said she’s wait for an Uber. She lived on the other side of town, and in your drunken state it had made sense. You hadn’t thought about the danger of it.
“Do you have any idea what might have happened to her?”
“No. I… she was fine when I left.”
“When you left her alone outside a club in a bad part of town. Jesus.” The roommate spits. You chew your bottom lip into your mouth and don’t bother to defend yourself, because she’s right.
You wander into work on autopilot, sitting at your desk and staring blankly at the screen until Jacob pops his head up. “You okay?”
“My friend is missing. We went out in the city on Friday night and she never made it home.”
“Fuck.” Jacob walks around the partition, leaning on the shared wall and fixing you with a look of genuine concern. “Should you be here? You should go home.”
“No, I need to be here. He’ll-“ You break off, your face flushing, and Jacob shoots you a knowing look.
“Your mystery man. He’s stuck with you for almost a month. Never happened in company history you know. Big bosses will cut him off soon.”
You nod mechanically. “We’ve built… a rapport.”
“You know the conversation isn’t supposed to go both ways. You’re not supposed to get attached to the users.”
“I know.” You sigh. “I know. I’ll end it soon. He’s just… I’ve been helping him. It feels good to help.” You’re pretty sure you’ve just helped him get sicker, but there’s no point telling Jacob that. He wouldn’t understand, not when you barely understood it yourself.
His call comes at exactly nine forty five. “Hey.”
Roman can feel the difference in just the single word. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Sure.” He scoffs. “You sound… different.”
“I’m just having… a bad day. Sorry. What do you want to talk about?”
Roman wants to ask you about your bad day. But he doesn’t. He can’t. It’ll get him fucking hard, and you sound too sad to be into it tonight.
“I had a fight with my mom today.” You blink. He’s never mentioned his mother before, except in passing.
“What happened?”
“She chewed me out over the fucking trash.”
“Alright.” You settle more comfortably into your seat. “Walk me through it.”
Roman is pleased to go through the motions, because you sound a little more like yourself as he talks. “I was taking the trash out. But apparently there’s some rule about the recycling, right? So you can’t mix shit up and you gotta wash the gunk out of things or some shit.”
You picture him, the blurry, man-shaped thing you see when you think about your mysterious Logan, squabbling over colored trash bags and you smile.
Roman remembers the sharp slap of his mothers fingers against his cheek and the bite of her nails in his flesh as she scratched her displeasure into his face. He’d gotten blood on the carpet. He’d dumped dismembered body parts in the household waste, when all corpses had to go through Pryce at the White Tower. He’d made a fucking mess and Olivia had been pissed she had to clean it up. Beyond pissed, actually.
“Did you make up?”
Roman hums, considering. He’d curled up on the floor at her feet and pressed his bruising cheek to her knee, and Olivia had caressed her fingers through his hair, singing a low, melodic song in a language he couldn’t understand. “In our way.”
“What about the girl? Any updates on that front? Did she find out you’d… been with her friend?”
Roman chuckles. “Not yet. I think it’ll… motivate her to chase me down.”
“I’m not sure it works like that.”
“No? Enlighten me.” Roman stretches out on his bed, nuzzling his nose against the dry blood stiffening his sheets. The girl really had screamed like a stuck pig when he’d gutted her. He’d been so hard, but with all her blubbering he hadn’t wanted to fuck her, like at all. So he’d coated his cock in her blood and jerked off as she died, and he’d thought about you. About how you’d look on your knees, licking all that mess off his cock and begging him to do you next.
“Girl code.” You say, and Roman freezes at the memory of using those exact words on your bitch friend before he’d taken her home and cut her open. “If you slept with my friend? You’d be dead to me.”
Roman feels a chill run through him. An actual, dread-laced chill. “You can’t mean that.”
“I completely mean that.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Roman’s hand shakes as he pulls the phone away from his face and presses his knuckles against his teeth. How had he fucked up this badly? Why hadn’t he run his plan past Letha or one of the other girls at school? How had he fucked up this badly?
“Well, shit. I guess I shouldn’t tell her then.”
“The friend will.”
On this, Roman feels certain he has the upper hand. “Well, then I’ll deal with it.”
“You seem awfully calm about it.”
Roman shrugs. “I’m Zen, baby.”
You flush at the pet name. “That’s good. I feel like you weren’t… Zen a few weeks ago when we first started talking.”
Roman glances up at the tentative knock on his door, face dropping into a scowl as Anna shuffles in with an armful of clean linens. “Mrs Godfrey says I must change the sheets.”
“I have to go.” He doesn’t wait for you to say goodbye before he hangs up.
“I don’t want them changed.”
“Please Master Godfrey.” She sounds exasperated. “Mrs Godfrey says there’s a smell.”
Roman knows there’s a smell. It isn’t just blood matted into his sheets, it’s bile and piss and all the disgusting, beautiful things he’d pulled out of the girl. He isn’t ready to part with any of it. “You can tell her that it’s none of her goddamn business what I do. This is my house. My sheets. My fucking rules. Now get the fuck out of here before I have you fired.”
Anna’s face crumples, her withered hands fisting the sheets as she spins on her heel and flees from the room. Roman doesn’t feel bad about it, Anna’s been a cunt as long as he’s known her. He does regret hanging up on you, but he decides he’s going to make you laugh tomorrow. He wants to hear that pretty sound again, just for him. He wants you to tell him he’s disgusting so he can cum all over the corpse-mess on his bed. Then maybe he’ll let the old bitch change his sheets.
*
“Good evening, you’re through to the JUST TALK hotline. How are you doing?”
Roman freezes. He’s pretty sure his heart actually stops at the unfamiliar voice on the other end of the phone. “Who are you?”
“I’m not at liberty to disclose my name, sir. I’m here for you, to talk about anything you might be thinking about or feeling.”
“No, I know that. Where’s… my usual operator.”
“Oh.” There’s some clicking as the guy mumbles under his breath. “Looks like she’s out sick, sir.”
“Sick.” Roman repeats the word, and it tastes wrong in his mouth. “How sick?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m paying a premium rate to talk just to her.”
“Oh. I can get the extra refunded to you sir, that’s not a problem.”
“I don’t want a refund, I wanna talk to my goddamn operator.”
“I…” he stammers. “I’m sure she’ll be back soon.”
“Soon isn’t now you fucking moron.” He spits.
“Sir, if you continue to use abusive language I will end the call.”
“You continue to call me sir and I’ll end you, you worthless piece of-“
Three short beeps cut him off as the operator terminates the call, and Roman launches his phone across the room with a frustrated growl. Where the fuck were you? Where the fuck were you?
Roman pulls up your socials, all of them. He pulls up your friends, your family, your co-workers. He pulls up the CCTV camera in the lobby of your building. He pulls up the employee sign-in record at JUSTTALK. He scans through every single piece of information he can find, searching for a glimpse of you in the grainy footage, but you’re nowhere. He’s restless, furious, panicked in a way that frightens him, and he’s throwing on his jeans and stomping out to his car before he can even really think about it.
The drive into the city doesn’t take long, and Roman parks outside your building. He counts windows until he finds yours. He’s been here before, of course. Sat out here with a thermos of coffee and watched your shadow flit around behind the curtains. There’s no sign of movement now, but your light is on. The soft, yellow glow of your bedside lamp. You’re in, and you’re awake. Are you sick? Are you sick of him?
Roman can’t stop himself now. He wouldn’t, even if he possessed the self-restraint needed to think rationally. He’d never denied himself a single thing, nobody ever had, and he wasn’t about to start. You belonged to him. You’d belonged to him since the first time you’d picked up his call and coaxed his darkness out of him. “The demons don’t go back in the box,” he mutters to himself as he pushes open the door to your building. No lock, no security. Any fucking weirdo coulda walked in, anytime.
Roman grits his teeth on the elevator ride up. “Can’t just close that fuckin lid, Pandora,” he spits, and the elderly woman in the back of the elevator presses herself further against the wall like his madness is catching.
Roman stomps out at your floor, pacing to the end of the dingy hall and knocking on your door. There’s shuffling inside and then you open it. You don’t have a spyhole, and you don’t have the chain on. Any fucking weirdo coulda walked in, anytime. Roman shoves against the door, wrapping an arm around your waist and hauling you further into the apartment as he kicks the door closed behind him. You scream, and he takes pleasure, great fucking pleasure in clapping his palm over your mouth and feeling the hot press of your lips against his skin. “Shut up.”
Your eyes narrow, arms and legs thrashing and clawing and kicking at him, but Roman pins you against his body. He doesn’t even feel it, really. He’s too overwhelmed with the sensation of holding you. He’d imagined it a hundred times, and you’d only been struggling like this in some of his darker fantasies. But it was always you, and his cock twitches thickly in his pants as you wriggle against him. “Shut up,” he says again.
He doesn’t need directions to you bedroom. He pulls you inside and closes the door, depositing you on the bed and climbing on top of you with his knees either side of you on the mattress. “If I take my hand away, will you scream?”
You shake your head no, and Roman sort-of doesn’t believe you but he’s been missing the sound of your voice all goddamn day, so he lets you go.
You open your mouth, and close it again. You know him. The guy from the bar. The guy from the coffee shop. Those green eyes sparkle in the low light of your bedroom, and something sick and slow pulses through you. “I know you.”
The man grins, his full lips splitting open at the corners in a smile that’s a little too wide to be reassuring. “And I know you.”
“You were at the club the other night.”
Roman rolls his eyes. “Lets not play this game.”
You suck your lower lip against your teeth, and Roman dips his head to press his own mouth to yours. You freeze at the feeling of his plush lips as his tongue licks against your teeth. He slides one hand into your hair, tugging your head back to give him better access as he settles his weight on your thighs, and you gasp at the feeling of his hard cock pressing against your stomach.
The man groans, licking into your mouth with a hot, curling pressure that sends a bolt of pleasure through you. You aren’t supposed to like this. You can’t like it.
You try to pull back, but he won’t let you. His tongue pushes into your throat, choking you and you whimper into his mouth before sucking his tongue firmly against your teeth and biting down. Your stomach rolls over at the give as you sink into the meat of it and blood fills your mouth.
The man moans throatily, dropping over you and pinning your back to the bed as he settles more firmly between your legs and grinds against your panties. You’re wearing just those and a vest, and you wish you’d opted for fleece pajamas even as your clit throbs at the friction of his jeans against you.
He pulls away from the kiss, mouth streaked with blood and glistening with saliva, and he winks. He winks, rutting his hips against yours. Fury rushes in, drowning out the lust and the panic, and you gather a wet lump of saliva in your mouth and spit right into his face.
He freezes, blinking through the film of stringy spit and his own blood as the taste of you drips into his mouth. “Freak.” He mutters before diving back in, parting your lips so he can push his ragged, bitten tongue into your mouth again. His free hand travels down between your bodies, pushing your underwear aside so he can press two long fingers into you.
You’re unprepared for the stretch and it burns, but he curls his fingers expertly as he massages your sensitive walls and you flutter your muscles around the digits. “There you go,” he coos against your mouth. “Knew you wanted it.”
You whimper, the sound a desperate declaration of how much your body does want it and a desperate plea of how much you don’t. “Please don’t.” You hate that you said please. You hate that you don’t mean it.
“We’ve had this dance coming since the beginning,” he whispers back, thumb stretching up to rub rough little circles against your clit as he continues to curl and drag his fingers in and out of you. “I’m giving you what we both want.”
You close your eyes as tears stream down your face, pooling at your temples. The man groans, and you feel his tongue trace over the salty streak on the side of your face. He pulls his fingers out of you, and you watch in horrified fascination as he sucks them into his mouth, his green eyes darkening as his pupils expand. “Why me?”
The man leans back, fingers deftly undoing his jeans and pushing them down. He drops over you again, brushing the leaking head of his cock through your folds, rubbing your clit with his sensitive slit before positioning himself at your entrance. You feel the stretch, and you brace for the jolt of pain that comes with his first, long thrust.
He bottoms out with a low moan, feeling your muscles stretch around his considerable length. “Shit.”
“Shit,” you whisper, blinking through the pain to hone in on the deep, throbbing pressure as he fills you.
“Why you?” He asks, chuckling like it’s funny. “Why you?”
He pulls half out and pushes back in, the drag of every ridge and vein on his cock caressing against your walls with the slow in and out rhythm of his thrusts. “Like it could be anyone else.”
You squeeze around him, and his jaw goes slack. You take the moment of distraction to reach up, palm splaying open as you slap him as hard as you can. His head cracks to the side, cheek pinking immediately with an imprint of your fingers. He freezes for a moment, before a savage grin splits his face. “Oh, sweetheart.” He coos, wrapping his own hand around your throat and squeezing until your vision explodes in a dazzling display of purples and blacks. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
He doesn’t fuck you gently after that. His hips slam against you over and over, his rhythm an unforgiving, brutal pace. His cock batters against your cervix with every thrust, sending bolts of pain through you as you clench and unclench around him. You gasp for air, and he licks into your mouth again, tasting the fear and the want and the ragged, stolen whispers of breath leaking out of you.
“Tell me how much you like it.” He spits, releasing your throat.
You cough, sucking in mouthfuls of air that taste like his blood. “I… I like it.”
He grunts, and you feel his cock twitching inside you as his orgasm nears.
“Tell me I’m a freak. Tell me I’m disgusting.”
A sob bubbles past your lips instead. “You… can’t… be.”
“Tell me I’m ugly,” he moans, dipping his head to nuzzle the tip of his nose against your jaw.
“No, no, no,” you whimper, shaking your head until his face is little more than a blur of pinkish flesh and green flashes. “You can’t be…. No, no, no.”
“Tell me I’m ugly,” he whimpers. “Tell me you hate me.”
You open and close your mouth, willing it to say the words he wants to hear so this can be over.
“I k- I killed her,” he stammers, reaching down to rub against your clit.
Your eyes roll back as your stomach turns over. “Noooo,” you wail.
“I fucking tore her guts out. Your bitchy fucking friend.”
You sob, your clit pulsing under the expert attention of his fingers as he shifts his hips, driving his cock against your most sensitive spot with every thrust.
“She cried for you when she died,” he moans. “Begged me not to- shitttt,” you feel the hot pulses as he comes inside you, spilling white hot deeper than anyone had ever been before. His thumb is a slick blur against you as he steals your release, your body arching off the bed as you shudder and cry through every blissful, awful wave of it.
Roman watches this, drinks in the sight greedily as he commits it to memory. You look so pretty when you cum. He’d known you would, lips parted in a gasp, eyes wet and wild and full of terror. Your cunt pulses around his softening cock and he winces as he withdraws from your heat.
He leans up to press a kiss to your forehead, thumb still rubbing over your clit as you jerk away from the overstimulation.
“Please,” you whisper.
Roman hums, dragging his wet fingers up your torso and pressing them to your throat. “Clarifying.”
“What are you… oh. Oh no.”
Roman chuckles, bringing his fingers to your lips and tracing the shape of the word no. “I’m a monster.”
You don’t want to believe him. You don’t want to believe that any of this is happening, even as the dull ache between your legs and the slick drying on your thighs scream the truth at you. Mary’s body, or at least part of it, had been found in a municipal waste truck in Hemlock County, a clear twenty miles from where she’d last been seen. She’d been dismembered, disemboweled, and whilst you didn’t know the details, her roommate had been sure to inform you that she’d been in such bad shape the police wouldn’t let her parents ID the body. Too traumatizing. “Why her?”
Roman sucks his fingers into his own mouth, eyes rolling back at the taste of you. “She got in the way.”
You think about every conversation you’d ever had with your mystery caller. The girl who’d snubbed him. The friend he’d fucked in retaliation. Sick! Psycho! Pervert!
“You didn’t have to kill her.”
Roman rolls to the side, twirling a strand of your hair around his fingers like you’re lovers in bed and not at all like he’d just raped you. “No, I know. I just wanted to.”
“I’ll call the cops.”
Roman hums, reaching for your chin and turning your face to his. “No, you won’t. And even if you did nobody would believe you. I’m a ghost. I’m a number in your fucking hotline. What are you gunna tell them?”
You swallow thickly. “I know your name.”
He freezes, his expression fixed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, even though you’re quite possibly signing your own death warrant. “It’s Logan.”
*
Mary would have hated all the fucking black. She’d have liked that there were so many people, that it was standing room only in the back of the packed chapel. She’d have liked that the guys from her college football team showed up, even if none of them ever gave her the time of day whilst she was alive. She’d have liked the flowers, though lilies made her sneeze.
You shift in your seat against the uncomfortable pew, your fingers stiff where her mom grips them. You were her best friend. It was right that you sat in the front row. It was right that you gave a tearful eulogy. You felt wrong. You felt like a traitor. You were a traitor. Because your murderous phantom had kissed you softly and slipped out of your apartment after you’d spoken his name out loud, and you hadn’t called the cops. It had been two weeks and you hadn’t called the cops.
The guilt is overwhelming. You’d stopped eating, you barely spoke. People looked at you with sympathy, like you were deserving of it. Her mom had wrapped her arms around you and sobbed, promising that she’d stay in touch to help you through the grief like it wasn’t all your fucking fault that her daughter was dead. Like your encouragement of the embodiment of evil hadn’t put her firmly in his crosshairs.
After the service, you slip away from the crowds because you simply can’t take another moment of all that grief. You light a little candle at the alter for Saint Jude, because you’re a hopeless cause and at this point being iced by a Higher Power would be a fucking blessing, when you catch sight of the confession booths tucked away in the back of the chapel.
You’re not religious. But grief does funny things to a person, and guilt makes you half-mad as you rise from your stiff knees and shuffle towards the wooden boxes. You slip inside, settling into the cramped, dark space. The partition opens, and you can see the distorted image of the priest through the decorative wooden paneling.
“I’m not a Catholic.” You blurt.
“God doesn’t need you to be.”
“Okay.” You sigh. “Okay. I’ve only seen this in the movies. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
The priest chuckles. “I suppose I don’t need to ask how long it’s been since your last confession. First time?”
“First time.” You repeat quietly.
“So what do you want to talk about?” You feel a sick smile spread across your face at the familiar phrasing. How many times had you said exactly those words to lost souls seeking absolution? How had you ended up on the other side of it?
“It’s been a hard day.”
“You’re here for the funeral? Of the girl.” The priest’s voice is gruff.
“Yes. I… she was my best friend.”
“And you’re feeling… grief?”
You swallow. “Guilt.” The word hisses out of you through the puncture of your heart. “It’s my fault she died.”
“Why do you think that, my child?”
You sob then. Maybe it’s the way he says it, maybe it’s the lack of air in the booth. Maybe it’s just about damn time that you shed a few tears for Mary. “She was killed by a monster. And it was… he was supposed to kill me instead.”
“He?”
“That’s the other thing,” you say bitterly. “I know who did it. I know who killed my friend.”
“And you haven’t gone to the police?”
You suck in a breath. “No. I know what you must think of me.”
The priest says nothing, and you feel an awful jolt of regret run through you as you peer into the emptiness of the other side of the booth. He was probably racing to Mary’s mother to tell her exactly what kind of awful, sick freak was sitting in his confession box. The door is slipped open and a man forces his way inside, long fingers cupping your jaw and tilting your head up as he presses his plush lips to yours with a soft moan.
You squeal in surprise and he swallows the sound, pulling away to stare at you with such intense devotion it makes you dizzy. “I knew you wouldn’t.”
The floor bottoms out as you go limp, terror and trauma overwhelming your nervous system as the man, your phantom caller, drops to his knees and shoves the skirt of your dress up around your hips. “Oh, I knew it. I knew you’d be faithful.”
Your head drops back against the solid wooden wall of the booth as he nuzzles his face against the front of your underwear, his teeth nipping at the fabric only to let it snap back against your rapidly dampening core.
“You can’t be here,” you moan, and he traces over your clit with his tongue before hooking his fingers into your underwear and dragging it roughly down and off. The damp cotton disappears into the folds of his robes, and the man lifts his head to smirk at you. He’s even wearing the fucking collar. Nice touch. “You can’t be here.”
He dips his head again, licking a slow, languid stripe through your folds and your eyes shutter closed as your lips part around a gasp. His hands curl around your thighs, forcing your legs wider as he burrows his face against you.
You don’t mean to, but your hips lift to grind against him, finding a rhythm that ruts your clit against his tongue as he sucks and laps against you. He moans, the sound sending vibrations through your clit, and you whimper as your fingers fly into his hair and pull.
Roman pulls away from you, licking your slick from his lips as he lifts your thighs over his shoulders. He untangles your fingers from his hair and pins your hands to the seat either side of you, pressing your wrists harshly into the wood as he buries his face in your cunt again.
You whimper, hips lifting to meet his eager tongue as he flicks it against your clit in sharp little motions. He watches your arousal soak into the dark wood beneath you, and he’s jealous of the surface for getting to taste so much of you. So much of what belongs to him. Roman dips his head lower to push his tongue into you, feeling your muscles quiver around him as your arousal fills his mouth and you grind your clit into his nose. He’s drowning in you, relishing in every delicious drop of devotion you offer him as your orgasm nears. You didn’t call the cops. You didn’t tell on him for any of it.
He’d known, obviously. He’d been watching every day, he’d had your phone tapped. But to hear you say it. To hear you confess it. To know how you’d fallen apart over what he’d done, and still protected him? You loved him. It was fucking clear. It was plain as day. You’d seen all the ugly parts of him and you loved him anyway.
“Please,” you whisper, and Roman withdraws his tongue from your hole to lap at your aching, swollen clit again.
“Please what?”
“I… I don’t want this.” You gasp, even as your hips lift towards his mouth.
Roman smirks. “Your pussies begging for me.” He releases one of your hands so he can sink two fingers into you, feeling how you grip around him. “See? She’s so desperate to be filled up.”
Tears streak down your face as he returns his lips to your clit, sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth and dragging his teeth lightly against it. There isn’t any point in denying it again, not when he’s so determined. Not when he eats you like a man starved.
Your orgasm crashes over you suddenly, washing through you and relaxing every muscle in your body as you grind up against his face and he curls his fingers inside you over and over again, drawing the wet gushes of your cum into his mouth.
You drop, sweating and boneless against the wood, and Roman presses a soft kiss to your clit before pushing your legs closed. He rests his chin on your knee. “One hell of a confession.”
You laugh, a little burst of deranged hysteria bubbling out of you. “One hell of a priest.”
The man grins, parting his lips to press his teeth against your knee, and you remember the details from the police report. Bitemarks so deep you could make out each individual tooth.
Nausea blasts through you and you gag, pushing past him and out of the booth, stumbling into the near-empty church. Most of the funeral-goers will have moved on to Mary’s parent’s house now, and they’ll be wondering where you are. You think about Mary’s mom, her kind, worried expression, and you wretch the meagre contents of your stomach up into a decorative urn. Puking in holy relics? Yet another hole punched in your ticket to hell.
Fingers lace into your hair, and you’re pulled against a warm, firm torso as he walks you back towards the confession booth. “No,” you moan.
“Yes,” he coos, reaching around to cup your breast through your dress. “I’m still fucking hard.”
You don’t fight it as he pushes you to your knees. The booth on the priest’s side is roomier than the confessor’s, but he still presses you close to him as he guides his cock to the seam of your lips and paints them with the slick of his precum. “Open up,” he murmurs. “Time for your sacrament.”
Heat throbs between your legs as he pushes the thick head of his cock into your mouth.
Roman sighs at the feeling, his eyes fixed on your face as you stretch around him. Your eyes water, and he scratches his nails against your scalp affectionately before forcing your head down until his cock pushes into your throat.
You gag, slicking his cock with spit, and Roman moans as he thrusts up into your mouth. “I missed you,” he groans, hips snapping against your face as your nose nuzzles into the rough thatch of hair at the base of his cock. “Missed talking to you every day.”
You groan around his cock, sending vibrations down his length, and Roman lets out a shaky chuckle. “Wanted to climb through my fucking phone like that bitch from the ring,” he babbles, tightening his fingers in your hair as he fucks your face harder, faster. “Every time you asked me what I wanted to talk about I thought about this. Fucking your pretty fucking mouth for three bucks a minute.”
Your throat contracts tightly around his length as you choke, and Roman’s eyes roll back at the feeling of your muscles spasming around him. “You coulda gone to the cops,” he spits, reaching his fingers down to brush against your throat. He feels the bulge of the head of his cock and he lets out a moan that borders on a sob. He’s never been this turned on in his whole fucking life. Not even when he was elbow-deep in that bitches guts. Not even when he got to fuck you. “But you didn’t.”
He grips your throat, pressing down hard to feel the grind of his own cock through your flesh as he fucks your mouth harder still. “Because you want me. You need this. You wanted me to come back for you.”
He’s rambling now, delirious with pleasure as his orgasm peaks. “Like I wouldn’t. Like you aren’t mine. Like you can put the demon back in the goddamn box,” he moans, and you feel the acid burn as he cums down your throat, pulsing his load directly into you like the blood of Christ. An unholy sacrament indeed.
He sags back against his seat, dragging his cock out of your mouth with a lurid wet pop, and you drop forward, dry-heaving against the floor. “I…” Your voice is wrecked, completely destroyed by the battering your throat has taken. You look up at him, at this godless, soulless appetite of a man, and your clit throbs traitorously as he licks over his swollen lips.
“I would have told.” You croak.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know your name. I’d have told if I did.”
He hums, pressing his thumb into your mouth like a communion wafer. “Roman.” He says softly. “Roman Godfrey.”
The name sinks into you. Roman Godfrey. You’d been close, but Roman made more sense. Roman Godfrey suited the man sitting in front of you. “Roman.” You repeat it, muffled by the press of his thumb to your tongue, and he smiles.
*
You stare down at your phone screen. There are children playing in the park, their high-pitched squeals of delight sending lances of adrenaline through you as you jump at each new sound. You jump at everything, these days. Every time a door opens, or closes. Every time somebody talks too close or laughs too loudly you spin, looking for him. Roman Godfrey. Heir apparent to the helm of one of the most successful companies in the world. Prince of Hemlock Grove. Murderer. Rapist. Yours.
You dial the three digits as you have a million times, and you let them sit there. 911. Make the call. Say his name. Bring this to an end. Your thumb hovers over the call button, right as your phone starts to ring. You jump out of your skin at the unexpected buzzing, the unknown number flashing up on the screen. You don’t need to wonder who it is. You don’t need to ask how he got your number. You could decline the call. You could decline the call and give his name to the cops and bring this to an end. You chew your lip into your mouth, indecision warring with cowardice warring with exhaustion warring with something darker, and you sigh.
Hi I love your masterpiece can I request a bill skarsgård one please were the reader is a friend of the family and she ovulating and bill give her a hand 😉😈
Friendly Favour (Bill Skarsgård X Fem reader)
One shot - NSFW MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
Nothing in the work below reflects who Bill is. It's just a fictional story!!
A/N - Thank you so much for this request, I loved writing it. If it seems small on specific detail that's on purpose to show readers state of mind ✨️ I had to do a fair bit of research to make readers' symptoms a little realistic, but I hope this is what you were asking for. Enjoy!!
Word count: 3348
Content warnings: Protected P in V, ovulation sex, needy reader and gentle Bill.
The symptoms caused by your birth control had pissed you off. So much in fact that you decided to simply stop taking it. The constant nausea and headaches were beginning to affect daily life. When you were with your boyfriend, you simply suffered through it because he asked you to. You’d been single for just over 8 months and didn’t technically need to worry about it but you continued taking it just in case you entered what you called a ‘slut era’ where you had one night stands. That era never quite happened. As the side effects got worse and stopped you having a social life, you were simply over it.
You were told by your doctors that it could take up to three months for your ovulation to return and a few more months for it to return to normal. So you tried to plan accordingly, when the Skarsgård brothers invited you to dinner you didn’t hesitate to say yes, they’d invited you at least a month before your ovulation was due to return. You had been a close family friend for a fair few years, they were more than aware of the rocky relationship between you and your own family so they simply made you part of theirs. Alexander, Gustaf and Bill usually took turns hosting at their homes, this time it was Bill’s turn. You tried not to have favourites, you really did but it was no use. Bill was your favourite, he had always been kind to you, understanding towards you and your sometimes tricky situations.
The morning of the dinner started normally. Besides feeling a little bloated, you were rarely stressed about these dinners now, not worrying too much about what to wear or what you had to say. You were more worried about being late than anything else but you tried to get on with your day ignoring the nagging worry. It was late in the afternoon when something started to feel wrong. A sudden sharp pain ran through your lower abdomen. Your hand flew straight to where the pain was attempting to ease it by rubbing gently. It subsided but came back periodically. You thought it might have been something you’d eaten until you got to the bathroom and saw the state of your panties.
The doctors had warned you about cervical mucus, you’d never experienced it to a crazy degree before so when they told you the amount could increase you didn’t really believe them. You felt a little stupid now. It covered your panties completely. A damp patch was clearly visible. You were ovulating. You seriously considered cancelling going to Bill’s house, was it really wise for you to go? Being surrounded by men was the last thing you needed when your body was basically aching to be touched. Your breasts were sensitive when you put on your bra. But then you thought about it seriously. You barely ever got to see them so why let ovulation stop you? You could easily leave a little early and finger yourself into oblivion if you wanted. So you went.
You were so relieved when you got there early, thankfully Bill liked it when people were early, it gave him a chance to talk to people individually. He opened the door and immediately smiled when he saw you there in your favourite dress. You eyed him up too, the kitchen towel thrown over his broad shoulder, the shirt showing off his pecks just a little bit and a strand of hair that had delicately fallen on his forehead during his attempt at cooking.
“Y/N I’m so glad you could make it, please come in.” As soon as the door clicked closed he pulled you in for a hug. You felt like you were on fire, your face fit in his chest perfectly, everything felt so heightened. His scent felt stronger, your chest brushed against his stomach and it made your nipples hard. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, how have you been?” he released you from the hug and your body missed his touch instantly.
“I’ve been okay, nothing special to mention if I’m honest” you turned away from Bill to go sit on the sofa, ignoring how your clit was throbbing aching to be touched. How every step made your panties move against it.
“How have you been since the break up? Have you got anyone new?” He asked as he went back into the kitchen, he desperately hoped the answer was no.
“Nope no one new, I think I’m taking a break from dating” Bill face lit up in the kitchen while you fiddled with your dress, trying to stay grounded. Desperately attempting to discard how the lights seemed too bright and your head swam with ideas of what Bill could do with you. It was a boundary that neither of you had ever dared to cross. You were friends, and that was it. You shook your head, trying to ignore the thoughts.
Bill was busy making the food but still noticed something was wrong. “Are you sure you’re okay? You know you can be honest.” You started to feel a little overheated not because of Bill’s questions but because your body was desperate for something it couldn’t have. Bill.
You fanned yourself with your hand. “Yeah I’m sure I think I just need to freshen up” you stood up to go to the bathroom but when you did you noticed a patch on the leather sofa and threw yourself back down as quick as you could before Bill could see it.
Bill sighed, turned off all the cooking equipment coming into the living room to sit next to you. “Okay I’ve had enough, what’s going on with you?”
“Really it’s nothing Bill” you ran the back of your hand over your forehead trying to swipe away the sweat.
“Really? Cause I don’t believe you. Are you not well? I can take care of you” his hand landed lightly on your shoulder, he felt genuine concern for you.
You sighed at his words. They affected you more than you liked.
“I’m okay, I was told this could happen by the doctors. It just happened early” You felt embarrassed at the idea of telling him, but you didn’t want him to be worried.
“Told what could happen Y/N?” As he asked, another sharp pain attacked your lower abdomen. You doubled over in pain, reaching for the source of the pain again, trying to ease it. Bill scooted over towards you, rubbing your back. He pulled out his phone, calling Alex, you briefly caught the conversation, your hearing compromised by the pain.
“Hey Alex, change of plans, we’ll have to rearrange, I’ve been called for a project that I can’t turn down, I’ve already let Y/N know, can you tell Gustaf too? Yep okay, I’ll talk to you soon” He was quick to hang up giving all of his attention to you. You breathed through the pains and they began to subside again. You leaned up, eyes closed and sweating harder than before.
“Alright, I’ve seen enough. You’re staying with me tonight” he grabbed your hand and helped you stand up. You couldn’t find the energy to argue even though you knew it wasn’t the best idea. He looked at the sofa and saw the patch. You felt your face go red diverting your eyes away from him.
He took you to his room, a gentle hand on your lower back directing you, keeping you steady in case the pain happened again. He watched you intently, watching for discomfort. He sat you down on his bed and told you to stay there. You watched him go into his closet, grabbing some loose clothing, black elasticated joggers, and a baggy black t-shirt. He passed them to you.
“Here, try wearing these, it might help” you nodded and went into his bathroom changing quickly ignoring how sensitive everything was. When you came back out Bill was still sitting where you left him.
“Do you feel any better?” he thought you looked cute in his clothes, they kind of dwarfed you.
“Not really, Bill, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come tonight” You felt defeated as you sat back down.
“You don’t need to be sorry Y/N, why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?” he placed his hand on your thigh, and you jumped a little. It was something he’d done a thousand times, but this time, it sent another jolt of arousal through you.
“It’s fucking embarassing Bill” you sighed looking down at your lap.
“We’ve been friends for years, I’m sure it’s nothing I can’t handle. I just want to help” The sincere look on his face should have comforted you, but it didn’t.
“It’s not something you can help with, but I genuinely appreciate you offering” he nodded feeling bad for you, not understanding why he couldn’t help.
“Okay, well why don’t you get some sleep, I’ll stay on the sofa if you need me, if you do need anything come get me, wake me up if you have to” he stood up to walk away but you grabbed his wrist.
“Please stay with me, I don’t wanna be alone” A tiny wave of pain passed through your stomach again, your thighs clenched, seeking some relief from the arousal.
