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beeandme · 2 days ago

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... had a hunch (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: sex, piv sex, vampire sex, rough(?) sex, slight choking, light gore, angst, breaking and entering, Roman being creepy (ofc), stalking, blood, reader needs to lock her damn window

summary: in the light of the murder of Brooke Bluebell, you are starting to get paranoid-- is someone watching you? and if so, who is it?

word count: 11,472

never have I ever: ← previous chapter

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*book 1 masterlist

a/n: this chapter has been SO FUN to write AHHH!!! and this is also the hottest gif ever, shoutout to Niki<33 ENJOYYYYY!!<3333

I was used to being lonely, which is why it was so odd to wake up with a feeling that I wasn't alone.

Rubbing my eyes with haste at the sound of my alarm clock going off, I blinked over and over to make sure that the chair in the corner of my room wasn't occupied. Had I seen a shadow just now, or was that just the remainder of sleep in my eye?

The chair was empty. Still. Perfectly still in the corner, just as it had been ever since the day I bought it. Nonetheless, I stayed sitting upright, covers twisted at my waist, heart thudding without a clear reason. There was nothing wrong-- not really. My door was shut. My window cracked just enough to let in the night air, same as always. Everything was where it should be, and yet, I had the distinct sense that someone had just slipped out a second before I stirred.

It must've been all the talk about the serial killer from Iowa, surely. Maybe even a touch of vargulf. Roman's manic ramblings must've gotten to me. If I was having nightly vampire dream-sex, I wouldn't dismiss my mind making up similar spooky things while awake.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, toes brushing the cold floor. A whisper of chill breeze clung to the air like it hadn't had time to fade yet; autumn must be right around the corner, now. I didn't usually get scared in my own room, I didn't get paranoid, but something about last night, calling him, had loosened something in me I couldn't put back together.

My eyes drifted back to the chair. It was empty, unmoved, yet the vague impression of warmth, or presence, still curled around the corners of the room like smoke. I shook my head and stood up, brushing it all off-- it had just been a dream. Or was it a guilt-hangover from calling Roman like that, so late, so needy? Ugh, what the fuck had I done? How was I supposed to face him at school today?

With a light groan, I stepped toward the bathroom, but something made me glance down.

The faintest imprint, a scuff maybe, or the softened shape of a shoe, was pressed into the carpet just beside my window.

... Oh.

I didn't let myself stare. I didn't let myself believe it. This was paranoia. A killer was on the loose in Hemlock Grove after all-- of course I was going insane. This was just my imagination. Hysteria?

I knew what could calm me down; my favourite little detour on my way to school.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The usual hues of sunlight shone through the thickness of the trees as I kicked at a nearby chestnut-- this had almost become a ritual whenever I came to Richmond Park.

I wasn't here often, but recently, this place had become a shrine to what had been, and what could've been; staring ahead at the tree where I had carved mine and Roman's initials all that time ago, I brought the cigarette to my lips, committing to my new smoking addiction, completely alone in the outskirts of the forest with a killer on the loose. Reckless. If I were dying on the inside, then I supposed that the monument of my love could join me in death. Kamikaze, bitches.

Last night's phone call lingered in my brain, making me cringe. What had I done? At least I got it confirmed that Roman still thought of me, dreamed of me. As I kept staring at the tree like a complete lunatic, I remembered the last time I was here with him...

"I'll be better for you," Roman's green eyes met mine, his grip around my waist loosening before he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me flush against him. "Whatever Letha says about me, I need you to not believe it. I'm asking you to kill me, in a sense."

"What?--"

"I want you to make me so sick that I die in your arms," Roman let out a shaky breath, leaning his forehead against mine as his eyes closed shut. "I think it'd make me feel good. I don't want to be so bitter and angry all the time... and I feel good with you. Really good."

My heart swelled as I brought my hands up to cup his face, my thumbs stroking over his cheeks as we stood still. There were leaves rustling in the distance, and a sweltering breeze that passed us briefly, but all in all, it was just Roman and I in this deserted area of the park. I could easily agree that it felt good, that it felt right-- just my pretty boyfriend and me.

I got up on my tippytoes, pulling Roman in for a gentle kiss. It made my heart swell, made the tips of my fingers burn as I felt his cold breath against my cheek when he exhaled through his nose.

Roman's hands pushed against the small of my back, drawing me in as close as humanly possible. The kiss deepened with every breath, with every pull of the other-- "Choose us," he pleaded, mouthing his words into my lips. "Me and you. Us."

I shivered-- if only I had listened to him.

My cigarette was halfway burnt, the ash curling dangerously close to my knuckles, but I couldn't even feel it anymore. My head was spinning, my heart was aching-- I just wanted everything to go back to how it was, to the time when I would fall asleep with Roman's head on my chest, my fingers stroking through his hair, with his arms wrapped around me... fucking Letha.

But then, amid my sulking, I heard it; the crunch of leaves behind me.

I froze.

It wasn't soft or casual, like a jogger or someone out for a walk. It was deliberate, heavy, like weight shifting from paw to paw.

I whipped around, my heart stalling in my chest, cigarette tumbling from my fingers. My eyes scanned the dense line of trees behind me, but it was already darker there, the canopy of trees hiding what little light the gray sky would give. The shuffle of leaves murmured quietly behind me, and suddenly, every rustle sounded like it was breathing. Maybe Roman was right? Maybe there truly was a vargulf on the loose?

The more I searched, the less I found. I concluded that it was nothing, as always-- still, something about the air had shifted. It was thicker now, watching me; I hated how quickly my brain fell for Roman's stupid wolf theories.

I told myself it was nonsense, but I suddenly couldn't stop imagining it. Was this the same thing I had sensed in my room this morning? The yellow eyes, the saliva, the torn skin-- why did Roman's great-grandfather's drawings have to be so grotesquely detailed? Damn the darn Godfreys.

Another sharp crack of a branch-- my whole body flinched. "Jesus Christ," I huffed, stomping down on an innocent leaf before quickly making my way back to my car. Of course there was no such thing as a vargulf, or werewolf, or whatever, but...

I wasn't about to risk it.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

For the first time in a while, I was excited to get out to school; it would hopefully distract me from this odd morning.

The parking lot was already filled up when I pulled in much later than usual, the early morning sun slanting hard across the windshield and making everything look too bright. I killed the engine and just sat there for a second, gripping the steering wheel, trying to decide whether it was stupid or brave to ask Roman to come today. Was he going to? Would we talk? Would he end up sticking his tongue down some girl's throat in front of me again? I hoped not. God, how I hoped not.

Dread and excitement piled up in my stomach as I stepped out, trying to dig the car key out of my pocket and lock the door before I could overthink any of it. I was so deep in my head, I didn't even notice the sudden giggles rolling through the lot until it was too late.

Why would a bunch of girls be giggling to themselves with delight at 08:13 in the morning? I should've known.

There he was, Roman Godfrey, walking like he was above gravity, like he didn't belong to the pavement under his boots. His backpack hung loosely over one shoulder, his dark jacket falling open just enough to hint at the grey Henley beneath it-- collar loose, like he didn't care how indecently good it looked on him. His brown hair kissed his forehead, gelled like he didn't have time, like he didn't give a damn, messier than usual, catching the morning light in just the right places.

A group of girls buzzed around him; cheerleaders mostly, the usual gang. Lips glossed, laughing, one of them gripping his bicep as she giggled at something he didn't say. He wasn't even looking at them-- he didn't need to. Actually, Roman looked annoyed as hell. I wondered whether the group of girls sometimes felt like the paparazzi; they certainly never gave him a moment's worth of peace. Did some part of him like it, though? I bet.

And then, somehow, Roman's piercing green eyes found mine through the noise.

Of course.

He saw me through the sea of laughing girls, and everything else just... vanished. The parking lot, the cars, the sound-- gone. I stood frozen by my car, clutching my car keys, lips parted as my heart abused the inner linings of my ribs.

Roman didn't smile, didn't blink. His gaze was so still, so direct, that it felt like being pinned in place by something invisible, like he could hear everything I was thinking. Nothing in that darn upir book said anything about mind-reading, so I concluded that I had to be safe from that, at least. However, I knew for certain that he could hear my heart. Fuck.

And standing there, in the middle of a crowded high school parking lot, I felt it all hit me like a second heartbeat-- hot, aching, shameful. I wanted him back. God, how I wanted him back, how I wanted it to not be like this, how I wanted to go back in time. Why were the cheerleaders clinging to my Roman? I wanted to rip them to pieces, limb by limb, every single one of them, systematically. Shouldn't they be in mourning over their captain, Brooke? Shouldn't they be sobbing in a corner somewhere, and not slobbering over Roman? I was honestly two seconds from tossing my car keys at the blonde bimbo to his left-- maybe I'd manage to jab the metal into her temple? Sideways lobotomy. Was that a thing?

