roman x reader text fic (slow burn) - CHAPTER 2
chapter 1
wc: 3000
cw: alcohol usage
synopsis: you move to LA for college and end up moving in with Chessa. One night, Nate, your roommate's brother, brings over some of his friends, among whom is Roman. You and him get off on the wrong foot from the very start, and while in other cases that would've been enough for you to keep your distance, something about him keeps drawing you in.
authors note: this one's long so strap in. same thing with the image numbers to help you with the format. also, new character alert! enjoy!!
The crowd was going crazy. Nate’s set was better than you had expected, the people at the barricade damn near losing their lives. You watched as Hollis spoke into the mic, giggling at the silly autotune that was still on for some reason. Chessa had left halfway through the show and you worried you wouldn’t see her until the end as you noticed from your spot on the balcony just how long the line for the bar was getting.
The venue was packed, phones raised up to capture the stage, smoke and sweat lingering in the air. You had never been to a show like this before. The energy was amazing, even from the balcony. You watched Hollis from above as he said some words that you didn’t even pay attention to. But before you could even process what was happening, the crowd began cheering, as the stage lights changed to red, and a familiar beat started playing.
From somewhere backstage, as if from thin air, emerged Roman, screaming into the mic right off the bat. You watched as he walked towards the edge of the stage, the cheers getting louder. You trailed your eyes down his torso. He was shirtless, as always, a thin layer of sweat already coating his lightly toned abs. His hair was down, his curls more defined than you had seen before. He had some eyeliner smudged around his eyes, and he almost looked other-worldly. Like and alien. Or a vampire, like the fangirls on TikTok would liken him to.
You watched as he danced around the stage, singing the only two songs he had. You had never seen him so lively, usually acting so relaxed, which never failed to piss you off. Although he was putting on a show, he seemed to truly be himself on that stage, singing the silly Spanish lyrics.
“Chessa!” you ran up to her after the show ended. “Where have you been, loca?” you joked, although you were slightly worried. You hadn’t seen her since she left to get drinks.
“Sorry, people kept skipping the line,” she gave you a side hug. “How was it?” she handed you your drink which was practically useless now, all the people rushing to the exit to catch Hollis as he left the venue.
“It was nice. A lot more aggressive than I expected.”
Chessa chuckled and nodded in agreement.
“I’m gonna go get our coats and we can wait for the rest outside,” she said, turning to go backstage where you guys had left your stuff.
You were alone, once again, bumping into random people as they left the venue, some thrilled to have seen the 2hollis, some happy to have survived. You looked around the room, observing all the different kinds of people, all the different styles and attitudes.
Amongst the crowd you noticed a man your age. Shabby, brunette hair, prominent nose, dark eyes, big smile on his face. And upon getting a little closer, you realized why you were so drawn to him.
“Mark!” you yelled over the noise of the other people before you could even stop yourself.
The man turned his head to look at you, instantly recognizing the face he could never forget. He instantly made his way towards you, wasting no time to embrace you. Mark was a guy you had met in high school. You hadn’t seen him in years, but it was nice to see a familiar face.
“Jesus Christ!” he said, not believing his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m with a friend. What are you doing here?”
“I’m the photographer. Well, one of them,” he pointed at the large camera that was hung around his neck that you didn’t seem to notice until then.
You waited outside, the bouncer giving you dirty looks for loitering around after being rejected twice. You could die from embarrassment. You thought about going home, but there was something about that night that made you want to stay. You worked hard all week so your weekend could be free of college bullshit. It was your first proper LA party – no stress, no due dates, just fun.
The door to the club opened and a tall, long-haired man emerged: Roman. He was relaxed, as always, his face shining in the afterglow of his set. To your surprise, he walked towards you, trying his best not to look at you.
“Why are you so far away?” he said.
“The bouncer was looking at me weird.”
He smiled, tilting his head so his long hair would cover it, and gestured towards the club.
“They sent you to get me?” you chuckled at the irony, following him into the building, making sure to stare into the bouncer’s eyes as he had no option but to let you pass.
“Who else,” Roman replied, walking ahead of you.
Roman took you to the booth where you were met with a tipsy Chessa, and a drunk everyone. You smiled, greeting the people sat around the table, and turned around, but before you could leave, Chessa spoke up.
“You’re not gonna join us?”
“I am, but I’m going to the bar first.”
Roman almost snapped his neck, staring at you.
“I thought you didn’t drink,” he said.
“I told you I do. You just didn’t want to listen.”
You made your way towards the bar ordering the strongest thing on the menu. A part of you wanted to have as much fun as possible, knowing this would be a rare occurrence for the next 4 years, until you were done with college. Another part of you wanted to show these new people that you were capable of letting go, not just worrying and stressing like you were in your 40s.