“I don’t think I can unless I know what’s wrong, you can trust me, it stays in this room, between you and I” his thumb rubbed circles into the hand you still had on his wrist. The visual nearly sent you insane. You were worried you were being a little dramatic, like he was more worried than he needed to be. The best thing you could do was tell him. Better to have him hate you than to keep him worried.
“Well I’m sure you remember when I was with my ex, I was on birth control. I stayed on it until about 2 months ago. The doctors warned me that my ovulation could be worse when it came back just for a few months. It started this afternoon” You kept your voice quiet. Feeling ashamed of yourself. You’d made Bill worried and ruined their evening. You shouldn’t have come.
Bill’s hand came up to your face, lifting your chin with his index finger to have eye contact with you. “Promise me that’s all it is, I can’t stand the idea of lying and keeping yourself in serious pain”
“I promise that’s all it is, Bill. I just feel silly”
“Silly for what? Being horny? It’s completely normal, your doctor even warned you. You have nothing to feel silly about at all” he pulled you in for a hug, and you wrapped your arms around his torso, feeling a little better emotionally, but physically, it was getting overwhelming. Bill pulled away and grabbed your face in his hands. Your hands stayed firmly at the bottom of his back.
“Now I’m going to go into the living room, and you’re gonna stay in here and sort out your situation. Use the bathroom if you need it. Stay in here and use the bed. It’s your choice” You shook your head at him. The idea of him hearing you or knowing what you were doing in his home made you worried about what he would think of you. You’d been friends for so long, but you couldn’t do that. Bill on the other hand was simply trying not to get hard at the idea of you spread out in his house making yourself cum on his bed.
“Look don’t fight me on this, having an orgasm will help the pain, I’m sure the doctors told you that, this is just like me giving you paracetamol” he tried to pull away but you pulled him back. He was right. The doctors had told you that, but boundaries were more important to you than the pain.
“I’m not going to do that, I’m not messing up our friendship for an orgasm, just take me home and I’ll do it there” you kept your tone steady even as your pussy began clenching on nothing.
“I told you, you’re staying here. Now either make yourself cum or I’ll do it for you.” His voice was stern as he looked down on you. His eyes focused on your reaction. Your jaw dropped and you gasped, held back a moan, you crossed your legs and your panties felt so damp.
That’s when you both felt the tension. The one you both chose to ignore for years. He looked at you. He knew what you needed and had known for years exactly what he wanted. It just never worked out. You were dating someone, or he was busy at another shoot in a different country for one reason or another it just never worked. Until now. You were in his home silently begging him to take your pain away with pleasure. How was he supposed to turn that down?
“Well, what’s it gonna be Y/N, you gonna cum on your own fingers or mine?” dominance laced every word that spilled from his lips. That was where you should have drawn the line. But the want in his eyes, the gentle touch and his growing hard on between your bodies told you to say yes.
“Yours, please yours” your chest rose with a shuddering breath. Bill watched, amazed at how affected you seemed. He leaned down nose, brushing yours, a hand on your jaw turning your head so he could kiss you deeply. A moan tore from you, the feel of his lips on you had your hand shaking a little already. He pulled back when he noticed your desperation. You really didn’t need the foreplay.
“Tell me what you need and I’ll do it, I’m all yours” Bill mumbled, trying to hold himself together for you.
“I need you to fuck me, please Bill” the broken sound of your voice rushed him into action. He took the clothes he gave you off, even as the layers were removed you still felt on fire. You shuffled up the bed, legs spread ready for Bill to take you.
Bill, however, was taking his time. He knew all too well how lust could cloud reality, and he never wanted to mistreat you in any way. He grabbed a condom from his nightstand after he stripped off his clothes. His dick was maybe the hardest it had ever been. The sight of your legs spread on his bed was heavenly. Something he only ever could have dreamed of. But he’d have to admire the view another time because right now, you were squirming, whining his name.
Relief flooded you when you felt the bed dip under Bill’s weight. He grabbed a pillow from the other side of your head and placed it under your hips.
“You don’t need to do that, just fuck me” you whined again. Bill looked at you, your eyes already closed anticipating the next move. He began rolling on the condom, he winced at the sensitivity on his own cock. He grabbed your chin and you opened your eyes for him.
“Y/N I don’t care how fucking horny you are, when you’re under me, you get treated right” you spread your legs wider, the talk somehow adding to your desire, Bill being a friend increased how safe you felt. He gestured for you to wrap your legs around his waist, and you were quick to lock your ankles together to keep him there.
“Bill, please fuck me ple-” your rambling was cut off as Bill began to enter you, the tip breaching your soaked entrance. The sensation overwhelmed you immediately but your constant string of moans let him know to continue entering you.
Bill was only half way in when your back arched off the bed pushing your chest in his face, he didn't hesitate to take your hardened nipple into his mouth sucking gently while he began rocking his hips back and forth. Before you could really process anything, he buried himself in you completely. Your breathing became rapid. All that existed was Bill and his cock.
“Bill move please move I need you to move”
His head was hidden in your neck, leaving gentle kisses there. You were grateful when he listened without being asked twice. Instead of going with the expected path, Bill decided you needed something better. Instead of thrusting, he decided to rock. Slow. He could have very easily fucked you Into oblivion, made you cum in 2 minuites flat and probably made himself cum too but he didn't want to be Just another fuck. He wanted to be the fuck, the standard.
The first rock made your jaw drop with a gasp, it was the moment you realised his public bone rubbed against your clit with every movement. It only became more intense as Bill moved slowly, with an upturned movement to bury himself deep each time, he never pulled away too far. Your hips began to move on their own meeting his movements the best you could while squashed between the mattress and his protective body.
“God you look fucking beautiful, you feel amazing, take what you need from me” he whispered in your ear, you moved your hips with more purpose now you had permission.
“fuck oh god fuck Bill” your hand around his biceps tightened.
Bill didn't fail to notice each gasp, the throaty moans leaving you constantly and the dampness on his thighs that had come from you. His favourite though,was the way your legs seemed to tighten around him, each time he brushed against that spot deep inside you. He began to pick up the pace but didn't pull any further out. You began to get louder.
You swore you could feel everything, his sweaty skin on yours, his legs tensing so he could move, his breath on your neck. You were clenching so hard you could feel the protruding vein on the underside of his cock. When he started to speed up you lost it. Loud moans left your dry throat, your hips desperately chasing the clit stimulation that was taking your breath away. Your body went rigid chasing the familiar feeling between your thighs.
Bill didn't even get a warning when you came undone beneath him, you came with a shout your ears didn't register. your legs dropped from the small of his back onto the mattress kicking uncontrollably. The pain of before was completely forgotten. He deliberately sped up to prolong your orgasm and draw out his own the way you fluttered around him was too hard to resist. Encouraged by your nails leaving marks in his bicep. Bill came with a gasp looking at your blissed out face. When he looked down at where you connected he saw a patch on his bed and his own thighs completely covered in you, he smiled at the sight in complete disbelief.
You were still blissed out. The ache between your legs dulled for the time being, the room didn't quite make sense as you drifted in and out of sleep, you were aware enough to feel Bill cleaning you. But not aware enough to feel him move you into the bed, with a new blanket on. You woke up a few hours later.
“Bill where are you-” you hadn't noticed the hand around your waist.
“Hey sleepyhead I'm right here, are you doing ok?” you turned to see Bill right behind you, he had clearly been asleep too. Unbeknownst to you he had been there the whole time, watching you sleep, making sure you were ok and the pain didn't come back.
“yeah sorry I didn't know where you were” you turned fully, leaning into his chest out of instinct, grateful for the lack of pain you were in. He wrapped you back up and held you tightly. You had no idea what this meant for your friendship but your gut told you neither of you wanted that anyway.
hii can i request a fic with roman godfrey and an anxious jumpy reader who's haunted by a ghost (which is the reason for her anxiety)?? ty, and stay hydrated in these hot hot days <33
Exorcism (Roman Godfrey x Reader)
Summary: Everybody thinks you’re weird. You’ve tried hard not to be, but it’s hard to go unnoticed when weird things keep happening around you, courtesy of the ghost that’s been haunting you for as long as you can remember. Fortunately for you, Roman likes weird.
Word count: 5314
Warnings: vaginal fingering, oral sex f!receiving, PiV sex, supernatural shit I guess?
MDNI, fic under the cut
Roman stretches his long legs out under the desk, drumming his fingers atop the glass as he watches Pryce’s face go through a series of tightly controlled emotions. “Well? I’m waiting.”
The doctor steeples his fingers against the closed folder Roman had pushed across the desk. “Miscellaneous expenses. Things cost money, Roman. More money than expected, sometimes. Not a concept I’d expect you to have much understanding of, considering your personal financial background.”
“Get to the goddamn point, Pryce.”
“The point, Mr Godfrey, is that we do not all have the luxury of a trust fund. Some of us need to have contingencies in place to avoid unnecessary delays in the acquisition of vital supplies.”
“What’s the Morpheus project?”
The polite smile on Pryce’s face drops, his eyes slipping to either side. To the suited men with stern faces sitting around the table. He looks back at the smug, jumped up prick masquerading as his CEO, and sighs. “One of our more… interesting projects. We’re working on a treatment for one of the most common and troublesome ailments plaguing mankind. The humble insomnia. With around 35% of the US population experiencing bouts of the condition, a treatment would be… wildly profitable.”
This is the word the men at the table need in order to switch off, nodding and humming and shuffling their papers.
Roman’s expression tightens. “Then you won’t mind showing me, will you?”
“You’re going to be just fine.” Dr Blinksy offers you a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and you swallow. You don’t believe him, but you don’t much care either way anymore. You’re so unbelievably tired. Tired of sleepless nights, of jolting out of drowsiness with your heart hammering against your ribs and your sheets soaked in sweat. Tired of jumping at the creak of the door or the sound of the wind. Tired of living with an intolerable level of anxiety that never, ever lets up.
“Sure.” You close your eyes and let the rhythmic beeping of the machine you’re hooked up to lull you into sleep. Unconsciousness comes easy enough, with how exhausted you are, but your dreams are plagued by the shivering shape of him, just in the edges of your vision.
“Go away!” You call out. Your lips part around the silent words, your eyes flickering behind your lids as the digital display reading your brain lights up. His shadow thickens, solidifying as he steps into the light, and you drop to your knees and scream.
“That one.” Roman presses his fingers to the glass, eyes fixed to the body tossing and turning on the narrow hospital bed. “What’s wrong with her?”
Pryce pulls your details up on his tablet. “The patient believes she’s being haunted by a ghost or an entity of some sort. It’s affected her sleep and severely limited her ability to engage in every day activities.”
Roman tilts his head to the side, observing the pinched look on your face and the way you your fingers curl and uncurl in the sheet. “You think she’s got a ghost problem?”
Pryce scoffs. “An interesting thought, but no. I think sleep deprivation and an undiagnosed psychotic condition has lead her to some very vivid hallucinations. The important thing is that she certainly believes it. That’s what we’re interested in here. In locating and isolating the source of her cerebral overactivity so we can determine a way to… neutralise it.”
“She looks like she’s in pain. Or like she’s getting fucked.”
Pryce presses his lips together to avoid grimacing. “I suppose to you there’s little difference in the two.”
Roman knows he’s being goaded, but he lets the words roll off him. He’s fixed on you, on how your lips part around soft moans as whatever you’re dreaming about consumes you completely. “What’s she saying?”
Pryce sighs, pressing a few buttons on the keypad beside the door. Your voice fills the room, filtering out of the speakers above. Not words, just sweet little whimpers and sobs. Roman feels his cock stiffen at the sound, and he wonders whether you’d replicate those same pretty noises with his tongue in your cunt.
“Are you making progress?”
“Baby steps, Roman.” Pryce says carefully. “We’re just compiling research at this stage. She’s one of a dozen subjects we have with us at the moment, and we’ll need several more rounds to gather enough data to start looking at patterns in-“
“With her. Are you making progress with her?”
Pryce blinks, assessing the situation from a new angle. Roman Godfrey was unpredictable. He was a wild card, a loose cannon and a general pain in everybody’s ass. But with his child in the wind and Shelley out of reach, the young CEO needed something to distract him. Watching Roman watch you, Johan makes a decision. A sacrifice, for the greater good. “I don’t think we’ll be able to do anything for her. I’ll likely dismiss her in the morning.”
Roman runs his fingers down the glass, the friction leaving a squeak against the surface. “I’ll tell her. I mean, it’s my company. Should come from me.”
Pryce has dismissed about a thousand unsuitable subjects from his trials over the years, and Roman hasn’t so much as glanced at the paperwork. But for you, he’d make an exception. To see your eyes open, to hear what your voice sounded like when you said his name.
“I don’t… understand, Mr Godfrey.” You twist your hands in your lap, a nervous gesture that had developed along with several other tics to cope with your anxiety. “Did I do something wrong?”
Roman shakes his head, pushing out of his seat to step around his desk. He sinks into a crouch beside your chair, and you chew your bottom lip into your mouth as you stare at your knees. “Dr Pryce doesn’t think he can help you anymore. He’s a prick.”
Your eyes lift at that, and Roman feels a fluttering in his chest at just how pretty they are. “It was a long shot.” You sigh, untangling your fingers and lifting a hand to brush through your hair. Roman catches the scent of your shampoo, something warm and clean, and he licks over his bottom lip like he might be able to taste you on the air.
“He’s a prick.” Roman repeats.
“He tried.” You swallow, shaking your head as the absurd urge to cry stings your eyes. “It was stupid to get my hopes up.”
Roman should let you walk out of here. He should let your crazy ass leave and go back to running the shit out of his damned company. “I might be able to help you.”
Roman can’t bring himself to regret the words when your face lights up and you brush tears from your cheeks with shaking fingers. “Really?”
He watches you wipe your fingers on your jeans with regret, imagining how fucking good your tears would have tasted if he’d grabbed your hand and sucked your fingers into his mouth. “I know a thing or two about… you know. The supernatural.”
It’s the understatement of the fucking century, since Roman himself is the supernatural, but that part doesn’t matter. Destiny Rumancek will have a book, and if she doesn’t there are a dozen other witches he could try in the city. Hell, he could hit up the local church if he gets really stuck.
“You’d… I mean you’re a busy man, Mr Godfrey.”
Roman drops his hand to your knee and you jump. “Roman.” He says softly. “Call me Roman. And I wanna help you. Wanna do some good.”
It isn’t completely a lie, even if Roman’s cock is stirring to life in his pants at the pink tinge under your skin and your wide, watery eyes.
*
Roman’s thumbing through the book, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell of the yellowed pages when his phone rings.
“Tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”
Roman hums. “I’m not jerking off right now. Sorry to disappoint you.”
Destiny makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. “Why am I hearing that you bought a demonology book from the wiccan store downtown.”
“Why does Hemlock Grove even have a wiccan store? I think that’s a more pertinent question.”
“Roman.”
“Destiny.” He mimics her tone. “Peter told you?”
“He’s worried about you. And now I am too. I mean, what do you really know about this girl?”
“She’s haunted by a ghost or something.” Roman shrugs, though Destiny can’t see him. “And she’s fucking hot.”
“There it is.” She sighs heavily into the receiver. “Look, if she’s really possessed by something, you’re out of your depth, Roman. Bring her to me.”
Roman considers it. He’d considered it right away, actually. But then he’d have to share you, and both Rumancek cousins were roguish little sluts and Roman doesn’t want the competition. Not when a small but very vocal voice in the back of his head is telling him that he wouldn’t win, anyway.
There’s a knock at the door, and Roman runs a hand through his hair as he crosses to answer it. “I gotta go, she’s here. Don’t call me again unless you wanna hear her screaming my name.”
Destiny starts to say something, probably something hateful and entirely untrue regarding the size and scope of Roman’s cock, when he ends the call and shoves his phone into his pocket.
You’re standing on the front step, looking small and scared. Your knees actually shake, and Roman feels a pang of protectiveness wash over him as he steps aside and invites you into his house.
You take a seat on the wide leather couch, barely making a dent in the surface like you’re terrified to take up space. “Nervous?”
You bite your lip and nod. “He… it gets angry. It’s dangerous.”
Roman feels a little skitter of fear at the absolute dread in your voice. If you’re faking it, you’re a damned good actress.
“He? You said he.”
You sigh, lifting a hand to rake back through your hair. “I think it… I mean I don’t know. I’ve never actually seen… whatever it is. But three years ago my ex-boyfriend died.”
Roman takes a seat beside you on the couch, extending his arm along the back of the couch. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Your voice takes on a hard edge, harsher than he’d ever heard it. “He wasn’t a nice guy. The night he died he was coming to my house. To force me to reconsider the split. To… teach me a lesson.” You tangle your fingers together in your lap again, squeezing the digits bloodless. “He taught me lessons a lot.”
Roman’s stomach flips over at the ugly thought of it. “How’d he die?”
“Car accident.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “I didn’t cry when they told me. I didn’t go to his funeral or anything.”
Roman shuffles closer, closer than he even means to. “No one could blame you for that.”
You look up at him with grateful, wet eyes, and Roman’s heart skitters over a beat. This isn’t what he thought was going to happen. You’re not what he thought you were. And the wide-open sincerity in your face has him believing you, actually.
“Things started to… happen about six months later. I went on a date with a guy from one of my classes. It was all fine, we were having a good time. And then his coffee just tipped over, spilling right into his lap. He asked if I’d kicked the table or something and I swear I hadn’t. I don’t know if he believed me. Then when we were leaving, he held the door open for me and it just slammed shut on his hand. Broke three of his fingers. I said it must have been the wind, but there wasn’t so much as a breeze. He didn’t call me again after that.” You laugh bitterly. “Not that I expected him to.”
“So you think you’re being… haunted? By your exes ghost.”
“I know.” You mumble, cheeks staining a deeper shade. “I know how it sounds.”
“Sounds lonely.”
Your head snaps up, and you shuffle closer to him. Nobody has ever come so close to believing you before. You’d heard stories about Roman Godfrey, none of them good. But the man sitting across from you on the couch, the man who had taken an interest in helping you and invited himself into your life… well he didn’t seem so bad. He seemed good, in fact.
“It is.” You whisper. “Anytime someone tries to get close… he makes them leave.”
Roman knows something about people leaving. About people seeing the baggage and deciding he isn’t worth the hassle. “Maybe we should make him leave then, huh?”
You huff a laugh. “I’d try anything.” You lick over your lips, bracing a shaking hand on Roman’s thigh. “Anything.”
The plan doesn’t come together so much as unravel. Roman’s cock is stirring because he’s desperate and he’s sick and your fear is turning him on. But the plan makes sense, now he knows what you’re dealing with. “We have to piss him off.”
You’d tilted your head to the side, looking bewildered and cute, and Roman had almost lost it. “What do you mean? He’s always mad.”
“He gets worse when you’re with a guy, right? Like, stronger? Makes his presence known?”
You nod, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth for a moment. “Not just… any guy.”
“No, I know.” Roman says, his lips curling into a smirk. “But maybe we could recreate the… specific circumstances.” If you’re right, the ex will manifest himself and Roman will be able to add poltergeist to his growing collection of personal curiosities. If you’re batshit crazy, at least he’ll get laid. It’s a win-win situation, far as Roman can see it.
“You’d do that for me?” Your voice is low and breathy, and Roman’s cock twitches visibly as it strains against the front of his pants. He twists a single, fat lock of hair back into place and off his forehead, eyes dropping to your mouth.
“Like kissing a pretty girl is a sacrifice for me? Of course I’d do it for you. For you, to you… with you.” He leans in, brushing his mouth against yours, and you exhale shakily against his lips. Your breath tingles on his mouth, and Roman presses his lips more firmly to yours as his hands lift to cup your jaw and hold you closer.
His tongue licks into your mouth and you moan softly, little jolts of arousal pulsing through you at the wet, rough caress of his tongue against yours. You close your eyes, drowning in the sensation of his strong hands on your face. You don’t notice the lights flickering, but Roman does.
He drops one hand from your face to your waist, caressing the skin over your ribs before walking his fingers up to curl around the curve of one breast.
You’re still making pretty little sounds, the wet smack of your lips on his sending him half crazy as he focuses on the flickering lamp on the table beside you. You pull away from the kiss, pecking his lips over and over as Roman cups your breast more fully. “I don’t think it’s working.”
Roman shakes his head, using his free hand to press lightly against your shoulder and guide you back against the couch. “The lights are flickering. It’s working. Maybe we need to give him a little more.”
You blow a breath out through your mouth slowly, feeling your heart accelerate. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Roman.”
Roman crawls over you, pressing his thigh firmly between your legs as he dips his head to press open-mouthed kisses over your throat. “I’m willing to take the risk.”
You moan quietly at the feeling of his thigh grinding against your core, and your hips begin to shift in time, rocking you against the rough denim of his jeans. There’s a whooshing sound, and Roman ducks just in time to avoid a braining as a vase is launched over the couch to shatter against the kitchen island on the other side of the room.
Your eyes fly wide and you try to rise, pulling yourself up against his shirt, but Roman eases your hands out of the fabric and pins them above your head. “It’s working. He’s getting pissed now.”
“He broke something.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Roman soothes, pressing his weight into your wrists as he lowers over your body and ruts his hard bulge against your center. “It’s just stuff.”
Tears are pooling in your eyes, and Roman dips his head to lick at the trails as they break free and run into your hairline. “How do we get him to go away?” You whisper, heat aching in your core at the feeling of his tongue on your skin.
“That comes later. Need him even more pissed off first.” Roman mumbles, his free hand pushing between your bodies to undo the button on the front of your pants. “Need to get him blind with it.”
You moan as Roman pushes his fingers into your underwear, the long digits probing against your wet folds as he searches for your clit. You gasp when he finds it, pinching the sensitive bud between two fingers and encouraging it to swell under his expert touch.
You focus on the building sensation as the coil in your stomach winds tighter. Roman isn’t looking at you, and that makes it easier. Because you know your face will be scrunching up with the pleasure. Your ex used to say it made you look ugly, and you’d hate for Roman to see that. You’d hate for him to see that and stop and decide you’re not worth the hassle. His fingers are working circles against your clit almost absently as he scans the room. There’s a flicker of something in his periphery vision, and Roman stretches his fingers to push his middle inside you. You gasp, spine arching into him, and Roman lets out a satisfied hum at the tight, wet heat of you clenching around him. “You’re going to feel so good on my cock,” he coos, pumping his finger in and out of you. “I’ll fuck you better than anyone else ever has.”
You know he’s baiting the ghost, but your body reacts as though this is all for you anyway. You moan, grinding helplessly down against his hand as his finger curls inside you.
“He never…” you gasp, panting hard. “He never… I never c-came with him,” you gasp. Roman stills his hand for a moment, looking down at you with wide, disbelieving eyes.
“Never?”
“He didn’t… care about whether I did or not.” You lick your lips self-consciously.
Roman scoffs, pulling his hand out of your underwear and sitting back to suck your arousal from his fingers. “Well that’s fucking bullshit. He lifts his head, glaring at his own reflection in the wide expanse of black glass lining the wall. “You hear me? That’s fucking bullshit, man.”
The lamp on the table beside the couch explodes, plunging the room into darkness.
You scream, and Roman drops his body protectively over yours. You feel his cock twitch against your stomach and it sends a bolt of adrenaline-laced arousal through you. “You okay?”
Roman looks down at you, lips pulling to the side in a lopsided smirk. “I’m gunna make you cum. I think that’ll get this piece of shit to show himself.”
You swallow thickly. “I don’t know if I can, Roman.”
Roman frowns. “You don’t want it?” He rolls his hips down against you.
“No! I mean,” you sigh, “he told me I was… broken. That I couldn’t do it.”
Roman feels an uncomfortable twisting in his stomach at how sad and small your voice is.
He dips his face low, nuzzling his nose against yours. “That’s bullshit, okay? Let me show you it’s bullshit.”
You tilt your chin up to connect your mouth to his, sucking his plump bottom lip against your teeth, and Roman groans low in his throat as his cock leaks precum into his boxers. “Okay,” you whisper against his lips. “Okay, Roman.”
Roman sits back on his heels, brushing his hair away from his forehead as he tugs your pants down. You have to twist your feet so he can pull them off completely, and a little bubble of embarrassed laughter spills from your lips. Roman grins, catching your wriggling foot and pressing his lips to your ankle. “Just relax. It’s just me and you here, right?” He looks around the room. “Nothing else.”
You hum as he trails kisses up the inside of your leg, his hand splaying wide over your inner thigh to stop you from closing him out as he licks the damp patch on the front of your panties. You whimper, covering your own mouth with your palm to stifle the sounds.
“Don’t do that.” You look down to meet Roman’s hungry green eyes. “I want to hear you.”
You nod, biting harshly on your lip as Roman’s mouth returns to suck against your covered core. His eyes remain fixed on yours, and the intensity in them makes your clit throb with how much you need him to touch you. “Please, Roman,” you whisper. “I need…”
Roman pulls back enough to hook his fingers into the waistband of your panties, peeling them away from your soaked center. You glisten before him, the room lit only by the light coming from the upstairs hallway. He wishes he could see you better so he could catalogue every minute expression on your face as he unravels you against his mouth, but he’ll settle for the little gasps and moans you make and the hot, wet slick of your arousal pooling on the couch under your ass.
Roman’s eyes flicker closed at the taste of you the moment he presses the flat expanse of his tongue against your clit. You pulse and quiver, so alive and vibrant and rich that Roman thinks he might cum just from this. Just from the drag of his cock against the couch and the taste of you drowning out everything else.
There’s an awful sound, more smashing from the kitchen, and you turn your head and reach down to push against Roman’s shoulders. Roman grunts a warning, wrapping his arms around your thighs and pinning you against his mouth. “Roman something is- happening-“ you gasp the words between shaky moans as Roman’s tongue pushes inside the tightness of you, his nose nuzzling sharply against your clit as he probes against your sensitive walls.
His hair is damp with sweat and hangs in his face, a little too long to stay styled when he’s so wrecked. Your fingers twist in the luxury, thick fabric of his sweater and you wonder what he looks like underneath the sensible layers.
There’s another crash, and Roman does look up then. His expensive wine bottles are smashing against the tiles in the kitchen, one by one. Like the piece of shit is taunting him. Luring him away from you. “Roman,” you whisper. “We should stop. He’s going to break all your-“
“I have a wine cellar with a hundred bottles better than those.” Roman says, dipping his head to lick a slow stripe up from your entrance to your clit. “I’m not gunna let you go until you’ve cum on my face. Let him throw his supernatural fucking tantrum about it.”
Your eyes roll back and your head drops to the couch as Roman’s finger snake up the inside of your thigh and push into you, curling back against the sensitive, spongy spot inside you as he flicks his tongue against your clit. “God, oh, Godddd,” you moan, hips lifting to meet his face as you grind against his mouth. “I think I’m-“ you break off with a high-pitched cry as your release washes through you, curling your toes and whiting out your vision as you jerk and writhe against the insistent press of Roman’s tongue and the in and out of his fingers.
Your head rolls to the side in the aftershocks, and your heart stops at the shimmering, almost corporal form hovering just beside the couch. “ROMAN!” You shriek, and Roman turns his head. He knows what he’s going to see, considering the sheer terror on your face, but the sight of the apparition still takes him a little by surprise.
“Fuck you, Casper.” He spits, pulling his hard cock from his jeans and dropping over you again. “You wanna terrorize her? Didn’t get enough of that when you were alive?”
He pushes into you, and you moan and clench around the intrusion even as your eyes roll wildly back and forth between the living, breathing man on top of you and the dead shadow of hatred shivering just to the side.
“He’ll… stop,” you sob. Roman doesn’t. He pulls half out and pushes back in, and the shape on the edge of the couch seems to thicken, swirling like smoke.
“You’re okay,” Roman whispers, dropping to kiss your lips just once before pushing back up. He hooks his arms around your thighs and presses you back, fucking you hard into the couch. At this angle the head of his cock bumps your cervix, and you let out a low whine. “I’ve got you. Just me.”
You nod, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth as you whimper. Your hands reach up to wrap around his neck, tickling at the hair tucked into his collar, and Roman hums.
“Has anyone else… since him?” He asks, his breathing becoming labored with the force of his thrusts.
“No,” you whisper, fluttering your muscles around his cock just to watch his face contort with the pleasure of it. “You’re the first.”
Roman smiles, a faint dusting of pink spreading across his cheeks. “I’m claiming you.” He turns his head then, watching with clinical fascination as the shape solidifies into something more strongly resembling a body. “She’s mine. You’re not welcome in her space, or in her anymore. She’s mine.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, terrified to watch and terrified that Roman has badly misjudged the danger of the situation. Because there’s no way it’s that simple. It just can’t be.
The smoke leaks onto the couch, wrapping around Roman’s throat, and his eyes bulge wide. “Shit, shit!” You squeak, wriggling out from underneath him and trying uselessly to pry the smoke from his neck. “Shit, go away! You’re banished, you’re nothing! Leave him alone!”
The smoke leeches away from Roman, crawling up your thighs and caressing against your bare core in a hideous mimicry of a touch. “Did he give you anything?” Roman asks, his voice rising in pitch along with his panic as the smoke wraps possessively around your legs.
“Aside from trauma?”
“Yeah. I mean, a gift. Did he ever give you anything that-“
Roman cuts himself off as his eyes drop to a thin, gold chain at your throat. “Tell me that’s not from him.”
Your hand flies to your throat, to the tarnished, cheap heart pendant resting against your sternum. “Oh god.”
“Give it to me!” He shouts, reaching across to snatch it from your neck. The thin chain snaps under the pressure, and Roman rummages in his jeans for his lighter before holding it to the cheap pendant.
Metal shouldn’t catch the way the pendant does. Within seconds, Roman’s holding a rope of pure fire, and he drops it on the floor with a hiss as his skin is singed. The smoke seems to shudder, vibrating back into the convulsing shape of a man before it, too, catches alight.
You stare in wide-eyed horror as the apparition that had been haunting you for more than two years burns up into nothing.
The silence in the wake of it is deafening. Roman sucks his fingers into his mouth, nursing the hurt, and you move mechanically to pry them from his mouth and inspect the damage. There are blisters already forming, but the burns are superficial.
“How did you know to do that?” You ask quietly. You think you might go mad if you raise your voice.
“Supernatural.”
“What?”
“I watched that fuckin show. Supernatural. With the two brothers who hunt demons and shit.”
You blink at Roman. “You’re kidding.”
Roman shrugs, dropping his head back against the couch. “Was worth a shot.”
“What…” You blink at him, feeling a surge of actual rage flush through you. It’s unfamiliar, but you welcome it. You welcome anything that isn’t the low-level haze of anxiety you’d been living through since the arrival of your ghost. “What was the plan if it hadn’t worked?”
Roman rolls his head to look at you. “I don’t know. Keep giving you orgasms until he got bored, I guess.”
You scoff, shaking your head. “That… I mean… he wouldn’t have just-“ You cut yourself off with a frustrated growl, climbing into Roman’s lap and impaling yourself on his cock. He’s still hard despite almost being murdered by a malevolent supernatural entity, and you wonder what exactly that says about his mental state as you rock back and forth on his cock.
“Shit.” Roman huffs, hands dropping to your hips to help you set a rhythm. “Oh shit.”
You flutter your muscles around him, gripping his cock hard in your tight, wet heat, and Roman’s head drops back again, exposing the pale expanse of his throat. You lean in, pecking kisses up his neck and nipping at the sharp line of his jaw, and Roman moans as his cock twitches inside you.
“Thank you, Roman.” You purr into his ear. “You saved my life tonight. You… you have no idea,” you push up on your knees and drop back down heavily, sending a bolt of pleasure through you at the hard thrust of his cock so deep inside you. “No idea how grateful I am.”
Roman whimpers, fingers digging harshly into your hips. “I have some idea.”
“No,” you mumble, swiveling your hips to massage his cock against your walls as you reach a hand up to tug at the loose hair falling over his forehead. “You’ve… released me.” You lean in, your sensitive nipples chafing against his sweater as you lick into his mouth. “You set me free.”
Roman feels you whisper the words against his mouth, and his cock twitches hard inside you once, twice before he cums, spilling thickly against your cervix and filling you up as you flutter around him. You’re so dominant all of a sudden, like exorcising the ghost has burned away the fragility Roman had been so drawn to. And whilst he’ll miss the mousy little girl who blushed at his touch, he can’t bring himself to mourn too hard. Not when you’re riding him like a pro, your fingers in his hair and your teeth biting at his lips like you’re so desperate for him you can’t stop.
You moan throatily, grinding your clit against his pubic bone as you writhe in his lap, and Roman decides that this is better, this is so much better than before. Even if you’re possessed by a hunger he can’t keep up with. Even if you’re a new kind of demon intent on sucking his soul out through his cock. He’ll learn to keep up. He’ll learn to keep you fed. He’ll embrace this haunting like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, actually.
Summary: Nobody else at the FBI agrees with your hypothesis that there’s a budding serial killer at work in Hemlock County, but you’re loud and annoying enough for them to agree to send you on a scouting mission, and there’s one name that comes up time and time again. Roman Godfrey. Driving past the cemetery where a girl was found. On surveillance buying gas two miles from a dump site in the middle of the night. Offering a huge cash reward for information leading to the rescue of those two college boys. He is sharp and charming and you have no idea at all of how close you come to being his next victim, or worse.
Word Count: 17,178
Warnings: NSFW, masturbation, stalker!roman, vaginal fingering, oral sex f!receiving, PiV sex, dubious consent, dead dove: do not eat
A/N: THIS GOT SO LONG. I blame the requestor (you know who you are, bestie) but I’ve edited it twice and there’s nothing left to cut out, so HERE, have this ridiculous excuse for a one shot anyway. I hope you like it!