As my wrath came to a simmer, and as my heart threatened to explode at the sight of Roman's full mouth, his big eyes, the broadness of his shoulders, the way he carried himself, the fact that he was here, that he had showed up, that he had done this tiny little thing for me, someone said his name and touched his other arm-- he looked away, and just like that, the spell snapped.

I exhaled so suddenly that it made me lightheaded. Roman kept walking, swallowed up by the crowd; the pom-poms followed, their voices rising again like nothing had happened, like I wasn't standing here as though struck by lightning.

And just as I realized that the parking lot had nearly emptied, that I had stood here simmering in the aftermath for a bit too long, and that I was about to be late to class, an unexpected voice cut through the fog; "I wonder who forced him to come in today,"

Jolting, I turned toward the sound.

Letha stood there, leaning against my car with her arms crossed over her chest, sleeves pushed up on that stupidly expensive lilac sweater she always wore when she wanted to look soft-- she didn't look soft now, though. Quite the contrary, she looked like something had scraped her out from the inside and left just the shape behind; her eyes were sunken, her skin was paler than usual, and she had a quiet look about her that I hadn't seen before. Usually, she was a flame that burned bright, but now?

None of that mattered.

I didn't care if she was sad. I didn't care if she was haunted. Snorting, I stuffed my car key into my backpack, refusing to keep looking at Letha. "You have quite the nerve," I hissed. "Go away. I don't want to talk to you."

"Aunt Olivia doesn't really have any influence over Roman anymore," Letha continued as though she hadn't heard me. "So it can't have been her. Was it you? Are you two talking again?"

"Fuck off," I adjusted my backpack before rounding my car, avoiding walking past Letha, yet she followed. Her expensive boots clicked lightly against the pavement as she trailed after me, not fast enough to be chasing, but close enough to make my skin crawl. I didn't look back-- I wouldn't give her that much.

"You know," she went on, voice quieter now. "It's kind of poetic. You dragged him out of bed and into the sun... That's a big deal for a upir."

"Shut up," I snapped over my shoulder-- I didn't want to have the upir conversation with Letha again, and especially not this openly for anyone to hear. All she ever did was lie, anyway.

"I mean it," she continued. "Roman listens to you."

"He can be in the sun," I spat, clutching my backpack harder.

Letha hummed behind me, shrugging to herself; "Yeah, I know. But I'm just saying, despite everything that's happened, he obviously still loves you, so... I can't have messed everything up that bad?"

The disgust that tore through my body was indescribable. There was something so vile, so insensitive, so disgusting about the way her words were formulated, like she had been waiting all week to find the perfect moment to ambush me and try to wash herself free of the guilt that was clearly ravaging her-- no.

Balling my hands into fists, I turned around on my heel, stopping in my tracks, and watched as Letha did the same with a bit of a wince, like she was convinced I would strike her if she moved a muscle.

"Oh, you little piece of--" I stopped. Inhaled. Squeezed my eyes shut. Through gritted teeth, I continued; "If it is sympathy you're looking for, I suggest you start rummaging through the trash. You fucked up. Face it."

Letha blinked at me, and I quickly noticed the smear of mascara under one of her eyes. Her mouth parted like she might say something else, something apologetic, or worse, burst into tears. "I didn't ruin everything," she breathed, mostly to herself, like a chant that would calm her down. "This is fixable. You and Roman still have a chance."

I had no pity to offer. No consolation, none whatsoever. "Roman and I weren't supposed to only have a chance," I echoed. "We were supposed to be forever. Fuck you for meddling with that."

Letha's glossy, green eyes stuck to me like the cigarette smoke I had grown to depend on-- ugly and clinging, and something I'd smell on my clothes for the rest of the day.

I adjusted my backpack over my shoulder, sniffling before landing my last blow; "Honestly, Letha? I wish it had been you that night, and not Brooke."

Something in me shifted-- I hadn't expected to blurt that out. I didn't want to see the aftermath of that sentence, along with the look of shock on Letha's face, so with all the hatred I could muster in my body, I turned again and walked toward the school.

Thankfully, Letha didn't follow.

She probably didn't want to anymore.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

I wasn't paying attention-- of course.

Mr. Deacon was talking about monks in the Middle Ages that I didn't give a crap about, but all I could think about was Roman's haunting eyes in the parking lot. With my elbow propped on the desk, with my head in my hand, I wondered whether I'd catch a glimpse of him in the hallway after this period, whether he was still avoiding me, or worse, not avoiding me-- maybe I just didn't interest him in the way I did before? Maybe my pathetic phone call last night had given him the ick?

However... he had mentioned that he dreamed of me too.

Nothing upir related, though, I was sure of it-- or was I? Perhaps we were having the same dream? I doubted that, but amid my severe boredom (and trying to distract myself from my earlier run-in with Letha), this was the only topic that distracted me well enough to tune out Mr. Deacon's voice.

It was the second-to-last period; my chances of speaking to Roman today were running out. At this point, I'd settle for walking past him in the hall, another look, a brush of his shoulder against mine as he nudged his way through the crowd-- honestly, I would take anything to keep from feeling like he had slipped entirely through my fingers.

The tip of my pen hovered over my notebook, and I was about to try to sketch something, maybe his eyes, until suddenly, the intercom buzzed; it crackled overhead like it had been zapped alive.

"Attention, students of Hemlock Grove High. Please remain calm,"

... Oh no.

My stomach turned, my head tilted up as the entire class stilled, and Mr. Deacon turned toward the speaker like he wasn't sure he'd heard it right.

"Due to an ongoing investigation, school will be dismissed immediately. All students are required to gather their belongings and make arrangements to go home. Teachers, check your emails for further instructions,"

The air went thin. For a second, no one moved-- it was like everyone was waiting for someone else to react first. Then, within the blink of an eye, chairs screeched against the floor, backpacks zipped with urgency, and phones were already out, faces glowing in the blue wash of screen light as everyone hurried to get out of the classroom. There was an odd atmosphere in the air, where people were unsure whether to be happy about the dismissal or worried about the reason why, and as I followed the stream out into the hallway, I tried to pick up on the chatter;

"What happened?"

"Oh my God--"

"-- They found a body in that park!--"

"Another girl?"

"-- In the woods, check Twitter!"

My brain scrambled to fill in the blanks. I had a bad feeling about which park the new girl could've been murdered at. The worst part was that I felt like I already knew; I just knew, in that same cold, nauseating way you know something before anyone says it out loud. Could it have happened in the same woods where I had been less than four hour ago, where the trees were thick enough to swallow sound, where I had stood with a cigarette in hand beside that stupid fucking tree with our initials carved in it?

... Were my suspicions correct? Was I being watched?

With these questions in mind, my heart thrummed in my chest, my chest aching as I clutched my phone, feeling it vibrate. Then the most damning thought landed, hard and unshakable; what if I was supposed to be next?

Just as I was about to properly spiral, now pressed from all sides in the crammed hallway, halfway to a proper panic-attack, I got nudged with a force so harsh, I let out a whimper of pain and spun to face the violent perpetrator; "Hey!" I barked, taking a few steps in the other direction of the swarm around me. "Watch where you're going, jackass!"

But the second the nudger turned around fully, the incoming words snagged in my throat.

It was Peter.

Only, it wasn't really Peter; not the one I knew. Not the same, sarcastic Peter who always had a smartass comment cocked and ready-- this version of him looked half-gone. His dark, soft waves were flattened with sweat or sleep or both, his skin waxy and tight across the bones of his face. And to make it even more eerie, his eyes were rimmed dark, hollowed out like he hadn't closed them in days. All in all, he looked like someone who had seen a ghost and never quite recovered.

Then, without warning, Peter grabbed my shoulders, his fingers digging in hard enough to make me flinch, like he needed to anchor me in place. His grip was cold and trembling as he spoke; "You need to go home now,"

"I'm-- yeah, I'm on my way now, but what's?--"

"Don't try to investigate anything, okay?" Peter panted. "Keep Roman in check, and just-- where's Letha?"

With the mention of her name, I wafted Peter's hands off me, huffing as I shivered. "Fuck off, dude! What's wrong with you? I saw Letha a few hours ago, but she's not the one who was!--"

Peter stared at me like he wanted me to shut up, so I did. But then, just like that, he shook his head; "Never mind," he muttered, twitching. "Forget it. Just-- be careful, okay?"

Before I could argue, he turned and melted back into the chaos like smoke. No explanation, no real answer-- Peter left me standing there, stomach hollow with unease.

