Requests are TEMPORARILY CLOSED whilst I work through the ones in my inbox. Should reopen in a couple of months.
Authors Note: ALL my work is NSFW unless explicitly stated. I'm also on Ao3 - thedevotchka and won't be transferring over a couple of my longform fics from there, so please do check them out on Ao3.
NSFW Alphabet (Bill Skarsgård Characters)
Characters: Roman Godfrey (Hemlock Grove), Eric Draven (The Crow), Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont (John Wick Chapter 4), Boy (Boy Kills World) Eddie Barrish (Locked), Mickey (Villains), Henry (Battlecreek)
Roman Godfrey x Reader (Hemlock Grove)
Ten Things I Hate About You
Summary: When Peter Rumancek meets a literal angel at his new school, he decides he'll do anything to have her for himself. There's only one problem; Letha doesn't date, kept under the thumb of her possessive cousin Roman. Lucky for Peter he has a cousin of his own, and you're willing to help him with his plans... for a price.
Summary: After a messy breakup you return to your childhood home of Hemlock Grove, hoping to fly under the radar and avoid the attention of your childhood bully, Roman Godfrey, whilst you get back on your feet.
Summary: You answer an ad for an artist’s modelling job because you really need the cash. When you turn into the driveway at the Godfrey mansion you almost turn around, but you really need the cash. You have no idea that Roman can draw, and that’s just the first of many surprising things you learn about him.
All Teeth
Summary: There are things living in Hemlock Grove. You can feel the hum of them under the surface of the earth, enough to set your teeth on edge. Your department, but a problem for another time, because you didn’t come for them. You came to deal with Roman Godfrey.
tystnar i luren
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.
Cat and Mouse
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.
Lovedrunk
Summary: You don’t mean to turn up at Roman Godfrey’s house unannounced and uninvited. You know he’ll be annoyed, that he might even turn you away. But the aching throb between your legs has just been getting worse, and you’re desperate for a fix of him.
Exorcism
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.
Immaculate
Summary: Roman has no problem talking to girls. Fucking them too, more often than not. Anything to help him forget that he does not, and will not ever have you, his childhood best friend and the purest, sweetest, sexiest person he’s ever known. You’ve never thought about Roman like that until a drunken confession at a party opens your eyes.
The Guts Of You (Roman Godfrey x Peter Rumancek)
Summary: Peter’s going to leave. He shoulda left a long time ago, actually. He can feel the call of the open road scratching to get under his skin. The problem is that something’s already burrowed deeper, right into his bones. Peter takes every poisoned drop of devotion Roman pours into him, and he pretends it’s enough until it isn’t.
Bonnie to my Clyde
Summary: Roman gets what he wants. Pretty much always. But around you he’s tongue-tied and he can’t focus on anything else, so he pins you to a wall and holds your face and compels you to love him more than anything else in the world. And that’s great, that’s peachy. Until bodies start to pile up and Roman realizes your manufactured love for him has turned into something deadly.
Like A Spider
Summary: After learning about his reputation and rejecting his advances, you’re caught up in Roman Godfrey’s web of dark obsession. It starts with small things, seeing the cherry red of his jaguar passing on your way to work or the gym. The ghost of his tall silhouette ducking out of the coffee shop moments before you turn around. And it’s a little disconcerting, but you can ignore it. Then come the nightmares, the night terrors, the sore muscles and bruises and memory fog. And the worst part? The only person who seems to believe you is Roman.
Three's Company (Roman Godfrey x Reader x Eric Draven)
Summary: Roman loves three things. His car, his girlfriend, and getting so high he forgets he’s a Godfrey. When a routine pick-up turns into something more, he wonders whether he’s a man who can learn how to share.
A King Dethroned (Roman Godfrey x Reader x Eric Draven)
Summary: This is a part 2 to Three’s Company, sort of. You receive an email from your landlord confirming he’s accepted the surrender of your lease. This is a surprise, because you absolutely didn’t fucking do that. And Roman isn’t even sorry for doing it. When he asks if you want to tag along to his dealer’s for a pickup, you hatch a revenge plan that you’re sure Eric Draven will be only too happy to help you with.
Bloodsport
Summary: Roman Godfrey prides himself on being the biggest asshole in every room. It's sorta his thing. Until he meets you.
Port in a Storm
Summary: You come home early from a family vacation to surprise your boyfriend Roman and catch him in bed with the one person you'd never have suspected... his sister Annie.
The Housemaid
Summary: It was an ad in the paper. HELP WANTED, female preferred. Innocuous enough, probably placed by some older lady who needed someone to take over household chores. If you’d known then what you know now, you would never have set foot in the Godfrey mansion.
My One and Only
Summary: This is a part 2 to The Housemaid because everybody wanted one! You’ve been shackled to the Godfrey Mansion and its resident psychotic prince for at least two years. When a new girl starts at the house to help Anna, you wonder if Roman might take her as a mistress to give you a break from his insatiable appetite.
Thicker Than Water
Summary: In your short life, you had experienced two great tragedies. The first had been at twelve when your mother had died suddenly. Olivia Godfrey becoming your stepmother had been the second.
The Water is Fine
Summary: This is a part 2 to ‘Thicker Than Water’. It’s the revenge plan to end all revenge plans, because fuck Roman Godfrey and his bullshit. Once you make it clear that he is not your brother, the attention from outside comes thick and fast. And Roman can’t seem to get a handle on it, can’t seem to stop your dates. You don’t even react to his teasing anymore and he’s in a freefall panic. This leads Roman to do something he has never, ever done before. Roman Godfrey begins to yearn.
Playing the Field
Summary: You're Roman's best friend, and you're always there. That's it, that's how the world works. Roman knows you'll be waiting for him at lunch, and after school by his car. And if there's something else in the way you look at him sometimes, so what? He can pretend otherwise. Until a new kid shows up at school and you sit on the other side of the table at lunch and Roman's world collapses into a clusterfuck of uncertainty.
Attentive
Summary: You’ve been hiding from your boyfriend, feeling gross and not at all up for playing Roman’s usual games. He climbs into your bedroom window when you’re getting ready to go to sleep and helps relieve your cramps.
A Caged Bird
Summary: You are not her. You look nothing like her, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Maybe he can’t. He calls you by her name, and he touches you with a reverence reserved for an angel. Roman Godfrey keeps you in a gilded cage, his pretty bird, his lost Letha.
Dealing in Deaths
Summary: It’s been a terrible week in a terrible year in a terrible… well, you’re not sure how long you’ve been feeling so… terrible. Then you meet a fuckin vampire and everything gets about a million times… weirder.
A New Way to Submit
Summary: Mr. Godfrey, CEO needs to be put in his place, and you're the only one he trusts enough to do it.
Blades, blue blossom days
Summary: Being the only new student mid-way through the year? Bad. Blending in with an all-black wardrobe and a thousand cuts on your arms? Unlikely. Avoiding the school's resident sadist? Impossible.
Therapy
Summary: After Roman makes two boys kiss in the corridor for tormenting Shelley, he’s sent to the guidance counsellor to avoid being suspended. You’re more interested in how than why, and Roman’s more into show than tell.
Eric Draven x Reader (The Crow 2024)
Valentines Day
Summary: It's your first week in rehab, nursing a broken heart, and it just so happens to be Valentine's Day.
Little Sparrow
Summary: You wake up tied to a chair with no memory of your abduction, only to come face to face with a monster.
Good Boy
Summary: You’ve always been good at reading people, and you’d figured out that Eric had a praise kink within about ten minutes of meeting him. He’d handed you a beer, twisting the top off the bottle with ease, and you’d commented on how strong he was, and his pupils had dilated. Getting him on his knees had taken little more than a ‘good boy’ and a gentle push.
Trauma Bonding
Summary: You and Eric don't get on. You're civil because you have to be, because a broken condom and a reckless decision made you the proud parents of the best kiddo in the world. You don't let yourself remember how much you loved him until he shows up on the wrong day of the week with bleary eyes and a broken heart.
The Ties That Bind us I / The Ties That Bind Us II
Summary: There’s a protocol to visiting him. Notify Eric that you’re going to enter, wait for him to slip into his restraints, and the light will go green. You’ve followed this protocol every day, multiple times a day, since Eric Draven was caught, tried, and committed to the sanitorium for the criminally insane. Taking care of a serial killer isn’t for the faint of heart, and every day spent looking into his green eyes and listening to the rough silk of his voice has you wondering whether your heart can survive him.
Blurred Lines
Summary: You’re not supposed to get this drunk, and usually you don’t, but your boyfriend dumped you and your friends are bad influences and you can’t get a cab. So you call your best friend to pick you up and you vent about how frustrated you are and then you notice his big, tattooed hands and the broad set of his shoulders and the way he licks his lips when he looks at you, and you decide some friendships might be worth ruining.
Eddie Barrish x Reader (Locked)
He's Good For It
Summary: Eddie Barrish can't afford to fix the alternator in his van, and the garage doesn't offer credit. You're a mechanic with nothing to do and offer to help him out. You know he's not good for the money, but there's another way he can use his smart fucking mouth to pay off his debt.
Insurance Plan
Summary: Eddie knows he’s fucked up when he tries his key in the door and finds the chain is on. He’s desperate to get back inside your apartment and your pussy, and he’s not above manipulating you to get there. When he finds out you’re ovulating, he can’t think about anything but filling you up and making it stick.
Vincent Bisset de Gramont x Reader (John Wick Chapter 4)
A Taste of Bitter
Summary: Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont stands atop the world. He has done so from the moment he came into it, spitting a silver spoon onto the ground and demanding the attention of every person in every room. He never truly stopped demanding it, and it has never been withheld. But when he decides what he wants is YOU, he'll learn that demanding does not always get him where he wants to be, but perhaps can lead to receiving precisely what he needs.
Simon x Reader (I rymden finns inga känslor)
An Aversion to Chaos
Summary: Simon likes circles, Sam and space. He does not like triangles, chaos, or the woman living in the apartment below. When his brother invites you to dinner, Simon has to make the best of it. This is not something he is good at.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 COMPLETE
Satellites
Summary: Eight months into dating your boyfriend Simon, his brother has to go to a friend’s wedding out of town. Simon has never spent a night alone in the apartment, and he doesn’t intend to start now. And although you’ve been sleeping with him for a while, you’re about to learn that sleeping with Simon, in his room, in his bed, is a whole different level of intimacy.
Smarty Pants
Summary: Working on a science project with a partner is not your favourite thing, you prefer solving equations to socializing. But being paired with Simon, possibly the only person in the whole class who likes people less than you, is an exercise in insanity.
The Boy x Reader (Boy Kills World)
In Need of Mending
Summary: You’ve been feeding The Boy each week when he brings his cart of cabbages to market, hoping small acts of kindness brighten his difficult life just a little. But when he shows up outside your shop after closing, badly beaten, you decide to take him in, patch him up and make him feel better.
Resplendent
Summary: You’ve been going steady with the shaman’s apprentice for three glorious, secret months. Boy can’t see you as often as he’d like, but you’re the brightest light he’s ever known and he’ll do anything to keep you safe. Even if that means staying away from you sometimes. And you know it’s complicated, but you can’t help but feel insecure. When you see him accept a dried flower from another girl at the market, all your frustrations pour out at once and you snap.
Henry Pearl x Reader (Battlecreek)
A Different Perspective
Summary: Henry sees the world through painting and makes sense of it through books. He can’t get out of his head long enough to see you, so you come up with a creative way to help him focus.
Clark Olofsson x Reader (Clark)
The King of Everything
Summary: Clark and his friends break into your family's summer house and you catch them. Whilst Clark sends his boys back to the mainland he comes back for you.
Knocked Up, Knock Out
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.
Willard Russell x Reader (The Devil All The Time)
Before and After (Willard Russell x Reader)
Summary: He’s your older brothers friend before he goes to war. A little teasing, a lot flirty. And you’re not like... waiting to him to get back or anything. But you miss him a whole lot when he’s gone and you can’t seem to get yourself going for any other boy that asks you. He comes home different. Quiet, haunted. When you overhear his momma say she’s scared he won’t come through it, you make it your personal mission to bring him back to life by whatever means necessary.
Pennywise x Reader (It, Welcome to Derry)
The Shape Of Us
Summary: Pennywise has been alone for a very long time, and that’s exactly how it should be. It’s easy to forget the cage when the prey is abundant. Which is why you moving in, with your too-loud vibration and your insatiable appetite pisses Pennywise off. Big time.
Sacrament Is You
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.
Tony Kiritsis x Reader (Dead Man's Wire)
The Boy Next Door
Summary: You don’t know much about Tony. You can hear him yelling at the radio sometimes through your shared wall, and he seems friendly enough if you pass him in the lobby. When you wake up tied to a bed in an apartment that mirrors your own, you realize you may have seriously underestimated your mild-mannered neighbor.
Dane x Reader (Naked Singularity)
Motivation COMING SOON
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.
Bill Skarsgård x Reader (RPF)
The Blueprint
Summary: At your friend Eija's 21st birthday you come face to face with the first boy you ever kissed.
Nothing To Tell
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.
Lust and Loathing in Los Angeles
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Summary: You've landed your first real writing job, working with the pros. The problem? The lead actor, Bill Skarsgård, seems to hate you.
Bait and Switch
PART 1
Summary: SFX makeup artist by day, dominatrix by night. It’s whatever pays the bills frankly, and you’re good at compartmentalizing. That is until the bratty actor you’re working with finds your ad in the paper and books a session.
PART 2
Summary: You’re not looking for a BDSM relationship. You don’t need a daddy to keep you in line, and you prefer to take control in the bedroom too, thanks very much. Until a man steals your sandwich and takes you on the weirdest date of your life, that is.
After the Met
Summary: After accidentally snubbing a pretty reporter on the Met Gala red carpet, Bill gets a second chance at a first impression when he bumps into you outside the YSL afterparty.
Noise Complaint
Summary: You love your apartment. You love the city, and your job, and your crazy friends. You don't love your grouchy next door neighbor and all his goddamn whining.
Spun Sugar
Summary: You don't have the energy for love, and Bill doesn't have the time for commitment. Signing a contract and seeing the number in your bank account skyrocket is the best decision you ever made.
You’re Eye-fucking Me, Aren’t You?
Summary: You’re a makeup artist working on The Crow, painstakingly applying Bill Skarsgård’s makeup for hours every day. It would be hard enough to focus just looking at him, but Bill seems determined to make your job a million times harder.
Babysitter
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.
hello love 😘 so I spent quite a while scrolling through your content the other day, and I'm wondering if, when you get an anonymous message, who the anon is?
Hey! Sometimes I can GUESS who they are, but mostly I have no idea when people send stuff anonymously.
Summary: There are things living in Hemlock Grove. You can feel the hum of them under the surface of the earth, enough to set your teeth on edge. Your department, but a problem for another time, because you didn’t come for them. You came to deal with Roman Godfrey.
There are things living in Hemlock Grove. You can feel the hum of them under the surface of the earth, enough to set your teeth on edge. Your department, but a problem for another time, because you didn’t come for them. You came to deal with Roman Godfrey. You shake your head, grinding the heel of your shoe into the dirt beneath your foot. “Hush.” You hiss, and the thrumming throbs, unused to being acknowledged by even the most supernatural residents of the town.
You glance up at the nearest streetlight as it flickers, and you narrow your eyes until the flickering stops. There’s a diner open across the street, maybe the only place still open this late at night aside from the dive bar on the edge of town. He’d been inside, you could feel the chaotic pull of his energy from the road, but you hadn’t gone in. It wasn’t time for that yet.
You enter the diner and slip into a booth, ordering a cup of coffee and pulling a dossier from your bag. You hold it closed protectively until the waitress has been and gone with your order, and you tap your finger over the headshot attached to the inside of the manilla folder. Big, green eyes. Sharp, turned-up nose. Full, pouty lips. He’s pretty. It’s probably how he’s gotten away with it for so long, as well as the weight of his last name in a small town. But he’d become a victim of his own infamy, as Upir always do eventually when they won’t conform to the rules.
You scan down the information on the opposite page. Roman Godfrey, born and raised in Hemlock Grove. CEO of Godfrey Industries, the keys to the kingdom handed to him at eighteen, ousting his mother from the position. You shiver at even the written words, fingers not daring to trace the ink spelling out Olivia Godfrey. It had been almost eighty years since you’d last encountered the terrifying woman, but the memory still sent a shiver down your spine and a phantom ache along your thigh where she’d snapped your femur as if you were made of matchsticks and left you for dead.
Finding out you were being sent to Hemlock Grove to deal with a rouge element had been almost exciting. You’d been a member of the order for almost thirty years and they’d never let you go on a solo mission, especially overseas. You’d been enthusiastic, almost giddy despite knowing you’d have to kill a fellow Upir. But then you’d been handed the folder, his folder, and you’d seen his pretty face and something in your stomach had flipped over. Young. He was young. And then you’d read his name, and her name, and you’d almost refused the job altogether. But that would set you back years, and you were not going to let Olivia take any more from you. Not when you had a chance, now, to take from her.
Roman Godfrey doesn’t live with his mother anymore. The mansion on the hill stands derelict and empty, and you have the floorplans for the boxy, stylish concrete and glass dwelling the boy had built for him, deep in the forest. The perfect place to take unsuspecting victims, far away from civilisation. You trace your finger over the endless expanse of forest in the photographs, and you wonder whether he’s hunted prey through the trees. Your mouth fills with saliva and you force yourself to take a sip of burnt coffee.
“Can I get you anything else, hon?” The waitress asks, pulling a little pad from her apron.
“How about some information?” You slip a couple of bills across the table, and her brows furrow for a moment before she drags the money off the table and tucks it into her pocket. “I’m investigating the disappearances of some local people.”
Her eyes light. “You’re a detective?”
“Sure.” You nod, leaning in conspiratorially. “But don’t tell anybody, will you?”
“Never.” She shakes her head. “What do you wanna know? I mean, I don’t know much. Mostly it’s been homeless people, transients and the like. Hard to keep track, y’know? Sheriff wouldn’t have even connected it together if not for the… body parts.”
You lick your lips. “Yes. Tell me about that.”
She slides into the booth opposite you, leaning in and lowering her voice. “They been showing up in the river, washing up with these storms we been having. Not people. Not whole people, at least. Just… pieces.” She shivers, and you school your face into a neutral expression even as the hunger claws up your throat at the visual.
“And they have no leads? Nothing at all?”
“Nothing.” She sighs, leaning back. “Everybodys a little on edge, you know. Been hell on business for the night shift. People aren’t goin out in the dark.”