MDNI, fic under the cut
You push a slow breath out through your pursed lips as you connect the last strand of red thread. Sixteen. Sixteen deaths in a small town over the course of the year. Well, alright, only four confirmed. But twelve missing that you know in your gut aren’t runaways. Prostitutes have kids. Even bums have places they consider home. People don’t just disappear. You grit your teeth, running your fingers along the crimson thread to the photo of the young girl with the blue wig and the bruises mottling her neck. People don’t just disappear.
*
You clutch your folder to your chest, trying hard not to spill the coffee in your other hand as you push open Section Chief Matthew Clark’s office door. He looks up, face falling. “No.”
“I brought caffeine.”
The man twists his mouth to the side. “Two minutes.”
You thank him, placing the coffee down on his desk and opening your folder. “It’s up to sixteen now, sir.”
“Sixteen… what?”
“Deaths or disappearances that are too suspicious to be anything other than foul play.”
“You got another body?” He asks, rotating the folder and pulling the mugshot of the hooker out from its paperclip.
“Turned up in a local park. Drained of blood, throat eviscerated. Like an animal, but I don’t know any animal that wraps the kill in silk sheets after, do you?”
He raises an eyebrow. “This is… more. It isn’t nothing.”
“We’ll look into it?”
He scoffs. “Don’t push your luck. I’ll make a call down to Hemlock County, see what the sheriff over there thinks. We don’t have enough to force our way in here.”
You nod, trying not to appear too eager even though your stomach is flipping over. This is the closest you’ve come to anyone taking you seriously since the first file had crossed your desk. “I understand. And thank you, sir. Really.”
Clark purses his lips. “No promises, kid. If they don’t want our help, you have to drop it.”
You agree, though you have no intention of dropping it. You just can’t. Not after getting the letter. The letter hasn’t made its way into the official FBI folder, because if anyone got a hold of it they’d pull you from the case. Too close, too personal.
But a nine year old girl in Hemlock Grove saw you on the news and wrote you a letter. About her missing sister. About the something stalking the people of Hemlock Grove. About how everybody said her sister ran away, but that she knows her sister. People don’t just run away. They don’t just leave. You kept that letter on your bedside table, propped up the fuzzy Polaroid of the child with her chubby arms wrapped tightly around a teenager sporting a crooked grin, so the little girl and her missing sister were the first things you thought about when you woke up and the last thing before you went to sleep. And Hemlock Grove had been leaking into the seams of your dreams, recently. The town had a shimmery quality around the edges in your mind, because you’d never been there and all the photos you’d seen were of crime scenes.
You settle into bed that night with the latest case file, reading over the pertinent details. Local woman, known sex worker. Booked twice for solicitation in the past two years, of no fixed address but often seen at the Grove Motel. Body found in Kilderry Park by a dog walker at approximately 3AM. That was a strange time to walk a dog, and you make a note to follow up with the witness.
Your work phone buzzes in your nightstand, and you pull the drawer open to read the short message from Clark. Hemlock want you to take a look. Off the books, for now. Report to Sheriff Sworn at 9AM Monday.
Your heart is a jackhammer in your throat as you read and re-read the message. You had a case. You had the case. You were going to be able to look that nine year old girl in the eye and tell her somebody was listening. You were going to find her sister.
*
Hemlock Grove is a chaotic sprawl of a place. The residential areas seem to have spread out into the surrounding forest with almost no regard for proper planning, though the main part of town is made up of a swirl of concentric circular streets like the turns of a whirlpool, centered around a jagged, ugly skyscraper at the heart.
You meet Sheriff Tom Sworn outside the station. He’s sitting on the hood of his car with two Styrofoam coffee cups, and he holds one out to you before you’ve even switched off the engine in your rental. “You the FBI?”
You shrug. “Not officially, not today. You must be Sheriff Sworn.”
“My men… don’t know about this. Hell, I don’t know about this. Your chief made it sound like… do you really think we got a serial killer working outta Hemlock?”
You twist your mouth to the side, choosing your words carefully. “I wouldn’t like to say that, not without all the facts. But I think with sixteen missing or dead in under a year? You got one hell of a problem.”
You let the Sheriff do the talking when you follow him into the station. “Guys, this is a lady detective from the FBI. She’s studying small town policing for some reason or other.”
“I’ll be working vice cases, and with your recently deceased sex worker the Sheriff kindly offered me a chance to look at the case.” You offer the men a tight smile, and not a single one returns it. Good. Great.
“FBI interested in one dead hooker?” A tall, thin cop with a hooked nose and a moustache asks.
“Not the FBI. Just me. Educationally, as it’s not high-priority.” You hate the words as you say them, but it has the desired effect. The cops shoulders relax, his beady eyes assessing you and deciding you’re one of them after all. Nobody cares about dead hookers. “I promise to stay outta your way whilst you guys get the real police work done.”
This is the right thing to say, because another cop finally flashes you a grin. “Well welcome to Hemlock Grove, young lady. If there’s anything we can do to help you out, just holler.”
You reach out a hand and shake his meaty one, trying hard not to grimace at the sweat slipping off his palm and onto yours. “Actually, there was one thing. Know how I can get in touch with the person who found the body? File says a dogwalker.”
“Oh, sure. Mrs Balkay. She lives over on Flynn Street, painted her house blue last year. You can’t miss it if you drive straight round the back of the tower and hook a left.”
You glance out the window at the tower. “What exactly is that thing, anyway?”
The Sheriff ducks his head to look up at the sharp peak of the building. “The White Tower. It’s the headquarters for Godfrey Industries, big biotech company. This used to be a steel town, and the Godfrey’s owned it all. Switched around the industrial revolution and now I guess they’re a big deal in science.”
“I’ve never heard of them.” You mumble absently, wrinkling your nose. “It’s a bit… much, isn’t it?”
The Sheriff scoffs. “It’s a fucking eyesore is what it is. And it never goes out. The lights all the way up that thing, I mean. The tower’s never gone dark in forty years.”
*
You stir your tea carefully, the delicate porcelain of the cup so thin and fragile you’re terrified that the clink of the spoon against it might shatter the whole thing. Mrs Balkay watches you, sipping from her own cup as the cloud of fur masquerading as a dog rubs around your ankles. “Three AM is a strange time to walk your dog, Ma’am. If you don’t mind me saying so.”
She chuckles. “I don’t sleep much, and neither does Sissy. Do you, my love?” She coos to the dog, who skitters over to her mistress and wriggles underneath her chair. “And Sissy has explosive bowels. I walk her at all manner of strange times, if she needs to go. Don’t want her messing on my roses.”
You glance out the window to the long stretches of perfectly manicured pink and white rose bushes. “No, I suppose not. It must have been quite a shock, to find the girl.”
“Trash.” Mrs Balkay says brightly. “Street-walking trash, dear. It was going to happen sooner or later, to a woman who chooses to demean herself like that.”
You blink. “I… okay. Can you tell me about what happened before you found her?”
“Before?” Mrs Balkay frowns. “I was just walking Sissy. I was whistling, as I often do on the night walks. Keeps me from getting the jitter out so late, you know.”
“Do you remember what you were whistling? A song you know?”
The woman smiles. “Of course I do. We’ll meet again, by Vera Lynn. Do you know it?”
“I do.”
“One of my favorites. One of Sissy’s too.”
“It’s a classic. So you were whistling the song, and Sissy was about to do her business. Where abouts in the park were you? How close to the playhouse?”
“Oh, I don’t know. There was a fog that night. Eery, which is why I was whistling. And I about jumped out of my skin when he came out of the mist. I hadn’t heard his footsteps, even.”
You freeze, cup pressed to your lips. “When who came out of the mist?”
The woman shrugs, placing her cup down on the matching saucer. “Why Roman Godfrey, of course. I told the Sheriff as much.”
You scan over the report on your knee. No mention of a man at the scene. Coming out of the mist, coming from the direction of the playground. Acting strange, seemingly in a hurry. It was a huge piece of the puzzle, and it was completely absent from the report.
You thank Mrs Balkay for her time and head back to your car, already opening a search engine on your phone and typing the name Roman Godfrey.
Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries. A puff piece for TIME Magazine on how, as the youngest CEO in history, he’d managed to improve quarterly profits by eighteen percent in the 12 months since assuming control of the company. A pretty boy with big green eyes and a wolfish smirk. You don’t need to ask Sheriff Sworn why his name is missing from the report. You don’t need to ask for directions to the White Tower. The jut of it sticks against the sky no matter where you are in Hemlock Grove, an obnoxiously phallic symbol of the Godfrey’s influence over the town.
The Receptionist at the front desk looks you up and down before fixing a polite smile on her face. “Can I help you?”
“I’d like to speak with Mr Roman Godfrey, please.”
Her smile tightens. “Of course. You have an appointment?”
You sigh. “No. But I really need to speak with him.” You pull your credentials out of your pocket and place them discreetly on the desk. “A matter of some importance.”
The woman’s smile drops completely as she reads your badge. “You have a warrant?”
“Do I need one?” You ask, fixing a polite, false smile on your face.
“Stand down, Jane.” You look up, polite smile still in place as you meet emerald eyes. “I always have time for the police.”
You tilt your head to the side. “You find yourself in the company of law enforcement often, Mr Godfrey?”
“Roman, please.” He purrs, holding out a hand for you. You take it, feeling the hairs on your arm raise at his cool, firm grip. He wears a gaudy signet ring on one finger, and the metal of it presses sharply into your skin as he wraps his long fingers around yours. “When you’re the CEO of the biggest employer in the state, you’d be surprised how often you’re summoned for this or that.”
“Well I appreciate you taking the time for me, Mr Godfrey.”
His smile tightens just a little, the full pout of his lips thinning almost imperceptibly. “Would you mind if we had this discussion in my office?”
“Not at all.”
You follow him across the glass lobby and into an elevator. Roman presses a button for the top floor, and you reach to brace against the mirrored wall as the elevator jolts and begins its ascent.
Roman’s office is an enormous box of glass and chrome with sleek, black leather furnishings. Stylish and completely lacking personality. There are no photos on his desk, no personal effects of any kind. If you’d been presented a picture of this office at the academy, you’d have said it belonged to a sociopath. Roman leans back in his chair, offering you a seat across from him.
You perch on the edge. “What were you doing in Kilderry Park on the night Nadine Lang was murdered?”
Roman doesn’t flinch. The little smile on his face doesn’t so much as flicker. “Murdered? I thought it was an animal attack.”
“You encountered Mrs Balkay walking her dog around 3AM. What were you doing in the park at that time?”
“Weird time to walk a dog, isn’t it?” Roman asks, steepling his long fingers under his chin. “You sure she’s a reliable witness?”
“Are you saying you weren’t in Kilderry Park at 3AM on the night Nadine Lang was murdered?”
Roman hums, pushing up from his seat and coming around the desk to lean on the glass. This puts his crotch level with your face, and he knows it as he smirks down at you. “You keep saying that word. Is the FBI treating this as a murder case?” He runs a pale hand down the length of his thigh, and your eyes drop to watch the movement. There’s the slightest twinge of arousal in your core as you watch his long, graceful fingers move against the dark fabric of his pants, but you ignore it, lifting your eyes to meet his disconcertingly unblinking stare instead.
“Are you usually this uncooperative with law enforcement?”
Roman huffs a laugh, shifting his hips in a way that drags your gaze unwillingly back to his crotch and the very obvious tightening of fabric over his cock. “Law enforcement doesn’t usually look like you.”
There’s a blush creeping across your cheeks, and Roman feels his cock throb in response at all that pretty blood rushing under your skin. It was going to be so much fun, peeling your flesh from that pretty face and licking the red slick beneath. His mouth waters at just the thought, precum soaking into the front of his boxers. But he can’t. Not yet. Not until he knows everything that you know.
“Are you going to answer my questions, Mr Godfrey?” You’re still pretending you’re not affected by him, and Roman thinks that’s adorable. Pointless, but adorable.
“I like to walk at night. I’m an insomniac. Walking late at night helps clear my head. I’ve been doing it for years.”
You press your lips together. “Alright. Thank you. And when you were walking in the park, you didn’t come across the body of Nadine Lang? Or see anything suspicious.”
Roman opens his mouth, and you cut him off. “Other than Mrs Balky walking her dog at 3AM.”
Roman grins, showing too many teeth, and your heart stutters over a beat. “No, nothing. All quiet.”
“Alright. Well, thank you for your time, Mr Godfrey. I hope I can call on you again, if I have any more questions?”
Roman extends a hand to you, and you let him tug you from your chair even though you don’t need the help and you really don’t want to touch him.
“You can call on me for anything. Anytime.” He looks you up and down, his gaze appreciative and a little lecherous. “Seriously. Anytime.”
You nod curtly as you reach for the door handle. “Oh, one more thing. Can you think of any reason why your presence in the park that night might have not made it into the Sheriff’s official report?”
Roman shrugs. “Filing error, maybe? I guess you’d have to ask Tom.”
You nod, though you both know you won’t be asking Tom anything. “I’ll do that. Thank you again, Mr Godfrey.”
“Roman,” he sighs, watching your ass as you step out of the office and make your way back down to the elevator. You’ve got a nice ass, a tight, plump thing that Roman is pretty sure he could bounce a quarter off of. He wonders whether he’ll get a chance to fuck you before he has to kill you. That ass bouncing against his cock? That’d be something.
*
It’s a complete fucking fluke. You’re standing in line at the gas station on the other side of town because you’d been seized with an uncontrollable urge for a twinkie, despite having avoided the toxic cakes since you were a teenager after hearing a rumor that they sat in your gut undigested for a month. You’re looking out the window as a cherry-red vintage jaguar pulls in, and the driver honks his horn without getting out.
“Asshole,” the attendant mutters, and you offer him a sympathetic smile. “I can wait, if you need to-“
“He can wait while I ring you up. Entitled Godfrey asshole.”
That gets your attention. “Godfrey as in Roman?”
“The very same. Always expects everybody to drop everything and fall to their knees for him. Asshole.”
“I got that impression.” You mumble.
“You know a couple weeks back he came blazing in here at, oh, musta been about two in the morning. Sat in his car honking at me to come out and fill ‘er up. Really laid on the horn like I wasn’t doin anything better than runnin right out to him.”
“Two in the morning?” You ask. “What was he doing out at two in the morning?”
The man shrugs. “You know, it was the night before they found that bum dead in the storm drain. I’d say the spooky fuck had something to do with it if I thought a Godfrey would ever set foot in the sewer.”
You swallow hard, pulling your badge from your pocket and flashing it to him. “You wouldn’t happen to have tapes from that night, would you?”
Roman watches you through the glass, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as you flash your little badge at the attendant and he nods. God fucking damn, you were digging fast. Faster than he’d thought. Faster even than Olivia had thought. It wasn’t good at all; to have you scuttling about connecting him to things you had no business looking into. And Roman knew he hadn’t been careful enough. That he should have let his mother clean up the mess. But his pride had won out, and now there was a bombshell FBI agent poking at the thin veneer of human civility he’d wrapped himself in, and he was going to have to deal with it.
The attendant hands you a slim gray case, and Roman knows what it is. He feels it in his gut. You nod your head and turn, stepping out of the gas station, and Roman fixes a smile on his face as he climbs out of his car.
“Quantico!” He calls, and you turn as though you hadn’t known he was there. All a game.
“Mr Godfrey. Nice car.”
Roman shrugs modestly. “It was my dad’s. Costs about a million bucks to keep her running but I guess I’m sentimental.”
You slip the gray case into your bag as you approach. “You know you can pump it yourself.”
Roman blinks at you, his smirk slipping a little. “What?”
“Your gas. Pennsylvania state law allows self-service at gas stations. You don’t have to honk for the attendant to come out and do it for you.”
Roman blinks at you again. “I know.”
“So you just… prefer making other people work for you?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t like to get my hands dirty.”
You glance at his hands; pale, long fingers and the pulse of veins running across his knuckles and feel an unwelcome bolt of heat pulse through your core again. “I bet.”
*
You’re staying at the Grove Motel. Roman doesn’t know why it bothers him to see your little rental car parked outside such a shitty place. He doesn’t know why he’s still here either, parked across the lot in one of his jeeps and smoking his ninth consecutive cigarette. Three hookers have knocked on his window so far, and if another one tries it he’ll break her goddamn fingers for touching his car. He isn’t here for that, not tonight. He can see the fuzzy halo coming from the TV in your room, bleeding blue light out around the edges of the curtains. You’re watching the tape from the gas station, the one where a very agitated Roman Godfrey berates the gas station attendant for making him wait a minute for service. The blurry image won’t show the dark bloodstains soaked into his coat or the caking of dirt under his nails, and Roman can only hope the pixelated image doesn’t pick up the sludge of sewer run-off he’d kicked from his boots on the forecourt.
He pulls his little notebook from his breast pocket, scratching the word onto a fresh page. CCTV. He’d been making a list of things to check for, evidence to eradicate during cleanup. He should have thought about CCTV, or better filled up before he’d gone anywhere near the shanty town of homeless people under the bridge, but he hadn’t been thinking straight. The hunger had been overwhelming, tunnelling his vision to pinpricks of light focused only on the pulse of blood, and if he hadn’t gone hunting right there and then he’d have eaten a member of the household staff.
He flips the notebook back to the third page. DO NOT EAT: Relatives, household staff, Godfrey Industries employees. Children under sixteen, law enforcement or relatives of law enforcement.
The opposite page, entitled SAFE TO EAT: Homeless, hookers, pimps. Addicts, Elderly if no immediate relatives. Runaways, patients cleared by Pryce.
Roman tucks his notebook away, drumming his fingers against his pocket. Olivia would shit a bowling ball if she knew he was keeping all this in a book, but it was the only way Roman could make sense of it in his mind. Things got… clouded when he was hungry, and he was always fucking hungry. He’d been nothing but an appetite for a year now, since he’d cut his wrists and awoken as an Upir, lying in his mother’s lap.
Olivia’s pride in him had dried up real goddamn quick, as soon as the novelty wore off. As soon as he started to make mistakes, to show weaknesses. She’d returned to the harsh, cold matriarch Roman had always known her to be, and Roman had learned how to live with that now that he had nobody else at all. Because Shelley had disappeared, and Letha had died. And Peter had run away and left him, and Roman had nobody. Nobody at all.
So what if he’d killed a couple of kids from high school? So what if he’d drained that pretty college girl from the next town over? She’d squeezed her cunt around his cock so viciously his teeth had snapped down and closed around her throat all by themselves, he hadn’t been able to stop that any more than he’d been able to hold off the most violent orgasm of his life. It had been an accident, anyway.
*
You’re sipping the worst cup of coffee you’ve had in a long time, grimacing at the sharp, burnt taste of it as you flip through grainy pictures of the cemetery where a twenty year old girl had been found by the cemetery caretaker, half-buried in a hundred-year-old plot. Chipped black polish on her nails, sticking out of the ground and her fingertips eaten away by scavengers. No leads, no clues, no witnesses. She’d been at a club earlier that night, there was a stamp on her hand that had washed away in the elements but left a trace behind, visible under a blacklight.
“Sheriff, could I ask you something?”
Tom approaches, his face paling at the autopsy report in front of you. “Awful, that one.”
“The autopsy found an imprint of a logo on her hand. Did you follow up on that?”
“Sure. Belonged to a club in the city, we figured she’d met somebody there and he dumped her passing through here on his way someplace else.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Hemlock Grove isn’t on the way to anywhere else.”
Tom shrugs. “Well, we spoke to the club owner, and the guys working the door that night. They didn’t remember seeing her or anyone with her. Dead end.”
“Nothing on the CCTV?”
Tom’s eyes drop to the floor. “We didn’t ask.”
Screaming at the Sheriff will do no good, might even do harm to your precarious position here, so you shrug. “Probably a dead end.”
You step outside to make a call to the club, and try to hide your disappointment that the tapes are wiped every 30 days. You’d missed vital evidence by less than a week.
“Who shit in your lucky charms?”
You roll your eyes as you pocket your phone, turning to watch as Roman struts towards you like he owns the sidewalk. “Mr Godfrey.”
“Roman.” He reminds you, a teasing smirk on his face. “What’s up with you?”
“I just… got some disappointing news.”
“About the hooker?”
“No.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
You scoff. “You able to unwipe CCTV from a shady club in the city?”
Roman hums. “Unwipe? No. But I can probably get you access to the servers where everything is stored digitally. Which club?”
“The Red Room.”
Roman’s smirk widens as he steps forward, dipping his head close as though he’s sharing a secret. “Oh yeah. I can get you whatever you need from there, agent.”
*
Sitting beside Roman Godfrey in his cherry-red Jaguar is unnerving on account of how at ease you feel. Roman is by nature an awkward and unsettling individual, but he’s so relentlessly charming that you feel yourself sinking into a sense of security the longer you sit beside him.
“You’re young, for FBI.”
“I joined the academy straight out of college. I’ve always known what I wanted, I guess.”
“That’s good.” Roman says, shooting you a soft smile. “It must be nice.”
“You didn’t always want to be the big bad CEO of a global powerhouse?”
Roman’s smile drops, a look of regret passing over his face. “It never occurred to me that there was a choice. That’s the thing about privilege, I guess. The name opens a lot of doors, but it closes some, too.”
It’s deeper than you’d thought Roman Godfrey capable of, and it does something funny to your stomach as you press your thighs together and focus on the blur of grey outside as the car passes into the city limits. “You know the guy who owns the club, then?”
“Marty.” Roman nods. “He’s dirty, of course. But he runs a discreet establishment, and that’s important when you’ve got shareholders breathing down your neck.”
“Sounds like you’re under a lot of pressure.” You say softly, and Roman’s smile is soft and genuine as he looks at you.
“You’d know about pressure, right?” He says, his voice straining. “Solving murders.”
“Murders,” you hum. “I’m not so sure, actually.”
Roman’s head snaps to you, eyes searching your face, and you fix your expression into one of bored neutrality. “You don’t think that hooker was murdered?”
“Oh no, I think she was. But she was a hooker. Occupational hazard, isn’t it?”
Roman’s shoulders sag but his fingers tighten on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under the force. “I guess so.”
You let the silence stretch, listening to the steady in and out of his breathing. “But this girl, the one from the cemetery? Not a hooker.”
You hear it, the catch in his breath, and your stomach flips over as your heart sinks. Yeah. Yeah, Roman Godfrey’s interest in the case isn’t that of a bored millionaire or a guy trying to get his dick wet, though you’re pretty sure you could have him like that if you wanted. Roman had something to do with it. With all of it.
*
He puts his hand on your knee, and you almost jerk away from him. His palm is a warm weight against your skin, his fingers curling around the inside of your thigh as he sits too close on the small leather couch in the manager’s office at The Red Room. You steal a glance at the side of his face, but his eyes are fixed to the screen, watching the pale, flickery shape of the victim stumbling out of the front door of the club. Drunk, sure, but alone. Definitely alone.
“This clear it up for you, agent?” The club owner, Marty, asks, running his finger around the rim of his whiskey glass. Roman clinks his signet ring against his own glass, the fingers on his wandering hand kneading at the flesh of your inner thigh in a way that has your clit throbbing and your face heating.
“Sure does. Thank you for…” you swallow as Roman’s fingers drag higher, breaching the hem of your skirt. “Going out of your way to assist.”
“Yeah appreciate it, Marty.”
“Anything for my favorite Godfrey. You sticking around for another drink?” His eyes slide over you, and you press your lips together as his gaze drops to Roman’s hand disappearing under your skirt. His mouth pulls into a smirk, and you tug your legs to the side until Roman’s hand slips off your thigh.
“I can get a cab back to town.”
Roman scoffs, pushing off the couch with an obnoxious groan and tugging you up without asking. “I’ll drive you.”
“Some other time,” Marty says, eyes raking over the back of your legs as Roman pulls you towards the door. You wish you’d worn a longer skirt. Or pants. Two pairs of pants.
The moment you’re free of the oppressive, dark environment you pull away from Roman, rubbing your palm against your skirt like you can stop the tingling from where his fingers were wrapped around yours.
“I’m sorry that he couldn’t help.”
You turn, raising an eyebrow. Roman’s the picture of collected as he runs his hand back through his hair and flips open a fancy cigarette case.
“It was a long shot.”
Roman shrugs. “Well I’m sorry you wasted your time.”
You bite your lip as you watch him light his cigarette, sucking smoke into his lungs and exhaling expertly. “You okay to drive?”
Roman shrugs. “I didn’t even finish my drink.”
You hum, turning on your heel and heading for the car because watching smoke curl out from between his full, pouty lips is doing something disconcerting to your pussy and you’re not going to entertain this with the guy who is as close to a suspect as you’ve got.
You slow as you approach the car, frowning at the… wrongness of it. “Uh.. Roman?”
You feel him more than hear him, he makes surprisingly little sound on the sidewalk as he slips in beside you. “Fuck.”
The wheels are gone. All four wheels just… gone. “We should call the cops.”
Roman turns his head, the smirk on his mouth at odds with the sharp irritation in his eyes. “You are the cops.”
“I mean like… this is theft, right?”
Roman huffs, sucking hard enough on his cigarette to hollow his cheeks over the sharp bones of his face. “It’s an inconvenience, is what it is. Wheels in good condition are hard to get hold of for this car.”
“And we’re… stuck. Here.” You sigh. “Shit. I’m sorry about your car. I’d offer to pay for the wheels but…”
Roman flicks the dying stub to the ground and kicks the toe of his shoe against the concrete. “I wouldn’t accept it anyway. I’ll get someone to come pick us up, but it’ll be a while. You hungry?” His eyes rake over you, and you shiver. The man never blinks when he’s watching you. It makes you feel hot and itchy and exposed.
“I could eat.”
*
When Roman had suggested you slip into a restaurant to wait for rescue, you’d assumed quiet conversation over dinner and a chance to dig into his psyche a little. But sitting across from him while you eat and he… watches, is the most uncomfortable experience of your life. His enormous eyes drink in every bite you take, his tongue gliding over his lips as a thin drip of pink liquid slips out of the corner of your mouth. “Sorry.” You mumble, reaching for a napkin. Roman is there faster than you can fathom, his thumb dragging down over your chin before returning to his own mouth.
“You like it raw?”
“No.”
Roman smirks, leaning back in his seat. “It’s the only way to eat it. Overcooking kills the flavor.”
You cut a sticky chunk of steak off, trying not to look at the sickly blue-purple color of the inside. “You want some?” You hold your fork out, and Roman shakes his head.
“Not hungry.” But his eyes devour you, his tongue darting out to wet over his mouth again, and you feel a chill skitter down your spine.
“If it’s about the cost, we can go dutch. I’m not expecting you to pay. It’s not like this is a date.”
Something flickers on his face for a fraction of a second, there and gone so quickly you might have imagined it if not for the tightening of his smirk. You feel his foot kick against your leg, a jab hard enough to make you wince. “There are worse things you could be doing.”
“Did you just kick me?”
Roman’s smirk widens. “Of course not.”
His cock is throbbing with an actual ache as he watches you chew messily through the practically raw meat bleeding on your plate. It only gets worse at the wince of pain when his foot connects with your shin, and Roman can practically smell the blood spreading under your skin, blooming to form a bruise he’d put there. He’s definitely going to have to fuck you before he kills you. His cock will never get over it if he doesn’t.
“I think I’ll get a cab home after all.” You say, pushing your plate away and standing. There’s a flush to your cheeks and Roman can’t tell if it’s arousal or if you’re really, genuinely pissed off. And usually he wouldn’t care either way, but there’s a note burning a hole in his little book that says keep your enemies close and so he stands himself, wrapping a hand around your wrist as you try to pass him.
“Let me call a driver. It’ll be a whole lot more comfortable than the back of a cab, trust me.”
Trust him. You don’t trust Roman Godfrey, you’d be a fool to get in the car with him. “You gunna kick me again if I say no?”
Roman forces his smirk into something a little less cruel. “I was only playing.”
“We’re not five.”
Roman huffs, wriggling his fingers down your wrist to lace in your own and you suppress a shudder. “Duly noted, agent.”
Riding back to the city in the wide backseat of Roman Godfrey’s town car, one of Roman Godfrey’s town cars, is completely different from the easy ride in. Roman is agitated, bright green eyes like luminous beacons in the low lighting. And still, he never blinks. You sit as far from him as you can, pressed right up against the door, but that’s a mistake. Because when he unbuckles his seatbelt and slides across the leather, there is nowhere to go. Nowhere to go when he presses his thigh against yours, or when his fingers slide up under your skirt to graze over the front of your panties.
“Mr Godfrey, this is inappropriate.”
He hums, thumb finding the soft protrusion of your clit against the cotton and rubbing against it. “Roman,” he purrs, dipping his head to press his lips to the corner of your jaw. “It’s Roman. And we’ve had a nice time tonight, haven’t we? Dinner and a movie.”
You feel his lips turn up at his own little joke, and your stomach flips over with nausea. “This wasn’t a date. This was work. I’m work-“ you break off, your voice catching in your throat as two of Roman’s long fingers slither inside your underwear to prod against your entrance.
“You’re wet.” He mumbles, easing his thick fingers inside you as his thumb continues to rub circles against you through your underwear. “You want me bad, agent.”
FBI Academy training had been grueling and intensive, and you’d been taught how to get out of scenarios you could never imagine happening in real life. But you’re thanking the special agent that had made you run the maneuver forty times, until you had every single motion down perfectly, as you slip your cuffs from your jacket pocket and cinch one around Roman Godfrey’s wrist. The other you yank into place against the door beside you before slipping out from underneath him and climbing into the seat on the opposite side, shoving him hard as you go.
Roman yanks on the cuff, hissing at the bite of metal into his skin. “Fuck is this?”
“I’m detaining you before you get yourself arrested for sexual assault.”
Roman’s face smooths into something lifeless. “You’re detaining me? Putting me in a goddamn timeout?”
You huff, tugging on the hem of your skirt and grimacing at the feeling of arousal sticking your underwear to your pussy. “Having money and power might get you whatever you want in Hemlock Grove, Mr Godfrey. But it doesn’t get you me.”
You can’t know the challenge you’ve set him. You can’t know the game that has started, as Roman pulls against the metal cuff on his wrist just to feel the bite of the steel. He could break it easily, he could reach across the car and pull you into his lap and impale you on his cock as he rips out your throat. Tom Sworn assured him that you’re nothing. That there’s no FBI investigation, that you’re poking around and then you’ll be gone. But there’d been a little jump in his heartrate when he’d said it, when he’d lied for you.
Roman lets you think that he’s helpless, leans back in his seat and spreads his legs wide. He watches your eyes drop to his crotch, to the shameless bulge of his erection. You don’t look away, and Roman wanders his fingers against his own length, rubbing the length as he keeps his eyes fixed on your face.
“What are you doing?” Your voice is small and breathy.
“You’re a tease.”
Your head snaps up then, eyes narrowing. “I’ve never given you any reason to think that.”
Roman scoffs, fingers flicking open his fly and dragging the zipper down so he can reach into his boxers and tug his cock out. You look again, pupils blowing wide as he runs his thumb over his leaking tip. “Wearing that little skirt. That FBI approved attire, agent?”
You bristle. “I’m not working officially, Mr Godfrey. I told you that.”
“And yet,” he continues, wrapping his fist around the base of his cock and gliding his palm against himself, “you flashed your badge at me and demanded my attention.”
You feel your cheeks heat. “You’re a busy man.”
“I’m so fucking busy,” he groans, squeezing himself tightly at the tip before jerking back down, hips lifting to fuck into his hand as his head drops back against the seat. “You think I’d cancel my day to take you on a wild goddamn goose chase like this?” He hisses, releasing his cock to stick against his stomach for a moment as he lifts his hand to his face and spits into his palm. Heat builds in your core, arousal soaking your underwear, and you tilt your hips down to apply some pressure to your aching clit. “You think I’d drive you out here to help you with your stupid little case?”
You swallow. “Not a concerned citizen after all, then?”
Roman huffs a laugh as he fists his cock again, jerking harder, rougher now as his head lolls back against the headrest and he fixes his eyes on the way your hips shift forward to drag your clit against the seat. “I’m concerned that you’re chasing ghosts. Looking for shit that isn’t there.”
You watch a pink dusting spread over his cheeks as he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, hips bucking up to meet his own hand as he nears his climax, and you climb across the car to sit next to him. This close you could wrap your own hand around his and feel the hot, silky press of his cock in your palm. You could dip your head and taste the salty pearls leaking from his slit. You could do a lot of things, but you won’t. Instead you lean in, pressing your palm lightly to his throat.
Roman moans, eyes rolling back as his hand becomes a blur against his cock. “There’s a monster hunting people in Hemlock Grove, Mr Godfrey.” You say softly, letting your nails drag up the side of his throat as you press down. “I think you know that. And I think you’re concerned that I’m going to find exactly what I’m looking for.”
Roman cums with a strangled groan, thick ropes of his release painting his hand and staining the dark fabric of his pants. He squeezes around the head of his cock, milking his own cum from the twitching, sensitive tip, eyes never leaving your face. His gaze dips to your mouth, his swollen lips parting, and you lean in.
You let your mouth brush his, the barest of electric touches. “You disgust me, Roman.” You whisper against his lips. “I’m going to find where they’re buried. Every. Last. One.”
The car has slowed, you’d felt the rumbling deceleration as the driver had crossed into the town limits, and you yank the door open and roll out without sustaining much more than a grazed knee. The last thing you see is Roman’s shocked, fucked out expression as the car passes you, and you’re up and running before he has a chance to order his driver to return for you. You can see the tower from here, as you can from anywhere, and you make your way towards it, cursing Roman Godfrey and Hemlock Grove and your own stupid, traitorous cunt as you stomp through the forest on the way back to your motel.