The crowd of students was making me claustrophobic, their chatter buzzing against my ears like a swarm of flies. I pushed through, elbow-first, heart still slamming against my ribs as I moved toward the parking lot, barely feeling the cold air when I finally shoved the door open and stumbled outside.

Had another girl seriously been killed? Was this a rumour, was this real? Who could it have been?

My fingers were trembling as I unlocked my car, the weight of what Peter had said, along with what he hadn't said, dragging behind me like a shadow. My keys slipped in my grip, clattered once against the side door, and when I finally got them in, yanked the handle open, and sat down in the driver's seat--

Knock, knock, knock.

The harsh tapping against my window set me off, and I'm embarrassed to admit that I screamed-- actually screamed.

With one hand over my heart, I leaned over, panting as I rolled my window down. "You scared the shit out of me!" I barked, clutching my chest as I glanced up at my intruder.

Roman didn't flinch at my yelling, but he didn't apologize either-- he didn't usually do either of those things. He leaned into the open window like he owned the air I was breathing, one hand braced on the roof of my car as he looked down at me with that sharp, pissed-off expression. His green eyes were darker than usual, and his hair caught the last gasp of sunlight like a halo of obsidian. "You pulled into the parking lot late this morning," he said, low, deliberate. "Where the hell were you?

I blinked, still trying to breathe. "Are you kidding me, Roman?"

"No," he said, voice flat, green gaze unmoving. "Where were you?"

"... I took a bit of a detour," I didn't mean to sound defensive, but it felt somehow unavoidable; "Not a big deal. I've been doing that all week, not that you'd care to notice."

Roman's fingers twitched where they gripped the edge of the car, glaring down at me with that patronizing look I loved and hated. "Where?"

I sighed; "Remember where I went crazy and carved our initials into that tree?"

"Richmond park?"

"Yep. But I had this weird feeling that someone was watching me while I was there, and now... now someone's dead,"

"... Fuck," Roman pulled back just an inch, like my confession had knocked something loose in him. His jaw clenched, and I could see the pulse ticking in his neck-- could he hear mine right now? "That's where they found the new girl."

"Crap. I knew it," I breathed, shifting in my seat to make myself more comfortable; that was almost impossible in the presence of the beauty of my ex-boyfriend. "Do you know who it was?"

Roman sighed, folding his arms against my window ledge, resting his chin there as he stared back at me with that focused look I knew too well, green eyes gazing back at mine. "No, but I'll find out,"

He said it like a promise, a promise I loathed for his sake, but there was something heavy underneath-- it was almost as though he didn't believe it had happened again, and that we hadn't gotten far enough in our investigation to stop it. For a second, just a second, he didn't look like Roman Godfrey; the heir, the nightmare, the heartbreaker. Now, he looked like a boy too young to carry everything he did.

"Rome..." I tried, softer now. My fingers hovered near the window ledge before I slowly reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead. It was wind-tousled and glossy, catching the last of the light like black silk. I don't know what made me do it-- habit, maybe. Care. Stupidity?

I felt Roman tense beneath my touch, but he didn't pull away; that gave me enough hope to go on. His big, green eyes rounded out like he couldn't believe he was letting me do this, so I chose my next words wisely; "You should be careful," I murmured, thumb brushing the line of his temple. "I know you have that direct line to the police intercom, but... I told you I don't want you to do this alone. What if you hop in, and I can take you back to my place, so we can check it out together? My parents will only be happy to see you, and you can stay for dinner, and--"

Roman recoiled like I had struck him.

Not violently, no-- just quick, sharp, like his body had made the decision before his brain could. He straightened fully from the window, tapping his hand twice on the roof of my car before he took a step back. "Don't," he said. The word was quiet, but it hit harder than a shout.

My heart clenched in a manner I was way too used to these days; "I wasn't-- I didn't mean--"

"I'll go figure out who it was," Roman said, shaking his head once, twice. "Get home safe, okay? Text me when you get there."

"But--"

"I know it takes sixteen minutes from here to your house, so if I don't get a text by that time, I'm calling your mom to confirm that you're home,"

I gasped; "Roman, what the fuck?!--"

He cut me off with a swift, dismissive motion of his hand, no longer the brooding, impossible Roman I knew, but someone who just needed control, order, and something to hold onto in the chaos. "Just stay put," he ordered, his green eyes locking onto mine. "I'm going to be careful, but only if you go home with no detours."

Blinking, I didn't know what else to do than nod. There was no way in hell I'd go through having one more conversation with my mom about why Roman and I broke up, which I knew would be triggered if he called her.

"But you two were so perfect for each other!" Oh, I know. "Did he do something wrong?" Well... "I bet he'd take you back if it was somehow your fault, you two just need to talk to one another!" Too late for that. "Young love... unnecessarily complicated. I don't miss it." No shit, mom.

I sighed; "Ugh, fine... Just please don't call my mom, because then she's going to think it's okay to call you and ask you to come over for dinner all the time, and... I don't need my mom playing matchmaker in the middle of this,"

With that, Roman smirked-- just the faintest crack in his armour as he took a step back, his eyes never leaving mine. "Deal,"

Then, without another word, Roman turned and disappeared down the parking lot, leaving me alone with my racing heart and a sudden appetite for dinner. I did my best not to stare at him as he walked away, scanning the broadness of his back, how good his legs looked in those light jeans--

Oh, I needed to sink my teeth into something, alright.

... Preferably Roman's shoulders, but dinner would do for now.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

"Why would anyone love a monster?" Roman whispered-- and that was when I knew I was back in the dream.

However, there was something new about the way he moved tonight, with slightly hesitant strokes, like he didn't quite trust himself. I could only whimper against Roman's shoulder, clinging harder, like I could pull the doubt out from his back with my fingers, like I could dig deep enough to reach the part of him that still believed he was capable of goodness, of true love.

But then, in the midst of the daze, in the midst of my pleasure, the dream diverted and diverged down a different road, one it had never taken before--

"Because," I breathed. "You're not a monster."

Roman stilled, like the sentence had stunned something vital in him. His breath caught, hot and shallow, before he pulled forward and kissed me like I had blasphemed, like I had dared to call the devil a saint, and he wanted to make sure no one else heard my sin. "Gonna-- Gonna keep you safe," he murmured against my lips. "Gonna love you-- forever."

Forever.

Even dream-sequence Roman knew our magic word; touché.

His thrusts deepened, bucking into me like he couldn't help himself, like nothing could ever drag him away from this pleasure. This was nothing like he would usually fuck me in my dreams, with confidence, with decisive control-- what was happening?

Then, with a ragged breath, he slowed and pulled out to flip me in his arms; not rough, not urgent, but reverent, like he was reorienting the dream around something more sacred than dominance. Was reality perhaps infiltrating my dreamland? Roman lay behind me now, one of his thighs nudging mine open again, his chest pressed to my back, his hand sliding over my hip to guide me back to him; I could only gasp as his cock entered me again, letting out a shaky moan as the usual stretch sent shivers up my spine. In this position, it was impossible not to notice how massive Roman was compared to me, how small I felt in comparison, and it made my brain buzz.

We moved like that, spooned and aching, his mouth close to my ear, his breath ghosting down the column of my throat as his thumb circled my clit in lazy motions. I arched against him, feeling an odd type of purr building in me from the comfort-- seriously, what the hell was happening to my upir sex dream?! Was this just a sweet, normal one, this time around?

But then, of course, I was proven wrong.

Then, like he had been waiting for the right moment, like he was done buttering me up, Roman's hand slid up from my waist to my throat. Not tentative, not cautious-- claiming. His fingers spread beneath my jaw, thumb pressing gently under the hinge, while the rest of his palm flattened over my pulse like he wanted to feel my heart beat for him, like it turned him on to feel my heart. My breath hitched instinctively, but I didn't pull away; I couldn't. Not when his cock was still inside me, slow and thick, grinding deeper like he was trying to anchor himself inside my body, like he wanted me to feel how overpowered I was in his presence.

And then Roman's voice, no longer warm or tender, cut through the silence, low and feral, close enough that it felt like it came from inside me;

"Mine,"

It wasn't romantic. It wasn't reassuring.

It was a threat.

I felt it in my chest, in the base of my spine, in the part of me that the tip of his cock brushed against over and over. Roman's grip didn't tighten, but the intention was there, like this was a reminder that he could snap me in half if he wanted to, and that knowledge alone made me clench around him.

Roman could kill me. Roman was a upir.

"Don't you fucking see?" he whispered, his fangs brushing the shell of my ear, the words so viciously tender they made me shiver. "You're the-- only thing I want, the only fucking thing in this world that isn't rotten, and if anyone tries to touch you-- tries to take you-- from me--"

Did he mean the vargulf?