You nod, pulling another bill from your bag and sliding it across to her. “You seem pretty well connected. What do you think is going on?”
She pockets the cash and presses her lips into a thin line. “I don’t got any proof of this you understand. But I think there’s a vigilante type at work. Like a psycho Batman. Cleaning up the streets.”
You feel a little queasy at the thought. It’s how you’d started, too. Justifying the murders by killing bad people, until you’d been able to rationalise killing almost anyone to satisfy your hunger. It was awful. But it was understandable. Perfectly understandable.
“It’s an interesting theory.” You say tightly. “Thanks for your help. And remember, this conversation never happened. Our secret, right?”
The woman slides out of the booth and rushes back into the kitchen, shooting you looks over her should as she goes. You expect she’ll have told half the town by tomorrow, and the rest by the following day. You’re counting on it, actually. You collect up your belongings and head back to the rental car, navigating the empty streets and setting into a run-down room at the town’s only motel, and wait for the game to begin.
You don’t have to wait long. You’re sitting on a high stool at the dingy dive bar on the edge of town that is Roman Godfrey’s hunting ground when he approaches you. “You look outta place.”
You turn, tiling your head to the side and observing him. Smoke curls lazily out of his mouth and his bright green eyes sparkle with interest, but there’s a calculated set to his jaw that gives him away as a predator. “I could say the same about you.”
Roman flicks his fingers in the direction of the bartender, who appears with two short drinks, a whisky for him and a second vodka and soda for you. “You’re new in town.” It isn’t a question, and his lips quirk into the suggestion of a smirk as he rakes his eyes up and down you.
“Fresh meat,” you say brightly, and you watch as his pupils expand, his tongue darting out to wet his full lips. He was so green.
“You got a name?” He takes a sip of his drink, eyes never leaving you.
“You don’t care what my name is.” You tease, reaching a hand out to brush along the sleeve of his sweater.
His eyes drop to the point where your fingers caress against his arm. “I’m Roman.”
You lean in, grazing your lips deliberately against his jaw as you reach up to whisper in his ear. “You wanna get out of here, Roman?”
You stand in the foyer of Roman Godfrey’s house and pretend you’re seeing it for the first time. “Nice place.”
Roman shrugs, pulling the cork on a bottle of expensive wine and pouring two generous glasses in the open-plan kitchen. “Beats a room at the Grove.”
You swallow. “You know where I’m staying.”
Roman rounds the counter, handing you a glass and taking a long draw of his own. A thin drip of wine slips from the corner of his mouth and rolls down his chin, dropping to soak into his sweater. “Small town. People talk.”
You sip your own wine, mouth drying at the sharp taste. “And you listen.”
Roman hums, finishing his glass in one gulp and taking yours from your hand. “I make it my business to know when beautiful women with unknown motives appear on my doorstep.” Roman’s hand lifts to cup your jaw, tilting your head back to expose your throat. “You’re not FBI.”
“No.”
“PI?”
“Not exactly.”
He hums, thumb dragging down to press against your pulse. “You’re not afraid.”
“Of you?” You whisper. “Should I be?”
Roman licks his lips before dipping his head, brushing his mouth over yours. “No.”
The featherlight kiss is electric, igniting your blood, and you step closer. He tastes like wine and smoke, and you’re struck suddenly by the visceral image of him parting your thighs and burying his tongue in your pussy. He looks hungry, and hungry boys were so, so good with their mouths. It had been a long time since you’d even considered letting somebody go there with you, but Roman’s tongue glides against yours with delicate, expert precision and you want to let him. Badly.
He pulls away first, his fingers releasing their grip on your jaw as he takes a big step back. “No. You should go.”
His words take a moment to sink in, and then you blink at him. “Huh?”
“Don’t make it a thing.” He pushes his hair back out of his face. “I’m not into it.”
You take a half step forward, and Roman recoils. And you realize. He’s letting you go. He’d decided to do one thing when he brought you here, and something in the last two minutes had changed his mind. And it was hurting him to let you go, his whole body was coiled tightly with the hunger, but he was letting you go anyway.
You shrug, taking a careful step back. “Thanks for the wine.”
“Conway will take you back to the motel.” You glance up as a well-dressed man with a shock of white hair steps out from god knows where.
“To her… motel, Master Godfrey?”
“Yeah.”
A long look passes between the two men, and you wonder how often Conway has cleaned up Roman’s messes. You add his name to your own cleaning list.
*
There’s a strange, unwelcome heaviness in your stomach as you pull up behind Roman Godfrey’s black SUV just after 3AM. He’s already down in the camp, and you hear the sharp sound of a yell as it’s cut off. You sigh, flexing your fingers in your Order-issued black leather gloves. You slip your kill-kit over your shoulder, tightening the strap to keep it in place as you make your way down the grassy knoll to the shanty town of tents under the bridge.
There’s a crowd of people surrounding something on the floor, and you push your way through to kneel at the side of the man bleeding out on the ground. His throat is torn open, hot crimson pulsing over exposed muscle as he gasps and chokes. His eyes bulge wide as he stares at you, mouth opening and closing as he drowns in his own blood.
Hunger claws at your throat, and you force yourself to stand, staggering away from the man and not stopping until you can no longer taste his blood on the breeze. “Roman!” You shout, eyes wild as they scan the darkness. “I know you’re here, Godfrey!”
He doesn’t step out of the shadows, not that you expected him to. But you move down towards the bridge, to the darkest part of the night where the mulchy earth meets the river, and over the sound of the wind on the waves you hear his labored breathing.
“Stay back!” He calls. “I… I mean it!”
You don’t. You descend the bank and find him crouched, cowering by the water’s edge. His face is soaked, his hair sticking messily to his forehead as he scrubs blood from his mouth and neck, the water around his ankles swirling red. “You know who I am.”
Roman shakes his head, his fingers pushing uselessly at the thick mop of hair on his face. He’s still wearing the dark wool turtleneck, and he claws at the fabric like it’s choking him. “I don’t wanna hurt you!” His voice is a whine of sound, the syllables shaking as he fights against a sob. “I don’t wanna hurt you but I will if you come any closer!”
You pause, tilting your head to the side. “You… don’t know who I am, do you?”
Roman’s eyes are hazy with bewilderment when he finally meets your gaze. “Fuck you want me to say?”
You take a step closer. “Roman.”
“Don’t!” He stumbles further into the water, icy waves breaking around his legs where he shivers from more than the cold. “I’m not… you gotta stay away from me.”
He sounds so panicked. He looks so pathetic. Your heart twinges in an unfamiliar way, a long-dormant urge to reach out with something other than the clinical, deadly decisiveness you’ve been trained to deploy.
“Roman, come out of the river.”
He shakes his head. “I’ll hurt you.”
“You won’t.” You don’t tell him that he can’t, that his volatile, baby-Upir strength is no match at all for your ancient power. “Come out, now.”
Roman’s whole body seems to sag as he wades back to the shore. It’s almost a relief, to give in. To be told what to do, and to just listen. Even if he’s going to eat your throat out the moment he gets close enough, at least he tried.
You reach for him, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and pulling him out of the water. Roman stumbles a little, surprised at how strong you are as you haul him onto the bank and let him drop to his knees at your feet. “The order sent me.”
He looks up at you through his wet lashes, unblinking eyes devoid of even the faintest spark of recognition.
“The what?”
*
He’s still shivering, and you wrap another blanket around his shoulders as you pace back and forth in your dingy motel room. Roman watches you, chewing his bottom lip into his mouth in a way that would be deliciously distracting if you weren’t so agitated.
“She never told you?”
Roman shakes his head. “She never told me anything. About anything.”
You pause. “When did you find out what you are?”
“The night I died.”
Your stomach flips over. “Before or… after.”
“After.” The word is little more than a whisper. “I wouldn’t have… if I’d known. I thought I was escaping from her. Only way I knew how.”
“And our… letters.” You realize even as you say it that you’d made a horrible mistake. Trusting Olivia Godfrey to do the responsible thing and keep her unruly offspring in check had never, ever worked before. Why had the Order jumped the gun like this? It was negligent, pure and simple. “You never got any of them, did you?”
“You wrote me letters?” Roman’s voice is small and soft.
“The Order wrote you letters. And when you didn’t respond, and when you kept fucking killing people, they sent me.”
Roman swallows, tongue gliding over his lips. “To kill me?”
He doesn’t sound afraid. Apprehensive, sure, but not afraid, and that does something to you. “That’s usually how this goes.”
“Alright.” He sighs, letting the blankets fall from his shoulders to reveal the smooth, pale flesh of his bare chest. “Do what you have to do.”
You step closer, and Roman parts his legs so you can plant your palm on his stomach. “Just like that, huh?”
He exhales shakily, his breath fanning over your face as his fingers flex on the sheets either side of his thighs. He wants to touch you. More than he’s ever wanted anything, maybe. “You’re like me.” He says softly.
“Why didn’t you try to kill me tonight?” You lift a hand to brush through his damp hair, and Roman leans into the touch as his eyes flutter closed.
“You’re… you didn’t deserve it. I mean, nobody does.” His lips quiver and he presses them together against a sigh.
“You thought I might be onto you but you still let me go.”
“Don’t read into it.” Roman hums as your nails scratch lightly against his scalp. “I still went to the bridge tonight. Still hurt somebody.”
“You have to feed, Roman.” You slip your fingers out of his hair and cup his jaw, tilting his head up and holding him there until his eyes open. “Hunger doesn’t make you a monster. It doesn’t have to be like this.”
Roman licks his lips, eyes dropping to your mouth. “The only other Upir I know is my mom and she… well. She tried to make me into what she wanted and I guess I couldn’t live up to her expectations.”
Bile rises in your throat. You know the price of Olivia’s approval, and the consequence of failure. Your thigh aches, and you see the misery of understanding in Roman’s wide green eyes. “It doesn’t have to be like this.” You whisper, letting your fingers trail across his cheek. “Let me show you a better way.”
Roman’s hands lift from the bed instinctively when you step away, but he doesn’t touch you. He watches as you cross the room to a black suitcase, eyes widening when you open it to reveal a disguised refrigerator inside. You pull a translucent red bag from inside, and Roman knows what it is. The smell hits him the moment you tear the corner open, and his mouth waters. He’d fed from the homeless guy under the bridge, but he’d been disturbed by the others and he’d had to run when he was barely half-full.
You suck on the corner of the bag, your eyes fluttering closed as a little moan rumbles from your mouth, and Roman’s cock stirs at the sight and the sound and the scent of it all before you hand him the bag. “Drink, Roman.”
His lips part to accept the plastic, cheeks hollowing as he sucks, and you squeeze the bag lightly to flood his mouth with blood. Roman’s eyes flutter shut, his hand lifting to wrap around your wrist. His fingers are almost too tight, leaving pink indents in your skin, but instead of acknowledging the pain you feel a pulse of arousal in your core. “That’s it,” you whisper, and Roman moans, pulling you closer until you’re forced to climb into his lap to avoid falling onto him. You keep your grip on the bag, just, but your fingers grapple at his bare shoulder as he presses up against your core and you feel the prominent stiffness of his erection through the damp fabric of his boxers and you wish you hadn’t commanded him to take so many items of wet clothing off.
Roman’s free hand brackets over your hip, pinning you to his lap as he rolls up against you, mindlessly grinding his cock into your heat as he swallows languid mouthfuls of blood. Your breath stutters out of you as you suppress a moan of your own, arousal slicking against your core and sending jolts through your clit. You want him badly. It’s a hunger unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, a hunger strong enough to override the underlying horror of the fact that this is Olivia’s son. That he’s half her.
But the beautiful boy whimpering and rutting against you bears no resemblance to his mother. None at all, as his thumb rubs circles into your hip and his big green eyes brim with desperate tears, cheeks hollowing to suck the dregs from the bag in your hand.
“There you go. So good, Roman. So good for me.”
You tug the bag away from him, his teeth leaving indents in the plastic as you drag it from his mouth, and he licks over his lips to chase every last drop. “Will I… get sick?”
You frown, rolling your own hips down to grind back and forth over his cock. “We don’t get sick.”
“If we drink… you know.” Roman’s lips part around a huff. “Shit, that feels fucking good.”
You press your palm lightly to his throat, tilting his head up. “If we drink what?”
Roman swallows thickly against the press of your palm, his cock leaking and neglected under the thin blanket. “Dead blood. We can die… can’t we?”
Oh. You’re going to kill Olivia Godfrey. You’re going to kill that fucking bitch. You don’t ask him where he got it from. You don’t want to hear her name in his mouth. “Put your clothes on, Roman. We’re going for a drive.”
Roman feels like a scolded schoolboy, and tears sting in his eyes as he tucks his aching cock into his wet jeans and pulls his itching wet sweatshirt over his head. He fidgets awkwardly in the passenger seat of your rental car, still half wondering if you’re driving him out somewhere to die and deciding he’d let you, actually. His stomach churns with bile, with the poison of that delicious, dead blood you’d force-fed him, and he presses his head to the cool glass of the window. He hadn’t even gotten to fuck you. The first Upir he’d ever met who wasn’t his goddamn mother, and he hadn’t even gotten to fuck you.
You stop the car outside a closed warehouse facility, and Roman imagines a plastic kill room like something out of Dexter waiting for him inside, but he follows you around the side of the building where you push open a low window and climb down into the basement, and he climbs right in after. There’s blood in the room. Roman can smell it, the heady mix of a million different scents all laced with the undercurrent of life that sends his hunger into a frenzy and has his mouth filling with saliva. “What is this place?”
You turn then, locking your eyes on his as you lift your hand up and pluck a bag of blood from the sky. No, he realizes as he follows the trail of your arm up and further. There are blood bags hanging from the low ceiling. Thousands of them, all lined up ready for distribution. “All you can eat, Roman.” You whisper, tugging the tube away from the bag and snapping it open. You part your lips to suck the tube into your mouth like a straw, cheeks hollowing around it as you suck, and Roman’s cock strains painfully against the front of his jeans.
“You’re not worried about getting sick?” He asks, voice wavering. He’s already figured out the answer. Olivia had lied to him about it. Probably about a lot of things. Probably about everything. “We don’t have to… kill people?” His shoulders slump. “I didn’t have to kill anybody.”
You step towards him, lacing your fingers with his and pulling him close. You remove the tube from your mouth and push it against his lips. “Regret is a wasted emotion for our kind.” You say softly, feeling heat pulse in your core at the way he latches to the tube. “You’re going to live dozens of lifetimes.”
Roman’s cheeks hollow as he sucks, and his fingers slide into the front of your jeans to pull you against him. You let him slip your button and zipper down, let him prod his fingers against the wetness on the front of your panties.
He discards the bag the moment it’s empty, ducking his head to capture your lips with his own and push his cool, bloody tongue into your mouth. Your hands lift to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer as his fingers slip into the side of your underwear and graze against your slick. You whine against his mouth, and you feel the curve of Roman’s lips as he smiles before pulling away. “You’re not gunna kill me?”
You lace your fingers in his hair, tugging hard, hard, harder until he winces, pressing his forehead to yours in a gesture of silent submission. “No, Roman.” You coo, brushing his mouth with yours. “I’m going to teach you.”
There is no scenario where Roman thought his night would end up like this. Blood coats your naked body, sticking his skin to yours with every sharp thrust of his hips, and your nails drag through the red slick on his back until his skin puffs up with cross-crossed claw marks. “That’s it,” you moan, squeezing your knees against his hips as his cock pummels into you at a devastatingly brutal pace. “That’s it, Roman. See how…” you grit your teeth as a wave of pleasure washes the words from your mouth. Roman angles his cock against that spot again, the ridged length dragging over your sensitive walls with each thrust as he feels his orgasm approaching.
“More,” he spits, dipping his head to lick a sticky trail of blood from the side of your face. “I need more.”
You hum, pinching his chin between your thumb and forefinger and tilting the blood bag in your hand until the viscous liquid spills out and into his waiting mouth. His eyes flutter closed and his cock twitches thickly inside you as his fucks you harder, faster, blood splattering messily down his chin and over your chest. He dips his head, abandoning the bag to lick at the pool forming between your breasts, and you card your fingers through his slick hair at the hot press of his tongue before he sucks your nipple into his mouth with a low groan.
“Touch me,” you demand, your voice a breathy whisper. Roman pulls back, more than happy to oblige as he collects the heady mix of blood and arousal from your thighs and spreads it over your clit. “Make me cum, Roman.”
Roman’s cock leaks inside you as he rubs his thumb over your clit, fingers pressing into your lower abdomen so he can feel his own cock pushing in and out of you. He’s never seen anything as pretty as you, spread out and panting beneath him with so much blood coating your skin. He half expects he’s going to wake up in a minute, find himself shivering under the bridge, starving and alone like always. That you’re still hunting him, that you see him as the monster he knows he is.
Your fingers brush his hair back, and his eyes lift to your flushed face and glassy eyes. “Is this real?” He asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, leaning back to watch the point where his cock disappears into you. “Are you real?”
Your knees squeeze around his hips as you buck against his hand, thumb slipping over your clit. You flutter your muscles around his cock and Roman moans. “That feel real to you?”
Roman opens his mouth, maybe to beg you to do that again, when he freezes, eyes flying wide. “What do you think you’re- Hold it right there- Jesus Christ what is-“
Roman’s head whips around at the same moment the security guard pulls his firearm, and you’re not quick enough. Your bare ass slips against the slick floor, and Roman is up, charging the man and sinking his teeth into the meat of his throat before you can make it to your knees.
“No!” You snap, and Roman drops the man like a guilty child. There isn’t so much as a shred of remorse on his face, just a sort of bleary-eyed shock, and you crawl to the man, pressing your hand uselessly over the ruin of his throat. “I’m sorry,” you whisper to him, watching the light fade from his eyes as he chokes through his last few breaths. It’s uncomfortable being so close to all that blood, but you won’t let him die alone. It’s the least you can do to sit with him until it’s over.
When it’s done, you lift your face to look at Roman. He isn’t hard anymore, and there’s a tight scowl on his face. “I had to do it.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“He-he had a gun. I had to protect you.”
You sigh heavily, and for the second time that night you say “Put your clothes on, Roman.”
*
Roman hasn’t heard from you in two days. He’s parked outside the motel for hours every day, watching the curtain in your window, but they haven’t so much as twitched. There’s an obnoxiously large spray of red roses on the seat beside him, and as Roman stares at them he wonders if they’re a bad idea. Whether you’ll think he’s pathetic. Whether you’re disgusted by him. A figure approaches your door, and he squints at their back as they lift a hand and knock.