*
Obsession. It’s a dangerous word. It’s written in his notebook, underlined. Because Roman has a problem with obsession. With latching on to things that can’t hold his weight. With drowning in how much he wants. As he sits in the motel parking lot, eyes trained on the door of your room, he feels the word like it’s etched in his own skin. His phone pings in his pocket and he pulls it out, reading the irritating You owe me message from Marty before opening the attached file.
The footage is grainy, but it’s unmistakable to anyone who has spent more than a few minutes with him. The girl stumbles out of the club and then back in again, called over by a man standing just out of frame. By luck, actually. Roman hadn’t been thinking about the cameras when he’d followed her up from the main club. He’d been thinking about the ache in his cock and the burning, roaring hunger clawing up his throat. The girl had let him hook an arm around her waist and she’d sagged against him as he dragged her away from the club. He’d looked up, searching the street for his town car, and the camera had caught the strange, reflective quality of his eyes, flashing green like a cat even in the low resolution of the CCTV camera. Roman imagines what your face would have looked like if Marty had shown you this footage, and he thinks yeah maybe he owes that piece of shit something after all.
Obsession is a dangerous word, but Roman finds himself rationalizing the fuck out of his impulses as he scrolls through your Instagram. It had been locked down, along with your Facebook, but it hadn’t cost him more than pocket change and a phone call to get it all unlocked for him. He’s looking at your life in pixels, and his stomach twists with a jealous longing so severe he almost smashes his phone right there on the asphalt. You with your arms around friends, a big, genuine smile on your face. You with your face smooshed up against the wrinkly face of a puppy, your eyes actually sparkling with how happy you are. Roman has never seen a light as bright. He’s never wanted to extinguish something so badly. His hand is already creeping over the front of his pants again, sensitive cock stirring to life as he flicks through post after post. There are videos too, little clips of you singing karaoke at a bar in DC, and one of you sitting in a restaurant while the waitstaff serenade you for your birthday. “I hate you,” you mouth to the camera, and the man behind it laughs.
Roman grits his teeth as he slides his fingers into his boxers and squeezes the head of his cock harshly. He replays the video, cutting it just before that awful fucking laugh, until it’s you on a loop looking right at him. He can even hear the words in your voice, in his head. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
It’s the worst orgasm of his life, cumming around a sob and hissing at the rough friction of his boxers dragging over the wet tip of his cock. He’s thinking about the way the dead college girl looked when he rolled her into that shallow grave, about the way the dirt got stuck in the creases of her thighs. And he’s looking at you, at your pretty mouth and the way you glare at the camera. Roman wipes his hand against his thigh with a grimace and pulls his notebook out, thumbing to a clean page and writing your name at the top.
*
You’re shoved out the way as you try to step into the Sheriff’s office two days later, and you blink at the unapologetic deputy who pushed you as he barrels past. “Where’s the fire?”
Sheriff Sworn doesn’t smile as he looks up at you. “Two more missing. Pair of college kids from the city.”
You frown, feeling ice douse your stomach. “Two? At the same time?”
“I know.” Tom purses his lips. “Your boss already called. He wants you to have full access to this case, ongoing.”
“In an… official capacity?”
The Sheriff scoffs, pulling open his desk drawer and sliding a badge across to you. “No fucking feds until we have to. Consider yourself deputized, agent.”
You’re fixing the badge to your jacket when you feel the tension behind you, and you don’t need to turn around to know whose darkening the doorway. The Sheriff’s face tightens. “Mr Godfrey, how can we help you today?”
“Tom.” Roman steps into the room, his fingers brushing against your hip as he steps around you and reaches for the Sheriff’s hand. “It’s me helping you, hopefully.” Roman’s eyes slide over you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth when he sees you’re wearing another short fucking skirt. “I heard about those boys.”
Your spine straightens. “How?”
Roman turns, perching on Tom’s desk with his back to the Sheriff like he isn’t even there anymore. His attention fixes on you. “Small pond. I’d like to offer a reward for any information leading to their safe return. I was thinking ten grand.”
Tom coughs, and you shoot him a pinched look with a tiny shake of your head. He clears his throat before speaking. “That’s too generous, Roman.”
“Not at all.” Roman says, eyes still fixed on you. “There’s a monster hunting people in Hemlock Grove. I just want to make sure the beast is caught and collared before we’re drowning in federal interference.”
Tom’s shoulders sag. “You’re worried the FBI will want to look into your company.”
Roman’s smirk widens, and he licks his tongue over his bottom lip. You feel your face flush, hating the visceral reaction you have to how absurdly, indecently sexual he is. You school your features into neutrality, knowing that all Tom can see is the back of Roman’s stupid head. “The FBI isn’t interested in embezzlement or fraud cases when there’s an active serial killer in town, Mr Godfrey. Your books are safe.”
Roman quirks an eyebrow at you, splaying his palms over the wide spread of his thighs. “Your cynicism wounds me, agent. I’m just a concerned citizen.”
“I’d advise against it.” You say to the Sheriff, bypassing Roman altogether.
Roman twists at the waist. “You’re the boss.”
Tom looks like he’d welcome a lightning strike to the chest. His eyes slide from Roman’s to yours and back again. “I’d be an idiot to ignore advice from the FBI, I guess.”
You nod sharply, and Roman’s smirk slips just an inch. Just enough to reveal the ripple of cold, calculated fury underneath. This is not a man used to being overruled, and Tom fights the urge to shrink at the ice in his stare.
“Suit yourselves,” Roman says pleasantly. “Walk me out, agent?”
“You know the way better than I do, Mr Godfrey.”
Roman stops in the doorway, holding the doorframe and staring at you like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. When you don’t he huffs, an unamused little laugh. “Suit your goddamn self.”
You’re sipping on a terrible cup of coffee at the makeshift desk they’ve made up for you in the bullpen when Tom Sworn steps out of his office. His face is green and ashy. “Sheriff?” You’re already getting to your feet, feeling dread settle over you at his expression.
“Man the phones, people.” He says gravely. “We’re about to get buried in shit.”
“Sheriff?” You ask again. “What’s going on?”
Tom doesn’t answer you. He clicks a button on the remote in his hand, and a thick old television mounted high on the wall flickers to life. You suck in a breath as bright green eyes bleed out of the screen. Tom cranks the volume, and you brace your hand on the edge of the table as you watch Roman Godfrey derail your entire case with the smooth, measured tone of a practiced PR pitch. “That’s right, ten thousand dollars for useful information. If you think you’ve seen the boys, even if you’re not sure, please, please call the Sheriff’s department. They’re ready and waiting to take any and all calls. All leads will be explored.”
You snap your teeth together, grinding your jaw tightly at the mocking smirk to his mouth. “Bastard.”
“Entitled Godfrey asshole.” One of the deputies says in agreement, folding his arms over his chest. “He’s going to bury us. Every crazy motherfucker in the state is gunna be calling with bogus tips.”
You narrow your eyes at him, and Roman’s smirk seems to widen as though he can see you through the screen. “I’m just a concerned citizen.” He says into the camera, and your hands curl into fists at your sides.
The phone closest to you rings, and you snatch it up. “Hemlock Grove Sheriffs Department.”
“Agent,” he purrs. “You watch my on-screen debut?”
You press your lips into a firm line to stifle a frustrated scream. “Mr Godfrey.”
“You like it?” He asks. “Watching me get you wet?”
You do groan then, a furious growl of sound that delights Roman more than he can say. “You’ve fucked us.”
“I know why you said no to my help, but I decided you’re acting against the best interests of my town. You’re overruled.”
“That isn’t how this works.” The shrill ring of a phone on the next desk makes you jump, and Roman chuckles.
“It sounds like valuable leads are about to start rolling in. You’re so fucking welcome, sweetheart.” He hangs up, pocketing his phone with a triumphant grin on his face. From where he’s standing he can see you staring at the dead phone in your hand. You slam the receiver down on the desk, and Roman is giddy.
*
His good mood lasts all of about thirty minutes. He’s leaning back in his big, black leather chair scrolling through your Instagram when the door is opened and Olivia Godfrey struts in like she owns the place.
“You got an appointment?”
Olivia raises an eyebrow at her son. “You were on the news.”
Roman smirks, forcing the easy expression onto his face even though his pulse is racing. He hadn’t considered the implications of his stunt outside of the game with you, and there’s cool murder in his mother’s eyes. “I’m staying close.”
Olivia narrows her eyes at her son, crossing the room and rounding the desk like the physical barrier isn’t even there. She pinches Roman’s chin sharply, forcing his head up. “You’re showboating. This isn’t like paying off the Sheriff to look the other way when silly cheerleaders made their accusations in high school. This is serious, Roman. The FBI are here.”
Roman grits his teeth, your face flashing in his mind. If Olivia gets her claws into you you’ll be disappeared without a trace and Roman won’t get to have you. “I’m handling it.”
Olivia scoffs. “You want to fuck her, don’t you? That’s what all this is about.”
Roman flushes, squirming in his seat under her withering glare. “She doesn’t have anything. I’m covering my tracks. Now.” He adds, swallowing thickly.
Olivia purses her lips, reaching out to card her fingers through his hair, and Roman shivers at the scrape of her nails against his scalp. “You have a week, darling.” She says softly. “Tie up your loose ends, get rid of her.” Her fingers twist and tighten in his hair until he whines. “Or I’ll do it for you. And so help me God, Roman. If I have to get my hands dirty cleaning up your shit you will pay for it dearly.”
She releases his hair and Roman slumps back in his seat, five years old and fresh from a scolding. His fingers itch to reach for her, to cling to her skirt and beg for her forgiveness and a tiny, meaningless morsel of affection, but he doesn’t do it. He watches his mother swan out of his office with burning cheeks and a sharp hurt in his chest. Your face flashes in his mind again, and he reopens the window with your Instagram page on his computer. Pretty smile, kind eyes. You’ve tagged a friend in one of your photos, and Roman clicks on her profile next. He learns about your high school boyfriend, and which subjects you liked best. He memorizes the name of your childhood pets, and wonders whether the concerning number of deceased hamsters was down to bad luck or improper care. He watches a video your dad took of you crossing the stage at your college graduation, and a simple photo of you with your arm around an older version of yourself, your mother he guesses, at your FBI Academy graduation just a few years later.
Roman catalogues every moment of your life, his hand scratching pertinent details into his notebook under the heading of your name. Your favorite food, your coffee order. The movies you saw last year that you liked enough to post about. Your political opinions, the charities you supported publicly.
There’s a tension headache brewing behind his eyes and the sun is setting low over Hemlock Grove when he finally stops, dropping his pen and lifting his hand to caress against the pixels of you on his screen. There’s a tension headache brewing behind his eyes and an awful, gnawing ache in his stomach. Because Roman has been cataloging all the things that matter to you, and he’s come to the realization that there is nothing he can do to put himself in that category. You value loyalty and kindness and selflessness in your friends. You value soft men who volunteer at animal shelters and call their grandmothers in your romantic partners. And Roman Godfrey is a lot of things, but he isn’t loyal or kind or selfless. He doesn’t know how to be.
He taps his fingers against the glass top of his desk and reads the caption on a post you’d made just a few days before your arrival in Hemlock Grove. You’re standing outside your apartment building, leaning against a fancy car that is definitely not your own, and the caption reads Fake it til you make it, baby. “Fake it til you make it, baby,” Roman repeats softly, running the tip of his finger over the slightly fuzzy image of your smile. “You want a good guy, agent? I can be a good guy.”
Roman sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, pulling out his phone and calling one of his least favorite people. “I don’t give a fuck that you’re in the middle of something. I call, you come. That’s the law of the land.”
The man on the other end says something snippy and Roman hangs up, leaning back in his chair and pretending to look out of the window at the setting sun. When there’s a knock on his door he waits a full ten seconds before standing up and crossing to it.
“Really, Roman?” Dr Johan Pryce asks as he steps into the office. “Is all this pompous nonsense necessary?”
Roman hums, reaching out to clap Dr Pryce on the shoulder. “I need a favor, Johan. A big one.”
*
Johan Pryce has been cleaning up Godfrey messes for more years than he cares to remember. It had been different under JR, of course, but Johan didn’t let himself think about JR too much. About the visionary the man had been, and the waste of his suicide. About the years since, spent at the will and whim of a volatile, spoiled Upir woman with a taste for her own reflection.
Because despite the controversial topic of his research, Johan Pryce did not like killing. He certainly did not approve of the wasting of human life for something as trivial as appetite. But Olivia Godfrey had controlled the purse strings, and she hunted women with variations on her face and her waning youth, and Johan had been commanded to clean up the mess afterwards. Creating a substance capable of satiating the Upir appetite had been a necessity designed only to free up his own time.
That Roman had so wholly embraced his own monstrous nature was decidedly a major pain in the ass. Because Roman would drink the substance by the gallon, but he would still slip out in the middle of the night to fuck and feed and leave a trail of bodies scattered across the town like so much trash. The boy-king standing in front of him does not possess one single ounce of humility over his request, and Pryce’s fingers curl into his fist with the impending promise of caving the smug prick’s face in. “Where did you bury the bodies?”
Roman scoffs. “I didn’t have time to do that. They’re at the steel mill. I know it’s mom’s favorite place to stash hers.”
Pryce presses his lips into a fine line. “And you’re certain they’re both… deceased?”
“Ohhhh, they’re deceased alright. Tore their heads off and sucked them dry like fucking juiceboxes.”
“Lovely.” Pryce says tightly. “You know, the forensic evidence is just one small part of the puzzle, Roman. I can scrub every trace of them from that mill, but the world is made up of glass eyes and red lights. Someone, somewhere would have captured you herding them into your jeep, or passing a traffic camera at just the wrong time. You need to be more careful.”
Roman hums non-committedly, but there’s a ripple of tension in his shoulders as he straightens. “I don’t know how the FBI put it together.”
“The FBI?”
“A couple of dead hookers and some runaways. Shouldn’t have raised so much as an eyebrow outside of Hemlock County.” He muses. “Unless somebody tipped them off.”
Pryce huffs an incredulous laugh. “You think I would risk Godfrey Industries, risk my projects, to squabble with you over a handful of dead unfortunates? Really, Roman.”
Roman hears the dismissal, and Johan’s heart remains steady. He isn’t lying, he didn’t bring you here. All the better, really.
“Just take care of the fucking bodies and find me a monster to pin the killings on.”
Pryce freezes. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Roman spins on his heel, closing the gap between himself and Pryce in two steps. “I want the FBI out of Hemlock Grove. I want things to go back to normal. Best way for that to happen is for the police to find the monster they’ve been hunting. Sure as shit isn’t going to be me in a cage, so figure it out. Let one of your goddamn abominations out to play.”
Johan shakes his head. “My… projects are not… I don’t have a monster for you to pin your crimes on. Not in the lab. But-“ He raises his voice as Roman opens his mouth. “I have some ideas. Leave it with me, Roman. And please, please don’t eat anybody else in the meantime.”
*
Roman does not like being told what to do, and his impulse to eat somebody else is almost too strong to ignore. He’s watching the tall woman in the leopard-print skirt saunter from car to car, leaning heavy on the windows. If she approaches him, if she puts her arms on his window when he’s so obviously here for you, he’ll invite her inside and rip her heart out of her chest. What’s one more dead hooker, when Pryce was about to fix everything anyway? He’d gotten a call not fifteen minutes earlier, a tight explanation and a short list of instructions that had made him bristle with indignation. But these things came with an assurance that it would work, and so Roman had grit his teeth and agreed to it all.
The hooker is half way to his goddamn car, and Roman’s mouth fills with saliva at the thought of sinking his teeth into her when the door to your motel room opens and you step out. The hooker disappears into irrelevance the moment you do, and Roman’s vision tunnels on you. You look left and right, like there might be traffic in an almost empty parking lot, and Roman files the note away to write later. Cautious.
He waits until you’re safely in your car and pulling away before he even starts his engine, and then he backs out of his space and follows you. The hooker flips him off as the car passes, with no concept of how close she’d been to becoming minced meat, and Roman forces himself to keep his focus on your taillights to stop himself from backing up and running her the fuck over.
He pulls up opposite the police station and watches you pause at the door before shaking your head with a little smile on your face. His interest is well and truly piqued, and he’s getting out of his car and following at a safe distance until you dip into a coffee shop.
Roman doesn’t go in, but he watches from across the street. He can see you through the glass front, laughing and chatting with the barista as he makes your drink. Roman knows it’s a skinny cappuccino with a shot of caramel. He knows that you’ll put two packets of Splenda into it, and that you’ll pop the lid off to lick at the foam. His mouth waters and his cock twitches when you do that, your pink tongue curling into the cup. The words cappuccino foam are written in his notebook, and he’ll underline them as soon as he gets the chance.
You head back to the police station, and Roman waits until he’s absolutely sure you’re staying before he climbs back into his jeep and returns to the motel. The hookers swarm towards him as he gets out, but they back up at the look on his face. “Didn’t come to play, ladies.” He calls as he makes his way to your door like he belongs there. The lock gives easily with a sharp twist of his wrist, and he steps inside and closes the door. Nobody knocks, nobody questions him. It isn’t worth it.
Inside your space, Roman feels his shoulders relax even as tension pools in his gut. He’s been in this room before, he’s been serviced in this room before. The idea that he’s cum on the sheets you’re sleeping in makes his cock ache, and he lets himself indulge in the scent of your shampoo against your pillow as he climbs onto your bed and nuzzles his nose into the fabric.
He’d like to believe he’d broken into your room to look for evidence. Clues about your case, any hints that you had something on him. But Roman doesn’t really give a shit about any of that now, not with Pryce about to fix the whole damn thing. He knows that his time with you is short, that you’ll be on your way with a closed case soon enough, and he wants something. He rolls off the bed and crouches in front of your bag. You hadn’t unpacked, hadn’t planned on staying long. Roman pretends that doesn’t bother him as he slides the zipper open and sifts through your clothes until he finds a pretty pair of cotton panties. Plain black, very practical. Very you. It isn’t what he wants, but it’s something.
Your kindle rests on the bedside table, and Roman returns to lie against your pillows as he opens it and flicks through your library. “Oh, agent,” he coos to himself as he memorizes the titles of your last five reads. “You like it dirty.”
He doesn’t exactly feel like it, or at least not as much as he usually does, but Roman tugs his cock out of his jeans with a resigned sigh anyway. Too good an opportunity to pass up, to paint your pillow with his cum and have you sleep right up against it.
*
If Roman Godfrey thinks he’s got a career in espionage ahead of him, you’ll have to let him down gently. He’s too tall and too intense, you can feel his eyes on you from across the street. And maybe you lick the foam off your cappuccino like a porn star, just to make him sweat. Serves him right for trailing you like the world’s worst stalker, in fact. He leaves you alone after you reach the police station, and you slump into your chair at your makeshift desk with a sigh.
“Anything new?” You ask Tom as he approaches.
“I’d have called you if there was. Just the goddamn tipline. I’ve had to put two guys on it full time.”
You bite your lip. “Do I even need to ask if there’ve been any credible-“ You cut yourself off at the dark expression on his face. “Right. Well… I mean, I could take a shift. If it would be helpful.” Say no, say no, say no.
“That’d be a big help, agent.” Tom says, his shoulders sagging like you’ve brought him actual, physical relief. “I could send a couple guys home for some sleep.”
You think about the full seven hours you got last night, and nod with a forced smile. “It’s not a problem.”
As if on queue the phone in front of you begins to ring, and you pick it up before either of the haggard-looking cops on the desks opposite have a chance to move. “Hemlock Grove tipline.”
There’s nothing but moaning on the other end of the line, and you grimace. “Hello? Are you calling with a tip for the Sheriff? Do you need any assistance from the police department?”
The groans get higher in pitch. “Yeah, keep talking, you cop bitch,” the caller moans, his voice gravelly. “I’m almost there.”
You hang up, slamming the phone down with such force the table shakes. “Pervert.” You explain, and Tom offers you a sympathetic smile.
“Been a lot of those, I’m afraid. Public tip lines bring out the crazies.”
Hours later you’re cursing Roman Godfrey when you get a call that has your spine straightening. “There’s… I think I know what you’re hunting.”
The dull ache at your temples dissipates. “You’re calling about the missing boys?”
“No. Uh, I mean, I guess.” The man on the other end sighs. “I think there’s a… shit, I don’t know what it is. Some kind of animal. Like a bear. It’s out by the barrens.”
“The barrens?”
“You know, the storm drain where all the bums live. Under the bridge by Kilderry Park.”
“A bear, you said?”
“I sad like a bear. It’s as big as a bear, that’s all I can see. I’m not getting any closer than this.”
“It’s there now?” you ask, already getting to your feet. You glance towards Tom’s office, but the Sheriff isn’t at his desk. And the monster that’s been hunting and killing people is out there now.
“I’m lookin’ right at it.”
“Alright, okay. The-the police are on their way, sir. Do not approach the creature. Stay where you are - or get somewhere safe.”
The man hangs up, and your heart is in your throat as you run from the building and climb into your car. Your hands shake so badly you almost can’t turn the key in the ignition, but you manage it and soon the town is dissolving into the sprawl of suburbia.
*
Roman lets out a low whistle. Pryce had said he’d deliver, and Pryce had fucking delivered. The beast was at least seven foot tall standing, though it crouched like a coiled spring in the corner of the cage, its enormous yellow eyes narrowed on Roman. Whether it identified him for what he was, or merely saw him as the holder of its leash, Roman didn’t know and he didn’t much care either.
“Here doggy, doggy,” he called.
“Roman.” Pryce plasters a tight smile on his face. “You understand the risks here, don’t you? Once the cage is open, I have no way of… recalling the creature. If you get in the way, it will likely try to kill you.”
Roman hums, kicking at the bars and sending the werewolf inside into a mad frenzy. “Then I’ll snap its neck. You said nobody’s looking for him?”
“No.” Pryce tilts his head, regarding the creature. “No pack, human or otherwise. No family. It likely wouldn’t have survived long alone anyway.”
Roman nods like this means anything at all to him, and turns to pull his phone from his pocket, hovering over your name in his call log. “Show time, baby.”
*
The dirty patch of earth underneath Kilderry Bridge is aptly name. Not so much as wild grass grows in the fallow earth, and the shanty town of tents and makeshift shelters are bleached white as tombstones in the moonlight. You shiver as you shut off the engine and step out of the car. If there were a bear attacking people down here, there’d be noise, wouldn’t there? There’d be chaos. You feel a sinking sense of dread, realizing you’d ignored every single safety protocol you’d been taught in rushing down here into what was very likely a trap.
Then you hear it. A low, rough growl like the purr of a motorcycle. You turn slowly on your heel, knees buckling at the impossibly large wolf crouched just meters away. Where the fuck had it come from? How had you not heard it approaching?
You raise your hands slowly, palms up. “Okay,” you say softly. “I’m not gunna hurt you.” Absurd, to talk to this immense beast like it were a common housecat and not a monster responsible for the deaths of at least eighteen people. Though you suspected now, looking at its sharp canines and long claws, that the total is much, much higher.
The wolf leaps. You see it move through the air, see it get so much bigger as it blots out the moon above you, and then there’s a sound so loud you think your eardrums have shattered. The wolf yelps and rolls to the side, missing you completely. It staggers to its feet, massive paws thumping the earth as it turns, and there’s another sound like an explosion too close to your ears. You drop to the ground, covering your ears with your hands, and the wolf jerks in your direction before collapsing onto its side.
“You can get up now.”
You lift your head to find Roman Godfrey standing in front of you with a sleek, silver gun in his hand. And, oh. Gunfire. It was gunfire you’d heard. And you should know that. You’re a federal agent with training and even some field experience under your belt, and you should be the one holding the gun.
“You… killed it.”
Roman smirks, running a hand back through his hair. “It was gunna eat you, little red riding hood.”
You swallow thickly. “It… I mean, is that it?”
Roman quirks a brow. “You wanted it to be bigger? You wanted more monster for your-“ He’s cut off by the force of his body being thrown to the side as the wolf barrels into him, knocking him to the ground in a flail of fur and fangs.
“Roman!” But Roman has been buried under the hulking weight of the wolf, and it releases a snarl as it brings an enormous paw down against Roman’s face. You hear him scream, a wrenching, awful sound, and you scramble around to grab Roman’s gun. You don’t hesitate before pressing the muzzle to the side of the wolf’s head. It rolls one golden eye towards you, but it makes no move to attack as you squeeze the trigger and blow its brains out in a thin spray.
Roman shoves the deadweight of the wolf off himself, rolling onto his side and coughing air back into his lungs. You drop to his side, reaching to check his pulse even though you can see he’s clearly, vocally alive. But it’s process to check, so you do. Your fingers come away slick with blood.
“Roman, you’re bleeding.” You squeak.
Roman grins, blood staining his teeth. “Tis but a scratch.”
A bubble of hysteria surfaces as a high-pitched giggle, and you reach a shaking hand to cup his jaw and turn his head to the side. The gash marring the flesh of his throat is deep and long, weeping a sickly dark sludge that you know cannot be good. Roman’s face is ashen, dark circles under his eyes and a sheen of sweat on his brow. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
Roman shakes his head, wincing at the stretch of his ruined flesh. “Take me home. I’ll be fine… at home.”
“I should take you to the hospital,” you say again, fingers fluttering uselessly over the wound.
Roman’s hand wraps around your wrist, pulling your hand up and pressing his mouth to your palm. You feel the words he whispers against your skin and a shiver runs down your spine. “Take me home.”
*
Roman Godfrey lives in a mansion. You should have known that, obviously, but you’d always pictured him living in an enormous monstrosity of chrome and glass, like a bond villain. Like his office at the White Tower. But the mansion is old and warm, lavishly furnished with tapestries and drapes and oil paintings you’re sure are worth a fortune. It isn’t very Roman, but you don’t question it as he leans against you, his breath hot against the side of your neck as he gasps through the pain. “My room is… up there.”
You look up at the winding staircase with dread. “I can’t carry you, Godfrey.”
Roman huffs a laugh, tugging you past the staircase. “We have an elevator.”
Right, of course he does. Roman eases himself into the small cage, reaching a hand out for you. You feel your stomach flip with anxiety at the thought of being closed up in a little box with him, but his eyes are closing and there’s blood and dirt caked on the palm he holds out and he looks like that because of you, because he saved your life. So you take his hand and wrap an arm around his waist as he pushes a button and the elevator creaks to life.
Roman’s bedroom is a reflection of the rest of the house, with touches of Roman if you knew what to look for. A snake wrapped around a cross is painted on his door, and you raise an eyebrow at the motif. “Band logo.” He says, and you nod like you believe him even though you can’t imagine a scenario where Roman listens to death metal or whatever the fuck other band would have a logo like that.
There’s a bar in the center of the room, the top littered with expensive looking liquor bottles, and Roman makes his way there first, pouring himself three fingers of whiskey and knocking it back with a satisfied hiss.
“You got a first aid kit?”
Roman nods, pointing towards an adjoining room. “Bathroom cabinet.”
You cross the room and open onto a bathroom that’s bigger than your entire motel room. There’s a row of cabinets, and you find the first aid kit in the third one. You head back to his room, tossing it onto the bed before grabbing one of the glasses from the bar and returning to the bathroom to fill it with warm water.
When you return Roman is sitting on the bed. Well, he’s trying to. His back is pressed to the headboard, head thrown back to expose the still-leaking tear on his neck, and you swallow against a bubble of panic at just how out of your depth you are here. You’d had basic first air training at the Academy, and you knew to shove a tampon in a bullet wound, but this was different. You could see muscle and the faint, white shock of bone through the blood. This was different. “Shit, Roman.” You sink onto the mattress beside him, taking up a pillow and tugging it out of its silk case to soak the fabric in the cup of water.
“You gunna patch me up, agent?”
You shush him, pressing the soaked silk to his neck, and Roman groans. “I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing.”
Roman laughs then, the sound harsh and grating. “That’s reassuring.”
You remove the cloth and soak it again, the water turning murky with his blood. “I can still take you to the hospital.”
“No hospitals,” Roman mutters. You press the fabric against his neck and drag down just a little, clearing the cake of mud from the ragged edges of the scratch, and Roman whimpers. His hand drops to your thigh, fingers tightening against your flesh as he wriggles underneath you. “Where’d you learn your bedside manner, GITMO?”
You ignore him, leaning closer to inspect the fresh damage revealed as the dirt and blood is washed from his skin. “It isn’t as bad as I thought.”
Roman’s eyes roll, his fingers dragging up the inside of your leg, tracing the seam of your jeans. “Feels worse.”
You nod, dunking the silk in the water for a final time before squeezing the water over his neck to wash the last of the blood away. Roman gasps at the flooding of cooled water soaking into his shirt. “Don’t be a baby.”
He huffs, prodding the tips of his fingers against your clothed core. “Don’t you wanna help me feel better?”
He juts his bottom lip out childishly, and you roll your eyes. But your clit throbs at the thought of his long, thick fingers pushing inside of you, and you shift until his palm is pressed firmly against you. “Is it just this?” You ask, scanning over his clothed torso. “It didn’t… get you anywhere else?”
Roman shifts too, hips rolling to flash the hardening bulge in his pants. “You wanna examine the patient?”
It’s pretty privilege. Roman Godfrey doesn’t know how to act right or how to talk like a person, and yet your underwear is soaked through with arousal because he’s so goddamn pretty. His full lips quirk up into a smirk as his bicep flexes under the strain of grinding the heel of his palm against you, and his cheesy lines shouldn’t be working. But he’s so goddamn pretty that they are.
“Shut up.”
“Make me,” he teases, licking over his mouth. You lean in, brushing your lips against his as your fingers skitter down his chest and press against his erection, and Roman moans softly into your mouth.
“You sure you’re up to it?” There’s the mocking suggestion of a smile on your mouth as you pull away to watch him struggle into a seated position, and Roman feels the challenge like a bolt of adrenaline right to his cock.
It was always going to end here. Granted he’d assumed you’d be the one bleeding, but that didn’t matter much. Not with you underneath him, looking up through hooded eyes as your lips part around little gasps. Roman works a second finger into you, and your knees dig into his hips as you whimper.
“Please, Roman,” you moan, and Roman thinks your begging is the best sound he’s ever heard. He stretches his thumb up to rub at your clit, pistoning two fingers in and out of you faster, hard enough to rock you back and forth on his hand.
“I wanna taste you,” he mumbles, and you barely have time to register the shift before he’s splaying his free hand on your thigh to open you up. You feel his breath against your core, and then Roman’s thumb is replaced with his tongue as he licks a long stripe against you.
“Jesus fuck!” You almost shout, so immediately overwhelmed by the sensation of his mouth on you. The inside of his mouth is cooler than you’d expected it to be, and his tongue is almost rough against your sensitive, overstimulated clit, but your eyes roll back and your hips roll up anyway.
Roman moans, the vibration electric against you as he sucks your clit into his mouth and flicks his tongue lightly against it. Your hand drops to his head, lacing in his hair as you tug the strands. He looks up at you, the sight of his hungry eyes enough to send you over the edge as you cum hard against his face. Roman’s fingers fuck you through the high, curling against your most sensitive spot over and over again as he grinds his face against your soaked pussy.
Roman’s face is a mess when he finally pulls his fingers out of you and props himself up over you. You feel the hard throb of his cock pressed against you, and you can see the shine of your arousal glistening on his face. “Do you want me?”
You blink, taken aback by the question. With your cunt throbbing for him and your cum all over his face, he was asking if you want him? You reach a hand up to touch his face, rubbing your thumb over his swollen mouth. “You need me to say it?”
Roman’s eyes darken as he reaches down to line himself up with your entrance. “Guess not.” He pushes into you in one long thrust, bottoming out with a little shudder. “Fuck.”
You hum in agreement, your whole body thrumming with the sensation of being filled so completely. Roman’s cock is both thick and long, and whilst you’d assumed he was packing something considering his height and his obscene confidence, the sheer size of him steals your breath. Then he snaps his hips back and forward, fucking you open, and you let out a sound that might be a moan or a cry or some new blend of pain and lust that you’ve just invented and will be embarrassed about later.
“Too much?” Roman asks, his own voice breathless as he thrusts into you. He doesn’t slow down or ease up, so you don’t bother to answer the question.
“No.”
“Good,” he hums, dipping his head to press his lips to yours. He’s moved around so much the wound on his neck is weeping again, blood trickling down the smooth planes of his chest and dripping onto your tits. It looks phenomenal, you look phenomenal all covered in his blood like that, and Roman’s cock throbs against the tight compression of your walls. “Shit you’re tight.”
You squeeze hard around him, and Roman lets out a startled gasp. You lean up to peck his lips, the tensing of your stomach reflexively clenching your pussy even tighter, and Roman’s head drops. “I want to ride you.”
Roman’s head lifts again, a hopeful sort of hunger on his face. “What?”
“Lie down, Roman. I wanna ride you.”
Roman does not need to be told twice, but he’s glad to hear the words leave your lips again. He eases his cock out of you and rolls onto his back, shifting to get comfortable and licking over his mouth. His cock leaks where it curves against his stomach, and you rake your eyes appreciatively over him as you kneel either side of his hips and reach down to grip him around the base. “You know,” you whisper as you sink down onto his length. “I -ah,” you drop down, taking him completely, and Roman almost sobs at how fucking good it feels to be squeezed so tightly. His hands lift to your hips, pinning you to him so he can feel the pulsing press of your cervix against his sensitive head. “I thought.”
“Yeah?” Roman’s voice is strained as he finally releases you enough to let you move. You lift half off him and drop back down, impaling yourself on his full length once, twice, three times before leaning forward to press your hands into the mattress either side of his head. You begin to grind against him, tight, deep circles as you fuck yourself on his cock, and Roman is completely beside himself.
“I really thought it was you, Roman.”