You made your way back to the booth to see Roman had stolen your seat. You stood awkwardly beside him, thinking maybe he would get up, but he just lifted his gaze to look at you through your eyelashes, acting confused. You hated the way your stomach twisted at the sight of his pretty eyes looking up at you, and you decided to make your debut right there and then, taking a large sip from your Vodka Martini, the same one you missed out on a couple of nights before.
Roman widened his eyes at your eagerness, smiling almost proudly. He scooted over on the sticky leather of the couch, allowing you enough space to sit down. You were pressed up against the armrest of the booth, and Roman, his thigh brushing up against yours ever so gently. You took another sip.
“What’d you think about the show?” Ryan asked, standing up beside the booth, drink in hand.
All eyes turned to you. You quickly realized how much value your opinion had as you didn’t have the bias of being best friends or partners with any of the boys that had performed.
“It was nice,” you spoke, feeling a familiar tingle travelling throughout your body, the Vodka Martini making its presence in your blood.
“That’s it? Nice?” Ryan continued.
“Good different? Bad different?” Ryan continued asking. The pressure of the eyes would break you. You took another sip.
“I don’t know what to say!” you laughed awkwardly. “The energy was amazing and everyone seemed to genuinely have so much fun. I really liked Nate’s set.” Nate put his hands together to thank you.
“What about Roman’s set?” Ryan continued.
You looked at Roman, cracking up at the genuine expression on his face as he awaited feedback. Maybe you should have stopped and grabbed something to eat on the way to the party. But now it was too late, finding everything funny in your tipsy state.
“It was alright. Very aggressive music. And you never wear a shirt,” you said, unintentionally trailing your eyes down his torso, just to check his shirt was still off.
Ryan chuckled at your remark, while Roman just stared, his strong gaze almost making you shrink into your seat. You took another sip.
“So?” Roman suddenly said, taking too much offence at your meaningless banter. “You’re the bitch that’s always staring,” he smirked. But you didn’t find it funny.
“What are you calling me a bitch for?” you turned your upper body to completely face him now, the energy of the booth turning awkward. You turned to take another sip but all you swallowed was air. The cup was empty. Without thinking, you left to get a refill.
Behind you, Chessa shoved Roman’s side scoldingly.
“What?” he asked, looking around for reassurance. Soon enough the conversations would resume, but Roman remained quiet.
Drink after drink, you weaved your way through the crowd, sometimes stopping to dance, sometimes running to the bathroom and cursing yourself for filling up your bladder with 40% alcohol when the line was long, sometimes you’d stop and talk to some guy, the shyness leaving your body with every sip you took. But you never returned to the booth. You yearned for new faces, new friends, maybe a partner. Roman made it impossible to focus on anything else other than his perfect hair and eyeliner, so you tried to stay as far away as possible.
After dancing to 5 songs back-to-back, you could feel the soles of your feet damn near bursting from the pain. Your head was spinning a hundred different ways at the same time and it felt impossible to even blink. You made your way off the dance-floor, looking around for any place to sit, when you bumped into Hollis. He almost instantly placed his hands on your shoulders to stop you from tipping over.
“Y/N! You good?” he asked, smiling but slightly worried.
You hummed in response, your eyes still probing the room for a seat.
“Jesus, how much did you have to drink?” he laughed at your drunk state.
You looked up at him and joined him in laughter. “A lot!” you managed, loud enough to be heard over the music.
“Where’s Chessa?” he asked, looking around.
“Somewhere over there,” you waved your hand around, slurring your words.
“You’re fucked up, dude,” he said, this time sounding a lot more worried than before. He held you by your lower back, walking you back to the booth.
“Yo, Hollis, we need you for the next song,” a guy came up to him. Hollis, suddenly distraught, looked around the room. He spotted Roman walking towards the back exit.
“Roman!” he yelled, waving his hand in the air. He grabbed your hand and started dragging you through the crowd, eventually reaching a confused Roman. He let your hand go, handing you over to him. “I have to go, make sure she doesn’t die or something,” he explained quickly, and before Roman could say anything, Hollis ran towards the makeshift stage of the club.
Roman looked down at you, smiling at your fucked-up state, feet stumbling from nothing, head hung low, makeup slightly smudged. You noticed Roman had put on a shirt in the meantime.
“Where were you going?” you managed, looking up at him with glossy eyes. He swallowed hard before preparing his answer.
“Outside?” you looked at the door, suddenly becoming aware of how warm and damp the air in the club was. “I could use some fresh air.”