Roman strains to catch a glimpse of you as you open it, but he’s too far away to read the expression on your face. You step to the side, giving the visitor a wide berth, and Roman swears under his breath before scooping the flowers off the seat and heading for your door. You won’t kill him in front of your guest, right?
He raps on the door with a hand that shakes, his knuckles singing against the wood. There’s the low murmur of voices, and then the door opens. Roman blinks, face to face with his mother, and the flowers drop to the floor. “No.”
Olivia Godfrey raises an eyebrow, a cruel, bemused smirk stretching across her face. “You work fast.” Roman doesn’t know whether she’s talking to him or to you, when Olivia pushes the door wide and he meets your eye. All the color has drained from your face.
“What is this?” Roman asks, shaking his head. “What the fuck is this?”
“Oh, darling.” Olivia coos. “She and I go way back. Close to a century, I believe?”
Roman can’t look at his mother. He can’t see the cruel delight on her face. But he doesn’t want to look at the guilt on yours either.
“I was going to tell you.”
Roman steps past Olivia, careful not to touch her as he throws the roses on your bed. They seem so painfully stupid now. “Well I suppose now I don’t need to ask that question.” Olivia’s eyes are fixed on the roses, and an ugly spike of jealousy rips through her. “You’re fucking my son.”
You swallow thickly. “It isn’t any of your business.”
“What would the Order think? Unless things have drastically changed in their protocols recently, I’m fairly sure you’re not supposed to sleep with your targets.” Olivia looks to Roman to see if this lands, but Roman’s face hasn’t changed. He’s still fixed on you, a pathetic longing etched on his features, and she digs her nails into her palm hard enough to split her skin.
“I’m handling it.”
“Hmm.” She cocks her head to the side. “Little mouse. Did you really think you could waltz into my town and threaten the life of my son without me finding out?” She steps closer, fingers lifting as though she wants to touch Roman before she thinks better of it and dips her hand to pluck a bloom from the bouquet. She presses the flower to her nose before swinging it playfully towards Roman. He snatches it from her and drops it to the floor.
“Perhaps I should break your other leg. I heard it took decades for the limp to heal.”
You swallow, and Roman’s eyes drop down your body, remembering the thin scar bracketing your thigh he’d rubbed his fingers over when he’d been between your legs.
“You don’t talk to her like that.” He says quietly. “You don’t talk to her at all.”
Olivia blinks at her son. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”
“Nothing.” Roman says. “Nobody.”
Olivia sidesteps around her son, and Roman reaches for her.
“No.” You say cooly, holding up a palm. Roman freezes, feeling the command in your tone. “She isn’t going to hurt me. She won’t break the treaty. It isn’t worth it.”
“You think I give a fuck about the treaty?”
“Yes.” You raise an eyebrow. “The Order has left you alone for hundreds of years. You kill me? It’s over. They’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth. You know it.”
Olivia sneers. “In defence of my son?”
“I’ve already made the call, refused to execute the mission. The Order know he’s in no danger.”
Olivia blinks. “The Order knows no mercy.”
“It does now.” You look past her, to Roman. “I was waiting until it was… confirmed before I came to see you again.”
Roman swallows. “I thought maybe you… that you regretted it.”
This is not a conversation you want to be having with Olivia in the room. You’d prefer she weren’t on the same fucking planet. “I think it’s time for you to go. Our business is over.”
Olivia’s sneer becomes a scowl. “Pathetic.” She turns on Roman, and he recoils under the weight of her glower. “You disgust me. I offered you an empire. If you’d rather rut around in a seedy motel with this traitor, then I want nothing more to do with you.”
She turns on her heel, and Roman has to fight the impulse to chase after her, to drop to his knees and cling to her skirt and beg for her love. He doesn’t do it, but he feels a piece of himself shatter as she closes the door and orphans him, all the same.
He sits heavily on the edge of the bed, staring at the door and willing the lump of anxiety to dissolve in his throat.
“Roman.” You sigh, crossing the distance and stepping in front of him. He doesn’t look up, so you sink slowly to your knees, pushing his legs apart and ducking your head until he’s forced to look at you. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth.
“My mom gave you that scar.”
“Long time ago.”
“I hate her.”
You nod, leaning in to brush your nose against his crotch. “It’s okay if you don’t.”
Roman hums softly, his cock stirring to life at the light nudge of your face against him. “I’m sorry about the flowers. I thought they were a good idea at the time.”
“They were,” you mumble, pressing kisses to the rough denim of his jeans. You press your thighs together against the growing ache of arousal between your legs.
“Red roses are moms favourite too. She’d shred the petals and-“
“Roman?”
“Mmm.” His fingers lace into your hair, tugging gently on the strands, and you lean away to look up at him.
“I’m gunna suck your cock now.”
“Oh, okay.”
You fight a smile as you reach for his belt, undoing the buckle and tugging his pants open. He lifts his hips so you can free him completely, his cock already tenting his boxers, and you nuzzle against the length of it, inhaling his clean, musky scent. “No more talking about her.” You murmur, pulling his cock out of his boxers and squeezing the base lightly in your palm. “Focus on me. On this.”
Roman’s about to retort, maybe to tell you how he’s thought of nothing but you in days whilst you tortured him with silence, but then you wrap your lips around the head of his cock and suck so hard he can’t quite remember what he was going to say. “Fuck,” is what he manages, the word spitting through grit teeth as his fingers tighten in your hair and push your face against him. “Jesus Christ.”
You hum against his length, flattening your tongue to the pulsing vein on the underside of his cock as you bob your head up and down, and Roman’s hips buck against you. He’d been so close to coming when you’d let him fuck you at the blood bank, and the last few days had been a torturous form of edging. He’s close much too quickly, and he pulls on your hair until you release his cock with a wet pop. “What’s the matter?” You coo, licking messily at his slit. “You don’t like it?”
“I like it,” his jaw goes slack for a moment as you lave your tongue against his frenulum, lapping up the leaking precum from his tip. “I wanna finish inside you.”
You moan against his length, dropping your hand to press against the front of your jeans, and Roman really does pull you away then. “And I wanna touch you. Or at least get to fucking watch while you do it.”
You laugh, rising to a stand and crawling onto the bed past him. “Show me what you got, Roman.”
Roman thinks he might have died. He doesn’t want to rip out your throat, your blood doesn’t hold the same dangerous appeal as all the others he can lick and bite and suck on the skin of your throat, feeling the thrum of blood beneath the surface and enjoying it without worrying that he’s going to hurt you. His hands pin yours to the mattress, leaving bruises in the shape of his fingers, but you don’t cry out. Your bones don’t splinter under his weight. You push back, rolling him over and straddling his lap, grinding your slick pussy against his cock, and Roman moans.
“Ride me.” He gasps the command, hips lifting to bump the head of his cock against your clit. “Fuck, please.”
You wrap a fist around his base and position him at your entrance, fixing him with a hungry, sultry stare as you sink down on his length. He bottoms out deep inside you, and you bite down on your lip as you shift your hips, getting used to his considerable size. “You’re just a baby,” you whisper, lifting half off and dropping back down onto his cock. “You’re so fucking new.”
Roman digs his fingers into your hips, holding you in place as he fucks up into you. “I know how to… fuck I know how to take it.”
“I know,” you moan, pressing your palms flat to his chest for leverage as you bounce on his cock. “But you’re so stupid. You’re so stupid and fresh and you don’t know anything, do you?”
You still your hips, clenching hard around him. “Do you?”
Roman realizes you expect an answer, and he shakes his head as you flutter your muscles around his cock. “Please, fucking move, I-“
“You’re a dumb little baby, aren’t you?”
Roman feels a blush staining his cheeks as he submits. “I’m a d-dumb little baby.” He gasps, and you reward him with a particularly harsh squeeze of his cock before you start bouncing hard again.
“Yeah,” you moan. “God, you need me to teach you, huh? Need me to show you how to be a- a fucking good boy.”
He whimpers at that, fingers dipping between your thighs to rub at your swollen clit. “I wanna be good for you.”
“Yeah you do,” you whisper, bucking into his hand even as you rock back and forth in his lap. “You wanna make me cum? Wanna show me how grateful you are?”
Roman doesn’t usually go in for this. He’s the dominant one, pushing girls to their knees and taking what he wants. It’s always just been that way, and it hadn’t ever occurred to him that he might like something else. But with you riding him, berating him like he’s a naughty kid and not a powerful monster? Yeah, he thinks he might like something different, at least with you.
“I wanna make you cum,” he whines, thumb a rough blur against your clit. “Wanna feel it.”
You lean forward, almost crushing his hand between your bodies as you press your palm to his throat and grind your hips back. “You’re so good for me, Roman. My good little- fuck,” you break off with a groan as your orgasm hits you, wracking through your body in rolling waves of intense pleasure as you ride him.
Roman feels the moment you cum, your arousal soaking his fingers as you flutter around him. You’re impossibly tight and wet, and his cock twitches heavy against your walls as you milk him. “Please,” he whimpers.
“Yeah. You can cum, Roman. I want you to.”
It doesn’t take more than that. Roman pins you to his lap as he thrusts upwards, his thighs burning with the effort of holding himself up so he can shoot his load deep, deep inside you. He sobs at the feeling, the powerful, perfect release of tension and toxicity. You’d let him cum inside you. You’d let him claim you. And if he was very, very good, you’d maybe even let him keep you.
He collapses back to the bed and you drop on top of him, your warm, sweat-slick torso pressing to his. Roman wraps his arms around you, holding you just a little bit too tightly as your breathing slows. “Roman.”
“Just a minute,” he mumbles, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “Just let me… for a minute.”
You swallow, pressing your own lips to the thudding point of his heart beneath his ribs. “I want you to come with me.”
Roman stills, his hands loosening enough to let you pull back. “I just did that.”
You laugh, leaning up to peck his lips. “Back to The Order. You have a passport, don’t you?”
Roman feels like his heart is on fire. You want him to go with you. To leave Hemlock Grove, to leave his mother and the ghosts of his past and start over. With you.
“It’s not… this isn’t all just to get me to that place so they can arrest me, right?” He’s joking, but there’s an apprehensive edge to his voice.
You dip your face to nuzzle into the crook of his neck, sucking his pulse point into your mouth. Roman moans, his cock stirring to life again against your stomach. “You’ve still got so much to learn. I want to be the one to teach you. And I mean, I kinda have to. I’ve made myself personally responsible for you with The Order. You fuck up, and it’s our fuckup, baby.”
Roman licks his lips, eyes fluttering at the whisper of your words against his neck as your hand trails down to cup his hardening cock. “You won’t get… sick of me?”
You lean up to kiss his mouth, squeezing his shaft before running your fingers up to his sensitive head and thumbing over his slit. “Not possible, Roman. Not fucking possible.”
Roman’s head drops back against the mattress as you work him up with your hand, and when you sink back down onto his cock he feels the broken edges of his soul knitting back together, reforming into the shape of someone different. Someone more than a monster. Someone worthy of love. And as you guide his hands up to your breasts, encouraging him to tweak at your nipples as you roll your hips against him, Roman thinks for the first time in a long time that he might even deserve it, just a little bit.
Hi how are you may I request a bill skarsgård where he wants baby with the reader breeding kink and some fluf ya girl is ovulating 😈
Sweet desire (Bill Skarsgård X Fem reader)
NSFW MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
Nothing in the work below reflects who Bill is. It's just a fictional story!!
A/N - Sorry this has taken me so long to get to, I kind of hit a wall when I was writing and i don't think this is the best, but i hope this is what you wanted!
Content warnings: Breeding kink, Unprotected P in V (wrap it up), minor amounts of teasing in a public setting, mentions of fertility issues.
word count: 1748
“BILL, I'M FERTILE” you shout then run from the kitchen gripping your phone tightly, to the bedroom where he is, attempting to get ready for his day with you. Doing the mundane tasks that make up life.
You practically crash into Bill pointing at your phone “woah baby slow down, we don't have to do anything right now, the blue dots on the next few days means we have time, don't panic baby” the words settle over you a little.
You nod “okay, yeah sorry I panicked I'm not sure what the protocol is? Like when you see that blue dot on the calendar, do you just fuck? Even if you're not in the mood?” you ramble quickly, your heartbeat thudding from the run.
Bill lets out a laugh then, a content one. It's sweet how worried you are about this not working. All he's ever wanted is to have a child with the woman he loves. So finding out that fertility was going to be slightly complicated wasn't ideal. He understands your worries, but he also has faith.
“Baby we don’t need to do anything. We can continue our day and then get down to business later, breathe for me” his hand lands on the back of your neck, bringing you out of whatever panic ran through you at the sight of the notification.
So you continued your day as planned. First going to get something to eat, then the pharmacy to pick up a few pregnancy tests, deep down you both hope a few will be all you need. Then finally you end up at the supermarket and god it’s overwhelming. People in the supermarket are maybe the worst people ever. Why are they all so unaware of their surroundings?
Bill is incredibly quick to notice the change in your body language and mood, the last thing he wants is you to be stressed. When you’re supposed to be getting pregnant today. So he starts to put his hand on your waist, rubbing circles that are oddly similar to the ones he does on your clit. Your body responds fast imagining all the times he’s made you cum with his skillful hand.
“Bill, what are you doing?” you whisper while still pushing the cart with your shopping in it.
Bill shrugs behind you feigning innocence. “Nothing, we’re just shopping” it’s a bit hard to believe him when he places a kiss on the back of your neck. Your mind is suddenly focused on his touch.
But you continue shopping when you reach the freezer aisle, Bill nearly dies on the spot. Your arms get goose bumps and your nipples peek through your dress. He tries to ignore you and passes you something from the fridges you can’t reach. He brings it down in front of you but by some magic his thumb just happens to swipe over your erect nipple and you gasp, aware of the growing heat between your legs. Your knuckles turning white from holding onto the cart too hard.
Bill holds the seemingly unimportant item with you pretending to read it, but he starts whispering in your ear attempting to be discreet. “You’re making it hard to behave Y/N, so you’d better hurry up so I can get you home and fill you up with my baby” His voice is low and it’s frequency seems to be speaking your language.
Bill laughs behind you as you check through the list on your phone as fast as you can, a very clear blush painted on your glowing cheeks. It's cute watching you be all flustered even after all these years. You finally reach the que and manage to get the hell out of there. The drive home feels like a lifetime but when you get home you attempt to put away your items as quickly as you can, Bill is taking his sweet time.
You're stretching up to your cupboard when you finally feel Bill’s hand creep up your dress. His large hand snaking its way up your leg until he cups your ass firmly “oh thank god” you mutter and Bill laughs as you fall back into his chest seeking whatever he will give you.
He loves it when you relinquish control to him, ready and willing to trust him. He slips off your panties, easily while you try to control your breathing. It's easier said than done. He takes his time again, making you wait, standing in the middle of your kitchen like it's the most casual thing ever.
Without warning he lifts you up, you squeal and loop your arms around his neck.
“Bill, why are you making me wait, please just fuck me” you kiss his neck hoping to make him do something.
He lays you on the cornered sofa easily, his strength clear and it only makes things worse. “Just because you’re fertile doesn’t mean we have to fuck remember” he deadpans. Your head falls onto the sofa cushion, thighs clenching, your wetness starting to spread on your thighs under your dress.
“So, you’re saying you don’t wanna put a baby in me right now? Hmm?” you spread your legs lifting your skirt, your hand drifts down to your clit to rub circles just like he had done in the store, you gasp and moan, letting your eyes flutter shut.. Bill feels hypnotised. His eyes locked onto your core, he’s a weak, weak man.
Giving in almost immediately he unzips his blue jeans, taking out his cock, he strokes a few times before he leans down on the sofa between your legs. He snatches your hand away, pinning it to the corner of the sofa. Everything feels hazy in the best way.
He slides his already leaking cock through your folds, you lean into the feeling, your pussy clenching around nothing aching to be filled. “You feel that baby, feel how hard I am” you open your eyes to see him towering over you, eyes focused on your reaction, each gasp and each muttered plea.
Your inhibitions disappear the moment Bill slides into you, not bothering to be gentle with you, your eyes stay shut feeling each hard and deep thrust. Neither of you are staying quiet. Lost in the skin to skin contact, each nerve ending on fire for both of you. With the barrier between you removed the closeness has never been clearer. You feel far tighter without the protection and you can feel each twitch of his cock inside you.
“Bill, fuck love feeling you like this” your skin feels on fire too, as you reach around to pull Bill closer to you, you can feel the sweat coming through his shirt, he reaches his hand through your hair so he can talk in your ear “you’re so fucking greedy, taking all my cock it’s not gonna be enough is it?” he talks through grunts and moans
“No Bill, need you to come in me, please” you whine, you start intentionally clenching around him trying to keep him as close as possible. You relish in the feeling, knowing he’s all for you.
Bill’s public bone grinds down on your clit with each thrust, his weight is all over you including your stomach putting even more pressure but along with it comes pleasure. He grabs your leg practically pinning it to the sofa while the other stays hooked around his hip.
It’s intense to say the least, but this is what you both want. You want a child a family and fuck Bill can’t wait to see you pregnant. Something about it makes him feel so possessive. The thought has him holding onto you for dear fucking life, he’s definately making marks in your skin.
“Fuck I can’t wait to see you glowing, carrying our baby” his forehead drops to yours and now your clenching because your close, he knows it your hips start moving of their own accord spurred on by his words. He swallows “I’m gonna give you everything, your gonna take all of it in your greedy pussy”
Your breathing becomes ragged searching for a full breath that isn’t coming. Bill’s close too but he needs you to come with him, it’s what’s going to give you both the best chance of this working.
“Come on, cum on my cock” he speeds up and you’d usually protest it but it ends up being exactly what you need and you clench impossibly harder around him as you finally come undone holding onto Bill for dear life. Bill comes with a grunt and a groan at how tight you are around him, he pushes himself into you as deep as he can, you can feel it in your cervix but you don’t shy away from it, hoping that embracing it will make it more likely to work for you.
The moment of pleasure passes fast for both of you. But for Bill in particular it’s an odd moment, the weight of the moment crushes him out of the blue. This might not work. You could try hundreds of different times in a hundred different positions and it might not work.
Bill doesn’t mean to talk with his soft cum covered cock still in you but the words fall from him anyways. “What if this doesn’t work?” you assume he’s joking just thinking out loud after a blinding orgasm.