Roman doesn’t bite back, he can’t with how tightly you’re gripping him and how good your tits look as you bounce on his cock. He just can’t.
“You were such a good suspect.” You groan, sucking his bottom lip into your mouth and nibbling on the plush pink flesh until he moans again. You release his lip and sit back, leveraging your weight onto your knees so you can lift up and drop down more harshly. “Textbook, actually.”
Roman hums, digging his fingers against your hips to help lift you as you ride him. “Sorry to disappoint you, agent.”
You shake your head, biting the corner of your own lip in a way that makes Roman want to flip you under him and bite clean through the meat of it.
“I’m glad it wasn’t. I’m so fucking glad. Because-“ you break off again, throwing your head back and exposing the unblemished column of your neck, and Roman’s cock twitches as his orgasm nears. “Because I wanted to fuck you the first time I saw you. And you know it-“
You reach down to cup his jaw, tilting his head to the side so you can examine the jagged claw marks on his neck. “Knowing that you’re not a fucking murderer? Shit.” You shake your head, releasing his jaw and dropping to kiss him, your hips rocking back and forth against him again. Roman decides he likes this position best of all, because maybe he can’t see your tits bouncing but he can feel the silky drag of your nipples against his chest and your pretty, flushed face is right fucking there. “So thank you, I guess.”
Roman swallows thickly, pinning your hips down so he can fuck up into you at the pace he needs to get off. “You’re thanking me?”
You nod, nuzzling against the unbroken side of his neck before sucking a piece of Roman’s flesh into your mouth and biting down. Roman cums then, sobbing your name as he shoots his load deep inside you, and you squeeze rhythmically to milk every last drop of it out of him as he jerks his hips up.
He pulls out and presses his face between your breasts, and you reach up to cradle his head against you. “You’re weird, Roman. You’re really weird.”
Roman hums against your skin, lips parting to lick at the sweat pooling between your breasts.
“But you’re not a murderer. You’re just a man.”
Roman’s mouth curls into a smile against your skin, and you shiver as his tongue licks up over the swell of your breast and he takes a nipple in his mouth. You’re met with his sharp green eyes again, sparkling with a dark amusement you don’t understand.
He releases you with a wet pop. “You don’t have to worry anymore, sweetheart.” He coos. “I killed the monster for you.”
He rolls to the side and closes his eyes, though his hand wanders across your stomach to rest there, a possessive weight against your skin. You listen as Roman’s breathing evens out, though it’s a long, long time before your eyes close. The last thought you have, the last unsettling, gut churning thought is a question. What the fuck was Roman Godfrey doing in the barrens tonight?
*
You wake to a crack of light like a laser beam drilling into your skull through your eye socket, and wince as you roll to the side. The breath leaks out of you like a deflating balloon at the sight of him lying beside you. In sleep, Roman Godfrey is a vision. He really is. No mocking smirk on his mouth, no unsettling, unearthly intensity in his eyes when they’re closed. His face is smooth and cherubic in sleep, the tiniest frown creasing between his brows and his hair a mess of loose, short waves against the silk of his pillow. Your eyes drop to the ugly, jagged scratch running from the corner of his jaw down his neck, and you swallow thickly at the memory of the blood and the violence and the terror of the previous night. Your fingers reach to brush against the puffy, swollen flesh bracketing the wound and Roman moans softly. The sound sends a bolt of heat through you, your clit throbbing to life at the memory of what happened after. Of Roman’s lips on yours, his tongue lapping against you. The hot, heavy weight of his cock and the stretch of it pushing inside you. You shake your head, slipping from the bed and scrambling on the floor for your jeans. A mistake. Last night had been a mistake, fueled by adrenaline and relief and gratitude. You’d been caught up in the moment, that’s all. It wouldn’t happen again. It couldn’t happen again.
You tug your jeans up and button them, locating your bra and shoving it into your back pocket as you reach for your shirt. You’re scrambling to scoop up your sneakers, already reaching for his bedroom door when you see it.
The shoes drop from your hand, the doorhandle forgotten as you reach instead for the necklace resting on top of his dresser. You’d missed it last night, too caught up in blood and heat and the drowning pools of his eyes, but the silver chain and the fat, unusual pendant hanging from it is unmistakable now. You straighten, shaking fingers running carefully over the shiny face of the stone.
“G’morning,” his voice is a rumble of thick sleep, and you jump as warm arms snake around your waist and pull you against the hard muscles of his bare chest. “Sneaking out?”
You shake your head, trying to turn in his arms, but Roman is a solid weight against you. “Needed the bathroom.”
Roman hums, fingers splaying wide over your stomach before pressing harshly into your skin. “Yeah?”
Your breath stutters out of you at the pressure of his palm against your bladder. “Fuck, Roman.”
He chuckles, lips dipping to press a kiss to the top of your head before he releases the pressure on your stomach. “You wanted a souvenir?”
You shrug against him, flicking your fingers dismissively. “Just being nosey.”
“You jealous?” He coos, reaching around you to hook the delicate chain over his fingers. “You worried it’s for some other girl?”
“No.” You whisper, but your voice is gone and Roman is unconvinced. He releases your waist completely and pries the tiny clasp open, brushing your hair to the side as he fixes the necklace around your throat. The pendant drops to your sternum, and Roman’s hands slip down your body to rest on your hips as he rolls his own against your ass with a sigh.
“Do you like it?” He mumbles, lips caressing against the soft pulse point where your throat meets your collarbone.
You struggle to control your breathing as Roman’s fingers caress against your waist, slipping up under the fabric of your shirt to graze against your stomach. “I… it’s lovely. Where did you get it?”
Roman hears the stutter of your pulse, and his fingers tighten on your flesh. “It suits you. Matches your eyes.”
You hum, forcing your body to relax against him even as your brain is screaming at you to get out, to run! Run! Run! Because you’d seen that necklace before. Around the neck of a pretty teenager in a polaroid that had sat on your nightstand ever since her little sister wrote you a letter. “I should really… get going. The Sheriff will be expecting me to come in this morning.”
Roman hums against your flesh, the hand on your stomach snaking round to press into the small of your back as he bends you deliberately over the dresser. “We’ve got time.”
“Roman,” you huff as he grinds his stiff cock slowly against your ass. “Look, last night was great, I mean it really was.”
Roman grunts in response, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your jeans and yanking them down to your knees. “I can’t figure it out.” He says, pressing his palm against your hip as he nudges the head of his cock against your ass.
“Can’t-“ you suck in a shaky breath at the press of his throbbing tip against your entrance. “Figure what out?”
He pushes into you then, slowly, the stretch a pleasant burn over the residual soreness from how roughly he’d fucked you last night. “What changed. What I missed.”
You swallow, eyes shuttering closed as Roman pulls half out and pushes back in, the tight, hot grip of your pussy making him weak at the knees. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Roman hums, fingers digging into your hips as he pulls all the way out and thrusts back in with a vicious jab. His hand splays over your back, pressing you harder against the wood, and the necklace scrapes against the surface.
You watch it happen in real time, as his eyes drop to the offending silver chain. “Oh.”
“Roman,” you whisper, trying desperately to meet his eyes in the mirror even as you’re dragged back and forth harder and harder on his cock. You’re so full at this angle, the thick head of his cock pressing into your g-spot over and over with each rough thrust, and the fluttering of fear in your stomach mixes with the heat of arousal into a confusing, irresistible cocktail.
“How did you know?” He asks, breath harsh with exertion, eyes still fixed on the necklace. “How did you know it was hers?”
You squeeze hard around him and he stops moving, buried in you to the hilt. You can feel the living pulse of him right up against your cervix, and you shift your hips against the sharp edge of his dresser. “Her sister wrote me a letter,” you whisper, tears filling your eyes from the revelation and the overstimulation and the terror. “There was a picture of Lisa wearing it.”
Roman’s eyes close even as a beatific smile graces his lovely face. “Kid fucking sister.” He groans, cock pulsing and thickening inside you. He almost doesn’t want to come, even though your pussy feels like the closest thing to nirvana and he knows it’s gunna be one hell of a load. But he also knows that when he’s done this is over, that now you know what you know he can’t let you leave the house alive. “Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?” He asks softly, leaning forward to hook an arm around your sternum and drag you up against him. Your back presses flush to the soft heat of his chest, and you whimper at the sensation of this new angle as Roman pushes your hips away and pulls you back, fucking you on his cock. “I gave you the perfect monster.”
Tears spill over now, rolling down your cheeks, and Roman pulls you closer so he can lick the wet salt from your skin. “Please, Roman.” You whisper.
“It’s too late,” he sighs, free hand dropping between your legs to circle your clit. “I really tried to get you out of this, sweetheart. Gave you the performance of a fuckin lifetime.”
You don’t bother to beg, or to tell him you’ll forget the whole thing if he just lets you go. It’s a lie neither one of you needs. “What do you do with the bodies?” You ask, because if it’s the last thing you get to do on this earth you’d like to go out knowing you got to the bottom of the whole gruesome affair.
Roman’s smile is sad, and then it isn’t. The corners of his mouth seem to split open as he parts his lips, jaw popping too wide on too many fucking teeth as he licks over the side of your neck. He leans in close again, the sharp point of his nose nuzzling at the corner of your jaw with a tenderness that has you quivering around his cock as his fingers work against your clit. Then you feel it; the hot, sharp agony of all those teeth sinking into your flesh and pulling you apart like you’re made of butter.
The blood burns your skin as it soaks down your front, sticking your shirt to your tits in a way that has Roman’s cock leaking heavily against your cervix as he continues to snap his cock into you. Your ass bounces off his pubic bone in just the right way, just like he knew it would, and Roman’s tongue pushes into the ruin of bites in your neck to lave at the pulse of your blood as he feeds from you. “God,” you whisper, and you’re almost annoyed at yourself for making that the last thing you ever say as Roman’s fingers work you over the edge.
You cum hard, clit pulsing through waves as his cock brutalises you and your legs give out. Roman lets you brace against the dresser, licking gore from the sides of his mouth as he refocuses on the in and out of his cock. He dribbles pink-tinged saliva onto your ass, working the bloody slick into your skin with his thumbs, and the moan that rumbles out of him is so indulgent it ripples right through you, too. “Shit,” he groans as his cock twitches one final time and he cums with more force than he ever has before. He bites down on his own tongue to stifle a scream, and the metal of his blood mixes with yours. Roman swallows this unholy sacrament greedily, hips still jerking lightly against you as you quiver and pulse around his sensitive cock.
He pulls out of you with a slow wince, even as your body tries to lock him inside you. You can’t really control your muscles, not with your head swimming and your legs dead weights underneath you. He wraps an arm around your stomach and pulls you close, bracing under your thighs and carrying you back to his bed with a careful gentleness that makes you sob. “I don’t feel good,” you whisper, shaking fingers reaching to brush over his cheeks like you’re searching for the splits in his face that hide the monster.
“I know,” he mumbles, hands rubbing over your thighs and lingering to brush through the slick mess spilling from inside you. “Not long now.”
You sob, head falling back against his pillows. Too heavy. And too tired. You’re too fucking tired. “Roman.”
He snuggles against you, pressing his lips to yours, then lower to your cheek, your jaw, the sore, bitten flesh of your throat. “I know,” he coos against your skin. “I know, I’m here.”
You close your eyes against fresh tears as his teeth part your flesh, the blood soaking to heat your chilled skin as he groans against you. His hands roam once more, groping at your tits as he drags you back against his chest.
Roman knows he’ll be sad to see you go, but what a fucking sendoff. You’re wet and warm and clinging to him, and even though you don’t say it, even though you’re too overwhelmed with all of him to admit how much you want it, Roman knows. He knows he’s going to keep you forever. That there are no losers in the little game you’d been playing since your arrival in Hemlock Grove. He presses his stiffening bulge against your ass and his hand dips lower, finding the swollen bud of your clit as blood fills his mouth and his cock and he feels your slowing heartrate pulse a rhythm that sounds like his name.
clark olofsson x reader who he accidentally knocked up?? said reader is kind of his opposite in that she's a goody two shoes
Knocked Up, Knock Out (Clark Olofsson x Reader)
Summary: After finally convincing the pretty bank teller to go out with him, Clark finds himself more interested in her wallflower personality than he means to be. He almost feels bad about skipping town on you. Or he would, if he cared about that sort of thing. When he robs the bank six months later and sees the very obvious swell of your belly, he is, for the first time in his life, speechless.
Word Count: 6657
Warnings: Vaginal fingering, oral sex f!receiving, PiV sex, pregnancy
A/N: I LOVE CLARK. I LOVE THIS AWFUL MAN SO MUCH.
MDNI, fic under the cut
Clark straightens his spine and checks his reflection in the window before he pushes open the door to the bank. His eyes scan the tellers along the desk, landing on you with a resolute smile before he saunters over. “Älskling. You are looking… particularly ravishing today.” He leans against the smooth wood surface of the counter and flashes you his best grin. The panty dropper.
You offer him a tight smile. “Back again. To make a deposit now, or just to waste more of my time?”
Clark smirks, undeterred by your usual, cold demeanour. “What can I say? I’m entranced by your beauty. I don’t bank here, but I wish I did.”
You tilt your head to the side. “I’d be happy to assist you with opening an account, but you’d have to give me your name for that.”
Clark leans in, lowering his voice and glancing side to side before dropping his eyes to your mouth. “I’ll tell you. Just you. But you must promise me something in return.”
You lick your lips unconsciously, and Clark’s cock jumps in the tight confines of his pants. “I know better than to make promises to strangers.” There’s a teasing edge to your voice, and Clark can almost taste the sweet edge of victory.
“Clark. Clark Olofsson. Remember that name, pretty. You’re going to be hearing it on the news one day.”
You roll your eyes, but heat curls low in your stomach at the way he’s looking at you. “Perhaps I will, Mr Olofsson. If you’d give me your personnummer also, I could have an account opened for you, just like that.”
Clark chuckles, glancing down to where your fingers rest on the counter before sliding his own under the partition to lace with yours. “Clark Olofsson is more than a number, älskling. Come to dinner with me tonight, I’ll show you.”
Your eyes drop to Clark’s fingers, to the way the long digits engulf your smaller ones, and you swallow. “I’m not easy, Mr Olofsson. If that’s what you’re thinking you can forget it.”
Clark’s smile is wide and genuine as he releases your fingers. “I’d never think so, not for a moment. I just want to spend the evening in the company of a great beauty. You wouldn’t deny me that, would you?”
You roll your eyes even as a blush stains your cheeks. “Well no, I suppose not.”
“You know my name. And I,” Clark taps his fingers playfully on the glass in line with your nametag. “Know yours. So we’re not strangers anymore, are we?”
You smile then, despite the lingering feeling of apprehension in your gut. Clark is disarmingly charming, and more forward than anyone has ever been. You’d denied him three times in the past two weeks, and yet he’d come back again and again, undeterred. So you tell yourself it’s just to get him to go away. You tell yourself it’s just to help him move on from his strange fixation on you. But when Clark Olofsson flashes you a boyish grin and a wink, your stomach fills with butterflies and a desire that you won’t let yourself acknowledge.
*
“And you’ve been with the Handelsbanken for… how long?” Clark skewers a piece of chicken and brings it to his lips, chewing animatedly.
“Two years,” you say, cutting your meatballs into little pieces. Clark has never seen anybody do that before, and he finds it hopelessly endearing. “I’d like to manage accounts, one day.”
Clark nods. “You’re smart enough to do it.”
“Tell that to the manager.” Your voice raises in pitch, a blush staining across your cheeks as you stab aggressively at a piece of meat on your plate. “He doesn’t believe women should ever leave the checking counter. Pretty faces for the customers.” You scoff, and Clark watches this tiny display of heated rebellion with rapt attention. A way in.
“You’re much too smart for that. Smarter than him, I’d bet.”
You look up then, offering him an embarrassed but genuine smile. “You’re kind to say so, Clark.”
Clark. Clark likes the way you say his name, the lilt you put on the single syllable like a song. He watches you pop a little piece of meatball into your mouth and he considers how your lips might look stretched around his cock. It hadn’t been part of the plan, to seduce you, but then you were a pretty girl and he was Clark fucking Olofsson, so really he should have assumed it from the beginning.
“Have you ever been into the bank at night?”
You frown. “Not after work. There’s a security guard, but otherwise the place is deserted. Why would I?”
Clark shrugs. “I’ve always wondered what it’s like, behind the glass and the pretty girls.”
Your smile returns. “It isn’t so glamorous. There’s the manager’s office, a staff canteen. Oh and the vaults, of course.”
The vaults. Clark leans in. “Tell me something secret, älskling. Something only an expert would know.”
If you think the question odd, you don’t say so. Clark pours you another liberal glass of wine whilst you mull over the question. “I suppose… do you know how the vault works? I think it might be the most impressive thing in the whole building.”
Clark has to really fight to keep his smile small. You were perfection, a few glasses of wine and you’d opened exactly the door he’d hoped for. The only promise sweeter now was the warm wetness between your legs, and it wouldn’t be long at all until Clark could bury his tongue and his cock inside you.
“I assume it works as all safes do. A code, a little dial to click, click, click.” Clark cranks an imaginary knob, and your eyes light.
“No, you see! Everybody thinks so, but it’s so much more complicated than that. For one, the door itself is impossibly thick. You couldn’t drill through it with any drill ever invented.”
“What about a bomb?” Clark teases. “Stick some explosives to it and…” he leans in, his hand finding your knee under the table. “Boom.”
Slick heat pulses in your core at the touch of his fingers against your skin, but you don’t dare move a single muscle even as your heart hammers in your chest. “Wouldn’t work. Too thick.” Your words come out breathy, and Clark walks his finger down the inside of your knee, brushing against the flushec flesh of your thigh. “Plus there are hidden deadbolts, and a series of mechanical locks that work on a timer. Even with the codes, the door won’t-“ you gasp at the brush of fingers against the hot, damp cotton of your panties. “Open.”
Clark’s cock throbs against the front of his pants at the pretty blush on your cheeks and the way your eyes flutter closed at his touch. You’re wet, but he expected that. Even if the words coming out of your mouth were damn bad news, listening to you tell him about the vault is getting him hard. You’re a little bossy when you’re explaining things to him, and he’s looking forward to fucking you dumb.
“So you say the vault is essentially… uncrackable.” Clark asks, pushing your glass across the table and tapping the rim. “Drink.”
You lift the glass mechanically, taking large gulps of the wine to distract yourself from the way Clark’s fingers press and prod at the front of your underwear. Your head swims with the alcohol and the dizzying pleasure throbbing in your core, and you gasp as one of Clark’s fingers slips into the elastic of your underwear to part your folds.
“The only way in would be… through the ceiling. The managers offices above are… the ceiling is just concrete. You could drill through that.”
Clark hums. “It would take days. Not so much of an…” he dips his finger lower, testing the pad of it against your entrance before pushing inside. “In and out job.”
Your lips part around a soft moan as Clark eases into you, curling his finger back against your sensitive walls before withdrawing it and pushing in again. “Clark.”
“I’m sorry, älskling. I get carried away, when you talk to me.”
You hum, fingers gripping the edge of the table as Clark’s thumb brushes against your clit, rubbing the sensitive bud in time with the in and out of his finger. “I’m just a teller.”
“No,” Clark coos, adding a second finger and tapping your mostly-empty glass again. “You’re an important, professional woman. I bet there’s plenty of cash in your drawers, isn’t there? My responsible little girl.”
You hum again, swallowing hard. “I… s-suppose so. I have maybe fifteen or twenty thousand kronor in my drawer. Same for the other girls.”
Clark does the math as he winds you closer to your climax. “Tens of thousands of kronor, entrusted to you. You’re a hell of a woman.”
You groan as your orgasm hits, squeezing your eyes shut as your pussy clamps down around Clark’s fingers. You buck against his thumb and Clark tries to keep up the pressure on your sensitive bundle of nerves as you wriggle. “Fuck, Clark.” You whisper, and it feels dirty hearing a word like that come from the uptight, reserved teller he’d been charming for the better part of a month. Not that he’s surprised, of course. Clark Olofsson knew how to please a woman. Everybody said so.
Clark withdraws his fingers when you stop shuddering, and he sucks them into his mouth to taste the sweetness of your release before swigging the last of his wine. He’s got what he needs now, but his cock aches in his pants and he’ll be damned if he’s going home to his own hand. He’ll be goddamned if he’s going to do that.
“I need to have you, älskling.” He says, dropping a handful of bills on the table. He pushes to a stand, and your eyes drop to the prominent bulge at the front of his pants. Clark lets you look, tilting his hips towards you. He’s never been ashamed of his cock, or the times it decides to make itself known. Fucking was his goddamn right as a man, why would he pretend otherwise? It was pointless.
“I’m… I don’t usually do that. On the first date.” You chew your lip into your mouth, and Clark fights against a bolt of irritation at your sudden retreat.
“Do you usually cum at the dinner table? Or is that just for me?” Your blush darkens, spreading down the sides of your neck, and Clark rounds the table to offer you his hand. “Give yourself to me tonight, älskling. You’ll never forget it.”
Clark doesn’t invite you back to his place, and you wonder if that’s because he has a wife or because he doesn’t have any intention of calling you again. His hand slips up under your skirt as he drives to your place, and you decide you don’t much care either way with the wine dulling your cognitive processes and his fingers shooting throbs of arousal through your core. “Just you wait,” he mutters, a smirk pulling lopsidedly at his lips. “You’ve never had it like Clark Olofsson. The things I’m going to do to you.” He chuckles, fingers kneading at your thigh, and you shift against the seat.
“I’m not usually like this.”
Clark nods, hooking his fingers into your waistband from behind as you fumble to unlock your apartment door. He nuzzles against the side of your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin. Of course you’re not. You’re a good girl. They’re all good girls, until they get a taste of Clark and then they’ll do anything for him. It’s the same story all the time, and Clark doesn’t mind one bit.
You step into your apartment, Clark still attached to your neck as his fingers graze along the waistband of your panties. He detaches long enough to glance around the space, eyes flicking over framed photographs on your wall. He doesn’t need to see you posing with your parents or getting a piggy back from your brother. He doesn’t need to know you. The next part comes easier if he doesn’t, actually.
You walk quickly, leaving him in the hallway as you head into the kitchen and pour two glasses of water. “Thirsty?”
Clark grins, leaning against the kitchen counter. “For you.”
You choke on your water, and Clark bites his lip to stifle a laugh at just how awkward you are. It’s unusual. It’s cute. “That’s a line.” You say eventually, once you’ve regained your ability to breathe.
Clark shrugs. “I invented it. I’m the first person ever to say it.”
You roll your eyes, but he isn’t joking. “Alright, Clark Olofsson. You wanted to have me, and now tonight you do.” You place your glass down on the counter, trying very hard to exude a bravado you don’t feel. “The question is, what will you do with me?”
Clark’s smile widens, his eyes darkening as he crosses the distance and cups your jaw in his big hands. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time,” he murmurs softly before closing the gap between your mouth and his. His lips are warm and silky, the plush fullness of them a welcome pressure against yours as he presses your mouth open and licks his tongue against your teeth. You open for him, a low moan vibrating out of your throat at the way he claims the kiss, holding you close and steady as his tongue tastes every inch of your mouth. Your hands lift to wrap around his neck, even though he’s much taller than you and it’s an awkward stretch to reach. You tangle your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and tug, and Clark releases your mouth to gasp.
“Oh, you want to play, älskling?” He teases, hands dropping from your face to your waist so he can drag your body flush with his. “You want it a little rough?”
You nod, though you can’t really imagine what rough might look like to a man like Clark. His pupils expand and you watch in real time as the green of his irises dissolves into the dark pitch of his desire before his mouth reclaims yours with a hunger that leaves you breathless. His hands drop to your ass, lifting you up and depositing you on the kitchen counter. He pushes your knees apart and moves between them, and you shuffle to the edge of the worktop and wrap your legs around his hips so the growing bulge of his erection is pressed firmly against your center. His hands are everywhere, pawing up under your shirt to grope at your breasts, dragging down the smooth skin of your back and tracing the ridges of your spine, squeezing your ass cheeks to press you firmly to him so he can rut against your core through the soaked fabric of your panties. His fingers slip into the side of your underwear and pull, exposing your wet pussy to the air. You moan, breaking the kiss to look down at the point where his hand disappears beneath your skirt.
“Are you ready for me? Are you ready for the best sex of your life?” His voice is throaty and thick with lust, and your clit throbs in response.
“Show me.” You whisper, parting your legs wider and hooking your own fingers into his belt. Clark wastes no time at all in unbuckling his belt and pulling down his zipper. He only bothers to shove his pants to his knees, the awful ache in his cock won’t allow him any more time than that. He wraps a hand around your thigh to keep you in place as he pushes into you, a deep moan rumbling out of his chest at the hot, wet tightness of you.
“Goddamn,” he chuckles. “Goddamn, älskling.”
You suck your bottom lip into your mouth, shifting and flexing against the sudden intrusion. You’re still wet from the orgasm he’d given you in the restaurant so it doesn’t exactly hurt, but you’d hoped for more buildup. Clark sets a pace right away, pulling out and thrusting back into you quickly. You brace a hand on his shoulder and watch him, devouring the look of concentrated bliss on his face as he fucks you. His nails dig into the meat of your thigh as he pins you to the counter, cock slamming into you over and over again. His free hand lifts to wrap in your hair, pulling your face close so he can kiss you messily as he moans into your mouth. His hips stutter against yours and he groans loudly against your lips. You squeeze around his cock, and he almost whimpers as he pulls out and steps backwards.
“Are you… done?”
Clark smirks. “Seems so.”
You swallow your disappointment. “Oh.”
Clark tucks his cock back into his trousers. “Did you?”
“I… no.”
Clark twists his mouth to the side. “I think you did. I felt it happen. Maybe you didn’t realize.”
This is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard, but the thought of arguing the point with him makes your skin crawl. “Maybe.”
Clark pauses, fingers on his belt buckle. He rakes his eyes appreciatively over you, the mess he’s made of your hair, the way your skirt is hiked up around your hips to reveal the glistening remnants of his cum as it leaks out of you. “You’re beautiful.” He says, stepping back between your legs to cup your cheeks and kiss your mouth. “I love you.”
You do roll your eyes then, because he’s endearing and charming and so completely full of shit. “Alright, Clark.”
He scowls, pouting his bottom lip out playfully. “You don’t love me? After all that?”
You roll your eyes again, but your stomach flips over with a mix of arousal and something dangerously close to actual affection. “You’re persistent.”
Clark’s face transforms into a grin that lights up his handsome features. “I’m incorrigible.”
You wonder where he picked up the word. You wonder if he went to college, or what kind of books he liked to read. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
Clark beams at that. “There’s only one Clark Olofsson, älskling.”
His eyes unfocus for a moment and he drops his hand to the front of his pants. “Oho, look at that. We can go again.”
You open your mouth to protest, but Clark silences you with a deep kiss as he lifts you from the counter and walks you back into the hallway.
“End of the hall,” you mumble into his mouth, and Clark carries you into your bedroom, dropping you unceremoniously on the bed before covering your body with his.
Clark Olofsson doesn’t really have much of a refractory period. A few nice words from you, and he was completely hard again. You open so easily for him, your insides slick with his cum, and Clark pushes your legs out and up, bracing your thighs against his forearms so he can slam into you harder and deeper than before.
You whine, chewing your bottom lip into ribbons at the rough pounding. Clark’s cock bumps against your cervix with every thrust, producing a dull aching pain that you’ll feel later but can’t bring yourself to care about right now. Not with the way his length brushes against your g-spot with every thrust and the fucked-out, perfect look on his pretty face.
You reach down between your bodies to rub at your own clit, and Clark’s grin is almost feral as he pulls back to watch. “That’s it.” He coos. “Cum for me. Cum on my cock, älskling.”
It doesn’t take much, not with the way he’s filling you up. You know exactly how to touch yourself to bring your orgasm to a climax, and you don’t wait for permission before tumbling over the edge. “Oh, fuck. Oh god, Clark!” You moan, fluttering around him erratically as your release washes through you.
Clark doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything quite so pretty as your face when you cum. Though the feeling of you squeezing his cock, milking every drop of his seed from him is dangerously addictive. He could get used to it. He could come back for you.
He pulls out with a wince, watching his cum ooze out of you to soak into your sheet. Clark reaches down to scoop at the mess, pushing it back into you and fucking his fingers in and out of you. You whine softly and try to shift away, but Clark keeps going until the pearly slick stays inside you. He doesn’t know why he does it, only that he wanted to see you all filled up and Clark isn’t in the business of questioning himself when he wants something.
“Are you… staying?” You ask as he’s buckling his belt for the second time that night. Clark doesn’t stay, not usually. But he looks at you and the excuse dies on his tongue. You look small and vulnerable sitting up in your bed, your flowery comforter pulled tight around your chin. Clark feels a little stab of something in his chest, and he removes his belt again and shoves his pants to the floor.
“Of course I am. You think I’d sneak away like a thief in the night?”
You shake your head and pull back the covers for him, a sweet smile on your face. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s slept over.” You say quietly.
Clark sighs, turning you onto your side and wrapping his arm around your waist. “It’s been a long time since I’ve slept over anywhere.” It’s the most honest he’s been all night, though you’re not to know it.
Clark closes his eyes at the soft snuffling of your breathing, and he presses his nose against your hair. Tomorrow he will go, and he will not look back. But tonight? Tonight he could pretend that he were a different man, a man with no grand plans and a heart to give. It wasn’t true, Clark Olofsson was destined for the biggest of things, but there was peace in pretending for a little while.
You wake to the sound of his goddamn belt clinking, and a harsh expletive as Clark trips over a book on your bedroom floor. You turn your bedside lamp on, glancing at the drawn shade. Still dark out.
“Most people sleep until the sun rises, Clark.”
He freezes, turning to you slowly like a criminal caught in the act. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Sneaking out after all.”
Clark shakes his head, holding his hands up. “I have an important meeting first thing. And whilst I don’t mind that I smell like sex, the shareholders…” he trails off, and you feel your face heat.
“Oh. I mean of course. Right.”
“Last night… you were fantastic, älskling.” He says, crossing the room and bending at the waist to press a kiss to your forehead. “I won’t forget you.”
You hum. “I won’t forget you either.”
Clark’s grin is boyish and ridiculously pretty. “Of course you won’t. I’m Clark Olofsson.”
*
You groan at the agonizing burn in your ankles, shifting from one foot to the other. Your manager had suggested you could use a stool for long shifts, but he’d looked so faux-sympathetic and so smug that you’d had to decline. Fuck him and his misogynistic bullshit. Being a woman didn’t make you any less capable of doing your job. Being pregnant didn’t either, though your ankles had swollen up and your widening hips ached all the time.
“When are you going on break?” Heather whispers to you from the next counter.
“No more breaks.” You say with a pained smile. “But I’m off in an hour.”
She returns your smile with a knowing one of her own. “The last few months are the worst. Everybody says the first three, with the sickness, but the pain at the end is something else. Still, not long now, eh?”
You nod. “Not long.”
Not long until you’d get to meet your baby and spend a few blissful months learning how to be a mother. You were terrified. You couldn’t wait. There was nothing that could put a damper on that overwhelming, constant feeling of excitement. Not your shitty manager, not your swollen ankles, and certainly not thinking about the green eyes and sexy smirk of C-
“Attention, attention! Can I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen! This is a robbery!” Your head snaps up at the familiar, low voice, your stomach bottoming out as you drop to a crouch underneath your counter. You reach for the panic button under the desk, a recent addition to the bank that nobody had ever used before. You press it, and nothing happens. You lift your head just a little, just enough to see the main floor, and your eyes meet his immediately. He’s on the other side of the room, but he’s looking right at you. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, and you fight the urge to smile back at the asshole.
“Ladies, ladies.” He says, crossing the room and stopping in front of the teller furthest away from you. “I have a big sack here.” He puts a white cotton bag on the counter and winks at the woman behind the glass. “You know what to do, you’ve seen the movies. Put all the money from your register in the bag, please and thank you.”
The woman moves mechanically, emptying her reserves into his bag.
“I thank you.” He says, flashing her the grin that had once disarmed you so thoroughly before moving on to the next teller, and the next. You glance around the room, at the customers lying on the floor and the other tellers frozen at their stations. Where was the manager? Where was the fucking security guard?
You watch in horrified slow motion as Clark approaches you, and you’re forced to half-stand so you can scoop kroner notes out and shove them through the gap in the bottom of the glass.
“älskling,” he whispers.
“I’ve triggered a silent alarm.” You say in response, not meeting his eye. “The police will be on their way so you’d better get out of here.”
You don’t think anyone else can hear, but you can’t be sure.
“You did that?” He asks, and there’s genuine hurt in his voice.
Your head snaps up, eyes meeting his as you narrow yours into a glare. “Of course I did. You’re nothing to me.”
You try to ignore the awful twisting in your gut at the wounded look on his face as he turns away from you. You can’t allow yourself to feel sorry for him. Not after his disappeared without a trace, and certainly not now he’s back to rob the goddamn bank. You think back to your conversation with him over dinner, his seemingly superficial interest in the workings of the bank. You were a fucking idiot.
Clark barrels into Martin, and you curse under your breath as the aging security guard topples over and goes sprawling to the ground. He has a bad heart and you know his wife, and you’re pushing open the door into the main room without thinking about it, dropping to your knees to help the man to his feet.
Clark is about to run. He’s got a sack full of money and no interest in getting into it with some old guy in a uniform, but then you shout and you’re there and Clark’s eyes drop to the enormous swell of your stomach and his heart stops beating.
“Hey, you’re okay,” you soothe the man, rubbing your palm against his back as he huffs and puffs.