I didn't get any time to think about it-- Roman cut himself off with a grunt, and in one fluid, brutal motion, he pushed himself deeper, past what he knew I'd allow in real life. I gasped, my fingers flying up to grip the forearm pressed firm against my collarbone, trying to ground myself as his cock dragged inside me over and over, the pressure making my toes curl. "Rome-- a-ah, I--" There wasn't much I could do with my body pressed up against him like this, with one big, strong hand around my throat keeping me flush to his chest, so I allowed myself to succumb to the pleasure of it all.

Then, Roman's fangs grazed that fragile tendon at the base of my neck, and I could feel the restraint in him fraying-- so thin, so threadbare, that it was a miracle he hadn't already sunk his sharp teeth into me. "I'll rip their goddamn hearts out," he snarled against my skin. "I'll tear the world apart, limb by limb-- anyone that tries-- to hurt you."

His possessiveness wasn't sweet; it was brutal, like I was being fucked by an instinctual animal. Of course. I was getting fucked by a upir-- what did I expect? "Love you," was all I managed to say, letting my head rest against him, feeling my body buzz from the unrelenting circles around my aching clit.

At that, Roman pushed his hips harder, dragging guttural moans from my throat that I had never emitted before. "Say it," he demanded, the fingers on my throat twitching like he wanted to squeeze and kiss me in the same breath. "Say you're mine. Say it, or I swear to God-- I'll fuck it out of you, ngh--"

My breath hitched; I tried to speak, but all that came out was a broken, desperate sound, too wrecked to be a word. Roman groaned against my skin, savage and triumphant, like he knew exactly where he had me-- it was unlike him to be so... rough?

Upir, upir, upir.

... But not a scary one.

"Yours," I breathed. "Yours."

Roman's big, protective arm wrapped around me like a hug from behind, and he let out a quiet moan into my neck, careful not to be so loud, in typical male fashion. In real life, he knew I loved to hear him. He knew, he knew-- knew what it did to me to hear him wrecked by the sensations. I wanted to go back to that, wanted the real Roman to come to me so, so bad, to kiss my neck without me fearing he'd pierce it.

And then, as if he had heard me; "I'm full tonight," he murmured, almost as though he was comforting me. "Wake up, now."

My breath caught. "What?"

"Come back to me. Wake up and tell me that," Roman pressed a soft, reverent kiss to my neck, slowing down his thrusts, his motions around my clit-- "Wake up and tell me you're mine."

Something in me cracked; with a loud, all-taking sob, I awoke.

I sat upright fast, sheets tangled around my legs, sweat cooling over my skin in clammy patches, and I immediately reached for my neck.

There was nothing there, of course. No bite marks, no bruises. My fingers skimmed the soft skin just below my jaw where Roman's hand had been, half-expecting to feel the echo of his palm still stamped across my pulse, a reminder of my beating heart. It was stupid, it was impossible, and yet the ghost of him lingered-- the warmth, pressure, that trembling, protective hunger he'd held me with. God.

I let out a low, broken sound and rubbed the side of my neck harder, trying to shake the feeling. I swallowed and finally let my eyes adjust to the dark in my room, realizing I couldn't see anything. Scooting toward my window with a groan, I pulled my curtains apart just a smidge to allow some moonlight to shine in-- and that was when I realized my window was open.

My breath caught in my throat as I remembered this morning.

The footprints. The shadow. The park. The new death.

My whole body went cold-- there was no sound, not even the hum of my fan, not the rustle of the wind outside. Just the paralyzing quiet of something unnatural in the room with me, something that shouldn't be there, something that had no reason to exist outside the dream I had just left.

Slowly, I peeled my fingers off the curtain and twisted on the bed. First my shoulders, then my spine, reluctant as ever as my eyes dragged across the room in pieces, shapes blooming out of the dark one at a time; my desk, the corner of my bookshelf, the faint glint of light catching the edge of my mirror--

-- and then I saw it.

Him.

Roman.

Sat in the same chair as this morning, his body was relaxed in that obscene, deliberate way villains are when they know they've already won-- elbows balanced on the armrests like he had been waiting hours. He tilted his head the barest inch, studying me like someone with fangs might study a wound before biting deeper. The moonlight caught the angle of his cheekbones, the unholy stillness of his jaw, and his green eyes, glowing, sharp, and awake, like lights flipping on in the dark, immediately locked onto mine with predator clarity. No blinking. No hiding. He was here, and he was making himself known, this time.

It was as though he had been posted here to guard me.

Still, that didn't startle me any less. What did, was what I noticed he was holding.

Two small glass vials swung lazily between his fingers, catching the light like tiny haunted ornaments. One filled with his blood. One with mine.

With a loud hitch of my breath, I pulled my sheets over my body, my blood running cold with the shock. "Fuck!" I yelped, my eyes welling with tears-- that always happened when I got properly scared. I lowered my voice, careful not to wake my parents, hissing; "Roman, what the fuck?!"

I saw the slight rise of his chest, heard the soft creak of the chair beneath his weight. And then, slowly, too slowly, Roman's fingers unlinked, pulling the vials into the palm of his hand. "Must've been quite the dream," he pondered out loud, cocking his head again, that same quiet, morbid interest in his face as he watched the vials. "You were practically humping your sheets."

"And you've just-- you've been watching me?" Horror washed over me, culminating in yet another aggressive hiss; "How long have you been here, you perv?!"

"Long enough," Roman scanned me, brows drawing together as he saw how I was clutching my sheets over my body. He looked like he couldn't piece together why I was hiding from him; he had already seen everything he could've possibly seen before, right? But then, he saw it. "Oh, so that's where that went?" he said.

I hadn't caught up, still shifting in my bed, trying to still my breath from the scare. "What went?"

"My t-shirt," Roman mumbled, pointing to the big, white Levi's tee I was wearing with the same hand that held the vials. "When did you manage?"

"That's not important!" I hissed, letting the duvets drop, yet my fingers remained clutched around the fabric as though it might save me. "How did you find the vials? Why are you in my room?!"

With a shrug and a sigh, Roman spread out in the chair as he avoided my first question. "Just... making sure you're alright,"

"What?"

"I don't like the thought of you all... helpless and sleeping," he mumbled, put on the spot. "Vargulf on the loose, and all."

... Oh.

My fingers twitched around my sheets before I let them go, folding my legs and rubbing my eyes. There was something quiet and reserved about Roman's tone, yet something so painfully real-- he hadn't allowed himself to get to this level of depth with me since we broke up. "I'm fine, Rome," I tried, the nickname slipping past my lips before I could stop myself. "But you can't just... show up like this. How long have you been sitting here?"

Roman shrugged, no longer looking at me. "Not too long,"

"... Rome--"

"Stop calling me that," He fidgeted in the chair, much less composed now. "You're usually asleep by one in the morning, so I came by around one-thirty. Your moaning has kept me up, though."

"... Usually?"

Roman didn't answer that-- not right away.

Instead, he turned his face toward the window like he was studying the moonlight, or refusing to meet my eyes. His fingers closed around the vials, protecting them, and when he finally spoke again, his voice was lower, rougher; "I found out who it was,"

That stopped me cold. "Was it Letha?"

"No...?" Roman mumbled, shooting me a sideways glance.

"Okay, good,"

"... Why?"

"Because I told her this morning that I wished it had been her," The confession was a lot more vulnerable than I had thought it would sound out loud. "That night Brooke died. And I just wouldn't want to actually jinx anyone, that's all."

Roman clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth; "Right..." he started, nodding slowly to himself before his gaze darted back to the vials, pressing them together until they made a clinking noise. "No, it was Jasmine."

My breath caught in my throat, and I shifted in my bed, feeling my head throb. "Fuck," I breathed. "I hated that bitch."

"I know," Roman didn't blink, didn't move. "I hated her too, for what she did to you. Remember how she smashed your phone? Cut up your hands with those shards?"

"Yeah, but--"

"Your pretty, little hands..." he echoed, lost in thought as he watched the blood inside the vials move from side to side. "If anything, I might've been the one to jinx her. I wanted her dead. I think I even tried to kill her, in my own way."

I inhaled deeply; "I know,"

Finally, Roman's green eyes darted up to meet mine. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the vials still glinting in one hand, and his hair fell forward a little, casting shadows across his face. "You know?"

"Yeah, I know," I mumbled. "I remember watching you in the hallway telling her something, and then when you left, she started slamming her head into her locker. She bled a lot. She got a concussion. It's a bit blurry, but I know that was you. It took me a while, but... yeah."