So you roll your eyes a playful smile on your lips as you hold his face “well then i guess we have to fuck again…doesn’t sound terrible” Bill huffs a laugh but it isn’t genuine and you know it. You sigh understanding his question. The same one you’ve asked yourself a million different times since going to the fertility clinic expecting nothing wrong.
“It will work. Bill it will” you look him in the eye. Giving him all of your hope. Because it has to live somewhere. He nods, still a little unconvinced as he pulls out of you. It’s a little gross but it’s the reality of the situation, as soon as he’s gone you lift your legs up trying to trap whatever is left of his cum in you.
“Bill. I know you’re doubtful. But it will work. I trust you.” he zips his jeans up and runs his hand through his sweaty hair. Grateful that you trust him, that you still want to do this with him. A genuine kiss is all he can manage, besides cleaning you up and holding you close after.
General tag list @thedevotchka @coryoslut @macynacym @kikibit @wiseyouthinfluencer @lunaskye999 @brightnessluvworld @skysgard @elyseesarchive @devilslittlehelper (Comment to be added!)
DESCRIPTION; Roman Godfrey and Peter Rumancek, in their travels while searching for the Vargulf, happen upon a strange girl in a cage. Roman Godfrey can't shake the feeling that his very destiny clings to her survival.
CW; Story contains mature themes such as dark folklore, foul language, graphic violence, cannibalism, anthropophagy, kidnapping, captivity, implied torture, cult violence, body horror etc.
chapter TW! partial degloving/sloughing injury
masterlist ask to be tagged! @kikibit , @thedevotchka , @lunaskye999 , @coryoslut , @guaaafiiburg ,
ROMAN GODFREY WAS NOT EXACTLY A STRANGER TO HIS MOTHER'S NARCISSISM, so when he came from school that day to find Olivia Godfrey gingerly nursing a gash at her hairline, he assumed—like always—that this was just another desperate grab for his attention.
"Mom. You okay?" he asked, leaning against the door frame to her bedroom at the end of the hall. She'd have never let him walk on by to his room without saying something, so let it be this, he supposed.
He watched her dab at her face with an antiseptic wipe. Watched her eyes cringe as drops of red blood seeped into the tissue, watched her pretend like it bothered her, like it hurt.
Was it callous to admit that he only cared to ask about her wellbeing because that performative, softly deranged act of hers constantly got on his nerves? That he was a fool every time for falling for it, for enabling her to keep squeezing every drop of sympathy that she could get from out of him? Perhaps yes, perhaps no.
He had come to know a select few things about his mother over years spent under her thumb. One, that she never bothered to show any weakness unless she knew it would earn her his attention, to be fussed over, to make sure part of him would always want to know that she was alright. Two, that she was a toxic manipulative cunt that had him wrapped around her finger whether he wanted to admit it or not, and there was just no escaping that fact. And, three, like mother like son—he had inherited his ugly, wretched soul from her, and as long as he remained her son, in this life and the next, he would always be her rotten little boy.
"Oh hello, darling," she straightened her posture as if on cue, clearing her throat. Pretending she hadn't sensed his presence, hadn't thrived on just being perceived by him. "I'm quite alright, thank you. Just had a small slip out in the garden is all. It's just a small bump on the head, really. Nothing that won't take care of itself."
But his mother never cared to stroll the garden, much less tend to it herself when that was what she paid the groundskeeper for. And for such a small thing, it apparently had her rattled.
When she smiled, it was always a wolfish kind of expression, a glee that never really, truly reached her eyes. Something in those dark depths had been hollowed out and replaced long ago with a certain violent twinkle—the kind you might expect to see within the gaze of a predator mid-hunt—pupils blown wide. Eager for the kill. But tonight something else shone through them, though.
Worry? Panic? Confusion? A strange, distantly related amalgamation of the three? Whatever it was, it seemed as though her priorities, for once, lay elsewhere than to manipulate him as usual. That glint in her eye was gone, and they wandered just a little, barely even looking at him. Looking but not looking, like she could see through him, through the walls, through the world, and could see something that startled her.
Olivia reached out a hand, beckoning with a rapid fluttering hand to reel him in, like it was a matter of urgency, of life and of death. Roman, at his big age, had never—though so often he tried—been able to resist her summons. Without any particular want or need to, he found himself crossing the room and folding into his mother's arms.
It didn't feel good; it didn't feel safe. Not when her painted nails raked through his soft brown locks, scratching his scalp in an effort that was designed to be soothing, but instead made his bones tickle. He had always felt trapped in these kinds of hugs, by her loving if you could call it that. Always felt like his skin was melting melting melting, like he'd rather it just all slough off because at least then, then he would not have to feel it.
He knew, deep down he knew, that she, like he, had never been a normal human being. Something rotting crawled within her, and it crawled inside him too, but worse in her. That same part of him knew exactly what it would take for his mother to simply grab him by the neck and rip him apart with her own bare hands if she wanted to. Right then and there, and she would call it love, and Roman—poor sweet baby boy Roman—in every lifetime, would let her do it.
He managed to worm his way out of her grip with the excuse of having homework to do. She knew he never did his homework, but knew he would sooner go and do it than have to spend a moment more wrapped in her affection. He left her room with a sour taste in his mouth, and threw up in his ensuite when he made it back to his room.
It was an everyday ritual now, wandering down to the lakeside lodge at the back of the estate grounds. Just seeing and being around Gossamer somehow made him feel safe. Made him feel clean. She was a primordial thing, a thing that had come closer to outright killing him than his mother had, but she didn't kill him. That was the thing. She did not kill him. She would have if she wanted to, and could at any moment. She kept the world beneath her, like she were a grander thing than it. Perhaps she was, in every way that mattered.
The lights were off when he slipped through the door, the heavy silence of the lodge settling over him like a burial shroud. A cold spike of panic drove through his chest.
She isn't here. The realisation made his lungs seize up, and the still silence of the rooms felt like a trap springing shut on him. He checked the main living area, the hall, the bedroom—nothing. Just clean linens, cold wood, and the faint, lingering whisper of her presence.
Then he saw it: the glass doors at the rear of the lodge, leading out to the small attached greenhouse, were fogged completely white from the inside.
He pushed the doors open. The heat was what hit him first—a dense wall of thick moisture that carried a scent so sweet it felt heavy on his tongue, enough to make him gag. The nausea from his bathroom surged back into his throat, but he swallowed it down and ignored the prickle of sweat that rushed to his face, stepping into the room.
It didn't resemble a simple greenhouse anymore. Giant monstera leaves fanned out in wild layers, and thick, vine-like ropes of deadly nightshade and black briar snaked over the tile floor, their thorns as thick and daggered. They arched overhead in crisscrossed ribs against the glass ceiling—a few upper panes shattered by the sheer force of their upward surge, the bruised indigo twilight sky bleeding in through the canopy. Hanging baskets of spider plants had ruptured, their tendrils cascading down like curtains of raw green silk, while oversized, dark-veined calla lilies bloomed violently in the humidity.
It was a sprawling, choking jungle condensed into a few square feet. Leaves the size of serving platters brushed against his arms, and he flinched as their coarse, stinging hairs bit into his skin like tiny needles. The air vibrated—a low, mechanical hum like a swarm of cicadas or a fly’s wings turned up to maximum volume. It was power that fueled this place. Raw, bleeding, magic.
"Gossamer?" his voice came out barely louder than a rasp, muffled by the dense greenery.
He pushed aside a curtain of heavy, dark leaves, his boots sinking into soft, rich soil that had burst free from shattered terracotta pots. And there, buried in the dark, pulsing heart of the overgrown tangle, he found her.
She sat pressed against the glass wall, completely nude. Her torn, tattered wings were wrapped around her torso like a defensive shell, glistening with a slick sheen of condensation and sap. Her midnight hair was plastered to her temples, framing the dark, slate-grey of her face. Her long pointed ears twitched at the sound of his boots—one torn near the tip, oozing a slow, dark trickle down her neck.
Her gleaming red eyes were swollen shut, bruised a deep, mottled shade of plum. A fresh, jagged split cut across her lower lip, intersecting the old scar near the corner of her mouth, painting her chin in wet, dripping crimson.
"Leave me be," she spoke, her voice rumbling like stone dragging over stone. The words were wet, weighed down by the heavy moisture in the air that crackled in her lungs with every jagged breath she took.
"You're hurt," he ignored her warning, rushing to crouch by her side.
Grief tore through him in that split second, so powerful it felt like his ribs would snap under the pressure. To see her like this—battered, hiding like an animal waiting to bleed out on her own—oh it didn't just break his heart; it terrified him to his very core.
"What happened? Who did this to you?"
The words tumbled out of him, his voice cracking on the edges. The sting of hot, unbidden tears prickled at the backs of his eyes, blurring his vision as he reached out with trembling hands. "Goss, look at me. Please."
He didn't care about the mud soaking through his clothes, or the sharp thorns biting into his knees. He was hovering over her, his hands hovering frantically over her shoulders, her face, her collarbone—terrified to touch her for fear of causing more pain, yet utterly unable to pull away.
"Your face... Jesus—" A stray tear escaped, tracking a hot line down his cheek as he hovered a thumb near her bleeding chin. "Where else? Tell me where else you're bleeding. Let me help you."
Driven by a frantic need to see the full extent of the damage, his shaking fingers reached for the tattered edge of her wing, intending to gently lift the heavy, dark membrane shielding her body.
"Just let me see—"
The moment his skin made contact with her wing, her body coiled like a spring, and with a guttural screech, she lunged.
<<>>
She couldn't see him—couldn't see much more than a blurred, towering shape through the swollen mask of her own bruised flesh—but she didn't need to. She didn't need eyes to know the look on his face. His whole body reeked of pity, a pathetic, cloying sorrow that made her stomach turn. Yet beneath the pity, shining through like a silver thread, was a delectable note of fear that would have thrilled her had she been in any condition to care.
Around them, the room hummed with a restless, frantic pulse. The plants shivered and twitched, their stems stiffening, their leaves curling inward like closing fists.
They weren't speaking in words—flora had no use for human syllables, no need for the clunky cadence of speech. To Gossamer, their language was a chorus of raw, tactile impulses; the sharp thrum-thrum of sap coursing rapidly through expanded veins, the microscopic creak of cell walls stretching, the warm. It was a language of sensation. A collective whisper that she simply just understood.
They felt her agony as if it were a fire scorching their own roots, and they were rising in defence of their mother-thing. Vine tendrils crept over the floor, writhing like blind snakes, winding around Roman's ankles, anchoring themselves to his expensive boots as if preparing to drag him out, throw him from the threshold if they had to.
She didn't need him. She didn't need anyone. She had birthed this jungle from a handful of dormant seeds in a matter of minutes; they would keep her safe and sound, cocoon her in dark moisture, and let her heal in the quiet, away from the prying, suffocating hands of mortals.
"When I tell you to leave me, that means leave me," she snarled, talons biting into the edges of his jaw as she gripped him hard. "I will not tell you again."
She held his gaze for a second longer than intended. Beneath the sharp, defensive fury in her voice, a sudden, small crack opened up—a tiny, betraying sliver of fear that caught in her throat. It wasn't fear of him, but of her own unchecked violent impulse, a fleeting understanding that she might have lashed out too hard at the one person who had actually come to find her. The grip on his jaw faltered for a fraction of a heartbeat, her touch softening just enough to betray the tremor in her hands.
She shoved him back with the last burst of her fading strength and retreated into the thick shadows, pulling her torn wings around herself.
Time lost all meaning inside the glass box. Minutes bled into hours, marked only by the steady, maddening drip-drip-drip of heavy condensation falling from the shattered ceiling onto her skin.
The air had grown impossibly dense, and every time her chest expanded, her lungs rattled—a wet, suffocating heat that felt less like oxygen and more like trying to breathe underwater.
Worse than the air was the hollow, gnawing void in her gut. Her body was trying desperately to knit together her torn flesh and mend her swollen eyes, but it was burning through fuel she didn't have. She was starving. The bloodlust worked its way through her veins like liquid fire, making her limbs shake violently against the damp dirt. If she stayed here in the quiet, wrapped in this sweltering dark, she wouldn't heal. She would simply rot.
Move, her mind commanded, a low, primal snarl. You have to move.
She planted her raw, dirt-caked palms into the mud and dragged her body forward.
But the jungle would not let its mother go so easily. To the plants, her movement felt like panic—a threat to the nest. The flora responded in a frantic wave of instinctual care. Thick leaves bent low to block her path; tendrils of ivy coiled softly around her wrists, trying to pin her back against the cool glass; briars wove around her waist, whispering their silent, smothering command: Stay. Safe. Rest. Don't leave.
"No," she gasped, the sound tearing out of her raw throat, wet and pathetic. "Must...feed....must let....go."
She dug her talons into the grout between the tiles, hauling her dead-weight body inch by gruelling inch. Thorns scored lines across her bare calves, not out of malice, but out of a desperate, blind urge to hold her steady and reel her back.
Her hand slammed against the bottom pane of the door, and she threw her shoulder against it, shoving the door open.
The rush of cool, dry air from the lodge hit her like a physical slap, clearing the sticky fog from her throat in a ragged, gasping cough. She dragged her upper half across the threshold, spilling onto the hard, clean floor of the lodge.
Then, a sharp bite of pain locked around her right ankle. A thick coil of thorns had wrapped tight around her leg, anchoring itself to her flesh and pulling her backward into the sweltering dark. Her dead weight protested, and bile threatened to rise alongside her scream as the serrated edges of the vines dug in like a hot knife through butter.
She let out a frustrated, breathless hiss, her strength completely spent.
Before the vine could drag her back into the heat, a pair of warm, strong hands shot down and hooked under her arms.
Roman was there. He hadn't left. He had been standing watch in the dark living room for hours, waiting, unable to bring himself to leave. He hauled her forward with a sudden, desperate burst of strength, pulling her clear of the threshold. Without dropping her, he kicked the heavy glass door forward with his boot and slammed it shut with a violent CRACK, trapping the thick briar vine in the jamb and severing its grip on her leg.
The thorned vines that had hooked into her moisture-logged calf pulled away with a sickening, effortless tear. In her macerated state, her softened skin folded back and slid away like soaked paper, but the agonising pain as exposed flesh hit the open air barely registered—it was just a distant, cold sting drowned out by the roar of blood in her ears.
Her legs buckled beneath her when she tried to get up.
"I've got you. I've got you, I'm right here," Roman’s voice was frantic, a low, trembling murmur right beside her ear as he took her in his arms, but the sound was already warping away, so far away.
The thump-thump thump-thump of his heartbeat as her ear found his chest was enough to knock her out cold.
omg it wasn't until i finished writing it that i realised the PARALELS between Roman and his mom and Gossamer and the plants in a way. Holy symbolism. Hehe much love i had so much fun writing this and you bet your ass our girlie deserves a tooooooooon of hurt comfort <3
Girl, I was thinking about grim/makeup artist on set and Bill. Just think about it, grim takes a crazy amount of time, it would be hard not to catch any feelings during that. How are we feeling about that?
Feel free to not respond if its not to your liking))
You’re Eye-fucking Me, Aren’t You? (Bill Skarsgård x Reader)
Summary: You’re a makeup artist working on The Crow, painstakingly applying Bill Skarsgård’s makeup for hours every day. It would be hard enough to focus just looking at him, but Bill seems determined to make your job a million times harder.
Word Count: 6852
Warnings: NSFW, handjob, PiV sex
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.
MDNI, fic under the cut
There’s a level of professionalism that you just have to maintain working in the movie business. Because you’re going to spend a whole lot of time up close and personal with some of the world’s hottest people, and that can be distracting as hell. In the seven years you’ve been doing Special Effects makeup, you’ve developed an impressive ability to tune out the person sitting in your chair. Sure, you’ve had your starstruck moments, applying a complicated array of injuries to Josh Hutcherson last year had been a bit of a fangirl moment, but after the first day and the initial awkwardness of working in such close proximity to him, you’d gotten over it and been the picture of efficient professionalism. That was the feedback you got most often on jobs. Professional. Efficient. As well as some… less favourable comments. Quiet. Cold. Rude. But it was these things that made you so fucking good at your job. The quickest and most accurate, when you weren’t being distracted with small talk and pleasantries. So the jobs kept coming, and by the start of the year you really did have your pick of the projects you wanted to work on.
“Prague?” Michael asks, brandishing your phone at you. “You’re gunna be gone for the whole summer.”
You hum non-committedly, taking your phone from him. “It’s a good opportunity.”
“It’s my parents wedding anniversary in August. You knew that.”
“I’m not…” you sigh, trying to put on your most patient voice. “I can’t book work based on your parents’ life events. That isn’t… reasonable.”
Michael narrows his eyes at you. “It feels like you’re not committed to this. To me. To making this work. You’re never here, and then you take jobs like this without even talking to me about it first.”
“Talking to you about it? Like I need your permission?”
Michael blinks. “I mean… yeah? Kinda. Like not in a yes or no way, but my blessing? My okay, as your boyfriend.”
“I don’t care whether you’re okay with it or not.” The words are out before you can censor yourself, and Michael jerks back like you’ve slapped him.
“Well there it is, then. There it is.”
“Michael.” You sigh, pocketing your phone. “I like you a lot. But this is my career. You knew that when you met me.”
“So I’m just not gunna see you for three months?”
“Ten weeks.” You say quietly.
His expression darkens. “I don’t wanna do long-distance for the whole summer. I can’t promise I’m not gunna look elsewhere while you’re gone.”
It’s like he’s flipped a switch inside you. You’ve never gotten the ick so fast in your life. “I think that’s a good idea.”
“Huh? Like, we do an open thing while you’re gone?”
“No.” You scoff. “If you don’t think you can keep your cock in your pants for a couple of weeks whilst I’m away, we should take the pressure off, right? I’m not your girlfriend anymore. Problem solved.”
“I didn’t… shit. No, wait. Wait!” He takes a step towards you, and you take a step back, towards the door.
“It’s fine. I mean, it’s not, but it’s fine. This has clearly run its course, and you’re clearly not that into me if you can’t stay faithful while I’m at work.”
“Wait,” he shakes his head. “You’re twisting my words here. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No, I know. You were trying to manipulate me or scare me into cancelling the job and staying here with you. Which is worse, actually.” You’ve reached the door now, and you open it without turning your back on him. “So thank you, for making it so much easier for me. Now you can fuck whoever you want all summer long, and so can I.”
His jaw tightens at that, and you feel a thrill of vindication down your spine as you close the door in his face and leave him standing alone in his apartment.