You narrow your eyes at Clark. “Look what you-“
“Mine?” The word is out, cutting you off mid-lecture, and you press your mouth into a tight line at the possessive word.
“Mine.” You snap.
Clark swallows thickly. “Älskling.”
You can’t let this happen. You can’t, certainly not with so many listening ears. “I wasn’t lying about the alarm.”
Clark looks at the hard set of your face, and the security guard who is on the verge of regaining his wits, and his shoulders sag. He drags his eyes over your pregnant belly one last time before he hoists the sack over his shoulder and runs for the door.
*
You’re expecting the knock on the door, and it comes just before midnight. You slip off your chair at the kitchen table, checking your hair in the hall mirror before you open the door and let Clark step into your apartment.
“I should have moved.”
“But then I wouldn’t have been able to find you.” Clark says this so simply, like your reason for wanting to move couldn’t possibly have anything to do with him, and you scoff.
“Who says I wanted you to?”
Clark brushes past you and heads straight for the kitchen, leaning heavily against the counter. The sight of him there brings hot flashes of memory to your mind, of your thighs pressed open as he fucked you in that very spot. “I missed you.”
You hum, hand going absently to your stomach to rub against the fluttering you’d grown so used to.
Clark watches, his heart seized with an unpleasant longing. “Did you miss me, älskling?”
“No.”
He bites the corner of his bottom lip, and you let your eyes drink in the sight of him. His hair is longer now, sideburns too. It suits him, though you’ve never been all that into facial hair. He looks older, rougher somehow.
“It’s been seven months, Clark. Almost eight.”
Clark’s eyes drop to your stomach. “It’s mine, isn’t it?”
You shrug. “It might be.”
Clark is already shaking his head as he pushes off from the counter and crosses the room. He towers over you up close, and his hands are warm, wide weights as he presses them to your rounded stomach. “You’re a good girl. There wasn’t anyone but me. It’s mine.”
You swallow thickly. “I don’t expect anything from you, Clark.”
It hurts Clark to hear you say it, even if it’s exactly what he wanted to hear. He doesn’t want to be a father, he has no fucking idea how to do that, but it still hurts to hear it from you.
“We could get married. You know, do it all properly.”
You laugh then, you can’t help it. The thought of Clark Olofsson robbing a bank one day and marching you into a chapel the next is just too damn funny. “Be serious, Clark.”
Clark rubs over your stomach, brows furrowing into a frown. “I am. I want to do right by you.”
“You think I want to marry a criminal?”
Clark’s frown deepens. “I have rights to my child. If I want to.”
This sends a skitter of fear down your spine, but you force the feeling away and fix a condescending smirk on your face. “You want to get the authorities involved, do you?”
Clark’s forehead smooths out as his expression darkens. “Don’t threaten me, älskling. Nobody threatens Clark Olofsson.”
You hum, stepping out his grip just as the baby in your stomach begins a series of fluttering kicks. “Or what? What’s the great Clark Olofsson going to do, huh?”
It’s stupid to goad him, and you realize just how stupid as a slow, lazy smirk spreads across his face. “Give yourself to me tonight, älskling. You’ll never forget it.”
It shouldn’t work. It shouldn’t fucking work and you’ll blame months of celibacy and fucked up pregnancy hormones later. But right now, you’re dragging Clark into your bedroom by the collar of his stupid leather jacket and shoving him onto your mattress.
He huffs a laugh as he works his jeans open, tugging his half-hard cock from the confines and thumbing roughly over his tip. You straddle him, slapping at his hand until he releases his cock so you can wrap your fingers around his base and line him up with your entrance. You hadn’t bothered to put on underwear when you’d slipped your nightgown on, a shamed part of you had known this was inevitable from the moment you’d locked eyes with him earlier that day. The magnetic, poisonous pull of Clark Olofsson had you hooked.
The smirk slips from his face as his lips part on a moan, hands flying to grip at your hips as you begin to roll against him. “You used me.” You murmur, planting your hands on his chest for leverage so you can rise up and drop back down on his cock.
Clark wants to argue, but there are no thoughts in his head, nothing at all but the rounding of your belly and the swollen, heavy sight of your tits straining against your nightgown.
“You p-pumped me for information,” you groan, tilting your pelvis so your clit is dragged against the rough thatch of hair at his base. “So you could rob the fucking bank.”
Clark moans softly, his hips lifting to meet your as you quiver and clench around the thick length of him. “You got… something out of it.” He huffs.
You bark a startled laugh, lifting one hand from his chest to press to your stomach. “Sure I fucking did.”
“You want me to say I’m sorry?” Clark asks, pinning you against him as his hips snap up to fuck brutally into you. “Clark Olofsson doesn’t apologize.”
“I figured.” You moan. “I don’t care about that. I want to level the field.”
Clark isn’t sure what you mean, his brain can’t process what you’re saying even though he’s the smartest person in any room and considers himself ahead of the game in almost everything. But then you lift up off his cock and crawl up his torso, and your stomach blots out all the light in the room as you press your soaked pussy to his face. “Gunna use you, Clark.”
Clark groans, the sound coming from deep in his chest as he wedges his hands against your thighs and pushes your legs apart. You’re dripping with arousal, and he laps at your slick like a man starved. You brace your hands on the headboard, resting your weight on your knees so you don’t actually kill him as Clark’s tongue works between your folds and flicks roughly against your clit.
Clark knows you’re going to forgive him after this. He’s good at everything he tries, but he’s the fucking king at eating pussy. Love of the game, is what it is. He loves the way you taste, the sounds you make, the feeling of your thighs pressing against the sides of his head as you rock down against him. Your pussy is like wet silk, the little throbbing bud of your clit fits perfectly against his tongue as he suctions his lips around it and draws dark little whimpers from your throat. Your wetness soaks his mouth and his nose and runs down his jaw, and he moans against you as he devours every sacred inch of your delicious cunt.
“God, Clark,” you sob, grinding sloppily against his face as the coil of pleasure in your abdomen snaps with a blinding, weightless sensation. You wail as you cum, thighs squeezing the life out of him as you rock and buck against him, riding out the best orgasm of your life. Clark does his best to keep up, his tongue licking enthusiastically at you as he swallows every drop of your arousal.
His own cock is a leaking mess by the time you roll off him. “My turn?”
You laugh. “I’m not sucking your cock. My gag reflex is sensitive with the baby and I threw up about a thousand times in the first trimester.”
Clark frowns, reaching down to jerk himself in a loose fist just to relieve some of the tension. “I’ll fuck you, then. Can’t knock you up while you’re knocked up, can I?”
You groan, but you’re already parting your legs, and Clark settles between them. He presses a kiss to your stomach, hands roaming over the swollen flesh. “Does he hear his daddy?”
You roll your eyes, but the erratic kicking against your uterus suggests that the baby does like his voice. Clark’s eyes widen and he grins, kissing your stomach again. “You look so good like this, all fat with my child.”
You hook a thigh around the back of his legs. “Stop it.”
Clark laughs, bracing his arms either side of your head as he grinds his bare cock against your soaked pussy before nudging against the tight, wet heat of you. Clark buries his cock in you again, feeling the steady pulse of your muscles against his length, and he dips his head to kiss your mouth so you can taste yourself on his tongue.
It’s quick, like you knew it would be. Clark lasts just a minute, an enthusiastic minute of fast, hard thrusts. He moans your name, and you squeeze tightly around him to milk every drop of his pleasure as he shoots his load deep inside you.
He doesn’t pull out right away, resting his face in the damp crook of your neck as his sensitive cock pulses and softens. In the end you have to push him, tapping lightly at his shoulders to get him to pull out and release you.
Even as he rolls to the side, Clark wraps his arms around you and presses his lips to your temple, and you’re too tired to tell him to move away. Besides, it feels nice to be held, even if it’s just pretend. He chuckles to himself. “This makes me a motherfucker, you see?”
You roll your eyes. “You’re something else, Clark Olofsson.” You turn in his arms, fixing your eyes to his. “But you’re not a husband. And you won’t be a father, not to my child. My father was a criminal too. I guess I should have seen the signs with you. He committed insurance fraud and went to prison. It ruined us.”
Clark’s face is unreadable, a sharp line between his brows and his jaw set tightly.
“I won’t do that to my child. I won’t have them grow up with that shame.”
Clark feels an unpleasant ice in his stomach. Imagine thinking he was the same as some petty insurance fraudster? Imagine lumping him in with common criminals and worse, with shitty fathers? He is Clark Olofsson! Soon to be the most accomplished, the greatest-
“My father was a drunk.” He says. He doesn’t know where it comes from. He’s never said the words out loud. “He didn’t care about me or my mama. I wouldn’t be like that. I won’t be.”
You swallow hard at the open sincerity on his face. The mask has slipped, just for a moment, and you see the boy underneath wearing the weight of insecurity like a millstone around his neck. You lean in, pecking his lips gently. “You could be more than this, you know. If you wanted.”
Clark laughs, and the mask snaps back into place so efficiently you wonder whether you’d imagined the slip. “Of course I could. But being the best at being the best was not my thing, so I decided to be the best at being the worst.”
You smile sadly, reaching up to brush a lock of hair away from his eyes. “I’m going to see you on the news one day, aren’t I?”
Clark grins, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes. He’ll be gone when you wake up, and you won’t wonder where he went. That was the way of things. He sighs, the smile slipping from his face as he settles into his exhaustion. “You’re damn right, älskling. You’ll see my name in lights. Clark fucking Olofsson.”
Summary: Ducking into the sewer is never a great idea in Derry, but there’s a gang of nasty boys hot on your heels and you decide to take your chances. Running into the monstrous entity that haunts the town is less than ideal, until you discover it’s thirst for flesh mirrors your lust for revenge. If only you can keep it’s appetite from swallowing you whole.
Words: 5332
Warnings: NSFW, lots of gore, dub-con, vaginal fingering, loss of virginity, oral sex f!receiving, PiV sex but Pennywise doesn’t have a cock, exactly… you know what this is.
A/N: OKAY so this was a request, but the request gave the whole plot so I’m giving the fic its own post and will answer the ask with a link. Hope you like it!
MDNI, fic under the cut
Your head snaps forward at the feeling of a dense clod of earth ricocheting off your skull. You blink through the blinding pain, not daring to turn your head for fear that the next clod would blind you. You swipe a hand over the back of your head, your fingers coming away wet and crimson. Rocks. There are rocks in the earth. Those bastards are trying to kill you this time.
“Here, little freak!” Someone shouts. You think you recognise the voice, the nasally, mean quality of it. Maxwell St James, which means-
“You think you can outrun us?” Theo Mitchell, and Zachary Benton will be right behind them. Max and his boys had been tormenting you for almost a year now. It had started with names hissed at you in the school corridors. Freak. Loser. Loner. You’d ignored them all, held your head high like your momma taught you and pretended not to hear. It’s not like they were the only ones who’d decided you were less-than, anyway. Since your arrival in Derry, a target had been painted on your back by the unmistakable quality of otherness that followed strangers in a small town.
When the whispering hadn’t worked, the names had changed. Bitch. Cunt. Whore. An interesting development, considering you’d never even been kissed and nobody in Derry seemed open to changing that.
You’d ignored them still, kept your nose in a book and your head in the clouds. This had enraged Maxwell and his cronies, sent them spiralling into a feral tantrum that had resulted in your first ever broken bone. Because he’d split from the group, followed you home. He’d pinned you against a wall and bent your arm back so far the bones in your wrist had splintered. You hadn’t cried. Hadn’t made so much as a sound, but the moment he released your wrist you ran, and ran, and ran.
After that, the names changed again. Slut. Psycho. Murderer. Because a five year old girl on your street had disappeared, and the only thing new in Derry was you. Dumb, scared people don’t need much to put two and two together to get five. With this new branding, you’d become a pariah. A punching bag. A scapegoat for every shitty thing that happened in Derry. And a lot of shitty things happened in Derry.
Kids went missing all the time. All through the fall, disappearing from playgrounds and street corners. Snatched in the Barrens. Seen climbing into storm drains and then never seen again. You kept your wrist cradled to your body and your head down after that.
But the pain now radiating through your skull is something different. There’s blood pouring down your back, soaking into the fabric of your shirt, and you hear a voice that is yours and not yours whisper into your head. They are going to kill you. They’re going to kill you if you don’t get underground.
There’s a culvert up ahead, the bars buckled outward from years of rust and neglect, and you don’t let yourself think about it too much before you pull the bars apart. They give with a little creak, widening the gap just enough for you to squeeze through. You scramble inside, trying not to feel the soak of the sewer on your knees as you crawl into the rotten open maw.
“Where the fuck did she go?” Theo yells, stopping just inches from the bars.
“You lost her?” Maxwell hisses. You can hear the labored pants of his breathing, and you press your lips together to stifle a whimper.
“I think she went in there.” Theo says, tapping the rusted bar with his knuckles.
“We goin in after her, Max?” Zachary asks.
Max huffs. “No. If she’s gone in there she’s a good as dead. It’ll get her.”
You swallow thickly, a chill running down your spine.
“Yeah,” Theo chuckles darkly. “It’ll eat her right up.”
“Nasty little whore.” Zachary adds.
You listen to the retreating of their footsteps and feel your heartrate slow with every passing second.
“Nasty little whore,” the darkness whispers behind you.
You yelp, your heart leaping into your throat as you lurch towards the bars. You wrap your fingers around the rusted iron, yanking hard, but the give that had existed moments before is gone now. The iron holds as firm as if it were brand new, and you tug uselessly, desperately as the darkness closes in behind you.
“Nasty little whore,” it whispers again, the words a caress against the back of your neck. “Nasty little boys.” You feel phantom fingers in your hair, and you whimper. “Yesssss,” the darkness hisses, and the phantom touch solidifies, wrapping in your hair and pulling you back into the shadows.
You scream then, a high-pitched, awful sound ripping from your throat. Your mouth is filled with cotton, wriggling, thick fabric pressing against your tongue and down your throat, and you’re spun and pinned to the filthy sewer wall. The wound on your head jars against the brick, momentarily dazing you, and you blink up at the impossible figure of a seven-foot clown. You should be scared. You know that, as you look at Its inhuman yellow eyes and Its too-wide mouth. But your brain can’t catch up with what you’re seeing, and the fear doesn’t come.
“Clown.” You mumble.
The clown tilts Its head to the side. “Whore.”
You shake your head, the bloody pulp of your hair matting against the wall. “I’m not a whore.”
The clown grins, lips splitting into a grotesque mockery of a smile. “And I am not a clown.”
“You’re going to kill me.” The words come out a little muffled, like you’re listening to your own voice through water.
“I’m going to eat you.” It whispers, leaning close. You can smell it on Its breath – decay, death and the rust of blood.
“Alright, then.”
The clown blinks. “Alright, then,” It repeats. “Aren’t you scared?”
You hum, eyes drooping. You feel warm all over, and you barely notice the gloved hand slipping around your throat and tipping your head forward. You do feel the sharp, bright pain as It prods Its fingers against the wound on your skull. You cry out, and the clown does it again, dragging Its long finger against the break in your flesh. “Oho,” It chuckles. “Close to dead. No fun. Nasty little boys.”
“Maxwell St James,” you hiss between gritted teeth. “Theo Mitchell, Zachary Benton. The nasty little boys.” The fingers caressing your head wound drop away, and you lift your head to watch the clown suck the bloodstained tips into Its mouth.
“Names. Power in names.” It licks over his lips.
“They hate me.” You swallow, forcing yourself to meet Its unsettling stare. One of Its eyes seems to drift to the side, like It can’t remember It’s supposed to be pretending to be human, and you shiver. “If you’re still… hungry. After you kill me.”
The clown dips Its head, coming so close you can feel Its breath on your mouth. “Oho,” It says again, softly. “They don’t hate you. They fear you, little whore.”
Pennywise has never been so interested in a person before. The defiant set of your jaw, the scent of your fear. The way you look at It, right at It, even as you shake with fear. Drool spills openly from the corners of Its mouth, pooling on the floor between you. Oh, to taste. To savor. To devour all that delicious fear. But the names ring out, tasting all the sweeter for the vitriol with which you utter them. The only thing tastier than fear. The conscious act of hatred.
“I want them all dead.”
Pennywise tilts Its inhuman head to the side, face bobbing on a neck like an enormous grotesque spring. “Would you kill them? Reap them?”
You swallow, raking your eyes over every awful inch of It. “No. But I would bring them to you. Offer them to you.”
“If Pennywise lets you live,” It rasps.
“Pennywise.” You repeat the name, and the clown smiles. It likes the sound of it in your mouth. Likes the roll of the syllables on your tongue. “If you let me live, I’ll bring them to you. All of them. The boys. The others.”
“Others.” It hisses.
“As many as you’d like.” You say softly. And then you lift your hand, a calculated, stupid decision. Your palm makes contact with the side of the clown’s face, the powdery greasepaint masquerading as skin flaking off in your hand. You don’t wince, don’t pull away. And when the clown doesn’t immediately bite your hand off, you lift your other hand to mirror the first, holding Its face steady. “You are feared, and so am I. Let me help you give them something to really be scared of.”
Pennywise does not need help hunting Its prey. Never has, not in a million years. But there is something so appealing, something so other about you. Pennywise wants to see what it looks like, to have you serve It. To have a creature worship It, to offer sacrifice in reverence of Its power. “You will bring the children to me.” It whispers, turning Its head to lick a salty stripe from your palm. “And you will watch as I consume them.”
You swallow, feeling a strange heat kindling low in your stomach at the wet press of Its tongue. “You want me to watch?”
Pennywise hums, rising to Its full height and pulling easily out of your grasp. “You must, you must.” It says softly, bloodstained, gloved fingers caressing over your nose and lips in a careless gesture. “Pennywise will see your insides. See how deep the rot goes, little whore.”
*
The funny thing about boys who pick on girls and call them whores is that they’re usually all too willing to follow them down dark alleyways if they think they’re gunna get their cocks sucked. Zachary Benton breathes heavily at your back, his hand wandering down to brush against your ass as you lead him deeper into the crack between two buildings on main.
“You better not fucking tell anyone about this.” He spits, even as his fingers push up under your skirt to press your underwear into the crack of your ass.
“Our secret.” You lean against the wall, crooking a finger at him, and Zachary steps closer, tongue licking over his lips as he rakes his eyes down your body. The uniform of seduction – a tight, white tee-shirt and a little black skirt with knee-high socks. Disarming. Cute.
“Dirty little secret,” comes a hiss from the darkness, and Zachary spins in time to see the clown materialize from the shadows, stepping into the light with monstrous height and spindly arms like an enormous spider. One gloved hand, the cotton pristine and white, wraps around the boy’s throat. His eyes bulge before rolling towards you, like you might help. Like you might scream, or run, or do something other than standing there watching the clown as It opens a too-wide mouth on a thousand needle teeth and latches onto Zachary’s face with a meaty squelch.
“Oh,” you mumble, blinking through a fine mist of blood as the boys features disappear into the saw-toothed tunnel where the clown-face used to be. You didn’t expect to feel bad about it, but you certainly didn’t expect to feel good, either. But the rush of adrenaline spiking through your system manifests in a low, deep throbbing, your core pulsing as your clit swells, and you press your thighs together.
Pennywise shoves the corpse of the boy into the darkness, squirrelling it away for later consumption as It turns Its attention to you. “How did he taste?” Your voice doesn’t shake, and Pennywise smiles a slow, lazy grin that’s too wide at the corners.
“Fear.” It says softly. “And more.”
You press your thighs together more firmly, squeezing your clit under the hard pressure. “More?”
Pennywise steps closer, too tall, movements jerky as It sinks low. Not kneeling, just… sinking. “He wanted you. Wanted to put his nasty little cock inside you.”
You feel blood heat your face, and Pennywise drops his wandering eyes to your skirt. “Wanted to push his way in. In there.”
You don’t know why you do it. Why your fingers curl around the hem of your skirt and lift it. Why you let the monster with a million teeth press Its face against the soaked front of your underwear and inhale. Why your clit throbs and you soak fresh arousal at the feeling of Its slippery, wet tongue lapping over the fabric.
Pennywise makes a sound, a low, rumbling creak from deep inside Its chest. “Another, little one. Bring me another one, and we will see how you taste.”
*
It isn’t lust that motivates you, obviously. Not lust for the strange entity with the clown face. It’s a desire for revenge, when you’re yanked from the school halls by your hair and dragged kicking into the bathroom. When your head is forced into a shit-stained toilet, and you choke and gag on the putrid water as Katherine Masters and Matilda Lowther hold you down, shrieking with laughter. “This is for Zacky, you little freak!” Sarah Clarkson, the ringleader of the bitchiest clique in school hisses into your ear as you lay on the porcelain, shivering and retching putrid water. “Everybody knows you killed him.” You don’t bother to correct her. You just stare, mapping their faces into your mind and adding their names to your list.
Pennywise likes the girls. There’s more fear. Sarah pisses herself, hot liquid running down the inside of her leg as Pennywise sucks her fingers into Its mouth and bites down. It drops her, legs folding like she’s made of rubber, and turns Its attention to you. “I can smell you,” It sings, blood oozing from Its parted lips. Sarah moves then, crawling forward with her remaining hand, nails splintering against the concrete as she tries to drag herself towards the exit. But there’s nobody around, it’s long past midnight in the parking garage and the people of Derry know better than to go poking around in the dark. Even if they don’t know that they know.
You lift your foot and stamp it down on her hand, sending her sprawling as she wails in anguish. “I am a freak,” you whisper, crunching the delicate bones of her fingers under the sole of your boot. “But I have a friend.”
Pennywise feels a strange, wriggling heat in Its core, and It bristles. “Friend.” It spits, wrapping a gloved hand in your hair and pushing you to your knees. You yelp as you’re forced onto your knees and then lower, belly pressed to the concrete beside the offering you’d brought It. “No friend.”
It rips your underwear aside, pushing two rough, cotton-clad fingers into you, and your spine arches at the awful sensation of it. Pennywise feels the rip, the tearing of something soft and fleshy inside you as It pushes deeper, and the warmth in Its core throbs. “Oho,” it chortles softly. “Oh, how you bend for Pennywise. How you…” It twists, stretching Its fingers wide, “Break.”
You can do little more than press your face against the floor to stifle a scream as It fucks you roughly on Its fingers. Your blood stains Its glove, and It scents the air low and close to you. “Please,” you gasp, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip as it curls and twists and rips you open.
You meet Sarah’s eyes, the awful realization that your position is hardly better than hers. Pennywise might not kill you today, but It could. It could anytime. “All for Pennywise,” It purrs, dropping over you and pressing Its massless weight against your back. You feel the rough drag of Its tongue over the side of your face, and you clench hard around Its fingers. “Nasty little whore,” It coos. Your body shudders through the mimic of an orgasm, clit pulsing without any real pleasure as the rough stimulation inside you comes to an end.
You drop boneless to the ground, cheek pressed to the cool concrete as Pennywise climbs over you and sets upon Its prey, breaking the girl into pieces as she screams and screams.
You bring It another girl next. Your insides hurt, and there’s blood when you pee. You don’t want to upset It again, if that’s what you did. So you bring It another girl, luring her into the sewer directly on the promise of a clue.
“You sure you saw her down here?” Katherine asks, eyes scanning the filthy walls.
“For sure. She looked… panicked. Like maybe she fell in? I don’t know. She ran from me, but she’ll probably come out for you.”
“Sarah?” Katherine calls, her voice betraying her fear. “You down here, honey?”
Her voice comes from somewhere deep, deep in the shadows. “Oh, honey.”
You can hear the edge to it, the edge of It, and you shiver as you follow the girl into the darkness.
“You’ve been gone days,” Katherine says. “Can’t believe this freak found you after-“
You shove her. You watch your hands do it, watch her go sprawling in the filthy water. She thrashes, turning over to stare at you with wide, disbelieving eyes. “What the fuck are you doing? Sarah she’s nuts, she-“
You drop to your knees, straddling the girl’s hips as you push her down. Her face disappears beneath the murky water, air bubbling up with a gurgle as she struggles against your hold.
“Oho,” Sarah’s voice slips out of the gloom. “Oho, little one has found her teeth.”
You don’t spare It a glance as you hold her down. “Can I?”
Pennywise giggles, a sound like tinkling bells. “No, no. Mine to take. All for Pennywise.”
You release your hands, climbing off the girl as her face resurfaces with a hacking gasp. “You absolute cunt!” She shrieks. “We’ll fucking kill you for this, you-“
Katherine cuts herself off, eyes travelling up the impossibly long legs in the silvery clown pants beside you. “Oh God. Oh my God.”
Pennywise leers, reaching for her. “Not your God. Hers.”
Katherine doesn’t scream. She doesn’t get the chance to scream, as Pennywise opens Its mouth wide, wide, wider. His face parts, rows of teeth shuddering open to reveal a flickering mass of light within. You’d never imagined that the inside of this creature could be beautiful, but it is. The girl goes limp in Its arms, eyes glazing over like a corpse, and Pennywise drops her to the ground like a ragdoll.
“She’s dead?”
Its face snaps back into place as It turns to look at you. “No,” Pennywise hums. “She is for later.”
You frown, swallowing around a sudden unpleasant churning of nausea. “You’re not hungry?”
Pennywise chuckles, the sound low and full of gravel. “Oho. Pennywise is hungry. Oh, yes.”
It reaches for you and you go, letting yourself be lifted easily into Its arms as It pins your back to the slick wall and tears your jeans and panties from you with a flick of Its wrist. You gasp at the dank, frigid air against your core, the sound morphing into a sob as Pennywise licks a long, slow trail from your hole up to your clit and back down again. “Oh, God.”
Pennywise laughs lightly, the sound vibrating against you as It grazes Its teeth against your clit. “Yesssss, little one. Your God. You give it to Pennywise. You give everything.”
You groan, legs shaking as It devours your core. You keep tensing, expecting the bite, the end of this game, but it doesn’t come. Pennywise eats you messily, spit sliding down your thighs and dripping into the stagnant sewer water where Katherine’s body still floats. “I’ll bring you more,” you whine. “Every last one of them.”
Pennywise dips lower, Its tongue thickening to push into your hole and writhe against the still-healing contusions on your cervix. Your clit throbs against Its nose, the sharp, red stained nub of it grazing deliciously against the sensitive bud, and your eyes roll back. “So many names. So many pieces of… shitttt,” you whine as you cum, thighs quivering around Its face as your hands fly to the tufty orange hair on Its head and tug.
Pennywise likes that, the taste of you filling Its mouth whilst your fingers pry a tiny jolt of sensation from It. Not enough to hurt, no. Impossible that you’d even consider it. But to be rough, to be possessive. That was worship. That was devotion. Pennywise laps every last drop of your release from you, tongue curling around your clit and squeezing hard enough to make you cry out before It withdraws, lowering you to the ground as gently as It can.
“You want to hurt them.” It says quietly, yellow eyes scanning you as you struggle for breath.
“Yes.”
Pennywise leans in, lips brushing yours in an almost-kiss. “Bring me a boy. Bring me one of the nasty little boys.”
Theo is smarter than Zachary had been. He isn’t interested in fucking you, and somebody had apparently seen you leading Katherine out to the barrens, so he’s not going to follow you anywhere. You have to follow him, stalking him through the streets of Derry until he finally turns to cut through the park. That’s where you get to him, throwing a rock hard enough to knock him to the ground and then hitting him again, smashing the stone into his temple until his eyes unfocus and close.
You can’t drag him out of sight, he’s got a hundred pounds on you at least. So you dip your fingers into the blood soaking his hair, smearing it into the earth and praying It will sense you.
“Bad night to be out,” a man says from behind you, and you shriek as you scuttle away from the body.
“He fell.”
The man chuckles, the sound disconcertingly familiar as he steps forward. He is It, and he is not. There’s no makeup painting his face, but the features remain the same. Too wide mouth, wandering eyes. Sharp, otherworldly features and a forehead that extends too far.
“You couldn’t wait? Eager, greedy little thing.” There’s a strange twang to his voice, an accent you can’t place.
“Who are you?”
The man cocks his head to the side.
“I mean, I know. But whose face is that?”
The man clucks his tongue. “Sharp. Smart. I stole this face a long time ago. Doesn’t matter. I can change it.”
“Don’t,” you say quickly, too quickly. “Or… I mean, I’d prefer you. The clown.”
The man’s grin splits, and he lifts his hands to claw at his face. The flesh comes away in ribbons, revealing cracked greasepaint beneath.
The man with the clown peeking through his face hauls Theo’s unconscious body over his shoulder like he weighs nothing, and your clit throbs. You walk in awkward silence, unsure where the boundaries are with this new man-version of It. You can’t possibly be expected to chat, the very notion sends a bubble of hysterical laughter to pool in your throat.
You’re saved from the dilemma the moment you step into the mouth of the sewer, and the edges of the man seem to shimmer and shake before refocusing. Pennywise is Pennywise again, taller and larger and wrapped in silver silk as he drops Theo to the ground.
“You hate him.” Pennywise whispers, lifting a gloved hand to your chin and pinching, forcing your face down to look at the body of the boy. “If we give him to you… how will you repay us? Will you kneel for Pennywise? Will you open?” You swallow thickly, reaching down to grab Theo's arm and lifting it as high as you can. “I would offer him to you. All to you.”
Pennywise feels a thrill run through Its very being. The deadlights at the center of Its universe shudder with the declaration as It dips Its head and bites clean through the boy’s fingers.
His eyes fly open, mouth opening around a scream as he thrashes in the water.
You’re not strong enough to hold him down, but Pennywise stamps harshly on his spine and there’s a gruesome pop before his limbs go slack again. Paralysed, but very much still alive. Oh, very much so. He screams, eyes wild as they fix on you.
“Please! Please, I didn’t mean it! Don’t let that thing kill me. Don’t let It-“
“I won’t,” you coo, crouching down to cup his face and rub the pads of your thumbs over his cheeks. “It won’t kill you.”
Theo moans, the pulsing heat in the stumps of his fingers burning down his arm. “No,” you coo. “It won’t kill you. It will eat you.”
The boy’s eyes go wide as you drop his face and drag his other hand up to the clown’s lips.
“You want to kill him.” Pennywise says softly, tongue licking out at the sweaty, shaking fingers against Its mouth.
“He’s yours. They’re all yours. All for you.” You mumble.
Pennywise makes a low, rumbling sound deep within Its core, and your clit throbs in response. “You would feed this boy to Pennywise. You would sacrifice every bite.”
You don’t even have to think about it. You press the fingers firmly against Its mouth, and Pennywise bites down. His yellow eyes fix on you, even as blood splashes down onto your hand and Theo screams. “Every bite of him. Every bit of me.”
The hunger, the other hunger seizes Pennywise with such a frenzy It forgets all about the dying boy. It stamps over the body and seizes you, pressing you back to the wall and pushing gloved fingers up under your skirt to graze through your slick core. “Of you.” Pennywise whispers, tongue unfurling to lick over the seam of your lips. “Oh yes. All for Pennywise.”
Being taken by Pennywise isn’t really like fucking. It doesn’t have a little pink cock, a soft length with downy hair and a salty tip. You know it could, if It wanted to. If you wanted It to. But you don’t. You want It exactly as It is. The thick, pale appendages wrap around your thighs, parting them as Its hands pin your wrists above your head. “I can smell you.” It whispers. “I can taste your fear.”
You sob, sucking in a shaking breath as It pushes inside of you. The thick, pulsing length wriggles like a living thing, caressing against your walls and finding the sensitive spongey flesh that makes your eyes roll back. “Take it. You can…” you whimper. “You can take it all.”
Pennywise chuckles, Its fingers tightening on your wrists as It leans forward to press Its painted mouth against yours. “Taste them.” It whispers against your lips. “Theo Mitchell. Nasty little boy. Taste, precious one.”
You lick your tongue against Its mouth, the iron and rust of blood coating your lips with gore, and you clench hard around the intrusion of It thrusting in and out of you.
“Oho,” Pennywise chortles. “Oho, you like it. Good. Good.”
You moan, reaching out to thumb over Its jaw, and Pennywise stills for a moment.
You cry out, hand snapping back and reaching for your own wrists where It has pinned them over your head as blood runs down your arms. Pennywise withdraws the claws that have punctured your wrist, leaning up to lap the blood from your skin. “Too close,” you whisper, a reminder to yourself more than It. Pennywise couldn’t reciprocate affection, and It would punish you for reminding It so brazenly. You clench around It again in apology, rocking back and forth against the thrusting appendage pummelling against your insides.
“More?” It whispers, slipping a thin tentacle from the bell-sleeve at Its wrist to curl around your thigh, wriggling into you beside the thicker appendage. Your eyes roll back as your mouth opens on a silent scream, and Pennywise leans forward to lick Its tongue into your mouth and taste your blissed-out agony. Deeper, deeper. It bends over you, hinging at the waist and burrowing deeper into your mouth, nipping at the meat of your cheeks until your blood leaks into Its mouth and runs down your throat. Your spine curves, curves, creaks and curves as It presses you into a new shape, a shape just for It. The hand wrapped around your throat tightens, pinning you in place as It pushes Its tongue into your throat and further, further, to lick the electric thrum of your lungs. Bliss, bliss. Agony and bliss. Pennywise has never felt, It has never experienced a closeness like it. The urge to consume is replaced with the urge to combine, to become. To draw you inside of Itself, to keep you…
There is a snap. Pennywise knows the sound, has heard the sound pounding through Its fibres like a mimicry of a heartbeat since Its first taste of flesh and sinew and bone. The sharp, clear crack of bone breaking under pressure. It releases you, long fingers unfurling around the column of your neck to reveal the mottling of bruises spreading beneath your flesh like spiderwebs.
“No.” It utters the single syllable into the darkness. You’re limp and lifeless, a protrusion of bone jutting luridly against your throat. “No, no.”