Roman blinked, unsure how to react. Tongue-tied, he could only swallow. "You must've--" He cleared his throat, avoiding my eyes before continuing; "You must've been scared when you figured it out."

Well...

"Honestly, Roman?" With a sigh, I scooted forward on the bed to get closer to him. "Now that Letha isn't telling me fake crap in my ear about how dangerous you supposedly are, I find it kind of hot. It was kind of sweet to figure out that you were... seeking revenge for my sake. Is that sick of me?"

Roman let out the faintest snort, more a breath than a laugh, but there was something like relief in it, like he'd been holding his breath without knowing. "Definitely," he muttered, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Sick and twisted."

I smiled, small and crooked; "Takes one to know one,"

His eyes flicked up again, slower this time, like he was studying me instead of just glancing. "Oh, what's this? You're not scared of the big, bag upir?"

I tilted my head, giving him a look he knew too well. "You know I love you to death,"

"Not to death," Roman corrected, his jaw ticking. "You're not dying. Not on my watch." With that, he put the vials down on the table next to him, following them with his eyes. Something told me that the thought of me dying made him beyond anxious, and shortly after, his right leg gave in to a bounce.

A chill settled over the room like fog as I let out a quiet sorry. My eyes flicked to the open window, then back to Roman's silhouette in the dark. "Well..." I started, shivering in the cold leaking in. "It's a shame about Jasmine, although she was a bitch. Did you hear anything about it over the intercom?"

Roman shrugged, disassociating; "It's the exact same situation as Brooke. Torn up, mangled, but just that Jasmine had one leg intact,"

With that image in mind, I gagged, clasping a hand over my mouth as I looked away. That was vile, that was horrid. It's an odd thing for someone you know to die, no matter who it is. And for it to be so brutal? No, that was gnarly. "Poor girl," I breathed, shuddering.

Roman watched me react, confused that it was hitting me like this; something told me that he was so deep in this manic state that he didn't think too clearly about how gruesome the details were, and how someone else might react to it. "Do you... perhaps know anyone that was targeted by these girls?" he eventually asked. "Because so far, the vargulf has only killed cheerleaders. You used to be a part of Letha's gang, so... do you remember anyone that could've hated both Brooke and Jasmine?"

Oh. I had suppressed this part of my past. "There were a few girls, yeah," I mumbled. "I don't remember any specific names, though, so I'll have to dig a bit and come back to you on that one. But could the vargulf be a girl? Is that possible?"

"I really hope so,"

"... Why?"

Roman swallowed, rubbing his palm down his thigh to alleviate his anxiety. "That's for another time," he mumbled. "I've kept you up for long enough."

I blinked, surprised by the abrupt shift in him, and the way his tone closed off again like a door quietly latching shut. "You don't have to go," I tried, quicker than I meant to. My voice was soft, too soft, and even I heard the thread of something whiny in it. "It's late. You're already here."

Roman got up, rising to his full height. He didn't meet my eyes this time. "That's exactly why I should go," he muttered, brushing his hair back with one hand, balling up the other. "This, whatever this is, gets confusing whenever I stay too long."

My throat tightened-- I stayed on the bed, sitting up straighter, fighting the instinct to reach out and stop him physically. Then, it came flowing out of me before I could stop it; "How long do you usually stay, then?"

Roman froze, turning slightly, his silhouette outlined in the moonlight that streamed through the window. "What?"

"When you watch me sleep," I breathed, feeling my heart thudding against my ribs. "That's why you didn't come over last night, right? When I called you at three in the morning?" The more I thought it out loud, the more my heart abused my inner linings, and my next words came with a whisper; "Because you had already been here at one thirty?"

Roman didn't move, didn't breathe. His eyes were wide, too wide. Not with anger, not with fear-- just guilt. Guilt, like a kid who had been caught doing something he shouldn't, doing something he swore he wouldn't. "You're too smart for your own good," he mumbled.

"And you've worried yourself sick," I said. "You don't have to sit here and watch me to make sure I'm alright. I'd rather you slept."

"I just-- I hate this," Roman hissed, turning away to gaze at the open window, and my curtains flowing away from it with soft motions. "I hate that you had to go and trust Letha instead of me. I hate that I'm so mad at you, because... this timing is awful. I'd rather we were okay, so I could keep you safe without this being so fucking complicated."

"You have all the right in the world to be mad at me, Roman,"

"I don't want to be,"

"But you are,"

"I am," he echoed, and the way it left his mouth felt like it had taken something from him, like saying it out loud stole air he couldn't afford to lose. He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing a single, restless step toward the window. "Don't be sympathetic," he chanted, mostly to himself. "Hate me too. Come on, now."

My heart ached at the sight of him; "I could never hate you,"

"Well, I could definitely hate you," Roman snapped his head toward me then, eyes rimmed in moonlight, green irises glinting sharp, glossy, and angry. "You told me that night that you had thrown out my fucking vial, and I spent three hours--" A heave. A pointed finger my way, wavering. "I didn't know what to do with myself that night you found out about me, so I spent three hours walking back and forth to school along the highway, just in case you had thrown it out of your window on your way home. Three. Hours!"

Three hours.

Alone.

On the highway.

"Rome," I tried, but it was a breath, not a word.

"I wish you hadn't called last night," he breathed. "I wish I didn't know."

My throat burned. My eyes were hot. The tears didn't fall with ceremony-- they just slipped out, one after the other, down the slope of my cheeks, falling straight from the wound he'd opened and didn't know how to close.

Wake up and tell me you're mine.

"I'm so sorry," Wake up and tell me you're mine. "I hid it because the blood was affecting you," Wake up and tell me you're mine. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I wouldn't do that to you on purpose," Wake up and tell me you're mine. "I love you. I'm yours. And you are free to do whatever you want with that information. Discard it, tear it up, forget it... You don't ever have to forgive me. No one is forcing you to do that. But you need to give it back to me."

Roman turned his face halfway, enough that the downturned line of his mouth was visible. It looked wrong, strained, haunted, like it quivered to sob and kiss me all at once. "What?"

I held out my hand; I saw what he was clutching in his, what he thought he had gotten away with. "I'll take care of it," I breathed. "Give me the vial."

Roman didn't move right away. His head dipped slightly, chin angling toward his chest like he had just taken a blow; not a hard one, but the kind that makes you sit with yourself for a second. His shoulders sank, and for a moment, he just stood there like he was holding onto one last shred of resistance.

Then, he huffed. A small, tired sound, not angry, just... disappointed. The moonlight caught the edge of his face, and when he finally looked at me, I saw it clearly; he hated how well I saw through him.

"Oh well," Roman muttered, opening his palm and holding the vial of my blood up by the chain, the glass swinging faintly between us; "So much for subtlety." He stepped closer and dropped it into my hand with a faint clink of metal against skin. "Happy, now?"

I sighed, my fingers curling around the vial. "You gave it a shot, Robin Hood,"

"Oh, I wasn't planning on giving that to the poor," Roman mumbled, watching as I put it away on my nightstand. "Was gonna wear it while jacking off to French postcards of your mother."

Horrified, I could only gasp. "What the fuck?!" Oh, if looks could kill, I'd have a dead upir on my floor. I grabbed my pillow, throwing it at Roman in hopes of muting that damn inappropriate smirk of his.

With ease, he caught the pillow against his chest with a lazy arm and didn't bother to throw it back. His smirk faltered before it ever really settled, like he knew it was a low blow, like he knew he wanted me to laugh, but didn't have it in him to be funny.

"I'm sorry," Roman said, barely beneath his breath.

I didn't answer-- I didn't know how. I just watched him, watched the way his eyes dropped to my nightstand, like the vial still had gravity over him even now that it was gone from his palm, wondering whether he'd try to have a go at stealing it again. "Why do you want it back so bad...?" I asked, genuinely curious. "Is it the scent?"

Roman's jaw ticked. A muscle flexed in his cheek, like he wanted to argue, but didn't have the energy to lie. His green eyes didn't leave the vial while he spoke; "You have a very particular one, yeah,"

"Oh...?"

Roman looked over at me then, finally, and his eyes were quieter than I expected. No fire-- just that low-burning thing that lived beneath it. After a moment, he took a step back. Then another.

He turned toward the window, brushing the curtain back with a hand that lingered just a second too long. "I can't--" He stopped. Corrected. Glanced at me with that torn look that would haunt me for days, and finally spoke;

"You smell like hope."

Before I could answer, before I could stop him, Roman was already lifting himself over the ledge, already halfway out, the night air catching in his hair. My hands caught the duvets, pulling at them as my words choked me, halfway to a cry.