*
You don’t miss Michael. You don’t, but it still feels a little bit hollow as climb out of your Uber at the airport. He’d always drive you or take you all the way to the shoot if it was on home soil. Couples and families and friends embrace each other all around you as you drag your suitcase up the ramp and into the airport, and you busy yourself with studying the concept sketches you’d been sent to avoid having to watch all the affectionate goodbyes.
Your guy had tattoos. A lot of them, all over his body and some on his face. The director didn’t want transfers, so you’d spent weeks crafting stencils and you’d have to airbrush them on regularly throughout shooting. And then, half way through, his makeup got dark and heavy. Horror movie heavy, actually. You can’t help the excited smile that stretches across your face as you scan over the design. It’s cool, and it’ll be fun to create it. You’d looked up the actor you’d be working on, obviously. Bill Skarsgård, the Pennywise guy. If he could sit for the hours it had taken the SFX team to apply all of that, he’d be able to sit for you no problem. You’d known one of the guys who worked on IT, and you’d given him a call. Artists were good at giving each other a heads up about difficult actors, but he’d had nothing but nice things to say about Skarsgård. “He’s super professional. I mean, like actually. Not much of a talker, but he doesn’t fidget. He knows the deal.” Safe to say you were feeling pretty confident walking onto set for the first time. Filming didn’t start for another week or so, but the director wanted to do some test shooting in full makeup.
“Oh good, you’re early.” Daniel holds out a hand. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”
You smile, shaking his hand. “Good to see you, Dan. It’s been… two years?”
“Three.” He says. “Matrix.”
“Right, right. Well, thanks for recommending me for this. I’ve never been to Prague.”
“It’s beautiful this time of year.” His gaze travels to the side of you, and you hear a door open behind you. “Speaking of beautiful things, our canvas just walked in.”
You turn, and your breath actually hitches in your throat. Because, yeah, you’d looked up Bill Skarsgård when you took the job. But seeing him in person is… different. He’s so damn tall, and even in loungewear you can see how broad his shoulders are. Big green eyes fix on you from his angular face, and his lips curl up in a half-smile. “Hello.”
It’s humiliating. You’re humiliated, standing there in painful silence as he looks at you.
“Bill, hey.” Daniel says, brushing you gently to the side so he can shake the man’s hand. “Good flight in?”
“Sure. I took a nap.”
“Ah, so you’re ready to get right into it? This is…” He trails off, maybe noticing the dumb look on your face for the first time. “I tell you what, why don’t we grab you a coffee? Caffeinate, right?”
“I’d love a coffee.” Bill smiles, his eyes sliding back over you. Your legs feel like lead weights, pinning you to the ground, and you’re grateful because you feel so lightheaded you think you might faint if you were responsible for holding yourself up.
“This way.” Daniel points to a door through to the production area and shoots you a look over his shoulder. “Get it together.” He mouths.
As soon as they’re out of the room, you suck in a breath, exhaling shakily. What the actual fuck was that? You’ve never, ever reacted like that to anybody. And it wasn’t because he was famous. He’s been in some great movies, but you’ve worked with Oscar winners and seasoned pros. It was the electricity of his eyes, pinning you to the ground. It was the curve of his lips as he smiled. You couldn’t wait to paint those pretty lips. That is, if you could remember how to hold a goddamn brush.
You hear the door opening again and you force yourself to move, crossing to the bare worksurface and opening your makeup bags. With something to do you don’t find yourself so frozen, and you busy yourself with tacking the concept art to the mirror and pretending he isn’t there. Until “I got you a cappuccino.”
“What?” You don’t look at him, and you hope your voice doesn’t sound as weird out loud as it does in your own ears.
“Daniel said that’s your drink of choice. I got you one.”
And it would be rude not to look at him, wouldn’t it? So you turn, offering him a smile and a quick look as you reach for the cardboard cup. Your fingers brush against his, and you feel the touch like a shock, jerking your hand back.
“Unless you’re already all caffeined up. A little jumpy, huh?”
You swallow, forcing your hand to steady as you wrap your fingers around the cup further up, careful to avoid his skin. “Long day. Jetlag, maybe.”
Bill hums, settling into the chair in front of you. “Well I know what that’s like. I’ll go easy on you.”
You choke on nothing at the words, and Bill can’t stop himself from smirking. He’s fresh off a nasty breakup, pissed that he’s had to leave Stockholm right as the weather’s getting so good, and he’s feeling… destructive. You’re like a gift from the gods, flustered and stuttering and so clearly overwhelmed by him. You’re going to be such a fun distraction from all the rest of the shit going on in his life. And it doesn’t hurt that you’re pretty. That you’re beautiful, even. No, that doesn’t hurt at all. He watches your hands shake as you lean over the vanity to pin a picture of his face to the mirror, and he reaches out to brush his fingertips against your inner thigh. You jump back so fast you actually fall, sending brushes scattering over the floor. “Shit, sorry. I was just…” he retrieves a sketch of his crow makeup from the back of the vanity, tapping his fingers against it. “Studying, right?”
You’re breathing hard, and the little slip of thigh he’d touched is tingling in a way that’s unsettling. “Right. I’ve… I mean I think it’ll look good.”
“Yeah,” Bill hums, scanning over the paper. His mouth curves into a smirk at the pitchy sound of your breathing, and you furrow your brows. Had he… done that on purpose? Was he trying to get under your skin? The idea sends a shiver down your spine.
*
“Rupert isn’t worried about the ink so much.” Daniel says, perched on the opposite end of the vanity to you. You’re both looking at Bill, who is flicking through apps on his phone in the makeup seat between you. “But he thinks the crow makeup could do some interesting things, especially with all the rain and the underwater work.”
“We can waterproof.”
“I think he wants it to run a little. Like, organically.”
You hum, reaching out to pluck a palette from the table. “If we use the semi-proof, we can get him wet and see what happens.”
Bill scoffs under his breath, his cock stirring at your words. If he has his way, it’ll be you getting wet, actually.
“Alright, run with that. I’ve got some molding to do in the studio, you good here?” He raises an eyebrow at you, and you feel your cheeks burn. You’ve never, ever given anyone cause to worry about your ability, and you’re not about to start now.
You nod tightly. “Perfectly fine. I’ll call you when we’re ready for tests.”
Daniel nods, pushing off the desk and clapping Bill on the shoulder. “Be good for her. She’s been known to spank actors who can’t sit still.”
Bill’s eyes lift to you, fresh amusement sparking in them. “Interesting.”
You raise an eyebrow at him, even as your stomach churns. “He’s joking, but there’s a first time for everything.”
Bill’s smirk widens. “I’ll try to… be good, then.” His eyes flick down the length of your body, and you swallow hard as arousal pulses in your core.
Bill Skarsgård is a beautiful canvas, but your SFX friend from the IT set is a goddamn liar. Because he isn’t professional. Not even close. You’re standing between his legs, tracing a thin pencil from the corners of his eyes down to his lips because you need this first line to be symmetrical. And Bill’s looking right at you. Sometimes his eyes dip to your cleavage where it spills a little out of your shirt at this angle, but mostly he’s just looking at you. You feel the prickle of sweat in your hairline, and your hand shakes on the pencil.
“Everything okay?” He asks, and your eyes flicker closed briefly as his breath ghosts against your mouth.
“Just… need to focus.” You mutter.
Bill hums, and you freeze at the feeling of his hands on your legs, wrapping around the back of your knees. “You seem a little unsteady on your feet.”
You swallow thickly. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
Bill smirks, his mouth pulling up on one side and ruining the line you were in the process of drawing.
“Mr Skarsgård, please hold still.”
He huffs. “Oh it’s Mr Skarsgård, is it?”
You reach out to grip his chin tightly, holding his face steady as you try to correct the smudge of black on his cheek. “Bill.”
Bill licks over his bottom lip, revealing the fresh pink of his skin underneath the wet makeup still drying on his mouth. “You seem really annoyed.” He says, fingers skimming up to graze over your ass. “This your first gig?”
You pull back then, fixing him with what you hope is a steely glare. “No, but you’re behaving like an asshole. Is it yours?”
Bill leans back, letting his hands fall away from your thighs and bringing them to rest in his lap. “You’re right. I’m being inappropriate. It’s the… uh you know. Swedish sense of humor, maybe.”
You doubt that very much, but he seems repentant enough so you reach for a cotton swab and remove the trace of black paint from his cheek before lowering to hover in front of his face again. “Hold still, please.”
Bill does, this time. He remains frozen as you paint a thick, even line from the corner of his mouth to his eye. You cup his jaw gently as you draw a matching line on the other side, and your fingers slip to graze against the bob of his throat as you withdraw. Bill’s cock stirs at the light graze of your nails on his skin, and he’s glad his hands are resting in his lap to cover himself. You perch on the vanity, tilting your head to the side as you assess his face.
“You don’t blink much.”
You roll your eyes, blinking deliberately a few times in rapid succession. “Not when I’m trying to focus, no.”
“It’s unnerving.”
Your eyes snap to his face, your eyebrows raising into your hairline at his words. “You wanna talk about unnerving, Bill? Your eyes take up half your face you know.”
Bill’s mouth pulls up into a lopsided smirk. “I book a lot of jobs off these babies.”
You can believe it, too. Bill’s face is as interesting as it is beautiful. You’re enjoying painting it, enjoying every moment you get to look at him. Even if he’s being distracting on purpose. “Well stop moving and let me work on the moneymaker, then.”
Bill huffs a laugh, but he goes still as your fingers graze along the sharp line of his jaw, tilting his head this way and that as you assess the symmetry of his makeup.
“What’s the verdict?” He doesn’t mean to give in first, but your fingers are maddening as they brush lightly against his jaw and he thinks he might combust if you don’t stop.
You wrinkle your nose. “I need a second opinion.”
You slide off the vanity and leave him alone in the room, and Bill runs his fingers over the warm patch on the counter where you’d been sitting. He feels a carnal urge to lean over and inhale, but he fights it. Too weird, even for him. At least this early on in the game, anyway.
You return a minute later with Daniel in tow, and Bill glances at his face in the mirror, grateful that the grim, black makeup obscures the blush he can feel spreading up the sides of his neck and over his cheeks.
“Oh, yeah.” Daniel hums, walking slowly around the chair. “Oh yeah, that’s it.”
Bill swallows, focusing on his reflection and not on the way you’re studying him.
“Right? I added some little lines here,” you ghost your fingers over the corner of his eye and Bill fights the urge to flinch. “Messier. More authentic, y’think?”
“Take some polaroids, get them to Rupert. Let’s see what he thinks.”
You nod, scooping the camera off the vanity and flashing off a shot of his side profile. “Look at me, please.”
Bill does, and you snap another picture before reaching for his chin and lifting his jaw a fraction. “Hold it there.”
Bill feels heat churn in his stomach at the distracted, commanding way you say it. This isn’t supposed to happen. He’s supposed to make you squirm, not the other way around.
“Just a few more of these and we can get you cleaned up.”
Bill’s cock throbs in his sweats at that, and he pictures you on your knees, licking black greasepaint from his cock like some kind of demon. Sick fuck.
He shakes his head to clear the image, hips shifting around the increasingly painful swelling in his pants. “Do you wanna grab something to eat after this?”
You freeze, camera obscuring your face, but Bill notes the tension in your shoulders. “Uh. Oh, I mean, I was just going to grab something to-go. Wanna settle in.”
“You can’t spare me an hour? To, you know, cut through this awkwardness? We’re going to be spending a lot of time together over the next couple of months. I’d feel more comfortable if you didn’t flinch every time I moved.”
Heat burns in your cheeks as you open and close your mouth. So you hadn’t been subtle. And he wasn’t going to let you off, either. Direct Swedish fucking bullshit. “I don’t think…”
“I think it’s a stellar idea.” Daniel says absently. He’s pretending to fuss with a rack of black leather trenchcoats, but he’s clearly listening. “There is a vibe. It might do you both some good.”
Your teeth snap together, and Bill sees a muscle in your jaw tick in irritation. You don’t like being manipulated into doing things, but Daniel is sort of your boss and he’s just turned this into sort of a work thing. You nod tightly, and Bill grins.
The makeup splits his mouth open too wide, and he looks ghoulish, but you try to return the smile anyway. “Grabbing dinner would be great. Thanks, Bill.”
*
You’re supposed to be annoyed. You are annoyed that you’d been strong-armed into this dinner, but it’s so hard to keep it up when Bill is being so insanely charming.
“I saw the work you did on The Witch.” Bill says, skewering a piece of steak so rare you half expect it to start mooing. “Really exceptional.”
You blink at him. “You… know my work?”
He shrugs. “I make it my business to get to know talented people. Especially talented people who I get the opportunity to work closely with.”
“Well… thanks, Bill.” Your throat feels tight all of a sudden, like this is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to you. And it isn’t, but it’s so completely unexpected from Bill that you’re blindsided.
Bill watches your face flush as you suck your bottom lip into your mouth and stare at your plate. He hasn’t got a fucking clue what you did for The Witch. He doesn’t pay attention to makeup and wardrobe for films he isn’t in, of course he doesn’t. But it’s worth the bullshit to watch you squirm under his praise.
“You seen any of my work?” He prompts, fixing you with a smirk.
“I mean, sure.” You push pasta around your plate before taking a nervous sip of wine. “My friend worked on the IT set, so I watched that one.”
“Worked on me?” Bill asks, already mentally sifting through the names and faces he remembered from long hours in the SFX chair.
“No… I mean I don’t think so, not directly. But he said you were a pro. Nobody has any complaints about you, far as I know.”
Bill hums, chewing thoughtfully. “I shouldn’t have messed with you today.”
Your fork clatters to your plate. “So you were doing it on purpose.” You’re not as mad as you should be. It’s actually a relief to have it vocalised, in a way.
“You look really fucking cute when you’re flustered. You’ll have to forgive a man his vices.”
You huff a laugh. “You’re something else, Skarsgård.”
Bill grins at you, a faint pink dusting across his cheeks as he sips from his wine. “Right back at you.”
It shouldn’t be a surprise to you that you’re staying in the same hotel as Bill, but somehow it still is. Maybe it’s because he walks you to your room, rather than parting ways in the lobby or the elevator, but suddenly Bill Skarsgård is leaning against the wall beside your door and the air in the corridor seems to have been sucked into a vacuum and you’re lightheaded and tongue-tied.
“Thanks for coming out with me.” He says.
“Yeah. I had a good time. It was nice to… get to know you a little better.”
You feel a searing heat on your fingers and jerk your hand back, only to find Bill attached to it, his long fingers laced with yours as his thumb rubs circles on your palm. “You could get to know me a lot better if you invited me in.”
You laugh. You don’t even mean to, but it’s so absurd and so tempting and you laugh because if you don’t, you’ll kiss him. And you can’t kiss him. Makeup artists who fuck actors get reputations, and you’re not about to jeopardize your career over a pretty face and a charming, Swedish smile.
“Am I that repulsive?” Bill pouts, but there’s an edge to his tone and a tightness to his smile that stops your laughter.
“No. I mean, God, obviously not. It’s just that… well that was a line, wasn’t it? Has it worked for you before?”
Bill’s brows furrow into a frown. “Most of the time, yeah.”
“That’s good.” You nod absently as you slip your keycard from your purse and disengage the door lock. “I wish you every success using it on the next girl.”
Bill steps forward, fingers catching on your arm and turning you back to face him. “Are you saying no?”
You lick your lips, eyes raking down his body and then slowly, slowly back up to his face. “I’m saying no, Bill. Good night, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You step into your room and close the door, and Bill stands in the corridor trying to process what the fuck just happened. It’s never happened to him before. Bill wouldn’t consider himself like overconfident or anything, but he genuinely hadn’t been turned down since he was maybe sixteen. He stares at your door, wondering if you’re pressed up against the other side, and runs a hand through his hair. You let him down gently, but in doing so you’d just made yourself the most interesting target Bill has had in his entire adult life.
*
Bill’s already sitting patiently in his chair when you arrive at the studio the next day, and you slow your pace as you approach him. There’s a glint in his eye and a smirk on his face, and both things send a bolt of apprehension through you.
“You’re early.”
“Well I had nothing to keep me up late.” Bill looks you over, taking in the simple loose tee and skirt combo. Your own face is bare despite your profession, and it makes you look younger, cuter.
“Right.” You roll your eyes as you begin laying out the products you’ll need. “I’m hoping we’ll get the feedback from Rupert before we start on the-“
“We got it.”
You turn to him with a raised brow, and Bill lifts the manilla envelope from his lap and holds it out to you. “These were on the desk when I came in.”
You snatch the envelope from him, irritation making your movements snappy as you pull out the polaroids from the previous day. Rupert had written notes on the back and drawn on Bill’s face with a sharpie. “Huh.”
“You’re too neat.” Bill supplies, and you shoot him a glare.
“He wants more emphasis on the fluidity of the black makeup.” You mutter, more to yourself than to Bill. “To make it look like you’re crying.”
“I think I can muster up some tears for you.” Bill says, biting down on the inside of his cheek until his eyes water.
“Oh you can-Hey!” You reach out, cupping his jaw and rubbing your thumb against the point where his flesh is hollow against his cheekbone. “Stop that, jesus christ, Bill. I’m just gunna spray you with a little bit of water to see how the makeup interacts with it. You don’t need to injure yourself.”
Bill hums, releasing the inside of his cheek and turning his head to brush his lips over your fingers. “Always willing to go above and beyond to get the job done.”
You feel arousal throb thickly in your core, and you withdraw your hand from his mouth. “Appreciated, but wholly unnecessary. Gimme ten minutes to apply the initial lines, and we’ll get started.”
Bill is surprisingly good as you apply the spindly black lines from the corners of his mouth up to his eyes. He doesn’t move, and his breathing is so shallow you have to hover close to his mouth a few times just to be sure he’s actually doing it. He’s the perfect canvas, when he wants to be, which makes his bad behavior yesterday all the more annoying. But he had sort of apologized, and he was being good now, so you let it slide.
You pick up a plastic spray bottle of water and shake it. “You ready to get wet?”
Bill licks his lips, shifting back in his chair and spreading his legs a little wider. “Be gentle with me.”
You roll your eyes as a blush creeps up the sides of your neck and spritz his face with cold water. Bill flinches, and you take a moment to feel a little satisfaction at that before the lid to the bottle wobbles free. You watch it happen as though in slow motion as the bottle drops onto Bill’s lap, dousing him in cold water.
Bill yelps, half rising from his seat before dropping back down. His hands claw at the fabric of his shirt as it clings to his chest and stomach, the white cotton revealing the ridges of muscle beneath.