It shakes you, and you rattle back and forth, that displaced bone poking into the meat of you and sliding free. Pennywise caresses the jagged edge with a finger, pushing it lightly until it buckles and slips back into your skin. “Pennywise doesn’t want to play now.”
Its voice dips an octave, the underlying growl of the Otherness weaving into Its words. “Enough, enough. Don’t make me punish you. Don’t make me bite.”
This should do it. You should open your eyes. Should pout your mouth at It, lick over the red of your lips and tell It you’re sorry. Show It you’re sorry, spreading your thighs to let It feast on you. But you don’t move. Not so much as a tremor.
“Come back, little one.” It murmurs, stained, gloved fingers brushing over your unseeing eyes. “Come back to Pennywise.”
Your eyes roll when your head is tipped forward, but you don’t look. You don’t see. And Pennywise tries to go back. Tries to slip from this place to that, from now to then. It knows that the fabric of time works differently for It than it does for you, but It calls to you anyway. Pennywise drops to Its knees, the silk of Its pants soaking in the filth of the low basin as It wraps an arm around your shoulders. Your head lolls back, loose as a ragdoll, but It feels no sense of pleasure in the pliancy of your body. You are gone. Your light is gone.
And perhaps there is no back, but It can keep you anyway. Lifted in Its lights, cradled above the rest. And when It emerges from the storm drain to take, it wears your face. Not your whole face, but your eyes or the soft line of your jaw or the mocking curve of your smirk. Just enough to keep your face in their minds, to keep your name whispered in the ghost stories around campfires each night as the teens of Derry gather to drink and fuck and pretend they’re not being hunted. But they are, oh they are.
Peter. James. Michael. Anna. Susie. Matilda. Maxwell, Maxwell, Maxwell. You whisper these names into Its head even now, even when you’re little more than bones resting in the bottom of Its nest. The cycle is almost over, it’s almost time to curl back into Its nest and hold the bones of your ribs close as It sleeps. But Pennywise will not go until It has taken every name on your list. It is the closest thing to devotion that It is capable of.
Summary: Bill knows that skipping out of work early to get home when he’s hired a babysitter is kinda not the point. But you’re so pretty, and you’re sweet and you’re interested in him. And after a bad breakup and learning to navigate fatherhood on his own, he just really, really likes your company.
Word Count: 4820
Warnings: NSFW, hand jobs, PiV sex – that’s pretty much it for this one.
DISCLAIMER: Tragically, I do not own Bill Skarsgård or any of the other people in this story. This is a complete work of fiction and I don't claim otherwise. Pls don't sue me.
A/N: This was a request from the lovely @elisabethturner1919 but the ask had several prompts in it so for the sake of keeping things organized I'm posting it as a standalone. Hope you like it!
MDNI, fic under the cut
There’s a stack of dishes in the kitchen sink, and Bill is pretty sure the bottom layer is growing new lifeforms. He rubs a hand against the back of his head, a blush creeping up the sides of his neck as he watches you scan over the apartment.
“It’s not always like this, I-“
“I get it.” You cut across him, offering him a smile you hope is reassuring. It seems to work, a little of the tension bleeds out of the tall man standing in front of you. You’d assessed the situation within two minutes of your arrival. His shirt is rumpled, a fraying hole where a button’s missing, hanging open against his collar where the skin is stretched too tightly over bone. There are dark circles under his eyes, swollen puffy bruises making his big green eyes appear sunken. Like he isn’t sleeping, or eating, or… taking care of anything, really.
The apartment is just further proof of it, and you fight the urge to wrinkle your nose at the rotting dishes, the piles of trash and the never-ending mountains of dirty laundry covering every available surface. “Could I meet the girls?”
The ghost of a smile passes over his face. “Yes. The girls, absolutely. They’re excited to see you. You know, having a woman around again.”
You nod, following him down the hall to a bedroom with pink flower stickers all over the door. He knocks twice before opening, an endearingly polite gesture considering his daughters are three and five. “You guys ready to meet your new babysitter?”
“We’re not babies.” The older girl grumbles, pulling herself up against an enormous doll house and holding out her hand. “I’m Jess.”
“A pleasure to meet you.” You dip into a curtsey, and the girl giggles.
“And that’s Sam.”
You curtsey again, lower and grander, and Sam blushes.
“She’s going to be taking care of you whilst daddy’s at work, okay?” Bill says, his tone a million times lighter when he’s talking to the kids.
“Okay, daddy.” Jess says.
“Okay. Back to playing, now.” Bill ruffles her hair, and you follow him into the main lounge area.
“They’re great.”
Bill grins. “I know. They’re… the reason I’m getting through it. I have to be okay for them.”
You swallow, eyes travelling around the wreck of the apartment again. “You’d going good, Mr Skarsgård.”
Bill winces. “That sounds… call me Bill. Please.”
You smile. “Alright, Bill.”
“I’ll… get this place cleaned up, before you start. I can… I’ll get it sorted.”
He picks up a little pink dress that’s so caked in spaghetti sauce it practically crackles in his hand, and winces again.
“Bill.”
“Yeah.”
“I can start right now if you want.”
Bill’s eyes snap to you. “I couldn’t ask you to…”
“I can wash dishes. I can do laundry. You should let me.”
Bill swallows thickly. “I’m not paying you to clean.”
“You’re paying me to help. Let. Me.”
A pretty pink flush stains his cheeks. “It’s not usually like this.”
“Go play with the girls. I’ll get this place cleaned up, and I’ll figure something out for dinner. Okay?”
He purses his lips, eyes flitting over the chaos before fixing on you. “You’re sure?” His voice is soft, eyes searching yours.
“Yes, Bill. Go. I got this.”
Bill feels like the world’s biggest asshole as he heads back to his daughters’ room. He can hear the clattering of plates in the kitchen, and he winces. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. He should have hired a cleaning crew before he called you. He should have moved to a new apartment and burned this one to the ground. But he hadn’t expected you to be so… you. So smart, so articulate, so instantly, magnetically likeable. He hadn’t expected you to be so fucking pretty. And now you were washing mold from his dishes and handling his dirty boxers and he couldn’t be more mortified, actually.
It isn’t so hard once you get started. You bundle as much laundry as you can into sacks and haul them down to the laundry room in the basement, filling three washers at once and setting a timer on your phone before jogging back up to the apartment to start on the dishes. It’s almost therapeutic, watching the stacked pile go from dirty to clean, from chaotic to gleaming and organized. You wash and dry in batches, figuring out where things are supposed to go. You grimace at the state of the counters underneath, coating them with cleaning spray and leaving them to soak as you run down to switch the laundry into the dryers and start a second batch.
By five you’re sweaty and exhausted, but the apartment shines. The laundry is folded into piles, ready to go away in the drawers, and there’s pasta bubbling away on the stove.
You knock on the girls’ bedroom door, and Bill opens it. He’s wearing a full face of terrible, clownish makeup, and there’s a diamante crown shoved roughly into his hair. “Don’t.”
You stifle a laugh. “You look beautiful, ma’am.”
Bill rolls his eyes, reaching up to untangle the tiara from his hair. “Jess is going to be a makeup artist.”
You smirk, eying the smudgy red shadow sweeping up into his eyebrows. “She’ll be booked solid.”
Bill grins, his own eyes catching on something in your hair. He lifts his hand without thinking, plucking a little tuft of lint from your hair with gentle fingers. “Laundry?”
You swallow, taking an unconscious step back. “All done. It’s all done, actually.”
Bill shakes his head. “You can’t have possibly…” He steps out, heart clenching painfully in his chest at his clean, organized apartment. “You’re a miracle worker.”
You scoff, waving your hand in the air. “It was no big deal, really. And it’s just pasta for dinner. I think you might need to go grocery shopping.”
“I usually get a… someone does that. I mean, I assume someone does. There was always… just food in there.” He rubs his thumb over his jaw. “I probably sound pathetic.”
You shake your head. “Not at all. You sound like a guy whose having to figure it all out a little too late. That’s all.”
“Yeah.” Bill chuckles humorlessly. “Like I said. Pathetic.”
*
Bill’s watching the clock in his office. It’s only 3.30, a full two hours before his day ends, but he’s been glancing at the clock every few minutes since 3PM anyway. Because the girls have finished school, and that means you’re probably walking them home right now. Slowly, because Sam insists she’s too old for the pram now even though a snail could outpace her.
Bill had apologized to you the first time, when you mentioned it had taken an hour to walk half a mile home. But you’d grinned, glancing at his girls with open affection. “It was fun. You miss stuff when you walk too fast, don’t you?”
Bill had just blinked at you, because how was it possible that a babysitter he’d found in the classifieds could be this perfect? Bill sighs, shaking his head and forcing his eyes back to his computer. Emails, meeting requests, blah, blah, blah. His phone chimes, and he almost drops it in his haste to open the message from you.
Hey daddy, we’re making cupcakes! Hope work is good!
He opens the attachment, a smile stretching across his face at the batter-coated grins of his children and the smile on your face as you hold the camera up. Bill’s stomach flips over.
“Fuck it.” He mutters, hitting the power button on his computer. Work could wait, just this once.
You hear the sound of the door opening, and hand the piping bag to Jess as you step out into the hall. “Bill? You’re home early.”
“Oh. Uh, there was a power issue. Office closed.”
“Oh, hopefully nothing serious. You’re in time to take over with frosting, if you want.”
“Daddy’s too messy!” Jess calls from the kitchen.
“She’s right.” Bill shrugs. “No eye for detail.”
“Well, I could stay just to finish the cupcakes. Then I’ll get out of your hair, promise.”
Bill wants to tell you to stay as long as you like, to stay longer than that. But he doesn’t. He nods, offering you a shrug. “I think the girls would like it if you did.”
Bill sits at the kitchen island and watches, his stomach knotting and unknotting with a nauseating mix of longing and sadness as he watches you. You press a tiny dollop of frosting to Sam’s nose, and she giggles before smearing your cheek with it.
“You little beast!” You squeal, wiping at your face. “Daddy, aren’t you going to do something?”
Bill raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m not messing with her! Don’t wanna end up with frosting on my face too, you know.”
You shake your head, handing the girls a bag of sprinkles. “Okay ladies, go crazy with this. I want so many sprinkles on those cupcakes that they’ll turn your tongues rainbow.”
You step away as the girls dissolve into hysterics, scattering colorful strands of sugar all over the counter. “I’ll clean it up before I go.”
Bill turns to look at you, biting the corner of his lip into his mouth. “No need.”
“I insist.”
He huffs a laugh, and you turn away from the girls. There’s still a smudge of frosting on your cheek, and Bill reaches towards you reflexively. “You’ve got a- just-“
His thumb makes contact with your cheek and you freeze, your breath catching in your lungs as he drags the pad of his thumb over your skin. “Got it.” His voice is barely a whisper, and your lips part on a slow exhale.
“Thanks.”
“Daddy?” Jess asks, and Bill snaps his hand back as he turns to his eldest daughter.
“What is it sweetheart?”
“Can we go play in our room while the frosting sets?”
“Of course. I’ll call you for dinner.”
Jess zips past, but Sam lingers. She climbs carefully off her stool and reaches for you, pressing her small hand to your knee. “You stay for dinner?” She asks in her quiet, lispy voice.
“Oh, I.” You glance at Bill. “I mean, I think daddy wants some time with just you tonight.”
Bill shrugs. “If you want to stay, you’d be welcome. Uh, more than welcome.”
You swallow, nodding once before leaning down to Sam’s level. “Then I’d love to stay for dinner. Thank you, Sam.”
Sam grins, patting your knee once before running off to join her sister.
“You don’t have to. I mean, don’t feel obliged to. If you have plans, or you need to get back to your boyfriend or something.”
You fight a smile at his less-than-subtle attempt at fishing. “No, no plans.”
*
After dinner, you clear the dishes whilst Bill reads the girls a story, and you’re just slipping your coat on when he closes their bedroom door and pauses. “You going?”
You shrug. “I mean, the girls are asleep. I think my duties are well and truly ended for the evening.”
Bill nods, a blush staining his cheeks. “Right, of course. That’s… of course.” He brushes past you, opening the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“If the power issue is resolved.”
“Huh?”
You raise an eyebrow. “The power issue? At your office.”
“Oh.” Bill nods. “That. Yes. If it’s resolved.” He licks his lips nervously, eyes dipping to your mouth and back up. “Thank you for staying. It was nice to just… be normal for a little while. Gets lonely.”
You’re almost through the door, one foot in the corridor, when you turn and look at him. Really look at him. The hunch of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. “Bill?”
“Hmm?”
“I could do with a drink. You got anything to drink?”
Bill’s face splits into a breathtaking smile. “I have a bottle of red that I’ve been dying to try.”
*
You’re sitting on the couch, your third glass in hand. Bill’s beside you, more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him. He laughs as he tells you about a prank he played on one of his older brother’s as a child, and his laugh is so infectious that you laugh too.
“Thank you. For this. I know you stayed out of pity.” Bill clears his throat, averting his eyes for a moment.
You drop your hand to his thigh. “I didn’t.”
His eyes fix to your hand against his black jeans, and he feels the stirring of his cock. That hadn’t happened for anyone at all in a long time, and he fidgets until you withdraw it. “A sense of duty then. If you’re fishing for a raise…”
You scoff. “You already overpay me.”
“Why are you doing it? I mean, babysitting seems like… I don’t know. A little below your skillset.”
“I used to be a private tutor. Did it for five years.”
Bill whistles. “That explains it then. Jess could barely mumble through a page of her book a month ago. Now she’s reading the whole thing to me.”
You hum. “That’s good. That’s really good.”
“Why did you stop? You obviously have a talent for it.”
You feel your face flush at the praise. “I want to teach. Not just one or two kids at a time, but whole classes. I want to find a school that really needs me, somewhere I can make a difference.”
Bill swallows. “What’s stopping you?”
“I need to be like… qualified for that. Going back to school isn’t cheap. And the family I was tutoring for have moved abroad. So I figured I’d put an ad out and see.”
“Enter… all this chaos.” Bill murmurs, sipping his wine.
You glance around the apartment affectionately. “I love it here. I love the girls. I love… everything about this job. You have a great family, Bill.”
Bill’s stomach flips over. “When do you think you’ll be… leaving us?” Me, his brain screams. When are you leaving me?
“School’s expensive.” It’s all you say, and Bill doesn’t press for more. He doesn’t want to know, actually. “When did… your wife leave?”
The silence thickens into something tangible between you.
“I’m sorry.” You say into the tension. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No.” Bill grits out. He’s surprised how hard it is to talk around the lump forming in his throat. “It’s okay. She’s… look, she’s great. She’s a great mom, and she gave me more chances than I probably deserved. I couldn’t see how unhappy she was until it was too late to fix it. And I have to live with that.”
“Where is she now?”
Bill shrugs, a little wine sloshing out of his glass and splashing onto the white cotton of his shirt.
“Oh, no.” You put your own glass down, fingers going automatically to his buttons. “That’ll stain if we don’t get it in to soak.”
Bill lets you work his shirt open, holding his glass aloft as you tug his arm out of the sleeve. Your fingers ghost against his bare chest as he shrugs out of the other side, and your eyes drop to drink in the lightly toned expanse of his skin. “I’ll… I’ll put it in the sink, get some dish soap on it.” You mumble, fingers still splayed against his chest.
Bill’s fingers wrap around your wrist, holding your hand against him. “I have other shirts.”
“It’ll be ruined.”
“I’ll live.” His voice has dropped low, and he shifts his hips lightly as his cock throbs against the confines of his jeans.
Your hand is on fire. Bill’s chest is a searing point against your palm, and your heart beats in your throat as he flexes his long fingers against the pulse on your wrist. “When did your wife leave?”
“It’s been eighteen months. But she’d checked out a long time before that. We both had.”
You nod slowly, letting your fingers drag lightly down his chest. Bill sucks in a breath, stomach muscles tensing as your nails tease against his skin. “When did you last…” you trail off, and Bill feels a flush of embarrassment even as his cock aches.
“Before Sam was born.”
You still, eyes darting up to his face. “Sam turns four in a month.”
“I know.” He breathes shakily, hips lifting unconsciously towards your hand as it travels lower. “Believe me, I know.”
You press your thighs together as heat pools between your legs. “Doing the babysitter’s a cliché, isn’t it?”
Bill makes a choked sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He can’t quite believe this is happening, that you’re here and you’re touching him like you want him as badly as he wants you. He can’t remember exactly what it feels like to have someone touch his cock because they want to, and not because there’s a ring on their finger. “You’re not like… my twelve year old neighbor.”
You raise an eyebrow, your fingers dipping just into the waistband of his jeans. “Well I should fucking hope not.”
Bill groans, shaking his head. “I mean… fuck. I can’t think.”
You hum, reaching your free hand for his belt and tugging the buckle loose. “Then don’t think, Mr Skarsgård. Just let me take care of it.”
Bill moans, his head dropping back onto the couch. You slip your hand inside his boxers, wrapping your fingers around the hot, silky length of him. You squeeze lightly, and Bill whimpers. “Please.”
You glide your hand up, thumbing over his tip to collect the precum there before dragging your palm down his shaft. Bill’s hips lift, fucking up into your hand with sharp upward thrusts, and you commit the sight of him falling apart so easily to memory. Your eyes drift to the hall, listening for any sign that the girls might be awake, but there’s no sound aside from the little grunts and groans coming from Bill.
He’s watching you, the pretty look of concentration on your face, the way you poke your tongue out of the corner of your mouth. He wants to push your face down, to force his cock down your throat and see how pretty you look then, but he’s a gentleman first and he’d never. Not without your enthusiastic consent, anyway.
“I like your cock, Mr Skarsgård.”
Bill’s eyes roll back. “Bill.”
“I don’t think so,” you coo, twisting your wrist as you squeeze around his sensitive, leaking head. “You gunna cum for me? You remember how to?”
Bill scoffs, the sound morphing into a breathless moan as you squeeze particularly tight. “I still… fuckin…” he groans, pressing his knuckles to his mouth to stifle a loud moan. “Jerk off.”
You lick your lips, watching him writhe and struggle. “You think about me when you do?”
Bill’s eyes open, his cheeks pinking. His pupils have blown wide, the dark eating the green of his irises. He sucks his full bottom lip into his mouth, sinking his teeth into the flesh, and your mouth fills with saliva. “Yeah,” he whispers. “All the time.”
You lean in then, pressing your mouth to his and pulling his lip between your own teeth, and Bill cums with a whine that vibrates against your tongue as he paints your fist and his stomach with his release. You pull away from the kiss first, and Bill lifts his head to chase your mouth, but you’re too quick. “Isn’t that better?”
Bill hums, eyes fixing on your swollen lips. “Can I… can I get you off?” His voice is thick and slurred, and your clit throbs.
“Not tonight. I really got to get going, Bill.”
Bill again, then. He forces a shrug through his disappointment. “Some other time, then.”
*
He’s going to lose his job. His boss glances up from her desk as Bill packs his bag, and her eyes flick to the clock. 3.15. He’s been leaving early almost every day, and you don’t comment on it anymore, don’t make him come up with some fake excuse for his arrival. Instead you smirk at him, gaze heating with the promise of bedtime, and Bill’s hurrying the girls through brushing their teeth and skipping pages of their story before flipping off the lights and closing the door.
He’s going to lose his job, but it’s hard to care about that with you bent over the kitchen island. You lift your skirt, a little pleated thing so reminiscent of a schoolgirl uniform that Bill was hard almost the moment he stepped foot in the apartment. It had been annoying, hiding his erection and trying to concentrate as Jess told him about her day and Sam showed him a picture she’d drawn of the family. Of two little girls, an absurdly tall daddy, and you. Standing next to him, your hair drawn in crayon, a big smile on your face. His family. It had almost been enough to make him cry, but then you’d dropped a fork and bent over right in front of him, flashing pink cotton panties, and Bill’s mind had focused down to a single, primal hunger.
“You’re a bad girl.” He mutters, leaning forward to tug on your ponytail as his hips snap against yours. “You’re a filthy little thing.”
You moan, rolling back to meet each thrust as his cock fills you and your arousal drips onto the kitchen floor. “M’sorry, Mr Skarsgård.”
Bill groans, reaching his free hand around your hip to rub messy circles against your clit. “Yeah, you’re sorry. You wanted this, didn’t you? Putting on that little skirt, giving me a show.”
“Yes,” you whimper, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip to stifle your moans as your orgasm builds in your core.
“Fuck,” Bill spits, eyes rolling back at the way you clench and flutter around him. “You like the way I fuck you?”
Your jaw goes slack as his cock brushes against a sensitive spot inside you. “Yessss,” you hiss. Bill’s fingers tighten in your hair, his fingers pinching and circling your swollen clit as he fucks against that spot over and over.
“You like playing mommy? Like taking daddy’s cock?”
You press your lips together, clamping down hard on his cock. You know he’s just talking shit, that he babbles like this when he’s close to cumming, but the taunt does something unpleasant to your insides.
“Shit, there you go. That’s a good fucking girl,” he coos. “Cum for me. Cum on my cock.”
You push his words from your mind, fluttering your muscles around him and focusing on the delicious friction of his fingers against you as the coil of arousal snaps in your stomach and you’re flooded with waves of toe-curling pleasure.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimper, rocking back and forth against his hand as he impales you on his cock faster, harder.
“Oh shiiii-“ He groans, the hand in your hair pushing your face against the kitchen island as he stills inside you, shooting his load deep against your cervix.
By the time you’ve recovered enough strength in your legs to push up from the counter, Bill’s already tucked his cock away. He watches you, biting his lip at the shake in your legs as you lean against the island for support.
“Did I go too hard?”
“No.” You fix the front of your shirt, smoothing your skirt down over your ass. “But… it’s just… something you said kinda bothered me.”
Bill knows what you’re going to say. “I’m sorry.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I’m not… playing mommy. That’s not what this is.”
Bill nods, swallowing thickly. “I know.”
“I get that you say shit in the heat of the moment. I know you didn’t mean it.”
Bill rocks back on his heels. “Maybe I did, though.”
“I… don’t follow.” You say slowly, feeling your stomach churn. If that’s what he thought of you, that you were trying to replace the girls’ mother… you’d quit. You’d have to.
“It’s not like I think you’re doing anything wrong.” He starts, running a hand back through his hair. “It’s more like I… wish you were. Their mom.”
It’s like all the air is sucked out of the room. Like Bill’s wrenched the air out of your lungs. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” Bill folds his arms across his chest. “You’re so good with them. You cook and you clean and you fuck me better than anyone else ever has. I wish I’d met you first.”
You fight the urge to laugh at the stubborn, simplistic innocence of him. “You pay me.”
“I’m not paying you to fuck me. Or to… care about me.”
“No.” You agree softly, stepping closer and tugging his arms away from his chest, bracketing them around your waist instead. “And I do care about you, Bill. And the girls, of course. But this is… this is a fantasy. I’m fulfilling a fantasy for you.”
Bill shakes his head, fingers tightening on your hips. “I’m in love with you.”
Your heart aches. “What’s my last name?”
Bill blinks at you. “What?”
“Where was I born? Are my parents still together? Do I have any pets?”
Bill shakes his head. “Why are you fighting me on this?”
You reach up and curl your fingers around the back of his neck, bringing his face to yours so you can press your lips against his. “You don’t love me, Bill. But I think you’re ready for it. To be in love again.”
Bill releases your hips to cup your face in his big hands, pressing your lips open and licking his tongue into your mouth. You sigh into it, relishing the taste of him and the warm weight of his hands on your cheeks.
You break the kiss, because you’re always the one who does. “Not with me.”
Bill frowns, tugging you back and sucking your bottom lip into his mouth. His thigh pushes up between your legs, denim grazing over your sensitive core through your soaked panties, and you whine into his mouth.
You pull away, eyes dropping to the movement of his thigh. “Why not with you?” His voice is thick and low, and he licks slowly over his lips. “You want me.”
You hum, eye fluttering shut at the friction of him dragging against your clit through the layers of fabric. “You need someone… on your level.” You gasp, and Bill takes the moment to wrap an arm around your ass and lift you onto the counter. He pushes your skirt up and slips his fingers into your underwear, pushing two long digits inside you to squelch through the mess of cum he’d left behind.
“You’re on my level. Fuck, you’re out of my league.”
“That’s…” you break off, sucking a shaking breath into your lungs. “That’s not what I mean. I… I’m not ready for you.”
Bill scoffs, curling his fingers inside you. “Feels pretty fucking ready.”
You force your eyes open, pressing your hands to his shoulders. “I don’t want to be a mother.”
Bill’s fingers freeze inside you, his cock deflating like you’d doused him in ice. “What?”
“I’m not ready to have kids. I like kids, I’m good with them. But I’m too young to even think about having my own. Or raising someone elses.”
Bill pulls his fingers out of you, fighting the urge to suck the mess off of them as he wipes his hand on his jeans. “But you love the girls.”
You nod, pressing your teeth into your lip. “They’re fantastic. And one day I hope to have my own, just like them. But that’s… years away. It’s not now. I’m going back to school, I want to travel. I’m not ready for this to be it.”
Bill flinches, stepping back. You don’t know that his wife had said almost the exact same thing to him before she walked out the door. You can’t know how much it hurts him to hear it again, right when he’d really started to believe you were his second chance. “I’m not trying to tie you down.”
You smile softly. “You can tie me up, Mr Skarsgård. But not down.”
“Is this your… formal resignation?” He asks, his voice tight as he tries very hard not to lose it.
“Do you need it to be?”
Bill considers this. “I don’t want you to go. But… I think I’m gunna get fired if I keep leaving work early and I can’t not leave early when I know you’re here.”
You nod slowly. “Then I think we need to find you a babysitter you don’t wanna fuck.”
Bill laughs, the sound harsh to his own ears. “Can I keep fucking you anyway?”
You roll your eyes. “You gunna ask me my last name?”
Bill grins. “No.”
You lean forward, hooking a finger into his waistband and tugging him closer until you can wrap your legs around his waist. “Then do your worst, Mr Skarsgård.”
hellohello, this is the anon that requested a fic for Eric/Roman :) I thought about my fic idea more and it'd definitely suit Eric more. But of course, you can change whatever you like 😉 I'm not the one writing it.
Also, I'm not actually sure how to use tumblr , so I'm not sure if there's any easier way for me to request 🤦🏽♀️ sorryyy <3 but here's my idea anyway :P
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Criminal x Caretaker
Eric is like Dexter. Kills the bad, with proof, and avoids hurting the innocent at all costs.
He's been caught, locked up, on max (or even super-max) security. No one enters his cell, even has his own unit (He killed another prisoner because they were a horrible person, obviously).
The only people authorized to enter his cell is the lady who looks after him (reader) and the cell guards (only when needed, this is rare).
When someone is to enter his cell, they are to follow protocol: Notify Eric that you're going to enter, wait for him to slip into his restraints and the light to signal green.
He can close the restraints himself manually, but the only way they can be opened is with the remote/button??
I also thought about BDSM? sub!eric of course 😪 and maybe they find love in the end? (somehow)
That's all I got since I don't want to limit you to the prompt :)
Hello! As this prompt is long, I posted the fics separately, linked below. I hope you liked my interpretation!
The Ties That Bind Us (Eric Draven x Reader) Part 1 of 2
The Ties That Bind Us (Eric Draven x Reader Part 2 of 2
thank you very much @skarsjoy for the sending this to me!
(easier read under the cut!)
The actor, known and appreciated for his transformation skills, plays Robin Hood's inseparable sidekick. We asked him about his experience on set and how he approached his character, drawing comparisons to his past experiences with Pennywise and the vampire Orlock. However, we weren't able to get him to reveal his highly secretive acting technique.
What prompted you to participate in this project?
«First of all because it was written by Michael Sarnoski, whose Pig I loved. As l read, I tried to understand the tone he would use in directing it. Michael is talented and he wrote a truly fantastic script. It's funny, intelligent, unusual, and as a project, it was clear that it would raise a lot of issues. Which is exactly what I look for as an actor. A character I'd never played before, in a film that felt like an early medieval fairy tale with a dark, gothic, and violent atmosphere. I knew I'd have a stimulating challenge ahead of me in creating Little John, and I knew I'd have to work hard, understand and create my character. The same goes for the others.
They all accepted immediately after the reading of the script, which never happens, because first you have to check who the other actors are and other factors.
Instead, for Robin Hood, we all immediately said yes.
What can you tell us about the film?
«The story is set in Celtic lands, circa 1247 AD. Robin Hood is an elderly hermit wandering the ravaged lands, haunted by his past and consumed by loneliness.
He awaits the end that should have come long ago. But then I, Little John, an old companion of his, arrive.
A sweet and amoral tale of pillaging and murder, which drags him into one last adventure, where he is seriously injured.
When he awakens, he finds himself in a remote monastery where Sister Brigid introduces him to this new community, including a leper and a traumatized little girl. Here he has plenty of time to... discover who he really is. It's not a new Robin Hood, but just a different take on the story, as if this weren't the hero the whole world has come to know. In the film, we try to discover nothing other than the man behind the myth.
Was there anything that particularly surprised you?
«When you think of medieval battles, you think of knights in shining armor galloping on horseback, but more often than not it was simply peasants beating each other to death while immersed or immobilized in the mud.
What type is your Little John?
«He hasn't seen Robin for about ten years, he has assumed a different identity and calls himself Edward. He is married, has a daughter and has taken over a farm to try and lead a peasant life, hiding from everyone, in a sort of exile. But someone discovers his identity, figures out who he is, and... they capture his family and hold them hostage. When we meet Little John, it's because he turned to Robin for help. As the story progresses, we learn more and more about him, including the fact that Robin took him in when he was just a boy.
Marlon Brando once said that it's not the size of a role that matters, but how big you make it, leaving your mark. In your case, we always expect wonders with your characters, whether it's Pennywise, Eric Draven, or Count Orlok. How do you prepare? And what about Little John?
«Each character is different and requires different preparation. I don't know if there's something they have in common, perhaps a thread of my creativity that I apply to them. It has to do with a technique of mine that I don't intend to reveal to anyone, though. [laughs] For Little John, I had to develop a language that I don't normally possess, an older English, the Northern dialect that Michael wanted all of us actors in the film to speak. I worked with dialect coach Brendan Gunn. I had to understand how my character spoke to practice and perfect, above all, the voice and accent. Then I wanted to make him believable, and give him a visual aspect, through the costumes, the shaved head, the unkempt beard, the scars. After all, he's a man who's had a much harder life than me.
While for the vampire in Nosferatu and Pennywise in It?
«Pennywise was a much more experimental character; in the first film, neither Andy Muschietti nor I knew exactly what we wanted to achieve, so we tried a lot of different things, and the character emerged from that process. With Nosferatu, Eggers had a very, very specific, meticulously detailed script, which even described how the character would breathe, the sound of his voice, and so on. It was more about trying to be precise and create something that was in line with his vision. It was very different, but in the end, you prepare and do whatever it takes to find the voice of a character, his cadence, tone, accent, and so on. You also try to understand the character's psychology as much as possible, but then, when you play him, the goal is not to think about any of that and just let the character come to life. To exist."
The film was shot entirely in Ireland. How did you find it?
«Ireland is beautiful, I loved it. We were in Northern Ireland. Our base was outside Belfast, and every day we had to travel about an hour and a half. The locations that interested my character were immersed in beautiful landscapes, on top of hills, with panoramic views of nature.
The country is beautiful, the people are fantastic. The only shame is that all my scenes were outdoors, and we were in Northern Ireland, in the middle of winter. So the weather was windy, cold, wet, and muddy. But that was also the beauty of it! •
Summary: FINALLY, a part II to The Blueprint. You’re invited to attend Eija’s parent’s anniversary party, and seeing Bill again has you reflecting on your first time.
I reccommend you read The Blueprint first!
Word Count: 7310
Warnings: NSFW, Oral sex m!receiving, PiV sex, rough sex, bilingual dirty talk, mentions of cheating but not really, tiny bit of angst
DISCLAIMER: Tragically, I do not own Bill Skarsgård or any of the other people in this story. This is a complete work of fiction and I don't claim otherwise. Pls don't sue me.
A/N: OKAY this beast just kept getting longer, and then @elyseesarchive sent me THAT message and I had to add the Svenska! (sorry if my translations are bad, my Swedish is bad and the Swedish friend I ran it by trolls me all the time so I don’t know if he made it worse :)
MDNI, fic under the cut
Source: Pinterest
You should have gone with him to Toronto. It’s something you don’t let yourself think about much. Only really in your darkest moments of self-loathing, when you’re alone in bed late at night and you’re wondering what he’s doing. It’s hard to remind yourself that you have no right to know, that you have no access to him anymore. Bill Skarsgård, your first crush, your first kiss. The boy who set the blueprint for kissing and fucking and everything in between.
You sigh, pressing your forehead against the little circular window beside you even though you know the statistics about dirty planes. You’d been thinking about him more and more, ever since the phone call. Eija’s words still ring in your ears. You’re one of my best friends, and mama and papa love you. Are you really going to miss this? And, no, you weren’t. You’d been friends with the Skarsgård family for close to twenty years now, and missing this party would be a huge insult to them all. And besides, nobody knew that there was a reason you’d be so reluctant to attend. Not even Eija. Especially not Eija.
You step out of the airport and shiver a little. Despite the arrival of spring, it’s still a little chilly in Stockholm at this time of the year, and you’re glad of the thick jacket you’d brought with you. You pick up your rental car at arrivals and program the map to take you to Ljusterö. The drive is set to take a little under two hours, plenty of time to get yourself truly worked up into a nervous wreck. By the time you reach the ferry terminal your hands are shaking and you feel nauseous. By the time you hit the road in Ljusterö, you’re pretty sure you’re going to pass out. You’d spent summers here. You’d spent two Christmas’s as well, though you’d been so homesick for your parents and siblings and traditions that you’d put a stop to those. But it still feels like returning to your own childhood as you drive up the path to the house. There are colourful ribbons tied to the fenceposts all along, and you’re smiling by the time you park out back.