The room felt colder the second he was gone, like something had been sucked out of it, of me, and left nothing but the echo of where he had previously stood. The window, still open, let the wind crawl over the floorboards. It whispered against the curtains like it was mocking me, and I wanted it all to go away, to stop, to fuck off to where it came from.

With a lone stream of tears rolling down my cheek, I got up, feeling like my whole body was made of cement as I fetched my pillow. Heavy as stone, I crawled back into bed, my ribs shaking with my building sobs, and I eventually let my body give in to the urge to give up. Pressing my face into my pillow, I ached, I cried, and soon it was warm with my breath; if only it had been warm with the body of the man I loved.

Stupid, stupid, stupid Roman. Stupid fucking bastard, watching me sleep, stealing my stuff-- oh, how I loved him. How I loved him, like my lungs loved air. How I loved him, like my veins loved blood. Stupid, beautiful, violent, cursed Roman. Was he gone for good? Would he never be mine again? Was this how this would be from now on?

Then...soft.

So soft I almost imagined it; the faintest scuff against the floorboards. Not wind. Not night. Something human, something deliberate.

I stopped breathing.

Turned.

He was here.

Framed in the moonlight again, half-shadow, half-boy. One foot in the room, the other still on the sill, like he hadn't made up his mind even now. His chest was rising like he had run back to me.

Roman didn't speak.

His eyes flicked over me; first the curve of my knees drawn up under the blanket, then the way I was blinking too fast, too wet. And then he just... stepped down into the room, slowly, like something in him might break if he moved too quickly.

I sat up a little, the blanket still clutched like armour. I was afraid to speak, afraid to push him away, afraid to say the wrong thing and make him run. Blinking through the tears, I felt my heart thrumming with nail-biting tension. "I-- I thought you left," I whispered, voice hoarse.

"I did," Roman breathed.

Fuck.

Then, he moved.

Not a lunge, not violent, just sudden. I didn't even see the decision happen, didn't see the switch; it must've happened outside. One second, he was standing in the quiet, and the next--

Roman's knees dug into the soft fabric as my back landed against the mattress, and his broad shoulders caged me in as he hovered on top of me, staring down at me with that look I knew too well; the one he had when he couldn't stop himself anymore, when he couldn't contain the urge to have me.

And just as I remembered it, he lowered himself just enough for the tip of his nose to nudge mine, and I let out a shaky sigh against his lips; this was my Roman. This was how I remembered him. This was us. This was the ritual. This was sacred.

Roman didn't kiss me right away; he hovered close enough that I could feel the heat of him, the trembling restraint in his body. His hair fell forward, a dark curtain that brushed my cheek, and his breath was warm against my mouth, shallow, like he was afraid to exhale.

My fingers slipped into his hair, pulled him closer without thinking, scared he might leave. His weight came down gently, careful not to crush me, and I felt his hand slip behind my neck like he needed to keep me tethered, like I might vanish too.

Then, gently, so gently, it happened; Roman's lips met mine. He kissed me like every shape and angle of my mouth was familiar and holy-- and God, he was soft. His lips were plush, slow-moving, barely parted; they pressed, then hovered, then pressed again, tentative like a first time, and yet sure like he had done this a thousand times before.

My breath hitched.

He smelled like wind and night, but his skin was warm, so warm, and when his hand found the side of my face, I leaned into it instinctively, like I had been built for that palm. The pad of his thumb grazed the corner of my jaw, and his mouth, still on mine, shifted just slightly, tilted, fit better, knew better. Roman knew how to kiss me-- oh, how he knew.

The way he moved wasn’t greedy, but reverent, and something in it was so heartbreakingly familiar, like curling into your own bedsheets after months away, like exhaling into the collar of your favourite shirt; this was him. This was my Roman.

Wake up and tell me you're mine.

But then I felt it; the shift. The subtle tightening in his shoulders, the way his hand softened its grip on my face, like he was already letting go, and Roman sighed against my lips, just barely-- it was the kind of sound you make when something inside you caves.

Slowly, he pulled back. My hands in his hair melted, unsure whether to hold on or let him slip away once again, and I felt my eyes well with tears all over again.

Roman's green eyes opened, searching mine in the dark, and for a moment, I thought he might lean in again-- but he didn’t. His hand slid from my face, down my jaw, briefly brushed my shoulder, and then, he rose, careful and reluctant, as if detaching from me hurt; as if my body had become part of his, and leaving it would leave a mark.

"No more detours," Roman breathed. I couldn't see him in the darkness, couldn't read him, and my heart raced as he continued; "I could get a PI on you at any moment, so you better fucking behave. I want you safe. I need you safe."

Sniffling, I sat up, watching him slide off my bed. "Just don't do anything stupid," I breathed. "Promise me that you won't."

Roman paused at the window, one hand curling around the frame. The wind ruffled his shirt, but he stood still, like something in him didn’t want to leave.

He glanced back at me over his shoulder, a shadow cut in moonlight. His mouth tilted-- not a smile, not a smirk.

And then, Roman slipped out into the night without a promise, without a trace.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The next day at school was more somber than the other-- I was getting used to this.

A second girl had been killed within a week, and the atmosphere was filled to the brim with scared kids, and ignorant assholes making jokes about brutal murders.

"Who's gonna make the podcast?" Peter huffed, squinting against the lighter’s flare-- he was the prime example of said assholes. "We could get a lot of money if we monetized this. It would be, like, live updates on a live case! Imagine the cash."

I shot him a glare as I took the cigarette from his fingers. “You’re disgusting,"

Why had I said yes to yet another meeting of the dirty mistress club?

“Disgusting and broke,” Peter said, unbothered. He leaned back against the brick wall behind the gym, his shirt collar up against the chill, eyes flicking toward the empty field beyond the fence. “Anyway, I wouldn’t be the host. You’ve got the voice for it. You could narrate murder like you’re reading bedtime stories.”

"Oh, fuck off,"

"Or, if you read it like it's a really dirty story, I bet we could get Roman to fund it! Bet he'd love to hear you moaning out the details of some gory murder,"

"Fuck off!" I smacked Peter's arm, grimacing as he laughed. "Roman isn't turned on by this bullshit!"

"He isn't...?" Peter reached for the cigarette we were sharing before I was ready to give it away, and he took a protective step back just in case I were to reach for it again. "I'd have thought he was walking around with a constant boner. Girls he's been with getting bloodied? Come on, now. Bet your upir is enjoying this to some extent."

I shivered; I had forgotten that Roman had screwed both Brooke and Jasmine. Why was the love of my life such a manwhore? "He's not enjoying it. He's worried sick," I mumbled, staring longingly at the cigarette. "He was in my room last night."

Peter's thick eyebrows jumped, his grin souring as he exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “Oh, he was, huh?”

I gave him a look; “Don’t,”

“I’m not saying anything,” he said, raising both hands like he was innocent. “I’m just saying if he were in my room the night a second girl turned up dead, I might be checking for fang marks in the morning.”

“Roman didn’t bite me, Peter," Only in my damn dreams. "He told me he thinks the vargulf is a girl. He was very adamant that he hoped it was, and... honestly? I'm convinced this thing is real, at this point."

Peter shifted beside me, suddenly quiet. His mouth opened like he had something to say, but he just nodded, sucking down another drag with slightly more force than usual. The humor had drained from his face, leaving behind something tight in his jaw, something almost... guilty.

I narrowed my eyes. “What?”

“Nothing,” he huffed. The lie was so thin it practically floated. “Just... girl vargulf, huh? That’s new. Makes sense, though. Girls are fucking crazy.”

I didn’t laugh-- neither did he.

For a second, all I could hear was the wind scraping dry leaves along the pavement and the faint drone of morning announcements spilling out from the cracked gym window. Then, I squinted at Peter, but he didn’t meet my eyes. “You looked really fucked up yesterday. I mean, you always look a little fucked up, but... you were being really weird when I saw you in the hallway yesterday,”

Peter snorted, but it didn’t have any bite. “We’re smoking behind a high school during a murder investigation. Everyone’s being weird,”

"What happened, though?" I asked. "Why were you looking for Letha?"

"I was worried," he bit back. "Someone was dead, and I was looking for my girl."

"You guys aren't together anymore. She's not your girl,"

"Neither are you and Roman, yet he's breaking into your room and hunting a wolf for you," Peter finally handed me the cigarette, squaring me up. "Letha's always gonna be my girl, just like you're always gonna be his."

The lit cigarette between my fingers were somehow symbolic of how Peter's words lit something in my stomach. Roman's girl. After how he had kissed me last night, it seemed he agreed. With a small smile rising across my lips, I inhaled a drag before holding the cigarette out for Peter to take, passing it over.