Roman continued his way to the door, leaving you to stumble behind him. The two of you made it to the back of the club, a few people leaning against the building, smoking or chatting in the much more quiet environment. You took in a deep breath of fresh air, surprised at how you hadn’t thrown up yet.
You followed Roman to the edge of the street, sitting down beside him on the curb. You two sat in silence as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette pack, lighting one without even offering some to you. He inhaled the smoke deeply, blowing it out, watching the grey smoke swirl against the dark night sky. Your eyes stayed on him as you shamelessly watched his every move.
“If you’re gonna throw up, do it there,” he spoke, pointing to a spot far away, not even bothering to meet your eye. “I just washed my clothes.”
“I’m not gonna throw up,” you slurred, struggling to keep your head up. You looked down at the pavement beneath you, noticing a line of ants carrying crumbs and dead insects back to the anthill. It wasn’t funny or entertaining, the ants moving far too slow. But suddenly, you found yourself giggling at the ants. You laid down on the pavement behind you, your head hitting the hard concrete, laughing even harder.
Roman turned his head to look at you, trying to keep his composure as you covered your face.
“Why’d you drink so much?” he asked, letting a slight smile show on his face.
“First, I don’t drink enough, now I drink too much?” you asked, looking at the sky. “Can I live?”
“I don’t know, it just seems like you’re trying to prove yourself or something,” he said. You looked at him, this time more serious.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Maybe, after I made that comment, you wanted to show me that you do drink,” he said, no ill intention behind his words, just trying to analyze your actions out loud.
“Right, because obviously everything is about you.”
“You said it, not me,” he turned back around to look at the street, finishing up his cigarette.
“Wait,” you sat back up. “Why would you think I’m trying to prove something to you?”
Roman shrugged in response, wanting the conversation to be over. But you were tired of him starting shit and backing out when it got serious. You were tired of his childish behavior. If he was allowed to get mad at every single comment you made, so were you.
“You’re no one to me Roman,” the 5 Vodka Martinis spoke more than you did. “What, just because you’re famous and rich and obnoxiously attractive you think you can call me a bitch and treat me like shit?”
“Fuck is wrong with you?” he smiled, amused at how serious you were.
“Man, fuck you, Roman,” you struggled to stand up, stumbling back into the club. Roman wanted to stand up and help you, but he had a statement to make.
Roman groaned, getting up from the curb. He felt slightly guilty, realizing what could happen to you. He walked back into the club, headed straight for the dance floor, looking for you. Through the couples and micro-celebrities with no real impact on the world, models and musicians, Roman saw you dancing, your hair moving side to side, your hips swaying to the beat, your legs struggling to keep you upright, your clothes hugging your every curve so deliciously, Roman couldn’t help himself but stare, seeing you in a completely different light. You let yourself go, no shyness, no inhibition, just you feeling the tune of the song deep in your chest.
Roman snapped himself out of the trance, pushing his way to stand in front of you.
“Come on,” he leaned down to speak into your ear. You looked up at him, snapped out of your own trance.
You hated him. You hated his forced nonchalance, you hated his defensiveness, his arrogance, you hated how he made you feel small, how he made fun of you in front of others. You hated how lonely you were feeling, how to alcohol only seemed to be drawing you towards his lips. He looked different under the colorful lights of the club. Red, then purple, a flash of white, a deep blue, then back to red. The cycle repeated as the two of you stared at each other. Roman could feel his phone buzz in his back pocket, but decided to ignore it as he noticed you lean forward, lifting yourself on your tiptoes. Your hands went to his shoulders to help yourself up, leaning closer and closer to his face.
For a moment, maybe from the shock, maybe from the need, Roman forgot about your past, about your hurtful words, about your prissy attitude that kept him up at night, and just stood there, admiring your features lit up by the colorful lights, waiting to see what would happen.
Your lips were inches away. You knew exactly what you were doing, no matter how much alcohol was coursing through your veins. He looked at your lips, confused, but not backing away. You swerved, pressing your forehead to the side of his head, whispering into his ear:
You left the dance floor, leaving him behind as he stood in shock. He was angry at himself for allowing this to happen, letting his guard down and getting weak in the knees from the girl he supposedly couldn’t stand.
You managed to find Chessa after wandering around the club. On the ride back home you felt dizzy, your head pounding and spinning at one thousand miles per hour. You thought back at the dancefloor, at Roman’s eyes looking down at you, at how he thought you were going to kiss him, yet he didn’t back away, how his sweet cologne clouded your brain, how his dark hair framed his face, how the lights accentuated his sharp features, suddenly feeling another type of dizzy, trailing down your body, heat building up below your stomach. You surely were ovulating. It was the only plausible explanation as to why you were melting in the car seat at the thought of Roman, the boy you supposedly couldn’t stand.