“You made it” Eija squeals as she runs to you, wrapping her arms around your shoulders. “How was the flight? And the drive?”
“Fine and good.” You say, hugging her back. “I wouldn’t have missed this.”
“Papa will be so glad to see you. He’s always asking after you, you know. He wanted you to come for the baby’s birthday thing last year.”
“Work,” you say with a shrug as she finally releases you. “How are they all doing?”
Eija grins. “The baby is perfect. And perfectly spoiled. Sam is smitten.”
“I bet. It’s so weird to think we’re reaching baby age.”
She scoffs. “Speak for yourself. I’m still in my party girl prime.”
“Right.” You laugh, linking arms with her so she can lead you around the side of the house.
“Speaking of… are you seeing anybody? You didn’t ask for a plus one to the party, so I assumed not.”
“No. Well, nobody serious enough to introduce them to all this chaos.”
She slaps at your arm. “Well, good. I may have taken the liberty of inviting a guy I think you’d like.”
You groan. “I don’t need you to play matchmaker for me.”
“I know. But it’s fun, isn’t it? For me I mean. Not for you.”
You roll your eyes, stopping abruptly when you reach the party setup. There’s a huge canvas teepee tent erected in the middle of the grounds, with long tables draped in flowers and candles. “Oh, wow.”
“I know. Papa really went overboard for this one.”
“Well, if acting doesn’t work out he could always go into party planning.”
“Isn’t that comforting.” Stellan says, appearing behind you. You jump, turning to wrap an arm around him. “I’m so glad you could make it. I feel like we haven’t seen you here in years.”
You shrug, feeling a blush creep onto your face. “Life’s been crazy, but that’s no excuse. I’ll get back here more often, I promise.”
“Mm.” He says, dropping his voice. “I hear Eija has lined up one of Sweden’s most eligible bachelors for you this evening. Fall in love with him and maybe you move here.” He winks and you force a nervous laugh. You wish Eija had given you a heads up, though the likelihood of you chickening out and calling off the whole trip would have been a lot higher.
“Come on,” Eija says, tugging you towards the house. “I’ll get your room set up and we can go over what you’re going to wear. Jacob likes red, did you bring red?”
“Green.” You say, and if Eija notices the waver in your voice she doesn’t say anything. Bill likes green. Had always liked you in green, not that it mattered.
“That’s good too.” She says, pushing open a guest bedroom door. “You’re in here. It’s not next to me like I wanted but mama and papa invited so many damn people. You’re lucky you’re not sharing with one of my brothers.”
Your eyes snap to her, wondering with a jolt of fear if she’s hinting at something, but she’s not looking at you at all. “I guess they’re all coming, then?”
“Of course. Papa would have hunted them all down.” She drops your bag on the bed and unzips the case, puling out your dresses and jeans and the racy set of purple lingerie you’d packed just in case. “Wear this. Under the dress. It’s very motivating.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not hooking up with anyone tonight.”
“Sure you’re not.” Eija says agreeably. “Oh! You can meet Caroline, too. Gustaf’s girlfriend. She’s lovely. I think they’re the real deal.”
“Cool.”
“And Alex is bringing whoever is his flavour of the month, I guess. He said he absolutely couldn’t share with anyone because he has a date, so.”
“Typical Alex,” you say, feeling your chest tightening.
“Typical Alex,” Eija sighs, flopping down on your bed.
You wait as long as you can, ten agonizing seconds. “Bill? And Valter?”
“Valter doesn’t date. He’s too young to be tied down, or so he says. I think he’s scared of women.”
“He’ll get there.”
“Right.”
You wince as you ask again. “And Bill?”
Eija makes an exaggerated shrugging gesture. “I don’t know. He’s been weird about the whole thing. You’d think we were summoning him to an execution.”
“But he is coming? You know, wrath of Stellan or whatever.”
Eija sits up. “Yeah, I guess so.”
You hear a voice calling up the steps, and Eija crosses to the door to shout down. “My friends are here. I need to go and do the hosting thing, get dressed and come down as soon as you can, okay? The party is pretty much going to start now and go until tomorrow.”
“You’re nuts.” You say, but you’re grinning, already thinking about drinking and dancing barefoot and looking up at a clear island sky filled with stars.
You dress quickly, putting the purple set on under your dress as Eija had ordered. You figure there’s time to make yourself look a little more presentable, doing your hair and applying makeup that suits your face. Nothing too heavy, but enough to make you look like a better you. You head downstairs, following the float of music out of the open back doors and down to the tent. There’s a breeze, but the sun shines brightly and it isn’t cold when you duck under the canvas into the enormous tent.
Eija spots you and waves, and you make your way across a makeshift dance floor to stand with her. “This is Jacob, the one I was telling you about.”
Jacob is ridiculously good looking. Sharp, Scandinavian bone structure, tall, with pretty blonde curls artfully styled on his head. His blue eyes rake over you and a smile curves on his lips. “A pleasure.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” You hold out a hand and he takes it, his smile turning into a smirk as he lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses it. “Oh.” You say, feeling your cheeks flare with heat.
“Cute.” Eija whispers to you, and you can’t help but agree. He is cute, and he’d leaned right into your nervous handshake.
“Can I get you a drink?” He asks, nodding towards the open bar.
“Sure. I’d take a beer, whatever they have.”
Jacob’s smile widens. “Great. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere. Please.”
You shake your head and turn to watch him retreat.
“You thank me now, or later?” Eija asks, a teasing smirk on her face.
“How about a little thank you now, and a big one later if this works out.”
Eija laughs. “I’ll take it. I knew he’d be good for you. Plus he doesn’t care that your Svenska is shit.”
You gasp, but it’s true. Your language skills had slipped significantly, especially since you’d stopped visiting Sweden in recent years.
“Huh. You know, I figured he’d be last in and kicking and screaming.” Eija says, looking past you to the tent entrance. You turn and freeze at the feeling of his eyes already on you. Wide, green, electric. He tenses up, and you wonder whether anybody told him you were coming. Whether he’d have guessed. Whether he thought about you at all.
“There’s still time for the kicking and screaming.” You say quietly, and Eija snorts.
“I should go and say – oh, he’s coming over.”
You can do little more than watch as he strides across the dancefloor, eyes fixed on you with such unreadable intensity that you wonder if you’re going to spontaneously combust. “Eija.” His voice. God, you’d missed the sound of it. Never as deep as you expect, but full of a warm, lilting cadence that sets your pulse fluttering. “You told me six, but it’s a ghost town.”
“I told you six because I thought you’d be three hours late if you showed up at all.” Eija says, wrapping her arms around her brother’s neck and tugging him down against her. Bill wraps his arm around her waist and lifts his head, eyes meeting yours.
“I always show up if I say I’m gunna,” he says, and he’s talking to Eija but he’s talking to you. Pain lances through your chest at the awful memory of listening to a series of progressively more miserable voicemails as Bill stood at the airport waiting for you. You can hear the last one echoing in your head now as you look at him. I wish you’d just told me. If it was goodbye I’d have… I wish you’d told me you didn’t want this. I’m sorry if I fucked it up. I won’t call you again. You’d cried for a month. Then his show had dropped on Netflix and you’d curled up with your housemates and cried again. And then he’d been photographed out with a model draped over him, and you’d picked yourself up and stopped. With him looking at you now, you feel like it all just happened. You feel like crying again.
“Hey, Bill.” You force yourself to say, and he pulls out of his sisters embrace, stretching up to his full, imposing height.
“Glad you could make it. For my parents.”
“Right. Wouldn’t have missed it.”
Something passes across his face then, and it twists in your gut. His eyes lift, a tiny frown creasing between his brows and you feel a hand rest on the small of your back. “Sorry, there was a line.” You turn as Jacob presses a beer into your palm, and Bill looks him up and down.
“Hey, Bill. You probably don’t remember me, I went to school with your sister.”
“No, I don’t. You two, are?”
“Don’t be weird, Bill.” Eija says. “I set them up tonight. They look cute, no?”
Bill shrugs. “Watch out man, I don’t think this one does long distance.”
You swallow around a lump in your throat, eyes slipping to Eija, who bristles. “Well maybe she’ll move to Sweden.”
Bill’s eyes snap to you. “You’re thinking of moving here?”
You shrug, feeling the weight of Jacob’s hand on your back like a brand. “I don’t know. I’m not tied to anywhere right now.”
Bill nods like this is conversational, like his whole universe didn’t tilt on it’s axis in your direction the moment he set foot in this tent. Like his girlfriend isn’t freshening up in the house right now. Because he’d thought you’d be here, and coming alone would have just been too pathetic. Admitting he’d never had a serious relationship with anyone would feel like suicide.
“Well, I wish you two the best. If you’ll excuse me.” He doesn’t say where he’s going, just brushes past you. He shoulder-checks Jacob, and the blonde rocks back a little in surprise at the forceful contact.
“Was he… weirder than usual?” Eija asks you.
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen him in years.” And that isn’t a lie. You have no idea who Bill Skarsgård is anymore.
In general, Swedes know how to party, and the Skarsgård family are real pros. Alex is dancing on a table in a flower crown he got from who knows where, and everybody is drunk as hell. It’s only been a couple of hours, but with an open bar and a little sun nobody wastes any time in getting the festa underway.
“Speeches!” Sam calls, standing from his seat and knocking a knife against his glass. “Open floor, who goes first?”
There are a lot of speeches. Everyone has something nice to say about the couple, or something funny. You catch Stellan’s eye more than once, and he nods towards the mic. You shake your head, and he frowns.
“Your turn,” Eija stage-whispers to you, shoving her elbow into your ribs. You yelp, and Stellan rises from his seat to pass you the microphone. “You’ll all have to excuse my honorary daughter. She is utlänning and her Svenska is not so good.”
There is a smattering of laughter, and you suck in a breath as you stand to face the gathering. You know where Bill is, because you can feel the heat of his stare on the side of your face. You’ve felt it on and off all night, too sharp to be imaginary.
“Well, what can I say. I’ve known the Skarsgårds for a long time. A really long time. I’ve been friends with Eija for pretty much my whole life. It started as a penpal project at school, and she stuck with me even after giving up on teaching me Swedish.” There’s more laughter, and you steal a quick glance at Bill. He’s watching you, and he isn’t smiling. You swallow hard. “The Skarsgårds welcomed me into their family. Inviting me here to the beautiful archipelagos for summers, and even a few winters. Teaching me new traditions. Teaching me how to drink.” There’s more laughter, and Alex raises his glass to you. “And I’m so happy and honored to be invited here. So many years of marriage, it’s special. I hope that one day I can find a love like this. And,” you look to Bill again, and you’re sure there’s something like pain on his face before he catches himself. “And congratulations. Here’s to the next forty years!” You raise your glass, and the gathered party-goers raise theirs.
You drop back into your seat, heart hammering in your chest. Eija nudges you with her forehead. “That was sweet.”
“That was embarrassing.”
“Is that all?” Sam asks, holding the microphone out. “We’re missing a couple of… Bill! You wanna say a few words?”
Bill does not want to say a few words. He really, really doesn’t want to get up in front of all these people and say how great and happy everything is when you’re sitting twenty feet away like you didn’t break his heart and ruin his life.
“I think I’ve had a few too many drinks, brother.” Bill calls. “I’ll save my well-wishes for the card.”
Sam rolls his eyes but he doesn’t push it, and Bill breathes a sigh of relief.
“You’re drunk?” Katie asks beside him.
“No.”
“Then why…?”
“I just don’t feel like it.”
Katie sighs, dropping her hand to Bill’s thigh. “It’s her, isn’t it?”
Bill swallows. “It’s her.”
“You knew there was a chance she’d be here.”
“I know.”
“You brought me to help you forget about it.”
“I know.”
“You’re not doing a very good job.”
“I know.” Bill groans. “I didn’t think… it’s been so long. I thought I’d be okay.”
“Maybe you should talk to her.”
Bill watches you rise from your seat and take Jacob’s hand, laughing as he spins you onto the dance floor.
“I don’t think she has anything to say to me.”
You’re drunk enough to ignore the burn of Bill’s eyes on you. You’re drunk enough to sway your hips a little more, to tug the front of your dress down enough to expose the rounded swells of the tops of your breasts. Drunk enough to put on a little show for him, if he’s watching anyway. With his girlfriend beside him. With Jacob’s hands on your waist.
Bill hasn’t danced. He didn’t eat much at dinner, and he’s barely moved from his seat. He looks miserable and standoffish and you feel a little bad that just your presence has been enough to ruin the party for him. But it’s not like you can do anything about it, so you resolve to just pretend he isn’t there at all.
“I need to smoke, you want to come outside?” Jacob asks, his lips so close they brush against your ear. You feel goosebumps rise on the back of your neck and you nod, following him out into the darkness of the night.
Dark out here is different than in the city. It’s pitch black, with only the tiny pinpricks of the stars above and a wafer-thin sliver of moon over the water.
“You want one?” He asks, slipping two cigarettes from his packet. You shake your head, lowering stiffly to the cool grass. He lights his and sits beside you, close enough that your thighs are touching. “Would you really consider moving to Sweden?”
You hum. “I don’t know. I mean, not now.”
“No.” He agrees, drawing smoke heavily into his lungs. “But if things went well, for the right person.”
“I guess so.”
He drops an arm around your waist, tugging you closer. “You got something going on with Eija’s brother?”
You freeze, and he feels it. “What?”
“You do.” He sighs, dropping his head to his chest. “I thought so.”
“Why would you think that?”
“I remember Bill. More than the others. He’s closer to my age, so I saw him around. He was always pretty cool. Like, a bit quiet, right? But cool. Not so fuckin… intense.”
“People change.” Your own voice sounds wrong.
“He body-checked me like some alpha shit.”
“Maybe he’s just in a bad mood. Or like, tired.” You shrug out from under Jacob’s arm. “I don’t have anything going on with him.”
“Does he know that?”
You scoff, but you can feel a blush creeping up your cheeks. “There’s nothing to know, because he doesn’t… feel that way about me either.”
“He hasn’t taken his eyes off you all night. It’s fucking creepy. And if you don’t have anything going on with him, maybe I’ll go tell him to stop looking at you.”
“Don’t!” You blurt, dropping your hand to his thigh to keep him in place. “Look, maybe he feels protective because I’m Eija’s friend and he’s known me since we were kids.”
“Yeah,” Jacob laughs humorlessly. “Nothing brotherly about that look. Trust me, I’m a guy.”
You shake your head, pushing up to a stand. “Well, there’s nothing going on. And I’d really prefer if you didn’t get all macho and try to tell him what to do, or whatever. It’ll just make things awkward.”
Jacob sighs, flicking the end of his cigarette into the grass.
“Pick that up.”
You turn at the sound of his voice, and anxiety lances through you. Had he been there the whole time?
“What?”
“The cigarette. You’re littering on my family’s property, that’s not cool. Pick it up.”
Jacob scoffs. “No way, man. It’s gone out, I don’t even know where it went.”
“So find it.” Bill takes a step closer, tension rolling off his shoulders. He’s maybe only an inch or two taller than Jacob, but he seems so much bigger than him. Bulking up for a role, maybe. There’s nothing boyish about the man standing in front of you, and heat curls low in your stomach.
“I’ll find it.” You say, dropping to your knees and feeling along the grass.
“Jesus.” Jacob scoffs. “I don’t know what the fuck this is but I’m so out.”
You watch him head back into the tent, wedging your bottom lip between your teeth. Your fingers continue to inch along the ground, and as soon as he’s out of sight you turn back to the grass, hunting for the discarded butt.
“Don’t do that.” Bill’s voice sounds strained, but you don’t dare to look back at him.
“No, you were right. It’s rude to litter.”
“I don’t… give a fuck about that.”
You huff, crawling forward a few inches to continue your search. “Sure sounded like you did.”
He sighs loudly. “Could you please look at me. Please.”
You freeze, pivoting and sitting back on your heels, looking up at him through your lashes. Your bottom lip is still pressed under your teeth, a nervous habit, and Bill groans. “Can you not look at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you wanna suck my fuckin cock.” He chokes out, shaking his head.
Your clit throbs in response, and you wonder how he’d react if you reached for his belt right now.
“I’ve done it before.” You whisper, and he freezes, eyes dropping down the length of your body.
“I know.” His voice is low and deep, and his eyes are darker than before even in the low light.
“But you have a girlfriend.”
Bill’s brows furrow, and then smooth out. Katie. Right. His decoy girlfriend was turning out to be the biggest mistake of the night.
“And you have a blonde.”
You roll your eyes. “I met him tonight. I don’t think it’s gunna work out.”
Bill’s mouth curves into a smirk. “Shame. He seems great. And I thought you liked him, if you were thinking of moving to Stockholm to be with him.”
“I should have come with you to Toronto.”
The smirk drops off his face. “What?”
“It was the worst mistake of my life, not getting on that plane. I’m a coward and I’ve regretted it every single day since.”
Bill can actually feel the moment his heart rips in two, and the flood of anger that rushes in to fill him. “Why the fuck are you telling me that?”
You blink, your swollen bottom lip jutting out into a pout that is too fucking cute. “I thought you’d want to know.”
“I’m… here with someone.” Bill spits. “You think after all this time I want to hear that you’re sorry about something from a hundred years ago? You think I think about that day?”
You swallow around a hard lump of tears in your throat as you push to a stand. “I guess… I’m sorry… I…”
“You think I think about what happened before that day?” He asks, cutting over you.
You blink a film of tears from your eyes, and Bill runs a hand through his hair. “You think I think about how you tasted? How you felt underneath me? How good it sounded when you cried my name?”
You can’t say anything anymore, your throat has closed. You can only stare at him, pressing your thighs together against the insistent throbbing in your core.
Bill takes a step towards you, and up close you can see he isn’t faring much better than you. His pupils are blown out and he looks sick. “You think…” he murmurs, “I think about how pretty you looked when you came for me every single time I jerk myself off?”
“I… I don’t know, I-“
Bill steps forward then, closing the distance between your bodies and lacing his fingers into your hair. “You’re right.” He says before dipping his head and pressing his mouth against yours. The kiss is electric, from the sharp static of his lips parting yours to the white fire of his tongue licking into your mouth. You whimper, and Bill’s fingers tighten in your hair as he pulls you closer, deepening the kiss and pressing his thigh between your legs. He pulls away with a gasp, bringing his other hand to your jaw and holding your face steady. “You… is this okay? Can I…?”
“Please,” you whisper, stretching up to brush your mouth against his. “Please, Bill.” You don’t know what you’re asking for, and it doesn’t matter, anyway. Bill’s lips are back on yours, pressing your mouth open only to suck your bottom lip between his teeth, tongue soothing along the hurt where his teeth have left impressions in the flesh. You stretch up to wrap your arms around his neck, dragging his chest flush to yours, and Bill moans into your mouth, his thigh pressing firmly against your core.
“Bill are you still-oh!” Bill pulls away from you lightning-fast, almost shoving you away from him as he spins to face his girlfriend in the entrance to the tent.
“Katie.”
“Uh, sorry. God.” She shakes her head, spinning on her heel and dashing back into the party. Bill glances at you, pain across his face.
“I have to-“
“Yeah. Uh, of course. Go.”
He hesitates, eyes dropping to your mouth like he wants to kiss you again, but you wouldn’t welcome it now. Not with the reminder that he’s here with someone else so fresh. You aren’t that girl. “I’ll find you later. And just…”
“Don’t tell Eija.” You finish for him. Bill flashes you a pained smile, but the moment he’s out of sight you make a run for the house. You’re too drunk to drive tonight, but you’re going to pack your bags and get out of here at first light, whilst everybody else is sleeping, and you’re never going to see Bill Skarsgård again. You’ll tell Eija everything, if it helps you stay away from him.
You flop down onto your bed with a sigh, closing your eyes as tears slip from below your lids and streak into your hairline. This had all gone so much worse than you’d ever imagined, and you feel sick, disgusting and sick to think about how much further you’d have gone if you hadn’t been interrupted. You’re not sure how long you lie there, staring at the ceiling. At some point you fall asleep, listening to the sounds of the party still going on beneath your window. You wake to the feeling of fingers ghosting over your face, and you hold perfectly still as the featherlight touches brush lower, over the curves of your throat. The mattress beside you dips, and you hear the shaky exhale of breath before the brush of lips against your own.
Your mouth moves automatically, slotting against his. His hair drops over his forehead to tickle against your cheek, and your eyes open. Not Bill. Not Bill. You rip out of his light grip, shuffling back on the bed and throwing yourself off the opposite side of it.
“Shit!” Jacob hisses, turning onto his knees.
“What are you doing?”
“Shit.” He says again, eyes wide. “I thought you knew it was me. Eija told me which room you were in, the light was on.”
“I was asleep!” You screech. “You can’t just sneak up on me and-“
“Shit.” He says again, running his hand through his hair. “You kissed me back! I thought you knew.”
You swallow hard. “That was… a reflex.”
Jacob frowns. “You’re not gunna… shit. Don’t tell Eija. Please, okay? Don’t tell Eija.”
You close your eyes. This is the second man to kiss you and beg you not to tell Eija Skarsgård and it would be funny if you weren’t so sick of all the secrets.
“Get out. Just go.”
“Right.” Jacob nods, backing towards the door. “But you won’t-“
“I won’t tell Eija.” You say with a sigh as he shoves your door open.
“Thanks. And again I-“ Jacob breaks off as his shoulder makes contact with a solid wall of flesh, and his eyes go wide as he steps back. “Sorry, Bill. I was just…”
“Leaving.” Bill says dryly. “Good idea.”
“Bill.” You say quietly, not sparing Jacob so much as a glance as he darts down the hallway and out of sight.
“You get déjà vu? Don’t tell Eija. Where have I heard that before?”
You bite your lip. “He came to check on me. Nothing happened.”
Bill’s eyes drop to your mouth, and you wonder if he can tell somehow that you’d been kissed. “You needed… checking on?”
“I’m done for the night. I’ve caused enough trouble, right?” You offer him a weak smile, but Bill doesn’t return it.
He runs his fingers up the wood of the doorframe. “Can I come in? To talk.”
And you shouldn’t let Bill Skarsgård into your room. You certainly shouldn’t close the door behind him, and draw the curtains over the window like you’re worried someone will see his silhouette from the garden. You turn to watch as he sits on the edge of your bed, and you cross the room to lean against your vanity. “Talk.”
Bill drags his bottom lip against his teeth and you try not to watch. “Katie isn’t my girlfriend.”
This isn’t what you expect, and you feel an absurd bubble of hope in your chest. “She know that?”
“Yes. We had… something. A situation, but it’s over. We’re just friends now, and she agreed to come with me and pretend to be together.”
“Why?”
Bill laughs weakly. “You know why. I couldn’t show up here alone.”
You take a step towards him, your legs shaking badly. “Why, Bill?”
Bill huffs, reaching out to grab the hem of your dress and drag you closer. “You. I knew I was going to see you.”
“I didn’t bring anybody.”
Bill huffs, dipping his head to graze his nose against the fabric covering your stomach. “I wouldn’t have shown up.”
You swallow thickly, trying to focus through the throbbing between your legs as Bill nuzzles slowly against your stomach. “Do you… wish you hadn’t?”
Bill hums, his hands wrapping around the back of your thighs before dragging up your bare skin, under your dress. “No. Did you mean it? About Toronto.”
You cup his jaw in both hands and tug him away from you, forcing his face up to meet your eyes. There’s a pretty glassiness to his, pupils blown wide, and you don’t have to check to know he’s getting hard. “Biggest mistake of my life.”
Bill makes a choked sound somewhere between a sob and a groan. “It’s too fuckin late for that though, isn’t it?”
He pulls out of your grip, dropping his hands from your thighs and running a hand through his hair.
You don’t really think about it as you sink to your knees in front of him, but you hear Bill’s breathing hitch as he notices.
“What are you doing?”
You bite the corner of your lip and look up at him. “I’m so sorry, Bill. I’m sorry for it all.”
Bill swallows, fingers splaying over his own thighs. “H-how sorry?”
You feel the tentative challenge in his question, and arousal slicks in your underwear. You lean forward, pressing a kiss to his knee, and Bill parts his legs to let you lean in and part your lips against the stiff length of him through his jeans. “Förlåt, Bill. Förlåt. Får jag?”
Bill groans, lifting his hips off the bed as he tugs his jeans and boxers down. “Visa mig. Show me, älskling.”
You don’t wait for him to change his mind, or for you to lose your nerve, though your heart is hammering in your throat as you wrap your fist around the base of his cock and bring his tip to your lips. There’s a bead of precum glistening at his slit, and you lap your tongue against it, tasting the salt of him.
Bill exhales on a sigh, lacing his fingers into your hair. “This mouth.” He says softly.
You hum around the sensitive head of his cock before sinking lower, opening your throat to take his length down to the edge of your own fingers squeezing his base.
The pleasure of your mouth on his cock is almost too much. Bill feels the tightening in his abs, and he knows if he looks down at you and you’re looking up at him, he’ll blow his load down your throat. This is all he’s dreamed of, all he’s thought about for fucking years, and having the real thing kneeling between his thighs is almost too much. He tightens his grip in your hair and bucks his hips up, relishing the sounds you make as you gag around his cock. “Choke on it, sweetheart,” he coos, eyes rolling back at the slick feeling of your drool soaking his length. “Show me you’re fucking sorry.”
His cock might be hard for you, but his heart is still aching with the unsure, awful hope that you meant it. And that you being here, now meant something too. You graze your teeth lightly against the vein on the underside of his cock and Bill does look at you then. He wishes he hadn’t. Your eyes are watering, makeup smudged around them from your tears as you gag on his length. But there’s unbridled lust in them, too. For him.
He almost sobs as he cums, shooting down your throat with a release so electric it almost hurts. “Fy fan,”he groans, hips snapping up to meet your face as he twitches in your throat. You hollow your cheeks, drawing every last drop of his arousal out, and Bill jerks his hips back to pull out of your mouth with a wince.
You lick the slick from your lips. “I’m really that sorry, Bill.”
He huffs a laugh, leaning forward to wrap a hand around your throat. “No kidding.” He presses his lips to yours, tracing his tongue over the seam of your mouth and pushing inside to taste himself. You whimper, and Bill’s grip tightens on your throat. He’s already getting hard again, like he’s sixteen and listening to you giggle down the hall with his sister as you sneak drinks from the liquor cabinet.
You pull away and drop your eyes to his crotch, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth. “Already?”
“Your fault,” he mumbles, pulling you up by the hand on your throat and shoving you onto the bed. “On your stomach, ass up.”
You feel your cheeks burn as you press your face into the pillow, and you feel Bills hands slide up the back of your thighs to hook into the purple lace of your underwear. “So pretty.” He coos, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your clothed clit.
You huff out a breath, clenching around nothing as arousal slicks out of you. “Please, Bill.”
He hums, and you feel the mattress shift as he climbs up behind you and braces his hands on your hips. “I’m guessing… there’ve been other guys since me.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
“Shame.” He hopes his words come out teasing, even though there’s a lump forming in his throat. Of course you’ve been with other people, it’s been years. But he can’t help the sting of jealousy all the same. There was something supremely special about being the only one to have you. He could have still been the only one, if you’d gotten on that fucking plane to Toronto. He splays his palm over your lower back and lines his cock up with your entrance, pushing in without prep or warning.
You gasp, hips rocking forward like you can get away from the stretch of the intrusion, but Bill holds you firm. “What happened to me being the blueprint, huh?”
You groan, and Bill’s hand drops to your ass cheek in a loud slap. “You are.”
“I’m so…” Bill cuts himself off with a choked moan. You feel unbelievably good around him, the hottest, tightest, wettest cunt he’s ever been inside. He’s not gentle like the first time, and he wishes he could see your face as he fucks you, but there’s something cathartic about pushing you down and taking after living with the sting of your rejection for so long. “Fy fan, you feel good.”
You groan, clenching around him, and Bill grips your hips to drag you back against him so your ass smacks against him with every deep thrust. “S-so good, Bill.” You stammer. “I want more.”
Bill’s eyes roll back in his head at the way you stutter out the words. He reaches forward, curving over your back to grab for your arms. You yelp as your arms are pulled back, face and tits mashing into the mattress below you as Bill pins your hands together at the base of your spine and holds you down. The new angle drags his cock against your g-spot and you sob, clenching hard around him. It’s too much, the sensation of your cunt clamping down on his cock and the sight of you bound and desperate beneath him. “Shit,” he hisses, digging his short nails against the meat of your hips. “You feel that?” He groans, reaching around to shove his hand between you and the mattress. His fingers find your clit, and you can only whine as he presses his body against yours and rubs rough circles against you. “You feel so fucking good, I blir så hård.”
You moan in response, the tension in your abdomen winding tighter as your clit swells under his attention. He’s fucking into you with a brutality you’d never imagined him capable of, and you’re so out of your mind turned on that you’re pretty sure you’re going to explode. “Tell… me…” you whine.
“I love how fucking tight you are.” He groans.
“No, no.” You whisper. “Svenska. Please.”
Bill huffs, dropping his weight against you so he can wrap his hand around your throat and force your head back. “Gillar du att jag har kontrollen, älskling?” His words are a guttural rumble against the shell of your ear, and you clench hard around him.
Bill hisses, pinching your clit between his index and middle finger until you whine. “Känner du hur hård min kuk är till dig?”
He’s a heavy weight against your back, and with his palm pressed to your throat you can hardly breathe, but it’s utterly, unbearably perfect. “Fuck, yes,” you groan, clenching around him in time with his deep thrusts. Nobody has ever been so deep inside you, or dominated you so completely. It isn’t something you ever thought you’d want, but with Bill? Maybe he was setting a new blueprint.
He pinches your clit, balls slapping messily against your slick as he nears his release. “Jag blir så hård av att ligga ovanpå dig och känna din rumpa mot min kuk.” He grits out, ducking his head to press his lips to your shoulder. “Var vill du ha den?”
“I want you to cum in me,” you gasp, surprised by the desperate breathlessness of your own voice. “Fill me up, Bill, please.”
Bill couldn’t stop himself if he tried, now. He should ask if you’re on the pill, he should pull out anyway. But he doesn’t, because the thought of burying his load up against your cervix, of you carrying that around with you in front of everybody tomorrow morning… he squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on the motion of his fingers against you. “Du först, älskling.”
Your jaw goes slack and you have to bite down on the pillow beneath you to stifle your scream as you cum. There’s nowhere to go with Bill pinning you to the bed, so you can only jerk and wriggle and endure as Bill pushes you past the precipice of your orgasm and hurtling towards overstimulation.
“Du är min,” he whispers, keeping the pressure against your clit as he rubs over the sensitive bundle of nerves. “Alltid. Always.”
His own release hits moments later, dragged from his body by the way you flutter around his cock and the waves of slick arousal soaking out of your cunt and dripping down to pool on the bed below you. He doesn’t let up on your clit, even though he can tell the little sobs and moans you let out are verging on pain.
You feel the pulses of his release as he cums, the heat as he fills you, and you shake and shudder and tighten around him, milking every drop out of him. He finally, finally pulls his hand free, and you feel the wet drag of his slick fingertips against your hip as he pins you heavily into the mattress and pulls out of you.
Your muscles clench, trying to drag him back inside you, and he huffs a laugh. “Round two already?”
You groan, a bratty retort dying on your tongue as you try to roll to the side. You can’t move, and you turn your head to look at Bill as he drops onto his back beside you. “I think I’m dead.”
Bill smirks, rolling towards you and pecking your lips. “You’re just… fucked. You’ll be okay.”
You swallow, flexing your calves. “Am I wiggling my toes?”
Bill raises an eyebrow at you before pushing up to a seated position. He grabs your foot and brings it to his mouth, pressing his lips to your toes before licking a stripe across the pads of them. “Gross!” You squeal, yanking your foot away.
“She’s healed. It’s a miracle.” Bill flops back onto the bed beside you. “That was…” he shakes his head.
“You accept my apology?”
Bill rolls his eyes. “No.”
“You need me to suck it again, Bill? Because I fucking will.” Bill feels his cock stir at that, though he’s way, way too fucking tired to get hard again.
“I mean you don’t have to apologise. I forgave you a long time ago. It wasn’t fair of me to ask. I knew you had school, and all that shit. I just wanted you with me.”
You roll your exhausted limbs to the side, wincing at the slight burning between your legs and the feeling of his cum leaking out of you. “I cried for like a month straight. And then you had to go and get famous so I could never escape you.”
Bill scoffs. “Famous.”
“Yeah, Mr Pennywise.” You nudge your nose against his shoulder, and he lifts his arm to tuck you against his side.
“Would you really move to Stockholm?”
“For the right reasons.” You say carefully.
“I could be a reason.” There’s a shaking vulnerability in his voice, and when you look up at him Bill’s gaze is fixed on the ceiling.
“Yeah.” You whisper, leaning up on aching arms to press a kiss to his mouth. “You could be a reason, Bill.”
Bill sighs into your mouth, lips brushing yours lazily as he tugs you onto his chest. “Just, one more thing.”
You roll your eyes, repeating his mantra. “Don’t tell-“
“I think we should tell Eija.”
Translations, in case you’re interested:
blir så hård (am so hard)
Gillar du att jag har kontrollen, älskling (do you like it when I'm in control, sweetheart?)
känner du hur hård min kuk är till dig (do you feel how hard my cock is for you?)
Jag blir så hård av att ligga ovanpå dig och känna din rumpa mot min kuk. (I get so hard from lying on top of you and feeling your ass against my cock)