But when he didn't take it from me, I glanced up at him, brows drawn together.

My blood ran cold; Peter looked like he had seen a ghost. His eyes had gone wide, locked on something just past my shoulder. I turned slowly, like I already knew what I’d find, and there he was;

Roman.

This was becoming a deja vu.

He stood at the edge of the gym wall like he had materialized from the shadows, his shirt billowing in the morning wind, eyes locked on Peter with a look I had never seen before. He held his own cigarette, unlit, probably coming here to smoke too. There was no snark in his green eyes, no jealousy, no wounded boyish glower-- just murderous rage.

Roman scoured the scene before him; his on-and-off girlfriend with his ex-best friend, sharing a cigarette. This was bad. This was so bad.

Before I could speak, before Peter could even register what was happening, Roman was moving, storming toward us like a force of nature. The cigarette slipped from my fingers and hit the pavement with a hiss, and Peter turned just in time for Roman to grab a fistful of his collar and slam him back against the brick wall. The thud was brutal, a sick crack of spine and mortar, and I flinched, letting out a sound between a squeak and a yelp; "Roman!--"

"Oh, you piece of shit!" he yelled, green eyes glowing with fury.

“What the fuck, dude?!--” Peter started, but Roman shoved him harder.

“Shut up!"

Roman's hand was twisted in Peter’s collar so tightly that the fabric was stretching at the seams, pressing him into the bricks like he might put his old friend through the wall.

“Roman, stop it!” I shouted again, stepping forward instinctively. "This is not what it looks like!"

He didn’t look at me-- not even a flick of his eyes. He was locked on Peter, jaw clenched, pupils blown wide, and for a second, I thought I saw his lips twitch like he was fighting the urge to bare his teeth. "We had a deal!" Roman yelled. "You and your filthy fucking paws were going to leave us alone! What the fuck have you done, man?!"

Peter tried to speak, but Roman shoved him again, and this time Peter’s head knocked the wall. “No, stop it!” I shouted again, panic creeping into my voice. "We were just smoking, it's not what!--"

"Fuck you, I haven't done anything!" Peter spat, launching at Roman's hands; neither of them were hearing me. His brown eyes were wild now, not just angry-- scared. "Are you fucking serious right now?! Who do you think I am?--"

"I don't know you anymore!" Roman shouted, tightening his grip around the collar. "You are not my business, I don't give a flying fuck about what you do, but this has gone too far!"

Peter twisted, snarling; "What are you accusing me of?!--"

"Why are you turning against the moon?!" Roman spat.

My stomach turned. What?

"You said you never!--"

“Yeah, I don’t!” Peter shouted, his voice cracking. “I never fucking do that, are you out of your mind?! Jesus, are you listening to yourself?”

Roman shoved him again, pinning him like prey. "All the girls that are going against Letha right now are dying one by one, and you smell like blood! You think I don't know what a rabid animal smells like?!"

My head felt like it was about to blow. What was he saying? Rabid animal? Blood? The moon? "What is going on?" I begged, taking a step closer to grip Roman's arm, hoping it would yank him back to his senses.

At that, Peter's big, brown eyes shot toward mine, silently telling me to back off. Who was I to go up against an angry upir? With my breath stuck in my chest, I backed off, watching the crackling intensity shooting back and forth between them.

Peter swallowed hard, his hands clenched into fists over Roman's grip on his collar. "Watch it, now," he hissed. "You really think I have that in me?"

Roman’s grip tightened, and I could hear the faint creak of stretched fabric. "You're the only one with a tail to tuck between your legs," he spat. "I don't know any other werewolves in town."

I stared between them, something sharp catching in my chest.

For the first time, I wasn’t sure who I should be afraid of.

(a/n: omg this is getting juicy, FINALLLLYYYY!!! thank you if you've read this far!!<33)

never have I ever: ← previous chapter

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*book 1 masterlist

lovely little taglist:

@strmborns @eugsposts @ellie1725 @amidthechaos

@likecherriesinthespring @lussuria-zephyr @kittydiarys @4everangelblogger

@go-fuck-yourselfs-posts @dreamxaboutxsomethingxnice @sweatyconnoisseurstrawberry @burningmiraclekingdom

@malenoradgn @authorscurse @st4rgirlmar1e @mariaenchanted

@iamaslytherin0 @immernixia @strmborns @eugsposts

@voidpixies @fish-eyes-png @muchwita @succubustacy

@fleetingsolicitude @cemyxo @voidofsunlight @literally-lani

@kkuniki1816 @sn0wybowie-blog @witchofozz @carmillavalentine

#saving for later

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beeandme · 19 days ago

Text

fragile

pairing: bill skarsgård x female reader

summary: y/n and bill have grown apart after a traumatic experience

warnings: major angst, unplanned and unwanted pregnancy, miscarriage, depression, self-harm, guilt, suicidal thoughts, mentions of substance abuse and abortion, blood, trauma (please be careful while reading this!)

word count: 2883 words

a/n: i've put off posting this fic for a little while because i've noticed a couple of happy baby/pregnancy related fics recently and i didn't want to ruin the mood by coming through with the heavy stuff

also, my general taglist for bill fics is always open so let me know if you want to be added to it 💕

She’d taken her engagement ring off months ago, but she could still feel it burning her finger, reminding her of what they’d once had. Even though her hands had returned to their regular size, her fingers no longer swollen, she couldn't bear to put the ring back on. It just didn't feel right, especially not when Bill hadn't slept in the same room as her for a month.

Starting a family wasn't something that Bill and Y/N had ever talked about; she didn't come from a family as large as his, she didn't have a lot of experience with children like he did, and she just never wanted to be a mother.

When she found herself looking at a positive pregnancy test, her first feeling was dread. They both had a busy year ahead of them, with planning a wedding and work, adding a baby into the mix was just too much.

I need an abortion, Y/N thought as she stared at the stick. I need to get this thing out of me.

But then a second thought entered her head: what about Bill? It was his baby just as much as hers, and although it was her body, she didn’t want to sneak around and terminate the pregnancy without him knowing first.

Her hands shook when she approached him with the test, terrified of how he was going to respond.

He was ecstatic, immediately gathering her in his arms and telling her how much he loved her and how he thought it was great news. Y/N was still apprehensive, not sure if she would make a good mother but knowing that she had Bill’s love and support swayed her away from termination.

They didn’t tell their families right away, waiting until they had official confirmation from a doctor that Y/N was indeed pregnant. As soon as they got home from the appointment, Bill called around his entire family, letting his parents and all of his siblings know, while Y/N settled for just letting her mother know for now.

Her mother knew Y/N’s feelings about pregnancy and motherhood, so she was incredibly surprised to hear the news, but happy nonetheless. She could tell that she was anxious and constantly asked her if she was sure that she wanted to go through with the pregnancy, but Y/N had made her mind up: she was going to keep it for Bill.

Y/N hated being pregnant.

She hated how nauseated she felt all the time, she hated how her fingers and feet swelled, she hated how she felt like she’d swallowed a balloon, she hated how sore her breasts were, she hated how ugly maternity clothes were, she hated feeling the baby moving inside her, but most of all, she hated how people thought that they could touch her just because she was pregnant.

By the beginning of her second trimester, she’d taken to wearing Bill’s shirts to hide her body; not just from other people but from herself. She’d never felt so ugly and uncomfortable in her life. No matter how much Bill told her that she was beautiful or her mother told her that feeling uncomfortable was natural, she just couldn’t shake the feeling.

Her mother had always told her about how much she enjoyed being pregnant and how her OBGYN appointments had always been a breeze, but the same couldn’t be said for Y/N. She always showed up full of anxiety and shook like a leaf in the waiting room, no matter how much Bill tried to comfort her. He could barely contain his excitement at becoming a father, taking such an interest in every ultrasound, wanting to know everything he could do to help her and the baby.

But after one bad blood test and a round of too much medication, Y/N had a feeling that something bad was going to happen. But she just didn’t know when.

It happened on a bright, sunny afternoon. Y/N was in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water while Bill was in the living room reading through a script he’d just received. Birds sang in the backyard outside and the radio played softly near her, making the house look like domestic bliss.

She’d just raised the glass to her lips when a searing pain in her lower abdomen knocked the wind out of her. A pained gasp crawled its way out of her lungs and her eyes started to water as a warm dampness bloomed between her legs. Her body shook as she attempted to look down at her pants, and her eyes went wide at what she saw.

Blood. So much blood.

Another sharp jolt of pain spread through her body and she cried out in pain as tears flooded her eyes. She dropped the glass and it smashed at her feet with a clatter loud enough for Bill to notice.