Your eyes drop and you can’t lift them back up. You fucking try to, as Bill splutters and gasps and you know you’re supposed to apologize and get him a towel or something, but you just can’t. look. away.
Bill notices. Once the initial shock of the cold water wears off, it’s impossible to ignore the way you’re looking at him; like you want to swallow him whole. His cock responds in kind, twitching and stirring with growing interest under the heat of your stare.
“You’re eye-fucking me, aren’t you?” He asks.
You still don’t look up, but your tongue pokes out to glide unconsciously over your bottom lip. “I… didn’t mean to…” You sigh. “Yeah.”
Bill expected the stuttering. He expected an apology. He didn’t expect you to admit to the eye-fucking, and the fact that you still haven’t really even registered that you’ve done so is almost hot. The wet, rough denim of his jeans is made uncomfortable by the thickening of his cock, and he shifts his hips. “This doesn’t feel great.”
Your eyes drop lower, widening a little at the sight of his erection pressing against the fabric. Bill watches your pupils expand as your lips part around an inaudible gasp. “You’re hard.”
“And wet.” He adds, hooking his fingers into the hem of his shirt and dragging it up and off. “And you’re still looking.”
You blink then, shaking your head a little to clear the lust-induced fog from your mind. “Shit. Sorry. I should… uh I’ll get you a towel, give you some privacy, I-“ You turn to go, and Bill grabs your hand.
“Don’t. I mean, you can look. I’ve seen the concept art, you’re going to have to cover me in tattoos, right?”
You swallow, nodding. “I’ve… got some stencils… but Rupert wants to get this right before we-“
“There’s a horses head here, right?” He mumbles, dragging your hand closer and pressing your hand to his ribs until you flatten your palm against his skin.
“Yes,” you whisper, fingers tracing the shape of it.
Bill shivers at the contrast of your warm touch to his cold, damp skin before guiding your hand across his abs. “A broken lock, here.”
You swallow thickly. “The chains will wrap around your ribs.”
You don’t need him to guide you as you draw your fingers around to the other side of his ribs and then lower. “And words here.”
Bill knows what the words are. He’d almost blushed the first time he’d looked at the sketch. Now he thinks he’ll die if he doesn’t hear you say them out loud. He thinks he might die if you do, too.
“Good boy,” you whisper. Your fingers trail lower, running along the waistband of his jeans in a careful question, and Bill lifts his hips.
“Wanna help me out of these wet jeans?”
You don’t respond, but you do work open the button and the zipper on his jeans and Bill helps you shove them down past his knees. His boxers are soaked too, and he’s a little relieved about that because the water masks the damp leak of precum staining the front a shade darker than the rest of the fabric.
“I should get you that towel.”
Bill hums. “You should… help me out. With this.”
His words are a little commanding, and it sends a bolt of arousal throbbing through your clit. “I shouldn’t.”
“Yeah,” he teases, taking your wrist again and pressing your hand against his stiff cock. “You should.”
You let your fingers curl around his length and squeeze, and Bill lets out a pretty little moan as his head falls back against the chair. “Daniel could walk in any minute.” You murmur, but you’re already slipping your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers and gliding your nails lightly against his bare cock. “I’d get fired.”
“No,” he sighs, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth and pushing it back out through his teeth. “I’d intervene.”
You roll your eyes even as his words stir butterflies in your stomach. “Chivalrous.”
Bill’s eyes open, pools of hazy green as he watches your hand move inside his boxers. “We could have done this last night in an actual bed, but-“ he cuts off with a little groan as you twist your fingers over the head of his cock. “Shit, that’s good.”
You don’t respond with words, letting your fingers coax a fresh bead of precum from his slit to massage into his frenulum before jerking your fist back down his length and squeezing him hard at the base. You repeat this motion over, and over, and over again, until Bill is a writhing mess of pants and moans and ‘pleases’ whispered under his breath. His hips buck up to meet you with every twist of your wrist, and your arm is aching from the repetitive motion and the awkward angle, but you can feel he’s getting close. “You gunna cum?”
Bill can only nod, his face flushed and his eyes glassy as he feels his orgasm building. “Close.” He spits, hips jerking up to force his cock through your fist faster and harder. The muscles in his stomach tighten, the tightly wound cord of arousal pulling taut before you yank your hand out of his pants and throw his wet shirt into his lap. Bill is about to snatch your hand back and shove it into his boxers when he hears the distinctive click of the door opening and his eyes go wide, fixed on you with sheer panic as you look anywhere but at him.
“How are we doing this mor-oh, hello.” Daniel stares at Bill, one eyebrow raised. “We’re not inking him until next week.”
“I know.” You say, tapping your fingers absently against your lips. They’re still slick with his precum, and Bill’s neglected cock leaks in protest as his mouth waters. “I dropped a bottle of water on him when we were testing methods to make it look like he’s crying the makeup off.”
Daniel steps closer, examining Bill’s face. If he notices the flush to his cheeks he mercifully doesn’t say so, though his eyes do scan over Bill’s bare torso and the distinct point where he’s pressing his balled-up shirt over his erection.
“How did you get it to look so… chaotic?” Daniel asks, gesturing at the smudges around Bill’s eyes. “He looks manic.”
Bill’s fingers flex on the wet shirt hiding his cock, and you force yourself to look away, busying yourself with arranging your brushes. “That’s all him. He’s working on getting into the mindset of a lovesick avenger, right Bill?”
Bill swallows thickly, shifting in his seat. His cock aches and he’s feeling over exposed under the scrutiny of the two artists, and he wishes Daniel would go away so he can push your hand back into his underwear. Or impale you directly on his cock, preferably. “Only made possibly by your talented hands.”
You flush, and Bill feels a sense of grim satisfaction at making you blush. Daniel raises an eyebrow. “Alright, I’m beginning to feel like a third wheel in my own studio. I’m gunna go grab a cup of coffee.” He glances at Bill’s covered crotch again. “And maybe breakfast. I’ll be gone a while.”
You flush deeper, and Bill stares at his own hands until he hears the door close.
“Shit.” You whisper, running your hand through you hair. “Shit, he knew. Shit.”
“He seemed okay with it.” Bill throws his wet shirt to the floor and stands, bracketing you against the vanity and planting his hands on the mirror either side of your head. “And now we have time.”
You swallow thickly. “This is unprofessional. I don’t usually…”
“Me neither.” Bill leans in, brushing his lips delicately against your cheek. “But there’s something about you.”
You hum, turning your head to the side as Bill feathers kisses down your throat. His hands leave the mirror to grip your hips, tugging you towards the end of the vanity until your core is pressed to his boxers. “There isn’t anything about me.” Your voice is little more than a breathless moan, and Bill’s cock twitches against your heat as he leans back enough to look at your face.
“Yeah, there is.” He says, all traces of teasing gone for a moment. He lifts a hand to cup your face, and you lean in to press your mouth to his. Bill stills, his lips frozen against yours for a moment before he relaxes into the kiss, parting your lips and licking his tongue into your mouth. You whimper, arms lifting to loop around his neck. His makeup smears onto your mouth, the taste acrid, but you don’t care. You can taste him underneath it, coffee and the spicy undertone of tobacco.
He pulls away, cupping his hands under your ass and flipping you over. You brace your hands against the vanity as Bill plants your feet on the ground and kicks your legs further apart. “You’re fucking hot,” he murmurs, running a hand down your spine. “Look.”
You don’t want to, but Bill leans forward and wraps a hand around your throat, pulling your head up so you’re forced to meet your own glassy eyes in the mirror. “I should clean up the-“
“No,” he whispers, reaching back to tug his cock out of his boxers before lifting your skirt up around your waist. “Every time we’re here, every time I’m sitting in that chair and you’re pressing your perfect tits right in my face as you-“ he glides his fingers through your slick and pushes two fingers into you, feeling you quiver and tug at the intrusion. “work on me, holy shit.” He stammers, pulling his fingers out and spreading your wetness down his length before pushing the head of his cock into you. “Every time you work on me, we’ll both be here.” He pushes into you in one long thrust, bottoming out and sending you sprawling against the vanity. Bill tightens his grip on your throat, keeping your eyes fixed on your own reflection as he fucks into you. “Look how good you look.”
You glance up at him, at the way he bites his blackened lip into his mouth as his face crunches up in concentrated bliss. “Tell me how it feels.”
You whimper, swallowing against the weight of his palm on your throat. “Feels good, Bill. You feel so good.”
“Yeah,” he whispers, reaching his free hand around your hip to circle your clit as you grind back against him. “You gunna cum for me?”
You nod, pressing your lips together to hold in a scream as Bill’s cock brushes against a sensitive spot inside you and your eyes roll back in your head.
“Pretty girl,” he spits, hips snapping hard against your ass. “Making it so hard to focus.”
You scoff even through the haze of your pleasure, because who the hell is he to accuse you of making it hard to focus when he’s been staring and touching and teasing you since the moment he arrived in your studio?
“I’m gunna come in you,” he moans. “Gunna fill you up.”
You can’t stop your orgasm washing through you at the filthy possessive edge to his words, and you clamp down on his cock as you ride the waves of your release against his hand.
Bill feels the flutter of your muscles and the way you soak his fingers, and his own release follows you. He holds himself still inside you, grinding his hips into your ass in tiny, precise motions as his cock twitches and spills his load into your heat. And God, it was better than he’d thought it would be. To watch you come apart for him, to watch your eyes well up with tears and your lips part around a whine of his name as you came… it was the best cure for a bad breakup.
Bill pulls out of you and leans over to press a kiss to your shoulder before he drops back into his seat and tucks his softening cock away. “Goddamn.”
Your legs are shaky as you push yourself up from the vanity and smooth your underwear back over your soaked pussy. You can feel the wet squelch of his cum seeping out of you to slick in your underwear, and it should be gross but it isn’t. Not with how pretty he looks, sitting in your chair obediently waiting for you to return. “Are you gunna make this hard for me?” You ask with as much sternness as you can muster.
Bill’s smirk is sinful as it spreads lazily across his face, pulling his crow makeup into an unsettling leer. “You’re making it hard all by yourself.”
You glance down at his crotch, heat pulsing fresh in your core. “This is going to be impossible.”
Bill huffs a laugh. “No,” he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your skirt and pulls you closer, leaning forward to cup your jaw and pull your face down to his for a soft kiss. “I’ll be good… at work.”
You raise an eyebrow, lifting your thumb to brush a smudge of makeup from the corner of his mouth. “And outside of work?”
He licks the pad of your thumb, drawing the digit into his mouth and sucking gently before releasing it. “I’m gunna thoroughly ruin you, sweetheart.”
You feel his hand creep up under your skirt to grab a handful of your ass in his wide palm, and your eyes flutter closed. This was going to be the hardest job of your life, and you couldn’t wait.
Hello I would like to request a bill skarsgård as himself we're the reader is a friend of the family and she always had a thing for bill and bill has a thing for her too and he catch wind of her say she wants him to be her first time 😉 with some teast very breeding kink and some dirty talk with some fluff at the end 🤭
Mutual Obsession (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 - I'm absolutely terrified posting this because I don't think it's good but whatever LMAO I went a little light on the breeding kink just because some other requests have it and I don't want to be too repetitive. enjoy!!
Content warnings: Very light breeding kink, reader is a virgin, protected P in V, use of lube, gentle Bill. ages are not specified but both of them are over the age of 20.
word count: 4235
It’s not easy having a crush that doesn’t notice you. Having a crush is embarrassing at almost any age, the vulnerability that comes with it is either deeply uncomfortable or a little freeing, though it's usually the former.
But by a certain age crushes are just embarrassing and immature or at least that's the way it felt to you. Especially when you’ve never slept with someone or been in a long term relationship just because you're hung up on a man you can't have. Bill Skarsgård was the man you were pining after.
It was only made worse because you were a family friend. Being invited to events with them was a nightmare because Bill always dressed up for the occasion and it always left you in a complete mess. The slick in your underwear was thankfully the only evidence of your obsession at the end of the night.
And obviously the man is charming. He pours you glasses of wine at dinner, tucks your chair in for you, borrows you his jacket when it gets cold. None of it helps your growing need to jump his bones. Especially when he looks at you like you're the only person in the room, though you're probably being delusional.
But little do you know that he feels the same. Okay maybe not exactly the same, he’d been sleeping with people, of course he had. He could have whoever he wanted whenever he wanted. That didn’t do much to stop the lingering thoughts of you.
Your perfume lingered in his home after you left, the way your eyes lit up when he helped you do something. God he hated how much he loved the light in your eyes and how he wanted to see it everyday. So instead he buried his head in the sand.
He’d take women on a first date then never see them again, well unless he was driving them home the next morning after a long night. He’d be extra sure to find someone to hook up with after events or family gatherings you were invited to. He didn’t want to keep living like that but what else was he supposed to do? He couldn't ignore you, you were a valued family friend and his brothers would probably pull the secret out of him, he couldn’t be mean to you and make you hate him because of the exact same issues, he was trapped in a cycle.
But the biggest plot twist of all may be the fact that Alexander and Gustaf were completely aware of how you both felt. You were both terrible at hiding it. Although you both seemed too absorbed in your own feelings to notice each other's.
So, here you are again at another Skarsgård family gathering, Bill’s house to be exact. His home was tastefully hidden somewhere around an hour away from civilization and you were glad. With the work week finally over it was time to breathe and the fresh air always did you good.
Until the door to Bill’s home was opened and your lungs forgot how to function. He was gorgeous every time you laid your eyes on him but today was something different. His light brown short sleeved shirt seemed to fit him wonderfully and his baby pink trousers just looked perfect. It was uniquely Bill.
His eyes scanned you up and down before he cleared his throat. “Hey you made it, it’s good to see you, come on in”
“Thanks for inviting me, it’s good to see you too, I bought a bottle of wine just in case” you lifted it up by the neck sporting a massive smile.
“Don’t worry it certainly won’t go to waste with dumb and dumber in there” Bill looked into his kitchen at the table where Gustaff and Alex seemed to be having a thumb war and hadn’t even noticed your arrival.
“Is your dad not coming?” you asked curiously
“Oh no, dad can’t make it I think he’s back in Stockholm taking a break” you simply nodded.
“Here let me take that, you go take a seat with those two while I make dinner” you nodded again and walked to the table, Bill went back to cutting whatever he was making. Alex and Gustaff finally noticed your arrival.
“Wait! Don’t sit, now you’re here we’re watching a film” Alex pointed at you, your head titled back as you laughed. Bill pretended the noise didn’t make him happy.
The living room felt warm, not in terms of temperature. But something else, something you can’t name. It looked the same as when you were last here, the same sofa, green and contrasting the off white walls. You sat on the sofa waiting for Alex and Gustaff, they came in eventually bringing their chaos with them.
“No we can’t watch frankenweenie, it makes me depressed Alex” they slumped on the sofa next to you.
“What about the corpse bride?” Gustaff suggested “Noooo we only watch that at halloween you know that” Alex quickly replied.
Your laugh distracted them both “alright miss laughs a lot. What film do you suggest”
“Uhh we need something not too sad but nothing halloween related but something with dark topics…uhhhhh nosferatu. You know the 2024 version?” Now you were all laughing, until you heard a shout from the kitchen.
“Do not watch nosferatu I swear to god I’ll make you all leave before dinner” Bill shouted but you could all hear the smile. You all burst out laughing again, your stomach ached.
Finally a film was decided, you sat content watching, the smell of food started to fill the house, Alex who was sitting next to you whispered to you.
“How have you been?” He rested his head on his hand.
“I’ve been okay I guess nothing special” you thought about the last few months and how uneventful they had been, so boring. “Not even a special man?”
You huffed a laugh "definitely no special man.” you hadn’t even considered another man.
“What? You still don’t have a boyfriend? Honey why not?” his hand landed softly on your shoulder. You didn’t feel upset about it but you could understand his attempt at comfort.
“I’m not really sure, I just haven’t found anyone special.” You shrugged but you noticed that Alex’s eyes drifted to the kitchen, Bill was visible, standing over a pot on the stove stirring endlessly.
Alex’s eyes met yours, almost like he knew. Oh shit. He knew. “It’s because of him, isn’t it.” He whispered it more like a statement than a question.
“No, of course not, don’t be silly” you shook your head and turned back to the TV. The scenes in the film were hitting your eyes but nothing was being processed by your mind.
Gusaff chimed in then “what are you two talking about and why does Y/N look like someone read her journal?”
“Oh my god it’s nothing” you said through gritted teeth. Alex tilted his head to the kitchen and Gustaff’s mouth formed an ‘O’
“Oh, that” he whispered. He turned his attention back to the TV trying to ignore how your jaw dropped.
“What do you mean, ‘that’?” defensiveness began creeping into your tone. You’d never told anyone about your thing for Bill. Especially not his brothers.
Alex responded “Look, it’s fine, we just think you might have a thing for Bill” you swore you could hear your pulse in your ears, your heart felt like it was in your stomach and you were about to puke it out. You opened your mouth to speak but Alex beat you to it.
“Before you try to deny it, think wisely.” Alex added, still keeping his voice low “we’ve seen how you look at him. How you treasure the moments where he’s kind to you.”
You felt a little hopeless denying it so you caved “Alright, so let’s say I do have a thing for him? That changes nothing. He doesn’t have a thing for me, Stellan would never approve of little old me and I’m a-” you stopped yourself from angrily whispering anything else, they did not need to hear your embarrassing secret.
Bill watched as the living room became increasingly tense. You and Alex appeared to be talking well, whispering. So he crept closer trying to listen in, eventually he was able to focus enough to hear you both, not clearly but close enough.
“You’re a what Y/N?, I’m sure it’s nothing bad” Alex was trying to comfort you, it was not working. Bill was really intrigued now.
“Look it’s not important, it’s…embarrassing and it doesn’t matter to anyone else” you turned away from Alex, a heat creeping up your neck.
“Whatever it is, I’m sure Bill won't mind! Plus we know him best, we could help you!” you weighed up your options, keep the secret, never tell anyone and die a virgin or tell Alex and maybe have a shot with Bill.
Bill continued to listen, increasingly confused about how he was involved in this.
“I’ve never been with anyone.” you admitted with a sigh.
“you’ve never been in a relationship?, he won’t mind that” he waved his hand dismissively.
“No- I mean I’ve never been with anyone, like in bed”
Alex nodded understanding while Gustaff did his best to pretend he didn’t hear. He just wanted to watch a film now he was stuck listening to a therapy session.