“Are you okay?” he asked from the doorway. “What’s going on?”

“Something’s wrong,” Y/N choked out, she tried to move towards him but her legs wouldn’t let her.

His eyes went wide when he saw her bloody sweatpants and immediately rushed over to gather her in his arms. Her head swam and her ears rang as the pain took over her body. She could feel her legs getting weaker and weaker and she tried to look at him through spots that were starting to appear in her vision.

The last thing she remembered before passing out was the look of fear in his eyes.

Y/N woke up in the hospital, tired, confused, and empty. Bill sat in a chair next to her bed, his hand holding hers. She turned to face him and took in how terrible he looked: his eyes were red and swollen, his hair was messy, and he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but there.

The door clicked open and both of them turned to look as the doctor came in to deliver the bad news.

The baby was gone.

Y/N knew that she should have been sad, she should have cried or said something. But instead, she felt nothing. She was numb from the inside out, and couldn’t bring herself to feel anything. All she could do was listen to Bill cry and try to comfort him as he broke apart next to her.

She thought things would get better once they’d returned home, but things just got worse. The two of them started to feel like strangers in the same house, never saying much to each other, never touching each other, and not even sleeping in the same bed.

Y/N spent most of her time hiding under the covers, letting her mind spiral out of control, while Bill took every opportunity he could to go out, often coming home very late and very drunk. She’d noticed him staring longingly at the room they’d intended to make into a nursery, and her heart stung for him.

She never thought she could grieve for something she never wanted, but the way everyone around her responded to the miscarriage made her feel like she should. Her mother offered to come over to help her around the house multiple times but she turned her down, just wanting to be left alone. She didn’t want to be fussed over, she didn’t want anything. She didn’t even want to be around anymore.

While Bill had taken to drinking to ease his pain, Y/N was tired of feeling numb all the time. At least he had pain that he could try to get rid of. She had nothing but guilt and a need for punishment.

When she was sure he wasn’t home, she’d find ways of hurting herself that she could hide from him. It started small, scratching her skin until it broke or refusing to eat whenever she felt hungry. But once she’d escalated to using sharp objects, she found it harder to stop.

She needed to see her blood, needed to feel the pain of something dragging through her skin. It was all she deserved after what she’d put Bill through, and it was the only thing she could do that made her feel somewhat better about it.

They’d drifted apart so much that he wasn’t going to notice anyway.

“No, I don’t think I should come out tonight,” Y/N could hear Bill say from the other room, taking his phone call as she rooted in her bathroom cabinet one evening. “It’s Y/N, she hasn’t been feeling too good lately. She’s a little… fragile right now.”

Fragile, Y/N scoffed to herself. That’s one way of putting it.

Neither of them had really told anyone outside of their respective families about the miscarriage. They both needed the time to recover in private, but for Y/N she didn’t want people to look at her like a wounded animal that needed to be put out of its misery. She hated the fuss that people made over her when she was pregnant and dreaded to think of what they would do if they found out that she’d lost the baby.

Just picturing the look that people would give her when she was in the hospital was enough for her to find what she needed in the medicine cabinet: a box cutter she’d stolen from the kitchen and hidden away in the bathroom. Bill had his own problems, the last thing he needed to find out was that she’d been hurting herself.

Y/N needed to feel something, anything, after being numb for so long. Punishing herself this way seemed to be the only thing that worked. She couldn’t drown her sorrows in alcohol like he did, it just made her feel worse. Hiding her cuts from him would have to do.

She listened to him finish his phone call, raising the blade to the underside of her wrist and pressing it down, piercing the skin and letting the blood bead at the surface before dragging it along. The sting of the blade slicing through her skin was a relief, she was finally able to feel something other than numbness, but that feeling came with self-destruction.

Can’t even carry a pregnancy to full term, she told herself. What kind of pathetic excuse of a woman are you?

She pulled the blade out and started another cut, not caring if the scars she left behind were neat or not. She hissed as she hit a nerve, but continued, letting the blood run off her arm and onto her legs.

No wonder Bill doesn’t want you any more, look at you.

Each new thought came with a fresh cut, more and more until she was lightheaded and nauseous.

You don’t deserve him, it should have been you who died. He’d be better off without you.

She didn’t register that Bill had come into the bathroom until he gingerly touched her palm with the tips of his fingers. Her eyes flitted up to meet him and she saw that he had that look on his face. His brow was furrowed, his jaw tight and his eyes were wide with pity. She couldn’t bear to be looked at like that, but the fact that he was looking at her like that made her want to slash at herself even more.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Y/N said in a choked whisper as she tried to push him away. “Please don’t look at me.”

Bill’s eyes dropped to her bloody arm, taking in the damage she’d done to herself before he took the box cutter from her, held her uninjured arm and gently pulled her to stand next to the sink with him. Her head swam as the blood rushed to her head, and she leaned against him as her legs wobbled. He turned the water on and cleaned the wounds for her, keeping his body close to her so that she knew she was safe with him.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” he said softly as he applied pressure to her arm with a towel to stop the bleeding. “I just want you to be safe.”

Y/N couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She didn’t want him to see how ashamed of herself she was. First, she couldn’t give him a child, and now she was hiding in the bathroom to cut herself. She felt pathetic, she wanted the floor to swallow her completely. She couldn’t even bring herself to say anything to him.

Bill took the towel away from her arm, making sure that the bleeding had completely stopped and bent down to retrieve the first aid kit from under the sink. Her eyes stayed fixed on the ground as he took a bandage out of the kit and tightly wound it around her forearm. The dressing wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do for now. She was in no place to be taken to the hospital.

Once her arm was cleaned and properly bandaged, he gathered her in his arms, carried her back into the bedroom and climbed into bed - their bed. Her body trembled as he pulled the duvet over the top of them, creating a cocoon for them. The outside world had been completely shut out, leaving just the two of them in their little sanctuary, wrapped in each other's arms, listening to each other’s heartbeats.

Y/N hadn't realised how long it had been since he’d last held her, and she let herself finally feel something. Her tears started to fall from her eyes one by one as she let out little sniffles until the floodgates opened, and she couldn't help how much she sobbed into his chest. Her lungs burned with each breath, and her chest twisted painfully, but she let it all out, no longer able to bottle it up.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“You don't have to be sorry for anything,” Bill soothed as he continued to stroke her back. “You haven't done anything wrong.”

“Yes, I have,” she said. “It’s my fault.”

“What is?”

“The baby,” she whispered, as if she were afraid to say it out loud. “It’s my fault.”

“That’s not true, Y/N.”

“Yes, it is. I was so scared that my body just fucked it all up.”

“Y/N, look at me,” he said as he took hold of her face with both of his hands and angled her head to look at him. She could just see him through her tears, his tired face full of concern. “It is not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong, these things just happen sometimes. We were just unlucky. Please don’t hurt yourself over this.”

“I just feel so guilty,” she managed to croak out, her tears starting to dry up. “I saw how excited and happy you were and I took it away from you and I felt nothing when it happened. It should have been me instead.”

“No, don’t say that,” he said sternly and wiped her tears away with his thumbs. “You’re more important to me than anything in the whole world. I don't want to lose you.”

She buried her face in his chest again and let him take over her senses, breathing in his scent and listening to his steady heartbeat as he continued to caress her back and stroke her hair.

“I wasn’t ready to be a mother,” she finally admitted, her voice muffled by his shirt. “I hated being pregnant.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asked gently. There wasn’t a hint of judgment in his voice, only concern.

“You were so happy when we found out, I felt like saying I wanted an abortion was taking that away from you. I wish I’d said so now. None of this would have ever happened.”

“Is that why you feel like it’s your fault?”

“Yeah. I feel like I killed our baby. I killed our family.”

“You didn’t,” he said, his voice cracking a little. “You didn’t kill it. We can still be a family with just the two of us. And then, maybe someday down the line, we can try again when you are ready.”

“But what if I’m never ready?”

“Then we’d still be a family. Just us.”

He picked up her hand and brought it to his mouth to gently kiss her knuckles.

“Where’s your ring?” he asked, his lips still brushing against her skin.

“I took it off,” Y/N said softly, her voice more solid. “It didn't fit anymore. And… I thought you didn't want me.”

“What made you think that? I’ll always want you.”

“I don't know... It just felt like you didn't want anything to do with me; I never saw you, you were always out.”

“Y/N, I was grieving too. Just my way of doing it was different to yours. But I don't want you to think that I don't want you. I’ll always want you.”

He reached out of the blanket and behind her to grab her ring from her nightstand and slid it onto her ring finger.

“Does this mean you love me again?”

He gave her a soft smile and kissed her forehead gently.

“I never stopped.”