“You’ve been hoping Bill would be your first time?” he questioned, he felt genuinely sorry for you. Only made worse when you nodded at his question.
Bill’s eyes widened in the kitchen. You had never been with anyone because you wanted him. His entire world felt like a lie. He had spent years convincing himself you didn’t like him in a romantic way but clearly he was wrong. He went back to the stove completely confused, he couldn’t listen to any more.
“Don’t tell him, please Alex I think i’d die on the spot” you hid your face in your hands
“I won’t tell him, it’s not my story to tell. But you should tell him, you never know what could happen.”
He stopped talking then. And turned his attention back to the film that had been rolling steadily on while you spilled a secret in your crushes house, to his brother. How on earth did that happen? You couldn't tell Bill. How could you tell him? Why on earth would you tell him? Little did you know you wouldn’t have to.
“Dinner’s ready!” Bill shouted from the kitchen. Gustaff turned off the film as quickly as he could, obviously starving.
The house smelled like a home, it made your earlier uncomfortable feeling soften round the edges. The round table was set up beautifully. The food was already plated and placed at each seat.
“This looks amazing” you complimented as you sat, Bill smiled, as he tried his hardest to be normal. It felt like a herculean task.
“Thank you, please dig in” he gestured with his own fork as he began eating himself. He was fucking starving. In more ways than one.
Dinner passed peacefully, light laughter happened over glasses of wine and Bill really wasn’t wrong about it not lasting. You hadn’t had much and neither had Bill, you both watched Alex and Gustaff get the giggles just because they were tipsy. The plates were empty and so were the bottles of wine.
You weren't really focused on his brothers anymore. You were focused on Bill. your mind playing all the different scenarios that could occur if you told him. Your heart probably couldn’t take the devastation of a rejection.
After a little while Bill suggested that Alex and Gustaff go to bed, offering them the spare room. Bill kept them both on their feet as he helped them upstairs one by one while you watched letting out a giggle every once in a while.
Bill let out a sigh and threw himself in the seat when he finally got back down stairs. He really felt like a baby sitter sometimes but he wouldn’t change it for anything. Before you knew it, it was just you and him. You shifted uncomfortably, feeling like it was your cue to leave. Though a confession lay in your throat aching to be freed.
“Thank you for tonight Bill, it was fun and the meal was great” you downed the last of your wine not wanting to waste a drop. You weren’t driving anyway.
“Oh it was nothing, thank you for coming, it’s been nice having you around” he looked sincere and the words landed harder than they should have.
“I’m gonna go call a taxi, I should be out of your hair soon” you reached for your phone in your pocket but Bill’s voice stopped you.
“You will do no such thing, it’s late. Anything could happen to you out there, you can stay here. I'll take the sofa, you take my room. No arguing” he pointed at you the same way Alex pointed to you earlier.
“Alright I guess, thank you Bill.” he left the room a moment later heading to his bedroom to prepare things for you, that’s when it hit you. You were going to be sleeping in his bed. That smelled like him. That he had probably fucked someone in. your thighs clenched at the thought. Your spiraling was thankfully interrupted when Bill came back down, he threw the blanket and pillow on the sofa.
“My room is all sorted for you, head up when you’re ready” he looked awkward. Like he didn’t know how to do this. You felt the same.
“Thanks I’ll head up now, goodnight” you ducked your head and walked quickly upstairs, you heard the soft “night” follow behind you.
Bill had been kind, which wasn’t helpful. He left some spare clothes on his double bed to change into and other stuff you might need. So you changed, brushed your teeth and before you knew it you were in Bill’s bed. Bill’s fucking bed. It was better than you ever could have imagined. It smelled like 100 of his jackets stacked on top of you, it felt like comfort. Your eyes felt dry and heavy, sleep crept up on you fast. But the dull ache between your thighs remained.
A weird sound from inside his room woke you up, it was still dark so you couldn’t have been asleep for long, your eyes stung as you tried to open them. When you did, you saw Bill in his wardrobe, clearly looking for something.
“Bill? Are you okay?” He jumped, his hand coming up over his chest.
“Shit Y/N I almost had a heart attack, yeah I’m fine I just wanted my other shirt this one’s too warm, sorry if I woke you” god his deep voice had your clit waking up again too.
“It’s fine, no worries.” you put your head back down on the pillow. As the ruffling sounds continued.
“Got it, Sorry again for waking you, sleep well” he opened the bedroom door, the light from the hallway spilled in, waking you completely, without thinking you spoke.
“Bill, wait” you sat up again and shit he looked good in the shadows just as much as he did in the light.
“You need something?” he asked, hoping you wanted what he wanted.
“Can you stay with me?” it felt vulnerable. In a way you weren't familiar with. Like you were crossing a boundary most friends would have already crossed. Maybe you had never been friends.
“I can, if you want” he walked back in again, closing the door behind him. You moved over. Your body was still covered by the blanket.
The bed dipped as Bill jumped under the covers with you, for once he was scared. Scared of fucking up whatever was there between the two of you. He assumed it was one sided but he was painfully aware of his mistake.
You both laid there tense. Staring at the ceiling although it wasn't entertaining. Your hands felt sweaty and maybe a little shaky. Bill took a deep breath in and then spoke.
“Why did you ask me to stay?” He wasn't sure he wanted the answer to that question but he aired it anyway. He hoped he was going to get a nice answer.
“I- I didn't want you to sleep downstairs, it's your home” you mumbled. It was the best lie you could think of. So fucking see through.
He sighed and your already tense muscles seemed to lock up. He needed to tell you that he knew. Otherwise this tiptoeing around each other would never end.
“I heard what you told Alex earlier” he closed his eyes, mostly regretting what he had just said. It was either going to push you away or welcome the truth.
Your heart dropped back into your stomach ready to puke up again. “What exactly did you hear?”
Bill turned to you. “Come on Y/N you know what I heard.”
“Shit” you muttered to yourself. But obviously Bill heard it too.
“I feel the same.” he mumbled. You turned your head to face him. The moonlight had spilled in more than you realised and Bill's eyes seemed to shine brighter than usual. He looked down to your lips and back up to your eyes.
“You do?” Your eyes focused on his face as much as you could, searching for a lie in his expression. He responded without hesitation.
“I have for a long time Y/N, I just didn't want to ruin our friendship so I stayed quiet” his gaze was fixed firmly on you. It felt like his gaze was burning through your skin.
Before either of you could think better of it, Bill kissed you. No doubts plagued him. Your thighs immediately clenched at the feeling of his lips so clear on yours. Your hand somehow confidently found its way to the back of Bill’s neck. Hours could have passed between the two of you and neither of you would have noticed.
“Bill-” you gasped out, smiling into the kiss. He saw your smile and so many of his anxieties were eased.
“What is it?” His hand moved through your hair, tucking it neatly behind your ears.
“Will you be my first?” Your thumb was making circles on his neck, the muscle easing under your touch.
“You weren't joking earlier about being a virgin?” He asked innocently. His chest hurt at the idea of you waiting.
“No I was hoping it would be you” you tried to hide your face in embarrassment but Bill caught your hand and kissed the back of it.
“Well then I guess it'll be me, how do you want me angel?” he continued to kiss down your arm, gentle and tentative.
You had thought endlessly about how you’d want him. Honestly any position would do, but you craved intimacy above all else.
“I think the position is called spooning but I’m not sure?” you mumbled a blush crept up your cheeks, embarrassed.
“It is called spooning, we can try it. If you’re not comfortable, we can try something else. But I need you to trust me.” he kissed your lips gently and you automatically found yourself nodding. “I do trust you Bill”
“You fingered yourself before angel?” his hand began to drift down to your thighs, his hand slipping under the waistband of the clothes he had let you borrow. “I have” he kissed you again, his fingers began circling your clit and gathering some of your wetness before you could process it, his index finger pressing into you. It felt different to your own, his larger. Moving with more confidence.
He swallowed your sounds, mostly gasps and deep breaths. Until you relaxed enough to slip in a second finger, stretching you out more than you’d ever been able to on your own.
Bill was convinced you may kill him. You felt so tight around his fingers, clenching around him so easily. He could hardly wait to be inside you, your hands in his hair as you kissed was intoxicating.
“Bill, I’m ready please just- “
“Shh angel, be patient” he removed his fingers from you and the loss felt immediate. He took off your clothes, you assisted where you could. He took off his own and you were beyond grateful to just be sat in the same room as him.
“Lay on your side for me” you turned over facing the window, while you could hear the rattling of the condom wrapper being opened by Bill. While you trusted Bill you understood that this was a big moment, it was something you had thought about endlessly.
Bill moved closer behind you, your back touching his defined chest, your breath hitching laced with nerves. “Are you sure, really sure?”
“I’m just a little nervous, I don’t want it to hurt” you’d heard that some discomfort was normal, pain was normal too, you’d just hoped you could bypass it. Bill could only do so much but thankfully he had lube on hand due to all his nights searching for a replacement for you.
Bill bought the squeezable tube down in front of you, again another experience you’d never had awaited you. “It’s just lube, the condom already has some but I’ll add some more. It’ll be a little cold, but it’ll warm as I move”
You nodded, then took a deep breath. “Hey, look at me” he his fingers landed on your chin to see your face. “If you feel uncomfortable at any time, if you want to stop, say it. If you need anything more, you tell me okay?”
His words did more for you than you expected, your shoulders dropped no longer feeling like you were some problem. But you had to know one last thing. “Bill, you’re not just going to have sex with me and then ditch me are you?”
Bill lifted your leg and the tip of his cock nudging at your hole “you think I’d give this up, after years of waiting to feel you? no way angel, hold your leg for me”
Bill's hand began circling your clit then finally he started to slide into you, at first uncomfortable, it felt unnatural, a little sting. But Bill didn't push much further, he just stuck with the same length moving back and forth gently. The pleasure from your clit dulling the stretch enough and it started to feel good.
You were so tight but Bill didn’t dare to focus on it, instead he focused on your face, making sure you were actually enjoying it, the pressure of him being the first weighing on him. Keeping you comfortable was his only priority, he hoped this would be the first of many, he could enjoy it another time, this one belonged to you.
Finally the stretch began to get easier to deal with, and Bill was finally bottomed out. You’d never felt so full in your life, owned by a person. He began leaving kisses up and down your neck, his fingers moved faster on your clit a little swollen and protruding.
“You’re such a beautiful angel, so tight around me, practically begging me to cum in you” his words went straight to the heat in your core. The combination of his hand and his cock made it impossible to focus on anything else, he began to speed up, his skin slapped against yours creating a sound, you looked down to where you were joined. God it felt sinful.
You’d been ‘pure’ for so many years it was amazing to just feel normal. To have the one person you’d wished for. “Shit Bill, I think I’m gonna cum”
Bill was glad to hear those words spill from your plump lips he’d been gently building towards his own high the entire time. “Come on, let go for me, let my cock be the first one to make you cum” He whispered in your ear.
You buried your face into the pillow as you came, not intensely but a long drawn out one, leaving you gasping for air, clenching around him without meaning to, Bill let out a groan deep within his chest as he came, he’d never known anything like it, you were practically milking his orgasm out of him.
You felt limp, used to your capacity and Bill felt much of the same. He pulled out rather fast not wanting you to feel any discomfort or to see the filled condom. “Are you okay?” your eyes felt heavy, willing to close at any point, but you still managed to talk.
“Yeah, I’m all good, thank you for being my first Bill.” you laid on your back and reached up to touch his face bringing him in for a kiss, passionate and hungry, everything you’d wanted for years suddenly possible.
A knock at the door broke you both apart, as you both attempted to scramble under the blanket. No one opened the door but a voice came through the door.
“Hey Bill, are you two done fucking yet?, I’m hungry” you’d both happened to forget about Alex and Gustaff in the room next door. Until Alex spoke through the door.
You and Bill giggled under the covers like school kids being caught by their parents, a small price to pay for more than a decade of waiting.
General tag list @thedevotchka @coryoslut @macynacym @kikibit @wiseyouthinfluencer @lunaskye999 @brightnessluvworld @skysgard @elyseesarchive @devilslittlehelper (Comment to be added)
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
Now I’m curious, what's YOUR favorite one-shot out of all you’ve written? (We are talking specifically about one-shots, because series are definitely a whole different story - much more time and effort go into them, plus you really get attached to the characters).
If your readers share their favorites too, that would be awesome, I’m dying to know!
hahaha thank you for this question!
I don't actually know. I really liked writing 'blades, blue blossom days' because it was my first foray into a nasty Roman character and I kinda loved him.
OR 'Bloodsport' for the same reason, super fun to write a nasty Roman and a bitchy reader combo!
Admittedly I don't reread my own work very much because all I notice are the mistakes, but I'd also be super curious to know what fics people like the best!
DESCRIPTION; for decades, the flameblood clan has warred brutally with the heretical dragonclaw clan—battling over sea ports, scarce materials, and deep religious beliefs. when edvar, younger son of the flameblood chief and commander of the firehearts, sees a dangerous but necessary chance to end the slaughter, he is captured in battle by none other than the daughter of dragons herself.
featuring: bill skarsgård as edvar halneresson , alexander skarsgård as tsarund the great & stellan skarsgård as chief halnere of flameblood
ask to be tagged!
@thedevotchka
CW; dark fantasy, violence and warfare, torture of POWs, cult/religious activity/rituals/sacrifices, explicit/sexual content, harm to animals/dragons, and more, 18+ readers only
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PITCH BLACK WAVES CURLED AROUND THE BOW OF THE SHIP AS IT CUT THROUGH ABYSSAL NIGHT. The whole moon had vanished for three consecutive nights, buried behind a thick wall of swirling dark clouds, laced with intermittent strokes of lightning.
He kept a keen eye on the shifting surface of the icy water, tracking any signs of movement. Even if he couldn’t see any spiked webbed fins circling in the depths, any long dark hair trailing behind sleek mermaidian bodies, or any eel-like tails slithering about, Edvar knew better than to dare turn his back. These were Zormir’s waters, after all, and only a fool could forget the kind of things that lurked within them.
With the waters of the coast too shallow and ice-locked to safely cruise through, they had been forced to take a wide berth deeper out to sea in order to make it back to their home fjord. The crew had been blessed enough to make it this far into the detour without the leviathan goddess sensing their trespass and tearing them asunder, but her silence could not be taken for permission. Time and her impatience would become their enemy if they did not hurry back to Rikkan.
The wind lashed at his face and tore through his curls as he powered across the deck, whipping tears from his eyes. His thick, heavy greatcoat did little to protect his bones from the shiver that wracked even a burly body like his own. Still, he relished what little warmth managed to seep into the rough skin of his palms through the bowl in his hand, letting a harsh, steaming breath seethe through clenched teeth.
He was Edvar, second son of Chief Halnere. He did not get to fuss about over a little chill, not if he wanted to set any kind of respectable standard for himself.
"Halneresson! Could use another hand over here, if you've got a free one!"
The shout came from the Captain, his face weathered grey by age and the storm, barely audible over the roar of the freezing surf. Edvar didn't argue. He set the bowl down on a nearby barrel, bracing himself against the tilting deck as he rushed to help the crew reel hefty fish nets out of the water, which seemed to hold onto them for dear life. His shoulders burned as he threw his weight into the frozen rope, his boots slipping on the slick timber.
"Reckon you’ve got the easy shift tonight," the boss grunted, wiping his hands on his soot-stained canvas trousers. He nodded toward the heavy hatch in the deck, leading below with a grim smirk.
"While we're freezing our arses off out here to keep the ship runnin', you get to go down into the dry and keep the demon company. Just don't let it bite off ya fingers, eh? You got use in you, yet"
A few of the sailors chuckled, a low, nervous sound quickly swallowed by the wind.
"Don't count me so lucky just yet, friend," he muttered, his voice thick with the heavy, rolling cadence of the northern clans. "Gotta survive just being near the thing first."
"Shit, you're right about that. Ah well, good luck to ya. I'll decide whatever the hell I ought to say to your old man when you don't come back up in one bit."
Turning away from the rail, he made for the hatch, eager to get out of the cold as the crew chuckled behind him.
The air down in the prison hold was thin, drafty and drenched in the smell of soggy old timber and stagnant bilge. Edvar descended the narrow ladder, the lantern at his hip wobbling, throwing long, twirling shapes across the low beams overhead. He balanced the bowl of broth that had since chilled in the outside air, the greasy slop clotting and splashing over the rim as the floor rolled in unison with the swell.
He set his lantern down right outside the iron bars, casting a flat line of amber light across the threshold of the cell.
From the dark beyond that line, the silence began to blister. A deep, rattling moan echoed off the metal, a sound that he had at first mistaken for the shifting of the vessel. A glottal clicking followed each heavy breath, a reptilian growl vibrating through the floorboards, driving itself into the marrow of Edvar's very bones.
He sat in the discomfort of it, his skin prickling beneath his thick wool coat, watching the boundary where the light died.
Slowly, Edvar slid the bowl forward, the wood scraping against the grit of the floor, nudging it through the bars and to the edge of the lantern's reach.
"There ya go, witch. Time to eat up," he coughed, scratching at his nose with his thumb, ignoring the instinct in his gut that warned against speaking entirely. It was just trying to scare him with its eerie noises, he was sure.
A spindly hand slid into the light, pale deathly-grey fingers tapering into sharp, blackened claws that caught the edge of the dull flame reflecting through the glass. But it was the index finger that held his gaze—missing, severed cleanly at the knuckle and replaced by a yellowed, gnarled human finger bone attached with a leather gripping glove. The skeletal prosthetic hooked over the rim of the bowl, the wood sagging beneath the sharp points of her claws as she dragged the offering back into the gloom.
The growl in her throat deepened, and the hairs on Edvar's neck shot up. The darkness of the cell felt too sweeping, too vast, hiding too much. Desperate to see the face of the thing he was feeding, he reached down to lift the lantern, intending to flood the shadows with light.
A sudden, violent lurch of her chains tore through the dark. Edvar flinched, his arm jerking instinctively as the projectile hurtled his way.
The bowl smashed into the iron bars with a clang! Broth splattered, dark grease and chunks of meat spraying across the floorboards. From the blackness, a dry, raspy voice hissed, laced with pure spite.
"You wish to poison me, like a coward, with this bile you dare call food?"
He squinted, frustration splintering through his unease as he looked down at the mess between his boots.
"It ain't poison. It's the same shit me and the men are eating," he shot back. "You're not special. You eat or you go hungry."
The shifting of chain links echoed from the corner as she tilted her head. "You wish me to weaken myself with this slop? Is that why you Flamebloods are so.....breakable? This is what your mothers feed you?"
"I'm afraid, unless you can magically conjure up your own banquet, my lady, that this will just have to suffice," he grunted, bracing his hands on his knees as he glared into the dark. "And now you can either lick up what you've spilled from the floor or go hungry. Choice is yours."
"It is preferable to starve," she hissed.
"Then you can be my fucking guest."
A silence descended on the hold again. Edvar watched the shadow of her hood, expecting another snarl. Instead, she paused.
A low, mocking sound spilled into a dry, raspy laugh, and as the laughter faded, she finally moved, sweeping forward out of the corner and into the light.
Edvar’s breath caught. Up close, the sheer wrongness of her features hit him all at once. Her thick braid was a rope of dark crimson hair dragging through the filth of the deck, coiling like a giant serpent around her bare, dirty feet. The heavy hood had fallen back just enough to expose the long, pointed sweep of her ears, both marked with brutal notches and jagged scars from past battles.
But it was the massive obsidian horns cutting upward from her brow that anchored his gaze. They were monstrous things, rising like twin serrated blades, monoliths on their own. The lantern light caught the wet sheen of the crown, highlighting the dangerous, backward-curving spikes that split off from the main vents of bone. They looked ancient and regal, heavy enough to snap a human neck had they been cursed with such things, yet she bore them with grace, like she could carry the weight a dozen times over.
He could see, undeniably, how his forefathers long ago believed that the Ikar-Drakayith were devils dragged straight from the hells themselves.
“You amuse me, you know,” she chuckled, teeth gleaming as she smiled. “You humans have quite the audacity, thinking yourself so brave.”
Her eyes were hidden behind a scrap of rag that had been tied around her head, obscuring her vision, but he knew she didn’t need to see him to track his whereabouts. He wouldn’t put it past her to be able to see him regardless.
“I don’t think myself anything,” he said. “You on the other hand are far too arrogant for someone in your spot. You got yourself caught, did you not? Makes us humans somewhat capable.”
The edge of her lip twisted into a scowl. “The dirty, underhanded tricks of humans do not hold up in an equal fight. Surely decades of skirmishes have taught the clans that much? It was a lucky shot that brought me down, nothing more.”
“And what a lucky shot it was,” he stepped back, plucking a chunk of mutton from his collar and tossing it back through the bars. “But lucky shot or not, you’re ours now, and you’ll be dealt with soon enough. The world will be better for it.”
“Oh it will, I’m sure,” she smiled.
↞⁜↠
Celebrations, banquets and drunken chatter soon quelled, an extinguished flame, as the grand doors to the Hall of Fire parted, and the returning warriors stepped inside.
Great hearths lined the centre of the longhouse, sending plumes of smoke up toward the blackened rafters, where banners and tapestries of the clan crest hung heavy and still. The air tasted of roasted boar, chicken and cow, spiced by the smell of mud and dung from the farms billowing in through the open doors.
Edvar kept his head held high, despite the shocked eyes now following him as he continued his march. His boots left wet, icy tracks across the floorboards.
Men stopped mid-swallow, horns of ale frozen at their lips, while women pulled their children closer to their wool skirts.
“He’s home,” they whispered, blinking over and over, wondering if their eyes had deceived them. “He’s not dead. He’s not a traitor after all.”
The murmurs rippled through the crowd. For two moons, the village had figured him a coward or a corpse. Whispers had festered that the second prince had fled his duties, deserting the clan after a bitter dispute with the high table. No one in Rikkan had known the truth—that Edvar had quietly gathered his most loyal vanguard of Firehearts and slipped into the Wolfmaw territories without permission, embarking on a rogue campaign that should have cost him his life.
At the far end of the longhouse, raised upon a massive stone dais, Chief Halnere sat like an old mountain carved into a high seat of dark oak. He was a truly monolithic man, a living god of weathered grandeur that commanded absolute silence without even lifting a finger. His heavy brow knitted over deep-set, calculating eyes that had seen a hundred bloodbaths, and his silver-grey hair feathered thinly around a set jaw, spliced with three deep set scars given to him years ago.
Just a step behind him stood Tsarund, Flameblood’s golden heir. A thick, intricate blond braid folded over his massive shoulder, resting against a heavy bear fur coat that hung open to reveal a muscular, sun-browned chest. His eyes narrowed, scrutinising his younger brother's approach.
“Chief,” Edvar knelt, fist pressed hard over his heart.
Chief, not Father. He kept his eyes fixed on the stone steps of the dais, refusing to let his exhaustion show.
“Please, I beg your forgiveness of my long absence. My Firehearts and I embarked on a journey south, to Wolfmaw, who wish to restore their standing with us. We return to you now with a gift, a token of their allegiance.”
A low, sharp sneer twisted Tsarund’s striking features.
“Very typical of you, brother, to pull a stunt like this,” he said, steps echoing against the stone as he stood from the table, his towering frame casting a long shadow. “You take dozens of men, of good, strong men, and you disappear for two months at sea. You dare to strike deals with our enemies when it is not your place to do so, and not only that, you dare to return—”
“Tsarund.”
Halnere rose a hand. A warning, not to stir trouble. It was a single, authoritative gesture that halted his eldest son mid-step, forcing Tsarund to lock his jaw and reluctantly, obediently, return to the high table.
“Let him speak. I wish to hear an explanation,” the old chief commanded, his heavy gaze boring into Edvar’s skull. He knew, always knew, that there was more to be said in the privacy of the council room later, that whatever he truly wanted to say could not be said in front of everyone.
"In exchange for allegiance, they offered us a gift that was impossible to refuse," Edvar said. "One I am sure that, once you see, you will understand why I had to seize it."
He turned, raising a single hand to his men. "Step aside."
The Firehearts parted cleanly, their iron shields shifting to reveal the prisoner at the center of their ranks.
He had to admit, it was satisfying to do this, satisfying to experience the deep chill that rushed through his body as he spoke. As he declared his victory, earned his respect.
“I present to you Kharlon,” he went on. “Matron of the Dragonclaw clan."
A collective gasp swept through the longhouse. Several elders sprang from their benches, chairs scraping violently against the floor as the crowd pushed backward, desperate to put distance between themselves and the creature before them.
Even in heavy iron shackles, Kharlon did not sway, nor did she kneel when the warriors tried to kick her knees in. She did not slouch; she did not cower. The Hall of Fire seemed to shrink around her. Even discounting the addition of her horns, even without boots, she still stood almost a full head taller than nearly every warrior in the room. Fire light licked across her face, reflecting in the voids of her pure black eyes. Edvar had not seen them until now, when the blindfold had been removed.
She was enjoying it, he realised, watching that smirk return to her face. She was basking in the fear that swelled in the room, thriving in the slight awe, in the undivided attention.
“Kharlon.”
Halnere uttered her name like it caught his curiosity, as if she were a peculiarity to be examined.
“You have been afforded the dignity of standing here before my table, the courtesy of living to see another day within my sight, and yet you do not return the respect of kneeling?”
She smoothed her tongue—split into two—over her teeth, like it pained her not to use them.
“The day you wield any power over the common dragon, Halnere, will be the day I shall happily kneel for you.”
“I thought your father remained Patron of your clan. You are but a mere princess, if you can even be called such a thing,” he mused, ignoring her comment. An insult loosely disguised as intrigue. It was a dig at Edvar, too, of course it was. Because of course his son could not bring him the true leader of the Ikar Drakayith.
“He was,” the Dragonclaw answered, staring him down with eyes of shining onyx. “But no longer. I am the Child of Zormir, and it is by her will that I now lead my clan.”
She uttered the name of the forsaken leviathan like it meant anything to a man who had grown to trust his own intuition, his own eyes, over stories. It was true, as far as the rumours, the legends, went. Millions of years ago, a select group of humans believed that they could come to one day inherit draconic traits and become one with the four leviathan gods, and had set about a crusade of killing and drinking the blood of dragons. Kharlon was believed to be a direct descendant of the very first men to drink the blood of Zormir herself, and in the eyes of her people, it made her the closest thing to divinity alive.
To Halnere, though, she was naught but a petulant demon.
“Your standing with your goddess means nothing to me,” he said. “At least your father saw sense in leaving our shores alone. You are but a child playing with toys. You’ve been straying too close. Attacking our trading routes. You stir up trouble for no reason, and indeed you are becoming quite the hassle.”
There it was—a throwaway point, a slight, indirect admission that Edvar was right. That he had been right to journey all that way to get her, because having her in their custody meant saving themselves the pain of pointless loss. Having her meant having power, his father just needed to see it.
“No decision of mine is made without reason,” Kharlon tilted her head. “Is it simply not enough to enjoy the power one wields?”
“Arrogant witch,” Tsarund growled. He left the table once again, brushing off his father’s command to stay put, stalking towards her, shoulder clipping Edvar’s as he pushed past him. “My father is right. Your arrogance is childish. You are not worthy to stand here, and my brother can take you back to where he got you and they can do what they like.”
“Oh, dear,” she tutted. “You speak out of turn. Wouldn’t want to get another scalding from daddy, would you?”
In a blur too quick for intervention he reeled back his fist and let it fly. Her head snapped sideways, a spray of crimson shooting from her mouth, but she didn’t stagger.
Then slowly, so slowly, she turned back. Her eyes glowed faintly, as if embers stirred behind them.
That smirk returned, a feral crescent curving onto torn lips.
“You see, my friends. The witch is not untouchable. She bleeds the same as us,” Tsarund triumphed, pleased at the sight of her blood on his hands.
“That may well be,” she licked the blood from her lips. “But now, I suppose we shall have to see if you bleed the same as us.”
The air in the hall trembled, goblets rattling on their tables and clay pitchers shattered. The foundations groaned. Then, with a deafening, catastrophic roar, the world burst into flames.
The thatched roof tore away in shreds, collapsing as the hulking form of an enormous, onyx-black dragon smashed it to bits, her entire head blotting out the burning sky above as she parted her maw and unleashed a fire-filled scream.
Helyn the Deathless—Edvar had seen her from afar only once in battle, had been scared with bedtime stories of her as a child. The oldest dragon alive, having seen and fought through centuries of battle yet no man had come close to killing her. If the Matron had managed to bond with such a beast, there was no telling what other kind of power she wielded.
Kharlon did not move, throwing her head back with pure, incredulous laughter rippling from her throat as the inferno washed over her—but the witch did not burn. Her clothes did not catch, nor her hair, nor her horns, her skin did not melt, did not char, nor did blister. Instead, the iron cuffs around her arms and legs began to melt, dropping to the floor as the heat stripped them to nothing.
Panic instantaneously devoured the longhouse. Screaming clan folk trampled one another, scrambling blindly toward the choked exits as burning rafters collapsed into the crowd. Edvar was thrown to his knees by the blast of heat, coughing violently through the dense, black smoke.
Through the haze, he saw Kharlon raise a single grey hand toward the gaping sky. She whistled—a sharp, piercing sound that cut cleanly through the chaos. Helyn leaned her massive, scarred head lower into the ruins of the hall, letting out a low growl tremble through the structure.
In a few fluid movements, Kharlon strode forward, scaling the jagged, interlocking spires of the dragon's shoulder plates as if they were stairs. She swung herself into the heavy leather saddle strapped across the beast's neck, settling into the seat with absolute authority.
"Edvar!" a voice barked through the smoke.
It was one of his Firehearts, dragging a weeping mother and two children toward the side doors. Edvar forced his legs to move, years of training wrestling down the sheer terror attempting to freeze him in place. He grabbed a young boy by the tunic and hoisted him up, shouting orders over the roar of the flames as he guided the remaining stragglers out of the collapsing structure.
The moment Edvar burst through the shattered side entrance into the biting night air, his breath caught in his throat.
The night was gone, replaced by a devastating, hellish dawn. Looking down from the high cliffs toward the docks, his heart plummeted. Through the smoke, a dozen more dragons cut through the night, their cultist riders raining pillars of fire down upon the wooden longships and the thatched homes of the village below.
They had been tracked the entire time, he realised. Dragons had elite senses of smell, and were known to be able to track scents from islands away. They had likely been following since the moment they left Wolfmaw’s docks at their eastern village. It was his fault. It was his rogue campaign, his desperate grab for glory, that had guided the devils straight to their gates. Zormir really did want to punish them for their trespass after all.
A cry tore from his chest as he sprinted to the edge of the cliff, tracking the hulking shape of her dragon as it surged up, up, up into the night.
Kharlon had vanished, and the entire village of Rikkan along with it; consumed by flame that continued to burn for days.
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.
Summary: Roman observes once again, and he finally comes to a conclusion.
A/N- I've LOVED writing these so much. I'm kinda sad. It's done 😭😭 if yall have any fluff ideas. Please feel free to send them in!!!
Content warnings: Feelings of insecurity, mentions of alcohol and drug usage (brief).
Word count: 1342
There are a million different ways that a situation can end. There's a million ways to raise a son and to earn his love. But none of the ways his mother used makes sense to him. Not one. Now he’s had a taste of your love, he can’t imagine thinking his mother loved him, at all actually.
The morning starts like a routine for Roman, next to you. His days look very different to the way they were just a few months ago. For once he has been responsible for something good instead of evil. You are a piece of his humanity he never expected to find or even knew existed.
Roman doesn’t know how he got here. Not even a little bit. Sure he can name the steps he took. But the fact that you said yes to going out with him, having a label attached to him. He is completely baffled by it. But more than grateful for it. He had prepared for rejection, he even had a plan of how to change your mind. But he didn't need it. You were in, long before you knew you were.
His eyes begin to flutter open, a little sore from waking up and having to fall back to sleep, again over and over, mostly making sure you’re still there. But, against all odds, Roman is completely sober by choice. No high to come down from, no alcohol left diffusing in his system. No revolving door of women. His head is actually clear.
The light doesn’t really register with him because there isn’t much of it, his dark curtains only allow strands of light to enter the sanctuary that is his home. Not a house. Home. A foundation for him to build something solid on, stability for the first time in his life. Not rooted in money or control but something kinder.
He isn’t used to this yet. Feeling. Not running.It's an odd sensation for him to register until he looks down and remembers why he wants to do this. His girl. He lays on his back and you are the prettiest mess he’s ever seen. You’re laying on his stomach, he can’t see your face but he knows you’ve drooled on him. Your hair is all over him and somehow all over your bare shoulders. Your hands hold him gently. Even in your sleep, you treat him with care and it makes him feel more…emotional. This is the complete opposite of how you both were just a couple of months ago and it catches him off guard.
Being this close to you, he doesn’t have to imagine a single thing. It’s all right there. He doesn’t have to steal anything or indulge in a fleeting moment. It is all so strange. He always has this feeling to run. Dodge a bullet he’s still sure is coming but you’ve trusted him with something he can’t name and regardless of his instincts. He plans to protect it.
He reaches down to touch your hair, unapologetic. Not trying to hide the touch, though he is trying to savour it. He tries to savour all of it. Even the itch on his stomach because of your hair. You begin to stir, momentarily elbowing him in the stomach until you settle again now laying on your back, not even acknowledging his existence. The change in position has readjusted his shirt that basically swallows you. But your shoulders still stick out, your skin touches his and he doesn’t have to pretend to hate it.
By instinct he places a kiss on your shoulder, chaste, sure. It feels a lot like the moment he first realised he was a monster with feelings. Feelings that he has had to fight to access, while you have stood at the front row silently cheering him on.
He closes his eyes, lips still on your addictive skin. He kisses again and again until eventually he places a gentle kiss on your neck. He doesn’t have to observe anymore. He can live.
He rests his head on your shoulder, letting his eyes close. Memories begin playing behind his content eyes, he actually gave up the position of CEO. He gave up the Godfrey institute. Gave it to Norman who insisted that Roman keep the fortune but he’d take the business. Who was Roman to argue? He planned to let his girl have expensive taste. Then the drugs stopped, he went through hell. He questioned if every sweat was worth it, that’s when he’d end up in his bed, the sheets unwashed since you last slept in them. Then the alcohol stopped. That’s when he had to stop running. Running away from who he is. Away from his love for you that he had convinced himself wasn’t real or was the bi-product of his additions or his trauma. His love had been beyond loyal even when his actions couldn’t be.
He exhales, opening his eyes again.Though Roman can't help but slip into the old habit because he does have one last observation to make. It’s a simple one, not an emotionally complex one. You’re a fucking mircle he had never prayed for. He initially wanted you for a distraction from the world. But now you are the world. He can not believe his luck.
Your eyes begin to open in reaction to the light. You know Roman is awake, you can feel him on your shoulder. You turn your head to him, opening your eyes fully to get a good look. He's staring right back at you, focused and present. It always catches you by surprise.
“Rome?” you mumble still staring at him
His eyes light up at the nickname “Hmm?”
“You’re staring again” you poke his nose, and he scrunches it in response. “So what if i am, you’re my girl” he shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world, but it makes you feel special.
“You don’t have to do it every morning Roman, I’ll still be your girl” you amaze him, in a way that money and fancy cars can’t. The reassurance hits him, he’s still not used to receiving it. His eyes become a little tearful and he blinks slowly trying to control it. “I know, you’ll always be my girl”
You’d probably kill him if you ever found out he’d been watching since before you were together, but those are for him and him only.
He tucks your hair behind your ear, carefully like you're fragile. He knows you aren’t but something in him still is. “Are you hungry?” he begins sitting up, adjusting the blankets so you’re completely covered by them.
“Depends who’s cooking it?” Roman drops his head in his hands, still ashamed of the breakfast he cooked you.
“I’ll let Anna cook it, I won't touch another piece of bacon again I swear” you burst out laughing when roman crosses his heart and hopes to die. And he has never heard a sweeter sound in his life.
“Alright, alright, I’ll have bacon and eggs then” you begin to sit up so you can go down stairs but roman stops you.
“Where do you think you’re going?” his eye brows furrow with genuine confusion. “You’re having breakfast in bed.” He doesn't leave room for argument so you settle back down giggling at how silly this all is, how impossible it all seemed.
He places a kiss on your forehead, then disappears downstairs. You look at the photo on the bedside table, the one Roman placed there without having to be prompted. It's a simple picture that Anna managed to capture, one of you and him. Sitting in the kitchen eating takeout, after Roman had somehow burnt the pasta you were cooking. It was your first real date. It went wrong but everything felt more than right.
Roman may have his morning observations but you’ll be sticking to daily understandings, where you can help Roman be a better version of himself, better than he ever believed he could be but you always knew existed.
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